Age appears to be best in four things; old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read.
Francis Bacon
Had it really been three months since the last Walking Backwards adventure? As the sun shone brightly in a clear winter sky, fighting to soothe a crisp wind, we gathered to set off to Ilkley for more blisters and beers.
I’d been waiting for the exiled Gasman to arrive, as ever bemoaning all and sundry, having emigrated to distant Easingwold nearly twenty years ago. Sure enough, he burst through the door spluttering “bloody traffic…crap drivers…tractors on the road!” Welcome back old son.
By the time we made it to The Scruffy starting post, an excited Molly was already there, laden like a drug mule, enough hip flasks to equip The Savoy. He’d retrieved his embezzled hidden beer funds from the garden shed – “Don’t tell Carol” – and would have knocked a pint back there and then.
Newbie O’M and stalwart Winky soon joined us. O’M confessed the furthest he had walked since retirement was from the car to the petrol kiosk; it would be a long day but he had the wide-eyed look of a boy on his first day at school.
Albeit, he was a touch apprehensive, having more new body parts than an old banger. Legs that had once terrorised local league footballers were now held together by pins, plastic and hope.
Winky was still keeping faith with his boil-in-a-bag Slimmers World anorak despite having finally shifted both daughters onto the independence highway achieving financial Nirvana at last. Off he trotted humming “we’re in the money….”
We were off with talk rapidly turning to ailments, medications, mystery blue pills and when was the last time we…well you know the rest. In the coming years, we might not even remember, which most likely will be a good thing for all concerned.
I’d optimistically advised the remaining members Duck and Leapy – two more exiles – that we would meet on the edge of Baildon Moor by 11.45. This was hopeful even with the new slimline Molly leading the way, like a young hound at the first scent of an old wounded fox.
We found them at midday and began the trudge across the moor, past beautiful holiday lets and through a farmyard. A short stretch of road and we were on the main moorland route to Olicana.
Unsurprisingly, the going was heavy and tricky in parts but all was going well until we had a surprise faller. Collapsing like a novice hurdler, the flying Duck flew forwards ending up face down in a mud-shaped coffin. As ever, sympathy was somewhat limited.
Leapy then chose a rather suspicious method of hauling him up but as both were way past the age of consent we accepted this as diversity.
The smile on Duck’s face was either relief or pleasurable surprise; Leapy looked quite pleased too.
Lunch was taken high on the moor with views extending far into the distance, the brash moneyed towers of Leeds blinking away. Leapy was without food, claiming not to have noticed the pre-trip note. This was somewhat risky as there was no sign of a Greggs.
By now the two elder statesmen – Gasman and O’M – had been separated from the pack, like two old jockeys, unseated and abandoned. Eventually, they limped up the hill.
“It was his fault!” claimed O’M looking at his old mate, unable to blame traffic chaos on the moor. “He stopped for a piss…took him six minutes for anything to come out!”
“It wasn’t much fun getting it back in either!” chirped Gasman, blowing on his freezing fingers.
By now the wind had whipped up into an icy breeze and Duck was starting to smell; it was time to up the pace. O’M was beginning to rue the choice of shorts, plimsoles and ankle socks, although the decision to borrow a stick was a wise move. It seemed he was straddling infancy and senility step by step.
Gasman was still chuntering having not stopped since his arrival and would, by the time we arrived in Ilkley, set a new record for continuous talking by a male. Was it too late for gender reconstruction?
Up and over the old Roman road we went before the hazardous descent into Ilkley, the lights of the promised land shimmering, as were the waters of the lido. One false step and it would be back to Bradford Royal Infirmary and not The Flying Duck.
Ilkley was throbbing as we tried to distance ourselves from Duck who looked like he had slept on the moor. A local threw a few coins in his direction – “Get yourself a cuppa love…I hope life gets better!”
The doors of The Flying Duck had never looked as welcoming with their wonderful array of beers brewed on-site as Duck disappeared into the Gents. We reassured the staff that he really was with us and thanked them for the six-pack of loo-roll.
And then it began in earnest, the full flow of chat on all manner of topics beholden to a group of blokes all well past fifty, some a lot further than they wished.
Although our hosts were not serving food, luckily O’M’s doting wife, the voluptuous Nurse Gladys, had stocked his rucksack well.
“I think she wants to be rid of me,” he said with a worried look as he started to unpack the weekly shop.
She’d also made him wear his Christmas jumper which we all agreed was extra cruel.
Like all such days, time flew, riding a big continuous wave of opinion, nostalgia and laughter.
The 5.21 back to the homeland eventually called and soon we were back in the comforting bosom of The Scruffy, alive as ever at the end of another working week.
O’M looked like someone who had been told he would never walk again only to find that everything is possible as Winky nursed his beer contentedly, happy as you get. Tomorrow he would go get that new Gore Tex jacket and book the Maldives.
Was it really over so soon?
Duck was working out how he could explain this latest caper to his long-suffering carer – daughter Annie – due to collect him as Leapy too prepared to return to a night in the spare room.
Escape routes were being negotiated from Our Lass to Uber; whatever it took. Molly was almost tearful as the last dregs of his last beer expired, like saying goodbye to an old friend.
As ever, despite a solemn commitment, Gasman and I failed to make the 8.00 cut for Towngate Fisheries and so were condemned to stay, for better or for worse.
We’d been here so many times before we knew the ending by heart. It was far from bedtime yet and I would soon by risking life and limb cooking for the old boy.
As we caressed our beers tenderly, it had been a brilliant day.
We meet once a quarter and generally limit the walks to around ten miles. If you would like to join us – the next one will be mid-March – please get in touch. You don’t have to drink…but it helps!
And Finally
This is from my old Pilates teacher. “Been teaching my Dad how to pronounce Focaccia bread for a few weeks. Collected his shopping list today, I think he’s got it.”
Pat says
Merry Christmas Steve , what a brilliant day you had .
Memories last forever x
Lord Frazer Irwin says
The past few weeks have been fraught with IT failures in all directions. Dead lines missed, contacts lost, no apparent stocks of Guinness 0.0 to the point His Lordship being driven to opening a fresh bottle of Bourbon.
Next time you’re heading for The Duck let me know afore hand and we can meet up. It being my local & the only pub worth visiting in Ilkley. A change from the usual Christmas fare will be poached breast of Pheasant with mushroom and shallot couscous. Nowt finer than a free meal apart from the veg.
Well, not much else to report from LS29 apart from wishing folk at BD10 all the best for the festive seasons.