Twixt Sunset And Dawn – A Night Out With The Yorkshire Ramblers

By H. V. Hughes.

When I left home one Sunday morning for a little innocent scrambling on Almescliff, I little thought that by nightfall I should be committed, through a chance meeting with some Ramblers at White’s cottage, to such a crack-brained scheme.

Now I have long had designs on the Three Peak Walk; in fact, I only missed it last year because bad weather threw me half a day late in a fell-walking schedule; but to be suddenly invited to join a party on a night walk over the Three Peaks in January! ‑ I ask you!

I thought of bogs neck-deep with half-thawed snow, of yawning pot-holes, of a chilly, hard, wet slab on which I should vainly woo Morpheus for odd minutes when I might otherwise be tucked in a cosy bed. A night-walk in June when dusk approaches at ten, and the first signs of breaking day can be confidently expected about 2.30 a.m. is one thing, but a night in January with fourteen hours darkness is another.

They told me it would be moonlight, but l’d heard that tale before, and l’ve noticed that in almanacks giving times of moon-rise, the compiler never by any chance adds the time at which clouds will gather on Ingleborough.

I declined with thanks, and it was not till hours later that the venom of a muttered inquiry about “funking it” began its deadly work. On consideration, a night walk in summer is a poor affair; if the Three Peak Walk were done on a July night only one of the peaks would be climbed in the dark hours. Records spoke of this performance having been done but once before ‑ by Eustace Thomas and party; this was to be the first attack by Yorkshire Ramblers: would it not be good in after years to reflect that one had been present on such a memorable occasion?

The longer the idea was considered the more certain it became that I must take part and uphold the traditions of the Rucksack Club. So I withdrew my refusal, and the “calling-up” notice said: Horton in-Ribblesdale, “Golden Lion,” at 6.0 p.m., Jan. 30th, 1926.

A merry crowd courageously attacked a fine dinner, but ‑ shades of Eustace Thomas ‑ plum pudding, and ripe blue Stilton are not the right sort of preparation for a direct attack on Penyghent, as many soon found. Of the twelve diners, Messrs. Lewis Moore and Swales were non-starters, and after a feverish period of boot adjusting, lamp testing, and rucksack packing, the ex-President led forth his nine followers at 8.15 p.m., to the mingled comments of the habitués of the “Golden Lion.” The start was ominous, for we filed through the churchyard in semi-darkness with much stumbling at the stiles, to be numbered by the chief guide, who nobly undertook to act as whipper-in.

In a very short time we crossed the beck and tailed out as we followed a wall which streaked up the fell-side. Above the level of Dove Cote Scar we made for the southern ridge of Penyghent, the slope steepened, the pace slackened, and, save for muttered curses, talking of ceased as we toiled up the screes; who ordered plum pudding for dinner and anyway who started the whole “doings”?

We are cheered on by the advance guard which has hastened to the top to “clock in” the others; presently the slope eases, a cairn looms up in a small snowfield, a voice sings out, “One hour nine minutes” ‑ one is on the top of the first “pip” eighth out of ten, but quite satisfied. After a trudge through the snow to the col, the “racing heads” foregather and decree that we shall descend hereabouts, so we plunge down the fellside till a track is met with, bearing across the breast of the hill, and this is followed till it vanishes ; there is much consulting of compasses, flashing of lights, and a course is set.

The mists had been left behind on Penyghent, but a light drizzle persists and visibility is but moderate; we have not yet seen the moon. A stream, after proving a puzzle, is tracked to a pot.

“Hurrah! High Hull Pot.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It is, no it isn’t, yes it is.”

The answer is finally decided in the affirmative and a track soon leads us to Hull Pot, its fall looking very fine in the half-light. Surely the Powers of Darkness were smiling on me for on this, my first visit, a glimpse of the rarely seen fall was vouchsafed to me.

Then commenced a very wet trek across a minor water shed to the Ribble. Squelch, squelch, squelch ‑ Plop.‑ “Oh ‑ .” Squelch, squelch, squelch.

The chief guide now becomes very active.

“Where are we, you fellows?”

“Take a bearing, someone.”

“Where’s that blamed wall?”

Landmarks well-known to the authorities soon reappear; an old track, a barn, a clump of trees, Jackdaw Hole, Scales Farm and then the River Ribble, too swollen with freshly melted snow to tempt the party to dispense with bridges. A sheltered corner behind a barn suggests a halt, and after the cows have been inspected, food makes its appearance and disappearance; whilst the more reckless risk a pipe.

A short “slop” along the river bank discIoses a footbridge and then a track leads to Selside where a barn proves irresistible and a second halt is made.

Time: 11.45 p.m. Scene: A barn in Selside, Ribblesdale.

Seven or eight Yorkshire Ramblers are reclined more or less at ease on a Ford lorry.

Enter villager carrying an unlit lantern.

“Are ye lorst?”

Replies drowned in roars of laughter.

Then commenced the long trek along a tar-macadam road to Ribblehead; visibility was improving and some charming views were seen looking towards Cam Fell. In limited amount the road proved pleasant going, for a swinging pace was maintained, and it was a distinct relief to be able to walk without studying the foreground in detail.

Beyond Winterscales we took to the steep, terraced south-east face of Whernside and pace slackened at once; a steep slope loomed ahead, to be succeeded by a wet terrace, another steep slope and another ‑ surely this must be the last ‑ no, yet one more, and then a really steep scree-strewn slope with snow patches which gradually became deeper and more frequent till in some places steps could be kicked with advantage. Now the Stilton does its deadly work, the party, previously compact, becomes badly strung out and in the gradually thickening mist contact is maintained only with difficulty.

Slowly I toiled up and up ‑ the Ordnance Department assert that the summit is only 2,414 ft. high but shouldn’t the first figure be a three? Would it never end? Yes ! the wall, a foot of snow, and a howling wind.

Is the cairn to left or right? Will the others come up to the same spot? Loud calls draw no answering; shout; maybe the wind drowns it, perhaps breath is too valuable, for nothing can be heard and the suddenly a head appears, and another, we vote “Right,” and sure enough fifty yards brings us to the cairn, 1.50 a.m.

A momentary halt is enough, and as shouts reveal the other half of the party far below we decide to push on and wait at a more sheltered spot. After following the ridge southward for some distance it was decided to drop below the clouds, a slightly premature start gave us a bad ten minutes on some rotten screes, but the moon showed momentarily to cheer us, and striking a good line from here brought us straight to the Bruntscar track and so on to the Hill Inn.

Here a cruel blow befell us. People in the know had talked of angels in disguise who, setting out from Leeds late at night, would he waiting at Weathercote at 2.0 a.m with HOT SOUP. Think of it, my masters!

We had; on snowy Whernside it had spurred us on, and eagerly had we scanned the dale road for headlights, but alas, we saw them not, though we waited for them for half an hour, they came not.We found later that it was a foul night in Leeds, and unable to drive above a crawl, they had abandoned their errand of mercy.

The food, lacking hot soup, seemed very unappetising, the sleepy period set in and although feeling chilly I was loth to leave the roadside ditch. The others had not arrived from Whernside and we got worried. Had someone crocked? Were they wasting time looking for us, having missed our little foot prints in the snow? The best piece of paper the party could boast was appropriated and a message telling of our safety and future plans was left in the middle of the roadway; it was pinned out with stones and if it was not found by the other section of the night walkers would doubtless provide a topic of conversation for the church-goers.

Setting off for our third peak, we took the wrong track from Southerscales and got too low. Some rough going with several small scars to surmount was the result, and then we struck a bad patch of clints. Now clints in good daylight at the beginning of the day can be very temper-trying, and at best are traps for the unwary; in fitful light to a sleepy and anything but fresh walker they are the devil, and anyway, had not the Chief Guide promised me that no clints would be met with? However, everything comes to an end some time and at last the goal of our immediate ambition was attained, we reached the Mere Gill wall and slowly followed the gill towards its source below the Simon Fell ‑ lngleborough col, the moon making another momentary appearance.

A brief rest and then a long weary slog up the sleep scree slopes; a cinema film of our progress would probably be mistaken for a “slow motion picture” but at last the col is gained and the easier going to the Ingleborogh plateau is very heartening, although it lands us in the mist once more.

Realising that the summit cairn on so large a space may prove as elusive as the proverbial needle in a haystack, the party lined out but maintained contact and eventually I was deputed to ascend the cairn on behalf of the party, 5.30 a.m. It is done! Remains now only to get home safely.

Back to the col, and to avoid the large tract of “groughs” and peat-hags we follow the wall over Simon Fell; down an uncomfortably steep grass slope and much boggy land the way leads to Alum Pot. I have heard it said that the darkest hour is just before the dawn and it was so on this occasion. At six a.m. it seemed darker than at any period during the night.

We struck the road just south of Selside and trudged steadily homeward to reach the “Golden Lion” at 7.40 a.m., 11 hours 25 minutes after departure. A long drink was soon ordered and the performance was over. The leaders of the second party rolled in about 8.30 a.m.