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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.