“Fancy a walk at the weekend?” said my mate Squire Patch lover of all things rural and ever keen to get outdoors to try his latest purchase from Go Outdoors having seemingly taken on the task as saviour of the UK Retail sector. I had to admit that having spent last Saturday entirely in my stay indoors PJs then this seemed a much healthier option especially as an instant cure for the Saturday hangover. My new Friday tactic of out early, back early was only working one way at the moment due largely to my indiscipline and weakness for the ale at the Royal Oak so this seemed a good idea. Also I had recently bought a new piece of survival kit myself as a result of my new addiction – to the TK Max cookware section – and so was keen to get out there just so I could use my new…flask. And so we agreed that he would pick me up around half nine Saturday morning with his yappy, curly-haired mutt – curiously named Oscar – but minus the much noisier wife and child presumably because the dog got first choice on the cage in the boot.
The route was a six and a half mile circular trek starting and ending in Gargrave just outside of Skipton and taking in part of the Pennine Way plus the beautiful village of East Marton. Far from the maddening urban mass of our Bradford ghetto this had promise of a civilised day in the country. It was described by the guide we had as “easy” which I knew spelt trouble from the outset. Most maps I have ever seen have clearly been written by somebody who has either never been anywhere near where they are describing or is simply a sadistic, lying bastard. I take further comfort in this assertion from my knowledge of the only Geography graduate I know in the form of my mate Rick who, having graduated, promptly chose accountancy as a career clearly reasoning that drawing maps for a living would not keep the future Mrs Lawrence in splendour. Assuming this approach is taken nationally it means that the only people left employed to write maps and guides are those that failed Art or still believe Geography is a proper subject.
Now Patch may be the only bloke I know that gets positively orgasmic when Go Outdoors has a sale – which is only slightly less often than DFS – but after Saturday I need to send him back for one of those GPS satellite things. True, as it became clear less than a mile from Gargrave that we were lost already, neither I nor the accompanying Cath – the third member of our expedition – were any great help as we were lost halfway up a windswept and muddy hill. I had rapidly reached the conclusion that whatever may be in my flask was not going to compensate for the inadequacies of my go faster legs left unprotected to the go faster wind and rain. The shorts were not a good choice for mid January. As for my pack-a-mack-in-a-bag well I would have got more shelter from that fancy coat that Patch’s hound was sporting. Cath had brought her dog along too which was a psychotic black Labrador intent on carrying half a tree the entire route when it was not trying to swim the Leeds-Liverpool canal as well. A troubled hound that one. Pertinently I observed that other than three daft people and two deranged dogs there was no other sign of life around – clearly even the cows thought it was a day to hunker down.
Although we were lost and now simply walking around in circles, I should have offered more to the debate as to where next. I did once go on an outward bound course organised by my boss at Barclays at the time as an exercise in what they loved to refer to as “team building” which seemed at odds with the reality of life which meant we all actually worked from home and saw each other once a year at Christmas. We all knew that these regular bonding sessions were simply a management tactic aimed at a few days away from wife and kids on the piss funded by Barclays. Given that for this one we all had to drive to the middle of nowhere from all parts of the North we must have created a bigger carbon footprint than a Jumbo jet that day as a dozen or so cars hurtled cross country for the piss up…sorry team building exercise. When we got there we gathered in a car park and were given maps and compasses which were “vital” for the day ahead although not if you stuck the compass in your pocket, tucked the map down your arse, stuck on the iPod and fell in at the back of the crowd.
Sensing I was less than delighted at a day imitating a mountain goat one of the tutors decided to latch on to me probably to make sure I did not double back to the B&B and start the piss up early. He was a really nice guy who had simply latched on to a very profitable wheeze of selling “team building” days to corporates awash with cash and devoid of ideas to train their own people probably reasoning as well that if the odd one fell off a mountain top it would be cheaper than redundancy. I had no axe to grind with him and confessed that I actually liked the Bear Grylls guy even if I had no intention of being dropped in the middle of the jungle to live off spiders and eat my own poo just to get on television. Similarly a days map reading was going to be bugger all use to a man like me content with looking at mountains rather than yomping up them. Still he persisted even when it came to my appointed turn as expedition leader.
This was intended to demonstrate what you had learnt in the morning session poring over the gigantic maps which after half an hour of me leading the team was clearly sod all. Having marched them down the wrong hill seeking the direct route to goal – the pub – and forcing them to endure a near vertical slog back up it control was taken away from me lest we really did need to call out the RAF Rescue Team. Next time Boss Man wanted a day out he better choose more carefully as he huffed and puffed, red-faced, heaving his sixteen stone back up the hill cursing yours truly although too far away to see the broad grin spreading across my face or hear “The Grand Old Duke of York”. And so when I go on walks it’s generally a simple affair with a known start and finish and no need for any recognition of squiggly bits on a map – that’s what canals are for. Not that we had many to follow on the “easy” guide and so there we were stuck in a field half way up a mud-soaked hill with two deranged dogs for company. Maybe I should have stayed in the PJs?
Eventually, with my Go Outdoors waterproof walking shoes not quite living up to their claims we squelched back to the saving form of the Leeds-Liverpool canal. By this time the weather had whipped up and the canal actually had a vibrant surf on it – I could almost picture Bear Grylls parachuting down, getting out his knife, cutting down a tree and making a boat all in under three minutes to get us back into Bradford in a flash spearing fish for supper as we glided from lock to lock. By this time Patch had me seriously worried as not for the first time he was debating how to wash Oscar when he got back which as far as I was concerned could be done at the local jet wash for 50p. A call to the wife enquiring what bubble bath (for a mutt?) must have left her confused too but worse was to follow as, having reached Gargrave and with pub awaiting, we had to wait till he towelled lucky old Oscar in places I would not want towelling myself by Patch. The smile across the mutts face convinced me I needed that pint soon. Salvation came in the form of the Mason’s Arms in Gargrave even if the pub itself seemed to be holding a designer dog competition. It’s been six years since my cat,Gladstone, passed and above all the day convinced me that I am indeed a pussy and not a doggy man. Time for a new rodent destroyer and no future career in outward bound leadership for me. Next Saturday its PJ day again.
Patch says
You loved every minute. When you lifted out your t k max flask and it was twice the size of mine, the smile on your face was one to behold. See you for the next walk wainwright.