Anus Horribilis to Horton

Day Six

I didn’t feel all that ill, I just couldn’t go very far from a toilet for a while. I managed to eat some breakfast between sucking the tablets I’d brought for such an occasion. You can tell you’re getting old when you take a bulging medicine chest with you wherever you go. As a twenty year old I wouldn’t even have slipped a paracetamol into my back pocket for an inevitable hangover, they work much better when swallowed anyway, now it’s pills and preparations for every minor ailment “just in case”, as well as the ones I take by order.

I eventually ventured from the hotel at 10.45. It was another hot day and the pack felt heavy. With nearly three litres of water in it and all my gear to guard against the cold and wet the Pennine Way is guaranteed to throw at you it was heavier than usual, but it felt weightier than it was. One thing it wasn’t laden with was food. I only had one sausage, one slice of bacon and three half slices of toast from my breakfast plate plus a packet of emergency ration shortbread fingers which I always carry. This wasn’t really enough but I didn’t want to risk eating much and only nibbled something when my blood sugar level teetered on empty. Towards the end of the day I was on one finger per 500 yards.

Malham Cove is a mecca for school trips but I managed to catch it in a lull. There were only about twenty or so people there. If you want to have the place to yourself you might want to try it between four and five in the morning. The steps up the side were a struggle, taking me about twenty minutes of sweat stinging my eyes. Sweating up a hill to start the day was becoming something of a routine. A chap coming down said to me that they should put up a handrail to make it easier. I said “they” should arrange for some porters to carry the bags up. Native porters of course wearing wellies with knotted hankies on their heads commenting “Ee by gum this ‘ere bag’s an evvy un.” and other traditional Yorkshire sayings. As I reached the top the next shift of hordes were arriving down below, I’d made it just in time.

From the top of the Cove it’s easy walking along the dry river valley towards the tarn. I felt I was galloping along for a while and imagined I must have done 2 or 3 miles when I was brought back to earth by a sign pointing the way I’d come saying “Malham 1 mile”.

There was another crowd near the tarn but they weren’t moving and were soon left behind. After that it wasn’t too bad. It is understandably a popular walking area and the sunshine had brought out more than would be usual mid- week. The weather was fine for some but I struggled with the heat all day, particularly as I felt very much under strength. The slightest incline caused me problems, reducing my speed to a crawl, when I was moving at all. A wind sprang up after Tennant Farm on Fountains Fell and lasted the rest of the day but it wasn’t refreshing. I’ve never experienced a sirocco but it was how I imagine one to be like. It seemed to suck the moisture out of you.

The struggle up Fountains Fell is rewarded on its far side by one of the best views you can get of the three peaks. PenyGhent to the fore, Welsh sounding, dramatic looking, it wouldn’t look out of place on the South African veldt with a company of red coated British soldiers singing “Men of Harlech” at a mass of assegai wielding Zulus. It must have been awful for the Zulu survivors limping back to the kraal after their abortive attack on Rorke’s Drift. I bet they got some stick from their mates.

“You were beaten by HOW many?”

“Well, they sang Men of Harlech, we didn’t stand a chance.”

Staunch Ingleborough rises to the left of PenyGhent, a good solid flat-capped Yorkshire hill who’ll accept no nonsense. It also refuses to give me a view, very time I’ve got near the top a cloud comes along and blocks it. At the back, in the distance, big, fat, ugly Whernside lays on its back and pokes its beer-belly up at the sky. So far this trio have managed to withstand the efforts of hundreds of thousands of feet to wear them flat in the causes of charity.

After the difficulty I’d had with Fountains Fell I’d decided I hadn’t the strength for PenyGhent, though when I reached the 3 Peaks path down to Horton I very nearly changed my mind. From that point it’s only a few hundred feet up to the top and if I hadn’t had the rucksack I would have given it a go. I’d also hardly any water left so I had all the excuses but I still feel disappointed that I missed that bit, even though I’ve been up the hill several times before.

Horton in Ribblesdale is an oddly elongated village whose houses seem to stretch out, from the original settlement round the church to the cluster built next to the railway station. Avert your eyes from the gaping quarry which looms nearby and close your ears to the rumbling lorries and it’s in quite an idyllic setting. It’s one of the stops on the Settle/Carlisle railway which is definitely in the top five of the most scenic rail lines in the country and a pleasure to travel on. I spent half an hour in the waiting room at Settle station a couple of years ago. The autumnal evening was warmed by a blazing fire in the grate, there were magazines to read and even books, for particularly long delays, and the civilised sounds of Classic FM wafted through from the adjacent ticket office. No sign at all of gangs of foul-mouthed scallies until I changed at Leeds.

I’d booked a room at the Crown Hotel when I’d got to the Silverdale Road about 4.30, I couldn’t get a signal before then. I was quite pleased when they said they’d no single available but offered a double for a small supplement. This had happened to me before and it’s worth paying a bit more for the extra space and armchairs. The room I was given was either the one shown on their web site or one very like it.

The first thing I di d at the Crown was order a pint of lime and lemon. That knocked me back more than tw o quid. The price of soft drinks in pubs is enough to drive you to drink. The Crown is a reasonable sort of place to stay. You don’t get any biscuits and there’s no clock radio in the room but you get everything else and the food’s a bit better than average. I decided on Whitby haddock and chips as I was about as far as I could get from the sea in this part of northern England. I didn’t have dessert. I’ve already mentioned that it was reasonably busy with walkers in the area and the pub was therefore busier than a usual weekday. There weren’t many in the bar but there were lots in the garden, all ordering food. I had to wait ¾ hour before I was fed. This is where th e Telegraph comes into its own. The 2 Sudokus, crossword and codeword keep me busy for days and when I’ve finished with the puzzles I can even read the paper

The meal made me feel a lot better. I think I can best describe the day as crap but I was optimistic about tomorrow. My legs hardly hurt at all, my feet and the backs of my heels did, but the legs were o.k. I slapped on the Deep Heat and started the paperback I’d carried 90 miles without yet looking at and had a quiet night in.

St Oswalds Church Horton-in-Ribblesdale