The Tees meanders along lush meadow-land; arctic flowers survive on its banks seeded from descendants that saw the last ice age, back when the river was first cutting its way over the igneous rock of Whin Sill.

Sweeping meadows peppered yellow, white and purple are slowly thinned as the terrain becomes rockier under foot. The wide meadow path becomes a narrow trail, rising, falling and twisting as the countryside morphs from arable to uncultivated.

Low Force, a series a low level marauding rapids feels more like the Canadian wilderness than somewhere north of Yorkshire: tall dark evergreens and bare slippery rocks are in abundance; the scenery lacks only growling bears waiting for leaping salmon. There’s even a creaking rope bridge hanging over the gorge that the falls have carved behind them. Is this Indiana Jones country or county Durham?!

Our goal was Langdon Beck, where we’re told a weekend beer festival lies. It’s the shortest walk of the entire trek at just 7 miles. A veritable walk in the park.

In fact, it was indeed a walk in a park, a nature reserve park to be specific. With no rain, gentle sunshine and spectacular scenery, it soon became the slowest 7 miles on the Way too.

It didn’t start quite so easy though: within ten minutes of leaving our muddy legacy at the hotel door we faced not only that rain that soaks you right through, but a bull that might just have speared us right through too. Our track record with cows in fields was dubious and we quickly hopped the dry stone wall and skirted the young calves. Naturally we had to face barbed wire to get back on the Way, but our reward for surviving the bovine threat was two hours of cascading waterfalls and breathtaking views.

High Force is every bit as surprising as the North American scenery: falling from its igneous bedrock into a limestone chasm, a lagoon of white spray that puts the fear of god into parent’s picnicking with their little rascals. Teetering on the edge is no place for men with rucksacks fighting their balance against a mischievous breeze.

Continuing along the Tees we quickly descend from Appalachian grandeur to mining outback. A quarry on the river bank opposite us; on our side the wide flood plain sitting below windswept moorland and facing the wind of Sauran or Saruman; think Total Recall just less red and colder. No sooner than we’d got used to the extreme gusts and we’re over the tops and rejoining the curves of the river a few twists and turns upstream. Jekyll and Hyde strikes again, and we’re back in luscious meadows and low lying farmland and … calm.

A day of contrasting landscapes ends at Langdon Beck, and yes, they do have a beer festival on. The Langdon Beck hotel houses a geological room (amongst other quirks), a perfectly quaint setting to sit down, mull over the days landscapes and sample as many halves as the afternoon allows.

Imbibed we amble away at 6pm to home cooked food and a wide selection of bottled Allendale beers. The youth hostel is as busy as the pub and we nestle into the evening, reading, reflecting, listening to the lapwings swooping and flirting through the silent countryside.

Great start...

Hey, you, get outta my field!

Alpine flowers

Tees meadow

High Force Frollickers

High Force from above

High Force, from Wikipedia

Quarry on banks of the Tees

River splits near Forest-of-Teesdale

Classic cars near Langdon Beck

Langdon Beck Hotel

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

Langdon Beck Beer Festival

So the hotel didn’t have a drying room, and in a half hearted tantrum of half hearted petulance we walked up the stairs and threw the muddy boots and soggy packs vaguely towards the radiator under a completely inadequate layer of quality drying paper. Or the hotel welcome brochure as it may or may not have been.

Oops.

It was one of those provincial hotels, smart and classy from the outside, but inside brimming with big-fish-in-a-small-pond syndrome. Antiquated decor, about as aesthetically pleasing as a pair of shabby walkers stepping in from the rain, couldn’t paper over the hollow product offering and hi-falutin’ charm, nor stop the building creaking under its own despairing inability to embrace the modern world.

Well at least we could look forward to a beer and the Champions League final, eh?

If they had have had a drying room I’d have swapped it for a reasonably sized telly in an instant. I’d have probably traded in the rain cover plus my new and flashy laminated OS map if they could guarantee Sky coverage…

Low and behold, no footy, not even ITV, plus an uninspiring beer selection. Great. We headed out to find food.

The chippy seems crawling with snarling boys and girls in woolly training pants and hip-hop zip-ups, the males greasy and the fairer sex not much different (or fairer), oozing slightly more perfume and modelling marginally longer hair.

The local bar/bistro was empty; the local pub described to us as a veritable den of iniquity. We saw the snarling youths head off in that direction jettisoning chips and curry sauce in their wake and ruled the pub out.

Unprepared to give up on football, but increasingly concerned that the night would be spent sitting in our shabby hotel room, we slip into an unassuming cafe advertising evening meals, hoping to fill our bellies and devise a plan for beating the odds of missing the biggest match of the season.

A beaming smile greets us; our host, the owner, proudly shows off her continental beer selection. There’s a feisty glint in her eye and a warming grin when we order lagers and ask for menus

Cold beers arrive slopping on the table; specials on the board are recited with a smile. “My husband might be bringing the telly down for the match in a bit” she announces.

We ask for a tab.

Two hours later, robust, fatty meals devoured, port and cheese and bread and butter pudding accepted eagerly, and the cafe is bursting at the seams; in one corner a romantic meal for two couples (the women had arrived early and ensured the blokes would have their backs to the screen, every other customer in on the joke and waiting for the look on their faces when they arrived); at the bar two friends who’d tried half of every beer at a local beer festival (which just so happened to be located at the village we planned to stay at the next evening, what luck!); an assortment of friends and couples vying for the ‘fancy Japanese lager’ and the attentions of various members of the opposite sex; and even at various points dog walkers rounded up with shouts out the door and convinced to nip in for a coffee, a hot chocolate or a perfectly chilled pint.

And us, perched at the back thoroughly engrossed in the magnetic whirlwind of Lionel Messi. Joined by the owner’s father, a Nottingham-lad born and bred, we spend the evening coining increasingly dramatic cooings at each graceful twist and pivot of Barcelona’s talismanic midfielder, and ‘Ooo’ at every completed pass from his comrades in attack.

The cafe is alive, welcoming and entertaining. We’re part of the fabric of the evening; we’re embraced, entertained, well fed and gratefully watered, and presented with a remarkably inexpensive bill as we rise early to sleep off the evenings excesses.

Behind us a homely din emanates from the cafe, a hub of life and love and laughter. It’s exactly what the local pub should be, and for one evening we glimpse the real soul of someone’s community.

Strange how the best pub evening on The Way was found in a cafe in Teesdale.

Chef's Teesdale specials

Teesdale Lead Miners Pasty

Cafe1618, Middleton-in-Teesdale

“By my calculations we’ll reach Tan Hill Inn at… Oh. 11.15. Shit.”

Best laid plans for lunch and beer at England’s highest inn are scuppered, because it’s a 22 mile day and we’re keen to arrive at Middleton in time to watch Messi & co in the Champions League final. An 11 o’clock pint stop probably isn’t the best way to ensure safe passage over some of England’s most remote and boggy moors.

It’s a freezing Saturday and gloomy too. Keld and Swaledale are covered in mist as we rise above them past swelling waterfalls and dull sheep pastures. It’s 9am and there is no sign of yesterday’s resurgent sun.

Through the rain we can’t see much of the small uninhabited valleys; the electric squawk of the curlews only serves to reiterate our isolation from all but nature and ruined limestone barns.

By 10.23 we’re crossing on the most northerly roads in Yorkshire. This is Tan Hill and its famous inn, the highest public house above sea level in England. We stop all too briefly to change the map in the porch – awkwardly our next 4 miles takes us along the cusp of OS Explorer OL30 and my folding abilities are tested to the max (if there’s a record for ‘getting in the way of a busy public entrance’ then my ineptness at folding an Ordnance Survey into a plastic map protector broke it with ease).

Tan Hill Inn is buzzing with stretching residents and sweating passersby: a motorcycle club, a cycle race and pursuers of various water sport activities are filling up with caffeine or stopping for glucose.

Reluctantly we walk on leaving England’s most remote public house to cross one of England’s remotest moors. Strangely, the next hour is a surreal march against hundreds of spinning wheels and dazzling leotards as weekend cyclists make the most of the mild weather racing conditions.

To our left, due north, Sleightholme Moor stretches out as far as the eye can see, boggy and unkempt. In the distance, cars barely move along the A66 which we pass under later in the afternoon. It’s a wilderness, the only signs of human interference the stone tracks, occasional cairn and sporadic grouse butts. Oh and of course the moors themselves: man-made but forgotten by all but conservationists and game shooters. Leggy heather dominates the landscape. Small patches are burnt to the ground to allow new growth; the result appears as a strange lunar desert in a parallel universe where it was once occupied but left in a hurry.

The moorland gets to your after a while, so much so on a brief foray into arable enclosures we lose the trail whilst thinking about our stomachs. Lunch is devoured on uncomfortable stones and thistles and straight after we soon come to a dead end: a gorging river on one side and a sheer cliff face on the other. Ahead a farm behind barbed wire. The compass suggests that the only option is the cliff. Cue a hands and knees scramble 60 feet to the top. Our packs suddenly feel heavy.

At the top of the cliff dirty hands have to deal with unavoidable barbed fencing that separates us from the comfort blanket of Pennine Way way markers, so over we go and somehow avoid falling backwards to an undignified end.

Some hours later we’ve finally crossed the caravan-laden A66 (much less glamorous than its American namesake). We’re rising to the moors final test, another 600m above sea level from yet another valley bottom. Every mile represents two in this part of the world thanks to the terrain and the weather. The Way becomes non-existent and we keep on the trail only by recognising the thin black lines that represent walls and fields on the map. Bog takes over, boots start to feel damp. The entire sky disappears under deep charcoal clouds.

It rains for the next hour and the bog becomes marsh for much of the long slog over Bowes. Welcome to Durham County. For some reason I’m find myself adapting Bruce Springsteen lyrics for the Pennine Way. The moors will do this sort of thing to you…

We’ve done perhaps 13 miles already and still ahead of us are the first of the Northumberland reservoirs. Then we hit surprise sunshine and a glorious plush valley picture perfect as if waiting to become a Nikki Corker postcard. Hannah’s meadow is here, once home of Hannah Hauxwell, the daughter of the Dales.  We pass nature reserves, farmland and meadows, but still there’s 6 miles to go until Teesdale and more hills to test our legs. Football and beer seem like a promise that the day never intended to keep.

At last though, dizzy with fatigue the final few hundred feet are climbed and Teesdale opens up below, Middleton in the middle and windy meadows everywhere in-between.

Not content to let the terrain have all the fun, huge clouds are edging through the valley on the prevailing wind, with wisps of raindrop-heavy mist below, acting as the infantry to the cavalry above.

We’re for another soaking and can only hope that the hotel has a drying room and decent beer. Talk about tempting fate…

One of the remotest legs of the Pennine Way becomes one of the most populated

Swaledale in the rain

Heather, forever

Leggy heather

Welcome to Durham

Suckers

Bowes Moor

Lunch spot

Grassholme

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

Tan Hill Inn

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.

Day Three. After two easy days this years Pennine Way walk got tough on Day 3.

Thirteen miles including the ascension of Malham Cove, Fountains Fell and Pen-Y-Ghent. We’d be over 600m above sea level for most of the day and climb 3 times that, up hill and down dale. The remnants of neolithic farms and Anglo-Saxon stone walls would be almost as much of a wonder as the vastness of water that must have carved Malham Cove from the rock millions of years ago.

The Pennine Way: carved by glaciers & water

The day starts with a bang at Malham cove

Me and some whales ribs

The limestone pavements of Malham and the view South across countless miles of the north of England are jaw-dropping. Norman Nicholson proclaimed that whale ribs glinted in the sun whilst Bill Bryson simply declared it might just be heaven on earth.

Malham Tarn

Beyond the glacial upheaval and the windy shore of Malham Tarn a long arduous climb to the abandoned mines of Fountains Fell got the blood pumping. A double packed lunch was devoured half way up the moorland path, before we reached the site of a disused mine right at the top of the peak. After admiring the open mine shafts that littered the moorland we hopped a stile and were presented with a 200m descent, at the bottom of which was the winding approach to Pen-Y-Ghent. We’d broken the back of the day in miles but certainly not in metres climbed. Fortunately the base of the 3rd of the 3 Peaks is well above sea and an hour later we were sat atop, peering down on Horton-in-Ribblesdale where our luxury B&B awaited.

The Pennine Way gods decided to make me work for my beer though, as the winding lanes to Horton were littered in chunky grey stones. These are a walkers hell, each step is a blunted knife in the sole of your foot, each jab a sucker punch to morale. Finally the lanes become tarmac, better only in it’s predictability, and eventually after a smart piece of navigating took us to our boardings.

The Crown, Horton-in-Ribblesdale

A nap and then the bustling pubs. The Crown for food, who were unable to explain they did bar food as we waited patiently for a restaurant table. The Old Peculiar was faultless though, a rich, molasses and liquorice treat to sooth our weary frames. Old Peculiar is oil for the Pennine Wayer, essential engine lubrication to revive the soul. And this night it sparked a father-son heart to heart.

A swift nightcap followed in the Golden Lion, an odd pub with a quirky mint green exterior and Burnley-inspired claret and blue interior. The barman was friendly and the Old Peculiar still pleasing, so we didn’t judge the colour scheme until we’d left.

Day Two. A coffee and a banana were the best Earby had to offer for brekkie and we set out before 9am towards Thornton in Craven, the official start of our second day walking.

Farmland dominates the Pennine Way until the path hits Yorkshire again, and despite a near miss with a quicksand mud field we made onto the Leeds-Liverpool canal hoping to hit Gargrave for noon. A mile from our lunch stop my OS Explorer ran out and we swapped for my Dad’s Landranger map.

This was significant, as Landranger’s (the pink ones) don’t go to the same level of detail, whereas Explorer’s outline the landscape down to individual fields. Within minutes we were off The Way, only a field or two out but with no idea whether the path lay East or West and not enough detail on the map to gauge our bearings. Glacial drumlins blocked the horizon in all directions so we headed aimlessly north in the hope of reacing the crest of a hill and spying Gargrave.

At the point that all the fields were protected with barbed wire we became a little uncomfortable and descended cautiously into the umpteenth trough of the umpteenth sheep-shit covered peak. Crossing the field diagonally the quiet group of cows in the corner looked up and watched us intently. Something didn’t feel right*. As we hit the half way point the herd bolted towards the gate that was our destination and when they crossed our route they rounded to face us, lining up in fighter jet formation. I’d never seen a cow run so fast. I’d certainly never seen 8 cows run so fast.

A depressing point giving we started the walk in 2009...

The bastards had clearly blocked us off and were now peering at us ready to charge. I scampered straight back up the hill leaving my Dad wandering bullishly towards his untimely demise. At which point he scarped after me and with the aid of a prickly thorn tree we jumped the barbed wire into the adjoining field.

A few circulars later and we stumbled on what seemed like a path. Rejoicing, we followed it, somewhat out of desperation. As we passed the herd of cows from the safe side of a thick hedge we saw their calves beyond the gate we’d been headed for and understood their aggression. Vindicated in my situation analysis we serendipitously stumbled upon another path, this one with a huge pointed cross stump hailing the Pennine Way. How did we miss that?!

A simple lunch in Gargrave and a map purchase made for a more successful afternoon and we followed the River Aire, winding through fields and villages towards Malham, our next stopover. As he heavens opened we found refuge under a gazebo in a Quaker’s graveyard at Airton, and they lived up to their friendly name offering us tea and biscuits. Hardy Yorkshire men as we are we didn’t stop long though and soldiered on through the downpour (we had to put our waterproof coats to use after all!) Eventually were within sight of our destination and the huge rocky outcrop of Malham Cove rose up in the distance. Somehow it looks even bigger from a distance than it does up close.

The Buck Inn, Malham. Comes with beautiful bar staff as standard.

The Youth Hostel didn’t open until 5pm and we’d completed the 1o-ish miles by 3pm despite getting lost in fields of angry cows. The Buck Inn provided much needed refreshment exclusively from local breweries (Timothy Taylors, Thwaites and Copper Dragon) and we were half cut by the time we checked in and showered.

Lamb Henry for me and chicken curry for my Dad were provided at the pleasure of the Lister Hotel, where Old Peculiar was a revelation. A couple of hours of pool and oggling the Eurovision song contest ensued (as well as the fantastic bar girls back at the Buck).

(*though I should point out that I’m terrified of most creatures including cats and dogs, let alone farmyard animals)

Day Zero. I see my Dad get off the train at Leeds station, a sore thumb amongst the suits and skirts that rushed from the Cross County carriages. We bundled onto the connecting line and stuffed our rucksacks in the ample overhead shelves (funny how local trains have better storage than the national ones).

Not our B&B

After a Gregg’s pasty and a short walk through Keighley we got on the tiny bus to Stanbury, a Smart-car sized village near Haworth. Jimmy the bus driver steered us deep into Bronté country, stopping for the school kids to get sweets from the corner shop and saying goodbye to them by name as he dropped them at their front doors (well, front lanes). I expected Nick Berry to overtake us at any moment.

Day One. After a hearty breakfast made considerably more entertaining by an Anglo-Swiss double act who were also picking up the Pennine Way that morning, the hard work began and we set off north from the B&B, leaving behind home comforts and the original Hockney’s on the dining room wall.

Tom Cording was walking from Lands End to John O'Groats

Before long we’d bumped into the breakfast duo again, squabbling over a rock that may or not have contained a fossil and the Latin origins of a particular Yorkshire dialect. We marched onwards swiftly – avoiding the Barghest of Troller’s Gill – as we had a 1pm date with a pub plus one of my Dad’s friends, with no intention of being late.

At 12.30 we crossed into what could have technically been Lancashire and descended upon the Hare & Hound at Lothersdale. Two pints of Landlord in great condition were sunk before our company arrived and two more were sunk before we left. A Ploughman’s lunch soaked some of our sins but the afternoon walk quickly became more casual than the morning leg. A good bit of story telling was shared and more toilet breaks than expected took place.

John is not impressed with the Red Lion

The farmland that we’d ploughed through all day gave way to heathland which only let up as we hit double figures in miles and approached our first checkpoint, the indecisive town of Earby. Not quite sure whether it’s in Yorkshire or Lancashire, Earby’s architecture is a strange mix of Cotswold cottages and northern terraces, with obsolete concrete offices at the centre and a feeling of neglect eminating from the soulless brickwork of long-declined industry.

The Red Lion was recommended but the landlady didn’t have the time of day for us (literally), losing our custom within our first exchange. One pint of Wainwright (which I’dve swapped for a cool bottle instead) was swiftly sunk and we sought out the White Lion. There they couldn’t do enough to ensure we left imbibed and lubricated and that we did. The Red Lion was on the way home but we opted to save our pennies for the next day and crashed out at the Youth Hostel that we shared with no other guests.

Me atop a triangulation point near Lothersdale

A couple of miles into our first day on our second leg of the Pennine Way, we bumped into Tom Cording. Tom was only a day or two away from the half way point of his Lands End to John O’Groats walk and inspired both my Dad and I (whilst making us feel pretty lame for only doing 4 days walking as opposed to two months!). Tom is raising money for his local hospice, starting on the 25th April and hoping to finish by the World Cup final. You can donate a few pennies to his good cause here: http://www.justgiving.com/tom-cording

Bath Ales Barnstormer beer review

The first time I tried Bath Ales‘ dark offering, I wasn’t blown away. Perhaps I mused in my notebook at the time, it’s too subtle for me. I’d picked it up from Sainsbury’s (and funnily enough research for our latest series of posts shows it was in fact a winner of their beer competition in 2008).

Three months later and my beer experience has been blown wide open, much as a result of this site. I’ve experienced a wider variety of styles and challenged myself to write reviews on new and different beers. Coming back to Barnstormer was a pleasure, because since I last tried it I’ve actually grown quite a passion for darker beers: milds, stouts and porters all included.

This passion started whilst walking the Pennine Way with my Dad in May. The first pub in Edale, The Nag’s Head, served three beers: crudely a bitter, a pale and a dark mild (as I remember it!). My Dad’s enthusiasm at seeing a dark mild (albeit not quite the type of cheap stuff he used to guzzle as a lad growing up in Halifax) made me try a this old-fashioned looking pint and numerous other examples along the ‘Way.

Barnstorming beer from Bath Ales

The glory of the darker beer is often the complete opposite thinking to some of the paler beers I was used to. Hops sometimes make a star appearance but more often than not malt is given the pedestal, the starring role and the opportunity to show what it can do.

On its second showing Barnstormer shone for me. Fruits dominate the smell and sweet malt infuses the taste. Burnt embers mingle with the fruity nose resulting in a complex dark bitter that deserves it ‘distinctive’ label. There might be traces of chocolate in there too, that dark, cocoa bean kind.

There’s no doubt the first time round I didn’t think much of this,  I must have served it straight out of the fridge or something. Second times around it was much better – this is a fine dark ale with a complexity that’s easy to stomach and pleasing on the senses.