With a bank holiday fast approaching, it only seemed natural that I had been pawing over books, maps and articles of various national parks, with the aim to select one and head there for a long 3 day weekend of adventure, euphoria and utopia. With the memory of last year’s May Bank Holiday evoking images of sunny days walking up peaks to be welcomed with clear skies and extensive views, to lazily floating down slow flowing rivers in the dinghy and balmy evenings sat outside of the tent talking long into the evening, I could not wait to re-experience it again.

So, with a location chosen, kit prepared and routes planned in the week leading up to the bank holiday there was only one thing left to do,keep an eye on the forecast. Pretty handy thing having a smart phone where you can instantly check the weather forecast by a variety of apps and websites. Pretty annoying thing when you check every 10mins in the hope that the grey cloud illustration attached to Friday’s forecast has not yet turned into a sun.
 
Not to mention you have to wait another 24hrs to see what is happening on Saturday due to the limiting 5 day forecast! (Met office – please sort this out, we know you all have a crystal weather ball and can see into the future way more than 5 days ahead!).

Tuesday became Wednesday, became Thursday and so on, and still
that grey cloud illustration had ceased to bugger off and make way for the
yellow thing, or at least the yellow thing half hiding behind a white fluffy
cloud. I started to build up a sudden fear that this memory of paradise from
last year’s Bank Holiday was actually a figment of my imagination, a selective
memory if you will, similar to all those memories of the times when I was
growing up and was forever outside, in the paddling pool, on the beach, with a sun-kissed tan.

It was always sunny in the summer in the 1980s….wasn’t  it?


And so, as Friday approached and the grey cloud illustration had turned a shade darker with a 80% chance of rain, it seemed inevitable that this was not going to be the hazy summer’s days that I had hoped for. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a fair-weather walker and will get out on the hills come rain, shine or snow, but it just seems that the majority of times I have been out this year it has been tipping it down with all claggy peaks and hours spent in a cloud. I just wanted a little break, a taste of the (hopefully) beautiful summer to come (let us not even approach the subject of last summer) and a chance to get my shorts on!
 
In the end I just had to do what all us Brits do when coming to terms with the fact that the weather is pants, think positive or simply just grin and bear it. With that, I stuffed every waterproof article of clothing into the bag and headed over to the chosen location: the Yorkshire Dales.

It had been a while since I had been over to the Dales and I was looking forward to seeing the lush landscape and interesting features. What it lacks in humongous mountain terrain, it sure makes up with small friendly villages, intricate crags and lush rolling land oozing character. It has an air about it, a certain kind of contentedness, like an old man sipping on a pint of real ale, unassuming, happy within himself and humble enough to appreciate what he has, even if it isn’t all the flash, expensive things. This might have something to do with the fact I always think of Seth Armstrong from Emmerdale.

Arriving in the gorgeous village of Kettlewell, I approached the
new and only campsite in the village, which in its humble beginning is a small field with a portaloo within stumbling distance from the pubs. Basic, but ideal for somewhere inexpensive to lay my head for the night. Whilst waiting for a my friend to arrive I thought I would take advantage of what was now a sunny afternoon (Say What?!) and headed up on to Hawkswick Moor from the bridge in Kettlewell. It’s not long up but you are presented with a lovely view down the valley and the craggy rock are interesting to look at and explore. For about 40mins I sat on the tops looking over the village and across to the hills behind, before running down to meet my friend where we put the tent up, had a
can in the sunshine (take that Met Office) before we made our way to said pubs for the rest of the evening.

As I lay awaiting sleep I thought over the planned route I was to
take the next day, taking in Trollers Gill and surrounding area. This walk wasn’t at all about hitting peaks but more so about experiencing the rest of what the Dales has to offer; the enchanting wooded areas, moorland, babbling brook crossings and flowers blasted meadows with a pace that is set for exploring. I imagined waking up, sticking head out of the tent only to be
blinded by the glorious morning sun…’see, I knew it would be sunny like last year ’I thought sleepily to myself as sleep began to take over whilst thinking of shorts.

 I was woken at 5.45 by a cockerel crowing but more worryingly by
the pitter-patter of rain on the canvas. No, I thought, surely not. I awoke again (round two of cockerel) and it was still there, the rain.

The third time, was actually reveille so I got out of my sleeping bag, threw on some layers and unzipped the tent…..oh dear god, what is this??

Gone had the sun and promise of a glorious days walking, and in return had arrived a think ball of cloud, enveloping the while campsite making visibility awful. I could no longer see the moors or the hills behind. Stood there, looking somewhat bewildred by what I was seeing I thought ‘it’ll clear in a bit’ only to be brought back to reality by a passing camper who assured me that it was set in for the day. Groan.

 ‘Oh well’, I though, let’s make the most of it, it’s only a bit
of light rain.’


With a farewell to my friend and a change of route, I set off to walk from Arncliffe to Malham Tarn, parking in the village before taking the well-trodden and marked path that leads to the Malham Estate. It was raining a little more heavily as I got my kit sorted and put my waterproofs on and set off through the drizzle and greyness.

Now, I would normally go on to describe the walk with what it
entailed and throwing in some historical reference and mythological stories of the area. I may even tell hilarious and incredible experiences with the local wild life too, but to be honest it started off as a long walk of continuous batterings by the wind and rain pelting me as if tiny pygmies were hiding in the grass throwing needle like spears at my face. Visibility was rubbish so most of the views were minimal, the blustery wind was coming straight at me so slowing my pace as I fought against it, my hood was fixed so snuggly to protect my face that only my eyes were showing, of which were constantly squinted to prevent rain blindness (technical term? I think not.). It would seem the wildlife had the sensible idea of staying in the warmth and dryness of their homes, as did the people, for nothing was seen except a couple of DofE kids in the distance, highlighted only by their flailing orange survival sacks being used as a water shield!

 It was grim, I didn’t have anyone to talk to to break up the monotony (though even if I had we wouldn’t have been able to hear each other due to the howling wind) nor did I have my headphones to listen to music which I sometimes do in these conditions. Therefore, it was just the elements and me.

 I could have turned back and headed to the warm dry pub, but I didn’t, I kept on going.

For a couple of hours it was just plodding through, head down to shield from the rain, occasionally looking up to see if there was a break in the clouds due, then back down again when I realised there wasn’t any time soon. It’s funny though, whereas normally I would be preoccupied with looking around, taking in the scenery, wildlife and letting my mind rally off all thoughts inspired by the walk and surroundings, this time I was just aware of the elements and the discomfort that can be experienced battling against them. The only brief break in thought was the occasional daydream of the hot drink and chips I promised myself on the return to civilisation.

Then it suddenly hit me, the beauty, the actual reality of the situation, the direct experience of such walks like this. Yes, it is well known that by experiencing rough, unpleasant times, it helps you appreciate the good pleasant times or that by cracking on and not quitting, when it is easier to do the latter, can provide a real sense of achievement, but I feel it goes deeper than that. Again, it’s as if you awaken some primal connection. That, by not overly experiencing the usual multitude of senses; sights, sounds, smells that I
would normally as they were made limited, leads to just focusing on the moment, on the basic aspects of the experience.

In essence, I needed this walk. I needed this weather-battered walk to evoke an understanding much different to that of which I had really experienced before. I felt empowered and that I had achieved something other than completing a challenging route, or scaled high peaks, or even navigated successfully in bad conditions, or even had been pulled into the ‘survival’ mode that often takes charge in dangerous or difficult situations, for all these had not been featured in the few hours walk.


 
It helped me be in the moment, something that is rare to experience in a world where we tend to focus on the future, or look back to the past. For that, as I took  off all the waterproofs, giving them a shake before I threw them into the car, I thought to myself ‘I’m actually glad that the sun had stayed away for the day’ followed swiftly by remembering a film quote of 'It can't rain all the time', just as the rain ceased and the sun poked out from behind the cloud.

Having been up near Chorley one afternoon with a few hours to spare, and my outdoors kit conveniently in the car, I decided to go find a hill to climb. After a quick look at the map I head across  Withnell Moor (or Anglezarke Moor depending who you speak to) where Great Hill had caught my eye. Located 3 miles south of Winter Hill, the highest point in the area, and in-between Chorley and Darwin, it is part of the West Pennine Moors and though only 381m, it provides some fantastic views.



To say it was windy that day is an understatement and the likelihood of rain was high, so it seemed only natural that I would have forgot to pack my waterproof jacket! As I am not one to head out unprepared I assured myself that it was not a long walk, and my North Face Primaloft is fine in a shower.  Also, worst case scenario, I could always fashion a rather eye catching number from my bright orange survival sack that I always have packed in my daysack. With this decision made I drove to the carpark just off the A675 on the road to Tockholes.

Once parked up and boots on I headed on my way, though not taking the quickest route which would be to cross over the A675 and head west up the path to the summit, but to follow the road towards Tockholes.  After just over a hundred yards there is a bridal path to the left which leads to Hollinshead Hall, a Manor House dating back to the 14th Century which now sadly only remains as ruins. One thing that is still standing is the rather curious looking ‘Well House’ which kind of looks like a mini spa/sauna room from the olden days! Though the wooden door is padlocked, and the windows featuring iron bars, you can still get a good view inside with a torch.

Leaving the ruins behind I continued on the path to the left which takes you down the side of Roddlesworth Woods passing brooks and a diverse range of trees, before coming once again to the A675. These it seemed would be the last trees I would see for a while and I hadn’t realised how sheltered I had been from the wind until I left the woodland. As soon as I crossed over the road and headed onto the moors the wind hits me, and it made for a rather gusty walk. I say walk, but what I actually mean is a bimble as I had plenty of time to spare, and the walk up to the summit of Great Hill takes under an hour. 

Though there was a clear path, the ground underfoot was boggy and it wasn’t too long before one foot went straight in and over the boot and I was left with a slightly soggy foot! 

I walked on across the moorland until something brought me to standstill; the wind was blowing over the long grass that had a golden hue that intensified when the sun shone on it, creating a sea of billowing gold waves. I stood there for a minute to take it all in and just for a moment I felt like I was stood in a meadow with the warm sun shining down and the smell of spring in the air, a million miles away from the wintry, windy moors on which I stood! As I followed the boggy path up towards the peak I past by evidence of last week’s whiteout as there were still patches of snow on the ground. 

At this point the whole moor had now opened up and I could see over to Winter Hill with its Radio Transmitter Antennas on display, as well as great view to the north and even the outlined shadow of Ingleborough in the Yorkshire Dales. At this height the golden sea of grass that I spoke of earlier had lost its movement and now looked like a vast desert, not quite the Sahara but an unexpected scene on the moors. It wasn’t long before I came across the desert ‘Oasis’ a patch of green with a couple of trees and building ruins which I assume was once a farm. 

It was only when I saw a couple of figures in the distance that I realised these were the first people I had come across since starting out which isn’t too unusual for a windy week day, but I am assured the moors become busy at the weekends as people often do a longer walk taking in Winter Hill, Great Hill then down to White Coppice.

From here it was a squishy walk up, crossing a stile and eventually popping out of a gully before the gradual ascent to the summit. Here there lies no trig point but instead a sheep fold which brought a welcome relief from the now gale force winds that kept trying very hard to knock me off my feet and away across the north of England!

The panoramic views were incredible as the land rolled on and on in every direction, and after many a photo, hot drink and a quick sit down in the sheep fold I began to head back the way I had come. As the clouds began to break up, the sun started to shine through onto the desert of gold, illuminating & intensifying the colour and again changing the landscape before me. Now, I have been on many a moor in the UK in different seasons and all sorts of weather conditions, but I have never experienced this type of scenic colour which really does seem to belong in meadows in warmer months.

With the wind behind me I pretty much flew down the path, stopping only briefly to admire the flow and ebb of the grass, and to look at the Darwin Tower, just in case it did take off. Before long I was back at the A675 where I crossed over and followed it south until I came to the road on the left where I had parked my car.

Here I yanked off the boggy boots and pulled of soggy socks (my boots are about to retire after many years good service and are therefore not as water tight as they once were) and got into the car. I sat there looking over the moorland feeling a tad wind battered and thought about the unusual scene I had experienced. 




What had set out as just being an afternoon amble had once again exceeded my expectations and nature had once again astonished me with not only its beauty, but also its ability to keep on surprising!