Epilogue

I sit on the East Coast mainline train from Berwick-on-Tweed to London, a journey which will take less than four hours to exceed the distance I walked in three weeks, and think about the PW.  
To recycle a platitude, a project like walking the PW is a microcosm of life: it is contained, unique and unrepeatable. But projects can be reviewed and analysed after they are completed; life can't, at least not by its central protagonist.  
Back in February, I planned to walk the PW because I wanted to leave London during the expected turmoil of the Olympics which apparently passed off with minimal disruption to normal life.
But there was another, more romantic, reason for my fascination with the PW. The first house I bought had been occupied by an elderly couple and needed extensive renovation. Partly for financial reasons, I decided to rewire it myself. I read a couple of books, faked some tradesman's stationery to obtain access to a builders' suppliers and started lifting floorboards. It was hard work but the only significant challenge was the bathroom light. When I peered into the tiny loft space, I could see there would be no room to turn around, let alone stand up. Claustrophobia gripped me and I decided we'd have to manage with candles in the bathroom. Then it occurred to me that one day the child with whom my wife was pregnant would be sure to ask why ours was the only house in the street where you had to pee in the dark. The prospect of that future shame was too much; I took a deep breath and swarmed over the rafters to fix the light. The result of my week's labour, crawling under floors and over ceilings, was a strong sense of connectedness with the building, unmatched by any subsequent home when I engaged professionals to undertake repairs. I had a notion that walking halfway along England might generate a comparable bond with the country I call home, similar to the way in which the Aboriginal songlines described by Bruce Chatwin link them to their land and families and need to be periodically rewalked.
Inching northwards towards the border, the red line on my GPS lengthened daily and I visualised the PW as a thread which I was drawing across the country, pinning it to the ground at each overnight stop. Although it would rank as mediocre needlework, with lots of dropped stitches where I missed the way, this looping trace formed the record of my journey. Fellow walkers comprised another set of links, a human chain of individuals motivated by a single purpose, with whom I felt a strong kinship. Lee with his enormous pack, Davinder who shared with me his special technique for washing and drying socks, the youths carrying the Olympic torch and many others. All were a constant presence as I trudged the trail. Even those I'd heard about but didn't meet, like the Norwegian women who stayed at Grange Fell the night before me and the Dutch couple who'd fallen in a bog, formed part of the tribe I sensed moving synchronously across the countryside as part of a larger caravan of PW walkers.    
My PW expedition was planned as a solo event. Many factors contributed to that decision. Self-sufficiency as an ideal has assailed me from various directions and I believed that tackling the PW by myself would yield the most rewarding experience. The fellowship I derived from walking with others was an unexpected and pleasurable counterpoint and mirrors the enjoyment of walking holidays with friends, such as a recent one along part of the South West Coast Path. So while I shall still relish lone walking, my future long distance walks will be planned differently and include company. The finding that I need to balance time alone and time with others, while not perhaps a great revelation, will help in planning many aspects of my life, and worth enduring three weeks on the PW to discover.

© David Thompson 2012

Byrness to Kirk Yetholm

The Pennines themselves peter out at Greenhead and the last two days of the walk, where the PW nibbles at Scotland, belong to the Cheviots. If the moors which form the backdrop to most of the PW are reminiscent of a rumpled tablecloth (and hardly more interesting) the Cheviots resemble toothsome meringues. In a disorderly range they create gorgeous vistas and lush valleys which beg to be explored. I was looking forward to paying tribute to their seduction but, after the atrocious conditions of the previous day, also apprehensive. However after a steep ascent and a few comparatively tame bogs, large parts of the path were slabbed, for which I was grateful. So much so, in fact, that I amused myself by composing the following limerick:  
There once was a Way called Pennine
Whose surface was far from benign
They thought they might slab it
Then made that a habit
Now those sections are perfectly fine.    
Wayfinding was not a challenge either. The Scottish border is delineated by a wire fence, rather a pathetic boundary compared to Hadrian's Wall, but useful for defining the route of the PW. Following it, I was reminded of the film Rabbit-Proof Fence which describes the remarkable journey undertaken by a group of Aboriginal girls who were moved thousands of miles into settlements by the Australian government and used the fence to navigate their way home.
A few hardy types yomp the final 27 miles in one go as there's no overnight accommodation midway. Like the majority, I had decided to forgo the bragging rights associated with such a marathon and instead arranged to be collected halfway and transported to my overnight billet. The drawback with splitting the final section is that there is no convenient collection point since the PW abjures proximity to roads. I had been instructed to phone the people meeting me as soon as I departed from the PW; that would enable them to reach the collection point at about the same time as me. In theory this is a splendid idea but it failed to take into account the lack of mobile phone reception in the middle of the Cheviots. The walk to the collection point was nearly three miles, and although I had cheerfully tramped over two hundred and fifty miles in the preceding three weeks, I found myself resenting this uncalled for bonus, especially as it entailed descending a steep hill which I would be obliged to climb the following morning to regain my position on the trail. Periodically I checked my phone. Occasionally it teased me with a weak signal but nothing which would sustain a call or even a text. I was starting to panic and make mental preparations for a night on the hills when salvation appeared in the guise of a group of bullocks. Unlike sheep which roam the hills freely, cattle can't stray far from the farm so civilisation had to be at hand. The track descended sharply and I suspected it wanted to dive below sea level and deep into the earth's crust to ensure I had the benefit of a really stiff climb in the morning but it had to content itself with depositing me on the floor of the valley. I spied a farmhouse, attended by the usual retinue of barking dogs which in due course attracted the attention of the farmer. She kindly allowed me to use her landline, but not before expressing astonishment at my naivete in assuming that a mobile phone might work in such remote parts.
On the morning of the last day, the sun shone as I was dropped off. I was in a good mood and looking forward to the walk, or at least the end of it. As I marched up the track which had annoyed me so much the day before, the ridge ahead was gradually obliterated by mist. By the time I reached the PW, visibility was poor and a blustery headwind hindered progress. After a few miles, a mountain refuge hut provided welcome shelter and when I emerged after signing the visitors' book the mist was clearing and the wind had changed direction and assisted me up the remaining hills. My final picnic lunch was enjoyed in brilliant sunshine, contemplating the Cheviots and the plains beyond and feeling a tinge of sadness as the walk was drawing to a close.  
As I loped down the path towards the Border Hotel, the traditional end of the PW, I reflected that my identity had changed. No longer could I define myself to strangers as someone "doing the Pennine Way". From now on, I was simply one of the many thousands who had completed it.



© David Thompson 2012

Bellingham to Byrness

I've mentioned before the dilapidated state of many properties in the countryside. At Gilsland, I noticed a particularly sad example: a fine house with a large part of the roof missing which I therefore assumed was empty. However my host informed me that the owner still lived there but refused to undertake any repairs despite the coaxing and cajoling of the local community which in desperation had even offered to buy it.  In other places, it's not unusual to see substantial farmhouses with relatively minor depredations completely abandoned as farms have been amalgamated and people have moved away from agriculture. Demolition is, I suppose, expensive and unnecessary while conversion to holiday accommodation requires available capital and some guarantee of a market, so many places are just left to decay. Passing them, I can't help wondering about the lives of those who lived and died there and how they would feel about their cherished homes being left to the elements.
The walk from Bellingham to Byrness was one of the least inspiring so far. Almost half the distance comprised boggy ground interspersed with tussocky grass and heather. Avoiding the mire is awkward and timeconsuming while treading on the spongy ground in between saps the energy, like walking on a sandy beach. The tussocks are hard and uneven so it's difficult to get a firm footing and I would have fallen or twisted an ankle on several occasions had it not been for my pole.  The remainder of the route followed forestry commission tracks which were better underfoot but afforded views only of uninspiring coniferous monoculture so I was pleased when I finally reached Byrness.  
On most days, I've encountered very few other walkers. Except for the sponsored group on Hadrian's Wall, the daily tally has rarely exceeded ten and normally it has been far fewer. I'd been wondering whether there would be a day when I saw no one else at all and I was beginning to think this was it. Then in the last mile I caught up with a woman who had started the PW a couple of days after me but had not taken any rest days. When we arrived in Byrness, she went to the youth hostel and I headed for my B&B, and that made me think about the different modes of travel on the trail.
PW walkers fall into three groups who can usually be identified by the size of their backpacks.  Some, like myself, choose the most luxurious mode of travel, short of a helicopter, which is staying in B&Bs and having baggage transported. This means that it is only necessary to carry a daypack while walking, but does limit one's flexibility as overnight stops are planned and booked in advance. So far as I can tell from the limited number of PW walkers I've met, the largest proportion stay in youth hostels. Of course they have to carry all the clothes and other accoutrements required for the entire expedition, but it's cheaper than B&Bs. Youth hostels are sparse, so that option affords limited flexibility and as several hostels along the PW have closed, perhaps reflecting the decline in popularity of the route, this group is sometimes forced into B&Bs. A surprisingly sizeable minority camp along the PW which minimises cost and maximises opportunities for impulsive variations. Lee, who I met way back in the Peak District, was one example and I've encountered several since. At Byrness, my accommodation also provided camping facilities which was being used by a man with two children.  He had completed the PW by himself some years ago and obviously thought it would be selfish to deprive his children of the experience. They were going north to south and had needed a rest day after an overambitious start. They joined me for dinner in the guest house and were clearly reluctant to leave the cosy log fire for chilly tents. As I was setting off in the morning they were packing up. The children were auditioning for the "most sullen teenagers" competition and I didn't envy their father the next two weeks.

© David Thompson 2012

Once Brewed to Bellingham

Resuming the PW after my rest day proved irksome. Instead of increasing my energy, the day of relative inactivity had sent the wrong message to my legs, which obviously thought the whole daft project was over and that they deserved their pension.   The first two miles continued along Hadrian's Wall, following a section which a couple of walkers I'd met the previous evening described as "savage". My legs agreed. To make matters worse, just before leaving the wall, I encountered a particularly intransigent looking herd of bullocks. One was planted next to the stile, shaking his head ominously and daring me to climb over. While I was looking for an alternative route that didn't risk falling off the crags, a party of walkers approached from the opposite direction. The leader shoved the bullock aside as nonchalantly as if it were a piece of furniture and the group passed through. I took advantage of the safe passage while trying to give the impression that I'd simply been waiting for them to cross first out of politeness. Behind this advance party were at least a hundred more, all wearing Hadrian's Wall Trek 2012 T-shirts and evidently raising money for the Help for Heroes charity.
One of the ordinary activities which attracts a different focus on a walking holiday is food. Partly this is because the need, real or imagined, for food is a good excuse to have a break from walking. In my case, walking doesn't seem to burn many calories and after the Coast to Coast I found myself several pounds heavier after overindulgence in hearty dinners so I try to exercise restraint.   My diet at home is drawn from a limited but reasonably healthy palette. Breakfast comprises cereal, orange juice and fruit, lunch is a chicken and avocado sandwich accompanied by an apple, dinner finds me eating fish with a baked potato and salad or vegetables. Brussels sprouts are a favourite; living alone I can fart as much as I like. Before bed, I have more fruit, sometimes with a sneaky square or two of chocolate. However staying in B&Bs the pattern changes a bit. I've stuck to the general principle of declining cooked breakfasts, although B&B proprietors are invariably surprised and sometimes offended, taking it as a personal slight on their culinary skills. If it's a long day, I'll eat half a banana mid-morning and the remainder in the afternoon. Many B&Bs offer a packed lunch but I prefer to buy a sandwich from a shop where possible. It's cheaper and also avoids the problem of disposing of the crisps which seem to be a mandatory ingredient of packed lunches. Very few B&Bs provide dinner, although I was invited to join the family for a delicious roast chicken with all the trimmings at Ponden House, so I rely on local hostelries. In the last few years, the phrase "pub food" has ceased to be an oxymoron and my overnight stops have all so far offered at least one decent food venue. I'm always hungriest in the evening and can rarely resist the homemade pates and other goodies offered as starters.
At Once Brewed, I did make an exception to the breakfast rule and had smoked salmon and scrambled eggs to celebrate my rest day. Breakfast is not served until 8.15 so wanting an early start for the walk to Bellingham, I requested an "early bird" takeaway breakfast on the second day. When I opened it, just after leaving the Wall, I saw it comprised two croissants with ham and cheese, a pot of Greek yogurt and an object in a paper bag which at first I took to be a large apricot and then realised was an egg, presumably hard-boiled. Since the packed lunch was a ham sandwich, I rather overdosed on pork that day.

© David Thompson 2012

Greenhead to Once Brewed

My planned accommodation in Greenhead had been flooded and instead I stayed in nearby Gilsland. Unusually I was not the only guest. Bob, an autoharp player en route to a gathering of coreligionists in Dumfries, had been stranded with car trouble. We had dinner together in the village and he explained that he had taught chemistry for many years, then taken up drawing before arthritis set in so that the autoharp was his third career. When we returned to Bush Nook, I was amused to see that he tuned this ancient instrument with the assistance of an iPad. He played some Irish tunes including "Gentle Maiden" before we were interrupted by a summons to see Usain Bolt, the fastest man in the world, win the 200m sprint. Considering the length of the event and the price of tickets, it must also be the fastest way to spend money, outranking even the hourly cost of PwC partners. More events followed but after watching the women's taekwondo and boxing I was getting impatient for the bear baiting and cock fighting.  
The walk from Greenhead to Once Brewed follows part of Hadrian's Wall, where the best remains and some restored sections are to be found. In many places, the wall surmounts lofty crags, enhancing the fortification value but increasing the effort required to construct it - and to walk it. The wall is an impressive edifice, but its ultimate failure and the fact that walls are still viewed as solutions in places as diverse as Berlin and Israel makes one wonder how much civilisation has progressed over the intervening 2000 years. Much of the wall has been scavenged over the centuries for buildings such as Thirlwall Castle, now in ruins and pictured below.
My second rest day was in Once Brewed. Although I didn't feel I needed it, the preceding two days having been relatively short, it provided an opportunity to visit Vindolanda, a Roman fort and village. Nine different settlements have been detected at the site, the earlier wooden ones which predate Hadrian's Wall having been built over by later stone structures. One of the consequences is that wooden writing tablets from the earlier periods have been well-preserved in the anaerobic environment created by the clay foundations of the later buildings. These tablets, considered the most valuable objects in the British Museum, give exquisite insights into the lives of the soldiers in the fort and the residents of the village which supported the garrison, ranging from birthday invitations to requests for more beer. Among the other artifacts displayed in the museum, I particularly liked the leather shoes, in many cases intricately  patterned and reinforced with stone studs. All had completely flat soles which made me wonder when the idea of heels was invented. The excavations have been progressing for forty years and it is estimated that the site will continue to yield up its secrets for another two hundred years. So the relics of the past represent the employment of the future. 



© David Thompson 2012

Garrigill to Greenhead via Knarsdale

After the rigours of Cross Fell, the walk to Knarsdale was an easy 10 miles. I dallied in Alston, the highest market town in England complete with cobbled streets, marvelling at the property prices and tracking down a couple of map postcards for Andy. In the obligatory outdoor shop, I bought a buff, a curious garment worn around the neck and head which, according to the promotion video, does everything except feed the cat.  
The PW takes a convoluted and tediously confusing route from Alston to Knarsdale and my guidebook recommended following the South Tyne Trail instead. The STT follows the route of a former railway and would doubtless have been incorporated into the PW, had it not been a functioning line until the 1970s. It was a relief to walk along a level surface without worrying about checking the route, dancing round bogs or circumventing cattle. A narrow gauge service is now operated by the grandly named South Tynedale Railway for just three miles of the original twentyfive. The STT parallels the track and leaving Alston I eagerly anticipated the sight of a majestic steam train. Halfway along the route, I heard a promising sound in the distance and extracted my camera. Disappointingly, only a diesel loco, for all the world like an oversized lawnmower, trundled towards me pulling three dispirited carriages at not much more than walking pace. I reached Lintley Halt, the northern terminus, as the train was about to leave for the return journey, with as much fuss and preparation as if it were bound for Vladivostok.
My hosts at Knarsdale were retired sheep farmers. They had built the bungalow where I was staying and moved into it when their son took over the family farm, just like David and Ruth. Margaret explained apologetically that her husband would be getting up at 4am to help his son take lambs to the market. They kept sheep on Blenkinsopp Common which I was due to cross the following day and Margaret advised taking an alternative route as walkers had recently emerged from that section very muddy, the worst example being a Dutch couple who had sunk up to their knees in a bog. Instead she recommended continuing along the STT then following a minor road into Greenhead to join the PW. I consulted the guidebook and after reading that even Wainwright dismissed the section as "uninteresting" I resolved to follow her advice.
For the first couple of miles, the STT passed through woods then across a magnificent viaduct, a monument to mid-Victorian civil engineering. Leaving the STT, a dilapidated confection of turrets and castellations came into view. Featherstone Castle, pictured below, had no sign either inviting or prohibiting entry so I decided to investigate, with eyes peeled for a red-faced chap with a shotgun. While I was gazing at the building, a man carrying a knarled stick approached from a field which ran down to the river. He introduced himself as Fable and explained that the place had been rented for a week by forty members of the Edward Carpenter Community. The castle was reportedly haunted and periodically attracted amateur ghosthunters. Fable claimed to have seen an unexplained shadow that morning but admitted it could have been a man, which considering the number in residence did seem a likelier explanation. He gave me a tour of the interior which was labyrinthine and dusty, typical of grand houses which have been transformed over the centuries from fortifications to family seats to educational establishments and whose fortunes have now declined into retreats for impecunious or worthy groups. Fable showed me the timetable of planned activities ranging from led walks to storytelling workshops, hence his name, I realised. In the large communal kitchen, men were enthusiastically baking bread and preparing lunch. With its vaulted ceiling and high windows it seemed the perfect setting to find Swelter, the vindictive chef from Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast. Elsewhere men were participating in workshops or, in a couple of cases, just painting their nails. Everyone was friendly and it was easy to believe that, as their website claims, this is a community committed to personal growth and mutual support.
After a relaxed morning's walking searching for elusive otters along the South Tyne River I arrived at Greenhead with time to explore the newly expanded Roman Army Museum during the afternoon. An impressive 3D film dissolved images of reconstructions of Roman forts into their present day outlines and made a good prologue for my walk along part of Hadrian's Wall the following day. The Roman army comprised 500,000 men at its peak. These were divided into legionaries, who were Roman citizens, and auxiliaries who were men with valued skills, such as horsemanship, from conquered lands. After 25 years' service, auxiliaries were granted a pension and land rights in perpetuity. To avoid conflicts of loyalty, auxiliaries were not deployed in their home territory which must have demanded considerable efforts of administration. Thus it appears that in addition to roads and currency, the Romans bequeathed us the seeds of human resource management.



© David Thompson 2012

Langdon Beck to Garrigill via Dufton

The morning started with a pleasant riverside walk along Langdon Beck which soon turned into a scramble over boulders followed by the ubiquitous slabs and intermittent stretches of duckboards. (Why are they called that, ducks are the last creatures to need them?)  A proper climb, requiring hands as well as feet, took me round Cauldron Snout an impressive waterfall in full spate, pictured below. Soon after, the weather closed in with persistent rain and mist obscuring the route. Just as I reached High Cup Nick, the mist parted and an enormous chasm appeared as if a scoop had been taken out of the hillside with a giant trowel. Under a ceiling of cloud in the middle distance, a pastoral landscape glowed under slanting sunlight, like AE Housman's land of lost content. The mist descended again as I picked my way around the rim of the crater, inches away from a thousand foot precipice. For a while, it was so overcast that I thought I might finally have an excuse to use the headtorch I'd bought, but once again the weather brightened as I descended to Dufton.
The local pub had decided to have an unscheduled night off from serving dinner so my landlady arranged for me and a Dutch walker who was staying with her to eat at the YHA housed in an impressive building which was the local doctor's home until such facilities were no longer provided in Dufton. The Dutch guy had walked south from Alston and would be going to Langdon Beck, where I had just come from, the following day. He was carrying a tent but in view of the poor weather was contemplating upgrading to B&Bs and leaving the tent at the YHA to be collected later.
My room was in an annexe to the main house and the landlady supplied my breakfast requisites and packed lunch in the evening so that I could make an early start if I wanted. Dufton to Garrigill is 16 miles, one of the longest sections on my itinerary, and also includes the traverse of Cross Fell which at 893m is the highest point on the PW. In view of the prediction of unsettled weather, I resolved to set off early as better conditions were forecast for the morning. I was on my way soon after 7am in bright sunshine and within two hours reached Knock Fell which comprised most of the ascent. A welcome breeze, like someone turning on the air conditioning, greeted me at the summit. The weather was perfect and the way straightforward with slabs masking the worse of the bogs. By 11am I was at Cross Fell and making my way towards the bothy known as Greg's Hut after the climber John Gregory. The hut was originally used by lead miners who would live there during the week and go home at the weekends. Now it's a refuge for tired and bedraggled walkers, some of whom stay overnight. I looked into the grimy and caliginous interior, grateful that my own accommodation arrangements were more indulgent.   By 2pm, after a wearying trudge along the aptly named Corpse Road, an interminable rocky track, I reached Garrigill.



© David Thompson 2012

Baldersdale to Langdon Beck

Those of you who are itching to get out there and start the PW will have been anxiously waiting for me to share my clothing tips for the expedition. So here goes. Alternatively if you subscribe to the view that just as patriotism is the last resort of the scoundrel, so lists are the last resort of the bankrupt blogger, you may skip this bit.  
My general philosophy concerning outdoor clothing is straightforward: just buy the most expensive. Designer labels have not yet infiltrated the outdoor clothing market, so value is broadly proportional to cost as prices are not distorted by brand premiums. Since significant advances are still being made in outdoor clothing technology, higher cost normally translates into better performance.   It is axiomatic that the most important piece of equipment for the walker is a decent pair of boots. Nevertheless, many people take the view that nowhere in England really necessitates boots and that less damage is done to the environment by walking in lighter footwear. My fossil friend is undertaking the PW in trainers following the advice in his guidebook, but regrets the decision in view of the exceptionally wet ground following months of incessant rain. My own footwear is a pair of well-used leather boots made by Berghaus. For socks I favour Bridgedale, and couple a thin inner pair with a well-padded outer pair. Protected by Gortex gaiters, this combination of socks and boots has kept my feet dry in all but the most penetrating downpours.
I'm very sensitive to sun so while many walkers favour shorts I always wear trousers. For this trip, I have used only Arc'teryx trousers. They are thin enough to be cool in summer and dry so quickly that there is no need for waterproof overtrousers. I wear a Craghoppers shirt, with a high collar to protect my neck from the sun, over a Berghaus Argentium T-shirt which supposedly neutralises sweat related odours, but it has never been put to the test since I rinse it each evening and it dries in a few hours, ready for wear by the morning. My midlayer is a very thin windproof Mountain Equipment garment, halfway between a shirt and a fleece. It's invaluable on winter mornings walking to the Tube as it disappears unobtrusively into my computer bag as soon as I reach the warmth of the station, but so far on the PW it has stayed in my rucksack.   My most recent acquisition is a multi-pocket waistcoat made by Paramo. I like to support Paramo as their products are excellent and they are manufactured by a women's cooperative in Colombia. The waistcoat is lightweight and has a plethora of useful pockets (I found a new one yesterday after wearing it for a week) including one large enough for an OS map and a concealed compartment for documents such as passports.   I have a heavy duty Arc'teryx cagoul but for summer on the PW a Gortex Paclite Shell by Berghaus is adequate and more compact to carry.   I've always been partial to hats and as a student affected a thick Russian-style pork pie continuously for three years. My dream is to wear a tall top hat like the ones in the crowd scenes of Victorian costume dramas.  That might look out of place on the PW, even if I was shooting grouse, so I content myself with my trusty Tilley Airflo, the third incumbent as its predecessors sadly met untimely ends.
Most of the equipment required for walking is uncontroversial. Unless you're strolling the grounds of a National Trust house in sight of the teashop, a map is mandatory. Even if you don't know how to use it, it's worth having a compass as with one in your possession you'll feel less embarrassed being picked up by mountain rescue. The GPS divides opinion. Frankly I wouldn't go beyond the M25 without one, but many people view them as little short of cheating. However even those who sneer at them occasionally ask me for a quick peek to confirm their location when lost. In retrospect, I'm pretty certain that the reason for my rapid acceptance into the group I met on the Coast to Coast was that their GPS had stopped working.   The issue which really excites walkers is trekking poles. Meet any large group of walkers and you'll see people using none, one and two with the number of poles per person normally increasing in proportion to age. Two-pole users are the most vociferous advocates of their cause and it wouldn't surprise me if some of them fantasise about carrying even more and privately intone "four poles good, two poles bad" like latterday inhabitants of Animal Farm. It reminds me of a riddle which seasoned travellers use to scare nervous fliers. Q: why do 747s have four engines? A: because there's not room for eight.
I first encountered walking poles 15 years ago during a holiday in the Lake District. My friend Richard had recently acquired one and I spent the first day being sceptical until he let me have a turn and I was hooked. It had a horizontal cork handle, well-shaped so that it felt very comfortable in the hand. Before our next walk, we nipped into an outdoor store and I made a beeline for a similar pole. The sales assistant intercepted me saying that the horizontal design was intended for elderly users and offered me one with a vertical grip instead. I could see Richard wincing in the background; curiously that pole didn't put in an appearance on our next trip.  
I decided to detour to Middleton-in-Teesdale to stock up on bananas at the Co-op. Middleton is an attractive village with more facilities than it has a right to given its size, and I couldn't help noticing that for the price of a London flat you could buy a small estate. As usual, I briefly contemplated the exchange before concluding, as usual, that I'd miss the Arcola too much. Outside the cafe where I treated myself to a cappucino, a small knot of people was gathered around a man holding an Olympic torch. This being the north of England it is quite acceptable to sidle up to a group and join in the conversation. I learned that he had been nominated to carry the torch because of his voluntary work with young people running youth clubs and the like. Now he was touring the area, allowing people have their photo taken holding the torch in return for a contribution to a guide dogs charity. One elderly woman, very excited at the prospect, didn't have an email address so he offered to send her the photo by post. All very heart-warming, even to an Olympic cynic like me and as you can see from the photo below I too succumbed to the temptation.
PS I'm obviously becoming psychic since  I saw the women in the photo below a couple days after posting this blog.




© David Thompson 2012

Keld to Baldersdale

At Keld I stayed in a converted youth hostel. It's most notable feature is a cavernous drying room, heated by a power plant resembling a small nuclear reactor purloined during the break up of the Soviet Union. The proprietor relieved me of my damp boots and they joined several pairs already enjoying a sauna. I took the opportunity to do some laundry; by the time I went bed it was all thoroughly dessicated. In the morning, my boots were properly dry for the first time in a week and I dutifully applied a coat of water repellent. I'm old-fashioned so I use dubbin, an unpleasant substance rather like earwax, but very effective. When I needed a new supply recently, the assistant in the outdoor shop said sniffily that it was only appropriate for football boots and that I should try a sports shop.  
Keld marks the intersection of the PW and the Coast to Coast and the proprietor confirmed my suspicion that the latter is much the more popular route. Unlike my other overnight stops so far, Keld was almost full, although I was the only afficionado of the PW as everybody else was either on the Coast to Coast or planning circular jaunts taking in its highlights. The number of walkers now attempting the PW annually is around 4,000, significantly fewer than the 24,000 it used to attract probably due to the profusion of shorter, more interesting and more accessible long distance routes both in the UK and overseas. During a group walking holiday in Iceland last year, my companions were extolling the virtues of trails in places as diverse as Corsica and Patagonia. The Coast to Coast also got a good press, but curiously no one mentioned the PW.
Breakfast was served from 7.30 and I decided to make an early start as rain was forecast later. After Tan Hill, a broad plain opened up which looked like easy walking. Closer inspection revealed that it was marshland and I half-expected to see Magwitch loom up from the quagmire. The going was difficult and slow, requiring frequent detours to skirt the worst of the bog and recover the vestigial path. After enduring that for a couple of hours I felt an uncharacteristic wave of fatigue.  From Trough Heads Farm there is a choice of routes. The original shorter one involving a climb or a longer, flatter alternative via Bowes which was introduced to increase the accommodation options along the PW. I was nervous about selecting the original route as it crosses a natural feature called God's Bridge and as a lifelong atheist I suspected that He might take the opportunity to prove His existence by casting me into the river. Eventually laziness triumphed over caution and I decided to take my chances with the wrath of the Almighty. God's Bridge had been recommended as a must-see by a family I'd met, which was another incentive for selecting that option, but when I arrived it seemed quite unremarkable, not even worthy of a photograph.
 
The sun came out later, making a mockery of the weather forecast. It's said that if you want to predict tomorrow's weather simply assume it will be the same as today's and since the UK weather generally follows three day cycles you'll be correct 66% of the time, which is almost as good as the professional forecasters who average 75%.  In the afternoon, I met a couple of day walkers who said they'd come from Durham. Thinking that was a long way to drive for a day out, I was impressed and only subsequently realised that Durham is actually less than 30 miles away and that it was me who had travelled a long way over the last 10 days. In fact, I have today passed the halfway point on the PW, which would certainly justify a celebration drink if only there were a pub nearby.

© David Thompson 2012

Hawes to Keld

 When I started travelling on business, I assumed that one of the benefits would be chatting to fellow travellers. I soon realised that most business people are wary of entering into conversations with strangers, especially on long haul flights, cautious of being trapped by a crashing bore. There were exceptions, such as the well-publicised case of the Canadian telecomms executive who allowed her passion for a fellow passenger free rein during a transatlantic redeye with predictable consequences. On the PW, sensitivity to the preferences of other walkers is polite. Many solitary walkers guard their status jealously and don't welcome overtures of friendliness. Groups of walkers can afford to be more flexible as they have a greater buffering capacity for uncongenial company than individuals. On the Coast to Coast I encountered a set of four friends and, after a screening interview during which it was established that I shared an alma mater with two of them, I was admitted to the group. I walked with them for a couple of days and we shared convivial dinners. Fell runners are in a different category altogether. They rarely deign to acknowledge plodding walkers and would not waste breath on conversation. Clad in T-shirts, running shoes and the briefest of shorts, they skim along effortlessly, paying no more attention to the path with its rocks and bogs than if they were on a treadmill in a gym.
On the long climb to Great Shunner Fell today, I was followed by a lone walker who eventually overtook me. We grunted the usual acknowledgements but after a few minutes he paused to allow me to catch up. He pointed to some stones on the path and explained that the patterns were fossils of prehistoric ferns and that related specimens could be seen in the collection at Kew. I took a photo (see below) and he beetled off towards the next summit.  
The route was easy to follow and I tuned into Radio 4. There was a programme about Tolkein, which interested me as I used to live in the part of Birmingham which was reportedly his inspiration for Lord of the Rings. Supposedly hobbits were modelled on the local inhabitants but fortunately there is no record of their accent.  
When I reached Thwaite, my erudite companion was sitting outside a cafe, airing his feet. He showed me a photograph in his guidebook of the fossils we had seen and said he'd picked up a loose piece. He passed me a flat rock and I could see the characteristic indentations. "A great souvenir of the Pennine Way" I said. "Those regular dimples almost look like the pattern on asbestos sheeting." He examined it carefully and turned it over. The back was machine-smooth. He tested the edge with a fingernail. Small flakes fell off. He looked up, smiled and tossed it into a nearby bin. "Just as well you didn't take it to a museum for carbon dating", I commented.

© David Thompson 2012

Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Hawes

Over a third of the way now, and the going is getting tougher. As I had predicted at the outset, the main challenge posed by the PW is mental rather than physical. To the untutored eye, one moor, hill, field looks much like another and yesterday the burgeoning monotony started to take its toll. However Davinder had agreed with me that the main purpose of embarking on the PW is not enjoyment but satisfaction, and that would not be forthcoming without facing down some adversary, even if it's just tedium. My usual walking environment is urban, and I was missing the endless variety offered by London with its pulsating street life and oases of countryside-in-miniature. But today the weather brightened and I was able to appreciate the appeal of the fells after the sensory deprivation of interminable moorland. Behind me Pen-y-Ghent glowered like an intemperate monarch, to the left the Ribble viaduct resembled a forgotten Hornby toy and a long curved ridge stretched ahead, dappled by the shadows of high clouds. For the first time, I had the sense I was marking out the backbone of England.
All day the trail followed the old packhorse roads which were the highways for transporting the products of the countryside - wool, iron, charcoal and peat - and are now the preserve of the walker. So clear was the way that I felt safe to indulge in some music and luxuriated in Simon Rattle's peerless recording of Mahler's Resurrection symphony played by the CBSO. Rattle conducted it at the concert which opened Birmingham's Symphony Hall and also selected it to start his 2010 season with the Berlin Phil, which I insisted on attending during a weekend city break with my friend Andy. It formed a powerful soundtrack to the PW and other walkers looked startled to see me conducting an invisible orchestra with my walking pole.
Routine governs the way I pack and unpack for trips, usually putting the same items in the same places. This minimises the effort required to achieve repetitive tasks while reducing the risk of things going wrong. It seems to me the obvious way to organise one's life, releasing time to concentrate on more interesting matters. A colleague to whom I confided this philosophy remarked, with approval, that it was "very six sigma". I nodded sagely, reluctant to admit I didn't have the foggiest idea what he meant.   Despite this much-vaunted efficiency, I can't help noticing that, after 8 days, there are an awful lot of unused items in my suitcase. Will I ever need either of those two new Paramo shirts, bought for this trip, since the one I wear every day dries overnight when it needs washing? And those insulated waterproof trousers would look more at home in Spitzbergen than the Yorkshire Dales. I think of Davinder again; everything he needs for three weeks on the trail is in one rucksack, not much larger than the one I use as a day pack, and wonder whether he has more insights into six sigma than I do.



© David Thompson 2012

Malham to Horton-in-Ribblesdale

Malham must be one of the few places in England where you'd feel conspicuous if you weren't wearing walking gear. The entire village appears to be organised around outdoor activities, walking and climbing especially, with cafe signs proclaiming "muddy boots welcome" and the only shop of any size displaying boots and cagouls more prominently than postcards and ice cream. I had plenty of time to explore as Malham was the first of my two scheduled rest days, although I felt somewhat of a fraud since, with the exception of the first day, my exertions have not hitherto been excessive. Nevertheless my legs have felt increasingly tired at the end of each day, so planning a break before the challenge of Pen-y-Ghent was probably wise.
My earlier post about solitude was, I confess, slightly disingenuous. I do derive pleasure from the company of other walkers, many of whom have unusual life stories which they will share more candidly with acquaintances who pass quickly into obscurity than with friends or family. The strange intimacy produced by sharing a walk, jointly finding the way or agreeing it's time for a water break, is reminiscent of the ad hoc sense of community I used to enjoy on overseas work projects. Being away from people's various incarnations of home and cast adrift in an alien environment, whether it's incarceration in an office in an insipid mid-West city or tussling with an inscrutable map on the PW, is a potent leveller.
When company is not available and I'm bored with my own thoughts, I can turn to my Pure radio, a splendid device the size of smartphone which boasts FM and DAB capability and a battery that lasts for yonks. Reception is patchy on the PW so I also have my iplayer stocked with music and audio books. Pride of place is taken by the BBC's recent dramatisation of Ulysses which was broadcast throughout Bloomsday this year. Despite several half-hearted attempts, I have never progressed further than the first few pages of the book, so Radio 4's abridged marathon was a boon. It sustained me through the first phase of the PW and was sufficiently engaging to cause me to miss the way more than once. My polymath father devoured Ulysses and used quotations as chapter headings in one of his books on applied optics. Hearing the radio adaptation made me realise that it must have had a particular resonance for him. Leopold Bloom is a Jew married to a gentile who lives in an overtly anti-semitic society, a scenario which mirrored my father's situation pretty accurately. Who knows what other parallels he might have discerned. The extent to which I didn't really know him was apparent when I read the memories and tributes from his peers and former students on the occasion of his retirement. Universally they regarded him as affable, warm and supportive, which was not always the persona he presented to his family.
Today I eschewed iplayer distractions and focussed on the walk. The steep climb at Pen-y-Ghent was accompanied by a strong wind and the rocks were slippery following earlier rain. My sense of achievement at reaching the summit was rather diminished by finding a family, including two young children and a grandmother, airily picnicking there, quite unfazed by the ascent.




© David Thompson 2012