Walking in a Winter Wonderland
Every year a few of us make a pilgrimage following the River Wharfe from the start of the Dalesway route in Ilkley to our eventual destination up stream. There is no science in that this is governed by the desire to consume as much ale as possible before we are rescued and returned to captivity, burping and stinking after a six hour foot slog.
This year we decided to enter the festive spirit and make a Yuletide walk avoiding Grassington and targeting Burnsall and then nearby Appletreewick for a slightly truncated boot march as a mark of respect to Father Time.
It has not always been entirely on foot as on our very first expedition, within sight of Grassington and the comforts of The Ancient Forresters, one of us came to grief at the stepping stones at Linton.
Go Outdoors Customer of the Year 2011 – Patch – was unable to negotiate the stones without feeling the need to test the icy waters. His non-slip shoes were clearly unsuited to ice and the trip was almost aborted due to a fatality through hypothermia.
Patch is the trip’s spiritual leader largely because he has mortgaged the house to feed his obsession with Go Outdoors treating the missus and child to regular weekend outings to the local store at Pudsey.
He will seek out the latest gadget designed to ensure he can safely negotiate the weekend walk thorough Thackley woods with the dog. whilst for the rest of us there is simply no need to consider new equipment each year as Patch has enough to kit out an Everest expedition. Suggestions he enquire as to a snorkel and flippers after his first dip in the Wharfe fell on deaf ears.
And if you really are short of new gear then if Patch cannot satisfy you with his cast-offs a good tip is to walk behind JB – otherwise known as Captain Chaos – who will shed gear like a snake sheds it’s skin skin. A more disorganised man you could never meet.
Calling Captain Chaos
Our very first trip many years ago was used by Chaos as a training run for a trip up Mt Kilimanjaro although what relevance a gentle stroll in aid of a piss up had for attacking altitude few of us knew.
So as I turned up that morning resplendent in my shorts, oblivious to the white-out conditions and the frozen tundra ahead, there he was dressed like a modern day Shackleton complete with fancy sticks, anti-snow blindness goggles and a rucksack so big I could have curled up in it.
Within a few miles it was obvious that these sticks would be superfluous as he kept losing them which was amazing in itself as they were strapped to his arms; there he would go jogging back past us to see where he had dropped them last. In part these mishaps were probably the result of a need to stop every half hour for a convenient tree although this year he did claim the prostrate tablets were working well.
As ever we met at Shipley Station ahead of bacon butties and coffee at Chaos’s new business venture, a B&B sure to become Ilkley’s version of Fawlty Towers unless Chaos’s partner can lock him in the cellar when guests are about. Before we had even left the house he had already lost his fleece so the portents were not good.
At the station we had been greeted by the sight of Big Al who had been on the lash for a marathon 12 hour stint the previous day. Claiming it was Mad Friday, most of us knew this was just the usual early Friday bunk off work and one that Bradford’s city centre licensees depended on for their weekly existence.
Never one for sartorial elegance it is fair to say that Big Al looked closer to death than normal, his grey pallor blending seamlessly with his slate grey cropped hair. Several internal eruptions were going on as his body attempted to fight back and it was touch and go whether he would be let on the train.
Eighteen stones of pure physical wreckage was about to suffer even more torture in the daily pursuit of a pint.
Who Shot Molly?
The rest of the party were the usual motley mix of lads who would suffer anything for a day away from the wife and Christmas shopping. Molly had put in some serious training the week before, convincing the never-fooled-easily Carol that he really was shopping for that something special for her whilst sat in the local, taking in a few cheeky ones.
Of the remaining three on the trip it is fair to say these guys were the Quiet Men. Pete, a gangly former midfield football partner of mine who walks like he played football…in silence. Nicknamed the Mountain Goat he moved effortlessly through the countryside as if stalking a larger prey which, as Big Al led from the start could have been him.
Nigel – another taxman- absorbed everything with many a knowing glance whilst Chris, who works with people who have fallen from grace clearly viewed observing Big Al for a few hours as a useful case study.
It was a crisp, beautiful morning as we set off with Big Al haring out of the traps like a man who suspected they may run out of beer in Appletreewick should he not break the record time for a fat lad to walk there from Ilkley. Off we went in pursuit with the Goat barely kissing the earth and JB, all dangling gear like a Wild West horse, clanking furiously.
Soon off came JB’s hat to mop a perspiring brow and off went the sunglasses in the opposite direction. We let him walk half a mile before letting him know he needed to back track.
We had the first pit-stop in view as we approached Bolton Abbey with Molly alongside me waxing lyrically about another cricket season of endless attempts at giving Carol the slip when, as if shot by a high powered rifle, down he went like a felled beast.
The big man’s legs flew from under him but in a flash up he bounced, covered in mud, frantically rearranging his Specsaver designer glasses and after a mandatory count of eight from the lads he was marching again.
Follow Baloo
Soon we were at the café at Bolton Abbey tucking into cakes and coffee. Off again through the woods with tale after tale flowing largely through Molly, the font of everything you always knew you never needed to know.
Big Al had a furious wiggle on up ahead, so much that all I could hear was the theme to the Jungle Book in my head with a mental picture of Baloo the bear…”to the left, right, left, right…”
Because there was a fair at Grassington we had chosen to stop at The Red Lion at Burnsall before doubling back to Appletreewick after careful research by Molly during the week. It was as good an excuse as the fat lads could come up with to get to the pub earlier.
Unfortunately, at least for the bride and groom concerned, we stumbled upon a very nice wedding which was probably the last thing they had envisaged particularly as it was one of the lads from rivals Colton CC. Eight smelly, muddy lads at your wedding…nice.
By this time we were starving and Nigel, again taking it all in – see all, hear all, say now’t – noticed an elderly couple getting up to leave but having left almost two full plates of chips. Still with some latent warmth and noticing these were £3 a plate it did not take long to convince even the Goat who had been initially dismissive to tuck in for a graze.
Off we went again back across the fields in pursuit of Baloo who, having slipped a couple down, now had the twin aim of a comfy seat and getting rid of those walking boots and socks.
We arrived at the magnificent Craven Arms at Appletreewick with darkness descending faster than the effects of Molly’s flask firing through my bones having finally relented and agreed to have a “wee nip”.
Baloo was warming his feet by the open fire as we landed and it did not take long for eight noisy and hungry lads to upset the calm rural rhythm and convince the foursome hogging the table we really needed to up sticks and off.
Big Al’s Burning Pyre
The food was marvellous, the ale more welcome than a coach load of Swedish masseurs and the company superb. Soon we would be rescued and returned by various faithful wives content too that they had had an unfettered afternoon of Christmas excess even if Paula and Catherine managed to make Bradford to Appletreewick longer and more complex than the Paris to Dakar.
In a final twist to the night it remained for Patch to toast the success of the trip and what better than to toast the winner, Baloo, by toasting his socks on the open fire.
This was a bit of a shocker for Patch not known for splashing the cash and yet forced to visit Go Outdoors once more and shell out a tenner for a new pair of socks for Baloo.
Soon we were back in the Scruffy and thinking of the next expedition as there are few better ways of spending a Saturday after the working week…if you get my drift?
Patch says
The great sock debate continues. As you know steve I don’t like shelling out even if does mean a trip to the holy land that is go outdoors, but a little birdie told me who alerted al to his thermal socks. What goes around comes around !!!!!