Bog, fog, perfect paving, eternal sunshine and the half way point

I'm seven days in to the Pennine Way and already every day has been different. I've met people with big rucksacks, and the walking has most definitely stepped up a gear. And I've attempted to write for three nights running but kept falling asleep, so this title grows every day. 

The Edale morning last Wednesday dawned wet, very wet. The rain lashed at the tent and the group of four over the field from me were already bravely packing up to set out. The ancient toilet block was full of teenage girls (DofE) all with the same idea as me - taking their rucksacks under cover and bracing themselves to pack away the tent. They were about as enthusiastic, and quiet, as me at this point. They were not, however, joining the Pennine Way, fortunately. It may have put them off fell-walking for life. I set out, past the sign saying 268 miles to Kirk Yetholm, past lambs sheltering behind metal feeders, cuckoos calling in the valley. The tops were shrouded in mist, occasionally a little silhouette of a rocky outcrop appearing high above. Jacob's Ladder, the first climb of the Pennine Way, built by a shepherd called Jacob in the early 18th century, a long arduous staircase of stones, rose into the thick mist - the kind where all was white so you couldn't distinguish the rain falling but it was soaking you nonetheless. I passed the 4 on the way up this, trying to think through and beyond how much my legs were suddenly in shock. This really marked a change in the level of walking. There was a young woman ahead of me who disappeared upriver at Kinder Downfall - where the river Kinder crosses the path and falls over the edge and the wind whips up a spray. I stood dithering, wondering how to cross when the river was in such spate. She reappeared saying she had found nowhere to cross, so we worked out the shallowest place (only half way up to the knees), agreed to hold hands, and went for it. Her name was Gelee and she was from the Netherlands, and this was her first long distance walk alone. As the cloud suddenly lifted and the rain stopped, we politely separated, realising we were both quiet walkers. The view west to the whole of Manchester was clear far below, and the flight path to the airport was overhead, the strange sounds of an aeroplane engine changing engine speed to land magnified over the high wilderness. This is the place, Kinder Scout, where the mass trespass of 1932 happened, a huge protest for the opening up of land to the common people, to enjoy and explore, and not to be owned and fenced off by one or two wealthy landowners. These trespassers enabled you and I to be in the hills. 

The way took another ascent up to Bleaklow and the path was totally paved and then repaired and signposted. I have walked the Pennine Way three times in my life, at aged 14, 17 and 20, and bits of it four years ago. And the first two days are renowned as being the most difficult and boggiest. I had flashbacks of wading through miles of black peat, bog, and moss, navigating between high peat hags and across countless footprinted ways made by recent hikers. Walking along  the newly paved path gave me a new sense of admiration for my dad as he, many years ago, navigated us through the quagmire. Now the landscape is repaired, the birds can nest in peace, and walkers don't get hopelessly lost in the featureless marsh. I met two National Park rangers, hammering in a way marker on the way up Bleaklow. They were taking photos as I rounded the corner. I stopped to chat with them, happy in their work, and thanked them for the impressive work they had done repairing the landscape. One of them told of his father's obsession with the north, east, south and western most points of the UK and I agreed next time to walk from Ardnamurchan to Lowestoft. 

Up on the high moor there is always a point where all you can see is more moor - miles and miles of vast bleak brown moor, as if the world had sunk into the peat and left you alone up there. The descent into Longendale and eventually Crowden was almost endless, the last couple of long miles before the reservoirs in the valley being along a path no more than half a metre wide above a sheer high drop to the beck far below. I suddenly found myself becoming afraid of heights, unable to look down, and desperate to get off the path. This is probably not the time to develop this kind of phobia. 

I eventually arrived at the campsite in Crowden in the early evening, the sun still lighting the cool valley. I put up the tent and unpacked my stove on the bench, made tea, and sat and waited for the tent to dry, from the morning rain. There was nothing else to do - no phone signal and no other place to go. Just birds to listen to, the odd chat with passers by over the wall and the old black cat. I began to discover what being stripped of wanting, and only waiting for what was needed, patience and tiredness, felt like. 

The deputy campsite proprietor was a lovely friendly chap, peaceful, helpful, relaxed. He mentioned a young German woman who had walked through a week previously. I asked if her name was Lutzi - it was. This was Lutzi who I met in Streatley, on the Ridgeway, making her way along various long distance footpaths. I was so genuinely happy to hear that she was still going. He made the observation that he now meets a lot of young women (he included me in this!) walking through, alone, and has great admiration for them. He said he never saw young men walking alone. I think he probably has, but maybe it is just that they are not a relatively new phenomenon. I spent a lot of time the following day thinking about this. The fells expect nothing of you other than respect, reverence and survival. They don't care who you are or what you look like, whether you've brushed your hair that morning (and this is becoming less frequent), or put on makeup, or managed to be successful in the eyes of other people. They have always been there and will go on being there regardless of how you pass through them. I wonder if, like me, many women, and men, find this a liberation. The #metoo campaign highlighted in so many ways how, not just men, but society as a whole treats women. I found myself unable to comment at the time with a 'me too' and had my own reasons for this. But taking ourselves to places where mountains feel safer and kinder than streets, bars, workplaces, or homes, is a kind of relief from the endless round of trying to please and impress everyone everywhere. And when meetings and encounters take place they are genuinely equal, one human being to another, with no expectation aside from a friendly hello and a genuine kindness. 

And I had time to think on this as the following day turned out to be much easier than I anticipated it might be. The notorious Black Hill, named probably for the huge pile of black peat and bog it is, was paved all the way over the top and down to the next road crossing. The sun shone, the breeze blew coldly, the views were clear and wide to small towns in valleys and vast towers and aerials dotting the moors for miles around, and the trig point dazzled bright white, freshly painted. It was like paradise, and with no other person in sight. I have heard there are purists who disapprove of so much paving. I really don't mind it in the slightest, and aside from reducing the erosion to almost nothing, it protects the many ground nesting birds, who are repopulating the landscape. Curlews, plover, oyster catchers, and many more need space to do so. 

I was heading for Standedge, a sort of mid point on a road in the midst of the moors, where there is a pub with a campsite behind. This was a revisit after four years, and it is still the same. It's never warm up there, which makes the pub even more essential. The four from Edale, now three, arrived. They never arrived at the Crowden campsite - the fourth had injured her knee. By Friday morning they were only two. An Australian/British woman in her seventies was staying in the pub, having taken three days to get there. She planned to walk the whole of the PW but by the sound of it was not enjoying it at all. 'It's just so boring', I heard her say. I suppose it depends on your definition of boring. 

The high moor morning was shrouded in thick thick fog, soaking the tent with undefined drizzle and cloud rain with no distance to fall. The roadsign welcoming all to Saddleworth suddenly appeared as the way turned off and onto the invisible moor. At the summit of Millstone Edge a tiny pair of child's buckle shoes, perfect, and perfectly placed, had been left beside the trig point. I couldn't decide whether this was a macabre joke, a genuine memorial, or whether they had been accidentally left there, which was unlikely. Into my field of vision two people appeared out of the mist on the other side of the fence, with 13 dogs, bounding over bogs in the fog. The black shapes of the strangely formed and eroded gritstone all along this ridge shifted in and out of the white murk. I descended towards junction 22 of the M62 however with hope in my heart. Four years ago Brian had his van here, surrounded by a mess of randomly parked lorries, and had made hot drinks and all kinds of rolls with something fried inside every day for 37 years. When it snowed the police arranged for him to be towed up there, so essential was he to the general well-being of the M62 and PW walkers. I came over the brow of the hill to see an empty litter-strewn lay by ahead. No Brian. A few lorries were parked down the road as if in disbelief. He could have just decided that 41 years without a day off was enough. Or he could have just been unwell. But my disappointment was heavy and deep. I ascended Blackstone Edge with a heavy heart, the black gritstone shapes dark against the urban view far below of Littleborough, Rochdale, and all that these places hold, hide and struggle through against their harsh backdrop. At the next descent however the White House pub was open, on the high pass between valleys, and inside I found the two who were four, and joined them for a pint. They were from London and out for a few days, walking to Gargrave, before returning to work. We chatted about walking, and the bits of our bodies that hurt - apparently all the muscles needed for twerking. We agreed on the perils of peeing on the open moor, particularly in the rain. The woman asked if I was a professional walker. I think the dodgy nutrition plan, booze and fags disqualify me from that title. 

Stoodley Pike monument, visible for miles now that the sun had come out, marked the end of the ridge of flat high walking along the edges of a series of reservoirs, along which we overtook each other in turns. Just before the monument I met an elderly man on the ridge with a big camera. He was president of the local photographic society and walked up there many times a week to take pictures, as the light was always different. He said he feels a part of this landscape, pointing out the old quarry dumps of jagged rock. His father and grandfather and ancestors had worked the stone and built the mills and houses and walls in the valley- hard back breaking work, with no automation. He said he loved coming up here and meeting Pennine Way walkers, and thought what I was doing was marvellous, enough to announce it to a random couple out for a walk up to the pike. At the monument my dad rang - he was in the valley below and had watched me walking along the ridge, and knew it was me because of 'the ratio of girl to rucksack'. He had decided to come up for the long weekend to see the hills and ferry my rucksack for four days. Other purists may say this was cheating, but I only promised to walk the whole way - not to decline the offer of a day or two without the beast of a rucksack. Hebden Bridge was wonderful, the Friday evening busy and alive and preparing for the warm weekend to come. I sat outside the hostel late at night listening to a stunningly beautiful multi-part choir practice in the hall next door, up a very very steep street, the stars out above. 

As promised Saturday morning was immediately bright, sunny and warm. The steep ascent out of Hebden Bridge took me through Calendar Girls territory, and it was warm enough not to need the 'considerably bigger buns'. On the top, into open moor, tiny lambs were running riot, cuckoos were calling, and skylarks were singing in the high bright blue. A Pennine Way walker was up ahead, setting a good pace. Between the reservoirs the moors rippled under a heat haze, the plovers darted about making their strange and alien call, curlews flew over and an oyster catcher mooched about in the heather. Over the brow of the long ascent Top Withens suddenly came into view. This is the ruin of the house reputed to be the setting of Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, where the plaque on the wall admits honestly that it 'bears no resemblance' to Bronte's description of the house in the book. Nonetheless it's a lovely setting for a dark brooding story, and memories flooded back of a New Year's Eve spent up there in the bothy, champagne under the stars as the valley below burst into life with fireworks at midnight, the half moon rising fat and yellow and the whisky did nothing to stave off the cold of the thick frost. Today was very different. I spent a good rest there in the sun, before descending into Ponden, every signpost carved with English and a Chinese script. I met an elderly lady and her granddaughter slowly ascending to Top Withins. She said she loves to meet Pennine Way walkers, and when she walked the Pennine Way she took three weeks off work - the longest holiday of her life. She said she also had someone offer to ferry her rucksack for a day, and she missed it. I reassured her I wasn't missing mine. 

My dad met me coming down from Ickornshaw Moor, off an area called 'The Sea', named presumably for the amount of water and bog up there, thankfully with paving through it, although much of it was submerged. The long day with many ups and downs ended with a non existent campsite in Lothersdale. In spite of it being on the map and in the PW accommodation guide, it was mythical. Thankfully with my dad being there with the car, we went and found a campsite down the road in Cononley. It was a huge site, and so many tents and caravans I honestly thought a festival was going on, but it was just the warm weather. I found a relatively quiet spot under a tree in the overflow field and sat outside the tent all evening. I watched a dads and kids football game which was far more entertaining than it should have been, and met a lovely woman, Allison, who taught me all about paddle-boarding, how the communities around this had transformed her life, and she gave me 50p for the shower, as I had no change at all. She was very supportive of what I was doing, and we talked about how wonderful it is to camp alone. I had been intimidated by the size and busyness of the place but it was full of people who were spending time outside, and healthily, and everyone was so generous to me. 

The following morning, in even warmer sun, I was returned to Lothersdale to walk the 16 miles to Malham. The first part is over a high moor, before the rest of the path ambles gently up canal and river, through lush green fields. I met the Pennine Way walker of the previous day, Colin, and we walked most of the day together. This is unusual for me, but it makes me appreciate the company when it does happen. And not everyone is easy to walk with, but Colin was good company, with good conversation, which made the oppressive heat of the day slightly easier to bear. He is walking the Pennine Way for the first time and doing the whole of it. He's going well but even he was desperate to finish walking on Saturday and get out of the sun. 

Yesterday was yet another cloudless, hot and sunny day. Malham Cove, the huge Limestone amphitheatre, already had a number of people up it before the heat of the day. I lingered on the high limestone pavement, listening to the morning birdsong echoing in the strange acoustic, the long view misted by heat haze. This landscape is different again, more green than brown, between the white rocked narrow crevices and winding deep valleys.  It takes the way out onto the high flat plain with the huge blue Malham Tarn, alive with the welcome breeze and wading birds. Runners and walkers and dogs were all out, grabbing the bank holiday sun. North of the tarn, Fountains Fell was suddenly quiet with not a soul about, apart from the odd kestrel and stray panting sheep. I rested at the top, leaning against the wall in the sun and breeze, applying even more suncream. I have a sun hat too now. It's never too late to be a bit more sensible. The strangely shaped hulk of Pen y ghent the other side of Littondale awaited my arrival at the summit, an hour and 25 minutes later. The Way takes you up the almost vertical rocky path, over the two ridges, which were crawling with people. It makes me glad that people are prepared to put in the exercise to experience the stunning view of their land. Two peaks in the heat were exhausting though. 

Today, however, was considerably cooler, along ancient drove roads and Roman highways, high up onto the Cam High Road, and down into Hawes. I walked with Colin again, and the morning mist swirled about us, multi-layered, sometimes revealing a Fell Top or a view below, sometimes covering the valley and revealing the sky. When the sun appeared it was warm, and when it disappeared it was suddenly cold. Still in Limestone country, between Old Ing and Ling Gill Bridge, we came across a stunning rock formation, the stream running through it and falling into a large whole in the ground. Leaning over it, it revealed a pool in a cavern below ground into which the water tumbled. At the Cam High Road, the way briefly joins with the Dales Way, signposts bringing back many memories of walking with others and alone, dodging biting flies in much hotter weather. And all of a sudden the paths were quiet once more. 

We arrived in lovely Hawes, just before the rain started, and sat outside with tea and cake, to celebrate my half way point in mileage, and Colin's half way point in number of days. He has a few very long days coming up in order to finish in the next week. And then we bid a farewell, wishing each other well for the onward journey. I am taking a rest day tomorrow, the first one since Leicester, which now feels a long time ago. 

So this is half way. I say half way - in my initial mileage plan it's two miles from here, but I think I'll only know when I get home and measure it accurately. For now, I know it's about 635 miles to go. This feels manageable. But only after some proper sleep.