“Who wouldn’t enjoy this?”
Winky halfway across Addingham Moor, wetter than a teabag.
Our annual walk to coincide with the end of the rugby Six Nations was a shorter affair this year and perhaps just as well. Torrential rain had been forecast and even Kilimanjaro veteran JB had wimped out. If the man with all the gear thought this was a bad idea – several others found the prospect of ten miles being water boarded less than attractive – what lay ahead?
We welcomed back Chris and Brian for whom waterboarding was clearly nowhere near as bad as watching Bradford City. Along came 76 year-old Mike proving men never lose the taste for a day out on the beer whatever the price. Last year the Beast From The East caused the absent Jones The Mower to comment “I’ve had better Saturdays!” This day could have been cast from the same mould.
Molly was insistent we walk, in training for the Three Peaks Challenge in May – you can sponsor him here. Surely a fat lad walking 24 miles up and down dale is worthy of whatever you can muster but nowhere on the Three Peaks site could I find mention of three full hip flasks as essential equipment.
We met at Shipley to be joined down the line by Leapy, as excited as Tigger on acid and dressed “on trend” for the sixty-plus catalogue man. We hoped he’d not forgotten his waterproofs as a flat cap would be little defence.
The train rolled on, passing through industrial Keighley and on to green and pleasant areas of the Bradford district strangely ignored by BBC Look North’s recent We Are Bradford. Finally we arrived in Skipton to meet a ghostly looking Pete who made a late plea to can the walk, head for Wetherspoons and keep it quiet from Mrs Hammond.
We headed off out of Skipton and a long drag uphill. It soon became clear that Molly, who was leading us, had no idea where we were headed; Caesar he was not. In fairness he could have done with wiper blades on his glasses and there were no Bradford Council signs saying “Roman Road – drive carefully!”
Mike set off at a ferocious pace with Tigger bounding behind telling us that he’d caught Mrs Lee looking at nursing homes for him. His only wish was for a nearby cricket ground and a good pub although he confidently announced he felt his last breath would be on a moorland track, hopefully after a final pint or two.
The rainwater was pouring off the hills as we continued to climb eventually able to take in some wonderful views across to Addingham and Ilkley beyond. I wondered what it would have been like to do this in a toga and sandals.
As we started to descend the road became tarmac and the pace upped as we neared Addingham only to lose the front runners. A quick check around the corner revealed The Swan and we were reunited once again.
There was plenty of variety behind the bar. Tigger chose a Blonde Witch and begged me not to attempt to construe a wider meaning. Although he remained confident Mrs Lee was oblivious to this column, equally son Jack was not as reliable and known to be partial to blackmailing his Dad when in need of a new bat.
As a native Pete had arranged for Mrs Hammond to arrive with dry clothing; we all looked on sodden and jealous. Soon we headed out of the village with the cricket ground better suited to ducks of another kind.
The last stretch of our march was to follow The Dalesway but only if we had kayaks; the river had burst and Ilkley Golf Club would not be seeing many golfers. If February had been unseasonably warm, it had not taken much to change the river levels.
On we strode into Posh Bradford, again strangely absent from Look North’s view of our district; perhaps Ilkley’s LS postcode had confused the BBC? The Flying Duck was as good a sight we had seen all day and soon soggy gear was being discarded gratefully.
Big Al, JB and John the Roadie arrived to greet us but there was little cheer on the big screen as Wales crushed Ireland and news soon followed of City’s loss at Oxford almost certainly condemning them to basement football next season.
The Roadie had a night off from lugging amps for his son – Bradford’s Ronan Keating – free from ducking flying knickers in a darkened social club as the young lad plied his trade.
It was time to go home as the rain fell as randomly as the English rugby defences had against the marauding Scots. Down it came from the hills, gushing through the main street.
We said farewell to exiles JB and Pete leaving them once again, seemingly free from the clutches of Hapless and Comical at City Hall back in dark Happy Valley.
Tigger hopped off in Bingley, not sure when we would meet again (it would be the following night) the rapidly closing years pause for thought at the end of such treasured days. We arrived “home” with the doors of The Scruffy welcoming us like no other.
The place was bursting at the seams but we found seats and reflected on another fabulous day.
In a week when our city and district was promised a fresh perspective on local and national television, only for the same old depressing images to be conveyed reinforcing the view of us as a medieval backwater, eight of us had experienced some of the raw beauty of the area we know well.
We’d been in great company and that, in itself, is priceless plus we’d seen a bit of the real Bradford.
Leave a Reply