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Roy Hampson (son of George, whose memory is commemorated with the NABD George Hampson Trophy) approached me early in 2003 with a proposal, which he went on to explain in his usual friendly way.
“Oy Rick!” he growled “I’m gonna walk the Pennine Way to raise some money for NABD. Get me some sponsorship forms sorted, and be quick about it!”
Not being one to argue with somebody who looks like an axe murderer I said “Certainly Roy! What colour would you like?”
By mid April almost £1,000.00 had been pledged in sponsorship and the he was ready for the off, I’ll leave it to Roy to continue the saga..................Rick Hulse
Pennine Stupidity
Alarm bells started ringing when Rick phoned me with the brilliant idea that we could book a room the night before the off at the Rambler Inn at Edale. “That way, we can have a drink to send you off.” he merrily burbled.
Having had a lot of good drinks with Rick before, I patiently explained to him that six pints was definitely my limit, as lugging a 45lb rucksack over some of the roughest country of the Pennine Way, with a head banging and throbbing, throwing up your special high-calorie breakfast and cheap lager oozing from every pore was not my idea of a nice day in the hills.
As it happens, the only two pubs in Edale shut at 11 o’clock sharp and no amount of pleading from Rick could crack the bar staff’s stony hearts. Whilst I sympathised deeply with Rick, in my heart I was ecstatic, and so to bed.
In the morning, after a big fry up and a brief chat with a fellow Pennine wayer, Rick was shaking my hand and propelling me to the official start line. Quick stop for the official photo opportunity and off I went, down what looked like a bit of a dark alley, I looked back to give Rick a last wave, but he was gone. I could hear the van accelerating all the way out of the valley; busy man that Rick.
I am actually writing this on the fourth day of the journey. The previous three days having left me so traumatised, inbuilt mechanisms have completely erased them from my memory. I will try to remember them by the end of the walk.
Anyway, this is my journal of walking the Pennine Way, and very pleasant it is, as I am lay on a very comfy bed in a nice warm farmhouse on top of a hill above Hebden Bridge, with the Pennine Way running through the farmer’s back field. All I need to do now is watch a bit of telly, pack my rucksack, attend to my torn and bleeding feet and go to sleep.....
Well what a fabulous day. After a pleasant hike up hills and down dales, I arrived at Bronte Country and it is a handsome rugged country, well worth the walk. After a piss and a fag break at ‘Top Whithens Ruin’ (those of you who’ve read Wuthering Heights will know what it is) it was all downhill to a place called Ponden, where I am at this moment lay in my tent, having had a lovely supper of chicken soup to start, followed by spicy balti noodles with dried apricots, some fruit and nut chocolate and a nice cup of tea with three sugars. The setting for all this is in a beautiful birch wood near a small stream. The birds are singing away, there is no noise to suggest human habitation, I feel so full and contented that I am ready to go to sleep and it’s only 5.30pm. So, I think I had better attend to my feet before I nod off. A great day though, the country round here is very easy on the eye and can lift the spirits of any flagging Pennine Wayer, and the tracks are relatively comfortable on your blistered feet.
Do you ever wonder, whilst you’re sat in your house in the middle of a big city, where have all the birds gone? Well, come to Ponden on the southern end of the Yorkshire Dales. Be sure to come at 6.00 in the morning and you can hear all the birds in England gathered in and around a small birch wood, next to a small stream, going for a world’s loudest volume record of the dawn chorus. So, it’s up with the larks and on we go. Unfortunately, after about an hour’s walking, I sat down in the sun by a mountain refuge hut, then got a bit more comfy, then thought, “I’ll lay down, just a minute.” Two hours later, I woke up, oh dear. “Never mind” I thought “I’ll just have to put my head down and get marching” as I was due to meet a friend at Thornton in Craven. He had very kindly offered me a shower and other creature comforts to be found in a civilised world (even if they were in Giggleswick). There was another reason to see Craig though, as his lovely wife Rachel had just four days before, given birth to a beautiful baby boy called Oliver. Not wishing to intrude on young mother and son’s bonding, me and Craig cleared off to the pub for much wetting of the baby’s head. But, thwarted yet again by rural pub opening times, everywhere’s shut by 11pm sharp; it was an early night again for me, despite being in the sprawling metropolis of Settle.
The more astute reader will have noticed that I do not dwell too long on the geography of the Pennine Way, or indeed the flora and fauna, so I will just get it over with now. Big hills, scrubby bits of heather, waist deep bogs, rocks, lots of water, marshland with ankle breaking divots of thick coarse grass, more big hills, some rabbits, fat brown birds with small wings that attack you, lots of sheep, ugly in Derbyshire but getting quite pretty by the time you get to the dales. And, of course, the fantastic views and breathtaking beauty to be found just over the next hill or around that next corner. That’s the good thing about the Way. Just when you think you can’t go on, over this round domelike, monotonous, desolate hell, something of outstanding natural beauty pops up, which just gives you enough of a spring in your step to allow you to stumble on to the next picturesque scene.
OK, that’s my guide to the Pennine Way. I had thought of plagiarising my official O.S. guide-book, until I read it. It’s a bit like reading a manual for a fantastically complex piece of electrical equipment. Although it does have its moments and here’s one, to quote “Among the normal woodland flowers are patches of American Willowherb, a pretty little alien with pink flowers and broad short stalked leaves”. The key word here is ‘Alien’. My God! Is this man a member of the BNP? If so, he must be quite extreme to pick on a pretty little pink flower. Apart from that it’s pretty boring, but a vital piece of navigational equipment nonetheless and so must be carried the full length of the Way.
Reluctantly, I left all the creature comforts of a civilised country and carried on the Way. The Yorkshire Dales is a wonderful place, despite the high suicide rate of the local farmers, the people are trying to be friendly. But it must be hard for them and sometimes you can sense it’s a little bit forced. It’s like they’re going through a transition period, where farming just doesn’t cut the mustard anymore and a few locals have reluctantly turned to tourism; but you still get the impression that you’re not quite wanted (perhaps they really do prefer sheep). I wish I had more time to appreciate the landscape, but I had to move on sharpish and so trailblazed my way through the dales with hardly a sideways glance. Consequently I missed all the local beauty spots.
Finally I arrived at Keld, a tiny little hamlet with (Oh Luxury!) a public toilet, as well as a campsite. As usual, mine was the only tent there, in fact since I started this walk, I have seen possibly less than twenty people, only five of which have actually engaged me in conversation. I mentioned this to my wife on the telephone, she said “Perhaps if you didn’t look like a mad axe murderer, things would be different”. Maybe so, but a few of you reading this article will know me. If so, please feel free to let me know if this is the case, as I am getting quite a complex over this. (Sorry Roy but your missus is right....R)
The next day, the dales were left behind as I entered County Durham and the highlight of the day, lunch at the Tan Hill pub (excellent venue for a bike rally), apparently the highest pub in England and the most remote. Anyway, after lingering too long over a couple of beers and a steak sandwich, I shoved off again. Two hours later, having seen no sign of human existence, I started talking to my rucksack, which after a hundred miles, had started to resemble the model name under which it was called ‘Cougar’ and by God, that’s what it felt like. If you can imagine a very large mountain lion jumping out of a tree on to your back and then locking its front claws on your shoulders and sinking its teeth into your neck, whilst kicking and tearing at your kidneys with its hind legs and claws, well that’s my rucksack. Henceforth it shall be known as the Beast.
So, there I was telling the Beast what I was-and-wasn’t going to do to it when this is over with, when over a stile pops this chap who said “Oh! I thought there was two of you.” I explained about the rucksack. He said “I’ve started doing that, you’re the first person I have seen since I left Kirk Yetholm. I call my rucksack Twat”.
We sat down by a wall; he ate some nourishing fruit and nut mix. I had a roll-up. He was walking from north to south, so we exchanged a few stories about what new misery was to come, what was open and what wasn’t. I told him I was doing a sponsored walk for the NABD and explained what it is. So he gave me two quid. It would have been more, but hikers don’t carry a lot of change (too heavy).
Then he went on to tell me he’s a diabetic, then he showed me his below the knee amputation that he’d had last June. He said “I thought I had better get this walk done before they whip the other one off, as then it would be harder”. So, we wished each other good lick and he hiked or limped off into the twilight, (in opposite directions of course).
Eight o’clock that night I threw the Beast down in an empty (yet again) field and thought “Home Sweet Home” (for the night at least).
Lying in my tent, all warm and cosy after more dried food and hot water. I had time to reflect on how the Beast, all teeth, claws and hot breath by day, has suddenly transformed itself into a provider of shelter, warmth and hot foods and drink at night. Not only that, but it is also the comfiest, fluffiest silken sheathed pillow to lay my very weary head on. I needed a good night’s sleep.
The lads were coming tomorrow!
It was raining a little next morning, so I had a little lay in and got up late when the sun started shining. After fiddling about with breakfast and personal hygiene (very basic), I strolled through a very empty village to the Post Office, bought a Daily Mail, posted a Mother’s Day card and had a look round Bowes Castle. Back at the tent, I settled down for a good read. Not a chance! I had barely read the headlines when a voice says, “Are you there, Roy?” I was a little confused, as I was sure I hadn’t mentioned my Christian name to the farmer whose field I was in and certainly didn’t tell the surly Post Mistress, who could barely grunt in reply my cheerful “Good morning”. So who was it? My mind was racing. Could it be the police? Had there been a terrible accident at home? I stuck my head out of the tent, it was Rick. “Morning. I’ve brought you a couple of Lucozade Sports” he said. I was completely taken aback, as I had only given the vaguest of directions two night before on a mobile phone with very poor reception. I had said “Phone me when you get near for more detailed directions” to give me time to get ready to receive guests. What would I do now? The tent was a mess; I hadn’t any tea & biscuits to offer. There was nothing else to do but pack up and catch early doors at the pub. While I packed up my kit, Rick explained how he had a feeling I was just up this road, so had stopped to try and work the phone that he had borrowed off his Mum for this one occasion. There was no signal, so he just happened to glance out of the van window, looking for a phone box. Much to his surprise, 50 yards away in a far corner of a muddy field was a small tent. He had found me and reinforced his views on how useless mobile phones are. Hey! Who needs mobiles when you’ve got telepathy?
Five minutes later, Beef & Loz casually ambled across the field. They also were supposed to have phoned me before arriving. The pressure was really on me now, as they stood about looking at their watches and tutting every thirty seconds whilst passing the odd comment like “Pub”, “Open”, “Need Beer” and “You’ve left a tent peg out” (after I had packed everything away).
Beef and Loz were the official back up team, and I had arranged with Loz to re-supply me with food and drink, clean socks, undies and a shirt. As it happened, Loz went back with more than he had brought, as I had to off-load a load of stuff that wasn’t really necessary for basic survival. After a week, I had decided that I really had to lighten my pack, so bye bye luxuries, including knife, fork, cup, compact camera, binoculars, thermals, emergency ration pack, spare lightweight clothes and worst of all, a half read book; I had considered tearing it in half and sending the half read part home, but couldn’t bring myself to ruin a perfectly good book, so it had to go. Oh! And a couple of cooking pots and one that I was to regret later, a spare torch. I was actually playing for time and was unnecessarily fiddling about with my kit.
You see, three weeks before, I had told Loz that as Bowes was the natural halfway point of the Pennine Way, it surely must be the happening place to be, and must have plenty of pubs and so would be a good place to meet and give me a day’s rest and a drink with good friends.
As I watched a piece of tumbleweed blow across the main street, a small duststorm blew. The ‘Open’ sign in the Post Office flipped to ‘Closed’, the pub didn’t open till 7.00 that night, it was a Saturday and only 12.00 noon. Thinking furiously, I decided honesty was the best policy. “There’s nowt ‘ere” I declared. Blank faces, and total incomprehension, greeted this simple statement. “OK. We’ll just go to the pub then” they said. I patiently explained that it was shut. “It will be open soon; it’s gone twelve” they said. Accusations of false pretences and failure to provide decent refreshment after a 125 mile drive to stand in a muddy field, were spat at me with such venom that I seriously feared for my life.
Luckily, it was just at this point that a huge cockerel and his harem of vicious looking hens swaggered into the struck camp. Howling and shrieking like a couple of school girls, Beef and Loz ran off back to the sanctuary of their car, with Rick hobbling behind muttering something about not doing animals. I heaved the slightly lighter Beast on my back and followed slowly, a plan already formulating in my worried mind. Waving a map above my head like a truce flag, I calmed them down enough to point out there was a small town just a few miles up the road. The dustcloud and chicken feathers was huge as we wheelspun and skidded our way back onto the main road.
Ten minutes later, after Rick had shown me the limitations of a Renault van, we were stood in the middle of a bustling market town. “Right, let’s go in there” Loz says. “Meet you in there” says I, “I’ll just change my shirt”. They were back before I did up the third button.
“Shut!” they said. (Oh dear!) We tried a quick one in a hotel bar where after ten minutes someone came to serve us. We drank it as quick as we could and pushed on to the next bar. This one sold Newcastle Brown for Rick, so we stayed for two before trying for the next pub. ‘Closed down’ said a yellowed sign in the window. I asked a local man if there were any more pubs. “No” he said, “but if you had six or more people with you, you could have phoned up the Kings Arms two weeks before you are due and the landlord might, and only might, mind you, open up for the night”. It was one-thirty in the afternoon; back in the pub with the Newcastle Brown there was no atmosphere at all, so we made our own. Consequently, people gave us a wide berth and looked sullen, while we laughed and laughed. All too soon it was 8.30pm, time for Loz and Beef to go. Beef, quite sensibly I thought, had for over eight hours been drinking Coca Cola, so was really buzzing, whilst Loz was drunk. Rick lurched back from the bar. “Quick” he said, “let’s go, it’s folk night tonight”. We got stuck in the doorway in our haste to leave.
Me and Rick spent a fitful night sleeping in the back of the van after eating a battered chip supper. (Causing Roy’s arse to launch into the ‘wind section’ of Beathoven’s fifth, gawd it was like Belsen in the back of that van......R).
We woke early, it was still dark and we had no water. Rick was still thinking like a city boy and suggested driving off to look for a cafe; I didn’t say anything. After three-quarters of an hour, Rick pulled up the van at a public toilet and admitted defeat. I went to get some water from the toilets; they were, of course, shut. After scouting around for a stream or even a muddy puddle to no avail, I went back to the van and found Rick guzzling the last of the Lucozade Sports he had so generously bought for me. “What’s all this, then?” I protested. Rick explained how he had drunk all his Red Bull on the way up yesterday. I looked under the passenger seat and found a 2-litre bottle of water. Five minutes later, the cooker was out and a pan of water was boiling away. One hour later, Rick had drunk my week’s supply of instant white tea and sugar and so decided it was time he was off. A look at the map showed us to be about fifteen minutes from the Pennine Way, and so at 7.15am, I once again bid farewell to Rick, shrugged the Beast onto my back and set off down a small track by a river. I turned to wave to Rick one last time, but once again the van was furiously accelerating away down the road and round the bend. I was on my own again. Ah! What a blessed relief!
In the next issue of Open House we find out why our intrepid hero was worried about alien abduction and monsters from the mist. Will he complete the walk? find out in issue 50...........
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