Dawn broke over Abbot's House Farm on day 2 of our expedition. Before long we were out of the (soaked) tent and preparing our breakfasts. Never have beans and bacon been so tasty. Fully rejuvenated, we packed up our tents and were soon back on our way - 'back' being the operative word, as we retraced our steps to the crossroads we had passed on the previous day. From there, it was back to the moors again, and our first climb of the day.
We descended to the road rather too early and so had to negotiate a stream of oncoming cyclists, who seemed to remain indefatigably cheerful, despite their appalling fashion sense (perhaps they were copying Mr Street ...). Soon, we reached Hunt House. Clearly time for a snack (I mean, we had been walking for about an hour!)
The paths, or what remained of them, soon led us back onto the moors. This rather pointless detour was added at the route-planning stage for the sole reason of passing a house called 'John O'Groats'. This turned out to be a derelict shack. Such is life!
As we reached the boundary of some Forestry Commission land, we met Mr Street and Mr Parry. We escaped as soon as possible and set off into the forest. On previous expeditions, we have had bad experience of the Forestry Commission, who seem to plant and cut down areas of forest willy-nilly, rendering the map useless. On this occasion however, they had refrained from playing havoc with our route. Before too long, we emerged from the forest at Wheeldale Bridge. Spotting the school minibus, we decided it was clearly time for another snack. I attempted to make a cheese and pickle sandwich from the provisions in my rucksack, with limited success.
Soon we were back on course, climbing the 43 metres (was it really that little?) to our chosen footpath. The beautifully named Sod Fold Slack appeared to be running pretty dry, as were most of the other streams we passed. At the brow of the hill, we turned westwards across Wheeldale Moor. The path was uphill, very long and badly surfaced. On the other hand, these three characteristics seemed to apply to most of the paths we walked on ...
After some hard walking, we reached "Blue Man-i'-th'-Moss". It appeared to us to be more like "Dull Grey Stone-i'-th'Heather". Confronted by another expanse of moor, we decided to step up the pace, and so (after another cheese and pickle sandwich) we set off westwards once more. The road arrived even quicker than we had hoped for, and a check of our watches confirmed that we had been walking at something like 6 km/h - for us, tantamount to a sprint! At the junction, we met up with the assessor. Amazingly, we seemed to be keeping to schedule for every checkpoint - and considering our appalling time-keeping in the Brecon Beacons, this was no mean feat.
There was no time to gloat over our achievements yet, though - we still had a lot of walking to go. Northdale Rigg lay ahead of us, so we plodded on ...
... Some time later, we were descending into the valley that had inconsiderately been placed in our way. Our spirits were not improved by the towering form of Bell Top above us. To say that the road up the aforementioned hill was steep would be a huge
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At Bell End we had the dilemma of whether to take the 'high road' or the 'low road' to Low Thorgill Farm. We chose the low road (as we had originally planned), and were immediately to regret the decision. One streams, two muddy banks and several hundred cows later, we arrived somewhat more bedraggled, at the campsite.
The teachers had beaten us to it, but no-one else appeared to be about at the farm. When a woman finally appeared, we were informed of the facilities. These seemed to mainly consist of the stream. Toilet - the stream. Washing water - the stream (hopefully the latter upstream of the former). Drinking water - well, thankfully there was a tap, although it was rather a hike up to the farm. The owner further regaled us with tales of what would happen if - horror of horrors - we were to go into the farm buildings. Once someone had interfered with the milking machines and 'a river of milk had flowed through the farm' - and this was clearly not to be forgotten. Things looked up however, when Mr Street was reprimanded for riding his bike along the footpath (oh, how we laughed).
The midges were back in force, and this campsite had the added bonus of assorted cow-pats. Frankly, compared to the first campsite, it was a dump. My hourly weather measurements (qv) showed the temperature was still quite warm. Despite this, it felt freezing cold and so we soon retired to bed. As we slept, the beginning of a blister on my toe began to swell ominously. It was perhaps an omen of things to come...
Matthew Mayer