Back at the beginning of September on a beautifully bright Sunday I set out with a friend to explore Saddleworth Moor in the South Pennines.

Covering about 5,000 acres, Saddleworth Moor is part of the Peak District National Park, rising to over 400 metres above sea level. Sprawling farmland, elevated expanses of purple heather and bodies of still, calm water stretch for miles in all directions; sheep take comfort in the shade of dry stone walls in late summer fields, or graze high on hillside paths, little more than moving white dots in the distance.

Between 1963 and 1965 Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, otherwise known as the moors murderers, tortured and killed five children and buried four of them within this landscape. Three of the children’s bodies were discovered in 1965, but Keith Bennett, aged 12 when he was killed, remains buried on the moors. Amongst the most notorious in British history, the moors murders cast a dark shadow on the landscape for decades. Brady and Hindley are both dead now, and though not forgotten, the graphic imagery that linked the moors with those horrific events has faded with time.

We had unintentionally coincided our day out with the start of the UK leg of the Tour de France that passed through not only my own home town of Wigan but also the Saddleworth village of Upper Mill, where we stopped off for a very mini boat ride down the Rochdale canal. It’s free, though donations are welcomed, and is staffed by volunteers. We boarded the barge behind the museum and bookshop, just ourselves and a young dad with a toddler.

Even by late morning the day had become uncomfortably hot for being in the car, so a shady interlude beneath a green canopy was welcome as we slowly moved along the water for a couple of hundred metres before turning round and disembarking.

The museum seemed to be a popular attraction, again staffed by volunteers, this time dressed in the style of bygone times. On a less busy day we might have been tempted inside.

Anticipating the appearance of the Tour de France competitors, cycling enthusiasts lined the high street’s pavements, and outside the cafes every available table taken, but we found a spot inside for a refreshing peppermint tea.

I’d read other blogs about Upper Mill and was expecting it to be more quaint and bohemian, though to be fair, we didn’t really venture beyond the crowded main street, so perhaps missed some hidden gems. We finished our tea and a very large slice of cake each, before making our way through the roadside crowds and back to the car.

We wound down the windows and had just left the busy little car park when, quick-as-a-flash, blink and you’d miss them, the troupe of lycra-clad cyclists zipped past to the sound of cheering, almost drowned out by the hovering TV helicopter overhead. Needless to say, they were far too fast for me to catch the moment on camera.

Back on the road, we set a course for another of Saddleworth’s villages, Delph. The day was glorious – a perfect picture of verdant English countryside under a clear blue sky – but a bit too warm for driving around for the sake of driving round, so we were glad that Delph was just a few miles away.

Delph was exceptionally quiet in contrast to busy Upper Mill. We found a spot in an almost empty car park at the side of a church and decided on a stroll around the village. Following a path behind the church yard, we passed some allotments and ambled towards some very attractive houses at the side of the river.

What at first seemed like a private access path proved to be another pleasant riverside walk past sloping gardens, beehives and impressive houses.

A few other folks meandered along the lane, otherwise Delph appeared sleepy and dreamy in the mid day-sun, the vivid shades of flowers in path-side planters adding to a chocolate box image.

We walked a different route back to the car and happened upon a fish and chip shop over two hundred years old that sadly was closed, so no chips for us. Back in the car and back on the winding roads we went, in search of lunch and the next adventure.