The fourth annual Christmas hike had had a gloomy run up to our gathering in search of beer and bonhomie. Indeed, several Sunday nights at The Scruffy with Patch had been full of rather foreboding tales of impending tragedy.
We’re we really all “dooooooomed” as the little tubby balding one was predicting?
Out walking weeks ahead of the rest of us, test-driving yet more new walking gear, each Sunday night he would sit there shaking his head disconsolately.
“I tell you we’re going to struggle…it’s too wet out there…somebody will go down!” he muttered as Big Al wondered why he needed to put himself through this annual torture just to get a beer.
“Mark my words” he exclaimed with a furrowed brow “this year could be a bridge too far…we’re all getting old!”
At that point, were it not for the comforts of The Scruffy on Sundays – Mick the Quiz, the bonny brunette behind the bar and watching the pensioners fight over the mouldy sandwiches – Big Al and I may have been tempted to wander home and watch the X-Factor.
With Patch convinced the annual foot-slog offered new dangers never before encountered, we decided in the true spirit of many Great Brits before us to venture forth regardless; Appletreewick is hardly the North Pole.
Come the day though maybe Patch’s happy valley thoughts re the end of the world were true; ice and snow lay on the ground but Mission Commander Molyneux gave the all clear from Ground Control and we were off.
As ever we congregated at Shipley Station – a motley bunch of nine – with the Mountain Goat due to meet us at JB & Sally’s B&B.
Winky had usurped Molly for the most number of hidden hip flasks and had enough spirits on his body to start a pop-up bar. At the very last minute, the wise old Doc Lee arrived for his annual reunion with the boys, same silly grin, same mad-eyed sense of a day of great company.
Big Al was very quiet having confessed that he had walked no further since last year than the daily hop from home to The Scruffy; it seemed his annual pledge to get “fitter, stronger and faster” had gone west with all the others. Today would be a long day so he grabbed some comfort in the form of three bacon butties, washed down by a jug of tea.
JB was fussing all over us as usual, doubtless hoping that a free buttie would get us all on Trip Advisor waxing lyrical about Dalesview. As ever, he managed to lose his hat and gloves between the kitchen and the loo.
Sally calmly sat him down, pulled down his hat, wrapped his scarf a little too tightly and gently wiped the traces of ketchup from his stubbly chin before pointing him to the door and beginning to savour her day of freedom.
We set off gently, black ice an ever present threat, eleven men desperate not to be the butt of the day’s jokes. The predicted crocodiles on the Ilkley swamps failed to materialise and progress was fast under a brilliant sun and clear blue skies.
Just as we all began to relax, strolling through the Mountain Goat’s new home of Addingham, a moment of pure theatre. Big Al had been making good progress, aided by his Dad’s walking stick, new hips now seemingly well “run-in”.
All of a sudden he hit an invisible patch of black ice and in an instant – as Molly put it with a touch of irony – started spinning on the spot like a “20 stone Darcy Bussell“. You had to see it to believe it.
A perfect triple spin was just about to be met by a chorus of applause and top marks from all judges when he lent on his stick like Charlie Chaplin, only for it to snap in two and send the big man stumbling again.
Confidence shattered, he decided to take the high road (by bus) and we next laid eyes on a refreshed big man close to Bolton Abbey. We soldiered on, observing a time honoured tradition of liberating our respective pride and joys taking in the brisk winter air.
Normally, conversation ranges freely on our walks and so it was no surprise that, sharing the company of UKIP’s latest recruit in Mossy, I endured a full explanation of their party manifesto plus why Vladamir Putin was a stand-up guy.
Mossy protested he was far from a wide-eyed loon but the jury remains out.
I made a plea for us to focus and get back to talking sex but several guys said they could not remember it and several others that they rather wished not to have remembered it. I was beginning to wish I’d taken the bus as well.
We reached the pavilion at Bolton Abbey for well deserved refreshments only to find Patch, Molly & Big Al already there, feet up, demolishing the caramel slabs. If these lads had been husky dogs we would have shot them.
Molly had generously offered us his mints but as he appeared to store these in his crotch the offer was quickly declined as warm, soft mints flowed from his zipper like coins tumbling from a slot-machine. Lynton had said they had melted a touch too quickly.
Being a country boy he simply gathered them from the ground and stuffed them back into their warm pouch like little baby kangaroos.
Off we went again this time with Molly marching on as only he can do when beer starts to reach the nostrils, even from six miles away. Soon, with the big man blowing like the Flying Scotsman, we reached his nemesis – Barden Bridge.
“I tell you” he gasped as he heaved his body up the steps “its been purgatory again but I’ll tell myself I had a good time just so I can do it again next year!”
The spirit of a true adventurer.
The views are indeed splendid at the top of the bridge but the aesthetics were lost on Big Al as he pleaded with us to grab a leg each and throw him in the river.
Onwards we strode across ever-more treacherous ground, a full team again as no buses were in sight. Conversation died away as eyes focused on the steps ahead; it was not a good day for a quick dip in the river.
Soon we were out on the open ground again with surely no more dangers in store and then oh boy did he hit the ground in a flash.
The Doc was down, face covered in mud masking a grin that showed what fun days out these are as his ten loyal mates struggled not to soil themselves on the spot.
Soon it was time to part company with Big Al and Patch as they took the short-cut to our final destination; I was grateful as the big fellow had been sharing one or two thoughts with me during the last few miles.
“I tell you” he said “if Luckless (the lovely Linda) wants nookie tonight she’ll have to pull me underpants down and pull them back up again when she’s finished.”
I looked at the river thinking I needed its icy waters to clear my mind.
“Still, I really need her to be with me tonight” he smiled, eyes moistened just a tinge “someone’s got to make sure I drink responsibly!”
And, as Patch led the way the big man positively sprinted up the hill with the Craven Arms now in sight.
We reached camp some thirty minutes later and very quickly almost evacuated the place as the locals viewed our arrival with suspicion. Lady Lee and heir apparent young Jack soon arrived to haul the Doc off for another year, mud still smeared over the silly old bugger’s face.
One more yomp up the road in the biting cold and we would soon be there at the magnificent Craven Arms all roaring fires, hearty ales, fine food and two smelly Bradford lads awaiting our arrival.
Marsy though was struggling with his under-carriage due to a bizarre combination of boxer shorts, tights and jeans; severe chaffing had occurred.
Molly though had the answer so off behind a Land Rover popped Marsy, tube of Sudocrem in hand. Thankfully, police are rarely seen in these parts.
Lynton had manfully strolled all the route breaking in his £19.99 boots for next year’s trip. As blood oozed from his feet, he could only look with bewilderment at his son with the chaffed arse who now was moaning “I want a shit
Following Molly into the toilet cubicle to get changed, Lynton could hear zips going up and down and deodorant spraying around as a local came in for a piss.
Molly, sensing there was somebody outside, shouted out “does anybody out there need a shit?!” as the local cracked out laughing. The Bradford lads were back again and, as always, thinking of others.
We dined in the magnificent Cruck Barn – our party now bolstered by several “rescuers” – on sumptuous food and the tales kept flowing.
All too soon it was time to head back to the bright lights and several of us that were as yet unclaimed climbed into the Idleways bus, its driver having eventually located us in the “green zone”.
The youngsters – Marsy and Mossy – snoozed as if coming back from a day at the seaside as the rest of us contemplated one more beer back in the bosom of The Scruffy.
I can’t think of better days than these; great times, wonderful company and all returned to base safely, muddied if unbowed.
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