June 24, 2004: Kettlewell to Cam Houses
The George Inn, Hubberholme
Tits and sparrows were making a meal of it in Mrs. Thornborrow’s backyard when I went down to breakfast at 8:00 (there had been considerable debate over this hour among the walkers but Mrs. Lofthouse, who knew what a long day we had ahead of us, had opted for this early hour). She had much to say on the subject of her free-range eggs – which seemed to be a village favorite. They were very yellow (“Two girls from New Zealand accused me of putting food coloring in them!”) and very good.
I had an agreement with Tosh and Margie to meet outside our pub at 8:45 but naturally they were late, having spent a good deal of time getting Harold settled. Richard Elliott, who had not been available to take Harold until 3:00 in the afternoon, now reported that he had an opening at noon, so Tosh was much relieved – even though Harold would have to let us know (he had all our numbers) where he ended up in Windermere.
There was a store on the corner and shopping ensued as soon as the women arrived. There was a lot of Calendar Girls memorabilia in the store window – the shop having been used as one of the film locations. There was also some local disgruntlement that Helen Mirren and Julie Walters had complained that it was too cold to take their kit off here. I stood outside in a very light rain – all my gear on from the outset. The shop offered local ham baked in its own AGA. I took a picture of a gnome-filled garden and the village church, and at 9:10 we were ready for our thirteen-mile walk.
We passed some of the other village hostelries, crossed over Kettlewell Bridge and dropped down to the riverside. We had very easy walking, often on the smoothest of surfaces and it was easy to see at all times where we were and which gate or stile might be next. The village of Starbotton appeared over on the opposite bank but we pressed on, losing our way only once as we followed a path in the direction of the river too soon, having to re-climb up to our track again through tall wet foliage that swept moisture into our boots.
The village of Buckden was also off-route on our right as we neared that junction where the Wharfe is joined by Cray Gill – just at a spot where the dale that carries the still lively river changes its name from Wharfedale to Langstrothdale. We left the riverside to head over to the main valley road, which soon brought us to the outskirts of the village of Hubberholme. A school party, including several black kids, was walking along the road toward us – and each kid said hello.
Ahead of us was the George Inn; it was 11:45 and Tosh wanted coffee and use of the Ewes. The pub did not open until noon but the owner was out back and he persuaded one of his bar staff to serve us. I had wanted to have lunch here (just as I had wanted breakfast at 8:30) but I had been outvoted by all the ladies, the landladies and our ladies. We weren’t long in the whitewashed pub and, after I had used the Tups, we headed off for another delightful riverside stretch, initially on the left bank.
Tosh and Margie, in raingear, west of Hubberholme
It was obvious, as we headed into a very remote countryside, that fewer visitors made it this far and the path was often sketchy, though always easy to find. The river was swifter and more wild as well, very beautiful in its stony bed. We passed through a number of hamlets, gaining elevation steadily and passing the half way mark as we neared Yockenthwaite. There was a small stone circle on our right and soon thereafter we hunkered down behind a stone wall to have a nice lunch. I fed bread from my prawn sandwich to the jackdaws and Margie rewarded the ducks. Just across the river was the valley road, but there weren’t many cars on it.
After lunch we approached the farmstead of Deepdale, but Margie and Tosh contrived to admit two sneaky sheep into the wrong field as they opened a gate – then they made a mess of trying to round these rascals up. I told them not to worry; we were surrounded by stone walls and these animals were not going far.
The farmer at Deepdale was using a quad bike and a sheepdog (who got a severe scolding) to steer a large flock of sheep around his property. We carried on only a little longer before crossing a bridge to the right bank (switching positions with the road). Throughout the day I kept staring hopefully at the western sky, hoping that the brighter patches there might bring an end to the light rain that continued to drift into our faces – but in this hope I was disappointed. This was only the second time in all my walking days that we had moisture from first step to last.
At Beckermonds we crossed Greenfield Beck and then the Wharfe, joining the road ourselves for some very steep uphill on the tarmac. Things levelled off for some delightful progress amid lovely trees (many copper beeches) toward the village of Oughtershaw. Here we took refuge against the wall of a tractor-filled barn for a brief rest and a snack, but the midges were active and so we continued on through the village, passing several Victoria monuments and turning off on a track onto the high moorland.
The route was better surfaced and more level than we had anticipated and we made good progress in reaching the farmsteads at Nethergill and Swarthgill but thereafter the track ran out and we were left with a very wet ribbon of a path that climbed ever higher toward distant Cam Houses on the flanks of the Pennine moors. The Wharfe, now just a stream, was well below us on the left and from this side a large conifer plantation was making its way toward us as well. Footing was difficult and there were many tricky beck crossings, plus a number of challenging stiles – the latter narrowly edging out gates 32-30 in the closest contest of the walk.
At Cam Houses, high in the Pennines
At last, with tired limbs and wet boots we reached the farmhouse at Cam Houses at 4:50, and made our way into the vestibule of this isolated and welcome refuge. Janet was our hostess here and she supervised the removal of our footwear and the insertion of the requisite newspaper (indeed, her suggesting that a second dose of newspaper would be advisable before bedtime, was a really useful tip).
We were shown to our three rooms – always Tosh had to explain where the missing fourth member of our assembly had gone, and to assure anxious hostesses that she still wanted and would pay for the double I had reserved for the Lees. I had a shower while Tosh used Margie’s bath water, then we repaired to Tosh’s room for cashews, peanuts and gin.
Dinner, very simple fare (vegetable soup, boiled chicken, cheese, fruit and crackers) was served at 6:30. Janet brought us up to date on every one of owner Ian Wallace’s refurbishment plans, her disdain for cable TV, the hobbies of her grandchildren, husband Allan’s 40 years down the mine, and the pathetic tale of her sheepdog who, at thirteen and a half, had just lost his twenty year-old mother and was sunk deep in grief as a consequence. Janet also described her one trip to London, where, overfaced by the crowded streets, she returned to the Victoria Coach Station and read her book for the five hours it took for her return bus to make its escape.
I was surprised to discover that they had TV up here (they certainly had no phone signal) and so we sat in the lounge, as our hosts retired for the night to their nearby cottage, and watched the match between England and Portugal. This was a memorable contest – with England losing its most potent scorer, Wayne Rooney, early on, and then surviving an onslaught by a much fresher team. A disallowed English goal meant that the contest ended with level scores, and, after further scoring, so did two fifteen-minute periods of extra time. I was dying to go to bed, but we had now to endure a penalty shootout which featured a woeful mis-kick by David Beckham (he blamed a wonky piece of turf) and an eventual Portuguese victory, Finally, with the last of the light fading from the sky, I could go to be at 10.30.
To continue with the next stage our walk you need: