We landed at The Kings Arms, Reeth, in a combined state of injured, infirm and borderline suicidal. The longest day by far and, if there were wavering hearts over the following day, the sight of the local bus parked across from us was provocative.
Whispering knew he had to walk largely because he could not sit down, despite a jumbo tub of Sudocrem. Uncle Andy, so close to the edge, had been buoyed beyond belief by the sight of a little red fire engine. Two knees, one knee or none, he would make it.
Meanwhile, Big Al could barely raise a smile as a pint caressed his dehydrated lips and flies circled his three day old socks.
The rooms were more than adequate and, for the first time on the trip, Leapy and I were afforded a bath. I left him to it but, Bradford lad as he is, he came out and said “your turn…water’s still warm and I only let a trickle escape…it’s my age!”
I left him to the Currys website as I made my way in search of Domestos. Later it was burger night and nobody was in the mood to refuse.
Our final day of The Herriot Way had a nice touch; it was GPS’s birthday and all of us hoped he’d be getting a new gadget assuming Amazon knew where to find this place.
Morning came after a sleepless night disturbed by what I can only compare to a low level pneumatic drill coming from the adjoining bed. Outside it looked calm and, thankfully, dry again.
We set off later than usual, perhaps a sign of things to come. Whispering was humming “Ring Of Fire” as the bus vanished down the hill; for a minute I was convinced that Big Al was driving it.
GPS had tried to comfort us with the suggestion that, compared with the 700m we’d climbed yesterday, 500m would be a breeze. As usual he was talking bollocks and we’d climbed our allotted amount within the first two hours.
We met some civil engineering students halfway to the moon seemingly; they seemed bemused that reasonably sane people would elect to consider this a holiday of sorts.
Uncle Andy had invested in a second stick and was now in motion up the hill – click-clack, click-clack – as those little chunky legs pumped away.
His head was firmly down, face fixed in determination. There was a mention of a cake shop en route and, as it turned out, there was…many, many miles in the distance.
Now if you are a fan of Bright Eyes, look away now. As we descended with Uncle Andy’s knees screaming at every downward step, we came across people again. They were rabbit hunters and were just packing up after a disappointing day.
“We normally get 250 but today’s been poor” remarked one as he wiped his chin with a blood smeared hand. We were fascinated – well it was an excuse to stop – and engaged them duly.
None of us had a clue how they had trapped so many until Freddie the Ferret was offered to us.
Later down the road we passed the guys leaving and it was good to see that handling Freddie did not put off his handler’s appetite for his bread and dripping.
Big Al asked if he could cadge a lift and they were generous seeing a fellow man’s struggles.
“Aye lad that’s fine” said one “as long as you can slide in the back with those rabbits!” The big man wandered off resigned to his fate, humming Road To Nowhere.
Rumours began to circulate that there really was a cake shop but by now we would have believed anything. Every time we turned a corner there seemed to be another hill.
And then we saw the majestic sight of Bolton Castle: I could have wept. Inside the local WI were having a piss-up but they seemed unconcerned at the arrival of six stinking men.
The scone was full bodied and the tea hit the mark in a flash. What a marvellous place to come visit if you ever venture to these parts.
Like a bloody chain gang we were off again, humming slave songs to Uncle Andy’s sticks, Big Al wiggling like Baloo from The Jungle Book and Leapy with his trademark flat-cap striding out in front like the Master. Still, smug as he was he’d still not sorted the washing machine out.
Down the hill we went, every signpost written by a downright liar until we could hear the power of the majestic Aysgarth Falls.
A setting for the classic Kevin Costner Robin Hood film and, equally, Big Al confessing he could not move another yard and could somebody heave his body over the railings?
We’d made it though – well apart from another mile – and what a four days we’ve had.
Tonight is GPS’s birthday and, with one more trek planned tomorrow, just how many make the starting line who knows.
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