Gordale Scar

Novice consultants are warned: fail to prepare, and prepare to fail. Trite it may be, but its truth is repeatedly demonstrated. I had not anticipated the obvious opening gambit of fellow holidaymakers: had I been on an HF holiday before? I trawled my memory and recalled a week in the early nineties at Freshwater Bay on the Isle of Wight. It was not a success. Hermione didn't suit a walking holiday, she was too heavy to carry and too young (or inadequately motivated) to walk. So when pressed I murmured something non-committal about a faintly remembered week long ago. It was Bob Morris, a rather self-consciously worthy fellow, typically Quaker, who I think first mentioned HF to me and in those days the properties still retained the faintly ascetic atmosphere associated with their founder, Thomas Arthus Leonard, whose admirable mission was to bring the benefits of outdoor activity to the masses.

Newfield Hall, magnificently refurbished with a well-stocked bar and heated indoor pool, has moved with the times and the expectations of its clientele. Despite, or more likely, because of the modernisation, HF boasts a loyal following. No one I met admitted to being a first-timer and many, including my erstwhile walking companion Eileen, had a dozen or more venues under their belt, in the UK and abroad. I boarded the bus promptly the next day and identified my walk leader; I didn't want a repetition of the previous day's blunder. The three groups all set off in the same direction towards Janet's Foss, a waterfall that delighted many of the party but which the taciturn Dutchman and I regarded with disdain; we had both been to Iceland and it's hard to compete with those cataracts coursing down mountains, wreathed in the sulphurous smell of geysers. Moving away from the water I noticed two of the leaders locked in conference and looking worried. I sidled up and heard them say that one of the group had been left behind at the hotel. Evidently there was some confusion about whether the group size was 29 or 30. It reminded me of the old joke about mathematicians: there are three types, those that can count and those that can't.

The highlight of the walk would be Gordale Scar, an immense limestone gorge guarded by boulders the size of bungalows. As we approached, we saw a party of Scouts ascending with the use of ropes. HF doesn't do climbing, so in an outbreak of newspeak worthy of Orwell, we had been informed that 'scrambling' would be required to conquer the gorge. As planned, the three groups split at this point, those with friends and relatives who might mourn their loss skirted the gorge and headed for a cream tea, while the rest of us looked at one another, raised our eyebrows and mentally checked the provisions of our wills. We approached the base of the rocks across the shallow river, littered with small rounded rocks which formed slippery stepping stones, offspring of the colossus we were to climb. The roar of the water was deafening as the group gathered at the start point and we could barely hear the leader, querulously brisk, announcing he would go first to show they way. He reiterated the mantra: three points of contact, meaning that you should only move one hand or foot at a time, leaving the remaining limbs holding the rock face. I recalled a similar injunction from my mother when I used to climb trees and, momentarily, found comfort in the memory. I duly followed after the leader but after a moment he was out of sight, leaving me with only guesswork or intuition to determine the next move. All I knew was that it had to be upwards; the rest of the group was watching so, despite the alarms bells of my self-preservation instinct, I couldn't turn back. Unbidden, a jumbled recollection of the words of Macbeth came to mind: I am in blood steeped so far, etc. I flailed for a handhold and found one. The next foothold was less obvious but gradually I gained confidence and managed to clamber inelegantly to the top. The rest of the group followed and we stood at the summit, admiring the view and congratulating one another on our achievement. Then we saw something curious. A man was following the route we had come, ascending the rock. But unlike us, gingerly clawing our way up while religiously observing the three point rule, he was gaily ascending while carrying his dog.

The 'hard' group had grown from three to nine and I spent some time in conversation with a German from Cologne. He riffed on the social changes engulfing the country and, in particular, how young women were now obliged to work since as well as supporting their children, increasingly they would be under pressure to supplement the inadequate pensions of their parents. The squeezed middle, to adapt a Milibandism. He went on to describe the influx of immigrants into Germany. While young Spaniards fleeing high unemployment (just over 49% at the time of writing) are well placed to get work since they are educated, refugees from central Africa typically had few marketable skills, but, in a civilised society, their needs could not be ignored, with the attendant financial implications. I pointed out that the problem is not new. Poverty and deprivation, exacerbated by periodic famines and wars, have been endemic in central Africa for decades, as evidenced by the fundraising efforts of charities such as Oxfam. All that has changed is the proximity of the problem. While it is simple to ignore the tribulations of peoples on another continent, it offends western sensibilities when they are in our midst. I expanded on the theme. Altruism is attenuated by distance, whether geographical or generational. This is why craven politicians, motivated primarily by reelection prospects, laud the benefits of policies accruing to their constituents and immediate families, not the wider community or our descendants who in a century's time will occupy a world looted by their forbears. He listened politely but seemed unmoved.

Towards the end of the day we joined the Pennine Way, looping past Malham Tarn and across the famous limestone pavement. We were proceeding in the opposite direction to my epic journey and combined with better weather and companionship it felt less gruelling. We passed the guesthouse where I'd spent two nights having taken a rest day in Malham. Rewalking the path made me thoughtful. What had I accomplished in the intervening three years? Angling for melancholy, I dredged up achievement. There were at least two successes to celebrate in different ways: Sally and Xanthia.

© David Thompson 2015