August 20, 1974: Malham to Horton-in-Ribblesdale

For every walker who has a landlady waiting for him at the end of the walking day, there comes a critical instant that must be endured before a single step has been taken. Walking to schedule has many advantages but there remains one inescapable dictum: one must begin the day’s trod – local weather conditions notwithstanding. There arrives, therefore, that moment soon after rising when the lace curtains of the hotel room must be parted in order to learn whether we march today in rain or shine. It was with considerable relief that I was greeted on the second day of my first Pennine walk by the glare of golden morning sunshine bathing Malhamdale. I knew enough to be grateful for such a blessing even before getting my first good Pennine soaking.

It did not take me long to pack, but the foot plastering ceremony was more protracted than ever. Concerned by the small blister on the tip of one toe, I decided to tape not only around every toe but over each one as well. By the time I was finished I had made a mummy of every one of my pedal extremities. I was wearing so much tape that it was a surprise when the foot actually found enough space inside the boot. I stamped down to breakfast and again had to sit alone in the hotel dining room, but the glow of the sunshine on the red checkerboard tablecloths helped me to overcome the shadows from which I had suffered the night before. I was handed my lunch by a member of the hotel staff. When she came to give me my change she offered me four pounds too many, but I returned these. At exactly 9:00 o’clock, her gratitude still ringing in my ears, I stepped from the door of the Listers Arms and re-crossed Malham’s little bridge. I began the day’s walk in the highest of spirits.

My way led due north along a tree-covered village lane. I passed a large white house whose gate was laced in wrought-iron sheep. When the last of the shade was left behind I found myself in the brilliant sun-lit atmosphere of Malham Cove. Birds circled over the steep sides of the former waterfall. I entered a small grove that grew beside the pools at the foot of the circle and here I was standing beside a stream that had suddenly re-emerged after wandering underground for several miles in this wonderful limestone country. Across the face of the gray cliff above me there appeared a smudge of darker rock ascribed by Charles Kingsley to his chimneysweep boy in The Water Babies. Yesterday’s decision not to visit Malhamdale’s most spectacular attraction now paid an unusual dividend. I had been jostled by too many tourists at Gordale Scar, but at this hour of the morning the Cove was completely deserted.

At the foot of the precipice I began to follow one of several paths that ascended the heights from the left. (A few years later steps appeared here to shepherd the masses up an ever-eroding surface.) I chose the most gentle gradient, but it was still a hump, my first truly steep Pennine incline. The slow passage to the top of the Cove dictated a number of stops for picture taking: this view of the steep fields and ancient cultivation terraces, encased in their framework of stone walls, is one of the Pennines’ most famous prospects. When I had completed my climb I found myself walking across a limestone pavement fissured in a fantastic ankle-twisting series of shallow channels. One guidebook had identified this brain-like surface as one of “lings and grikes,” though what these terms actually meant was a mystery to me at the time. The best I could do was to recall that Stephen Daedalus had once rested his ashplant in a grike in Ulysses. It was now necessary to watch every step carefully, though there was the reward of some rare vegetation growing below the boots in spots too deep for the teeth of any sheep.

After I came round to the center of the cliff top I lost track of any “path” and once again slowed to a standstill. From my reading I knew I needed to continue my curve before striking off to the north again. On the other hand I had learned that progress was to be made through a place called Trou or Troughgate and I was now misled by an unusual coincidence. Still some distance from the miniature ravine actually called Troughgate I approached a gate next to a water trough. This linguistic coincidence persuaded me that I had perhaps arrived at the right place for a northern turnoff after all. And the issue was decided when, up behind me, there came half a dozen walkers. With my late start on the previous day I had yet to encounter any other Pennine Way trekkers. Excited by my first sighting of the breed, I determined to throw in my lot with them. They hesitated not at all, but turned left at the “trough gate” and marched up into a wonderful rocky wilderness. Anxious not to remain isolated in so remote a terrain, I scrambled behind hurriedly. In walking up this dry valley, I later learned, I was not “doing” the Pennine Way itself, but a recommended alternative. I felt confused at the time, since the climb up the steep side of the valley at its northern terminus was not at all what I had anticipated from my reading on the subject. I was particularly grateful that I had the example of other walkers, though now several hundred yards ahead of me, for watching them enabled me to simulate a useful route. At last I regained a pleasant moorland. The receding knapsacks of the other ramblers were still heading north – and off in the distance was a landmark I had actually expected to see, Malham Tarn.

I crossed a road on which a tiny red sports car had been parked by a non-walker. It was an odd symbol of another way of life out here in the green emptiness. The lake itself is approached along its eastern shore, indeed this spot is close to the position used by the photographer for his shot in an old National Trust Guide.  Having studied this picture for so long in my own armchair I was very well pleased to have placed myself on the spot at last.

It was time for my first rest of the day. A walking couple, whose bobbing figures I had been following for the last three-quarters of an hour, were sitting by the side of the lake. I asked if I could join them. They proved to be great Pennine veterans. Having already having completed the entire journey, they were now redoing parts of it a second time. Naturally I envied their expertise and, as I was still suffering some anxiety about route finding, I asked them if they minded if I tagged along for a while. “Not at all,” one of them replied. They seemed to take my question as a signal to begin, however, for they immediately pulled on their packs and set off on the lakeside track. “I should explain,” the female half of the duo added, “that we walk rather fast.” She began a recital of their mileage triumphs of yesteryear while I fell into step, but some secret signal passed between them – a need to demonstrate just what those long bare legs could do – because they succeeded in picking up the pace to such an astonishing tempo that in a flash of dust I was left behind. There was no farewell.

Malham Tarn, sitting atop a shelf of harder rock, is a large body a water to find in so porous a territory. Malham Tarn House, on its northern shore, is a 19th Century mansion set in so remote a countryside that estate agents would have to invent a new category: semi-detached, detached, semi-inaccessible. The National Trust owned the house and used it as a Field Study Center, with much emphasis on preservation of the environment. I considered it a hopeful sign that there were quite a few people about, for as I continued along the drive around the lake I began to worry about my next turnoff. I knew that if worse came to worse I would be able to make a discrete enquiry here about where the hell I was supposed to go. I was enjoying, at the same time, the magenta spikes of a wildflower in the local woods. I took a picture: perhaps someone could identify the flower for me later, for I was seeing it everywhere. Thus I made my first acquaintance with the famous rosebay willowherb.

A Pennine Way signpost ended my anxiety about where to leave the tarnside road. I walked away from the lake and, with the help of several stiles, crossed a minor watershed that introduced me once again to rugged green moorland. The steep flanks of Fountains Fell were rising to my left and at its foot the next major landmark was perched, Tennant Gill Farm. Once again the route was dotted with the disappearing knapsacks of the other walkers and I followed these down to a tarmac road, where progress was impeded by a large herd of black and white cows. There followed a straightforward stroll along the farm’s access road. Opposite the farmyard I paused for another rest.

Seated on a little hillock was a quartet of college-aged youths, also enjoying a brief respite from rambling. I ate an apple and asked one of the lads to take my picture. Another all-male party of four, more mature than the first, strode past our resting place disdainfully and pressed on up the green incline. The youngsters quickly followed, with guess who bringing up the rear of a long file.

The two-mile ascent of Fountains Fell represented the second of three stiff elevation rises for the day and my ill-conditioned legs felt the strain. Naturally I lost sight of any of the other walkers; perhaps this was just as well for I desperately needed to find a quiet corner for a discrete pee. There was already a good deal of water underfoot, for the Pennine Way – easily visible as a path here – crosses several streamlets as it makes its way northwest. These junctions were invariably juicy, the boots making a sucking noise in the black mud. Sheep were the only inhabitants of this eerie moorland scenery but, surprisingly, I felt a sense of familiarity with this scene because, I think, the light on this day reminded my of the sunny haze of a mountain afternoon in Southern California. There was a cool breeze now and I feared the loss of my green hat in a sudden gust. I put it in my pack and raised the hood of my U.C.L.A. sweatshirt. Looking like a giant walking blueberry, I crossed the top of Fountains Fell shortly after midday.

At Tennant Gill Farm I had asked the young foursome if they intended to walk over to the actual summit of the fell. They had treated the question with incredulity. The flat grassy top, pitted with old coal workings, was hardly likely to yield any truly satisfactory “summit,” though presumably surveyors had discovered, a third of a mile off-route, a tussock a few feet higher than our path. I was discovering that Pennine Way walking rarely indulges in “peak bagging,” to use a term more familiar to Sierra Club members, and, indeed, the route often passes only a short distance from the highest elevation – without much concern. The total vertical elevation is, in any event, so negligible, even by Southern California standards, that no English summit would qualify as a “mountain” at all. What England does have is a landscape so full of ups and downs that one ignores its capacity to challenge at one’s peril. I was about to get a lesson in the rigors of local typography myself.

A large tribe of lolling picnickers obscured the top of Fountains Fell anyway; this, and the advancing hour, further dampened my ardor for mountain top diversions. So I kept up the momentum and began a descent on an old coal track, a hard toe-twanging surface quite in contrast to the mushy climb I had just completed. I was now rewarded with my first glimpse of a genuine peak, raising its long spine in the afternoon haze, Penyghent.

By the side of a little stream at the foot of my track I discovered the four college lads. Three of them were having lunch and the fourth was attempting to toughen his feet by spraying them with methylated spirits, a process that should have been completed before this journey. I asked if I could join them. They gave me some food and used my binoculars to examine the precipitous southern nose of Penyghent. We were only two miles away but the summit seemed remote and the required angle of ascent impossible. I ate a sandwich prepared by the Listers Arms kitchen staff; last night’s rump steak made a reappearance and I was soon tired of eating and anxious to be off. I had prepared, in the little homemade guide sheets I was still using, an elaborate time of arrival sequence for each mile of the journey. By these calculations I was still well ahead of schedule; nevertheless I feared some late afternoon loss of energy and wanted to get the job done.

Setting off first, I failed to locate a western turnoff to Dale Head Farm and had to descend grumpily to the road below. It was over this hard surface that I made my way past Ranscar House to Dale Head – but later I learned that this is a recommended detour too. Far from being relieved that I had escaped another wet stretch of moorland, the incident, at the time, seemed yet another indication that I was really not doing my best in the route-finding department.

The Dale Head road junction was crowded with parked cars belonging to day-trippers who were here to “do” Penyghent. I met many of them returning from the peak: children had somehow made it to the top, so I knew it could not be as difficult as I had imagined. The path cleared the farm house and knife-edged up the ridge of the peak itself. Just as I was about to begin climbing in earnest I noticed that time had come to a standstill: my watch stem was open and the hands had not advanced in who knows how long. No wonder I was so far ahead of schedule!

Two descending day-trippers were scrambling down the crags ahead of me and I asked them the time. I was still on schedule – but only just. One of these boys gave me a Polo mint and let me get on with it. The ascent of Penyghent is perhaps the steepest stretch on the Pennine Way, but it was fun on this day to scramble up the rock face, with plenty of good spots for hands and feet to find their purchase.

One of the college lads overtook me on this stretch and I asked him to take my picture next to the summit cairn, Fountains Fell now providing the backdrop. All of the other visitors had deserted the peak as the afternoon shadows deepened and we two were all alone for the few minutes it took his friends to come up behind us. I ate an orange and drank some water from my canteen. I also had a quick peek into Ribblesdale, where, somewhere far below us, the sounds of exploding dynamite echoed from a quarry. After hopping a broken stone wall we could make out our route clearly on the ground below us and, though it was still not possible to see the evening’s destination – Horton-in-Ribblesdale – I could at least relax in the knowledge that it was, literally, all downhill from here.

The five of us began the steep grassy descent together. Urged on by gravity I actually ran down some of this stretch. I had every intention of inviting the boys to visit me at the pub that night, but they stopped to reconnoiter half way down the slope and I never saw them again. Perhaps they went off to see one of the region’s famous potholes, Hunt Pot or Hull Pot. I missed seeing these for want of better guidebook directions and made straight for the head of Horton Scar Lane, a long track walled on both sides by stone. Here I paused repeatedly to take shots of Penyghent, radiant in the gold and green of a late afternoon sun.

Once again I was experiencing feelings of crushing solitude, the last walker on the trail. My route was in the shadows now and it was becoming cooler. I paused to put on my blue anorak. I tried to pick up the pace but the cobblestones of the track did not provide an agreeable surface and, besides, a new factor was now added to the equation: my left knee was beginning to stiffen. My general lack of conditioning, the steep ascents and descents of this day, and the chill of the afternoon had each contributed to my present discomfort: a little twinge of pain with every bend of the leg – especially on downhill surfaces. I was able to find more conformable positions on level stretches, even uphill did not seem to be such a problem, but I had a little over two miles of descent still ahead of me and the prospect of limping down this unyielding track was not appealing.

To add to my consternation I now noticed that I was in the path of a stampede! Up the road trotting rapidly toward this terrified urbanite was a large flock of country sheep. A dog danced at their feet and a whistling farmer driving a tractor brought up the rear. Over his shoulder a line of trees snaked over one of Horton’s hills; it was a charming sight but I was not amused. The walls of the lane offered escape for neither sheep nor man and I was not entirely sure how deft sheep are at dodging stationary targets. As the flock passed I was spread-eagled against one of the walls. In the event I was not run over. I trudged down the track, with widening views of the quarry, and at last reached the Settle road. Here I turned right past a telephone kiosk, a cafe, a car park, and the public conveniences and, after crossing the Ribble, turned off to report my arrival at the crowded bar of the Crown Inn. It was just turning 6:00.

A member of the bar staff was detached to show me to my room in the “annex,” a small bungalow behind the hotel. There were two divans and an electric fire, but bath and toilet would have to be sought elsewhere. I threw off my pack and, without changing into my evening costume, returned to the pub for a drink. I was still clutching my glass of lager a few moments later when I was called in to supper. In the fifteen minutes it had taken me to get down half a pint I had managed to get myself thoroughly scared.

The source of this quite unnecessary anxiety arose in a casual conversation I had fallen into with another walking couple. They had been doing the Pennine Way from north to south and they had thus traversed all of the territory that still lay ahead of me. They were full of complaints about this and that but some of their observations on the state of the path itself raised an alarm bell. The young lady, for instance, had reported footing so juicy on the Frumming Beck route to Tan Hill that she had given up all attempts to negotiate the surface in her boots and had walked the entire distance barefoot! Naturally I was not at all pleased by such a prospect and, lacking a guidebook that might have informed me of an alternative route, I could only sit down to my evening meal with feelings of impending doom.

Once again I was seated at my own little table. Perhaps it was even worse, in my present state of resentful introspection, that the rest of the dining room was full of gaily chattering groups. I spent an inordinate amount of time dissecting a fish and got down a large portion of boiled potatoes and veg. After the meal I made an assault on the bathroom upstairs. I managed to coax a little hot water from the taps while I undressed. My feet, still encased in elastoplast, felt pretty good – sore but not blistered. Having already established my idiocy credentials by scaring myself over Frumming Beck, I now compounded my foolishness by deciding not to un-tape. The prospect of losing still more time while my bath water iced over and the hope that I could save a great deal of time on the morrow persuaded me to jump into the pink tub with all those mummified toes still hidden from sight.

When I was again presentable I limped back to the telephone kiosk and tried to make my first contact with London relatives, but I hadn’t brought the correct number and twenty minutes passed while a very kind gentleman at the local exchange attempted to prize a useful number from his counterparts in the South. Defeated, I returned to the pub for a final half lager. Outside, a troop of congenitally damaged Scouts stood stolidly, shoving crisps into their red, blotchy faces. They were still there when I returned to my annex, a journey requiring a descent of three steps, steps that again caused a determined pain in the left knee. For a while I lay on one of the beds just shivering with fatigue and despair. A day that had begun in elation had ended in dejection.

Before sleep finally came I had to rouse myself to off-load all that lager. The pub was closed and with it the hotel. They hadn’t provided me with a key and I didn’t want to return to the public conveniences across the bridge, so I crept up the lane behind my bungalow and aimed at a wall in the darkness. In the morning I realized that my chosen spot lay directly at the start of the next day’s march. I had peed on the Pennine Way.

To continue with the next stage of the walk you need:

Day 3: Horton-in Ribblesdale to Hardrow