June 23, 2004: Burnsall to Kettlewell
The view from Linton Bridge
I watched the abundant birdlife in Mrs. Fort’s backyard as I made my preparations for the second day of our walk on the Dales Way. Last night Harold had expressed a pathetic desire to join us for our walk today, but, alas, he wasn’t even well enough to join us for our breakfast this morning.
For me this meal was always a modest bowl of Alpen, a little fruit juice and scrambled eggs on toast; Tosh and Margie like poached eggs and Mrs. Fort agreed to produce these in the microwave – having given up all attempts to conjure up perfect specimens using more conventional methods. Our hostess was more than generous in allowing Harold to recuperate in one of her bedrooms – since she would be out of the house all day, fetching her son from university in Bath. Some food was sent up to Harold and, after much fussing over his comfort, the three of us at last departed at a rather tardy 10:10.
It was a grey, overcast day (in more ways than one) as I took a picture of the blue clock in the nearby church tower. I had noticed a public footpath sign pointing in the direction of the Wharfe and I was again able to shave off additional mileage by dropping us directly down this lane to the riverside – thus saving us a retreat all the way back to the Red Lion. We had only ten miles or so to cover today, so I wasn’t too worried about the late start.
The walking was quite nice and the scenery was soon dominated by the splendid rocky cliff faces of Loup Scar. After a mile we used a suspension bridge to cross to the left bank, following an easy route among fields and farm animals as far as the village of Linton, whose church was soon apparent on the opposite bank.
The river at Linton is at its most spectacular – with falls and weirs providing a memorable setting. The Way does not cross over to the village itself but we did use its footbridge to place ourselves above the roaring splendor, while another group of walkers was getting a lecture on the opposite bank.
No sooner had we resumed our march toward Grassington than the rain began, a light drizzle that I responded to with rain jacket only. We had only a short distance to go to our lunchtime refuge and we were at Grassington Bridge at 11:45 and soon pulling slowly up the steep main street of the capital of Wharfedale – and headquarters of the Dales National Park. The village was a mixture of the twee and the trendy but we were not seeing it at its best on such a day.
We made slow progress since Tosh wanted to buy an umbrella, Margie postcards, and I a bottle of gin. We re-crossed the wet traffic-filled streets several times but shortly after 12:00 I selected the Foresters Arms as our lunch spot and here we got out of the wet. I drank a pint of lager and had a nice chicken curry. Tosh read her newspaper and I unzipped the bottoms of my walking trousers, which were getting damp, and thus finished my meal in shorts.
At 1:00 or so, when it was time to go, I ventured out to see what the weather was doing; it was only spitting so I again decided to do without my rain trousers during the afternoon’s more substantial stretch, six and half miles to Kettlewell.
We passed the town hall and turned up Chapel Street, soon reaching the open fells for a long series of gates and stiles on a limestone plateau far above and some distance from the riverside. I was using two primary sources for route finding, leaving the more discursive Anthony Burton National Trail guide in my daypack. These were Arthur Gemmell and Colin Speakman’s Dales Way route guide With Associated Walks (Stiles Maps, 1982) and the text of Terry Marsh’s The Dales Way (Cicerone, 1997) – which I had laboriously typed out so that printouts could share space in my map case with the earlier volume. I found the two, one a pictorial representation with all the gates and stiles indicated, and the other, a detailed narrative, to be very useful in tandem – in spite of the fact that the Gemmell and Speakman volume was over twenty years old. These sources were particularly useful because those responsible for the maintenance of this path were frequently remiss in their assistance to walkers on the ground. For instance, having gained the open moorland we now found ourselves without proper guidance at a fork in the grass and I think that, seduced by Tosh’s passion for limestone pavements, we took the wrong, left-hand fork.
It didn’t seem to matter too much as we were heading in the right direction, that is Margie and I were; we often lost track of Tosh, her blue umbrella lifted against the return of a substantial rain, as that lady browsed among the rocks on our left.
Approaching Conistone Pie
The presence of other walkers on our right lead to a slight readjustment in our angle of gradual ascent, but I was often uncertain how far we had come and when I asked another walker how close we were to Conistone Pie he indicated we had half a mile to go – when I had assumed we were almost opposite this eminence. Things became clearer (only metaphorically) as we reached Conistone Dub, with its TV mast. Here there were dozens of walkers, trudging forward in groups toward Grassington, many carrying umbrellas as well.
Having reached the highest point in our route we had an easy enough time of it – if you don’t count some rather substantial stiles (Stiles enjoyed the upper hand today, beating Gates 25-18).
Ahead of us a pine plantation signaled the end of our grassy adventure and above us a farmer was sitting in his land rover yelling commands to his sheep dog – “Away…” Here we encountered a road that began a steep descent in a lovely landscape that seemed to be drying out a bit. Highgate Leys Lane, to give this rocky surface its true name, returned us to tarmac where we turned north on a back road, soon passing Scargill House, a Christian conference center.
It was easy to tell that Tosh was getting anxious about Harold and picking up the speed in consequence, so I proposed that we ignore the off-road DW approach to our village (where I could count no less than ten stiles on the map) and speed forward on tarmac. This we did, the sun finally reasserting itself, and we were soon in Kettlewell, a lovely village that had recently served as the setting for the popular British film, Calendar Girls.
At a bridge beyond the King’s Head I pointed the way forward, on the opposite bank of the village stream, for Tosh and Margie – who would be staying with Mrs. Sheila Lofthouse at Chestnut Cottage. That lady (who told me that the tai chi episodes of the famous film had been shot on the hill above her back yard) had been able to provide accommodation for three only, so I had booked myself into Lynburn, a cottage I now reached by walking upstream, without crossing the brook, along a road. It was 4:35 and we had walked our ten miles.
My b&b in Kettlewell
Mrs. Lorna Thornborrow showed me to my room upstairs. Her nose was out of joint because her other two guests had cancelled when a vacancy had opened up at one of the town’s posh pubs, but it meant that I had the bathroom to myself. I had a clean up and laid out my wet things on the radiator, enjoying an hour’s rest. At 6:45 I got a call from Tosh who had successfully completed her mission of retrieving Harold, using the taxi services of Richard Elliott of Grassington. This obliging chap had even entered Glebe Barn in order to close a window that neither Lee could manage. Tosh’s last act had been to push the keys through Mrs. Fort’s door slot – Mrs. Fort, like many of the local folk, had been an extra in Calendar Girls too – she had shown us a picture in which she appeared in white uniform – serving in some tent.
Tosh wanted to meet at the King’s Head immediately so I rushed down there but I had forgotten how slowly the stricken Harold moved and I had enjoyed several sips of my double Bells before the others arrived. It took us some time to find a spot that would be comfortable for Harold but at last we were arranged in a booth. Seated on the outside, I had to get up many times to get drinks and further the process of ordering our dinner. I can tell you exactly what the specials of the day were, since I had to write them down – an eight ounce fillet in stilton, a grilled halibut, pork medallions in red wine sauce, pan-fried Cajun chicken – and the sausage of the day was pork and leek. I had none of these, settling for a huge (half-uneaten) haddock and chips and a second sticky toffee pudding – which Tosh denounced as not as good as the Red Lion’s.
Harold’s color was a little better but he was in obvious discomfort and it was clear that he would not walk again on this trip. It was also true that he didn’t want to go home, which would have been the sensible thing, since the Lees had invited house-sitters into their home – and so it was decided that he would travel by taxi to Windermere, find a hotel, and there await our arrival on Sunday. Tosh called the taxi man from the bar phone.
I phoned Dorothy from the crowded bar too (getting no signal in Kettlewell on the mobile). I then carried home with me our next day’s sandwiches, which we had ordered from the Red Lion kitchen; these now went into Mrs. T’s refrigerator. Margie had accompanied me back to Lynburn – where I gave her some sleeping tablets for Harold. There was still some light in the sky at 10:00 but it was now time for a well-deserved rest.
To continue with the next stage our walk you need: