Tommy Ogden

View Hardraw Force to Tan Hill in a larger map.

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.

View Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Hardraw Force in a larger map.

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.

View Malham to Horton-in-Ribblesdale in a larger map.

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 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.

View Gargrave to Malham in a larger map

Look at that tiddler of a walk! Only 10km. Well, after four days of full-time marching, my feet were starting to fall apart. I had a worryingly deep hole in my right heel, and blisters on my blisters. I’ll spare you more detail. Thus, I had decided to take an afternoon off on Wednesday to keep them clean, dry and rested.

Knowing that a shorter, flatter, sunnier walk awaited me, I felt a zillion times cheerier than the morning before. I quickly reached the River Aire for a tranquil waterside stroll. Baby lambs bounced about as I meandered through their meadows—that sort of thing. I passed Airton and the big, renovated farmhouses of Hanlith, and approached the famed destination of Malham at noon. I found Town Head Farm to camp with splendid views of Malham Cove, and remarked to myself on the number of hand-written, laminated signs around the place.

‘No smoking. Switch lights off. Pay before pitching. Do not leave taps running. No fires. No camping beyond this sign. No noise between 11pm and 6am….’

I need not have feared all these regulations, as I received a friendly welcome. The camping shop had recently closed so there was nowhere to buy gas, the lady explained, and kindly brought me out a cup of tea—my first in three days! I rinsed my socks in the sink and hung them out on barbed-wire to dry. Further bylaws were posted through the afternoon; I kept checking to make sure I remained a law-abiding, lone camper.

‘What network are you on? If you stand in the middle of the main road a bit up from here you can get O2… if you’re tall enough.’

England were playing football later on, so I wandered down to a pub to watch it. Finding it hard to stay awake I left soon after half-time, ready to scale the limestone cliffs of the Cove in the morning.

View Ponden to Gargrave in a larger map.

As you may have noticed, I had been a bit miserable on Monday. I was hoping that a new morning might bring a better mood. It didn’t. Some pissy rain made putting the tent down a pain and then I remembered I had no chance of hot food or even a tea. Gah. I’d set off from Blackstone Edge with the wrong gas canister for my stove, and foolishly thought it might be easy to pick one up along the way. I was currently two miles from the nearest, er, anything, and that was in the wrong direction. I ate my last banana and read the guide’s prediction for the morning: ‘a grey day’ of ‘moors and mires’. Best get going then.

¹ The worst I had to deal with on this leg was being chased by some big hungry pigs near East Marton. I actually yelped ‘boar!’, like an asshat, when I saw the first fat thing coming towards me.

Ponden being nowt but a few farm houses, I was quickly out onto bare hills again, and striding out toward Wolf Stones (). Thankfully the wildlife is a bit tamer now than it was back in the 16th Century.¹

When I dropped down into Cowling, I became concerned because I had already drunk one of my flasks of water, was still feeling very thirsty and had most of the leg ahead of me.

² After a few days walking, I began to instinctively check for taps in each settlement I arrived at, whether I needed water or not. How’s that for bushcraft, Mears?

To make things worse, I dropped my one full flask as I tried to unscrew it. Idiot! I checked each driveway on the way out of the village for an outdoor tap, without success.²

Gaining altitude over another couple of hills, I gave it up again easily into Lothersdale (). There the guide and Ordnance Survey both promised a Post Office, which I thought might sell me a bottle of Volvic or a Lucozade; on arrival I was informed that it’d been closed. The day had begun to brighten just as noon passed, and I was glad of assistance from a man out trimming his hedge. He filled my water bottles up for me and I gulped away my thirst.

I got a bit lost in some farmer’s fields on the approach to Thornton-in-Craven (), which is always irritating. I only ever notice when I get to the edge of a field and realise there’s no stile so I must shuffle all the sodding way back. However, I was still making reasonable time so I stopped by the side of a lane to eat some biscuits and nuts—all I had left to eat by then. I switched my phone on to check for messages and Livy happened to be on her lunch break so she called me. It was lovely to hear her voice, and this brief chat turned out to be my watershed in mood—everything picked up from here on and I soon reached the towpath of the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. Easy to follow and flat (obviously), I could admire barges and take in the afternoon sunshine.

Gargrave felt like the promised land on arrival. Not only did I spy two pubs—it had a Co-op! After finding a campsite, I set off in search of hot vegetarian food. The Mason’s Arms obliged with a cannelloni. It probably wasn’t that great but, being my first warm meal in two days, it tasted wonderful. I washed it down with pints of water and bitter, charged my phone and listened to stories from the bar stools.

‘…and she went off with that bloke, what’s his name? He came back from laying pipelines in Arabia.’
‘Oh, you mean Pipeline Pete?’
‘No not Pipeline Pete, the other one…’

I stopped by the Co-op on the way back to stock up on plasters, bread and fruit, and also found a pack of doughnuts reduced to 35p. I ate the lot for dessert, and climbed contentedly into my tent.

View Blackstone Edge to Ponden in a larger map.

After a comfortable evening at mum and dad’s house on Sunday evening, I said ‘bye’ and set off again early on Monday. The first two days could’ve just been a nice weekend’s hiking not too far from home; for the next fortnight I’d be on my own.

‘Now I’ve worked out how to limp on both feet, I’ve just got to keep this up for the next eight hours.’

The start contrasted harshly with the morning before: drizzle replaced sunshine, solitude replaced chatting with dad and my heels and shoulders hurt already. I naïvely set off with my sleeping bag strapped to the rucksack, rather than inside it, and when it fell off for the second time I realised that it was already soaked.

‘Why isn’t this sodding holder thing waterproof?!’

Light Hazzles and Warland Reservoirs felt sinister as I walked along their edges, with the fog obscuring my view any further than the black water’s edge. Wet high voltage power lines crackled loudly. Following along the drain I saw a figure appear out of the cloud right in front of me: a young chap who, under his dark hood, seemed to be as glad to see another person as I was. ‘The whole thing?’ he asked? ‘I’m doing it in sections now. I’ve tried it all the way twice but didn’t make it. Once everything gets wet, it’s over.’ I glumly considered the sopping sleeping bag and tent on my back, and wondered how waterproof the backpack itself was.

I continued towards Mankinholes and up to Stoodley Pike () along a path I’d taken on a circular walk with my dad a few weeks before. I was calmed a bit by the familiarity. The Pike is a monument to peace built after the defeat of Napoleon in 1814. Usually visible for miles around, I almost walked into the 38m-tall black obelisk in the blanket fog. I struggled to make out its top, staring up in the wind, and again felt very uncomfortable. There’s a spiral staircase inside which allows one to climb up in the blackness, but the idea did not appeal so I quickly set off down towards Callis Wood.

Obviously, I didn’t have time to stop by lovely Hebden Bridge (enclave of tolerance and creativity among northern mill towns) and began the precipitous climb up from the valley floor at Callis Bridge (). Heptonstall Church—where Sylvia Plath was buried—came into view soon after along the next valley.

After a long, dispiriting moor slog I dropped to a meeting of two streams at Graining Water () and sat in the small space of grass, sheltered from wind, to eat some lunch. Concerned about progress, I didn’t stop long before heaving my bag up past another large reservoir and then beginning another slow moor climb up to Withens Height and another literary landmark on the other side.

The ruined farmhouse of Top Withens () was the inspiration for Wuthering Heights in Emily Brontë’s cracker. It’s certainly isolated enough. My feet were as sore as Heathcliff, so I could think only of finishing for the day. I finally found Ponden House and paid to pitch my tent down by a stream on the old grounds of Ponden Hall, where the young Brontës would come to play and read in the library. This was literature day, then.

I peeled off my socks, full of blood, and tried to clean up my blisters. I think I was a little delirious with exhaustion, as I remember forcing myself to eat some cold cheese and bread before I crawled into my damp sleeping bag at about seven o’clock. I put the Radio 4 In Our Time podcast on my headphones, and drifted through three or four episodes without listening before I fell into fitful sleep.

View Crowden to Blackstone Edge in a larger map.

Every tendon and tissue in my lower half ached when I woke on Sunday morning, but up I got to continue the long march north. As this second leg was due to end close to Rochdale and my family home, and it being a weekend, my dad had kindly decided to join me for the day and I was looking forward to his company.

‘The map says this should be a bridlepath. Is this a bridlepath?’
‘Would you bring a horse up here?’
‘I don’t think so. I hate horses.’

The morning was frosty, sunny and clear, which is pretty much perfect for long-distance trekking, though we had to watch for slippery ice patches. We began with a steepish climb up to Laddow Rocks, which offered a good view back over Bleaklow and the previous afternoon. From there we continued along to Black Hill (). The column at the top is named ‘Solider’s Lump’, after the Royal Engineers who surveyed this vast boggy expanse in the 19th century—I can imagine it was a miserable undertaking. Before the path to it was paved, says the guide, ‘more than one reckless adventurer had to be rescued after getting stuck fast’ trying to reach it. Heavy stone slabs made it a bit easier for us, so we stopped for some tea from dad’s flask and a couple of biscuits.

The descent down to the Wessenden reservoirs on the other side afforded views over Holmfirth, Marsden and Huddersfield. Grouse Butts was an abrupt jump up to a long stomp over Black Moss and Rocher Moss, by which time we were both feeling a bit of fatigue. After six hours, we stopped at Standedge () to lunch on sandwiches and finish off the tea, using the large boulders as a windbreak. The view is south-west over Oldham to Manchester. Having first seen the city (now easier to spot at distance thanks to the Beetham Tower) from the south at the summit of Kinder Scout, viewing it from the north gave me some impression of how far I’d already walked. My pained feet confirmed.

The trudge along the edge and to White Hill felt very long indeed, but eventually we made our way down to the footbridge over the M62 motorway (). Knowing this high crossing from the many times I’ve driven underneath it, I had been oddly excited about walking over it. It’s very noisy.

Blackstone Edge, above Hollingworth Lake, was our final ascent of the day. My mum and dad had taken us up here one sunny afternoon, maybe thirteen years before. Curiously, when we got up among the huge dark boulders I could remember the Liverpool away shirt I’d worn that day, and that my cousin Sam had been with us hopping over the rocks. We scrambled down to the White House pub where mum collected us in her car. Being so near home, I got to go back for platefuls of lasagne and a gloriously hot bath.

View Edale to Crowden in a larger map.

So this was it then. I woke up on the sofa-bed at my old house in Manchester, with a bellyful of nervousness and a slight funk in the head from a cheap bottle of Bordeaux I’d swigged on Friday evening. ‘Have I prepared enough for this?’, ‘Will my dodgy knee give up after a couple of hours?’ and ‘Will everyone think I’m a twit when I have to admit I couldn’t do it?’ were all doubts stirring while I fished a teabag from my morning brew.

‘You’re walking to Scotland? No bus fare?’

Edale, the starting point of the Pennine Way, is handily located on the Hope Valley railway line between Manchester and Sheffield, and I’d been quite looking forward to that little journey to begin my walk. The train was delayed by some violent-looking types who—from what I could hear over the reassuring Guided By Voices in my headphones—were flatly refusing to buy any tickets. I think the inspector gave up in the end. Gorton, Romiley and Chinley all flew by, I hauled my rucksack off and up to the Old Nag’s Head Inn and put the compass lanyard around my neck.

‘Did they set alarm clocks for early morning trouble-causing? That’s dedication to the art.’

A couple of other parties were getting themselves together as I set off, and I quickly passed a group of sweet-looking girls on the first path and, feeling brave by now, gave them each a smile and ‘Good morning!’. Soon I was climbing Jacob’s Ladder up to Kinder Scout (), and the soft, green hills and day-walkers of the southern Peak District were promptly replaced by the fiercer, lonely Dark Peak.

¹ Whenever I refer to ‘the guide’, I mean the National Trails: Pennine Way South and North by Tony Hopkins.

The guide¹ recounts this section as a ‘lunar terrain of gritty pebbles and bare black peat.’ The rusty patches of moss made me think ‘martian’ a better descriptive. Not that I’ve been to Mars recently. Once past Kinder Downfall I was into my first proper wilderness stretching out to to Snake Pass ().

As I paused by the side of the road for sandwiches and a swig from my hipflask, a chap coming the other way stopped briefly for a chat. He’d been up checking out one of the WWII aircraft wrecks lost up there in the mist.

² I later also awarded full marks to those who labeled Dismal Hill and Foul Step.

The route up through Devil’s Dike to Bleaklow () was as cheerful as these sobriquets suggested²: walls of peat leaned over me, hailstones pinged off my cheeks and the path became an indistinct stream bed which forked unnervingly. I didn’t hang around at the windy summit and followed the steep edge round and eventually down to Torside Reservoir. All that was left was to pass through the calm wood on the other side and watch some sheep headbutting each other before finishing the day at Crowden.