Day one starts with meadows and gentle fields punctuated with the endless curves of streams on ox-bow trajectories, and meandering roads that leave Hawes for the far corners of Wensleydale. Farmland gives way to sheep enclosures; muddy tracks give way to open access boundaries. Before long the gentle slope matures into the lekking grounds of High Abbotside, and the steep and rocky ascent of Great Shunner Fell.

At 1,000 feet the heavy sky suddenly seems closer, but grouse are nowhere to be seen. At fifteen hundred feet the pregnant clouds are voluptuous and imposing, rubbing up against the rising landscape with contempt. And the grouse are still hiding.

At 2,000 feet Wensleydale is a green corner of a skyline dominated by swathes of brown gaming moorland. Once barren moors – restored to full health by private ownership and dedication – weigh down the hill; hills that would be rugged if they weren’t so smoothly carved by glaciers and weather.

Suddenly, atop the fell, the winds change and we’re treated to a chilling breeze for elevenses. The legions of clouds become agitated; they maraud above us, a snail’s pace juggernaut oblivious to the dales beneath.

After a gloomy morning’s climb Great Shunner is defeated; the reward is the northward descent, a landscape of Tolkien proportions. Turner could paint a scene of a thousand blues and browns; Hockney might emphasise the startling definition between the skyline that hugs the endless horizon of moss and grass.

By afternoon we’ve descended from Middle Earth into the Shire via rocky tributary lanes towards the dormant village of Thwaite and past the ancient farm outhouses of Swaledale along paths strewn with rabbit corpses.

Soon we’re above the valley again, following the snaking path of the Swale. From our vantage point the history of the river is laid bare – every stealthy, eroding year, every rock that was too strong for the youthful water. The valley floor is an ancient wandering nomad’s paradise, and pondering the distinct lack of civilisation the sun wins its battle o’er cloud. We have no need to settle near the banks of the Swale, we have tea in a flask and Mars bars saved from lunch. We roll the rain covers away in a burst of afternoon optimism.

Out of the blue we see a pheasant stag poking its head vigorously through the shallow foliage, in a small edge of forest clinging by the scruff of its trunks to the hillside. Iridescent in the sun and unmistakable, he is joined by a shy hen and there rituals are watched by a small flock of seemingly amused sheep.

The sky suddenly creaks and groans. It can’t be thunder, why did we pack the covers away? But then no, its an engine, a plane surely? We look up and there’s nothing but clear blue sky, before, in a flurry of menancing power and bravado, a dark green winged machine bursts through the valley, taunting gravity, wings perpendicular to sea-level. Its whoosh is gone almost as soon as it appeared but for a few seconds Swaledale reverberates and then… silence. The valley seems even quieter than it was before.

The brute force of the plane is in stark contrast to the most graceful of grouse, swooning out of the sky and gliding towards Keld. It’s a secret view, looking down on a bird flying, and a rare easily-spooked bird to boot. Grateful we trudge on in its wake. “Keld must be just around this corner”.

Five or six corners and a few miles later the small and, until recently, dry town pops into view behind green and luscious fields.

At Keld Lodge, responsible for the village’s new found alcohol license, curried banana soup is ordered for starters, with lamb to dine on. 40 winks before tea, then a sneaky pint to whet the appetite (as if 12 and three quarter miles across varied altitudes and unruly terrain wasn’t enough).

The soup does what it says on the tin: banana + curry sauce. Pilsner Urquell and bread substitute for the fish shop chips that might have been the perfect accompaniment, whilst Black Sheep bitter washes down local meat and potatoes. After tea we retire to the drinking room with pints of Riggwelter, a sleeping potion for walkers crafted from the finest fruitcake and chocolate Horlicks.

Nodding off we count our blessings as three groups of Coast to Coast walkers share tales of horrendous conditions in the Lakes a few days ago: ferocious winds, men lifted off the ground, couples on cliff edges and roads closed to flooding.

As we cradle our nightcaps the Pennine Way seems a doddle. And then we remember that the following day is a 22 miler….

The view north east from Great Shunner Fell, North Yorkshire

To Hardraw

Waymarker

To Thwaite

Swaledale barns

The Swale

Aeroplane!

Pheasant

Banana soup

More photos soon at http://flickr.com/photos/fletchthemonkey

Swaledale barn

The curlews at Garsdale Station welcomed us with real razzmatazz, presumably well aware of the impending downpour that hit the station just as soon as the train had dropped us on the platform and disappeared around the bend towards Kirkby Stephen.

We hadn’t expected to use the built-in raincovers on our rucksacks quite so soon, at least not until the next morning when we were due to start walking. But Mother Nature was determined to give us a taste of things to come…

It’s year three of a five year plan to conquer the Pennine Way with my Dad, breaking the 20 day trek into five stages of four days each. And stood in the rain we reflected on how glad we were to not be able to take 20 days off work to walk The Way in one sitting.

We’re heading for Hawes, the small Yorkshire market town where we finished last years leg: Garsdale is the nearest stop by rail, 6 miles down the winding A664 that links Cumbria with Wensleydale.

It’s here we meet Raymond, a lifelong railwayman from the heart of the Dales. He turned out to be a lucky charm – we waited an hour for one of the two scheduled bus services before a clocking-off signalman took pity on Raymond and us and dropped us into town on his way home.

Hair dried and spirits warmed with hot tea, we head out into Hawes for the evening. We cross the Ure, hidden between thin stone houses and the narrow one way loop that bridges the fast moving water.

First stop is the the Crown. Dripping pints of Old Peculiar straight from a fresh cask brimming with rich plum tart and apple fudge are an olfactory flashback to the places we’ve visited along the way so far, of windswept trails, muddy boots and welcoming pubs.

We avoid Raymond’s local, partly from choice but mostly because the White Hart is shut down and for sale, and I felt a pang of guilt for not being too surprised.

Next stop is Chaste, a small ever-evolving bistro in the heart of the town. Since last year Belgian beers have made their way onto the inventive menu and Pilsner Urquell adorns the bar, and so it was that Chimay Red accompanied our grilled chicken dishes.

7% beers were unsustainable the night before attacking Great Shunner Fell, the highest part of The Way above sea level so far. So Pilsner Urquell – lacking some of its usual herbaceous aroma – helped fill the hole that abstinence from desserts left.

Two pints later and we’re talking to the only simultaneous winner of the J. Sleightholme Trophy For Largest Cod and the Dr King Cup For Other Fish, a feat not rivalled since 1984/5. The Fountain is a drinking pub compared to the pastel-coloured gentrification of the Crown, but fishing hasn’t been on the cards since the turn of the millennium.

It’s Black Sheep not Theakston’s now, a which-one-will-it-be lottery that you have to get used too pretty quickly in the Dales. But for our sins were drinking very cloudy and poorly poured Blue Moon followed by crisp pints of Copper Dragon Conqueror – freshly nosed and quenching.

The crowd gets younger and the bottles of Becks are starting to dominate the empties on the bar. Luckily the juke box hasn’t come to life yet, though by the looks of its age it’s more comfortable with rock and roll than the dub step that the youngsters are reciting in the corner. Seconds from announcing retirement to the B&B Dad throws the gauntlet down with a last gasp round. Two pints of something else hit the beer-drenched bar towel; was it Black Sheep bitter, or perhaps an Old Peculiar nightcap?

Bending down to tie our laces the next morning we both groan, perhaps a little in the way that my grandfather – dads dad – has perfected over the years.

“Shouldn’t have had that last beer last night, should we?”

And with that we head for the high road and start the long slog up Great Shunner Fell. 6 pints down, just 4 evenings, 60 odd miles and god knows how many gradient lines to go…

Garsdale station

The route

Graham Nuttall

Russwarp

White Hart Hawes

The Crown Hawes

The hop goddess

Conqueror

Hawes club

Day Four. The last leg and the longest. No steep mountain climbs on this stretch of the Pennine Way but a long slog to the ridges above Ribblesdale.

Ribblesdale is the least forgiving of the Yorkshire dales. Shops and towns are non-existent. Cash machines and mobile signal don’t exist. Tall brown grasses and dull heathland cover the hills and much of the dale, shadowed by the dark peaks of Pen-Y-Ghent, Ingleborough and Whernside*.

The whole day could be a chapter from Lord of the Rings. You could believe that Saruman’s tower at Isengard hides behind the peak of Ingleborough or that Mordor lies on the dark side of Whernside’s vast silhouette. The track passes caves and shake holes in abundance. On a misty day you see little but glimpes of other strange twisted trees and long-abandoned stone buildings. Mid-walk the track joins the Cam High Road, the obvious place for Strider to take the conoy off-piste to avoid the chasing Nazgûl…

The road to nowhere

Imposing forests and coniferous plantations line the road and it takes forever to pass them. Even sheep become sparse as the High Road briefly joins an ancient Roman track before turning North East towards the refuge of Hawes.

The 13 miles are tough after 1) 3 days of walking and 2) a serious misjudgement in not taking a packed lunch (£7 each from the B&B was a step too far for a Yorkshireman and his son!). Sainsbury’s Be Good To Yourself fruit bars and an apple barely powered waking up let alone walking, so it was a rewarding moment to roll off the green fells of Wensleydale and book a celebratory meal at Hawes’ finest bistro (Chaste if your interested). At last the sheep-folds were behind us and we were back civilisation.

We warmed up for our posh grub with Old Peculiar of course, one in each of Hawes’ pubs (an anonymous Dent beer in the establishment that didn’t serve our preferred tipple). Old Peculiar will forever be associated with the Dales in my mind now, as well as drinking with my Dad and sharing precious moments each cradling a  Thwaites pint glass and allowing our aching feet some well deserved respite.

Until next years leg of The Way, anyway.

Ribblehead Viaduct

*If you turn the volume on the video up, the sound is purely the wind wrapping around our ears at between 1,000 and 2,000 ft above sea level.