A depleted crew assembled for the traditional Christmas walk to be rewarded by the odd beer. The route was the original 17.5 miles between Grassington and Ilkley, only this time we would be walking home, not reliant on a taxi finding several drunk blokes in the Dales on a Saturday night.
Advancing years and weakening bladders were also a factor. If only we’d remembered how much younger we all were when we first made this trip?
The day after Boris the Blusterer’s landslide, in rolled a train probably older than Blusterer and certainly one he has never ridden in his life. The Skipton line might have to wait a while for HS2.
After years of cajoling we welcomed Rick, newly retired and keen for new challenges. The train rumbled on through newly Tory Keighley and out into the Dales where the rain soaked sheep clearly could not give a stuff who had won.
Keeley had sold us down the river according to Leapy; today was going to be very wet. Clutching our Dales Rambler tickets – £12 each – unless a senior citizen for which Leapy claimed a £4 discount – we boarded the No 72 bus to Grassington.
A frail old lady, her treat for the day disrupted, looked quizzical at Marsy in his shorts as dad Lynton could only offer a meek apology of sorts.
Winky had brought sweets for the trip and so we sucked on boiled treats as the old lady pulled down her headscarf and prayed we were not highjackers, eyeing our backpacks suspiciously.
After taking a picture, on clambering back to my seat I inadvertently pushed the STOP button. In the middle of nowhere the bus duly stopped, not even a sheep around; I offered my ashen faced apologies to the driver as the old lady clutched her bag ever tighter.
Eventually we all got off in Grassington as the bus rested its engines, the first of the daily four trips done, as we tuned our own engines up for the long march back. The weather was foul and was set to remain so all the way back
We set off at a rapid pace free of the shackles of associated cripples like Big Al, Molly and Patch, who were absentees this year; the river was raging, who would want a waterside property these days?
There was time for a quick break by Big Al’s Bridge, where only a few years ago he had begged us to leave him after covering his body.
By the time we reached the Devonshire Pavilion Rick, still unable to shake off audit mode, confirmed that our average speed was 3.2 mph, some going across hard terrain.
Winky peeled his faithful boil in a bag jacket off, confident that the stone he was seeking to shed would be gone just in time for a gallon of ale later.
For an all too brief moment we relaxed and refueled.
As it had been several years since we had actually completed the full route, and not at this time of year, we were off again, unsure of remaining daylight hours.
Rick had been advised by cricket club stats man, Brent, that the route was 15 miles. Soon it became clear this was somewhat off the mark.
Bodies were beginning to protest, especially tour veteran Lynton, who was dreaming of a hot Radox and a warming red, many miles down the valley, which was now looking darker by the minute.
Finally we reached The Flying Duck in Ilkley, none of us remotely flying by this time. These few hours each time we walk are the most treasured as conversation flows almost in grateful floods that we have made it again.
As ever, Leapy was holding court with more entertaining views on life.
“I reckon I’ve got ten good years left!” he announced “And I’m not going to waste a day. If anything goes first its going to be the heart…well…apart from the hair! That’s already gone.”
All barring the token youngster, Marsy, could understand the sentiment, it’s later than you think, as the the song goes. The Duck was brimming with punters, the beers on fine form, the train could wait.
Gradually though we knew we had to get back as Lynton called ahead for the fluffy towels and a glass of Rioja by the bath. Soon the remaining four of us headed for the train and what a contrast as we boarded a shiny new Northern Rail carriage. My Blusterer was working fast!
Leapy was deliberating between curry and more beers; you all know the outcome and, as the train arrived in Shipley he opted for the broad church of The Scruffy, in the opposite direction of home.
Rick, not as keen on matching miles walked with pints sunk, bid a fond farewell with a promise to drop in on Brent on the way home and offer him a piece of his mind.
The three of us that remained sat and reflected on a hugely enjoyable day despite what Mother Nature had thrown at us. Finally, Leapy gave in to the seductive lure of a Chicken Madras and Winky sent out the annual distress call to his eldest to come rescue him.
As if unable to accept that the day was over I found myself in the company of two comely wenches at the bar…and ordered one for the road.
To the next time.
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