If sufficient numbers like the extract then I will update the printed blogged chapter. Please though don't allow this extract to divert attention away from the prime reason for this blog which is to get anecdotal evidence for the guidebook.
I hope you enjoy......
CHAPTER 1
SETTLE TO BUCKDEN
Settle, on a fine, warm, sunny morning in September, is a more pleasant place to be than it might have been ten years ago. It is situated on the main day-tripper route from West Yorkshire to the Lakes and, in the days before the by-pass, was a horrendous bottleneck for all those wishing for a few days escape from their crowded and pressured lives in the towns and cities. They would set out earlier and earlier each time they made the journey in an attempt to get ahead of the squeeze - invariably this would fail for all the others had hatched exactly the same cunning plan. They would, however, finally arrive at their destination somewhat fraught and not a little frazzled only to find that they had endured the trials of the journey only to find themselves in the crowded and pressured Lake District. Barely would they arrive when it would be time to make the return journey, suffering the exact same hassles, but in reverse order, at the various traffic bottlenecks, of which Settle vied with Skipton for being king of the hill.
It is difficult to imagine how the trippers would possibly be able to handle such crowded Settle streets now – incidents of road rage would abound with fisticuffs breaking out throughout the town as drivers tried to cut-in or undertake some sly manoeuvre. The scene would become a 1990’s spectator sport as bystanders would lay bets on whether the driver of the Astra, drumming his partly-clenched fists on his steering wheel, would actually accost the driver in front for not having acknowledged being let in from a busy side street. The building of the by-pass has brought to a halt the tribulations of driving through Settle. All that happens now is that the traffic becomes bottlenecked elsewhere en route, until that is by-passed, and so on, ad infinitum until all the by-passes are by-passed, and all we will have will be a vast wasteland of macadam between West Yorkshire and the Lake District. The only way to enjoy the Lake District is to make the effort to be far from the madding crowd, atop the hills and fells that even in the Summer months remain relatively peaceful. The majority of the day-trippers make for the valley roads and byways so that, from your vantage-point high above, they can be seen and observed as ants are observed, but they cannot be heard. No, make for the hills, but please check that I’m not there first for I prefer to be alone when I am walking.
At 11 o’clock I walked from the centre of Settle bidding farewell to Sue and, in a scene not wholly unlike something out of Casablanca, telling her that when I set off down the long straight stretch toward the junction with the Horton road, I would not look back. These first few steps gave me a rather peculiar feeling of being more totally alone than I had envisaged and that perhaps it might have been a better idea to walk with someone else. That had never been a feasible proposition for I had not met anyone who had shown the slightest inclination to want to walk 200 miles in eleven days and neither could I think of anyone I knew who would be physically able to walk such a distance. In all fairness I had no idea whether I was capable of carrying out this walk, except I expected to be carried by a greater incentive, namely, that for some reason, I felt it was a part of my destiny to complete this adventure. Sixty years to the day had seen Wainwright leave Settle and head, firstly, north toward Horton-in-Ribblesdale – I wanted to tread that same way which I had been planning for so many months. This was my day, this was the start of my personal journey in which I would be joined along the way by long-dead lead miners, long-dead legionaires and sad and distant memories of old railways and other forgotten dale-dwellers. I might not see them in body but their spirits would join me as I moved among the ruins and the remnants of their past presence.
Incidentally, I lied earlier; I did look round at least twice. In fact I looked round when so far down the road that even if Sue had been watching for my last steps before disappearing at the junction then I could not have made her out. I turned the corner at the junction with the road to Horton and set off in earnest upon my trip – I saw this very much as my trip all through the whole of the days that I was walking. I was convinced that I would be entirely alone in following this route which cannot be said for many other long distance paths. The shelves at the bookstores only need to be scanned to see how popular long distance walking has become with several volumes giving slightly differing slants on the same route – the Pennine Way is no exception with Wainwright’s own, once solitary guide, now joined by many others. There are those that describe it followed north to south and others south to north. The result of this popularity is that it is easy to feel that you exist within a slow moving procession, and you will see the same walkers for day after day as you overtake them whilst they stop, and vice versa as you rest. I do not wish to come across as a lonesome anorak but I enjoy walking alone and on this walk I also had good reason to believe that I would benefit from being without companion. En route I wished to discover all I could about Wainwright’s route and I wanted to be free to stop when I chose to note specific details. I wanted to find out as much as possible about the people and the places that he stayed in. I wanted to be able to talk with the locals which is always easier when alone. I wanted, more importantly, to share in the essence of being as one in nature that can only be fully experienced alone.
As I had approached the Horton road a number of vintage cars passed taking part in the annual Bradford to Morecambe rally. How novel, I thought, that some of these vehicles would have been of the type that would have travelled along the quieter byways in the days sixty years earlier. As Wainwright would have walked along the various roads he would have seen cars such I was seeing as I left Settle. I pondered for a moment on whether in another sixty years we will still be able to hold the rally in modern-day cars and as to whether they would prove as durable as some of these older, more simple and altogether more elegant means of transport. We appear to have entered a phase in commercial society that has almost fully adopted the throw-away philosophy. If something is broken no thought is given to the viability of repair - it has become economical to simply throw it away rather than contemplate reparation. I stress rather than contemplate repair for our attitudes have altered to the extent that we now know that if our iron or our kettle breaks then two trips are required, one to the shop to purchase anew and one to the tip to discard the old. It is a frightening thought that this attitude appears to have also spilled over into our lives in other areas, such as relationships where, it seems, only passing thought is given as to repair – it is very much easier just to concede and start again. Our sense of commitment to our irons or kettles is, understandably, controlled and influenced by economic factors but surely, there must be something deeper in our more intimate dealings with other people. Perhaps there still is for the present but what of the future; will our purchase/discard society continue to flourish and what will be the affect of an increase in our throw-away mentality – I sometimes fear for that future.
I had not travelled far along the Horton road when I heard the sound of a train on the railway line that runs largely parallel to the road for much of the way northwards up Ribblesdale. In 1938 I would have heard and seen a great many trains at a great many places along the entire route but I knew that that would be no more for most of the dales railways had long-since been closed and the lines ripped up. Hardly a day would pass without my encountering reminders of Dr Beeching and his handiwork of the 1960’s. The line now following my route is part of the Settle – Carlisle railway which itself, in the past, had been seen as being at risk of closure, leaving the only rail link to Scotland being that line running up the eastern side of England to Edinburgh. I paused for moment as the train passed and looked back at the receding view of Settle, nestling in the valley of the river Ribble as it exits from its turbulent passage through the steep sided ravines to the north of the town before commencing a more tranquil and meandering route south of the town. Settle itself doesn’t give an impression of outrageous growth for it is not sited in any particular commuter belt and in any case space for expansion is limited by the immediate topography. To the east and west the steep-sided Ribble valley precludes economical development and the flat valley floor, where it can be, has been developed.
In the days of 1938 the walk along the road north of Settle would have been a roadside stroll of six miles to Horton-in-Ribblesdale. However, in 1998 it has become an unpleasant experience with parts where it is distinctly dangerous to venture out as a pedestrian. The only points of sanctuary are where, for some distance, a footway has been constructed or a verge has been formed. It was, though, my intention, be it foolhardy or otherwise, to follow in Wainwright’s footsteps for as far as was possible by his description of the route taken. It had been evident from his account that he had passed through Langcliffe and Stainforth so my way was set for me. Like so many small villages Stainforth has now also been by-passed by simply straightening the road on a course to the west and the village has now become a rather plush little dormitory serving Settle. It is a village where, I suspected, house prices would have soared as desirable residences were formed from the original workers’ cottages. The danger of this type of village-development is that whilst the pub may survive for the locals other services such as the tea room, where Wainwright would have been tempted to pause had it not been for the crowd of noisy cyclists, are forced into closure. There is no passing-though traffic save for, on this day, one sole walker who would probably never call at the village again. Nor were there any cyclists for no doubt they also proceed passed the village without thought of stopping.
Even were the tea room still to be open I would have passed it by also for I would not allow any thoughts of rest until I had reached Horton where I would relish the prospect of the remainder of the day being spent on moorland paths and tracks. Paths and tracks that would be well away from the rush of cars and lorries and coaches that for these first two hours hurtled passed me as though I were a closed-down tearoom. I would also be away from the roar of powerful motorbikes that raced by me as if the road were an informal Sunday TT. They would bear down on me with such rapidity that there was no warning of their arrival until they were almost alongside with me almost leaping headlong for the nearest undergrowth.
There were one or two aspects of this part of the walk that rendered the traffic bearable; firstly I was walking with a warming sun on my back and I followed my shadow all the way along the roadside. This was the same sun as Wainwright had enjoyed – the passing of sixty years in terms of the sun’s life was a mere blink of the eye, yet so much had changed on the earth upon which it shone. Man had reached for the stars and had walked on the moon. The computer had been developed to the point where our lives were reliant upon it. The National Health Service was born and developed to a point where our lives should be reliant upon it. We could travel the world in a matter of hours. All of these things yet how strange it is that at the same time man does not appear to have been able to develop a means of quarrying for rock in a way that does not leave an ugly blot on the landscape. Over to the west of the Ribble valley are the scars left by years of geological vandalism that have changed the face of the landscape forever. This had been carried out not in a way that could ever be repaired and, seemingly, not in a way where any effort of repair had even been attempted. The quarry was now disused yet it would leave its mark for all time with unnatural cliffs formed by blasting and wide slopes where the lorries had once removed their bootie.
The second relief from the traffic was the first sight of mighty Pen-y-ghent, spied as I crested the brow of a hill near Helwith Bridge. Pen-y-ghent forms a prominent feature hereabouts and would be within my sight, intermittently, for the greater part of rest of the day, until I would finally drop below the summit on the Wharfedale side of Horse Head Moor. It is a sleeping giant with its steep tiered southern extremity and its more benign slope away to the north over Plover Hill. The distinctive tiering results in the shape and form of its outline constantly changing as an approach is made from the south. At first its length cannot be appreciated and the shape is that of a green pyramid standing proud above all else. Its more picture-postcard form is revealed as Horton is reached when the north-south extent is revealed and it becomes a different mountain with a short, sharp ascent usually being made from Horton-in-Ribblesdale. It is an ascent that demands many pauses all of which are dual-purpose, first to catch breath and secondly to admire the views opening up over Ribblesdale and across to the other two famous hills in this area, Ingleborugh and Whernside. These three between them form the 3-peaks walk, a 25-mile round-trip that challenges the walker to mount all three within 12 hours.
My initial view of Pen-y-ghent called for a photograph, which was one of the first of many I hoped to take on my journey and very nearly proved to be my last. I was not, on this walk, going to repeat the mistake I had made three years earlier when I walked the Dales Way. I had decided in my wisdom to carry on that occasion a medium format camera, with tripod, film backs and the other paraphernalia that had to accompany me. At each days-end I was exhausted, not so much from walking, but from having the weight of the camera rucksack bearing around my neck all day. I had learned my lesson and now I had gone from the sublime to the ridiculous and had with me the smallest camera I could find. So small was it that as I took it from its belt holder it slipped from my grip and for a few brief but alarming seconds I was left stood above the macadam of the road juggling with it and knowing that if I didn’t ultimately catch hold of it my photographic record would be prematurely curtailed. I must have looked a very odd sight patting the camera back into the air first with one hand then the other in much the same way as when a glass is dropped and desperate measures are taken to try to avoid it hitting the floor, usually causing more damage than had it been left to fall. Wainwright had suffered problems with his camera on his walk and I had no desire to see a repeat of cock-ups on the photographic front. I did manage to catch a firm hold and avoid mishap and was extremely careful from that moment in the action of removing it from its case.
I was expecting to arrive at Horton at one o’clock but at ten to one I had seen no evidence of the appearance of any form of habitation other than the occasional roadside barn. Then, almost as I rounded the very last corner before the village, I first saw grey roof tops through the trees that lay ahead of me. Horton is indeed a shy place seeming to want to remain hidden from gaze. The church, which I knew from the map must be there and which lay at the southern end of the village, was even more desirous of not being seen for only when I was very close could I at last see its squat form. The castellated tower at its western end looked as though it had been erected as a fortification with the low main building with shallow pitched roof being added as an after-thought. However, no longer was the whole sight rather untidy and unkempt as Wainwright had described it for the roof had now been recovered in a light grey sheeting material. Although this had the effect of producing a cleaner look it did also give the impression of a scout hut having been built on something of a strict budget. Perhaps it had been re-roofed by public subscription and, if so, then credit to all concerned. In these days of falling church attendances it was refreshing to think that there does exist a place of worship that attracts a congregation of such numbers to be able to accumulate sufficient funds to carry out works to keep the building in a decent state of repair. Not wishing to be picky but it was just a shame that the funds could not be found to re-roof in a material more in keeping with the natural material used elsewhere in the village.
I rarely pass a church without being reminded of my own wedding day. Accepting that I was keen to marry Sue I was, nevertheless, crushingly embarrassed to have been heard by the full church to utter “I will” three time. The vicar, a most pleasant and charming man, was something of a slow speaker and whilst presumably paying due reverence to the occasion. He confused me when at the end of “Do you…”, and so on, a long pause in his delivery appeared to me to be an invitation to answer affirmatively which I duly did. I was then surprised when he set off again with the “..to have…” part, again followed by another lengthy pause. Again I spouted forth my willingness and noticed that there was some tittering in the gathered throng behind me. They all clearly knew the service better than I for no sooner had I said the words than the vicar broke into voice again and, finally, it was my turn to respond that I would indeed take Sue to be my wife. I was not allowed to live this faux pas down for the rest of the day and many found great amusement in my embarrassment, particularly as the whole episode was captured on video tape.
Horton church is an idyllic spot with a fine backdrop of Pen-y-ghent standing high above. On a fine day such as this with blue sky and whisps of white cumulous cloud the whole scene provided for a tranquil few moments before pressing on with the final few yards to the Pen-y-ghent Café. The café is the focal point for all those keen enough, or mad enough, to have a desire to circumvent the “Three Peaks Walk”. Most walkers will set off from here and the café has an antiquated timing device that clocks walkers out when they set off and clocks them in again when (and if) they return. There is a serious aspect to this of course, namely that it provides for a safeguard that if a walker has clocked out but not returned to clock back in by nightfall then a rescue can be initiated. This is all carried out voluntarily although the café is of course assured of many thirsty and hungry visitors across its threshold. I am not sure that Wainwright would have approved of such efficient organisation and I am fairly sure that he would not have been a regular visitor to these parts now that they had become so very popular. No more could one expect to be a lone walker in these hills for the paths have become so well trodden that duckboarding has been put down over the more marshy sections to conserve the moorland peat bogs. Today, however, I was very willing customer as I ordered a pint of orange for I was ready for a sit down outside in the sun before tackling the stretch up and over Foxup Moor.
Although walking had already become a widespread recreation when Wainwright first discovered its pleasures the more popular areas was those served by railway connections. If the ability existed to get away from the more common routes then the walker could expect to meet few others on his rambles. It is also true that in the pre-war days when Wainwright had made his way through Horton-in-Ribblesdale the walking activity would have been very much less for the plethora of paths that now exist on Ordnance Survey maps simply had not been mapped. Horton, in the late days of this century, is one of the centres par excellence for walkers, generally recognised as the start and finish of the peaks walk and lying also on the route of the Pennine Way. A brief study of the map reveals something of a confusion for Pennine Way followers as there are several paths shown titled “Pennine Way”, in fact no less than three all heading north from Horton. I can only assume this to be an ingenious conspiracy hatched jointly by the Ordnance Survey and the guide book writers for clearly a guide needs to be purchased if one is to reliably tread the correct path for where the map creates confusion only the guide book can resolve it. My way was clear though and I merely had to find the vicarage to take me off the made road onto more pleasant stony paths and tracks.
Wainwright had commented that Horton was a mecca for potholers and as to how a man’s enthusiasm could be fired by such adventures. He had stressed man’s enthusiasm for he espoused that women were far too practical to be able to capture any emotion even vaguely close to unbridled and, yes, childish enthusing. They were tied by convention to more mundane things that doused any spark of inclination toward enthusiasm and certainly could not, or would not, make any attempt to comprehend the keenness of their men folks’ desires. It seemed rather fitting, I felt, then that at Horton, in this haven where men could feed their fires of excitement, the vicarage was now “The Old Vicarage” and above the front door there hung a sign reading “Women’s Holiday Centre”. What the vicar would have made of it I have no idea but I could well imagine that Wainwright would have had one or two choice personal thoughts. For goodness sake, is there no housework they can be doing?
The track passed the large detached house and led away at right angles to the road so that the sound of engines was quickly left behind. It soon then began to make its way up the valley side, with rearward views opening up of the valley that I was pleased to leave behind, not that there was anything especially unattractive about Ribblesdale, but I was then able to concentrate more on enjoying the walk than dodging cars. The path is an old green road with dry-built limestone walls to both sides, which are not so high as to obscure any of the surrounding beauty of this fine limestone country. Not far from Horton the path turns northwards and follows the western side of a classic dry valley down which, eons ago, would have tumbled a lively stream. Now, though, all that remained of any evidence of a watercourse was the white craggy outcrops reaching across the valley where once would have been waterfalls. This would, at some time in the distant past, have been the continuation of Hull Pot Beck for Hull Pot was just a little way further up this valley and marked the end of the above ground evidence of water. I was now walking in the land of swallow holes and springs where water would disappear below the surface without warning, almost unnoticed, and might later reappear equally quietly.
Now I was free, the feelings of loneliness gone and replaced by a euphoria of being more properly alone. It is so much easier to feel desolately lonely when we are surrounded by people that are unknown for they are all strangers who have not time other than for their own single-minded purposes. They are late for their appointment, they are thinking of last night’s acquaintance they had met but can’t remember the name, they are struggling with 5-across in the crossword, they are plotting as to how they can get that promotion. They are always engaged in thought that would not welcome the intrusion of a stranger. Cities always give this sense of being alone, an enforced loneliness that can only be cured by returning to our own hive and feeling safe within a familiar swarm. Here, though, on these paths and hills nature has time, not for the asking or intruding but for anyone who cares to come here. There is no asking, more a sublime invitation to simply allow the atmosphere to enter the pores and the soul. If the sensation is not all-pervading then my advice is to return to your city, your hive, your swarm and leave me in peace to savour the ambience of being swallowed by, yet also swallowing, all that is around me. It is a very special companion who does not trespass in such places.
It is an essential part of walking that the greatest gain comes from this sense of being at one. I should not like to give an impression that I sit alone throughout the day, shunning human contact, for come days-end I enjoy the convivial company of others, strangers or otherwise. This is, however, not the case at lunch time, and as I found a very quiet streamside rock I slung off the rucksack and my waist bag, removed my boots and socks, took out my tobacco and roller and proceeded to relax for thirty minutes with my feet bathing in the cold water of the stream. I sat quietly drawing on my cigarette looking southwards back down the beck toward Hull Pot which I had passed some fifteen minutes earlier but hadn’t tarried there as it was surrounded by swarmers, those people that of all the moor to choose will join a throng rather, apparently, than be alone. I had passed them by with naught but a swift glance at the pot and had found this gloriously silent spot just sufficiently out of earshot and eyeline of those at the pot itself. I lunched with half-a-dozen sheep, a number of mayflies and an occasional visiting bumblebee.
Although I couldn’t explain why I had had an uneasy feeling throughout this splendid break but I put it to the back of my mind for it was full of positive ideals and would not readily allow any negative thoughts to enter. As I sat on the flat rock I took out Wainwright’s book and read for a few pages having rolled a second cigarette. It was something in the book that was nagging at me, why hadn’t Wainwright written as flowingly as did this stream? I very soon realised that he had not made any mention of Hull Pot Beck because he hadn’t come this way! In my haste to move on from Hull Pot I had gaily followed the stream whereas I should have turned northeast. At this juncture I took out something that Wainwright and his contemporaries could not have dreamed of – a device that calculates exactly where you are and gives a six-figure grid reference. The gadget, I am a great one for gadgets, is a global positioning system, small enough to walk with and invaluable in situations where visibility precludes compass bearings being taken to triangulate position. It is also invaluable when you are downright lazy and would rather quietly finish a cigarette rather than fiddle about looking for landmarks and drawing lines on a map. Switching it one and leaving it to its own devices for a minute or two my trusty machine showed my position as being just a couple of hundred yards off-route which I would correct when I set off again. I went back to finishing lunch.
The weather by now had become really rather warm and I drank the remaining water from my bottle. My choice now was either no water or water from the beck. Choosing the latter I filled the bottle with somewhat brackish water and comforted myself with the fact that it must be iron staining – this was a far more pleasant thought to satisfy myself with than were any of the alternatives I thought of. What, at worst, could the staining be I asked myself; peat, perhaps or sheep-urine. I dwelled on that train of thinking no longer and just soaked up the sun on my face for it had been my follower all day so far. Looking into the sunlight the thistles on the opposite bank danced in the slight breeze and the lacy seedheads were illuminated by the contre jour lighting and the whole scene was simply sylvan.
I revelled in this pleasure for only about twenty minutes when I heard voices from the fell to the east. Sure enough there were three walkers descending the Pen-y-ghent side of the shallow valley where I sat and they made their way toward a stile some fifty yards away. I looked away as they crossed the stile in the same way that little boys look away from the schoolmaster in a vain attempt to avoid being the one picked out for some onerous task. It was all to no avail and they marched directly toward where I was sitting. Did I look like I needed company? I thought as they arrived. Greetings were exchanged and I assumed that they would continue on their way up the valley. But no, they paused, they thought about it a little and were soon busily engaged in removing boots also – it was apparent that they were proposing to lunch here too. Why of all the streams in all of Yorkshire did they have to pick mine? Please do not think that I am unsociable when approached in such a way, it is simply that I fall into a mood not dissimilar to the city-dweller thinking about 5-across or that promotion - my isolation would prefer to avoid disturbance. I chatted with the group politely whilst drying my feet and re-booting. Of the three it was one of two young ladies who did the talking perhaps, I thought, because she was the only English-speaker for they were obviously German. Our discussion was affable and she was generous enough to give me a refill of fresh water from her plentiful supply and I inquired of her as to whether her group was on holiday and from where in Germany had they travelled. I was dumbstruck when she replied with a pronounced German lilt that she was from Barnsley and that the gentleman was her uncle over from Germany.
Boots back on, rucksack shouldered and waist bag re-strapped, I bade the threesome farewell and set off in an easterly direction to find the path from which I had strayed. My route now had left behind the wall-enclosed green road and the path was fast becoming a narrow and obscure way through heather and reed-clad moorland as I approached the bleakness of Foxup Moor. Many things have changed in the years that span the difference between Wainwright walking this way and my following in his steps but certain things will always be the same on these moors. The barrenness of them is one aspect that had changed only in so far that there is greater evidence of walkers having been here, with more pronounced pathways. The openness is exactly as it has been for decades prior even to Wainwright being here, save for the fact that there now exists the more distinct possibility of encountering other human activity because walking, as a pastime, has become a very popular pursuit for many. In 1938 although there may have been those with the inclination to spend time in the hills there were few with the opportunity and even fewer who might have felt the compelling urge to embark on a course such as Wainwright’s, hence he met others on only very isolated occasions. The one aspect of this stretch of the walk that must have been similar, judging by his description, was the ground underfoot. Great areas of bog and marsh still exist as wide, long and deep boot-sucking quagmires that try the walker’s patience for only very slow progress is possible where these are confronted. The short relieving interludes of terra firma between these bogs are of insufficient length to avoid being able to gain sight of the next morass some yards ahead.
I was not as alone as Wainwright described himself to be in his account and I greeted several small groups who passed me as they headed toward a more southern destination, presumably Horton. Meeting others can have its consolations, however, and I have to confess to gaining considerable entertainment from one particular group for at an exceptionally unpleasantly wet section they appeared to have strayed into the worst of it. Having come some way into the mire I can only assume that they were not disposed to retrace their steps and steer a wider course over available higher and drier ground. The result of their obstinacy was that they now found themselves lost in a sea of squelching moorland ooze with only small tussocks to act as islands between. He appeared to be leading the way and was clearly more able to leap from tussock to tussock than his companion, a young lady. She, more than once, attempted the same jump only to find herself calf-deep in thick, black, filth which was very clearly making her more and more annoyed each time it happened. I had been very fortunate in finding a course to the west of this section and continued at a pace, glimpsing sometimes through a sidelong glance to better observe their predicament. My speedy rate of progress as I passed wide of them can only have served to worsen her blackening mood. I had first come across them as I crested the brow of a low hill, and as I left them behind in the shallow depression (with the lady in an even deeper depression) and topped the next brow, they were still teetering about among the long grass. I never did come to any firm conclusion as to which way they had originally been heading. I did feel somewhat guilty for having taken a wide course for it is such actions that serve to extend these moorland bogs, but with ten days walking ahead I did not especially want to endure any more of the walk than was absolutely necessary with soggy, wet boots and socks. I prefer to be comfortable – Wainwright was a believer in getting the feet wet early for it would surely happen sooner or later. I disagree with him on many things, of which this is one.
By the time that Foxup Beck had appeared in the developing valley below me to my left the moor bogs had been left behind and the path, now a firm grass track, had begun to swing around to the east to give open views down Littondale. The first sights of these upper slopes of this quiet dale reveal a human landscape that had not changed for generations with the isolated farm buildings and the patchwork field systems. No huge, commercially economical, scientifically rotated crop growth here, just small fields laid over to sheep-grazing on the higher slopes and cattle nearer the base of the valley. Ahead, on the opposite valley side, above the grazing land, lay the more inhospitable moorland of Horse Head Moor rising to over six hundred metres. Horse Head Moor was to be my last ascent for the day which I would be pleased to climb for I was beginning to feel weary and my tired feet were becoming insubordinate. Still, I comforted myself, at least I had secured a bottle of water that was not of dubious origin. The six miles of road walking had taken its toll upon my feet and legs and I was looking forward to arriving at Buckden to sink into a hot bath to soothe away any lingering aches and pains. Buckden, I reminded myself, was still six miles distant as I descended toward the hamlet of Foxup – I had covered only ten miles, with still a further three miles of road walking left before this first day would be completed.
Foxup appeared to have been, at least partly, converted to provide for accommodation for holidaymakers. I already knew something of the plight in which farmers had found themselves over recent years and would be a witness to more of their difficulties in the days to come. The farm I spied at Foxup was, no doubt, an example of a once proud family of land-workers having to turn their hand to other means to eke out a living from the land. Not satisfied with man-made fibres taking over from our long tradition of woollen cloths we had now further added insult to injury by blighting the British farmer with the legacy of the scare of BSE, firstly in his cattle and, more latterly, in his sheep stock. The experts introduce new systems, drugs, foodstuffs and so on into our lives with apparent scant regard for the consequences. They will say that exhaustive testing has been carried out and, granted that tests are carried out to assess their safety, such tests can only be undertaken for those side effects that we are able to forecast in the light of current technology. It is not possible to check for adverse consequences where the incubation period is of such length to be greater than the testing period or where the impact of the consequence is simply beyond current knowledge. And so developed BSE. And so developed thalidomide. And so will develop goodness knows what in the future that we cannot, dare not, even contemplate at the present. We will enter the new millennium totally unaware that a time bomb that has been planted within our own society in the name of progress. The dilemma that is currently reserved for farmers will extend and only when it faces too many of us will the powers-that-be have the courage to admit their errors. By then, though, there will be no turning back, no U-turns for the damage will have been done and will be irreparable. Too little, too late as so often is the case.
There was little to be gained by the dwelling on such matters for there was nothing that I could think, say or do that would alter our course, so instead I concentrated on more pleasant things as I approached the buildings at Foxup through a field-gate. More pleasant things in this instance were the wonderful smells of barbecuing food that drifted up to meet me from the group sitting around the open patio as they tended their sizzling feast, laughing and chatting on this very fine afternoon. Pimms, I thought, with crushed ice, cucumber and a little paper umbrella; how absolutely delightful but not for me as I pressed on passed them and over the narrow River Skirfare and away from their dale paradise and on toward Halton Gill. The road down the dale from Foxup remains a very quiet by-way and, although it is now hard-surfaced, it still leads nowhere other than to the few houses where I had left the barbecuers. Halton Gill is the last village of any size in Littondale and had been on my agenda as a brief stopping point before rising again. My plan was thwarted, however, for I had been walking under the misapprehension that there was a pub in the village and not until I approached the jumble of cottages did close scrutiny of the map confirm that the first hostelry was not reached until Litton, a further three miles down the dale. I decided then and there that I would settle for a brief rest when I topped Horse Head Moor and not before because I feared I would be tempted to rest too long if I stopped before the climb. This would make the steep ascent feel very much more difficult and I would rather rest only when I had earned it.
As I approached a signpost at the side of the road indicating that my way was up a steep concreted pathway I knew that I would have earned that rest by the time I reached the top. Some of these old routes are precipitous and this was a fine example. For the next mile I stopped very often ostensibly, I told myself, to take in the splendour of the views but in reality because my legs and lungs refused to carry me any further until a fresh supply of oxygen was forthcoming. Try as I might I could not force myself to keep progressing upwards without these rests. This concerned me for this first day of my journey comprised only sixteen miles and was one of the shortest on the route. The only time I was able to enjoy the view was during these short rest stops for when walking I was looking down concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other, counting each difficult stride as I took it. I was becoming very concerned as to my general state of health and could only put my discomfort down to the fact that I had developed a cold some days earlier. It was coincidental that as I set out on this walk, map in hand and cold in nose, Wainwright had suffered the self-same affliction. He had described in his narrative at some length as to the severity of his running nose and the extreme lengths that he had had to take to seek relief, such as ripping his shirt-sleeves to act as makeshift handkerchiefs. It is not my intention to make further reference to my malady other than to stress that, like all men, I was a brave little soldier who would not think of whining or moaning about the severe degree of my illness. In actual fact the only reason I didn’t whine or moan was that there was no one to listen. If men are brutally honest about their own weaknesses then one must surely be their inability to feel unwell without sharing it with all around and without expounding that whatever it is, it is clearly very serious. I suspect if men suffered childbirth or period-pains or were more prone to cystitis then I think they might think twice before troubling their womenfolk with every little ache and pain. This, of course, does not apply to me and neither will it to any other man reading this.
The reward for my labouring toward the summit was in the widening views back over Foxup Moor and, gradually, to Pen-y-ghent that began to appear as a grey-brown hazy mass to the southwest. The sun was low in the sky now and the definite foreground slopes of the ascent of Horse Head Moor were silhouetted against the sunlight in the valley below with further hills, across to Plover Hill and beyond to Pen-y-ghent and Ingleborough, greying with distance. The sunlit lower land between each receding hill provided an illumination to the haze, again weakening with distance. The day was, though, still warm and, when I finally reached the wall that runs longitudinally along the highest point of the moor, I sat on a rock and was very thankful for the generosity of those kindly Germans who had given me a fresh supply of water. It seemed rather perverse that I was grateful to Germans where Wainwright had been fearful of Germany and her intentions back in 1938 – it was certainly not Hitlers intention to share his water with anyone. He wanted everybody else’s water and sufficient numbers within a nation were prepared to follow his rantings. It is a frightening thought to think of the potential consequences of such a zealot being taken seriously in 1998 and the calamity that could now be unleashed if a power-crazed lunatic could beg the ear of enough gullible disciples. We have only the powers of the United Nations to step in to protect our existence from such a maniac and if their usual speed of action is to be their judge then whilst they were still blustering and issuing declarations the aggressor would have made his first several moves. Appeasement was to be the undoing of Chamberlain, hopefully blustering and inaction would not be one day seen as the undoing on the UN Security Council. One council is very much like the next – heavy on the ability to talk and to be seen to be talking but light on actually getting things done.
I rolled a cigarette and took out the last piece of cake that I had been packed off with earlier in the day as a schoolboy is packed off to school with his wrapped and labelled lunch tucked neatly in his satchel. I should not sound sarcastic for I was glad to have this last energy before setting off on the last four miles. It was, at least, all down hill from this point, down first to Yockenthwaite and then along the unclassified road through Hubberholme and finally to Buckden. As I rested I smoked my cigarette, drank the remaining water and spent a few moments reading Wainwright’s account of his recollections of this particular part of his journey. He had been tired for which I was comforted and he had rested at the gate at the very top of the moor and had no doubt sat for a few moments. There was only one gate and, as there was only one rock, it was an eerie feeling to reflect that as I sat upon that rock then more than likely so he had also all those years earlier. The very same rock at the very same gate and enthralled by the very same thrilling views back over the way that we had come. This was why I had come – to savour such moments as this where the only separation between us was the span of years that existed. Here, where you could divorce yourself from the horrendous speed of change that dismantled many slow, outdated traditions and conventions of the valleys, the towns and cities, all else was the same as it had been so many years before. The ability to be alone was still possible if only a little harder to achieve.
Unlike my erstwhile walker I had planned my day somewhat more efficiently and, instead of beginning the descent in near darkness, I left the gate at the head of Horse Head Moor at five o’clock. I was able to enjoy the sight of the sun casting lengthening shadows into the valley that lay before me. The valley was Langstrothdale and it coming into view meant that I was in sight of my day’s goal. A very stony and ankle twisting path led swiftly down toward the farm buildings of Ramsgill where I would turn right and proceed for the last three miles along the valley road. Partway down the path from the moor top the silence that had surrounded me for the previous three hours since leaving the Germans (with the exception of the barbecue at Foxup) was shattered as I was approached by three powerful motorcross bikes as they roared up the rutted slope. I realised very quickly why the path was so badly deformed with deep rutted channels that tried at every step to damage ankles or knees. It was not a natural malevolent formation that mother earth had laid down but was, even here, a sign of the destruction that we cause without a thought, with stones being kicked up with every turn of the wheels and the gashes in the hillside deepening with every pass. There are people who have been very quick to single Waintwright out for blame for popularising the countryside and the subsequent damage to it caused by walkers. Walkers take care in the country for they, by and large, respect it and in not wanting to cause damage to it would restrict their activity. It takes very few of these screaming machines to render these quiet ways unsafe for the walker either for the fear of falling over as a result of the damage done by a speeding bike or actually being run over by the speeding bike itself.
Turning right at the farm at Ramsgill was one of those occasions where I was probably so overly purist as to be foolhardy for although the road is a narrow unclassified by-way it is invariably busy on a Sunday evening with day-trippers returning home after their day’s escape to the dales. Today was no exception and my desire to follow as closely as I could to Wainwright’s route was probably a smidgen unwise, especially as on the opposite bank of the river lay the well formed “Dales Way” path which would have provided a far more attractive alternative. Be that as it may I had decided to follow the road and I would make the best of it, dodging cars as I went along my way. When he had trodden this way public paths were little known of for it was only after the Second World War that a commission was set up to determine public rights of way and from this commission had led, ultimately, the establishment of many of our long distance paths. The Dales Way is one such path, stretching through various dales from Ilkley to Bowness (the sign at Ilkley reads 72 miles but it is apparently 81 miles according to the sign if a reverse journey is made starting from Bowness!). Also, in 1938, Wainwright would very likely not have seen any form of motor vehicle on this road for our clamouring for car-ownership was something that had only first gathered pace in the 1950’s and 1960’s. I had already discovered on the Horton road that this was to prove one of the severe downsides of trying to repeat this walk step for step and remain alive to tell the tale.
My shadow had been ahead of me all day and now, as evening fast approached, my companion was much taller and more slender and stretched out on the road before me. He walked now with a more tired step but was as rapid as I in avoiding the cars that passed me with exacerbating regularity. On a brighter note I was now amidst scenery that I knew, and I could see ahead the domed summit of Buckden Pike, the terraced limestone topography high above Buckden Beck, the flat fertile valley bottom and the cluster of buildings that formed the village itself. Between Buckden and me lay Hubberholme and it was not long before I began to see the first snatches, through the trees, of the picturesque church with its squat tower surrounded by ancient gravestones. These were reminders of former residents of the parish, more than likely farming families and more than likely generation after generation all resting in this Arcadia, this delightful corner of Wharfedale. Hubberholme Church, on a pleasant Sunday evening, provides a lift to flagging muscles nearing the end of a day’s walking. It sits within a perfect setting on the opposite bank of the young River Wharfe to the George Inn at the junction where Langstrothdale become Wharfedale. I could imagine that many a reverent churchgoer takes much enjoyment, after the service, from crossing the narrow bridge and gathering for a drink or two. In fact, I could imagine that for a fair proportion of the congregation the after-service gathering is the unspoken reason for being at the church service in the first place. Both the church and the George were clearly places of great spiritual refreshment and it is easy to appreciate why J B Priestley had developed such an affinity with the place. He was an ardent admirer of Hubberholme and, as I passed by the church, I just wondered whether on that evening in 1938 whether he was attending the service that was taking place as Wainwright had passed. I was planning to walk by this way on the next morning so I carried on down the road toward Buckden, now only one mile distant. There was insufficient time to call at the church for spiritual refreshment and I resisted temptation for refreshment at the George partly because I wanted to carry on immediately to Buckden and, mainly, because its doors were bolted until seven o’clock.
After sixteen miles I finally crossed the bridge and walked up the gentle incline into Buckden at twenty past six to discover that I had forgotten to bring with me the address of the guesthouse. Fortunately I could remember the name of the owners, Mr and Mrs Lightfoot. This gave me the fortuitous excuse, as I approached the Buck Inn, of stopping for a quick drink, before my legs seized up, to obtain directions. Buckden, although much larger than sixty years ago, is not so large that anywhere in its environs is more than a stone’s throw away from the inn. There has been development of the village both in terms of new houses and also of refurbishment of the old cottages. The majority of the building work has been centred on one of two activities; either as weekend retreats for offcumdens or as bed and breakfast establishments. Both have served to change the village so as to weaken its close-knit community with a great percentage of transient residents and it now witnesses a melee on summer weekends but must be very quiet during the short weekdays of winter. I wondered whether the clannishness that Wainwright had observed might still exist and doubted it except for in very restricted corners of the community. More likely now that the dale folk have themselves become rather more cosmopolitan in their outlook. No longer can there be an assumption that the next generation will follow their fathers and no longer can there be any guarantee of rural work except for the growing need to serve the wants of the tourist trade.
I was fortunate in that Ghyll Cottage was not more than fifty yards from the inn and I approached the door and was shown to my room very relieved to finally be able to put down the rucksack and welcome the thought of relaxing in a hot bath. Sadly, as I was shown the bathroom, it proved only to be a thought that I might soak in the bath, for as I looked around the jamb there was only a shower in the small, but nicely appointed shower room. A shower is never quite so inviting after a day walking as the sound of running taps and steam rising from a good, deep bath. A shower it would have to be. I was lucky, I thought, for at least it was an en suite room and I could linger as long as I liked, bathing aching feet as best I was able – a feat rather unsatisfactorily achieved first by holding one foot up then the other. This had the effect of reducing the ache within my feet but increasing the grumbling muscles in my legs. I did think of bathing my feet in the wash basin but this would still involve standing on one leg, which appeared to defeat the object of the exercise. The only other method I considered was to sit on the toilet lid and drape both feet into the basin, but this theory foundered because the toilet was just too far away from the basin to be able to actually submerge the offending articles.
Rather than trying to arrive at further alternative solutions I decided that all this thinking had made me ravenous and adjourning to the Buck Inn was fast becoming the next item on my agenda. Without delay, or at least with only the unavoidable degree of delay that resulted from sore feet, I made my way back to the inn and did what comes naturally. I ordered a pint, rolled a cigarette, and sat outside and watched the last vestiges of day fade and disappear behind the western hills in an orange glory. The sky bade well for tomorrow. I had planned to eat at pubs on most evenings, thinking that a good value meal could be had for relatively little outlay. Not so unfortunately at the Buck Inn – the menu was an awfully grand affair full of all manner of fancy things, most of which I had not the faintest idea of what they were. I wanted pie and chips, or burger and chips, or sausage and chips, even lasagna and chips; anything really, so long as it came with chips. Not a chip to be seen anywhere. I even asked whether there was a bar snack menu, preferably with bar snack prices. No, the menu on the board was what was available. Now, I have tried before now to get by on a liquid diet but this invariably leads to a horrendous hangover the next day. I did my best the decipher the menu, plumbing the depths of my rudimentary knowledge of French and also plumbing the depths of my pockets to pay for it and ordered chicken with something – it was very pleasant but I was a heathen. Chicken and chips would have done as well but might not have been so awfully nicely arranged on the plate. In all fairness, though, the beer was welcome and the pub held happy memories for me for we had stayed there two years earlier and had a superb meal and a splendid room for the night. Please, I do not mean to do the place down, but it is just that all I wanted on this first night was a commoner’s meal to fill an uncommonly large hole.
Bed was not far behind my leaving the inn; it had been calling for the previous half-hour, and I arrived back at Ghyll Cottage at nine o’clock. After a polite but brief chat with the Lightfoots’ as they made their way out for the evening I climbed the stairs to my room and retired to bed to write up my notes for the day. The first day of my adventure had been supremely satisfying and I looked forward with zeal to the walk to Muker, eighteen miles away, the next day. Today had been tiring and tomorrow would be more so for I had two dales to cross with wide-open moorland between.
