Full of Beans in Bellingham

Day 15

Posing with illegal immigrants near Hadrian's Wall

After quite a good breakfast I left at 9.30. I don’t know why I left it so late, I’d been up since seven. There were only two possible options for the day: the seven miles along Hadrian’s Wall or continue to Bellingham, another fifteen miles further on. There is nowhere to stay easy to get to in between. My ideal was Bellingham but a room in a small town on a Friday night might be difficult and it was a long way. My heels were still hurting and the National Trails pamphlet advises that the Hadrian’s wall section is quite tough going. There isn’t a lot of accommodation on the Wall either so I thought if I stayed in the area I might have to end up in Haltwistle or even have to use the train to get somewhere. A line runs parallel to the Wall from Carlisle to Newcastle. After much deliberation I decided on my usual tactic of leaving the decision for later and seeing how things went.

Hadrian’s Wall is one of the man made wonders of Britain. A truly awe-inspiring sight marching up and down the line of the escarpment for mile after bloody mile. When you’re trying to walk 22 miles with a rucksack on your back it becomes more of an assault course than a sight to wonder at. Though I did get to wondering, I wondered what the Romans could possibly have done for me: built the bloody thing on the flat bit for a start.

The pamphlet is right, it is hard going. There are just so many hills, all of them small but all of them steep and very tiring. The sheer numbers of people about were rather astonishing as well. It made Malham and High Force seem like havens of peace and isolation. As soon as I hit the wall there was a scattered group about twenty strong as well as a few twos and threes in sight. Then, coming across the visitors centre there were coach parties, school parties family groups and individuals acting as unpaid guides to foreign friends, trying to remember what they’d learned about Roman Britain in primary school thirty years before. There were quite a few Romans and Celts knocking about as well for the edification of the children. It wasn’t quite all the fun of the fair but there might well have been chariot racing and gladiatorial contest in the afternoon rounded off with an orgy after nine in the evening

I saw the reverend and his wife there as well. They were only going as far as either Once or Twice Brewed, I can’t remember now which it was, so were taking it easy. They passed me half way up the next hill.

Of course near the car parks it was exceptional busy but there were also an incredible number obviously walking a fair few miles, if not the whole way; though I didn’t see one other person carrying a full sized rucksack. If you’ve read any of the other instalments of this walk you’ll know the weather was hot. The various farms along the Wall could have added a decent supplement to their livelihoods by selling drinks and snacks but none of them bothered.

When I finally got view of the two lakes which the Pennine Way runs between when heading north from the Wall I decided to definitely try for Bellingham. I was heartily sick of the Hadrian’s Wall area by that time and didn’t want to stay there a moment longer, even if I could have got a room nearby. I started on my list. The first few I rang were full but a women with a friendly voice at Crofters End said she had a room and when I told her I might be late she said she’d do me beans on toast if I arrived too late to get a meal in a pub. That sounded a pretty good offer so I was all set, as long as I could stagger my way there before she retired for the night.

Shortly before saying goodbye to the Wall, at 2.15, I past Vic and his missus, who were resting simply to fill up their day. They were rather bemused that I still had such a long way to travel in the middle of the afternoon. They’d probably have been nearly there by now.

I still had miles to go before I slept and I’d virtually no water left but I felt a huge feeling of relief as I wandered away from the crowds and climbs of probably the longest seven miles of the walk.

Looking at the huge conifer plantation on the map and in front of me I knew I’d need to find water before I started through the dead zone. A few hundred yards before the front rank of trees I came across a muddy stream. There were quite a few hoof prints next to it but none of the other usual signs that cattle leave of their passing, at least not in the part where I took my water from, so that would have been alright then.

There is something sinister and alien about the uniform ranks of fir trees pressing in on either side as you walk through along the track. The lack of individuality is mind numbing and the suffocating cushion of dead pine needles spread beneath them selfishly excludes the possibility of any other life.

About half a mile into the trees I met, coming the other way, the only other walker I was to see for the rest of the day. From very few words I gleaned that he wasn’t just walking the Pennine Way but continuing all the way to his home in Somerset having started from John o’ Groats. I would have thought rather than do John o’ Groats to Somerset he might as well have gone the whole way, if only to stop people asking him in future why he didn’t. He’d been on his own for so long I think he was forgetting how to talk. He reminded me of Ben Gunn in Treasure Island but sadly I’d no cheese to give him. Even being only nearly an end to ender he has my respect, though I’m also a bit wary of such people. I suspect that they can’t only be a little bit whacky to attempt such an undertaking and if they weren’t when they started out they would be by the time they’d finished.

I took the photo which is Haughton Common, a breath of air between two stifling coverings of trees, because I’d been at this point ten years before. My wife and I had left the children with my mother over an Easter bank holiday and stayed at the pub in Wark for a couple of nights. I’d gone for a Sunday stroll from Stonehaugh and found myself at this point. I hadn’t done much walking then, I’d have been on my first or second pair of boots but I very much remember standing at this spot wondering what it would be like to have walked all the way from Edale. I took the photo of the sign as it depicts more accurately than I can express in words how I was feeling after walking all the way from Edale.

I had to fill up with water again at the stream near Shitlington (I put two tablets into the water) before climbing up Shitlington Crags. Shitlington is a very small place but has a lot to put up with because of its name. I’m glad to say that now I’m past the half way point in my life I have matured enough to no longer feel the need to make schoolboy jokes about a name like Shitlington. I know very little about Shitlington anyway, though I believe it is twinned with Lower Peover in Cheshire but they haven’t put it on the signs yet.

From the top of the crags it’s a gentle walk down the fields to the road then quite a noisy one to Bellingham. The locals seem to have set themselves a speed limit of 70 along this stretch of road. Going less than seventy miles per hour is perhaps regarded as sissy. I arrived at Crofters End, which is a little way before you reach Bellingham proper, at eight fifteen or thereabouts.

The accommodation at Crofters End is not en-suite and I’ve seen more up to date rooms in museums as an exhibit of how we used to live but it was a real pleasure to stay there. Their speciality was the lady of the house: Jan. She is a lovely person and the perfect landlady having an easy going natural friendliness that immediately makes you feel at home.

I suppose I could have just about made it to a pub in time for a meal but it wouldn’t have been pleasant sat eating alone among the Friday night drinkers. I was quite relieved when the offer of beans on toast was repeated and extremely happy to find it waiting for me after my shower. It was a very generous helping with added tomatoes, cakes and biscuits to follow plus a pot of tea. It was a real life saver.

The husband, Tom came in and the three of us nattered about this and that. He was a very nice chap but a bit quiet. He’d been a farmer for thirty odd years but I bet he never shouted “Get Off My Land” at anyone, at least not without adding “Please”. Now he was semi-retired, keeping himself busy by carting the baggage of hikers between Greenhead and Byrness.

They told me that I’d nearly been the only guest that night but earlier in the evening they’d been sent a couple from a nearby country house hotel. They were a rather odd pair and after I’d met them it made me wonder if the hotel had really been full. To protect their anonymity and because I can’t remember her name I’ll call them Tony and Cleo. He was a Scottish bachelor in his late fifties, she an English grandmother a few years his junior. He looked as though he might well have been a Scottish virgin until his encounter with the granny who was slim and blond (perhaps) and probably hadn’t been round the block just the once. She had the airs and graces of stuck- on refinement that you only see in working class women.

Tom and Jan had been quite tickled by an incident when they’d arrived. Tony had wanted to park his car at the back of the house and this involved going through two gates. The woman apparently remained serenely in the passenger seat like Lady Muck while her intended stopped at the first gate, got out of the car and opened the gate. After driving through he stopped, got out of the car to close the first gate and open the second. After driving through the second gate he got out of the car, closed the second then opened the car door for her ladyship to alight. While we were still giggling they arrived back from their meal and exactly the same thing happened. We watched them with sideways glances through the window and a great deal of only partly suppressed amusement. Proof if were needed that chivalry is not dead and neither is being a lazy cow.

They came to join us in the living room or, I should say, she did because he had to pop out again.

‘Oh, I left my make-up bag in the car. Go and get it for me would you Tony.’ She had a smile like an over-ripe lemon.

When her be-plighted trother had scampered off she began to tell us about how lucky she was to have had a lovely meal for a change.

‘I have to be so careful with what I eat you know. Some things, like onions just go straight through me. I often hardly have anything at all when I eat out.’

We sat there grateful for having been told.

Jan deftly kept the conversation going about their plans for the wedding which was going to be in Bellingham. Neither had any connection with the place but it was where, somehow, they’d met. It was also somewhere that no-one knew them.

Tony came back in after quarter of an hour.

‘Are you sure you left it in the car?’

‘Yes dear, quite sure.’

‘You didn’t leave it in the room.’

‘No I’m positive.’

Tony left the room and five minutes later came back with a triumphant smile as well as the bag.

‘It was in the room all the time my darling.’ He admonished.

‘Hee hee hee silly me.’ She giggled.

Tony sat down, arms spread on the arms of the chair in a manner which indicated he thought he’d won.

We sat there for a while trying to have a conversation but really listening to how every topic that was brought up effected Cleo. It was quite astounding how self centred she was. Jan bravely tried to get the subject matter on to someone else in the room time and time again without success. Tony was a keen fisherman, for example. She thought it cruel and anyway the bones always got stuck in her throat. The rest of the fish went straight through presumably. I’d walked over twenty miles that day she was told but you wouldn’t find her walking over the fields in muddy boots, she’d look silly. I tried to get a separate conversation going with Tom but she soon managed to put a stop to that.

It was amusing to begin with but soon became very boring and when she started telling us about her digestive problems again I made my excuses.




The first thing anyone from Bellingham will tell you is how to pronounce the name of their town. You musn't forget the hidden e after the g so the ing is not how you'd pronounce it in sing but like the inge in hinge. The E.U. are considering when to make this illegal.

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

Fair to Middleton

Day 10

In the morning I wandered into Richmond town centre to buy water purification tablets; something I’ll always carry in future should I try any other long distance walks. I also needed more maps, or I’d be dropping off the edge a few miles past Alston. Ordnance Survey have a clever knack of dividing up their coverage so you have to buy more maps than you ever thought you’d possibly need no matter what your route might be. I have several maps with square mile upon mile of blue on them even though there is no way I’m ever going to attempt to walk, cycle or even ride a horse over either the North or Irish Seas. The only mistake they’ve made, that I know of, is the North Pennines Outdoor Leisure/Explorer map which you can use for three or four days along the Pennine Way. I bet whoever was responsible for marking the dotted line round that one got the boot pretty sharpish.

I spent some time in the newsagents unfolding maps and longer folding them back up again. From the looks flashed in my direction from the girl behind the till I think she suspected I was trying to save the purchase by memorizing them. The problem I had was that one of the Explorer maps I wanted only had ten miles of the Pennine Way on it. That would work out at 75p a mile for a map I’d only be likely to use the once! I eventually settled for two Landrangers even though I was very dubious about the 1:50,000 scale. I was also not too happy about the lack of the last few miles down from the Cheviots to Kirk Yetholm that this would leave me with but, after all, there is that old Yorkshire saying: “Eet’s better to lose thy way than to lose thy money.”

Looking back in the general direction of Tan Hill without any sign of the A66

After a good Sunday lunch and relaxing in the garden with the shears and lawn mower I got a lift back to the A66. As well as

leaving behind several maps I lightened the load by the weight of my jumper. My bag was noticeable lighter as soon as I took it out, though the effect was probably more psychological. The label reads thermalite and in spite of the misspeling doesn’t weigh much but the thought of lugging it round day after day in such heat did. I also, reluctantly, left one ofthe encyclopedias behind.

I set off from the Pennine Way tunnel at four thirty. The road was very busy, as always, but after a few hundred yards you wouldn’t know it was there. I was surprised by the sudden appearance of a group of about ten who’d obviously nearly competed their day’s outing; they were bounding towards the road looking very eager for the pub. I didn’t see anyone else for the rest of the evening’s walk, apart from a few anglers by the reservoirs I passed near.

It took me an hour and a half of very easy walking to reach Baldersdale, a place I d

idn’t know existed until I was checking out the route for this walk. My father would take us all over the northeast in the car when I was a child but as there’s no pub we wouldn’t have ventured up this valley. I didn’t see any sign at all of Ravock Castle, I must have blinked as I raced past it. I was glad to see that Hannah’s Meadow was in full bloom when I walked through. If it had been cut and left to dry my eyes would have been itching madly, from the inside and I wouldn’t have stopped sneezing all evening. I am rather a heartless sole and flowers don’t do a great deal for me but it was a pleasure to see a proper hay meadow rather than just a field of buttercups with a bit of clover.

After Baldersdale there were some short but steep hills and I was back in fields which necessitated frequent consultation of the map so my pace slowed considerably. I carried a note pad on the trip which I scribbled in every evening and some mornings. A direct quote from this indicates perfectly my frame of mind on reaching this, the half-way point:

Baldersdale

I keep thinking I’m going to make it, then I go up a short hill and with the weight (of the rucksack) and heat I have to stop a couple of times for breath and wonder how I’m going to get over Cross Fell. I thought I’d get fitter on the way but looking back on going up Jacob’s Ladder with hardly a stop I’m getting unfitter by the day.

It shows how important these sort of notes are to refresh your memory. I’d totally forgotten I’d written this and my recollection of then is much more upbeat than what I obviously felt at the time.

You're looking for signs to show the way and three turn up at once

An interesting little incident happened on my way down into Lunedale. Entering a large field, where the path spread and vanished from view a short distance from the style there was a herd of cows, many with calves, in the middle, right where I guessed the path should be. When the cows saw me coming they didn’t just give the usual dirty looks they started mooing urgently to their calves and herding them into a tight group. Their actions were just like settlers in the wild west days forming their wagons into a circle against a band of hostile Indians. Even without a dog I think it’s probably best not to get between a cow and its calf so decided against the confrontational approach of walking straight through them and skirted round instead.

I’d booked a room earlier at the Brunswick, in Middleton in Teesdale, which I reached at about eight thirty. I was given room number one, which you can see a picture of on their web-site if you like. It was very pleasant, if rather pricey for the size of it. The floorboards creaked in accompaniment with my aching bones.

I didn’t need a full meal though I could have polished off a bag of chips quick enough had the nearby chip shop been open. Wandering round the town I found quite a large Co-Op which was still open so bought a couple of fizzy pops and some snacks. Since giving up the booze I’ve become quite addicted to fizzy drinks, particularly on those occasions when I would normally have had a pint or a few. It’s quite worrying really and I don’t like to tell people that know me.

I hadn’t bothered with the weather forecast over the last few days. Watching the BBC weather crew pointing to the outline of the U.K. saying “scorchio” every evening was getting boring. I accidentally caught tonight’s and it wasn’t for hot and sunny. Tomorrow I was to expect showers with thunderstorms over the hills later. Wonderful I thought, later was when I’d be back on the moors and the only thing sticking out from a featureless landscape for the lightning to aim at.

Off Path to Richmond

Day 9

Got up bright and early and went out for a wander at 6.30, mainly to take the photo of Kisdon Force which is back down the Pennine Way path I should have come up the night before. Striding out without a rucksack on my back was quite a strange sensation and a real treat. It was a cool and misty morning but all the signs were for another hot day. This implies that I know something of country lore. In fact I only know two. The red sky one of course and high or low flying swallows, but I can never remember which way round that goes. There is the one about cows as well of course: If they’re sitting on wet grass it’s been raining.

After breakfasting and goodbyes and buying a sandwich from the café I left Keld about 9.30. Another sweaty hill to start the day but a short one and then over the moors to Tan Hill, which I reached at eleven thirty. The pub was extremely busy for that time of the day. The England football team were due on the telly that afternoon matched against another nation’s finest who were also in the tournament to make up the numbers. Many of the customers obviously needed an early start to give them the time needed to down the required quantity of ale before the kick about began. There were also several family groups as well as a teenage sheep who behaved like it was a regular. Tan Hill has always had a reputation for underage drinking and forgetting to kick the customers out before locking the doors at night.

All the bar staff seemed to be Australian. I’ve no idea why so many Ozzy youths get jobs in Pennine pubs. This lot seemed to be still jet lagged, wandering round in a daze with no apparent purpose. I only stayed long enough for one of the antipodean zombies to find and serve me a generic version of a J2O.

The wind was strong enough to blow my hat off when I went outside, but then, in the vicinity of Tan Hill it’s probably more worthy of comment when it isn’t. After weeks of dry weather the walk over Sleightholme moor was nearly a pleasure, but even then it was still boggy in a couple of spots. I’d walked over it before when it was nowhere near its worst but was unpleasant enough to recommend the diversion along the road in anything other than a drought, unless you want to test out your new waders.

Near where the path joins the track I sat out of the wind, by the beck and had a snack while pondering my options for that night. I only had telephone numbers for Bowes, which was far too close, and Middleton, which was a bit further than I felt like. Baldersdale would have been just right but finding something on arrival on a Saturday night would be risky. Finding a single in Middleton on a Saturday could well be difficult. There was also the prospect of the crowds they’d undoubtedly be on a sunny Sunday along the Tees which wasn't very appealing. I decided to visit me old mum.

The school at Richmond is where I’m listed for Friends Reunited and my mother still lives in the town. A taxi from Bowes and back wouldn’t be too much more than a night’s room rate plus dinner and I’d be able to drop off a few unwanted items from my bag. It was the most sensible option by far. I’d also get to see my mother of course.

Just after Sleightholme Farm I was able to do my bad deed for the day. I’d stopped to ring my mother to make sure she was in when a spanking new 4 x 4 trundled along the road and stopped. Now don’t get me wrong, I am not totally against 4 x 4s, though I wouldn’t have one in the house. I hardly notice them if they’re out of the way in large towns and cities where most of their owners seem to think “off road” means they can park on the pavement. Inside were two fat middle aged couples, one in the front, one in the back. Judging by appearances they were the sort that help validate that statistic about Mr & Ms Average Person going for a drive in the country never venturing more than 200 yards from their car.

‘Does this road go anywhere?’ asked the floral dressed Ms while half studying a road atlas grasped in her chubby hands.

I resisted the urge to tell her it hadn’t gone anywhere while I’d been watching it and asked ‘Where is it you’re heading for?’

‘Nowhere. We just wondered if we could get through on this road.’

They’d obviously just bought the infernal machine and had decided to show it off to their friends, taking them on tracks and over terrain they never before realised they wanted to travel over. I didn’t know any spots locally which would send them round a blind bend straight over a cliff so just told them the road ended at the farm

You expect problems trying to avoid mud while you’re out walking but along the road to Bowes the difficulty was avoiding the melting tar. A couple of other cars and a motor bike passed me going towards the farm to pass me again on the way back a few minutes later, even though I hadn’t said a word to them.

I reached the Unicorn Inn at Bowes about three o’clock and got a number for a taxi. It only cost me £20 and I was in Richmond by four. So, that evening I had a meal cooked for me by my mother, which wasn’t too bad, and let her machine take on the nightly chore with my socks.