Day 13: 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 them.

On the pull to the plateau, the visibility dropped alarmingly again. It became very cold and the mist drenched every fibre of our clothing. 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.

After a quick snack of chocolate we took another bearing and headed across the plateau to drop down and 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 some visual hints or a discernible path.

Finding the track, we passed the bothy at Greg’s Hut and headed 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 to entirely 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.

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.

Later, 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 ventured.

“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)

£30.00

These were extremely good lodgings, if a bit on the pricey side.