Pre-Ramble

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As a long afternoon in the middle of May began, I set out for a walk on what, for anyone attempting the Pennine Way south to north, would normally be the first part of their second day. That being the section between Crowden and Standedge. At the point where the path, after running along the top of Laddow Rocks, edges down and broadens towards Crowden Great Brook, I spotted the anorak red of another walker bobbing in and out of the grey rocks and boulders in the distance. From a long way off I could see that though he was overdressed for the warm day he was approaching rapidly, in a purposeful manner and the large, fully packed rucksack, perched on his shoulders was carried with practised ease.

As he got closer I could see he was carrying a garden spade in his hand. Being a Northerner I knew right up it wasn't a shovel. On meeting, we exchanged pleasantries for a minute or two, during which time I noticed a pair of gardening gloves sticking out from the top of his pocket. We said our goodbyes and he strode away south while I wandered my way northward, but I'd been too much of an Englishman to ask. So I never did find out if he was doing the Pennine Way.

My walk for the day was only the nine mile circular from Crowden to Black Hill and back over Westend Moss. After recently deciding on early June to have a go at the Way myself I thought I'd better get the walking muscles exercised, particularly as they hadn't been out much since the previous autumn. As usual, leaving things till the last minute, I hadn't even begun getting used to carrying a full rucksack yet. That came two weeks later, on a Sunday.

I'd just struggled to the top of Laddow Rocks yet again, this time with an extra 25lb on my back and had flopped to the ground as an aid to breathing. My heart was doing an uncannily convincing impersonation of a baby alien trying to burst out of my chest to scamper off into the heather. As I lay there wondering why they don't have defibrillation points on hills instead of in flat hospital corridors an odd family group passed me. You do tend to get the world and its aunt out and about on a sunny Sunday. There were three adults and a scattering of children between about five and eight years old beginning their descent the way I'd come. One of the lads was saying to his mate,
'There's no point in being afraid of heights, heights can't hurt you.'
What a wise little boy I thought, and falling doesn't hurt either, it's only the sudden stop at the end that tends to smart a bit.

Setting off again, for the next twenty minutes, all the way along the path, which only just manages to balance itself on top of the sixty foot drop, I kept having to stop to let similar groups pass. There is only room for one abreast. Some of the children, I'm sure, were as young as four. A few of the adults were wearing proper walking gear but it hadn't been worth buying expensive boots for the kids to grow out of, and of course it would have been a total waste of money if they were just going to fall to their deaths, they were all wearing expensive trainers instead.

Now I’m not in favour of mollycoddling kids but to my mind taking children of such a young age, who tend to have a predisposition for falling over, for a trot along a path like that is reckless. If one of them had tumbled off they’d have probably sued the council for not erecting a railing, or at least a sign warning of the danger. I suppose it did get the kiddies out and about and using their legs for a bit though. They're probably carted to and from school, and everywhere else for that matter, in the car, for safety’s sake.

My outing on this day was simply walking along the Pennine Way from Crowden as far as I could go, then ringing my darling wife to pick me up. This not only gave me the aerobic workout of scaling Laddow it also exposed me once again to the pleasures of Black Hill. Black Hill now is an innocuous mound which has nothing much going for it other than a pleasant view over the Holmfirth area from its northern slopes. Just a few years ago, though, it had a reputation that deservedly struck fear into the heart of the most intrepid walker. It didn’t bite of course; it would try and suck the unwary rambler to death.

I consider myself lucky to have experienced Black Hill before they scraped off most of the peat and laid the slabs. At the same time, every time I go there I’m glad I don't have to relive the experience. On my first visit the weather was quite pleasant, but it had been wet recently so the ground was pretty soggy; though calling it ground is perhaps flattering its status in the matter league. The unavoidable areas of peat were like thick black blancmange dolloped out in giant spoonfuls, leaving a few small islands solid enough to hold your weight. The best way across was to run over it, from island to island, quick enough to not sink in. This worked all right until trying the Jesus trick in one particularly soft patch, as I lifted my foot I felt it coming out of my boot and instinctively stopped and settled back, sinking rapidly up to my knees in the black goo. You might not like it much but it just doesn’t want to let you go. I nearly always walk alone but luckily on this occasion I was walking with a pal. He managed to give me a hand out without getting too mucky himself. I was never in any danger but if I’d been on my own I’d have been covered in the stuff by the time I’d crawled out, probably minus a boot or two.

We need to have places like the Black Hill of old. They’re great to talk about when you’re warm and snug with a pint in the pub. In this case, though, I suppose being on a popular long distance trail it made sense to make it passable in all weathers, and there’s still one thing you can say about Black Hill: even though it’s been tarted up it’s not a place many would want their ashes scattered.


My last training walk was on the Wednesday before the Friday I’d marked down in my diary for setting off. I planned a full circuit round the edge of Kinder Scout. It is described in walking britain as being 18 miles, so it’s a serious walk, and though of course you’ve done most of the uphill once you’re up Kinder itself there are enough undulations along the top to keep the blood flowing.

It was a hot day half way through half term and the hill was packed. From Edale I went up Grindslow Knoll then west to the trig point, battling my way through the crowds. Sometimes I don’t know why they bothered building the Trafford Centre at all. These people could have been indulging the great British passion for shopping there; but no, they were cluttering up my countryside. Going north along the edge towards the downfall it was still busy but not as bad and after the downfall it became reasonably quiet. All the way along from Kinder Low to where the path drops down to Mill Hill I followed a red rucksack and two trekking poles a more or less continual quarter of a mile ahead of me. He looked very much like a Pennine wayer and I felt quite envious. He’d be two days ahead when I was just starting out.











Shoppers on Kinder Scout


In the meantime my practice wasn’t going that well. The path on the north side of Kinder is just as churned up by bootmarks as the south or west but it’s somehow always much quieter. It was also dry, so I should have been enjoying the afternoon. However, with the combination of the weight of my bag, the undulations I mentioned earlier and being unfit I was very weary by late afternoon. Approaching the eastern end I decided on a short cut and headed “inland” from the rim towards the trig point in the region of Madwoman’s Stones. I knew there was a vague sort of path from there to the southern edge above Edale village. I’ve been up Kinder Scout many times and been across it, at different points, quite a few, but I can’t remember one occasion when I’ve gone across it and got to the other side at the point I thought I was going to get to before I set off. In my defence, if the weather’s fine I don’t bother digging the map or compass out of my bag. This, for me, would probably be a waste of time anyway. The one time I did use my compass, constantly, was when I tried crossing the wide bit on the left as you look at the map, in fog. I was more than a mile off my aiming point when I finally found a feature I recognised to pinponit where I was and had to walk round most of the edge I’d set off trying to avoid.

On this occasion I missed the trig point completely and suddenly found myself looking down on the village, having come out not far from Golden Clough. I was surprised but not disappointed, it was probably the shortest crossing I’d ever made and just goes to show what you can do if you don’t put your mind to it. It cut short even my shortened walk by another mile but I’d had enough by then anyway. My legs ached and my feet were sore, my shoulders hurt from carrying the bag and I was very tired as I limped down the Nab. I even had to pause for breath on the steps up from the footbridge. It was a depressing journey home. In only 36 hours I’d be doing my first 16 miles of the Way and I was worried, not about completing that, but about what sort of state it would leave me in for the other 252 miles.

The following day, instead of being hardly able to walk, as expected, I was shocked to feel not too bad at all. I’d picked up some advice which recommended relaxing the day before doing something particularly exerting, so I decided to heed it. As I live in the Manchester area I planned to return home the first two nights therefore didn’t have to do any last minute preparations, so I didn’t. I knew sleeping at home would have the disadvantage of not given me the feeling of having “set off” properly but I do so much walking in the area between Edale and Black Hill I don’t think I’d have got that anyway. I didn’t cheat on the weight carried in my rucksack though. Well o.k. I did a little bit, but only by 3 or 4 pounds on the first day.