Empty hills and the bogs of doom – backpacking the Yorkshire Dales

The aim was to meet Chrissie and Geoff at 3.30pm in Horton in Ribblesdale.  Unfortunately soon after I got on the M1 the traffic came to a standstill, getting misplaced in Bradford later on did not help my punctuality.  I arrived an hour late to be treated to coffee and a home-made cookie in their van just as the skies opened over the Yorkshire Dales.  We were gently reminded by Geoff that it would soon be getting dark and perhaps we should be making a move.  It was gone 5.00pm by the time Chrissie and I shouldered our packs and set off.  The plan was to take a long and indirect route to Ribblehead where Geoff would pick us up a couple of days later.

The empty hills bit in the title?  Apart from a couple of runners just after leaving Horton on the Friday we did not see another soul in the hills until Sunday afternoon.  Even though we were in view of the famous three peaks all weekend.  Maybe the bogs had something to do with that……….

Day 1 – 2.8 miles with 200 metres ascent

It was felt prudent to set off in waterproofs, although the clouds had shifted it looked like rain was not going to be far away.  The Pennine way initially follows a walled track out of the village.  This meant that progress was rapid and height gain was not really noticed.

Gaps in the clouds meant that the setting sun cast a golden glow on the surrounding hills.  The unmistakable shape of Pen-y-ghent was turning a vivid shade of Orange.

The Pennine way branched off to the right to climb towards the summit of Pen-y-ghent.  We continued along the valley bottom, a great natural spectacle hidden until the very last minute.  Hull pot is a pretty big hole, a waterfall falling over sheer cliffs into its shadowy depths.  Something that you really don’t want to fall down.  Some of the local sheep though were really pushing their luck, one grazing in a very precipitous position.

We followed Hull Pot beck upstream until it forked, taking the left tributary.  Amongst all the rough tussocky ground there was a an area near the stream that gave us a reasonable pitch.  It was pretty much dark by the time we got our tents up and the first stars were just beginning to become visible.  Chrissie sat just outside my tent whilst we ate dinner but was soon driven back to her tent by the rapidly chilling air.

Day 2 – 8.1 miles with 470 metres ascent

I woke briefly at about 5.00am and stuck my head out of my tent.  The showers from earlier in the night had passed and the sky was jet black, encrusted with what looked like thousands of very bright stars.  It would have been perfect for a bit of night photography but instead I did the sensible thing and went back to sleep.

The sun had still to rise over Plover hill when I eventually got up.  The cold and still conditions meant that my inner tent was covered in beads of condensation and I had to be careful not to dampen my down jacket.  Outside there was a light frost and the rain that had fallen on our tents had frozen into mini pools.  We spent a leisurely couple of hours around camp, enjoying the warmth of the sun when it finally reached our pitch.

It was 10.30am by the time we finally got moving, picking our way across rough trackless ground.  A wall topped by barbed wire intersected our route so we followed it for a while hoping to find a decent crossing.  Thankfully there was a gate after a slight detour.  A quad bike track then took us up a wide ridge towards the large cairn on the unnamed hill above Cosh Outside.

The views from the large cairn were pretty impressive, the Ribblehead viaduct being visible in the distance under the bulk of Whernside.  After a totally cloudless morning, low cloud had started to form on the surrounding high hills.  This was now breaking up, adding to the atmosphere and drama of this lofty viewpoint.

Initially the going along the ridge was easy, the underlying limestone meaning that there was soft and springy turf under our feet.

This part of the Dales gives the feeling of large open spaces and in all directions there was high moorland rolling to the horizon.

The ground soon reverted to the usual bog and tussocks along the wide ridge, which we followed to the trig point on Horse Head Moor.  The main issue along this obviously little trodden stretch is the intersecting walls and fences, some of which are not marked on the ground.  Crossing points were not provided, even on a brand new stretch of fencing.  This was rather annoying considering that we were on access land and following the ridge line, a natural linear route.  On a couple of occasions we had to climb high drystone walls topped with wire, gingerly trying to ensure the whole lot did not come tumbling down.  The going was slow but the wide open spaces and the autumn colours on the hills more than made up for it.

At the trig point it was clear that we were not going to make our intended destination for the night, not during daylight hours anyway.  We were still a while away from reaching our chosen lunch spot and it was well past lunch time.

The bridleway down towards Yokenthwaite gave a reasonably solid surface for the descent, a relief after sloshing across wet moorland.  The views into Langstrothdale were excellent, showing just how varied the Dales landscape is.  We were leaving the high open moors and descending into a limestone dale.

It was 3.30pm by the time we reached our lunch spot, chosen as it was next to a stream to enable us to make a brew.  I have recently started to ensure that I make a coffee and cook lunch when backpacking.  Couscous being my food of choice as it is quick and easy to make.

After we had packed up we realised that there was less than two hours left before it would get dark, autumn can really catch you out as the days get shorter.  My map showed that there could be a suitable ledge for wild camping high above Yokenthwaite, a stream nearby.  From our vantage point on the other side of the valley it looked like it may be ideal.  We descended down to the road through Langstrothdale, actually rather busy considering its remote location.  The dale itself was idyllic, the low sun casting shadows on one half of the valley.

We took a steep track behind the cottages at Yokenthwaite, quickly overheating once we were out of the wind and back in the sun.  It had been one of those days that was either too hot or too cold, the sun still providing warmth but the temperature plummeting when in wind or shadow.  The track was a stern fitness test at the end of the day.

We left the right of way and started climbing across open pasture, hoping that the ledge identified above would be both flat and out of sight of the surrounding farms and cottages.

It turned out that our chosen spot was pretty much perfect.  The ground was flat with short-cropped grass which was thistle free (thistles often seem to dominate what would otherwise be an ideal campsite) and we were totally out of sight.  My tent was totally soaking wet from the previous night, the floor and inner a dripping mess.  I pitched it and left the door open whilst sorting my kit and walking the five minutes to a stream.  Thankfully with a good breeze it was nearly dry by the time the sun disappeared behind the hills.  Our wide grassy ledge was fringed by a long escarpment that dropped steeply to the valley below.  I soon had a cup of coffee in my hands and wandered along the edge taking in the last of the days light.  It’s moments like this that sum up the reason why I go backpacking and wild camping.

We had positioned our tents so that we could chat without either of us getting cold sitting outside.  Chrissie was soon asleep and I snuggled into my bag to read my kindle.  In the morning Chrissie said that there was snoring coming from my tent.  All I can say is that people in glass houses……………

Day 3 – 9.7 miles with 320 metres ascent

Another cold and still night led to an in tent shower when I sat up, my down bag was pretty saturated on the outside due to condensation.  I was glad that I was not spending another night in it.  We were up and away a bit earlier due to being behind schedule on our route.  Some texts with Geoff the night before confirmed that he would pick us up at Newby head rather than Ribblehead, cutting a few miles from the end of the day.  He had spent a couple of nights in the van parked on the high road between Hawes and Langstrothdale, we told him to expect us late morning for a tea break!

The ledge on which we had spent the night provided us with a level promenade on which to walk, easy to follow for a mile or so high above the valley.  The network of drystone walls and field barns below us was classic Dales scenery.

We followed a series of old National Trust waymarkers which led us up and into Deepdale Gill.  At its head it split into two deeply incised streams resulting in a steep grassy contour to avoid loosing any height.  We continued climbing higher into this hidden gem, pathless and off the beaten track.

The moor above was well equipped with gates and stiles to get us across the various walls and fences.  There was once again a feeling of being in the middle of a large area of uplands and apart from the drystone walls there was no sign of the hand of man in any direction.  A collection of boulders gave us the perfect opportunity for a sit down and a snack break.

The going had been easy across what was a predominately grassy moor.  The map showed a large flat area around Oughtershaw moor, the view as we approached it confirmed my suspicion that it may be on the damp side.

My expectations were realised and we spent a rather long time not moving very far as the ground became increasingly boggy, deep water filled groughs providing barrier after barrier.  It was slow and tiring and we probably covered three times the distance as shown on the map.  One false step there could have led to trouble……….

Once again the surface underfoot changed abruptly with firm cropped grass tended by the many sheep.

Woldside was a limestone island amongst a sea of bog, a relief before we plunged once more into peat, groughs and tussocks.  We were now above Oughtershaw beck, a wild moorland valley with the isolated farmstead of Cam houses at its head.

In the distance I spotted a figure and two dogs walking towards us, it was Geoff coming to intercept us as once again we were behind schedule.  Chrissie did not believe me until she saw Tilly the chocolate Lab bounding towards her.  Geoff had parked the van just below the highest part of the road and it was with relief that we got our boots off and sat on some comfy seats.  It has to be said that this is the best tea van in Yorkshire and I was treated once again to coffee and homemade chocolate cookies.  It was hard to drag ourselves away from the warmth back out onto the chilly moors.  We agreed to meet Geoff a couple of hours later where the Ribble way crossed the road at Newby Head.

Walking past the drivers cab I noticed that both the driver and passenger looked a bit canine in nature.  Perhaps it was just the relection playing tricks with me?

After a couple of days lurching across rough and boggy moorland, Cam road was a treat for the feet.  We made swift progress, enjoying the views without having to worry about plunging into a bog.  It had started to cloud up but the air was still very clear and we could see the sea in the distance.  What was not so welcome was the view of some turbines behind the bulk of Ingleborough, with the angle of the light they appeared to be very prominent on a distant hillside.  The Ribble way was well surfaced and it was all down hill to the road where Geoff was waiting for us.  A short drive and I was dropped off back in Horton in Ribblesdale where my car was thankfully still there.  An excellent and surprisingly wild backpack in what I often think of as a busy national park.

You can read Chrissie’s version of the weekend here.

Escarpments, moors and mines – backpacking the northern Yorkshire Dales

Day 1 – 11.1 miles with 710 metres ascent

Reeth is a thoroughly charming dales village, a huddle of cottages spread around a large green.  Although the village has a homely feel to it the surrounding moors still dominate.  It was a bright but cool early autumn morning when I parked outside the village post office.  I had my usual post drive faff before setting off across the green, Reuben in tow wearing his Ruffwear panniers.

We soon escaped the village, heading through fields next to Arkle Beck.  When we entered one field a horse that was grazing with some cows decided to come over and say hello.  Reuben although leashed decided that he would also say hello by jumping up.  The reaction by the horse was not a positive one and it reared up on its back legs.  With several cows in the middle of the field that would also need to be navigated I decided to backtrack and detour through a field with a stern, ‘private’ sign.  Rather the wrath of the landowner than being trampled to death.

Fremington Edge rose steeply above the Dale and a grassy path took us towards the isolated cottage called White house.  The views were soon opening up, the moorland lump of Calver hill catching my eye as we would be passing it later the following day.

I managed to get navigationally challenged just before the cottage and had to resort to a bit of fence climbing to get back on track.  Stopping for a rest near the cottage the owner came past in his 4WD.  I expected a telling off for my trespass but instead his attention was on Reuben who he thought looked magnificent in his panniers.

We continued steeply upwards above the cottage, this time on a well-worn track.  A narrow grassy trod then left it to follow the edge of the escarpment.  For the next couple of miles the walking was simply glorious, soft springy turf providing a luxurious carpet for the feet.  Steep limestone slopes fell away to the left, plunging towards Arkengarthdale far below.  I took my time on this section, sitting down on a couple of occasions on perfectly situated natural rocky seats.  The early autumn light was crystal clear, high fluffy clouds throwing shadows on the surrounding hills.

The path that I was following is unmarked on the map and it soon intersected the bridleway that links Arkengarthdale with the hamlet of Hurst.  My route north was then blocked by a sturdy drystone wall with no gate visible nearby.  It was easy to cross without causing any damage, Reuben proving the most tricky to get over.  There was an abrupt change in terrain on the other side, green limestone vegetation being replaced by deep heather.

The plan was to follow the boundary of the Yorkshire Dales north across pathless ground until we reached a track near St Andrew’s cross.  I noticed that about a kilometer away a shooting hut had a line of 4WD vehicles glinting in the sun next to it, voices drifting across to me.  Although I had seen no signs indicating that dogs were banned from this access land I was aware that this is sometimes the case.  I was glad to reach the track just as the vehicles began a long convoy in a different direction.  The deep trackless heather had been hard going and I enjoyed sitting at the edge of the track in the warm sun.  Soon the peace was shattered by a flurry of gunshots, the convoy of vehicles obviously finding some grouse to blast from the sky.

The walk towards the hut was a little confusing as the tracks on the ground did not relate exactly to those on the map.  We passed a couple who were confused to their exact whereabouts, I left them trying to work out a route to Hurst.

A climb through old mine workings and we were once again on the edge of limestone country, short-cropped grass above another rocky escarpment.  Being at the edge of high ground the views were once again outstanding.

A steep descent brought us below the scree covered slopes, perhaps part natural part due to the old lead workings.

I was aware that the day was progressing faster than I wanted it to and that it would be getting dark in a couple of hours.  I began to doubt that we would get to where I had planned to pitch for the night.  Although short on time the dry short grass was too inviting to pass by without a quick sit down and snack.

My revery was soon disturbed by a convoy of 4WD vehicles, probably the ones that I had seen earlier.  I received a friendly nod from each of them but what struck me was the how most of the occupants resembled George Osborne.  George Osborne in tweeds and with a very red face.  After they left me choking in a plume of dust I sat and thought for a while.  There is clearly a parallel universe that exists in our country that most of us will never visit, I’m fairly sure that even if we wanted to visit we would not be welcome.

We dropped down and crossed the Stang road below Shaw farm.  On the map the short walk down and across the valley of Shaw beck to reach a bridleway looked easy enough.  In reality I lurched down through boulders and waist high vegetation to the stream at the bottom.  It was actually a gloriously wild spot, the golden moor grass catching the low sun.  Climbing up the other side was even harder work, steep slopes being covered in man eating bracken.  The map mentioned a lead level and I suddenly had visions of falling down a hidden mine shaft never to be seen again.

Finally locating the bridleway it was clear that it is hardly ever used and it was with relief that I reached the road.  There was a brief moment of excitement passing the farm at High Eskleth when a small three legged dog took a dislike to Reuben.  His face simply said, “Get me out of here”.

A network of paths took us down to the valley bottom and along to Whaw bridge before a steep lane brought us to the main Arkengarthdale road.  I had planned to camp at the head of Gunnerside Gill, but it was evident that would be impossible unless I fancied walking across trackless moorland in the dark.  I did not.  Therefore as we started the walk towards Danby lead level I started to keep my eyes peeled for a suitable pitch.

I noticed that the hill above and on the other side of Great Punchard Gill was an oasis of green amongst the surrounding rough moorland.  I decided that it would be worth the climb to get a comfy pitch for the night and the views should be good.  We continued along the track and descended into the Gill, stopping at an old mine building.  I filled up a couple of water bags from the stream, the contents of which was the colour of tea.  It was a long slog up the hill, finally settling on a spot that was reasonable flat and out of sight of the surrounding farms.

It was dull, grey and windy as I started to pitch the Trailstar.  Reuben had taken himself off to build a nest to keep himself warm as he waited for his bed for the night.  Suddenly there was a shift in the clouds and the light transformed my surroundings, the hills being bathed in a warm glow.  The views to the north were absolutely stunning, with gently rolling moorland finally giving way to the North Pennines on the horizon.  There was no man made intrusion to break the horizon.

With the temperature quickly dropping I was glad to get out of the wind.  Wrapped in down I got dinner on whilst trying to keep Reuben off my sleeping bag.  Dressed in his fleecy romper suit he happily wolfed down his dinner and curled contentedly on the foam mat I had brought for him.

Before turning in for the night I took Reuben out to the toilet.  I stood outside for a while, a freezing wind biting straight through me, a bright moon lighting up the moor.  In the distance I could make out the A66 and it looked like vehicles were floating in the air.  The blue flashing light of an emergency vehicle looked totally surreal as it slowly drifted from right to left until it finally vanished.  Soon the cold was unbearable and I sought shelter once again.

Day 2 – 11.4 miles with 400 metres ascent

During the night the breeze dropped completely and the temperature plummeted.  The inside of my shelter and the outside of my sleeping bag was covered in condensation.  In some conditions it does not matter how much ventilation you have, you are still going to get damp.  You can’t get much more ventilation than inside a Trailstar!

I made a cup of coffee and stood outside for a while with Reuben, taking in my surroundings in the crystal clear air.  The corners of the Trailstar were coated in frost, the first of the season.  I was aware though of my proximity to several farms so I decided to pack up and head off early.  A landrover driving across the moor less than a kilometer away spurred me on.

To the north were gin clear skies and almost unlimited views.  However to the south the sky was hazy and milky and it looked like the promised weather front was arriving.  Right in front on me mist started to form on the higher slopes and soon we were walking through thick hill fog across trackless slopes.  The boggy moor reminded me that the season for unlined fell shoes is coming to an end, the freezing water filling them not being particularly pleasant.  We hit the track just before the Punchard coal level as the clouds shifted below us, a sandwich of clear air between clouds above and below.

The security of the track was soon left behind at the old workings and we continued along a narrow trod along the stream until even that fizzled out.  We climbed up and away from the stream through deep heather, the ground full of booby trapped holes.  The going was tough and the landscape exceptionally bleak, mist drifting past only adding to the foreboding.  Even Reuben was not his usual bouncy self as we lurched across the moor.

I spotted a line of grouse butts a few hundred metres away and decided to head towards them.  I reasoned that the George Osborne lookalikes the previous day would not walk too far from their vehicles to shoot a few grouse from the sky.  I was right and was soon walking along a firm track that was cunningly concealed amongst the peat hags.

This led to the head of Gunnerside Gill and a fantastically situated shooting hut which was unfortunately locked.  It looked like it would be a splendid place to spend the night.  The track contoured high above the Gill, giving splendid views despite the gloom.

A long line of walkers approached and they were all rather taken by Reuben in his panniers.  They crowded around him to take photos and he relished all the attention heaped upon him.  His owner found it all rather embarrassing!

A short climb and we passed the devastation at the inappropriately named Merry field, the ground scarred by lead mining leaving a desert of gravel and a few rusting pieces of machinery.  I like bleak but this is a rather charmless place, like a gravel pit stuck on the top of the moors.  a descent into Flincher Gill and another climb through Forefield rake brought us to another scene of bleak devastation.  Reuben was not impressed.

Great Pinseat needed to be bagged, but it was on the other side of a huge drystone wall which I did not want to risk climbing.  I did however manage to touch the trig by extending my pacerpole to its fullest extent and then leaning over the wall.  I think I can still add Great Pinseat to the list.

A track led easily across the moor, giving a quick and easy descent.  We passed a vehicle in a bog which had clearly seen better days.

Calver hill soon came into view with Fremington edge our outward route visible on the horizon.

We dropped down to the narrow moorland road, passing surrender bridge which was in the opening shot of All Creatures great and small.  It’s a lovely spot and would make an ideal place to spend the night in the Bongo.  A series of paths and tracks then led us easily back to the car at Reeth.

Reuben continued to gather many comments as we passed through the village, what had started off as a novelty soon became rather trying as every single person said, “I see you have got him carrying your stuff”.  Reuben however relished all the attention and greeted each and every person as if they were long lost friends.

An early blast of winter on a moorland camp

I woke up confused in the dark, a panicked moment when I could not find my headtorch.  I must have dozed off shortly after eating dinner, meaning to rest for a minute before taking Reuben out to do what dogs have to do.  That minute somehow morphed into an hour.  Wet trail shoes were pulled back on, sucking the warmth out of my feet.  Outside the oversized half moon had risen above the horizon, giving the moor an eerie orange glow.  Reuben sniffed around for a few seconds before heading straight back into the Trailstar, business not attended to.  I stood for a while, the only sign of civilisation being the distant A66, beams of light floating silently across the moor.  As with Reuben the cold soon got to me and I dashed back into my sleeping bag, down jacket kept on in an effort to fight off the first frost I have experienced for a few months.

Backpacking the untrodden delights of Meugher

Whilst researching a potential backpack in the Yorkshire Dales I came across the following entry on Wikipedia:

Meugher is a hill in the Yorkshire Dales, England. It lies in remote country between Wharfedale and Nidderdale, in the parish of Stonebeck Down less than 1 km outside the Yorkshire Dales National Park. The hill has a conical peak, which has been described as “perhaps the remotest and least inviting summit in the Yorkshire Dales”.^[1]

It was the sentence, perhaps the remotest and least inviting summit in the Yorkshire Dales that got my backpacking juices flowing.  Meugher suddenly became a must climb hill and a route was planned that would involve a wade to its summit.  Although I wanted wild and remote I have to admit that I was feeling a little bit lazy so I settled on a short and sweet route mileage wise.

Day 1 – 7.7 miles with 490 metres ascent

Martin Rye was already settled into the village cafe when I arrived in Hebden.  A quick catch up and we then kitted ourselves up for a night on the hills.  Once again Reuben was not going to get away without carrying his own fair share so was fitted with panniers.  This caused a small amount of amusement from the builders eating lunch in their van.  As we walked up the main street it was evident that the unseasonably warm weather had come to a halt, a cold wind was blowing down the valley.

The walk up Hebden Beck is an easy pleasant affair and we soon left civilisation behind.  The lower reaches of the valley are idyllic with a combination of rocky outcrops and lush grassy banks alongside the river.  I would imagine it could be a popular spot for a picnics in the summer.

Further up the atmosphere changes as the track snakes its way into the higher reaches of the valley.  Old mine workings scar the hillsides and spoil heaps makes it feel much more austere.  A young couple approached us carrying a new-born lamb.  They had found it next to its dead mother and decided to take it to the nearest farm.  We confirmed that we had not passed any farm buildings and suggested that they try Yarnbury, only a mile or so away.  Nature can be pretty cruel at times.

A steady climb up above the chimney that dominates these moors and we passed though a lunar landscape.  With a grey sky overhead and the ground devoid of colour due to the presence of industry it was a bleak monochrome experience.

A long straight march along a shooters track took us onto the open spaces of Grassington Moor.  A bleak landscape but much more inviting than that which we had passed.  A large sheepfold next to the beck provided shelter from the breeze and we sat and had lunch whilst contemplating the best way onto the summit of Meugher.  The next few miles would be across the trackless moors.

A gap in the sheepfold had been bridged by a plank of wood on which had been placed a trap.  This was the first of many that we passed on the surrounding grouse moors.  The only place I have seen so many is on the Durisdeer hills in the Southern Uplands.  I find the trapping of so-called ‘vermin’ rather offensive to be honest.  One predator only being replaced by another with lots of money and a gun.  Unfortunately the traps are perfectly legal and probably should not be tampered with.  However occasionally small stones accidentally fall on them which unfortunately set them off.  Shame.

This made me think of one of the best wildlife encounters I have had on the moors.  A few years ago in Northumberland I was sitting having lunch in a small grassy clearing amongst the heather.  A rabbit suddenly ran out of the heather straight towards me, hot on its tail was a stoat.  The pair of them ran literally inches from my foot, unfortunately the encounter over in a couple of seconds.  Anyway I think it was a stoat and not a weasel because weasels are weasily recognised, whereas stoats are stoatally different………….

A feint sheep path was followed alongside Sleet Moor Dike, which had been reduced to a trickle.  Our objective for the day was still hidden behind the moorland ridge on the horizon.

The open moor gave surprisingly easy walking, the vegetation was low and the ground bone dry.  We left the winding stream bed and headed directly across the moor and onto the wide watershed.  We got our first glimpse of Meugher, gently rising above a sea of heather and peat groughs.

We were soon standing next to the trig point on the summit, the final grassy slopes giving surprisingly easy walking.  For a hill lacking in drama and ruggedness it easily makes up in terms of spaciousness and a feeling of isolation.  Even with the honeypots of the Yorkshire Dales only a few miles away I am pretty certain not many people stand at its summit.  There were a couple of patches of grass near the summit that would make good wild camping pitches.  It was tempting to stay the night but the wind was strong and it would have been a long walk to collect drinking water.

We lingered at the summit for a while before making a descent to the west, the bulk of Great Whernside filling the horizon.

The walk towards the watershed at Sandy Gate was tough going with deep heather and peat groughs putting up a good defence.  It would have been torturous climbing in and out of the groughs in wet weather.  We both managed to get across with only damp trail shoes, although large amounts of heather stuck to my socks.  Due to the rough ground any ideas of camping somewhere high en-route to Great Whernside were quickly dismissed and we descended down to Mossdale Beck.

We were spoilt for choice on places to pitch our shelters.  We chose an extensive grassy area next to the stream which thankfully was still running in the dry conditions.  Reuben made it immediately clear that he was tired, curled up in the late afternoon sun he was soon fast asleep.

We pitched our shelters and after collecting water enjoyed the last of the sunshine which would soon dip behind the surrounding hills.  We sat in our respective shelters chatting whilst we cooked dinner and relaxed.  For me the best part of the backpacking experience is when you have pitched and you remove your footwear for the first time.  I am usually happy to simply sit for a couple of hours, mug of coffee in hand whilst enjoying the view.  Simple pleasures.

Winter returned long before darkness had chased the light from the sky.  During a short wander I noticed that frost was already starting to creep from the ground to the corners of the Trailstar.  With every few minutes that passed the frost got higher and higher.  By the time that darkness was setting it both of our shelters were bejewelled by ice.

We had planned to take loads of photos of lit up shelters after darkness fell.  However the intensity of the cold took us both by surprise.  I only managed 10 minutes before the cold drove me back under frozen nylon, Martin did not stay out much longer.

Day 2 – 7.7 miles with 140 metres ascent

It was a cold night and I woke several times feeling the chill air penetrate my many layers.  Next to me Reuben was wrapped in his fleecy PJ’s and a blanket, only his nose poking out.  As the night progressed he slowly got closer, attempting to share my narrow mat.  I’m not sure how cold it got during the night but at one point the thermometer on my watch read minus 4C.  That was inside the Trailstar next to my head.  It may have been even colder outside.

Martin and myself were both up before the sun rose over the hills, the valley deep in shadow and full of frost.  My bivvy bag has a slippery base and I had slid half way down the Trailstar in the night, exposing the end of the bivvy to the elements.  It was covered in a layer of frost.

With a hot drink in my hands and freezing cold trail shoes on my feet I exited my shelter into a still and frigid world.  It was cold but beautiful.

The sun was just beginning to flood into the valley when we packed up.  My Trailstar had doubled in weight overnight, ice coating it inside and out.  A few shakes and the air was filled with falling ice crystals.

It was with relief that we climbed onto the track through the valley, the sun warming our cold bones.

Mossdale scar was still deep in shadows and we did not linger.  Mossdale Beck disappears underground by the cliffs and is the scene of a tragic caving accident.  I started to wonder why Reuben was making the effort of walking through the freezing cold water when I noticed his snout buried in dead rabbit.  Throughout the two days he always managed to find something disgusting to sniff or attempt to chew.  He must get fed up with me yelling at him every time he finds something nasty.  How he has the nerve to turn his nose up at the expensive dog food I buy him?

The track climbed slightly and at its crest we entered limestone country, the austere moors replaced by green pasture and drystone walls.  Wharfedale was spread below us as we descended into a classic Yorkshire Dales landscape.

Above the Dales Way long distance footpath sits an area of limestone pavement, one of my favourite types of landscapes.  We rested for a while in the sun calling our respective partners and snacking.  Martin was keen to get some shots of his new rubble sack Cuben pack for a future blog post so I spent time exploring the immediate area.

We picked up the Dales Way which passes above the limestone valley of Conistone Dib.  We still had the hills to ourselves but we could make out the first lot of day walkers climbing up the valley.

The Dales Way gave quick and easy walking on a path of short springy turf.  You almost glide across its surface and I would imagine it would even be a pleasure to walk barefoot.  We passed a backpacker with an enormous pack, a large day sack strapped to the top, the whole lot towering above his head.  It looked impossibly heavy and I cannot begin to imagine exactly what he was carrying.

We were soon walking the busy streets of Grassington and in search of coffee and fried food.  Reuben caused a bit of a stir with his rucksack and we received lots of comments.  This is the first time that he has worn it in a populated area and it was nice for him to receive lots of attention, however it soon got just a little bit boring and repetitive!  Strange really as without a pack many would view him as a mean Staffy but with it he suddenly became irresistibly cute.

Bellies satisfied we made our way back up through the village and took to a path across the fields to Hebden.  A short and sweet 24 hours in the hills but with some parts feeling surprisingly wild and remote.  It’s easy sometimes to forget just how good the Yorkshire Dales can be.

Bothy then Bongo in the Yorkshire Dales

Driving up through the roadworks on the A1 my eyes kept drifting towards the western horizon.  Was that snow that I could see on the hills in the distance?  Indeed it was and as I approached the Yorkshire Dales the snowy moors rose up around me.

I drove up and down through the Dales village a couple of times before settling on a spot where I would be happy to leave the Bongo overnight.  I then spent an age having a good faff whilst kitting up both myself and Reuben for the wintry conditions on the hills.  It was during this faff that the skies darkened and a wet and sticky snow storm blew in, covering everything in a slushy layer.  I relaxed in the van and ate my lunch until it had passed.

The minor road that left the main street soon turned into a track as it snaked its way up onto the moors.  My rucksack was heavy, for although I had left my tent behind, it had been replaced by several kilos of coal and wood.  I was heading  towards a bothy, the shelter of four walls being preferable to a long night in a tent.  The snow became firmer the higher I climbed, everything covered in what looked like white icing sugar.  The light was lovely as the sun went in and out of the clouds.  One minute the world would have a bluish tint to it, then the snow would have a pink hue as the low sun reflected off it.  The occasional flake of snow would be pushed along on the frigid northerly wind.

The security of the track was left as we headed cross-country across the moors, following a drystone wall.  Reuben was suddenly in his element, he loves being on the open moor.  He bounded up and down through the snow covered heather, his face often being dusted with the white stuff.  I in the meantime proceeded with caution, stumbling over hidden boulders and tussocks.

A hut was spotted below and I went down to investigate.  On the way an extensive marshy area was crossed, a covering of snow hiding the bogs.  Luckily I sloshed across without incident and reached the hut which thankfully was unlocked.  My timing was spot on as just as I stepped inside the world outside disappeared to a wall of white as a heavy snow shower passed over the moor.  It was a lovely spot, but not one to spend the night in the middle of winter as it was lacking a fireplace.  I shouldered my heavy pack and started a steep ascent next to a lively stream frothing with brown peaty water.  Higher up the stream meandered lazily through a flat expanse of moorland and I picked a route alongside it.

The going was tough higher up as I was on the lee of the hill, spindrift from above being deposited in large drifts.  The source of the stream thankfully was not frozen and I filled my water bottles, the cold water burning my fingers.  Reuben discovered a small cornice above the stream and plunged through it with a look of surprise on his face, whilst a smile filled mine.

Thankfully the hut I planned to spend the night in was unlocked.  If it had been locked it would have been a long walk back to the Bongo by torchlight.  Initially I thought that someone was already there as the door was wide open.  It was empty apart from a rabbit seeking shelter, the storm of the previous day probably blowing it open.  With my pack deposited inside I spent a while happily exploring my snowy surroundings.

It was not even four o’clock and the last of the daylight was being chased towards the west.  It was time to go back inside and light a fire.  The few kilos of wood and coal that I had hauled up with me was dwarfed by the pile of logs and coal already sitting next to the fireplace.  However Bothy karma dictates that you should always bring in fuel if you can.  Bothy karma points are deducted if you don’t do this and one day you end up shivering in a cold bothy with no fire.  A healthy blaze was soon lifting the temperature in the drafty building by almost a quarter of a degree and I added to the warmth by lighting my stove to consume numerous hot drinks and plentiful food.  After a few hours the temperature was raised to a positively balmy three degrees and the ice melted from the windows.  The moon shone through the windows with an eerie glow and I once again found myself outside, mug of coffee in hand to take in the frigid night atmosphere, high on the hills and with civilisation glittering far off in the distance.

The concrete floor was far from inviting to sleep on, even with a down mat.  I pushed two benches together to make a narrow rudimentary sleeping platform, just wide enough to place my mat and sleeping bag.  Reuben kept eyeing it up, his body language requesting that he be invited to snuggle up with me.

It was rather toasty laying near the fire whilst reading my kindle until late into the night.  Every hour or so I would have to get up to throw a little more coal on the fire.  In the end sleep caught up with me and the fire went out, the chill soon rising from the concrete floor and stone of the building.  Darkness itself never really came with the moon reflecting off the snow through the large windows.

I awoke to a change of colour through the window, a promise that dawn was about to break in a spectacular fashion.  Encased in my down jacket I got up and lit my stove to make a coffee before setting about bringing the fire back to life.  The next hour or so was spent watching a rather special sunrise, punctuated by frequent trips to the fire to thaw out.  Reuben was suitably unimpressed by the light show outside, the fire providing him with what he appeared to be craving.  Warmth.

I quickly packed up after several cups of coffee and a steaming bowl of supernoodles, the breakfast choice of kings.  I have to admit that I then rather disgraced myself.  The toilet round the back was much more inviting than walking across the moor and digging a hole.  It even had running water, soap and a nice fluffy towel.  I should have realised flushing would be an issue with the cistern being outside and it being rather on the cold side.  I left feeling rather ashamed after writing my apologies in the visitors book!

The walk back to the Bongo was entirely downhill and I was back in just over an hour, a great snow-covered, blue sky start to the day.

I rather fancied a day walk, a visit to a summit without being weighed down by a backpacking sack.  I was a little unsure as to the condition of the roads leading up across the moors towards some of the higher hills.  I therefore decided that it would be prudent to stick to the main roads through the valleys.  In the end I drove to the lovely little Dales village of West Burton where I left the Bongo next to the village green.  I have to admit that I risked the life of the Bongo on the way by following a land rover through a large section of flooded road a couple of feet deep.  My heart was in my mouth during the crossing, leaving a series of waves in my wake, the cars behind being sensible and turning around.

Following the lane of Morpeth Gate out of the village I was in a much greener world than I had woken up in.  A rise in temperatures meant that any low level snow had quickly melted leaving the ground waterlogged.  After spending nearly twenty four hours surrounded by white hills, the green fields suddenly felt rather drab.

As the track climbed up to a shelf above the valley the snow was met once more, puddles frozen over.  There was a moment of panic in Reubens eyes as he attempted to cross a flooded section of track which was frozen.  Half way across the ice started giving way and he found himself up to his elbows in freezing muddy water.  He soon learnt to avoid frozen puddles.  The peace was then shattered by four huge green rumbling Chelsea tractor things thudding past complete with chinless occupants in their ‘country’ clothing.  Soon afterwards there was the sound of shotguns from behind as feathered / fluffy wildlife was blasted off the hillside.

I had thought about spending the evening in the bongo at the summit of the moorland road between West Witton and Melmerby.  However the steep bends were covered in a layer of snow and ice as I walked past, not a place to take a two tonne campervan.  A right of way leads from the road to Penhill Beacon which a man with his two dogs had just started ascending.  I watched as his dogs scattered sheep across the hillside whilst he bellowed ineffectively at them.  He had passed me on the narrow lane earlier at some speed, wheels spinning as I held Reuben into the verge.  As he was clearly a bit of a dick I decided to avoid him and took a longer route to the Beacon, Reuben on the look out for rabbits, whilst the mans obscenities drifted across the hillside.

Thankfully he had disappeared by the time I reached the substantial cairn and I stopped to have a chat with a guy and his two sons who were out snowboarding.  I followed the defined edge above Penhill Scar towards the trig point, excellent views across the snow fringed Wensleydale.

I realised that the blog has been lacking ‘Reuben on a trig point’ photographs recently so I tried to encourage him to pose for one.  He declined and instead crouched on it looking mournful at the indignity of it all.

Not long after Black Scar the set of footprints that I had been following through the snow suddenly disappeared and the terrain became rougher as I approached Height of Hazely.  I decided to break away from the edge of the plateau and walk directly to the unmarked summit.  This was a big mistake as I bashed through deep snow covered heather, occasionally plunging into boggy pools of water.  With both boots full of freezing water I began to curse at my lack of progress, realising that it would soon be dark.  Even Reuben appeared to have had enough and I heard him whine a couple of times when I stopped.  Visually though it was lovely on the snowy moors with the sun disappearing and clouds building.

With the featureless summit attained there was more frustratingly rough moorland to cross before I intersected the bridleway down into the valley of Walden Beck.  Half way down the gathering clouds expelled a shower of rain and I stopped to pull on my waterproof trousers.  Reuben also stopped, looked at me in a dejected way, turned around three times and curled up with a sigh.  It was clear that his initial excitement at being in the hills had diminished.

Back at the van he was happy to curl up on the backseat and be covered with a blanket.  I now had to seek out a quiet spot to park up for the night, somewhere I would not be disturbed.  Usually I would head for the moors, but did not want to risk ice or snow covered roads.  In the end I parked up in the car park of a local nature reserve near Askrigg.  A comfy night followed as I lay in my sleeping bag watching ‘Breaking bad‘ on my iPad, Reuben curled up on the seat having doggy dreams.

In the morning I opened the door to a completely different world, almost all of the snow had been stripped from the hills by a night of heavy rain.  With the snow gone and the hills covered in a grey blanket my enthusiasm for heading for the heights had diminished.  I decided that it was time to head for home.  With flooded fields and the hillsides flowing with water I thought that first it would be good to have a quick daunder along the River Ure and visit Aysgarth falls.  This turned out to be an excellent decision as the river was in full spate, turning the waterfalls into raging torrents.  The power of the water roaring down the small falls was rather impressive.

The weekend had been a hastily thrown together ‘Plan B’ after storms had made visiting the Highlands rather dangerous.  The night in the bothy however turned out to be one of those memorable moments in the hills.

Here is a video I put together of my night in the bothy on the moors, unfortunately the wind played havoc with the sound in places.