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