On a blustery Saturday morning in early June a group of eleven and one small dog, Dodja, climbed aboard the minibus to Appletreewick, our base for the first three days of the Dales Way. David and Angela had gone earlier in the morning to set up camp. It was unseasonally windy, the gusts being felt by the minibus as it ploughed its way up the busy M6. By the time we arrived at Masons Campsite in the beautiful area that is Appletreewick (pronounced Apwick by some) the wind was bending the trees over, branches were snapping off and carnage was being done to tents and shelters in the camp. While David and Angela had been struggling to put up tents others were abandoning their weekend camp and returning home. Conditions were so difficult that David and Angela had only managed to put up five tents and had decided to abandon any idea of erecting the shelters. Sending the group off to the nearest pub, the Craven Arms, the three of us battled the winds to erect the rest of the tents.

It was clear by the time we had finished that we would not be able to cook without a shelter; the wind would constantly blow the stoves out. Neither of the pubs in Appletreewick could take us but the Red Lion in Burnsall, a couple of miles down the road, bent over backwards to accommodate us if we were prepared to eat early and release the table by 8.00pm. I can’t think of many pubs that would be so willing to help, particularly as they had 130 cyclists arriving during the course of the evening. The meal was excellent and made up for the poor conditions back at camp. As the evening drew on the winds abated but the temperature dropped well into single figures sending people off to their tents well before it got properly dark. Some would find the night cold as their sleeping bags were not designed for such low temperatures, but who would have expected a ground frost in June?

The following morning dawned early and bright. Curlews seemed to be calling all night and one of the first birds to make its presence known in the morning was a noisy oyster catcher squawking loudly as it flew over the camp. There was an air of anticipation as we prepared for our first day of walking but the conversation never strayed far from talking about how cold it had been. Kath had a particularly cold night and, upon inspection of her sleeping bag, it was hardly surprising. She brightened up when I swapped my sleeping bag for hers but it took a while for her to warm up, both physically and to the adventure she had embarked upon.

After breakfast we travelled to Ilkley and the official starting point of the Dales Way at the Old Bridge over the River Wharfe. Ilkley Moor looked enticing, hovering above the town, and had we had more time we might have been tempted to explore but we had a walk to do.

We were following the River Wharfe all day, 12 miles back to camp through some really spectacular English countryside. We were soon out of the town and walking along beautiful, tree-lined stretches of the river with hills rising on all sides. In amongst the rural landscape were some magnificent stone built houses surrounded by expansive manicured grounds; houses built by wealthy industrialists from the mill towns of Yorkshire. At Addingham, an hour or so into the walk, the once industrial mills that hummed with the sound of machinery, are now converted into desirable dwellings, largely for those who are prepared to commute daily to Leeds and Bradford, or for those who can afford a second home, rural retreat. The conversions are good and have turned what would have been derelict buildings into something much more attractive and useful.

This stretch of the first day, because it was easily accessible and had a number of attractions, was quite busy at times. It was, after all, a Sunday on a summer’s day. The people increased as we neared the stunning ruins of Bolton Abbey. Angela met us there and we enjoyed our picnic lunch among the well manicured ruins. For those less interested in ancient ruins, the river provides a playground for children of all ages, with stoney beaches leading to shallow waters that are safe to play in.  Here, there is also the challenge of crossing the river by stepping stones, although there is a bridge for those less willing to expose themselves to the possibility of falling in. We all chose the more adventurous option and it was Steve, and then Ann, who very nearly came a cropper. Steve wobbled mid river and, for a while lost his nerve. My camera, set to video mode, waited to capture the moment. A young boy offered to go out to him to “motivate” him. We didn’t want him motivated! We wanted him wet! Composing himself, he regained his balance and confidence to finish the crossing, as did Ann who had a similar mid river wobble. Shortly after the group crossed a young woman obliged us by satisfying our thirst for action, falling in fully clothed. She survived, but I am not sure whether her phone did.

The crowds were never very far away as this area has many circular walks linking Bolton Abbey with the next attraction, the Strid, a section of river that is squeezed through a narrow limestone gorge. The Strid has been the downfall of many a hot head who cannot turn down the temptation of jumping across the narrow gap. It is quite narrow in places, maybe a couple of metres but the two sides are not level, making the jump more difficult than it may appear. The water rushes through the narrow gap, which is almost 100m long but is 10m deep. The currents swirl around and anybody unfortunate enough to fall in tends to get sucked under and by the time they emerge they have long drowned. Not pleasant.

At Barden Bridge the attraction was not the beautiful stone bridge, a feature to be repeated many times on this walk, but the ice cream we all enthusiastically bought and savoured.

The last couple of miles to camp took us along a stretch of river with sand martins nesting in the earth banks. It was fascinating watching them swoop into their tiny holes without a second thought. Having delivered their tasty catch of insects to their young, secure in the depths of their nest, the adults perched on the edge before swooping off in search of more food. A goosander entertained us as it dived and later emerged a long way from its entry point. A quick shake of the head and off it dived again in search of food. It eats fish, but as we had struggled to see any fish in the river all day, and on subsequent days for that matter, it probably had to spend much of its time seeking them out. I put down the lack of sightings, not to the banana skin that Steve accidentally threw into the river killing them all, but to the peatiness of the water that may not be particularly suitable for fish to thrive in. The banana skin would not have helped. However, there must be fish in there as we did see the occasional fisherman standing in the middle of the river casting his fly. We never saw them catch anything.

Camp had calmed down a lot and many weekenders had gone home by the time we arrived. David and I put up the shelter and normal service was quickly resumed, with tea brewed, cake shared, wine and beer on offer and dinner cooking. It was still very cold in the evening and the night time temperature was forecast to drop to 2 degrees. Kath would undoubtedly be warm in my sleeping bag. Would I survive the night in hers?

It was a little cool at times but, importantly, Kath had a good night and was in good spirits for the 12 mile walk ahead of her. Logistics were easy with us walking from camp, continuing along the river to Burnsall where we had eaten so well on the evening of our arrival. On the approach to Burnsall we crossed an area of beautifully kept grassland which appeared to be a car park, although no cars were parked on it when we passed through. The sign by the entrance, and thus the point at which we left the ground, there was a sign advising us of the various charges. The pedestrian tariff was £1 but nobody challenged us for it. The sign held some amusement for us with its variation on spelling. Clearly part of the Yorkshire dialect!

Continuing along the river, which still had no apparent fish in it, we came to a suspension bridge with adjacent stepping stones. Most opted for the thrill of the bridge, but Gerry tested her nerve with the stepping stones and nearly came to grief on a wobbly one, causing her to possibly regret her decision. Dodja, carried in the arms of Ann, was none too happy crossing the bridge.

Stopping to pause by the falls at Linton, not overly impressive, we headed into Grassington, an attractive, if not touristically twee, Yorkshire market village. A range of shops and cafes lined the main street and we took advantage of one of the cafes for a restful coffee while we bought Kath a second sleeping bag and Kevin bought himself a very “country gent” flat cap. He was obviously so impressed with the “wally award” flat cap presented each day to the person who most deserved it, he couldn’t wait for that honour to befall him and took matters into his own hands, or should I say on his own head?

One shop worthy of a visit was the butchers with its range of award winning pork pies. It would be a wasted opportunity if we did not try them and judge them for ourselves, so I bought a couple, fully prepared to share them at lunchtime. While I was buying pies others were buying chocolate and other such confectionaries, all designed to delay our continuation of the walk. David, not tempted by such treats, was not feeling too well and decided to abandon his walk in favour of returning to camp for some recovery time.

The route now left the river and climbed up to open moorland with exposed patches of limestone pavement carved smooth and crenelated by centuries of water erosion. In among the nooks and crannies brightly coloured flowers sprouted. Despite the nature of the landscape it was still criss-crossed with the ever-present drystone walls, each with their complicated system of combined stile and heavily sprung gate, making crossing them anything but smooth and dignified.

We were now high above Wharfedale walking between two escarpments, one above and one below, with stunning views up the valley towards Kettlewell and across the valley towards Kilnsey Crag, an attraction to anybody with an inclination to climb. Little dots could be seen inching their way up the crag. There is a particularly difficult overhang on the left hand side, which requires a lot of skill to climb through.

Stopping briefly for photos on Conistone Pie, a small outcrop of rock, just begging to be ascended for the views it gave and the opportunity to rest and appreciate where we were.

Descending into Kettlewell, an attractive village with three pubs, a couple of cafes and a shop that transports you back to the 1950s with its floor to ceiling wooden shelving. It was not only a shop but a museum to everything that was good about the village shop and the importance it held for the community. This one patronised local producers and while it may have been a little more expensive, the quality was excellent and a lot more friendly than our supermarkets!

The following morning we set out from Kettlewell to cover the 16+ miles to Gearstones, trekking along the upper reaches of the River Wharf, over the watershed at Cam Houses and down towards the spectacular viaduct at Ribblehead.

A coffee break at the pub in Hubberholme, something I dreamt about from the start of the walk, remained a dream as it was closed on Tuesdays. Why a Tuesday? It was made worse by the fact that the landlord stuck his head out of the window to confirm, with a smile, that he was closed. Instead, we sat by the river looking across at the closed pub and ate a snack. We also took the opportunity to take a look at the church with its ‘mouse’ furniture.

Above Yockenthwaite the valley narrowed and the sides steepened. The now much narrower River Wharfe tumbled over a bed of limestone, at times disappearing underground, leaving an exposed bed of water smoothed rock dotted with small pots.  A collection of stones trapped in the bottom of each pot act as erosive tools when the river is much fuller.

As we climbed gently up towards Cam Houses we passed Nethergill Outdoor Activity Centre. We did not exactly pass it. A sign outside advertising hot and cold drinks and homemade flapjack was too much of a draw. It was a help yourself, DIY place with an honesty box. It provided some welcome respite.

The river was no more than a mountain stream and the path took us across boggy tributaries. Above Cam Houses the path joined the Pennine Way as it descended towards Gearstones on a wide gravel track built for lorries to take logs from the forest that covers the watershed area. Ahead of us was the Ribblehead viaduct with its many arches carrying the Settle to Carlisle railway, upon which the group would travel on their rest day while David, Angela and I moved camp from Appletreewick to Dent.

In the morning Angela took the group to Settle to catch the train, not as comfortable an experience as it might have been. The train was full and without reserved seats, Claire found herself sitting on the luggage rack with a restricted view of the countryside passing by. None of the gentlemen in our party proved to be gentlemen!

David and I finished the packing up at Masons before heading off to Dent. Masons Campsite, although quite expensive had excellent facilities and was a lovely flat site. I certainly would not hesitate to return if the need arose.

High Laning Campsite in Dent was equally flat, much less crowded with good facilities. Views all around were beautiful and the sun set down the valley, making sure it was light until after 10.00pm. Margaret, who ran the site, was a lovely down to earth character, always eager for a chat and keen to know about us.

The next day was the longest walking day as the minibus returned us to Gearstones, leaving us to walk beyond camp to Sedburgh, a distance of a little over 18 miles. Sadly, I forgot my camera on this day so was limited to the few I could take on my phone before the battery ran out. We climbed up over rough moorland, with curlews flying noisily to distract us from going too near their nests. At Dent Head we chose not to walk for three miles along the road into Dent Dale but to take the higher, much more attractive route over the tops and via a terrace overlooking the length of Dentdale. It added a little more to the distance but it was worth it just for the views.

Descending into the valley we now followed the River Dee. On the tops there was a cooling breeze but now that we were in the valley it was hot. It was a gloriously sunny day and for much of the walk there was no respite from the sun. The path crossed many field boundaries, each one necessitating us to cross a stile or pass through a gate made for a stick thin person, not a slightly broad adult male carrying a rucksack! People were beginning to run out of water, so I phoned ahead to Angela to meet us at Dent Bridge with the minibus and supplies of water and snacks to keep us going. It was here that we also met Peter and Cynthia Hardyman who were joining us for two days. They should have joined us earlier but because of a series of miscommunications we missed each other at various points along the way. It was good to see them now that they have moved to Yorkshire.

From Dent Bridge we had just another four and a half miles to go to reach Sedbergh. The going was easy so I put my foot down and set a good pace, believing that the group would relish getting it done sooner rather than later. It came as a bit of a shock to Peter and Cynthia causing Cynthia to ask, “Do you not stop to take photos?” Not when you have forgotten your camera! We were not actually finishing in Sedbergh but in the picturesque village of Millthrop on the near side of the river and noted for its very colourful gardens. Before we descended into the village we did take time to relax on the hillside and admire the view looking across at Sedbergh and the Howgills beyond. In the late afternoon sun the light was stunning highlighting so many shades of green. It was a disappointment to have to get up and leave the view behind.

The evenings in Dent were much warmer and sitting in camp, chatting and laughing was very pleasant, although we were plagued a little by midges, which eventually drove us to retire to our tents, and the fact that we might also be a little tired after the day’s activity.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny with the prospect of it remaining so throughout the day. Our route initially took us through the grounds of Sedbergh School along side a grass running track marked our for the summer term. It was impossible to resist, and thus proceeded one of the funniest events of the whole trip. Dropping our rucksacks, we took our positions behind the start line. There was Geraldine ‘Go-Faster’ Poole, Steve ‘Speedy’ Crowcroft, John ‘The Geriatric’ Walton and Guy ‘ The Nearly Gotcha’ Busher. The cameras were out to catch this epic event. Thomas, now recovered, held the stop-watch at the finish line, which seemed a hell of a long way off. (I thought the 100m was a sprint, not a long distance race!) Warming up I tried the athletic standing jump, bringing knees up to the chest. Unfortunately something got in the way and my feet hardly left the ground. We took our marks, Ann counted us down and we were off. The top half of my body wanted to go much faster than my legs and it took every ounce of my strength to stay upright while Crowcroft and Busher disappeared in the distance. Now my target was not to be beaten by a woman so I put in a herculean effort which disheartened Poole and forced her to quit after 50m. At least I was going to get the bronze medal. There was no point in trying to catch up as Crowcroft spurned a last gasp surge by Busher to win in 18.05secs. Busher was close behind and I came in third. Thomas referred to his calendar for my time. It was great fun and entertainment for those watching but left the participants knackered and demanding supplementary oxygen.

The race killed a little time and gave Peter and Cynthia time to meet up with us. We were heading for Burnside, close to Kendal. It seemed strange that having left the Dales behind in favour of the Lake District, we were still walking the Dales Way. The scenery was very different and not at all Dales like.The route we took undulated through the valleys of the Rivers Rawthey, Lune and Mint, through many meadows of buttercups in full bloom.

Soon the noise of the M6 motorway could be heard as traffic ploughed north to Scotland and south to the industrial North-West and beyond. Before crossing the motorway we came across a cottage providing hot and cold drinks, scones, toasted sandwiches and Magnum ice-creams. The opportunities for unscheduled stops had been few and far between so when they did occur we had to stop, refresh ourselves and help the local economy. This was a welcome break sitting on the lawn in a shady patch of garden, watching the traffic on the motorway and the trains on the adjacent railway line – very tranquil but for those elements.

Much of the remainder of the route, like that that we had covered so far in the day, was across pastureland and meadows with its usual array of gates and stiles. We proved yet again that the guide book distances are not as accurate as they might be and that what should have been, according to the guide book, a 15.9 mile walk, turned out to be closer to 18 miles. Nevertheless, we met up with Angela in Burnside in good time and, having said our farewells to Peter and Cynthia, enjoyed the hour long drive back to camp in Dent for another pleasantly warm evening.

The last day was a short one, supposedly nine and half miles from Burnside to Bowness, but, in fact, more like eleven. It was less sunny but still dry. For the first few miles we followed the River Kent to Staveley before heading out across undulating pastureland with patches of open moorland and woodland to add variety. There were supposed to be good views of the Lake District from a number of high points but the cloud and very hazy atmosphere obliterated them almost totally.

As we neared Bowness the land became more manicured, with large houses and gardens, many laid out with the ever present Lakeland purple rhododendron. Suddenly, on a hill above Bowness, was the end of the Dales Way, a stone bench with a plaque. The guide book refers to it as an 80 mile trek but, using GPS, it was nearer 88 miles. Whatever it turned out to be it was a superb walk. But why end above the town? Why does it not end at the water’s edge where you can walk no further? We were soon to find out as we dropped into the town, fought our way through the crowds to the water’s edge. It was horribly crowded, not only with people but with a constant stream of traffic. It was hell and we could not wait to leave. As we dropped Steve off at Windermere Station I popped into the supermarket and bought some bubbly to celebrate with back at camp. In the evening we celebrated further with a meal and a few drinks in the George & Dragon in Dent.

During the night the first rain of the week fell to make sure that the striking of camp was a wet affair and that all the kit was thoroughly soaked. Neverthless, I think we got off very lightly, enjoying all 88 miles, or whatever it was, in good, dry conditions. It was not just the weather, the beautiful scenery or the quaint villages that made this walk such a pleasure, it was the company of the people we shared the experience with. A great week.