I could barely believe it was only a year since we’d survived a week walking the Dalesway, four of us exiting one last forest to witness the jaw-dropping beauty of Lake Windermere shimmering in the early evening sun.
Smelly, tired and suffering borderline alcohol abuse, we had made it after eighty-odd miles of torment. Not exactly one of the great marches of history I will grant you but, no sooner had we finished, the next trip was being planned.
So here we are again with more tales of another modest journey into some of the most beautiful country around – The Herriot Way – but, conscious that not all of you are familiar with “the cast”, here goes.
Our inspiration, as ever, came on one of the ritual Sunday nights at our beloved pub The Scruffy (posh name The White Bear for those sensitive types).
Sunday Prayers, like most churches, had seen the congregation ebb and flow over several decades. Indeed, there was a time only recently when Big Al and I remained the last of an endangered flock.
The big man had started drinking in our beloved spiritual home as far back as the 1970s, coinciding with decimilisation if you believe him, although it would be the late 1980s before I was “baptised”, courtesy of Reverend Billy.
This is our pub and we love it.
Now there is little that Big Al would turn down if a pint was the end result though physical exercise and him ended their uneasy relationship a couple of decades ago.
After last year’s total lack of preparation, this year he went to Mexico for eight days “conditioning” under the watchful eye of long suffering Luckless Linda, returning only days before we set off, liver riddled by tequila.
Word had it that he was “injured” though how much more incapacitated a man could be beggars belief.
Our tour organiser – GPS Patch – is a local entrepreneur, a self-made billionaire in the making, The Scruffy’s Donald Trump. A man of the great outdoors, now so addicted to golf he sees more of Big Al than his wife.
The final member who crossed the line last year is a man who I first met in the early 1990s and who changed my destiny forever.
I entered the 1990s with a new house, new job and a new sense of purpose having sampled my first four years of unassisted living, albeit I still took my washing home to my Mum – some ties are hard to break.
Leapy had returned to Bradford from Darlington, one marriage down and, as fortune would have it, into a property just several doors down from me, a few up from the White Bear and barely a spit from Big Al, also newly moved in.
It was the classic Bermuda Triangle and for most of the decade we partied like deranged teenagers, oblivious to the fact that we would never again qualify for an 18-30s holiday and were closer to a free Parker Pen.
There was a classic post-party Sunday morning that summed up this period. A knock at my door summoned me in a hazy state in my tattered stripey dressing gown to meet a guy selling aerial shots of the local area.
I was in danger of throwing up over him so I easily fell for “it’s the last one” and he left palm filled.
Down the road he met Leapy and could not help but ask him “is everybody pissed around here…anyway…it’s the last one” to which Leapy duly crossed his palm too.
Unbelievably we both held down decent, sensible jobs throughout constant periods of change; strangely we remained unaffected, indeed, Leapy’s star seemed to fly higher each corporate “refresh”.
It was a period where I might have contemplated a normal existence – kids, mortgage, wife, misery etc – but somehow it flashed by in a blur.
We partied, laughed and generally displayed single-figure IQs we were happy to hide from our employers until thankfully he met Stephanie who, thankfully again, saw no benefit in our continued association.
Perhaps it did not help that his new wife and I struggled for mutual affection and so, like a spirit in the night he was whisked away for good.
As equally unsentimental types we saw the value in this cross-roads; a quickie divorce was sealed, my work done, the terms of our divorce access to each other one week a year.
Also welcomed back is Whispering Chris who had to leave last year’s trip after only one night suffering the snoring of Big Al and GPS in a dormitory that might have been okay for six chickens not six tired blokes.
One shot of Big Al’s bare arse entering the adjoining bathroom simply flipped Whispering off the edge of his bunk and back home.
Whispering is a manager at St George’s Crypt in Leeds who work with people like you and me only not like you and me if you get my drift. Volunteering there once I was struck by how fickle life can be and how many of us have no idea how lucky we are – take a look here if you can help in any way.
Finally, our tour virgin is Uncle “Did I tell you I was once in the fire brigade?” Andy, our very own Uncle Albert and the same shape to boot.
He has been almost sky-high – “higher than an extended ladder mate!” since signing up for this circular route that allows us to add-on a finish at the marvellous George Inn at Hubberholme and it’s wonderful host Ed.
Although not part of the official route, it seemed too good an opportunity.
“…The George Inn has for the third year running been recognised at the British Pie Awards- this year scooping bronze for our Homity Pie – announced Saturday 10th March 2018.”
In deference to girl power, the hen-pecked GPS had deemed that we were to meet the day before we began our march; we would be having a team bonding meeting and a huddle as well.
Lunch was taken at the Aysgarth Falls and then, would you believe it, accommodation we could only dream of last year. Fluffy towels, big beds, even make up remover; I won the toss for the double bed too over a gutted Leapy.
Colman’s of Aysgarth is a great place to stay. It’s early afternoon and Big Al has sniffed beer; with not a step walked on the first day unless you include to the bar there could be trouble ahead…
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