June 22, 2004: Ilkley to Burnsall

In choosing the Dales Way as the setting for my annual walking holiday with the Lees and Marge Rogers I was also celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of my first walk in England. I had invested a great deal of time in the planning of this venture, which I hoped to complete in one go – some 80 miles of walking over seven days from Ilkley in West Yorkshire to Bowness on Lake Windermere. I had burrowed into the guidebooks, negotiated with the Sherpa Van Company, and contacted all of our accommodation hosts. And as usual, the Lees were happy to accept anything I had done in their name.

At the last minute, however, I had proposed one change in our plans. I often like to begin these walks directly from the moment our train arrives at the starting point – and so I had always imagined us leaving London on the morning of Tuesday the 22nd, changing trains in Leeds, and arriving in Ilkley at 10:30 in the morning. But the more I thought about it, the more I had second thoughts. Day One called for at least thirteen miles, a long day for us. Moreover Sherpa could not take our backpacks under these circumstances and we would have to begin the walk by finding a taxi in Ilkley and commissioning its driver to do this task for us – a task that might further delay our start. The unions were also threatening rail strikes. For all these reasons I decided (and Tosh agreed) to play it safe by putting us into Ilkley on the night before our venture began. We wouldn’t have to get up for a 7:30 train, Sherpa could now carry our bags from the outset, and we could make a much earlier start on a day during which there would be much that we might want to examine at some leisure.

So, only a few days before the trip began, I went to Paddington, renewed my senior rail card, and bought a quite reasonably priced pair of tickets, one on Monday’s 14:35 from Kings Cross and a second for the following Monday’s 17:13 from Windermere. The Lees followed suit two days later. This meant that, only just returned from New York and from our fortieth wedding anniversary party on the Thursday, I could now spend Monday packing again. A cab pulled up at 1:30 and I was off. I was very excited to be underway at last.

Traffic was horrendous as we approached King’s Cross and there wasn’t much time for me to find the Lees and Margie. A slattern was trying to bum cigarettes from the travelers who were crowded onto the concourse – staring at the platform notice boards with the rapt attention of moon-gazers. The other three had seats in the carriage next to mine – so we agreed to meet on the platform in Leeds and I went to find my seat.

I had a window facing forward, but I was trapped by a businessman from a car rental firm who was tapping away on his laptop – when he was not on his mobile phone. This instrument of torture was also in constant use in the seat opposite mine, where it was manipulated by a baby-faced lager lout with fuzz on his face. I worked on an acrostic. Then I worked on another as signal failures meant that we sat for nearly fifty minutes in Peterborough.

When we arrived in Leeds this delay meant that we were now searching for the 6:00 train to Ilkley, not the 5:00. We had time to visit the loos and search out our platform – it was crowded with commuters who were trying to find a dry spot as rain pelted down in a sudden shower. Once aboard we found seats (not everyone did) and enjoyed the pastoral delights of West Yorkshire as we edged our way, with many stops, northward.

It was still overcast when we reached the end of the line in Ilkley but it was no longer raining. I had printed a map of the town off the Internet and so we lofted our backpacks, our daypacks in our hands, and headed west; it was a ten-minute walk to our b&b on the Skipton Road.

A teenage girl answered our ring and went to fetch her father. He talked very fast and had a stammer (Tosh complained that she had trouble understanding him) but we were shown to our rooms (each with en suite facilities) and given a lightning review of the evening meal prospects in Ilkley. The latter did not seem very bright – since the local pubs were in the grips of Euro 2004 football (it was the night of the England-Croatia match) and were only serving hot dogs at halftime.

We set off in sunshine at about 7:30 and got some advice from locals, ending up at a trendy and almost empty wine bar cum brasserie called Escape. Harold got annoyed because the waitress kept saying “No problem” in response to every question. The food wasn’t too bad – I had some paté and then sausages with mustard mash but the gravy had too much wine in it and the mustard seeds, floating atop this deep brown sauce, were off-putting. Margie was scandalized when she discovered that the Lees took no vitamins. Throughout the meal our waitress brought us goal-by-goal information on the Croatia match. The shouts of the kitchen staff were sufficient to inform us of the English scores.

The game still had some twenty minutes to go when we returned to our b&b, Harold struggling a bit with the key – which turned out to be his own house key. England had won 4-2 and we were free to return our own rooms for an early night.

The next morning we met our hostess, a tightly coiled little woman with boundless energy and non-stop chatter. She was a fan of James Brown and the Red Hot Chili Peppers and had recently been to their concerts. I told her I might have to call her if Sherpa failed to pick up our bags (they had never sent me any labels – which were waiting for me at the end of the trip, having been mailed second class on the day of our departure). Our landlady told me not to worry – and that the bags could always be delivered by cab – and then I had to get in great detail the story of what happened to other walkers in similar situations and this reminded her of the Dales Way walker who wouldn’t take her advice and got lost, etc., etc.

We piled our bags in the sitting room and set off on a beautiful clear sunny morning at 9:20, getting as far as the corner before Harold decided that perhaps he hadn’t done a thorough search of his room before departure – and that he would have to go back and check. So we waited for him while the pavement was swept by a man in a machine – and at 9:30 we began our walk again.

I should mention that I was beginning this walk with the usual catalogue of health anxieties. Throughout the spring I had been having trouble with my legs, the aftermath of back trouble, a persistent sciatica, and two falls. Both the calf and the hamstring muscles of my right leg had been tight and I could feel a twinge in the buttocks whenever I bent over. My hips hurt sometimes too. My right wrist, now encased in a copper bracelet, had never been right since my second fall. Still, I had been doing a lot of leg and back exercises and I had reason to believe that I would be okay. In my backpack I had secreted my collapsible walking stick but in the event, my legs held up very well, and I had no back problems at all. For the first five days, indeed, I would say that my wrist, which I needed to use to get over stiles, was the most bothersome of all these problems. No need to worry in the first stages of today’s walk, for we passed through twelve gates before stiles made an appearance. This was an early lead never relinquished, as gates beat stiles 41-18.

One of the nice things about our b&b was its close proximity to the official start of the Dales Way. We had only to cross the Skipton Road and descend Stockeld Road to reach the Old Bridge, where I asked a resident, out with her dog, to take our picture. Then we entered a shady tarmac path on the River Wharfe’s right bank and we were off.

Walking was easy and the countryside was lovely and green; having bought an additional new memory card for my camera I took many more pictures than usual. We were soon marching among the local ladies who had parked their SUVs in front of the tennis club. It was warm in the sun and I stopped to put some sun block on the back of my neck; Harold lathered all over, though I told him it would be a while before we faced the sun. In any event it was the last time on this trip that anyone would need this kind of protection.

Our route paralleled the river – all day long – and here we were only a few fields away. When we were close to the water conditions were often a bit wet and we had a number of footbridges to help us over feeder streams. Eventually we reached the tarmac of the old Addingham road, turning off to enter the precincts of a trendy estate, Smithy Greaves and Old Ing – built into the substructure of an ancient mill and its cottages. We paused to photograph the weir here, made our way through the flowerpots and then climbed some steps to reach another stretch of tarmac. This took us by the ivy-covered rectory, where there were a number of exotic birds, including a peacock, and then we descended from the roadway to circle beneath the Addingham church – shortly abandoning the Dales Way for a direct assault on the village (I had another Internet-generated map) because I had promised Tosh a stop for morning coffee.

The pubs weren’t open yet but we were directed forward to a small shopping precinct where the Good Food Shop also served as the local coffee house. Tosh ordered a tart and the others drank coffee – I had a Diet Coke. The dozy young man in charge of seeing to the needs of all the village dowagers had to be reminded several times that he had promised to bring us some water. Margie bought an apple. I was rather anxious to get going but it took the women forever to get out of the loos; at 11:30 we were ready to resume our march. I had spotted a public footpath sign pointing back to the river and had looked this up on the OS map while we were having our liquid. Thus I was able to get us back to the Wharfe on village back streets without retracing our steps to the church.

Another mill development and a caravan park ensued. Stiles began to make an appearance and there was even a hill to climb but we were making good progress. We had expected to be driven onto the B6160 twice on this stretch, but a new stile must have been installed because we did not find ourselves face to face with this highway until we had negotiated Low Park.

Even here there was a way forward across the road and then parallel to it over hill and dale (beginning with an encounter with an ancient Friends meeting house near Fairfield Farm) – with the traffic just to our right over a stone wall. But we were soon learning that the DW’s idea of route-marking was indifferent at best and so there was some ambiguity over when to return to the highway – and we may have done this too early. It didn’t matter since we would have to do some B6160 walking anyway, but it seemed to go on for about half a mile – when we at last reached a road junction, which we took to the right to reach the new Bolton Bridge.

We climbed down to the riverside again, passed the Old Bolton Bridge and gained our first sight of the ruins of Bolton Abbey across a wide tourist-dotted pasture. I knew where to turn uphill to reach a cafe, the Tea Cottage, where, after six miles, we were able to order our sandwiches and chips from a flustered senior waitress just learning the intricacies of the cash register.

The scene below us was wonderful, the bare ribs of the abbey, the greensward, the tree-covered hills and the winding river all in view, and we had a relaxing time. I had an egg salad sandwich and threw some of my chips to the local jackdaws, whose silvery heads were described by Tosh as looking like chain mail. Harold and I drank lager and everyone used the loos. But it was now past 2:00 and we had slightly more than half way to go.

We climbed down the steps and followed the wide path to the rear of the church and over the bridge to the left bank of the Wharfe. The Lees paused to buy ice creams and I got well ahead on the uphill stretch that followed. Margie joined me but we both waited a while for Tosh and Harold to catch up. Even up here in the woodland there were lots of people about, prams and dogs as well. When we were reassembled I began a descent on tarmac and we soon reached Pickles Gill, a beck that dashes over the surface of the road on its way to the Wharfe.

Margie was the first to attempt the ford with its mossy brick bottom and I had soon splashed across too. “It’s slippery in the middle,” she advised the Lees. I don’t know what they made of this message or even if they registered it properly but the next thing we heard was an almighty splash – Harold’s feet had come out from under him and he had fallen on his back into the water!

It was obvious that he was in pain and in shock but he resisted all attempts at communication, barely able to talk. In a minute he signaled that he wanted help in getting up out of the streambed and we pulled him from his watery seat. He slumped down at the side of the road and we waited for him to come back to us. When he did it was obvious that he had cracked his ribs on the right side (in spite of the protection of his day pack) and that he was having difficulty breathing. Undoubtedly we had just witnessed the most serious accident of our long career on the trail.

There was no traffic on this road but I knew there would be plenty of cars and the promise of further assistance just around the corner. Harold said he could walk so, Tosh carrying his pack, we slowly made our way back to the river and upstream as far as the bridge over to the Cavendish Pavilion – and its car park and refreshments. By this time Harold seemed somewhat recovered, though still ashen, and he disdained any talk of a lift to our b&b, insisting that he could still walk. Margie bought her only mint choc ice of the trip at a nearby kiosk and we continued our stroll into the Strid nature reserve.

Progress seemed quite slow but it was steady and soon we had reached the famous waterfall, though Harold was not in the mood to hop about on the rocks for the best views. On we went, leaving the lovely woods and emerging into fields near an old aqueduct. The Dales Way crosses the river here but there was an open path on our side and, as I had been planning a detour to see Barden Tower, we decided to use it.

When we reached Barden Bridge, however, it was obvious that there would be a steep uphill stretch to reach the tower and as Harold still disdained any assistance we decided to cross the bridge and continue on toward our ultimate destination, Burnsall.

Walking was easy here  – we met a toad on the path and lambs and ducks were present in great number to give us amusement. There was a brief inland detour at Howgill but most of this last stretch kept us close to the lovely bubbling river. At last I could see the stone buildings of Burnsall and its bridge, which we crossed to enter the village. There was still a long uphill walk past the school, the village hall and the church before arriving at our b&b, Glebe Barn. It was 6:35 and we had walked, I now realized, some 14 miles.

Our landlady, Mrs. Alison Fort, was a welcoming presence (and reported the safe arrival of our bags) and soon fell into conference with Tosh over what to do with Harold, who clearly could not walk on the morrow. This topic also dominated our dinner conversation at the Red Lion back at the bottom of the village. Harold was having trouble finding a comfortable seating position and was still short of breath. Nevertheless we managed to get through a meal (I had a small steak and a gorgeous sticky toffee pudding). We were seated in a kind of afterthought annex of this rather posh hostelry  – with people pressed up against us at all angles and it was a relief to begin the return journey.

By this time Tosh had decided to ask Mrs. Fort if Harold could stay tomorrow in his room and the adjacent tv room, where, quite late at night, she took a business call from someone in Iowa. He could then be fetched by his wife by taxi – after the rest of us had made it to our second night’s destination, Kettlewell, on foot. I was overruled in my own suggestions: I wanted him to go to Grassington by taxi, where he could be looked at by Mrs. Fort’s employer, the town doctor – but this was seen as unnecessary. I gave Harold the muscle relaxants and the anti-inflammatories left over from my recent sciatica attack and used the mobile phone to call Dorothy. We were all unnerved by Harold’s fall (he had cracked his ribs on three previous occasions), not knowing what the effects would be for our venture. In many ways we never recovered from this opening day accident. In this chastened mood I went to sleep among the coin collections and the rugby posters of Mrs. Fort’s university student son.

To continue with the next stage our walk you need:

Day 2: Burnsall to Kettlewell