The Pennine Way Site - Steve Watson's Pennine Way Notes

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An Introduction

I’m Steve Watson, a semi-retired, somewhat rotund, fifty-something, and he’s Bob Mack, a bald, once scrawny, fully retired fifty-something plus. We are East Yorkshire based and are both long time and experienced, if occasionally inept, walkers with a particular fondness for multi-day trail walking. We’ve shared our hiking for the last five years or more, following the indisposition or disinterest of our respective spouses, Rita and Kath.

Between us, we have tackled all the northern National Trails, the West Highland Way, many regional routes, three coast-to-coast rambles (two based on Wainwright’s book and one inspired by John Gillham’s “Lakeland to Lindisfarne” tome) and umpteen ad-hoc hikes in the Lakes, Dales and North York Moors.

Over the years, we have learnt to minimise bloodshed by accommodating each other’s foibles and considerable eccentricities. We insist, regardless of inconvenience and cost, on separate and soundproof accommodation. Happily enduring whatever privations the terrain or climate imposes during the walk, a decent bath, meal, pint and bed are essentials, not luxuries, for the day’s end.

About the Trip

Walking the Pennine Way has been a life long ambition; early retirement provided the opportunity to grasp the objective; the Foot and Mouth epidemic delayed, frustrated and complicated its eventual realisation.

We had originally scheduled the trip for the summer of 2001. Throughout that year, the Foot and Mouth outbreak ensured that the countryside remained effectively closed to walkers. By late August, only the first fifty-five miles, from Edale to the North Yorkshire boundary north of Pondon, had reopened. Faced with the alternative of a whole year of enforced indolence, or accepting the meagre crumb on offer, we reached for our boots.

We walk that first section in late August 2001 and completed the remainder in the following spring.

Our usual practice is to regard any official way merely as a suggested route. On the Pennine Way, though, our course followed the sanctioned line, as outlined in Tony Hopkins’s National Trail Guides, except where otherwise stated. For day-to-day guidance, these guides are indispensable. For an appreciation of the essence of the trip Wainwright’s “Pennine Way Companion” will always remain required reading.

We minimised detailed advanced planning, arranging accommodation on the hoof and organising the itinerary according to mood and whim. To this end, a copy of the Pennine Way Association’s “Accommodation and Camping Guide” proved to be essential. Whilst this approach has much to commend it, emphasising a sense of freedom and independence from any schedule, it can occasionally create problems requiring innovative solutions and a good deal of luck.

Our progress along the Way was steady, if not sedate. We didn’t break any records, but we had a great walk.

We’re off: Monday 27th August 2001

We found ourselves battling with Bank Holiday motorway traffic, eventually to reach Edale in the early afternoon. Our digs were located, our farewells to Bob’s wife Kath were made; we went to have a look at Derbyshire.

Until now, despite living within a couple of hour’s drive of the Peak District, the outdoor attractions of North Yorkshire and the Lakes had conspired to prevent my boots from straying south of the Humber. We went to inspect Grindsbrook, the traditional, but now alternative, start to the Way. We climbed The Nab and Ringing Roger, then walked the edges high above the valley floor to circumnavigate the dale head. Very attractive hill country it is too. On a holiday weekend, though, it was all too easy to believe that The Peak is the second most visited National Park in the world: it was crowded.

The day concluded with a good meal and a fair pint in the very busy, but all too noisy, Old Nags’ Head, at the start of tomorrow’s walk. The place was heaving with undisciplined children and negligent parents. I was never rowdy as a youngster; my own brood were well behaved for the most part. My children are now adults, they vacated the parental nest some time ago; I can now confidently expound the view that children under ten years of age should be in bed by eight and be innocent of the interior of a pub until their late teens.

“What a grumpy old bugger,” someone said.

Accommodation Mrs Jackson Mam Tor House Edale 01433 670253 Mam.Tor@ukgateway.net £20pp This is a comfortable and recommended B & B providing a fine breakfast, which included eggs from chickens ranging the garden.

Day 1 Tuesday 28th August 2001 From Edale to Crowden - 16 miles

This really was the start. It was a perfect summer day. It would be hot later. Yesterdays Bank Holiday crowds were all back at work.

The first day of a long walk is always one of adjustments and doubts. Boots are too tight; the rucksacks sit awkwardly on the back; muscles, teased by unaccustomed work, begin to ache.

“Am I up to this?”

Rhythm returns slowly but shatters with the first climb of the walk: Jacob’s ladder.

Once on the tops the unique attractions of Kinder become apparent. The walk runs along the edge of a vast plateau of peat, a strange wilderness world of deep groughs (deep water eroded channels) and wind sculptured rocks, seeming even weirder by being within sight of the South Lancashire conurbation. On one side sits Manchester airport, on the other, utter desolation.

The treacly, peaty broth does nothing to quench the thirst. Drinking water is a problem with few clear running streams. Across Featherbed Moss and on to the Snake road we were fortunate to be shadowing a chirpy party of young private schoolgirls doing their Duke of Edinburgh Award expedition: we begged enough water from their back-up crew to see us most of the way across Bleaklow.

If ever a name was descriptive of a hill, Bleaklow is surely it. The walk to the summit is through a complicated network of fifteen-foot deep peat groughs, directed by occasional guideposts. In clear weather, it isn’t a problem: just head uphill to the ridge top.

I made an unfortunate observation, “The literature does go on a bit about navigational difficulties. You’d be hard put to get lost.”

Gaining the sandy summit of Bleaklow, the worst of the terrain was behind us; views were extensive and clear in all directions, there were only five downhill miles to the end of the day: we relaxed. Happily wandering downhill, ninety degrees or more off course, we were without a care in the world.

“Excuse me sir; is this the path to Torside?”

Only a chance meeting with a lost party of venture scouts concentrated our minds sufficiently to realise our error: although not strictly lost, we were quite a distance from where we had intended to be. Too much height was lost to retrace our steps to Bleaklow summit, so on we plodded, down by the side of a stream to the Woodhead Tunnel entrance. After walking along the old railway line, we regained the route at Crowden.

It was not a bad walk in the event and only added a mile or two to the day. I will revisit Bleaklow again, if only to see where we went wrong. . The Crowden Youth Hostel looked quite welcoming, but the lack of nearby licensed premises diverted us to nearby Padfield. Our hosts collected us from Crowden and drove us to their home, an attractive old cottage. The pub was a bit of a disappointment though: no food or real beer. After daylong dehydration, however, anything wet, cool and alcoholic was nectar. Guinness is not such a bad substitute in such circumstances.

Accommodation Marcia Dodd Padfield, Glossop 01457 866495 Email: wayside106@tesco.net

£25.00pp including lift from and to Crowden This is another recommended stay, friendly and comfortable.

Day 2 Wednesday 29th August 2001 From Crowden to Diglea (Standedge) - 12.5 miles

“No other shows such a desolate and hopeless quagmire to the sky. This is peat naked and unashamed. Nature fashioned it, but for once has no suggestion for clothing it.” (A. Wainwright, “Pennine Way Companion”)

That is something to look forward to then. A bit like yesterday perhaps.

The walk from Crowden starts pleasantly enough, along the valley of Crowden Great Brook and up to Laddow Rocks. I must confess a weakness. I’m not sure if I suffer from a mild form of vertigo, or just possess a more pronounced sense of self-preservation than most. In any event, I do not enjoy close exposure to sheer or steep drops, especially traversing along a high edge. I didn’t enjoy the walk along the top of the Laddow Rocks, the path is just a little too near the edge for my timid tastes.

The fun was soon over though; back to peaty desolation. It was on this stretch that I had a glimpse of a Mountain Hare, whilst Bob claimed a sighting of a Grey Squirrel.

“It scampered along the track, in front,” Bob insisted.

Who knows where its drey was, there was with hardly a tree in miles.

“What was in that Guinness?”

I am afraid that Black Hill was a bit of a disappointment. The weather was too fair, the peat at the summit was merely the consistency of damp clay and a flagged trod now led the way safely to the trig point. It is probably still grim in a storm, but somehow the top no longer holds the promised sense of ominous foreboding.

The views from the top were good and wide-ranging. Perhaps twenty people had disported themselves around the summit, eating sandwiches, swigging drinks and ringing home.

“Hello, Kath. I’m on Black Hill. The weather’s grand. I can see Holmefirth.”

The walk besides the Wessenden Reservoir was a pleasant interlude, before more moors, less bleak now, brought us to Standedge. It was only a short diversion to our digs at Diglea, where the welcome was warm, but the rooms a bit basic.

The Diggle Hotel was first-class, one of the best pubs on the entire walk. The pub alone more than justified the short walk off route. Timothy Taylor’s beer complimented excellent and well-priced food. It was a good night.

Accommodation Mrs Francis Sunfield Accommodation Diglea Diggle 1457 874030 £26.50 including a lift back to the route The visit to Dingle’s Pub more than compensated for the extra mile of walking.

Day 3 30th August 2001 From Standedge to Charlestown (Hebden Bridge) - 15 miles.

After the rigours of the opening stages today was almost a rest day. The weather was a wee bit misty, rain threatened but hardly materialised, and the going was not too challenging, mostly level and firm along high ledges and moors, with the towns of industrial Lancashire just a little way to the west.

The day proved a much more satisfying walk than the guide seemed to promise. Perhaps the soot and pollution scarred and degraded moorland of Tony Hopkins’s time has recovered a little since the collapse of the North West’s traditional industries. Or am I the eternal optimist? The book was first published in 1990, so, I guess, the fieldwork was done a year or two earlier.

I’m afraid that Ammon Wrigley Memorial Stone and the Dinner Stone were passed unacknowledged before the views down onto gentler country were forsaken for harsher territory.

The M62 announced itself several miles before it appeared. The wind carried a distant drone of traffic; sometimes seemingly just below the next rise, at other times lost amongst the course grasses of the moor.

To most people from Lancashire or Yorkshire, the masts at Windy Hill are an ugly, if familiar, sight. On the descent from Axletree Edge, they are surreal. They front a congested ribbon of tarmac; six lanes of speeding, fume belching, traffic, brought from the surrounding conurbations and abandoned on the moor.

Of more immediate interest was the refreshment caravan parked on a roadside verge in front of the masts. Here tea, coffee, superb bacon sandwiches and scones are on sale. The proprietor had been working the pitch for many years. A good deal of his summer custom came from walkers along the way. Not this year though. The hills hereabouts had only recently reopened and few people were walking the paths. With no animals slaughtered, he, like hundreds of other rural enterprises, couldn’t claim a penny in Government support. I hope his business has survived.

On a misty Blackstone Edge, we met and walked as far as the White Horse pub with a chap who was just back from Peru.

“I walked the Inca Trail,” he said.

That put the logistics of a ramble along the Pennine Way into a proper perspective! There is always someone, is there not?

Dhoul’s Pavement, Roman or not, is unquestionably old. It is well worth a look, but it is a bit slimy and a lot slippery; and some people reckon South American conditions are tough!

Stoodley Pike is one of those dominant landscape features. I’m not sure when we first identified it, but it was probably on Blackstone Edge. It never appears to get nearer, no matter what the distance covered. As a viewpoint, it is splendid. What is unchallengeable, though, is that it is a feature best seen from afar: close up it is downright ugly. It is interesting, striking and impressively sited, but not pretty. The moors seem friendlier hereabouts: less threatening, not quite so bleak, with Calderdale, far below, green and welcoming.

And welcoming Hebden Bridge is. It has managed the impossible, transforming itself from a declining, derelict post-industrial backwater to the Bohemian colony of today. We got there just as the rain became organised; it began to chuck it down.

We booked into the White Lion, an old and pricy Inn. The hotel has comfortable rooms, welcoming bars and serves good food and fine beer. Hebden Bridge has other pubs and eateries, all well worth exploring. A town not dominated by tourism, but one that knows how to accommodate its visitors.

Accommodation White Lion Hebden Bridge 01422 842197 http://www.whitelionhotelhb.co.uk £35.00 The pub is expensive, but it’s nice to have a treat now and again. It had probably the best breakfast on the route and is in a great little town. I would recommend it to all with an empty credit card.

Day 4 31st August 2001 From Charlestown to Ponden - 11 miles

After a White Lion breakfast the pull out of Calderdale, though short, is tough on the legs and lungs. After the initial effort, the day’s walk is easy and pleasurable. The hills and moors are remote and hard, but are not quite so harsh, nor nearly as boggy as those already seen. The sheep are fatter and more numerous.

We begged water from a couple of Yorkshire Water employees near to the Gorple reservoir cottages. The cottages have their water bussed up from town. Despite being sat on a lake of impounded water, it can’t be drunk until treated further down the valley. Wainwright recalled the death of a reservoir keeper lost in a blizzard near here. Today, mild and occasionally sunny, it hardly seemed credible.

The area is an attractive one of moors and lakes, albeit manmade ones. A look back, after topping the hill above the Walshaw Dean reservoirs, rewards with a long view beyond Stoodley Pike and Bleaklow to the pencil thin purple hills on the far horizon.

“Is that Black Hill?”

Moments later the Dales sprang into view with Penyghent and Ingleborough unmistakable, far to the north.

A little way along the path, the remains of Top Withins, said to be the inspiration for Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, might disappoint. Its location will not. The uninspiring ruins, even on a showery day, are a magnet for literary pilgrims and curious tourists alike. Bitter experience dictates that this is not the place to take an unguarded pee. I have no idea what she found so funny. It was not that cold.

“Bloody tourists,” I muttered.

After walking downhill on a well made path in generally warm, if showery conditions, high above the Worth valley, we met a couple of ladies in their late forties. An overweight and very tired old black Labrador accompanied them. Nothing too surprising there, just that one of the ladies was in a wheelchair!

Bob, with all the tact and empathy that only a former health care professional could muster said, “How the bloody hell did you get up here?”

The lady in the wheelchair replied, “I was pushed mainly. Funny though, of all the people we’ve met, you’re the first to mention it.”

Apparently, this was a regular good weather trip from Bradford. By a combination of elbow power, the occasional push and by using the chair as a walking frame on the rougher ground, they got themselves to within a whisker of Top Withins. Of the three, it was the dog looked the least likely to survive the walk back to Haworth.

All too soon, we sat at the roadside at Ponden Mill waiting for a ‘bus to Haworth. That was it, then. The trail north closed because of Foot and Mouth disease. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, the powers had decided that we were too great a risk to animal health to continue along the way. The powers had made a big enough fist of things without my help I thought! Regardless, we would have to wait for another day to continue northwards.

Whiling away our time waiting for a bus, on what was now a warm and dusty summer afternoon, we were being entertained by the antics of a group of Blue Tits. They were opposite, chasing insects, and each other, through the roadside bushes. Unexpectedly there was a swish of air, the smashing of twigs; surviving birds scattered in all directions, desperately seeking safety. The Sparrow Hawk flew dispassionately to nearby cover, grasping its tiny victim in powerful talons. At the bush, only a feather or two remained, drifting slowly to the ground, marking the scene of a sudden and violent death.

We’d decided to stay overnight in Haworth before returning home. The short bus ride was agreeable, enlivened only by the grumbles and snorting of a decidedly grouchy driver. We must have disturbed his routine by presenting ourselves as his only passengers. Our little Ambassador for Public Transport knew we were heading for the top of the steep main street. He stopped at the station at the bottom of the hill.

“I hope his piles hurt and he gets a puncture,” someone muttered bitterly.

We booked into a Guest House opposite Branwell Bronte’s old haunt, the Black Bull. The digs were comfortable enough, and both the food and beer at the Black Bull proved excellent. The pub is evidently on a popular Friday night circuit, which made for an interesting and lively night.

Accommodation Mr Sisley, Apothecary Guest House Haworth 01535 643642 £25.00 We enjoyed adequate accommodation in this busy little town.

Day 5 28th May 2002 Ponden to Earby (Thornton in Craven) - 12 miles

We were back. We had had an early start from home, a lift to Ponden with Kath in deteriorating weather conditions, and a bacon butty stop en route to feed the inner man. We were saddling up besides the reservoir just as the heavens opened in earnest. It would seem later that they would never close much again. Never mind, we were off. There was nothing now to thwart our ambition to walk to Scotland. With a noontime start, we were to have a short day, overnighting at Earby Youth Hostel a dozen miles away.

It was grand to get mud on the boots again, and mud there was aplenty. The walk over to Cowling was wet and soggy, the rain heavy and ceaseless. The little wooden chalets mentioned by Wainwright are still there, way above the village. Although empty when we passed, they seemed well maintained and in regular use. We wondered by whom and when. Probably people from nearby towns enjoying the solitude, although hereabouts is reputed to be the UFO spotting capital of the U.K.

In spring, the hills are so different, so much more vibrant. May is a more appealing time for a walk than August, greeted back onto the moors by the song of the Skylark, Curlew and Lapwing. Their song was to accompany us much of the way to Kirk Yetholm. The meadows too, first met at Cowling, were bursting with wild flowers and insects. Wet or not, it was grand to be out.

The handsome village of Lothersdale was a highlight of a short day. It was one of my father’s favourite places. I was raised in nearby East Lancashire, but family research suggests that the home of several generations of ancestors was just over the hill at Connonley. I have visited there in the past and found some old family graves in the churchyard; as for the village, not a blue Watson Memorial plaque in sight.

The view from Pinhaw Beacon was magnificent: across the Aire valley to the Dales and south towards the glorious mass of Pendle Hill. I was back in familiar country now; in fact, much of the way to Tan Hill has been well trodden by me before.

And so on down to the Youth Hostel at Earby for the night. I’ve hostelled before, Robert hadn’t. Earby YHA is one of those small, traditional, basic, self-catering hostels, beloved by the old school hosteller. The experience for Bob was completely novel.

I must mention here, as I did to the Warden, that I have a problem. It is not too offensive, grave or communicable, just a propensity to snore. I’m afraid my snoring is world class. Bob would rather sleep on broken glass than share a room or even the same floor, if he could avoid it. I offered to sleep in the little lounge on the ground floor, to avoid disturbing his other guests. The Warden, ever helpful, would have none of it. It wasn’t busy. I could have a dormitory to myself. And so I did.

After a quiet but agreeable night in the nearby Red Lion, I retired to my bed. Bob was sharing his dormitory with one other young chap, quiet, but amiable enough, who had walked over from Settle that day. After adjusting to a small and bumpy bunk, I sank into oblivion and enjoyed a peaceful, restful sleep. There is nothing quite like gentle exercise and a good pint to promote sound slumber.

I was up early the next morning for a snack of Weetabix and tea, before the walk over to the Café at Gargrave for a real breakfast. Robert appeared in the kitchen. He looked dreadful, tired and drained.

“The bastard snores!” he explained.

Accommodation Earby YHA 01282 842349 earby@yha.org.uk http://www.yha.org.uk/make_booking/process/hostel274.html £9.50 Self Catering only Earby is a cheap and cheerful, traditional hostel. It represents terrific value.

Day 6 29th May 2002 From Earby to Malham - 11 miles

It would be another short day, and a gentle one at that. It was raining when we left the hostel. It rained much of the way to Malham. The walk is an agreeable lowland saunter. Gentle hillocks, a canal side ramble and a satisfying stroll along the infant Aire in improving surroundings to the tourist honey pot of Malham.

The first highlight was the café at Gargrave, for a late but welcome breakfast. On a walk like the Pennine Way, it is difficult to walk by the prospect of a decent pot of tea. The staff even contrived to convey the apparently genuine impression of their admiration at our (walking) prowess: it didn’t get them a tip though; Robert is of Scottish parentage. . The Aire was high after the rain. The path was muddy ooze. Even in wet and misty conditions, though, it is a delight to walk on and to anticipate the first glimpse of the Cove. Near Airton, after watching a Goosander Duck with its chicks, we startled a Roe Deer, which stood mesmerised for a couple of seconds before running off into the woods.

Bob has many idiosyncrasies, some quite worrying, but none more so than an addiction to The Archers. Craving his daily dose of class-ridden inanity, he carries a tiny radio so as not to miss an episode. Brian, Shula and Fallon’s antics from Ambridge are compulsory listening whatever our location or condition: I think it is all that farmyard sex that attracts him. It is probably his age. We were in Malham well before the two o’clock edition.

It soon became obvious that Malham was crawling with children on Geography Field Studies. Keen souls, anxious for our co-operation to complete their questionnaires, hounded us at every turn.

“What was the occasion and reason for your visit to the Yorkshire Dales National Park?”

“Quiet contemplation,” and, “To get away from kids,” Robert helpfully replied.

Malham YHA didn’t open until five and our inquisitors were in residence. We opted for a night in a B & B. The Beck Hole was a comfy and good value choice. We had plenty of time in the afternoon to play tourist, wash and dry our gear and have an evening’s snooze: heaven.

Malham’s pubs are pretty good too, although a bit on the pricey side. The Lister Arms even had a fair smattering of locals in the bar.

Accommodation Beck Hall Guest House Malham 01729 890332 simon@beckhallmalham.com http://www.beckhallmalham.com £24.00 The stay was at one of the best value establishments on the entire trip.

Day 7 30th May 2002 From Malham to Horton - 14 miles

The days walk was amongst the finest. Even the weather was half-decent in that the precipitation was merely showery, although of icy and heavy hail. It became increasingly windy, though, as the day progressed.

Malham Cove is superb. No matter how often visited it always impresses. The made path is a bit intrusive, perhaps, but no doubt necessary in light of the visitors the area attracts. It is no less steep, nor more intrusive for that matter, than the stony scar remembered from my youth.

It was while climbing the Cove that we met our first proper hiker. Reaching the top, he unbuckled his rucksack and tossed it casually behind him onto a rocky shelf. Somehow, this action unbalanced him, his feet swept away from under him: he landed in an inelegant heap in a mucky puddle. How’s that for an introduction?

He had walked from Garstang, through the Forrest of Bowland and was making for Richmond. It sounded a fine walk. We accompanied him to Malham Tarn, over the splendid limestone pavements and along the marvellous dry valley of Watlowes. Along the way, we saw a Little Owl roosting in a rocky cleft.

Passing a little bay in the tarn Bob indicated a peninsula projecting out into the lake, and said authoritatively, “Look, a Great Crested Grebe. It’s incubating its eggs.”

I saw a pair of Mallard Ducks paddling at the water’s edge. Perhaps the exertion was beginning to take its toll on Bob; he had been drinking the previous night, too. The easiest course would be to humour him.

“Oh, yes,” I said unenthusiastically.

My body language, the shaking head and expression of utter disdain, may have betrayed my thoughts. Bob has been a lifelong bird watcher, however, and I had watched a pair of Great Crested Grebes at this exact spot, nine years previously (but a little earlier in the season), performing their courtship dance on the lake. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, or perhaps responding to a sharp dig under the ribs, I glanced again towards the tarn. I saw the Grebe. It sat on its nest in the reeds, just a little way inland from the Mallards. I wonder if it was a descendant of that earlier pair.

It was windy, wet and misty on the top of Fountains Fell. It is a fascinating place, flat and pock marked by old coal workings. Its glory is the view across to Penyghent. The walk downhill was horrendous: what is usually a steep, rocky and uncomfortable descent now transformed into a limb threatening, muddy ski run, due to the rain.

We could see two pair of hikers 15 and 20 minutes ahead of us. The trailing couple had a big black dog. They were all following our route.

Then, at the bottom, near a farm, it began to hail. Heavy lumps of ice showered down, briefly giving the landscape a winter aspect. We sheltered in the lee of a barn watching the farmer in his fold yard amongst the cows. There was also a herriottesque figure dressed in green wellies and Barber body warmer, apparently attached to the rear end of a bovine by his right shoulder.

“They really do have to make their own entertainment up here,” I observed.

The hail did not last long, but the wind increased alarmingly. A lively breeze developed into a howling gale. The prospect of clambering up the wet and slippery rocky ledges of Penyghent with a pack in a developing storm wasn’t appealing. We took the discretionary course and descended to Horton by Brackenbottom. It wasn’t cheating, was it? We’d both been up the south ridge of Penyghent before.

We got into Horton early. After a snack at the Penyghent Café, we found digs at The Crown Hotel. The staff were putting up Union flags and bunting outside the pub.

“You shouldn’t have bothered fellas.”

“Piss off!”

“I take it it’s not for us, then?”

The Queen’s Golden Jubilee weekend was looming. The Spring Bank Holiday moved back a week and an extra day’s holiday added for the celebrations. What with the World Cup football, the lousy weather and all the local festivities people would surely stay at home. Accommodation would not be a problem over the coming weekend we assured ourselves.

Accommodation Crown Hotel Horton-in-Ribblesdale 01729 860209 crown.hotel@daelnet.co.uk http://www.crown-hotel.co.uk £27.50 This was another fine stopover with excellent food and beers. The rooms were snug, but a little basic.

Day 8 31st May 2002 From Horton to Hawes - 14 miles

After the wet of the last few days, we woke to the prospect of a fine, dry walk over to Wensleydale. It was spring. The sun was shining. Most of today’s route was on firm and distinct tracks. All was well with the world.

It is a first-rate walk to Hawes, although the initial nine miles are steadily uphill. The developing views of Ribblesdale, Langstrothdale, Widdale and Wensleydale compensate for the effort. The one discordant note was on the boggy approach to Old Ing Farm. The hillside is torn and scarred with the tracks of racing quad bikes. The moment soon passes, the environs of the farm left after scrambling over a barricaded gate.

At some point above Cam Houses, we came upon a couple who had eaten in the pub the previous evening. It turned out that they were the leading pair of hikers we had spotted the day before. They were walking the first half of the Way as far as Bowes. It soon became obvious that they had climbed Penyghent in spite of the conditions. Naturally, we lied and claimed the same achievement.

To compound the offence, not wanting to appear to be wimps, we hinted that we had started on the trail from Edale, “Let’s see, err, a day or two after you, probably.”

Walking on ahead of the pair we admired the striking views from the Cam High Road, extending to the Eastern Lakeland Fells, way to the west, southwards to Penyghent and east towards Buckden Pike. The Cam High Road and West Cam Road are antique trails through the hills, probably older than the Roman occupation.

Annie, Graig and Jake the Labrador were resting besides the track on the West Cam Road. They were camping along the route and their loads were immense: 30lb and 50lb they claimed convincingly. They were looking to abandon some of the gear. I would have dumped the larger pack and fitted the dog with panniers!

We quickly warmed to the duo: they had skipped the Penyghent summit too! Jane had had a nasty scare at the Kinder Downfall, narrowly avoiding falling over the edge in high winds. During the subsequent note sharing, we had had an uncharacteristic fit of conscience and admitted to a second leg start at Ponden. We parted company friends.

On the picturesque descent to Hawes, we got a rare close-up view of a Lapwing with her chicks.

Once in Hawes we were reassured, quickly fixing ourselves up with a B & B. Hawes is another grand little spot, full of pubs, shops, cafes and visitor attractions. We anticipated a good night in Hawes. We were not to be disappointed.

After cleaning up, I went into a well-practiced routine; out of the bag came the accommodation guide and phone. Disaster, Tan Hill pub was full. Keld YHA and its B & B establishments had been booked for months. Deciding to get a taxi from Tan Hill, the end of tomorrows walk, to wherever digs were available, the search range extended to include Bowes, Barnard Castle, Muker, Gunnerside and even Kirby Stephen. All proved fruitless. The world had evidently decided to spend the holiday weekend in the Dales: we had a problem.

Accommodation Ebor House Hawes 01969 667337 gwen@eborhouse.freeserve.co.uk £21.75 (Inc. laundry) This is yet another place to revisit sometimes. We got a warm welcome into a comfortable home. A real bonus was a laundry service at a minimal charge.

Day 9: 1st June 2002 From Hawes to Tan Hill - 15.5 miles

Breakfast was eventful. Bob had contacted Graham, an old friend from Pateley Bridge. We’d been fixed up with a lift from Tan Hill to accommodation 50 miles or more away at Glasshouses in Nidderdale, to return to the trail next day. Additional calls secured further ports along the way for succeeding nights at Baldersdale and Langdon Beck Youth Hostels. These arrangement put an extra day on the walk but, with Graham’s help, we’d overcome the Bank Holiday accommodation difficulties and were back on course to complete the trail.

Sat at the breakfast table were our Bowes bound friends. Forgetting exactly what our earlier claims had been, we carefully avoided detailed discussion of our itinerary. No one mentioned Penyghent. We weren’t to see the couple again.

Today was the best morning’s start by far. I unpacked my shorts, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

Walking over the Ure Bridge, the skies were a cloudless blue with lingering mists dancing, for just a little longer yet, on the riverside meadows. We would do well to gain some height before the sun’s heat gathered strength. The usual moorland birds were out in force, augmented by sightings of Wheatears and Ring Ouzels.

It is a long pull up to the summit of Great Shunner Fell. The reward is a magnificent view of the Dales, Mallerstang and far beyond. The radar station on Great Dunn Fell was in view, with Cross Fell supreme, further along the ridge. I think I was getting fitter too.

On the way down, we again met up with Annie and Graig. They were in traditional pose, laid out by the side of the path. The dog, as dogs do, had found a comfortable patch of heather and was sleeping soundly. The chat got round to an England World Cup match being played the following day. Bob boasted about the efficiency of his miniaturised radio: he would be using it to listen to the game. He produced the tiny appliance for all to inspect.

“Oh, that’s a dinky one,” Annie said admiringly.

“That’s what all the girls say,” I reflected.

With Robert still displaying a fetching shade of maroon, we left them on the moor.

“Nice legs,” Graig shouted after us, indicating my knees.

“Up yours,” I retorted drolly.

It is an easy walk down into Swaledale nowadays, leastways until meeting the horrible stony lane that leads into Thwaite village. A friend recalls walking the Herriott Way with his wife and climbing the fell path before its improvement. They forsook the intermittent wet trod in an attempt to trace a dryer route; Ann-Marie then spent what seemed like hours wallowing in endless, deep peat bogs, sinking to groin depth, floundering and fighting for every step. She believed she would drown in the mire. They eventually reached firmer ground of course, but have never revisit the hill.

The Kearton Café at Thwaite is a gem. Much too good to miss: pretty location, tasty, good value food and a garden terrace from which to survey the constant stream of visitors arriving on foot, bike, car and motor cycle.

One of the unexpected pleasures of walking the route was the camaraderie effortlessly established with other wayfarers, old and new. There was an aged chap at the café; he was with a small gathering of mainly elderly folk. A group of walking pals had commissioned a memorial seat, sited on the café’s terrace, to commemorate a dead mate. The friend’s widow was there to view the bench. I can think of no better monument.

We enjoyed the old chap’s reminiscences of his Pennine Way journey of thirty years before.

A biker arrived on a gleaming chromed monster of a super bike. He parked the beast prominently and strutted to the café, displaying his new and very expensive leathers. We had to leave; it was still a good seven miles to Tan Hill. Setting off we paused to admire the bike.

“Look at the rust on that,” said Bob loudly.

The biker cringed but made no verbal response; his demeanour, expression and stance amply demonstrated his warm and kindly feelings.

“We really must stop this; we’re getting too old to run.”

The following three miles into Keld are amongst the best on the entire walk. Swaledale is beautiful. The path hugs the side of Kisdon, high above the river. It can be rough underfoot and was just a little too busy with Bank Holiday walkers. The sun remained bright and hot. Keld afforded a tea and ice cream opportunity. We visited the village.

Crossing the Swale there is a steep, sharp pull to East Stonesdale Farm. The farm was empty and looking rather sad. With Rita, I had been a guest here of the redoubtable Mrs Doreen Whitehead on a Coast to Coast Walk some years before. She ran a terrific house, had a finger in many a pie in Swaledale and Wensleydale and was the author of the “Coast-to-Coast Accommodation Guide”. We had heard that she’d retired and left the farm to move into the village, but I was unprepared to see the old place looking so neglected and forlorn.

Once through the farm gate and onto the moor the character of the walk abruptly changes: the surroundings become less inviting, wetter and a little gloomier. The last miles to Tan Hill were just a little tedious; the eventual view of the pub across the moor more than welcome.

Graham turned up on cue. It was grand just to sit back and relax in his big four-wheel drive for the fifty or more miles drive across the Dales to Glasshouses. It was a long way to go to find a bed, but what a bed. Centre House is more of a serviced flat than a B and B. Unusually, breakfast is a self-service affair with a pick and mix from trays of fruit, yoghurt, boiled eggs, smoked meats and fish.

Another bonus is that it is just a short walk to the Birch Tree at Wilsill, a fine pub. We joined Graham and Margie for a great night. It was agreeable to have a night off the route with familiar friends.

Accommodation Mrs Houghton Centre House Glasshouses Pateley Bridge 01423 711371 http://www.a1tourism.com/uk/centralhouse2.html £20.00 I would guess that we were the first Pennine Wayfarers accommodated in Glasshouses, and will, no doubt, be the last. For anyone seeking a few days in Nidderdale, though, I would recommend Centre House unreservedly. It is earmarked as a base for a future Nidderdale Way expedition (I’m sure Mrs Houghton would arrange drop-off and pick-up points).

Day 10 2nd June 2002 From Tan Hill to Baldersdale YHA - 9 miles

The weather forecast wasn’t good. We had enjoyed another scenic ride through the Dales back to Tan Hill with Graham and had a late start from the pub, with dark and threatening clouds gathering along the western horizon.

It was a shame we could not get a bed at Tan Hill. I’d been looking forward to a return stay. Rita and I had taken refuge there one stormy September night on one of our walks. We got to bed very late. We were not up early.

Although we were only going as far as Baldersdale, we opted for the road route to Sleightholme. Moor Road is a rough, barely metalled lane across Sleightholme Moor. The only relief in a dark and austere landscape was the loud, piercing song of the moorland birds.

Walking towards a Land Rover parked at the side of the way, I could see one male occupant sat in the driver’s seat. His face was grimaced and contorted in obvious and severe pain. He did not react to our approach. Becoming increasingly concerned for his health and wellbeing, we were desperately trying to recall emergency procedures to apply to cardiac arrest or stroke victims. As we neared the vehicle, his pained expression relaxed dramatically. His sweating, twitching countenance calmed. His complexion reverted to a healthy pink.

A comely female head then came into view from under the dashboard.

“By gum, that’s what I call a first aider,” I ventured.

“Those Saint John’s Ambulance courses really do come in handy,” mouthed Bob.

Restored miraculously to rude good health, neither party noted our passing.

At Sleightholme the rains started. It was driving, hard and heavy rain. It was to remain so for the rest of the day.

The nature of the trail changes at Stainmore. Up until Tan Hill the paths are, in the main, distinct and well trodden. Once we entered County Durham, feelings of isolation, vulnerability and loneliness began to permeate the senses. Route finding is more problematic; the trods are indistinct, sometimes barely visible; fellow walkers are infrequent.

A couple of weeks before our visit two walking friends separated in this area, triggering a massive search. The missing man turned up, sheepish, but safe and well. He was in a Middleton hotel, unaware of the mayhem he had triggered, until he saw the rigorous search reported on local television. It is a nightmare that all who venture into remote places must surely dread; their shortcomings and foibles exposed and ridiculed by the tabloid press.

The crossing of Cotherstone Moor was wet and grim. On a fine day, it would be bleak. Today it was ghastly. On the descent to Baldersdale, I was picking my way over boggy, sodden ground, following an intermittent and vague path, with Bob following behind. I stepped on a particularly wet patch of earth. It wobbled like a jelly. The shaking earth was a vaguely circular plot, a good ten feet in diameter: the sensation was one of walking on the skin of a huge bubble. Oscillated disconcertingly, the membrane did not puncture, thank goodness. I guess it was grasses and mosses matted over a water-filled depression. Whatever it was, it is the first time I’ve experienced anything like it. It was scary.

We were the first to arrive at the hostel. The warden opened early and we settled before the masses arrived. The place quickly filled. I would really have to sleep in the lounge, or risk a slit throat. Although it was heaving the ambiance was good; most mucked in to help a very harassed warden cope with the hoards. I got talking to an old lady who said she was doing the Pennine Way with friends. I guessed she meant that they were cherry picking short manageable sections of the route. She was a game and interesting old stick though.

Tonight was to be the only completely dry night of the trip: it was miles down the valley to the nearest pub. A spectacular evening-long thunderstorm, with lashings of rain and a failing electricity supply enlivened the stay.

Accommodation Baldersdale YHA 01833 650629 http://www.yha.org.uk/make_booking/process/93.html £9.50 + meals The place was packed, but the food was terrific. This would be a great place for a secluded few days if it weren’t for the long haul to the pub.

Day 11 3rd June 2002 From Baldersdale YHA to Langdon Beck YHA - 14 miles

I had slept on three chairs bunched together to form an uncomfortable bed. I did not sleep well and I woke early. I was grumpy but gratified to find that Bob had abandoned his bunk too, due to other loud snorers. I might have survived the night after all.

We got of to a flying start after breakfast. It was raining of course and saturated underfoot after the overnight deluge. After admiring Hannah Hauxwell’s old farm and meadow, we climbed up to the lane where we found a checkpoint for the Roof of England Walk, a competitive challenge walk. We were in luck. Route finding would be easy. Their walk coincided with our complicated route to Teesdale. It was clearly marked throughout.

We passed a mother and daughter team whilst paddling over to Lunedale. They were making hard going of crossing a swollen stream. They’d stayed at the Hostel and were heading for the Langdon Beck Hotel. It would be a long journey at their rate of progress.

Much of the way to Middleton was an uneventful plod in the rain. The countryside was agreeable, but unspectacular, whilst the ground conditions were atrocious. The descent to the Tees coincided with an improvement in the weather and visibility: Teesdale was to be a revelation. It is a super walk along the river, enlivened by a succession of ever more impressive waterfalls. The sun was out, the Teesdale meadows were in their full glory and, Bank Holiday trippers apart, all was now well with the world.

I had been to High Force before. Even so, the first view of the waterfall from the southern bank, particularly after all the recent rain, was tremendous: one of the set pieces of the walk. Above High Force and passed the quarry, the crowds dispersed and the valley takes on a remote, glen like atmosphere. At Cronkley Bridge, the bloated corpse of a cow was stuck under the bridge.

We were at the hostel early and had a fair wait before the doors opened. To pass the time we rang ahead for tomorrow’s accommodation at Dufton: surely not a difficult proposition, with the Bank Holiday now over and the sizable town of Appleby only a short taxi ride away. That, of course, reckoned without Appleby’s Horse Fair. We were stuck again. There was no accommodation to be had this side of Keswick. Forward booking does have some advantages.

“You are a selfish old sod,” I chided Bob. “I bet you never thought to ask Kath over for a night’s break in the Lakes. She’d love it”

I secured my personal dormitory, “I’m afraid I have a problem…etc” and settled into hostel routine until pub time.

Despite there being no cask beers, the Langdon Beck Hotel is an excellent spot with fine Guinness. There was an outrageously drunken old Scottish woman in the bar indulging in some ancient feud with a local farmer.

“It is better than Emmerdale,” I was authoritatively informed.

“She reminds me of my Mum,” he added. “Not the behaviour, but the accent.”

I was not convinced.

Then we had a stroke of luck. We were explaining our lodgings predicament to the barman: he had a couple of walking guests staying with him an extra night. They’d cancelled their digs at Dufton because of injuries. Our mother and daughter team duly appeared in the bar, tired and battered, with blisters making further serious progress on foot impossible.

“Would you try and get my deposit back,” asked mother.

Details ascertained I booked their abandoned lodgings: it would appear we were sharing a room, though. Oh well, better that than a hedge bottom; we would toss a coin to determine who slept in the lounge.

Accommodation Langdon Beck YHA 01833 622228 langdonbeck@yha.org.uk http://www.yha.org.uk/make_booking/process/259.html £10.50 This is a modern hostel, offering good solid value.

Day 12 4th June 2002 From Langdon Beck YHA to Dufton - 12.5 miles

I do not know how many favourite days one is allowed on the Pennine Way, but this is another one. The walk along the Tees is stunningly beautiful, if a little problematic and slow going, with long stretches of slippery and bouldery scree by the river. Just as we neared the confluence of Maize Beck and the Tees, we watched a heavy squall racing down the valley of Maize Beck. It hit us hard and strong: in seconds, we were drenched in a deluge of rain and hail. It disappeared, just as quickly, down along the Tees.

Rounding a bend in the river Cauldron Snout presents itself: a boiling torrent of water and spray cascading down a steep cliff of dolerite rock.

“Bloody hell,” I ventured eloquently. “How on earth do we get up that?”

In the event the only obvious way up was beside that very cataract. Some careful scrambling is necessary on steep, wet and smooth rock, with the force of water thundering just an inch or two from trembling limbs. It was pretty exhilarating stuff, but all rather daunting.

“Piece of cake,” I shouted over the roar of the falls after gaining the top unscathed.

There we were greeted by the mother and daughter team out, by another route, for a morning’s ramble.

“Did you mention the deposit when you spoke to the Bed and Breakfast?” mother enquired.

Passing the isolated old farm at Birkdale, and crossing the bleak, featureless moors under Mickle Fell, we regained and precariously crossed Maize Beck over newish, but partly toppled, stepping stones. Bringing High Cup Nick underfoot is a moment that no amount of preparation can anticipate. The ground falls abruptly away beneath your boots. One finds oneself at the head of a vast, deep and crag-fringed valley, scooped from the side of the high fell. It is a terrific sight, tremendous views open over the Eden valley and westwards to the Lakeland hills. It is, in my view, the most impressive single feature of the entire walk.

Walking high above the chasm, on a series of rocky ledges we passed a jeep-type vehicle, parked, secured and undamaged, as if waiting for the crew to turn up to film the advertisement. There was no indication whatsoever as to how it had come to park there.

The path continues along the rim of the valley before the steep descent to Dufton. We stopped to watch three men and their dogs shepherding a flock of sheep up the fell path. Sitting at the path side, we admired their skill, but were fearful of disrupting their work. Rewarded for our patience we received a sideways glance and got the tiniest hint of a nod, by way of thanks, from the eldest of the trio: a garrulous response indeed by the taciturn standards of Westmorland hill farmers.

Dufton is a pretty spot, built of red sandstone, the prettiest settlement on the route. A village green graces Dufton, together with a café cum shop, a pub and the best B and B on the trail. I am told that the YHA is good too, but cannot personally vouch for it: it was the warden’s day off and it was closed, despite there being no free accommodation for miles around. At this time, the Association were talking of selling the valuable hostel building in response, they said, to falling bed occupancy. They also needed to recoup Foot and Mouth disease losses from the previous year. I have no marketing experience, but…

Sycamore House is terrific: an old inn, converted and restored, with comfortable rooms, a warm Irish welcome and good food, and it is next door to the excellent pub. The icing on the cake was that the mother and daughter duo had in fact, booked separate rooms: oh joy!

I had good cause for a celebration: a ‘phone call home brought the news that I was a Grandfather, “Grandfather? Me, I’m much too young. I still have acne and sweaty feet for goodness sake.”

Another walker was staying: he was from London and was walking the route southwards from Alston as far as Middleton. We had an enjoyable night in the Stag Inn, although the landlord was a little too keen to enforce the “drinking up” period. It had good food and beer.

Accommodation Sycamore House Dufton 017683 51296 o_halloran@hotmail.com http://www.sycamorehouse.org.uk £17.00 This is an excellent spot: good value and great people.

Day 13 5th June 2002 From Dufton to Garrigill - 15.5 miles

Leaving Sycamore House, we called at the shop to stock up with fruit and chocolate for the day’s walk. The three elderly ladies, already in the store, were on a similar mission: they included the old dear I had chatted with at Baldersdale. They were provisioning for a walk, probably a low-level ramble at the foot of the hills.

We set off up Knock Fell in glorious sunshine. This is a wonderful part of the world in fine weather.

“Did you ask Liam about the lady’s deposit?”

“No. Did you?”

The climb is long and steep, but with ever-widening and increasingly far-reaching views. The mast on Great Dun Fell displays the Stoodley Pike phenomenon - the wretched thing never appears to get any nearer. Eventually reaching the eyesore, the next objective, Little Dun Fell, disappeared from view in an all-enveloping mist. Entering the shroud the temperature plummeted. At Tees Head, below the final pull onto the Cross Fell summit plateau, the mists temporarily parted. Here we met a group, out on a circular walk from Garrigill, trying to locate the faint track that heads northeast, avoiding the very high ground, to meet the corpse road. They eventually picked up the path and headed off into the gathering fog. Perhaps it would have been a more prudent course to follow their steps.

On the pull to the plateau, the visibility dropped alarmingly. It became very cold and the mist introduced moisture into every fibre. The ground is too rocky and the vegetation too sparse for the formation of a discernible path. Occasional cairns led to who knows where. We gained the summit shelter on a compass bearing. There was little to delay us on the top of Cross Fell, at 2,930 feet the highest point of the walk. We had a quick snack of chocolate. Taking another bearing, we headed across the plateau to drop down to find the corpse road, a track linking Garrigill with Kirkland. It was a wet, mucky and trackless descent and we proceeded with some trepidation. It is not that often that I have had to rely entirely on a compass, without the added help of either clear vision or a discernable path.

Finding the track, we headed passed the bothy at Greg’s Hut, down to Garrigill. We had both been on the corpse road before and had then enjoyed the long but bleak views across the barren moors.

Today it was a long trudge in the mist, seeing no one but a pair of socially and intellectually challenged men with a large digging machine, repairing the track. It must have taken quite an effort of will entirely to ignore our presence, in spite our significant bulk. The marginally more animated of the pair, the one sat breathing in the driving seat of the digger, marked our passing by lurching it forwards and sideways as we walked alongside. The cretins probably had a natural empathy with sheep; they certainly could not relate well with humans. Maybe they understand our heartfelt messages of solidarity and support for rustic folk, in these times of rural stress and hardship. Probably they did not.

Arriving at Garrigill early, we felt fresh enough to have pressed on the few more miles to Alston. We both have fond memories of Garrigill and its pub, the George and Dragon, however, and wanted to overnight in the village again. We arrived at Ivy House Farm in late afternoon to another great welcome. Mrs. Humble, an American lady, runs a Llama trekking business, as well as excellent and snug digs.

Eating alone in the pub I once again met the mother and daughter team.

“I sort of mentioned the deposit but he didn’t respond,” I prevaricated.

“Oh, no worries,” mother breezily replied.

Later, whilst quietly congratulating ourselves on our feat of navigation, the three old ladies emerged from the dining room.

“Did you have a nice day, ladies?” Bob asked.

“Yes. It was a bit misty up there wasn’t it?”

“You went over Cross Fell?”

“Oh, yes,” said the eldest of the trio.

The ladies had indeed been walking the Pennine Way. They had been doing it in chunks each year for the past year or two: this year’s portion being from Tan Hill to the Roman Wall. Furthermore, their daily itinerary was not a lot different to ours; they had probably forgotten more about hill walking that we would ever know.

“Did you scramble up Cauldron Snout?”

“Of course, dear,” said the eldest of the group, “but, if you take an arching course, wide of the waterfall, it’s much easier.”

Robert ungallantly asked their ages. They were aged seventy-six, seventy-eight and eighty-two.

“The first time I was up Cross Fell was with my father in the twenties,” said the senior matron.

They were heading for Slaggyford the next day, then finishing this year’s portion the following day at Hadrian’s Wall.

Later we spent time yarning with another trio of Pennine Wayfarers, whom we vaguely remembered passing the time of day with near Langdon Beck. The pub had changed hands since our last visit, but we were pleased to find the welcome as warm as ever, and the company, beer and food, just as fine.

Accommodation Mrs Humble, Ivy House Farm, Garrigill 01434 382501 ivyhouse@garrigill.com

http://www.garrigill.com £30.00 These were extremely good lodgings, if a bit on the pricey side.

Day 14 5th May 2002 From Garrigill to Longbyre (Greenhead) - 21.5 miles

Today’s was a long walk, with a sense that perhaps we had seen the best of the Pennines: ahead lay the Tyne gap, the Roman Wall and the Cheviots. The day was dry, though, and the walk along banks and pastures of the River South Tyne was just as fine as any valley saunter to be had anywhere. We did not visit Alston, but pressed on along the path, passing a group of gypsies who were en route to Appleby, with their traditional horse drawn caravans.

Leaving the river at Slaggyford, we begged fresh water from the Hull born occupants of a converted old chapel, and paused for a natter: Bob, happily recalling his Humber birthright, joined in a reminiscence of the glories of Hull past and present. Not a fan of the city, I said nothing; I had spent a career avoiding a transfer to its insalubrious shores.

From Slaggyford we stayed with the bed of the old South Tyne Railway, now a walking and cycling track, to Lambley. The diversion from the official route saves nothing in time or distance. It is a pleasant interlude of easy route finding and good conditions underfoot, with the prospect of inspecting Lambley’s graceful old Victorian railway viaduct. Whilst pausing for a snack we met another old veteran of the Way, breaking a long car journey with a breath of fresh air. Once achieved, it seems impossible to get the walk wholly out of one’s system.

I can add nothing to Tony Hopkins’s Trail Guide description of the bleak crossing from the South Tyne valley to the Tyne Gap.

“This is Hartleyburn Common, leading to the even more daunting expanse of Blenkinsopp Common. A wet desert of hair-moss and course grasses drifts away in all directions; sheep have a hungry look, birds are few and silent.”

This was another opportunity to hone compass skills; at first, there was no discernable path, then just an intermittent trod in sodden, juicy ground. We met another walker heading for Lambley.

“Just keep heading for the trig pillar,” we were informed. “Good practice for the Cheviot, do you know? Much worse up there,” he added helpfully.

Wainwright’s pedantic view that the Pennine Way ought to have finished, with the Pennine range itself, at the Wall, began to take on a new, disquieting resonance. I reasoned, however, that the judgement of anyone who actually chooses an outing to Blenkinsopp Common for an afternoon’s hike must be somewhat suspect.

We arrived late and tired at our digs at Longbyre, just a couple of hundred yards up the road from Thirwall Castle. Whilst within sight of the day’s destination we had wandered off route into a wrong pasture: it was only a five-minute diversion, but annoying at the end of what was already the longest day of the trip.

The choice of Four Wynds for the night was another inspired accident: comfy, homely and welcoming, with laundry service thrown in, together with the bonus of a lift to a pub at Gilsland. The pub was refreshing too: nicely off the route, not at all touristy and busy with locals.

Another party of visitors, two couples, were in the bar. We didn’t get into conversation, but from overheard snippets we guessed that they were caravanning nearby. At some point, the party requisitioned the pool table, much to the disgust of a lad whom we assumed to be a local. The youth, desperate to play, psychotic and badly in need of professional counselling, became incandescent with fury. Each inept shot provoked his rage: he loudly barracked the players and kicked out at a wall to relieve his frustration. Twice he approached and spoke angrily to the players. The quartet ignored the fool. Eventually recognising the conventions of the game, the men accepted our hero’s challenge to a match. He quickly proved his superior prowess: by promptly cannoning his white ball off a colour into a side pocket. He and his friend went on to enjoy a sound thrashing.

Accommodation Ross and George Bonnar Four Wynds Longbyre 016977 47330 http://www.bed-breakfast-hadrianswall.com

info@bed-breakfast-hadrianswall.com £25.00 (including laundry) This is another recommended establishment.

Day 15 7th June 2002 From Longbyre (Greenhead) to Twice Brewed - 7 miles

Today’s walk would either be a half-day amble along the wall, or a twenty-mile plus hike through lonely moors and forests, to the valley of the North Tyne at Bellingham. The weather forecast was not good and yesterday’s hike had taken a toll on our energy levels; the saunter won the contest: we decided on a semi rest day.

It might only be a morning’s hike, but it was one of unerring quality and a surprisingly energetic one too. The climb to the wall passes beneath Thirwall Castle, itself built of stones recycled from Hadrian’s Wall and ripe with memories of the centuries-long border wars with the Scots. The Wall is unique. Despite the remains being at best fragmentary, they retain the capacity to evoke forcefully an echo of the power of ancient Rome. Even the weakest and most enfeebled imagination must stir to the ambiance of the stones: even Bob was quite impressed… probably.

The mist stayed down, denying long views along, and from, the Wall and drenching all it touched. Taking recompense for any loss in scenic quality, the sheer atmosphere of place overwhelms. The water soaked grasses clothing the ditches and earth ramparts, projected a prominence and character overlooked on a better day. The weather deterred many other visitors to the monument; only occasional figures loomed out of the mist like legionnaires patrolling the lonely ramparts. Often the figures were hikers walking the length of Hadrian’s Wall along the new National Trail. The map fails to properly communicate the sheer energy needed to walk along the Wall’s many and steep undulations. It is hard work.

We had intended to stay at the Once Brewed Youth Hostel, but with the day’s walk finished early, we couldn’t resist a lazy afternoon and a discounted price at the neighbouring Twice Brewed Inn. When we arrived, the pub was having a busy lunchtime session, with most of the clientele noisily concentrated at one end of the bar around a TV: the England versus Argentina World Cup football tie was on live from South Korea. Not being a soccer fan, I ate my snack at the opposite end of the long and narrow room, my only nearby company being a reserved Scottish couple. Whilst pleading indifference to the tournament and a disinterest in football, they professed a wish for a home country victory. I swear they flinched when England scored just before half time.

Accommodation Twice Brewed Inn 01434 344534 twicebrewed@hotmail.com <mailto:twicebrewed@hotmail.com> www.twicebrewedinn.co.uk £18.00 The pub has seen better days, but the rooms were adequate and the food and beer were OK. Day 16 8th June 2002 From Twice Brewed to Bellingham - 15 miles

The remains of the Wall strung along the ridge between Steel Rigg and Rapishaw Gap, are even more impressive than those further west. The weather remained just as miserable, though, with a worryingly thick mist enveloping the landscape. Resuming our progress along the monument, the long and impressive views remained masked, other than a glimpse down the rock face into Crag Lough far below. Nevertheless, it was with some regret that we left the Wall’s protection, to strike north into the empty wilderness of bog and forest.

This section of the walk left few profound impressions; it was hard going with very muddy conditions underfoot; the mist and occasional rain showers truncated the views. Care with route finding across the moors, rough pastures and through coniferous forests was needed. It was very lonely, particularly over the first, higher sections of the way. We had left the hoards a long way behind.

Along this stretch of the walk, after days of immersion in mucky bog and sludge, my boots gave up the will to live. Despite repeated treatments, the saturated leather had been worn deeply along the crease lines and had eventually cracked and been breached by the water. I wouldn’t enjoy dry feet for the remainder of the trip. The Scarpa boots are now enjoying a well-deserved semi-retirement, playing host to a pair of geraniums in my back garden.

At Warks Burn, we caught up with two couples taking a rest after having walked the two miles from Willowbog Farm. They had been walking the Pennine Way in sections over the last twelve years, and were hoping to finish in three or four days time, or perhaps later in the season.

“You will be starting the Appalachian Trail next year then?” I asked sweetly.

My wit unacknowledged, the leader seized my walking pole. He displayed all the attributes of a true pedant: a wide eyed off focus fixed stare, a tilted head and a manic grin.

“You’re not holding it properly, hold it like this,” he instructed.

Carefully teaching us dullards, he gave a slow motion and complex demonstration of the correct way to weave and thread one’s hand and wrist into, through and around the strap. He repeated the action several times.

“There, that’s how you hold it; did you see how it was done? Through, over and around, like so,” he attested helpfully.

I retrieved my pole and we bade them goodbye.

“I was tempted to display the correct procedure for recovering the tungsten tip from his intestines,” I deliberated.

“What a prat,” Bob noted.

Bellingham is a grand little spot and the last place of any size along the route. I’d stayed there a few years before with Rita and was looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with the town. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have an outdoor shop stocking decent boots. We were yet again fortunate to find very comfortable and welcoming accommodation, and they were happy to do our laundry for a nominal fee. Another chap joined us at the digs: a quiet and thoughtful Canadian who was walking from Kirk Yetholm to the Wall, to link up with sections of the walk he’d tackled on earlier visits.

Together we set out to sample the fleshpots. It is noticeable when visiting Northumbrian pubs that there is a sorry lack of houses serving proper beers: the norm for Scotland, but a sad state of affairs south of the border. After calling at the second pub, we realised that Bellingham’s licensed premises were not to be exceptions: it was to be another Guinness night. The pub was otherwise fine, the stout good and the company great fun.

Somehow, the conversation touched on native British tree species. Now, as a lad Bob was given an “I spy book of British Trees” and has considered himself an expert on all things arboreal ever since. It is true also, that he has never been the one to call a Digitalis a Foxglove.

“Of course the Sycamore is a genus native to Britain,” Bob asserted.

“Sycamores belong to the maple family, a big group of northern temperate trees, of the genus acer. It is native to central and southern Europe. It’s a naturalised species here.”

“I’m talking about the Great Sycamore; my sources suggest that it’s native.”

“You probably mean the North American Sycamore. That’s a plane tree; completely unrelated and, obviously, an introduction here.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” Bob asserted more forcefully.

“No, I’m positive. The European trees’ classification is Acer pseudoplatanus, the Platanus occidentalis is the North American sycamore,” Our man added authoritatively.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s my job. I’m a Professor of Botany.”

The conversation moved on to safer ground. I bet Robert checked his “I spy” book when he got home.

Accommodation Mrs Gaskin Lyndale Guest House Bellingham 01434 220361 £26.00 +£1 laundry Good value digs, which I’d be happy to recommend.

Day 17 9th June 2002 From Bellingham to Bryness - 15 miles

In many respects, the walk over to Bryness is a repeat of the walk to Bellingham: a similar distance, a comparable, though higher, topography of mainly moor and forest and an overwhelming sense of loneliness and isolation. The additional, special feature was the weather, by far the worst of the entire journey. Not ordinary rain; it was an endless torrent of teeming water which probed expensive, modern outdoor clothing, effortlessly overwhelming weaknesses in materials or flaws in design. Water lay in sheets over already sodden ground; deep bog indistinguishable from shallow mere. It was not a good day.

We took the lower, alternative route, alongside Hareshaw Burn, but not out of consideration for the farmer’s stock. We wanted to circumvent an avoidable if modest climb. The Gods provoked, it was here the rains began. Memories of much of the rest of the day’s walk are ones of coarse grasses and mud, puddle and heath, trees and mist. In truth, it was a bit of a plod. I would like to walk over Whitley Pike and around Padon Hill again in fine weather, to gain a fairer impression of the countryside hereabouts.

Once in the shelter of the conifers the full force of the storm blunted a little. It’s fashionable to be disdainful of large commercial woodlands, but I liked the Kielder Forest: it is high and rolling with intermittent views over the trees to the hills. Sometimes woods can be claustrophobic, Kielder is not.

We met a group of about six young chaps from Leeds heading south. They’d started at Kirk Yetholm the day before, carrying full camping gear. The leader, a veteran of a previous south to north expedition, was as fresh as a bobbin; some of his companions were not. I’d wager that half would drop out before they reached the Wall. They talked glumly, graphically and at length about the peaty horrors of the Cheviot.

“They don’t know what they’ve got in front of them,” I ventured, after wishing them well.

“Do they know something we don’t?” Bob queried.

On the descent to Blakehopeburnhaugh we passed a little safari of a dozen or so off-road vehicles, lead by a Forest Enterprise Land Rover, lumbering uphill along the forest track. Although wet and footsore, I could not envy them their heated, air-conditioned adventure, hand held along the way by a forester on Sunday overtime.

We arrived in the rear lobby of the Bryness Hotel just as three lads from Newcastle were shedding layers of soaking army gear. We assumed they were squadies from the camp down the road at Otterburn. They were not, but they aspired to be and were happy enough to be mistaken for the real thing. The youths settled in the bar, waiting for a parental lift.

We didn’t get off to a good start with the hotel management: there was a mix up over room allocation, an unsuccessful attempt to displace Robert from his en-suite pad into an inferior room and a general sense of haughty proprietary disdain for their wet and mucky clientele.

“This room is more expensive, you know, if you insist on staying you’ll have to pay the difference.”

“The pension should just about run to it, dear,” replied Bob

“Basil and Sybil Fawlty are alive and well and living at Bryness,” I muttered.

Bob went down for an early evening meal. The wannabe squadies were by now a wee bit garrulous. An army half-track truck pulled into the car park, disgorging a party of Ramboesque warriors. The soldiers strode into the bar and ordered their fruit juices. Glancing first at our-would be fighters, then between themselves and again back at our trio, they fell into lively banter amongst themselves, giving the Geordies no further thought. Our lads froze, visibly shrinking in their seats, in total awe of their heroes.

“We got the gear in the Army Surplus store, it’s much cheaper than the outdoor shops,” they confided after the military had left.

I ate later and was horrified to see my walking pole mentor, with his spouse and friends, sat at an adjacent table. They’d had a rest day. Despite being naturally gregarious, I sat with my back to the group, huddled in a corner. I was near enough to monitor their conversation, though, dominated by my tutor’s observations on “the meaning of life, the universe and everything…”

The hotel was another Northumbrian real ale free zone, but again Guinness saved the evening. It was a good night in the end.

Accommodation Mrs C Jackson Bryness Hotel Bryness 01830 520231 http://www.thepennineway.co.uk/thebyrness/ £25.00 The place is a bit quirky, but no worse for that. It does grow on you: the rooms are comfortable and the food is good.

Day 18 10th June 2002 From Bryness to Uswayford (Clennell Street) - 16 miles

The day started with my first sighting of a Siskin, a bonny little bird: unfortunately, it was dead, a casualty of the A68. There followed a steep, long, muddy climb through a forest ride, followed by a short, easy scramble onto the ridge. The great thing is that, by the time you’re in Bryness, fitness levels have increased to the point where climbing is hardly an effort.

The Cheviots are a revelation: a complex grouping of lonely and exposed, rounded grassy ridges, offering sublime views all around. Wet and treacherous underfoot conditions predominate from the start. The very worst ground is spanned by duck boarding or stone trods, but much of what remains is horrendous: the Leeds’s chaps were not exaggerating. The Cheviots, certainly after rain, and I guess that that is most of the time, are very demanding. The abiding memory of the Cheviot crossing is the sound of sucking, clarty mud. One’s boot laboriously dragged and reluctantly released from the cloying ground at each successive step.

At least the weather had improved a shade: when attacked it was by infrequent, if heavy, showers.

The first highlight of the day is the crossing into Scotland: it is at an unremarkable stile over a wire stock fence, but it is a landmark moment of the walk. We had indeed walked to Scotland, albeit returning over the fence into England after a couple of hundred yards.

I’m sure the Chew Green Roman Camp is of interest to archaeologists: to the untutored eye it is merely a series of humps and bumps in the earth. It is an isolated spot. We had seen no one before arriving at Chew Green; we saw only one other walker during the entire day.

After the camp, the route climbs again to the border fence, here following the Roman Dere Street for a while. One of the fascinations of walking these tracks through the hills is their antiquity: literally walking in the footsteps of Roman and Reiver, Drover and Iron Age warrior. Simple paths can have poignancy more profound than many a grander monument.

Once the border fence is regained the route pretty well sticks with, or near it, over a succession of heights and dips. Everywhere is soggy, sometimes intimidating. It is impossible to distinguish deep peaty pools from innocuous shallow puddles; a careless, step will plunge the unwary loin deep in cold, glutinous goo. The views, into the Teviot valley and the across to the shapely Eildon Hills and beyond are striking and compensate for the pain. The highest land, though, is alien, wild and empty; burns, knowles and laws decorate the map. It is spectacular.

Over the past days, we had seen the occasional paw print impressed into the mud. We’d lost a day because of accommodation difficulties at Tan Hill, and another day through indolence at the Wall. The visitors’ book in the Yearning Saddle shelter, a wooden refuge, was the first real indication that Graig, Annie and Jake were still on the trail: they had passed here two days before and would probably be heading home by now.

The only sighting of another human, since leaving Bryness, was on the summit of Windy Gyle. We’d clambered to the top of Russell’s Cairn when a lone walker appeared from along the Coquetdale path bearing towards the giant pile of stones. He evidently wanted to preserve his seclusion: he stopped short of the summit, ostensibly for a drink, and waited until we were descending to Clennell Street, another ancient upland track, before he climbed to the cairn. It could have been that Robert’s reputation had preceded him.

We were breaking the Cheviot crossing at Uswayford, a remote hill farm. We walked along Clennell Street for a short distance before entering a forest, there intending to follow a bridleway to the farm. A track diversion along a forest road confused the approach to the farm. Entering a steep pasture above the settlement we made a beeline for the house’s approach track, and then along the road to the dwelling. Almost at the building, we faced a ford across the swollen Uswayford Burn. Dry feet were not at this time an issue; across we waddled without further ado. Once across, fifty yards upstream, the footbridge came into view!

The Buglass’s reckon that their home is the remotest dwelling in England: few would argue. After a bath and a brush up there was little else to do other than eat a simple but satisfying meal, enjoy a yarn or two and attempt to denude the drinks cupboard of its alcoholic contents. Despite being a dozen miles or more from the nearest Public House, Robert, in a fit of puritanical abstinence, did not imbibe.

“I only ever drink at the pub,” he insisted.

“Adapt or die,” I thought.

It was a very agreeable stay, just enjoying the simple gratifications of a plain existence. There cannot be many places in England where urban noise and light impinge not one iota!

Accommodation Mrs Nancy Buglass Uswayford Farm Harbottle Morpeth Northumberland 01669 650237 nancy@alwinton.net £36.00 including evening meal and drinks Other than bivouacking, camping or complicated back-up arrangements, a stay at the farm is just about the only alternative to tackling the 26 mile Cheviot crossing in one day: easily possible, but surly not at all pleasurable. The cost might be a bit on the top side, but it must be an expensive spot to provision, and the price did include all food and drink. I enjoyed the stay.

Day 19 11TH June 2002 From Uswayford to Kirk Yetholm - 13 miles

It was only after paying the bill and the realisation that drinks were not charged as an additional item that Bob might have had some regrets for having endured a dry night.

“That was a bit pricey. Don’t you think it would be fair if you reimbursed me for the price of the drinks I didn’t have,” Robert suggested hopefully.

“Bollocks,” I said, eloquently refuting his flawed logic.

We retraced our steps back to the border fence and paddled uphill towards the hump of The Cheviot. Where the path was unmade, it was again very boggy. At King’s Seat, miles from any obvious access point, a line of jogging squadies followed a PTI: a breed of men apart, unlike any mere mortal. The soldiers were hardly couch potatoes themselves; none had the common decency to puff, sweat or cough, all as fresh and bright as the buttons on their dress tunics would undoubtedly be.

“It’s pointless running, the bus just left,” Bob joked.

“Aye,” one answered with a grimace, mightily impressed with the originality of the quip.

At Cairn Hill, we considered the pros and cons of a two-mile detour to the summit of The Cheviot and back. We were having a short day. We were fresh. The weather was on the chilly side, but dry. The path to the summit is paved, and rises barely two hundred and fifty feet to the trig column. Time was not an issue; we would be there and back well within the hour. We gave it a miss.

It must have been hellish crossing the mire en-route to Auchope Cairn before it was duck-boarded. I don’t understand how water consistently defies gravity and gathers to lay stagnant on a mountain top. The soldiers reappeared at the cairn and took an uncharacteristic rest. Heaven knows where they’d been, or where they went: we weren’t to see them again.

The wet and steep descent alongside the hanging valley of Hen Hole, to the refuge hut at the head of the College valley, required care. We paused to chat to a chap heading south on the first day of his trek to Edale: it seemed such a long way to walk. He was staying at Uswayford for the night. For the first time in days, the ground conditions improved to the point where it was merely wet.

We lunched at the hut before the slog to the last top of the walk. The Schill is a grand little mountain: abrupt and conical with a crown of rock on its narrow top. It is set a little aside from the main range of the Cheviot Hills, offering long views across the low-lying lands to the sea, along the western scarp of the hills and back to Auchope Cairn. It is an irresistible spot from which to just sit and quietly absorb the landscape.

“Hallo Kath, I’m on The Schill. Where are you? The view’s great, the weather’s dry,” Bob shouted into his mobile.

I had heard many variants of the same theme over the past days. Technology is wonderful.

Kath was driving up to meet us at Kirk Yetholm. They had booked the last room at the Border Hotel; I was staying at digs nearby. The conversation was a reminder that we were nearly done. We had made it, almost.

The route maintains its interest to the end. We had another decision to make after re-crossing the border fence into Scotland for the last time. It was to be either the official route, energetically clinging to the high ground to the last, or the gentler, wet weather alternative, down to the Halter Burn at Burnhead.

“If Burnhead was good enough for Wainwright, it’s good enough for me,” we agreed.

The walk reserves one last sting for the final yards. The two routes merge, on a narrow surfaced lane less than a mile from home, there to ascend one hundred and fifty feet to the final ridge top. To compound our distress a party of roadmen, shovels skilfully parked to give maximum comfort and support to their inactive frames, expertly assessed our progress to the crest.

“The bastards are awarding points,” I observed.

“Technical merit, two; artistic interpretation, nil,” Bob speculated.

We arrived in the agreeable but unremarkable village of Kirk Yetholm just as the heavens opened for one last time. It was a fitting finale to the trek. We headed for the shelter of our separate refuges without further deliberation. The village is a busy little place, catering as ever for the needs of walkers, but nowadays more occupied with the requirements of those walking the shorter, friendlier Saint Cuthbert’s Way from Melrose to Lindisfarne. A party of St Cuthbert Way walkers were to join me in the lounge at Valleydene.

“Walking?”

“Yes.”

“Far?”

“I started at Edale.”

“Oh, you’ve done The Pennine Way. Congratulations!”

Not such a bad accolade, in fact from another walker it was high recognition indeed. A non-walker simply would not have understood.

The Border Hotel belies all my prejudices against Scottish pubs. It is smart and comfortable, serves terrific food and has excellent Borders brewed real ale. The decisive factor is that the pub still honours Wainwright’s promise of a free drink at the end of the walk. The accompanying register confirmed that Graig and Annie had claimed their halves two days before.

We all enjoyed a good night at the Border Hotel.

Accommodation (1) Valleydene Kirk Yetholm 01573 420314 £18.00 This was yet another comfy and good value spot.

Accommodation (2) Border Hotel Kirk Yetholm 01573 420237 borderhotel.kirkyetholm@barbox.net http://www.theborderhotel.co.uk £40.00pppn (Sharing) A first rate, if expensive hotel, I’m told.

Postscript

The Pennine Way is not a life changing experience but it is certainly a life enhancing one. It is accessible to anyone who is moderately fit; it is not the exclusive reserve of the athlete. Sometimes remote and challenging, it is not a wilderness walk; each night provides the opportunity of a bed, most nights the prospect of a beer. The walk is not England’s longest continuous path, but it is the oldest and remains the best known. It is not everywhere beautiful; many miles are over soggy, featureless, dreary moors and many a tedious hill is there to be climbed, seemingly just for the torment of the ascent. But it does traverse much of England’s best landscapes and throughout crosses ground that echoes to the songs of the ages.

At Kirk Yetholm, I was asked if I would ever wish to walk the route again.

My response then was unequivocally negative, “Not in its entirety, no, never again.”

Now, less than a year after the walk’s conclusion, I would not be so adamant. It haunts the memory so.

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