August 10, 1978: Garrigill to Alston
A footbridge over the South Tyne
Mist was still falling when I went down to breakfast at 8:30. Once again I faced the English family, and chatted this time with the dad while the children, including a pretty 17 year-old named Amanda, asked for more toast. Before leaving the George and Dragon, since this was pretty much of a rest day for me anyway, I walked around town in the drizzle and finished the roll of film begun in Dufton. Jay, who had stayed here before me, had gotten much more out of his stay in Garrigill than I did – I was too tired and it was too rainy. I bought some cards and stamps and got some information about Alston from Mr. Davison. He had promised to put my boots next to the heater, but when he had done so they were the only footwear in the place; when I went to look for them this morning I could barely find them in a pile of wet companions in the corner of the pub. I completed my packing, paid, and left Garrigill around 10:00; I was beginning the fourth day of a Pennine Way trip – something I had never accomplished before.
The South Tyne Valley, about a mile south of Alston
The mist was gradually lifting as I moved along the lovely South Tyne valley. The English family started out behind me but I was soon far ahead of them. Today I was actually able to point my fogless viewfinder at scenes I wanted to photograph and route finding was easy. After crossing on a footbridge to the east bank I at last passed Bleagate Farm, where I had once had a reservation in 1974. It looked as though the sun would now come out and just before reaching Alston I took off my muck pants. Pretty soon I was back in civilization – Alston being one of the largest towns encountered on the Pennine Way.
At the foot of its hilly cobbled streets I paused to look at the bus schedule, which I planned to use the next day, had a peek into the launderette, went pack and all into the Midland bank, where I changed some money, and, shortly before 1:00, reached the top of the town and the Victoria Hotel. I was shown to a double room by a waitress, obviously not Mrs. McGee (whom I never saw)) – though too late for me to notice, as I was tromping up the carpet, the sign requesting no hiking boots upstairs. My boots were caked with mud and manure and later I spent a good deal of time trying to clean them over the sink and picking up all the black earthen pellets that had landed on the rug.
Now I quickly unpacked and threw all my dirty clothes into my shopping bag, walked back to the launderette in my Adidas and loaded all of my stuff into an empty machine. The place was empty and so my washing and drying went quickly. An old lady employed by the establishment at last showed up to ask me if every lost object in the shop were mine. When my clothes were dry I returned to the hotel, got my camera, and went in search of a likely pub, which turned out to be the Turk’s Head, just off the market place.
The Turk’s Head, Alston
I had a pint and a very nice beef curry and rice for 90 pence – those were the days! The publican was in a jolly mood and later showed up with a naked puppy – “Look’s more like a ferret,” he said. I recognized some fellow walkers from Dufton, playing darts. When I told them there was a pub north of Slaggyford they instantly altered their travel plans for the day. This bit of intelligence I had picked up from two solemn teenage walkers sitting at my table. Busybodies, they instantly wanted to tell me that I was spending too much money staying at bed and breakfast places and that I should choose youth hostels instead. I hadn’t the heart to tell them that when they got to be my age they might not begrudge spending £5-6 (ah, 1978) for bed, breakfast and evening meal.
There was a juke box in the Turk’s Head and I was getting a sampling of the local favorites, including something with a West Indian beat, Boney M’s “Brown Girl In the Ring” and a lugubrious country and western song about a dying dog, which I vowed to listen to more closely that evening. It was getting to be closing time so I walked down to the bottom of the hill and went into an exhibition of Cumbrian arts and crafts at the Town Hall. Someone was spinning wool. I bought a wooden pendant for Dorothy. Then I finished my photography for the day, mostly in the churchyard, and went back to the hotel for a bath.
Just before it was time for the evening meal I ordered a half pint of lager from Mr. McGee, taking this with me from his little bar into the dining room. They had a fairly extensive menu at the Victoria Hotel so I escaped lamb for once and had roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. After dinner I asked the waitress who had shown me to my room if there were a telephone in the hotel. “Are you a resident?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied. “Well, there’s a telephone kiosk across the street.” I wonder what her response would have been had I answered, “No.” The kiosk in question seemed to be under siege from the town’s teenagers, but finally I got in the queue and checked in with my mother-in-law, who was staying with Dorothy’s Aunt Janie and Uncle Julian in Manchester.
Then I headed downhill to the nearly empty Turk’s Head, where I smoked a cigar, had a whiskey, and played the jukebox. We had “Brown Girl” again, but even sitting next to the jukebox I found it hard to decipher all the lyrics. The dog song was “Old Shep,” sung by Hank Snow. A boy and his dog grow up together and Shep even pulls the boy from the waters of the swimming hole. But then the dog grows old and sick and the vet says, “Jim, there’s no more I can do.” So Jim takes out his gun and points it at the faithful head, wishing that someone would shoot him instead. Old Shep licks his hand, saying, I know you’ll understand, I hate to, but I have to go. “If dogs go to heaven,” Hank concluded, “I know Old Shep has a mighty good home.” So, while I was listening to this silly song, sitting alone in a Cumbian bar, trembling with fatigue and preoccupied with the death of my own Ozzie the previous winter, I found myself beginning to cry, and when the song ended I rushed out into the darkening market place and finished my cigar in choking silence.
Back in my hotel room there was a terrific din from the bar below. Mr. McGee was playing the greatest hits of Roger Whittaker and guffawing like one of the goons. By 11:30 all was quiet. I remembered to retrieve my boots from the windowsill where I had left them to dry, and went to bed.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: