Pennine Waying - part4

The Hero Returns

A head popped up from behind the bar, complete with a clipped RAF style moustache and an RAF style of speaking to match. I ordered a lager and offered a drink for him. “Oh! Thank you very much, sir.” he said, whilst helping himself to a large whiskey. After a few minutes in this man’s company, it soon became apparent that I was indeed in the company of an ex-RAF officer.

What followed was a very entertaining couple of hours talking to a very interesting man. Every time I had a pint (about five all told) he would help himself to a large whiskey, that he kept hidden behind the bar. On the top of the bar was a cup of cold tea that he would pick up every time his wife or one of his two daughters popped their head round the door to ask if he was alright, or perhaps wanted another cup of tea. So deft and slight of hand was he at performing these manoeuvres that you ceased to notice it at all. I was there for about two hours and no other customers came in at all. I was given a brief history of the decline and fall of the tiny hamlet of Byrness and various stories of daring heroics in the skies over Britain before I decided that I needed a rest and a shower back at the campsite before dinner. So after promising my new friend that I would be back for an Aberdeen Angus steak and a couple more beers later that evening, I got up to take my leave.

“Hang on a tick, Sir. (He always called me “Sir” and for some reason that’s what I called him and it seemed right and proper) I have to pop into town for some provisions. I’ll drop you off at the campsite.” After the usual polite protests, I accepted his gracious offer. Then I realised that I had just watched him demolish half a bottle of best Scotch whisky. “Oh well,” I thought, “He looks compus-mentus and has obviously been drinking half a bottle a day for most of his life.”

We went out of the back door and got into a large white Volvo estate. I had barely clipped my seat belt on when we flew back and crashed into his daughter’s car, stopping just long enough to change gear, we flew forward and out of the car park and straight out onto the main road with barely a sideways glance or a drop in speed. As we shot off down the road, he complained about his daughter’s inability to park her car in a sensible position. Making a sharp right turn without signalling and speeding down a dirt road, I was reminded of the Dukes of Hazard driving scenes as we did a quick U-turn and slithered to a stop outside the campsite office. “Not bad for an 81 year old.” Said my driver and bid me “Cheerio!” and laughing loudly accelerated off up the lane shouting “See you this evening!” I made a mental note not to ride my motorbike within a twenty-mile radius of the area and then went for a shower. My knee was still aching dully.

I did return to the pub for a fantastic dinner and my host was as genial as ever and still performing his magic drink trick. However, I had two hard days walking ahead of me in the remotest part of the country, so I was back at the campsite and in bed by 10:30pm.

7:00am the next morning I was packed and on my way to the garage-cum-cafe, where I had intended to buy some groceries for the next two days. However, it was not to be. All that could be had was pot noodles and breakfast bars. So with every spare corner of my rucksack stuffed with junk food and Mars bars, I went into the cafe for a mega-breakfast with extra toast and any other high carb stuff I could stuff down me. One hour later (after buying some Rennies for the raging heartburn I had after eating extra beans to go with the toast) I wobbled off with a sore knee and a sickly feeling in my stomach, up what turned out to be the steepest and longest ascent of a hill on the whole Pennine Way.

At about midday, I staggered, huffing and puffing on to the tops of the Cheviot range of hills. The big breakfast I had so studiously worked my way through to the point of biliousness had all been used up and I was really starving. So I ate a Mars bar and hoped it would last till evening.

I had been secretly dreading this part of the journey, as it is very remote and quite devoid of anything interesting apart from the odd Roman ruin. I had also been told by people in the know that the weather was always bad here to add to the misery. I soon settled into my auto plod mode and trudged up and down the vast hills, following the border fence between England and Scotland ever eastwards. This fence stretches for twenty miles and I had been told that it’s maintained by the landed gentry on the English side, where they apparently have to constantly reposition it back towards the Scottish side in a centuries old border dispute. Once a year, the privileged few get out their best Hunters and gallop furiously along the full length of the border fence, swigging their preferred spirit from hip flasks. They arrive sweaty and drunk somewhere in the middle of nowhere. God knows what would happen if they caught a few Scots stealing a couple of feet of England, but having witnessed these braying idiots waving a dead fox about their heads and revelling in the blood from the poor beast being spattered all over their faces, well one can only imagine the carnage. So with thoughts of constant border skirmishes on my mind and a very worrying click in my knee, I plodded on ... and on ...

I had planned on reaching one of two mountain refuge huts thoughtfully provided for any ramblers daft enough to venture this far into the Cheviots, but my knee had slowed me down considerably, so much so that it soon became apparent that I would not make it before dark. This didn’t bother me at all, but another problem presented itself. I had not bothered to replenish my water supply from any of the dozen or so streams I had crossed, as I didn’t want to carry extra weight, because there was sure to be a water supply near the refuge. But I had neither the energy nor the time to get to the refuge. I was also on the tops of the hills and a long descent seemed the only option if I was to get enough water to cook the blasted Pot Noodles.

The problem was there had been so little rain in the past few months that what would have been very wet marshland was now very, very dry scrubland. I checked the map for a likely looking campsite. I finally settled on a crossroads of footpaths where a waterfall was clearly marked not far away downhill in some woods. I estimated that there was about half an hour of daylight left, so my tent was pitched in record time and with my water bottles I set off downhill to look for water in the half light. Just before it was too dark to see, I stumbled into a dry stream bed, which I followed for a few hundred yards to a few steps, a couple of feet apart. This was obviously the waterfall, with one exception of course, no water. “Sod it!” I thought, “I am going back to the tent to sleep and I’ll worry about it in the morning”. My stomach rumbled with the thought of another Mars bar and apple Nutrigrain. Almost at once, my throat constricted and a terrible thirst overcame me. All I could think of was water! I became awfully tired, my knee hurt and I missed my wife Laura and son Sam. I really just wanted to be back in my comfortable home, surrounded by familiar things, gently heated by central heating and double-glazing, even maybe, horror of horrors, watching Coronation Street. This last thought saved me from lapsing into hysteria and blind panic and I quickly snapped back to reality, after all, this is England, not the Gobi desert. If necessary, I’ll dig a well!

As it happens, this wasn’t necessary because as the tent came into view, it started raining, only softly, but definitely raining. Not for the first time, I thanked a God I wasn’t sure existed. It took me half an hour to scrape enough rainwater off the tent walls to wet my Pot Noodle and make a cup of hot chocolate. I melted a Mars bar into the hot chocolate (a trick I learned from an ex-inmate of Strangeways Prison) to make a sickly but delicious high carb drink to keep me warm, as it was now getting very cold.

Ten minutes later, with my thermals on in my sleeping bag, I was speaking to Laura on the phone. Just to hear her voice telling me I must be mad to be doing this at all, not to mention a bit stupid for not getting water earlier, cheered me up no end. I was always grateful for these short conversations we had most evenings (when I could get a damned signal).

Half an hour later, with a raging thirst again, I was back out of the tent collecting more rainwater off the side of the tent, but it was so cold that I could only stay out long enough to collect barely half a cup. So, tired, hungry, thirsty and cold, I spent a fitful night, tossing and turning with a very painful inflamed knee.

Thirst is a very powerful motivator and I was packed and ready to go by the time the sun was an inch over the horizon. I wanted to move fast now that the end was in sight. I had visions of dozing on the last train from Edinburgh that very night. Why, I could be home in bed by 1:00 am. With this in mind, I strode off with just a slight thirst and an almost bearable sore knee.

Less than an hour later, my confident stride was reduced to a nervous shuffle as my knee quickly started to seize up. But this worry was second to an overriding fear of dehydration. I had still not found any water; my only hope now was finding some in one of the mountain refuge huts.

I stumbled on, hungry, thirsty, tired and very sore, picking my way carefully across the barren hills. If I stumbled now and twisted my knee, or hurt my other leg, that would be the finish of me. It was in this state of near delirium that I came across the strangest thing of the whole Pennine Way. So strange that it’s not mentioned in any of the guidebooks and nobody who had done the walk had told me about it.

I was walking with my head down, picking my way through ankle breaking, knee turning, rocks. I did not immediately notice the low mist that had descended, reducing visibility to just thirty yards. I heard a very strange noise, definitely not human. I walked on and through the mist, an animal a little larger than a sheep could be made out. But this was the wildest thing I had ever seen. I cautiously carried on and as I came closer, it became apparent to me that this abomination was definitely something left over from prehistoric times. Looking like a small woolly mammoth but instead of tusks it had the biggest, curviest, totally grown out of all proportion, horns on its head. This was one mean looking animal, totally wild. Its pelt was an absolute mess, growing all over the place in great clumps, like dreadlocks on a hundred-year-old Rasta man. I inched forward and then it looked straight at me for a couple of seconds with bright yellow eyes before nimbly bounding off noiselessly into the mist. I barely had time to sigh with relief when I heard what sounded like a thousand wild horses galloping towards me. “Shit!” I thought, “He’s gone and got his mates to come and gore me to death.” I stood there, rooted to the spot. There was no point in running for cover, as there was none and anyway they were upon me in seconds, charging out of the mist. All mad, wild looking horns and big shaggy pelts, they got to within ten feet of me before veering off to the right and thundering off into the mist as quickly as they appeared. They were of course, wild goats and I listened to them charge off down the hill, apparently more scared of me than I was of them. I still had to sit down for a smoke though, to settle my rattled nerves, There was about twenty of them and they looked very scary to me.

After that encounter, thirst and physical restraints couldn’t stop me reaching the first hut and I burst through the door like a mad Canadian trapper, half dead from hunger and thirst. After quick forage round, I found 2 litres of water. one of which went down in one swig. I also found a tin of spaghetti hoops that I warmed up and ate so fast that I hardly tasted them. I did feel a little guilty as these are normally left for emergency use, but hey! I felt this was an emergency (for me at least).

I left a little note in the hut explaining my predicament and thanked the anonymous provider.

So it was with a light heart and a light step, I was off to the next hut to see what goodies I could filtch from there. Two hours later, I was eating soup and a Galaxy bar in the second hut. But my knee was giving me a lot of grief and I had to cut my spare T-shirt up to fashion an extra bandage for a bit more support.

I left this hut a little reluctantly, as it occurred to me that in a couple of hours, it would all be over and instead of elation, a wave of sadness swept over me. I didn’t feel any great sense of achievement or accomplishment. All I had been doing was walking, eating and sleeping. What could be simpler than that? For eighteen days I had strolled up the backbone of England without a care in the world, but now I was hours away from joining the rat race again.

Then I felt guilty for leaving Laura and Sam for such a long time. (When I did get back, I was told nobody had missed me at all).

I have to admit it’s a very liberating experience to cast off all the trappings of city life and wander through the countryside, sleeping wherever you feel like. But it had to end and I was a little depressed at the prospect of returning to civilisation. With this on my mind, I trudged up the last hill and looked down on the valley below. Sometimes, descents can be harder on your knees than ascents and by the time I reached the valley floor; I was in a bad way and relying heavily on my trekking poles. In the past, I had poured scorn on the use of these telescopic ski poles by other hikers, but now, after using them everyday for nearly three weeks, I realised how invaluable they are and would recommend them to anybody who cared to listen.

Finally, after passing a large farm, I arrived at a road that led into Kirk Yetholm and the end of the Pennine Way. After walking round a bend, there was just one last hill to climb.

By now I was running on autopilot and gritting my teeth. I plodded on up a narrow ribbon of tarmac.

Once I had crested the brow of the hill, the road gradually broadened and the odd house appeared, until finally there are rows of neat painted houses, all different colours, with window boxes and planted tubs, on either side of you.

At last I arrived on the village green. There were no banners or cheering crowds, no bunting or baubles. Nothing in fact. It’s just a small village with one pub and nothing to indicate that you are indeed at the end of the Pennine Way. And rightly so, I thought. (I was still a little disappointed though).

I hobbled off towards an old fashioned bus shelter, shrugged off the beast of a rucksack onto the ground and gratefully sat down to wait for a bus to wherever.

A small boy cycled past and I followed his progress to a road sign, where he stopped, turned round and stared at me. But my attention was now on the road sign above his head. It was a big official council sign in green with white letters and it said “Penial Remedial Clinic”. My mind boggled and I wished I had my camera with me, but sadly I had sent it back at the half way stage in an attempt to lighten my load. The bus arrived and I gratefully boarded. Unfortunately, it only went to Kelso and the driver informed me that I would arrive at the bus depot too late to make the connection to Edinburgh. “Damn!”

“OK.” I thought, another night in a tent won’t do me any harm. The bus driver didn’t know of any campsites, but mentioned the Youth Hostel in the village might be open. I had seen the signs and read about it in my guidebook. It was supposed to have opened for the season that very day. So with fingers crossed and with the beast back on my back (would I ever get rid of it or would it have to be surgically removed, I wondered) and by now a very bad knee indeed, I slowly walked down a small lane to the hostel.

“No. I am sorry but we are fully booked.” said the Hostel Warden. He asked me if I had come far and, when I said “Edale” he jumped out of his chair, helped me take my rucksack off and sat me down. He said “Oh well! You should have said! We can always find room for a Pennine Wayer!” He was really excited and while he babbled away, asking questions but not giving me time to answer, he bent down on one knee and took my boots off. I was too shocked and overwhelmed to protest at what I thought was a huge gesture of good grace and for the first time, I understood the old ‘Jesus washing the beggar’s feet’ routine. Everything after that was a blur.

I vaguely remember being propelled through rooms with everything you might need for a one night stay. As we met people along the way, I was introduced as “Roy, who’s just finished the Pennine Way the hard way, on his own, with a tent.” In the men’s dormitory, there was a bit of a squabble over who should give his bunk up for me and sleep on a mattress on the floor. They wouldn’t let me sleep on the floor; “Totally out of the question!” I was told. Next it was off to the dining room/ kitchen to meet the ladies of the Edinburgh Ramblers Association. These lovely girls (not one under sixty) fussed and clucked over me, sitting me down and thrusting a huge plate of Spaghetti Carbonara under my nose with instructions to “eat it all or there would be no pudding”. Their men-folk wandered in in ones and twos, all of them with a “Well done and congratulations!”

“Well.” I thought, “Here’s my cheering crowd”. But in my shell-shocked state, I just felt embarrassed and, to be honest, a bit of a fraud. However there was no time to dwell, as I had to go to the pub and get my free pint (a tradition that has been kept by the brewery since The Pennine Way opened). The truth was though I just wanted to go to bed, but the Warden was so insistent that I go and sign the book, that I thought I had better go just for an hour, to be polite.

After a quick shower, I was walking over the village green and, now the pressure and possibly adrenaline had gone, my knee must have thought “Right. Now that’s over, you’re gonna suffer some real pain.” and I could barely put any weight on it. In the pub, I sat at the bar and ordered a Stella. I think I must have still been dehydrated, because five minutes later, I needed another. I didn’t say anything about the Pennine Way because I didn’t want any fuss. I had a quick look round, no one from the hostel was in, but it was busy with a noisy but friendly lot of people. A good mix as well. “No.” I thought again, “I won’t say anything, just have another Stella and then slip away for a good sleep.”

“Oy! I’ll get that one!” Bellowed a familiar voice from behind me. “Has he signed the book yet?” he asked the barman. “Why? Has he done The Way?” said the barman. “Course he has!” Said the Warden. “Hasn’t he had his free pint yet?”

The barman went off to fetch the landlady for the book signing. She turned out to be a beautiful, very dignified and impeccably turned out English lady in her late 50’s. Not what I expected, as the pub was a bit rowdy, although very relaxed. Anyway, that was that. My secret was out, no chance of an early night now and anyway, the landlady made me feel like an honoured guest, I couldn’t leave now.

I felt a small tug at my arm and so I looked round and down at two small, old but fit looking men. One of them asked me if I would allow him to buy me a small whisky. He had such a lovely soft Scottish accent and he and his friend looked so gentle, and almost embarrassed, that I couldn’t refuse. He recommended a whisky from the island that he grew up on. “Might as well make it a large one and another pint of whatever beer he’s drinking!” I vaguely heard him say. “What’s that you’ve got him now?” said his little friend. “Och! That’s nay good! You had better try one from my island!” Anyway, six large whiskies and possibly nine pints of Stella later, I got up to go to the toilet (remember I did say I was dehydrated) for the first time. As soon as I jumped off the barstool onto my recently forgotten bad knee, I knew I was going down. Next thing ‘Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum’ as I had christened them, were hauling me off to the toilet, then back to the hostel. As well as the drink, I think my body was really tired, as although I felt confident and my speech was coherent, my arms and legs would not function at all. The three of us must have looked a funny sight, with me standing at six foot six inches in the middle of two five foot pensioners, telling me to “Hush now. Don’t worry son, we’ll get you to your bed.” And they did. I have a dim memory of me apologising profusely and making loads of excuses as to why my body had so dramatically failed me (nothing to do with the drink, of course). They undressed me and tucked me in bed and with a light-hearted “Cheerio!” they went off back to the pub. I immediately fell asleep.

Surprisingly, I was hangover free next morning and at the bus stop by 9:30am.One of the ladies from the Hostel was waiting there, she had to go back to Edinburgh for a friend’s funeral, she explained. Then in her best ‘Prime of Miss Jean Brodie’ type accent, she said, “Does that sign say what I think it does?” I confirmed that “Yes it does say Penial Remedial Clinic.” “The mind boggles.” she said. “Yes.” I said, “Mine did when I saw it yesterday.” And then the bus arrived and I began my somewhat introspective homeward journey.........

A big thank you to all those that supported the NABD with sponsor money, especially Howard and God’s Squad, the Sons of Hell North West, On-Site Spraying of Birmingham, and the lovely Joanne. Oh! And not forgetting the emergency support crew at Bowes, consisting of Rick, Loz and Beef.

Thank you all

Roy

PS Big thank you to my wife Laura and son Sam whom I love very much.

In addition to completing a gruelling journey along the backbone of England (and possibly the coccyx of Scotland) and entertaining us with his brilliant account of the journey in four consecutive issues of Open House, Roy Hampson raised an incredible £1,000.00 to help more disabled people to enjoy the freedom and independence of motorcycling.

Well done Roy, you’re almost as legendary as your dad ....... Almost!