August 19, 1977: Keld to Bowes
A new walking companion, Jay Cardinal, on the train to Darlington
There was, of course, a 1977 chapter in the serio-comic story of my compulsive quest to walk the Pennine Way. Dorothy and I arrived on August 13 for a three-week stay in England – with headquarters again in cousin Bernard’s Brompton Road flat. Not surprisingly, I hadn’t really succeeded in convincing my wife that she, too, ought to return to the trail, although even here she did volunteer to act as a last-minute replacement – if needed – for my new rambling companion, Jay Cardinal. It seemed more than likely that a substitute might be needed – since my former student had a rather low reality quotient at the time, and had failed to secure any ticket to Europe itself. For two weeks, terrible weather permitting, he and I and another Michigan State student, Bob Gray, had engaged in a race to complete the painting of the exterior of our East Lansing house – a race we almost won. Finally, during a break in the action one wet noon, I had driven the “poor Indian” to Washburne Travel and he had secured a flight on Icelandic Airlines – which arrived in Luxembourg on Tuesday, the 16th. The next morning he was let into the flat by cousin Martin Goldman and he had been served a hearty breakfast by the time Dorothy and I descended.
The eve of our long-planned departure for the north was now upon us. At noon Dorothy and I took Jay with us to the British Rail booking office near Piccadilly and to our favorite Chinese restaurant of that era, Lee Ho Fook on Gerrard Street. I bought two tickets to Darlington and picked up a few potentially useful train schedules while Jay, standing outside, took a photo of a red double decker bus with an ad for Bernard’s High and Mighty on the side. I had my camera too but it was soon obvious that last year’s light meter problems had returned and in some funk I marched off to eat my crab in ginger sauce. After lunch we walked up to Oxford Street for a little Marks & Spencer shopping, then into the tube (via Green Park) to Knightsbridge – with a stroll through Harrods before our return to the flat. Here Jay conked out on Dorothy’s bed and I began to notice that my right foot was quite sore. The top of the instep was swollen and each step registered some pain. It was an illness which, given my history, everyone preferred to call gout. I was never sure. I know that I had irritated the foot squatting to paint screens and storm windows a week before our departure, but it had seemed to get better. Now I began to grow quite despondent, shuffling through the rest of the day a few steps behind everyone so that my limp might go unnoticed.
There was no throbbing associated with the pain but no movement of the foot without a slight twinge either, and I spent quite a restless night worrying about what might lie in store for me on a five-day hiking trip – conscience-stricken that I had encouraged Jay to come this far (though he had many other travel plans as well) to walk with a cripple.
It was considerations of the latter kind that led me to the decision to proceed on the morning of the 18th, in spite of my little limp. I revealed my condition at last to Dorothy and Jay, packed my pack, took the blackthorn cane that Dorothy had used last year, and at 10:30 or so Jay and I set out for the Piccadilly Line and the tube to Kings Cross. My hiking boots provided good support and I was not too uncomfortable but I suppose I was in a bit of shock over this development – an injury had caused the abrupt end of last year’s trip; now I was among the walking wounded before leaving London.
Jay was in a sour mood, not because of me but because no one had had served him breakfast at the flat – but we remedied this with coffee and doughnuts at the station cafeteria. I went into the men’s room for a pee with my pack on my back and Jay bought a puzzle mag. We left at 11:45 and had a most uneventful trip to the north. Across from us sat a trainsick teenage girl from Newcastle. She loaned Jay a pen. I sat next to the aisle so my foot could be extended. At 3:10 we detrained and, before setting out for the bus station, paused to put our wet suits on – a drizzle having begun already. Jay had Dorothy’s rain gear of a year ago and took a number of pictures in it with his own camera while I tried for the last time to fix my camera. Failing again I (literally) packed it in and never used it on the rest of the trip.
We marched down the hill in the rain – again I did a fairly good job of disguising the limp from passersby and my pace was not that much slower than it usually is. At the United bus terminal I made inquiries and bought a schedule book for the entire area. Jay bought some snacks, as I did, and conversed with an old man sitting on a bench inside the station. I was having a well-deserved experience of deja-vu – since only a year before I had sat gloomily in this station – the ruins of Pennine plans all about me (and a piece of filling stuck between my molars). I made a call (with operator assistance and a little help from the pay phone itself) to Mrs. Calvert, letting her know we would be arriving at 6:30. At about 4:20 we boarded our first bus and by 5:00 we were in Richmond square. Last year there had been a mocking sunshine and a Saturday crowd in Richmond but this afternoon it was grey and chilly, though the rain had come to an end. A banana vendor shouted his wares as we joined a queue next to the door of the Keld bus. Beautiful Swaledale welcomed us – but my mood was less than joyous. Teenagers at the back of the bus were having a noisy tickle and spitball lark and this made it hard to concentrate on the scenery, which included several times, to Jay’s amusement, cows blocking the progress of the bus. A man asked me for directions to the Keld Youth Hostel – it was, after all, my third visit to the area and I could help him. The bus driver had indicated that he would stop anywhere we liked and, with the assistance of one of Mrs. Calvert’s neighbors, we found the exact foot of Woodside cottage’s stairs and departed the bus. Thus, after pictures by Jay, I was able to ascend the path to our lodging without having to do any real walking whatsoever.
Another couple were signing in as we approached the front door – a most interesting pair of geriatric hikers who were doing Wainwright’s Coast-to-Coast path on their way home to Robin Hood’s Bay. Mrs. Calvert remembered me (or my M.S.U. sweatshirt at the very least) and we were shown to the same room occupied by Dorothy and me a year earlier. Jay went off to reconnoiter the neighborhood while I changed for dinner. Jay, to whom these things mean a great deal, later complained that there was not enough to eat and even Harry, the Old Man of the Moors, agreed – but he later made a second meal of the crackers and cheese and seemed satisfied at last. Jay went off on a longer walk now and I fussed with my pack and sat in the living room with the other hikers. Frankly Jay and I were both humbled by the hiking exploits of Harry Schofield who, at 72, was undertaking adventures that we would never then have dreamed of planning for ourselves. Harry, it turns out, was even a prizewinner, having won the trophy as the first finisher (in some twenty hours) among the senior citizens participating in the previous year’s Moors Crosses outing in his home territory in the North York Moors.
Sleep was not easy for me – not only because of the anxiety over the foot but also because Jay, it turned out, talked in his sleep – quite loudly too. “Daddy, Daddy.” “There must be a ditch behind this barn.” “This is Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet.” A pale sun was squeezing through the grey when we arose the next morning, August 19. After the usual delicious breakfast I squeezed into my boots and at 9:13 – always behind schedule – we were ready for our departure.
For me the first hour of walking was something in the way of an experiment – for if I could not manage it I had the opportunity of returning to Keld and perhaps meeting up with Jay later in the day with the help of a complex bus journey to Bowes.
In spite of the pain, I was able to walk only a little bit more slowly than my usual pace. Initially this did not delay Jay too much because he often paused for photographs. Walking along the road to Keld village confirmed for me something I had observed the day before – that the pain was greatest on level ground – uphill or downhill was to be preferred and the verge to the tarmac.
East Gill Force
Jay paused to take some shots of East Gill Force while I, after directing two other hikers, proceeded up the steep hill to East Stonesdale Farm, where my Chippewa companion caught up. I was doing pretty well and watching the time fairly closely so that I could determine if I were maintaining a realistic pace. Mile One took exactly forty minutes, but I was encouraged since this had been a “long” mile and an uphill one too. I suppose it was about here that I made the decision to go forward, for I knew that there was a long stretch along the 1400-foot contour in which to make up time. There was still some sun and, on the whole, I was feeling pretty good. There were a lot of other hikers speeding by us now and this must have chagrined Jay, who occasionally went with the flow and left me behind. I was amused when he disdained a direct passage through a manurial farmyard – trying to save the shine on his new boots, footware to which he had given only the most cursory waterproofing the night before.
After Lad Gill there was another uphill climb, which, unfortunately, took us out of the sun and into mist and cloud. I found Jay sitting by the pathside reading his copy of Jaquetta Hawkes’ book on Romano-Britain. We put on out wet suits and proceeded in the direction of the other disappearing hikers, but visibility soon became very poor and we were quite alone somewhere on the top of Tan Hill. The drizzle had begun so suddenly that I hadn’t had time to take a precise bearing and now I was a bit uncertain as to whether or not we needed to make any additional turnoffs. We were not going to get very lost under any circumstances since we were heading for a road – but the long-promised view of Tan Hill Inn (or any view) was not in evidence. All of this ambiguity came to an end in a most surprising manner. Just as I was expressing my curiosity about when we would reach England’s highest pub it appeared – not more than 100 yards ahead of us – a big white edifice surrounded by motorcars and bursting with wet hikers in search of refreshment.
Jay and I took off our wet outer garments and queued up at the crowded bar to wait our turn as the bartender tried to serve drinks and take orders for beef burgers at the same time. Jay and I each ordered a pint and a whiskey, consuming these in a little anteroom where we clandestinely ate some of the lunch packed for us by Mrs. Calvert as well. I had discovered that, in spite of my own healthy appetite, I had difficulty eating much during the course of these marches, but Jay suffered no such disability. After we had downed most of our liquid we got a chance to stand before the fire, sharing the space with two wet Spaniels and chatting with some of the other patrons – most of whom seemed ready to make their egress from Tan Hill via motorcar.
There was now a decision to be made about the next portion of the route. The official line calls for a traverse of swampy Sleightholme Moor, described by Wainwright as like “walking in porridge” in the sunshine, “oxtail soup” in the rain, and “a journey of despair” in mist. Two factors contributed to my decision to take the Arkengarthdale road, which Wainwright recommends as a diversion if the feet are to be kept dry – first I was concerned about the effects of slimy suction on my sore foot and, second, I was not at all sure I could find the Pennine Way in the miasma outside.
We pulled on our rain clothes and began our trek about 12:30 – walking fairly rapidly (for me) along the verge and amusing ourselves with musical games such as “Guess the composer,” a contest in which I would have completely skunked the opposition had it not been that Jay insisted on introducing melodies from obscure Elizabethan madrigals. We were fuelled by our booze for an hour or so and made good time along the Sleightholme farm road too, but as we neared the farm buildings our spirits began to droop – the rain continued without let-up and Jay was getting damp and cross. The last few miles seemed to go very slowly, the ground became rougher, the path less clear, the route often confusing, particularly as we negotiated our way around the farms south of the Greta river. Crossing Sleightholme Beck we had a small contretemps – Jay insisting on a frontal assault while I wanted to search for an easier spot upstream in order to ford the wide, rain-swollen beck. I had promised an arrival in Bowes before 5:00 (we made it at about 4:45) but Jay imagined that there would be more on offer in this remote village than there was in fact available here – and he resented our slow progress. He would march ahead and wait for me and when I would catch up he would put out his cigarette and dart ahead again.
Bowes Castle
We reached Gilmonby and Jay took a picture of a monkey puzzle tree. For me too there existed that disparity between the reality of the actual scene and the mental picture of such places as I had imagined them to be (Gilmonby wasn’t much more than a few houses). But the poor visibility and the drizzle lifted and after five wet hours we approached Bowes and its Norman watchtower – which served as a landmark for the last mile or so. In 1974 I had been in Bowes and had walked past its pub (the Ancient Unicorn, which Jay now crossed the street to investigate – it was closed) and its combined general store and post office, which we now entered (packs, raingear and all) for soft drinks, snacks and postcards. I asked for directions to Clint Top Farm and drank an orange soda while Jay clambered around the watchtower. There was no place to sit down anywhere in this town and I didn’t want to sit anyway, for fear the foot would stiffen up and I would never get moving again. We walked along the A66 as far as Dickens’ Dotheboys Hall and trudged up the steep hill to Clint Top, stopping once more to get directions and arriving at Mrs. Tallentyre’s at last, somewhere around 5:30.
There were three other PW hikers here, English university lads I assumed, and we eventually discovered that we had seen each other at the Tan Hill Inn. There was some threat of another hiker in our dorm-like room, where there was an empty bunk bed) but he did not materialize. Mrs. Tallentyre asked us to give her any wet clothing – I gave her my sweatshirt and jacket – and she gave us some nice hot tea and cakes, a most welcome refreshment. A very nice dinner followed and I also took a warm bath. My foot, surprisingly, was still the same size as before our fourteen-mile ordeal through the dampness, but the odd gait and the lack of conditioning had raised several blisters. I could still get around with the minimum of limping and I sat in the hikers’ sitting room (the Tallentyre family had their own) and watched the lights of Bowes (all six of them) twinkling below us and chatted with the boys and watched TV. Jay sat rather silently, doing his puzzle and his journal, but he seemed to be in a better mood than this afternoon – snit all forgotten.
After a final cup of tea we went to bed at 10:00. I did not have a good night, turning and twisting in an attempt to find a good position for the foot, though Jay – through autosuggestion – seemed to have discovered a way of keeping himself from more dreamtime conversation. The same restraint could not be seen in the matter of his eating and drinking compulsions, which he practiced on all of the edible and potable comestibles in our possession, in spite of my warnings that we needed to save some things for the morrow – when we would get no lunch from Mrs. Tallentyre.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: