retiredmartin

April 2026. Eyam. Derbyshire.

The landlady at the Three Stags’ Heads gently chided me for my mispronunciation of the name on the pump clip,

which made me keen to visit Eyam, pronounced just as you’d expect (or not).

Our last American visitors were also keen on a visit to a village I assumed only got a handful of tourists, attracted by the noble but grizzly plague history, 1666 and all that.

I think Cottenham Village College treated a tubby 13 year old unretired Martin to a trip here as part of the Peak District week; my abiding memory is of a girl being sick on the coach home as a result of too much sickly cake.

The Eyam museum probably sold us rubber rats commemorating the source of the plague spread,

since fleas were more fiddly to produce on a Wrexham industrial estate in 1978.

In many ways, not a lot has changed since the ’70s. They still roast sheep,

Eyam (easily confused with Ilam) Hall still hosts weddings,

and sells sickly cakes.

And folk who ask for a taster in the Miners Arms* are still put in the stocks and pelted with Panda Pop bottles.

It’s a gorgeous little village, a great base to walk the hills,

and they now have hot and cold running water in all rooms.

Astonishingly, only 926 souls live here, barely up on 1665. It feels much bigger.

We walked the bounds, ticked the plague cottages (NPCSS 5),

and put a quid in the charity box.

No, I’ve no idea which charity.

_{*We’ll do that later}