Three Yorkshire Peaks… no Yorkshire Tea

Simone Scott
Jul 24, 2017 · 7 min read

A tale from my latest adventure… and good fodder for this week’s writing challenge…

My ‘intrepid’ adventures are more often than not solo (ahh, poor child), and (as a result of this lack of supervision) often filled with mishaps, extreme faffing, incessant mental chatter and an impressively incompetent dose of ‘diversions’. During my latest adventure, however, I was blessed with the company of my dear friends Bec and Mark, along with Bec’s Dad Chris (herein referred to as Papa B). I’d got wind of the trio’s plans to run the famous Yorkshire Three Peaks and invited myself along to gatecrash the family fun. Shy bairns get nowt as we say…

I left the stiflingly hot shores of Greece on Sunday afternoon, full of excitement at the prospect of some cool English countryside air, a nice ‘leg-stretch’, and a much-needed reunion with old friends. I received a great British welcome home in the form of a rail replacement bus service from the airport to Bolton where I was due to change trains. The cordial welcome was extended with the cancellation of my connection. Ah, UK transport network, how I’ve missed you! So now what? I took a walk in to town in search of a Great British cuppa, which involved running a pungent gauntlet past a gang of skunk-dealing locals and on to… the UK Ironman finishing line. I’d completely forgotten this was happening. An unexpected treat and quite a contrast in the space of fifty steps! No tea to be found, but I consoled myself with mutual tears of joy as I watched the triumphant Ironfolk cross the line for their much-deserved moments of glory. With plans for a return to long-distance multi-sports beginning to simmer in my excited brain, I thought it best to put them on the cerebral backburner and get back to the tasks at hand. A phone call from Bec (‘just get to Blackburn!’) was followed by a sprint finish of my own through Skunk Street and back to the station. I eventually landed in Blackburn, spotting the comfortably familiar sight of Bec and Mark’s adventure wagon — AKA their trusty Passat — careering around the corner. I (surprisingly) did not cry, despite the excitement and relief at seeing my friends/surrogate parents/former landlords/drinking partners after a break that has seen a few big life changes on both sides. We happily chattered our way along the country roads, with Mark simultaneously attempting to break the land-speed record, soon arriving in the delightful market town of Settle… happily settled on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales National Park and home to Bec’s parents.

Monday morning brought blazing sun, zero breeze and a painful achilles tendon; not what I’d selected from the ‘perfect long-distance running conditions’ brochure, but I was stubbornly/stupidly determined to do this. A quick run through my kit: Bec’s home-made energy bars? Check. Water bladder affixed upside down so as to be completely useless? Check. Stink out the family home and ruin everyone’s breakfast with a liberal application of Tiger Balm? Check, check, check…

All smiles at the start

Setting off from Dale Head, we trotted up peak number one — the impressive flat slab of Pen-Y-Ghent. Clear skies provided stunning views in every direction, which we soaked up as we slogged our way up the 694 meter ascent. A combination of running, trotting and walking, accompanied by Bec updating me on the latest news, local knowledge from Papa B, and a liberal dusting of expletives all round saw us reach the top slightly sooner than expected. We touched the trig point, paused for a team photograph, and chatted with a group of Duke of Edinburgh hikers before beginning our descent towards the village of Horton-in-Ribblesdale.

At the top of Pen-Y-Ghent… still smiling

As ever, my pensioner-like brain had jumped ahead to our first stopping point. My aching backside was already smugly settled in to a cosy chair in the tea rooms, with my clammy paws clutching a freshly-brewed cup of Yorkshire Tea. But first, the descent. A nice steady one, and the sight of the Horton café in the distance brought a flutter of excitement… until my soft focus, tinkly music accompanied dreams were cruelly shattered by a ‘closed until Wednesday’ sign on the door. Not funny. Oh well, literally onwards and upwards, only seven miles until the next stop… at a pub! Hurrah!

Fuelled by warm slurry (which had started the day as a peanut butter energy bar), we trudged our way up the steeper (723 meter) incline of Ingleton. A breeze showed its face, delivering a slight headwind, but nice to have some air nonetheless. After a long slog to the top we paused for another photo opportunity before beginning our unconventional descent through the long grasses, which scarily camouflaged some seriously deep holes. I giggled as Mark daintily skipped his way down the hill, whilst I managed to avoid any tumbles, my Bambi-like gait somehow keeping me upright for the entire descent.

Two down! Ingleton done…

Then… is it a mirage? No, it’s definitely a pub! We bounded along to Chapel-le-Dale, ready for our break and catch up point with our valiant Sherpa — AKA Bec’s lovely Mum, Anne — or so we thought… We’d hit another snag, with a ‘breakdown in communications’ meaning no Anne and a ‘never-plan-an-adventure-for-a-Monday’ meaning ‘pub closed on Monday’. Cue a near sense of humour failure and a chorus of ‘FFSs’ all round, but yet again onwards and upwards…

Stalling for time at the foot of Whernside

By this time I was really feeling the hills in my achilles, with my legs rapidly beginning to morph in to the ‘cankles’ of a Beryl Cook creation. Not comfortable and not pretty. Papa B made the Dad-like decision that I wouldn’t be ascending the third and final peak — Whernside — today; with elaborately exaggerated completion ETAs on his part making the lure of the short-cut a no-brainer for me. I felt gutted but knew it was the right thing to do. I sensed an air of relief all-round — my circumvention of peak three meaning a speedier finish for all. Papa B nobly sacrificed his own achievements and accompanied me for the walk round the base of Whernside — a scenic stroll in itself — as the grand Ribblehead Viaduct drew ever closer. Many a time I’ve admired it on television, but close up it really is a sight to behold. Sensing my thirst for railway-based historical facts, Papa B duly obliged with an impressive volley of knowledge about this majestic feat of industrial engineering.

Ribblehead Viaduct — geek fodder indeed

Passing under the viaduct, we emerged in a state of geeky bliss towards the Old Hall Inn. No showstoppers on this occasion; the sight of suntanned punters happily slurping sturdy pints of ale in the beer garden brought me as much joy as that of the viaduct. The friendly, former rugby-playing landlord — himself the size of Whernside — happily poured a pint of ale for Papa B and a rock n’roll coffee for me as we propped up the bar, chatting to fellow punters and celebrating our day. Papa B removed his buff headscarf to reveal the effect of today’s bright sun… either that or he’d spray-painted his forehead ice-white and face vermillion whilst I’d popped to the loo. Two-tone and so on-trend.

Bec & Mark atop Whernside

I popped out mid-rejoice to see if our chariot or team-mates were anywhere to be seen. Yes! Red flashes from either side of my peripheral vision — Anne’s red Skoda approaching from the east and Bec’s panting red face from the west. Great timing! Bec and Mark thundered their way to the finishing point for a grand reunion with a celebratory ice cream (yes, the kiosk was open!)

Reunited!

We were all happy. Anne was reunited with her family; I’d experienced a mishap-free adventure; Papa B enjoyed a pint of ale; Mark completed peak three in his ‘I only run at one pace’ (i.e. fast), and Bec deservedly devoured an ice-cream bigger than her torso. We somehow crammed our aching, sweaty and sun-kissed limbs back in to the Skoda for the chug home to Settle. Excited chatter about our achievements and the heady prospect of an evening full of home-cooked sustenance making for a rapid return.

So I came here for some cool air, to experience the beauty of the English countryside, for an adventure and to spend time with friends. Three out of four is pretty good going, I’d say…

I’ll be back to complete all three in October. Watch this space!

Simone Scott

Written by

Freelance writer, yoga guide and project manager… a curious combo. Loves walking, running, biking, travel, drinking tea, chatting and faffing.

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