August 8, 1978: Dufton to Garrigill
Diversion sign in Dufton. I used a version of this
photograph as an illustration in A Walker’s Alphabet.
I had a little travel alarm clock with me, but I never heard it go off on any of these walking days. I wasn’t getting the proper rest, still being on an American sleep schedule, and each morning, with so much anxiety about the task ahead, I was hardly in the mood for dozing. The weather prospects on this day weren’t that good. It wasn’t actually raining yet, but the mist was only a few hundred feet above Dufton – obscuring any views of distant Cross Fell. I had breakfast, the ubiquitous egg, bacon, toast, marmalade and coffee. Yesterday we had mushrooms as well and this morning I had corn flakes instead of juice. The dining room was as dark as the night before. I got my rain gear from Mrs. Lightburn and also my boots, receiving a considerable shock when I discovered that the boots were still quite damp on the outside and clammy inside. There was nothing to do but put them on anyway and get ready to leave.
The lads and I had set 9:00 as the departure time but as I chatted in the doorway with the Lightburns – trying to find out from these gardeners the name of that spiky magenta flower which grew here as it did at Malham Tarn and on all the railway sidings – no sign of my fellow walkers was apparent. The Lightburns didn’t know the name of the flower either, though I took their picture anyway and pretty soon Lawrence stumped up from the Youth Hostel in his shorts, trying to get some feeling into a swollen knee. Stephen followed, but Chris was still eating breakfast and breaking camp so there was half an hour or so of waiting around. I took more pictures, including one of the ominous sign which warned us that the route to Knock Fell was waterlogged and that an alternate route started at the west end of town. We saw Tony off on the 9:35 bus to Penrith and headed out of town.
It was decided that we would try to find an alternative (recommended by Wainwright himself) for missing out on Knock Fell altogether – though I still wonder about that sign. The PW officially leaves town on the west side anyway and besides, what route wasn’t waterlogged today? We headed out of town in a group but by the time we had reached the muddy farm road to Halsteads I was trying to get out in front, eager again to show that I could keep up with chaps half my age. The mist was almost upon us now and when the first steep stretches were encountered I was soon left behind by the other three, who waited for me at Great Rundale Beck and soon lost me again as they headed up the hill, past the railway goods wagon, to Swindale Beck. We were making acceptable time, however, and my calf muscles were not bothering me at all. There was a steep muddy bank (once the path) to be ascended above the beck but, showing off, I found a quick way round and was lying in the grass with my arms folded before me when the others clambered over the brow of the bank. It was my last physical triumph for the day.
I kept pretty close to the others as we followed the alternate route along the wall to the Great Dun Fell road, close enough to hear Chris warn several bleating sheep about the “Mint Sauce,” but once we reached this very steep tarmac road the lads disappeared into the mist above me and I rarely saw them for the next few miles. And what arduous miles they were. I was not lost but I didn’t know where I was either. Land rovers would rush by on their way to the radio transmitters on the top of the peak, but where was the top? A height would loom out of the mist momentarily, hopes would rise, but soon enough another height would appear in the background, higher still. This was the steepest section of the walk by far and though 200 feet in altitude might be saved by this alternative, and the feet kept somewhat dryer for a few more minutes, not much mileage was saved. Some sections of the road were so steep that I actually cut little switchbacks to soften the angle and I would count posts as a way of cutting down the time to the next bend in the road. Once I knelt by a mountain cataract and scooped water into my mouth. Finally there was a cheering sight – two walkers emerging from the right on the main route down from Knock Fell. And this was followed by the sight of a little brick shelter sited next to the road at the point where the PW takes off for Dunfell Hush.
I was surprised to discover that this building was occupied by Chris, Stephen and Lawrence –who were having their lunch. Chris had even started his portable stove and was thus able to give me some very salty bouillon to drink. I also ate one of my oranges.
As the others started to gather their things together I pressed on up Great Dun Fell – visibility was not more than 100 yards. I never saw Dunfell Hush and as I got close enough to the summit I could make out only one of the radio masts. We even had some difficulty in figuring out how to proceed and I pulled out my compass to give us a bearing. There seemed to be many “paths” leading in many directions, but we found the right one and sloshed down to the col between Great Dun Fell and Little Dun Fell. Again the English lads were soon out of sight but just as I neared the next summit Lawrence came charging back. “We though we had lost you,” he said.
Cross Fell could not be seen at all, but the brown ooze in a sea of green indicated the direction of the path. As I began my ascent of this highest of the Pennine peaks two descending walkers asked if I had located the path – discovering to their relief that I had, for they were slightly off route. No wonder. The last stages were not easy to follow at all among the scree and boulders and cairns which didn’t help much. Some other walkers came up behind me and we picked our way over the last stretches together – arriving at last at the wind shelter atop the peak.
The lads atop Cross Fell. In the map case you can see
Wainwright’s Pennine Way Companion opened to pages 54 and 55.
We did not linger long in the rain. I took a picture of my companions, gave us all a shot of brandy (with the envious eyes of other walkers glaring at us) and, after taking another compass bearing, we were off. We had decided to descend directly to the main route but it wasn’t easy to find it – even landmarks like Crossfell Well went unspotted. There were some other walkers tagging along behind us when we at last located the old corpse road to Garrigill – a most satisfactory moment since, although there were still seven miles to go, the way would now be clear on the ground. The ruined cottage at mile 172 had been turned into a shelter, which we explored briefly. I think I saw Chris, Stephen and Lawrence only once more on the descent, though I heard from other hikers that they were wondering what had happened to me. There was no way I could maintain their pace and no reason to try.
The route had more uphill than I had anticipated, but I was doing well in cutting down the miles and I could predict a Garrigill arrival at a decent hour – that is, in time for a bath and a drink before dinnertime. Once I stopped to pick up some pieces of purple fluorspar – though out of the local water in which they lay glistening they lost much of their intense color. I had another drink from a mountain freshet – assuming that no sheep had pissed in it recently. Walking alone, it was impossible for me to reach the canteen in my pack – especially since this would have meant removing my rain cape first – and I had not yet mastered the art of putting it back on by myself. If anything the rain had increased in velocity. I had tried to keep up with my picture-taking schedule in spite of all this, but I was getting behind now. Every now and then I would pull Wainwright out of my pouch to check on a landmark, being especially eager to reach the walled lane above Garrigill itself. This at last I did – even encountering, at the same time an early eerie harbinger of civilization: a huge piece of farm equipment, unoccupied, but nevertheless blasting out, from some hidden radio, the afternoon’s installment of that rural radio soap opera, “The Archers.” This was for the benefit of the farmer himself, whom I soon encountered down the road, putting wire on top of the wall.
Along the walled lane to Garrigill – with views of the South Tyne Valley opening up at last.
At this lower elevation views of the South Tyne valley and the roofs of Garrigill at last became visible and I was soon back on tarmac. As I entered town I saw some familiar looking packs outside a teashop and I poked my head in long enough for a final word with Chris, Lawrence, and Stephen. They were headed for Alston and unable to accept my invitation to wait around for opening time at the pub. I thanked them for letting me tag along these last two days. I never saw them again.
Then I went to find the George and Dragon, beside the village green. Receiving no answer at the door marked A. Davison I entered the empty pub itself, where a bell on the counter soon fetched the publican. Mr. Davison not only had my room ready but a letter for me as well – one sent long before my departure by that rascal, Jay, who had enjoyed his stay here a year earlier. I must say I was really charmed by this gesture. I took a nice bath, examined the various sore spots for blisters, looked at a painful little toe on my right foot and went down to the pub for a pint and some postcard writing.
I was quite tired. Only later did it dawn on me that I had enjoyed only one sit-down rest in the entire sixteen mile trek and none at all since the brick building at lunch – eleven miles without pause or rest. I won’t tell you what I had for dinner but it came with mint sauce. There were two other groups at a long table that faced my own solitary place setting – including a father and four teenagers who had abandoned their camping ambitions after a day in the wet. For once I was simply too tired to join the pub crowd after dinner and, at a fairly early hour, I went to bed.
To continue with the next stage of the walk you need: