Panicking plover, music at altitude, the camaraderie of a well worn path, and the long view

I am coming to realise that the amount of writing is inversely proportionate to the time spent walking. I'm now two days from the border fence and it feels like I might be getting somewhere. But the days have been long, sometimes hard, often stunning, with patience and perseverance needed, but rounded off with surprising friendship and tired but wonderful conversation and characters. 

I left Hawes after resting a day, in the lovely YHA that hasn't really changed in twenty or so years, and visiting the Wensleydale Creamery for tea and cheese with Wallace and Gromit. The weather was different - cold, clear air after a couple of drizzly days, and windy. My previous PW companion had gone on ahead and I wondered how he was. Great Shunner Fell lay ahead, looking Great, and with a shunning black aspect of cloud moving towards it. Beginning the ascent I passed a man with the same look of quiet determination about him as I felt. He then passed me, and after I caught up with him we both silently realised that a companionable ascent was preferable. He was walking Lands End to Cape Wrath in sections over a number of years. He started ten years ago but keeps finding other walks to accomplish in between. He thought he may get to Cape Wrath before he reaches 60. I think he is a number of years off that. But he was relaxed, not hurried, happy to be out. We chatted in that manner, as the only rain shower of the day passed over, and we reached the top to rest at the shelter together. The high moor for miles around revealed itself, and Cross Fell and Great Dun Fell, three days away, were just visible. Beautiful Swaledale opened out below as we descended, lined with dry stone walls and old stone barns. It is an instantly recognisable shape for me, as many years ago, I was encouraged to take a picture in my mind of the Dale before we drove home. 

At the small village of Thwaite I stopped for coffee at the inn and my momentary companion went on. Outside sat two walkers who would over the next few days also become companions. A lady from my hostel dorm appeared, out for a day walk. I met her the previous evening cooking mussels in the self catering kitchen, tolerating a grilling from a fellow hosteller in a suit, a sort of David Brent from 'The Office' figure who spent his time explaining himself. I gave them space. She was out today, grabbing a brief break into the hills. We talked about bravery, as her friends don't understand why she walks by herself. I reassured her that I understood. 

The rest of the day was a gradual ascent again towards my destination. The path took a high contour line above the deep and narrow Upper Swaledale, the view suddenly dramatic and vertiginous, cracked through with waterfalls in great rocky clefts. After Keld, the way ascended once more onto the open Moor, the beck levelling with the path, until the Tan Hill Inn came into view, a haven exposed to the elements, blending in with the non descript brown of the landscape, a high remote shelter. This is the highest pub in the UK, where winter guests arrive for a night and stay for weeks until the snow clears again, where Waitrose has apparently filmed a TV advert despite there being nothing reminiscent of the supermarket about the place, where at 1732 feet above sea level anything passes as normal. I went inside, where the fire was glowing warmly and the walls were covered in pictures and messages and there was a quiet feeling of gentle anarchy. I asked to camp and followed a Belgian motor biking couple outside to the camping field where we battled with the wind, trying not to lose anything before pegging it all down. The barman told me it was music night tonight and I made the mistake of mentioning that I had a penny whistle in my rucksack. I pitched the tent and went back in the warm for a beer, and was invited to sit and chat with a hiker who had Wainwright's Pennine Journey book open on the old wooden table. John was walking Wainwright's preferred Pennine walk he made in 1938. AW never really liked the Pennine Way. John and I talked of wild places, bothying, the Cape Wrath Trail (which he made me feel was more possible alone), and lightweight backpacking. I dreaded the moment he would see my rucksack, and was relieved when I saw him outside lighting up. He was just as normal as the rest of us. Music night started at 8, so I went back for a bit to the tent to valiantly cook on my camping stove in high winds. This walk hasn't made even my tolerance high enough to drink for hours at altitude. 

Back in the warm bar, as the sky was softly glowing, the musician, Ian, had started playing. He was a guitarist and singer, a shy man, doing the classics for people to sing along. A lovely couple from Devon with a three legged King Charles spaniel and a huge St Bernard dog had gathered along with some (relatively) local farmers and a few travellers up here for the night. The landlady saw me come in - news had travelled about the whistle and I was given a drink on the house. I couldn't avoid playing now. We sang, chatted, harmonised, and then I was persuaded. I explained I was really a pianist and more used to playing the recorder than the whistle, but picked The Star of the County Down, and Ian played along. I am not a solo performer but when we finished there was applause and I can now say I've played in the highest pub in the UK. We stayed talking round the fire long after the singing stopped, dogs and all, before wandering out under the stars or up the stairs to our various sorts of beds, grateful for the memory we had all made. 

The morning was clear but so very cold and even more windy. The A66 across the moor was magnified in the clarity of the air, and the sky was streaked silvery, as I tried to hold onto everything, packing up. It felt like I was suddenly being thrown into a desolation with no time to prepare, plover and curlews the only other living souls about. I crossed into County Durham, my eighteenth county, after more than a week in Yorkshire. The plover began to panic, grouping together and circling me, one being given the specific job of attack. The sudden sound of fast plover wing centimetres from your ear, swooping to avoid the middle of your forehead, is an experience. I started to run, resting in the natural shelter of God's Bridge, under the A66, where the river was almost dry. This was only the first of many similar plover encounters over the following days. 

Ascending over more moor I had clear recollection of this section from aged 14, crouching as close to the stone wall as possible as thunder and lightning crashed around us. This time I was flagging, unenthusiastic, feeling cumulative tiredness. I passed the house of the late, extraordinary, Hannah Hauxwell, which was for sale, and had a few moments of existential questioning, before deciding at this point the healthiest thing would be to walk down the road into Middleton in Teesdale, rather than over more stiles and undulating hill. If anyone questions my commitment, I did still walk. It is not the time to be a Pennine Way purist, when there are bigger fish to fry. 

John of the small rucksack was my camping neighbour that night in Middleton, and we decided to go into town and meet the other walkers in the pub. There was James and Dave, brothers in law, the two I had met first in Swaledale, walking the Pennine Way in three sections. And Peter, a young economics graduate, walking alone, with the biggest appetite I have seen in someone so tall and skinny. The five of us squeezed round a table in the crowded bar, talking of our PW experience so far. It was hilarious and relaxed and wonderful. But we all went to bed early, aware of the 20 miles awaiting us the next day. 

Earlier on in the route I would be able to estimate my arrival time at my destination, and not be far off the mark. The northern section of the Pennine Way strips you of that ability. You get there when you get there. The route of the Pennine Way frustratingly takes a westerly direction as it moves into the high wilderness of the North Pennines. I could, on reflection, have taken a northerly path at this point, but I was meeting a friend in Dufton to walk the following two days with, and it was important to him, and to me, to complete them. Many people agree that the day between Teesdale, crossing the wilderness and the watershed, dropping into the vale of Eden, is the most stunning of the whole walk, and I would agree with them. John and I set out together up the Tees, lined with crystal clear lines of hillside under a deep blue sky. The river was healthy, fast, bubbling the brown red peat colour, hazardous for tiny ducklings learning to swim. We passed monster sized rams lining the path, unfazed by our presence, as we came to Low Force - the first of the increasingly dramatic waterfalls of the day. A couple of miles on High Force, audible before visible, invited us to sit and watch for a while, mesmerised by the force of the falling water. Other people were out, also just watching it, hypnotised too. 

As the valley widened into the North Pennine wilderness, beyond the border of gorse, John's way lay directly north, on Wainwright's more sensible route, so we parted with a friendly hug, wishing each other well, grateful for the companionship. My way lay along Falcon Clints, a rockfall beside the river, where I met a group of three women out for the day on a fundraising walk, for a local mental health charity. It was a lovely encounter on a part of the path where staying upright in whatever form was possible overrode any form of trying to look dignified. Another memory came back to haunt me - in this place, at the age of 14, my dad found a safety pin, heated it with a lit match, and popped a blister on my left foot. And, as only bodily/muscle memory can mysteriously do, I was getting a blister in exactly the same place. My first after 48 days of walking. I was not impressed. 

The path is then overwhelmed by the roaring sound of water falling, which only comes into view as you round a corner and are suddenly in front of Cauldron Snout - a huge, high, waterfall, that winds itself around and over a series of crags and boulders, creating an air of rising spray, and cascading widely into the river below. There is no other waterfall like it, which is made all the more exciting by the path which climbs the rocks up the side of it. I rested at the top, processing the day so far, knowing there were still miles to go. 

The path then enters one of the last great wildernesses left in England. You feel a long way from anywhere, with no shelter of tree or barn. This is where hear the breeze coming towards you, a crescendo ascending up the moor like a wave, and bending the brown dry grass as it passes by. And at the end of this crossing, as you round towards a gap in the surrounding hills, suddenly, breathlessly, High Cup Nick falls away below. High Cup is an unimaginably huge cup shaped glacial valley, edged with vast columns of rock - the 250 million year old columnar jointing, resembling a high, haphazard bookcase. Sheep balance precariously around the rim, and a vertical dry stone wall unbelievably rises up one of the sides. Everyone who has been there wonders how on earth that was built. A stream winds through the bottom of the cup, shining silver even under the darkening clouds. I threw down my rucksack and sat at the edge, and nearly fell asleep. The Lakeland fells across the valley were silhouetted in a deep blue, but the line of them was clear. As I rounded the cup, the Skiddaw massif came into view, the Solway Firth, and beyond, mistily, the Galloway hills. This was my first view of Scotland! It was a taster however, as the valley then filled with rain mist, creeping across the villages below and slowly hiding everything again. After nine hours of walking, the day rounded off with James, Dave, and Peter, and then my friend arriving, in the little village pub on the green, in Cumbria (the 19th county!) as it rained on into the evening. 

To compensate for the PW's westward meander, the following day has to take you back over, and manages to do this in an uncompromisingly hard and strenuous manner. Just studying the map raises the pulse. I was now with a friend who is doing the Pennine Way in a number of sections and I offered for us to do this bit together as it is a demon he needed to conquer (his words!). The rain had left a cloud covering over the tops, which rise steeply out of the valley. This day has four summits before you have even done half of the distance. The first ascent took us steeply out of Dufton, onto the bare strange hillside of Knock Fell, along a steep beck, little stone signs marking the direction. The currick at the almost summit moved in and out of view with cloud swirling up and around. I warmed up on the ascent and then had to put layers back on in the strong wind. The golf ball shaped radar station of Great Dun Fell came into view as our next summit, the sky above revealing a misty blue light between the levels of cloud. All the while the valley behind was slowly being bathed in sun and clarity. We reached the tops of both of these, my companion still unsure whether he would go on. But we had now done most of the climbing. We decided to keep going. We had all the time in the world and I was relaxed. Little Dun Fell had the steepest ascent, and coming down into the saddle between that summit and the final ascent I remembered my dad disappearing waist deep into a bog, just to the left of the path. It is thankfully now paved, but I did look to see if I could recognise which one had almost swallowed him whole. Cross Fell, by the time we took its steep path to the summit, had cleared of mist completely and suddenly the sun was bright, the clouds high and the sky blue. A little flock of dotterel were wandering about on the summit plateau, gliders were swooping close by, and the Lakeland fells were even more clear - so clear that the light revealed details of ridges far across the valley, and Scotland over the Solway Firth was even more defined. Still a long way to go though. We sat in the cross shaped shelter for a good while, and it was utter bliss to be up there, the quiet sense of achievement palpable. Cross Fell is the highest point on the Pennine Way and my highest point in England. It gets higher in Scotland, but for now this was good enough. 

The long slow descent, miles and miles of stony track seemed endless, but we passed Greg's Hut, an old shepherds hut, now an MBA bothy. It was clean and spacious, Buddhist prayer flags hanging in the beams, with a long view down to the far South Tyne valley below. It is a memorial to two extraordinary friends, John Gregory (Greg) who died in a mountaineering accident, and Richard Robert Broxap (Bob), who died in a canoeing accident. One day I'll sleep up there. 

Finally arriving in the village of Garrigill in late afternoon sun, we found Peter in the pub, eating his way through the menu. He must have a very high metabolism. We still had four miles to go so restricted ourselves to a pint, but by the time we arrived in Alston, the highest town in England, I was beside myself and about to eat my companion. 

The next section takes a route through the connecting valley to Hadrian's Wall, along the line of a Roman road, strewn with the bodies of rabbits in various stages of decay, and a whole sheep skeleton. It was obviously not a place to be after dark. There was a lot of time to think that day. I thought about minimalising my house, which I always find myself thinking about on long walks. Maybe this time I will do it. It must be something about learning to live with what I need rather than what I want, knowing I have to carry everything. 

At Greenhead we parted ways, my companion heading home, and me staying in Greenhead before heading onwards. I met Peter in the pub with chocolate fudge cake. He said he hadn't started walking that day until 11am as he stayed around for a second breakfast. 

On Tuesday I joined the Wall. This was the point in the last end to end walk I hit the wall. This time it sort of happened a a week before, and so avoiding the confusing mix of literal and metaphorical. It was a colder but clear day, and the wall was swarming with tourists, walkers, coach parties, many of them North American. Cross Fell was still visible far away, the north side of it with lingering patches of snow. Near Great Chesters a familiar figure came into view and it turned out to be John, from a few days previously. He was now on the top of his circle and about to turn south. He said he was surprised to see me and that he thought I would be miles on. Give me a chance John! The crags of Winshield, Highshield, Hotbank and Cuddy form a dramatic threatening shape, like a tidal wave frozen in time. I wondered if Hadrian could have saved some bricks on these crags but then I saw a team of well equipped climbers. There's a gap between Milecastle 39 and Turret 38B that isn't named on the map, but has become the place of the most photographed tree in the UK. Sycamore Gap, or Robin Hood's Gap as it is also locally known, formed part of my teenage romantic wonderings. Kevin Costner was nowhere to be seen, but there was a group taking their lunch under the tree. In the words of my new friend James, 'Just take a selfie and move on'. Fortunately they did, so I managed a photo. 

Not long after this the Pennine Way turns off the Wall and north into the Kielder Forest. I always find this turn off a little anxiety provoking. It is one of the most sudden changes of the path, from busy tourist path to dark tree-filled wilderness where it is unusual to see anyone. I headed for a campsite a few miles into the forest in Stonehaugh. The village itself is not much more than two rows of terraced houses, and a timber lorry park and garage. The campsite boasts being in the Dark Sky Park, but it rained that night. The only other campers were a lovely couple out mountain biking for a couple of days. In the morning I went to the house to pay, and the very talkative, slightly posh northeastern woman asked me if I was ex-Army. A few years ago she had a number of lone male walkers travelling through, who had served in Afghanistan, and were undergoing the transition back into 'normal' life, finding they needed space and silence. She warned me of elephant traps in the forest. I'm not quite sure what she meant but I guess I will know if I come across one. 

It was a relatively short walk then to Bellingham, passing by Horneystead farm, a place that for decades has left a barn open for passing hikers with bowls of chocolate biscuits, a kettle, a fridge full of cold drinks, and a grubby first aid box full of things previous walkers think future walkers might find helpful. Messages of gratitude adorned the walls and I left a donation, grateful, as I had completely run out of food. 

A very good friend came to Bellingham to meet up and camp with me. I asked her to bring wine, which she very kindly did, and we sat outside the tents late into the clear evening, and then under a sky full of stars, until we were too cold to move. 

And now am writing this in spaces on trains between cities. I have come off the route for a couple of days to make a recording with the Wild Goose Collective, staying in Glasgow and recording in Edinburgh. This is an unofficial diversion into Scotland. It has been a full, tiring, surprising time, and tomorrow I return to Bellingham and pick up the way. The final few weeks will often be wild, often remote, sometimes full of people and sometimes devoid of people. I have walked through twenty counties now, and have about 530 miles to go. If you haven't made a donation yet, go on! I have almost missed getting off trains quite a lot over the past three days, trying to write this.