Edale to Kirk Yetholme – a Pennine Way Diary
Day 1 – The first day
Wednesday 10th May 2006 – Edale to Crowden
I set off really really early, well before anybody with any sense at all would have dragged themselves out of a warm sleeping bag. I just wanted to get on with it.
It was probably just as well because it turned out to be a steamingly hot day and I couldn’t wear me shorts for fear of getting the back of me legs burned. The Kinder edges were a burning brown desert. There was no water in Kinder Downfall, but just enough of a trickle in the beck for a gradely brew of tea. At one point a tea van appeared – parked handily on the Snake road it was. I could even smell the bacon. It disappeared just as I was studying the menu. No, really, honestly.
Shortly after the Kinder brew-up, I met the most miserable rambler of the whole trip who was going South. I think he was upset that I was up earlier than him. It was still outrageously early – about 8:00 a.m. I think, and despite the fact I was probably the only person for three or four miles, he completely ignored me. Miserable sod. I also met a couple on the summit of Bleaklow who were marginally friendlier, and a group of old blokes at Torside who were the first to ask “Are you going all the way?”. It would appear that on the first third of the route, “Are you going all the way?” is de riguer the question that you have to ask a Pennine Wayfarer. On the second third, it changes to “Have you come all the way?” and on the third third it’s a long conversation in Geordie during which you have to explain where Derbyshire is.. There isn’t a fourth third., obviously, but if there was it would be in Lowland Scots and would be on the lines of “Not too far tae Fort William by the way”. Nobody asking the question “Are you going all the way?” appears to be aware of the comedic possibilities of the question by the way. I spent several days trying to work out a really funny answer. By the time I’d succeeded they’d started asking the second question. What the answer was completely evades me for the moment.
All of the route on day 1 is either paved, tarmacked, or is a dry path. There’s no need for any kind of walking boots, or a map, or a compass or, in fact any equipment whatsoever – just follow the line of slabs. Its completely easy. Your local park provides a greater challenge. The only real problem I had was the lack of decent drinking water. I used up all of my tap water supply by the time I reached Kinder downfall and didn’t find a decent clean spring till I got to Torside, and I had to poke around quite a bit for that..
There’s nowt much at Crowden – a reasonable campsite, apparently without anybody there to give any money to, so I didn’t. If you’re reading this as part of your Pennine Way planning, be aware that unless you get a taxi to somewhere else, there are only very limited opportunities for spending money at Crowden. Unless you’re in the YHA, you will need to have carried your tea and next morning’s breakfast with you.
On a positive note, I have to say that in the 1980’s, I used to visit Longdendale quite frequently, mainly for walking on Black Hill or Bleaklow, but sometimes climbing at Laddow. It wasn’t the prettiest place in the world. In fact, it was downright ugly. But now, a quarter of a century later, I found it quite beautiful, particularly from Torside Cleugh. The railway has gone and the place has become well wooded. It’s a lot greener than I remembered.
The road’s a bloody nightmare, though and has to be crossed at a blind spot (??is that a pirate’s dog??). It would seem that all the traffic from Sheffield that’s too scared to go on the M62 goes to Manchester this way. It’s a wonder nobody gets killed. Actually, they probably do. I always find it comforting to be carrying several canisters of butane/propane mix whilst crossing busy trunk roads. There’s always a chance that if you do get knocked down, the resulting explosion would at least make the local press, and possibly the regional TV news depending on what or who knocks you down. And there is always the potential, in freak circumstances for a major disaster involving several coachloads of schoolchildren, a petrol tanker and a consignment of nuclear waste. It was this thought, along with the rumbling of the main road and several slugs of very cheap whisky that lulled me to sleep that night.
Day 2 Nostalgia – Is it just a pain in the nose?
Thursday 11th May 2006 – Crowden to somewhere quite near the M62
I left really early again next morning. It must have been nerves or something. It was quite warm even at six a.m. and a cloudless blue sky promised a fine, hot day.
The Pennine Way climbs fairly easily out of Crowden up to Laddow Rocks. Back when men were men and women had pictures of Ilya Kuryakin on their bedroom walls, I went climbing at Laddow Rocks. Now, I have to be honest here and admit, first off that I was never much of a climber. In fact I was crap at it but on this particular day my climbing pal Geoff (I call him that simply because that was his name) decided that all I needed was to have my confidence built up via the liberal use of a bit of encouragement. This involved making me go at the sharp end of the rope on gradually more difficult routes.
Eventually, we got to what I believe was called the “Long Climb” The Long Climb is about 100 feet high and has two “pitches”, divided by a ledge of sufficient size and furnished with heather of sufficient depth and comfiness as to provide a fine bed on which to snooze away an afternoon whilst your mate makes a right pig’s ear of getting up the final thrutchy bit near the top. I ought to have fallen off, really. In fact, I let go at one point and found that the sheer friction of the rope and all the bits of gear I’d inserted into various cracks wouldn’t let me fall off. Unfortunately, I couldn’t move upwards or sideways either. The technical, mountaineering jargon for this predicament is “stuck”. I was “stuck” , and Geoff had fallen “asleep” on the big, comfy “ledge” 50 feet below whilst I fumbled and thrashed around. I can’t remember exactly how I’d extracted myself from the stuckness, but the fact that I was fit enough to carry a 35 pound pack up from Crowden on a hot day in early summer is testament to the fact that somehow, I must have done it. Today, I spent a few minutes sitting on the path at the top of the climb, taking pictures. It looked horrendous. I can safely say that I’ll never ever do anything like that ever again. No, I mean really – ever.
A little while later, as I was sitting having a brew by the beck, an old bloke appeared and, after asking me if I was going all the way, he enquired as to how heavy my bag was, so I let him carry it for a while – well, I mean fair do’s. Eventually, after he’d died and I’d covered him in dry peat, I took it back. He had very nice sandwiches, I seem to remember, and one of those new-fangled Believe bars.
Black Hill was very hot plodding but easy enough on those damn slabs. I left the official PW at the summit patio and headed off over the old route over Saddleworth Moor. All Black Hill summit needs now is a selection of B&Q hardy annuals and a few nice shrubs in pots – oh, and a barbeque. When I was alive it was a black, oozy mess and you couldn’t get near the trig point unless you walked on the shoulders of those who had sunk before you. The last time I was up here was in the middle of a very foggy November night in the company of several boy scouts. The reason for this will remain unexplained unless you really want the tale, in which case you know where I am.
Anyway, Saddleworth Moor. This was, for a while at least, back to the PW I remembered from when it was … er … like Saddleworth Moor – no paths, no slabs, just a boggy morass and a few sticks sticking up after a stick-like fashion. Somewhere near Standege, I spied a pub and, having confirmed with an old lady and a Labrador that it was, in fact a real pub, and not a mirage, I headed off alongside a reservoir with boats on it, over outrageously tussocky tussocks to an appointment with Pints of Mild and Lancashire Hotpot.
Before entering, I felt around the door and kicked the wall just to make sure it wasn’t going to disappear. It seemed solid enough, so I went in.
Unfortunately, the beer and the hotpot, and the hot weather, plus the Standedge Tussocks made for an afternoon of very heavy going. I entered “struggle” mode.
I met a bloke called Jack searching for Ammon Wrigley’s memorial plaque. He seemed a bit surprised that I’d heard of Ammon Wrigley, and, to be honest, I only knew enough about him for the merest two minutes of lightweight bovine crapology.
Ammon Wrigley is a dead Yorkshire poet, writer and all-round good egg, apparently. There’s a sample of his poetry on the plaque. Its not all that good, really. Not a patch on yer Wordsworth or yer Browning (who wrote pomes about machine guns, I think) I wandered lonely as a potentilla fruticosa – didn’t do nowt for me, like. Various of Mr Wrigley’s dead relatives also have plaques mounted on the same stone. For some reason, possibly linked to picnic lunches, it’s called the “Dinner Stone”. This is from when us Northerners had their dinner at dinner time and their teas at tea time and only perfs, county councillors and their good lady wives had lunch. Those Lancastrians wanting to claim Ammon Wrigley as their own should note that Saddleworth is, and always will be, in Yorkshire, despite the machinations of central government and Oldham council. Once in Yorkshire, always in Yorkshire, gettit?
Later, I found a fiver whilst crossing one of the main roads by the way – not sure which road, mind’s a blank. Anyway, it cheered me up no end, particularly as there was nowhere to spend it, as a nearby tea van that I’d been aiming for since I crossed the local horizon disappeared just as I reached it and so it became a cash profit. Five quid in two days. If it carries on like this, I’ll have about forty pounds by the time I get to Scotland. Ah, this is the life.
Day two was a day of dry, dusty, paved paths. It’s still perfectly easy, given sobriety and a resistance to Lancashire hotpot. There is still no need for boots up to this point.
I did put one foot in some red slutch on White Hill – up to the ankle – so felt justified at wearing the winter-weight fell boots. I seem to remember White Hill being extremely white in June and July when the cotton grass flowers – to such an extent that if you didn’t know about cotton grass, you’d have thought it had just been snowing. For those who don’t know, Cotton grass isn’t grass at all, it’s a sedge, see? Sedges have edges – if you roll the stalk between your thumb and forefinger, it doesn’t go round smoothly, but “clicks” – due to the edges. Triangular, see? Grass is round or oval.
Somewhere off White Hill, I sought out a flat spot near a stream and put up the tent. After a search, I managed to find a water supply that was cold and clear and gushing out of a spring, and not orange and scummy and oily like most of the water around there.
Its not oil, y’know, it’s ferric oxide, aka rust. It looks like oil, sitting on the water, but it isn’t. If you poke it with a stick, or a piece of grass, (or sedge) and it breaks up into round blobs, its oil and is, therefore, likely to be pollution of some kind here in the South Pennines. If the same stick or bit of grass/sedge is poked and it breaks into squareish bits, then its iron, a naturally occurring mineral in the South Pennines, and not pollution at all. You wouldn’t want to drink it, though.
You can see where I camped from the East bound lane of the M62, just as you pass junction 22 and just before you run into the back of that RAC van. And you could see Junction 22 of the M62 from the front door of my tent. You can’t see it from the back door as it hasn’t actually got a back door.
I was entertained at night by a kestrel, a police helicopter and several B&Q delivery vans on the M62. Quite a noisy night. Consumed a fair amount of cheap scotch and went to sleep in a smug and happy mood.
Good fun so far, though. I was right enjoying meself.
Day 3 – Biscuits (Brown) and squirty cheese?
Friday 12th May – Near M62 to New Delight
Another early start. Another early oats-so-simple. I was disappointed to find no tea van, real or virtual selling bacon barms on the Rishworth road, like wot there had been on 26 July 1972, when I last passed this way…. But never mind, I was in a happy mood and thought I may be able to re-breakfast at the White House. So,instead, I scared a few innocent motorists from the footbridge over the M62 by pointing me walking pole at them, until a police car came along when I left and settled in to yet another day of paving stones, tarmac and hot, but very windy weather.
The White House was closed when I passed it, so I lunched on squirty cheese and biscuits (brown) by one of the nearby reservoirs. Biscuits (brown), I should explain were supplied by my daughter’s boyfriend who does part-time military things, and they give him biscuits (brown) as part of his rations. And he then gives them to me. I found out later that anybody who eats a sufficient number of biscuits (brown) is likely to suffer constipation, since they don’t want members of the armed forces spending too much time with their trousers down when they have to be running about avoiding being shot. I ate quite a few. They’re a very pleasant accompaniment to squirty cheese, in my opinion. Other elements of my part-time military rations included Biscuits (fruit), coffee (instant), tea (instant) paste spread (meat), whitener, and various meals (instant) – altogether about three days supply of food. The British army wouldn’t be able to provide any logistics without the humble bracket () and would have to resort to hyphenations like the dirty French. Zut (alors).
The section alongside the reservoirs isn’t perhaps the most interesting bit of walking in the country, though it is quite interesting to speculate on how rough and difficult it would be to walk through the tussocks just off the track and the view is fairly interesting, as is the opportunity for the mind to wander from one interesting subject to another, by way of one or two less interesting possibilities. I was on auto-plod on this bit. Readers intent on a Pennine Way attempt should be surprised if anything happens on this part of the walk and would be best advised to come pre-armed with a list of things to think about. Either that, or plan this bit walk to take place in a violent thunderstorm or a blizzard.
I saw nobody else till I arrived at Stoodley Pike, then suddenly, there were loads of people, one of whom asked me if I was going all the way and said that there was no camping at New Delight, though it were a reight good pub, like. There was some squeaking coming from inside the tower, which turned out to be a lady who had run out of daylight and didn’t know where she was. I shouted some helpful instructions up to her, and, ultimately she appeared out of a dark shadow with all of her hair stood up and with some big, round eyes. I took this to be a demonstration of the effects of fear, but when I tried to mount the steps inside the tower, I discovered for myself that it was, in fact, the effects of extreme darkness and a fierce wind driving straight up the staircase. The view from the viewing platform was quite a bit more interesting than the view from the base of the tower, so, readers, be advised that it’s worth looking like the survivor of a scary helicopter mishap and also the effort of climbing the stairs.
The Pennine Way then winds its way down into Calderdale, rushes across the road to avoid getting knocked down and then can’t seem to make its mind up how to get up the other side. There is a lot of choice hereabouts. Calderdale Council have gone a bit mad with the access signposting. To be honest, I gave up trying to follow the Pennine Way (official), did a bit of Pennine Way (Wainwright’s route) a selection of parts of Pennine bridleway, and a lump of the Mary Townley loop, Calderdale Way, and various other public paths and bridleways. I eventually gave up and just struggled uphill, having a short conversation about the lack of cuckoos locally with a bloke with binoculars and, using my hyper-advanced map-reading and survival navigation skills, I fetched up at the New Delight just about ten minutes after the landlord had closed for his afternoon siesta. As it happened, he served me two pints of Scruttocks Old Dirigible anyway and said yes, I could camp for a quid or two and what time would I want my tea?
After a couple of hours serious dozing in my tent, I repaired to the pub for twelvety three pints and a curry. Went to bed happy but with a dangerously full bladder. Sometime during the night, it may be when I nipped outside for a pee, I became vaguely aware that it was, in fact, chucking it down big time. At some point in the night, a national lottery staff member, who bore a striking resemblance to Kylie Minogue, rattled my tent and explained, quite breathlessly how glad she was to have traced me and would I accept this cheque for twenty million pounds and could I help her out with the catch on her bra strap. Then I awake and found it had all been a dream, apart from the bit about the rain and the wet footprints on my sleeping bag, which turned out to be mine following a brief exit from the tent for a pee in the rain and not Kylie Minogue’s following a dip in the luxury jacuzzi.
Day 4 At last – proper PW weather. And an evil curse.
Saturday 13th May – New Delight to Cowling
Today, it chucked it down all day – I packed up a wet tent and went off in search of the Pennine Way – eventually finding it tangled up with Loopy Mary Townley/Calderdale Way etc etc etc. Calderdale countryside service really have gone a bit mad – to such an extent that it’s just a puzzle. Have I mentioned this before? I’m not obsessed with this – it’s just, I can’t seem to… get it…right, somehow. Maps aren’t much help – best just to keep walking uphill past the Alladin’s Cave grocery’s tea’s, hot drink’s and fir’st ai’d, then past the sign on the farm gate which said, words to the effect, “If it was your dog wot killed my cat, you’re a right bastard and you’ll rot in hell yer feckin fecker” And I agree, really, on reflection.
The Packhorse Inn at Widdop was shut (too early in the morning, I suspect) – and, then the rain got its act together a bit more – Lots of shivering lambs, some, apparently abandoned alongside Walshaw, and a couple of blokes with two kids who were complaining that it was “orrible”.
I brewed up soup in the shelter/bothy at High Withens (note OS misspell this as “Withins”) – Then hundreds of peeps turned up – including a black lass who seemed to think she knew me and said hello in that sort of “what the ell you doin up here?” sort of way.
For various reasons, in the past, I seem to have spent a few nights out in and around High Withens – once camping with one of my children and my mate Geoff (of Laddow) and one of his sprogs, once in winter at minus 14 centigrade in the bothy, and once with two of my sproglings prior to doing the TGO challenge with them – a sort of practise run, in fact. Its not the quietest spot in the world, though , and even so, I have a sort of soft spot for it. It also has several soft spots for everybody else, in fact, it’s surrounded by soft spots.
I struggled uphill out of Ponden and over foggy blank Ickornshaw Moor’s stone slabs to Cowling where the camp site owner’s daughter showed me where to camp in her mum’s shoes, but nobody was supposed to know that. That is to say, I didn’t camp in her shoes, she was wearing her mum’s shoes when she – you get the drift, I expect and, being a child, she didn’t want anybody to know that they weren’t her own shoes – Oh look, just forget it. Did you never dress up in your mother’s clothes when you were young, and parade about in front of her full-length mirror? No?
Just me then…
Had beef ninky noo (Chinese takeaway) from the ninky noo (chinese) takeaway plus beers from Mr Patel’s emporium, since the local pub – where I had had my stag night as it happens, was now a furniture shop… We had sweet sherry and Elsie from the old folk’s home did a dance. We stayed up till half-past ten. Ah, them were the days… The camp site was occupied by just me and another Pennine Way person heading South.
It chucked it down all night. It was a bit too wet for campsite fraternizing. We both kept to our own tents and our own beer supplies as the rain and wind lashed down outside.
Then I remembered Elaine wots-her-name who lived on a farm at Ickornshaw, wot I went out with for a while till she got enamoured of an ambulance driver from Settle…. ah, memories were made of this…
I rang home and my wife told me that Geoff of Laddow had been in contact and may well turn up since he lived nearby at Oakworth. He didn’t. It was too wet for that sort of thing really.
Day 5 More nose pain
Sunday 14th May – Cowling to Gargrave
I set out mainly in drizzle, after waving a damp goodbye to the bloke heading South. I hit first my patch of mud today, then some cow muck – up to now the walk could have been done in ordinary shoes as you’ve probably become bored with me banging on about how easy the thing is underfoot – apart from Saddleworth Moor which is in pristine Pennine Way state – that is, sloppy….
Anyway, I saw nobody till Lothersdale, then just after passing through the village, I talked to a farmer feeding his ducks, then old lady walking her dog, who’d lived all her life in Lothersdale and remembered my cousin (who had a farm there), a bloke with a collie on Pinhaw, and a bald-headed man with a lurcher who knew my Uncle Eric and worked with my cousin Brian.
It was on Pinhaw that it suddenly struck me, out of the blue, that one of my mates was probably dead – we used to go up Pinhaw and Bleara from Earby to smoke B&H, listen to Radio Caroline (the sounds of the sixties, it’s a Caroline flashback, flashback, flashback…) and, occasionally, try to have our evil way with one or more of the Holland sisters (who had, incidentally, been warned off by my mum, unknown to me, as they were fifteen and sixteen and I was only thirteen or so). Anyway, the last message I got from this chap (the possibly dead one) was that he was moving to another house, and he’d be in touch. He’d contracted hepatitis from working in the NHS a while back and he’d had some serious treatment in Manchester, which lasted about 12 months – and it struck me that he’d actually given me a coded message and this was him actually now getting in touch, as he’d put it – its just the sort of way he’d express something like that. The experience was a bit unnerving, really. I was sitting out of the wind and drizzle just next to the trig point and I was remembering sitting in exactly the same spot with my pal, playing a mouth organ and watching all the sheep demolish the nearby stone wall to get out of the way of the din and I got, well, a sort of sinking feeling. I got the impression that he was saying to me that I was in some significant danger of something, or telling me something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It wasn’t a comfortable or happy feeling. I resolved to be much more careful crossing the roads and spent the rest of the morning in a slightly vacant mood.
[About a month after finishing the Pennine Way, I went to Derbyshire to bag some unbagged tops. One of these was The Roaches. I got about half way up from the road when I was hit by a fierce and sudden pain, which, at first, I took to be a nasty bit of indigestion. I remember sitting down and feeling the pain subside and then starting again quite quickly as I continued up the hill. I vaguely remember hearing a young lad with a Brummie accent asking me my dog’s name. It was all very very painful. I got to the top and I remember thinking that maybe I should go to a hospital, and then dismissing the idea after the pain had gone. A few weeks later, after I failed to climb other hills, and my range had started to reduce from thirty miles to a few hundred yards – all in the space of a couple of weeks, I went to see my GP. I had a heart problem – but you knew that already didn’t you? The NHS fixed it within three months. I don’t believe in things like this, but I’m sure this is what my pal was fretting about. Now back to the plot]
A bit lower down the hillside towards Thornton, the PW passes a place locally called The Mount – its a small wooded gill. As children, we used to get sheets of raw cotton from the tacklers at the mill and make tents and put them up on a small rise under a big ash tree, in the gill and the local farmers lad would come down and play with us. The ash tree is still there, and seems not to have altered at all – and the whole small area seems to be exactly as it was – which must have been around 1960. Its quite remarkable how the trees and the land seem to be exactly the same after 40 years. The hawthorn, in particular, seems to be exactly the same as it always was. And yes, I do remember each individual tree in that area.
There’s another point here, that I must have been really well connected to that particular place as a child for it to have registered so well with me. I wasn’t at all conscious of it at the time. It was all quite remarkable. I should, perhaps explain, that the main industry in the late 1950’s in Earby was cotton weaving, and the workers when asked, would supply us kids with great sheets of cream coloured, just weaved, raw cotton. With your mum’s clothes horse, or, some sticks and some string, you could make a decent tent just big enough for three eight year old lads and a small, black mongrel. Each year, a new tent could be fashioned. Spring Mill staff also supplied ball bearings and old bobbins which could be used for various mischievous purposes that would get you an Asbo in double quick time nowadays.
Nearer Thornton, the PW passes under the old railway line to Skipton, which now has no tracks and appears to be walkable, or at least, explorable – then it’s drumlins and cows till Gargrave, stopping only at East Marton for a cuppa with a greedy chicken who wanted some of my toasted teacake, and got a few crumbs for her attention.
The land that divides the Rivers Ribble and Aire is a complex maze of round, green drumlins occupied by cattle and horses. There is a structure to it, though, a mere glance at the map would be insufficient to be able to identify what it was. The secret is the drumlins are bigger in the North and the middle than at the edges and in the South. You could be forgiven for considering that this illuminating piece of information is irrelevant to the Pennine Wayfarer. You’d be right, but I thought it was interesting. I’m not really sure if they are drumlins anyway. However, the significant thing about this particular area is the number of dairy cattle. Anybody with a cattle phobia will be a nervous wreck by the time they get to Gargrave, if, indeed, they ever make it that far.
At Gargrave, I gave up on the damp camping and got a bed for forty-five quid at the Lister’s Arms – or was it the Mason’s?. Managed to dry things out on the radiator and spent the night boozing with a well-off middle class self-made retired businessman-type from Huddersfield – and there was the quiz… I got no more messages from dead mates. Whatever it was, I’d missed it. Not sufficiently tuned in. I’d just have to wait and see.
Day 6 – Then it started really raining
Monday 15th May – Gargrave to Malham
Short day to Malham was all I had to do… It hoyyed it down most of the day. Lots of mud – glad I’d brought the boots. The trek up to Malham was pretty much eventless – just a wet plodge really. I arrived about lunchtime. After wandering around Malham a bit, got in at a B&B and went to the Buck for a wee snifter. The place was empty apart from a Yorkshire TV crew and a bloke wot I’d seen on the telly doing programs about the Yorkshire Dales with lots of stirring music. Can’t remember his name – mind’s a blank. He’s a bloke wot wears tweeds and has a stick with a crook on it although he never pokes it at sheep…
Load of dingo’s kidneys actually – he keeps just happening to drop in on people who have potteries in Keld or make little sheep out of ram’s horns in Slaidburn. Seemed quite a nice bloke, though…. he was discussing some kind of fancy hi-tec camera that doesn’t go all blurred when you wave it around.
All my stuff was soaked, so I dried it all on the radiators at the B&B again. My food plan said that I could do shopping at Malham. but they only sell little sheep made out of ram’s horns and Believe bars, so I had to make do with a couple of choccy bars. My extensive hill-walking experience told me that a ram’s horn nick-nack would be of only limited use in my efforts to complete the rest of the Pennine Way, so I didn’t bother.
I spent the night with four eighteen-year old doctors receptionists who’d never seen a naked man before and wanted to feed me rump steaks and dry out my socks for me. Then I woke up and it had all been a dream, except the bit about walking to Malham.
Who would have thought it, eh?
Day 7 – Things started to improve a bit
Tuesday 16th May – Malham to Horton in Ribblesdale
A better day than Day 6 – lots of people walking up beside Malham Cove faster than me …. going very slowly just now – I seem to have hit a slough, but not one of despond. I was actually feeling really happy and content to take my time — all good, clean fun. I climbed up the dry valley and along by Malham Tarn, where there were peregrines on the crags. Just after, I passed a walking group of elderly people organising which side of the wall each sex would get to pee on, and then I was by myself over Fountains Fell. I left the rucksack by the wall and went off-route to pay a very brief visit to the summit cairn. Then down and up again over Penyghent.
The view of Penyghent from Fountains Fell is, in my humble opinion, the best on the whole walk, with High Cup Nick and the view from Auchope Cairn as runners-up. But more of those places later. There were quite a few people on Penyghent, as you’d expect , including a couple of possible Pennine Wayfarers who seemed to be carrying foam mattresses. I suspect that they were either foreign or they had difficulty keeping their hands off each other, in which case a foam mattress strapped to your back would be just the thing. They were walking very fast, obviously in some kind of rush to get to somewhere secluded. Incidentally, this was the 30th time I’d climbed Penyghent, so I hung around on the top for a while waiting for somebody to come along so that I could tell them and show off a bit. But when nobody arrived I got fed up of waiting and headed down to Horton.
On the way down, I came across a lamb with a broken leg near Hunt Pot – kept falling over, but seemed resigned to it. I reported this to the campsite owner who said it would be his son’s flock and he’d tell him.
Two people from Leicester were in the pub who told me they’d done the PW in 1982 (yawn..) – plus the local village idiot was in there. He didn’t drink anything and kept ripping the pictures off the walls to show the old folks from Leicester, listing the locals who’d moved away, died or whom he just suspected as hiding from him. Apparently, he was in favour of quarrying, shooting things such as rabbits and foxes (he did all the actions and sounds) knew all the gamekeepers whom he described in glowing and heroic terms as being humourless manically depressed and homicidal. He didn’t like walkers or tourists, except the ones he did like. The bar man was Brazilian – I swapped him a NATO sweet (fruit boiled) for some crisps after everybody else had gone to bed. We boozed till early and pontificated on the outcome of the world cup (he being Brazilian and all that).
I staggered back to my tent through a beautiful early summer night.
Kylie Minogue visited during the early hours, but I couldn’t get the sleeping bag zip undone, so she went off with a Brazilian barman. Then I woke up and found it had all been a dream – except the bit about Penyghent and Malham Tarn and stuff.
Day 8 – “You wan’ breakfast?”
Wednesday 17th May – Horton in Ribblesdale to Hardraw
I had an excellent breakfast at the Penyghent cafe amongst people signing in for the Three Peaks – then set off along green lanes for several miles. At Calf Holes Pot, I came across a group of cavers lining up for a trip down the hole. Calf Holes is (?are) a classic hole for novice cavers – my first “official” potholing trip when I was eleven years old and a mere four-foot six – bearing in mind that the water was three foot six deep. One of the teachers got stuck in a slot and blocked the passage with his enormous bum. Us lads were all behind him and celebrated the occasion by having a smoke. Ultimately, we were instructed via a system of echoing shouts and morse code tapped out on his bald head to remove his boots and trousers from behind in order that he may provide less friction. This worked quite well and he popped through the hole like a newborn calf. We quite enjoyed the whole episode until the nagging doubts about possible revengeful actions on his part started to sink in.
Anyway, these modern cavers let me take their pics – then on to Ling Gill, which is a deep limestone gorge with lots of natural forest in it, rare plants and so on. English nature have put in stiles for access – last time I was here, people weren’t allowed in. I had a brew by the bridge.
Then I went up the Cam End road onto the roman road which is also the Dales Way where two fairly diffident off-road bikers let me take their pics, showing their number plates, and next to a sign showing exactly where they were. Idiots.
I’d sort of intended to email the pics to the National Park people, or somebody, since what they were doing was both irritating and illegal. In the end, I didn’t. The photos are there for anybody to view, though.
I had another brew up high on the Roman Road – cos it was so nice, and very easy walking. A group of PW-ers who were doing just a week on the PW and a group of lads from Nottingham passed – I passed both of these later on somehow…
Left my rucksack at Kidhow gate and went up to the top of Dodd Fell, which, incidentally, was much further from the PW than I expected, and from there I rang Hawes YHA. It was full – so I rang five or six places in Hawes and none had any vacancies. Eventually, I got a room at the Green Dragon at Hardraw, though the conversation was difficult, as the lass on the phone sounded oriental, and there seemed to be an audience at her end.
“You want breakfast?”
“Bed and breakfast, yes”
“I check justaminiit [[long pause – laughter in background]] Yes, you get breakfast.”
“And a bed, I need a bed”
“Justaminnit, I check” [[ more laughter ]] “Yes, we have beds”
Short pause…
Wot your number?[[laughter]]”
I can never remember my mobile phone number, or how to look it up without cutting somebody off, so I cut her off and rang her back a few minutes later.
“Hello, I rang a minute ago about bed and breakfast…”
“You wan breakfast?” [[ hysterical laughter ]]
It didnt sound too promising but I rang the wife and told her where I’d be. We’d arranged for her to meet me and supply me with fresh socks and the sort of things that you cant buy in village stores such as one bag of boil-in-the-bag rice and so on.
Somewhere along Ten End, the rain started again.
Had a short conversation with a farmer at Gayle about the recent history of the speed that the grass was growing.
I walked through Hawes passing lots of signs in the places I’d rung saying “vacancies”. This is a note for B&B owners in Hawes. If you wait for double bookings every night and refuse single ones, you will end up with empty beds. To be quite frank, you don’t deserve the sixty quid or so I spent at the George. You got nothing at all, and I wont be attempting to book a bed in Hawes again and that’s your reward for being greedy.
I did, however, visit the local grocery shop and topped up on food, whisky and Believe bars, and met one of the lads from Nottingham I’d seen on the Cam Road.
Maggie was asleep in the car at Hardraw. We swapped the socks and undies and packs of porridge, boil-in-the-bag rice, general stuff – and she took away my tent, sleeping bag and sleeping mat, as I’d booked beds for the next three nights. I’ve just read that paragraph again and there seems some slight risk that readers will understand that I swapped underwear with my wife – that is to say, she was now wearing mine, and I had hers on. This is not true. What I meant to say was that I gave her my scaggy trollies and she gave me, in return, some clean ones. I never wear the wife’s pants whilst hillwalking. Could have an accident or something…
Boozed till late again with the locals including two Thai lasses who weren’t a dream at all. One complained about the cold and built up the fire and the other told the tale about her shopping trip in Leyburn when two schoolboys insisted on speaking to her in Japanese, and she couldn’t make them understand that she didn’t speak Japanese. Strange place, the George – it seems to be in a state of flux. One bar flooded through the roof as the rain came in. My room had a cooker and a fridge, and I couldn’t lock the door…….. Heck of a night, though, with the locals, and the stormy night and general spookiness of the place and very nice scoff, too…
Day 9 – The Hiking Fraternity comes good
Thursday 18th May – Hardraw to Tan Hill
I had an enormous breakfast, watched over by the pub cat, who stared at me from the other chair at the table.
It was a very windy, April sort of day – I said goodbye to the cat who’d followed me out of the pub, possibly to make sure that I was actually leaving, into the street and was met in the lane up to the start of the climb to Great Shunner Fell by a wendy house, sort of bouncing along towards me on the blustery wind. I guessed it must have come from the garden next to the lane, so I picked it up and took it round. There was a wee lass of about three searching the hedge for her wendy house, with her mum. I returned it, the wee lass was quite chuffed I think.
Then I got lost – for some reason I took an old colliery path instead of the PW and had to go cross country to sort it out. I had to walk on wild grass – with no slabs or surfacing at all. Oooer, what an adventure. Oddly enough, I’d been this way dozens of times before. Must have been dreaming or something.
Shunner Fell is a pretty straightforward gentle plod that goes on at some length before it finally emerges at the summit cross shelter. It was perishing cold on top, and some short but fierce showers saw me scuttering off down towards Swaledale. Then I found my room keys for Hardraw in my pocket. Bugger. I resolved to post them back from Thwaite. I couldnt be arsed trying phoning to explain. As it happened, just before the lane into Thwaite, I met two Americans doing another route and they said they’d return the keys for me. “The walking fraternity always delivers” as the lad said… then they had an argument about whether or not they were ahead of schedule or behind…
I refused myself entry to the tea room in Thwaite on the grounds that walkers have to put overshoes on…. wot? eh? Overshoes?
On to Keld – via a very fine high level traverse with lots of wind and primroses. I had a quick cuppa and a Solero in Keld whilst listening to a conversation between a local farmer and a beef farmer from Australia. Everything’s much bigger in Australia, apparently.
And then up the hill to Tan Hill – I couldn’t get a YHA or B&B in Keld – all full, apparently, except that I found out later that Keld YHA had empty beds. What’s up with these people? The YHA in particular seems strangely reluctant to admit to anybody ringing up that they’ve actually got an empty bed or two. A few weeks previously, whilst being the sole customer at Langdon Beck YHA, I’d witnessed people ringing up to be told that the place was full. It seems an odd sort of policy, unless, of course you want to close hostels on the basis that they’re not being used.
At Tan Hill, Tam the Ram was occupying a seat by the fire. Tam is a ram – that is a sheep lamb, and will soon be quite a big lad. He gets fed every couple of hours and thrown out of the pub to do a wee, along with a small jack russell/corgi type dog whom he thinks is his mother. They run about outside for a bit then ask to be let in again, by barking and head-butting the door. (You have to guess which animal does which). When tam the lamb ram gets a bit bigger, I expect he’ll just demolish the door. Quite funny to watch, though, and there was this scouse lass who objected to the thing being bottle fed at it’s age – she said she thought it was about seven years old….
In the pub were a couple of Americans on tour, who liked the water, two lads doing the coast to coast using a baggage transfer service – which included lifts to B&B and a Tesco storesman from York who camped outside and spent his days slowly pickling in the bar if it was raining, or riding about on his motor bike if it was fine. Another fine session ended about 2:00 am when the lad at the bar fell asleep.
…And there was a lad from Barnoldswick who seemed to know the entire history of Burnley FC since 1898….
During the night Sven rang me up and asked me if I’d like to be deputy PM, as the current bloke was making a pigs ear of it. I refused, but he begged and begged, so I said OK, but I didn’t know much about the rules of croquet.
Then I woke up and found it had all been a dream, apart from the bit about Keld YHA being full, but with spare beds. They want to close it y’know – not being used enough, apparently…
Day 10 – It rained again
Friday 19th May – Tan Hill to Blackton Bridge
Tam was at breakfast, having some milk.
I had the full English.
Hurrah for Sleightholme Moor, though – PW as it used to be – nice and sloppy – no going in straight lines here.
Today it really threw it down. It rained and rained and rained.
Bugger.
I sat in a limekiln at God’s Bridge and rang the YHA at Langdon Beck. It was full. Course it was. Dunno why I asked, really. Dunno why I joined the bleedin’ YHA. I don’t suppose they keep some sort of blacklist? Nah…
So I tried a B&B and an answer phone said I’d got Steve and would I ring this other number. I rang the Langdon Beck Hotel and got a bed. Its nice to talk to somebody sensible for a change.
I plodged all day to Blackton Bridge and fetched up at Baldersdale YHA a bit early, so I sat outside and brewed up a gradely mug of NATO hot drink (chocolate) – add to hot-water-and-stir-well. The warden bloke came and said – wot you doin here, like? dintcha know the door’s not locked? – help yourself to tea or soup or whatever you want.
The Nottingham lads also turned up and proceeded to buy out the hostel’s supply of wine and beer, which they generously shared later on.
The warden fed us all, plus a lass with a bike who seemed to be wandering aimlessly, and a chap who’d cycled from Ripponden whose wife had arrived to take him back there… Good scoff – finished off me whisky and helped out the Nottingham lads with their excess wine and beer and then that was that.
A good night, really.
I didn’t take many pics – nothing to see, really except rain and mist.
Day 11 – It rained again again
Saturday 20th May – Blackton Bridge to Langdon Beck
Orrible morning in terms of rain – visited Hannah’s meadow and barn – Hannah Hauxwell is an old lady who had a TV series or two made about her life at Low Birk Hat farm, all by herself. But she’d farmed the fields in such a way as to preserve lots of wild flowers – so Durham Wildlife Trust now manage the site.
Later, I passed by Kirkcarrion – a local landmark, reputed to be haunted and/or the burial site of a brigantian prince. It hasn’t changed much since Alf Wainwright drew it in his guide in the late sixties. It probably hasn’t changed for substantially longer than that, I would have thought. Its certainly a spooky, atmospheric sort of place. Then down to Middleton in Teesdale for teasted toecakes and ice cream.
Then it stopped raining for the walk up Teesdale, along the riverside where I witnessed several canoeists doing apparently suicidal things at Low Force, which was in spate – and people with kids and loose dogs running about at the top of High Force – now that’s scarier than watching a busy roundabout. I got away from there quick, like, waiting for the screams as somebody’s dog or daughter took their final 70 foot plunge into the boiling brown cauldron thingy stuff, like at the bottom.
Then I got bitten by a stile which put two holes in my shin, and I discovered that the discomfort I’d been suffering around the buttock area was due to my waterproof trousers which had worked their way down my bum and removed a significant amount of skin from each buttock. Its surprising, dear readers, just how unpleasant a skinless buttock can be. It wasn’t all doom and gloom, though, as this would provide many hours of entertainment in wild camps and lonely B&Bs across the country as I picked off the scabs over the following week.
I was received like the prodigal customer at Langdon Beck Hotel – having stayed there a week or so earlier, and being a regular if infrequent visitor following English Nature events. I should explain that this particular bit of Upper Teesdale is quickly becoming a stamping ground for me. One of the things that I did after I retired from paid work was to become a guide for English Nature on their reserve in Upper Teesdale and also a voluntary Ranger for Durham County Council. Both of these things result in much time being spent swanning about Cronkley and Cow Green and Cross Fell, and a roughly equivalent post-swanning about amount of time propping up the bar at the Langdon Beck Hotel. So tonight, I felt at home.
Maggie arrived later and I treated her to a scoff. She returned the tent, brought ration packs and pasta and socks and undies and news from the world, which, apparently was continuing quite nicely, if a bit violently, all by itself.
The Nottingham lads also arrived and, together with Lord Barnard’s shepherd from Harwood Common (aka Viewing Hill) – we had a jolly time carousing well up to almost the time the staff arrived to cook breakfast. I’m not entirely sure how the shepherd got home, as he lives about 5 miles up the dale…..
Despite the rain, this is turning out to be quite good fun.
Day 12 – It rained again again again
Sunday 21st May – Langdon Beck to Dufton
The day started out well with a ten mile breakfast and sunshine – lots of lapwings and birds-eye primroses. I called in at Widdybank Farm (English Nature HQ)_for my promised cup of tea, but I’d forgotten it was a Sunday and there’d be nobody at work. I waved at the security cam instead, to the sound of machine gun and artillery fire from Warcop. At least, I hope it was from Warcop.
Cauldron Snout was in half spate at least, almost impressive – and the walk over Birkdale was pleasant. Actually, when you see Cauldron Snout and the amount of water gushing down the cascade, what is really impressive only really comes with the knowledge that all of the water in the Snout is coming out of a smallish pipe a few hundred metres higher up at the base of Cow Green Dam. I had a brew at the new bridge over Maize Beck. Not long ago you used to have to paddle at this point. It could be tricky, though and if the water was vaguely high you were advised to use a footbridge some distance upstream – And then there’d been a drowning, plus somebody had died of exposure waiting for the water levels to subside – hence a new bridge.
The High Cup Nick is a real highlight of the route, and its almost a surprise when you arrive at the lip of this vast gash. Here it started to rain again. There were quite a few other walkers around – probably due to it being a Sunday, I expect. There was one big group of walkers – with somebody obviously and pointedly very much in charge and giving orders in a walk-leader-wot-gets-pushed-into-the-river-eventually sort of way. And there was a family group with a couple of teenage lads who were doing stunts on the rock pinnacles – and I could see I was being followed on the PW by eight or nine people – probably containing the Nottingham lads, I expect.
Got to Dufton as quick as possible and put the tent up, ate, and went to the pub – where the Nottingham lads were already in place. Yet another bladder-busting session was followed by a windy, rainy night. Probably anyway. I made sure the bladder was empty before I turned in and spent about nine hours in a state of unconcious euphoria. I’m convinced that Kylie did turn up at 3:00 a.m. but could get no answer from my tent and so had to content herself with the lads from Nottingham.
Day 13 – It rained again again again blahhhdy blah…..
Monday 22nd May – Dufton to Garrigill
Y’see, I thought I’d been quite clever the night before putting my tent up in the lee of an enormous chestnut tree. However, during the night the Helm wind had started to blow, and there seemed to be some significant danger of large lumps of this monster tree coming down on my head. So I packed up a wet tent dead quick as soon as I realized and headed off to the local shop for some precious things and chocolate.
The problem was, that at this low level, in Dufton, the wind was so strong as to cast down the high places, and quite difficult to stand up in. The question arose as to what it would be like at 900 metres on Cross Fell, and was there a way of avoiding disaster, yet still make progress and stay on time? I rang the Lake District weather line (Dufton’s only ten miles or so from the Lake District.) It said, moderate to fresh winds at 900 meters, rain, snow, poor visibility, 3 degrees, minus ten wind chill. I put me gloves on and determined to set off up Knock Fell and, if it got bad, to transfer into a deep gill to the North and hop over the ridge into the Troutbeck valley and thus, more shelterdly down to Garrigill by paths by the South Tyne.
A long and arduous struggle ensued in a fierce headwind with driving drizzle to get up on to Knock Fell. Hours passed. The struggle turned into a fight. I leaned forward at an impossible angle and stumbled on into the roar of the gale. By the time I was fifty-four years old, however, I had got to Knock Old Man, and the wind maybe wasn’t quite as strong as on the fellside or in the valley. I set out for Great Dun Fell using a compass for the first time, hit the road to the radar station and followed it to the top. Little Dun Fell followed shortly, then a long plod up to Cross Fell in heavy driving snow coming at me head-on in a blinding snow type of way. Fingers froze through gloves. Another compass bearing took me down to the bridleway to Gregs Hut where I could brew up some hot chocolate and ring my mate Brian in Nenthead. I told him I’d be in Garrigill in three hours and he said he’d come and pick me up at the George and Dragon.
I arrived half an hour early and bought beer with wet money which the landlady dried out above the fire in what I thought was a fairly risky manner. Brian arrived and I bought more beer and then off we went to Alston co-op for the three bottles of red for a tenner deal, plus some cans.
Brian let me use his bath (for a bath!), fed me chilli, and we supped the wine and the beer, watched Big Brother and got really pissed whilst all my gear dried out over his kitchen stove.
Me and Brian and another bloke, Doug, who, as it happens is Acting Secretary of the Pennine Way Association, do stuff that old blokes aren’t really supposed to do. My wife says that we’re just recycled toddlers. Brian, for instance, took the wheels off his bike and fitted ski runners. Thus, when it snows at Nenthead, which it probably does more than anywhere else in England, he has a ready form of transport for the downhill bits. We had part of an afternoon hurtling down a hillside at Nenthead one day. Fab fun, if a bit uncomfortable over the frozen molehills.
During the night four lovely dancing girls woke me up and……………..(all a dream etc etc).
No pics – too wet, too cold, couldnt be arsed….
Day 14 There was something missing – Oh yeah, rain…
Tuesday 23rd May – Garrigill to Glendue Burn
Me and Brian most inefficiently made cold porridge and he drove me toward Garrigill, turning around halfway ‘cos he’d forgotten his camcorder thingy and he wanted to try to film some water voles. He’s got some grant money for doing this, and has only seen one vole in 18 months. He sits patiently by small streams, just waiting for one of the little blighters to show up. They never do. (Note: They did eventually, and he has a twenty-minute film to prove it).
Anyway, Cross Fell had fresh snow on it, but by the S Tyne, it was cosy and warm with loadsa flowers. Brian walked with me for a couple of miles, then , after a brew, went off to seek his voles. I didn’t bother with Alston – but carried on to Slaggyford where I met a scouse Mike waiting for his B&B to open. I carried on till I saw a sign pointing to the Kirkstile Inn – so I went there, using part of the South Tyne trail to get there. It was closed (story of my life, innit?) and there were two PW walkers waiting for it to open. As there was a 3 hour wait for the towels to be removed, I carried on and found myself a nice little niche in the shelter of an old Rowan tree next to Glendue Burn. A great spot for a wild camp. It was a pretty quiet night, apart from the constant rain and the increasing noise of the burn…….
Day 15 – Most walks would have finished by now…
Wednesday 24th May – Glendue Burn to Twice Brewed
I was very short of water today as the Glendue Burn was in heavy spate and was black with peat and looked undrinkable. Soooooo I headed off along the Maiden Way and crossed brown moors where the ground bore little relation to the map, to cross the A69 at the top of a crawler lane (scary) – then across a golf course (less scary) to Thirlwall. A short diversion took me to Greenhead hotel for beer and scoff.
With a following wind I made quick progress along Hadrians Wall, amongst the crowds of tourists (a group of whom I had a long chat with at a little cafe) – and Hadrians Wall walkers – of whom there seemed to be an endless procession coming towards me. As the afternoon wore on the HW walkers began to look increasingly fragged – specially a young lass with a little dog on a long lead – the dog approached me with pleading in its eyes – “Help me – she’s gone mad. She wont stop. I’m so tired and cold…. whimper please stop her help helllllppppp. I’m only a puppy” Said the dog.
I got down to Windshields farm near Twice Brewed where there was camping- and, as I found out when I got there – a bunk barn. I plumped for the barn. Inside there was a lad from Rugby who’d taken off on a whim to find himself. Luckily, I had a map, so I could tell him where he was. He seemed surprised as he was supposed to be in Wolverhampton. Then two Americans from Georgia arrived. They had a much better idea of their whereabouts and were fully conversant with the location of the nearest pub. So we all went to there, where there was also the scrouser called Mike from Slaggyford and a clutch of HW walkers, one of whom had been there since 2:00 pm and said he had to drink for medicinal purposes as he was alcoholic, and if he stopped suddenly, he’d die. Just after midnight he took a carry-out and some crisps back to his tent for a cosy night in.
Some more wretched specimens of almost humanity were staggerring along the road towards the campsite – some of them all but done in. It would seem that Hadrian’s wall might be the current start and finish of many people’s long-distance walking ambitions. Just watching these poor buggers made your feet hurt. They just need a day or two off, though, and to ditch some kit, I expect. This is where only sheer determination and bloody-mindedness will get you on to the next day. Its all in the mind when it gets this bad. Nuff respect, though, eh?
Quiet night. One of the Georgians snores for Georgia State, apparently. As I’m the English champion, we had a fair go.
Day 16
Thursday 25th May – Twice Brewed to Bellingham Trees – and trees
You can get quite fed up with the Roman wall. Its a relief to leave it, quite frankly. Whilst I do enjoy a bit of archeology and have watched all of the episodes of Time Team and Meet the Ancestors, Hadrians Wall does go on a bit. And it also goes up and down a lot. No wonder the tyro HW-ers looked so shattered. Uuuuuup and down. Uuuuup and down – if you ran too fast you’d get seasick. Unfortunately, what follows is a lot of forest, and where there’s no forest there’s fields of suckler cattle – the ones with new calves – who can get quite dangerous.
A cold, showery day, it was Just a plod, really. The burn crossings are nice – specially Warks Burn which is in a shallow gorge. Then there’s Shitlington crags (new bunkhouse) and then Bellingham.
The PW has 2 diversions along this bit – first a minor one around the garden at Low Stead farm – and the second runs from the river bridge at Bellingham to follow the riverside to the town centre instead of the main road. All of the guidebooks are wrong, so.
Not a specially interesting day, though, it has to be said. Maybe I was just a bit jaded. ….
I got to Bellingham camp site and I broke the farm’s doorbell. Its probably still ringing. I pressed it, it rang. Then it rang some more all by itself. Then it just wouldn’t stop. I spent a quiet, rainy night in with sliced beef, rolls, champagne rhubarb yoghurt and some tins of beer. I enjoyed it. Being in a cosy tent when its chucking it down outside is one of life’s big pleasures.
Day 17
Friday 26th May – Bellingham Trees to Byreness
The next day, unusually, was a wet day. I left a watery Bellingham wetly during the school run, up the damp road and out on to the splashy moors. The PW is in almost pristine, that is, soggy condition hereabouts. On Padon Hill there’s a monument to a bloke called Padon who was a Scottish covenanter preacher, who headed over the border to preach to avoid being shot, or worse by the government forces in Scotland. Everybody who attended is supposed to have brought a stone, and , when they had enough, the obelisk was built. Its a bit off-route. I didn’t bother with it as I’ve been before. Its just a big cairn, really. I expect Padon’s mum was very proud, though. I hope they didn’t shoot him, or anything worse.
Sheltering behind a wall out of the driving drizzle, a couple with 3 dogs approached, one of whom was warned not to bother me – but it did anyway, in a very threatening manner. The woman called it off, fairly ineffectively – she was, apparently trying to reason with the beast. I waited for them to get out of the way, but, even despite my pack, caught them up, at which point the damn thing had another go. I was considering removing one of its eyes with my walking pole when the female idiot had the bright idea of putting the monster on a lead. She tried to explain the reasons for this to the mentalist canine and, I suspect was about to form a sub-commitee with it to talk about the merits of self control when I indicated to her as politely as possible that if she didnt put it on a lead I’d do it some serious damage with the sharp end of my stick. She seemed to be considering this suggestion as she sought out an alternative route to mine. Hubby went along meekly. I expect they talked about me for a while after that. I felt much more positive now and entered Kielder Forest.
I duly arrived, soaked to the undies and in not too friendly a mood at Byreness – where it suddenly stopped raining and where there’s a transport cafe, a forestry commission wild campsite with no decent water supply and an ex-pub which is run by what appears to be a thespian with a goatee beard, where you can camp in the paddock next to the beehives for three quid. If you want a shower, its another two quid, supply your own towels and soap, and they’ll sell you dinner for ten quid. My food plan had collapsed at this point, and I’d only enough scoff for an overnight and two days walking – so I went for the rip-off, which I expected and duly got. At dinner, there was also a water engineer/cyclist from Ripponden on his way to Edinburgh. I wonder if he knew the other cyclist from Ripponden – the one at Blackton Bridge, remember? What is it about Ripponden and the need to sneak out of it by bicycle, I wonder?
Scouser Mike turned up during dinner and demanded , in thick scouse “Where’s the bar?” – or, more accurately, “werz de bahhhh eyyy? di doo dough, don’t’didoh?”. Informed that there wasn’t a bar, scouser Mike went on to”Werz di bahhh menyoo den eyyyy? Cummedddd eh, gizzajob…” ( “Could I view the menu at all?” ) They seemed appalled, but fed him anyway for ten quid. He was lucky, walking in like that as they’d got this big dog which didn’t like anybody and they operated a sort of safe door system where they warned people to stay where they were till they manhandled this big brown growly thing into a room with a door handle it couldn’t manage.
Every now and then it seems that it was on the verge of mastering the crucial door handle whereupon several members of the family did a rugby-style scrum against the door whilst shouting at it to sit. It seems that it wasn’t in much of a mood to comply. This made dinner a rather hurried affair, I have to say. And it wasn’t worth ten quid. I was in bed by 9:00 pm. Quite sober. At what was probably the darkest part of the night, though, some young student nurses turned up to take my blood pressure and do some rude things to me with a warm, soapy flannel. I have some suspicions that this may have been just a dream, though.
Day 18 – The Cheviot Way
Saturday 27th May – Byreness to Auchope Cairn
I was away very early. The climb out of Byreness was very steep – hands-on at one point – then all of a sudden , there’s no forest and there’s lovely, green hills all around with easy, grassy walking.
I had a brew at Chew Green – lots of archeology here – then past the ten mile hut, which is an emergency shelter. I put a note in the hut log, then three walkers turned up. The Cheviots suddenly filled up and were quite crowded till about four o’clock, then most people disappeared. I met what appeared to be a blind sheep with a lamb at foot – the sheep felt its way down the hill only feet away from me and collided with one of those places where they dig out a little curved shelter in the hillside. It pawed at this for a while and just stood there, not seeming to know quite what to do next. Unfortunately, I was unable to make any sensible suggestions at this point.
As you get further East, the Cheviots become a bit higher and, gradually a bit soggier, till the flag stones start again. There was a short period of heavy rain, then it got really windy. I abandoned my plan for a high wild camp, ignored the diversion to the Cheviot and headed off over Auchope Cairn to find a spot in the valley on the Scottish side.
An epically windy night followed, but the NATO hash (corned beef) and NATO pudding (chocolate) kept me happy and I was pleasantly smug after a day of superb walking and cracking views – and I’d covered about twenty miles, with just the merest brief step to finish off the PW in the morning.
The quality of the water in the burns is the best I’d seen so far – beautifully clear and cold. Hmmmm snore…… nurse!
Debbie Magee visited………. bad dreams………..
Day 19 – Dawdling over the Schil
Sunday 28th May – Auchope Cairn to Kirk Yetholme
I dawdled quite a bit today. I dawdled getting up, cos it was warm with the sun on the tent and perishing cold outside. I dawdled at the twenty mile hut and I sat about on The Schil listening to a lark for half an hour.
Eventually I set off – meeting one lass heading South with no pack, two wild campers (campers not on a campsite, not furious campers) a bit further on and a couple from Morpeth on a day walk. People from Morpeth always tell you that they’re from Morpeth, it seems to me. “We’re from Morpeth” they say, in a Morpeth accent. “Ah, that explains it” is the standard response.
Then I hit the toon. I arrived at the Border Hotel – ordered a pint, for which I was charged a quid (first half is free) and the landlady did me a certificate. I had another beer, a very large rump steak and a double Bunnahabhain – spoke to Bob and Janet Tucker on the phone who said they were by Loch Ness, on their way South and would pick me up and take me home. They’d spent the last two weeks crossing Scotland on the TGO challenge and we’d been sending SMS messages to each other over the last fortnight charting our progress and relating our little victories or defeats…
So I went for a snooze in the sun by the river, came back to the pub at sixish – had more beer. The Tuckers arrived and we had dinner, and beer and whiskies (Jura this time) and then we all went home and told our mums what had happened.
Note: the Tuckers had just done their sixth TGO challenge. We’re trying to arrange it so we all do our tenth crossing together – cos thats a special one, and you get a kiss from the sponsor and everybody likes you cos you’re so brilliant.
Somewhere down the A68, the penny dropped that I’d just done the Pennine Way…
Ooooer….
Slept well that night Then I woke up and found that it had all been just a dream, except the bit about doing the Pennine Way and drinking all that whisky.
Conclusion
I don’t think that this is a difficult walk at all. Most of the route is on some sort of hard surface. The distances aren’t all that great and there’s only a couple of places where it gets anything like steep, the Pennines being generally fairly flat, or, at best, rounded. The adventurous part is the Cheviot Hills, where things get a bit remote for a while. I suspect that Wainwright’s Coast to Coast walk might well be harder to complete. You could probably do this walk in lightweight trail shoes without much of a problem. Navigation is mainly pretty easy with the exception of Cross Fell, or some of the more intricate field paths such as those in Calderdale. I’ve sort of been mooching around the Pennine Way for about 25 years, and its certainly much easier nowadays and, for the most part, its been tamed. I suspect, though, that this taming is one of the reasons I enjoyed it so much. There was very little of the desperate struggle about it. Some areas – specially Black Hill, the bit just after the M62, Ickornshaw Moor, Sleightholme and so on used to be each one a sloppy maze of deep, black peaty runnels and channels and out-and-out bogs. Progress was by a series of hops, jumps, false starts, retracing of steps and the occasional desperate fight for survival. After a day of this, you’d be peaty from your socks to your collar. Not any more. All of that is in the past.
In other ways, its got harder. Shops and pubs have closed and Youth Hostels don’t seem to want customers any more and B&Bs only ever have vacancies if there’s two of you, or you want to stay for a week.
Yet, where it matters, in the countryside in general, things are much much better than they were in the 1970s. There are, for a start, many more trees – Longdendale in particular has vastly more deciduous trees than it had 40 years ago. The Aire Gap is also better wooded, with new strips of wild land amongst the cattle pastures and Tynedale North of Alston has improved. Those damned flagstones have also allowed the moors to recover, and even Black Hill isn’t quite as Black as it once was. The only areas where there are modern problems are Penyghent along the limestone rock band, which is gradually being worn away and the Cam Road which has deep damage caused by off-roaders. The Pennine Way should never have got any further than Thirlwall. The Pennines end at Tynedale. On the other hand, the Pennines don’t start at Edale, but much further South. The Pennine Way should be slid South a bit, and in so sliding, have a shortish first day of 8 or 10 miles. For historical reasons, it should, though, still go through Edale, and finish at Brampton. Anybody wanting to walk to Scotland could then go along Hadrians Wall and take the Cheviot Way (old Pennine Way) up through Bellingham and Byrness to Jedburgh along Dere Street or Kirk Yetholm along the Border fence.
That’s what I think anyway.
Me? – I’m in smug mode thanks very much. It was great.
Editor’s Note: Want to read more of Mike’s travels? The why not pop over to his blog – Northern Pies