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.

Over the Hill to Keld

Day 8

There was a couple at another table for breakfast so I hadn’t been the only one in, but there were only the two tables set and it didn’t explain the no vacancies sign. All three of us expressed our puzzlement but none of us were quite puzzled enough to be bothered to ask.

I stocked up with supplies in Hawes as I knew there was only a small shop in Keld until Middleton. I couldn’t find water purification tablets but there were plenty of sandwich and pie shops, money machines and lots of places to buy limited edition prints of the local scenery. If you’re running a bit short of rope you’ve come to the right place if you’re in Hawes. I have to admit to once again leaving without visiting their Ropemakers centre. I’m sure the experience is fascinating to several people but I have less interest in it than Bart Simpson had for his school trip to the cardboard box factory. I believe they have a section on knots as well but hey-who cares?

Visiting Teams to Hawes F.C. are often surprised at the home sides proficiency at sliding tackles

I was a bit light on accommodation addresses for the top end of the walk so nipped into the tourist info centre on the way out of town, and very smart it is too. It’s in the old railway station which, as it’s no longer used for passengers, is kept in very good order. The staff there were very helpful but useless, I already had the names and numbers of those who could afford to advertise in their brochures. Thinking about it, I should have bought a pencil from them as a thank you for trying. Perhaps next time I’m passing, and need a pencil

I still didn’t expect to get to “the top end of the walk” but as I’d come so far the idea that it was a possibility had to be faced. My feet were still blister free, however, they never stopped moaning about their working conditions. They continually sent little messages of pain to my brain. ‘Ouch! don’t forget us Ouch! down here Ouch! will you? Ouch!’ They kept saying. My legs, unusually, stayed fairly quiet. I could tell that on the whole they’d rather have been doing something else but they seemed to have resigned themselves to a grudging acceptance for the time being. I believe the medical term for having your lower body parts talk to you, by the way, is Pedelocution Loonitunus.

Hardraw Force can be a little disappointing in dry weather but it’s in a lovely setting and I’d definitely recommend a visit to anyone who’s not been before. I gave it a miss on this occasion, but gave in to the temptation of an ice cream from the next door café which I tried, unsuccessfully, to eat before it dribbled down my hand. I nearly forgot to mention the weather - it was hot and sunny. The last time I’d been here was a couple of years previously, on my way to my only other trip over Great Shunner Fell. There had been heavy overnight rain and the waterfall was the most impressive I’ve seen it. The photo, which looks as though it was taken with a Kodak Instamatic, doesn’t do it justice.

You can only get to the waterfall through The Green Dragon Inn, which might have something to do with why, as a child, I was taken by my father to see it so often. Coming back through the pub I noticed a couple at the bar having a pint, even though it wasn’t much after 10 o’ clock, I don’t think the Australian barmaid had got to grips with our licensing laws as yet, so I stopped for a quick one. I was very glad I did as it had at least a small anaesthetic effect on me when I was attacked by the rain, an hour later, just as I was reaching the highest part of the hill. I could see it coming from some way off and was well prepared. Over my shirt I wore a jumper, fleece and water proof. Even so, the wind blew the heavy drops horizontally into the side of my body with such force I could feel every one and it was even quite painful. I’m glad it wasn’t hail. The only water I was likely to have trouble with on this day was the rivulets of sweat pouring into my eyes.

I caught sight of the red rucksack a long way ahead of me when half way up and Joe was just finishing his lunch in the shelter when I reached the top. I started on my lunch and he stayed a while for a bit of a natter. He told me he hadn’t brought a camera so I took his photo and promised to send him a few snaps, when I got home, via the wondrous medium of computer technology, or e mail as my son likes to call it.

I passed him taking a rest half way down and never saw him again but did find out later that he managed to make it to the finish.

When I reached the road I felt that the heat had got to me a bit and I was nearly out of water again. There had been a fairly strong wind higher up but it hadn’t been particularly cooling, now, lower down, it was very clammy. I was also running late. After dawdling, I hadn’t left Hawes until after eleven and I hadn’t exactly rushed over the hill so now it was gone four and dinner, at the b&b, was at six. The correct way to go was downhill to Thwaite and round Kisdon Hill but I’d have to stop for a drink going this way and I’d be very late for dinner. I had a real thirst for a fizzy drink as well. If I’d been drinking the pull of a pint would have been too much to resist but if a fizzy pop is all that Satan’s got to tempt me with I’ll be heaven bound when the time comes, if I’ve got the choice. I turned left and walked up the road.

If it hadn’t been a weekend I’d have more than likely booked a room at Tan Hill, but as they advise on their web site that they don’t do singles on Fridays and Saturdays I’d settled for Keld. Trudging along the road I was glad I had, I suddenly felt extremely weary and even a bit light headed on a couple of occasions. I’d have been on my hands and knees by the time I’d got to Tan Hill, about midnight probably and I would have missed out on a very good b & b.

I’d booked the room at East View Guest House from the graveyard of Hawes church after ringing the famous Butt House. They were full for the next six months but Mrs Whitehead kindly gave me a few other numbers to ring. With Keld being tiny as well as on the crossroads of the Pennine Way and the much busier Coast to Coast accommodation can be very difficult to get. I heard that it’s not uncommon for companies who sell the C2C as a package to collect folk in Keld, after they’ve walked from Kirby Stephen and take them back there for the night. The next morning they bus them back to Keld to continue on their way. The landlady at East View couldn’t believe my luck when she had a single room available for a Friday night.

Upper Swaledale

On reaching Keld the first thing I did was go to the café/shop and bought two bottles of Lilt, drinking one immediately and saving one for ten minutes later. I had to look hard to find my lodgings, the entrance was so tiny, but tardislike, inside the door it was much bigger. The kitchen/dining room/lounge was a good size room. My single was small and wasn’t en suite but they only let one other room, a twin, and there were two toilets to share between us. There was also a guest’s lounge on a mezzanine floor between the front door and the bedrooms, so you didn’t only have your room to go to after dinner (there’s not a lot to do in Keld).

I arrived about five thirty. The landlady, Margaret, said that I could have my shower straight away if I liked as the couple who were staying in the twin were Coast to Coasters and were waiting for their rucksacks.

“Oh they’re cheating are they?” said I loudly before realising that the husband was reading the paper just a few steps away in the lounge. Oops, foot’s gone in again I thought. He was quite all right about it though and they turned out to be a very nice couple, even though they were from London.

The price for the night was £38 but included the evening meal, which was excellent. Three courses of good home cooking which was perfect after a days walking. The man of the house, Keith, sat in the kitchen during the meal; nice chap but could easily qualify as the talking champion for the whole of Swaledale. I, of course, ate my meal in shy silence only uttering an odd word when necessitated by politeness.

Keith told us that he was in a society, Friends of Richard III or some such, which is dedicated to convincing the world that Shakespeare’s arch villain was not such a bad chap after all. He might well have had the princes in the Tower murdered but saved the realm from being ruled by the lads’ mother, who was a bit of an Ann Robinson type figure by most accounts. If you go to Middleham, near Leyburn, Richard’s their local hero, having been brought up in the castle there. He was also the last English king to be killed in battle, which is always good for a quiz question.

After dinner the Londoners went to get a bottle of wine from the café and came back with a tale of two Pennine wayers staggering in while they were there. Apparently they’d done 25 miles that day, they only had two weeks to do it in. One of them could hardly walk, but he could eat all right. They’d bought up just about everything edible left on sale. The café should have been closed an hour earlier but had been too busy to lock the door.

The three of us sat and talked for a couple of hours. Even without alcohol I can rabbit on about nothing and tell anyone polite enough to pretend to listen what’s wrong with the world. Sorry, I’ll rephrase that: I sat there quietly while these other two continually moaned about everyone and everything they could think of. It was just like a two hour long episode of Eastenders. Yer know what I mean?

Keld on a busy night

Horton to Hawes - Piece of Cake

I woke up revitalised from a good night’s sleep and recharged the batteries with a hearty breakfast. My only real beef with the Crown is the timing of breakfast. I think you can gain access to the kitchens if you want a very early start but breakfast is served only between 8.30 and 9 o’clock. This of course limits you if you want to get away a bit early, or have a lie in, and everyone tends to show up on the dot of 8.30. If there are a lot of guests you can end up watching the day tick away while you’re waiting.

This particular morning the girl who’d laid out the tables had got the place settings wrong (at least that was the excuse) and we were all on two tables instead of every room getting a table each. I was sharing with a couple of blokes who were staying for a few days walking in the area and a bohemian looking chap who, when asked, professed himself to be a painter. He wasn’t having a full breakfast, just tea and toast.

“I suppose you’ll be wandering the hills looking for nudes to paint” I quipped

“No, I’m starting on the ceiling in the landlady’s flat after this.’ He said.

I needed supplies to keep my returned appetite happy so after nine went to the shop for snacks and to the café for a sandwich. I signed the Pennine Way book while I was there and got into a chat and nearly managed to leave without paying.

I was in no particular hurry to set off. I knew it was a pretty easy 14 miles especially going north. It was 10 o’ clock before I started up the lane behind the hotel, on yet another hot sunny day, though I got a bit of breeze later, higher up.

I stopped for a break at Ling Gill bridge and was passed by a young chap who was obviously a Pennine wayer- large pack and two sticks. I passed him half an hour later and this game of leap frog carried on all the way to Hawes. From intermittent exchanges I learned his name was Joe and he’d set off on the Tuesday before me. He was camping so had a lot more to carry and he was taking his own sweet time to do the walk in. If I could have carried the camping gear as well as put up with the actual camping I’d say this would be the perfect way to do it. You don’t have to make sure you arrive at your accommodation in time to eat. You could have your evening meal in a pub then walk another few hours before setting up camp. For the older walker it would allow them to stop, put up the tent and have an afternoon nap if they found their eyelids drooping around about snooze time. Something that’s very important when you reach a certain age. Just thinking about it makes me sleepy, halfway through this paragraph I had to go and lie down for half an hour.

You can tell when you’re on Dodd Fell and nearing Hawes by the low flying jets whizzing past your ears. If they don’t drop anything on you they’ll be RAF. I always think it’s amazing that, no matter where they’re based in Britain these pilots could be back having a gin in their mess before you’ve walked the next couple of miles. I’ve seen Dambusters and 633 Squadron so know how their conversation would go:

“Piece of cake”
“Don’t mind if I do”
“Skipper’s bought it”
“About time he got a round in”
“Bandits at 6 o’ clock”
“I’ll be gone by then”
“Beastly flak over Dortmund”
“Wizard prang”

I feel I could fit in perfectly.

The last time I’d been along here was the September before, travelling Hawes/Horton. It was breezy in the dales but on the hills the wind was terrific, particularly on the West Cam Road. It was a fight to get through it when it was blowing in my face and side on would force my feet sideways halfway through a step. I was constantly nearly tripping over. Of course after battling through this for what seemed like hours, practically blinded by the tears squeezed out of my eyes by the force of the gale a little granny passed by, on her way to Hawes, not a grey hair out of place, as unruffled as you like. I was a little surprised she wasn’t twirling a parasol on her shoulder. She had a large rucksack on her back which was either filled with cushions or she was stronger than she looked. She was probably rough camping, on her way to completing the Pennine Way in a week and a half while patching up any holes she saw in the dry stone walls she passed and tidying up the litter as she went.

The Roman Road near Cam End, it's good to see that those in motor vehicles can enjoy themselves in the countryside as well

I reached Hawes at 5 o’clock which meant the shops were still open and I hadn’t needed to buy the Telegraph in Horton and carry it unlooked at all this way. I normally stay at The Fountain which is a nowt special but o.k. sort of place but just for a change I tried The Herriot. The Herriot is best described as nice. If you like pine furniture, different wallpaper on the top half of the wall to the bottom and those little bowls of smelly things which always make my nose itch you’ll like the double rooms here. You might like the look of the single room as well, but you wouldn’t want to stay in it. It is simply too small. With both me and the rucksack there was no way I could have got a cat in as well. Being quite short I was able to squeeze into the bed. Anyone over six foot would have a very uncomfortable night with their ankles resting on the wooden rail at the bottom. The corridor shaped room is right at the top of the hotel, on the corner, overlooking the main road through the town. The bathroom, perched at the far end of the room is very light and airy. This is because of the good sized window situated right next to the toilet. It is bevelled of course but it’s obvious your outline must be clearly visible to anyone looking up from the street. It was a bit like crapping in a crow’s nest.

After my meal, in the Fountain, I wandered round the town looking for a signal. Eventually finding a weak one behind the church I booked a room in Keld for the following night. I didn’t want to leave it till the last minute as it was a Friday. Then it was back to my little room where I sat on my little bed. One plus about being high up was the view over the rooftops to the fells. The evening was too hot not to have the window open and I sat and watched the swifts darting between the chimneys, screaming a Watch Out! at each other, while catching a late evening snack. I also could not help but listen to every car and lorry rumbling over the cobbles below and hear every word spoken by anyone in the street as clearly as if they were sat next to me in the room.

Calling Hawes a town stretches the definitio of the word to its limit. The nearer houses belong to the village of Gayle

One rather weird thing about the hotel was a sign outside proclaiming no vacancies yet the hotel felt empty and the three other rooms on my floor were obviously unoccupied. Their doors were wide open and I looked in. They were very nice. I would have had one for a small supplement but they wanted half as much again on the single room rate, which was already expensive at £32 for a cupboard.

I began to think that perhaps, midweek, it was the sort of place that would lure in single travellers and in the middle of the night would sneak in to drug, gag and tie me up, then drag me off to either the Far East or Pontefract where I’d be sold into sex slavery. No such luck. I woke up at 7.30 on my own in the same tiny bed, bleary from lack of sleep from the continual interruptions. Not from kidnappers, from the noise outside.

Anus Horribilis to Horton

Day Six

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were beaten by HOW many?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

St Oswalds Church Horton-in-Ribblesdale