A man is sitting in an hotel lounge seeking inspiration, he is staring out of the window at the ivy thrashing on the wall, he is being serenaded by some sort of lift music competing with the lilting updraft from the wood-burner as the passing gusts flirt with the chimneys. Nick, for it is he, arrived in Settle about 3 hours ago to stay for three nights at the Falcon Manor hotel, he is surrounded by tartan/plaid wallpaper in muted olives, ensconced candles, prints of various lemurs and a couple reading the Daily Mail (yes, it's that sort of hotel.
So far he has eaten two of the four complimentary biscuits, a slice of treacle tart in the Folly Cafe (all profits go towards the upkeep of the adjoining museum so he had to) which has given him a sugar headache. He has climbed to the top of Castleberg Crag (assonantially probably the best crag in Settle), and has been to the Co-op to buy his supper of ciabatta and hummus, on the grounds that: 1) he can use it for lunch and : 2) he doesn't think he can justify a further intake of excess calories (apart from a pint later).
Why is he in the Daily Mailesque lounge? It is because there is no seat in his room despite there being a dressing table, he could use the perspex stool from the 'Occitane'-ridden bathroom (including Verveine bath bomb which is weighing heavily on his desire list), or he could ask for a chair which would considerably impinge on the flow pattern of his room; consequently, the lounge, just opposite the bar by the way.
On the table with him for light-reading, is the wine list, where a bottle of Picpoul is approaching three times the resto price in France. The house white has gone up a fiver since he moved tables away from the fire and radiator, as a smart-arse he will hand the old list into reception with the sneer of the pinchpenny know-it-all. Tomorrow he thinks he will do the walk around the caves that's listed in the local geology pamphlet purloined from the throwing-away box at Ashridge. It will give him a chance to use his new TWENTY POUND knee-bandage purchased from Settle Boots, purchased despite missing out on the points and the 10% discount that the Advantage card that isn't in his wallet, would have given him, purchased to replace the perfectly good knee-bandage in the top right-hand drawer of the tallboy in the BLOODY BACK BEDROOM, lying there smugly in all its unstretched glory, you wait you bastard I'm going to take you up and down something HORRID! I'll work you to within an inch of my life.
Post ciabatta he explores the TV and then heads down to the bar for a pint, bloody typical hotel prices, he watches in horror as the barman rings up £4.40, there then ensues a discussion of London prices.
Before bed, a revelation, he has only two days not the three he thought, there is a change of plan: Early train to Garsdale Head and Hell Gill, or, earlyish bus to Horton-in-Ribblesdale for a pothole plus Pen-y-ghent trip.
Day 2 The train leaves at 08.51, about the ten minutes after the cooked breakfast arrives, that'll be Pen-y-Ghent then.
The bus arrives at the correct time on the wrong side of the road and then departs, a small frisson of panic is assuaged by the hairy savant behind him, who assures him that on market day, "they do that, he has to turn round behind the town hall". He proves to be correct.
The journey to Horton emulates the children's roller coaster at Southport Pleasure beach, as they approach the Pen-y-Ghent cafe (shut) lady in front asks Nick,
"Is this going to Ingleton?"
"Umm, no."
So discombobulated by this interlocution is he, that he also eschews getting off at the right stop and goes to visit the Station. The walk back to the Crown (shut) is short, he consults the geology pamphlet:
"Go up here, then when it flattens out trespass over there to look at that, cross the impossible stream and continue trespassing until you find this."
He consults the map:
"Walk past the point of trespass, the stream starts here, Brant's Gill Head, so you can cross the soggy field above to the gate while even managing to scare sheep two fields away!"
This puts him on Horton Road which is (vaguely) familiar territory. The weather is (amazingly) sublime, a slight chill but not enough to justify the four layers, scarf and gloves some of which are hurriedly packed away, he is sure that when he gets further up towards the liminal snow line he will need them, he's wrong.
Back to the pamphlet:
"Go and look at this, it's super, sometimes - rarely, it has a waterfall!"
This is Hull Pot, a fissure that cuts across the path, it's super, and because of the recent shitty weather has - a waterfall! Normally the stream dives into an upstream sink and reappears as a spout halfway down the fissure, in itself this is enough, but because he has his appropriated booklet* he feels special, so special that he will send everyone he meets off to see Hull Pot in its rarity, he has become - The Expert!
The booklet advises that:
"Now you're here you might want to look at Hunt Pot with it's 60M scary drop into the abyss, and go over Pen-y-Ghent."
Such is the renewed kudos of the worthy tome** that that's what he does! The day remains pleasant, the views open up, 208 steps are climbed, enough people are advised to look at Hull Pot, the top has a small chill and two signalmen who are on holiday visiting their mate in Blea Moor Signal Box.
He continues downward offering advice to the cragfast on the scramble,
"You're fine. Just don't fall off."
"No, I'm only a quarter of the way up."
"Looks easy this bit - it's not, you might die."
"Don't hold on to that it looks loose."
"It gets worse from this point on."
"The weather's set to turn in twenty minutes, better get a move on."
"Are you going down the other way, well you must look at Hull Pot - if you survive!"
He descends to Brackenbottom with a mixture of mounting apprehension tempered with inevitability, the bus leaves from the mystery point of West View at 14.35, at 14.05 he has a mile to go to the non-mystery point of the Crown Inn (still shut) which may not have a bus stop, with no knowledge of whether you can flag the bus down - there is a two hour gap to the next train if he misses the bus, there is 200 metres of descent on the deformed septuagenarian knees.
He arrives at the Golden Lion (shut) and sets off down the road, at 14.35 he arrives at the Pen-y-Ghent cafe (guess) and spots a bus stop (hoorah). Less than 5 minutes later he spots a bus. At several points on the way back (it is the driver's last trip of the day) he gets air, this is a ride that can now transfer to Alton Towers.
A stop in the Naked Man for coffee and a mediocre scone finds a couple of his ascent victims having a sandwich, they haven't seen Hull Pot!
The bath bomb is disappointingly unbomblike, but still leaves Nick vaguely verbenaish, he will apparently not get a sore throat, asthma, angina or fluid retention, the latter probably just as well, after soaking for thirty minutes! Sadly the promised joint pain relief fails to materialise.
He settles with a glass of white to write his blog until two middle management ladies come to have a loud discussion about their fellow workers - most of them appear to be crap.
At dinner he meets Ian and Lynn over a salmon trio followed by a lamb chop, they discuss Ian's upcoming retirement,
"If you're not dead after two years you'll be fine."
Bed.
* and ** Note that usefulness engenders promotion (apart from middle management in the aggregate industry apparently).
Day 3
Eggs Florentine is not declared a success, the oil-slick of Hollandaise is big enough to drown a gannet, there is a somewhat bilious progress to the station to catch the train to Garsdale.
He has decided to visit Richard Deakins's most contentious swimming adventure - Hell Gill, to get there he will traipse four plus miles along the Pennine Bridleway. Having watched the welter of programs that feature scenic railway journeys Nick assumes that he is inured to the transit - ory beauties of rail travel, he's wrong, cor!
The morning is gorgeous, there are a pair of Lapwing at the station, Black Grouse churr in the sedge, Curlew fly past burbling and a Dipper flies under one of the bridges.
Hell Gill (Hell from the norse for stone - how dull) is, to be frank, a disappointment. It is a gorge about 3 metres wide and 25 metres deep, sadly unless you're in it, you can't see it. The farmer has, naturally, walled the cleft off to cut down on ovine suicide, so the scary depths are invisible. After 500 metres of trudging by the wall, the stream emerges via a small fall and pool before continuing to Hell Gill Force which is much more satisfactory.
At this point there is much watch consultation (see yesterday), missing the 14.40 will mean a two hour wait at the station, one of the highest stations in England, it has a waiting room, which is heated, and toilets, neither of which offer two hours of entertainment, even for Captain Crapper!
It also has a statue of Ruswarp or "Settle's Bobby", a dog that signed the petition to stop the closure of the railway. Later he and his master went walking in Wales and disappeared, the dog was found eleven weeks later near the body of his master, and sufficiently recovered to attend the cremation, eye witnesses describe the heartfelt howl of the animal as the curtains closed, but then, have you ever tried to move a dog's bowl before they've finished? Poignantly, the statue yearns towards the memorial bench on the opposite platform.
The other half of the circular route back is longer, he'd better get a move on. Crossing the road and starting on the bridle path he is met with a forty-centimetre-wide path that is barely keeping its head above water before rising into the sphagnum. He turns and legs it back the same way, the known quantity. He has experience of watching several forms of transport leave while he is ten minutes away, however there is normally a bar/mountain hut to assuage the angst. For once a mobile tower is a welcome sight. He arrives back at the station
five minutes before the train, de-muds the sticks in the gents, and returns to Settle.
There is a trip back to the Olde Naked Man, this time for a chunky sarnie and coffee, back at the Falcon he peruses tonight's menu, it seems to be the same as last night's, but there was nothing else he wanted last night... Thank goodness for the sandwich.
After a lengthy bath (one reason for its length being the height of its sides, its almost impossible to lever himself out of without turning over and kneeling), he repairs to the lounge to write this discovering now three aggregate gurus (there's possibly something pleasingly apposite about an increasing number of people who work in the aggregate industry) vying for shouting rights, there's also a couple dining in the corner of the lounge while working their way through the shots list.
Nick meanders into town for a pint in the Golden Lion and reasonable success with the cryptic crossword book, tomorrow he leaves back to the South, in the morning he will Settle Up.
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