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In the last issue of Open House our intrepid hero had traversed the first half of the Pennine Way from Edale in Derbyshire only to be forced into a heavy drinking session (with myself and two other Manchester louts, Loz and Beef) when we visited him at the half way point at Bowes in County Durham. Believing that nothing could be worse than that piss-up in a weird little town he once again resumes his sojourn little knowing that the monsters of the mind lay in wait for the lonely traveller (even if he does look like an axe murderer), now read on...
I would like to say that my thoughts were taken up with philosophical questions about life and the universe. But the truth is all you can think about is the next leg of the journey and what fresh horrors await you. Then you start thinking about the next mile, then about the next half mile, then the next 500 yds until finally, it’s the next step. It’s gruelling. Also, I was hungover, so I decided to treat myself and stay at a proper campsite with real toilets and a shower. As it turned out I had no chance, because it was early in the season, most sites were shut.
The one that was open was refurbishing the toilet and shower block: However the lady of the house took pity on me and let me complete my ablutions in her own personal bathroom. Once again I had my dinner and was in my sleeping bag by 7.30pm.
The next day was one of the highlights of the Pennine Way. After leaving the valley of Teesdale, I climbed steadily up and back into the high country. The going is good here, with nice springy turf to walk on and very little mud. My spirits were lifted, the sun was shining. All I had to do was walk, life looked good. It was about to get better. I was reflecting on the sites I had seen the previous day and just that morning. I had been following the River Tees, all waterfalls and early spring flowering meadows, very picturesque and easy on the eye. Before climbing back onto the moors, I was thinking how nice and comfortable it all was, when suddenly (and it is Sudden!) I found myself on the edge of a huge gouge in the earth. It’s absolutely breathtaking and leaves you feeling giddy as your senses try to take in this ‘High Cup Nick’ although ‘Nick’ is not the word I would use for it, as it’s absolutely massive.
I felt immortal as I stood on the edge, with fine views all the way to the Lake District. Way down in the bottom of the valley, a tiny trickle of a river flowed away to wherever. This was what it was all about. It was here that I realised I could do no wrong. It was here at 5.30pm on a Monday afternoon, two weeks into my journey, I knew it was my destiny to stride along the backbone of England and not get wet once.
It was here in ‘High Cup Nick’ that I tasted freedom and there wasn’t another living soul there with me to share the experience. It was fantastic! It was so good that I decided to pitch my tent right there on the edge and watch the sun go down behind the distant Lakeland fells to the west. I ate my army ration pork casserole whilst a brilliant red sun dipped below the horizon. What a wonderful life...
I awoke at 6.30am next morning and the spell was broken. I looked out of my tent to be confronted with a wall of grey; the visibility was down to a few feet. It was time to move on; the magic of last night was gone. In a way I was glad, otherwise I may have stayed there a few more days and it does not do to be idle on the Pennine Way as it just make it harder to get moving again and my rhythm was charging along again and I had no wish to break it.
The grey mist stayed with me most of the morning. Luckily I had a GPS receiver with me, that Tony (a good friend and one time boss) had lent me; thank god, as the area around High Cup Nick is very dangerous, with craggy precipices to the left and shake holes (old mine workings) to the right. Also, if you stray from the path, the going is boggy and there are numerous streams to ford. Eventually I started the long descent into Dufton and the mist cleared enough for me to see where I was going. I called in a shop in Dufton to buy a few bits and bobs. I didn’t linger here because like most of the towns and villages on the way, this is a working town with nothing much to offer to a traveller. My plan was to get as far away from habitation as I could before pitching my tent for the night. I had already started to behave like an eccentric recluse, even to the point of ducking off the path and waiting out of sight of other walkers coming in the opposite direction. I had given this odd behaviour some thought, thinking perhaps I was going mad. Then I reasoned with myself that one of the points of a long distance walk is the solitude. Besides, there’s only so much idle conversation with yuppie, middle class, middle aged, over equipped day walkers, festooned in the latest style Gore-Tex anoraks you can stand. I can never get used to seeing these people with literally thousands of pounds worth of gear (fit for months of travelling across Antarctica or climbing in the highest peaks of the Himalayas) only to see them delicately picking their way across Kinder Scout, scared of getting their expensive ‘Four Season’ top-of-the-range boots muddy. Besides that, a lot of them look thoroughly miserable.
Next morning, it was a clear blue sky and the tent had a thin coating of frost, so I had a leisurely morning drinking coffee and waiting for the sun to warm everything up. I was a little anxious about today’s journey, as I wanted to cover 20 miles of hard open moorland with some big hills and precious little else to break up the monotony. This is hard country, with a nasty wind the locals call the Helm Wind. By 8.30am, the Beast was all packed and on my back, not quite as ferocious as it had been five days ago. I took a deep breath and started off uphill, at a steady plod.
Five gruelling hours later, I was stumbling across the table top plateau of Cross Fell, my lungs seared by the effort, my knees bent and buckled and the Beast of a rucksack slowly bending my spine, making me smaller and smaller (and madder). It was the madness that got me to the Trig point on the summit. At 2,930 ft., the highest point of the Pennine Way (and also the most boring ascent ever with very mediocre views from the top as well). It’s a bit of a windswept moonscape and you really don’t want to linger too long. I hid behind a curious cross-shaped wall to get out of the wind and make a brew. Within minutes, low cloud blew in and that was that, total whiteout, visibility absolutely nil.
Half an hour later, after two cups of tea and some super noodles, the mist was just as thick, so it was out with the GPS again and a quick look at the map and off I confidently marched, northwards. An hour and a half later I was hopelessly lost. For the first time on this walk I was feeling a little scared. The wind had dropped completely and the mist became thicker; I could almost feel it pressing against me. It was also dreadfully quiet. I checked the GPS and map again.
I couldn’t believe it, I was over two kilometres away from the path. I had missed a right hand turn and veered off to the left, almost in completely the opposite direction. I had been stupid and made the daft mistake of believing my own sense of direction to be impeccable. I was guilty of being too lazy to reach into my pocket and take a compass bearing. I had also forgotten just how disorienting and ‘other-worldly’ thick mist can be, but coupled with the barren waste of Cross Fell, well this is a place where murder could be done. Or I could be savaged to death by some strange beast, or anyone of a dozen dreadful deaths, ranging from alien abduction to a suicidal farmer that wants to take a few ramblers with him. I had plenty of time to enact all the different scenarios as I blundered on blindly.
Just as I was contemplating lying down and hoping someone would find me before I died of thirst, the mist cleared and I was looking through a hole in the cloud. Just near me I could make out a path, winding its way downhill and in the far distance, a town. I was off like a rocket. I didn’t care if it was the right path or the right town; I just wanted off this murderous hill and back to civilisation. Hell! I thought, If the demons don’t get you, your own imagination certainly will!
Luckily it was the right path and the right town and I arrived in Alston at 7.30pm. The last of the sun was shining in a clear blue sky. There were lots of lovely spring flowers and blossomy trees in people’s front gardens. Everything appeared lovely and I had forgotten all about the horrors of Cross Fell. Then it occurred to me that there weren’t any people about the streets of Alston. Just like on Cross Fell, it was desolate. God knows what depraved behaviour was going on behind all those closed doors.
I went straight past an unwelcoming pub and carried on out of the town (just in case it had been taken over by brain sucking psychic vampires from space). Once clear of the place, I jumped over a roadside wall and made my way to a small clearing out of sight of the road. In the half light, I got the tent up, had a quick boil in the bag meal and was soon lay down, nice and cosy in my sleeping bag. After reflecting on my bad case of paranoia for all of, ooh, five minutes, I must have fallen fast asleep, because next thing it was seven in the morning.
Funny thing shock!
In the next issue of Open House we find out if Roy’s sanity can hold out when meeting mad farmers and the perils of the Scottish border. Will he complete the gruelling trek?
Find out in the next thrilling episode...
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