August 10, 1978: Alston to Lambley
Do-it-yourself Pennine Way sign near Harbut Lodge
Already quite excited to have surpassed any previous PW mileage records, I now prepared myself for day five of my trip. The excitement wasn’t working in my favor, I’m afraid, because I wasn’t getting enough sleep at night – I never seem to have made up the night lost flying to London.
When I parted the curtains for my first view across the valley I was delighted to discover a sunny blue sky. Breakfast was served by Mr. McGee himself, not altogether gracefully, for McGee, it turned out, had a false hand – just like Dorothy’s cousin Frank. I discussed my walking plans with him and got ready to leave. Although I wore my rain paints (mostly against the muck of farmyards) I decided not to take my rain cape at all, traveling only with my red sweatshirt, my sun hat, my camera, and my canteen on my belt. My plans were to walk to Lambley, eleven and a half miles distant, and take the bus back to Alston – and then reversing the last stage of this process the next day.
So at 9:00 exactly, for once, I walked down the empty Alston streets and across the bridge to the west bank of the South Tyne. Here I preceded north. At first I was apprehensive about clouds behind me, since I had disdained my rain cape, but sun continued throughout the day and eventually I had to take my sweatshirt off and tie it around my waist. The day reminded me of my first PW day in the Aire valley four years earlier, but I don’t remember walking then in a t-shirt only. This strategy, through necessitated by the heat, brought several problems. I now had to carry Wainwright in my hand all the time and the volume was needed today because route finding in any agricultural valley is complex. My sunglasses kept steaming up so I had to carry them for a while too and the canteen had a tendency, especially as I ascended stiles, to slip loose from my belt and plop heavily at my feet. Once I slipped while carrying all these objects and scratched the glasses on a slate wall.
Worse than any of these hazards were the flies – which now fastened themselves to my sweaty body. I proved to be irresistible to these creatures – and much more interesting than the cows they had abandoned to follow me. These insects were a constant nuisance, buzzing about, getting under my sunglasses, dancing in front of the lens when I wanted to take a picture (many got themselves memorialized in the slides I took this day). The flies were particularly annoying in low-lying areas; on the heights the breezes drove many of them away.
There were many ups and downs to the route today, as it crossed the many side valleys cut by streams on their way to the Tyne. Without pack this was not particularly bothersome and each ridge provided a new northerly vista of considerable beauty.
There seemed to be many walkers about today, including a couple in their late 50′s, whom I encountered for the first time near Harbut Lodge. There was also a large party of teenagers, with adult leaders and two dogs, who had made it all the way from Edale. I asked the fellow in charge of this lot if he had to carry the dogs over the stiles. “Absolutely not, ” he replied, “I need all my energy to get myself across. They’re doing better than anyone.” Sure enough we now approached a stile and the dogs leaped and scrambled over, though – not being able to see the top of the wall when the leap began – one got slightly tangled in the wire on top, though he missed the barbs, fortunately.
Gilderdale Burn
Wainwright proved to an accurate guide to this route – though I couldn’t agree with him on his characterization of the “desperate crossing of wire fence in wooded ravine” until, as I climbed over this obstacle, I discovered there was one additional high strand of wire which thwacked against my forehead.
I had almost an hour in hand by the time I reached Slaggyford so I joined the other walkers at the post office/general store. I asked if they had anything cold to drink (this was before a refrigerated drinks cabinet became a commonplace in all such stores) and was directed to the unrefrigerated pop cans lining the wall. So I had a tepid Tab and a Mars bar. The postmaster also gave me further instructions on finding the famous pub, which was not here but in Knarsdale. By the time I had finished with my drink all the other walkers had gone on, including some unlucky chap who had forgotten his camera.
At one of the farms on the next stretch a young boy with a bald spot was playing with a dog named Patch. Since I was ahead of schedule and since the hour (the licensing hour, that is) was propitious, I did decide to detour at the Thinhope Burn Viaduct and head for the Kirkstyle Inn and Sportsman’s Rest – some quarter of a mile distant.
Here I had a pint of lager, most enjoyable on a warm day, visited the loo (here labeled The Bog), listened to the farmers chatter at the bar and gave an ear yet again to the local jukebox in an adjoining room. This machine was being fed by two young men in leather jackets who had arrived by motorcycle. Once I rushed into their room to ask them if they could tell me the precise words of Boney M’s “Brown Girl in the Ring” – which they ware listening to. They gave me the wrong answer – “There’s a brown girl in the rain,” but I could now tell that some of this nagging ditty seemed to go, “There’s a brown girl in the ring, tra la la la….She looks like a sugar in a plum.”
The Maiden Way north of Glendue Burn
Humming this tune I left Knarsdale after forty minutes and returned to Burnstones for a march along the Maiden Way to the Glendue Burn – and thence in a straight Roman line north to Mile 193. Here I encountered the older couple resting in the grass and I joined them briefly. They were enjoying a view of Lambley below and, miles away, the line of crags over which Hadrian’s Wall marched. They were also plotting how they could manage a short cut that would eliminate most of the walking I planned to do the next day. I had my picture taken and received some advice about what to put on my blisters. They recommended something called moleskin – after first replying rather flippantly, “The best thing for blisters is walking in wet boots.”
Then I started down the hill to the A6292, coming up slightly short of the two stiles that marked the PW crossing – there being too many paths in the heather. I located the next day’s starting point and walked down the hill toward Lambley itself, there receiving some precise advice on where to wait for the 4:10 bus from a village woman. I was almost thirty minutes early so I strolled down into the village and got a good view of the famous Lambley Viaduct. Then it was back up the hill to wait for my bus. I had time to take off my muck pants, clean my boots with a little stone, and finish most of the water still left in my canteen. It was pretty warm sitting on the wall of the chapel, the sun beating down on me.
At last the bus appeared, disappeared for the five minutes it took to make its run to Halton Lea Gate, and then reappeared to pick me up. It cost 45p (about 90 cents back then) to ride back to Alston, and it was funny to pass at great speed many of the places I had plodded by during the day. It was a bit more cloudy when we got to Alston twenty-five minutes later. I asked for directions on taking the bus the next morning and climbed up the main street again, stopping to buy snacks for the morrow, and then to the chemists, where a Chinese girl sold me some adhesive moleskin. (This town also had its little black girl, with an earring, whom the other urchins addressed as “Black Jo.”)
I took a nice bath at the Victoria and went downstairs for the half lager I liked to have with me while eating dinner. Tonight I had scampi. At a table next to me were three women, one French, one with eye troubles, and a very old one with a small dog. They were eating fish. I had always assumed that I would have to miss breakfast on my last morning here because of the early hour of my bus but they serve at 8:00 and I asked if I could possibly come down at 7:45. The waitress (no sign of McGee tonight) checked with the kitchen and said it was okay.
After dinner I went over to the Turk’s Head again, had a whiskey, played “Brown Girl” and “Old Shep,” cried, and went to bed.
To continue with the next stage of the walk you need: