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, and he landed in an inelegant heap in a mucky puddle. How’s that for an introduction?
He had walked from Garstang, through the Forest 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.
Later, passing a little bay in Malham Tarn, Bob indicated towards a little 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 was 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.”
The hail did not last long, but the wind increased alarmingly. The 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 had been 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)
£27.50
This was another fine stopover with excellent food and beers. The rooms were snug, but a little basic.
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