Border Hotel, Kirk Yetholm
The Pennine Way
Mike’s tale
After The Coast to Coast, the Pennine Way was a natural choice for the next long walk. The team was the same except for the addition of Mike, Malc’s brother. Though Mike had little walking experience he considerably strengthened the team in its eating and drinking potential. He has a forthright sort of charm and isn’t slow to speak what’s on his mind or to request anything he needs. Landladies immediately took to him and the sight of Mike in a knee bandage had them swooning, falling over themselves to nurse him. At least twice he came close to being adopted or worse. I was surprised that some landladies actually allowed him to leave, certainly they seemed to blame the rest of us for any ache or pain that he suffered. Also, although he would deny being lucky, you would be advised not to bet against him when playing three-card brag. It is painful when you lose against someone who continually bets blind; I’ve learnt from experience.
Information was collected in advance regarding the potential pubs en route and accommodation booked accordingly. Where it wasn't possible to find a pub, B&B was arranged as close to a pub as possible. Whilst this essential planning was taking place a training walk was arranged for Mike. From Ken Wilson's book, The Big Walks, a traverse over Wild Boar Fell and the Howgills was chosen.
Mike came through this test over boggy ground with flying colours. The only complaint was over the choice of the lunchtime stop. Whilst driving in the area previously, I’d noticed a sign hanging by a building on the A683, situated just before the ascent by Cautley Spout this seemed an ideal place for refreshment. Unfortunately, when we entered the establishment we found that it wasn't a pub at all but a café masquerading as one. We staggered through the door and slumped round a table, only to be ordered back to our feet and frog-marched back to the entrance by the dragon who ran the place (if it's possible to be frog-marched by a dragon). It appeared that on entering the place one had to request a table! This performance, combined with the lack of alcoholic refreshments, led to some dissent amongst the team. Also, there was much discontent and giggling amongst other groups squashed around the room; though only behind the dragon's back. I made a mental note never again to take a hanging sign to be a guarantee of a pub. Personally, I think that any premises that raise false hopes in this dastardly manner ought to be prosecuted under the Trades Description Act. This includes catteries, garden nurseries, estate agents etc.
Gaining experience from our C2C walk efforts were made to minimise the weight of our rucksacks. As we were booked in for B&B no washing or shaving equipment, apart from a sawn off toothbrush was taken. An old T-shirt and underpants that could be discarded were worn and clean ones carried for the first few days. Maps were photocopied so they could be burnt when they were no longer needed, we each carried three cheques to pay for accommodation and we wore shorts and had a sweater and a cagoule. The one luxury I carried was a best pubs guide for the PW. Chris took to throwing away any coins left over from the previous nights drinking.
The PW walk was to commence on a Friday in July. Due to the lack of a pub at Crowden this first day’s distance was just under 30 miles, over Kinder, Bleaklow and Black Hill. Due to a work commitment, as he claimed, or a fore knowledge of the bogs of the Dark Peak, as we interpreted it, Malc planned to skip the first day and join us on the Saturday morning. At the last moment I got a message that Chris had to attend a funeral on the Friday (I never checked this!). Malc gave me the name of the hotel Chris had booked in Marsden for the Friday night.
So it was just Mike and myself who caught the train to Edale. In dank, cloudy conditions we set off up Grinds Brook wearing shorts and carrying reasonably light rucksacks. They would have been very light but for the pork pies, several rounds of sandwiches, cake and bars of chocolate needed to sustain a certain member of the party.
We crossed the heart of Kinder and went through the maze of groughs that criss-cross the plateau on the way to the Downfall. I didn't want to cheat Mike out of this lovely experience by taking him round the more boring, easier edges of the Kinder plateau. The day started well and we made good progress to Mill Hill, over the Snake Pass and onto Bleaklow. There was a bit of drizzle but we got down to Crowden without getting lost. We went above Laddow Rocks and up Black Hill. I carried a little radio to keep up to date with the first test match between England and India. On our way up the muddy slopes of Black Hill we heard Graham Gooch reach 300 runs.
It was surprising that our not inconsiderable food supplies had been exhausted by the time we left the summit cairn. I explained to Mike that we could either to go directly to Marsden along the Wessenden valley or take a longer route in the hope that we could catch the butty wagon that was usually stationed on the A635.The answer was predictable.
During our descent Gooch was out for a memorable 333 - a convenient score for future advertising. It was after 5pm when we reached the lay-by where the PW crosses the A635. Alas, there was no sign of the butty van and the prospect of goodies had vanished, much to Mike’s dismay. A car was parked there, occupied by an elderly couple. I would never of dreamed of approaching them but without any hesitation Mike tapped on the window and introduced himself. Foolishly, the couple explained that they were supporting a group of PW walkers and that they had brought sandwiches and a flask of coffee for them.
I didn't catch what Mike said but in a trice he had charmed the sandwiches and coffee out of the window and was tucking into them. Shortly, after thanking them profusely, we continued on our way. I hate to think of the disappointment of the fellow hikers for whom the food had been intended.
These days the path over Black Moss and White Moss is paved but this used to be some of the boggiest areas in the Dark Peak. Once, a group of us were crossing this treacherous ground when one friend, Frank, started to sink. He shouted out for advice and we ordered him to stop immediately. Naturally he continued to sink but, more importantly, it did give us the chance to find a camera. By the time we had taken a few pictures he was well and truly stuck. Eventually, I managed to get close to him and, with a not inconsiderable effort, pull him out. We did obtain a fine sequence of photographs of the event. Frank's white corduroy trousers proved to be an unsound choice for that type of terrain. When we were eating our bacon butties at the wagon a few minutes later, several people admired the state of Frank's apparel.
One mile from Standedge a path splits off the PW leading past Black Moss Reservoir to the Wessenden valley and Marsden. We took this four mile diversion and about 7.30pm were approaching Marsden when I asked someone where the hotel was. He looked puzzled, pointed to a pub and told us to ask in there. Beginning to feel more than a little concerned we went in and were dismayed to be told that our hotel wasn't in Marsden at all, but was three miles uphill near Standedge. We'd gone in a great loop, having been only a mile from the hotel when we left the PW. After a couple of pints we trudged out of Marsden and uphill to Standedge. Much invective was heaped on Malc for the misinformation. We finally arrived after 9pm. To give Mike his due, once he had ascertained that food was still being served, he took it all in his stride, well several thousand strides. We’d walked nearly 30 miles over the worst terrain of the trip and though there appeared to be no ill effects at the time I suspect that this may have contributed to Mike’s later problems. An excellent meal and several pints of beer prepared us for a well-deserved sleep.
In the morning we'd just started on our large breakfasts when Chris and Malc arrived. Our complaints about being misled as to the whereabouts of the hotel were shrugged off and we had to beat off attacks on our food. On this easier day we stopped at the White House by for lunch, passed Stoodley Pike and walked through Hebden Bridge in good spirits. We were booked in a farmhouse near Heptonstall. The owners were very friendly and greeted us with cans of beer. Mike's tales of the hardships he'd endured persuaded them to give us a lift to the village pub in the evening. When we returned after closing time we sat in the garden with the owners and drank more of their beer. Mike stayed up well after midnight chatting with them and for several years afterwards they sent him Christmas cards.
The following day we walked to a guesthouse in Thornton-in-Craven. On the way we passed Top Withens and Ponden Hall, famed for Barry Pilton's convalescence in One Man and His Bog. On arrival at our accommodation Mike claimed that his knee was causing problems. Bandages were immediately produced and applied by the landlady. Touched by Mike's plight, the landlady's daughter offered us a lift to the nearest pub, The Tempest Inn, two miles away in Elslack.
Lunchtime next day saw us in a pub in Malham. As we walked in single file Chris raised his arms four times to signal Kapel Dev's four successive 6's that saved India from following on in the test match. We stayed in a B&B in Horton, just a short cut, through the churchyard, to the Golden Lion where we spent the evening.
The next morning was hot and we sweated our way to The Green Dragon Inn, a mile past Hawes. As we sat outside the pub Mike decided that he would forgo the delights of Great Shunner Fell and instead walk along the road to Thwaite where we had booked accommodation. He said he would enjoy the scenery over a few more pints of beer. By scenery, I assumed he was referring to the two, scantily clad, young women sat at the next table. We left him and staggered up Great Shunner Fell. We found this hard work and the trek downhill to Thwaite seemed to take ages. When we finally arrived at our guesthouse Mike was reclining outside the door enjoying a cigar. He'd obviously had more than a couple pints, yet had still made very good time. Apparently, when he left the pub he'd taken the wrong road. After a while he'd realised that he was lost so he flagged down a passing car. Despite the fact that they were going in totally the opposite direction, the elderly couple in the car were seduced into making a diversion of several miles along narrow, steep roads to drive Mike to Thwaite.
The rooms at Thwaite were the nearest we could find to the fleshpots of Muker, i.e. The Farmers Arms. Towards the end of the evening, after large portions of food and several pints, we were rather the worse for wear. By the bar was a dumb waiter that transported plates of food and used dishes to and from the upstairs kitchen. Two of our human dustbins discovered that substantial amounts of uneaten steak etc. were going to waste. They positioned themselves at the bar and intercepted any interesting goodies, not being particularly subtle about it. When the pub closed Chris and I decided to take a path through the fields, leaving Malc and Mike to walk the mile back to Thwaite along the road. In the dark, and not entirely sober, we lost the path. At one point we had to cross a stream and failed to see the single strand of barbed wire along the bank. This caused deep wounds to our legs and, at the same time, tripped us so that we stumbled into the water. We came to a low wall which we vaulted over, only to find that the other side was considerably further to the ground. Crossing a field I heard loud noises behind me and getting closer. I glanced back to see a terrifying creature with steam rising from its head and what appeared to be horns just a few feet away. I fled and leapt through a hedge. (On reflection I think it was a horse rather than the Devil).
We arrived back in a sorry state, breathless and bleeding. Mike was relaxing on his favourite bench by the door with another cigar. He'd travelled in style, seated on the back of a tractor after chatting up a farmer outside The Farmer's Arms.
The next morning Mike sported two knee bandages as we struggled through mud across Lad Gill to the Tan Hill Inn where we had lunch. The afternoon was very hot and we staggered slowly to our hotel in Middleton-in-Teesdale.
The landlady and landlord explained that they had only recently taken over the premises. Our rooms opened out onto a sunny area on a flat roof where Mike found a deckchair to stretch out on. We spent a fine evening in the bar, eating, drinking and talking to the locals. By next morning Mike had become one of the family and the landlord and landlady were heartbroken to see him leave.
We had a dilemma the following day. There was the option of a mile diversion to the Landon Beck Inn for lunch. Malc decided to press on and, with his mouth watering, followed a chain of signs advertising food and drink at a farm. When he got there his hopes were dashed as the farm was deserted. For Mike, Chris and myself the temptation of the pub was too great. Malc waited for us by High Cup Nick and we arrived in Dufton in good spirits.
We had booked in a house that was an old parsonage. It had a lovely wooden floors and wide staircases. After showering, we made our way to the Stag Inn. It was a fine, sunny evening and along with several other Pennine Wayers we sat on the grass outside comparing the state of one another’s feet, standard of limping and Mike’s bandages.
Back at the B&B Mike and Malc shared a room. Now, one thing I haven't mentioned before is that these two make a formidable snoring team. That, allied to a very creaky floor and doors and a noisy WC led to a disturbed night for other residents. The wooden construction of the building amplified the racket that went on for most of the night. At breakfast a couple, also doing the PW, commented on the lack of sound proofing in the house.
We set off for Cross Fell in the morning. Just outside Dufton there is a choice of paths. I decided to make a diversion to go over a hill to the south of Great Dun Fell. The breakfast couple were a bit behind us and made the error of following me. After a short distance I came to the conclusion that my route would add too much distance to the day so I cut across some fields to rejoin the others. Unfortunately the couple didn't see me and continued up the fell side; we didn’t see them again.
At the summit of Cross Fell the weather was cold and wet. A woman was stood there, oblivious of the conditions, admiring the somewhat limited view. We chatted to her and after a while realised that she wasn't alone. A man was cowering behind a pile of rocks. She explained that for many years it had been her husband's ambition to walk the PW. When he'd retired the previous year, he and their son had made plans to do it but at the last minute the son had pulled out. So reluctantly, she took his place but it turned out that she had loved every minute of it. Certainly the miserable weather at the top didn't have any effect on her enthusiasm. We met these two again on Hadrian's Wall. She was striding along smiling with her head up while he was trailing many yards behind looking as miserable as sin. She glanced back at him and, with scorn, said to us "he's useless" as she marched on.
Going down from Cross Fell we passed through the delightful village of Garrigill. We took refreshment in the George and Dragon. In fact, we took so much refreshment that the landlord did his very best to persuade to stay in his bunkhouse that night. From there, it was only a short distance to our accommodation in Alston so we carried on. In fact we didn't really enjoy our crowded pub and regretted not taking up the landlord's invitation. In the morning it was raining hard and our spirits were low. We didn’t bother with the official PW and to avoid going up a hill kept to the road out of Alston. Just before opening time we spotted an arrow pointing down a side road to the Kirkstyle Inn.100 yards from the inn a car came towards us, passed us, stopped, turned round and returned to the inn. A man got out and unlocked the door of the inn whilst a woman drove the car back past us. As we entered the building he explained that the wife and himself were off to shop in Alston when they saw us and had recognised potential custom. He wasn't to regret it! Not only did we consume half a dozen pints and several plates of chips, but we also led others astray. A group of youngsters doing the PW came in and fell by the wayside. They’d had a poor night’s sleep and after a few drinks they were fast asleep, slumped on a table. Also a solo walker, who we named Barry for reasons I'd rather forget, joined our round. He had a very self-sufficient air about him, the sort of person who could survive in a wilderness for weeks on end by himself. When the pub closed it was a very merry group who left the inn leaving behind an even happier landlord. Barry had camping gear and we took it in turns to carry his rucksack. After a few miles he left us and we didn't see him on the walk again. However, a couple of years later we bumped into him. We were in a crowded pub in the Dales, when he came over and said he'd recognised us by our manic laughter. We stayed in a vicarage in Greenhead that night but due to our lunchtime excesses we were rather subdued.
When we reached the busy A69 next day we were frightened to cross it. After over a week of quiet countryside the roar of fast traffic was unnerving. Hadrian's Wall was busy, as was the Twice Brewed Inn at lunchtime. After the wall we were devoured by hoards of flies in the fir tree plantations on our way to Bellingham.
This small town has several pubs and we managed to visit all of them that night. The next morning the landlady, who had taken a shine to Mike was overheard discussing bus timetables with him. He fought the temptation and suffered the rather boring walk through more pine plantations to Byrness. The hotel wasn't far from our B&B as we girded our loins for the long final day. Mike, not for the first time, spent a considerable of the evening in a phone-box outside the pub. He was pining for his girlfriend Jean. We carried his pints to the box and took away his empties. Our impression was that for most of the many hours spent on the phone there was very little conversation, just a great deal of billing and cooing. On one evening the romance had a major set-back; Mike came in from the phone-box to find that he'd missed the deadline for ordering a meal.
On the last day I left the others to visit The Cheviot. The paths were in much better condition than on my previous visit when I'd had to hang onto a wire fence to avoid drowning in the bog covering this volcanic plug. Also, I'd not dared to cross the last 20 yards to the trig point because of an evil, dangerous look about the ooze surrounding it.
There is a choice of finish to the PW, an easier way along minor roads or the path over White Law. Mike immediately set off uphill, saying that it would be cheating not to finish the walk properly. In the Border Hotel at Kirk Yetholm, Chris, as he owned our copy of Wainwright's book, claimed his half-pint at the author's expense; it didn’t last very long. This last night was an anticlimax. On the one hand there was our group of thirsty walkers wanting to celebrate their two weeks trek, on the other hand there was a landlord who had to face this kind of enthusiasm every single day. We did manage a few pints and a couple of malts but last orders were called before we really got going. Mike managed to twist the landlord’s arm after he’d closed and retired to his room carrying a triple whisky.
After his triumph of completing the PW Mike hung his boots up, in fact I think he burnt them. These days he limits his exertions to walking to his nearest pub.
Mike in Heptonstall, no knee bandages One bandage
Two knee bandages At The Green Dragon, Hawes
How the Pennine Way used to be. This is White Moss near Marsden
I'm stuck (nice cords!) Still stuck
Heave! Not so nice cords