Day Twenty Nine

Monday 24 May - Dent to Grayrigg.

It was cool. I had to wear my thin fleece for... ooh, half an hour. It was lovely. And then it was hot again. Actually it was a gorgeous day, blue sky with a few wispy clouds, and a bit of a breeze.

Dent seemed to be still sleeping when - not very early - I took the unbusy road West, down the dale, picking up the Dales Way after about a quarter of a mile. The footpath followed the left bank of the on/off River Dee for more than a mile. I glanced at the map. The plot was to keep heading West, then turn North to cross Dentdale and enter the next dale to reach Sedbergh. A heading roughly North West would then take me to Lowgill and the M6; a quick diversion to the South would find a way over the motorway, then the West/North West direction would be resumed as far as Grayrigg, whence I would catch a bus to Kendal for the night.

Now, where were we? Ah yes, ambling alongside the Dee. The path ran out, and it was back to road-walking some way from the river. But once again the compensations were scenic. To my left, the steep side of Middleton Fell, to the right a succession of buttercup-filled water meadows. And birds, lots of birds, swooping if large and skittering about if small, all singing away fit to burst. And no traffic. A sharp right took me down a bridleway to a ford across the river. Luckily there was a pedestrian bridge, otherwise wet feet would have ensued. Beyond the ford, the bridleway rose semi-steeply, crossing a road and skirting Gate Manor, a rather grand side gate being rather dragged down in the world by the wheely bin parked beside it. Don't they have something in wicker for the gentry's rubbish?

A quick up and down and I was in Sedbergh, perched above the River Rawthey. The Dales Way holds its nose and makes a wide diversion to avoid entering Sedbergh. This is a common occurrence, and seems silly. If these promoted walks are supposed to benefit the local economy - and commonsense dictates that they should - it must make sense to route them past the shops, b&bs, and so on.

I'm sure that the Dales Way route round the town is very lovely, but it was no penance to walk through "England's Book Town". Wales has its Hay-on-Wye and Scotland its Wigtown, and now we've got one too. Not that I did any book-browsing. The wise man he say, man with walking boots on his feet and rucksack on his back should avoid buying more books. Besides, I had other purposes. Firstly I had to buy a replacement rubber ferrule for my stick, having left the last one in a Ribblesdale bog.

Then a shot of caffeine was in order, and finally I bought something for lunch. The lady in the hardware shop was flustered by a combination of customers and ringing phone, while the four ladies in the cafe all seemed flustered just by having customers even without having to answer the phone. I fear for their peace of mind as the season progresses.

I hadn't checked the contours on the map - the succession of lanes and paths which took me back to the Dales Way was a roller-coaster affair, if peaceful. But the views, North East to the Howgills, and West to the first of the Lakeland fells, were superb. But the treat of the day was to follow once I was back on the Dales Way: an idyllic amble up the bank of the youthful River Lune, which flows South and eventually finds the sea near Lancaster.

For me it put on its gentlest gurgle-and-burble. Always beside the river, the path sometimes crossed water meadows, and sometimes it was squeezed upwards as the valley narrowed. A riot of floral colour was dominated by blue. Bluebells, occupying their favourite spots in the dappled shade below well-spaced trees, spread far along the river bank. Just fantastic.

Two men were just packing up a picnic as I passed, unwilling to share their lunch with some inquisitive (or rather acquisitive) cows. I learnt from their experience and crossed a stile into an unoccupied field for my own snack.

Crossing the Lune at Lowgill, the Dales Way turns South East, toying with the West Coast main railway line and the M6. Before crossing these I walked beneath yet another viaduct - Lowgill - which carried a now-defunct railway line through Sedbergh to Clapham. I read that the railway company had trouble hiring navvies for projects like this because they found the area too dull. But I also read that they were well used to importing their own entertainments of a hair-raising kind, so I'm not sure what the problem was.

After a steep climb and a long grassy walk near the noisesome motorway, I turned West and crossed it on a farm-track bridge, then soon left the Dales Way again to cross fields and the railway to Grayrigg.

As I came down the steps from the footbridge over the railway, a train approached. I raised my hand, and the driver returned my greeting - a positively Railway Children moment. But fear not; there was no landslip and my red flannel petticoats were not called into service. [It later occurred to me that this joke might be in doubtful taste. There was a fatal railway accident in precisely this location in 2007. I meant no disrespect.]

After a peaceful sojourn among the gravestones of Grayrigg churchyard, I caught a bus to Kendal. Kendal is a place ruled by elaborate one-way traffic systems, but the castle, on a grassy mound just outside the town, is a delight, enhanced by a lack of "do not" signs. A great place to watch the sun set.