Alston to Dufton, the Highs and Lows

Great breakfast from Celia, although I didn’t think physically she was up to it, but routine is a life extender. Unless it’s a routine of suicide bombing. That usually cuts it short. I was a bit sorry to say goodbye to Alston. Nice village, nice folk, nice welcome. Including one from the Mad Hatter.

I bought supplies for wild camping tonight as I didn’t think I could make the 20 miles to Dufton. The route climbed 11 miles to peak on Cross Fell, at nearly 3,000 feet it’s the highest in England outside of the Lake District. It then dips and rises to three more peaks, lesser but still big, before dropping the last five miles to Dufton. Too much – Boo. But my feet improved a lot overnight – Hooray. However my boots were still soaking wet – Boo. 

The route followed the South Tyne four miles upstream to Garrigill where it cut up much steeper for the seven miles to the summit. The river views were lovely and the weather was  overcast but only occasional showers. The wind was up so it’d be lairy on top. 

After Garrigill I needed to rest every 100 paces. I’m not up to the Pyrenees next year. Cross them, yes, but not along the top. My feet are too susceptible to damage from wet boots and my body strength isn’t tough as a nutter wasterd anymore. The views back were limited until I got higher up.

Near the summit of Cross Fell is a miners’ hut where the guys would live Monday to Friday and commute down to the village (on foot) for the weekends. Lead miners smashing and scouring the rock looking for the soft metal.

And Greg’s hut is now preserved by volunteers as a bothy and emergency refuge. Saving many lives in the depths of winter and spring.

The summit was elusive but I caught it. And nearly got blown off for my pains. It was incredible, literally lifting one off one’s feet, one. 

With the first views I had seen of the Lake District to the west. Stunning. I’m in Cumbria now. Lots of grouse up top and a gamekeeper I spoke to on the way up was a Carlisle fan. Always a strong indicator of geography. The Pennine Way is further west than Manchester here. 

The summit was a deep bog, as were two of the next three summits, and all of a sudden I thought I could make Dufton and a campsite with a toilet, shower and pub. Looking back Cross Fell was brooding again.

Looking forward I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore the pain of the soles of my sodden feet, standing on bog grit on my inner soles that couldn’t be knocked out. I chanted, with each step, ‘Come on old lad, keep on going, Come on old lad, keep on going’. Four hours later the Way had dropped off the last summit and dropped down steeply towards Dufton. 

I made it. 7.45pm and I did it. Ten and a half hours walking and climbing. I pitched the tent on site, cleaned myself up, ate my provisions, limped down the pub for a pint and limped back. 

Night night.