Come on Heart: Pennine Way Day 4, Jack in at Jack Bridge

Manchester, 5.50am

This is a post about how I lost my love of backpacking and why I gave up walking the Pennine Way.  Was it difficult to write?  Definitely.  Is it honest?  In the main, but time does change the mind’s perspective.  This is how I see things now.  Could it be dishonest?  Possibly, but only by omission and, given that, I do hope that readers will not expect, in the words of Queen Elizabeth I,  “to make windows into men’s souls”.

Day 4.  I was still feeling good with myself about how I'd coped with the conditions the previous day.  It was now dry.  A bit of a chilly wind first thing, but nothing serious.   It was to be a shortish, straightforward walk to the campsite at the New Delight Inn at Jack Bridge where a re-supply parcel awaited.  Even better, I would have time to divert into Hebden Bridge on the way to seek out coffee, bacon rolls and cake.  The schedule and weather forecast for the subsequent days were also benign.  What could possibly go wrong?

Nothing, as it happens, except I gave up.

I am still at a loss to explain why.  I set off along the long, flat, easy track by the series of reservoirs before Stoodley Pike.  Within a few minutes my head was down, despite the easiness of the terrain which meant that looking around for sustained periods as I walked, without risking a fall, was an option, possibly for the first time since Edale.  My mind could not wander, could not appreciate my surroundings.  I had another two weeks of this.  Just putting one foot in front of the other.  Crawling into a little tent most evenings.  Cooking and eating lying on my side, elbow and shoulder aching.  Peeing into a bottle a couple of times a night to avoid putting on boots, unzipping the tent, going out into what would often be rain, then reversing all this and lying there hoping to get back to sleep.  I am over 60 years old, I told myself.  What on earth did I think I was doing.  My heart had no answer.  It just gave out.

I walked along the higher ground towards the monument at Stoodley Pike, erected according to the graffiti, to honour Manchester City FC.  My guide book had wrongly claimed it was to celebrate the defeat of Napoleon Buonaparte.  It was superb walking country.  But my heart had given in.  I felt resentment every time a piece of gritstone on the track caused me to alter my regular pace or foot placement.  Who wants to walk in this fashion?  Tarmac is so much easier.

Stoodley Pike: Originally built to celebrate defeating the Frenchies (again). Now a shrine to Manchester City Football Club if all the graffiti painted on it is to be believed

My brain took its lead from my heart. But they were also arguing.  With each other and with me.  There’s no reason to give up.  You’ll hate yourself if you do.  It will be so embarrassing. You told all those people what you were doing.  Why didn’t you just quietly set off and not tell anyone?  I knew the answer to that.  By telling people I was less likely to give up, or so I had believed.  I sat below the monument.  I couldn’t move.  Not knowing what I wanted.  I’d decide in Hebden Bridge.  I eventually set off again and diverted, as planned, from the official route of the Way and followed the Hebden Bridge loop path down into the valley.

I hadn’t given up at this stage.  Part of me was still doing the walk.  Part was not. I sought out the gear shop to buy a spare gas canister.  I was thwarted.  It was only 11.35 in the morning, yet a sign said they’d closed early for lunch.  I went to a café and put my phone on charge as I’d need more juice for the next couple of days.  I could get to the camp site and make a decision tomorrow, then, if I wanted to give up, I could walk back to Hebden Bridge and catch a train.  I googled Sunday train times.  Thwarted again. There would be heavy disruption, this being useless Northern Rail country with its lack of drivers.  But Saturday afternoon trains were running to time.  I ate my bacon and sausage butty.  Was I doing this walk or not?

I headed out of the café and turned towards the steep pull up to Colden Clough and the woodland path that led away from Hebden Bridge and toward Jack Bridge and the Pennine Way north.  I think it took about an hour to get to the camp site.  Every second I was arguing with myself.  Angry for even thinking of going home; and also angry for even thinking of walking on towards Kirk Yetholm.

I arrived at the New Delight Inn.  Collected my parcel from behind the bar.  “I’m sorry, I’ve decided not to stop," I told them, “I’ll pay for my pitch, though, as you were kind enough to hold my parcel for me”. It was not necessary, they said.

Of course, before doing anything else I should have taken my boots off and sat outside in the September sun and had a bar snack and a pint for lunch with Hendrick and Marie who had also arrived.  But I didn’t.

Forty-five minutes later I had purchased a rail ticket home and was sitting on the platform at Hebden Bridge.  My brain and heart were still arguing. I could be back at Jack Bridge in an hour. I could stop on the way there for a cup of tea and cake on the way out of town. I'm British for goodness sake.  I believe that a cup of tea and slice of coffee and walnut sponge can change the world, let alone a person's mood. The train pulled in to the station.  I climbed aboard and found a seat.  This was, as we used to say, long ago when I was at University, “a piss poor show”.

And since then?  I’m still at a loss.  Every day for the  fortnight after I arrived home I was thinking about what leg of my walk I would have been on.  When the sun was out I was beating myself up for stopping; when it was wet and windy I was telling myself it was the right decision. I kept arguing with myself about what I had done.

Well this is a miserable post.  Cathartic?  I had hoped it would be, but in reality it is not.

I started off this series of posts about my short journey on the Pennine Way with a linky thing to a piece of music, Dreamer, by ‘70s band Supertramp.   In my bleaker moments that is how I think of myself.

“Dreamer, you're nothing but a dreamer…I said dreamer, you’re nothing but a dreamer…Dreamer, you stupid little dreamer…”

Plans that do not come to fruition.  How silly having such dreams.  But that is, indeed, a bleak thought.  And it is not really what I believe.  I promised  in my first post about this trip to finish with a link to something far more uplifting, far more how it should be.  So here it comes.  It’s one of my great favourites, both the lyrics (even when they change to French!) and the music.  Yes, it’s just pop music but I love it. And this is a particularly good version because it’s live and much faster than the original single, which came out in 1981 when I was still young and pretty.  Do play it.  Do turn up your speakers. You’ll love it. I promise.  It may even make you want to dad (or mum) dance and the lyrics are reproduced below if you like a bit of karaoke in your living room.  My plan is to listen to it enough until I am so sick of it that I have no choice but to pack my rucksack and head for the hills. So click here now. Yes you! Just do it.  It could well be the most joyous three minutes you've had today.  And scroll down to read the lyrics.

Hold on tight to your dream

Hold on tight to your dream

When you see your ship go sailing

When you feel your heart is breaking

Hold on tight to your dream

It's a long time to be gone

Time just rolls on and on

When you need a shoulder to cry on

When you get so sick of trying

Hold tight to your dream

When you get so down that you can't get up

And you want so much but you're all out of luck

When you're so downhearted and misunderstood

Just over and over and over you could

Accroches-toi a ton reve

Accroches-toi a ton reve

Quand tu vois ton bateau partir

Quand tu sents ton coeur se briser

Accroches-toi a ton reve