Trying to Avoid Getting to Malham by Alliteration

Day Five

Breakfast couldn’t have been better. It helps when the landlady is cooking it not ten feet away so you can tell her how you like things done. Susan and Sandy, the owners of Woodland House have a great deal of experience in long distance walking. Indeed, you’d be hard pressed to outdo them in the number of miles and areas of Britain they’ve covered on their feet unless, of course, your name is George Tod and you’ve done just about every long distance walk in the country, twice. Being walkers themselves they know how to look after you properly and understand when you arrive either very sweaty or very soggy. I’ve stayed at some guesthouses where I’ve paid good money to be treated like a leper. They are also handy if you have any questions on other walks you might be thinking of doing.

Time to take off a clout

I was a bit more organised on this morning and managed to get myself out the door by 9 o’clock. I intended to try for Malham but thought I’d see how I was getting on before ringing for a room.

It was a hot and sunny day and the sweat was pouring into my eyes as soon as I started up the side of the valley. A lot of people decided to talk to me on this day. First was an old chap with a dog in the village wanting to talk about boots. As this season I was mostly wearing Scarpas, which are the Rolls Royce of the boot world and come with five speed gears I didn’t think I could do much better. During the conversation, though, he mentioned a problem with Brasher Hillmasters which I’d also had: that is the difficulty staying on your feet when walking over wet rock. This is a shame as otherwise they are an excellent boot, the most comfortable I’ve ever worn. I still use them for the peat and millstone grit of the Dark Peak but I won’t go near limestone or any other rock that can be tricky when wet in them.

Half way up the hill a friendly farmer stopped me for a chat then near Lothersdale a couple of old biddies stopped me for directions, and a chat. They were out walking without a map. “Got no use for a map” said the elder of the two, who looked as though she’d worn a whistle round her neck and umpired a few hockey matches in her time, “can’t make sense of the bally things anyway!”

Lothersdale’s a pretty village, as you can see from the picture, down another hill and up the other side of course. I think the population must have seen me coming and hid away behind locked doors and closed curtains, with their dogs and children, I didn’t see a living thing as I walked through.

Lothersdale locked and bolted

It had started out hazy and by the time I reached Pinhaw visibility had dropped to murky. I could just about make out Pendle Hill but there was no sign at all of the hills of the Dales. There was a couple on the summit who were sat chatting together so happily I assumed they were having an affair, but they turned out to be married, to each other. They pointed out where the landmarks were had I been able to see them. He was from Gargrave on one side of the hill and she from Kelbrook on the other and they’d been married 25 years. Unfortunately, when they were teenagers her father hadn’t forbad her to see the boy she loved from the next village so she had never had to sneak away for illicit trysts on this ideal metaphor for the hill they’d have had to climb to be together. This is the trouble with a lot of parents, they give no consideration to the stories their children will need for the great grandkids.

More to the point, if you’re ever in the area at a meal time, pop in to the Kelbrook chippy, they do the best fish and chips between Barnsley and Blackpool.

Shortly after Pinhaw the walk is mostly through fields until past Malham. I much prefer the open moors to fields. For one thing there are usually a lot of stiles to negotiate. I reckon, between Cowling and Malham, whatever the height climbed due to the topography you should add at least another 300ft for the stiles. There’s also the matter of continually having to refer to the map. Paths have an annoying habit of vanishing in fields, five yards from the stile or gate, or there’s confusion when other paths cross or lead off. I have never liked carrying a map in a case round my neck and only do so when it’s raining so I either carry it in my hand or more often in my bag which means I have to stop and take my rucksack off before I can check it. It also means I often go a bit astray.

Affordable housing for the rural worker, once

Shortly after Thornton in Craven the way joins the Leeds-Liverpool canal. There was a chap there painting his narrow boat which brought to mind the fun I could have been having had I been at home. I had a quick J2O in the pub at East Marton and rejoining the tow path, happily sailed past the point where the path leaves the canal so I did an extra ½ mile of the chat I was having with the ducks. If ever I walk this way again I’ll continue along the canal and miss the fields which were of no interest. In Gargrave someone else stopped me for a chat, an oldish gent who said he’d done the Pennine Way in 1955. This of course is ten years before it opened but he was pretty convincing and I suppose there’s no reason he couldn’t have walked a version of it before it became a national trail.

I was going to stop at a pub but it was shut so went to the café where every other Way walker goes and got my photo took by the sign like everyone else. I had a can of fizzy orange and bought a bottle of water to go. I hate the idea of buying a bottle of something you can get free from a tap so I bought one with a hint of something. A hint of rip-off I think it was.

An idiot in a hat trying to get in the way of the photo of the famous P.W. sign, which for some reason doesn't add up to 268 miles

Looking at the map in Gargrave I thought I was practically at Malham, only an hour and a half or three quarters max to go. It took me just short of three. There is the odd undulation and a bugger of a steep bit at Hanlith but it’s generally pretty easy while a lot of it is very easy, and quite pleasant I might add by the side of the river. The only explanation of this is it’s one of those areas where Ordnance Survey have cleverly decreased the scale of the map in such a way that you can’t tell by looking. I’ve noticed this on other walks, where its also taken me twice as long as it should to cover the distance. They either do this for bloody mindedness, they seem to know where it is you’ll be tired or perhaps it’s like the A to Z city map people who stick in the odd fictitious small street to protect their copyright.

Near Malham many of the stiles have been replaced by kissing gates. However, this only makes things easier for walkers who aren’t carrying a bag on their backs. The way they have been constructed means anyone carrying a rucksack has to take it off to get through. This is annoying as they can quite easily be made with space at the back to allow you to swing the bag round; they have them all over Teesdale so it’s just a matter of whoever’s responsible in the Malham area not using their brain. The last gate before reaching Malham was the worst, but luckily there was a pair of them. I threw my rucksack through one while squeezing through the other and a hundred yards later I was there. After a morning’s meandering and a p.m.’s perambulating I had made it and was marching down mainstreet Malham. The time was about seven so it had been a long day to cover about 18 miles. My appetite for walking had been fully sated for the day. In fact I felt quite knackered. My feet hurt as did the backs of my legs both with the exertion and sunburn, in spite of the factor 15 slapped on that morning. My shoulders also ached from the pack.

If you have never been to Malham before you must go to Gordale Scar, which in my book does not come off second best to the Cove. I’ve visited Malham several times before so I didn’t bother on this occasion, particularly as I hadn’t the energy. The first time I’d have been 16 or 17 on a field trip for geography A level so I understand everything about the geomorphology of the area, it’s just that I’ve forgotten it. This was quite some time ago, of course. Malham then was considered quite a long way by coach from Richmond, we needed two changes of horses.

I’d booked a room at Beck Hall where I’ve stayed a few times before. It’s in a very pretty location, next to the beck of course and some of the rooms are very well appointed and have a great deal of character. I didn’t get one of those this time. The place was full and I was deposited in a room at the rear of the building where very good use had been made of the space available and neither the pictures nor the paper hanging on the walls were in danger of being faded by direct sunlight.

After a quick shower I went to the Buck Inn for beef and ale pie and cheesecake. If I’d been drinking I’d have probably stayed to have a few but there’s not much fun proppingg up the bar while sipping a cocktail of orange and passion fruit, so I went back to my room.

Gordale Scar, very interesting once you get into it

The t.v. was a bit complicated and came with instructions. I should have borrowed a child from somewhere to work it out for me but eventually managed on my own. While randomly pressing a few buttons the radio station Planet Rock suddenly came on so I was able to head-bang round the bathroom while I did my washing. After two and half days I thought I’d better wash my shirt. I normally carry two shirts but on this occasion I’d traded one for maps. The Regatta shirt I had with me was fairly cheap but it’s much warmer than its thinness would suggest. It also dries overnight in warm weather, just about.

One rather strange thing, which I noted at the time, was that I couldn’t get rid of a farmyard sort of smell and taste in my mouth. I didn’t know whether it was on my clothes or in my mind. At the time I put it down to the intensive muck spreading going on at a farm near Thornton when I passed through. Whatever it was I woke at 7 the next day with the runs.

Malham Village

Kicking Down the Cobble Stones to Cowling (and Feelin' Groovy)

Day Four

The room was as quiet as a Yorkshire mine shaft, apart from the crunch of branflakes and the weird gurgling noises emanating from the stomach of a guest opposite. They really should have the radio on in pub breakfast rooms, so many of them don’t. However, the meal itself turned out to be good, though, instead of fried bread they’d gone posh and presented gently sliced baby pommes de terre, lightly fried in butter and dusted with pepper. This would have been quite tasty later in the day but didn’t work for me first thing in the morning.

The sheep at Top Withens don't just beg for food they try and sell you a cop of The Biggish Ewe

After re-loading the rucksack with all the stuff it had been so easy to spread around the room the night before, buying a few provisions from the local shops and double checking I’d packed everything, it was nearly 10 o’clock when I paid up and left the White Lion and said ‘I’ll see thee.’ to downtown Hebden Bridge. I knew that I’d get about two miles down the road and not remember putting something really important into the bag, like the maps or camera, or bar of chocolate. The uncertainty would nag me for another half mile or so until I’d give in and stop for a rummage until I found it right down at the bottom.

As I split the town it was pretty well perfect weather for walking: cloudy and cool. I still didn’t see any hippies, they must have still been crashed out after dropping all that acid last night. What a bummer. The cooler weather didn’t last long either man, by the time I reached the woods it was sunny and very hot. Dragsville U.S.A.

I’d decided to go by way of Hardcastle Craggs. Mark Wallington in his entertaining read Pennine Walkies writes enthusiastically about this woodland walk so I thought I’d give it a try. It sounded more interesting than going back along a busy road to walk up fields I’d probably see the like of innumerable times in the days to come. Rigidly following every step of the official Pennine Way path was never part of my plan. As long as I covered approximately 270 miles on more or less the same course that would do for me. The wood is a local beauty spot which judging by the amount of yellow paint on the nearby roads must be very popular on a sunny weekend. I thought it pleasant enough but couldn’t find anything which gave me the urge to get the camera out. I rejoined the way just before Walshaw Dean lower reservoir.

The three Walshaw Dean reservoirs were named after a local lad from Haworth, real name Harry Webbersley. He was a minor singing star and heart throb of the late 50s early 60s reaching number 7 in the hit parade with the ballad ‘Golden roses always make me want to cry over you’. He had two other singles which just managed to scrape into the top thirty but he appeared on Thank Your Lucky Stars four times and rumours were rife about him and the ‘Oil give it Foive’ girl. The latter part of his short career was marred by his addiction to milk and purple hearts (the amphetamine, not the medals) and his last single ‘Tell Nora I love her’ flopped amid allegations of blatant plagiarism. His decline was accelerated after the country was outraged when he was rude to David Jacobs on Juke Box Jury. He didn’t say thank you when Mr Jacobs complimented him on his quiff. His last public appearance was as Tree #3 in Babes in the Wood at the Gaumont Picture Palace and Theatre, Ripon,in January 1962. This was just at the time the reservoirs were being completed and the mayor of Haworth, a Councillor Webbersley, got them named in his honour.

“The lad’s put Haworth ont’ map!” he’d exclaimed “What else ist’ town famous fer?”

I stopped for a bit of lunch at the lower one and mused about Walshaw. I vaguely remembered reading his obituary in The Telegraph a good number of years ago. He’d emigrated to Australia for a new life when the possibility of a showbiz comeback had been destroyed by the onset of Beatlemania. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been there more than six months when he’d been killed in a tragic accident involving a game of spin the bottle, a pair of wellies and some sheep-dip.

Meanwhile, the clouds had returned but it was still very hot and I was getting short of water. I was carrying a 75cl plastic bottle and a 2 litre capacity flexi-flask which I hadn’t put anything like enough in that morning. I’d used up all my reserve and the bottle was now half empty. It was simply too hot to go far without liquid. If I didn’t find another source of water soon I’d have to drink my own urine. The trouble was I didn’t have any.

Of course I was doing all this worrying about the lack of water while I was sat next to a reservoir. I didn’t have purification pills with me and was more than usually cautious about drinking from streams, being on the walk, but the water in the reservoir would have been perfectly o.k. Amazingly it just never occurred to me at the time.

As it was now about one o’clock it was time to decide on the destination for the night. My legs had been a bit reluctant to get moving that morning but seemed quite happy now so Cowling seemed the ideal choice. Ponden and Haworth were too close and Lothersdale a hill too far. I rang Woodland House and got a twin for sole use at what sounded a reasonable rate. While looking at some Yank’s account of his Pennine Way experiences on the net I’d noticed he’d recommended this b & b very highly. It was also en-suite which is a big plus when you have a middle- aged bladder.

I hadn’t seen anyone for over an hour and it looked as though I had the moors to myself until I walked up to the middle reservoir and there was a group of six other walkers just setting off from their lunch break, going in the same direction. First I got ahead then they did then I was walking in the middle of them so I stopped to let them all get clear of me. It was an all male party of two in their early twenties with large rucksacks who’d been camping and four forty somethings only carrying day sacks who’d opted for the soft option of b & bs. Funnily it was always the two with the heavy rucksacks who lead the way. They all stopped for a brief chat before getting out of my way. They’d set off on Friday as well, though were only doing a four day stint so were due to finish that day. They had also had the pleasure of meeting my pal from yesterday, struggling up Jacob’s Ladder on the first day. I filled them in on his progress up to last night. They were all deeply concerned for the welfare of a fellow walker but managed to hide it behind their tears of laughter.

The group had left Top Withens, Emily Bronte’s inspiration for Wuthering Heights, a few hundred yards before I got there so the sheep only had me to beg from for a while. The view down to Haworth was marred somewhat by the heat haze, a growing problem over the coming days. I didn’t think the place seemed as isolated as portrayed in the book. Of course they felt things more in those emotional days when you could quite easily die from a touch of the unrequited passions and it might feel a bit different in a blizzard.

Top Withens from, presumably, Middle Withens

I really had to do something about the water situation so headed off to the Old Silent Inn at Stanbury, hoping it was open during the afternoon. The quickest way was down Back Lane then left along the road to the pub; and it was silent, I was the only one in until I found the barmaid. A few minutes later the group of six came in, they’d come the long way down and were desperate for beer. They’d finished their four day outing and were rightly having a few before being picked up by their wags. They said they intended to complete the Pennine Way in day trips which sounds like a project that could last a few years.

I had a couple of J2Os, got my water bottle filled up and was on my way. It wasn’t very pleasant walking along the road to rejoin the way at the top end of Ponden reservoir. It’s quite a narrow and busy road so it was a balancing act to avoid being run over and not being ripped to shreds by the thorns and prickles at the side of the road. I was very glad to get off it and on to the steep but fairly short climb up to the moors.

Ickornshaw moor has a scruffy air about it, to my mind, but I was enjoying a pleasant early evening stroll over it until I came to a rock which had been vandalised by the incredibly selfishly stupid owners of the other b & b in Cowling, Winterhouse Barn. These people think it’s perfectly all right to daub their telephone number in paint wherever they feel like. I wonder what their attitude would be if their local asbo dodger left his mark in spray paint on their wall. In a way I felt sorry I hadn’t booked a room there, so I could tell them where to stick it.

Ponden Reservoir

Cowling is a nothing much to look at large village with more ducks than people and a gun shop, handy for those going south to tool up before reaching Greater Manchester. The best thing about it is Woodland House B & B. and I’m not saying this just to put you off the other place. I was made very welcome by the landlady with a cup of tea and slice of cake and then shown the room. It was not large but spacious enough, with the same to be said for the bathroom. You could tell that a lot of thought had gone into what a guest might need in the room and there was certainly nothing I could think of that it was missing. It was clean, comfortable, with too many towels and it was also quiet. The road through Cowling is noisy and the few yards away from it make a big difference for a restful night. So if you stay in Cowling you have a choice of two. One has rooms that are not en-suite, is right on a noisy main road and is run by people who spoil the countryside with their graffiti. The other place to stay is called Woodland House, which I haven’t finished singing the praises of yet.

The nearby restaurant was closed, being a Monday, but the husband, Sandy, drove me the couple of miles to a pub for my dinner. Sandy turned out to have psychic powers. After I’d finished my meal I’d just walked out of the door and was starting to dial his number when he drove up to take me back.

‘I thought you’d be finished about now.’ He said

After a bit of a chat it was up to my room for the nightly sock washing ritual, a watch of the forecast and a think about how far I wanted to do tomorrow
Leaving Cowling in the morning (Next Week)

A Trip to Hebden Bridge

Day Three

Day three was a Sunday and I don’t much like walking on a Sunday, at least not until late in the day when people have gone home. If you’ve read my other pieces you might have gathered by now that I’m an unsociable bugger when I’m out for a walk. Whenever I meet other walkers I don’t greet them with a smile and a “Lovely day today” I growl and snap a “Get off my path” at them.

To get to the next possible place to stay past Hebden Bridge, not wanting to either carry or sleep in a tent, would have meant a full day. Settling for the Hebden Bridge/Mankinholes area, on the other hand, worked out perfectly. Being a pretty flat, very easy nine or ten miles meant I could set off late in the afternoon, when the crowds had gone, and I'd have the day to complete my preparations for the walk. This was mainly scribbling down a list of accommodation along the route. Some might say I should have done this sooner, but there was no point if I’d given up after the first couple of days was there? My idea was to book as I went along. As I never expected to complete the walk I didn’t want to book too many miles in advance and I also didn’t want to plan ahead too much anyway. Being tied to a fixed itinerary would diminish the sense of freedom I was planning to delude myself with. I thought I’d play it by ear, so to speak, though as it turned out neither of them had any influence at all in where I stayed on any night.

My wife and more importantly, my son, went out for the day so I was able to gain access to the computer. I spent several hours tapping away, getting very little more information than what’s listed in the free Pennine Way Accommodation Guide. Of course it was a bit late to order one though I eventually picked one up at Middleton.

I was eventually waved goodbye to from the M62 footbridge at about 5 having remembered to book a room for the night: The White Lion in central Hebden Bridge, a bit pricey but I’d saved on two nights accommodation so could splash out a bit. It was only a matter of minutes before I met one of the more interesting characters I came across during my expedition.

On the run up to Blackstone Edge I noticed a figure ahead of me. It was soon evident that I was rapidly gaining on him and as I got nearer it crossed my mind that it was possible he was moving house. Of medium height, aged about 30 his wiry frame was bowed by the weight of a large rucksack while at the end of one stretched arm a bulging day sack was being dragged by the strap on its top. A guitar grasped by the neck in his other hand would have completed the picture perfectly. He’d wandered off the path to the left when I overtook him, something I learned he was rather good at, but when I stopped at the trig point to take a snap we met and started to chat.

Blackstone Edge

He was a very friendly sort of chap. If you ever had to change schools as a child he’d be the sort that would have befriended you on the first day and the sort you’d have made do with until you found someone better. We walked together for a while. He’d also started out on Friday, and he told me his story so far.

He was camping out, living on tins of sardines, which meant he walked all day, stopping for the night when he couldn’t walk any further. This beggars the question why wasn’t he on Haworth or Ickornshaw Moor by now?

The first time he’d got lost was coming down from Kinder Scout. He’d been going great guns until he suddenly realised he’d no idea where he was. He’d no proper maps, only those that were in the book and he’d gone off the page. Rather than retrace his steps he carried on until he’d reached The Grouse near Hadfield. It took him at least two pints to find out he should have turned right on Mill Hill and get directions for the way back. He spent that night somewhere near the Snake Pass road, he couldn’t be more specific than that. The second day was uneventful but somehow he only got as far as Black Hill before pitching camp. If nothing else he can be one of the few who can legitimately wear a “I camped out on Black Hill” sticker. Sunday had been another disaster early on. He’d gone wrong somewhere near Wessenden Lodge. He didn’t know how he’d done it but it was not because of the diversion signs, which he said he hadn’t even seen when I asked him. The path here is so easy to follow, unless you purposely go of it, getting lost deserves some sort of prize, a sticker’s not enough. He wandered the moors for two hours apparently before he stumbled on the path again at Black Moss reservoir. Perhaps the moors decided against swallowing him up and spat him out, sick of being tramped over.

These diversions into the unknown were not only exhausting for him, the time they were using up was a serious hindrance to his chances of completing the walk. He only had two weeks to do it in, which is pretty good going for someone who can read a map. In passing he mentioned to me that he’d only taken up walking a few months ago and this was his first long distance. I told him there was a lot to be said for starting on just about the biggest and hardest in the country and working your way down, not all of it bad.

Like me he was heading for Hebden Bridge for the night and I would have walked further with him but I wanted to get there while it was still Sunday so I left him at the Aiggin stone. He was all for going straight on, but I told him the easiest way was part way down the “Roman” road and turn right. I wouldn’t say he was slow but after 500 yards I turned round and he was half a mile behind. I never saw him again and I really hope he made it, but without allowing himself a couple of months I doubt it very much.

Even though, at least in the circumstances I met him, he was the type you laugh at, not with, I admire the chap. He is set in the same mould as those great British failures Eddy the Eagle and Scott of the Antarctic, for there is something very British about embarking on a venture with little more preparation than packing some optimism and then smiling through the adversity (while moaning about your feet). The world is a cheerier place because of people like him and I’m glad I walked with him for a while.

If I hadn’t been off the booze I would not have been able to resist the temptation of a pint or two in The White House. This is an excellent pub with not bad beer and very good food and all drinkers should organise their walking schedule accordingly. There were a few people walking off their meal or working up an appetite near the pub but after a few hundred yards there was no one else until I reached Hebden Bridge. This is the best part of walking in the summer evenings, everyone’s gone home and you’ve got the countryside to yourself.

The best way to view Manchester

It’s very flat walking next to the reservoirs and a bit dull, apart from the view back over Manchester, which doesn’t look too bad from a distance. If they cleared all the buildings and made it open country it would look even better of course. The trouble with looking where you’re going here is your eyes keep being drawn to the monstrous wind turbines on the horizon.

On turning the corner Stoodley Pike comes into view, a monstrosity in itself but at least there aren’t fifty of them, in cold, clinical white, continually cocking two of their fingers in the air at you over the moors. It looks quite close but it took me nearly an hour to reach it. On the way I walked through an exaltation of skylarks. They all flew up to do their hovering and chirruping at me, all that is apart from one. It had been a good day for Sunday walkers and the path I was on would have been in continual use. These birds

must have been like yoyos for a good ten hours and it was too much for one bird. It still managed to do the chirruping, but while perched on a rock, obviously just too knackered to bother to hover. I took a photo of it but though the song of a skylark is an absolute delight a picture of one is drab.

Stoodley Pike, still a league hence

A bit closer

I stopped at Stoodley Pike for a short while to take a couple of snaps, have a snack and brave the dark staircase to the viewing platform, though the view from there is not really much better than at ground level. A sign above the door attests to some involvement of the Freemasons. They must have been made of sterner stuff back in the days it was built. I can’t imagine many of the masons I know puffing their way up to the monument, it’s nowhere near a pub.

By the time I’d wandered my way down to Hebden Bridge it was about 9.30. The town’s main claim to fame since the 70’s is as a sanctuary for hippies. I suppose it won’t be too long before it’s a sanatorium. I was half expecting to see guys and chicks grooving along the streets in tie-dyed shirts, loon pants and smelly kaftans carrying Steve Miller Band albums, saying “Love and Peace” or “Hey man do you want to score some shit” or perhaps reciting the words to Close to the Edge, still looking for the hidden meaning, or any meaning at all. Of course I didn’t see one. At this time of day they would be laid back on their bean bags, spaced out, grooving to Traffic or Crosby Stills and Nash. Far out.

It was too late for food at the pub but I’d had a late lunch and wasn’t hungry anyway. I’d already seen a lot of the town while trying to find the place so just went to my room. It was a very good size and had everything in it though it was a bit dusty and had a general dowdy air about it. My room was in the row of what I assumed to be converted stables in the cobbled courtyard at the back next to which, on the other side of a wall flowed the town’s eponymous river. It was o.k. but could have been a lot more pleasant without the litter and the pile of dog-ends by the back door where the staff took their fag breaks.

A Walk to Windy Hill

Day 2

I woke to a bright and early Saturday feeling pretty awful. It wasn’t the aches and pains so much, they weren’t too much more than my aging body often faces while adjusting to the onset of another morning; it was probably more to do with having so little food the day before. An allergic reaction to losing weight no doubt. After a healthy breakfast and then another unhealthy one, I felt fine.

The plan was to tick off the fifteen miles to the M62 by the end of the day but there was no rush setting off. One advantage of coming home at the end of the day meant that I didn’t have to get to somewhere while they were still serving food. With the light June evenings I could walk until late, so I didn’t start early. I eventually left Crowden at 10.45, the weather was fine, a bit hotter than the day before but still with that cooling breeze.

I managed Laddow rocks (it was becoming a little boring) without too much difficulty, so my general fitness must have improved from a few weeks ago. Being a sunny Saturday the moors were popular, though not as busy as I expected. There was quite a large group of climbers on the rocks but I restrained from pointing out to them the easier way up. Apparently this area was exceptionally popular with climbers before the second global unpleasantness as it wasn’t patrolled by game keepers, therefore they weren’t as likely to be used as target practice while dangling from a rope.

Laddow Rocks again

As I was winding my way up the slabs towards Black Hill a couple of runners were coming down towards me, one close on the heels of the other. Don’t you just hate it when you come across these sort of people? They’re obviously ten times fitter than you, going ten times as fast and don’t have an ounce of fat on their horrible musclefied bodies. I managed to put these two fitness freaks off their stride as they passed me, for a moment at least, by commented that it was an incredibly close race considering the distance they’d obviously come.

Heading down from Black Hill I was greeted by everyone I met with an “’ow do”, because they all speak Yorkshire on t’other side of t’ill. That’s West Yorkshire of course, if it had been North Yorkshire they’d have said “now then”. It had never struck me before but on this day crossing the border was very noticeable

When the weather’s good the view is vast over God’s own county and it’s a pleasant stroll down until you come across a small and steep sided valley. How delightful you’ll probably think, a hidden gem, then you have to sweat your way back uphill again. There is always a caravan café by the side of the road here but they don’t sell ice creams and I didn’t fancy a hot tea. Across the road a Pennine Way sign directs you over a few hundred yards of moors before joining a track which runs along by the side of the reservoirs. I think most are like me and simply follow the road round.

Looking Towards Holmfirth

When you reach the dam next to Wessenden lodge there is a choice of routes. You can carry straight on and cross the stream by a footbridge down a very steep descent and up a longer, just as steep ascent or you can cross the dam and follow an easy path round. However, just where you make your decision there is a sign warning of the dangers of subsidence on the easy path across the dam. Just ignore this. Officials are always putting signs up for the sake of it, it gives them something to do and there is no evidence of subsidence anywhere to be seen. After you’ve crossed the dam and gone along and round the corner there is another sign, identical to the first. This is placed in front of the recently erected fence in front of the hole where the path used to be. You might be tempted to turn round and go back at this point. Don’t do that. You’ve come a quarter of a mile out of your way which will be half a mile wasted if you do. Instead,go up the bank on the left and skirt round the problem. The going gets a bit tricky but never mind, anyway, you’re committed now. Above the waterfall, because of the sheer 20 foot drop to the stream you have to go a bit further than you thought to cross it but once you’ve managed that it’s a great stamina building exercise fighting your way through the tussock grass up and over the hill before eventually finding the path again an hour later and all of half a mile further on.

Don't take any notice

That's what I did on my walk a couple of weeks earlier and you too can enjoy a similar experience if you're similarly stupid. On this occasion I meekly followed the sign-posted route which I must admit to being rather easier and a lot quicker.

For anyone doing the standard stages this would be nearing the end of the second day. If you have the time you can enjoy one or both of the Black Moss reservoir beaches, there is one at both ends. I had a beach to myself when I stopped for a drink and a biscuit, though as I moved off a group of four came along and took the whole place over.

Diving Platform and Main Beach at Black Moss Reservoir

Being a weekend there was an ice cream van in the car park next to the cutting so I set off along Standedge trying not to lose the chocolate from my Magnum Classic as it fell off in slabs every time I bit into it. Along the soot blackened rocky edge there are excellent views to the west. My attention was drawn to such an extent I didn’t notice a large herd of black cows, camouflaged among the rocks, until one jumped up and mooed at me from 20 feet away. I was quite startled. It takes a considerable amount of lack of observation to walk into the middle of a herd of fifty or so cows in broad daylight, unseen until one of them says hello to you.

A Herd of Cows Disguised as Rocks

It was a very pleasant evening walk and I didn’t see another soul until my wife and son on White Hill. They’d walked up from the car park next to the mast on Windy Hill in their flip flops and trainers which contrasted somewhat with my two pairs of socks and boots.

My day finished at 7.30 and apart from a spot of sunburn on the backs of my legs and a few of those aches and pains again (you can’t write an account of a long walk without moaning about your feet) I felt pretty good and very happy with the progress I’d made. I also had an easy half day to look forward to tomorrow.