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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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