Imagine my shock when my long-lost twin brother turned up in Hawes the favourite old shellsuit of mine that I knew he’d nicked thirty years ago?
And here’s the truthful bit; yet another Bradford exile! How many more are dotted down this valley who knows?
He’d left many moons ago so was unable to comment on the current state of affairs, then again he was unable to comment on much else.
Big Al could see a kindred spirit so generously bought him a beer with GPS’s money. Uncle Andy had vanished for a siesta, his little hairy legs in need of a rub.
We assembled again for dinner. Big Al was last down and in such a confused state that we tried to fob him off as “special needs”, claiming we were his carers.
When he enquired of the menu: ” What’s a 100Z steak?” the case was made for us.
Our culinary requirements were living proof that diversity works with the portly GPS advising “don’t waste salad on me!” whilst Uncle Andy chose the children’s chicken nuggets.
The Fountain was okay but the rooms were a bit chilly so much so that Whispering had showered in his undies whilst me and Leapy had spooned for a mid afternoon siesta.
Talk turned to our respective choice of toiletries prompted by Leapy claiming a toothbrush, paste and deodorant: I admitted to Nivea’s sensitive range whilst Big Al had come with a pack of wet wipes.
The food was good pub grub so, with full bellies we found the bar again only for Uncle Andy’s ex-boss – another ladder climber – to be here in exile from Bradford too.
It was far too much for the tour virgin who retired to bed early, clearly stressed about the miles ahead. Eventually we all drifted off leaving Big Al alone with two young London couples, to revere them with tales.
“That would have reinforced a few ingrained stereotypes within the M25” remarked Leapy rather drily over breakfast.
Morning had broken but the contrast between last Monday – a sunrise in Kefalonia – and the chill of Northern England could not have been more stark.
Nor had I heard anything like what had emanated from Leapy’s bed; it had taken decades but now I truly felt for Stephanie. Breakfast was taken in a quiet hush as a day of reckoning lay ahead.
As we amassed outside The Fountain it appeared the gadget was on a go-slow which sort of mirrored our reluctant start to the day. It was heads down and best foot forward as we began a slow crawl up Great Shunner Fell.
Whilst I would like to say that I took in the beauty of Wensleydale, the reality was I saw more of Leapy’s arse as we both took turns to trudge forwards.
On the way we met Hans the Hiker who was dressed for a summer stroll.
He looked at us in a confused way, sleeves rolled up, all purpose and intent. We asked him to take a picture but he gave us a look that could only be translated as “You’ve done bugger all lads!”
Another good reason for Brexit I thought.
At the summit Hans was doing some press-ups and sit-ups as we joined the rest of what appeared to be a drop-in centre for people with nothing better to do than climb a hill.
Big Al finally arrived wheezing like a steam train and offered his usual greeting to the crowds.
“F*** me!” he gasped which we tried to explain to Hans meant “Jolly nice day!”
A few buzzards were already circling him envisaging a winter food store like no other. Sadly GPS had an internal issue to deal with.
Whispering offered those soothing words.
“Get your trousers down then.” In the end the size of the digit on offer prompted some self-service.
The route down was pure torture. It was as if the next stop – a cake shop in Thwaite – kept moving further away as we scrambled down a never-ending descent.
But it was definitely worth it.
The scones were a delight, Leapy’s chocolate and carrot cake a treasure. Soon the rest of them joined us as Big Al declined the scone for his favoured medicine.
News of a bus and the chance of a bit more medicinal liquid perked the old boy up but soon we were off again with only three miles left to Keld.
Good old GPS had done us proud again with a five star B&& – Butt House – and a pub across the road too.
For twelve gruelling miles Leapy and I had convinced ourselves that we were due a night off the beer; sadly, we knew that was complete bollocks.
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