Day 33 - A Bogging Incident Recalled

Today’s stretch from the Tan Hill pub to Middleton-in-Teesdale is described in the guide book as ‘famously wet underfoot’ and was a similar peaty path to yesterday but without the benefit of any flagging. Other than fixing on my gaiters and packing a spare pair of socks, there was little else I could do in preparation. The further I read in the guide book, it appeared a snorkel may be necessary.

However, I was energised by last night’s meal in the Tan Hill, as well as a convivial few pints with the Eagles and Dave and Sue. I omitted to mention Eddie last, the Eagles' Schnauzer, who behaved impeccably during our after-walk relaxation. No idea why they called him Eddie.

The walk today was over open moorland and I never saw another soul until reaching the A66 (the Shap road that always seems to be closed due to bad weather). It’s been dry for a few days now, so the path could have been worse but my walking pole (Sticky) was worth its weight in gold as a depth tester and as a quasi-pole vault. I’m reasonably agile for an 80-year-old but I’m only 60 and an 80-year-old wouldn’t be doing any bog-hopping, so I was pleased to remain largely above ground, improvising with a few leaps and always looking out for safety on the tufted reed grass.

Indeed, I was reminded of the famous Bogging Incident of 2008, when I was walking the Yorkshire Three Peaks with a friend and colleague, whom we shall call Tony W (for that is his name). After successfully traversing Peak 1, Pen y Ghent (coincidentally repeated this Monday), we started the long walk towards Peak 2, Whernside. The path was not as established then as it is now and a hand-held GPS was just a twinkle in Mr Garmin’s eye. Consequently, I may have strayed us from the beaten track and we came across a stream that shouldn’t have been there. I could see our route on the far side and didn’t fancy retracing our steps to find a safer crossing over the stream. I flung my rucksack over, engaged my inner Bob Beamon and successfully launched myself across the water.

It was Tony’s turn now and I could sense a certain trepidation: unfortunately, whilst he, too, searched for Bob Beamon, he found only Devon Loch and he landed with a terrible squelch on the peat bank. I think we both thought the worst outcome would be a wet boot but, without Sticky to do any testing, the bog turned out to be bottomless and Tony was in it up to his navel. This, understandably, was one of the funniest things I have ever seen. He looked very much like Victor Meldrew in that scene from One Foot in the Grave where a neighbour buries him up to his neck in the garden and puts a plant pot on his head.

It took three of us to extract him from his predicament but, to his eternal credit, Tony carried on. There were bits of moss and lichen stuck to his sodden body. As we progressed, and the mud and water dried a little, he basically became encrusted, restricting his movement: it was like walking with a Triffid.

He had actually hurt his knee quite badly during the incident and I have no idea how he managed to get up and down Whernside. On reaching the pub at the bottom, we forgot Peak 3 and drowned Tony’s sorrows for the rest of the afternoon and the evening. One of the best days of my life.

I digress; it was basically moorland all day and, if I hadn’t met Phil in a layby on the A66, I would have seen just two people all day. I don’t mind the moor and heather but would not have fancied being out there in bad weather. It was tricky to pick up the indistinct path and I was always looking ahead for the next signpost. The GPS was invaluable, too.

Just after lunch, I reached an old shooting hut which doubles as a kind of bothy which walkers have access to. Tradition has it that anyone using it writes a message on the wall. I was pleased to find the one Pete Forster and I had left from last year (below) and add to it. The moors are not really a place to walk alone and I missed the intelligent conversations Pete and I had – favourite football kits, how best to drain a caravan for winter, etc.

Whilst there had been less climbing than yesterday and the walk was a couple of miles shorter, I was much more tired on reaching Middleton and delighted to see the van – the last 6 miles had been hard work. I think it was just the remoteness of the walk, being alone all day, the concentration of finding and sticking to the path, and the pressure involved in avoiding a Tony-style bogging. I was also escorted from numerous fields by over-protective lapwings who seemed to think I was after their nests. As I grew wearier, I started to fear a scene from Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds.’

All change on the nursing front tonight – I’ll cover that tomorrow.

A typical bog obstruction - and it was wider in real life

Our shelter inscription

One of two Honesty Tuck Shops farmers had set up on the Way - and very useful they were too.