Day 6: Saturday, July 27th
‘That’ll be a long last day,’ Helen insisted, when I told her I’d be coming from Grassington, instead of the usual Burnsall or Appletreewick. ‘You’ll be tired.’
I hadn’t appreciated, then, that I’d be tired every day, and that the extra three miles would, indeed, make a mountain of difference. It was the final leg, I assured her; I’d be fine.
Helen was coming to meet me in Ilkley, and she could always drive up and rescue me if I couldn’t make it, she suggested. But I was determined to stagger across the finishing line by myself. It was, after all, the arrival in Ilkley that was all-important; the rest was just decoration. In any case, I doubt I could have managed to continue all the way to Burnsall at the end of yesterday’s walk; it wasn’t purely that the Foresters Arms was the cheapest (and best value) accommodation in the area that swayed my decision to stay in Grassington.
It was a long last day, though. And I was tired. But I was beaming at my own sense of achievement and would make it one piece if I had to walk the few last miles in bare feet. Thankfully, it didn’t quite come to that, although I did give it some consideration.
I hadn’t slept well, though my compact room was quiet and comfortable. I was concerned about the number of miles, and at what time I would arrive, as there was a night out planned involving several old friends (rarely seen); drinks (several), and a curry. In addition, the pain I was now experiencing – in my feet, my knees, my thighs, my hips – was real, and not decreasing with familiarity. Once on the trail I snapped out of it; I even detoured (the entire hundred meters) to pay homage to Linton Falls, which is somewhere else I liked to visit as a youngster, although I can’t think why. Every time I felt a twinge of discomfort, my mind turned to the children in Gaza having their limbs amputated without anaesthetic, and gave myself a big virtual slap. Walking in Nature is a wonderful way of retreating from the horrors of the world, but I learned, this time, that some things are just too evil to banish from one’s consciousness entirely.
The morning was composed of yet more riverside: campsites; campers; kids, and litter. It was quite a different experience from previous days, as I slowly approached the end of the National Park and beginning of the higher population centres. There were dog walkers, runners and families out for a Saturday stroll; in Burnsall, where I snuck in to use the toilet, they were preparing for a wedding.
Somewhere near Barden Tower, I encountered the man-half of the couple I was chatting to in the Foresters. He was not walking, but running the route I was doing today – with the addition of Simon’s Seat. He was dawdling when I met him, though, as he’d bought himself an ice cream.
‘It’s just down there!’ he pointed, and I felt spurred on, although his idea of ‘just’ differed somewhat from mine, and I can’t eat ice cream in any case. It was good to know I was getting close, though, and I soon found myself entering a large, grass car park; I assumed it was for Bolton Abbey. I had just passed a hump-back bridge and I wasn’t entirely certain which side of the river I should be on, so I asked the boy in the kiosk, in charge of the parking. Perhaps this was a Saturday job, but as he sounded local, I was a little taken aback when he hadn’t even heard of the Dales Way, let alone know which path I should take.
‘You can go either side,’ he said. ‘There are many paths.’
It was all the same in the end, I soon discovered, as all trails, roads and fields lead to Rome, and Rome was populated by half of Yorkshire. There was a queue to cross on the stepping stones whilst multi-gender, multi-national and multi-aged groups jostled to take selfies and glamour shots of each other.
Arriving at the Cavendish Pavillion was like entering the gates of Hell. Still a large, cavernous structure, it now serves full meals as opposed to the dry scones, crisps and cans of Coke which was their limit, back in the day. I bought a very palatable, curried chickpea pasty, which I saved to pair with the last big can of Red Bull and a paracetamol as lunch. I would have sat and ate it there, but quite honestly, if I’d wanted to be amongst a crowd that large I’d have bought a ticket to Glastonbury. I found a damp rock within the Strid woods and sat there trying to recall how many walks I’d taken in these woods before, and when the last time may have been, while the world in all its glory passed by on the now wheelchair-accessible track.
Once through the gate at the other end of the ‘park’, silence reigned once more, and the few folk I did meet smiled and said hello. An elderly lady sitting on a bench looked me up and down and said, ‘You’re laden up!’ as if I mightn’t have noticed. It wouldn’t be for much longer, though: I could smell my destination.
Helen wanted to know my estimated arrival time so she could gauge when to set off from Shadwell and meet me at the end. I triumphantly sent her a photo of the roadside at the entrance to Addingham, indicating, I believed, that I wasn’t far off. In my mind, Addingham was a kind of extension of Ilkley, just two miles away (actually, it’s three) and almost joined on. I’m not sure where those ‘memories’ came from, as I then proceeded to lose the path, and myself, amid a village suburbia I didn’t recognise and couldn’t fight my way out of. An woman in her garden gave me very clear instructions, whilst explaining that it was much further than I thought it was. I chose to believe she was judging this by her own capabilities. I was mistaken. The way out of Addingham was fraught with dead-ends and false hopes, and the final haul between there and ‘home’ was interminable, although my once beloved Ilkley Moor rising up ahead like a long-lost relative rekindled my passion for the objective, and it was now just a question of putting one foot in front of the other.
Helen wasn’t fooled; she had completed the Dales Way a few years earlier – the other way round – and remembered this last stretch, her first, as being a long one. She also realised that the photo I’d sent her wasn’t, in fact, on the Way. Nonetheless, her timing was impeccable, and as I entered the final meadow, and saw her walking towards me from the other side, I was delirious with pride and elation. I was also relieved, as I’d been all set to go off in another direction.
Official distance: 17 miles
Extra miles: 0 – well, maybe a half?
Miles skipped: 0
Official time: 8 hours
Time spent being lost: ½ hour, unless you include my alternative routes!
Time saved by cheating: 0, I’m glad to say
Total time taken: 8 hours
Difficulty rating: Easy and mostly enjoyable, especially around the Strid, despite its busyness. The part from Addingham to Ilkley was endless, tedious and surplus to requirements, except for the final emergence in my old hometown, which made it all worthwhile.
Afterthoughts:
I’m not sure how much of the official Way I actually followed, but to my mind it was still a journey. I found my own paths, negotiated my own obstacles and still ended up in the right places. If I took a lift or two, availed of public transport, made contingency plans, that’s just what travelling is all about, right? It was still a challenge and an adventure. I did, however, decide three things:
1. I’m not as good at navigating as I thought I was. My gut may be good, but an up-to-date, large-scale paper map is better.
2. Six or seven hours walking a day is enough. Ten or twelve miles is enough. I’d rather have more time to savour the scenery, perhaps pause to do a quick sketch or scribble some thoughts, without worrying about arriving too late and too tired.
3. The bag undoubtedly makes a difference. It was the weight that killed me (along with the extra pounds I was carrying on myself) combined with its shape. I had constant discomfort yet was not once out of breath, so it wasn’t down to fitness per se. It was my own fault for not trying it out beforehand, and it just wasn’t the right fit for me. I shall know better another time!