Day 6 Gargrave to Horton in Ribblesdale

After a week or so to allow my feet to recover and to catch up with family and friends here and there I returned to Gargrave by several buses via the pretty canal town of Skipton.

I arrived at the Gargrave campsite late in the evening to find the shower block locked for the night . It rained all night. I set off at 7am without any breakfast because I’d planned to combine the Gargrave to Malham section with the Malham to Thorton-in-Craven section. It rained heavily through the morning.

I reached Malham at about 9am. A pretty small village, very popular with walkers wanting to visit the several dramatic features of Gordale Scar, Malham Tarn, Fountains Fell and the nearby ruins of Fountains Abbey.

Two competing B&B pubs offered complete breakfasts for a modest sum. As I pondered one I spotted three men leaving dressed as if for the PW as indeed they said they were. My need for company on such a rainy day and need for breakfast were in severe conflict so I went to a sweetshop I’d spotted earlier and bought enough chocolate, fudge and other such supplies to boost me along and without delay, thinking how a cooked breakfast would have been so nice on such a bleak day.

I caught up with Ken, James and Erik just above the impressive Gordale Scar. It continued to rain but we were all in good spirits.

Ken a 64 year old semi-retired lawyer from the USA, was walking from Lands End to John O’Groats – without a single day off. He was an accomplished adventurer as his impressive past expeditions to remote places revealed as we walked and talked. Ken had booked all his accommodation right through. And he carried a decent size pack that included his laptop.

James, in his fifties, was not very talkative but clearly enjoyed walking national trails.

Erik was from the Netherlands. He was a ‘Change Manager’ and we shared many views on a wide range of management, politics and other subjects.

As we climbed above Gordale Scar the scenery became even more dramatic; treacherously slippery block limestone pavements and fissures, gushing waterfalls and sinkholes and all the attributes of limestone country. We walked through the drizzle, past the lovely Malham Tarn and came to a road alongside which was a small barn with door slightly ajar and all crept in to shelter from the rain and enjoy morning tea.

Later we began the climb up to Fountains Fell, past countless ancient colliery workings and pits in an otherwise bleak and dreary landscape. The PW Official Guide reads ‘… Fountains Fell gets its name from the nearby abbey, but does not have the atmosphere of a Christian Place – it certainly carries the curses of many a lonely walker and lack the grace of Pen-y-ghent which … now lies ahead…’

Pen-y-ghent came into view, though the summit most of time hidden behind a plume of cloud. Only Erik and I seemed eager to climb to the summit while Ken and James took a shortcut into Horton-in-Ribblesdale where the prospect of a pub and bunkhouse was too great a temptation. Ken agreed to try to secure me a place in the bunkhouse, I having long since lost the will to camp.

The summit proved and enjoyable climb made all the nicer by a short break in the weather. The official PW path down from the summit proved far more interesting than the shortcut that Ken and James had taken but they were admittedly well into their beers once we had arrived with the good news that they had secured me a room in the bunkhouse behind.

Day 5 Ponden to Gargrave

I set off from Haworth alone by bus to rejoin the PW at Ponden. My walking companion Ian of previous days had long since made an early start after being dropped off back off on the PW by his father, and skipping a section he’d done often before. We agreed to meet up that evening.

Once again it rained nearly all day, as I walked across mostly moorland and sheep grazing land.  As the guidebook says of this section, ‘…a grey day may lie ahead over moors and mires …but by evening there will be green fields … (and in the next section) … the best of the PW will brighten any gloom…’

A text message from Ian indicated he was so far ahead of me I was unlikely to catch up with him at this rate.

I reflected on my daily rate of progress. I had only been covering the 12 to 16 miles (20 to 25 kilometers) recommended by the Official PW guidebook. My walking pace was faster than others, especially uphill, in spite of my heavier back pack which included camping and cooking gear and food. Most of the other PW hikers I was to meet were either having their gear transported for them or they only stayed in pubs and B&B or hostels and had no need for camping gear or food. Mine comprise well over half my pack weight.

I was however surprised to find how much my blisters and sore tendons slowed me down later in the day. I came to realise that it was a combination of the pack weight on my feet and their saturated condition: I’d had to cut holes in the side of my new boots to ease the tendon pain. Water poured into my boots at every puddle and left my socks un-cushioned, and the skin on my feet wet and soft – perfect blister conditions.

I decided to walk beyond the pretty hamlet of Thorton-in-Craven, the recommended end of a relatively short section and pressed on to the larger town up ahead of Gargrave.

Though the scenery became more like the Yorkshire Dales and finally I came to a lovely canal and nearby pub where, in spite of my muddy state had to stop for a water, a coke and a cider in quick succession. I shuffled off along the canal to Gargrave with my tendons screaming and a worrying soreness in my groin, signs of infection from by blistered feet.

Day 4 Hebden Bridge to Ponden / Haworth

The small town of Hebden Bridge turned out to be a gem. I was sorry to leave it and even considered staying over another day because the town was so pretty and well stocked with pubs shops etc, the hostel was so nice, there was the prospect of another party of PW hikers passing through next day, and my feet were now getting worse..

Ian and I pressed on up the steep hill above Hebden Bridge, past numerous small cottages and back onto open moorland. The countryside from there on was immemorable apart from the numerous reservoirs serving the industrial midlands town down below on either side and well out of site of the PW.

At one reservoir we encountered a gamekeeper in a Landrover who was happy to chat all day. He managed countless thousands of acres of grouse? shooting moorland for some Earl or Lord or other. Still working at 80 something years old he looked to be in his early sixties. He and I discussed the good sense of his high sided leather army boots – the same style I normally use and wished I’d had with me.

Once again it rained on an off most of the day with no sign of the sun.

Towards the end of the day we came to the remote ruins of Top Withins that inspired Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. Here one path led to Haworth direct and another to Ponden along the PW. Ian had arranged to be picked up by his father who lived nearby so I continued on to Ponden, thinking it to be another small town. Ponden offered a B&B with a nettle filled field down below for tents.  The toilet and shower were located in  hole in the wall of another building 100 meters up the road. It was just too forlorn for my liking, with no company and no shelter other than my tent to while away the evening.

It was another 5kms back into Haworth the famous and touristy ‘Bronte family’ town. By the time I reached there my feet were in a bad way. Yet again my accommodation of choice was the YHA of which I knew little.

The YHA was once again on the other side of town and up a long hill.  Once it came into view I was awestruck. It looked more like a stately home or large classy 19th century hotel.

It was indeed built by a local wealthy mill owner who along with his only son died in battle in the early part of WWI - the Great War. It then passed through several hands and uses and its fortunes declined until the local community saved it by having it purchased and conserved and converted into a YHA large enough to take almost 100 guests.

I spent the early part of the evening tending my blisters, then cooking my own modest evening meal in the kitchen ‘below stairs.’

In a large sitting room I came upon a fit looking man sitting alone in the gloom reading. His story unfolded. He was retired public servant (he offered no more info but was clearly a well-educated one ). He was cycling around the area as he does for about three months of the year – just here and there that took his fancy – mostly dedicated cycle ways, although he had cycled from Land’s End to John O’Groats once. He looked to be in his late fifties. He mentioned he’d walked the PW in his early sixties. He was not a talkative fellow unless prompted. He said he had no interest in cycling abroad. We were then joined by another couple just touring the area so the conversation changed direction and learned no more from him as I would have liked.

Day 3 Standedge to Hebden Bridge

It rained heavily all day. The terrain was a cheerless stone slabbed path through sodden peat bog and otherwise dreary terrain. As the Trans Pennine Motorway came into view we were cheered by the sight of a layby with a tea-van. We stopped for some hot snacks and hot drinks while the tea-van owner told us how he’d operated the van for 27years. I wasn’t sure whether to congratulate him or cry for him. He seemed to be a local celebrity with passing customers.

The only memorable highlight of the next section past Blackstone Edge was a stone paved section of Roman Road, a feature I’d been wanting to visit for years after seeing an illustration of it. We then pressed on to another highlight of the day – a pub along the route.

In spite of being high summer the pub had a fire burning. It also revealed another PW hiker – a Scotsman walking from Land’s End to John O’Groats. We chatted while we rested and agreed to meet up in the evening but never managed to and never saw him again.

My tendons had become so sore by now that I decided to walk in sandals. Not the best footwear through peat bog.

The rain began to ease as we approached the town of Hebden Bridge which we approached along a pretty canal. Ian had a reservation at one of the better pubs and with no campsite to hand and wanting a warm dry bed I opted for a local privately ‘green / vegetarian Hostel behind the Churches Centre. The hostel had everything and for only £12 included breakfast. The only drawback it being on the other side of town and up a steep hill like all Youth Hostels seem to be.

Day 2 Crowden to Standedge / Marsden

A casual chat to one of the campsite staff revealed to me how simple it was to read the GPS display on my iPhone.. But having said that I never discovered anyone else on the whole PW with an iPhone that displayed GPS coordinates in OS format so I felt vindicated. Few PW hikers indeed had a GPS at all.

As I left the campsite I spotted another hiker approaching from a distance. What with the surprise that he might be walking the PW in the opposite direction, and a flock of sheep moving between us I missed the PW sign between us and started the day heading in the wrong direction. After I realised my error ten minutes later I swore at having missed the first opportunity for a travelling companion and ran for a bit to catch up with him.

When I caught up with him, Ian, I was impressed at how fully prepared he was for the PW, with no expense spared. All the best new clothing, dedicated GPS, full set of OS maps and he’d worn in his boots long ago. And as I discovered later he had special blister packs to prevent and treat blisters. And he had booked pub or other accommodation all the way. And he was planning to walk the entire PW without any rest days.

This section of the PW revealed dramatic glacial scenery and mostly peat covered landscape. Ian paid scrupulous attention to checking topographical features against his OS maps while I chatted, admired those features and read out any worthwhile narrative or directions from my official PW guidebook. Most of the narrative was frankly uninspiring.

We met one or two hikers coming the other way on day walks but didn’t chat long given the changeable and mostly rainy weather.

The official PW guide describes the section as having ‘…affinities with Arctic Norway – a place of low cloud, bitter winds peat flows…’

Later in the day the reservoirs and A62 road came into site. Ian had booked a B&B at Standedge, which turned out to be one of a few cottages rather than a village as I had supposed. Given my plans of camping wherever possible I had the choice of two isolated pubs almost facing one another along the otherwise bleak A62. Both pubs offered ‘camping facilities’ which amounted to little more than a place to pitch a tent and use of the pub toilet.

The pub I chose on ‘recommendation’ turned out to be on a ridge with no protection against the now strong winds and returning rain. I pitched my tent in the lee of a caravan as best I could and went into the pub for a meal. The prospect of cooking my own meal with nowhere to shelter from the rain had lost appeal. And the appeal of the shower out the back also lost its appeal once I discovered stripped naked it required coins I didn’t have for the hot water.

Chatting to a couple in the pub who'd lived narby allthier lives (and never set foot on the PW) revealed the town of Marsden about five kilometers to the east along the A62. Odd how people in cars so hugely underestimate the time to walk what they drive: their claimed 15 minute walk took 30 minutes.

The pretty town of Marsden down in the valley below, with its famous rail and canal tunnel beneath the moors had everything – several pubs; fish and chip shop, supermarket and curry house. And there was I camped on a bleak hillside above with black skies. And my painful tendons even more the worse for wear after the extra 10km trip into Marsden and back.

It rained and the wind howled all night. Come morning I packed my wet tent as best I could and had a hurried breakfast cooked in the lee of the pub wall and hurried off to the rendezvous with Ian whod spent the night in a B&B. Camping was starting to lose its appeal.

Day 1 Edale to Crowden

After overnighting in Sheffield with old University friend Peter and his wife Lynn, I took the late morning local train to Edale, start of the Pennine Way.

It was strange standing again on the platform of Sheffield Railway Station - I'd last let from there almost 40 years ago.

Pete had found it amusing that my boots were already causing me tendon problems just walking from the bus stop to his house. Not a good omen.

WARNING PARTS OF THIS BLOG CAN BE VERY GLOOMY!

(Thats what 14 out of 17 days mostly walking in the rain does)

After a quick tour of the Edale Visitor Centre I set off on the PW in good spirits, but wondering if anyone else was on the Pennine Way today, expecting it to be if not crowded, certainly not deserted. As I left I only just remembered to fill my water bottles but forgot to sign or even look at the Visitors Book at the Old Nags Head, the acknowledged start of the PW.

In reasonably good weather I fell into step with a Nick and Emma and their young labrador. Nick, a vet, and Emma were doing a circular day walk from Edale and so I had interesting company for the first few hours that included climbing the famous 'Kinder Scout.' Given the knowledgeable company and the clear route made obvious by the flagstones, navigation was not a problem.

At the top of Kinder Nick and Emma took the circular route back to Edale and I pushed on to Kinder Downfall. It was then the weather began to close in.

Half an hour later and now walking alone I reached a cairn with two ambiguous Public Footpath symbols I took to be National Trail symbols (one pointing northwest the other northeast) set into a rock. Then the rain hit.  Since the northwest path was paved and the northeast path apparently not I chose the northwest path.

Half an hour later I sensed I was off course, in spite of the well-defined paved path. In the driving rain I searched in my backpack for my compass and guide book and cursed not having prepared better earlier. My hands were now so cold I could barely use them and I was saturated. My Goretex waterproof was not standing up to the task. I cursed the rain and cursed not having figured out earlier how to interpret the GPS display of OS map coordinates or even re-honed my compass and map reading skills.

I returned to the cairn in low spirits wondering how I could have been so ill prepared, and hoping someone else would come along to confirm the correct route and just keep me company.

After discarding the thought of erecting my tent to shelter from the storm I decided to press on along the northwest path, to find it too stone paved from just over the brow of the hill. Once back on track my sprits lifted, although my tendons were now really starting to hurt where the boots cut across them.

I spent the remainder of the day trudging alone across a soulless peat bog landscape and finally arrived at Crowden at 6pm.

I expected Crowden to be a village with a pub, but it only offered a Youth Hostel - YHA (full with a school party) and campsite. So I set up my tent in the rain and amused myself as best I could and chatted to a couple of men cycling the Trans Pennine Cycle Way. Two hours after I arrived the two lads who'd set off before me from Edale arrived. They'd made a similar mistake to me but it had taken them much longer to realise. I felt some sense of vindication. Bot older, wiser and better equipped I should have known better.

2000km: On the Road to Dieppe

I’d decided on an early start to make sure I made it to Dieppe for the 6pm ferry, there being only the two each day, the other being at 5am, The day dawned clear so off I set off sharpish after a breakfast of my remaining supplies of dried rations.

The wind was against me again and it was relentless pedalling. As I approached Pont Bretonne a cable stayed suspension bridge across the Seine suddenly came into view and lifted my spirits. I thought back to 1974 when equipped for everything in life I still had the courage to contemplate the design of such magnificent structures. Alas all rivers are in valleys so I had yet another hard climb on the northern side.

At a town along the way I refuelled on baguette, muesli bars and fruit juice. As I approached the coast heading for St Valerie the winds became relentless, with the windmills on an escarpment windmill farm spinning like children’s toys, confirming the headwinds, as if I needed such confirmation. So I changed course to Veules les Roses to strike the coast closer to Dieppe, where I knew the back road would provide some shelter from the wind and lead me to a ‘green’ cycle route along the coast. Just short of my 2000km I thought how well the gears had settled back into full operation without my help. Shortly after on a steep climb the new rear derailleur decided to move into the spokes. A quick wrench and I was of again though I’d lost the use of the ‘Granny Gear.’

At another steep climb I spotted a massive German pillbox, strategically placed to sweep the killing ground just behind the coast. I knew it would be my last hill climb. As I turned the last bend the city of Dieppe and the sea suddenly came into view and I enjoyed my last long downhill run to the accompaniment of Jan and Dean’s ‘Surf City here I come.’ There was no surf of course: The sea was as calm as Lake Burley Griffin on a windy day. I grew very melancholy thinking of the 19 year old who dreamed up the trip, when Jan and Dean’s ‘Surf City’ was still in vogue, and life in general and so much optimism lay ahead.

I finally navigated my way to the car ferry terminal wondering why it had changed so much in the (more than I care to remember) years since my last visit. The ferry terminal had moved to a new location some years ago I was later told by a truck driver my age.

The nice young man at the ferry check-in let me through to the ‘departure lounge’ through the security area, after I’d asked him if there were any showers. He clearly sensed the urgency.

The check in Security Officer (yes they have them for car ferries now) had a problem when he spotted my dismantled bagpipes on screen so I had to unload everything to demonstrate I was not carrying rifle parts.

In the queue for the ferry I chatted to two medium haul cyclists (Paris to London – and with support vehicle) and compared notes. It was only then in recounting my odyssey I was able to speak the ‘P’ word without fear of tempting the devil. I’d had not a single puncture in my 2018km journey ‘uphill all the way.’