Sometimes the best adventures have to be squeezed into the gaps.
The day had already been full of those practical and parenting things that can so easily take over life if you are not careful. Children dropped off and picked up from activities. Homework supported. Bags sorted. Bits of kit checked. All the small logistics that sit behind family life.
But by late afternoon, the bikes were out and a simple overnight kit was packed.
For me, part of the motivation was to get outside with my son and give him the chance to test out his new bike. It still needed gravel tyres adding, although for the route we had planned that was not going to matter too much. For him, it was a new machine and a chance to see what it could do. For me, it was also a chance to test some updated kit I had been collecting from Decathlon as I slowly shift from the very long solo mountain marathon classes of my past towards more shared, more sociable adventures with my son.
There is also the simple fact that kit does not last forever. For the last few years I had been aware that a small piece of metal had come off my old camping stove. It still worked, but at some point you have to accept that old faithful kit may be ready for retirement. Or, at the very least, that you have found a good excuse to try something new.
This fitted neatly with my little Decathlon kit obsession of late. I had picked up the MT900 stove as a possible replacement for my old mountain marathon stove, and this felt like the perfect trip to test it.
Spoiler alert: it looks like exactly what I was after.
With the weather warm at the start of a heatwave, and midsummer light stretching deep into the evening, we finally set off.
The town falls away quickly once you are on the bike.
Before long we were climbing gently up Main Road towards Old Brampton. I had a reasonable amount of weight on my bike and back, so I was doing my best simply to keep up with my son as he zoomed off ahead.
It felt like the beginning of a new phase.
Gone are the days when I could jog alongside the children while they cycled, giving them a gentle push up the hills as I ran. I still remember my daughter’s first proper ride with pedals at Clumber Park in the snow and my son and me navigating the length of Ulva on the Isle of Mull. Those were the years when I was the engine, the support vehicle, the steady hand on the saddle.
Now, increasingly, I am the one trying to keep up. Who am I kidding? I am already there.
As we climbed, we passed the Fox and Goose, with a wedding in full swing, with guests spilling out into the garden and the ordinary landscape briefly transformed by celebration.
That is one of the things I love about cycling.
You move slowly enough to notice details but fast enough to stitch them together into a proper journey; and something fast packing can give you too!
The descent towards the Robin Hood Inn brought us closer to the evening’s destination: the Eric Byrne Memorial Campsite.
It appeared like a welcome rest point, old fashioned in the best possible way. The kind of campsite that has not been polished into anonymity. There is something honest about it.
Soon the tent was up, the stove was out and the rice noodles and miso soup were on.
Before cooking the next course, though, I heard an unfamiliar bird song. Merlin suggested linnet, so I stood peering into the tree until I eventually spotted a small flock of around half a dozen birds. Another small reward for slowing down and being outside.
Then came one of those little conversations that I love when we are out camping.
The new stove roared into life. It really did go like a rocket. Almost immediately, the question emerged: is a stove more efficient when it is running at full power or is the same amount of gas converted into boiling water regardless of how quickly it happens?
That is the kind of conversation I treasure.
A simple campsite task becomes a physics experiment. A pan of water becomes an invitation to think about heat transfer, fuel, flame size and wasted energy. We were not doing a controlled scientific test, just people sitting beside a tent, watching water boil and wondering how the world works.
Later, in the long grass near the tent, even a moth resting on a stem felt like part of the evening’s reward: a tiny reminder that camping changes what you notice.
The evening was the shortest night of the year and we were treated to a wonderful sunset.
There is something special about camping close to the summer solstice. The day seems reluctant to end. The light lingers. Shadows stretch slowly. The air cools but not too much. For once, there was no great battle with midges, no frantic retreat into the tent, no sense of being besieged.
We were in bed before most of the other campers had even returned from the pub.
In the morning, we were glad of the early night. The tent heated up quickly once the sun found it and before long we were awake, packed loosely into the rhythm of camp life.
Stove on for hot drinks and bowls of musli served followed by M&S Roasted Red Pepper & Vegetable Tortilla.
Then came the next question.
If the Earth was most tilted towards the sun at 9:24 that morning, did that mean the sun would be strongest at 9:24 rather than at midday?
Again, it was exactly the kind of conversation I love. The sort that appears because you are outside, noticing light and warmth directly, rather than reading about them indoors. We talked through the difference between the moment of the solstice and the strength of the sun in the sky. The Earth may reach that point of maximum tilt at a precise time, but for us, standing in Derbyshire, the sun would still be highest and strongest around the middle of the day.
Camping seems to create space for these conversations.
Not formal learning. Not schoolwork. Just curiosity, prompted by hot tents, bright mornings, boiling water, birdsong and the simple fact of being outside together.
After breakfast, we packed up and had a leisurely start.
Then it was time to ride again.
The ride down through the road into Chatsworth Estate is where the landscape opens up properly. The road winds through parkland, the trees and stonework carrying that unmistakable sense of long history.
From there, we continued towards Rowsley Peak Village.
The original mission, naturally, involved ice cream. My son had one, while I went for a hot chocolate. After a night in a tent and a warm ride through the estate, it felt like exactly the right sort of stop.
The route then shifted tone as we picked up the cycle way alongside the old railway line which is kind of disconnected part of the Monsal Trail! From the remains of the railway station at Rowsley, we followed the flatter line past Rowsley South, where Peak Rail keeps steam and heritage diesel trains alive.
As luck would have it, there was a historic bus event taking place. Old buses were gathered there, some waiting, some preparing to head out on rides. For people who were not simply passing through, it would have been a destination in itself. For us, it became one more unexpected layer in the day: bikes, railways, buses, estates, lanes and local history all overlapping in the valley.
But we still had miles to ride, so we moved on.
Whitworth Park made the perfect lunch stop.
The park is closely tied to the legacy of Sir Joseph Whitworth and Lady Louisa Whitworth. It speaks of Victorian philanthropy, engineering, education, recreation and civic life. It is not just a patch of grass and trees. It is part of a long tradition of creating places where ordinary people could learn, gather, exercise and rest.
For us, though, it was also exactly what we needed. Shade, sandwiches and a pause before the next stage.
Then came the detour to the ancient yew tree at Darley Dale church.
The mood changed there. Standing before a tree believed to be around 2,000 years old is always humbling. This living thing has been rooted in the same place longer than nations, longer than most institutions, longer than almost everything we build and worry about. It has watched centuries come and go.
For me, the place also carries personal memories. School services and Friends’ wedding. The sense of a tree that had always been there and in some slightly naive part of the mind, always would be.
But now it is cordoned off, with concern that it may split and fall, possibly onto someone or the church itself. With news of the Major Oak’s decline fresh in my mind too, it was hard not to think about the vulnerability of ancient things and the change as an adult that things you feel will be the same for ever are not always the case. Beautiful things are fragile. Time takes even the ancient. Even the things that seem permanent are only passing through their next stage.
After that, the smaller loop through Ladygrove Road and Denacre Lane felt like a relief to be gaining the hight we needed on quiet road and a way of avoiding the worst of the main road. And then came the hill.
There is no way to sugar-coat it. The ascent was brutal and for some of it, we pushed our bikes.
If there had been any doubt before, this was where my son really showed what he could do on his new bike. Limited gears, a focus on keeping things light and still he kept going. Riding where he could. Pushing where he needed to, no drama, no fuss. Just steady progress.
By then the heat was building, the road felt steeper than it had any right to be, and the effort of carrying overnight kit began to make itself known to me. But gradually, most of the ascent was behind us.
There was just one more major section of up before we reached more familiar ground near Beeley Moor.
Eventually, Stone Edge Chimney appeared again, that industrial sentinel standing against the sky.
A month or so earlier I had stopped there on another ride with my daughter but this time it was harder to get close. The undergrowth had grown quickly, swallowing some of the smaller paths and making the place feel a little more hidden.
Even from a distance, though, it still marked something.
A high point and a link to Derbyshire’s industrial past. The ride back down was swift enough even with our tired legs.
For me there will always be a strange privilege in moving through a landscape on nothing but human power, carrying what you need, making small decisions as you go, particularly when to pause because something ancient, beautiful or unexpected has caught your attention.
By the time we got home, the practical world returned quickly enough.
Bikes to put away, kit to clean, a shower. Then water, lots and lots of water after a hot day of cycling.
In the end, we had ridden 44km with nearly 700 metres of ascent.
But the real measure of the trip was not the distance or the climbing. It was the shared rhythm of it all. The simple joy of setting off with loaded bikes, sleeping out, riding through local history, testing kit, asking questions, watching my son grow into his own strength and returning home tired, dusty and content.
A small adventure, completed together and perhaps as ever just what I needed to reset.