Chip Off; the Old Blockhead – Hawes to Horton

Me mate went this morning.                             

Only kidding. It was really like this.

The Bull’s Head Hotel B&B was great. The landlady said straight away that she’d give Chip a lift to the station 11 miles away. In the end her husband did and he got him to the train on time. Pull out the stopper, let’s have a whopper.

See you soon matey Chip, pal, warrior. Pushes himself to the limit. Been fighting a shitty little thing inside him for 5 years and dunt give up. Even pretends he’s an Arsenal fan for laughs. Daft get.

Breakfast was good and I hit the road at 9.30am. A lighter pack as I’d dropped a fair amount of gear at home, clothes and stuff. It was nearly 14 miles today from the Bull’s Head to my intended campsite in Horton in Ribblesdale. 

The morning light and clouds produced some great shapes and light in the sky.

I made good time up hill and the first village was Gayle with an old bridge and timber mill, being fed from the river.

And looking upstream the river was lovely.

Higher up the Way I could look back over the village of Hawes and the clearing sky being driven towards me on a northerly wind. Wensleydale. I love your cheese.

Up, up and away and a first view of Whernside to the right and the stately pile that is Ingleborough to the left. Two of the 3 Peaks.

I was heading towards another watershed on this journey. Up to the highest point of the day and the Pennine Way turned westwards and was paved, which was most unusual. In the photograph below, any rain falling to the right of the path would run down to the River Ure and make its way eastwards to the Ouse and eventual exit into the North Sea. Any rain falling to the left of the path trickles down to join the River Ribble and exits westwards into the Irish Sea and onwards to the Atlantic Ocean. 

I might put a bottle in the river with a message and my mate Will Lovell in the USA might find it, unless that stupid idiot Kim I Feel ill nukes America first. Likely to, the way that stupid idiot Donald Trump is tub thumping. They ought to have a love child. Can you imagine the haircut?

On and over the hill down into Ribblesdale the views were beautiful. Ingleborough.

The Ribblehead viaduct.

Pen y Ghent.

From South Yorkshire we don’t generally believe in the existence of a God who created everything and needs to be worshipped. However, if there is such a chap, or chapess so as not to be sexist (because the creator of the universe would take a keen interest in political correctness), he would have created Yorkshire for his own country. 

It was another slog, but this time in decent weather, and it was a pleasure. I had a reyt smile on my fizzog. And where there’s a will there’s a way.

Having dropped down off the tops the walk was fairly domestic to Horton. Up and down small hills and a few bridges and pot holes.

Lovely country.

Horton was familiar, I bought a sandwich for breakfast tomorrow and a cup of tea and egg and chips for today. Fantastic.

I pitched my tent in the village campsite, where squaddies in training and touring couples were in equal portion. Five quid. And I spoke to the old lad collecting the cash and he gave me a pint bottle of the local pale ale. God’s country.

Night night.