Tommy Ogden

The ‘acorn’ logo of National Trails is a brilliant piece of branding. The clear, simple ideogram that appears on the front of the guidebook I carried hundreds of miles, tucked under my waist strap, is reproduced on myriad signposts, gates, waymarks and milestones along the route.

Recognising this symbol, painted on a wooden board, after wandering lost for a long time on Cross Fell, gave me an immense sense of reassurance. This acorn means ‘you aren’t lost. You’re on the right path.’ After hours wandering in poor conditions on a high fell or featureless moor, that is a most welcome message.

It was noticeable along the Pennine Way just how versatile the mark is: carved into wooden signs, painted on paving, embossed in plastic or chiseled onto a conspicuous rock—the distinctive shape is easy to identify. In some instances a kind fellow hiker or local had drawn the mark by hand, along with an arrow pointing the way, and placed it somewhere visible to help future walkers. And it is always welcome. I can remember, on so many occasions along my journey, imploring the gods of Natural England, ‘Please, give me a sign!’ They always obliged eventually.

Day 12.

Over breakfast at the hostel, I chatted to a couple on my table who were on a driving and cycling holiday.

‘I did the Pennine Way—well, nearly did it—twenty years ago now. I got to Bellingham and fractured my shin jumping off a stile.’

Ouch! I still had a couple of days walking before Bellingham, so I certainly wouldn’t be jumping off anything before then. I devoured as much breakfast as I could, including three Weetabix, eggs, veggie sausages, mushrooms, beans, hash brown and a whole rack of toast with marmalade.

I’d read that this leg would likely be the dullest of the Pennine Way but, to be quite honest, I’d had quite enough excitement with Cross Fell the day before so I wasn’t too bothered.

The first section followed a road and railway north through the valley of the South Tyne. On the left slope of the valley, I hopped over stiles through farmland. The only item of note was Whitley Castle (), the remains of a Roman auxiliary fort. I didn’t spy it initially, only realising up close that the narrow undulations near the path were actually the remarkable rhomboid ramparts of this second-century stopover on the Maiden Way, which connected a fort on the York–Carlisle road with Carvoran on Hadrian’s Wall.

Continuing north, the route took me across the road and under the railway into Slaggyford. Leaving the river, I passed under a pleasing arched railway viaduct, through more farms into Knarsdale and joined that old Roman Maiden Way over Lambley Common.

After Lambley, the route left the road I’d followed all morning to head out over desolate moors. Hartleyburn and Blenkinsopp Commons were big, open hills and the hike—mile after mile of slow climbing—was tiring. The vague ramble west eventually brought me to the fence I would follow all the way to to the top of Blenkinsopp ().

Eventually, I weaved my way through abandoned mine workings to the noisy A69 road linking Carlisle and Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Unfortunately, the quickest way into Greenhead was to walk behind the highway barrier, over the service station fast-food wrappers and cola cans that so many idiots had discarded from their windows; trying not to breathe in too much lorry exhaust.

Greenhead seemed quite uninteresting. Its main preoccupation seemed to be with the big road. It was hardly village-like. I fancied a pint but the hotel didn’t look appealing. A campsite was suggested on the map, so I headed straight for it.

A little old lady, in her seventies or eighties, called from behind me as I walked up the road; she’d seen me walk too far with that big rucksack on. ‘Are you looking for camping?’ she asked, in a lovely half-geordie, half-scottish accent. She led me back to the green lawn behind her pretty house. ‘We’ve not had anyone yet this year, but you’re welcome to stay.’ We had a short chat about where I’d been and where I was off to next. Bellingham was a long way to go in one day, she thought. As she hadn’t mentioned payment yet, I asked how much it was. She frowned as though she didn’t really want to charge. ‘Oh, three pounds it is love. My son looks after the camping usually, but he’s away just now. You’ll need twenty pence pieces for the shower, do you have any?’ I didn’t, so she put four in my hand and tottered back into the porch.

I showered, performed my daily replacement of the plasters holding my feet together and cooked up some couscous as the shadows of tall conifers stretched long across the grass.

Day 11.

Rain was not what I wanted for the hike over the fells to Alston but I’d been fortunate with weather this far so I couldn’t protest much. I pointlessly tried to shake some of the water off my tent and got going.

The route skirted west of the steep, conical Dufton Pike and soon left the calm pastures of the Eden Valley for more forbidding Pennine heights. I knew I was to take on the biggest of the lot today, and that this was not the weather for it. Well, I’d slogged in rain before and could slog again.

The first ascent was Knock Old Man (), at 794m. This is a significant climb from the valley floor. Just as on Shunner Fell, I lost all visibility as soon as I’d gained a bit of altitude and the wind picked up. Unable to use landmarks, I was perpetually checking my map and compass. The path was not obvious and, suddenly, it disappeared entirely. I had imagined some vague marks into a pattern, which vanished like a mirage. I searched around, and decided to track back on my bearing. I found a fork I’d missed in the fog, indicated by what in ordinary conditions would’ve been a prominent rock, with an arrow pointing right where I’d gone left.

Taking greater care now, I made my way to the Knock summit. The force of the wind encouraged me off again quickly. Reaching the bottom of the dip before the next climb, I stumbled across tarmac. This was very peculiar—why was there a metalled road so high up? The Guide informed me that it is, in fact, the highest road in Britain and that it heads up to the Radar Station on top of Great Dun Fell (), at 848m. This conspicuously huge white ‘golf ball’, along with assorted masts and small buildings, watches air traffic over the North Atlantic, and would purportedly lead me to the summit: ‘No one will ever get lost trying to find Great Dun Fell in anything short of white out conditions.’ I suppose this was ‘white out’ then, because I couldn’t see a thing. The path was navigable, however, and I met the facility’s perimeter fence over which, right in front of me, was a huge white sphere I couldn’t make out the edges of. I shivered in the wind, and in the alienness and isolation of the place.

I carried on quickly to Little Dun Fell next door, only a jot littler at 842m. It is more of a ridge connecting its neighbour and Cross Fell. The side wind hit me even harder here, and I had to crouch into it. I spotted a small stone shelter and decided I’d run to it for a breather before the final push. As I slumped back on my rucksack, I turned to find a sheep’s skull on the rock inches from my face—as if it wasn’t unnerving enough up here. Just one more.

If I’d studied the topography of Cross Fell (), I probably wouldn’t have got myself into trouble. The top was in fact a plateau, about 1km wide and nearly 2km long at a maximum height of 893m. As I was now a little tired, I didn’t scale it properly from the map. It had a brim of scree, which had to be scrambled up. At this point, several routes split but all seemed to lead to a tall cairn at the top. The wind up here—on the very top of the Pennines—was incredible. I could only open the map page in the miniscule shelter the cairn offered, and set off on the West Northwest bearing to find the summit marker.

There was no path at all. I kept checking for the obelisk behind me but it soon disappeared. It felt wrong—no markers and no foot erosion at all. I tracked back and found the tall cairn again. I reset my bearing and zigzagged a little to search for a trail. No sign. I stopped again to think, and realised I was getting very cold. I only wore a t-shirt and breathable jacket while walking so I would often get chilly if I stopped, but in this gale, soaked through, I was going to freeze if I didn’t keep moving.

Then, out of the fog, I saw a new cairn to the left. I headed straight to it. It was stupid of me not to check the bearing I was taking. It turned out to be just a pile of scree, and led nowhere. Now I was lost. It took most of my energy just to restrain from panic. ‘Keep calm and think.’ I decided I’d keep west, find the edge of the plateau and follow it north, where it had to meet the path to descend on the north face. Though not the easiest or most direct of routes, it would surely get me there. I strode with my head down into the howling wind and beating rain, checking each step to avoid turning an ankle on a rock or in a hole. There were still pockets of snow up there. I manically repeated, ‘Where’s the path? Where’s the path? There’s got to be a path.’ I had been up there a long time and was shivering, lost, slightly terrified and very alone.

Though poorly cited when I write, the Wikipedia article on Cross Fell gives some idea of it not being the most comfortable of places:

‘The fell is prone to dense hill fog and fierce winds. A shrieking noise induced by the Helm Wind is a characteristic of the locality. It can be an inhospitable place for much of the year. In ancient times it was known as “Fiends Fell” and believed to be the haunt of evil spirits.’

Finally, I found something. It was eroded only slightly, but had to be heading the right way. ‘Path. Path. Path…’ I murmured senselessly. Then it was gone again. But by now I was heading down the north side of the hill (forget the summit marker, I wanted off), and I knew I had to meet a miner’s track crossing perpendicular. I hit it. Just to the right I saw an isolated dwelling through the fog; it had to be Greg’s Hut, marked on the map as an emergency shelter for anybody stranded up there. Relief! Joy! I knew where I was, and I was safe.

I thought about sitting in the hut for a bit, but after sheltering behind it for long enough to get my breath back, I decided to march on. It would all be downhill from there. After half an hour or so I met three southbound Pennine Way walkers, the first people I’d seen all day. I was very glad of it. They were in good spirits, and one was even wearing sunglasses in the rain, which may have had something to do with him being Australian; I wasn’t sure. I told them to be careful, and described my fright up on the fells, but they didn’t seem to be taking me seriously. Perhaps they found their way over just fine.

I can’t remember much of the rest of the afternoon; Cross Fell kept going through my head. My trousers were frozen to my legs as the rain persisted. The long track descended all the way into Garrigill () before a quiet riverside walk to Alston.

Before I’d set off back in Edale I’d decided I would allow myself to make use of a hostel every few days to break from camping, though I hadn’t needed one in the first ten legs. The YHA at Alston was on the approach to the town, and I decided I could do with a proper rest. It was a great little place: the chap running it was friendly and helpful, I got a room to myself for £15, there were teabags and someone had even left a chocolate cake with a ‘Please Eat Me’ sign on it. I took a shower and hung my socks to dry in the laundry room. My friend Dave surprised me with a call from Calcutta to see how I was getting on and offer some encouragement.

It was wonderful to have a bed. I wouldn’t have to wear my hat and gloves and curl up in my sleeping bag. I wouldn’t have to turn over every time my sides went numb. I wouldn’t wake up at dawn shivering. I had a pillow.

Day 10.

Despite one or two protests from Jim, and an initial refusal to vacate his sleeping bag, we folded up the tent and set off reasonably early. The day promised a scenic riverside mosey and visits to the famous waterfalls of Low and High Force; the latter holding the title of biggest waterfall in England by volume¹. This section comprised the dogleg of the Pennine Way trail; for a whole day we’d be walking west, rather than making any direct progress north toward my destination in Scotland.

I was a bit concerned to discover, when stumbling out of the tent, that the knee-ouch I’d suffered towards the end of Sunday’s leg had not gone away as I’d hoped. By this point, I’d had several spells of pain in a hip, ankle or foot, but had walked each of them off. This one seemed more persistent, very sore and, moreover, coincided with an injury I’d received playing football a few months prior. I could hardly put any weight on my right leg without a stab in the outer side of the joint. ‘How can I keep walking on this?’ I felt sick at the thought of not finishing after I’d made it all this way. I gulped a couple of Ibuprofen tablets down (the first I’d used so far) and set off with a bit of a hobble. At least the morning’s terrain, accompanying the meanders of the River Tees, would be relatively undemanding.

The first part actually cut off a couple of the windier turns of the river, heading through pastures and over stiles. Soon we were on the river bank again under a canopy of trees. Massive white bags of pavement littered the path for a distance, ready to be laid soon. In their current position though, they were obstacles around which we had to weave and squeeze. Thankfully, the painkillers were now working, dulling the sharp discomfort to a more tolerable ache.

The three cascades of Low Force announced the start of a dramatic stretch of rapids and whirlpools. As we continued excitedly up toward High Force (), the path teasingly took us away from the river, returning just at the south bank viewing point for the falls. It is a spectacular plunge over the dark slab of Whin Sill². We paused for a drink.

As the roar quietened behind us, the Way left soft pastures for heath and higher ground. The Tees veered off to the right as we went over a small hillock. It came back to meet us again and we crossed over a footbridge near to Forest-in-Teesdale—the only habitation visible in the opening panorama. As is not unusal for us, Jim and I got on to discussing the brilliance of Half Man Half Biscuit and soon discovered that theirs made for great walking songs. Thus, much of our day hoofing it through remote wilderness was soundtracked by shouts of ‘They’ve got a German Shepherd dog called Prince, the one called Sheba died…’ and so on.

Falcon Clints required some arduous scrambling over cliffs as we met the Whin Sill up close. It took almost an hour to cover what looked like a short distance on the map. ‘Twisted ankles and broken hips are regular mishaps on this section,’ warned the Guide. We eventually turned the corner to Cauldron Snout (), another crashing cascade just below the dam of the Cow Green reservoir.

The trail then passes for a distance along the edge of Warcop, a vast MoD firing range. There are signs near the path warning ‘Keep out or we might shoot you’ (or words to that effect). We childishly creeped off the path a little to see if we could spot anything, but nothing seemed to be going down. Perhaps they were having a day off, or else they were all disguised as rocks.

We left the Tees at the reservoir to follow its tributary Maize Beck, and were soon walking out over a featureless expanse between distant Fells. This sort of stretch can be draining. We had to cross the Beck at a footbridge, but Jim decided to hop across rocks in the shallow water. After that, he began to lag behind me. This was the second longest leg I would complete in the fortnight, and he’d only been walking for one day so I certainly sympathised. I remembered how much I’d been suffering on the second and third days up to Blackstone Edge and Ponden, and realised I’d built up some stamina in the past week of full-time walking.

Now into the afternoon, I thought we’d just have a prolonged slog into Dufton to go but Jim pointed out that ahead was an impressive-sounding feature I’d missed in the Guide: High Cup. The astonishing view that greeted us at High Cup Nick () was one of the highlights of the whole Pennine Way. I now realised why we’d spent a day walking west, away from the eventual destination: this was breathtaking! High Cup is an immense, broad and perfectly symmetrical glacial valley, with the cliff of the Whin Sill forming a vertical rim. Due to the way the Way brought us to the top ‘nick’ of the valley, the view was an utter surprise as the landscape suddenly disappeared from below us. We stood at the edge trying to take in the scale and throwing stones off to vanish toward the distant valley floor.

After this rest, we followed around the north edge of the valley, still admiring the views, for a lengthy descent into Dufton. Jim had decided that he wasn’t ready for a third day’s walking on Tuesday—quite reasonably, especially as it would include the Pennines’ highest Fells—and so was intent on finding some way of returning to York that evening. With his encyclopedic knowledge of the British railway network, he realised that nearby Appleby-in-Westmorland was a stop on the Settle–Carlisle railway, which would connect.

We’d hoped to enjoy a pint in the Stag Inn before he left, but on arrival it was mournfully closed. Possibly as it was a Monday; Dufton is not a real place. At the same time, checking the train times and spotting an ‘Appleby 3½’ sign, we realised he didn’t have long to get there before the last train. And just to improve matters, it started raining. Off he ran.

I found the (empty) campsite to set up my tent, and quickly got everything inside. Miserably, there was nothing for me to do in Dufton but lie in my tent listening to the rain. Oh well, at least I could boil up some hot food and make a cup of tea… except, stupidly, I’d allowed my matches to get damp. I could not get a single one in the pack to light. Bah! And then my tent began to leak right above me. Wonderful. I put my army tin under the drip, opened a packet of biscuits and sipped on whisky.

I received a message from Jim at around 8 o’clock.

‘Not one single bloody lift! Did a double time jog to Appleby in rain then up bloody big hill to get to station with 2min before last train. Now speeding back through Dales…’

I was glad, and not a little amazed, that Jim had made his train home. I had a bit further to go yet.

¹ Hardraw Force, which I had slept next to on Friday, features the highest drop of course.

² I have hardly referenced the geology of the Pennines while describing my walk, having a pathetic knowledge of rocks beyond ‘hard stuff, that’. But I was not unaware of the importance of it during my stomp; indeed, one of the helpful National Trail leaflets mapped out the different ‘depositions’ and ‘intrustions’ making up each area I passed through, and offered a nice quote to convey the importance:

‘To look at the scenery without trying to understand the rock is like listening to poetry in an unknown language. You hear the beauty, but you miss the meaning.’ — Norman Nicholson.

The feature called Whin Sill is noteworthy. It is a very hard (you thought normal rock was hard, right?) slab of igneous Dolerite that squirted up, in molten form, from below the crust before solidifying between layers of existing rock. As this softer rock has eroded around its edges, the Dolerite is exposed in remarkable cliffs. Here at High Force, it is the precipice over which the Tees falls. Its northern edge, Hadrian decided, would make a good base for a defensive wall.

Spring meadows are the morning’s territory, vibrant and saturated both with moisture and colour; the grass tips just starting to dry in the new heat. Pipits swoop close to the dandelions and sound sliding squeaks like the hopeful tuning of an analogue radio. I near a dry stone wall settled into the hillside, each nook offering shelter to some tiny mammal or insect like a Tokyo capsule hotel. I lift one heavy boot and then the other over the stile, softened by lifetimes of Westmorland rain. Squinting into the sun, I drop onto the other side, ready to breathe in another glorious view.

But it’s spoiled. Spoiled by a plastic bathtub, sitting a few yards from the path and listing uncomfortably on a slope. Once a pristine B&Q white, it’s now filthy, as one would expect here. I can see through the useless holes for the taps and overflow. A hosepipe (its source a mystery) is propped on the higher side, and green slime hangs from its trickling end. The water slops over the wide brim into a muddy pool, from where it seeps into the ground and under deep bovine footprints. It’s ugly.

It’s also not right! This is a bathtub: it should be indoors, it should be clean and it should preferably be full of steaming water and suds.¹ It belongs in this field like a cow belongs in a bathroom. If it were a one-off I’d possibly be charmed by the absurdity; in fact it’s a motif of British farmland I find quite miserable.

The bathtub-in-a-field is only an example of the subject of this note. You see, I often found farms on my walk quite, well, untidy. I raised this point with Jim when he joined me—knowing he is ‘of farming stock’, as I think they put it—and his reaction made me laugh at my own sillyness. He stopped and looked at me, shaking his head. The sort of expression I imagine I give when somebody says something like ‘What do I need to know maths for anyway?’ The look that says ‘You just said something so ignorant, so far off, I don’t even know how to start explaining this to you.’

Perhaps I chose a bad example for my case. Although I don’t find it aesthetically pleasing, and would prefer to see something designed for purpose and constructed of a material sympathetic to its environment, I know the bathtub has a function: to hold water for livestock to drink. More concerning to me were the pieces of machinery I found strewn around fields: a plough trailer for a tractor, left rusting in long grass; the shell of a Volkswagen Beetle, gutted and left to decompose; the debris of some vehicle, possibly a quad bike, scattered so far it looked like it had exploded.

This stuff has been thrown away—it’s litter, even on their own bits of land. The worst example I remember was along Hadrian’s wall towards Steel Rig. I reached an excavated Roman Fort, certainly on a protected heritage list. The farmer, however, had decided it would make a good place to discard some worn-out tyres, leaning them against the ancient wall. Okay, so you don’t have time to take them to the dump now, but please don’t leave them there! I wouldn’t have dared drop a sweet wrapper on it.

I can’t remember exactly how Jim responded to my complaint, but it was something like ‘Do you think a farmer’s job is to make the countryside all pretty for townies like you to come and visit when you feel like it? They have work to do! They live here!’ I know this, of course. As little as I understand the responsibilities of farmers, I imagine they don’t get to spend much time chatting on Facebook. I’m being a bit cheeky. But does being busy excuse a person from being tidy? My workday is likely shorter than most farmers’, and involves a lot less physical effort. But even if I worked from dawn to dusk, I expect I’d get some complaints if I decided to throw CRT monitors or outdated programming manuals into the garden when I was done with them.

Bill Bryson argued a while ago that the whole of England should be made into a National Park. I’m sure this was meant to provoke thought rather than as a serious suggestion, but I appreciated the sentiment (I’d include Wales and Scotland too, obviously). This is a beautiful island, and we should look after it. He also wrote, on the subject of littering and despicable fly-tipping,

‘A clean and lovely countryside shouldn’t be a surprise. It should be a right.

‘Litter breeds more litter. That is a simple, immutable fact.’

I don’t believe he was thinking about farmers when he wrote this, but I would certainly like to extend the suggestion to them: keep the countryside tidy, farm dudes.²

¹ I’m sure a good part of my dismay was because I was cold, dirty and perpetually dreaming of taking a scolding hot bath.

² I should know better than to antagonise farmers. I’ll have to watch out for cows on bridges.

Day 9.

Slumped at the bottom of my tent due to the slope, and by then overfamiliar with each of the stones that pressed through the groundsheet, I wondered if it was worth getting up yet. My phone must’ve picked up some signal, as I found a text from my friend Jim: ‘will be at a66 at 8, half eight.’ Where was the A66? Why had he written out the second ‘eight’? Never mind, he was on his way! Jim had kindly offered to join me for couple of days’ walking, and I was really looking forward to having someone other than myself to talk to. Jim’s always fun to have around.

The A66, Ordnance Survey informed me, was about 11km from where my tent was perched upon Tan Hill, so I had to get moving. I struggled to hook out the pegs as my fingers were quickly numbed by the wind. I wanted to move quickly down Sleightholme Moor—to warm myself up and not to leave Jim waiting in a trunk road lay by—but it wasn’t so easy. The guide warned that it ‘can be a dangerous place’, and offered an alternative road route, but I was keen to stick to the official trail and visibility was good enough. The danger, I discovered, lay in tracts of waterlogged peat, into which it’s quite possible to sink deep with a misplaced step. There was little clear path to follow and where I did find it, it was trodden into murky puddles. I set a compass bearing and held it as best as I could.

I made reasonable time, and found myself on the path down to God’s bridge, where a brook disappears under a huge slab of limestone before reappearing again unhindered. And nearby, by the road (), Jim had just arrived. I showed him where we were headed on the map and we set off vaguely north across Bowes Moor.

The trail met and shadowed a dry stone wall for a long while and, not having to study the compass so much, I prattled on—I hadn’t held an extended conversation with anyone for a week!—and Jim updated me on his York City’s chances of survival in the conference. Reaching the brow at Race Yate Rigg, we then stomped down Cotherstone Moor (the guide puts it perhaps a bit harshly: ‘a sweep of featureless waste’. I thought it was alright) to the gap between Blackton Reservoir () and the colossal dam wall of Balderhead Reservoir.

From there we rose uphill through some high, scruffy meadows to a ridge from where we could see out next port of call, Lunedale, and another pair of reservoirs. Passing over the bridge between these, we trekked up through a couple of farms and their scattered barns, to the higher ground around Harter Fell (). The eerie circle copse of Kirkcarrion, a Bronze Age burial site, stole our attention at the top of the hill to the East.

We finally traipsed onto the road into Middleton at about three o’clock. Having already decided that we should drop our bags soon and scout for a Sunday lunch, we stopped at the first campsite we met on the edge of town. It featured rows of those dreary green static caravans, but offered a space for tents. Looking for a reception, I ventured into the campsite bar/clubroom, which obviously hadn’t been decorated this side of 1990. I waited for a youngster in a Sunderland shirt to swap his coins for Monster Munch before paying to to pitch Jim’s tent: a two or three-manner which seemed palatial compared to the coffin-sized thing I’d been getting used to.

We left quickly to see if we could find somewhere still serving lunch. A couple of pubs had finished up, but the 1618 café held out for us. Though not offering a veggie alternative for the lunch, they were very accommodating and fixed me up a mushroom bake to go with the spuds and vegetables. While we waited, we read the wonderfully local stories in the pages of the Mercury—‘voice of Teesdale since 1854’— whose office sat opposite the café.

Once fed, we wandered over to the Bridge Inn to play a few games of pool. A young mechanic and his girlfriend sat silently next to the window. Sunday in a small town. After pool and a game of darts, we set off back to the tent to read up on Monday’s leg, which would be a serious 30km trek. I took the opportunity to enjoy my first shower in three days. Bliss.

Day 8.

I knew it was due to rain on Saturday morning and had hoped to be packed up before it started. So I cursed when I woke to patters on the tent not long after five o’clock. I had a plan in the event of a wet start, however. I’d spotted a house-build next to the inn, which had been topped off but not fitted with windows or doors yet. I got all my stuff together inside the tent (quite difficult when everything has to be done lying down) and ran my bag over to drop it in the house. Then I ran back, circled the tent to pull out all the pegs and carried it over so I could take it down and sort my waterproofs out under the protection of a roof.

The morning’s task was Great Shunner Fell () and, boy, was I shunned by this mountain. The rain continued to pour, the cloud pressed in on me as soon as I got onto the Fell and the wind only got fiercer as I gained altitude. The outside world disappeared entirely and I had no idea how far I’d gone or had to go. My nifty backpack-covering waterproof poncho only served, in these conditions, as a sail to push me in whichever direction the gales swirled, and to flap up into my face; so I gave up on it, preferring to get soaked. It took no little determination to keep going for hour after hour like this; I repeated ‘HUP! two, three, four…’ continuously to maintain a pace, and shouted crazily at myself to keep going.

‘Stop being scared, you girl. That’s a bit sexist. Yeah, but there’s only you here. Okay, just don’t write it in the journal.’

The summit cairn offered little protection from the elements and no views, of course, so I continued, northeastward, for more of the same on the descent. As I neared Thwaite () and a return to civilisation, I finally passed somebody: a southbound Pennine Way walker. He’d taken eleven days to get to this point, which worried me a little as I only had eight days to cover the same ground. It’s curious to meet someone coming the other way—you each hold the whole trail in your head: part in memory, part in imagination; but you each have the opposite parts. Your near future is their recent past, and vice versa. You try to extract information through questions, ‘what are the best and worst bits to come?’, ‘what’s the Cheviot like?’ and by examining faces for signs of joy, tiredness or fear when they answer.

Perhaps the strain of Great Shunner showed in mine, because before we carried on, he said ‘you know, if you take a left on the first road you get to down there, it’ll take you straight to Keld and chop a couple of miles off.’ As a measure of my weariness, I began to consider the idea. Reaching the road, I paused for a moment and compared the directness of the tarmac with the hike over Kisdon Hill. I carried on—no shortcuts! I soon wondered if I’d regret that decision however, as I got lost on the side of Kisdon. Finding myself at a dry stone wall with no stile, I realised I was a few contour lines away from where I needed to be, and so had to track back for a miserable twenty minutes. On the right path again, I journeyed down through woodland and over some ankle-testing scree, before stopping for lunch next to a river crossing at a small waterfall, where the Pennine Way bisects Wainwright’s Coast-to-Coast walk ().

Here I had to say a fond farewell to the Dales as I entered County Durham. After an ascent back onto open moorland, I spotted my destination: the implausibly isolated Tan Hill Inn. Tan Hill is the highest pub in England at 528m above sea level, right on top of a remote moor. I had expected it to be somewhat quiet (with the significant effort required to get here from anywhere) but when I arrived, in the afternoon, it was full. I waited at the bar as the man I presumed to be the landlord served drinks. He was a cheery, middle-aged chap with spiky hair (dyed bright red), a black wasitcoat and missing front teeth. A bowler hat later appeared. From the way he bantered with the customers, I think he’d typically be described as ‘a character’. I approved of his swagger in time to the country music on the jukebox. I asked if I could camp. ‘Of course you can,’ he exclaimed, and even kindly offered me a couch to sleep on indoors in the bar lounge. Lovely! ‘The only thing is, this is a wedding party, and it’s likely to keep going late into the night.’ The girls next to me confirmed enthusiastically. So that would be why there were so many smartly-dressed folk then.

I had to consider my options. As much as a comfortable couch in a warm room appealed, I knew I’d be exhausted and would want to be away early in the morning. I didn’t really want to get involved with a wedding. I thanked him and went to set up my tent outside. For the second time in a day, I wondered if I’d made the right call. Being on top of a broad summit, the wind made pitching a tent (even a low one like mine) difficult. At first I looked for the best bit of ground, but the wind just bent the poles flat there. With very little grace I staggered with the tent across to the biggest boulder I could see to use it as a break. Unfortunately, the ground here was at an incline, and was bumpy with stones. What choice did I have? I pitched as near to the boulder as I could stamp the pegs in, and weighed all the sides down with rocks to stop gusts from getting underneath.

I scurried back into the pub to sit down and get warm, and worried about my tent outside. ‘You’ll be fine’ said the barman, nodding to the wind speed meter above the optics. ‘32 miles an hour. We get 50 to 60 here sometimes.’ I was less than reassured, and spent the evening wondering if my tent would get to Kirk Yetholm a few days before me. I’d taken up residence next to the fire to read and, as nobody seemed to be paying any attention, I poked and stoked it a couple of times to keep it burning. Only when I stood up to check on my stuff did I realise my work had constituted an acceptance of responsibility.

‘Where do you think you’re going? You’re in charge of that fire now, son—you’d better be keeping an eye on it.’

So then I had a tent and a fire to worry about.

Day 7.

Up and packing to leave soon after six o’clock on Friday, I was somewhat disheartened to find thick mist outside the zipper. What happened to the clear skies of Thursday? I shook as much water as I could from the outer tent and heaved up my bag to go. The friendly farmer waved ‘bye’ from a distance across the field, where I surmised he was off to do something farmy in his wellingtons. I shuffled quietly through the village, past the Inn I’d visited the night before.

A stone-walled path carried me gently out of Ribblesdale, and to my delight I suddenly broke through the ceiling of fog, which I now saw blanketed only the sleeping valley. Above this, I strode in fresh, warm daylight; the disc of the sun rising quickly from behind Pen-y-ghent’s peak. I could hardly contain the bliss of being such a pretty moment, so quiet and early in the day. I suddenly felt strong and young. That is to say, impossibly fortunate. Such reflections are rarer than they really should be. It was certainly a feeling I wanted to savour; one that made it worth all effort expended.

Apart from the distant summits, including Ingleborough—the other giant of the area—the views changed little as I progressed through the morning. One or two shadowy holes suggested locations of the caves indicated on the map. Past Cave Hill (there’s a clue), I arrived at the head of a deep cut in the limestone, Ling Gill (). Ancient ash trees (and other old species I don’t know the names of) lined the sides of the gorge, steep enough to offer protection from nibbling animals.

‘Anno 1765 thys bridge was repaired at the charge of the whole of West Rydeing.’

The track met the Cam High Road, a well-trodden Roman route over Cam Fell (). I gained height gradually, overlooking a vast conifer plantation stretching out to the east, before turning left onto a packhorse trail along the edge of a rounded valley. This was one of those sections I underestimated from the map; it took much longer than I expected to reach the highest point, Ten End. From here, however, the view opened out to Wensleydale and more alluring Dales villages.

I eventually dropped down and across a few flat fields into Gayle. The Way enters this hamlet via an ugly pebble-dashed housing estate—something of a shock after a day of walking in open country. It quickly leads on to the larger market town of Hawes, where I dropped my bag briefly for a rest. I was beginning to boil in the afternoon sun. I circled the wonky streets forming the centre of the town, looking for somewhere to find supplies in between the many touristy craft shops. I had to pick up some local cheese in Wensleydale, of course. Once stocked up, I set off toward the day’s destination: the Green Dragon Inn in Hardraw. This pub has Britain’s highest waterfall, Hardraw Force, in its back garden, which I thought would make it a pleasant place to rest for the night.

I was tired and hungry by the time I got there and set my tent up, and rather churlishly admonished the barman when he told me there was no hot water to wash in. I do still think a fiver is a bit much to charge for a patch of grass if you’re not even going to provide a hot water tap. A bath under the falls perhaps? This was where Kevin Costner took a dip for that scene in Robin Hood, so perhaps not out of the question! Other patrons may not have approved. Anyway, I thought the landlord was ‘monetising’ that waterfall a bit much. Apparently it’s two pounds just to have a look at it. It can’t exactly take much maintenance.

The Force is certainly impressive though: a 30m single drop. After checking it out and enjoying my cheese with some bread, I settled down for a late nap. In the evening I went back into the pub to find a cozy seat next to the fire. I spent a while chatting to a sweet couple from St. Helens who were out on their motorbike for the weekend. He wore a Pantera t-shirt and merrily described adventures he’d had on his bike; she seemed genuinely excited about camping ‘for the first time’. I was starting to get used to it. As it was £3.60 for a pint of bitter (in Yorkshire!) I didn’t ask for a second, returning instead to my tent to sip on whisky and listen to the rumbling falls.

Not having visited any of the small towns and villages listed in the Pennine Way itinerary, I read out the pleasing-sounding name of each mysterious destination with equal weight.

‘Crowden, Gargrave, Horton-in-Ribblesdale, Forest-in-Teesdale, Twice Brewed, Steel Rigg, Kirk Yetholm…’

On reaching and exploring each of these settlements, however, I discovered that some places are, well, less of a place than others. As I reported back by telephone ‘well, it’s not really anything. There’s F all here.’, I started to think about a criteria I would use in my ignorant, townie way to define a ‘place’.

I’m so obviously townie, of course. I’m used to living in the city centre of Manchester, with 24-hour shops, pubs, cloud WiFi and the security of never being more than 100m from a café and a newspaper. Two weeks in the remotest parts of England was always going to feel a bit different. Those more used to living in the countryside will scoff at how mollycoddled I am—and they’d be right to. But there’s some things I think a ‘place’ should have as well as a name, and it’s the absence of these things that has helped me decide what they are. For example, I rocked up to Dufton only to discover that the friendly-sounding Stag Inn was closed (presumably because it was a Monday), as was the Village Stores (reasons unknown) so that my only option that evening was to lie in my tent listening to the rain.

So here’s my criteria: to be a real place, I should be able to buy basic groceries like bread, milk and eggs until 10 O’clo— no, let’s make it easier, 8 O’clock in the evening; and there should be a public house in which I can sit somewhere warm and drink beer. Does that seem reasonable? This means that Crowden, Ponden, Dufton and Byrness are not places. Malham, Horton-in-Ribblesdale, Middleton-in-Teesdale, Gargrave, Bellingham and Alston are all places. The latter three get extra points as their shops were lovely Co-ops.

Day 6.

To quote my dear Mr. Merritt, ‘What a fucking lovely day!’ I was up soon after dawn, and had my sights on the white crescent of Malham Cove to the north. Just one thing puzzled me: where were the baguettes I’d kept for breakfast? I thought back to the night: I’d woken with a jolt… a push on the tent and a rustled bag… silence…. Fox! The thieving critter must’ve got a paw under the tent and nabbed my petit déj. Ah well, I had some fizzy Lucozade to get me going.

I scrambled up and arced along the crown of limestone pavement to joyfully admire the view back. Nobody else up and walking yet, and not a nimbus or cirrus in sight. The path led across tough grass to Malham Tarn (), a pretty lake with a grand house on the far side, which the guide informed me had been built by Lord Ribblesdale in the late 18th century as a shooting lodge. I bet the foxes stayed away from his breakfast.

Around the shore past the house, I rose again into open moorland, and hiked up an old miner’s track to lonesome Fountain’s Fell (). Maintaining my high spirits, I sang Jonathan Richman over and over—sheep scarpering as I called ‘whaddyasay about that, you guys?’ at them like a bloody lunatic. Pen-y-ghent stood imposingly on the other side of the valley. After descending and crossing the road to its southern base, the unswerving incline dared me to take it on.

The shelf which casts Pen-y-ghent’s distinctive profile provided a brief breather in the vertiginous climb, though I was unusually full of energy. Once over the stile at the summit () the steep track actually led away from Horton, but promised to bring me there the long way round.

I found a farm to camp at but no farmer, despite the alert of barking dogs. I eventually spied him at the back of a large shed full of sheep. I never understand what’s going in these buildings, so I stood tentatively in the light of the doorway.

‘Hello! Here to camp are you? Come down that alley in the middle. That’s it, all the way down. I’ve got a ewe lambing here, and she isn’t going to stop for you I’m afraid.’

The Pen-y-ghent café further up the road looked cozy, so I stopped in for a sandwich and a tin of ginger beer. And there I saw it. Up on the shelf, among a few assorted bits of kit: a gas canister, and unmistakably the model I wanted! After six days, I’d found my fuel. I signed their Pennine Way guestbook (only the second name of 2009) and headed excitedly back to my tent. I pulled out the stove, army tin and couscous I’d been carrying and boiled myself up some dinner. Cooking on gas. Friendly farmer Sutcliffe walked over to enquire how the day’s walking had gone, and where I was off to on the Friday.

I’d been out of phone reception for a couple of days, so I walked back up to the red phonebox to update the folks on progress. I stopped in the Crown Inn for a pint of Black Sheep and quietly observed a village council meeting around the biggest table. I didn’t stay long before calling it a night.