Another rather older and much longer article is very interesting :
Alport Love Feast. Derbyshire Woodlands. (By Nomad.)
Between Manchester and Sheffield runs a good high road – very high in some parts for it rises to an elevation of something over 1600 feet above sea level – which traversed some of the wildest and most beautiful scenery to be met with in any part of the country.
In the very northernmost part of the Peak district is the bleak but beautiful tract known as Woodlands, bounded on the north and west by the county boundary, on the east by the Derwent, and on the south by its tributary stream, the Ashop, and crossed in a S.E. and N.W. direction by the high road referred to above. At a point on this road, 23 miles from Manchester and 15 miles from ‘t’other place,’ which the Rev, Newman Hall once described as reminding him of the ‘City of Destruction,’ to say nothing of Sodom and Gomorrah, is what is still locally known as Jumble Bridge, though marked on the Ordnance Map as Alport Bridge.
This bridge, now a substantial and well-built structure, spans a small stream known as Alport River, quiet and peaceful-looking enough just now, but in wet weather not to be trifled with, for it has within the memory of the present generation, swept away more than one of the present bridge’s predecessors – indeed this seems to be a family characteristic of Peak district streams, as residents in the neighbourhood tell me of sundry such mishaps.
A few yards on the Manchester side of Alport Bridge a lane leaves the high road on the Northern side and follows the Alport River for a distance of nearly two miles, till it reaches Alport Castle’s Farms, two lonely farm houses situated in the midst of one of the wildest and most beautiful valleys in all this beautiful part of the country. On the left rises steeply and to a height of several hundred feet the great hill, Hey Ridge, with Hey Ridge Tor, (its summit) overshadowing the glen, and completely shutting it off from all the country to the west.
On the opposite side of the stream is Alport Edge, also rising to a great height, and separating Alport Dale, as this district is called, from the upper section of the Derwent Valley. Looking down on these solitary dwellings, and forming part of the Alport Edge, are some rocks rising abruptly from the valley, and having very much the appearance of an ancient fortress – hence they have obtained the name of Alport Castles.
Such, then, is a brief description of Alport in the Woodlands. To do anything like justice to its natural beauties would be a task far beyond the powers of the present writer – it should be seen by all lovers of rural loveliness – but enough has been said to show how out-of-the-way a spot it is.
It was here – Alport Castles’ Farm – that the True Believers, or Covenanters, or Nonconformists, or whatever they may have been called, in the ‘time of the persecution’ (Reign of Charles II), used to assemble to hold their (then) illegal meetings for prayer and praise, safe in their mountainous retreat from the harassing attentions of their enemies, the soldiers, who must indeed have had keen noses to scent out the ‘psalm-singing rascals’ in this remote corner. The services were originally conducted in one room at the farm, and soon became so well attended that two rooms had to be utilised : then as people flooded in over the neighbouring hills, and adjournment was made to a larger barn, and in this barn the service, or Love Feast, has continued to be held ever since, and there is no record of the worshippers having ever been disturbed by their enemies, though some years since an infidel appeared on the scene, and endeavoured to bring people round to his views. It need hardly be said that he met with remarkably little success, for he was in a hopeless minority.
The first Sunday in July is the date of this now firmly established institution and this day brings pilgrims to Alport Love Feast from all directions – I met people there from Moseley, Tideswell, and Swallow Nest, as well as many pedestrians from the valleys of the Astrop (original spelling – I presume Ashop), the Derwent, and the Noe – all bent on taking part in this by far the largest and most important Love Feast for many miles round.
The service began at 10.30 a.m. and lasted till about 4 p.m. in the historic barn. The first part was an ordinary Wesleyan morning service conducted by the Rev. W. Wandless, of Bradwell, who also acted as president throughout the day. The first service over, the Love Feast proper, i.e. the refreshments, came on in the form of large slices of cake handed round in clothes baskets and jugs of cold water, with which some regaled themselves while seated on the forms placed for their convenience in the barn ; some made themselves comfortable in the thick bracken with which the floor was carpeted, while others strolled about outside exchanging notes with friends they had not met with since the previous Feast. The collection of course was not overlooked, a knife tray being requisitioned as no orthodox collection-plate or offertory bag was available in this remote corner of the world ; but it answered the purpose quite well, for there was hardly a person present who did not give something. The refreshments were very soon disposed of, and people settled to the more interesting part of the programme, viz, the experiences. One after another, members of the congregation rose and related their experiences as Christians – how they had been converted, how glad they were they were converted, how anxious they were everyone else should be, etc., etc., etc. Between each speaker a hymn was sung, and in this way some two hours passed very pleasantly, and no doubt with benefit to many present. To reproduce the speakers here would take up far too much space. Suffice it to say the speakers were in great variety, some harangued the audience in a fiery, excited manner, after the style of the man who once talked of ‘dragging iniquity down the High Street with a cart-rope’ and seemed to be heard all over the Woodlands, while others spoke in subdued tones that were hardly audible at the further end of the barn.
About 3.30 p.m. everyone who had any experiences to relate appeared to have related them, and the president (Rev. W. Wandless) rose and told us that we must not suppose because he was a minister his life had been all smooth sailing – on the contrary he had had as many troubles and temptations as anyone. Ministers are not kept in glass houses – indeed it would be no good if they were, for he said, they get so pelted that the glass would very soon be broken.
Mr Wandless referred very pathetically to his parents, long since gone from this life, or as his aged mother remarked on her death-bed ‘got a little start’ of him – they were both journeying to the same place and would meet again there, the only thing being that she had got a little start on the road. A short prayer and a hymn or two followed, and the congregation were dismissed to their scattered homes, and here I would remark that a more orderly or decorous congregation I never saw in any church or chapel. There must have been some 200 or 300 present for the large barn was full to overflowing and some even could not get in : but the talking, laughing, etc., etc., one generally sees outside a chuch were singularly absent – even the children behaved as though the service had made an impression on them.
After a few minutes for a cup of tea at the farm (in the room where the meetings were first held) I joined the throng wending their way down the picturesque dale, and a pretty scene it was, as the different coloured costumes of the ladies blending with the charms of nature gave a lively appearance to this usually lonely mountain glen.
Once more at Alport Bridge my nearest route lay across the Astrop (Ashop) by a wooden foot-bridge, and along the almost disused Roman Road, which crosses Blackley Hey and Hope Brinks – a distance of about four or five miles to the quiet little village of Hope; but some good people going to Bradwell very kindly offered me a seat in their trap. Of course I did not say no, and a beautiful drive I had along the Sheffield Road to Astropton (Ashopton) (four miles) then along by the Derwent through Bamford to Brough Lane Head.
Arrived at Astropton one of our party, who has lived there the last 20 years or more, left us, but not before she had invited us (almost insisted) to go into her house for a cup of tea before going any further ; ‘Just a cup of tea – it is ready,’ etc. Of course eight or nine people could not drink a cup of tea and be off immediately without a word, so the nominal two minutes spread out into more like three quarters of an hour ere we bid our fellow-traveller ‘good-day’.
From Astropton down to Bamford the road lies in the valley between Win Hill on the west and Bamford Edge on the east, over which lies (in the writer’s opinion at least) the pleasantest road to Sheffield via Stanage Toll and Redmires.
At Brough Lane Head our roads again diverged, those for Bradwell turning off to the left through Brough, while I kept straight ahead for one mile to Hope and home, where I arrived safely after a very pleasant and long-to-be-remembered day in the Woodlands, whither I hope to go again some time and explore the tracks over the hills round Alport Castles.
Love Feasts appear to be a very ancient custom, having originated in Apostolic times, but like other good institutions they got corrupted in course of time, and so may (many) abuses crept in that at the Council of Carthage, A.D. 397, they were suppressed. In modern times the custom of holding Love Feasts has been revived by the Moravians and Methodists in England, and the Glassites (followers of Rev. John Glass) in Scotland.
The particular feast herein referred to has now been held regularly for some 200 years, and seems likely to continue for another 200. It is on record that Wesley himself once presided at Alport, and his followers may be met with there the first Sunday in July every year.
Woodlands Methodist Church 