Via Road and Railtrack a Shocking Way to Greenhead

Day 14

At breakfast, the next morning, I was the only one sat at the transport café style arrangement of tables in a section of the bar next to the kitchen. The landlady was stood ten feet away, by the cooker, tending a frying pan. She was about to crack an egg into the smoking fat.

‘Is that for me?’ I asked

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t want an egg thanks.’

She looked at me as though nobody had ever said to her they’d not wanted one her fried eggs for breakfast before.

‘There’s no point cooking one for me if I’m not going to eat it.’ I continued

She still looked as though she couldn’t quite believe her ears but at the same time you could tell she could see the logic of it.

‘Shall we go through what you were going to cook and I’ll say whether I want it or not.’ I suggested

She seemed to enjoy this yes and no game but when she’d finished her list hadn’t included fried bread.

‘And fried bread?’ I queried

‘FRIED BREAD!’ She repeated as if I’d asked for “More” in the workhouse. ‘I sometimes get fifteen in here, I can’t do fried bread for everyone.’

She looked around the room as if imagining fifteen burly bikers gobbling down loaves and loaves of fried bread but the reality of fourteen empty places won the day.

‘Ok I’ll do you some fried bread.’ She sighed.

When I’d walked in I hadn’t seen the usual display of cereals that you get in every bed and breakfast in Britain, bar one.

‘Have you any cereals?’ I asked, thinking she must have forgotten to put them out.

‘Oh! You want some cereal?’

‘Yes please.’

So she brought me some. She didn’t bring out a selection of boxes or containers or even ask me what I preferred, she brought me a bowl of cereal with milk already added. I’d never had it before, in fact I didn’t even recognise it and still can’t identify it, never knowingly having seen a packet of it in any supermarket I’ve been to. It was a cream coloured flaky sort of thing with a polystyrene half-raspberry type fruit in it. Whatever it was it wasn’t too bad. If it had a taste at all it might have been described as beige.

Over breakfast we had a bit of a chinwag. She wasn’t unfriendly, her manner was just a bit abrupt, my wife being Chinese I’d met quite a few like her. She was from Bejing and was impressed that my wife was from Singapore.

‘Ah, they’re all rich in Singapore.’ She said wistfully. It’s true, but my wife married an Englishman.

All in all I wouldn’t say to anyone don’t stay there. The rooms have everything you need, including tv and radio alarms, though you have to have the tv on full volume to hear it. It’s centrally located, handy for the Co-op, and above all it’s cheap. But get a room on the second floor, if you can; that’s the third floor for American readers.

The town begging bowl, Alston

I booked a room at the pub in Greenhead then it was back to the Co-op for provisions. I wasn’t sure if it was going to be two or three days to Bellingham. Once I’d got over the hurdle of Cross Fell I seemed to assume I was going to make it. There was no other problem as far as the walking was concerned, apart from the idea of the last 26 mile day but I didn’t have to think about that before reaching Byrness and I couldn’t believe I’d bail out on the last day after covering so many miles. One thing I had chickened out on though was attempting the Cheviots with a 1:50,000 map with the last bit missing and knew I’d only be able to get the proper size in Alston or Bellingham. It turned out that I’d have to keep my fingers crossed until Bellingham, it was the only one everywhere I went to in Alston didn’t have. They probably had a rack full of them in the outdoor shop but I gave up waiting for it to open at 10.15 thinking I’d better get myself moving for the day.

It was back down to the bottom of the town, past the gypsy caravans. A few of them were huddled in a meeting as I went by, complaining about something. I think it was the amount of litter that was blowing into their camp from the town. The Pennine Way was still where I’d left it last night so I continued along it, over the bridge then through fields on the other side of the river. A short distance from town I went through one gate and came across a burly gypsy lad with a fine looking grey mare loose in the field chomping away hungrily. The youth was friendly but had a shifty look in his eye as though I’d caught him stealing the grass. I didn’t ask him to put it back I just made a little joke about the possibility of borrowing his horse for the day to which he smiled politely. Actually, there is no way I could have borrowed his horse, I can’t ride and am allergic to horses. The last time one sat on my lap it made me quite poorly.

After a fairly short distance the Pennine Way crosses a main road. It re-crosses it just over a mile further on so the temptation is to trot along the road, short-cutting the three other sides of the oblong. I resisted this temptation and continued on up and over the fields but I wish I hadn’t. I felt that the whole side trip was a pointless exercise in tramping up and down not very interesting farmland just for the sake of it, when I could have been getting somewhere by using what must be one the quietest A roads in England. I don’t much like walking along roads but the only reason I can see of not using a mile of this one is if your walking day is the short distance between Garrigill and Slaggyford and therefore need a bit extra to use up the time. I was really quite annoyed about it, mainly because I’d wasted too much time fruitlessly waiting for the outdoor shop to open. I’d also started using the 1:50,000 map and was not enjoying the lack of detail I’d got so used to with the explorer maps. Everywhere seemed to take me twice as long to get there

I cheered up a bit when the path re-crossed the road as the fields on that side were much more pleasant to walk through, until an odd little incident threw me off my mood for a while.

I was nearing Lintley Farm which is perched on a hillock on the other side of the disused railway line, reached by a farm road under a bridge. There was a small lorry parked on the road with the driver leaning over the fence by the side of it, looking at me. I could see something white on one of the fence posts which from a distance looked like a white acorn PW sign so I headed in that direction even though it didn’t seem quite right, I felt sure the path was nearer the rail line. As I approached the driver called out

‘Are you the farmer?’

I suppose there may possibly be a farmer somewhere that goes about his business wearing walking gear but I bet there isn’t one with a trekking pole and rucksack.

‘Only there’s a lamb trapped under the cattle grid.’ He enticed me to have a look and sure enough there was a teenage sized lamb looking plaintively up from the deeper than normal space under the rather oddly shaped grid.

‘It’ll belong to that farm’ I said pointing to the top of the hill. ‘Why don’t you drive up and tell them.’ But he was already getting into his cab to drive away.

‘I left a note’ he pointed to the white piece of paper wedged into a crack in the wooden post, the bit of white I’d mistaken for a sign, and off he went. Now he’d told me he’d passed on all the responsibility he’d felt for doing something as well. I was now “it” and he’d run off to the other side of the playground. The bastard!

I didn’t want to spend time or energy climbing up to the farmhouse and tried to go on my way but after a few yards, imagining the farmer driving back and forth over the grid, missing the note, which had blown to the floor while the lamb slowly died of thirst and hunger below I had to turn back. I cursed the lorry driver all the way up to the line of boots at the back door of the farmhouse. There was obviously someone in but the owners of these several pairs of boots were either deaf to or chose to ignore my banging for some time. Eventually, I resorted to writing a note and sure enough, as soon as I’d finished the farmer came to the door. Apparently it was quite a regular occurrence. Perhaps he ought to revert to the traditional linear style of cattle grid instead of experimenting with fancy designs.

At Slaggyford I joined the cycle track, converted from the old rail line. At Burnstones I diverted the quarter of mile to the pub at Knarsdale. It was another very warm day and I had a thirst for a J2O and I also wanted to make sure the track continued all the way to Lambley. I’m not too keen on railway line cycle tracks. They are extremely dull to walk along, though this one was brightened by a few wood sculptures, but you can cover the ground much more quickly and I needed to, it was already two o’ clock and I’d only done a third of the distance to Greenhead. The landlord kindly gave me the advice of leaving the track by a road before going all the way into Lambley village, which saved me some time when I got there. Going this way had the added advantage of not now needing to think of a witty line, all of which will have been done before, about the Maiden Way, which I missed.

It'll be great when it's finished

After Lambley it was fields from then on, and big fields they are too in this part of the world. I stopped for a picnic at Hartley Burn and then got electrocuted at Batey Shield. I’d again been led astray by a white marker which I thought might have been the acorn sign. Coming back out of a field I shouldn’t have been in I touched an electric fence. The jolt didn’t hurt but I automatically shouted OUCH! and I’m sure I heard a laugh from an open window in the nearby farmhouse.

Lambley station (disused)

Soon afterwards I came across the bus in the garden, which I’d seen photos of in several other accounts on the net then you venture into a field which is bigger than some countries. This is Hartleyburn Common and another place where the path disappears. I’d probably have had no problem with the larger scale map but the 1:50,000 doesn’t have field boundaries on it so I wasn’t sure where to turn right. I ended up following sheep tracks for a while until the binoculars managed to find the stile for the way out. If it had been wet and foggy I might well have spent the night wandering around in circles.

After an unpleasant but short walk down the side of the busy, dirty, smelly and very loud A69 I reached the pub at Greenhead about seven thirty. The bar was pretty busy with England on the telly again as they still had a couple more hours of kicking the ball around before being told to go home. The twin room I was allocated was pleasant enough, the bathroom was excellent, but there was no tv or radio in the room and the only bin was the one in the bathroom usually reserved for “women’s things”. There were a few other niggling complaints with the room as well and it made me think, not for the first time this trip, that if the owners themselves stayed a night in the rooms they let out they might make them a lot more comfortable. A couple of vacant double rooms were left with their doors open, they were much bigger and had a telly. I’m certain I was the only guest and checking in at 7.30 it was unlikely they’d have a sudden influx but they had the all too common mentality of rather than give a single person the best room available they’d shove him in the worst room they had.

Despite this the woman was very friendly though the landlord was a bit odd. He fancied himself as a ‘Mine genial host’ but it didn’t come across quite right. While I was waiting in the bar to be called through to the restaurant, where it was non smoking, he was wandering from table to table allowing his customers the pleasure of his banter. There was the female half of an American family sat at the next table to me: little girl, her mother and granny. When he let them speak they told him that they were doing the Hadrian’s Wall Walk and grandma was 67 next birthday.

‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ he said. ‘We had a women in last week who was 75 and she was walking the whole of the Pennine Way, and that’s over three hundred miles long.’

I bet that was just what they wanted to hear. They probably called off the whole trip the following morning, as a waste of time, and went home. The nerve of them, coming over here then only walking Hadrian’s Wall!

I thought the meal ok but a soupcon pretentious and when I went to pay the landlord asked me to also settle up for the room that night rather than in the morning. He obviously was not a gentleman and totally ruined my plan for running off without paying after breakfast.

Back in my room I listened to the trains rattling the floorboards as they trundled past my window (there weren’t enough of them to be particularly disturbing) and dug into my medicine chest for the deep heat. My legs were still o.k. my feet were only having a general moan now but the backs of my heels had found a voice of their own, so I applied a good dollop. So that was me trapped for the night. You don’t get anywhere on the dance floor smelling of that stuff.

A Rubbery Room in Alston

Day 13

The couple had started their breakfast when I arrived at the shared table. We talked happily enough, avoiding any possible controversy. I never did know their names but found out that she was a nurse and he a vicar, be God! I bet they’re popular for fancy dress parties. I just hope they enjoy all that dressing up stuff in the bedroom, it would be such a waste otherwise.

He being a cleric was another reason for me to dislike him, with his support of Bush’s cowboy, kick-ass diplomacy. Being an atheist I expect clergymen to live up to high moral standards and not to be in favour of wars. This, of course, does not apply to the Second World War or any war waged against the French. I didn’t have any problem at all with her but the more I learned about him the worse it got. Before he turned his hand to instructing folk on the surest way to heaven he was sending them on holidays from hell as a travel agent. Not a proper one, he’d worked for Going Places. I’d also been a travel agent, for 25 years, most of them as an independent and a lot of them working for myself. Workers for large, tour operator controlled chains I regard as minions of the Antichrist. I guess we just weren’t cut out to be pals.

The veggie breakfast was much better than expected, I can live without a slice of bacon once in a while and there was plenty of toast. Ray offered us all some veggie sausages but I was the only one to take him up on the offer intending to eat them later as a snack. At the end of the meal seeing them on the side of my plate he cried in dismay

‘Oh! You haven’t eaten your sausages.’

I think they must have been home made as he’d seemed excessively keen to foist them upon us and now was upset that no-one was going to say how wonderful they were.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll polish them off later half way up the hill.’ I re-assured him.

Well I did try and all I can say is I’m glad I didn’t have to spit them out at the breakfast table.

Hall Croft can’t be faulted as a superb b & b in an excellent setting on the green of the lovely village of Dufton, a place I’d been before and would go to again. As well as the great walks to be had in the overlooking hills there’s the interest of nearby Appleby, with its three quarter scale castle, and of course the Lakes are just down the road. (This paragraph is available for sponsorship from the Dufton and District Tourist Board.)

The vicar and his wife set off before nine but I waited to get a sandwich from the shop so was away about 9.30. The forecast was for a bright sunny day with a cool wind so pretty well perfect for crossing one of the more difficult sections of the walk and one noted for its potentially horrendous conditions. They were right about the cool breeze, but not until I reached the hill tops, for the first couple of miles I was back to the morning routine of sweating into my eyes, fighting the flies along a sunken lane. After that it was slow going up the steep bits with frequent pauses to aid respiration.

It was quite a relief to reach Knock Old Man, two and a half hours of uphill takes it out of you. One thing it isn’t, of course, is an end to the day’s going up. The path to Cross Fell isn’t over a nice, easy plateau but involves puffing and panting over a series of hills. After Knock Fell there is Great Dun Fell, then, due to a shortage of imagination when the names were given out, you have Little Dun Fell. I think it’s about 6 inches shorter than the other one. Saving the best till last is Cross Fell, which is the highest up you can get along the whole of the Pennine Way. Between each one is a dip of two or three hundred feet and every step you take downward you can look forward to doing upward again very shortly, plus quite a bit extra in the case of Cross Fell.

If I’d been drinking this would have been a much more pleasant part of the day. I used to celebrate every summit with a swig of whisky from my hip flask, a little reward to look forward to when slogging upwards. You do have to be a bit careful if you do this though, I remember a very happy time going up and down Crinkle Crags in the Lake District. The view got a bit hazy by the last couple of mini peaks

I somehow managed to lose the path between Knock Fell and the golf ball. My excuse is that visibility was down to only about 25 miles. I imagine it could be pretty hairy on your own in dense fog and rain but the road would be difficult to miss after a quick compass bearing.

I hadn’t seen a sole since leaving Dufton then at a gate in the in the dip before the final ascent of Cross Fell two surly farmers appeared on a quad bike. I was only a matter of a few feet away from them but they were all for pretending I wasn’t there so I made a point of saying a cheery hello to them and got a pair of grunts in reply. When I reached the top four walkers appeared from nowhere, Darlington I think they said it was they came from. They were out looking for the source of the Tees, somebody had already done the Nile. Just the thing to do in a drought, I thought. I told them I hadn’t made up my mind between Alston and Garrigill for the night as yet and one of them told me it was all uphill from Garrigill. I believed him. I know ho w to read contours on the map it’s just my eyesight’s not really up to making out the numbers so I know where the hills are and how steep but don’t know whether they’re up or down until I get there

The way down from Cross Fell is not that obvious, until you reach a well trodden track across your path which, if you go the right way, leads you to Greg’s Hut and eventually Garrigill. On the way down I popped into the hut for a nosey. I can’t believe that any first time Pennine Way walker could go past without having a look inside and imagine what it would be like taking shelter there in a blizzard, perhaps being trapped with a couple of twenty year old Swedish girls who insisted you share their bottle of single malt with them while they rubbed up against you for warmth and did rude things with a jar of pickled herrings.

The track nearly all the way to Garrigill was hard going. A surface of very large gravel has been laid, presumably to make a smoother ride for the grouse shooters in their 4 x 4s, but it’s very tough on the feet and I used the verge as much as possible.

About a mile from Garrigill I decided to do the extra to Alston. The feet were having a right good moan about the rocks they’d been subjected to and the backs of my heels were hurting but the legs were still all right and it made sense for tomorrow, as I could then get to Greenhead. I rang up the cheapest on my list, the Victoria. The landlady was very obviously Chinese and after a rather odd conversation I continued on my way, pretty sure but not quite certain that I’d booked an en-suite single for the night at a rate of £25.

I nipped into what looked to be a very pleasant pub in the village and was amazed when I managed to order some sort of juicy drink rather than the pint I deserved. After Garrigill the village and the path runs alongside the river South Tyne. I noticed there was something peculiar about this river immediately but it took me a while to put my finger on it. Then it struck me, it was flowing the wrong way. This was the first and only river I came across that flows westward. It was good news as it meant that I’d generally be walking downhill to Alston

Just before the riverside walk is the junk yard pictured. You occasionally see this kind of thing everywhere but rotting vehicles appear every few miles along this part of the walk. Starting just outside Dufton up to Greenhead. You get everything from old ploughs in the fields to a bus in a back garden.

As I was entering the town I saw a group of girls in their early teens walking towards me then turn round and go back again. They were laughing and joking among themselves but all of them were more preoccupied in whatever they could see from their sideways glances. When I drew level I saw that there was a small encampment of gypsies that obviously hadn’t got far from Appleby before having to stop again. The encampment was giving the local girls the same excitement as the circus coming to town. I’m sure their parents felt the same, Just as I passed a couple of lads came out, took a look at the girls, instantly dismissing them as jailbait and walked off into town. I followed them up the hill. I guessed correctly wherethey were going long before I even knew where my pub was. Bloody marvellous, I thought, if my pub was the watering hole for the travelling community it was hardly going to be restful. Gypsies aren’t noted for sitting in the corner, sipping a quiet pint over the crossword.

I went in and told the barmaid, who, if you’d taken off her make-up, looked as though she really should have been revising for her GCSEs, that I had a room booked. She went off and after a bit of a wait the be-jeaned landlady arrived and with a resigned

‘Come on then.’

Didn’t give me chance to introduce myself and showed me upstairs

The room was not worth more than £25.

‘Don’t move the shower head’, she told me ‘water comes in downstairs. Breakfast at 8 o’clock.’

I wasn’t sure whether this was a suggestion or an order but it suited me so said ‘ok’

One wall of the bathroom was a window which was bevelled but had no curtain so like the Herriot at Hawes there was the feeling that you were totally visible to the outside. The real problem with the room, though, was the noise. Being on the first floor it wasn’t much quieter than being in the bar itself. Luckily the cacophony of sound made it impossible to make out individual conversations.

I didn’t have much of an appetite, I think I was too tired to eat. The Co-op across the road was open so I bought a few snacks to take back to my room even though it might have been more tranquil sat on the curb by the side of the busy main road.

It had been 7.30 when I’d reached Alston so after eating my snacks and wandering about in the shower for a while trying to get wet it was getting fairly late. I went to bed about 10.30 and surprisingly dropped off to sleep. I was woken up a few times by the racket downstairs which went on well past midnight but I didn’t have too bad a night.

P.S. If you're perplexed about the title-

Customer (In Chinese restaurant): Waiter! This chicken's rubbery.
Waiter: Ah, thank you velly much sir

No Porn in the Pennines

Day 12

The wind was crying Mary throughout the night or perhaps it was the ghost of Cathy that had followed me from Top Withins. This would be understandable. My animal magnetism is more than a match for the fictional and long dead Heathcliff. Whatever it was, the wooden rattle of the window frames kept waking me up, so I slept quite badly, hiding beneath the bed. I could have done with an extra hour in the morning but managed to drag myself out about 7.30.

Breakfast wasn’t up to much. I don’t normally have all the ingredients of a full English, though it would be nice to get a bit extra of what I do have. There was no chance of that and what I was given would have hardly satisfied an anorexic supermodel; slices of toast were rationed to two.

The only other mug paying over the odds for a stay at the Langdon Beck Hotel was the miniature lady who hadn’t been catching butterflies yesterday. She told me she intended to go to Cauldron Snout but wasn’t sure whether to go along the road or the Pennine Way. She had a map of sorts but not a proper one so I went to get mine. I showed her the way I was going: over Widdybank Pasture to rejoin the Pennine Way at the Tees.

‘Yes I was thinking of that way’, she said ‘but I heard it was quite difficult near Falcon Clints.’

‘It might be a little bit’, said I ‘but I’ve done the route before and I don’t remember any particular problem.’

I think I persuaded her. It was true as well. I had done the route, in the other direction, once before, but it had been ten years ago and I can’t remember the minute details of every walk I’ve ever been on for God’s sake.

I set off at a stroll down the road just after 9.30 pleased that it was cool enough to wear my fleece, by far the easiest way of carrying it. Turning the corner there was a large gang of bullocks hanging out on both the field and road side of the gate next to the style I was to use. They gave me the “who you looking at?” stare but of course moved aside as I approach. As I went on my way they bunched up by the style again, murmuring to one another,

‘If he comes back ‘ere again I’ll 'ave im.’

‘Any dumpy little ladies who look like they’re out catching butterflies try to use this style’ll be for it.’

‘You know, it’s funny, but even though you know you haven’t got your balls anymore you can still, like, feel they’re there.’

‘Yeh, I know what you mean. Mine keep itching and I can’t scratch them if I don’t know where they are, can I?’

I don’t know which is worse: talking feet or talking bullocks.

Feeling guilty I wandered my way down towards Falcon Clints which of course made me feel like a cad and a liar. The large chunks of scree next to the river are impossible to avoid and really are an absolute bugger to cross, much more difficult than I remembered. However, they are a lot less slippery than they look, though I’ve never tried them in the wet, and even though the bad bits are quite nasty they are also short enough not to delay you too long.

Cauldron Snout is a surprise. You know it’s around here somewhere but it’s nowhere to be seen until you turn a corner and it’s right there in your face. I’m always more impressed by Cauldron Snout than High Force, possibly because I’ve seen it a lot less often and probably because you’re much closer to it. If there is anyone else within earshot while you’re standing at the bottom you can indulge yourself in a bit of pedantry by telling them it’s not a waterfall but a cascade and they can reply that as they are professor of Geography at Durham University they already knew that.

The clamber up the side was again more difficult than my obviously very selective memory recalled. I imagined tomorrow’s headline in the Upper Teesdale Gazette:

‘Lone middle-aged woman rambler attacked by cattle, breaks ankle on dangerous rocks then tumbles in death fall into torrent of Cauldron Snout’

“She should never have gone that way” says local man.

I was hungry and the thought didn’t put me off my sausage sandwich while sitting on the wall at the top.

As I was approaching Birkdale Farm I noticed two people behind me in the distance. The next time I turned I could make out that they were a couple, carrying day sacks and two sticks each on the end of arms which were pumping up and down so fast they looked like two frantic cross-country skiers in a dash to the finish. They were certainly moving a lot quicker than me and when they got close I stopped to wait while they passed by. Before they did so they screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust and exchanged a few words. They were also Pennine wayers having started the day after me. They were very quick to tell me that they had been carrying full rucksacks and had only started the Sherpa baggage carrying thing at Bowes. I must admit to not taking to the chap more or less immediately. It might have had something to do with the first words he said to me. After following me for a mile and a half he asked if I was going north to south! There was also the way he pronounced the word schedule, which he did in the American way, as in skedule, my favourite pet hate, though I don’t mind Americans doing it.

A particularly rare piece of litter, only found near beauty spots in the upper reaches of the river Tees. The frog's common as muck.

I passed them a mile or so later as they were eating their packed lunches and of course they caught me up soon after and we arrived together at High Cup Nick so we could do the usual with each other’s cameras: saying “back a bit” to whoever was posing near the edge at the time. It turned out they were staying at the same guest house as me, Hall Croft, which hadn’t been my first choice as it a vegetarian establishment. Their whole walk had been booked as a package through Sherpa who therefore had arranged their accommodation. I was surprised that they hadn’t bothered to tell their clients they’d booked them into a veggie b & b, I’d have thought that sort of information quite important.

I stayed at High Cup for some time to let them get a good head start and make sure I wouldn’t catch them up if they stopped again. There are not many better places than High Cup Nick in this country to sit for a while and take in the view.

Even taking my time I arrived at Dufton at four. Both the pub and shop were shut so I couldn’t get a fizzy drink. The b & b was at the far end of the village. Walking through there is a confusing sign saying that Appleby is 8 miles away. The sign, apparently, is only for cyclists, if you walk it or go by car it’s only 3 miles. Serves them right I say.

Hall Croft is a lovely detached Victorian villa at the end of the green and an excellent guest house. When I arrived my fellow wayers were already in the lounge with the owner, Ray, having tea and cake. I joined them and we chatted for a while, or more accurately we listened to Ray who is a keen talker, sorry, I mean walker, and involved in mountain rescue. He mentioned that in mid summer he sometimes walks on the hills in the middle of the night, as it never gets properly dark. The idea of having the hills totally to myself is one that greatly appeals

It’s a large house and the rooms are excellently large to fit in it. They are pleasantly furnished and it was nice to see that the owners had obviously gone out of their way to think what would make their guests more comfortable. There were several little extras for instance: a small bowl of chocolates on the mantel piece, which didn’t last long, and you could help yourself to orange squash from the fridge on the landing. There were quite a few books and even videos to play on the tv/video machine in the room, though I couldn’t find the porn so didn’t bother.

The only place for dinner, The Stag, opened at six so I went there shortly after and ordered lamb henry for a tenner. While I was waiting the couple came in and were going to sit at another table until I invited them to join me. During the conversation my initial impression of the bloke was reinforced. Somehow the conversation drifted onto the subject of Iraq and I mentioned that I’d been so much against Bush’s War I’d been on a demo against it before it started, the first time I’d demonstrated against anything since a 1970 anti Vietnam War protest in Grosvenor Square. He immediately got quite agitated, making the ridiculous assumption that anyone who was against the war must be for Sadman Hussein. We agreed to change the subject. It turned out that he was very much into football. There was not much to talk about after that.

I went back to my room for a read and an early night. It was going to be a long day tomorrow but I’d had four very easy ones in succession so was in reasonable nick to cope with it. I still didn’t have any blisters but my feet still continually moaned, though I was learning to ignore them.

Loitering without tent to Langdon Beck

Day 11

I woke inthe morning to the steady rhythm of rain and the noise of car tyres on the wet road running by the side of the guest house. My room was at the back but as the Brunswick is on a corner it was quite loud with the window open and there must have been at least one car every three or four minutes. I breakfasted at 8.15 then made a few phone calls from my room.

The plan for the day was to try for Dufton, which was a long way, so I thought I’d leave my options open until I reached High Force. A possible problem was the Appleby horse fair which has an effect on accommodation for miles around and is only three miles from Dufton. I was right to ring. Even though the fair was over, I think by two days, I was told by several landladies that I’d no chance for that night. Apparently it takes these travelling folk some time to get themselves moving again once they’ve stopped. No doubt it’s the local townsfolk imploring them to stay a little longer. I was left with little choice and booked the Langdon Beck Hotel because it was at least a few miles further on than the short walk to the High Force Inn.

While paying my bill I mentioned to the landlord that I was going to the tourist office across the road to look for accommodation information. He very kindly gave me a copy of the booklet by the National Trails people which I should have had with me from the outset. It’s invaluable not just for the accommodation list, it also has general snippets of information about the Way itself, shops and public transport: it tells you the day of the week you might see a bus in some the villages you pass through. I don’t know why they don’t distribute this through tourist offices, the one in Middleton proved as helpfully useless as the one in Hawes. While I was out I stocked up on lunch material for the next two days. Middleton’s a small town but has enough sandwich shops newsagents and mini supermarkets for any hikers needs

I dawdled about for as long as I could, not waiting for the rain to stop, it looked to be set in for the day, it was just that I was going to have trouble filling the day with the seven miles to Langdon Beck. The problem with Dufton had left me with the next two days far shorter than I wanted. Had I been camping I would have been free to do as I liked and also would have had something to shelter in through any thunder storm. I don’t know whether or not a tent gives any protection from lightning, like a car does, but I doubt it. I am sure, though, that I’d feel a lot safer hiding under canvas.

While putting on my boots in the back porch I chatted to a young couple who, it turned out, live only three miles from my house. It wasn’t raining hard enough for over trousers but I took my brand new Paclite Extreme waterproof jacket from the condom holder sized bag it can fold into, unravelled it and slipped it on, unrolled the hood over my head and got myself ready, stepped outside and the rain stopped. I felt quite deflated.

So, after ten days, I started the day’s walk and it wasn’t hot and sunny, it was overcast, hot and humid. At least I didn’t have a hill to climb first thing, it wasn’t necessary, it was sweaty enough walking on the flat. Next to the river I was pestered by flies. Those nasty cocky ones who follow you for half a mile trying to get into your nose and mouth knowing they’re far too quick for your flailing hands. A fly swat might have been useful, to teach them a once in a lifetime lesson.

In this part of the world most of the buildings are tainted white with the mark of the local despot Lord Barnard. I don’t particularly mind the bloke owning so many buildings, I just think it’s a huge conceit to insist on them being painted a uniform colour to show everyone how many he’s got. I can just imagine him and his misses, reminiscing over dinner saying to their guests, ‘When the children were small and couldn’t sleep we’d simply pop them in the old banger and the chauffeur would drive them round the county so they could count our farms until they dropped orff.’

My main complaint about this toff, though, is his lack of recognition of the historically more significant families that once lived in his country seat of Raby Castle. This was the Neville family castle of the 14^th and 15^th centuries, home to nearly the whole of one side in the Wars of the Roses. A huge influence over English affairs was exerted by the very large Neville family during the late Medieval age, the most famous member being Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the Kingmaker. I visited the castle a few years ago and it’s as if they never existed.

The area between Low and High Force holds the same sort of attraction as Malham. There are a lot of sightseers and school parties. There were even some teenage lads swimming in the rapids. The view is better on the Pennine Way side and it’s free. The old robber baron Barnard owns the waterfall and charges a quid a time to see it from the easier to get to north side. Well, they’ll be a lot of expense maintaining a waterfall. Once past High Force there was no-one about of course, apart from a small dumpy lady who would have looked as though she were out catching butterflies if she’d had a net

The hovels of the poor serfs oppressed by their local nobility

The weather couldn’t decide what it wanted to do. It thought about rain for a while but settled for clouds with a chill wind for no extra charge. It alternated this with what felt like sunshine in a sauna. These were timed to perfection so it was stiflingly hot as I clambered up the hills and cold on the way down.

I dragged my feet and stopped as often as I could but I still got to the Langdon Beck Hotel by four thirty. The first word that comes to mind to describe the place is tatty. On reflection the second and any subsequent words to describe the place would still be tatty. It brought to mind the t.v. series Life on Mars, where the hero, a cop, has an accident, goes into a coma and finds himself back in 1973. They could have borrowed the wallpaper, furniture and landlord from this hotel to give it a truly authentic feel. They filmed a lot of this show in Stockport which, at the time, was very proud to have been chosen as the town most suitably able to portray such a depressing period in our history. I bet York and Stratford were kicking themselves. If they’d bulldozed their old town centres and put up characterless chunks of concrete they might have been on the telly as well.

I’d booked a twin room at £40 because it was en-suite, the singles, even at £30, were not. To charge so much for such basic accommodation was just a rip-off. There wasn’t even a t.v. or radio in the room. To be fair to the owners, who incidentally were friendly enough, they’d supplied a lot of books and magazines, displayed on the landing. There was also a terrific view from the window which of course hadn’t been supplied, it was there anyway. If it had been half the price I’d have been happy enough.

I wasn’t too worried about the lack of electronic entertainment initially. Sometimes it’s better not to know what the weather’s going to be like and I had a pocket analogue radio with me. However, there were some strange atmospheric conditions there (if this is why there’s no radio or telly in the rooms the owners should tell their guests) and every time I tuned in to a BBC station it would switch to any one of five or six Spanish ones after a few minutes. I’ve been learning Spanish, on and off, for twenty years but I could hardly understand a word. I tend to relearn the language a few weeks before I go on holiday there. When I arrive at whichever costa I’m going to the stupid Spaniards always pretend not to understand anything I say to them. They’re also inconsiderate enough to talk to me in a Spanish accent, which I find impossible to grasp. Even though I don’t get very far with the lingo I know the dagos appreciate my efforts to talk down to them in a way they comprendo by the playful way they spit at my feet and the friendly “Stupidos!” I get from the waiters. Of course once I’m home I soon forget everything and have to start at the beginning again two weeks before my next holiday.

There wasn’t a lack of furniture in the hotel, only 70 years away from being antique, but the very high ceilings gave it an empty air. When the wind picked up in the early evening there was plenty of room for it to gust around in. I’m sure it was windier inside the hotel than out. After my dinner of boil in the bag chicken curry (This is not a complaint, I wouldn’t expect a curry to be any different in a pub) I went back to my room where it was quite cold, even though the heating came on for a while. I sat reading in my fleece as I no longer had a jumper y un hombre spoke Espanol en mi radio.

Tees above High Force on the left, Langdon Beck on the right