I woke to a cold, dark and wet Saturday morning with a head far too fuzzy after a later than intended stay on my stool at The Scruffy. It was time again to pull on the shorts and walking boots for the annual winter trek from Ilkley to Appletreewick.
Unable as we had been, to lower the average age for the foot slog once again, six of us, slightly greyer, balder and one or two a bit more rounded, arrived at Shipley Station all sharing the belief that there had to be easier ways of getting out for a few beers at our time of life.
Demonstrating the true meaning of team spirit – woefully lacking later on by a certain member who shall be named “Jack” to protect his sensitivities (you know who you are Patch!) – trip co-ordinator Molly gleefully produced several hip flasks.
The contraband had been smuggled out of the house taped to various parts of his body like a suicide bomber, defying a suspicious wife who would never, ever dream of feeling up her husband at least not without a drink or two herself. Unbeknown to him, she had also taped his credit card to her nether regions where he was also forbidden and Meadowhall beckoned.
Whether what was in the hip flasks was a legal or an illegal high none of us quite knew; either way the contents were generously offered around, as Molly savoured freedom and another famous ruse.
As my hangover had several more hours to play out, I was happy with my water and mint imperials but always on the look out for a freebie, Jack, gulped down a few hearty swigs of the poison on offer, eyes bulging slightly at the potent brew.Not known to be a “drinker” the omens were not good for the bargain hunter from Go Outdoors.
Sadly we were missing several regulars this year for varying reasons. Pete the Mountain Goat was car shopping after his new Audi had proven irresistible and was now probably being driven by somebody peddling substances a touch stronger than Molly’s hip flasks.
Additionally, a combination of age, senility and dementia had accounted for two other trip stalwarts, Big Al and Sherpa Brennan, depriving us of Sherpa’s extensive array of satellite navigation aids just in case the River Wharfe had changed direction this year after the last few centuries constant flow.
The big man’s constant moaning, wheezing and liberal use of expletives was to be sadly missed on the trip but years of carrying his bulk had savaged both hips to the extent that his choices were either surgery or a Stannah chair lift installing from home to The Scruffy.
As for Sherpa, there had been a tragic “accident” several months earlier and you may consider the following a possible conspiracy theory, but read on and make your own minds up.
With their new business venture now up and running– a classy B&B in Ilkley at the beginning of the popular Dalesway – www.dalesview-ilkley.co.uk (shameless plug) – Sherpa’s partner, Sally, was keen to maintain the highest of standards, despite her choice of man.
Of course, part of this strategy was keeping scruffy old Sherpa out of sight when guests arrived and passing him off as the gardener if they caught a glimpse of him during their stay. When guests were in situ, he slept in the cellar but a few pints too many one night and the steep stone stairs proved far too much. Far be it from me to suggest Sally may have thrown him down…
Several months later and the two cripples had booked the Council invalid bus for a special trip for two to the Dales, demonstrating their determination to remain part of the team, the very essence of the trip, or in Big Al’s case another day on the “sauce”.
So as Big Al spent the morning waiting for his Home Help to come and pull on his socks and with Sherpa awaiting the unlocking of the cellar door and a glimpse of daylight, the rest of us arrived in Ilkley for a coffee and bacon roll, ready to begin our pilgrimage; six wise men we were not.
After a year off it was great to be honoured again by the presence of legendary Bradford League cricket great, Leapy Lee, teller of tall tales and known throughout the cricket world for his artistry with the gloves behind the sticks.
Dressed in wife Steph’s fluorescent jacket, straight out of the Highways Agency hi-vis section, ,this clearly had its plus points if we were to need the Search & Rescue helicopter later in the day.
Joining us again was Whispering Chris, taking a day off from the pressures of managing a hostel for people down on their luck, allowing Molly to enquire as to the possibilities of housing him later in life when his luck ran out and long suffering wife Carol finally kicked him out.
HMRC was also represented and no surprise when, with a flash of his card, Nigel received a free coffee from one clearly fearful coffee shop owner; if they could do Starbucks who next?
Finally there was “I’m all right Jack” fretting about making the entire trip having already double-crossed the team, secretly agreeing to meet the invalid bus early on the premise of helping Big Al off the tail-lift.
It was heavy going as we set off at the starting point of the Dalesway route and, on reflection, the big man’s absence was perhaps fortuitous as sinking was definitely a possibility.
By now struggling from the effects of Molly’s flasks, Jack quickly began to lag behind and it looked like a long march ahead.
Looking across the valley we saw a man on the roof of Sherpa’s B&B; could this be Sherpa banished now to the roof? Helpfully, Nigel shouted across the way “do it, jump!” I love a bit of early Christmas cheer.
Soon we were at the Peeing Wall, a sort of marker on the route and, with uncanny timing, all of us were in need of relief. Being outdoors, answering the call is one of the joys known only to man; the sweet wind in the willows, steam rising faster than from Jack’s head and all of us wondering if we would finish before the lady with the dog in the distance arrived.
By this time though, Jack had become demented from the effects of the hooch and, either let his true feelings for Molly finally come out, or was convinced he could find another flask presumably secreted up Molly’s backside, if he could just get his trousers off.
Some two and a half hours from starting out we were at the fabulous Bolton Abbey café for welcome tea and cakes although, as Molly and Jack had abandoned us for a short-cut avoiding the river crossing, they were sat awaiting our arrival like two smug fat cats.
The climb had been steep and Leapy was wheezing on a par with Big Al although, thankfully, not cussing like him; at least his spirit remained alive on the walk and seemingly following us up and down the winding path.
On through the woods we passed a woodsman’s hut displaying all sorts of carved offerings, many with a festive theme, which Whispering generously described as “over priced crap”, helpfully within earshot of the craftsman!
True, the attempt at a wooden reindeer looked a bit flawed, almost a cross between a kangaroo and a giant rabbit and I had not been drinking Molly’s hallucinating liquids. Jack took one look at it and ran off into the trees wailing “don’t let it eat me!”
By now Jack was starting to slur his words and began to walk with a bit of a roll, winding his arms around as if warming up for a long Saturday afternoon spell at the cricket. Maybe we would need that helicopter and the orange landing pad?
Soon we were in touching distance of Burnsall with barely a mile to go. In the distance, with uncanny timing, the invalid bus had arrived at our eventual destination – the magnificent Craven Arms in Appletreewick – and Big Al, slowly descended on the tail lift like Brian Potter. “Get me a pint I’m knackered” he wailed.
Sherpa, enjoying his freedom from the cellar, was staying put till the bus arrived in Burnsall. Despite walking slower than the man who did the London Marathon in a diving suit, he would make that mile back from Burnsall come what may.
Jack had had enough and wandered off alone into the distance to join Big Al unable to face the remaining couple of miles. In truth, Molly’s flasks had all been drained by now and Jack, by this point deliriously pissed, could easily have turned the other way and ended up in the river.
Hearty farewell salutes were exchanged – fingers airborne – and we marched on hoping he would not hallucinate and start trying to mount a sheep or two, calling out “Paula, Paula!”
Two welcome pints at the Red Lion and only one more mile to go content in the knowledge that, even if our “reserved” corner was populated by locals enjoying a quiet meal, a few hours in the vicinity of Big Al would clear them quicker than tear gas.
Sure enough a roaring fire and a fine array of ales awaited us and it was a relief to find Sherpa safe and sound. As usual it was wise to keep an eye on your gear and only the realisation that it may trigger toxic poisoning saved Molly’s boots from ending up on the fire like Big Al’s socks the previous year.
With fifteen of us now and only three cars it became clear that transport may be tricky but not insurmountable.
When Jack suddenly upped and vanished, blagging a lift with Whispering and family without a backward glance, some of us knew we were now stranded…in a pub…oh hardship come beat me!
Fortunately the only taxi in the village, driven by a lovely Scots guy, saved the day and one free train and another taxi and we were back at the Bear for the last rites. Sherpa had declined a free ride from Leapy clearly not relishing the return to the cellar.
Another wonderful day out of beer, banter and more beer…better days there rarely are.
Patch says
We’re we on the same walk lad I took my own hip flask and never risked Molly’s rations