Yorkshire village pub by www.graphicalstatus.com

Time flies in the beer houses of Kingston-upon-Hull, where Yorkshiremen plotted against King Charles; studs fly in the grand hotels of Huddersfield where the North plotted against the Rugby Union.

In Halifax they have long memories, just ask The Running Man. In York they never forget, Guy Fawkes will tell you that.

In Sheffield they have an island for their beer, in Swaledale they make you climb a thousand feet for a pint (you might even have to do the washing up if you’re lucky!)

From the gastro pubs of Ilkley to the cove-view nooks of Robin Hood’s Bay; from the alleyway drinking dens of Leeds, to the walkers respites littering Garsdale, Wensleydale, Dentdale, Ribblesdale, Malhamdale, Nidderdale…

The Grove Inn, Leeds - surviving against the odds

Whitelocks, Briggate - the alleys where Loiners get their name

Station Inn, Ribblehead - take a map and a train timetable!

Yorkshire is blessed with pubs, nearly 10% of all the public houses in Britain. Some good, some bad, each and everyone someone’s favourite. All 5,115 of them.

What better way to spend the Bank Holiday than oiling your discourse down the local, or heeding Milton Crawford and taking a  moment to reflect on life. And when your done, you can vote for your favourite Yorkshire pub at Yorkshire.com/pub

"Yorkshire, Yorkshire!!"

There are 54,000 pubs in Britain and 5,115 pubs in Yorkshire. Ish. Thanks to the border hungry constituency of Brigg & Goole which straddles both the East Riding of Yorkshire and the northern climes of Lincolnshire we’ve had to apply some educated guesswork to the final tally. Thanks to the CAMRA press team and the British Beer & Pub Association for help locating the raw data. And thanks to Dan Cohen, John FotoHouse and Rick Harrison for the pics!

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.