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.