Colden to Marsden – business end of the season

A good night sleep in Che’s tent whilst her and the dog slept in her converted British Gas van. 

The hills looked good in the morning mist.

 She took me back to Colden, via breakfast at the Shay Cafe in Halifax. 18 miles today walking back to the campsite, then I’ll pick up my rucksack for the first time in a few days on tomorrow’s walk. 

Che dropped me off and I was on my way on a sunny day. She left her teeth out and wig off but she still looked ok.

Dropping down to the first stream was an ancient bridge of which I have not seen the like before. A long stone slab. It must weigh a few tons.

Over the next hill the Way dropped down into the Calder valley and the monument of Stoodley Pike pierced the horizon. Celebrating for eternity the victory over Napoleon, although it fell down once and had to be rebuilt. And building was suspended after he escaped from Elba,until he met his Waterloo at … well Waterloo actually. 

Physically I feel pretty good but my feet, right foot in particular,  hurt real bad on occasions, mostly late afternoon.

Today all was ok for a good while. Climbing up towards Stoodley Pike the view northwestwards over Todmorden was bootiful. So let’s talk turkey. It was booootiful.

The monument was impressive and hang gliders flitted over it like birds of prey coasting the thermals.

Here the Way turns southward and follows a ridge looking west towards Manchester, Liverpool and the Irish Sea, sadly out of range in the haze. At one point it cuts uphill eastwards along an old packhorse track with a 600 year old waymark stone marking the way. Well, course it does. If it was a skidmark stone it would mark the skid. It does what it says on the tin. Marks the way. 

The Way rises up Blackstone edge, with it’s vantage over the northwest of England and, in the eye-screwing distance, north Wales. God bless Great Britain. 

Then the route crosses the main east to west motorway, the M62, incongruous in this moorland. At least the PW gets its own footbridge. 

And on to Saddleworth Moor, forever haunted by the buried bodies of the children murdered by Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, may they both burn eternally with a red hot poker stuck up their jacksies. Sub-human. And on a day like today the sun must lighten the pain of those lying beneath its peat and heather. Some warmth penetrating the gloom. Manchester down in the distance, congratulating itself on its status as the cradle of civilisation. Pat yourselves on the back boys and girls and then peep over the hills with envy at the beauty of Sheffield and the new music outstripping your dried up Stone Oasis.

Eventually (again) my campsite arrived at my feet and an early night in the tent that Che built.

Night night.