An Unexpected (and painful) Journey
A tale about the one time I didn’t drastically overprepare for leaving the house.
Before the pandemic I’d say I was a pretty sociable guy. Even my work was sociable. A lot of my time was taken up talking to different people, and truth be told I do miss it. Speaking to friends over Zoom or on the phone just isn’t the same, and I’ve noticed that who I speak to has changed a lot. I don’t really speak to many of the people that I worked with which is a huge shame because I used to spend what felt like the majority of my life with them.
Having had this thought, I got in touch with one of my workmates. I’ve had contact with her the most throughout the lockdown because she coaxed me into a high intensity Pilates class back in August, I think. It could be earlier but the last year or so seems to have blended into one big confusing memory. Luckily she really enjoys being outside in her time off, so there wasn’t an awkward conversation about what we’d do. It’s walking, of course!
We arranged to meet over Whatsapp and we both knew how free each other were, so we arranged to go for a walk that afternoon. I’d been proactive on messaging her, having sent a message demanding a walk just before 9am. By 11am I’m walking into Skipton to meet her. We arranged to meet at 12 and despite us only living half an hour’s walk apart I was out the door. This is a classic move on my part. I absolutely hate being late and I don’t like it when other people are late. A lot. Ask my friends. Being fashionably late is not a thing for me. If you’re late I’m most likely going to be annoyed. I’m always early too. It’s a family thing, apparently. My mum, dad and brother are all the same and are always ready early and waiting to go out no matter what.
I tell her that I’m going to give her a ring when I’m 5 minutes away which means that I’ll be outside by the time she gets down. I can’t stand people waiting for me to arrive. I don’t want to be seen as a timewaster! This all goes according to plan, and I’ve only been outside for about 30 seconds by the time she comes out.
I probably take a bit more time than a lot of guys when thinking about what I’m going to wear when I’m nipping out, and this was no exception. Even on Friday and Saturday nights out when I was younger I’d usually have a backpack with a waterproof and some other odds and ends in it. For the last couple of months I’ve almost exclusively been in joggers and vests and workout clothes and old t-shirts so it’s nice to have occasions like meeting friends in which you can maybe dress a bit nicer. Thinking that this was going to be gentle sojourn around the town, into the woods and/or around the park I decided to wear my jeans, a pair of Dr Marten’s, a nice t-shirt and a jumper I got for Christmas (with a waterproof and a puffer jacket in my backpack). This was the beginning of the end. Usually for a trip like this I’d be in walking boots and things that I am less concerned with getting muddy, but here we are. When pulling on my boots I could feel that the once supple leather, broken in by months of regular wearing, had toughened up again and was starting to rub against the soft skin of my feet, skin that’d had a chance to recover from the battering that hospitality work gives them.
One thing they don’t tell you about breaking in Dr Marten’s is that if you don’t wear them for a while there’s a chance you’ll have to go through the whole process again. The leather re-stiffens, giving them the sensation of new boots with the aesthetic of old boots. I can feel them rubbing but hey, I tell myself, they’ll do for a few hours stroll. It might even do me some good. Oh how wrong I was.
Back to the story. So we meet outside her block of flats and it’s all smiles and waves as you can imagine. She lives pretty close to the centre of town so there are quite a few people about, so we agree it’s best to get going. Hanging around town centres isn’t particularly vogue anymore. She asks where we should go and I say I don’t know. Left? I didn’t want to overthink a plan of where to go. I wouldn’t mind a walk through town though, I say. It’s been a long time since I’ve pounded the mean cobbled streets of central Skipton. Or it feels like it anyway.
We wind our way through Skipton, heading down back alleys and side streets to go past our old hangouts and haunts, as well as having a look at where we work. Worked? We’re in limbo right now but I’ll go with work, it’s more optimistic. We’ve wound our way through the town by now and we’re at a pretty crucial point. We’re stood outside a tapas restaurant with a route towards the park on our left, or up towards the woods straight in front. We go straight up onto Chapel Hill and then we head towards the Civil War Battery. Climbing over the gate into the field we drop straight into thick mud. It’s to be expected because this is a really popular route for dog walkers all year round, so we get stuck in with mud splashing up our legs and say nothing of it. So we go up and over this field, hopping over a stile on a dry stone wall at the top and drop towards the back of Skipton Woods.
Sharp Haw is in the distance, standing proud over Skipton and my friend suggests that we go up there. We’re both muddy anyway and time isn’t a constraint for either of us and it’s decided that we go up. It’s at this moment that I start to think that I didn’t adequately prepare for this. It’s my shoes that I’m most worried about really because I’ve worn the grip off them and they aren’t designed to support my feet. We beeline for it. The route is easy from here and we eventually get up to the top and once we get there it’s smiles again. Not because it’s over, mind, but it’s the endorphins. Those gosh-darn endorphins. They ended up being the end of me. The ascent isn’t rocky and it’s muddy so it cushions the blow that my feet may have faced, but that’s yet to come. It’s very important that we touch the trig point on top of this hill. If we don’t touch the trig point we didn’t climb the hill. So we do.
Endorphins buzzing we think about what to do next. Where do we go? Do we just go back down the same way we came? Doesn’t feel right to do so. It’s 1pm and to start returning would feel like a waste of a day, especially with time not being of the essence. So I suggest that we go down the back of the hill and back round past Flasby Fell, the same route I wrote about in A Snowy Start to the Year. I’m not going to go into much detail about the actual route, but just what happened on it.
As it turns out, there’s a stream that gently rolls down the hill into Flasby that has to be walked on. As it also turns out, this stream is frozen solid on this day. It’s been cold up north! We’re both trying our hardest to walk along the side of it but unfortunately this is not always possible. The ice was some of the thickest I’ve seen in a long time. This descent reminds me of the descent down the back of Crook Rise on Barden Moor because the sun has a really tough time penetrating the tree cover. This means that it’s always muddy even in the heights of summer and it has a hard time drying up, and when it freezes it stays frozen for a lot longer.
It’s taking a lot of my focus to not fall over on the ice. I’m keeping up with the conversation and we’ve discussed turning around but this won’t last forever so we push on. I take my eye off the ball. I’m getting too engrossed in this conversation and my right foot shoots forward, completely throwing me off balance. My bottom thuds against the ground but I don’t think she’s seen or heard me fall so I reckon I can get away with this. I can feel a cold sting in my left hand where I’ve hit it as I put my hands out on my gracious descent, but I put this down to the hands hitting freezing cold ice, although it turns out to not be so easy to shake off. I get up fast and pull my gloves on and not even 5 minutes later I’m down again. I make this one known, and for a small time figure that maybe I can just slide down the ice on my bottom. It’s super smooth and it’s going downhill so I figure it’s viable. I have black jeans on so I’m not worried about sliding through a wet patch and having a mark on my bum. My friend joins the fun and sits down and slides along, almost immediately rolling into a wet patch. She’s wearing light blue jeans and is left with a wet patch.
With the knowledge that we are both in our mid-20s, we get up. We can’t horse around forever. We’re nearly at the bottom, but no descent down would be complete without my shoes reminding me yet again how bad of a choice they were. I roll over my ankle. Only a little bit, mind. I feel a twinge and immediately think of how my walking boots would never do this to me and soldier on.
We get down and pretty quickly rejoin the path that ascends Sharp Haw after some nifty bog-jumping and visual route-planning mixed in with a healthy dose of pointing. We go back down and decide to take the scenic route back into town via Stirton, at which point we take the canal and come into Skipton on the last part of the route written about in Not Lost, Just Waylaid. I can really feel it on the soles of my feet now. As we come down the section of the canal by Broughton Road we check the time and it’s pushing 4pm. According to my watch we’ve walked 14 miles so far and I lament my unpreparedness. 14 miles isn’t even very much, but due to my poor decision-making that morning it feels as if I’ve walked double.
We get into Skipton and she turns off home and I prepare myself for the final push home. It took me 30 minutes to get into Skipton and I’m predicting it’s going to take me 45 to get home. I’m almost hobbling. I’m trying to avoid putting pressure on the parts of my feet that are the sorest, but it’s impossible to not put pressure on the soles of your feet when you’re walking. Of course. I get home and immediately take off my Dr Marten’s, hobble towards the kettle and sit and wait. I checked my watch and with my walk in and out of Skipton, I’d walked 19 miles. Oof.
This walk ended up having a bit of an impact on my day-to-day life for the next couple of weeks. When I fell over the first time I slightly sprained my wrist and I was unable to properly put pressure on it for a couple of weeks, and that roll of the ankle definitely twinged something too. I didn’t go for a run for about a week and a half. That’s my excuse, anyway.
I wonder what would have happened if we turned right instead of left? I’m never leaving my house unprepared again.
