The Pennine Way – A stroll through the north of England

CHEVIOT MOUNTAIN HUT TO KIRK YETHOLM

Day 12 Pennine Way
Distance: 23km
Cumulative distance: 403.5km

Cheviots fog — Al walking through the Cheviot clouds

BANG!

I woke with a start and spent a minute trying to work out exactly where I was. My mat had all but escaped from underneath me and I was sleeping on a cold, wooden bench top barely a foot wide. Then I heard Al mumble something under his breath and I was shocked back into reality. We were up in the Cheviots in a freezing cold mountain hut, on the verge of completing the Pennine Way. Al had rolled over amidst his slumber and managed to tumble the 18 inches down to the floor. It was bound to happen to one of us. I put off getting up myself as long as possible but finally swung my feet down onto the floor and readjusted my long deflated sleeping mat. I gave the valve a few puffs of air and resumed my cold broken sleep.

Al was awake earlier than me as usual, and it was long before seven when he began suggesting I pack up and we knock off the last 14 miles of this walk. We needed to be in Kirk Yetholm for about 2pm to meet Al’s dad and his brother for the ride home, and unbeknownst to us there were still a few decent climbs ahead of us before we could even dream of re-entering the normal world. It was still blowing a gale outside, and I noticed the fog had descended through the night as I stepped outside to relieve myself in the chilly air. Why the hell did we decide to do this thing in April, and not the middle of summer? We scrounged around through our packs and found a few hiker bars for breakfast, and then took off.

Cheviots endless — Yeah this went on for a while

I’d assumed we were roughly at the top of the Cheviots, but apparently this was not the case. We walked side by side for a few miles before Al surged on ahead and I was left cursing the uphill under my breath. These things seem to triple in size and inclination when you’re so close to the finish line, and this is exactly what was happening here. The flagstones were slippery, the ground boggy and visibility almost non-existent. I managed to avoid the detour to the top of the Cheviot which would have added considerable time and exertion, and then finally came to what must have been the top of these God forsaken hills. I’d caught back up to Al, and spied a hill up ahead off to the side. Cheekily I told him we had to walk up it, before telling him I was joking. I shouldn’t have bothered – that’s exactly where the path chose to take us and once again we found ourselves slogging up the side of another yellow hill with virtually no energy in the tank, and chronic pain coursing through our bodies.

Eventually it flattened out, and before too long the fog started lifting, the sun made an appearance and we were into the downhill on the other side. This is Al’s specialty so I let him go on ahead once more, as I tried nursing my knees through one final effort. Every step was slow and torturous, but the view was spectacular and distracting enough to help me through. I knew there was another mountain hut at the seven miles point, but no matter how closely I scanned the horizon I couldn’t see it. All that was ahead of me was a steep descent, and the opportunity to misstep and go for an unwanted tumble down the hill. Was that a wooden hut up in the distance? And was that someone wearing Al’s clothes waving his arms outside it? That must be it…but it seemed so far away, and there was still a steep downhill, and then another uphill to navigate before I got there. Geez, he’s really put a solid effort in to get that far ahead of me I thought.

Pennine Way Kirk Yetholm sign — ALMOST there

After 15 more minutes we reunited at the mountain hut, and polished off another couple of muesli bars for the last leg. We also allowed ourselves to fantasise about the forthcoming lunch menu and the free beer waiting for us on arrival. A quick check of the map confirmed what we were hoping…no more tough uphill climbs remained, the last seven miles would instead be a gentle stroll downhill to the Scottish border. Now we could reach out and touch it, and the pain started to disappear from our knees. We walked this last stretch together, navigating the usual conversational path of football trivia and so forth. Once we made it to the bottom of the Cheviots, we started to reflect on what we’d achieved over the last 12 days (or 11 and a half as Al kept reminding me).

It had been a huge effort, and every bit as tough as the LEJOG walk I did last year, just not quite as long. Each day had its unique challenges, and on most occasions at least one serious, murderous climb – Cross Fell, Pen Y Ghent and Kinder Scout spring immediately to mind. We’d lost Jimmy early on and that had been a big blow, to morale, enthusiasm and navigation. But we’d coped almost instantly and slogged on, just the two of us, through the north of England and finally up into Scotland. So much of the Pennine Way is bleak moorland, but it’s sufficiently interspersed with magnificent countryside like the Yorkshire Dales which motivates you to continue taking that next step. We became pretty good at cooking up a feast with limited supplies and resources, likewise setting up and taking down a tent at the end and break of day.

Weather wise we couldn’t have been luckier. There were a few drops of rain early on the morning of day two but otherwise we managed to stay almost completely dry. The wind was icy, and nights were freezing cold but it was manageable and we were just about adequately equipped to ensure comfort levels largely remained in our favour. And most of all, I was about to complete this with one of my closest mates, albeit a chap who lives halfway around the world. If I could have chosen anyone in the world who had the determination, tenacity, competitiveness and physical and mental tenacity to complete this daunting task, it would have been him.

End of Pennine Way sign — Ohh yeah, definitely the end

We crossed the border, and finally came into Kirk Yetholm. The trail took us straight to the front door of the border hotel and after all that, we were done. We accosted an elderly gentlemen en route to his car after lunch and asked him to take a picture of us. Iphone technology had moved a bit fast for the poor bloke and when he handed it back all we had were some poorly cropped portraits of the photographer. We switched the camera over and he took a few more snaps which just about captured Al and I, before setting off on his way. Then we went straight inside and were given our complimentary (half) pints, and a certificate outlining what we’d just achieved.

Start of Scottish National Trail — Next walk

Outside we had one last important job to do before we could relax. We had to call Jimmy. He was absolutely delighted for us, but gutted he’d had to pull out. It must have been hard for him, given the amount of time and energy he’d invested in organising this thing. Then we rang a few relatives and told them we were done before waiting for our lunch, and for Neil and Liam to ferry us back to Otley. What we just did in 12 days was about to be cancelled out by a three-hour car journey and we were both looking forward to piling into the back seat and watching the countryside whiz by.

James and Al finished — Well that was fun

DAY BY DAY

MAP

BELLINGHAM TO CHEVIOT MOUNTAIN HUT

Day 11 Pennine Way
Distance: 41km
Cumulative distance: 380.5km

What was the time? Surely we must be getting close to this mountain hut…

Pennine Way Cheviots vista — Soooooo uhh yeah, welcome to the Cheviots

I shoved my numb hand into the pocket of my walking pants and deperately tried to retrieve my phone. The wind was buffetting me from every angle, all I could see was bare yellow hills in every direction and Al had walked up over the horizon and long since escaped my field of vision. This wasn’t going to work, so I sat down instead, removed my backpack and fished out a muesli bar. My phone said it was about 6pm, and I figured there was probably no more than 90 minutes of daylight left. Since leaving Byrness we’d been slowly climbing up into the lifeless Cheviots, edging closer and closer to the Scottish border. Only scarce smatterings of flora and fauna thrived in these conditions, yellow grass clearly the dominant entity. I had no way of knowing how far there was left to go for the afternoon, but I calculated I must have done at least 20 miles by now. But this mountain hut wouldn’t come, and I had no way of contacting Al who I hadn’t seen in more than an hour. For once in my hiking life, I was actually concerned about the situation. We were less than 24 hours from the finish now, but it felt as if that would never materialise.

Pennine Way Archaeological sign — Only flying humans allowed

We’d slept in a bit last this morning in the comfort of our dorm room, and indulged in a morning coffee before heading out of Bellingham and towards the final bleak stretch of the Pennine Way. It was a later start than normal, but we made up time with Al setting a cracking tempo as always. Initially we trudged over heather, and then progressed into forestry land. The trail was wide and easy to follow, and we were in superb spirits by the time we stopped for lunch at a campsite near the A68. My stove wouldn’t spark, but Al’s lighter alleviated the problem and soon enough we were indulging in another tasty little cook-up.

Pennine Way sign — Waymarked til the end

Steve had mentioned there were a couple of mountain huts up in the Cheviots that we could use for lodging – one was about seven miles from the finish, and the other 14 miles. The latter was positioned perfectly for us, given we’d planned on busting out almost 25 miles today, to give ourselves a half day tomorrow. The plan was we’d arrive at Kirk Yetholm for lunch, then Al’s dad Neil and his brother Liam would come and collect us, and whisk us home to Otley merely three hours down the road by car. Before heading into the Cheviots, we planned to stop in Byrness for a beer at the only pub in town. That would leave us with about nine miles to finish off the day.

Spirits were high and with 24 hours left we both allowed ourselves to dream of the half pint waiting for us at the Border Hotel in Kirk Yetholm, the pub’s offering to weary Pennine Way finishers. But our luck started to turn pretty soon after lunch. We had to waltz about half a mile off track into Byrness, but figured it was worth the extra distance if it meant a soothing pint before tackling the terrifying topography of the Cheviots. We found the pub in the tiny town, but copped a pretty forthright rebuttal. Posted on the door was a note saying “Closed due to illness”. Well that was that, all we could do was haul our way back to the Pennine Way, cross the A68 and head up into the hills.

Byrness Pub — Guess we’re not getting that pint

The first hill was an absolute belter and left us both staggering around with wobbly knees as we thrust ourselves upwards into the Cheviots of the Northumberland National Park. This took me back to my little stretch on Scotland’s Southern Upland Way last year when I walked from Moffat to Wanlockhead – arguably my toughest day on the entire Land’s End to John O’Groats walk. The A68 was soon a distant memory, and all you could see in every direction was yellow hills. Al was traveling better than me and surged ahead. For about half an hour I could see the dot of his backpack lumbering through the hills, but he eventually disappeared. I was physically exhausted and caught in that horrible hiking limbo of not knowing how far there was left for the day.

I sat down for about 10 minutes, trying to muster the mental strength to tackle another monstrous looking yellow hill that loomed up ahead. I stood up, heaved the backpack back onto my shoulders, strapped myself in and strode headlong towards the hill. Surely, SURELY, the mountain hut must be just over its other side. Unfortunately it wasn’t, and from the top all I could see was more yellow. The path painfully wended down again, and I followed it forlornly starting to convince myself that I’d somehow missed the hut, where Al was probably curled up next to a fireplace cradling a hot chocolate. I was getting delusional. Al had suggested earlier today that we carry some firewood into the hut in case there was a fireplace, but I’d shot him down immediately telling him this thing would be equipped with absolutely no luxury at all. I no longer had the energy for optimism.

Cheviots Al in distance — Last sighting of Al

The path continued winding through the hills, at one stage threatening to take me all the way down to the bottom of a steep valley before it changed direction at the last moment. I saw a little farm building off in the distance and momentarily hope it was our salvation, but it wasn’t in the right direction. Burying myself into a podcast, all I could do was keep plugging away ignoring the appetite which had quickly starting roaring at me from the depths of my hollow stomach. Could I set up camp out here? I started looking for some flat ground but there was nothing, just more uneven yellow grass. Then the mountain hut appeared. And as I approached, so did Al, waving at me frantically to come in out of this relentless wind. It was absolutely tiny, but resembled a five star palatial suite from my vantage point.

Within minutes I was in and we were cooking up pasta. We recycled the excess water to make hot chocolates – not the sweetest we’d ever had but they warmed us up and provided the perfect accompaniment to the block of chocolate I produced for dessert. There was no fireplace, no discernible warmth and no beds, just three raised platforms boasting about 12 inches of width. No doubt someone would roll off onto the cold, hard floor during the night but we were both too exhausted to care. All that mattered was we were inside and protected from the elements. We just needed to survive one more night and we’d be done.

Mountain hut Al — Home sweet home for the night

DAY BY DAY

MAP

GREENHEAD TO BELLINGHAM

Hadrian's Wall ruin — The Wall of Hadrian

Day 10 Pennine Way
Distance: 35km
Cumulative distance: 339.5km

Last night was fairly standard…I woke up at 2am on the freezing ground with a jagged rock trying to burrow its way into the pelvic nerves. The only difference was a heightened chance of supernatural activity disturbing my early am pee, but thankfully the resting souls opted to not bother me. All told it was a decent night’s rest, and in something of an added bonus the pub was already open down the road when we were leaving. And just to add a bit of cream on top, the magnificent landlady dished us out free plunger coffee over a Game of Thrones discussion between her and Al, before sending us on our was towards Hadrian’s Wall.

Hadrian's Wall view — This wall idea might just catch on

We left the delightful little village, strolled up a hill, took a wrong turn and finally realigned passing a ruined castle which I suspect would capture Mike’s interest at some point today. Further still we climbed up and left the road, finally thrust upon the footpath which runs west to east across the north of England following the ancient Hadrian’s Wall. Parts of this thing is almost 2000 years old, although neither of us gave much thought to its age as we huffed and puffed up and down its endlessly sadistic terrain. These relentless hills reminded me of the South West Coast Path but instead of overlooking the Celtic Sea we were rewarded with expansive views out across the north of England and the south of Scotland. At long last we could see something resembling the end of this brutal hike, although this was no time to get complacent with 48 hours of slog still ahead of us.

Mossy bench Pennine Way — The moss is winning

As we approached another punishing climb, Al and I came across a group of about 15 people resting at the foot of a set of stone stairs. Among them was a huge wooden cross which must have made an absolute ton. Their leader told us they were a religious group, making a pilgrimage along Hadrian’s Wall between Carlisle and the River Tyne. Each member would take turns lugging the cross, and the aim was to be finished in time for Easter which was now less than a week away. We wished them well and pressed on, upping the tempo to appease our ravenous stomachs which were not to be fed until we were done with the wall. That moment came eventually, after about nine miles, and we rested on the northern side of the wall using some of its old stone foundations as a wind break. It was was still chilly up here, but the view was spectacular and our cook up was one of the best yet – noodles with corn and ration-pack meatballs. “The hardest bit must be behind us,” we suggested to each other having just about halved the trip to Bellingham, tonight’s destination.

More Hadrian's Wall — Another Hadrian’s wall shot if you can bear it

We knew the Cheviots were still to come tomorrow and the next day, but neither of us knew much about them other than they were Northumberland hills which connected the north of England to Scotland. Had we known what was to come, we probably wouldn’t have had such a spring in our step for the rest of this afternoon. We came down from the wall and the land flattened out into farming territory. Several horses greeted us as we strolled past their paddocks, and several much easier miles along we stopped to chat with a farmer who was quite keen to hear about our Pennine Way exploits. He wasn’t long back from a hiking trip to Mallorca, and just quietly that sounded like a fantastic holiday.

“I’ll be looking into that tonight,” I told Al after we bade the farmer goodbye and continued on our way. We had two more nights on this trail and we’d be done. Tonight we were headed for a campsite in Bellingham, and tomorrow we hoped a mountain hut deep in the Cheviots would serve us sufficiently. Al outpaced me for the last stretch over some gentle, hilly farmland until I looked up and saw him waving his hands madly at a fence. I made my way up the hill (not quite as rapidly as Al’s gesticulating suggested I should) and discovered a little lamb had its head stuck through some wiring. It appeared unconscious, but Al carefully maneuvered it to safety and it bounded away in a flash.

Pennine Way forest — Action shot of Al powering through a forest

He put a space on me again as we approached Bellingham along a lengthy road, and I took a wrong turn which took me down a river instead of into town. Almost immediately I had the feeling I wasn’t going the right way, and fortunately there was enough reception on my phone to let Google Maps save the day. I headed towards the first pub I saw and lo and behold there was Al getting stuck into a well-earned pint. I sat down and joined him, before Steve walked in and informed us the campsite was closed. Hmmmm, this could prove to be rather a large fly in the ointment. Al and I finished our pint, told Steve we’d meet him at the pub for dinner and went to investigate.

There was a campsite there, but there was absolutely no way into it. We considered jumping the fence and just pitching up then spotted a youth hostel across the road and decided to try our luck there instead. We knocked on the door at the house next door and a lady came out saying they weren’t taking campers at the moment because it was lambing season. There was a silver lining though…the youth hostel was practically empty, and it was pretty cheap to secure a bunk bed for the evening. That would mean a decent shower, and a warm sleep so we decided to splurge.

Pennine Way bridge — Geez that iPhone camera goes all right

Once we were all set up, Al and I hobbled back up to the pub for one last feed with Steve. He isn’t going as far as us tomorrow, but hopefully we’ll catch up with him in Kent one day. Geez he’s a good bloke. On the way home I ducked into the Co-op and grabbed myself some ice cream, and while Al went to bed I settled in the common room and tried catching up on the day’s news. Lo and behold, the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris was on fire. How many beers had I had? Surely this wasn’t happening. I flicked on the TV and that’s what they were talking about. Unbelievable. To finish off the night I checked my messages, and noticed my Scottish pal Erin had invited me along to her cousin’s wedding in Ireland as a plus-one next month. That sounded like a heap of fun! But before then, the Cheviots awaited and with that the toughest section yet of the Pennine Way.

DAY BY DAY

MAP

ALSTON TO GREENHEAD

Day 9 Pennine Way
Distance: 28ish km
Cumulative distance: 304.5km

Pennine Way ruined shack — Point and click

It was a slightly later start than usual – we’d afforded ourselves a little sleep in to take advantage of the beds, blankets, walls and roof we’d paid for at the hostel. I’d actually headed down to the pub after full-time last night where I met Steve and Mick for a pint while Al stayed in and tried catching up on some sleep. Mick mentioned to me there was a slight alternative at the start of today’s leg of the Pennine Way which involved following a railway lane, and which promised less hills. Unsurprisingly, Al was as keen as me to take the flatter route.

The sun was out on this quiet Sunday morning, but we didn’t pass too many folk as we strolled back through town to the railway line, and started to follow its delightfully flat progress through what I now believed to be the north-western corner of Cumbria. Our plan was simple enough…punch out the miles to Slaggyford and stop in for a hefty early lunch before pushing on ever north. Two male grouse were having a right go at each other as we entered town, but that appeared to be the only life stirring. Once again we’d assumed there’d be a place to grab food, and were wrong. Google Maps offered up Lake House as a possibility but that looked a fairly exclusive sort of place on the banks of the River South Tyne, and we decided to bypass it. The next suggestion was Knarsdale Hall another half mile or so up the road, so we trudged on only to find it was shut. A sign out front indicated it would open at midday, but we both had our doubts as we sought shelter to escape the rain which had decided to start falling.

Cumberland Northumberland border — Border crossing pre-COVID

Indeed, at about a minute past 12, a car pulled in and a slightly less than chipper bar manager emerged, walked into the door and told us over his shoulder that he’d be ready to open in about five minutes. Well this was progress, and soon enough we were inside the decorative establishment and sat at a table dreaming of a Sunday roast. There was already a regular perched up at the other end of the bar – I’m buggered if I know how he’d managed to sneak in. He was a good fella nonetheless, the food was excellent and after an hour or so we were on our way once more.

The rest of the day involved crossing farmland, and boggy moors. The highlight was probably when we crossed into Northumberland which would be the last English county to traverse before Scotland. I’d heard Northumberland was a fairly remote landscape, and I was about to find out just exactly what that meant. But before that we had a campsite to find. Our wayfinding had deteriorated quite a bit since Jimmy’s early departure, and so was the case again late in the afternoon as we found ourselves walking across another endless green pasture, adjacent to a golf course. This was right at that point in the day where just about every step provided a small dose of torture to knees and feet.

Al worked out that we’d come a bit too far…it turns out the Pennine Way doesn’t cross this field, but goes down the other side of the golf course. That meant back tracking, and let’s face it I’d rather launch myself into a pit of vipers than track back. But it was the only option. We made it back to the road, and then presented out the front of what was supposedly the only campsite in town. It resembled nothing more than a residential dwelling which may or may not have been inhabited, and there was certainly no sight of a campground. Slightly further down the road we were presented with Greenhead Tea Rooms on our right, and Greenhead Bunkhouse on the left. There were pints on offer in the former so we headed in there, and immediately saw Steve who had finished before us, and who was staying in a room upstairs. We asked the barkeep what the story was with the campground up the road.

“Oh it hasn’t been open for years,” we were reliably informed.

But then the lovely lady behind the bar offered us an immediate solution.

“You can camp next to the bunkhouse if you like,” she said.

“We own the bunkhouse but there are no facilities for campers so we can’t charge you anything but we don’t mind if you put your tents up. It’s next to an old church and a cemetery.”

Pennine Way railway bridge — Just a natural photo frame

I don’t think either of us even heard that last bit. We ordered a quick pint, thanked them profusely for their kindness, told them to expect us back in 10 minutes and rushed out to set up our tents. The ground was tough and cool again, and we both expected another freezing night but we’d gone from having nowhere to stay to jagging a freebie in the space of 10 minutes.

Our tents went up in record time, and just as we were heading back down to the pub, Mike walked past and decided to join us.

“My knees are in bits,” Steve told us as we clinked our glasses together and debriefed the day’s walk, as had become customary. It’s a funny thing long-distance hiking…you meet someone on the same trek as you and they become part of your family almost instantly. We’d known Steve a tick over 48 hours and already it felt as if we were best buddies.

“Do you mind if I run up and use your bathroom for a shower?” Al piped up, a little cheekily I must say.

Without a moment’s hesitation Steve tossed him the keys and told him to go for his life. Ten minutes later Al was back, and Steve insisted I go and do the same. I tried declining the offer for about 30 seconds and then gave in, deciding that perhaps it was prudent I go and relieve the others of my stench.

When I returned, we grabbed another round of drinks and sat down with our new pals. It turns out Mike is a semi-retired GP who now does locum work in remote parts of the country, including Scotland. Steve then told us part of his story too…he was a young father and became a Granddad at just 37 years of age. His son was a soldier in Iraq, but gave it away after being shot in the shoulder. He retrained as a gas fitter but was one day electrocuted on the job while working in a client’s roof. Somehow he survived the significant jolt, but lost two and a half fingers despite several operations trying to save his hand.

This was turning into a delightful evening, although Mike had to shoot off after two pints because he’d booked a place a further mile or so down the road. He told us he was doing a short day tomorrow, so he could take a closer look at Hadrian’s Wall. We wished him all the best for the rest of the journey, and watched him head on down the road in the fading light. Then we focused our attention on the television, much like the rest of the patrons inside the pub. Something amazing was unfolding, something I never thought I’d see again. Tiger Woods was on the verge of winning the US Masters.

Pennine Way shack — You can have this for just 150 pounds per month

We ordered tea, and another round, then the flirty bargirl took our dessert order. Somewhere in between my dessert arriving, and me consuming the thing, Tiger sunk the putt that won him his first golfing Major since 2008. Everyone in the pub was delighted with the result, and it prompted one last round of drinks before Al and I cautiously made our way back up the road trying not to disturb those who had been laid to rest just a few metres from where we had pitched. Tomorrow is meant to be hard.

DAY BY DAY

MAP

DUFTON TO ALSTON

Day 8 Pennine Way
Distance: 33.5km
Cumulative distance: 276.5km

I rolled over and looked at my phone, which read 2.36am. That time of the night had arrived where my leaking sleeping mat had expunged the last of its air, and I was now laid out on the chilly, rocky ground. Last night’s ciders had also found their way through my kidneys and into my bladder, so I had two fairly significant reasons to leave the confines of my carefully crafted sleeping den, and brave the cold for a couple of minutes. But there was no way in hell I was going out there. This was the coldest night we’d had by far, and I was desperately clinging to every inch of warmth I could find tucked away in three layers of clothing, a beanie, an inner and finally my sleeping bag. If I left that, I’d never be warm again.

Every time I woke up subsequently that night I had a dead hip, and had to roll over at the risk of losing crucial warmth. Eventually I woke up one last time and the sun had finally decided to make an appearance, bringing much more light than heat on this occasion. Two words dominated my thinking, overriding even the pain in my hip and the urgency with which I needed to relieve myself:

Cross Fell.

The highest point on the Pennine Way.
The highest point in England outside of the Lake District.
The mountain of such girth it harbours its own weather system.
The final significant obstacle between us and the Leeds-Wednesday game.

I’d not allowed myself to consider this beast up until now. We’d managed Kinder Scout, Founders Fell, Pen Y Ghent and reams of monotonous moorland. But this was the biggest dog on the entire route, offering a significant morning challenge but also the opportunity to bank some serious progress. We packed up our frost-soaked tents as quickly as our frozen fingers would allow, wolfed down whatever food was left in our packs and left town via the campsite house so Al could return the borrowed flip flops. The path took us downhill out of Dufton through a delightful, canopy-shielded country lane, and then we emerged in the shadows of the hefty hills before us. Granted the sun was out, but there was already an icy wind in the air and up ahead we could see pockets of snow which didn’t look to be melting away any time soon.

Fortunately there was a clearly defined path which carried us for two torturous hours. The sharpness of the initial incline warmed Al and I to the point of needing to remove our jackets, but soon enough we were on an exposed ridge and were frozen to the bone. If you hang around Dufton long enough, the locals will tell you all about this amazing mountain that stands guard over their town. It used to be called Fiend’s Fell, and braving its tempestuous nature is certainly not to be taken lightly. Tom Stephenson, a long-time walking activist in England and the man credited with pioneering the Pennine Way, writes in his guidebook of “the ferocity of the helm wind which sometimes blows down from Cross Fell with such violence, they say, as to overturn carts, uproot trees and lift the roofs off farm buildings.”

He goes on:
“When the wind is blowing, a bank of cloud known as ‘the helm’, lies on, or just above the summit of the fell. Three or four miles to the south west there is another line of cloud known as ‘the bar’. Meteorologists say the phenomenon is due to cold air from the east pouring down the hillside.”

I followed Al up the ridge and took a look over to my left. There was a massive golf ball perched atop what I assumed must be Cross Fell, and despite the glorious (if not overly warm) sunshine all around us, there was indeed a menacing cloud hovering above the top of the mountain. There was also a fierce wind as cold as it was strong, and we were both walking right into the teeth of it as we struggled onwards weighed down by our packs and the inevitable bout of hypothermia which was seemingly just around the corner. As we approached the giant golf ball (or radar station to be slightly more accurate), Al and I realised this wasn’t the top at all. This was Great Dun Fell, the second highest peak in the Pennines, and merely an inconveniently placed summit separating us from the top of Cross Fell. I was filthy…not only because I’d convinced myself this was the top, but because we had to climb down off the other side of the golf ball and lose a heap of elevation before earning the right to take a shot at Cross Fell.

Cross Fell summit — Found a pile of rocks at the top

The next climb began and I was dudded once more. This was Little Dun Fell, which had nestled itself between the golf ball, and Cross Fell. Once again it was a slog upwards, then another descent before FINALLY we hit the final slope of Cross Fell. Care was taken in tackling this final stretch given the icy nature of the path, but we both avoided catastrophe and clawed our way up to the flat peak and a cairn marking its summit. Views over to the Lake District were our reward but we didn’t hang around too long – the wind up here was ridiculously chilly and once more carried with it a threat of hypothermia. We scampered across the top and tackled a very steep, rocky descent, wasting no time in trying to find some shelter from the wind. About a mile or so down the trail it came in the form of Greg’s Hut, a mountain shelter available to hikers who have been in combat with Cross Fell. We went inside desperate for a hot beverage, and closed the door behind us finally escaping the relentless wind. Our faces were red after taking a severe beating, and our hands were virtually frozen, mine more so than Al’s given he’d had the foresight to bring gloves for this particular expedition. Clever.

It took me about five minutes to open my backpack, and another five to locate and fire up the portable stove. That generated some much-needed heat and allowed us to warm our hands and finally share a coffee out of the little saucepan. I couldn’t help but wonder just how hellacious a place this would be during a snow storm in the depths of winter. We estimated there was probably another 10 or 12 miles between us and Alston, and we were well and truly on track for the 5.30pm kickoff. We’d made sensational time over the mountain, and from here to Garrigill was just about all downhill. We resolved to stop there for a well-earned lunch before tackling the final four miles of the day.

As per normal, Al skipped ahead of me fairly rapidly on the downhill while I tried nursing my knees a little more over the rocky terrain. It didn’t take too long to navigate the steepest section, and once we were down the wind buggered off and I could enjoy the walking once again. It was gloriously sunny and we’d put in three huge days to ensure we made it to Alston this afternoon. More importantly, we’d broken the back of the walk. We were about two thirds of the way through and surely the hardest stuff was behind us. Surely…

The way into Garrigill was simple enough and as I approached town, absolutely starving hungry I might add, I noticed Al sat on a bench chatting away to two fellas I’d not seen before. Al introduced me to his new friends from up Newcastle way before breaking some devastating news. The only pub in town had closed down a couple of weeks ago. Then came the final dagger – there was no shop. Just a post office.

Cross Fell reservoir — Didn’t even consider jumping in

It was Saturday and the post office was shut. And even if it was open, I suspect they wouldn’t be serving lunch anyway. We feasted upon whatever was left in our backpacks (a packet of chips from memory) then decided to just punch out the last four miles and have a late lunch in Alston. What more could we do? We said farewell to our new pals who told us to keep an eye out for a laminated map which they’d dropped along the river somewhere, and were on our way.

Given the ferocity with which our respective stomachs had started eating themselves in lieu of regular digestion, we covered those four miles in record time. Initially we walked along a river, then over some hilly farmland and finally we emerged at our hostel for the night. It wasn’t open at 2pm, so we shed our backpacks, hid them around the side of the building and ventured into town in search of a chippy. From there we could track down a pub showing the Leeds-Wednesday game, and then our plan would be complete. I genuinely couldn’t believe it – we’d smashed the best part of 75 miles in three days, with several hours to spare. This was going to be a great night, I thought.

The walk into town was slightly more hilly than I would’ve liked, but without our packs we managed to handle it reasonably well. We found a horrible looking fish and chip shop which was just what we were after, and once our orders were placed I volunteered to go and find a pub with Skysports. I’d already spotted several watering holes on the way into town, and figured this would be a pretty simple exercise. Apparently not. I went into one place next to the chippy which had a Sky sign out the front, but it was fruitless. They only had Sky News, I learned upon venturing inside, and told me my only chance in the whole town was to head for the Manor House over the railway and on the way out of town.

“They’ll definitely have it,” the bargirl assured me. Success! I walked back down the hill, then turned right as instructed and headed for the railway line. That was quite a bit further than I’d envisaged and my legs were groaning at this unexpected exertion. They turned it up a few more decibels upon crossing the river and the railway, realising there was now another uphill slog before arriving at the destination. I followed the road for hundreds of metres and finally the manor house emerged, very inconveniently located at the top of a hill. But, there was one saving grace – it had a big, juicy, colourful Sky Sports sign out front. We’d done it. Relieved, I strode inside underneath and was immediately hit with that funny feeling that I’d stumbled into a place I wasn’t meant to be. The manager appeared instantly and said hi, with a slightly quizzical look on his face.

“Uhh is this a pub?” I asked.

After informing me it was indeed open to members of the general public, I fired my next question.

“Are you showing the Leeds Wednesday game?”

“Nah, we’re showing the Man U West Ham game, we’ve already had several people here request it.”

Manchester United fans. Dirty, grubby, filthy Man U fans who had probably walked about 10 metres from their cars to be here, not 75 miles in three days. This was an unexpected and disgraceful twist in the story. I summed up the situation as quickly as I could. Did I have the power to demand of the owner that he ignore the request of his paying guests to facilitate the wish of this misplaced, dishevelled, odourous Australian? Did I have the strength and poise to impose myself aggressively on the situation and threaten both owner and Man U fans sufficiently enough into changing the channel? Should I pick up the nearest bar stool and just start wailing on anyone wearing a red jersey?

No. No. And no (not enough energy).

Instead I meekly turned on my tail and left the fancy pancy upper class manor house and trotted back down the hill towards the chippy.

“It’s full of farkin Man U fans and their watching the West Ham game,” I told Al.

“They are the scum of the Earth”, he said and we spent the next 10 minutes wolfing down our fish and chips and discussing just why Manchester United was such a putrid football club. Then Al offered up a suggestion that would save the entire situation.

“If there’s wifi in the hostel, we could probably stream it on my phone.”

Pennine Way water — Not a bad part of the world

We hurried back, fetched our backpacks and checked in given it had now opened its doors. There was indeed wifi, although it didn’t work so well in the room. So we perched ourselves on the floor of the corridor where the signal was slightly stronger and cheered the boys on from there. Jack Harrison’s goal was the only one of the game, and secured a 1-0 win that helped us keep pace with Norwich at the top. Unbeknownst to us, Leeds were about the completely bottle their promotion push starting with a 2-1 loss to lowly, 10-man Wigan at Elland Road the following weekend, but for now we were too busy reveling in a win over the Pigs, and discussing who we should sign in the summer to boost our chances of Premier League survival. Our plan hadn’t quite come off, but we’d knocked off a significant chunk of the walk, and still celebrated a win. Overall it had been another successful day.

DAY BY DAY

MAP

CLOVE LODGE TO DUFTON

Day seven Pennine Way
Distance: 40ish km
Cumulative distance: 243km

I’m glad we’d fluked upon some shelter last night. Even with the security of a sturdy roof and four geometrically aligned walls, the temperature still plummeted to an almost unbearable chill overnight. I realised this at about 2am as I woke up right on schedule, my sleeping mat having deflated sufficiently to let me know a cushy pocket of air was no longer keeping my pointy pelvic bone from the chilly floor. Disoriented and utterly confused as to where I was exactly, I simply rolled over and willed myself back to sleep. With another 25 miles on the horizon I couldn’t afford not to.

We woke up and cleared out as quickly as possible leaving the place in the same condition as it was when Paul provided it to us last night. Our first stage today was a little contour-line heavy, but waiting for us a good few miles down the road lay a town called Middleton and it was there we hoped our dreams of a hefty English breakfast would be realised. Stumbling out onto the frosty ground we were greeted by a friendly sun, and before too long a little honesty shop that someone had set up to nourish hungry folk along the Pennine Way. We each helped ourselves to a chocolate bar, parted with a quid apiece and carried on over more rolling hills. Each mile was hard-earned over the rolling terrain and we distracted ourselves by trying to name the 92 clubs who compete in Englands top four football divisions. Disgracefully we fell about five or six short – unacceptable by both of our lofty standards.

Petrified dragonfly — Possibly a petrified dragonfly

Middleton appeared ahead of us, and we navigated a fairly steep descent which eventually left us at one end of town. We parted company with the trail, crossed a long bridge into town and perched up at a lovely little cafe adorned with the proprietor’s artwork and more importantly, offering all kinds of cholesterol laden breakfast options. Suffice to say we both ordered the fullest, heartiest feed on offer, our first such brekky on the entire walk so far, and had wolfed down several sausages, eggs and bacon rashers before paying heed to the artwork surrounding us. The lady in charge had recently moved to the area and taken over the historic cafe which. She showed us a painting she’d drawn of High Cup Nick and simply said:

“It’s my favourite place in the world. You’ll see what I mean when you pass it later today.”

Bridge to Middleton — A heart-stopping brekky awaited us across this bridge

Al and I took a closer look at what was to come – roughly 20 miles stood between us and Dufton and that would leave a touch over 20 more (and the small matter of Cross Fell) tomorrow before we settled into a cosy pub and watched Leeds pummel Sheffield Wednesday. So far the plan was coming together fairly well.

We’d clambered into the North Pennines Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty by now, and the trail followed the River Tees in a north-westerly direction. It was delightful walking, and as usual Al cracked on slightly ahead of me. I’m not sure how he was doing it giving his dodgy knee and the amount of Compeed that was holding him together, but I’m glad he was because it stopped me from dawdling. A few miles up the way we came to High Force Waterfall which tumbles about 21m in two stages. It is also often incorrectly mistaken as being the highest waterfall in England. But despite its false record status, it’s still a wondrous sight and we sat for about 10 minutes mesmerised by the cascading water plunging between cliffs. Several other waterfall fanatics had come out for a look on this particular Friday which was a distinct change from the usual deserted feel of the Pennine Way.

Pennine Way waterfall — No shortage of water today

Unlike all of them, we still had 15-odd miles to traverse before relaxing so we strapped back into our packs and powered ahead. The River Tees continued to keep us company and just past Cronkley Farm we crossed to its northern bank and then picked up the tributary Harwood Beck for a little while before leaving it behind and rediscovering the Tees. This is where it all became incredibly difficult. The path disappeared and was replaced by a rocky river bank which proved absolutely torturous for aching feet. Every step required undivided concentration and balance, which becomes exponentially more difficult when a 15kg backpack is thrown into the mix. I passed a mother and her two children out for a challenging stroll, then a middle-aged chap who was also through-hiking the Pennine Way – the first I’d actually met outside of Al, Jimmy and I (not including the chap we’d found on the second night who was walking Land’s End to John O’Groats). After what felt like miles of poking and prodding over the uneven trail, I spied Al ahead in the distance underneath Cauldron Snout where we’d decided to have lunch. This was another cascading stretch of the River Tees, just downstream of the Cow Green Reservoir. It also appeared ridiculously high, and was accessed only by some pretty severe scrambling, a feat currently being attempted by a gentleman who looked 80 from our vantage point, his body clearly several decades past its prime. I didn’t bother thinking about the climb until we’d cooked up a sensational feed of cous cous, vegies and sausage.

Steve, who I’d passed about half an hour earlier, came by while we were eating, and told us he’d been keeping a close eye on the old fella. He said Mike was a former secretary of the Pennine Way Association and that he’d walked this thing about 12 times already. Steve himself was a London lad who’d always wanted to do the Pennine Way, and he was finally realising that dream. But he’d met Mike the day before and wasn’t entirely convinced he was capable of covering the distance, particularly since he wasn’t carrying any food with him for the journey. Steve pushed up looking to catch Mike as Al and I took half an hour to replenish our calorie counts and take in the breathtaking scenery surrounding us. I whipped out a block of chocolate and snapped off half for Al. I chiseled off a little chunk for myself, and as I looked back at Al 10 seconds later noticed he’d already devoured what I’d given him. It’s impossible to convey just how hungry you get carting a massive pack across this trail.

River Tees lonely house — They should shoot the next season of Neighbours here

I went down to the water, washed out the saucepan and we were on our way again. The climb up Cauldron Snout wasn’t too bad now we were fed and from the top we had a delightful view back down stream of the River Tees. We also had another few little hills to stroll across, which took us high above the Tees, but this was an absolute luxury compared with the rocky terrain we’d been presented with before lunch. This time to pass the miles we played another football game. Al would name a club, then I’d have to name another club which began with the last letter of the most recently named team. This carried on for a little while before we realised how often you’d get stuck with a D (Leeds United, Colchester United etc), an N (West Bromwich Albion), a Y (Manchester City), or an H (Middlesbrough). To our credit we came up with an obscene amount of clubs beginning with the letter H (Hereford, Hendon, Hinckley United, Harrogate, Hednesford, Harrow Borough), but eventually the well went dry. But the game had soaked up several miles, and it wasn’t too long after that we spied Steve again off in the distance, and moments later the magnificent vista of High Cup Nick opened itself out before us.

High Cup Nick — This is what she was talking about in the cafe

It must be a glacial valley or something along those lines – the land had been gouged out in a V shape to the point we were now standing, and stretched on for a short while with a little creek meandering through the bottom. We took a few pics, then Steve took some photos of Al and I perched precariously on the edge before telling us we were absolutely mad for getting so close to the drop below. We walked on together for a little while before Al and I told Steve we’d catch him for a beer in Dufton. There were a few wild horses up here which was delightful, but I was trying to steel myself for the final stretch of the day which resembled a lengthy downhill romp of a couple of miles on groaning knees. Al pushed on ahead as I slowed considerably, desperately trying to find the will and energy to finish things off for the day. The descent into town just seemed to take forever, and even when I finally hit civilisation there was no sign of a campsite.

At last I found Al leaving the front yard of a house. He told me you paid for camping in there, and they’d tell me where to set up my tent. He had an extra spring in his step too, given he’d managed to blag a pair of flip flops off the owner for the evening given his had fallen into a state beyond repair the previous night. I went and parted with my cash before finally finding a spot to set up camp. It was outrageously hard ground and we were in for another chilly night, but the main thing was it was now time to rest up and go grab some food and a drink.

We found the pub and ordered a cider and a feed. Al then went and asked for the wifi password but was met with resistance:

“We’re not one of those pubs that gives out our wifi password,” the young bargirl said.

“But we need to tell our families we’re okay!” Al protested, and she eventually relented.

Pennine Way fence — Just your standard fence photo

After eating we went and found Steve, who was with another chap (Mick) also doing the Pennine Way. Both had a slightly concerned expression on their face, given Mike still hadn’t arrived and the sun had long since taken its leave for the day. We compared stories. We’d seen him climb out of Cauldron Snout, and passed him several miles before High Cup Nick. The walking was fairly straightforward between there and Dufton, even if it was long and there was a back-breaking downhill to finish. But he’d done it several times before and certainly had the experience, although the fact he wasn’t carrying any food was a concern for all of us. Just as we started coming up with a search and rescue strategy the pub door burst open, and there was Mike – his wispy white beard punctuated by a large, toothy grin. He went and grabbed a pint before joining us, bearing a look that said “What are you lot worried about, I could do this walk in my sleep.”

Mike regaled us with of the Pennine Way spanning several decades. He was as deaf as a post so we let him do all the talking, and he could certainly spin a terrific yarn. Today was his last day of the Pennine Way – instead of hiking all the way through to Kirk Yetholm he planned to instead fly to Spain and tackled the Camino de Santiago. It’s always great to meet someone with a mutual passion for long-distance walking, and Mike had clocked thousands of miles in his life which did indeed include a lengthy stint as secretary of the Pennine Way association. After a few more pints Al and I decided it was time to brave the cold and crawl into our tents. Cross Fell still stood between us and that Leeds Wednesday game, and before that another freezing evening on a punctured sleeping mat.

DAY BY DAY

MAP

HAWES TO CLOVE LODGE

Day six Pennine Way
Distance: 40ish km
Cumulative distance: 203km

Pennine Way frost — I can confirm northern England is a bit chilly in April

After an evening of pretty decent sleep under the novelty of a roof, Al and I convened in the drying room to pack up our washing and I delivered a little plan I’d just concocted. It was Thursday morning, and Leeds were playing the late game against the pigs, Sheffield Wednesday, on Saturday afternoon. If we could make it to Alston by then, we could treat ourselves in another hostel and find a pub showing the match. We had already been told there were pubs in town that showed football (these tend to be few and far between through certain stretches of the Pennine Way) and it would give us a little target to aim for as we looked to break the back of this gut-busting walk. Alston was a mere 75 miles (and several chunky hills) away, so if we averaged 25 miles for three days in a row we’d catch the Leeds game. Simple enough. And given yesterday was a lighter effort, and we were both now feeling much more sprightly, we resolved to try and go beyond 25 miles today and give ourselves a head start on tomorrow.

Pennine Way dry stone wall — The world’s longest dry stone wall. Probably.

Before I continue, let me tell you the story of British ultra runner Jasmin Paris who won this year’s annual spine race along the Pennine Way. At the start of each year during the depths of winter, a collection of male and female super athletes line up at Edale and race each other to Kirk Yetholm, some 268 miles away. Paris became the first ever female winner in 2019, knocking it over in 83 hours, 12 minutes and 23 seconds. That smashed the previous record (set by a man) by more than 12 hours. And to top it all off, she stopped at the aid stations along the way to express milk for her young baby. On virtually no sleep and at a time of year where only eight hours of light per day is on offer, Paris started hallucinating badly towards the end and kept imagining animals sneaking out from behind every rock she ran past. But she stayed strong and made history in the process setting a record that I can only imagine will stand the test of time, unless she gives it another nudge next year.

Pennine Way green hills — It warmed up eventually

All of a sudden 75 miles in three days didn’t sound like too much of a challenge at all really.

Careful not to look at the elevation profile of what was ahead, we left Hawes with a certain spring in our step and headed in the direction of Great Shunner Fell, passing a Duke of Edinburgh group along the way. There was an added benefit to reaching Alston by Saturday afternoon – it would put us on track to finish in 12 days after all, which would give Al an extra day’s recovery before having to attend a wedding in Nottingham the following weekend. For the first time we allowed ourselves a chance to think about the finish, but were quick to dismiss the fantasy as quickly as it popped into our heads given the amount of ground we were still to cover. Great Shunner Fell is the highest mountain in the Yorkshire Dales at 716m. It’s not overly steep but climbing to the top takes about five miles of walking. We distracted ourselves as we often do with football trivia, and reeled in the summit around mid morning before clambering back down and over to Keld for a coffee and an early lunch.

Pennine Way Al on Great Shunner Fell — Look what I built

It was a small cafe attached to a campsite and we snuck in the door in the nick of time. As the lovely but slightly frazzled owner was cooking up our brekky, a group of three campers approached looking for some sustenance of their own. But the door was broken all of a sudden, and refused to budge despite several minutes of jimmying. The poor lady was darting between the door and the kitchen, making sure our tucker didn’t burn, and had to tell the friendly group that their swift entrance to the café was second in line of priorities and that she would tend to them as soon as we were taken care of. As it turned out the brekky was grand, and with a few nifty tools from out the back she was finally able to admit her next customers.

Pennine Way never ends — Still waiting for confirmation there is an actual end to this trail

Leaving Keld meant going down an outrageously steep little hill to cross the river, but soon enough we were climbing once more with our target the Tan Hill Inn which claims to be the highest pub in England. The walking was easy and I struck up a yarn with a couple of elderly chaps heading in the same direction. One was a Leeds fan funnily enough, so I explained our intricate little plan to him. The other used to work for a finance company in London, and has a 12-year-old grandson who lives in Tennessee, and who happens to be a mad Manchester City fan. He flew him over for a game last season, and would you believe it – City lost. They lost two matches in 38 last season. I’m sure he still loved it though.

We found a table outside the Tan Hill Inn and Al rang his Dad as I ducked inside to grab us a couple of non-alcoholic beverages (look at us being all sensible). The chap behind the bar wasn’t blessed with speed of service, in fact he would’ve made a common snail look like Jasmin Paris. But after about 15 minutes I finally managed to get my order in, and five minutes later he’d managed to pour out a couple of pints. We knocked them over, refilled our water bottles and steeled ourselves for what was to come.

Tan Hill Inn clock — Is it just me, or…..

Way off in the distance we could see an endless stream of colourful specks which we worked out were cars on the A66. We knew we had to cross the A66 later on this afternoon (roughly the halfway point of the Pennine Way) but it looked a long way away from where we were sat, and we’d read the descent from the Tan Hill Inn was one of the boggier stretches of the entire walk given it wasn’t flushed with the flagstones of so many other sections.

It was just a case of strapping the headphones in, turning on a podcast, putting the head down and trying not to be swallowed up by the mud. Al stormed ahead pretty early on and I slowly but surely tried navigating the deep grass. I sank in one about halfway up to my knee, and that was the worst of the damage. But the path wound on forever, and pretty soon I lost sight of the A66 as we lost elevation. After about an hour I caught up to Al and we decided we’d stop for afternoon tea once we crossed the A66 which was still miles away. So we slogged on, and then stumbled across God’s Bridge a delightful bit of stonework laid on by Mother Nature which formed a small span over what was unfortunately a fairly dry creek bed. The A66 was thundering up ahead and we decided we’d earned a break so we sat down and admired the natural handiwork over some caramel cookies and a few swigs of whisky, which we’d raided from Jimmy before saying goodbye the other day. It truly was a sensational spot, and we both remained in pretty good nick despite the miles we’d already walked. This was crunch time we figured, fairly late in the day but with a bit of energy left to give. We probably had about six or seven miles to go until we hit 25, and anything after that was a definite bonus.

Pennine Way stream — Good spot for a swig of whisky

There was one small issue regarding where we might sleep that night, but we decided to just figure that out when we were both too exhausted to push on any further. So we hauled ourselves up the hill to the big road, and walked underneath it passing the first sign indicating we’d reached the halfway point. From here we left the A66 behind, and headed onward over more boggy ground, up and down several farmer’s fields over a vast expanse of nothingness. There were a couple of reservoirs up ahead and we were starting to flag, so we figured pitching up next to one of those would be as good an option as any. The first such reservoir was entirely unsuitable so we pushed on until we spied a lush patch of fairly flat green grass beside a little farmhouse. Nothing ventured, nothing gained we thought so Al and I approached the front door and gave it a gentle knock. This turned out to be Clove Lodge.

Paul answered and told us that field wasn’t his, and so he was unable to let us camp there.

“We actually do offer some accommodation but we’re full up tonight.”

“Is there anywhere at all we can pitch up?” Al ventured, telling Paul we’d started out from Hawes that morning.

“One second,” Paul said running back upstairs for a couple of minutes.

On return, to our sheer delight, he said: ‘We’re actually renovating the bunkroom next door but it’s not due to be finished for another month so there are no beds in there yet. But if you like you can just sleep in there, there are cooking facilities and a working shower.

Jackpot! This was incredible news and after about five minutes of thank yous, Paul showed us to our home for the night. Turns out him and his wife are from East Yorkshire, and recently bought the place with the aim of doing it up as an accommodation spot on the Pennine Way. There isn’t too much on offer around these parts, so I suspect it will prove a sensible investment for the lovely couple. And to top it all off, with the nearest pub four miles away, Paul’s wife has decided to get a bar licence. That didn’t help us this evening but Paul, who had quickly become one of my all-time favourite people, ducked off for five minutes and returned with a couple of beers for Al and I saying: ‘Since we don’t have that licence yet I can’t sell you these, so they’re on the house.’

We cooked up a glorious feast thanks to Paul and Vicky at Clove Lodge

Resisting the urge to bearhug this super human, Al and I thanked him profusely once more and he told us to enjoy the night before heading back to his house. We had a room to ourselves, and set up our leaking sleeping mats on the floor upstairs. I knew I was in for a night of discomfort but I didn’t care at all – we had a roof, a kitchen and a shower and cooked up an absolute feast of pasta and corn and little chunks of sausage. I whipped out a bit of chocolate for dessert and then doused myself in the hot water of the shower before retiring for the evening. What a delightful spot. Paul told us during the Spine Race earlier in the year him and his wife spied a deluge of head torches for three straight nights as competitors ran past. The first they saw was none other than Jasmin Paris.

DAY BY DAY

MAP

HORTON-IN-RIBBLESDALE TO HAWES

Day five Pennine Way
Distance: 22.5km
Cumulative distance: 162.5km

Bridge above Horton — Somewhere above Horton

For those who care, we found a pub last night which was heavily adorned with all things Burnley (as you would’ve seen at the end of the previous post). It seems to me we’re in Clarets territory for the moment, and I for one reveled in the novelty of it being something different to Manchester United or Liverpool, who illogically seem to dominate as the most supported clubs in Australia. The barman wasn’t a football man however, although was only more than happy to fire up the cathode ray tubes in the corner and show us the Spurs v Man City match. More importantly we had a visitor as we were halfway through our tea – local lad Josh, who Al and I had both worked with in Iceland, popped his head in the door for an hour or so. And he came bearing gifts…Al, as resourceful as ever, had asked Josh to bring some more Compeed for his blisters and he wasn’t disappointed. Josh works as a ranger and a firefighter around these parts, and was delighted to hear we were doing the Pennine Way. He also told us we were in for a nice ridge walk tomorrow which instantly lifted our spirits. Both of us were in the mood for a lighter day after we’d managed to relegate a series of crushing hills to the rear-view mirror.

Pennine Way cold — A little bit on the cold side today

We awoke at our carefully selected campsites with our tents in slightly different conditions. Mine was catching all of the morning sun and the dew had just about melted away by the time I’d packed everything down. Al, meanwhile, had pitched up in front of some tall hay bales to shield himself from the wind, but it also meant he woke up shrouded in shade and with little icicles all over his outer canvas. After the tent had partially dried out on the fence, and Al had put Josh’s Compeed to good use, we finally hauled ourselves back to the road and aimed for the ridge which would ultimately take us into Hawes.

We’d luxuriously booked a hostel dorm for the night, and promised ourselves a shorter day which we were both crying out for. Only 14 miles separated us from our destination, and our calculations had us arriving in town around about mid afternoon affording us the opportunity to do a load of washing and hopefully rest our weary legs a fraction more than we had been. Both of us were struggling with knee pain, Al’s blisters were seemingly expanding with every footstep and the chicken I had at the pub last night was sitting particularly poorly in the lower reaches of my digestive system.

Pennine Way cemetery — Didn’t manage too many photos today

Day five would prove to be our shortest, but strangely it was the toughest mentally throughout the entire walk. That was partially due to my upset stomach, but also partially due to the brevity of the day ahead. Fourteen miles is still a decent stretch by anyone’s reckoning, but because it was so much shorter than the four days previous, I automatically started thinking this would just be a stroll in the park. And it absolutely was not. We suffered an early blow when the only café in Horton was still closed at 8.45am just as we were strolling past. Instead we climbed on out of town to a delightful spot called Ling Gill and brewed our own coffee instead. I forced down a hiker bar for some energy, but if anything that only made me feel even more ordinary. Al went off for a bit of an explore down to the creek to check out a series of cascading waterfalls, but I couldn’t muster the energy. There was still 11 or 12 miles to go today and I wanted to conserve juice for that.

We continued on, lost the path for a little while which left us doing a few circles in a field then finally picked it back up as we were carried over some more moorland and onto the ridge. The views were spectacular up at this vantage point, but I didn’t enjoy them too well. I couldn’t believe how much I was battling! Al distracted me by reading out a stack of his romantic novellas which were absolutely brilliant, and that burned a good couple of miles. The path continued to wind uphill and eventually seemed to turn a corner which had us perched high above another beautiful valley. By this stage Al had gone ahead and I was gritting my teeth with every step trying to keep my insides in one piece.

Pennine Way view — Probably the most common vista on the Pennine Way

High above Hawes we stopped for some lunch and figured there were only a few miles left into town. As always they were the longest miles of the day, made worse by the fact they were all downhill. As the descent began we met a bloke sat in the grass who had started from John O’Groats, and who was walking all the way down to Edale. We chatted for awhile as I pined for Hawes, then continued walking down until Hawes came into view. But it wasn’t Hawes! It was Gayle, a little village about half a mile away from Hawes. When we finally arrived in town we aimed straight for a pub and ordered a couple of refreshing beers while I availed myself of the facilities in a moment of desperate urgency. That quelled the problem temporarily, but that dodgy chicken continued to cause me problems for the rest of the day.

They make Wensleydale cheese in Hawes, but the place was just closing up by the time we finally walked down to it. We went for an early dinner instead then headed for a pub showing the football. We also managed to get the guy at the hostel to do our washing for us, even though that’s not usually a facility offered to guests. I suspect he saw the state of us and was showing an immense degree of compassion. It all felt like a mini reset, and hopefully by morning with our washing dried and our stomachs healthy once more, we’d be good to carry on.

Pennine Way view near Hawes — And one more for good measure

DAY BY DAY

MAP

GARGRAVE TO HORTON-IN-RIBBLESDALE

Day four Pennine Way
Distance: 33km
Cumulative distance: 140km

6.30pm

Al and I have just met the eccentric owner of a campground in Horton and swapped some of our pounds for the privilege of pitching up in one of his fields tonight. I’m still stunned from the day’s events, and the feeling is only exacerbated by glancing around this gentleman’s office and looking at the illogical amount of junk he’s accumulated over the years. There’s a piano on one side of the room, and barely a scrap of floor space between it and us after seemingly decades of hording. And the man in the tweed jacket has decorated his walls too – in amongst the hiking posters are funeral booklets, presumably of friends and family members he has outlived. A quiet sadness emanates from the room, mirroring what I’m feeling inside. What began as three chaps hiking to Scotland has now become just two. The participation of our fearless leader and chief organiser Jimmy was severed this morning before lunch, barely a quarter of the way into the Pennine Way. That was some 15 miles ago, and much water has passed under the bridge even since then.

Pennine Way bridge near Malham — See what I did there?

Last night

We somehow mustered the energy to drag ourselves back into town for a feed and a spontaneous pub quiz in Gargrave. All three of us were hobbled but Jimmy in particular seemed to be struggling, his scintillating pace of the last three days having evaporated. He didn’t want to discuss his ankle and the pain shooting up his leg, only the massive feast we were about to tuck into at the pub. Al and I were still oblivious to the seriousness of Jimmy’s injury. A further clue presented itself when Jimmy opted for the Tomahawk Steak after a hefty entrée – the most expensive and protein-rich dish on the entire menu. In hindsight it can only be described as a last supper, but we just figured the big man was treating himself after three huge days of walking.

Pennine Way skull — A bad omen, perhaps?

Our plans had been modified slightly due to the sheer difficulty of the walk. We’d wanted to make Hawes by tomorrow evening for some Champions League action but that was still about 35 miles from Gargrave, so instead we’d decided to aim for Horton tomorrow, hopefully find a pub showing the football, and then give ourselves a lighter day on Wednesday. And by lighter I mean about 14 miles, with the promise of more Champions League action in store that night. These were the discussions we had as we ate our dinner, before we were roped into the quiz night. Unfortunately we lost it by three despite Jimmy’s incredible effort in correctly answering the question:

‘Who was the first man shot on live television?’ I can tell you, the answer generated plenty of angry discussion in the pub, but we just kept quiet given we were the only team to provide the correct response.

Pennine Way boat — Maybe a boat would be quicker

This morning

Al was up early to tend to his blisters dry out his tent, and it worked pretty well given the sun was shining and there was a bit of wind about. I was in reasonable nick – blisters were threatening to develop but my skin was still winning the battle at this point. Jimmy, on the other hand, was a bit less sprightly than usual and easily the last of us to get ready. Still I was oblivious to his situation, but once we stepped back on the road and strolled up past the pub we visited last night, it became apparent his form was nowhere near top notch. There was six fairly flat and delightfully green miles between Gargrave and Malham, and the promise of tea and coffee and scones and cakes on offer at one of the cafes there. Al and I skipped ahead fairly quickly and were shocked to see just how far back Jimmy had fallen.

Malham turtle — This turtle was moving faster than Jimmy

At one stage we lost sight of him rounding a grassy mound, so Al waited for him to catch up. Ten minutes later Al caught back up to me and told me Jimmy’s situation was pretty dire. I then dropped back and had a chat to Jimmy, and he told me all about his chronic ankle injury that had plagued him for years. It was something about an insertion point in his ankle, and how it was linked up to his knee, and that the only way to heal it was effectively by doing nothing. The same injury had thwarted his efforts to run a marathon the previous year, and rendered him virtually useless on two legs and unable to simply climb a set of stairs. I shuddered to think how he was going to manage another 175-plus miles with a 20kg backpack over some of the hilliest terrain in Britain. My suggestion was to take a bus forward for a few days, rest up, then rejoin us when his ankle was feeling a bit better but he didn’t want a bar of that idea. It was either walk the entire thing from start to finish, or not at all.

We pulled into Malham, collapsed around the fireplace at a café and ordered ourselves some hot beverages. There was small talk, and silence for about 10 minutes. Then Jimmy dropped the bombshell.

‘I’m going to have to pull out.’

Al and I were stunned, and no amount of trying to change his mind had any effect. Jimmy called his Dad who had previously done the Pennine Way, and received the affirmation that his decision was the right one. The fact that Jimmy, normally very headstrong and stubborn, had floated the idea of pulling out to his dad was enough proof that this was indeed a serious problem.

It was a heart- breaking moment. Jimmy had been planning this for months. While I was back home lapping up the Australian summer, he was endlessly rejigging itineraries, researching places to wild camp, and soaking up every piece of information available on the Pennine Way. Such was his commitment to the cause he’d been willing to forego his uncle’s funeral to walk the Pennine Way. One silver lining at this turn of events was that he would now be able to attend his uncle’s funeral. While absolutely shattered that he wouldn’t be continuing with us to Scotland, I was consoled by the fact he would be there with the rest of his family to say goodbye to such a close relative.

The problem with a situation like this is the pace at which you need to move on. Al and I still had 15 miles to cover that day, including three massive climbs, and we’d already spent more than an hour at the café in Malham digesting Jimmy’s news. Then like a pack of vultures we set upon his pack, raiding it for any food or supplies that would be useful to us, while loading it up with any surplus pieces of equipment that were just dragging us down, like Al’s sneakers from day one. It was ruthless, but it had to be done and Jimmy handled it all in good spirits. He was off to a pub to drown his sorrows while waiting for the train while we had to climb Malham Cove and press on towards Pen Y Ghent and finally into Horton.

Malham Cove rocks — This is what happens when you climb Malham Cove

Malham Cove was stunning, and the most beautiful natural formation we’d seen on the walk so far. The grey, limestone rock formation has glacial roots and is a popular spot for climbers and day trippers all across Yorkshire. We had to climb hundreds of steps and dodge a similar number of visitors before we could walk over the top of its Stegosaurus like terrain. That led us to a herd of Highland Cows, one of which almost gored me with its horn when I ventured a fraction too close to grab a photograph.

Pennine Way highland coo — I wasn’t too far off a good old fashioned goring from this fella

From there we pressed on as the rocky ground gradually leveled out, strolled past a large dam and then came to another moor, thankfully not as bleak as what had gone before. With no Jimmy, Al was now navigating through the OS app on his phone and he was managing pretty well so far. We were still both adjusting to the news that we were now a team of two, so we just strode on looking to gobble up as many miles as possible before stopping for lunch.

We finally came to a rest at the top of a winding path up Fountains Fell, dining at about 688m above sea level adjacent to a dry stone wall which was blocking out the cutting wind. We ate well, but didn’t dally given the chilly temperatures at the top. By now we could see Pen Y Ghent ahead of us, one of the Yorkshire Three Peaks and the most imposing hill we’d encountered so far. It looked a bit like a misshapen meatloaf from our vantage point, and we soon realised to access it would mean walking parallel for a while before dog-legging around to the right and tackling it from its southern edge.

Pen-Y-Ghent closer view — Getting closer…

Eventually it was upon us, and we were both excited by the prospect of a little scrambling which was definitely required to navigate its rocky middle section. As always we made sure to take extra care in the blustery conditions with our heaving backpacks, but we both managed it safely enough and were left gasping for breath as we finally made it to the top of the peak. Again we didn’t hang about too long, quickly taking in the panoramic views before descending down the other side via a series of recently laid steps.

It was still a very steep stroll down to flatter ground, and Al powered ahead as I struggled with one of the sharpest downhills of the entire Pennine Way so far. A Peter Crouch podcast and a bag of skittles distracted me sufficiently enough, although things didn’t become any easier at the base of the slope. The path turned into a series of jagged rocks – certainly not a tonic for bruised feet – and I continued moving fairly slowly hopeful I was still on the right path with Al long out of sight. After 20 minutes of torture I rounded a bend and Al was there chatting to his Mum on the phone, delivering the news that we’d lost a comrade during the day. From there it wasn’t too far to Horton, and after paying the eccentric and pitching up our tents, we convinced our feet to ferry us about 200m down the road in search of some Champions League action.

DAY BY DAY

MAP

NEW DELIGHT INN TO GARGRAVE

Day three Pennine Way
Distance: 35km
Cumulative distance: 107km

Pennine Way sing loud and proud — Superb advice

Before draining the last of our pints and retiring to our tents last night, we struck up a conversation with Allen who told us he was walking from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Naturally this sparked instant interest among our party, and we were all fascinated by his story. For starters he’d done the Pennine Way with his dad when he was a much younger chap, back in the days where flagstones didn’t exist and wading through waist high bog land was the norm. Camping gear wasn’t quite so advanced four decades earlier either, so he spent much of that hellish trek sleeping underneath old newspapers. Fortunately his equipment had been upgraded for his LEJOG trek, and he was making pretty decent time although more than half the journey was still laid out before him. The most curious response he provided to our line of questioning followed the enquiry of ‘Why are you doing this?’

He replied simply: ‘I’m due for a hip replacement later in the year, so I figured I might as well wear this one out completely before they go to work on me.’

Absolutely brilliant.

I slept okay, despite the cold, and the fact there was 16 miles stretching between us and lunchtime. There’s no watering down the sheer length of 16 miles in one go on foot. I once walked from Queanbeyan to Holt in West Belconnen to visit my mates Blocka and Rochelle, and that was a similar distance. Luckily we were up nice and early and able to punch out a strong start, through the village and up a hill, although it wasn’t long before we’d lost the path and become entangled in a farmer’s field with seemingly no way of escape. No bother, we had a look at Jimmy’s trusty digital OS map and figured the direction we needed to head, then strode forth determined not to be slowed by any obstacles in our path. The largest of those was a stone wall topped with barbed wire and that took a little bit of navigating, but once we were all safely over and strapped into our back packs again we linked back up with the Pennine Way and were back on course.

Within moments we were back in among the moorland which looked as bleak as ever in the dewy, morning mist but the path was fairly flat and well defined, and it allowed for some rapid miles. It gradually wound us up a hill, and the boys bounded ahead as per usual while I stayed at the rear in third gear desperate not to burn too much petrol in the early stages. The yellow landscape sprawled in every direction for hours before a stone building off in the distance started coming into view. The path slowly but surely took us towards the grey structure and once I arrived Jimmy had already fired up the stove and was making a glorious pot of coffee in the biting cold.

Pennine Way Wuthering Heights — Jimmy and Al getting their Wuthering Heights fix

We’d arrived at Top Withens which supposedly provided a hefty chunk of inspiration to Emily Bronte before she wrote Wuthering Heights. Whether or not that is accurate is a matter of constant dispute, but it doesn’t stop thousands of tourists turning up every year to visit the dilapidated stone building. They don’t tend to walk 50 miles from Edale though, rather jump out at the coach carpark just up the path and stroll down with their daypacks, dressed like fashionistas and smelling of cologne. Luckily, for the moment we had the place to ourselves and were able to rest our weary legs and guzzle our heart-warming coffee. It had been a strong start, but the reality hit us pretty quickly…there was still a good 10 miles and possibly more before our lunch stop. Jimmy’s ankle was giving him a bit more grief, and while Al’s new boots had provided him much more sturdiness and waterproofing, they’d also started chiselling away at the skin on his feet and ankles and a cluster of embryonic blisters were starting to take root.

Nonetheless it was a peaceful stop and we all combined to pool together our knowledge of Wuthering Heights (I must confess my contribution was minimal at best). As we pondered just exactly what Heathcliff the ghost would have done to pass the time in this stone building, our peacefulness was broken by a group of three ladies who had wandered up from the coach car park to check out the building. They had cameras and seemingly a passionate interest in Wuthering Heights, but bizarrely they refused to even acknowledge that we were there. Until they decided it was time to start photographing the very wall we were sat in front of.

Pennine Way little bridge — All the pain is worth it for moments of beauty like this

The leader gingerly approached us and said ‘Would you mind moving please, I want to take a photo of that wall. Unless you want to be in it of course.’

Al replied ‘Oh but I do want to be in your photo.’

She didn’t click the camera until we’d packed up and were on our way. It was time for us to go anyway, and now we had a juicy contender for our new quote of the day. Walking away from Top Withens I noticed a series of signs explaining the history of the place, and curiously they all offered Chinese translations. It was the only place on the Pennine Way (seemingly one of the only places in the UK) that gave a Chinese version. We’d been lucky to have the place to ourselves for 15 minutes it would seem.

Pennine Way private rock — Clearly not public property

The path slowly wound us down through some farmland and another town, before steering us sharply up a hill and to the edge of another moor. Visibility had not improved, but luckily the flagstones were laid out before us again and following the path was simply an exercise in not straying into the bogland. But it went on FOREVER, and the boys, having trailed me on the uphill stretch coming up here, had forged well ahead once again until they were well and truly out of my field of vision. I took extra care not to stray. In this visibility, on this bleak landscape of nothingness, losing the path would be disastrous. I had faith in the flagstones and stuck to them religiously, listening to a couple of podcasts to distract myself from the barren landscape I was walking through. The path curved me this way and that, until finally another stone building came into view at the edge of the moorland and I spied Al and Jimmy having a small rest.

Pennine Way sheep — I think their Dad might have jumped the fence one night…

Jimmy told me we were about four miles from lunch. Three quarters of the way there, but still with a decent stretch before us – a stretch Jimmy described to me as ‘A little bit lumpy’ having examined the contours of what was still to come. At least we were off that soaking yellow moor, and about to press on across some rolling green hills. I was starving now, we all were. And I could only dream of what pub lunch delights were in store for us on that menu. But then, a harrowing thought. Would the pub still be serving food at 2.30pm? Time was getting away from us as expected and none of us could deal with such a sickening blow as being told the kitchen had shut. Jimmy had the exact same thought as me, and whipped out his phone to make some enquiries. With an audible sigh of relief he told us they would happily serve us food when we arrived. This was a timely morale boost that would squeeze a few more miles out of our wobbly legs.

Pennine Way old tractor — Is there anything more beautiful?

We were down to three miles as we weaved through a little village, and then had to climb uphill again across more farmland. I foolishly assumed the pub was just on the other side of the hill, but Jimmy broke my heart by telling me there were still at least two hills to go. We trudged on, up and over another hill, then up another from where we actually clamped our eyes on Lothersdale. A more beautiful town I don’t think I’d ever seen. The lads were up ahead, and I had no interest in easing my way down this last hill so I just let gravity take me and I ran all the way down to the road which would deliver our salvation. A few hundred metres further up we found the pub, and all three of us collapsed inside removing our shoes and ordering some refreshments before the angelic bargirl showed us the menus and gave us a few minutes as our salivating became turned into unashamed drooling.

Pennine Way signs — Reasonably well sign posted this trail

It was a delightful pub, under new ownership and recently renovated if the fancy toilets were anything to go by. I can’t even remember what we ate, but we consumed it incredibly quickly. There was still six miles ahead of us to Gargrave, but we gave ourselves a good hour to recharge and settled on a plan to split up the final stretch of the day. In four miles we would stop at another little village for a pint, before knocking off the last little section and setting up camp.

Sheep on the Pennine Way — Not a care in the world

Pennine Way Kindylyn — I will play this word in Scrabble one day

The problem with stopping is the lactic acid sets in, and every ache and pain which has been bubbling away comes straight to the surface. Jimmy’s ankle wasn’t in the best nick and his face was betraying more and more concern every time he mentioned it. Al had to air out his feet…those blisters were rapidly turning into expanding sores, and he was experiencing a bit of knee pain, much like myself. By the time we fired ourselves up to leave we were all moving much slower, and had to ease ourselves back into stride. We followed a canal for a little while then figured we’d missed a turnoff and had to retrace a few hundred metres, but not before a dehydrated cyclist came up desperate for water. I refilled his bottle with the water I’d just loaded up on at the pub and he was on his way. Four miles down the path we came to another pub and stopped for a refreshing pint, then carried on towards Gargrave. As per always, the campsite was all the way through town and another 500 metres or so beyond the pub we’d earmarked for tea. Severely dragging our feet by now, we eventually lumbered into the campground, and met an old Burnley fan who ran the place with his son. He was a good fella, and pointed out all the facilities before telling us where to set up – right next to the road in and out of town which seemed to be a bit of a favourite of local truckers. We set up in pretty quick time, each grabbed a shower and slowly limped back into town.