The second day of our Herriot Way adventure saw us waking up in the same small single beds as the first, with a similar, inviting, early morning grey picture out of the window, with only one small difference. Today, the weather seemed to have taken a slight change toward the breezy. On this particular route, wind was significant, as we would be crossing a mountain; a serious day.
As we sat having another fried breakfast, the waving trees out the window confirmed to me that today was definitely a day to take my additional warm, fleeced layer, and not a day to mess about with clothing. Beth too gave her knees some extra support with some tape, as both of us knew that today would be a bigger test than the previous. Whilst it was essentially the same length, it would involve some real climbing. My dad always said, too (and he knows about this stuff) that day two can often be the hardest. Your body is still tired after day one and has not yet adjusted, whereas by the time day three arrived, it would have had a chance to get used to it.
Stepping out the door at just before nine o’clock, we left our suitcase in the porch for the sherpas to pick up later and finally waved goodbye to the youth hostel and Hawes one final time. We turned away and set our attention to the task at hand. Initially, this day is simple enough. The route winds its way through reasonably flat farmland, passing the usual array of sheep and the occasional cow. I was immediately glad to be wearing my warm layer, however, as the wind blustered even on the dale floor. Our first challenge came from a rather babbling brook across our path, which required a little careful stepping and gave Beth a chance to be EXTREME. Moments later, we came across a sheep with a particularly picturesque, woolly bottom. This inspired Beth so much that she burst into song, and “The Fluffy Butt Song” was born. This was then regularly repeated across the remaining forty miles whenever a particularly cute sheep-behind came into view, and has also since made its debut in Kent, having been sung to our goats (whilst scratching their bums). As we continued, we saw ahead a farmer and his dog herding a flock of sheep, who we ended up meeting a few moments later on the road. We followed behind as the flock was driven by man and dog down the road, all the way to their farmyard; it was all a very smooth operation. We then crossed back over the River Ure one final time.
It is about this point that the true test of the second day really begins. As you cross the final stretch of flat ground, you can see the fell beginning to rise up and out of sight suddenly right before you. Beth smartly produced her poles as we began to climb. The initial way up onto the mountain’s shoulder is arguably the hardest bit of the day. After a gentle start, the steep and abrupt climb can be something of a shock to the legs. The dale quickly begins to fall away, and before you know it you are looking back down at Hawes in the distance. There is a particularly sharp bit, just before you reach the mountain trail itself, which is the most taxing. Indeed, on a previous attempt, we lost two of our party here, choosing to return to Hawes for the day. I am pleased to say that Beth coped far better and made no fuss at all; we had made it onto the mountain.
The mountain in question, is Great Shunner Fell. At 2349ft, it is the third-highest peak in the Yorkshire Dales, and is the highest point in Wensleydale. It is also very much a “whaleback”, meaning that rather than being a sharp, rocky, zigzagging climb as Snowdon had been, it was very much more a test of endurance. The relatively gentle climb would simply steadily take you higher up, over wild, rugged moorland. It is therefore, in that sense, easy enough, however conditions very much come into play on such an open and exposed landscape.
As such, when we arrived at the long track to the top and sensed the arrival of a little rain, we quickly switched into wet weather mode. I swapped my fleece for my coat, Beth bagged up her camera, and we both put the little raincoats on our bags, to keep their contents dry. As things were reasonably warm outside of the wind, and there was not yet serious rain, we left our waterproof trousers in their pouches, but ready to grab at a moment’s notice. So, with the wind fussing at our hoods and specks of rain on our faces, we began the climb. Things were easy going at first. The stony track was clear to see, the threat of rain came and went, and we saw a couple of other walkers on their way to the top. The world quickly began to feel more rugged; the stone walls grew infrequent, and the sheep vanished altogether. Yet the day remained simple enough, with changeable weather even allowing occasional rays of sunshine.
All was well, until we had climbed far enough to reach the point where large, stone slabs began to mark out the trail through the high moorland. At first I had been looking forward to reaching this point. The smooth, flat slabs had always provided a safe, reliable and easy-to-read trail over the toughest of the day’s terrain, with only a couple of muddier spots to navigate along the way. This had made the journey up a breeze. However, I had not yet been this way so late in the year. The first submerged stone was easy enough; we chose our footing carefully and tiptoed through with no dramas. Yet, all too soon, things took a turn. Recent downpours had left large pools of water, which had led to entire stretches of the footpath being underwater. For a while, it seemed that every time we thought we must have passed the worst of it, even more, deeper water would appear. Suddenly, we found that Beth’s poles were coming into their unexpected own. Whenever we reached a large pool, it was difficult to see exactly where to put one’s boots. As such, I would borrow a pole and tap around in the water, finding where the secure rocks were, not wanting to put our feet on any loose ones, or just straight into the bog itself. By doing this, we were able to make steady, safe progress. However, this did not stop the water from getting deeper, and no matter how hard we tried, the wet was soon regularly getting into our boots. Soon enough, we had just accepted that we were going to have wet feet, and soggy socks for the foreseeable future. Fortunately, Beth chose to laugh rather than cry at the situation, and so we were able to carry on in good spirits, even though our shoes bubbled with every step on dry stone.
As we neared the top, the day turned a little darker, and the wind whipped across the mountain. It brought with it a little bit of rain too, and at that force, every droplet that hit our faces felt like little bits of hail. Feet soaking wet, hoods pulled tightly against the battering conditions, we carried on, knowing that all there was to do now was to put one boot in front of the other.
Thankfully, the stiff winds that had been occupying the dales whisked the worst of the cloud away before too long, and then we were nearly there. As the distant peak had come in and out of sight all day, we could see that it too had been going from covered to clear just as quickly. Fortunately, as we saw the stone wind breaker that marks the summit come into view, the world may still have been windy, but it was also clear. We arrived at the top to bright views all around us, alongside a dozen other walkers, several of whom we recognised from the journey up. We had done it! I have to say too, that this was definitely the most challenging of trips up Great Shunner Fell that I have yet to experience. Having previously climbed in May and August, they were a simple walk in the park compared to this occasion.
It was about lunchtime now, and again the halfway point of the day. We hunkered down in the best of the shelter available to us and tucked into our food. Compared to yesterday’s meal deal, today we had gone rather more local. Again visiting the Hawes Spar that morning, we had instead gone for a sausage roll and a pie. Whilst my sausage roll was delicious, Beth’s Wensleydale cheese and potato pie was the winner of the day. The bite I had was scrumptious, and I would absolutely recommend trying it to anyone; I certainly will next time we visit!
We rose to our boots, and were immediately buffeted by the wind, having not realised how much protection the shelter was actually providing. We left the summit and fellow walkers behind and began the long descent. Whilst, overall, the way down was perhaps a little brighter than the way up had been, we were still in the path of the gusting wind. There were also patches of submerged path still to navigate on the way down, providing no chance for our socks and boots to dry. Still, step by step we headed down, with views of the second dale of the trip, Swaledale, appearing below us across the fells. This was certainly no quick journey, and we had begun to wonder when the mountain would end. Yet eventually, we saw a distant dry-stone wall, the promise of a farm, and finally, the first sheep began to reappear. This was a sure sign that we were nearly down, and soon after, we arrived at the stony track which wound through the farm; Great Shunner Fell complete.
For a while, we were a little more sheltered from the wind, as we headed into the village of Thwaite. The sun even came out, once again proving how dales seem to have their own climates and weather systems. And yet, today, the Herriot Way would give us little rest, with the second major feature of the day immediately on us. Kisdon, whilst not a mountain in its own right, is still a serious hill, sitting at 1636ft. Its sharp climb is also less forgiving than the Great Shunner Fell, and is almost more traditionally mountainous in that sense. It is also one of my very favourite parts of the entire walk. After the long, slow climb of the first portion of the day, it feels good to push your leg muscles up the steep ascent. Much like the initial hike up onto Great Shunner Fell, Thwaite and Swaledale are quickly seen from a bird’s-eye view. The sun continued to shine, but the wind returned as we rose back into its path, keeping us reasonably cool. We passed through heather, old farms and, of course, sheep, before reaching the very steepest part of all. This part has since become notorious amongst my friends, and was given a rather rude title (I won’t tell you). It is not long, but it is very challenging. Today, we made sure to take our time, taking it in small bites, stopping often to enjoy the view. Once the path evened out a little, we passed the plaque of somebody who had presumably had some kind of heart attack at that point (I told you it was a serious hill), and carried on to the highest point our path would take us. Here, we ducked behind the wall and ate half of our Nutella flapjacks, which we had purchased the day before from Askrigg, as a reward; they were sublime.
As we went through the gate to the other side, the wind still gusting, we knew we were on the home run for the day. The climb down off Kisdon was much gentler than the way up, and the path gradually but firmly brought us lower and lower toward the awaiting dale below. We reached a point where we met a gravel farm track, and around here, Beth started to feel the distance. Feet aching, energy dropping, she began to long for the finish line. Fortunately, we were almost back, and soon enough we popped out onto the road, and into the tiny village of Keld. Our stopping point for the day was now only a few hundred meters down the road. Yet in between was, for me at least, an even more welcome view: the Keld Lodge. I had stayed here once before with mum and dad, and at the end of such a fantastic but strenuous day, it is a sight to make you weep for joy. Outside, we spotted several faces of other walkers we had seen throughout the day, who had clearly all had the same idea. We ducked in, ordered a pint of Camden Easy and an Inches Cider, and returned outside to sit in the sunshine, at around four o’clock. We reflected on the day and listened to the background chatter of other walkers, and I suddenly found that I had sunk my pint in five minutes. I went to get a second, and returned for a slightly slower slurp. To be honest, I could happily have stayed for several more, but Beth was wilting, so we then departed to finish the day in earnest.
Just down the road from the hotel were Swaledale Yurts. This is a fantastic place, and somewhere that I had looked forward to taking Beth since I had first stayed there three years ago. We knocked on the door of the cottage and were greeted by our lovely hosts, Julia and Jim. They invited us in to raid their guest fridge for the beverages we would require that evening, and said that they would bring our dinners out to our yurt for half past six. We were then showed to said yurt – ours was the one with the red door – and we went inside. The yurts are surprisingly spacious, and have space for two beds, a sofa, table, fridge, chest and fireplace in the middle. It is decorated in a sort of boho style and is nothing short of magical. I was delighted to find that Beth, even in her tired state, was appearing to love it as much as I had thought she would.
Finally, we removed our boots at the end of a challenging, but fun day. They were indeed soaked, and so we stuffed them with newspaper, which had kindly been provided by Julia, to soak up the worst of the moisture. After a shower and some downtime, a knock on the door announced our dinner’s arrival. Beth had dumplings and stew, and I had spaghetti bolognese; both were delicious, and both were large, which was very welcome. After this, we had booked ourselves a session in the hot tub. Now this is a real treat after a day like we had had. The hot tub itself is sheltered, which is good, however the open front looks out over the dales, and is a lovely view to relax to. We spent a little over an hour here, as the world outside grew dark and bats flitted past. By the time we returned to our yurt, the first stars shone above, marking the end of another great day.
