Dark clouds hovered over the grey drabness of Shipley station as ten not so wise men amassed to begin the annual pilgrimage to Appletreewick in search of fine ales, hearty conversation and sumptuous food.
Another day on the piss…what festive joy…oh come all ye faithful!
Big Al, not known for his motivational prowess, appeared grumpier than usual but perhaps was fearful that this was the first big test of his new hips and would lead him into the unknown that not even his long-time companion – beer – could compensate.
He hobbled about on his stick, wondering if such a human sacrifice was worth a day on the lash.
In preparation he confessed he had given up sex for the last few weeks but would resume tomorrow with Lucky Linda “…if there’s anything left I’ll roll her over and give it a go…” he offered in truly heroic mode.
We winced in unison at the thought as the Ilkley train came around the corner.
Our annual walk allows us a rare glimpse of Doc Lee, freed from captivity in Eldwick for half a day a year, let loose to regale us with more wondrous tales. We gather around like disciples to a prophet and cling to every word, every winking eye, every waft of that knowing finger.
The mood on the train had been contemplative, almost sombre. Young Marsy had succumbed to the charms of the doe-eyed Emma at the Bear the previous night and was obviously still under her spell, sat there contemplating white weddings and a brood.
Patch looked nervous and apprehensive but then Mrs Patch had been cut loose with the credit card at the White Rose Centre; he knew he would have to work until he was ninety to fund her lavish spending on Bradford Bulls shirts and tattoo parlours.
Tour organiser Molly had come dressed looking like the Black Panther, presumably having shinned down the drainpipe in darkness to escape the long suffering Carol.
With a dozen hip flasks carefully sown into the lining of his puffer jacket it would be a very long day.
Breakfast was being generously provided by Dales View Cottage with Sally doing a very passable impression of Sybil to JB’s Manuel. In keeping with tradition, JB had forgotten we were coming although he knew he was going out for the day as Sally had dressed him in walking gear and a bathing cap.
With ten hungry men arriving it was time for the most disorganised man on the planet to find some bacon and see if he could remember to tie his shoelaces.
Sally, stoical as ever, consoled herself that soon JB would be our problem and not hers for a few hours; peace would be restored: soon we were off to the starting point of the Dalesway and the point of no return.
Desperate to recoup some of his wife’s excesses, Patch had accepted a minimum wage contract to be Big Al’s carer for the day; soon we could only see two fading figures in the distance as Molly set a rapid early pace, worried Carol may have discovered his absence by now.
A brisk two hours later and the first stop of the day with glorious cakes on offer at The Pavilion although Patch had brought his own packed lunch in another vain cost cutting exercise knowing Mrs P would be on the oysters by now in Leeds.
JB had spent the walk so far intently discussing IT with Young Mossy; the old boy had found his protégé and seemed to be lining up a bid for a seat on the board of Mossy’s empire. Next year, my son, we will be millionaires.
Despite constant probing from dad Lynton, Marsy was offering no clues as to any progress with the beautiful Emma and his fledgling romance. I did offer my input but this was strangely rejected; flounder if you must I mused.
Soon we were flying again with Molly at the front accompanied by his little Jack Russell – Winky – who was stuck on the big man’s shoulder. Youngsters on a festive treasure trail were bounced off the path as Molly cleared all before him with not a backward glance.
Patch the carer had suggested at the Pavilion that Big Al was in need of some TLC although Silent Pete – speaking for the first time since buying his rail ticket – suggested KFC would be better.
On the Big Man wobbled, cheeks ever redder and language slowly delving the gutter.
“I’m ****ed” he wheezed and pleaded for one of us to shoot him.
By now his carer was also suffering from what he termed as “trapped knacker syndrome“. Although Patch was again voted Go Outdoors Most Valued Customer 2013, there is little evidence that he actually ever goes outdoors.
Like a woman hooked on buying shoes, the new Patchett house came complete with a Berghaus wardrobe. Now he was having to stop more frequently than Big Al to adjust his troubled tackle and prevent it swelling like a Christmas pudding.
On we marched with the first taste of our prize almost wafting down the valley, the lights of Burnsall winking at us seductively in the distance like a forbidden love.
Time to say goodbye as Big Al climbed one last hill, Patch pushing at his gargantuan rear, stick whipping the rotund little carer into one final effort.
Here the big man and his serf left us to save the final three miles of slog and stake a claim to seats in our final resting place; on the rest of us trudged to the bright lights in the valley ahead.
The Red Lion at Burnsall is a fine pub and nine weary lads parked aching legs for a brief respite and some wondrous Hetton Ales.
Conversation flowed like the beer as Mossy made a convincing case for Idle’s next UKIP Councillor whilst Marsy thought how wonderful it would be to have dinner with the delightful Emma here.
On we pushed up one final hill, barely two miles to the Craven Arms now; and there it was…barely 3.30pm and we were back again…time for the beers to flow and weary limbs to rest.
Although nobody ends up sober on this wonderful trip, casting down pint five at barely 5p.m. suggested this was going to be messy.
The menu was as appetising as ever; Molly our Michelin accredited taster opted once again for Denholme Pigeon (partridge) as others enjoyed the variety on offer.
The girls would join us soon although in Sally’s case not so soon as JB had somehow told her we were eating in Grassington, some five miles up the road. The woman does, indeed, have the patience of a saint.
Soon it was time to go and we said our farewells for another year to Doc and wife number eight. Wives had arrived to collect those worth collecting and Big Al was poured into Linda’s boot as she had heard the rumoured threat of sex and he would stay there till Monday.
Six of us that remained hoped that the Idleways’ six-seater would eventually turn up and that Carol would not be driving it as a revenge attack.
Molly became excitable at the prospect of a triumphant return to the Bear and Our Jackie behind the bar, a woman he described as “capable of biting it off without her teeth in“. We had to point out that we had been to the Dales not the South Pole.
Our charabanc had arrived and the locals heard our grateful native cry – “Inshallah!” – as we climbed into the cab. Soon the air was filled with noxious smells and windows began to steam.
Eyes moistened as we all realised that soon we would be home and it would be another year before we would enjoy this day again. Meanwhile Molly’s clothes were on the back garden and the locks had been changed; maybe Our Jackie would get her man after all.
Soon we will all return to our fast paced lives (steady on…Ed) and this wonderful period of the year will become a distant memory. Livers will repair themselves, bruised knackers will heal but friendships will always prosper.
A marvellous day boys…to the next one…and no Molly, you cant have my spare room.
Patch says
Another great piece willy. It does concern me that as an early retired banker you can’t actually count. 10 set off you say. Big Al and I turn right at appletreewick and there’s 9 supping at burnsall. You do the maths