Malham to Cowling

The River Aire bubbles down a shallow valley surrounded by gently undulating hills, the lush green grass carved into squares by crumbling limestone walls. I followed alongside, sometimes a little too closely since its low profile prevented me from spotting the loops of slow meanders, occasionally passing though small hamlets of traditional stone houses. After the short day yesterday, I was refreshed and enjoyed wandering among this pleasant landscape.

This all changed when the Pennine Way left the riverside meadows and dumped me in a field of freshly flung muck. Now I was consulting the map every two minutes to guess at how I would be leaving each field, looking for overgrown stiles or rotting signposts, getting confused by a number of other rights of way, sinking in mud around well used gates and trying to forget about what was coating my boots and encrusting the bottom of my trousers. After being rescued by a lane leading into the nice town of Gargrave, I was soon out in the fields again, this time confused by new wire fences across what I thought was the path (but may well not have been).

I was pretty frustrated by the time I was back on tarmac at East Marton, but allowed myself to be soothed by a stroll along a tow-path and the much photographed double arched bridge. This easy section was over too quickly and the fields beckoned again. Luckily the landscape was getting lumpier and this provided a few more clues I could use to navigate.

Ahead lay a good chunk of high moorland and a chance to make some progress. There was only the farmyard of Brown House to cross before a steep climb onto open country. This was another farm whose main winter crops are faeces and mud and I followed the track that dipped down into the morass like a slipway. I knew that the concrete had ended when I started sinking. The most successful technique I found was to feel for stones under the dark sludge and use them to reach the safety of the pastures.

The moor felt surprisingly bleak after a day amongst farmland, tall masts being the only feature in a sea of windswept heather. I quickly covered ground and headed down into the thin valley of Lothersdale. Days are incredibly short now, and doing tricky navigation at night is far worse than in the daytime. Never one to hang around in people's driveways or back gardens too long while staring at a map, this led to a small mistake near Surgill Beck which cost me the last rays of the dying sun. Luckily there was a path to follow into Cowling, but it was clear I wasn't going much further today. Overall I can't help feeling annoyed by the lack of progress, and slightly apprehensive about doing it all over again in Staffordshire or the South-West. What I need is a day of roaming across desolate moors. Brontë country awaits.