Captain's Log

Fountains Fell

I poked my head out of the tent to see how the day would start. It was thick mist and drizzle. I withdrew back into my tent and brewed a tea and prepared some muesli. I needed the energy from my breakfast today, since the walk was going to be perhaps my longest along the Pennine Way. Yesterday Plan A had failed when I found that due to a Bank Holiday ‘event’ the Horton-in-Ribblesdale campsite would be heaving with people. Plan B involved continuing along the Pennine Way and wildcamping  on the summit of Fountains Fell (see Captain’s Log, South Across The Dales). Originally I wanted to camp at Malham tonight, but given how Horton’s campsite was full, I didn’t really rate my chances of getting a pitch. I decided that I’d press on through Malham and carry onto Gargrave. Assuming I reached the town at a reasonable time, I’d continue southwards with an ultimate target of a wilcamp on Ickornshaw Moor. I’d not measured it, but I reckoned that was at least a 25-30 mile haul for the day. One positive point would be that I’d traverse a low level stretch of the Pennine Way between Malham and East Marton, which was about 12 or 13 miles of reasonably flat countryside. This would make today’s challenge seem a bit more achievable. The bookends to this flattish bit were a long and sometimes tricky descent from Fountains Fell to Malham and an exhausting rollercoaster section at the end of the day from East Marton. You never get something for nothing along the Pennine Way.   

It was pointless wiping the water from my tent outer, the drizzle would have instantly soaked it again. I packed it away wet into my rucksack. I was back on the Pennine Way heading southwards by 07:00 am. 

Pennine Barrier Ultra 50

I’d not even started the descent from Fountains Fell plateau when I saw a couple of figures materialising out of the mist in front of me. I was astounded. Who would be daft enough to be up here at 07:00 in the morning? Well, apart from me of course. They were runners and went flying by with a cheery ‘hello.’ They both had numbers on their shorts. Ah, it must be a fell race. These first two were the a taster for the hundreds that were to follow. Later research revealed it to be the Pennine Barrier Ultra 50. The participants set off from Malham and did a loop around the Yorkshire Three Peaks before returning to base again. A 50 miles, 2,593 metre ascent outing. There followed a difficult hour as I tried to make progress down the fell whilst making way for the runners coming uphill. I lost count of the times I said: ‘Morning’ or ‘How do you do’ or ‘Keep it up.’ The highest participant number I saw was 695 and I’m pretty sure I greeted every single one of them. Fortunately, they were at an early stage of their ordeal and so were fairly cheery. Looking at the results website, the first male home was Liam Mills in 7:37:58, and the first female Lynne Nicholls in 09:00:20. Given that it took me 11 hours 20 minutes just to walk around the 26 miles of the Yorkshire Three Peaks (see Captain’s Log, Yorkshire Three Peaks), they were exceedingly fast runners. The participants became less energetic as I made my way down their long line. The elderly, obese and the crippled made up the tail end. By the time I’d dropped out of the mist and crossed the single track road in the bottom of the valley, there were only a handful of walkers remaining. Following them closely were two people wearing high-visibility jackets that were obviously the ‘lantern rouge’ to eliminate any stragglers. It was an unusual start to the morning. I’d been curious about this ‘big event’; at least I knew what it was now. 

Malham

After the delay caused by the runners, I tried to pick up my pace and soon reached Malham Tarn. It looked pretty bleak in the drizzle and grey clouds. The Pennine Way followed a dramatic limestone canyon at Watlowes. I met two female NoBos from Marsden who were keen for news about the trail ahead. I tried to fill them in, but really my mind was on making progress on my long day ahead. The path down the canyon reached the amazing limestone pavement at the top of Malham Cove. Normally I’d spend some time up there, exploring all of the views from this amazing natural cliff. Today, I made a direct line to the steps that descend to the bottom of the cliff. It was a Bank Holiday Saturday and so there were plenty of people making their way to and from the cove from the village. It was about 11:00 am when I reached its centre. This was a little disappointing; I’d been hoping to get here around 10:00. Even so, a cafe was open and so I took the opportunity to order a veggie sausage sandwich and a coffee from a tearoom. I sat on a bench to consume it while watching people get wet feet as they attempted to cross the stepping stones over Malham Beck. 

River Aire

Fuelled by the veggie sausage sandwich, I set off with gusto along the path from Malham. Despite my commentary saying this was a flattish section, it actually started off quite hilly. Somebody had stapled pieces of poetry to the stile gates:  
Just a little note to say,
I’m glad you’re here today,
Where moorland whispers meet the breeze, 
And rocks stand guard among the trees.
Whoever had written it must have got bored, since I didn’t see anymore after the village of Hanlith.  

The path followed the River Aire southwards. It was field-hopping in essence, but very picturesque all the same. At Airton, the beautiful old corn mill (later used for spinning) has been converted to apartments. Not a bad location if you can put up with all the tourists.   

The path finally left the river behind and climbed up on to Eshton Moor. Yes, even the Pennine Way’s flat bits are still hilly. I met more NoBos who were heading for Malham. One group told me that there was bad weather due this evening. I sighed; I didn’t want to be scratching around for a wildcamp spot on Ickornshaw Moor in a storm. Another couple of miles of field-hopping and I entered the outskirts of Gargrave. I crossed the bridge over the Leeds-Liverpool canal and headed straight for the town’s Co-Op. 

Gargrave

My next resupply after Gargrave would be the famous May’s Shop near Hebden Bridge. The only problem with that was that I didn’t know if she’d be open on Bank Holiday Sunday when I was due there. Bloody Bank Holidays; they ought to ban them. In order to hedge my bets, I bought 5 days worth of food that would see me out until the end of the Pennine Way. Consequently my rucksack felt incredibly heavy as I crossed the River Aire for the last time and sat on a bench along the riverside to have some lunch. The day had brightened up and even the sun was out. I’d found some glasses on the floor near the bench. I put them on the arm of the bench in the hope that the poor sod who lost them might find them. On the way out of Gargrave I met a couple of day walkers who were keen to interrogate me on my Pennine Way experience so far. They raised their eyebrows in unison when I said that I was heading for Ickornshaw Moor. 

I field-hopped my way southwards. It felt like being in a steeple chase crossing all the fences. The path made its way over to the Leeds-Liverpool canal that had swung southwards from Gargrave. I came to the famous Double-Arched bridge over the canal at East Marton. The bridge was built around 1790. I’d assumed that the civil engineers couldn’t be bothered to remove the ‘old’ bridge and had just built over it. It turns out that both arches were built at the same time; the lower arch being a strainer arch. These strengthening engineering techniques are common in cathedrals, but not in bridges. A little further along the towpath I met a father and daughter who were reconnoitring this section of the Pennine Way. The daughter was going to attempt the Summer Spine Race in June. I wished her luck. At the point where the Pennine Way branched away from the canal, I looked at my watch; it was 4:00 pm.  The flatlands were over and this was where the Pennine Way would get hilly again. 

Pinhaw Beacon

I was field-hopping again, but this time it was hilly. I’d been fearing one particular field where I’d been followed by dozens of nervous  cows on a previous occasion. Fortunately, there were none to be seen today. The path joined tarmac and the road delivered me to Thornton-in-Craven before flinging me out eastwards. I made my way to Brown House Farm and crossed a stile into a field. From past experience, I was not looking forward to the next bit. The route was a steep, relentless climb to the summit of Pinhaw Beacon, a vertical ascent of about 250 metres. The first part of the climb was through fields and then it turned to moorland. To the north, I could see the flatlands that I’d crossed since Malham. The horizon was formed from the hills of the Dales. For me, this was the point that I felt that I’d made the transition from the Dales to the Southern Pennines. 

I joined a single track road known as Clogger Lane. I followed bags of rubbish that had obviously been thrown out of the window of a passing car. The bags contained empty beer cans and spirit bottles. I must have seen half a dozen bags before I reached the entry gates to Elslack Moor. The kissing gate was unbreachable with my rucksack on my shoulders. The fence was so high that I couldn’t lift my rucksack across to the other side and so I had to manoeuvre it through the kissing gate. That  sounds a lot easier to do than it was. I swore at the idiot who had built this on a national trail. The path still progressed upwards after the gate and then turned northwards to the trig. On the summit, I heaved the rucksack off my back and sat down for a rest. Pinhaw Beacon was one hell of a slog. I studied the toposcope on a stone plinth. The furthest northern point it listed was Whernside. It was 17:30 and I debated whether I should wildcamp here.  The sun was still out, although it was starting to cloud over a little bit. If I did camp here, it’d make my walk tomorrow a long one to May’s Shop. I could really do with a shorter day. It was still a bit early to wildcamp too; it’d mean hanging around a couple of hours before pitching. I looked at the rolling hills to the south. There was still a long way to go and I knew how difficult the terrain would be. I’d rather be doing something rather than nothing though and so I heaved my rucksack on to my shoulders and headed off downhill towards Lothersdale. 

Cowling

Of course, as soon as I started making the descent from Pinhaw Beacon, it clouded over and I started to feel the odd drops of rain on my hands. I’d forgotten how far you had to descend to Lothersdale in the valley (around 200 metres vertically). The small village was typical of those in West Yorkshire with its grey stone buildings. There was even a 90 foot tall, square stone chimney. It was built in the 1850s to support steam power for a textile mill. No sooner had I reached the main street of the village, then I was heading back up the other side of the valley on an impossibly steep path. There then followed a mixture of field-hopping and country lane walking, but on steep and uncompromising gradients. It was exhausing. There seemed to be no points in which I could catch my breath. By the time I was heading down yet another hill to Gill Beck, it seemed clear to me that I would not manage to make my way on to Ickornshaw Moor before nightfall. I’d walked over 24 difficult miles at this stage and so I’d struggle physically too. Not only that, but the promised rain looked as though it was imminent. When I first did the Pennine Way in the late 1970s I remembered staying on a campsite in Cowling. I wondered if it was still there. A Google search revealed a likely candidate and I phoned Winterhouse Barn Campsite. Yes, I would be able to pitch there tonight. I climbed yet another hill and descended into Ickornshaw, a village next door to Cowling. I climbed yet again to reach the A6068 and headed off towards Cowling. Winterhouse Barn was the first building I came to. 

Winterhouse Barn Campsite

The elderly owner said that she ran the campsite in the 1970s and so it probably was the one I pitched at all those decades ago. She showed me to a small fenced area in the garden where there was enough space to pitch half a dozen tents. There was also a patio table too. Another tent was already pitched. Its occupant was Ella, a young Australian woman who was walking from Land’s End to Cape Wrath. I pitched my tent and set up my sleeping mat and bag. Ella was at the patio table having her evening meal and so I joined her and got some water boiling for a brew. I didn’t feel hungry after the mad ‘dash’ to get here and so I just settled for a drink. Ella was from Melbourne and had put her animator career on hold in order to do this walk. I asked why she was walking to Cape Wrath, rather than John O’Groats. She said that she’d always wanted to walk the Cape Wrath path and so that meant more to her than walking to John O’Groats. As we talked, it got quite dark and then it started to rain seriously. We both dashed for our tents.    

 It had been an incredible day on the Pennine Way. From the bizarre start, having to say ‘hello’ to each of the 700 ultra runners, to the incredible natural features of Malham Cove. It had felt I was continually chasing time as I’d made quick progress across the flatlands around Gargave. The final section over Pinhaw Beacon, and that incredible rollercoaster landscape to Cowling, had been physically exhausting. It would have taken at least another 2 hours to get to a suitable wildcamp on Ickornshaw Moor. By that time, it would have been dark and throwing it down with rain. I’d made the correct choice to camp here. It meant a longer walk tomorrow to May’s Shop near Hebden Bridge, but it'd be far easier than today’s mammoth session.

As I drifted off to sleep, I remembered the main features of this campsite from the 1970s. The noise from the traffic on the busy A6068 and the quarterly hour chiming of the church next door, came to mind. It was still the same today. For some reason, that seemed comforting.