Day 2. -- Grassington to Buckden, 10 miles

North of Grassington, the footpath ascends onto a high moor well above the River Wharfe. Most of the time the river was lost to view, only occasionally revealing its location by a scarred cliff or a line of trees. The scenery all across the moor was engaging.

 

 

 

Cold winds swept across the moor, accompanied by periodic showers. This being a Saturday, the weather didn’t seem to discourage the walkers. Nearly a dozen groups of teenagers – virtually all girls -- working towards their Duke of Edinburgh awards passed in the other direction. Atop a small promontory I spied two couples doing their best to avoid being blown off by the winds, and decided to join them. We traded pictures of each other, and then set off in different directions.

 

Ian, Jan, Liz and Phil

 

Fighting the wind

 

The path then descended the moor to re-join the River Wharfe at the village of Kettlewell. Some of you will remember my friends Richard and Teresa, from Cirencester. I first met Richard five years ago on the Offa’s Dyke Path in Wales. Two years ago, he intercepted me near the source of the River Thames. The next day he gave me a motor tour of the area, and Teresa prepared a nice lunch for us. Click here to go to Day 11 of My Riparian Summer for that day’s posting.

Yesterday, Richard sent me an e-mail recommending that I not miss the famous 17^th century Blue Bell Inn in Kettlewell, where he and Teresa honeymooned 61 years ago. Apparently they are legends at the Blue Bell. Sixty-one years require more than a toast, so I got together with a bunch of new friends and we partied in Richard's and Teresa's honor. Unfortunately, they weren’t invited.

Blue Bell Inn party in honor of Richard and Teresa
Elaine,Sue,Diane,Jimmy John and Paul with Sir Lost-a-lot
Photo by Howard

But their legend continues.

 

Day 1 -- Ilkley to Grassington, 16 miles

So here I am again – in a place I’ve never been, intending to walk to another place I’ve never been, by a route I’ve never followed. Add to that a world-wide audience expecting me to write something interesting and entertaining. Oh, the pressure. Fortunately, today’s walk was filled with interesting and entertaining experiences. Whether I can translate any of it in a way that will satisfy the expectations of my readers is quite another thing. But here goes.

In all my previous blogs, I've concentrated on the people I met on the trail – because, for me, the people make these walks special. Nonetheless, I vowed not to write about the people this time, because my inability to convey my excitement from meeting other walkers is a major deficiency. But, WOW! Did I meet some interesting people today!! I’m going to keep my vow, and not write about them, but I’m going to add their pictures to the end of this posting. That’s the least I can do for so many who made today so special for me.

Instead, I’m going to write about a few interesting things that occurred on the trail. The first is the Money Tree. Actually it’s now a log, but it was once a tree. It’s said that money doesn’t grow on trees, but folks here have hammered in thousands – maybe millions – of coins into this tree, so money might as well have grown on it. Admittedly, it was worth a lot more before the Brexit vote, but it still holds enough currency to retire the national debts of both the UK and the US. I thought about taking the tree with me, but I’m having Sherpa Van transfer my bag each day, and they won’t ship money.



Money Tree

What motivates people to hammer money into a tree? Perhaps low interest rates paid by banks makes trees more desirable. Perhaps trees are more solid than banks. Wood you place your money in a tree? I’ve always been a lukewarm environmentalist, but now I’m a tree-hugger.

At one location on the footpath, the way was blocked by cattle. I wasn’t sure what to do, because there was absolutely no way around.

Cattle Obstruction

I decided to approach the problem the same way the three smartest people in the world would. Without question, the smartest person in the world is Marie Pucel, the number one commenter to my blog. She would turn around and run – which didn’t seem like a bad idea – but then she would blame poor Andrew for having gotten her into that situation. That would be OK with me, but unfortunately, Andrew wasn’t with me, so I couldn’t use Marie’s solution.

Donald Trump would threaten to build another hotel with a super-sized steakhouse if the cattle wouldn’t let him pass That might get rid of the cattle long-term, but I thought the threat may anger them short-term. The last thing I wanted was angry cattle, so I rejected Donald’s solution.

Hillary Clinton would promise the cattle that she would disarm all the cowboys and provide free education and health care for all of the cattle’s descendants. But this is England, and there aren’t any cowboys to be disarmed. Furthermore, these were steer (I think the English term is bullocks), so there aren’t going to be any descendants. Even if Hillary were to sweeten the deal by allowing the steer to inter-marry, her solution would be unworkable.

Finally, I decided to slowly extend my hand and let one of the steer sniff it. While speaking in a gentle voice I quietly and slowly passed him. He stayed calm, apparently comforting the other cattle, so they didn’t stampede or kick or do any other nasty things that cattle frequently do. I may not be very smart (after all, a smart person would not have done what I did), but I know a thing or two that Donald and Hillary don’t. And that’s all I’m going to say about politics.

But just for good measure, I said a word of thanks as I passed Bolton Priory.

 

Bolton Priory

Here’s a gallery of the folks that made today special:

 

Ned, Sue and Brian

Liz and Claire

Phil, Mary, Koti, and Richard

 

Steve and Jacqui

 

John, Jet and Jenny

 

The Dales Way

The first leg of my walk follows the Dales Way, an 80-mile route starting in Ilkley, a pretty market town in West Yorkshire. Ilkley lies in Wharfedale, one of the dales of Yorkshire, but outside of the Yorkshire Dales National Park.

Ilkley Parish Church

From Ilkley, the Dales Way  proceeds northwest along the River Wharfe into the Yorkshire Dales National Park, as far as the eastern watershed of the Pennine divide. The Pennines are a range of mountains running like a north/south spine through the center of Britain. The River Wharfe and all of the rivers sourced in this eastern watershed eventually flow into the North Sea.

After reaching the watershed, the Dales Way leaves the Wharfe and flanks the northeast slope of Penyghent (the  mountain peak I approached from the Pennine Way on Day 46 of My 1200 Mile Summer) and then briefly joins the Pennine Way, crosses the divide, and descends into Ribblehead in the western watershed of the Pennines. The River Ribble starts at Ribblehead and, like all the rivers in the western watershed of the Pennines, eventually flows into the Irish Sea.

Continuing northwest from Ribblehead, the Dales Way exits the Yorkshire Dales National Park and enters the southeast corner of the Lake District National Park. The Lake District is named for its many picturesque lakes created by all the rain wrung from the clouds floating in from the Irish Sea. The Lake District may be the wettest place on an island with a reputation for wetness.

The Dales Way ends at Lake Windermere, where I will conclude the first leg of my walk. Don’t worry, we’ll return to the Lake District to explore more of its lakes; but first we’ll head back into the Yorkshire Dales.

Refer to the map in the sidebar for visual detail on the route of the Dales Way as I mark the daily destinations over the next week. Much of myt route appears in Google's Streetview mode, so by activating the Streetview man and walking him along the route, you can see everything I see. 

Anglophilia

Upon hearing that I was returning to England for yet another long-distance walk, a friend asked if I was an Anglophile. The question was raised in a denigrating, accusatorial tone, suggesting that Anglophilia ranks right next to pedophilia. I imagined myself thought of as lurking in the dark recesses of Tesco, waiting for an unsuspecting Brit to pass by.  “Pssst. Want some fish and chips? I have a nice malt vinegar.”

To my friend’s query, I responded unequivocally, “Oh, I don’t think so.” 

Indeed, there are many things I don’t like about Britain. I don’t like their plumbing — especially separate faucets (“taps” in England) for hot and cold. I don’t like black pudding or fried bread. I especially don’t like their bank holiday weekends and infernal festivals that make it nearly impossible for a walker to find accommodations. I admit to admiring James Bond, Sherlock Holmes, and especially Ernest Shackleton, but I can’t help if they’re British.

Of all the cars I’ve ever owned, my favorite was a red 1975 MGB, manufactured by British Leyland. It was love at first sight. As I drove it from the dealer’s showroom into an uncommonly dreary and drizzly California day, I thought “How classically British.” When the inevitable California sunshine returned, I lowered the ragtop, and even the February cold couldn’t induce me to raise it again. 

1976 image restoration courtesy of Ann Smith

A few days later, all of the MG’s gauges began swinging wildly back and forth, as if strangely possessed. It was an omen of things to come. Among the car’s many defects was a radiator the size of a postage stamp, perhaps suitable for England, but not nearly adequate to cool the engine in hot California summers. The engine’s uncontrollable overheating quickly ruined all the seals and gaskets, and fluids leaked everywhere. Breakdowns were frequent. I once injured my ankle kicking the car in a fit of road rage. “You [expletive deleted] piece of [expletive deleted]! Why the [expletive deleted] I ever bought such a [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted]!!!  [Expletive deleted.] [Expletive deleted.]”

My mechanical aptitude is only slightly higher than that of an earthworm.  As a result, the MG spent more time with the mechanic than with me. My love-hate relationship with the vehicle finally ended after 15 years, when my mechanic’s children graduated from college and he moved to Pebble Beach. With nowhere to turn, I disposed of my beloved MG. I never got over the empty feeling of having parted with it, so a few years later I bought a Land Rover Discovery — from the very same British Motor Car dealer who had sold me the MG. I suspected the worst when the Land Rover’s gauges started swinging wildly back and forth as I drove away from the dealership.

Fortunately, the Land Rover’s frequent repairs were all covered by a 4-year bumper-to-bumper warranty. Shortly before the warranty’s expiration date, the Land Rover label was acquired by Ford. I had several telephone calls with the Ford representative asking (pleading, actually) that the warranty be extended for all the time the vehicle was out of service and because numerous uncorrected defects still plagued the vehicle. Probably having heard it all before, he told me to “[expletive deleted].” My infatuation with British automobiles ended when I disposed of the Land Rover upon expiration of the warranty.

Ralph, the salesman who had sold me the Land Rover, was the quintessential English gentleman — right down to his Oxfordshire accent and his tweed sport coat. He could have walked off the set of Downton Abbey. Tragically, Ralph died two years after selling me the Land Rover, shot dead by his wife’s lover — a married police chaplain, no less. I am not making this up.

Indeed, I am not making any of this up — except for the part about the Land Rover’s gauges swinging wildly. They were actually warning lights, incessantly flashing.

Perhaps my experience with British cars explains why I’ll be walking this summer in England. But it’s not because I’m an Anglophile.