3 Peaks Trip

Left, me at the Top of Pen-Y-Ghent, and right, "the evil brooding bastard"

Okay, I'll conced it wa the 2 peaks. I did Pen-Y-Ghent, or as a friend would have it, "that evil brooding bastard." And I did Whernside. I just didn't get round to Ingleborough on account of really bad blisters. That makes me sound rather like a wimp doesn't it? I mean, Douglas Bader never complained of blisters did he? Well he wouldn't.

To be fair, on arrival at Ingleton, no sooner had I set up the caravan than I was off on the Ingleton Falls trail, a 6 1/2 mile stroll, which started the blebs on my feet. On the way back to the pitch I passed by three pubs and was forced to have a pint in each one. Then It was back to the caravan for an evening meal of chicken ding (chicken shoved in the microwave until it goes "ding") and a couple of episodes of Life on Mars with the strat of a wottle of Bhiskey.

Next day was Pen-Y-Ghent and Whernside, and I would have gone on to complete Ingleborough, honestly, had it not been for the terrible blistering from which I am only now starting to recover.

Pen-Y-Ghent of course has two ways up. The shorter and steeper way which involves a longish walk gradually sloping uphill then a bugger of a climb to reach the top - or the other way which is a long and steep ascent, where the summit is constantly moving around and getting further away. I chose the latter, then came down the steep way. next time I might go in reverse.

I blame my boots for the blisters. When I was a kid there was a magazine called Tiger, unless memory fails. One of the comic strips in this was called "Billy's Boots" the storyline of which was that this kid called Billy had and old pair of football boots which had previously belonged to a famous footballer and which gave him magical footballing skills. My walking boots are pretty much the same. The are now about 21 years old, possibly much older, i think I bought them when I was about 20 but I might have been 18. They are heavy, leather and have seen many miles, the soles are now wearing quite thin. My work colleagues, decked out in modern Teflon and Gortex feather weight boots refer to them as antiques, and they are possibly right. They are certainly now past their best (the boots that is, not my work colleagues) hecne the blisters I'm guessing. But if I have to break in a new pair that means more blisters, am I right?

Anyway Thursday dawned bright and sunny and it seemed a shame to waste the day, but I was unable to walk without a fair degree of discomfort. Fortunately, all was not lost; I had taken along my trusty mountain bike. I decided a ride through to Dent was in order, a 20 mile round trip. For September it was quite decidely hot and sunny, and it wasn't long before I had stripped to just a pair of shorts, which as it turned out was a fortunate decision. As I stopped for lunch it seemed like a good idea to dip my feet in the stream passing through the Dent Valley (The River Dent? - I don't know?) How refreshing! I stowed by bottles of fresh orange juice in there too and chilled them as I ate my lunch.

Now for those who don't know it, the road through to Dent is a single track unclassified road, and probably sees maybe five cars a day travel down it, so it's ideal for cycling although hilly, it is remote in the extreme. This may have a bearing on the life changing situation I found myself in - had things gone differently it could have been many days before my bike and body were found! Having finished lunch and still hot and sweaty I decided to paddle a little in the stream. being no fool, and a weak swimmer at best I wanted to remain well within my depths, and thought it safe as I could see the bottom. Having wandered up the stream at knee depth I was about to turn aroudn when suddenly and without any wanring the bottom disappered! I reckon I went down about 15 feet in a "sink hole" and disorientated, searching for daylight and which was was up, under water for maybe 35 seconds before gasping for breath, I surfaced again. My life flashed beofre my eyes I can say! Well I think it was my life, it had been edited quite badly, and a lot of the more boring stuff had been cut, but I recognised a lot of it.

I had considered crossing this same stream/river with my bike to get to a wooded area which looked pleasantly shaded from the hot sun - had I done so I would have had my bike and rucksack to fight with as I went under. I think back now and wonder , if I had hit my head, or caught my foot in a rock or something, would I now be writing my orbituary (metaphorically speaking of course) Given the remoteness of the location, no one would have seen me go under, and no one knew I was there, so no one would have rescued me or even come loooking for me for many days. It makes you think. I could have drowned or worse.

It also makes me unafraid of the future, not fearless as such, but certainly thankful to be still here and ready to make the best of the extra time I have now. On the other hand it confirms my suspicion that I am (probably) immortal.

Dent Railway station, is allegedly the highest mainline railay station in England. So a visit was in order. And there is was, certianly bloody high if the hills I had to go up where any measure.

Thursday night saw much consumption from the wottle of bhiskey and more episodes of Life on Mars!

All in all a memorable excursion, and one which has a part three to come, as Ingleborough has yet to be tackled. October half term looks a likely time to try again - with new boots!