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.
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.
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.”
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.