“It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up because by that time I was too famous.” Robert Benchley.
Having been thwarted in our annual pilgrimage by the Christmas floods, your intrepid explorers were not to be denied again. Off we went searching for gold in a glass, awake with the larks.
Although we’d managed a walk of sorts during the festivities, following the destructive path of the river to Leeds, Patch was insistent we strike out for faraway lands if only to show off yet another new gadget.
This toy would apparently tell us how far we had gone, how slow we all now were and how many miles of pain were left. Several miles of regular updates and most of us wondered if it and it’s wearer would float too.
We were following the route of our original treks – years before doddery limbs demanded a truncated expedition – to Grassington with England versus Scotland opening the Six Nations rugby the goal.
So typical of the times, our youth policy had failed again as it seems the “yoof” see little attraction in a foot slog just to get pissed. Consequently, the average age had crept up again necessitating a Veterans Section, starting out far up river.
My preparation had not gone quite to plan with thoughts of a quiet night at the Royal Oak quiz ruined by the arrival of Molly in search of a drinking companion. He had the inimitable twinkle in his eye before any away-day from the wife.
Our arrival at The Scruffy was as inevitable as my hangover would be and we duly arrived to find Smouldering Sue and the Sultry One behind the bar dispensing ales to the throng.
Several hours later, shorts on, legs freezing and a deluge forecast, I could have slept in the station and begged coffees all day as we awaited our train.
With several late drop-outs we were down to eight. Molly had forgotten his hip flasks too, though there were rumours She Who Must Be Obeyed had punctured and crushed them so he did would not be tempted to feed the newly arrived dog en route to The Scruffy.
Winky had saved the day thankfully, arriving laden down like a Mexican donkey carrying contraband. At least Molly had remembered the Sudocrem, even if he was feeling a bit let down by She Who.
“Nay, I only asked her to slide a bit on her finger and give me a covering” he said ruefully. “If I get a chapped crack she’ll be hearing about it all night!”
Patch had turned up alone not risking a speck of mud inside his SUV. As ever, he’d been followed by the locals like a swarm of bees, expectant of powdery goods being dispensed, mobile phones flashing like Christmas lights, GCHQ on high alert at the increased chatter levels.
Seeing a little fat lad clad in Berghaus climb out must have been a disappointment.
Captain Chaos had sent a text informing us he was still in bed but would be “up soon…lol!” Surely he was far too old for Morning Glory?
You could give Chaos a day to get ready and it would still not be enough and with twenty minutes till our arrival, we knew the outcome.
We alighted from the train in the wastelands of Ilkley, a border town down on it’s luck on the edge of the Great Green Republic of Austeria, neglected by the Leader for many years, his cult unheard of in these parts.
Walking down the parade of charity shops, avoiding the Armani clad beggars, we reached the municipal tennis courts and gym where everybody seemed to have a 4×4; this must be drug dealer land we thought.
As the lycra-clad locals arrived at the gym, Molly and Winky simultaneously took their first warming “medicinal” nip of the day. Predictably, there was no sign of Chaos so, in true team spirit, we abandoned him and the walk began in earnest.
Molly had brought a stick and someone suggested Big Al was bringing two this year, should he ever turn up.
“Aye, one’s white and one find’s The Scruffy automatically” offered Patch “Good job he’s meeting us up river as he’d sink in this!”
The plan was that Big Al and Counsellor Chris would meet us at Barden Bridge, eleven miles into our near nineteen mile slog. There were suggestions that, even for cripples, this was a poor effort.
By Addingham, Chaos had caught us up – panting and wheezing – sporting a pair of photochromic goggles making him look like a frogman or a paedophile depending on your take.
Gear was bulging from all parts of his rucksack but it was far too early in the day to discover his boots were porous. Still, having invested £250 in a new jacket at least he would be dry up top.
Pete the Goat had met us too at Addingham and we were now complete save for the infirm up river; destination Bolton Abbey Pavilion, we could almost smell the bacon.
In keeping with tradition we observed a stop at the Peeing Wall, albeit we had inadvertently chosen the wrong one. It seems as you get older you just cannot hold it as long as you used to. Still, it was nice to let the air circulate.
Eventually, we reached our refreshment point with no word yet from the infirm. Chaos had brought along a pair of slippers and, given the state of his boots, it looked a better bet to walk on in these.
Coffees were drained as outside the heavens began to open once again. We hiked on at a fearsome pace to the rendezvous with Big Al and the Counsellor only to find no sign of them.
It was duly noted that they would be the first in the history of our walks to actually down more pints than miles walked; we set off once again, heads shaking in unison.
Burnsall at last, passing our previous destination of Appletreewick, legs still strong. And here we found them, dry as tinder, warm as the radiators, full beers on the table.
Shorts had been a bad idea and my bottom was feeling very soiled; Molly offered the Sudocrem, a steady hand and a smooth forefinger.
Chaos’s new jacket was by now leaking faster than a sieve whilst Patch was doing squats in an effort to stop seizing up completely. Big Al downed his third pint and completed his warm-up routine by standing up.
“Can anybody carry my shoes?” he asked of six sodden and weary lads, this from a man who had walked no further than the bar at the Red Lion. I swear I was tempted, if only to see how quickly they would sink.
Finally we arrived in Grassington, delayed only by my inability to work out the rudiments of various gate latches. It was suggested that in olden times they were maybe a bit fast and loose dishing out degrees as I was demoted to the back of the pack, dunce hat firmly on.
The Foresters Arms was as good a sight as a man could wish for.
Molly went to freshen up and took so long we wondered if She Who had been lying in wait to kidnap him. Eventually he emerged from the Gents, lathered in knock-off Kouros, a bargain at two Euros a gallon, causing even the farmers to turn up noses.
We gathered like rabid dogs, chips and sandwiches for four. Hounded by their womenfolk, Big Al, Counsellor, the Goat and Patch were dining down the road with knives and forks later.
Along the way Chaos had mused whether man was still simply an animal at his most basic. As Big Al and Patch fingered our spoils we confirmed his theory in an instant, teeth bared like wolves.
One of the many beauties of this walk – and most probably why we have yet to embrace women save for shamelessly begging lifts home and drunken sex later – is the wide range of conversational topics covered along the way.
This trip did not disappoint as subjects ranged from evolution, immigration, referendums and how hairy Princess Anne’s tush was.
“Personally, I’ve always fancied the Queen” confessed Chaos albeit half-conscious, slipping away gently, feet now soothed by his faux-fur moccasins.
As some contemplated soothing bubble baths, we readied for home knowing the best on offer for others was a rub-down with a cold flannel in the cellar at The Scruffy from Our Jackie.
Mo from Albion Taxis had come to rescue the four of us noble to observe the true traditions of team trips whilst the Gang of Four sloped off to the comports of a poncey pub down the street.
Another truly wonderful day.
“Surprisingly the body ok..clearly 12 pints has recuperative powers like no other…”
M Molyneux 7/2/16
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