Less than a day after I’d written my last blog post, the forecasts stopped being theory and started becoming reality. Overnight, the Peak District was quietly transformed. Snow settled in thick, soft layers, muting the landscape and changing the familiar into something almost unrecognisable. Standing at the window last night brew in hand, watching flakes drift past, it was fairly obvious how things were going to pan out.
Preparation always feels different in winter. Extra layers went on, tyre pressures were dropped slightly, heated gloves charged, and I gave both the bike and myself a little longer than usual to warm up. The 300L sat ticking away on the drive, steam rising gently from the exhaust, looking perfectly at home in the cold.
At first the rain of the morning had lessened the impact of the snow near my home, however, as I road the first few miles in the Peak District, it demanded patience. Roads I know well instantly felt unfamiliar. Painted lines had disappeared under snow, edges blurred, and grip came and went without warning. Every input had to be smooth and deliberate. This wasn’t about making progress quickly, just making it safely.
Heading up from Leek, the roads were almost empty. Most people had sensibly decided today wasn’t the day. Hedgerows sagged under the weight of snow, fields merged into a single white sheet, and dry-stone walls cut dark lines through the landscape. Riding through it felt strangely personal, like being allowed into a quieter version of the Peaks that usually stays hidden.
A stop off at the Roaches was the first proper test. The roads up to it had been gritted, but only just. Slush masked patches of ice, and the bike gently moved beneath me, never threatening, just constantly talking back. I followed the tracks left by the odd cars that had ventured on this route, grateful for the guidance. At the top, I stopped for a moment and switched the engine off. The silence was complete. No traffic, no voices, just wind moving across open ground. After taking in the scenery, I decided it was time to capture it and break out the drone. Hopefully the footage will be useful for a future Youtube video.
From there I made my way towards Monyash via Longnor, as the altitude increased the road narrowed and the snow deepened on the verges. This was where confidence and caution had to work together. The 300L felt exactly right for the job – light, predictable and happy to find grip where it could.
Monyash itself was utterly still. The café, usually busy with bikes and chatter, was empty, the village seemingly deserted. For the first time ever, I was the only bike there, though this time it felt like I might have been the only person full stop, but a nice couple from Edinburgh stopped for a chat. A pitstop in the café for a brew allowed for just enough time to thaw out a little, before heading to Ashford in the Water and up to Monsal Head.
Monsal Head proved to be something special after the snow had fallen. The viaduct stood stark against the white valley, the river below barely visible. It was one of those moments that forces you to stop, even as the cold creeps in. Again, I wanted to capture the view and the drone made its second appearance of the day.
By the time I rolled into Bakewell, the concentration was starting to tell as my body fought off the cold weather; however, I felt that familiar mix of satisfaction and respect. Winter riding has a way of giving you both.
The ride home passed without drama, which is exactly how you want it in these conditions. No heroics, no close calls, just steady progress and the comfort of knowing that turning back had always been an option. So as the sun set in the cloudy sky, the pink and blue hues provided the ideal backdrop for a few photographs.
So, yesterday’s words weren’t nostalgia after all. They were a nudge. Winter riding still isn’t sensible in the traditional sense, and it never will be. But it’s honest. It sharpens your focus, rewards patience, and offers moments you won’t find on a warm summer Sunday.
The Peaks in the snow don’t give you easy miles. They give you quiet roads, wild scenery and the simple satisfaction of being there when most people aren’t. And judging by how easily today happened, I doubt this will be the last winter ride of the season.
KILN MOTO 
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