Simons Seat

An enormous coach, looking as out of place as a parking meter on a fell, dwarfed the limestone portico of Newfield Hall the next morning. Visitor numbers had swelled overnight and close on forty people surged into the venerable charabanc. Like a whale in a canal, predictably this colossus caused major blockages in the narrow Yorkshire lanes. At one point, confronted by our stationary and intransigent conveyance and faced with the prospect reversing between unforgiving drystone walls, a nervous lady driver relinquished the driving seat to her husband and scurried round the back to hop into the passenger seat. After annoying a Chelsea's worth of 4x4 drivers, intent on bagging prime parking spots at local viewpoints in time for lunch, the result of these antics was that we were 15 minutes late arriving at the designated start point.

Now 15 minutes here or there starting a country walk may not seem much to you or me (Sally wouldn't know the difference anyway as her achingly stylish watch eschews numbers) but in the precision world of HF, that makes all the difference between a tea stop and, well, no tea stop. After an hour in cocooned in the coach, we trooped into the toilets in the adjacent pub before joining the group leader for the walk we had chosen. Mine was nowhere to be seen, and one of the other group leaders cheerfully informed me that, being the 'hard' group, they had already set off, believing everyone was present. There aren't many imperatives associated with being a walk leader but ensuring your party is complete at the start is, not unreasonably, one of them. I started in the direction indicated, up a steep and winding track, with no idea how far they'd gone, hoping at least they were still on the same path. When I spotted them, the leader trotted down to meet me, effusively apologetic and muttering that it was difficult to distinguish between guests' markings of 'M' and 'H' on the sign up list for medium and hard walks and consequently they were uncertain of the numbers on each. He seemed a decent chap and bumbling is not a hanging offence so my annoyance dissipated, a tribute to my holiday mood.

I spent much of the walk talking to Eileen with whom I'd shared a taxi from Skipton station. She was recovering from an ankle injury and wanted to test her capabilities before an upcoming walking holiday in the Dolomites. She was using two poles, often the sign of a less confident walker and, to establish the pecking order, I mentioned airily some of my previous treks, such as the Pennine Way. She listened attentively. Had I been to Jersey, she wondered? Oh yes, I'd walked the entire coastal path, it's about 55 miles, I explained, so it takes about a week. She'd done it too, but for charity; they started at 3am and finished at 9pm. I was confused. You mean, you did the whole thing in less than 24 hours, I spluttered? Yes, they'd got lost a couple of times, she said regretfully, that's why they finished so late.

With only four of us, including the leader, we made reasonable time, and stopped for lunch at windswept Simons Seat, very welcome after half an hours steep climb, the only part of the day which generated any sweat. I'd noticed one of our party, a taciturn Dutchman, sneak occasional glances at his GPS and assumed that his confidence in our leader had been somewhat eroded by the earlier faux pas, but while we ate lunch he explained he did geocaching. He had located a cache nearby and wanted to find it if we were game for a short detour. Geocaching has always struck me as a rather elegant fusion of the archaic treasure hunting urge and the challenge of finding new ways to harness the capabilities of modern technology, so I was intrigued to see the process in action. The GPS took us to the base of the imposing rocky outcrop which comprises Simons Seat, on top of which is the trig point. But amongst large boulders, small rocks and stones there was no obvious clue as to the whereabouts of the cache. The Dutchman found it in seconds. Behind a group of artfully arranged stones, which his practiced eye immediately distinguished from the general debris, there was a small plastic box of the type used for sandwiches. As well as a logbook, in which he entered his name, there were various trinkets and also a 'geocoin' which he explained you could take and relocate to another cache and whose trajectory could be tracked online.

 

The landscape reminded me of the Pennine Way, not surprisingly as Newfield Hall is itself minutes from the trail, and this first walk evoked unpleasant memories of endless trudging across featureless muddy moors. However the last section passed through woods by the river Wharfe, finishing at Bolton Abbey. Day trippers had parked their cars in semicircles, like the wagoners of the Wild West, creating a barrier of privacy within which to enjoy their barbecues and beer. No such sustenance for us. Despite making good time, we'd barely made up the stolen 15 minutes and we headed back to the coach, dozing as it trundled through country lanes, irritating the lesser minnows.

© David Thompson 2015