Walking the Pennine Way: Day Seven (and a bit of Eight)

Yesterday was a tough day. Though we both slept well in unaccustomed comfort, everything felt heavy. I didn’t want to get up. I didn’t want to walk. The sky was grey, the climb was unrelenting. I missed the trees and rivers of Malham and Ribblesdale. Everywhere reminded me of someone or something I had lost.

Niamh named it too, this sense of grief. This is not the Coast to Coast. The scenery is not sparkling, there are not lakes and forests, there are not little villages with thick-walled cottages selling tea. This walk is harsh and long. The bogs, despite the rain, are dry: the moss is desiccated, there is no sun dew glowing.

When I was diagnosed with ADHD, the assessor strongly suggested – like my migraine consultant – that I also seek assessment for autism. I have my assessment at the end of this month: Niamh was diagnosed last year. For both of us, there is safety in predictability and familiarity. Yesterday, both of us named how we were grieving the change from last year’s walk. I have no doubt too that we are grieving the changes to come.

Change, says Niamh, is like being caught on a fishhook and pulled painfully in a new direction. For me, change is bewildering. My mind scuttles between what it expected and what is transpiring, and although my logical self knows that change happens, my emotional self is utterly confused.

Yesterday was the first day when I felt like we might not finish the walk. But still, we looked into a pothole and saw a river running underground, limestone in smooth folds, the upland woods of Ling Gill with the aptly named “melancholy thistle”. A spider web shining in the light. We ate ice cream and drank cokes in Hawes, and we talked.

As much as I am most at home outdoors, and as much as people confuse me, I need people as much as I need the outdoors. When we arrived at the site at Hardraw, Ken and Al already had their tent up and their washing on the grass. I sprawled on the ground and said I wasn’t sure if I could finish the walk. Ali would not be having it and Niamh put the tent up, and Ken, as usual, made us laugh. We ate together last night in the Green Dragon, my favourite pub, its low light and candles and thick, uneven walls, and we laughed and laughed and everything felt more doable.

And though I woke in the night with a migraine, today started differently. The dreaded climb up Great Shunner Fell was steady and gradual. There was no rain. My body remembered how to move, how to feel light and strong. The bogs were wet and the moss vivid. The miles passed quickly. Niamh and I sang.

I’m writing this in Keld. We still have four miles to walk uphill to the Tan Hill, England’s highest pub. We’re sitting in the small garden of the Keld Green café, eating cake and drinking tea. It’s breezy and sunny and light; there are lapwing and curlew and martins, sheep calling from a distance, two white horses on the hill.