August 20, 1977: Bowes to Middleton-in-Teesdale
It’s my turn to open the gate.
The weather was again overcast the next morning, but a bee was buzzing around a magenta flower in Mrs. Tallentyre’s litter-strewn front yard – and the sun was trying to come through the clouds. My foot was not much worse than yesterday morning, but squeezing it into its boot was more of a chore because of the fresh blisters. We had a nice breakfast. Mrs. Tallentyre let me call Middleton – our next destination – so I could confirm our arrival time with our next landlady, Mrs. Beech. Shortly after 9:00 we began the day’s trek – the fine view of Bowes reminding us that we had completed a really steep stretch of the route in ascending Clint Top the previous day.
Once again the first hour was a time of testing for me – for there remained the possibility of returning to Bowes and proceeding by bus – but I seemed to be managing all right and I was enjoying the many route finding challenges which had always been among the fascinations of this stage of the journey. Wainwright calls this section on Tute Hill the ugliest mile on the Pennine Way – objecting particularly to the derelict Air Ministry buildings off in the distance, but I found nothing ugly about the scene at all. (A few years later I reproduced this page of the PWC, with permission, as part of an article I wrote on British guidebooks for Landscape magazine.)
We turned off the road at Stony Keld Farm and I must admit that I felt quite tired at this point, three semi-sleepless nights having contributed to a general exhaustion, but I definitely wanted to persevere and get in a second day of hiking before having to turn back once again. I was revived a bit by my first sight of Levy Pool, more derelict than Wainwright’s drawing had led me to expect – a ruined caravan now adding to the squalor – and when Jay found an easy way to cross muddy Deepdale Beck the die was cast and I had made up my mind to press onward – notwithstanding Jay’s occasional reminder to an exhausted and gout-ridden rambler that I ought to pick up the pace. Jay, indeed, was sent ahead to distant landmarks throughout the day, waiting for me on hilltops and fence stiles and blaming me for all the cigarettes he had to smoke while doing this.
The crossing of the little dales north of Deepdale Back seemed steeper that I had anticipated, but not too bad for all that. The sun was definitely winning its battle with the clouds and providing very comfortable walking weather – I still had my rain pants on as a precaution. As we approached Goldsborough the three lads who had stayed with us at Mrs. Tallentyre’s finally overtook us – one limping on bad knees. They had been so long because, lacking Wainwright, they had gotten lost. I had a moment of uncertainty too, not because I didn’t know where I was but because I didn’t know where I was allowed to go: the official PW route seemed to call for a descent to East Friars Farm but the farmer, perhaps sneaking in a fast one, had put up a sign at the end of his road indicating that the PW was swinging left here. I decided to walk along the tarmac road to Clove Lodge (later turned into a youth hostel); no extra distance was involved, though walking on tarmac is never pleasant – and Jay, who was coming down from Goldsborough after changing into his shorts, caught up with me, passed me, and waited for me first at the Lodge and then at Blackton Bridge.
Blackton Reservoir was below us now – again not nearly as ugly as Wainwright would have us believe – and we walked around its head and stopped at Birk Hat for a brief rest (my first in five and a half miles). I didn’t really want to stop here, but Jay insisted, even taking my pulse once, and helping me to take off my superfluous rain pants. He had now consumed most of our liquid and was doing a good job on the food, but I certainly didn’t care about the latter – barely managing to get down a Mars Bar.
To remedy the liquid problem he knocked at the door of Birk Hat cottage and unearthed a reclusive crone – whom we named (after Jay’s mother) Hilda of the Hills. In 1984 – watching a program on the PW on TV – I learned that this isolated Baldersdale homesteader was the famous Hannah Hawkswell. She had become a minor celebrity after a documentary on her lonely life had caught the national attention and for several years the media couldn’t leave her alone. They even sent the bewildered but game countrywoman to Venice, I recall, to see what she would have to say about the wider world. After coming out of her cabin to shake my hand and advise me that they had good doctors for my foot in Middleton Hannah now insisted on climbing down to the reservoir with a plastic pail This business prolonged our stay and the hour we had picked up on our schedule shrank to a mere thirty minutes. When Hannah returned, her water proved to be a brackish yellow – so after Jay had filled his canteen we decided not to drink it after all.
In cow country
We climbed up to the Balderhead road and trudged across Hazelgarth Rigg and Kelton Bottom, with Jay waiting for me patiently at stiles and gates. There was another brief rest at Beck Head and then we parted while I slowly made my way down the steep hill to the Grassholme Bridge. My feet were really complaining about their burgeoning blisters now, but there was nothing to do but press forward. The next farmer had also decided to alter the Pennine Way through his property – but the extra distance required was compensated for by the fact that he let us use his faucet for a drink. His speeding sheepdog had one too and Jay took a picture of this scene – but he lost or misfiled some of these shots and I have never seen any of them.
Things became very steep after the B6272 road had been traversed and we slowly approached Wythes Hill Farm, where the children had abandoned their toy tractor in the verge and Mrs. June Dent (for so she was identified in the b&b guide) pointed us in the direction of Carl Beck. More steep hills followed and it was difficult to figure out when we had left Lunedale and when we had reached Teesdale; we slowly rounded the heights above Kirkcarrion’s line of trees – where we could at last see Middleton below us. We took out the binoculars and tried to peer through the grey haze that filled the valley. We shared a last warm Coke and had a little snack and I then sent Jay on ahead to complete the last two miles alone – so that he would have time to do a little shopping in Middleton.
The Tees from the Middleton bridge
My descent was slower than his, but I made it through the bracken and over a fence, which I had to climb because I couldn’t figure out how to open the gate, and through a field of cows, some of whom I gave a wide berth to, not having learned yet – at least not from the front – which of these animals were cows and which bulls. I noticed that my pace was slowing considerably, but I reached the bottom of the hill at about 5:00. Jay was on his way back to guide me to Mrs. Beech’s, and to carry my pack too – though I disdained this latter offer since I was determined to complete this stage of the journey on my own. “You are a very stubborn person,” Jay said, but he also added grudgingly, “Linick, you’ve really got a lot of guts.”
About the time we had reached Whythes Hill Jay had suggested that perhaps I should go back to London now, and I had agreed with his assessment. I was afraid of doing serious injury to the foot and I didn’t really know if I’d have enough energy for another day. I didn’t want to delay Jay any more and I was no longer concerned about his making his way alone for the next three nights. Today had been a much better introduction to Pennine Way walking than yesterday and he seemed eager to push forward. He eventually reached Garrigill, in the South Tyne valley – which is just where we had wanted to end up on this trip.
We crossed the Middleton bridge and arrived at Mrs. Beech’s exactly at 5:15, at which point I produced my little book with all the projected arrival times and showed Jay the Middleton E.T.A. – 5:15! Mrs. Beech’s was very comfortable but there was one fly in the ointment; she had only one bed for the two of us. I had a nice long bath, revealing blisters on blisters, including some on parts of the foot where they had never grown before – a legacy of the unusual gait I had maintained for two long days. We had a nice dinner with two other guests and a pint in the Cleveland Arms. I called Dorothy at Moor Green Farm to let her know that I would be arriving Sunday evening in London. Jay had some tea but I didn’t want any more liquid. I was in my half of the bed by 10:00 and asleep soon thereafter.
We had a nice breakfast on Sunday morning, joined by a nervous girl in glasses and and an old major, and then Jay and I said goodbye after a few photos. Mrs. Beech had promised me that her son would drive me as far as Barnard Castle – which he did about 10:00. The ride was a short one but I had great difficulty understanding my driver’s accent. He had a kitten in the back seat. There wasn’t much of a wait in Barnard Castle for the Darlington bus, though it almost rained twice. The bus wound in and out of a number of little towns I had never seen before, taking an hour to get to the bus terminal. After walking up that hill one more time I discovered a London train was almost due. I indulged in a first class ticket, so that I would be sure to have plenty of foot room, and a reserved seat. There was only one other party in the carriage– a couple with four children, including one called Divinia. The boring ride passed without incident. In London I got the tube to Knightsbridge and limped to the flat some two hours earlier than I was expected. Dorothy was still on her way from the country so I sat on a bench opposite High and Mighty for an hour – watching the scene and breathing the fumes of Sunday traffic. At 7:00 I went down to the Bunch of Grapes and had a whiskey and when it was finished Dorothy was back and let me in and it was good to be home again.
I limped around for another ten days or so – never knowing for sure if I were recovering from gout – but convinced that I had made the right decision in returning when I had done so. Jay appeared later in the week and I was able to follow his exploits vicariously, overcoming my usual bitter disappointment in the collapse of my Pennine plans with the oft-repeated promise that someday soon I would have to return to the quest myself.
To continue with the next stage of the walk you need: