I was in the last of three cars to arrive but was soon settled in and off down the road to the festival, to find the rest of our party. As I walked into the beer garden I was met by the sight of Liz supping from a half-pint glass of mushy-pea green liquor. I thought “strange coloured lime cordial they have round here”, even more surprising the thought of Liz with a ladies drink, with a lime and lemon? But, first impressions are so often wrong; Liz was actually drinking a glass of green beer – no joke! I did try some for myself, yes, it was beer, but the taste was rather bland for my liking. However, the number of glasses of green liquor, I saw around the beer garden over the weekend, it certainly went down well with the locals. The spit roast was excellent. Two slices each of beef, pork and gammon with a jacket potato plus as much of the various salads and relishes that you could get onto your plate, for just £6.50. It was the same the next night and the beer was in good condition for as long as it lasted but that night it had to be, to make up for the musical accompaniment – some dreadfully out of tune karaoke singing!

That first night I was reasonably comfortable, snuggled up in my four season sleeping bag but, as it turned out, it wasn’t so good a night for the rest of the group. In the morning, they were raiding the warden’s stash of extra sleeping bags and duvets, to keep themselves warm for the rest of the weekend. Puttenham Eco is aptly named; it supplements its electricity supply and makes its own heat from the sun, using solar panels and heat exchangers. Unfortunately, there is no other form of heating for the building, which means that if the sun goes in the barn’s unheated!

On similar environmental lines, the toilet flushes with harvested rain water; the system seemed unable to cope with ten of us using the one loo, until an emergency red button was discovered – one push, as required, and our toilet was reconnected and flushing again! That was our only problem with the ablutions, my thanks to all of the five males and five females who shared that same toilet and shower room for three days, without animosity. Most of us just waited our turn or reduced our usage, though one ‘gentleman’ did find a more novel way around the problem. As he admitted, each morning he sloped off to the local golf club, where he passed himself off as a member, and used their facilities instead – cheeky devil!

What about the real reason Leicester YHA runs its weekends, the walking? On the Saturday, Boh led a damp and drizzly eight mile circular from the camping barn, taking in part of the North Downs Way via the local woodlands and lakes to Shackleford and, yes, a pint in their “Cyder House”. That reminds me, I’ll have to have word with certain new member: if two elder members decide to have a quick snooze over their pint whilst sat on a nice comfy leather settee – they ain’t posing for the camera! We were back in the barn by 2:30 pm where some of us just caught up on lost sleep. Judith couldn’t rest and did a further walk out to Seal and back, whilst Liz’s car took a trip into Farnham for extra supplies.

That evening, cleaned and rested it was back to the Good Intent and more of their festival. The beer and the spit roast were still on form but there was a great improvement in the music on offer in the form of a band called Imitation . A young band from Oxfordshire, who we were told were out on their first gig. From the quality of their performance, especially that of their lead singer, Rosie, it won’t be their last! They certainly hit the right note with Liz: on one occasion when returning from the bar, I was nearly bowled over by her “pole dancing” around one of the outer poles of the marquee! No one bothered about the rain; it was a great sound on a great night.

What a difference a good night’s sleep makes, plus a drastic improvement in the weather by morning. Boh led us on a 14 mile walk on the Sunday, or so he said at the time, out towards Guildford and the remaining walkable section of the Hog’s Back, i.e. the bit that does not lie underneath the main A3 trunk road! To get to this ridge, we first walked out by the local golf course, where I did notice we were getting a few funny looks from the golfers, or was it Andy they were looking at – eighteen holes and then a ramble, he must be fit!

We made our usual elevenses stop at the top of that ridge, overlooking Guildford Cathedral with a clear view over the whole of the city. In fact, it was so clear that on looking further into the distance, we could see London and its various landmarks: the Post Office Tower, the arch of the new Wembley Stadium, the wheel of the London Eye and even the aeroplanes taking off and landing at Heathrow Airport were all discernible – a definite highpoint of the weekend. Our walk then took us through flower meadows, along canal towpaths and river banks and much more, to Shalford and lunch at The Parrot Inn.

Boh supposedly cut the walk short for the route back along a different branch of the river and canal, then a sharp climb back onto the ridge after which we needed another quick half at the Harrow at Compton and finally the footpath straight over the golf course back to Puttenham Eco. On returning home after the weekend Boh measured his walk more accurately and told me we had actually covered nearly eighteen miles that day – after we had all waited our turn to shower, no wonder we felt like getting an early night! Thanks Boh, it was still an excellent walk, I’m glad I did it and I hope I speak for everyone else. Tired or not, we all went to the Good Intent again that evening, only to find they had already sold out of the festival beers, with essentially another day of the festival still to go!

After a well earned night’s sleep, we cleared the barn, packed up the cars and were off to another old haunt of mine: The Devil’s Punchbowl at Hindhead. The punchbowl gets its name from the way the mists collect over its top like a huge smoking or steaming bowl. Andy, who also knows this area well, led us on a six mile circular walk through the woodlands of the bowl, down to Hindhead youth hostel at the bottom. At the hostel we chatted to three families that had hired it for the long weekend and investigated the possibility of booking it for ourselves in the future. After a parting cuppa in the Punch Bowl Café it was off back to Leicester, vowing to return again perhaps to Hindhead youth hostel.

Special thanks to our wardens and the owners of Puttenham Eco, I hope it is not too long before we are back again. Thank you to Mark, Liz and Andy for driving on this weekend and to Boh and Andy for leading the walks. My thanks also to everyone else for their company, especially to our new members Mark and Tony, who I hope to see out again on future events with the group.

And there were more goings on in Surrey.

The editor also asked me to make a mention of the Tanners’ folk night on the 7th and 8th May 2010, I will, though strictly speaking this was not a Leicester Group event but our members were made welcome there. After our usual pub meal at the Stepping Stones in Westhumble Liz, Boh and I arrived at Tanner’s Hatch youth hostel about 9 pm to the usual friendly welcome from the regular folkies and members of Rent a Crowd.

That weekend, as it turned out, one of their members, Lorna was celebrating her 40th Anniversary of going to Tanners Hatch; going there for the first time in May 1970 and she kindly invited us to join her festivities the next day. That Friday evening we sang ’til 1 possibly 2 am before retiring and on the Saturday morning Boh, Liz and I took a walk into Westcott via a very new footbridge over the local brook. An old chap working in his front garden at one end of the bridge was only too eager to give us the full ins and outs, political and financial, of how they acquired that new bridge. After which we retired to a local pub, where over a drink and bowls of his excellent home made soup, we chatted with the landlord over the possible outcome of the general election the previous day – no one came up with the actual outcome.

Then it was a stiff walk back up the escarpment to Tanners and more food. This time plates of ‘home made’ chicken chow mien, since Lorna and friends Sue and Anne said a Vesta Chicken Chow Mien was their staple 70’s hostellers meal. For myself, hostel self catering was more likely to be a tin of Irish stew filled out with half a tin of baked beans, followed then, by a tin of rice pudding, heated through in the same stewy saucepan – those were the days!

Once everyone had arrived and was fed we were all taken on a nature walk by Bruce. Bruce is on of the locals I have got to know from going to Tanners Hatch over the years, he is now an accomplished botanist and professionally interested in the management of countryside. His guided walk was interesting and very informative but a bit longer than Lorna had envisaged. Hence, a worried call on her mobile back to the hostel, to take the pudding out of the oven for half an hour! Disaster averted, on our arrival back, we were all served up with bowls of hot apple crumble and custard, as the usual 70’s accompaniment to the Vesta meal – as members’ kitchen meals go, a bit up market than my stewy rice pud!

This was followed by two or three hours of reminiscing over times and friends, now past and gone, but never forgotten. Tales of ‘Tanners by gas light’ before the electric generator was installed, working or skiving parties at Tanners plus tales of horrible tricks played on fellow hostellers – don’t mention Ex Lax! As more people arrived, the guitars and other instruments were soon taken out and the folk night proper got underway, including two or three unaccompanied ballads from yours truly. The singing went on well into the night finishing at about 4 am, Sunday morning. And, this was accompanied by even more food, as a large buffet had been prepared whilst we were out on the nature ramble.

I did grab a few hours sleep but as usual I was one of the first to get up and, as thanks for the huge repast of the night before, I made myself busy tidying and doing the washing up before most people were awake. As soon as people were awake and we had said our good byes we just headed back to Leicester again – no need for more walking after a day like that! Many thanks Lorna for allowing us to join in and thanks again to Liz for driving on this one.

I’m sorry, but I know longer make Leicester Group bookings to these folk nights but if you are interested in joining me at one please contact me and I will explain the booking procedure.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny, full of promise for the day ahead. We decamped to the Old Dungeon Ghyll car park near the head of the valley, and were soon striding out towards Stool End farm and the beginning of the walk proper. Ahead of us loomed The Band – a rugged promontory bearing a steep path to the col between Crinkle Crags and Bowfell.

Before long, our own rugged band were labouring their way to the top, making frequent pauses to look over their shoulders at the fine view of Langdale in the hazy sunshine (and not to take a breather, honest!). Progress was steady, interrupted only by the customary elevenses break, and we soon reached the three small tarns which mark the top of The Band.

It was too windy to spend much time resting – once the group were gathered we turned right to climb towards the summit of Bowfell. After a lunch break in a sheltering outcrop of rocks, we reached the top and were able to take in the view. Bowfell is a wonderful vantage point – in the dead centre of the Lake District it commands great views in all directions. Sadly it was too hazy to see any great distance, but still ample reward for our efforts to get there.

Taking our leave from the summit, we picked our way across the rocky landscape towards our next objective. In places, patches of snow lay as a reminder of the winter. Seasoned by our experience on Cader Idris, we were able to cross them without incident – dropping down to Ore Gap before climbing once more to the top of Esk Pike.

Finally we reached Esk Hause, a crossroads high in the hills where paths meet from Borrowdale, Wasdale, Eskdale and Langdale. Ahead of us stood Scafell, Scafell Pike and Great Gable, but they would have to wait for another day – it was time to head for home. Bearing right, we took the path down to Angle Tarn. Mickleden valley was bathed in evening sunshine as we descended alongside Rossett Gill and folloed the Cumbria Way back to the car park – the completion of a splendid (if demanding) day’s walking.

Sunday was distinctly less promising in terms of weather, but still good enough to entice us back into the hills. This time the walk started at the hostel gate, following Langdale Beck towards Chapel Stile. The church bells rang out as we approached the village. I don’t think they were warning the inhabitants of our arrival, but in any case we were soon through and into the country beyond.

A brisk climb brought us to Dow Bank, in the middle of a line of high ground separating Elterwater from Grasmere. Turning eastwards we followed this “gently undulating” ridge to the beginning of Loughrigg Terrace.

The second climb of the day took us to the top of Loughrigg Fell. We passed a large party of Chinese students coming down, who were apparently on some kind of exchange trip. They seemed to be enjoying the experience, though some of them weren’t exactly dressed for it. On reaching the trig point we sat down to rest, and to enjoy both the view and a well-earned lunch.

Rested and refreshed, we began our descent back into the valley. Picking our way around the lumps and bumps which grace the top of Loughrigg, we were soon dropping towards Skelwith Bridge. A break for further refreshment in that village’s well-stocked tea shop was followed by a final mile along the shore of Elter Water back to the cars.

Another excellent group weekend, my thanks go to the drivers and everybody else who made it so enjoyable.

I then totally forgot about this till Dave mentioned it some months later and we got an e mail from the Braich Goch checking that we were serious about the booking. At first I thought we’d never get 12 people in February to return to Corris and Cadair Idris let alone a beer festival in a village with no shops. However bit by bit the numbers built up and we ended up with ten (though admittedly I press ganged my son Tom and his girlfriend into it, he was keen on the beer bit and I swear I mentioned Cadair to him as well).

So off we went back to Wales and the hills and the sheep — whoops! – mustn’t mention sheep — remember Trefin? I went with Liz and Boh, this time we kept to the main roads and missed last year’s tour of the country lanes — with the result we got there first at 5pm and found the festival in full flow. There were about 12 varieties of real ale with exotic names and strengths and by the time the others came several hours later we had already sampled a number of them.

By now it’d started snowing, though fortunately everyone got here OK in the end. Walking out of the door of the hostel to greet a new arrival a gritter roared past and covered me in grit and very wet slush. At least that should stop me from slipping on Cadair. We also met the hostel cat who was a tabby with a delusion he was a Manx as a passing lorry had taken off his tail. Needless to say Chris soon struck up a rapport with him.

By now the festival was in full swing and the local band arrived. I forget their name but apparently they’re very big in Machynlleth and reminded me of some middle aged late punks with a demon keyboard player in a pork pie hat. It was at this stage that Dave reached for his ear plugs though the pub was heaving and it was obviously the mad night of the year in Corris (I even thought I saw Owain Glyndwr dancing in the crowd and also King Arthur, who is reputed to sleep in the nearby hills but must have been woken up by the noise).

So next morning we woke up bright and early. Tom had gone missing from his bunk and I thought he’d had enough and done a runner, but he was sleeping in the lounge as he’d found the combined snoring of our dorm a bit much for him — I’d forgotten to warn him about that as well. We looked out of the front door and saw nothing except mist in the valley and several inches of snow. So it looked like a good day for Cadair via the Minffordd path and off we went at a healthy 9am.

On the way we passed some sort of portakabin by some road works with the title “Welfare Office” in large letters on it. What was this? — a bold plan to bring welfare services to rural Wales or was it for distressed sheep — sorry said it again! — strange though as there wasn’t a house for miles.

Once we arrived at the mountain, the mist had started to clear except on the tops, and all the trees were covered in snow – which looked great. The sky was blue and the sun came out as we started climbing the infamous steps –or staircase to heaven as a rock band (Sorry Dave) once put it. The steps were very giant friendly for anyone over 8 ft with long legs but unfortunately none of us were that size. Is there an 8 foot high planner who makes a living out of planning massive steps in upland areas? The snow was starting to melt off the trees and we all got roasting, but the snow looked brilliant against the blue sky with bits of cloud rising out of the main Cwm around the lake like smoke from a waiting Welsh dragon round the corner.

As we began to climb up the south ridge we could see the lake half frozen over but I failed to get Liz to repeat her swimming in the lake feat from Brecon two years ago. When we got to the top of the first ridge there was a great view over half frozen Tal y Llyn lake with snow everywhere and fleecy clouds floating below us. The thing with Cadair is that it is really a collection of several summits and you can’t see the highest summit till you’re right on the top, so you think you may have reached the top but of course you haven’t.

You get up to 690 metres on one summit and then on to the next at 791 metres. It was at this stage that the clouds covered the tops and the snow that must have been lying there for some time turned out to be a foot deep (oh, and I forgot the wind as well). Last time I came over this one it was boiling hot! You then get to a bit of path right near the edge with a 900 foot drop to the lake at the bottom. There were footprints in the snow going right to the edge but then turning back… Was this a member of the kamikaze walking group who changed his mind at the last moment and got a lifetime ban from the group? — who knows.

So at 791 metres you comfort yourself with the thought that the highest peak is only 893 so it’s a mere 300 feet or so to go — then you hit the downhill. If we’d all carried old tin trays with us we could have tobogganed down to the bottom but as we hadn’t it was a matter of slip slide and slurp in the snow drifts down to 700 metres which made it 600 foot or so to the top. That’s not much really but you couldn’t see the top and it was uphill through a foot of snow. I’ve got a photo of part of the group disappearing up the snowy slope in the mist which looks very like Scott trying to find the South Pole having wished he hadn’t made a madras curry of the last husky (overdid the garlic too said Evans, as he disappeared in to the blizzard saying ‘I may be gone some time’).

Having inadvertently mistaken Boh for a polar bear we dragged on upwards through various snowy clad rocks rocks till we found the summit with a highly frozen trig point. (It was at this point that I was asking myself do I like hill walking or am I just a ******* masochist?) After a brief lunch in the bothy at the top with well chilled chardonnay and sarnie glace we noticed that the cloud had cleared from the summit — as it often does on Cadair — remember Kings, where it cleared and Dorothy could see as far as the sales in Barmouth? The sea still looked cold and oddly the valley to the north was snow free while the one to the south wasn’t. Last year when we came up we could see Snowdon to the north, the Brecon beacons to the south and well into England in the east. This time it wasn’t as clear though you could make out the Snowdon range.

So on to the downhill. First we had to go across a snow covered plateau and the mist came down again. This and the wind made it look very like Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow and at one stage I thought I saw a ghostly French dragoon till I realised his helmet and plumes was in fact Dave’s multi coloured woollen hat. Anyway eventually we started going steeply downhill — and downhill — and downhill — till we were sick of going steeply downhill and almost started wishing we could go uphill again. Eventually we got out of the thick snow and the views were great with the fading winter sunlight over the sea and the snow clad hills. Then down the “giant’s’” steps and to the car park and the general feeling that that it had been ‘One hell of a walk’. Also congratulations to Donna. Tom and Lisa on completing it on their first walk with the group – they’re not all like this one!

Back at the Bunkhouse it appeared that Shep the singing sheepdog and his band from Pontllanfraith Uchaf had cancelled due to lambing problems and were replaced by the heaviest metal band this side of Dinas Mawddwy. Led by Dave we then decided to try the village pub which thank goodness is still open and the very hospitable landlord fitted us in for food and quite a lot of drink — we must have given his takings a good boost. By the time we returned to the bunkhouse the party was still in full swing (King Arthur had just got barred and gone back to his cave in the mountain) but they’d run out of my favourite stout and most of us crashed out fairly quickly. After last night’s experience Tom opted to sleep with Dave and Stuart who proved snore free!

So next morning most people went off but some of us stayed for an “undulating” walk up the side of the valley from Corris to the old slate mine at the top and then on to Upper Corris and back via the teashop. On the way we passed the ‘Italian House’ where an Italian spent a lifetime building models of Italian buildings in the garden from a large variety of bricks.

This led to a keen ethical debate on the role of women between Liz and Stuart — did Mrs Italian pine away alone in the house while her chauvinist neglectful husband sublimated in his garden with his beloved bricks or did she breath a sigh of relief when he went outside and settle down to watch the telly in peace free from his endless talking about bricks? Perhaps this topic could be on the agenda at the next AGM?

Anyway that was that and for once some beer assisted idea raised in a pub had led to a great weekend.

Thursday – New Years Eve

With my passengers, Dave and Margaret, I set off for Grin Low. Passing through Ashbourne, we noticed snow on only the very highest hills but as we started to head over higher ground towards Buxton, the snow appeared at the roadside to greet us.

We reached Grin Low cottage at about 3.45pm and were surprised that Grin Low’s car park was buried under 3 feet of snow. I had no option but to park on the side of the iced up driveway, at the side of the cottage, the long entrance to the Grin Low caravan park. There’s never any caravans here at this time of year, so I was puzzled to see so many other cars parked close by with hordes of people walking about. The snow had obviously galvanized the local population into winter pursuits, skiing, tobogganing etc. On past new year visits, it was rare to see anyone else around but this level of snow had changed all that.

On entering the cottage, we found that Norman, Ruth, Judith, Tony and Laurie had arrived a good hour before us. So we all set about laying out the New Years Eve buffet, At about 6.00pm, the next car arrived with Alison, Clare and Mikhail. But they got stuck, so I and Norman helped to get them off the main road and on to the driveway. Brian was the only one now that we were waiting for, He was bringing his Hi-Fi equipment, so we could have some music, but where was he ?

It was a lovely clear moonlit night and with all the snow, you barely needed a torch and I was sorely tempted to go on a late night walk to Solomon’s Temple, only half a mile away. But as the weekend organiser, I felt duty bound to keep a look out for Brian. Eventually, he arrived at 11.15pm, overshot the entrance and got stuck a few yards up the road, trying to turn around in a gateway.

But a few willing hands came out to perform the second rescue of the evening. Apparently, Brian had overslept after a tiring Wednesday evening. Probably been out drinking into the small hours again. But he arrived in time to see in 2010 with the rest of us. He was unable to join us on any walks, he’d forgotten to bring his boots.

Friday – New Years Day

Tony volunteered to lead a walk from the cottage to the Goyt Valley. The original idea would have been to drive up to the Cat and Fiddle pub on the A537 but it wasn’t worth driving anywhere in case we got stuck, the Cat and Fiddle was blocked off anyway.

So we set off minus Brian but plus Sarah who had driven up from Leek, to join us for the walk and to stay for one night. It was a nice sunny morning but we were to have a few snow flurries later on.

We walked on the A54 for a short while before turning onto a minor road towards Goyts Moss, though what should have been a road was now a snow track. The road was under 4 feet of snow, it was amusing to see the occasional top of a road sign sticking out of the snow. After this, we joined a footpath that led us to a road at Goyts Moss. It was hard going as we were sinking into deep snow most of the time. The road, when we reached it, was little better, as it was very icy underfoot. We arrived at the ruins of Errwood Hall for lunch, most of the walls were still standing but there’s no roof, lucky for us the sun was still out. It was quite noticeable that out of the entire group, Mikhail was the only one not wearing any headgear. Being Russian, he found the conditions rather pleasant as British winters just do not compare with what Russia experiences.

Our progress had been painfully slow so any ideas about walking up Shining Tor were dismissed, even walking a further half mile to see an old chapel wasn’t practical as we would have been in danger of losing valuable daylight.

So we headed back the way we came and couldn’t believe our eyes when a car passed us on the road. We reached a road junction, sorry I mean a snow track junction. We would take the left turn for a mile to reach Buxton but before we did, we noticed that the car that passed us was stuck on a hill leading towards the Cat and Fiddle pub, it was soon joined by 2 other cars. Dave tried to persuade one of the drivers not to follow the other idiots but to no avail. Admittedly, the road was a on a one-way system but considering the conditions, they could have been forgiven for driving out what was technically the wrong way, never mind the fact they shouldn’t have driven out there in the first place.

Back at Grin Low, we were greeted by the arrival of Andy, Chris and Alice and that evening we achieved a record of having all 16 bunkbeds filled. On past new year weekends at Grin Low we’ve only managed 13.

The 3 course (free) meal kicked off with an excellent starter, a butternut squash soup that Alison made for us, an idea that she had discussed with me before the start of the weekend, which I’m grateful for. The main course was down to me, a cheese and tomato macaroni with chicken. Here I’m grateful to help from Chris and Brian, special thanks to Margaret for bringing the garlic, skinning the tomatoes and providing some olive oil. I was a bit nervous about cooking for 16, so I’m very grateful to Alice for her help in organizing the preparation and to Sarah for some of the cooking and her advice which was invaluable. Everyone appeared to enjoy the meal, so I’m relieved about that.

We then tucked into a fruit salad provided by Ruth, which went down very well, originally, this was intended for the previous night’s buffet but I asked Ruth if she could save it for this following night’s meal, for which I’m grateful.

But all was not over yet as Dave treated us to one of his coffee liquors, for which he is famous. I departed to bed with a warm glow and a full stomach.

Before the night was over, Chris treated us to his “all in one” firework display, though it didn’t go off at first and appeared to be an expensive dud. Chris then very cooly examined it, picked it up, pulled the fuse wire further out (DON’T DO THIS AT HOME FOLKS) put it down, then relit it. Everyone, especially Alice, thought he might blow his head off and yelled at him to leave it be. But his plan, though extremely risky, worked.  We were then treated to a 10 minutes or so, firework extravaganza and thankfully it was the multi-firework that went off with a bang, not Chris.

Saturday – 2nd January

We awoke on Saturday morning to a fresh covering of snow and glancing at the sky, it was obvious there was more on the way. Andy, who had planned to walk with us before heading home, decided not to risk it and drove home early. Also on their way home was Alison, Clare and Mikhail. Sarah gave Margaret a lift home.

Kathy arrived with Dorothy, not to stay over but to just do the day’s walk with us. The original plan for today was to drive over to Macclesfield Forest but that idea had to be abandoned, it wasn’t worth the risk considering the conditions.

Instead, we walked from the cottage again on a walk led by Chris. We crossed over the Grin Low road and walked down a footpath, heading in the direction of Flash. Walking over Stanley Moor, it made a change to be roaming over scenery that you normally only see on Christmas cards. We passed walls now only 3 feet high thanks to the snow drifts. Passing over the hill of Brand Top we dropped down a valley and crossed over an icy footbridge. We then walked along a track to Summerhill. It was then half a mile up to the “Travellers Rest” pub. But it was a painful ascent as the snow just flew straight into our faces, stinging the eyes, even though with our hoods up and being forced to look down at the ground, it still hit us. You couldn’t admire the scenery, let alone see who was walking next to you.

After what seemed hours, we reached the pub and sanctuary. We were greeted by roaring log fires and a cosy snug atmosphere and sat down for lunch. Whereupon Kathy treated most of us to a glass of mulled wine and refused to be recompensed for it. It was a very generous gesture and most welcome. The mulled wine was just what was needed to warm us up. Those not drinking the wine had tea or coffee instead, no one was in the mood for cold beer.

As we were about to leave, Norman persuaded the friendly landlady to take a photograph of the group. We then set off in thick fog as the snow had eased off, along the main A53, this being the quickest and most direct route back to Grin Low. The one unpleasant hazard with this was that we had to endure being splashed with slush from passing vehicles. Finally, we were back on to the Grin Low road but it was disappointing to see it covered with ice and snow after it had previously been gritted. But it didn’t deter Kathy from heading back home, taking Judith with her. I was sorry to see them go because I’m sure Kathy would have appreciated Grin Low cottage but I know they had things to do back at home, especially Judith.

The idea for the evening had been to partake of a “takeaway” meal, but the intervention of more snowy weather put paid to that idea. Everyone except me had enough food to make a decent meal. Norman invited me to share a fish supper with him and Ruth, for which I was grateful and I shared my last half bottle of wine with them.

Saturday evening was rather sedate as there now was only 9 of us left in Grin Low but Norman did entertain us a little by showing us his slides with the aid of Brian’s lap top.

Sunday- 3rd January

The day dawned sunny and bright, and normally it had been a tradition that on the last morning at Grin Low we would take a short walk to Solomon’s Temple, but we agreed to pass on it this time. We decided to set off home as soon as possible. We all set off together, making sure that all our cars started up OK and that no one was stuck.

In Conclusion

The most successful new year weekend at Grin Low since Dave Self’s 2001 venture. But the success of this weekend is thanks more to the people who came along and supported it rather than my organisation, I owe it all to them. In the best traditions of our group, everybody mucked in together and enjoyed themselves. There was no one spoiling it for others, no negative vibes.

99% of our group that have been to Grin Low Cottage have enjoyed it, so it’s hard to comprehend anyone not liking it. Grin Low with its thick walls, always keeps the warmth in, this was particularly appreciated this weekend with sub zero temperatures outside.

The snow, by and large, did add to the atmosphere this time, though it did change our timetable somewhat. Norman summed up the mood by asking if this could be our last but one weekend, instead of perhaps the last.

The truth is, it doesn’t have to be the last. But it is the last one for me to organize. If anyone else wants to take the plunge and organise another trip to Grin Low, whether at new year or on any other occasion, they are more than welcome and if they do, I would gladly add my name to their list.

I thank everyone who took part on this weekend, what more can I say?

Having said all this we went to see the Autumn colours in Monsall and Chee Dale and were not disappointed. The hostel is a great old house built by your usual Victorian Industrialist, who had made a few bob ripping minerals out the ground, with a brilliant view and surrounded by a beech wood in full Autumn golden mode. Surprisingly the 70 bed hostel was virtually full with two separate “reunion” walking groups. However their warning about the catering was correct, one sink, one small fridge and one kettle between 70 people!

We also discovered a very good pub, the Anglers Rest, down the hill in Millers Dale with real ales at £2.50 a pint, good cheap meals and very friendly staff. The pub was very quiet and they must have been glad of our trade as nearly all the group went there rather than enjoy the keg Boddingtons at the hostel. These threatened pubs are vital in country areas and traditionally got good trade from walkers so it was sad to see no one else from the hostel. Hostels always played a key part in supporting local village businesses and this will decline as hostel catering takes hold.

Anyway on to the walking – the first day was foggy and damp though it promised better things. We trudged up the Limestone Way through traditional Derbyshire mist and mud with the vague shapes of bored looking cattle. All those who’d walked Monks Dale before swore to keep clear of it and eventually we stopped for elevenses (At Anne’s steadfast request) by a charming mist shrouded stone cross watched by a misty brown cow with triplets and a rather emasculated looking bull.

Then on to Wormhill where Dorothy was disappointed to find she had missed the sales and Liz looked in vain for Charity shops. Actually Wormhill was a picturesque village and we had a good lunch stop by a monument to a man called Brindley who built the Bridgewater canal (In Manchester not Somerset)

After that we finally got to the top of Chee Dale and it stopped raining. The view was brilliant with the valley going one way to Buxton, the railway cutting through towards Chinley and the old railway in the valley that’s now a walking trail. The sides of the gorge were covered in trees in autumn colours with some clinging on to the white limestone cliffs and the sun decided to threaten to come out as well.

So we went down to walk along Chee dale, the wildest bit of the Wye gorges going down to Monsal head with only a rough path right by the river side with two sets of stepping stones and the very high rail viaducts cutting across at regular intervals. It was very, as the Victorians would say, “gothic” with a deep gorge with sheer white limestone walls and Autumn golden trees all along the top with dense vegetation on the floor alongside the river. As it had been raining it was very wet with a bit of mist in the gorge to add to the atmosphere.

The wetness also made the limestone “Monksdale” slippery with the result that Boh headbutted the floor (But fortunately did not damage to the path) and Dorothy did a “wet limestone” slip but luckily no harm done . At one stage Liz dropped her pole over the edge where it was stuck just over the river. In harmony with the gothic atmosphere brave Sir Mick and Sir Boh rescued the pole for the damsel in distress before the dragon of the gorge leapt out of the river from it’s sleep and King Arthur appeared with a risk assessment.

We then came to the stepping stones which go along the edge of the cliff face. Last time Anne and I walked here the river was in flood and the stones were covered by about 4 inches of water. Our group waded across (Carrying a dog) and you got the feeling that if you slipped you would get carried away in a roaring torrent. This time the stones were uncovered and it was a bit mortifying to see that it was only about 6 inches deep around them!

We finally got out of the gorge and up onto the railway where we stopped at Millers Dale station though we’d just missed the last train. (Well by 30 years but you lose touch with time when you’re in the gorge). After that back to the hostel by several routes and then back to the pub to eat in the evening. (Apart from Dave who subjected the kitchen to his “curry test” first)

So next day, plus Andy who turned up, we did the quick post breakfast rush down the hostel back entry and up the gorge the other side. Nothing like that to wake you up and great views from the top to Kinder, Stanage, Bretton etc. Then along the top with a view of Taddington that Anne assures has a bunkhouse that was so cold that Captain Scott used it for training for his Arctic mission.

Finally then a view of Monsal Head and back along the railway to Cressbrook where there’s a good tea stop shop where you can eat your own food, it’s a good idea. The tea stop is in the old lodging house for the child labourers at the mill and Liz was even able to have a mini spending spree there. Then back along Water Cum Jolly and Cressbrook and back to the hostel and off.

It was a good weekend but Anne and I both wrote letters of complaint about the self catering facilities.. We both got fairly unapologetic replies from YHA and mine stated that groups who went to hostels that provided catering should use it, as the self catering facilities were not suitable for groups to use. Well I suppose that was being honest about what they’ve been trying to achieve by stealth for some time. Fortunately I have a copy of the Independent Hostels Guide.

Day 1: Melrose to Harestanes (14 miles)

In what would become a daily routine, the four drivers set off to the end point of the walk, leaving three cars there and coming back in the fourth.  It seemed like an awful long way to drive, how would it feel to walk it? By the time we returned to the hostel, everyone was ready to find out.

We set off, passing by the ruined remains of Melrose Abbey before turning uphill towards the Eildon Hills. This distinctive trio of conical peaks stand just south of Melrose and dominate the little town. A stiff climb brought us to the col between the two highest tops, whence half the party made a side trip to the highest summit whilst the rest took the chance of an early elevenses stop.

The view from the top was impressive, and gave us a chance to survey the route ahead. Miles of rolling farmland and woodland stretched out to meet the distant line of the Cheviot Hills. We could also see an ominous bank of cloud approaching from the west, which sent us scuttling for our waterproofs.

By the time the group was reunited, a light rain had begun to fall. It continued as we descended the Eildons and passed through the villages of Bowden and Newtown St Boswells to the banks of the Tweed near Dryburgh. Here the rain stopped, allowing us to make a lunch break and nip over the Chain Bridge to visit the Temple of the Muses – a ninetenth century folly containing a modern sculpture.

The next stage of the journey followed the winding course of the Tweed, with the path climbing and descending the steep bank of the river to the extent that some wondered if St Cuthbert is the patron saint of steps! After a while the path levelled out, and we could enjoy the now-sunlit banks of the river with its herons and other waterfowl.

Near the village of Maxton we bade farewell to the Tweed and headed back toward the main road. Thus far, we had wound around by hill and river without making a lot of progress towards our goal. The next stage would be ruler-straight, following the line of an old Roman road.

Dere Street was once the main road from York to the Firth of Forth. In places it still is, as the A1 follows its route as far as Scotch Corner whilst the A68 follows it over Hadrian’s Wall and into Scotland. Here, though, it was reduced to a footpath, sometimes winding between small stands of trees, sometimes a wide drover’s path between stone walls. At the summit of a low hill we passed a monument to a particularly redoubtable local lassie:

Fair Maiden Lilliard lies under this stane,
Little was her stature but muckle was her fame;
Upon the English loons she laid many thumps,
And when her legs were cuttit off, she fought upon her stumps.

By this time our own legs were beginning to feel almost as worn down as Lady Lilliard’s. Sooi said that the soles of her feet were so sore that she had to walk on her heels, and the rest of us were pretty weary of the day’s exertions. Fortunately, the end was not too far off. A final descent through dense woodland brought us to the Harestanes Visitor Centre, the cars and back to the hostel.

Day 2: Harestanes to Morebattle (11 miles)

We packed up and left Melrose for the last time, and (after some car shuffling) re-convened at Harestanes just in time for the café to open. Resisting (most of) the temptations of tea and cake, we set off on another day’s walking.

Circling around the edge of Monteviot House Gardens, we soon found ourselves on the bank of the Teviot. A smart new suspension bridge carried the path over the river, replacing one that had been swept away by a flood in 1997. The new bridge looks set to resist all weather, but is still disconcertingly bouncy under the tread of twelve pairs of feet!

A short stretch along the banks of first the Teviot, then the Jed Water brought us back onto the course of Dere Street. Following the preferred route of the legionaries up a steady slope (did those guys never consider going round a hill?), we stopped for a rest in an open field beside the path. The sun was shining now, and we were able to enjoy a fine view of the Eildons and the country we had crossed on the day before.

Resuming our walk, we entered the first of a number of small woods that our route would take us through that day. Interspersed with sections of farmland, first a birch wood, then an oak wood, then a pine wood. Each had a distinct character not even hinted at by the bland green shading on a map. You have to walk through the countryside to appreciate such things.

At length, we came to the small settlement of Cessford. Nearby stands the remains of Cessford Castle, once one of the strongest defensive works along the troubled Anglo-Scottish border and a stronghold of the Ker family. With the coming of more peaceful times, the Kers decamped to nearby Floors Castle leaving Cessford to fall into ruin. After a brief inspection, keeping a respectful distance from its crumbling walls, we embarked on a three mile road walk to reach the cars at Morebattle.

That night we transferred to Kirk Yetholm YH, more famous for being at the end of the Pennine Way than the middle of the St Cuthbert’s. Finding the biggest pans we could, we set about making a communal meal. Neeps and Tatties were peeled, chopped, boiled and mashed. Haggis was roasted and portioned out. After a few lines of Burns the whole was demolished and followed up by fruit crumble and custard. Just the thing after a long day’s walk!

Day 3: Morebattle to Kirk Yetholm (6  miles)

Returning to Morebattle, we started the day with another mile along the road. A fine rain was falling and the sun was shining, filling the valley behind us with a colossal rainbow. We also had a strong westerly wind to blow us on our way.

Crossing a fast-flowing stream, we gratefully turned off the road and returned to open country. Hill country! The arable fields of the past two days were replaced by the fellsides that marked the edge of the Cheviot range.

Aided by the wind, we clambered to the top of Wideopen Hill. At 1200 feet, the summit of Wideopen Hill is the highest point of the walk and also the halfway point. The views were extensive, but rather hampered by the thick scotch mist covering most of the country to the north. Nonetheless, though the murk, the distinctive triple summit of the Eildons could be made out marking the already distant start of our trek.

The path followed a ridge for an exhilerating mile before dropping down into the valley for another stretch of road back to Town Yetholm. We arrived back at the hostel in the middle of the afternoon, whence the group split up to amuse themselves. I’ll leave it as an exercise for the reader’s imagination to work out which of the assembled company went for a further walk round a nearby loch, which pottered around Town Yetholm, which went shopping in Wooler and which spent the afternoon in the pub!

Day 4: Kirk Yetholm to Wooler (13 miles)

Bidding farewell to Kirk Yetholm hostel, we set off southbound along the Pennine Way. Edale lay a mere 270 miles ahead of us but, on balance, we decided to stick to the St Cuthbert’s when it came to the parting of the ways. We were now climbing, in brilliant sunshine, up into the northern edge of the Cheviot hills. We crossed the border into England and diverted a little off the path to reach Eccles Cairn.

A splendid view spread out to the North and West across the border country. Once again the Eildons could be clearly seen, their triple profile being a prominent feature on the horizon. They’d become a familiar, if constantly receding, sight over the past few days but this was time to bid them farewell as we headed further into the Cheviot range.

Descending into the College valley, we passed through a dense pine plantation that was as dark as midnight inside after the sunlit moorland that we’d been passing through. Then a farm track took us to the small settlement of Hethpool before we climbed once more into the moors.

Passing the ancient hill fort of Yeavering Bell on our left, we caught our first glimpse of the sea – a distant grey ribbon along the horizon to the north east. Striding out over broad, heather-clad moors we passed Tom Tallon’s Crag and a few other low heights before Wooler finally hove into view.

The town was a sight for sore eyes, or more specifically for sore feet, as this was probably the most strenuous day so far. The day wasn’t finished yet, as for once the route didn’t finish with a road walk into town (hooray!), but an extra half-mile loop (oops) that took us through a small pine wood instead.

Finally we reached the welcoming front door of Wooler YH, the third and final hostel of the trip.

Day 5: Wooler to Fenwick (12 miles)

Our last full day of walking, and once again one bathed in glorious sunshine. We were now out of the Cheviot hills and crossing farmland to get to the coast, though still taking in small patches of moorland such as Weetwood Moor, which stands just to the west of Wooler.

The last long road section of the walk took us from Weetwood bridge to the hamlet of Horton, heading all the time towards a long wooded ridge that formed the last high ground between us and the coast. A farm track took us to Hazelrigg, a short rest, and a rather extraordinary sight.

You know how it is: you go for ages without seeing anybody pushing a fridge, and then two come along all at once. Rolling along the road were two young men embarked upon “The Great Fridge Adventure” – each pushing a fridge from John O’Groats to Land’s End in order to raise money for the Alzheimer’s Society. We put some money in their tin and wished them well before going our separate ways.

Next stop was St. Cuthbert’s cave. Really more of a rocky outcrop, this is reputed to have been the hiding place of monks who fled, carrying the relics of the saint, when the vikings attacked Lindisfarne in 875. St Cuthbert would make a long posthumous journey before finding a truly final resting place in Durham over a hundred years later.

Our own final resting place was still a few miles off, so after a little boulder climbing in the surroundings of the cave, we set off up the hill. A short climb brought us to the top of Greensheen Hill.

Looking back at the way we’d come, we could see the expanse of fields between us and Wooler. We could see the mass of the Cheviot Hills stretching out behind the town. Far away on the horizon, we could even see the unmistakable outline of the Eildon hills, thirty miles away as the crow flies (and positively their last appearance on our walk).

However, it was the other direction that drew our attention most. Ahead of us stretched the Northumberland coastline, with the holy island of Lindisfarne right in front. We could see the narrow causeway stretching across the sands, and Lindisfarne Castle standing on its rocky mount. It seemed close enough to touch, but we still had a few miles to cover to get there.

The remainder of the day was spent crossing fields and woodlands, with our final objective almost always within view. We reached Fenwick and drove back to the hostel, eagerly anticipating the last step of the journey.

Day 6: Fenwick to Lindisfarne (6 miles)

The first task of the day was one of the most challenging: crossing the A1. Having safely tackled that obstacle we were faced, a couple of miles later, with crossing the east coast main line. A phone call to the signalman ensured that there were no 125mph trains bearing down on us as we went on our way. After passing those two barriers, could something as minor as the sea keep us from our goal?

Fortunately, the tide was in our favour and already a long way out when we reached the causeway. Taking shoes and socks off, we left the road and followed the “pilgrim’s path” across the sands to the island. The feeling of the cool sand against tired feet was bliss – you can pay good money for spa treatment like that, and we were getting it for free!

On reaching the island, we regrouped and reshod. All that remained was a short stroll along the road to reach Lindisfarne Priory, St Cuthbert’s final destination and also ours. After a visit to the pub and a walk out to the castle, the group dispersed. Alan and Dave heading south to the YHA AGM in York, the rest taking a look round the island before heading back to a B&B on the mainland. The next day, everyone was on the long road back to Leicester.

Conclusion

All-in-all an excellent week’s walking, complete with fine weather, views and company. As always, Kathy did an excellent job organising the trip, and thanks are due to the drivers, cooks, washers up and everybody else that made it so enjoyable.

Plans are already afoot to tackle the Cleveland Way next year. Personally, I can’t wait…

Avoiding such temptations (for the meantime) the number 17 bus takes you from the station to St. Paul’s – and seemingly within minutes – the hostel is there, just round the corner in Carter Lane. Andy, Alan, Patricia, Liz and Boh and I stored our bags and then mobile phone numbers, before venturing out on a well researched crawl of London’s best public houses in the area.

Fortunately on our way to the first pub, a slight detour allowed us girls the opportunity to admire the jewellery walled up but glittering in the shop fronts along Hatton Gardens. Back on track, we walked under the beautiful Holborn Viaduct, to reach our first destination, ‘The Cittie of York,’ selling Sam Smiths – and sundry wines too.

Entering this pub is like walking into history. There is a high wooden vaulted ceiling, wood panelled alcoves and beautiful chandelier, dating from its origins as a coffee house in 1695. Beneath is a cellar, where refugees from the Gordon Riots allegedly took refuge in the mid eighteenth century. There are also many cartoons on the walls – references to the nearby ancient Inns of Court around Chancery Lane.

Fortified, we walked back towards St. Paul’s and crossed the bridge to the South Bank, it was cold and breezy, but the view, as always, forces you to stop mid way and try to take as much in as possible: The Eye, the Gherkin, Tate Modern, we even saw the outline of the peregrine falcon that lodges there, way up high and very, very aloof!

We headed towards Southwark Cathedral where we visited one of several excellent pubs on the streets close to Borough Market – ‘The Wheatsheaf’, where the beer is also good (Young’s) and people to and fro to the wonderful market opposite. Here Liz discovered the most amazing mince pies. The pastry was made from spelt flour, and even one wholesome crumb is yummy! We also were pleased to meet up again with Andy, who had taken a Thames Ferry to Greenwich.

Our London pub crawl – already good was about to become even more special, as Alan guided us to ‘The George’ an incredible galleried inn – with courtyard opposite a dreadful 20th century building, easily blotted out though by the memories of Dickens, who mentions ‘The George’ in his book ‘Little Dorrit’. The bouncer was a joyful and very broad shouldered exponent of – ‘Cage Fighting’. It is a martial art, for which he had sculptured his hair into eye-catching spikes. We ate dinner at a good Turkish restaurant – ‘Tas’ and walked back to the hostel, and unpacked for the night.

The following morning, which was very bright, cold and windy, we decided to go to the V and A museum, hoping also to see the ‘Wildlife Of The Year Exhibition’ at The Natural History Museum next door.

We sat in the café of the V and A, contemplating which of the many wonderful other rooms and exhibitions to visit. We decided that we could see the Lee Miller photographic exhibition. Such an iconic figure, ‘an artist of the electric century’ (1907-77) Miller pioneered the use of solarisation in her work. A contemporary of Man Ray, she starred in Cocteau’s surreal film, ‘The Blood of a Poet’. She photographed in Egypt during the 1930′s and between 1940 and 45, filmed war images including blitzed London, field hospitals in Normandy, liberated Paris and Hitler’s apartment in Munich.

Perhaps it was just as well we were unable to see the ‘Wildlife Photographer of the Year’ exhibition as we were already feeling the effects of so much art, and we still had ‘The Terracotta Army’ to go! The Natural History Museum is anyway fascinating, with incredible displays, including a simulated earthquake experience, which is not to be missed. But the time was getting short, and we had to leave South Kensington, to head for The British Museum.

The Terracotta Army exhibition being held there includes models of warriors, archers, chariots, and weapons, paraphernalia of the first Chinese Emperor – Qin, who hoped to rule the world from his final temple resting place. He was buried alongside this fabricated army of 7,000 life-size figures in preparation for his last battle and after life, in the province of Xi’an, centre of the huge country he had conquered and unified.

It is breath taking – the chilling mass production of terracotta torsos, heads and body parts, and their overlapping bronze armour, serried rows of these ‘soldiers’, buried in fighting position more than 2000 years ago. There are some birds and musicians included in the treasures, and hints of yet to be discovered treasures buried at the centre of the vast excavation site, probably the Emperor’s tomb.

Later, in ‘The Bree Louise’ on Cobourg St , we compared impressions of the story of the beginnings of the Chinese Empire, the army, the standardisation of the script (still in use today) and the skills of conscripted soldiers and slaves. It is incredible to imagine the genesis of such a successful albeit violent empire. The pub sold Bateman’s ‘Mystique Scorpio’ and Old Rosie Cider, which we just had time to enjoy, before some of us walked to St. Pancras. (Liz and Boh stayed another day in London.)

Patricia and I also had time (so we thought) for a glass of champagne at the famous station bar – but did miss our train… We were fortunate to catch the next one, and so ended our eventful London visit – only slightly late home.

I would especially like to thank Alan for finding great pubs for us to visit and also everyone who came for helping to make the weekend lively and interesting.

I was late up the following morning so missed the T’ai Chi callisthenics class on the lawn in front of the hostel led by Sooi and thus my mind and body remained uncleansed.

The Saturday walk was carried out under a cooling cloud until the summit of Cader Idris was neared. At the summit the mist blowing from the sea over the top provided some dramatic pictures of silhouetted figures standing on a rocky outcrop which appeared to be higher than the trig pointed peak. On the ascent some walkers said there was a possibility of a Brocken Spectre. I did not see one. The silhouetted figures might have been trying to create one. It is caused by the brilliant sun projecting the shadow image of the viewer greatly magnified on to the mist in front of one some distance away. Your walking partner will not see the same image as you. Brocken is the highest summit on the Hartz range in Saxony where the optical illusion was first observed. Not many minutes at the top saw the mist lift and the cloud blow away so that the dramatic views of Barmouth town, beach, estuary and the surrounding hills appeared to be brought nearer so clear was the atmosphere. The café was closed, but that was not surprising, as it had not opened for very many years. It still proves to be a good shelter in inclement weather. Saturday’s weather was very clement. The sun, very hot, was beating down through an extremely clear atmosphere with the cloud cover gone.

Tempus fugit

The walk back to the hostel was full of expectations. Leicester YHA group was to celebrate a birthday. A few Leicester YHA members in 1937 set up the group. The party was to celebrate the seventy-year history of the group at Kings, which also opened in 1937. It was just as well that half of the group membership was in attendance preparing the food. A barbeque kindly brought along by Liz and Boh heated the bangers, kebabs, burgers and sausages. The veggie stuff was in the hostel oven. Rob presided over the salad preparation and gave advice freely to all the helpers. It was a warm night. The campfire lit the camping area around which we all gathered. The midges were out. It is only the females that bite. Carrying out a selective cull in the dark is difficult. I consider that my attempts to do just that were the reason that I was bitten on face, neck and hair. There was alcohol in the form of wine and beer. The female midges drank freely of blood.

With the food out of the way the birthday cake was removed from its protective washing up bowl and carried with due ceremony to a small table erected by the camp fire. The candles were lit. The time had arrived for Alan to say something about 1937 for no one else was around at the time except him. The country had a new King and Alan had spent some time during that year suffering from measles. The candles had to be snuffed before burning the cake. That also ended the short speech. The man in the blue bow tie proposed a toast to the future of the group, and the reply was “The Leicester Local YHA Group”.

It was at this point that the chairman circled the fire brandishing a knife recalled the previous occasion on which a party had been arranged in honour of the birthdays of Alan and Tony Thompson. The resulting photos appeared to show a gay wedding. Well anything for a laugh. And so the cake was cut. Alan who was still wearing his waiter’s bow tie distributed the slices to all in the darkness. Rob was careful to cut pieces to a reasonable size, somewhat bigger than wedding cake pieces. The hostel management was not overlooked and received a piece each. I later noted that Rob was giving his recipe freely to the management and discussing catering methods.

Dorothy was given a round of applause in appreciation of her efforts for the group to celebrate this birthday occasion. Organising a larger group does entail more work as more folks create more problems. Having sampled the cake Rob was thanked for his wonderful creation topped with petite fours and iced with marzipan all round the side in a basket weave pattern. Another round of appreciation applause was handed out for Rob. We all retired to clean up the kitchen and campfire area before retiring to bed or reminiscing over walks and weekends to alcohol accompaniment. Some stayed up later than others and imbibed rather a lot of alcohol units.

A tired and weary lot appeared in the common room and kitchen on Sunday morning. Tired legs, aching muscles, and hangovers were all having some effect such that several alternative excursions were planned. It appeared that the car drivers were taking members all over the Welsh coast, and very few wanted to sample the low level planned walk. It was decided that we would all meet in Barmouth by the Old Lifeboat house. This prominent building would be easy to find. It was hot and warm. This weather also brought out all the day-trippers in their cars. It is not a good idea to arrange such a meeting on a bank holiday Sunday morning. Well eventually all the drivers managed to find a space to leave their cars and we all met as planned. Some had already gone to the beach, which is a very low level walk, or to Portmeirion, which again is the next to an estuary beach. The remainder set off to the small ferryboat in order to catch the narrow gauge train to Fairborne. To attract custom this day was India day on the railway. The locomotives were decorated with garlands and the staff wore suitable Asian headgear. It is not usual for the group to use four modes of transport to reach the start of the walk. These were; a short car drive; a long walk from the car park to the meeting point and ferry; a ferry ride and then finally a railway ride behind a small replica narrow gauge steam engine. We were not hauled by the Darjeeling replica but were able to see it half way along the line when our train waited for it to pass puffing on its way towards Barmouth. Our train was hauled by a replica of the engine that pulled and puffed along the Lynton and Barnstable holiday railway line between the two world wars.

Smiling Norman who had packed up his tent and left the hostel independently met the train by chance at Fairbourne and decided to walk with us. A leisurely walk along the lower hills above the estuary gave brilliantly lit views. The weather was warm and sunny although the wind at times was chilling. We were attracted by young persons screams of terror or delight depending on their nerves, to descend into a disused stone quarry to watch and for lunch. Those young persons entertaining us were whizzing down a catenary wire from the top of the quarry wall into cold-water bum first. They were suitably clad in wet suits for the thrilling ride. We moved on when the entertainment packed up and a slight chill had set into our bones. Wandering on we all found our way along the paths beneath the Cader Idris ridge heading for the footpath alongside the railway line over the Mawddach River. This was featured on one of the episodes of Coast and described by Nicholas Crane. We all paid the toll otherwise the walk avoiding this fee was too long to contemplate. Up a steep slope we walked and then we were all back in Barmouth. Some took refreshment in tearooms or a pub. I joined three lovely ladies at the Bath House for hot chocolate on the terrace over the sand. The sun was still very hot. We sat relaxed.

We all gathered again at Kings hostel to cook our meals and partake in the alcoholic beverages supplied from the management.

On the Bank Holiday Monday we all went our various ways to return to Leicester, as was the wish of the car drivers. Patricia was driving the car; Rob and Maggie were the other passengers. We decided that Machynlleth was a suitable place for a cuppa.

Welsh organic food was purchased and the kind shop assistant directed us to a nice teashop for lunch. Patricia ordered organic tea without the tea bag, and ham eggs and chips minus the ham and the chips. This order did not faze the staff one iota. So fascinated was I by this quality check by Patricia on the food used by the establishment that I cannot recall my order or that of anyone else.

We later stopped in Shrewsbury for a walk round and afternoon tea in a pub except that Patricia decided that her needs could be met by tea without a teabag and water. Maggie had tea and I supped a beer. In the meantime Rob and Patricia had returned to the car. I visited the loo and said I would catch up later.

On the main street I realised that I could not recall the whereabouts of the car. This was reinforced when I found myself outside the Bingo Hall where we first parked before deciding that there might be a real fire inside to which the fire and rescue service were attending. At this point the value of modern technology came to be truly valued. A mobile phone call from Rob arranged a meeting at the Railway Station. Let this be a warning to all that this is what dementia has in store for you all.

This was an excellent bank holiday weekend organised by Dorothy with food purchased by Chris and Dorothy cooked under the direction of Rob.

One can imagine the walker who fell asleep on Cadair and woke up in the dark with the full moon overhead. He or she then walked down the mountain towards Dolgellau and came into a thickly wooded valley. After a while stumbling in the dark he came across a clearing in the woods. There was a bonfire with various figures gathered around it. Then a formally dressed man with druidic looking white hair approached something on a table and drew out a knife. Thinking this was some ancient Celtic sacrificial ritual the walker rushed off into the woods in utter panic and was not found till morning………

However if he had waited he would actually have found that this was Leicester Local YHA seventieth anniversary weekend at Kings hostel . this was the celebratory barbecue and Alan was about to cut the cake.

Nearly thirty people came on this weekend organised by Dorothy at Kings hostel near Dogellau which is now the only hostel in the area after the closure of Barmouth, Corris and Bala. It’s in a wonderful situation at the northern foot of Cadair Idris, in a clearing in a narrow wooded valley reached by a winding lane.

The hostel consists of an old building and an annexe. As it is nowhere near any mains it has its own water supply which means water can sometimes only be found at the lower annexe so toilets and showers in the main building don’t work! Apart from that though it was great.

Everyone got here in the end, though some cars decided to do a few detours around Dogellau first. The most unfortunate was the car with Mick, Dave and Stella in it who found that an accident had blocked the road in mid Wales so that they had to make a massive detour and didn’t arrive till 1.30 the next morning. Fortunately Bo had stayed up to let them in.

On the next morning the whole group set off to climb Cadair led by Chris who had quite a task with such a multitude. Cadair is in fact a series of five separate peaks with various tracks going up it from all directions. We opted for the pony path which is a fairly easy but longer walk up the mountain. Other tracks such as the Foxes path or the Minffordd path from the next valley would have been steeper. However as we started climbing from near sea level the actual climb was about 2700 ft which was quite a way.(The summit is 893 metres or around 2930 ft which is just under a Munro.)

The heather looked good and the weather was fine till we hit the mist that covered the top of the mountain. For some time it was just a matter of climbing in the mist and on the way we met two intrepid runners who were on the way to their usual run up the top. Also a large number of dogs and, for some reason red headed walkers (Anne had read an article saying the number of red heads was declining).. When we eventually reached the west to east ridge known as the saddle you could see the beginning of the nearly sheer drop below but nothing else and no sign of the lake Llyn y Gadair about 1000 feet below.

However as we began a steeper climb to the summit we could see blue sky above the mist and eventually climbed out of it. The top was a plateau with several small summits and also a bothy on top. It must be a bit cold in the bothy but would be a wonderful view in the morning. The mist was now beginning to break up and the clouds became quite spectacular scudding past at great speed so that one minute you could see a view and then it went again. In the end most of the cloud cleared and you could see the summits though the view to the south was a bit obscured. It was now a clear sunny day and you could see the Snowdon range foothills to the north and the Mawddach estuary below as well as the two lakes directly below the ridge which were really deep blue, though Liz resisted the urge to jump in this time!

On the way down one of Dan’s boots disintegrated which led him to muse that ‘He had left his soul/sole on Cadair Idris’. Dave is considering making this phrase into a song for Tanners. Further down we passed a plaque commemorating a runner who ran up Cadair in record time of about an hour and a half if I remember and then died in a climbing accident on Cadair the next day. Must be a moral in there somewhere.

After a well deserved break we began the descent in the sunshine and eventually got back to the hostel at 6pm after 8 hours out so it had been a good day and thanks to Chris for having the patience to deal with such a large group.

That evening was then barbecue night organised by Dorothy and everyone chipped in one way or another. The highlight of the feast for me was Rob’s brilliant cake which banished any thoughts of Atkins diets or weight watchers deep into the woods. Stella performed her usual service of tearing down a few trees and dragging them out of the woods, with Andy providing professional horticultural advice and the fire got going while Liz and Bo provided and organised the actual barbecue equipment.

Alan, formally dressed for the occasion gave a speech, the cake was cut, rivers of wine flowed and the fire burned merrily so a good time was had by all and thanks to Dorothy for organising the barbecue.

The next morning we decided to split up. Chris led a walk of great variety including travel by water, train car and foot. They crossed the Mawddach by ferry at Barmouth . had a trip on the Fairbourne narrow gauge railway, drove south and then had a walk. I led another group that had a swim at Barmouth walked over the mile long footbridge over the river then along the old railway track that followed the river .to Dolgellau. Thought he tide was out it was still a,. great walk surrounded by mountains. It was so sunny that at one stage we were forced to take a break in the George Pub in Penmaenpool where we sat with points of beer or Earl Grey depending on preference. Dave thought some people speaking in Welsh must come from eastern Europe. Then up the valley back to the hostel. Some others swam and walked on the beach at Barmouth while others just swam and sat on the beach and thought about walking. Mick and “one boot” Dan went to Portmeirion for the day but escaped without being made prisoner or being chased by any large spheres.

Next day we all went our separate ways. Bill’s car with Anne and I in went via the really spectacular coast road south to the Dysynni valley which is very remote and which used to be tidal marshes till it was reclaimed 500 years ago. In the valley is a quite spectacular outcrop Craig y Aderyn which is home to the only inland colony of cormorants who stayed where they were when the land was reclaimed And commute daily to the sea. There’s also the site of an old castle which was one of the last to hold out against the English.

After that across to Abergynolwyn up the valley to Minffordd by Lake Tal y Lin. This takers you along the south side of Cadair Idris which is far steeper then the north and on to the Dolgellau junction. This is a quite spectacular route and well recommended to anyone driving around there.

So that was that and it was a brilliant seventieth anniversary weekend with good weather, great walks and a fine barbecue with a classic cake.

Thanks to Dorothy for organising it all and I hope she’ll do the centenary weekend and Alan will be ready with the speech again!

This trip kept changing before it began. It began in the Clarendon pub, after Alan helped me deliver three budgies to their Christmas retreat. Sans birds and a few pints later, we had sketched the plan – three days in the Hebrides. Were we budgie-brained? We changed the timescale to a week, then longer to take in the last May bank holiday. That week wouldn’t work because the ferry timetables are very respectful of specific dates. So we changed it to a week including two weekends, or eight Sundays, which is what it all began to feel like in the timeless spray freedom of the Outer Hebrides.

We changed everything except our minds; we would go there in one or two cars, as four or five persons, in meteorological suspense. Elusive and beautiful the trip was to be.

DAY 1 (Saturday 19 May 07)

Shortly into the journey, Maggie forgot her new digital camera instructions. This led to a rapid return to Leicester from Groby. Second thoughts? Then Chris chose the high road, i.e. Glasgow via the peak district.
On the ensuing picturesque journey with Chris and Maggie, we passed through the the Derbyshire village of Earl Sterndale. We saw a pub sign there, ‘The Quiet Woman’. It was of a headless C16 woman. Maggie and I wondered if we would be silenced by the 3 men on the trip, namely: Alan, Chris and Dave!

The other side of this sign read, ‘Soft words doth turneth away wrath’.

Maggie and I got a bit car sick in the peak district , so much so that I felt inclined to run down a hill and for a few minutes to join a lone female runner training for the marathon.

Tissington was dressing wells but we didn’t see them. But it might be worth remembering this event for a YHA local culture expedition next year.

On the outskirts of Glasgow, Maggie saw rather than heard bagpipes.

When we arrived at Glasgow’s 4 star West end hostel, Dave and Alan had got there first. Alan found he had to rewrite the trip because all our bookings had apparently been cancelled since 22 March by the central bookings in Stirling! Our trip had been deleted! We could have slept in a shallow grave! Alan had to renegotiate seven nights’ accommodation. He set about this business in true chairman style.

We then all went walk-about in Glasgow, where we saw a vivid green statue of Donald Dewar outside the National Concert Hall. It bore the inscription ‘there will be a Scottish parliament’. It was a bit too green to be taken seriously.

In Glasgow, we saw plenty of four- stretch limousines crammed with kids, a building that looked as if it had been covered in tinfoil or was pretending to be a stretch limousine and the tea rooms designed by Charles Rennie Macintosh.

All of us went for a ‘meal deal’ in Wetherspoons, where there were shelves of outdated hard volumes, Alan and Chris got buried in a book that described a machine for extracting metal out of people’s eyes, similar to taking metal out of horses’ shoes. But nobody was wearing contact lens for them to demonstrate the principles of this extraction.

DAY 2 (Sunday 20 May 07)

We drove round Loch Lomond – the longest lake in Scotland to the port of Oban. In and out of the winding mountain shadows, we listened to the crackling sound of Radio 4, or Sue Lawley interviewing Greg Dyck on ‘Desert Island Discs’. It sounded like an appropriate topic before we set off for the islands of South Uist, Berneray, Lewis/ Harris, Skye. The former Chief Executive of BBC said two memorable things:

1. I didn’t have the imagination to consider what failure would be like.
2. It’s easy to live through the good times, It’s how you cope with the bad times, that’s a real test of character

Maggie remembered that she had left a pair of shoes in Oban youth hostel, seven years ago. She is confident they would still fit, if SYHA is committed to retaining memorabilia.

We had fish and chips with black napkins – death to diets – on Oban pier, I watched a large woman in a bottle green fleece feed the Eider ducks, swans and gulls from a plastic bag full of goodies. They swooped, shrieked then soared again, replete and indifferent to her anonymous gesture. Our ferry resembled a red and white Disney shark. Cars entered separate lanes for the island of Barra or the port of Lochloisdale (our destination on South Uist). We were taking the longer (approximately 7 hours’ sea journey through ‘the minch’.

We landed at Lochloisdale port on South Uist Island and eventually found Howmore hostel near a small graveyard. It was darkening now at 10.45pm, such is the long stretch of island light in the summer months. Alan peered into the stone floored, communal dormitory and said, ‘there’s people in beds in there, but no warden!’ We didn’t care, we clambered into the steel comfort of rickety top bunks without ladders.

The SYHA Hostel Guide 2007, describes Howmore as: Traditional thatched croft houses near the machair and extensive beaches on the ocean side of South Uist. Easy access to the mountains on the eastern side of the island. But there is not easy access to anywhere else!

DAY 3 (Monday 21 May 07)

We first went to the post office and parked the car. The red headed woman who sold me stamps came from Donegal. All five of us then climbed Beinn Mhor ( Mhor = ‘big’ in Gaelic and it did get rather big the more lost we got on it). We realised that we had forgotten all walking maps, but the mountain looked fairly straightforward, just up and down, so off we went.

Close to the top of Beinn Mhor, there were force 6 gales. Going up I fell into a sphagnum moss bog. Further up, Dave and Maggie were almost parachuted off the lower ridge.

The mountain is still worked for its peat. We admired its carefully hacked ridges and scaled one to find the road again, through horizontal rain and unwelcoming mist.

We were soaked through, and then drove across the new causeway to Berneray island. Obviously, either the EU or the Scottish parliament has pumped money into building new roads.

Berneray youth hostel didn’t disappoint us. It was whitewashed and thatched and heaving with damp cyclists, a younger romantic couple and their buckled tandem. It had the smell of peat and tired socks coming from the kitchen stove. Dave regretted that the 78 year old twin sisters (Annie and Jessie) had recently retired from their wardenship duties at Berneray. And the hostel looked sad without their regular maintenance of it. Its thatch was thinning, its rafters weeping.

I cooked a communal Tesco vegetable pasta. Then we found some much coveted bunks in the two dormitory outposts that constitute Bernerary, and like a lot of people slept with all our clothes on through gales, with men and women wondering if the SYHA wound do some thing about the fragile roof, the exposed timber, the neglect that feeds the ravaging sea.

DAY 4 (Tuesday 22 May 07)

Surprisingly, I woke to sunshine at Berneray and walked the glorious beach at the threshold of the hostel. Somebody had wedged an armchair into the rocks of the newly renovated, privately owned boat house.

The description of Berneray (one of the SYHA affiliated hostels) (ibid) reads: Traditional thatched croft-houses situated right on the beach overlooking the sound of Harris. Ideal position for walking around and exploring the much-acclaimed island. It is, but tradition needs support and finance and these simple croft-houses require some immediate attention.

Dave tried to find out if Annie and her identical twin sister were still around. They used to be joint wardens of the hostels. According to Dave, ‘the only way you could tell one from the other was that one had been married and the other hadn’t’. But Dave could find no news of them, even on this eight mile island.

While Alan and Dave rose early and energetically in search of the only shop and tea room, Maggie, Chris and I set off to walk the island, in particular its four mile beach. Chris soon left us as the rain became more treacherous and the friendly seals better company for a keen photographer!

Maggie and I traversed, bog or ‘the machair’ and some seriously well fed cows to reach this beach. It could have featured in any Robert Louis Stevenson tale. We had it to ourselves, purple and turquoise sea dreams colliding on the shore. We then got lost crossing the island, up hills through bogs and barbed wire to find the others in time to catch the ferry from Berneray to the port of Leverburgh on Harris.

We left Berneray reluctantly for Harris on the one hour ferry crossing. From Leverbrugh, we drove onto Lewis via Tarbet (where Harris and Lewis converge).

My first impression of Kershader SYHA is of a woman leaning out her bungalow window in the early evening in a dressing gown, ‘is it the key you might be wanting?’ There was no want for lots of clean bed linen in neatly ironed piles, tea towels, hot showers. But Kershader is a dip in the road, lacking the panoramic views that the Hebrides soon make you greedy for: for me, it was a hot shower comfort zone after the rugged simplicity of our earlier hostels.

DAY 5 (Wednesday 23 May 07)

Alan had book-marked a very good pub for lunch in his Blue Guide to the Islands. Stornaway is a depressed looking port, where I bought a pair of sandals in a Muslim shoe shop. The shop seemed to be stuck in size 6, the veiled woman was very convincing that the size didn’t matter, and did it in a shoe shop fitted with souvenirs such as shell ashtrays, plastic sea urchins and 1950s style wedding hats.

The lunch idea fell through, the pub seemed to be off the map; solemnly, soberly Dave and Alan adjourned to the Callanish Stones and Visitor Centre on Lewis, while the rest of us had fish and chips. As the holiday included rather a lot of fish and chips, I tried to guess when it had been caught.

The druidic Callanish stones have something more significant to say than Stonehenge. They have not yet been over protected as a response to tourism

The day improved by dropping down into the lunar landscape of Harris. Here, we enjoyed Seilhost beach. I asked Alan and Dave to model on the sand as anthropomorphic seals that the camera could play with. Unfortunately, the pictures didn’t come out. This beach has a small school right on it with football playing fields marking goals right into the horizon.

Lewis joins Harris as you approach Tarbet. You can see why Harris Tweed comes from here; it’s knitted into the contours, the hues and cry of the salty lunar stones and the warm promise of peaty bogs. We saw a letter in a shop in Tarbet, from Princess Margaret requesting ‘a white tweed suit’. Styles remain unchangeable, while other items such as the CD collection in the Callanish Visitors’ Centre selling ‘Red Hot Chilli Pipers’ embrace parody and popular culture.

DAY 5 (Thursday 24 May 07)

We left Kershader hostel and took a ferry from Tarbert to the port of Uig in Skye where we visited a potter’s studio. It was as wet as can be, so we drove to the Cuillin Black Houses Museum, north of Uig and next to Flora Macdonald’s grave.

The black houses were full of tinkers’ riches: tools, weaving utensils, explanations about how the Harris tweed is produced from the black faced highland sheep.

We learned that Flora MacDonald is the historical Skye heroine, who helped Bonnie Prince Charles (Charles III, the last Stuart king) to escape from George II and the Hanoverian troops by rowing him from Skye to South Uist while he escaped and ended his days in France under the protection of the French king Louis XV. Flora MacDonald then spent eight years in the Tower of London. She was later released, married Robert Ballantyre and emigrated to Minnesota, only to return to Kileyr, Skye, after her two sons had perished in the American War of Independence. James Boswell and Doctor Johnson applauded Flora MacDonald when they visited Skye in 1773. Charles Stuart and the Scottish Highland chiefs were very badly defeated at the battle of Culloden Moor in 1746. Whereas Charles’s title and royal ambitions came to nothing , the story of Flora Macdonald is enshrined in the minds of primary school children on the island.

On Thursday night, we stayed at Broadford hostel, on a loch full of midges . Alan and Dave went to a Celtic music concert at Portrigh. They heard a female harpist singer, the Gaelic harp (clarsac) accompanied by vocals in Gaelic and in English.

DAY 6 (Friday 25 May 07)

From these lessons in feminist narrative, we proceeded to Elgol and the arty teashop on the pier. According to the lady running the ‘wild life boat trips’ from Elgol pier, there are 19 children attending the school at this harbour, and a staff of peripatetic teachers meet the requirements of the national curriculum.

We left Skye by driving over that eyesore Skye bridge. But a rainbow flanked each side. Dornie Castle emerged in the water, iconic, moody, and ruined.

On to Ratagan youth hostel: the smell of peat, the cooking of fried beet, garlic and lemon juice, and the relief of red bottles of wine. Nobody used the shelves in the hostel kitchen, so the food items went as far as the stove!

Norman was a robust apparition drinking wine in Ratagan kitchen. He had absconded from his all-male and masculine motorbike itinerary to this meeting of ‘Leicester strangers’ at Ratagan. There he was in a baggy, boggy coloured sweater, bearded by his windswept motorcycle days, glad to have dinner with us and compare island experiences!

Ratagan , one of the most beautiful hostels I have ever stayed at, is on a sea loch, framed by the Kintail mountain range. It had a blooming pink rhododendron bush outside its front door. The otter were supposed to get up early to devour the kelp and crack open shell fish . We weren’t up early enough to see or hear them.

At the hostel, there were also 32 individuals from OUP on an ‘outdoors weekend’ which seemed to include discussing The Aeneid, tiring themselves out on the Kintail mountain range and listening to ‘Mr Claptrap, Laptop’s views on ‘The Guardian’ and Princess Diana, and conspiracy theory, he and his laptop had opinions, no matter what part of the youth hostel you found yourself in. (Readers who survived the trip will no doubt remember Mr Claptrap!)

DAY 7 (Saturday 26 May 07)

In the morning, we went back to Skye from that little palindrome (Glenelg) The ferry was very simple, four men operated it. It was like a large wooden raft and brought us across the estuary waters to Kylerhea to the otter spotting haven. I saw porpoises and seals as the ferry docked at Kylerhea. The bluebells and fuchsia and sea thrift and broom and gorse smiled all the way up the hill, past the larch and conifer trees. The otter hide was not midge proof, but had some useful posters informing visitors that otters holes are called ‘holts’, the otter are members of the same family as weasels and badgers and pine martens (Stellidae). Their tails serve as a rudder and are essential for propulsion

Then, we went to Gavin Maxwell’s Skye homeland called ‘Sandaig beach’. This is the setting for his famous book about an otter family, Ring of Bright Water, which was also made into a film. We scrambled down a woodland walk and crossed a shallow river to Sandaig. Sadly, Maxwell’s cottage was destroyed in a fire, but there is a shrine in his honour and another one commemorating Edal his pet female otter on the edge of the shore:

Edal – the otter of ring of bright water 1958-1969. Whatever she gave to you, give back to nature. (Gavin Maxwell)

The second stone reads:

Beneath this stone, the site of Camusfearna are buried the ashes of Gavin Maxwell, 6 July 1914, died 7 September 1969

Later on Saturday afternoon , we went to see 2 brochs, namely Dun Troddan, and Dun Telve. They were well preserved and had the same inscription and more or less the same parts missing. The brochs were defence forts for local communities to shelter from invaders, about 2000 years ago. They were about a mile away from Ratagan hostel, and were the last bastion of history or local culture on that sultry afternoon. We had dinner in Cluanie Inn on Saturday night Dave risked haggis and a Glen Turret malt.

DAY 8 (Sunday 27 May 07)

Departure from Ratagan youth hostel. Chris drove Maggie and I home, all the way from Ratagan (about 500 miles), via Gretna Green. We stopped at Tebay Services for some refreshments. This organic shop had a really good range of home produce and interesting, healthy choices on its canteen menu. The drive took about nine hours We returned to Leicester rain.

Here are some post trip reflections:

Alan

The trip was the only one in my life organised in half an hour at Glasgow SYHA reception desk. No hostels had been booked in fact some were cancelled, the booking a week after I booked by head office (can you believe it, the YHA must support homelessness!!). It went OK after that . Arrived 5pm, all new hostels booked for all of us by 5.30pm.

Dave

Except for witnessing the above, the trip offered my first sighting of the white-tailed sea eagle on Skye.

Chris

1.300 miles of driving , 700 photographs and a totally unforgettable week in the wilds of Scotland.