Sat at the breakfast table were our Bowes bound friends, last met on the track above Cam Houses. 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 Dun 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,” said I.
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.
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 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 disposition.
“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 &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)
£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).
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