Don’t ask me how, but a year – more than a year! – has passed since I set out to walk the Dales Way, shortly after I left Scotland. It was something I had wanted to do for a very long time, and one of the most pressing achievements of last summer. If only the writing about it had been as urgent, you’d have been reading this in 2024, but when I returned to complete the ‘missing’ segment a couple of weeks ago, it didn’t seem decent to leave it any longer.
Due to its length, I’ll post it in day-by-day sections.
Sunday, July 21st 2024
I’M ON MY WAY: OFF TO BOWNESS
Waving goodbye to Helen, I boarded the bus to Leeds, the train to Windermere – flashing past some of the places I would be walking through over the coming days and considering why I was choosing to visit them the hard way – then a local Lakeland bus to Bowness. I had forgotten how close it is; I could have walked it, really, but I was saving my energy.
It was so bustling and busy at the lakeside, with cruise boats still plying the waters in the late afternoon and there appeared to be a huge variety of nationalities; lake Windermere has truly been discovered, it seems. Then again, the sun was shining, which always brings people out. I walked past a shop advertising not one, but four flavours of vegan ice cream, and I intended to go and investigate after finding my hotel. But once I was ensconced in my cute, cosy little room at The Royal Oak with a little jug of soya milk for my tea, the urge wore off. Instead, I enjoyed a glass of Chardonnay and a vegetable chili in the downstairs bar, and attempted to get an early night. For tomorrow I would embark upon an adventure I’d had my eye on for decades. Ever since I first noticed a footpath near the river in Ilkley, bearing the sign: Dales Way. Bowness-on-Windermere, 82 miles.
Day 1: Monday, July 22nd.
BOWNESS TO BURNESIDE
The day didn’t start well. I awoke to the most unwelcome of sounds: the pitter-patter of rain falling past my window. I was glad I’d decided to bring my waterproof trousers. They’re by Páramo, and are perfect for a Scottish winter: soft, warm and comfortable enough to wear without anything underneath. By the end of the day, they were driving me crazy. Too hot, too heavy and completely unnecessary once the sun came out; but in the morning, they seemed like a great solution.
I’d thought to bring a small flask with me, and that was inspired. I boiled the kettle and opened three tiny packets of instant coffee; not my favourite, but the warmth would do me good, especially in the wet. When the water had boiled, I went to pour it into the flask, without realising the jug was attached to its base, and on a very short flex. The boiling water went over my hand instead.
I had slightly better luck at breakfast. My stomach isn’t awake at that time of the morning, but I ordered the full vegan, with sausages, mushrooms, beans and tomato. I ate the beans and managed to scoop the rest onto the toast to make my lunch for the day; I’d even brought foil for the purpose. Sorted.
There were two doors out of The Royal Oak. The owner highly recommended the one which opened onto the street up which I’d walk.
‘I suppose it will save about ten yards,’ I volunteered, with a wink.
‘Trust me, you’ll be glad of that ten yards at the end of the day.’ Should I be alarmed?
The road was rather steep. Pretty slate cottages lined the way, with colourful hanging baskets and expensive cars in the driveways. In an alternate universe, I could imagine myself living there (minus that type of car). The views, when visible, must have been incredible; sadly, they were not going to reveal themselves to me, and raindrops dripped from my hood as I pushed through the iron gate, pausing to photograph the bench designed to mark the end, as opposed to the start, of the Dales Way. Most people do it the other way round; apart from the Lakeland peaks supposedly lining up to greet you from this hill, I didn’t fully understand why, until later.
It didn’t take long to get lost. I could find the gates, it was just knowing which one I should go through that was the issue. I had a guidebook with me, of course; one renowned for its helpful, hand-drawn maps. I discovered very early on that they would have been fine, if I’d been travelling in the ‘correct’ direction. Stopping at every junction, or each time the path petered out into an overgrown field with no visible exit, putting on my glasses, taking out the book and trying to interpret the instructions back-to-front was not going to get me there in time for dinner. This was not going to be as straightforward as I thought.
Through the misty, damp copse appeared two figures: a woman and a man. Ahead of them, a collie. None seemed perturbed by the wetness of the thigh-high grass. When we drew close, I saw that the lady was wearing an identical Páramo jacket, in the same greyish blue.
‘Snap!’ we both said at once. Perhaps I was on the right track after all.
‘It doesn’t matter which path you take,’ they reassured me. ‘You’ll hit a road down there. Just turn left, pass a pond and you’ll be going the right way.’
For now, I thought. I followed a wide track lined with magnificent beech trees. The mist and the moss lent them an other-worldliness, and I ceased to worry about trivialities. I was on my way.
The sun broke through the clouds and the day warmed up enough for me to notice the weight of my waterproof trousers and the pack on my back. It wasn’t adjusted right, and I stopped under a line of conifers for a breather, and to see if anything could be done about it. Kindly given to me by John, the pack had seemed so perfect I had failed to try it out before stuffing it full and embarking on the trip. A mistake indeed. The hip belt hung loosely around my waist and offered no support at all, and all the weight seemed to fall around my buttocks. I couldn’t find any way of hoisting it up; it was going to drive me mad in no time.
An older couple were coming down the hill, on their way to Bowness. The man had a map in a clear plastic wallet strung around his neck; the woman, walking poles. I asked them if I was going the right way; I was. They had set off from Burneside that morning. It wasn’t too far, they said, for their last day. They had a caravan in Kendal, and were doing the walk as day trips, catching buses and taxis to and from the trail each day. If it was raining, they said, they could postpone it until the following day; they had time. I pondered this for a moment; I could certainly see the attraction. But I like the idea of a journey; of being self-sufficient and carrying everything with me. I hadn’t wanted to use a transfer service for the same reason. I remembered the first time I walked the South Downs Way, young and experienced, and not so much fitter than I am today. With very different priorities, I cared about what I looked like at the bar each evening, and I’d packed white stilettoes into a heavy canvas rucksack with no hip belt at all, and survived. It was mind over matter – I could do this.
‘I must say I admire you, doing it that way,’ said the woman. ‘That’s quite an undertaking. Are you stopping in Staveley for lunch?’
‘You should!’ interjected the man. ‘There’s a lovely café just up the High Street.’
I said it depended what time I got there, though the thought of a warming, real coffee in a real mug in a cosy café was certainly appealing.
‘You’ll be reet. Tis only a coople of miles,’ the man reassured me.
I smiled, appreciating the Yorkshire accent which used to be a part of my everyday life. I could manage a couple of miles, providing I didn’t make any unscheduled detours.
At the top of the hill, there was a stone wall directly ahead of me, with tracks leading right and left. I presumed I should turn left, but you can’t be too careful, especially when one’s sense of direction rarely matches one’s confidence in it. At a gap in the wall, sprawled upon boulders and clumps of dry heather, was a large group of walkers, poles laid at their feet as they unwrapped sandwiches. Either they had not been into the unmissable café, or it was so far away they were now ready for another meal.
‘Is this the way to Staveley?’ I gestured towards the gate they had presumably just come through. They looked at me blankly.
‘Staveley?’ I repeated, in case they hadn’t understood my accent. A couple of them shrugged.
‘We don’t know,’ someone admitted. ‘We just go where we’re told.’
In this instance my instincts were right, although the walking up and down narrow tarmac roads, leaping into the brambles for passing farm vehicles and having hopes simultaneously raised and dashed with every cluster of buildings, made this part of the walk tedious. I was certainly ready for a coffee, but as I finally reached the outskirts of the village, I came upon a wooden bench surrounded by cow parsley and, not knowing how much energy I would require for the remainder of the walk, I decided not to expend it on the extra half a mile or so, and took out my flask instead. It was pretty disgusting, but it was flavoured liquid plus caffeine, and I needed both.
Chastising myself for my lack of physical preparation for this journey – I’d relied upon my natural fitness from living in the rugged Highlands for decades to see me through this ‘gentle meander’ – I was aware of a creeping stiffness when I rested for too long. Shaking out my legs, I got going again. If I was lucky, it would stay dry until I reached Burneside.
The way was beautiful, now following the River Kent on a dirt path over tangled roots, alongside moss-covered rocks. The canopy of ancient oaks dipped here and there into dark pools at the river’s edge. This was the type of walking I was hoping for, and I felt a spring coming back into my step. It shouldn’t be too far, now. I had nearly completed the first day!
Unfortunately, at this point I had still not figured out that I was committing the most basic of navigation errors: in choosing to do this walk ‘in reverse’, I was missing all the helpful yellow way-marking arrows which were placed, not-so-helpfully, on the opposite side of gates and stiles, invisible to me coming from this direction. Consequently, I had a few extra miles to walk, calories to burn and exasperation to tackle.
Not far from the village of Burneside, an inviting wooden bridge spanned a narrow part of the river, and a yellow arrow indicated that I should cross it. It did not, in this instance, have ‘Dales Way’ written within the circle, so I hesitated. Perhaps ordinary footpaths were also indicated by a yellow arrow? (Indeed, they are.) Tentatively crossing the bridge, I found a path leading to the right, which looked promising. Just then, a man approached from the left, his black Labrador loping ahead, tongue lolling. Was this the way to Burneside? I enquired. This was my mistake: I should have asked, was this the Dales Way? I might then have elicited a different answer. Oh, no! He replied. Much quicker to carry on along there (the path I had been on a moment ago). You’re only fifteen minutes away! Thanking him and ruffling the dog’s velvet ears, I trotted happily back onto the path in anticipation of an early arrival into my accommodation and some dry newspaper with which to stuff my boots.
Fifteen minutes later, I came upon the first set of buildings that I took to be the start of Burneside – rather surprisingly, on the opposite bank of the river. Undeterred, I strutted on, hopeful that every next bend would be the one where the splendour of the village would be laid before me. After half a mile or so, I entered a hamlet with no visible name and noticed a track, off to my right, with another yellow arrow, leading steeply uphill. Confused, I followed it to a crest, and went to take out my map just as a heavy rain shower swept across the valley. I had no signal on my phone, so Google Maps was a non-starter. I didn’t recall mention of a sharp right-hand turn, and this path seemed to be heading up and over a featureless hill, yet it was a well-trodden track. I descended, looked around, then retraced my steps up it again.
I had no desire to walk miles in the wrong direction, but where was this wretched village? Burneside… surely that meant ‘burn-side’, beside the burn. Beside the river. I returned to the path and continued walking. And walking. And walking…until at last! Some more buildings, and signs of civilisation. And yet, there was no heart; no centre, and certainly no Jolly Anglers inn, which by now I would have given the contents of my backpack to see. Somehow, I found myself following a tiny indication of a track, or my nose, or something, into an allotment, where I remained for some time, trying to find my way out. It was strewn with plastic children’s toys, clearly part of someone’s garden, yet the whole settlement appeared to be perfectly deserted. At this point, I believed I must have stumbled into an alternate reality. Unable to find an exit, I clambered over a loose stone wall into a rough field which eventually spat me out onto a busy main road, where I was tempted to hitch a lift, if only I knew which direction I should be going in. I had little idea, and by now my mind was so fogged I was beginning to doubt I was even in the right county, until I saw a sign for Burneside railway station: 4 miles.
Everything had begun to hurt: feet, calves, knees and hips. It was only the knowledge I was sleeping in a pub which kept me moving. When I finally reached the run-down, tired-looking, damp-smelling annexe where I was to spend the night, and saw that it was a full house-width away from the main building and the source of my life-saving reward, I could have cried. The stairs were so steep I could barely drag myself up them but once inside I pulled off my boots, scattering a shower of grass-seed all over the swirly-patterned carpet; placed them atop the old fashioned, plug-in, oil-filled radiator, turned the dial to its hottest setting and lay down on the floor with my ankles on the bed. Somehow, I’d need to crawl back down the stairs and stagger along to the bar but first, a few yoga stretches and a hot shower. The warmly brusque bar lady saw my need, and handed it over with a grin: a large glass of Chardonnay makes everything better. At least, until the pain kicks in.
Official distance: 10 miles
Extra miles (estimated): 2-5
Official time: 5 hours
Time spent being lost: 2 hours
Total time taken: 7 hours
Difficulty rating: Too wet, frustrated and knackered to think about it. Just let me drink my wine.