The December bit in the Middle
Or...Christmas is-a-coming
I was never all that keen on this time of year, it's dark and cold and slippery and clarty.
If it wasn't for Christmas it would be unbearable. Yes, having a bit of a shindig in the middle of the dark time is exactly what's required. So, I'm all in favour of Christmas time and I rejoice, yes, rejoice when that Slade record first comes on the radio... but not too keen on the clearly blasphemous "Spaceman came Calling" and I can do without Cliff Richards, but that's just personal choice.
I am transported back to West Riding County Council's New Road Junior School in nineteen fifty blob.
Miss Duxbury's class are the stars of the Christmas Concert. No laughable nativity plays here - this was high culture - carols and readings from the New Testament, starring yours truly cos I could read better than anybody else.
We had hymns: "While Shepherds Washed Their Socks by Night", "Silent Night" (a song about beds, I think), and the one about the King who gazed from his window one cold night and saw a drunk coming home after spending his winter fuel allowance, or something "Good King Wencers Last Looked Out" then there was something about a snowy roundabout...
And not a front tooth remaining in the entire scabby-kneed, drippy nosed class.
And all the while, the parents watching and sniffling and clapping like mad. There wasn't much on the telly in those days - Huh! If you had a telly!
And I had to read from the gospels about Our Lord Jesus being born in a stable and being visited by Three Wise Men, or were they Kings? And the teacher explaining to me that "Lo!" was just another way of saying "Eyyup?" And the Angel of the Lord Came Down and one of the angels sayeth "Eyyup, what's this then?"
But, of course, Christmas has been special for years. Everybody knows the story of the footy match between England and Germany in The Great War for Civilisation (that's what it says on me grandad's medal). Some famous Christmas hits were born then. Cliff Richard had his first Christmas number one - Mistletoe and Whine, which talks of the Jerries taking the mick and chucking mistletoe over the parapets whilst making kissing noises to the constant background whine of shells passing overhead.
The footy match came to a bad end when coincidentally, the Jerries misunderstood the word "penalty shootout" at the same time as a French soldier started singing "Chestnuts Roasting Round an Open Fire" and a trigger-happy American only heard the last two words clearly and thought he was under attack. And so the war continued for several more years due to a combination of trench deafness and poor training.
At least it gave me granddad the experience of going for long hikes. He would pass on the techniques to me later on. It mainly consisted of elevating the feet during each ten-minute-in-the-hour stop and smoking woodbines.
And so, with this knowledge, we continue with our December walk.
December
It was shortly after writing the previous bit in the middle, and this introduction to December that I stopped smoking. This, by the way, doesn't mean that whatever had been smouldering had been extinguished, no. It means that I had given up the evil tobacco as a means of entertainment and amusement. What has this got to do with walking in the Howgills, I don't hear you ask.
**Awkward silence**
**Tumbleweed drifts past.**
**Sound of wind in the wires...**
Anyway, on the face of it, it doesn't have anything at all to do with the Howgills, or any other hillwalking activity. Except to say that I am already missing my traditional summit smoke, the odd puff out of the wind in some sheltered spot with a nice view and the ability to er... where was I? You see, not smoking appears to have damaged my, em thingy, and oh, er, the thing about not being able to concentrate, that's it, concentrate one er,, what was I saying, now? Probably not important.
The other thing is, for the first couple of days, I found it almost impossible to drive safely, so getting to the foot of the Howgills could have been a bit more hazardous than it normally is. I think it's worn off now.
Instead of setting fire to tobacco, I am now addicted to nicotine chewing gum. Now nicotine chewing gum is a fine drug. It really cheers you up no end and it's legal. The effects are instantaneous, and, whereas with not smoking you should be grumpy, bad tempered and impossible to live with, one chew on the nicochoddy and Father Christmas appears, all jolly and jokey, like. Take away my gum, and watch out; Dr Jekyll comes out. Look, you don't have to read this. Quite frankly, as far as I'm concerned you can just go and - look just shuttup bothering and get a life. Just, just, leave me alone will you? (Sob)
So, yes, it's all a bit psychotic. I expect it'll wear off. I'm looking forward to the extra energy and all the alcohol I'll be able to buy with the money I've saved.
On to the December walk.
December - Ravenstonedale, Green Bell, Wandale Hill, Harter Fell
9 Miles - 2150 feet of ascent
I had company on this walk, in the form of a pal, who I'll just refer to as Alan, mainly for the reason that that's his name. Readers will have noticed that I don't usually have company on these trips, and I've gone to the extent of discouraging accompaniment on at least one occasion in this project. It made a change. He does go on a bit about the French, though. Doesn't like 'em. They eat all the Euroes, steal our fish and generally take the piss. Its all their fault. Alan will never be heard to say "Je m'appelle Alan", even if Alan is, in fact, a French name. Must mention that to him at some point mid-rant.
I sort of expected December to be cold - in fact, right up to setting off, I expected cold weather, even in the face of a weather forecast that said it wasn't going to be cold at all, in fact... Bruno had his coat on, and I sported a buffalo (that's a jacket, not a bison). Readers might think that any dog worth being given a macho name like Bruno should be able to cope with winter weather without recourse to anything so wimpish as a coat. Readers would be correct. Bruno is a bit of a wimp when it comes to cold rain, sleet, and, in particular, hail. He doesn't like it at all, in fact. It's not his fault, though. He's a mongrel, y'see, and with yer mongrels, you only get the (natural) coat you are given - and Bruno, unfortunately, got tropical kit when the skin and hair supplies were dished out. He shivers and whinges in cold, windy weather, and sometimes tries to run away from it. Hence the coat. Its green and fur lined and waterproof. Way over the top for a mild day in December.
So, it was with cosy and over-warm clothing that we set off from a verge side parking spot near Townhead in the Southern suburbs of Ravenstonedale. A sign points out the footpath to Green Bell, although my map has the path missing Green Bell by several hundred metres, and disappearing in the upper soggy bits of Long Gill.
But let's not be pedantic. The path is pretty gentle and reasonably easy to follow to the foot of Knoutberry, from where a thin trod can be seen climbing the hillside, over the top of the said Knoutberry, and then more steeply up to trig point on Green Bell. We've been here before - but from a different direction. This is the fate of regular Howgillers - who will by now be getting into a state of hillwalking deja-vu - that "I've been here before" feeling. There will be more deja-vu to come. There will be more deja-vu to come. There will be more...
So, after a quickish butty out of the wind near Spengill Well, we tootled orf towards Stockless (justa minute, we've been here before...) - and then down its South-East ridge to a crossing of Spen Gill - more easily accomplished than would appear from above.
Just before we continue our journey, and, as an afterthought, it might be just me and my altered consciousness as a result of nicotine deficiency, but if you stand at Spengill Well and look roughly South-Westish, you will see three bealachs, one behind the other - these being Leathgill Bridge, a col North of Hazelgill Knott, and the col South of Simons Seat. There is, it seemed to me something extremely feminine and almost pornographically gynaecological about these three cols. I feel quite happy about pointing this out, since if the imagery was phallic, everybody would notice it, and people would point and laugh. It might be just me - but the next time you are wandering this ridge, have a furtive look.
A simple, but sweaty, slog took us to the top of Wandale Hill (it was getting quite warm and sunny at this point). From Wandale's cairnless top, there's a fine view of the ridge from Great Knoutberry to Kensgriff (e), to Yarlside, a smashing view of the Rawthey dale to the South, a cracking view of Wild boar Fell and stuff like that to the West, and the sound of large explosions coming from the Warcop shelling range to the North. It would appear that Wandale Hill is pretty much unfrequented - no paths, no litter, no cairn. It's a nice little hill, in fact.
The plan was to go down steep slopes to the West to join the bridleway to Adamthwaite, but when we got by the intake wall a little way down, it seemed better to go down to the intakes at Adamthwaite Sike and follow the bridleway on that side. This saved a marginal amount of climbing, and would be easier underfoot than the steep slopes of Wandale. So that's what we did. It's OK. I would suggest you make your own decisions about which way to go. Either will do. Look, I dont care, see, make your own decisions for a change, you don't have to just follow me about like sheep innit?...(Inserts chewing gum at this point)
The little dale which contains Adamthwaite has quite a remote feel to it - the nearest neighbours seem to be quite a way off in any direction. The road to it isn't the sort of road you'd want to drive over on a snowy winter's night, and, I expect, would block up quite nicely a few times a year. Lovely place to be, though, if you want to write your book. For all the remoteness, on today's walk I could hear a distinct rumbling in the distance, which I took to be the M6 motorway. I say this because I also heard a train, and, of course, the nearest railway is right next to the M6. Shame, really.
We walked a little way up the road to Ravenstonedale and turned onto Harter Fell at the spot where the bridleway from Murthwaite joins the road. Another simple slog took us up the Southern ridge and then North to a little summit cairn and the remains of a bonfire and quite a lot of dead fireworks. People really need to tidy up after themselves. The dead fireworks must have been lighter than the live ones, so why not take them down and throw them away. Ooooooh, I need gum.
Anyway, cracking view of Stennerskeugh and Fell End Clouds. Makes you want to go and have an explore. I should explain that, for those readers armed only with a map and this book, that these "Clouds", aren't white, fluffy things, but large areas of limestone pavement, always interesting areas for the studying of ologies - specifically geo and ornitho, and, judging by the map, quite a bit of industrial archeo, some speleo and historical, or whatever the word is, when you put the suffix on it. There is, what appears to be a small system of very ancient fields, shakeholes, workings, caves and all manner of stuff worthy of poking around in. It's quite possible that there's also a moderate amount of free underwear to be had from the clints and grikes. Think about Christmas presents eh? Nuff said, a hod's as good as a sink to a blind norse and all that sort of thing.
Incidentally, this semi-aimless poking around is what my pal Brian calls "radging". Since Brian used to be a member of the constabulary, I suspect that "radging" is really what petty, opportunistic criminals do when on the lookout for an opportunity for petty criminality. Anyway, "radging" is quite a good way to spend a day. It just sort of involves looking at things, into things and around things and speculating on what they are. For instance, during a radge, a pile of rubble in a rough square could well turn out to be an old barn, a lead-miners dormitory or a previously unrecorded piece of Roman archaeology, such as a fortlet, a signal station or vomitarium. Its all about poking and then speculating.
A mound could be a spoil heap, or the remains of a lateral morain. It doesn't actually matter about strict accuracy. It's all in the mind's eye. It can be quite good fun and at the same time be spectacularly educational. You have to have a bit of an imagination, though. If you can't make things up that are vaguely believable, then its probably best just to watch and listen. You can carry the butties and flask.
A short walk Westwards brought us back to the road, and it's a simple matter to return to the start by following this road in a roughly Northern direction, that is to say, up the map, towards the top.
Just a word, here about walking in December. It might appear that this walk has rather a lot of road walking on it. This is true, it does, and it's entirely deliberate. Those who paid more attention in one of the early chapters will remember that on one occasion I had a rather late start due to a spot of reverie involving Beyonce and her bra strap. There are other things which can conspire to making you late for the start of a walk, many of which we may have already studied if only I could remember what I've been banging on about previously (nicotine deficiency symptom again). Readers will also be aware that mid December has the shortest days, and, whilst walking in the dark isn't necessarily the absolute horror that many people think it is, I thought it useful to have an easy passage at the end of this mid-winter walk so that any late starters could do the full walk and have a sort of safe exit should darkness befall them. It will be noted by the astute map reader that the walk from Adamthwaite to Ravenstonedale could be completed on the road, and quite easily in the dark, without so much as a small pencil torch. The road is very quiet. We saw no traffic at all, and only met one person - who appeared to be a local farmer - walking up towards Adamthwaite. So, its an easy, enjoyable walk along the road and you shouldn't get knocked down.
The road can also be easily accessed from Spen Gill or Grere Fell should you be really late in starting. If its already just gone dark when you first arrive at the start, then you really did have a bad night, didn't you? We might do a night walk next, or at least, one of the future Howgill walks. Next is January. It might be cold.
Daffodils seem OK by the way.
