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.

Day 19: 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 us,” 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.”

“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)

£40.00 pppn (2 Sharing)

Day 18: From Byrness 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 Byrness, 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 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 across to the shapely Eildon Hills and beyond, are striking and compensate for the pain. The highest land, though, is 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 Byrness, 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 Buglasses 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 (01669 650237)

£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: 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 17: From Bellingham to Byrness - 15 miles

In many respects, the walk over to Byrness 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 Byrness 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 clientèle.

“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 Byrness,” 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, Byrness Hotel (01830 520231)

£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 16: 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 added 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.”

“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 also true 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,” said the Canadian.

“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 though.

Accommodation: Mrs Gaskin, Lyndale Guest House, Bellingham (01434 220361)

£26.00 +£1 laundry

Good value digs, which I’d be happy to recommend.

Day 15: 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 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. Whatever was lost in scenic qualities was more than compensated for by the Wall's sheer atmosphere in the gloom. The weather deterred many other visitors to the monument; only occasional figures loomed out of the mist like legionnaires patrolling the lonely ramparts. Often these 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 clientèle 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 an (unconvincing) wish for a home country victory.

I swear they flinched when England scored just before half time.

Accommodation: Twice Brewed Inn (01434 344534)

£18.00

The pub has seen better days, but the rooms were adequate and the food and beer were OK.

Day 14: 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 travellers who were en-route to Appleby, with 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, however, 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 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.

Accommodation:

Ross and George Bonnar, Four Wynds, Longbyre (016977 47330)

£25.00 (including laundry)

This is another recommended establishment.

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.

Day 12: 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.

“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 anticipation can prepare one for. The ground falls abruptly away at the head of a vast, deep and crag-fringed valley, scooped from the side of the high fell. It is a terrific sight, with tremendous views opening 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 ad. There was no indication whatsoever as to how it got there, or why.

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 side of the path, we admired their skill, afraid of disrupting their work. We were rewarded for our patience by receiving a sideways glance, with the tiniest hint of a nod by way of thanks, from the eldest of the trio: a garrulous response by the taciturn standards of Westmorland hill farmers.

Dufton is an attractive spot, built of red sandstone, and is, I reckon, 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 the 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)

£17.00

This is an excellent spot: good value and great people.

Day 11: 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 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, beyond 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)

£10.50

This is a modern hostel, offering good solid value.

Day 10: 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 well-being, we were desperately trying to recall emergency procedures for 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)

£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 9: 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, 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).

Day 8: 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 Lakeland's Eastern Fells way to the west, southwards to Penyghent and east towards Buckden Pike. The Cam High Road and West Cam Road are ancient 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 our anxieties about securing accommodation passed. We quickly fixed 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-practised routine; out of the bag came the accommodation guide and phone. Disaster, Tan Hill pub was full. Keld's YHA and its B & B establishments had been booked for months. Changing tack: if we got a taxi from Tan Hill, at the end of tomorrows leg, the bed-range would be extended to include Bowes, Barnard Castle, Muker, Gunnerside and even Kirby Stephen.

All avenues 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)

£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 7: From Malham to Horton - 14 miles

The day's 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 too, 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, 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.

Day 6: 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 pass the prospect of a decent pot of tea. The staff even contrived to convey an apparently genuine admiration of 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 the location or conditions. 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.

Malham was crawling with children on Geography Field Studies. Keen souls, anxious for our co-operation in completing their questionnaires, hounded us at every turn.

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

“Quiet contemplation,” “To get away from kids,” were the helpful replies replied.

Malham YHA didn’t open until five and our inquisitors were in residence. We took the sensible course and 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 - usually a good sign.

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 5: 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. We were 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 several generations of ancestors lived 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 Watson Memorial Blue 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 had 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!”

Accommodation: Earby YHA (01282 842349)

£9.50 Self Catering only

Earby is a cheap and cheerful, traditional hostel. It represents terrific value.

Day 4: 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 man-made 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; it was 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 queried, “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 be allowed 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. A Sparrow Hawk flew to nearby cover, grasping its tiny victim in powerful talons. At the scene of the crime, only a feather or two remained, drifting slowly to the ground, marking 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,” Robert 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.