One Summer's Day

From Fell-Top to Valley Oasis

It is already hot when the train leaves the station; one of those British Rail Pacers that make the rail network of the English north feel like it’s trapped in a time warp. Part train, part bus, part tin-can. If I fell asleep I’d only be half surprised to wake up in the mid-1980s.

With the smell of diesel perfuming the stale air I gaze out the window at the (happily distracting) views. The land is in full bloom. A tapestry of green fields shadow-dappled by cotton clouds that drift in the breeze through a sky of brilliant blue. We chug over the Lune between the villages of Arkholme and Melling and then follow the River Wenning as it meanders its way east. The high ground of the Yorkshire Dales rises in the distance; nearby lie the fells of Bowland, somehow forbidding and bleak even in the brightness of a summer’s day.

Soon, we arrive at Clapham where Topsy and I alight. Passing the old station hotel we jog the mile to the village and take in supplies at the small shop. Between us and our destination lies two large lumps of Yorkshire Limestone and some twenty-odd miles of trail; the sort of run that will demand the regular intake of cake. But at the end there will be cold beer, and a night under canvas.

As ever, Topsy leads as we follow the Beck towards the caves which reach several kilometres into the limestone here. Most of this subterranean system is rightly the domain of experienced cavers, but at the Beck-head the purchase of a ticket grants access to a small part of the network. It is popular today, a line building at the ticket office, the cave’s cool chambers clearly an attractive place in which to seek respite from the building heat.

But we aren’t stopping and instead push on towards one of the most striking features of our route: Trow Gill, an ice-age meltwater channel carved through the landscape millennia ago. The Gill is a portal to another world. One minute the air is cool and damp, the deep ravine enclosed by a rainforest in miniature. The next, you’re on the windswept moors with meadow pipits dancing and singing.

The first real challenge of the day is approaching – the distinctive summit of Ingleborough. It is a slog up the fell’s flank, the sort of ascent that rewards a good rhythm. Not too steep, and not too long. But on this hot summer’s day it is sweaty work. Topsy is patient with me, periodically stopping to wait until the gradient eases and we’re able to pick up the pace between ‘Little Ingleborough’ and the main summit.

And then we’re there, on the table-top plateau, site of an Iron-age hill fort, the ruined ramparts of which lay crumbling all around. It can be a disorientating place, especially in a winter white out. But I have run it so many times that I have an internal compass which steers me unerringly towards the summit shelter.

We rest. It is time for cake, and for contemplation. The remains of the day now lie before us – the steep descent to the River Doe and then on to the second climb where we must regain all the height just lost. Past old farms - forts that have withstood centuries of storms - we head for Whernside, the highest point in the Yorkshire Dales.

It’s busy on the top, the hill occupied by herds of Yorkshire three-peakers (I overhear one complain about the lack of rubbish bins on the summit, as though this outcrop of time-scarred limestone was a suburban Victorian park). We stop only briefly and, leaving the crowds to their well-earned picnics, set out towards our destination, the Dales village of Dent.

Our route drops gently off the hill and then picks up an ancient trackway before descending into an oasis, a verdant valley, our home for the night. Its appeal to the Norse settlers who first arrived here in the 10^th century is obvious.

My legs ache, and I am drenched in sweat. I want to stop; I want to collapse. But there is one more thing I must do before I pitch the tent and seek ale at the Sun Inn (serving weary travellers since the 16th century). I have promised Topsy a reward for her path-finding – a swim – and at the village edge, within sight of the medieval church, I find the perfect spot. Unleashed, she dashes in and strikes for the centre of the Dee, the waters of which ultimately run into the Lune and then flow out to sea where our day began. I paddle in after her and, at last, sit down to be washed by the fell-fresh current. Tomorrow we will trace a route back home. But that can wait. It has been a good day.