FromSwamptoSummit

As foreshadowing, let me start by saying that I spent a lot of time on day 2 of our trek through the Yorkshire Dales thinking of synonyms for the word waterlogged. But I digress.

After a two night sojourn in Manchester spent catching up with family friends (by the way, we really liked Manchester and its bustling vibe…), J and I successfully navigated our way to Grassington. This started with two trains, which delivered us to the charming town of Skipton, which had one of the prettiest rail stations we’d seen.

From there we planned a bus ride to Grassington. Of course, the rail station and bus station were not contiguous, so this involved a ten minute jaunt, luggage in tow, but we were able to use our two hours of waiting time to visit the “Sound Bar.” An independently owned combination vinyl record store, coffee shop, and pub that also featured live music on the weekends. The walls were plastered with tickets, posters and other promotional materials for concerts and bands dating back 50 years – really fun spot and not what we expected to find!

Despite the fact that the driver operated the bus to Grassington as though he were auditioning for Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, he safely delivered us to just outside the Black Horse Hotel where we met up with pals and long time travel partners M and S. They’d arrived a day earlier, fortunately managing to take one of the only trains running on a day of “industrial action” (aka strike day) from London to the north. Unfortunately, the room reserved for J and me had electrical problems. After a couple of hours of waiting around in their very cozy bar, management gave up and sent us across the street to an equally nice inn, the Devonshire, which was graced with a mention somewhere in one of James Herriot’s books.

For those of you not aware, practically all of the Dales is Herriot country – there’s a Herriot Way walk, hotels name their rooms after the characters (both human and animal), and more memorabilia than you can imagine.

After a filling breakfast, the first day of the walk went smoothly. It was only about 11 miles – slightly shorter than the original itinerary because we were to stay in Buckden instead of Cray, which was a couple of miles further down the road. Of course, that did have implications for day 2, as I’m sure any discerning reader will have figured out.

There was a light, misty rain much of the time but it was really nothing more than what you experience with a mister at a Disney theme park. A few steep uphills at the beginning until we reached a ridge line. We then descended through what must have been a planted forest of tall conifers, stripped of their lower branches, and down to a river that was contained in its banks (foreshadowing again – unlike day 2).

We reached the village of Kettlewell where we stopped at the first spot we saw for lunch and an ale (after all, this was billed as an “Ales and Dales” trek). It turned out it was the owner’s first day open, and his manager had quit that very morning. We were happy to support the new endeavor and enjoyed hearing his take on English politics and who should or should not be King….

Much of the rest of the walk was on or near the river. It was edged with fantastic wild flowers, thistles, foxgloves, and bluebells. We crossed open fields, or sometimes were sandwiched on narrow paths running between stone walls, flowers and ripening berry brambles on each side.

We reached the tiny village of Buckden (chief feature, a village store that took cash only) in good time. Home for the night was the lovely Buck Inn.

We knew in advance that the repercussion of our shorter day was a longer one….so were prepared for at least 16.5 miles on day 2, and had ordered packed lunches the night before.

We knew things were not off to a propitious start when, as we were departing, a man in the lobby volunteered that he had just come from Askrigg, and everything on the way was flooded. He also cast some dubious looks at the four Floridians blithely heading off into the Yorkshire Dales….

It was indeed raining, and continued to do so for nearly the whole day, veering from light to stinging. We started with a long uphill slog, and learned the first rule of Mac’s Adventure trekking – NEVER veer from the blue GPS line on the app, NO MATTER WHAT. The sign posting (other than for the well-known, main trails) is awful, and that blue line becomes your Bible (or yellow brick road, whichever metaphor you prefer).

Our first issue really started as we descended into Cray, which was where the original itinerary had called for us to spend the night. We reached a roaring river, which we were apparently to cross with the assistance of stepping stones. But the stones were under the white water rapids of a flooded river, and we were not about to start day 2 with an encounter with the river gods. There was a bridge just a few feet away – but to access it we would have to go through private property that lined the river bank.

There was little choice. To the bemusement of the elderly men on the other side of the river who were eating sandwiches and drinking tea from flasks, and having a good time observing our adventure, we all managed to climb a stone wall, scale the wire at the top (avoiding barbed wire on the sides), and make our way to the bridge. (S had ventured along the river edge, clinging to the wall, to see if there was a way to less obviously trespass, but soon gave up the attempt to avoid lawlessness.)

I wish I had pictures, but we were somewhat preoccupied.

We trudged on some more, and reached a turn off that sent us above the fields into bleak and desolate moors, inhabited only by sheep. We did encounter a group of scouts with an older guide who made dire predictions about the water yet to come. More uphill, reached a stretch of paved road, only to find that portions of it were under up to a foot of water. That required another venture into the fields at the side, although by then we were so wet it hardly made a difference.

From the road we were back onto a bridle way running through the moors. As M pointed out – we were experiencing both swamp and summit simultaneously. Many impromptu waterfalls had formed, and it would have been spectacular without the rain, or the wind that had by then kicked up. The conditions defined the word bleak, and the moors were, to use M’s phrase, both desolate and disorienting.

The moor was interspersed by sheep fields every now and then – but my favorite was the pasture guarded by a very large bull with a ring at the end of his nose. I was first in our little parade, and memories of bull running and Pamplona caused me some anxiety as I considered the effect of my orange back pack. But I moved slowly, J edged in close so the back pack wasn’t as visible, and Senor Bull deigned to let us pass without exacting tribute. Nonetheless, once we’d exited his domain, he stood his ground by the gate, staring at us to make sure we really had left.

The rain lightened and we found ourselves on some country lanes, with a couple of houses that seemed to have been built at the edge of the world, so we pulled out our sandwiches and ate on the go. About mid-afternoon, we finally reached the charming village of Askrigg – home to pretty gardens and a 15th (or earlier) century church, St. Oswald’s.

Exiting Askrigg, we hiked through a lovely enchanted forest high above a rushing river. The path ran along the top bank, a stone wall on one side and trees and river below on the other. It was emerald and mossy green, and surely home to a pantheon of forest fairies.

Path finding through the muddy, sodden fields became more difficult and the wind picked up. Things were not helped by the hundreds (thousands?) of sheep we encountered and we spent a lot of time trying to avoid their leavings. Very occasionally we would go through a “clean field,” i.e., one without sheep!

I thought I could see our destination of Hawes in the distance, but couldn’t know for sure. We hiked and hiked through field after field, finally making a left and seeing a sign marked “Hawes Circular Walk.” It was getting late at that point, and I haven’t been so glad to see a town since J and I descended Stok Kangri in Indian in 2018!

We reached the Herriot Guest House in Hawes completely drenched. Both ourselves and our possessions, despite rain pants and back pack covers (turns out passports dry pretty well). To add insult to injury, somehow the luggage that was being transported from inn to inn had managed to get wet as well.

We changed quickly and went the The White Hart for an excellent (and well-deserved) Sunday Roast.

Sodden, waterlogged, drenched, soaking. I’m sure there are a few adjectives that I’m missing but you get the picture. However, you could equally apply: challenging, invigorating, exhausting, stimulating, and most of all – absorbing.