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