E2: Ickornshaw to Stoodley Pike

A bitterly cold start to the day, but welcome coffees at May's shop.

Overnight temperatures had dropped precipitously. I woked a little after midnight and answered a call of nature, admiring the lights of distant villages. On returning to my sleeping bag I decided to blow up the airbed I was carrying to lift me off the ground, as it was feeling distinctly cold. This ensured I stayed warm until morning, snuggled in the thick, warm folds of my soft sleeping bag. I soon cooled down as I left the tent, putting my feet in boots stiffened by the cold. Last night there were only a few scraps of ice, but this morning rivers of grey, translucent ice crossed the path. Packing and dismantling the tent was painful. My hands felt as if they were moving in ice cold water. I was wearing thin liner gloves as I could not manage the more delicate operations such as tying my laces or removing pegs in my proper gloves. All my hand movements were clumsy as they struggled to move properly in the cold.

What was a puddle last night was solid ice this morning.

Finally packed, things improved, walking warmed up my feet. My hands, now fully gloved, heated up more slowly, it took a while to stop them feeling ice cold, but my exercising them, clenching and unclenching, helped a little. The clouds, bubbling across the horizon with pink undersides distracted me. On the path through heathers and reeds, the puddles had frozen hard. The mud had solidified with the subzero temperatures, preserving in detail the tread patterns of hikers' boots and the pawprints of their dogs. As I walked I sprung grouse, who flapped into the air muttering complaints. Top Withens was one of today's sights. A ruin in a location said to have inspired Emily Brontë's book, "Wuthering Heights". It was certainly a bleak place today.

Top Withens.

I was now entering a part of the Pennine Way which has multiple reservoirs suppling the great metropolises of North England with clean water. Although I passed a couple today, my main interest was "May's Shop", an Aladdin's cave of many treasures well known to Pennine Way afficionados. I prepared myself for it being closed on a winter Monday but was overjoyed to find it open. I lunched on a pork pie, a buttered scone and two mugs of coffee sitting outside at a picnic table, slightly sheltered from the wind. The coffee was welcome as the water in my bottle had started freezing on the inside surfaces. So cold was the water that I could only managed a few sips before the chilling pain at the back of my throat forced me to stop, so the warm coffee was a means of ensuring I stayed hydrated. 

Sign for May's Shop.

After May's the next landmark was the deep Calder Valley, a highway used by road, rail and canal. The walk down the steep valley side was enjoyable, a change from bleak moors. The twisting descent on cobbled paths and steps went by houses so close you could look on their rooms.

Part of the walk down into the Calder Valley.

Unfortunately, it meant a steep climb through birch trees up the opposite side of the valley to reach Stoodley Pike on the moors above. Stoodley Pike is a prominent stone monument originally built to commemorate the defeat of Napoleon. The easterly breeze was bitingly cold, small blobs of ice were forming on the windblown grass, so on reaching a hollowed out area with a modicum of shelter where I had camped before I decided to pitch my tent despite it being only 4 pm.

The second abandoned Land Rover of my trip, Stoodley Pike in the distance.

E2: Airton to Ickornshaw

In contrast to previous days, today my journey was principally through farmland, green fields and sheep.

Felling excessively full after a cooked breakfast I ambled down to the valley bottom and the Pennine Way. I was not going to have a "Full English" today as I was still full from my dessert of the previous night, but the owner was in his chef's whites ready to prepare it and it seemed a pity to disappoint. As I carried the weight of my heavily laden stomach down the valley, burping periodically, I wondered on the breed of sheep I was now seeing. No longer Swaledales, they had broad white faces, Texels maybe or Cheviots? First stop was Gargrave where I stocked up with provisions at the Coop as I am camping tonight and tomorrow. Then I enjoyed a pot of tea at the Dalesman café, listening to the clipped Yorkshire accents of those other customers with louder voices. I continued over fields and modest hills, the weather cool but not excessively cold, the sun found occasional gaps in the clouds to pick out a distant slope or a nearby field. Black trees, naked of leaves, were silhouetted against dull green grass. There was a short section of walking on a canal towpath for variety. The canal went under a curious bridge, strange as it was built on top of an earlier, smaller bridge.

A winter scene as the Pennine Way crossed farmland.

Leeds and Liverpool Canal.

In my research I found no accommodation in Ickornshaw. Possibly I could have tried harder, looking at nearby towns and exploring options using a bus, however I decided to camp on the moors as a way of stopping myself over-eating with pub meals of chips and puddings, and cooked breakfasts. Maybe there was also a bit of "machismo", in proving to myself I could camp in wintery conditions. So I walked through the Pennine town of Ickornshaw with its stone built houses dating from the Industrial Revolution, continuing up through farmland to the high moors of heather and moss. On reaching rough ground the Pennine Way completed a tour of little huts that were spaced at regular intervals. Each had a chimney and waterbutt, all were padlocked, doors and boarded off windows, maybe they were used for grouse shooting with a stove to keep the customers warm. I did not wish to camp by these places, if someone visited them they would probably take offence to my tent on their grouse moor. Continuing on I was pleased to find a good spot, level with short grass, by the ruins of a small stone building, far more comfortable than camping on the surrounding tussocks of heather or in wet areas of grass and sphagnum moss. I set up my tent as the light was fading, pinning down the upwind side first with a tent peg before inserting poles to avoid the fresh breeze blowing the canvas away. Then I quickly escaped inside to avoid the rapidly cooling temperatures caused by wind-chill and the onset of night.

E2: Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Airton

An icy day on Pen-y-ghent followed by a climb into more snow before dropping down to Malham Cove.

Over breakfast with my sister and brother-in-law the owner of the bed & breakfast regaled us with various topics including his low view of the Pen-y-ghent cafe being closed and the lack of preparedness for some of those undertaking the Yorkshire Three Peaks Challenge among other things. The Three Peaks Challenge involved climbing Pen-y-ghent, Ingleborough and Whernside within 12 hours. At one time it appears you signed in at the Pen-y-ghent cafe when you started and when you finished, that way if you did not return due to a problem, someone would know. There is now no café in Horton-in-Ribblesdale despite the popularity of the village with walkers and runners, at least none open in February. 

After hugging my sister and reassuring her I would manage the steep climb down from Pen-y-ghent, despite the ice and snow that covered the peak, I started off for the mountain, ignoring the owner of the bed & breakfast who suggested that I bypassed it. As he correctly predicted, I was not be able to see anything through the cloud enveloping the summit. I was not alone on the mountain. Whether because it was Saturday or maybe they were in organised groups, many people were climbing the mountain, almost all heading in the opposite direction to me as they tackled the Three Peaks Challenge. The climb up I did not find difficult,  I could easily avoid icy sections of path by walking on the snow beside it. Going down from the summit, the Pennine Way drops steeply through an outcrop of rocks, requiring a little light scrambling, easy when the rocks are dry but they were treacherously wet and icy. When I reached the top of the outcrop a large and seemingly endless line of people were coming up what I assumed was the principal route. Seeing footprints in the snow suggesting others had chosen a different way down I followed that, carefully and cautiously climbing down a series of broken ledges of rock. However the final drop worried me, when testing a foothold my boot gained no grip. My rucksack impeded my movements. Seeing a competent looking hiker coming up I asked him to "brace" me. I took off my rucksack and placed it on a ledge, then he kindly stood prepared to support me if I slipped. In fact I didn't but I was glad I asked for help rather than risk a fall.

Ice, elongated by the wind, on a drystone wall on the summit of Pen-y-ghent.

People gathered on the summit.

After the Pennine Way departed from the Three Peaks route the trail became quieter, although I passed a group of girls twice as they ran first one way, then turned around and ran back, heading like me for Malham. I thought it was an all girl group but was proved wrong, the men were trailing far behind.

After descending from Pen-y-ghent and walking a short section of road below the snowline, I began the next climb, a climb I did not remember from earlier trips. The trail I was following might have been created to serve mining operations, for once I reached the plateau a sign warned against leaving the path due to open, unmarked, mine shafts. The high ground was again in snow and ice which cleared as I approached Malham Tarn. This was a big lake with National Trust buildings among trees on its north side. The trees seemed out of place, a patch of woodland among open moorland of faded grass and reeds, or fields of close cropped grass. Many people were visiting the Tarn, emanating from a nearby car park. A few were standing by the lake side looking at the water as it dissolved into the mist.

Malham Tarn.

From Malham Tarn the Pennine Way followed a dry valley down to Malham Cove. A dry valley like this was typical of limestone country. The water which once ran down the valley now travels through underground fissure and caves. At the end of the valley was a limestone pavement above a tall, curved cliff called Malham Cove, water wells up from the base of the cliff at the end of its underground journey. The "pavement" consisted of blocks of limestone called "clints" separated by fissures called "grykes". These fissures were created by rainwater slowly dissolving the limestone over many millennia. I followed the Pennine Way over the pavement, climbing onto the clints. Although this was something I had done several times before, today was different. The limestone, smoothed by both rainwater and the passage of many visiting feet, was wet and slippery. Access to the pavement involved walking through mud. My muddled boots had trouble gaining purchase on the wet rock. Recognising I was in difficulty I tried to effect a sideways exit. As the clints at the side were more eroded into curved channels this proved tricky. Before I had gone too far I slipped and fell. A passing hiker asked if I had broken anything, one of my trekking poles was the only casualty, now unnaturally bent. My pride had also taken a tumble. I should have been more gracious to the person who was enquiring if I was OK but I was cross at my own incompetence. 

Limestone pavement at the top of Malham Cove.

Maybe my mind was on the possibility of coffee and cake in Malham village. In this I was disappointed. I arrived at the café at 4:00 pm, just as it was closing. I did acquire a takeaway coffee from a machine at the village store bit it felt second best. Accommodation in Malham was either excessively expensive, full or closed for the winter, consequently I had booked a Bed & Breakfast in the village of Airton, an additional hour's walking down the Pennine Way in a valley beside a river. My hosts generously provided tea and a scone on my arrival, then drove me to the Victoria pub so I could buy dinner for myself. I am now back enjoying the warmth of my room as tomorrow I am planning to camp, having discovered no place to stay in Ickornshaw.

E2: Hawes to Horton in Ribblesdale

A fine day of walking made better by meeting my sister and her husband on the trail.

Drystone walls are a feature of the Pennines, bringing order to nature by dividing up the land. A variety of lichen covered their surfaces, usually in dull colours, so I particularly liked the more exuberant, orange types that brought colour to overcast days.

After leaving Hawes and its satellite suburbs of stone built houses it was steady climb up to higher ground, eventually rejoining the snow. From then on it was a brisk walk along good trails, an old pack horse route then a Roman Road. Puddles were frozen over and any mud was hardened by the cold so my boots stayed dry. The cold south-easterly wind froze any exposed skin, but with my gloves, buff, woolly hat and jacket hood, I made myself cosily comfortable. For a long stretch a "U" shaped glacial valley was visible to my right, then after crossing the highest point the distinctive mountain of Pen-y-ghent was visible, snow covering its rocky ridge.

Pen-y-ghent, a popular mountain, today topped with snow, visible in the distance.

Coming down into the Ribble valley, the multiple arches of the lengthy Ribblehead railway viaduct was visible, an elegant piece of engineering from an earlier age. Other sights included a pothole, where a stream disappears into a deep hole in the limestone. A caver was lowering helmeted youngsters and a few not-so-young down into the darkness. One of the men standing by in a blue hard hat offered me a harness to go down, however I excused myself as I had arranged to meet my sister and my brother-in-law.

A stream disappearing into a hole in the limestone.

The meeting was achieved a little later, they waved at me from the top of a hill on the trail. Soon we were descending in Horton-in-Ribblesdale. The village no longer has an open cafe it appears, at least not in February, so we drove out to the Ribblehead railway station for a coffee and cake at the Station Inn which had plenty of people in outdoor gear. Our evening meal was in the Golden Lion Pub, its walls lined with football regalia.

E2: Tan Hill Inn to Hawes

The best part of the day was high in the snow covered fells, with magical scenery and wind pulled ice. 

Unfortunately I felt distinctly stodgy for a lot of the day following a heavy meal last night and a lighter breakfast. My still full stomach needed a lot of effort to carry it. In the background an annoying headache played around my temples, which I felt unfair as I had not drunk excessively in the bar last night while exchanging pleasantries and views on different long distance paths with a couple on a neighbouring table.

Nevertheless my ailments did not prevent me admiring the scenery this morning. The Tan Hill Inn, England’s highest pub where I stayed last night, stands surrounded by high ground which today was covered with snow. Somebody was out before me, their clear boot prints stamped into the white snow. Rabbit trails headed this way and that. Standing water on the path had frozen over, and I was cautious to avoid slipping on its grey, translucent ice. Reeds and grasses poked their needle like leaves through the white blanket. Despite the overcast skies visibility was good. All the higher ground was white above a sharp line, a height below which extended valleys of dull green fields, marked out into large rectangles with grey, drystone walls. Each field seemed to have a drystone barn in the corner.

Pennine Way by the Tan Hill Inn.

Looking down at the valleys, note the snow on the distant fells.

I happily walked over this empty, serene landscape, eventually loosing height, and leaving the snow behind for a time to enter Swaledale. At the bottom of the valley I passed a waterfall, East Gill Force. All the waterfalls are called a "force" in this area of Yorkshire, and valleys are called "dales". After steeply climbing out of the valley bottom I diverted into the village of Keld. I thought I had stopped at a café here on a previous occasion but was mistaken, I spotted the café, closed until the end of the month, in the next village of Thwaite. However my walk into Keld did reveal a "Self Service, Winter Tearoom". Inside there was a warm fire, the equipment to make tea or coffee, and a wide selection of cakes. Despite not being hungry I could not resist a slice of Yorkshire Fruit Cake with a glass of blackcurrant squash. The latter was particularly wise as the water I was carrying had become so cold that I was unable to manage more than a sip at the time. Lacking any change for the honesty box, I made my donation through a card reader they helpfully provided. Very modern!

Self service winter tearoom at Keld.

Some of the stiles today were exceeding difficult to get through. Approaching Thwaite, there was a stile of a type where, to make absolutely sure no animal escaped, a small gate, held closed by a spring, was combined with a narrow slit halfway up the drystone wall. The narrow slit proved difficult for me to squeeze through and I do not consider myself as having a wide girth. After Thwaite the Pennine Way climbed gradually up Great Shunner Fell and back into the snow. As the path rose higher, the ice on the grasses and rocks became ever more fantastical in shape. Clear ice formed on needles of grass protruding from the snow. As more ice was deposited, the wind caused it to stretch out to form little translucent "daggers" pointing downwind. If the wind changed direction around obstacles, so the direction the extended shards of ice changed.

Horizontal icicles, shaped by the wind.

In this empty, cold, white landscape I saw a distant figure walking towards me in multicoloured clothes. One of two hikers I passed with heavy packs, evidently planning to camp. I also overtook a man out for a day trip. Finding someone progressing more slowly than me was so unexpected I exchanged a few words about the weather with him to make sure he was OK. In the last hours of the day the lowering sun made a few appearances, through gaps in the cloud, creating graceful shadows, transforming a dull, dark landscape spread across the valley ahead of me into one of warmth and beauty. Below me I could see the town of Hawes, my resting place for the night, where I arrived as the last of the daylight was extinguished.

E2: Middleton-in-Teesdale to Tan Hill Inn

A walk over the wet moors with showers of rain, sleet and snow.

After a good breakfast I started my climb out of Middleton-in-Teesdale on the Pennine Way which the western variant of the E2 follows south (the eastern variant leaves the village on the Teesdale Way). Although it was sleeting I was soon overheating as I gained height. I had to remove a layer of clothing to avoid sweating, necessary as wet material is a poor insulator and I knew if I stopped I would cool down quickly as the temperatures were approaching zero. For most of the day it was on and off with my hat and middle layer as I climbed then descended hills, and as the chilling wind changed in strength.

Although the moors were largely empty, there were flocks of Swaledale sheep. Their black and white faces, with cute little horns, turned to look at me as I passed. No doubt I was one of the more interesting things to happen in their day. Much of my hike today was over wet moorland. Heather and grasses were shades of reddish brown at this time of year, between them bright green sphagnum moss warned that if I stepped on it, my foot would sink into a squelchy mass. There were also areas of rushes that marked wet ground, but if you stepped directly on them you could avoid sinking into the mud around them. Mud was an issue. As I walked down a slope, my right foot slipped on the wet soil path, causing my left leg to bend under me. My dodgy, arthritic left knee did not appreciate this manoeuvre, gave a sharp protest and grumbled for the rest of the day. Of course I should have been using my trekking poles to stabilize me on these slippery tracks, instead they were strapped uselessly to my rucksack. That was my first mistake. Some time later I discovered my second mistake, I no longer had my GPS. I rely on it for navigation and although I could use an App on my smartphone instead that would not have been ideal. I retraced my steps back to when I last remembered using it. On returning I spotted it in the place where I slipped. It must have left the pocket on the shoulder strap of my rucksack as I lost my balance and fell to the ground. In hindsight I should have checked that I had not dropped anything when I slipped. I felt a need to give thanks to God for finding my GPS, a small device in a large landscape.

The wet, boggy moor, so typical of the Pennine Way

Swaledale sheep

There were a few things of interest. For example there was a tuck box beside one farm with an honesty box for payment, but it only contained cold drinks which needed a hot day to enjoy. Later I stopped at Hannah's barn. Hannah lived nearby between 1961 and 1988 without electricity or running water tending her farm. She became something of a TV celebrity, a person who seemed to belong to an earlier age. The barn now has displays about the surrounding nature reserve, which is a hay meadow. It was also a place to rest while eating a snack. I was however premature as a little later there was a barn with tea and coffee making facilities and various snacks. I stopped again for a coffee and flapjack to go with the apple I had brought with me. The final "sights" of the day were a couple of historic lime kilns and "God's Bridge". Here the River Greta had eroded a natural bridge through a patch of limestone. It was difficult to tell the rock type as the wet surface was encrusted with lichen. Lichen also coated the wet, wooden footpath fingerposts, so it was difficult to determine what was written on them.

God's bridge.

Despite the wintery conditions I was not the only hiker on the Pennine Way, I passed a pair heading north, but that was it. As I climbed away from God's Bridge, I passed a few of the typical, grey stone buildings on a quiet, single track road which degenerated into a gravel track. A man in camouflage gear on a quad bike with a shotgun across the front waved as he passed me. A tractor was cutting the heather and rushes. After that I was on my own, crossing the empty, treeless moors, left to my thoughts. These were not profound, consisting of memories of old sitcoms while the cloying chorus of an ancient pop song circled around my head.

A light snow was now falling. The path was a line of soupy peat, hidden beneath sphagnum moss. I tried to avoid this morass of mud by walking on the heather clumps beside the path. These were not kind to my painful knee as the heather hummocks pushed my leg laterally from one side to the other and into unexpected holes. While avoiding the main path I found myself drifting off into the moor, fortunately periodic posts painted with a white top marked the Pennine Way, making it easier to find the correct route again. When I walked this way before I recalled seeing Tan Hill Inn in the distance but taking a long time to reach it. This time I kept looking for the Inn yet failed to see it. Fortunately it had not disappeared as I conjectured, the visibility was just too poor to see it until I was within a 100 metres.

I have now settled in, showered, left my wet socks to dry on the bunkroom radiator and have eaten too much for dinner.

Tan Hill Inn, surprisingly popular in a winter's night.

E2: The western variant from Middleton-in-Teesdale

The E2 European Long Distance Path splits into two alternative routes separating at Middleton-in-Teesdale in England and reconnecting near Antwerp in Belgium. In my walk from Galway to Nice on the E2 I followed the eastern option. To be able to talk authoritatively on the E2 I decided to walk at least a little of the western route.

So today, after trains, buses and the London Underground I have arrived at Middleton-in-Teesdale. Tomorrow I will start down the Pennine Way, part of the Western E2. February is not ideal for walking the moors of the Pennines, weather can be cold, wet, snowy, muddy and generally unpleasant. However having returned from my last walk in October I was feeling a need for exercise, and maybe considered the wintry weather, a little challenge. Certainly as I waited for the bus at Barnard Castle, the grey, darkening skies and the wet, cold, wind penetrating my clothing, did not promise a pleasant walk. However, the warmth of the Teesdale Hotel, my lodging for the night, with my pie and pint in the bar beside a wood burning stove suggested I was likely to enjoy the evenings, if not the days.

Barnard Castle