Castleton Calling; Famous Five Reunion

It’s been far too long since we last escaped in the van — Belgium feels like a lifetime ago now. This weekend, though, found us back on the road at last, heading into the heart of the Peak District. Our destination: the beautiful village of Castleton, tucked beneath the brooding rise of Mam Tor — the “Shivering Mountain.”

Castleton sits where four valleys meet, a place of winding lanes, grey stone cottages, and a sense of history that clings to the hillsides. Above it all towers Mam Tor, famous for her ancient Iron Age hillfort and the slow, shifting landslips that give her name its meaning. From her summit, the views sweep across Hope Valley, all rugged ridges and rolling fields — the kind of landscape that makes you feel both small and entirely at peace.

We set off a little later than planned on Friday evening, delayed by a few last-minute work challenges (why do they always appear just as you’re trying to switch off?). But once we’d packed ourselves and the essentials into Colin the Camper Van, it felt good to be rolling again — headlights catching the darkening roads, the promise of open air and adventure ahead.

By the time we reached Castleton, night had settled fully over the hills. The last traces of daylight were long gone, and Mam Tor was just a dark silhouette against the cloudy sky. Thankfully, after years of trips, we’ve perfected our evening arrival routine. Pepper immediately claimed her chair, curling up with an air of practiced contentment while Mark set to work with the practical tasks — levelling the van, plugging in the hook-up, checking that everything was ticking along nicely.

Meanwhile, I did what Mark teasingly calls my “nesting” — arranging the inside of Colin just the way I like it: cushions fluffed, kettle ready, fairy lights casting a soft glow. It sounds a little like something out of the 1950s, I know, but it works for us. There’s a quiet satisfaction in that rhythm — each of us knowing our role, everything coming together until the van feels less like a vehicle and more like home again.

This weekend was also a bit of a Famous Five reunion — though the long-running debate over who gets to be Julian still hasn’t been resolved (and probably never will be!). Once everything was set up and the van was warm and glowing, we gathered together for what we grandly called a conference — in reality, a cheerful catch-up.

Plans were soon being hatched for Saturday’s adventures: there would be cycling, walking, running, and, of course, the essential viewing of the Rugby — though thankfully not all at the same time! The laughter rolled as and it felt good to be back together again, tucked beneath the watchful slopes of Mam Tor with a weekend of fresh air and friendship ahead.

Saturday in the Peaks

Saturday dawned calm and cool, the hills cloaked in a faint autumn haze. Before the day gathered pace, I laced up my trainers and set off for a short run along the river towards Hope.

The path wound between trees heavy with autumn colour, the air fresh and still except for the rush of water beside me and the bleating of sheep on the slopes. It was one of those quiet, steady runs that clears the mind — the kind that makes the first brew afterwards taste even better.

Later, Mark and Trevor set off on their bikes for what they proudly dubbed an epic ride around the hills of Castleton and Hope — all steep climbs, twisting lanes, and wind-whipped descents. Pepper and I, in contrast, opted for the slower pace of a quiet morning in the van. There’s something wonderfully indulgent about those still hours — the kettle steaming gently, the soft rattle of rain on the roof, and the comforting hum of life unfolding outside.

By afternoon, with the cyclists returned (mud-splattered and grinning) and set off to watch the Rugby. Sarah, Pepper, and I laced up our boots and headed out for our own adventure. We climbed up towards Peveril Castle, its ruins standing sentinel above the village, before following the path through Cave Dale — one of those landscapes that feels like it belongs in a storybook.

From there, the views opened wide across the valley, the late light turning the fields gold and the stone walls silver-grey. Pepper trotted happily ahead, nose to the wind, and for a while, everything was just as it should be: friends, fresh air, and the quiet beauty of Derbyshire all around.

By the time evening rolled around, appetites were running high, so we opted for fish and chips — the proper kind, eaten straight from the paper,. Later, we regrouped in our van for a few drinks and some music, the kind of easy, companionable evening that only seems to happen when you’re away from clocks and schedules.

At about half past nine, we sensibly agreed to call it a night and finish off our drinks before bed. But somehow, ten minutes later it was half past eleven — the kind of time slip that always seems to occur when there’s laughter, stories, and a good playlist involved. Time runs differently in a campervan, I’m convinced — elastic and generous, stretching just enough to hold a little more joy.

Sunday Slow

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, the kind of blue-sky day that makes you forget it’s November. Pepper and I set off early, wandering through the quiet back lanes of Castleton.

The hedgerows were alive with movement — flashes of tiny goldcrests flitting between the branches and great flocks of starlings sweeping and twisting over the fields in dark, fluid waves.

Peveril Castle stood proud on its rocky perch, its outline sharp against the light, watching over the village as it has for centuries.

After a leisurely stroll through the town — a bit of whisky shopping here, a quick stop at The Peak Pub there — we made our way back to the van for a proper Sunday lunch, wonderfully prepared by Sarah and accompanied by a few glasses of red wine. By evening, the laughter had softened into that comfortable quiet that comes at the end of a good weekend. Mark and I turned in early, ready for the morning’s dash back to Helmshore and the week ahead.