Day Twenty Seven

Friday 2 April - Malham to Horton-in-Ribblesdale.

I had spent a high-tech night. On the bed at the b&b were three remote controls – one for the telly, one for the Freesat box, and one which produced a whirring noise above the bed. It turned out that it controlled two Velux windows and their blinds.

Unusually for me, I was not walking alone. A colleague from work was staying in Malham for a few days, and we had arranged to walk together until lunchtime, at which point he would loop back to Malham. Malham Cove is a very short walk from the village. It was a grey day, and the greys of the cove were not at their most impressive, until we climbed up to the top – there it was very impressive indeed.

If you ever wondered what a limestone pavement was, come and see this one. It's like a huge quantity of crazy paving without the grouting between. You can step and hop across it, as long as you take care to avoid the cracks. And looking down, I could appreciate the height in a way that had somehow evaded me at the bottom.

“Standing some 80 metres high and 300 metres wide and north of the mid craven fault, Malham Cove is a curved crag of carboniferous limestone formed after the last ice age. Meltwater, particularly from Malham Tarn, cut back the cove as it fell over the edge as a waterfall. This erosion took place more actively at the lip of the fall rather than at the sides, hence the curved shape. The magnificent limestone pavement on the surface of the Cove is deeply fissured and fretted by a pattern of channels. Chemical weathering due to the slightly acidic rain dissolves and widens the many joints of the limestone (running very near to the direction nnw-sse), carving the patterns that can be seen today. The resulting limestone pavement is known as 'clints' or 'grykes', where the naked limestone lumps are the clints and the fissures in between are the grykes. The grykes are home to many rare (shade-loving) plants - harts-tongue fern, wood-sorrel, wood-garlic, geranium, anemone, rue, and enchanter's nightshade.” (malhamdale.org)

We pressed on up a dry valley, round a small hill, and across grassland to the boggy edge of Malham Tarn. Especially on a dull day it seemed austere and aloof, making no attempt to seduce passing tourists like me. But I always enjoy walking by water in a way I can't explain. We walked about half way round the tarn, passing the Field Studies Centre, the “mission control” for the study of the plants, birds and animals which thrive in this environment. Bats live happily in the outhouses, birds abound on the water, and other creatures are also resident – for now.

“A colony of huge cave spiders are finally heading home after 10 years. The spiders have been squatting in a disused building in the Yorkshire Dales after escaping from a nearby cave, hidden in scientists' equipment. Volunteers and staff from the National Trust's Malham Tarn estate in North Yorkshire are now transporting the spiders back to their natural home. Measuring seven centimetres across, the cave spiders are amongst the largest spiders found in the UK. 'The time has come for the cave spiders to be relocated back to their natural homes,' says Martin Davies, National Trust property manager for the Yorkshire Dales in the UK.” (BBC Earth News, December 2009)

We headed North again, the walking now pleasantly dry. When we reached a road, my colleague peeled off to investigate a (to him) new valley on his way back to Malham. I continued on the PW which, after a level stretch, started to twist and turn, climbing steadily round the flanks of Fountains Fell. Notices warned of old mine workings, and the map is peppered with them. These are just a reminder that this landscape is far from “natural” in any original sense. Trees have been completeley cleared from what are now bleak moors (there must have been lots of trees once, to produce the squishy peat I had been passing through), and as I have said, huge numbers of holes have been dug, by hand, to extract the rock and minerals.

All the height I had painstakingly gained (up to about 2000 feet) I lost again in a precipitous descent to a valley with a road running through it and the star attraction of the area, Pen-y-ghent, rising eccentrically on the other side.

This local monster, with its cliff-like ramparts, seems too silly a climb to include as part of a walk. But the beaten track, and the noticeable increase in foot traffic, bear witness to the popularity of this climb. The only twenty minutes of rain during my day's walk, with strong and gusty winds, accompanied my ascent. The clouds had been glued to the peak for a couple of hours, so I expected no views – I was not to be disappointed.

The books say it's not as difficult as it looks, and that is perfectly true. The route is clear, mostly consisting of natural steps with a bit of artificial assistance, so you just plod up, in my case trying to keep my face out of the direct blast of the horizontal rain. After the straight-up bit, the route becomes a damp path gently upwards to the trig point. Views nil.

A wall runs almost across the summit. On the approach side, the wind and rain drove across me, but on the far side of the wall it was a different world. Calmly serene, a party of walkers were picknicking in the still air, for all the world as though they had just lost the sunshine for a few seconds (except that they were wearing rather more layers than the average sunbather).

The descent is at first steep and strewn with loose stones, then gentler while still quite rough. The path levels out across what anywhere else would be the valley of a stream – this being limestone country, here the stream (as shown on the map) disappears down a hole further up the valley. Help protect this fragile environment by keeping to the path, a notice exhorts us. It seems as tough as old boots to me, but I obeyed the injunction.

Turning South, the PW follows a (very) stony track between stone walls for one and a half miles into Horton-in-Ribblesdale, where another Pen-y-ghent is the lure. This one is the cafe which is also an information bureau and life support centre for walkers and climbers. The treacle tart went down well.

Day Twenty Six

Thursday 1 April - Cowling to Malham.

Wot no moors? The whole character of the landscape had changed. As I struck North from Ickornshaw I was crossing farmland, mostly pasture, often occupied by sheep and their recent offspring. I passed thousands of new-born lambs in the week, some boldly checking out this strange creature in their midst, others hiding coyly behind their mums.

The PW descends to Lothersdale, but soon leaves it again to continue North through more fields then – aargh! - another moor. Elslack Moor was as soggy as its brothers and sisters, but it was a comparatively small affair, and the next moor (Thornton) was no problem, since the PW keeps to a quiet road for this stretch.

An idyllic lane led me into Thornton-in-Craven, but again the PW just scratches the surface of the village before heading for the pastures. I had not been paying much attention to the map so, climbing an embankment, I was surprised to meet the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.

“Over a distance of 127 miles it crosses the Pennines, and includes 91 locks on the main line. The canal took almost 40 years to complete, in crossing the Pennines the Leeds and Liverpool had been beaten by the Huddersfield Narrow Canal and the Rochdale Canal. The most important cargo was always coal, with over a million tons per year being delivered to Liverpool in the 1860s, with smaller amounts exported via the old Douglas Navigation. Even in Yorkshire, more coal was carried than limestone. Trade continued on the canal until as late as the 1980s.” (Wikipedia).

The Pennine Way follows the towpath for about half a mile, passing East Marton, before leaving the canal to continue its tortuous route to Gargrave, which the walking route reached much more directly. Gargrave also has a station on the Carlisle to Settle railway line, which was to serve me well later in the week.

No diversion was necessary to find my lunch stop – the Dalesman Cafe & Sweet Emporium is right on the route. I was worried about my begrimed state, but my concerns were kindly waved away. One Dalesman's Lunch later (like a ploughman's but with added ham), I resumed my walk to Malham. A complication had arisen – one of my boots had sprung a leak, with the toe-cap threatening to part company with the rest of the boot. Replacements could be had at Malham, but could I get there in time? A combination of my clever phone and some local knowledge gleaned from a call to my Malhan b&b enabled me to contact the gear shop. Don't worry, said the owner, we're decorating ready for Easter, so we will be here when you arrive. I promised to phone later with a progress report, but a dicey signal cut short my attempt.

In the meantime I managed to stray from the route twice within a mile, making me even later. But the walking was good, up the banks of the River Aire. I passed Airton on the opposite bank, but I walked through Hanliff, dominated by the eponymous hall, berfore resuming the riverside ramble. Ironically, conditions underfoot were drier than they had been for days, so the hole in my boot was no immediate handicap.

Nevertheless, my first port of call in Malham was the outdoor shop where, as the owners cheerfully banged, drilled and painted, I tried on boots. I later found traces of fresh paint on my stick and rucksack cover – I hope I didn't spoil the new decoration too much. I trotted off to my b&b in embarrassingly new boots, while the old ones festered in a rubbish box at the shop.

Day Twenty Five

Wednesday 31 March - Hebden Bridge to Cowling.

More reservoirs! More moors! I left Hebden Bridge (where, incidentally, I had had an excellent three-course supper in the White Swan for the grand sum of £5, the bargain of the week) by way of Heptonstall, which perches about 500 feet above the valley. 500 feet was quite enough for a starting climb. From Heptonstall, I picked up a path which contours along the top of the valley, connecting with other paths to rejoin the Pennine Way. I missed the last connecting path, so I dropped in vertically on to the PW after climbing a wall.

Then I went straight uphill on to Heptonstall Moor, which like the rest of the uplands was blanketed in snow from an overnight fall. Compared with Northern Ireland and Scotland, which had had feet of the stuff, we had got off very lightly. The snow had not obscured the footpath. The temperature was just above freezing, so the mud was still muddy. A set of fresh footprints provided a reiable route to avoid the worst of the clag, and the occasional stretch of slabs allowed me to move a bit quicker.

Descending from the moor, it was reservoir time again. After Corple Lower Revoir came Walshaw Dean Lower, Middle and Upper Reservoirs. I found a relatively sheltered spot behind the wall of one of these – the wind had got up again – to munch my delicious Hebden Bridge pastie, before setting off across the moorland again.

This particular bit of moor has literary associations. A ruined house called Top Withens is said to have inspired Emily Bronte to write Wuthering Heights. Haworth is only three miles away, and she would no doubt have wuthered in the vicinity, but even the Bronte Society plaque admits that the ruin never bore any resemblance to Heathcliff's house as described in the novel. But atmosphere it does have in spades, especially in a winter landscape.

"Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr Heathcliff's dwelling. 'Wuthering' being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed; one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun." (Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.)

A few sheep offered to show me round, and there was a spacious picnic area, but I walked on. Two young women came the other way with a small dog and a sling for chucking a ball. I was hoping for a demo – sling the ball, dog chases ball into snow, dog never seen again – but no dice. I walked down among farmland to Ponden Reservoir, where a group of youngsters were having an adventure in canoes. The instructor was ostentatiously standing up in his canoe, dishing out orders. Again I hoped, again I was disappointed.

After some more farmland, the PW made its last break for the moors today. Ickornshaw reached new heights of gooeyness, slabs giving up at some of the worst spots. A tramp through waterlogged fields took me down to the A6068 road between Ickornshaw and Cowling, with my b&b a matter of yards away.

Day Twenty Four

Tuesday 30 March - Diggle to Hebden Bridge.

Leaving Diggle by a chain of lanes and footpaths, I rejoined the Pennine Way on Standedge, which is, unsurprisingly, one of the region's gritstone edges. The day was cloudy, but visibility was fairly good. Places unknown (in that they were just off my map) could be clearly seen below the edge.

The breakfast weather girl had been almost foaming at the mouth as she disclosed the latest extra-dire, most severe, guaranteed catastrophic weather warning of deep snow, extreme winds and a plague of boils (sorry, getting carried away). Luckily for me, the worst predictions were for Northern Ireland, Scotland and Cumbria, with only light snowfall for the Pennines. I saw about four flakes all day.

After Standedge, the PW heads across the moors to White Hill. Only the trig point gives it any real credibility as a hill – they don't do conical hills round here. My crossing of the A64 had been unexciting but, as I approached the A672 I got very excited indeed. There was a layby with distinct signs of available coffee. The neat white trailer, flap invitingly open, carried two other signs of being open for business – an orange flag on a pole and an orange flashing light. The very friendly chap who dispensed my coffee and something told me proudly that the flag could be seen from the nearby M62 junction. Regulars would come off the motorway and look up the hill for the flag. No flag, drive on. The stall was open from 5am until about 1.30pm, which entailed getting up each morning at 3am to tow the trailer from home and set up. This happened six days a week, except in the walking season when he did Sundays as well.

I got a bulletin on a chap I had met at Crowden. He told me he intended to wild-camp near Standedge while I was comfortably billeted in Diggle. He had indeed camped, and was about one and a half hours ahead of me. It had not been extremely cold the previous night, but even so I did not envy him.

Five minutes after my coffee stop, I crossed the M62 on an elegant footbridge far above the unlovely traffic. It was a good half hour before I left the noise behind.

The path varied from neat pavement or shale to the boggiest bog, with some rock-hopping to enliven the walk along the next of the edges, Blackstone Edge. So likely are walkers to be disorientated by the litter of boulders that the authorities have weakened and actually erected a rare waymark. You don't get many of these on the Pennine Way.

On the other hand, reservoirs are like Tescos back home – everywhere you look, there's another one. Blackstone Edge Reservoir was followed by White Holme, Light Hazzles and Warland, and that was just adjacent to the path; others could be seen in every direction. After half a mile of the gloopiest gloop yet – bootprints fanning out in all directions as tokens of previous walkers' desperate attempts not to end up with water-filled boots – the PW got its act together and headed towards Stoodley Pike Monument on quite a reasonable surface.

“Stoodley Pike is a 121-foot monument that stands on a prominent Pennine hill, also known as Stoodley Pike, on the moors of Todmorden, West Yorkshire, Northern England. The current structure was designed by local architect James Green in 1854 and the building was completed in 1856 when peace was declared at the end of the Crimean War” (Wikipedia).

Inside the monument a spiral staircase wound up into the gloom. I gave it a miss. I was soon walking on a newly-established stretch of path covered with loose chippings, not good as a walking surface yet, but it probably just needs to settle. And so much better, he moans again, than the waterlogged field which came next. It was a relief to reach a farm track which led to some things I had seen little of for three days – trees. After a pleasant woodland saunter, I left the PW for an equally pleasant amble down to Hebden Bridge, bathed in sunshine. Looking back, I had had maybe half an hour of desultory rain all day, and much less wind than on the previous two days. There was a downpour, though, while I munched cake inside my b&b. I was sorry to miss it.

Day Twenty Three

Monday 29 March - Crowden to Diggle.

Crowden Youth Hostel is a great place. It doubles up as an outdoor education centre for the youth of Rotherham, but youthful hordes were in short supply when I was there. There are no self-catering facilities (hooray!); instead, the very cheerful warden knocks up a delicious three-course evening meal, gets a bit of kip, then provides a full breakfast and packed lunch – all bases covered! I had a comfy bunk in a single room, thus keeping my snoring to myself.

From Crowden, the Pennine Way heads North up a valley between Rakes Moss and Bareholme Moss. The climb to about 1600 feet is tough, and the path along the edge of moorland is rocky and fiddly – it was impossible to get into a decent stride – until it becomes boggy. A chap at the youth hostel predicted that I would be grateful for the start of the slabs, and he was absolutely right. By the time I reached the paving, I had slithered and dithered through black puddles and oozy mud, shipping water into both boots.

Black Hill is merely the highest point of this particular lump of moorland. By now I was in the clouds -the trig point was not visible until I was within a 100 yards of it, and it as quickly disappeared behind me. Rain, which had been a desultory presence up to now, started to fall more steadily, with just a little snow mixed in. The wind was strong and blustery, cooler than yesterday without being exactly cold.

The traffic on the A635 was fast but sparse. Beyond the road, the PW followed a vehicle track through the National Trust Marsden Estate. The dominant features were the two Wessenden Reservoirs.

In case I has been taking things too easily, the path dropped precipitously down to the level of Wessenden Brook, before climbing unmercifully up to the top of the moor. I was jolly glad I was climbing up this particular bit of devilment – coming down it must be terrifying. Another moorland trudge, some of it paved, led to two more small reservoirs built, at the cost of six lives, to provide water for the Huddersfield Canal. Soon I was walking over this canal – not on the water, but over the hill (Standedge) through which the canal passes via a long tunnel, a parallel tunnel carrying the railway.

Temporarily abandoning the Pennine Way for a route which triples-up as the Standedge Trail, Oldham Way and Pennine Bridleway. I reached Diggle, my stopping-place for the night. Diggle is part of Saddleworth, a town in the Metropolitan Borough of Oldham, itself part of the now powerless entity of Greater Manchester. So I was in Lancashire. Oh no I wasn't. Saddleworth has published a leaflet which hotly refutes any such suggestion. They are part of West Yorkshire, they cry, but they are definitely not part of Lancashire or Oldham or (shudder!) Manchester. Whether Diggle is ambivalent about being part of Saddleworth is not recorded.

Day Twenty Two

Sunday 28 March - Edale to Crowden.

The previous day, when I arrived at Edale around 1pm, the place was packed with people in full walking gear, all sitting around. I went for a walk, came back, and I swear they hadn't moved. After dark the place was much quieter, the sitters, I guessed, having come for a day's fresh air and sit down, then gone home by car or train for a rest. The exception was the campsite – as I walked off my supper, headtorches flitted around the field like fireflies.

As I walked up the road in the morning, making for the start or the Pennine Way, I passed a few people half in and half out of car boots. Logos were being deployed. The route initially lay Westwards to the head of the Edale valley and the promise of a brutal climb up Jacob's Ladder.
Groups of people were strung out along the path at about 50 yard intervals, with a few local dog-walkers making up the numbers. But this was serious stuff – everyone was walking, and by the time I reached Upper Booth, a mile or so from Edale village, I had seen nobody sitting down. Too early, I suppose, or perhaps they were all sitting in church (it was a Sunday).

I puffed up Jacob's Ladder. It was not difficult in any technical sense, just relentlessly upwards. The nasty trick is that, having completed the “official” Jacob's Ladder, you've got another half mile of pretty steep climb until the path levels out and heads North. The walking here was superb, with long views West towards Manchester, and dozens of standing stones, perching stones, and leaning-on-each-other-at-bizarre-angles stones which characterise this area.

Kinder Downfall was a con trick: the water was reaching the edge of what should have been the eponymous downfall, only to be gathered up by the wind and thrown back again. Ah yes, the wind. It was strong. Not cold, but strong, from the West. For most of the day, thank goodness, it hit me side on. The times when I was walking straight into it were rather trying.

A few early black clouds gave way to white ones, drawn by the wind across the sun and whisked away again – this was the pattern all day. I was starting to get used to another local feature – slab paving. A bit like the high street, but laid across fields and moors to stop soil erosion. On sight I disliked them – could have stayed at home and got pavement outside the door, blah blah. But they were clearly very effective at minimising further erosion, they weren't too bad to walk on, OK I suppose... until suddenly their stock rose.

As the Pennine Way set out across a peat bog, the rough paving stones formed a blessed causeway over a sea of black water and black mud. I'm up for any number of walking challenges, but peat bogs are along way down my list of desirable walking venues, so I trotted a long the pavement as happy as Larry.

I found a hollow giving shelter from the wind and ate my lunch. Within a hundred yards of this, I crossed the A57 road at Snake Pass (to be partially blocked by snow within 24 hours). The traffic was being disrupted by road works. I sneered at such trifles, but my own progress was about to be arrested. Just slowed down, really. North of Snake Pass, the path became very “knobbly”, ocasional lengths of paving being interspersed with much longer bits of boulder-strewn, sometimes soggy, track.

The path often shared a gully with a run-off stream, with the occasional pocket of snow covering both track and water. It was clearly important to tread on the right bit of snow to avoid a frozen ducking. The ups and downs, ins and outs, of the stones, water and mud continued for several miles. One blessing was that I was now sheltered from the worst of the wind. Eventually the path swung round from North West to North, hugging the side of a deep valley, Torside Clough, before it almost fell off to reach Torside Reservoir, one of a series of reservoirs perched in the Longendale valley above Glossop. Crossing the dam, I headed East for a mile to Crowden, to spend the night at the Youth Hostel.

Later, as I walked off my excellent hostel supper (not cooked by me!) I passed the local farm; inside a shed, new-born lambs and their mums were spending a night or so inside before they were turned out into the fields.