Our dales trip
started at the Old Bridge Inn with a fantastic pie (from Michael Thewlis,
Golcar) and a couple of pints (except for the two drivers). We set off
for the dales at around 7.00pm and as we approached our destination about
an hour and a half later we started looking for somewhere to eat. A
mobile ‘phone discussion between the two cars centred on the choice
between fish & chips or a pub meal. We opted for the pub, and Mark
recommended an up-market hostelry in Malham. We parked up but it was a
short stay, as we received a rude welcome (could it have been our
attire?) and were told we would have to wait ages for a meal.
“Not exactly meet and greet at ASDA, is it?” said John, wryly. As we were
nearly at our destination we decided to go straight to the ‘hut’ and
leave our cars so that we could have a few pints. We parked up in the
field and Mark opened the back of his Land Rover. At this point it
became clear that Kev, who had never been camping before (perhaps he is
too butch?), had rather over-estimated on the provisions front, and to
everyone’s derision he produced a 25 litre plastic container of fresh
water. This, we thought, was a little over the top for one
night.
On second
thoughts, we decided to postpone the unloading and set off to walk to the
nearest pub. In this remote Yorkshire countryside we were disgusted to
encounter white van yobs, who threw sandwiches in our directions from
their passing vehicle as we walked. At the pub, we ordered some food ( 4
lots of beef and ale pie) and watched the regulars - from a safe distance
as most looked like they had been released on licence! Unusually for us, we were probably
the most normal amongst the customers. On closer inspection one or two
bore uncanny resemblance to the famous and infamous. “Hey look”, said
Mark, “ Fidel Castro’s here”, “ and isn’t that Jeffrey Archer?” Mark
looked round at the number of heavily bearded drinkers “I think I’ll
shave mine off” he joked as he got up to go to the gents. He came back
to report that he had seen “ a huge bloke with a capped tee-shirt”
wrestling with the condom machine. When the huge bloke returned to his
girlfriend on the next table we agreed it would be prudent not to engage
with him or his girlfriend, who was repeatedly shouting “oi” to a
sheepdog at the other end of the room.
At this point we were distracted
by a number of dog-fights which had broken out in the pub, and we decided
to make our way back to the hut as we had an early start and a full
breakfast to face the next morning, not to mention our mountain
challenge. “I’m not sure I can manage it up Pen-y-ghent tomorrow” said
Kevin. “yes” said John, “you’ll be knackered carrying all that water”,
and we all guffawed at the image this conjured.
It was pitch black walking back
along the road and were it not for the red & white light provided by
John’s 99 pence torch we may have missed the entrance to the field in
which the hut was situated. We crossed the field, using only sheep-shit
as our guide, and Kev (who had grown accustomed to 5 star hotels in
Benidorm) was already stating to doubt the wisdom of his first
environmentally friendly overnight accommodation experience. Only when
Mark opened the door did we realise how wonderful it was built in 1933
and superbly maintained, it provided simple accommodation with a touch of
‘boys own annual’ nostalgia. It was after midnight, and the atmospheric
dim lighting from the gas mantles would have been almost reverential, had
we not then witnessed the sight of Pete’s underpants, or to be accurate
the sight of his ‘a**e hanging out of the most enormous hole.
For those
of you who follow the pie club diaries, you will by now be well aware
of Peter’s Yorkshire
thrift, but even his closest mates were astonished at this ‘display’.
Undaunted by the abuse and raucous laughter, Pete, who is never lost for
words, explained that the standard underpants design was not ample enough
for him in the front department, and the material had given way at the
weakest point. “ You’re probably a Matalan man” he said scathingly to
Kevin, “I need M&S – they’re more generous on the tackle front!”
This banter was great fun – it was a shame to bring the day to an end,
but we were ready to fall into our bunks. Kev, thinking he may need to
respond to nature’s call, took one of the bottom bunks. It was a very
warm night, and safe in the knowledge we were in the middle of no-where,
we left the bunk-house door wide open…. “Is that a wake-up call?” said
Kev, as a loud fart resounded on the stroke of 7.00am, and just as all
boys delight in demonstrating their talent for controlled flatulation,
there followed a trumping contest, displaying such tone and variety as to
fully merit the ‘dawn chorus’ tag given by Kev as it reached its
whimpering conclusion. It was, as ever, no contest, as John’s farts are
legendary in both volume and potency – even Kevin was amazed – “for God’s
sake, John”, he kept saying.
When the air cleared, most of us
agreed it had been a piefect night’s sleep, but Kev did not share this
view. In the dim gaslight and after 3 pints of Black Sheep, he had
failed to notice the pile of mattresses and had spent the night on rough
canvas. “This is my first time camping and that was the worst night’s
sleep I’ve ever had. My back is full of ridges!” The ensuing discussion
of who had survived the night without a pee interval was a reminder of
the sad truth that the dreaded prostate issue was looming, and was
already closer for some than others. “Anyone fancy a cup of black
coffee?” said Mark. Kevin had brought 25 litres of water but no-one had
brought any milk. “Can’t you get milk out of a sheep, Mark?” asked Kevin
optimistically (Mark drives a Land Rover). “Oh, yes”, replied Mark
sarcastically, “ dressed in my underpants and feeling a sheep’s udder
not likely!” John
suddenly realised he was due in work that day. “ I’d better ring and let
them know I’m not coming in,” he said, and he took out his mobile
‘phone. “No chance”, said Mark, “ there’s no reception out here.” This
observation triggered a number of reflections on the simple beauty of our
situation. The hut, and its beautiful scenic surroundings, had a
timeless feel. A black & white photograph hung in a simple frame
above the door, with the words “ John Moulson, who in 1933 built this
hut”. As Pete observed, generations of middle-class walkers (the hut was
owned by a walking club) had looked after this bunkhouse and, just like
us, would have discussed world events, like the rise of Hitler, and many
others over the course of the last 70 years. Old copies of ‘climber’
magazine, and supplies of unused Izal medicated toilet paper were
reminders of another era, prompting nostalgic discussions about anoraks,
canvas tents and memories of childhood.
The reflective mood was suddenly
disturbed by another tremendous fart, which shook the hut and brought us
sharply back to reality – a group of beer-supping pork pie enthusiasts
who are a world apart from Edmundson and Hillary, except perhaps in our
pursuit of new challenges! It was a fantastic Saturday
morning in the hottest summer on record - glorious sunshine and beautiful
views. For the first time we saw the hut in all it glory – set in the
heart of God’s own county, it even had a small garden which was protected
from the sheep by a small fence. “Baa, baa all through the night”
complained Kevin, “ and in the morning they’re silent!” In the garden was
a thoughtfully positioned bench where walkers could sit and admire the
views, including the famous Ribblehead Viaduct. The bench had a huge
padlock holding it down (who would come to the middle of nowhere to steal
a bench?). “That’s what you call a f*** off lock” said Peter, who was
clearly impressed. Rucksacks packed, we set off for some breakfast, but
only after Kev had tipped 25 litres of fresh water on the field. As we
approached the café, Pete exclaimed, “ I’ve lost my wallet!” “ We’ve
never seen your wallet”, quipped John, in a flash.
We had a superb full English breakfast at the Pen-y-ghent café in
Horton-in-Ribblesdale to set us up for our physical challenge, and off
we went, Mark leading the way up towards the peak. Kevin clearly had
underestimated the scale of the challenge. As we approached the final
scale to the peak, he complained “ you told me a pack of lies – you
said it was round the hill, not up a bloody mountain!” We decided to
rest for a cool drink and sit down to plan our ascent route. “The
trick is to find a spot with no sheep turds on it”, said John.
Kevin, who wanted to demonstrate how much planning he had put into
this expedition, almost impressed us all when he produced a map –
indeed several copies- to plan our ascent on the peak. There was a
mixture of incredulity and rib-splitting laughter when we realised
that what he described as a ‘map’ was
in fact a leaflet of Britain’s finest attractions (scale 1-20). “I
thought it would come in useful”, said Kevin. Amazingly, the path up
Pen-y-ghent was not on it! We eventually made it to the top and stood
to admire the views and reflect on our modest achievement, before
making our way down again. Richard, who was under strict
instructions to get home by 2.00pm for a Silver Wedding do, realised
that this was looking pretty unlikely, and decided to run the last
mile and a half downhill (a tad unwise given his limited sporting
prowess and the searing heat), and to his own amazement he managed
it. Peter, not to be out-done, tried in vain to catch him. With
everyone back on flat ground, a celebratory fish & chip lunch was
followed by a trip to Farmhouse Fayre in Skipton for the Saturday pie
fetch. Summing up the two days, our president (Kev) said,
contentedly, “ Two lots of pies and a walk over Pen-y-ghent. How
more healthy can you get!”
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