It had been, on balance, a good journey: an early start and clear roads apart from the inevitable congestion around Doncaster and Leeds. The few spots of rain had given way to clear skies and a lovely soft afternoon light. The opportunity seemed too good to miss so we pulled off the road between Pately Bridge and Grassington and parked above Skyreholme for the Parcevall Gardens walk. There was a scattering of cows with calves on the path. We watched as a trio of young walkers strolled boldly through them, making themselves larger with their sticks outstretched. Through the gate we set off to do likewise, talking soothingly (I thought).
I'm unclear about exactly what happened next; only that the face of the largest orange cow loomed in front of me and then I was on the ground with the cow on top of me – I don't know which part or parts of the beast. I can't think I was actually trodden on – surely if I'd been under the feet, I would have been more seriously hurt? And no my life didn't flash before my eyes. But I was conscious of pain and terror and the weight on top of me and I had time to recall stories of people trampled to death by cows and I was sure I was going to die – and then it was over. I yelled for Carole and scrambled to my feet and clung to her hand as we cut down away from the herd, Carole checking over her shoulder every few yards that they weren't following until she had to tell me I was gripping her hand so tightly that her ring was pinching her fingers. I remember repeating 'I thought I was going to die' over and over. Now, I'm left with bruised legs and very sore ribs, as well as the sense that we got away lightly. Oh and the after-the-event wisdom which I guess we won't forget: if your path takes you through cows with young, go round. It seems so obvious now: that desperate maternal desire to protect your offspring. So I suppose, once I was on the ground and obviously no longer a threat, the irate mum backed off. Anyway, we completed the circuit, laughing a lot, a mixture of hysteria and relief. It is a beautiful walk, skirting the base of Simon's Seat and punctuated this time by the china blue of harebells and purple thistles and the marrram grass that glows rose pink when the light is right. Back at the car we took photos of the group of cows – infuriatingly, they had moved further away, diminishing their size somewhat. It looked to be an idyllic rural scene, the epitome of peace and calm. I wonder just how much that orange cow weighs.
Since then our conversation has been peppered with tales of risky escapades and near misses and I remembered the following episode from The House at Pooh Corner, where Winnie the Pooh falls unawares into the trap they had dug for heffalumps. In the process of dusting himself down and checking for broken bones, he hears a muffled squeaking which he eventually identifies as the voice of his friend.
'It's Piglet!' cried Pooh eagerly. 'Where are you?'
'Underneath,' said Piglet in an underneath sort of way.
'Underneath what?'
'You,' squeaked Piglet.
'It's Piglet!' cried Pooh eagerly. 'Where are you?'
'Underneath,' said Piglet in an underneath sort of way.
'Underneath what?'
'You,' squeaked Piglet.
The following day I was content to laze around in the cottage garden with a book and attempt (unsuccessfully) to field the phone calls supposed to get the internet working. Almost any movement very painful. Late in the afternoon, though, I crossed the river and walked up the road to the top of the hill behind the cottage until the ground levelled and I could make out the farm buildings of Darnbrook in the valley below. It felt good to be moving and didn’t hurt too much if I was careful. I had the road more or less to myself: just me and a curlew, the heads of sheep emerging like moons rising from the bracken, the sound of munching. I’d forgotten the intensity of greens in those hills, lush carpets of grassland overlaid with darker patches, a clump of trees, a spread of heather about to come into flower, all punctuated by outcrops of rock, individual boulders dropped haphazardly or running in terraces along the hillsides facing me. As on previous visits, my memory is jogged in the direction of Auden’s poem ‘In Praise of Limestone’. Apparently written in Italy, Auden was in fact a native of Yorkshire and said that the local rock ‘creates the only human landscape’. I’m not sure how or why – because, despite its hard appearance, it is vulnerable, its weaker areas dissolving in water? Or because, as in human civilisation, it builds a history layer by layer? At any rate, although ‘this land is not the sweet home that it looks’, the poet ends with images of ‘the murmur/Of underground streams’ and ‘a limestone landscape’ which seem to represent for him ‘a faultless love/Or the life to come’. I did a few yoga stretches at the top and a passing motorist stopped to see if I needed help.
On Sunday to Grassington for coffee and a bit of shopping then a walk up the road to Yarnbury and left along a wide track past old mine workings towards Byfield. The track opened out onto level hilltop pasture criss-crossed with paths: my favourite walking territory, high enough for the wind in your hair and spectacular views constantly unfolding in every direction whilst also relatively easy underfoot and never too remote from rest or safety (the importance of these factors for me became apparent the following day). We stopped for half an hour whilst Carole drew and I wrote: an odd arrangement, perhaps, which seems to work well for us, although it means carrying a laptop and the half an hour or so it takes for a drawing is not really long enough to get stuck into a piece of writing. We sat surrounded by grasses yellow and pink, straw-coloured and every shade of green, with the rattling of the wind and the rumbles of distant thunder, clouds constantly changing. We headed down – a scatter of crows against a pewter sky – then back along the road; a heavy shower and the delicious smell of the verges after rain. A total of 7 or 8 miles in all and I was definitely feeling it in the last mile or so and struggling to keep up. In fact I fell over as we reached Grassington, a wobbly pirouette that almost had me knocking myself out on a metal bollard, and had to be hauled upright by a motorist who stopped to help, assisted by Carole. It was to be the first of many such heroics on her part, not good for a troublesome back. And I guess it was a warning, if only I had been listening.
The next day became known as the ‘Awful Walk’ – shades of A.A. Milne here? – although in many respects it was anything but and it began well enough despite ignoring Warning No. 2, my confession that ‘I’m not feeling in great shape today.’ (Note to self: in future, when your body is trying to tell you something, LISTEN!) Reluctant to turn back – partly pride, partly the steep and rocky slope I’ve just conquered (with Carole’s help) – we give a herd of cows a wide berth which involves a final clamber up a near-vertical grassy slope to the stile where two men with their dogs are rebuilding the wall. We stop whilst C draws the view. I dig out the laptop but am preoccupied by the fact that I am totally unable to stand up, not just from sitting now I’ve rashly allowed myself to sink to the ground, but even from kneeling, not even with the help of a stick, my legs just too weak for the job. I swallow the latest round of meds and hope for a small miracle.
Between us tussocky hummocks
delicate yellow flowers - tormentil?
short many-eared grasses
small limestone outcrops, some moss-covered
Between us several feet of upland moor
Carole sits, draws
I cower, back to the wall
Between us empty air
the wallers have gone for ‘us dinners’
taking their dogs, leaving us silence
Between us almost 140 years accumulated
like minds, disparate lives
our various tastes of guilt and loss, despair, delight
laughter and fury, exasperation, non-comprehension, respect
and something momentary, fragile, elusive
something not unlike love
Between us a shared anxiety
gusting and then stilled
that we will miss the Darnbrook turning
that I won’t make it
Flanked by thistles, buffeted by the wind
delicate yellow flowers - tormentil?
short many-eared grasses
small limestone outcrops, some moss-covered
Between us several feet of upland moor
Carole sits, draws
I cower, back to the wall
Between us empty air
the wallers have gone for ‘us dinners’
taking their dogs, leaving us silence
Between us almost 140 years accumulated
like minds, disparate lives
our various tastes of guilt and loss, despair, delight
laughter and fury, exasperation, non-comprehension, respect
and something momentary, fragile, elusive
something not unlike love
Between us a shared anxiety
gusting and then stilled
that we will miss the Darnbrook turning
that I won’t make it
Flanked by thistles, buffeted by the wind
So, not all awful by any measure although my pace on the flat was painfully slow and, despite an extra input of meds, my legs never recovered their strength. Still, we found the signpost for Darnbrook and began the descent under blue skies. What started as a gentle slope, though, quickly became more precipitous and we lost the path. Lurching between repeated falls (and unable to right myself) and ‘freezing’ so that I was rooted to the spot, I also felt myself becoming petulant and tearful – rather like my mum at her most difficult! But she was almost 95…
Well we made it somehow, between ignominiously slithering down gullies on my bottom and demanding that Carole hold my hand. Several times we thought we would have to get help. The indignity of the whole episode wasn’t lost on me nor the realisation that I had become something of a liability, almost overnight, it seemed. Carole apologised several times for treating me like a child – but why not when I had become exactly that?
So, not all awful by any measure although my pace on the flat was painfully slow and, despite an extra input of meds, my legs never recovered their strength. Still, we found the signpost for Darnbrook and began the descent under blue skies. What started as a gentle slope, though, quickly became more precipitous and we lost the path. Lurching between repeated falls (and unable to right myself) and ‘freezing’ so that I was rooted to the spot, I also felt myself becoming petulant and tearful – rather like my mum at her most difficult! But she was almost 95…
Well we made it somehow, between ignominiously slithering down gullies on my bottom and demanding that Carole hold my hand. Several times we thought we would have to get help. The indignity of the whole episode wasn’t lost on me nor the realisation that I had become something of a liability, almost overnight, it seemed. Carole apologised several times for treating me like a child – but why not when I had become exactly that?
Parked on high ground above Hawes, a pause in our drive back to Arncliffe after our annual trip to the Wensleydale factory – its official title of ‘creamery’ does sound infinitely more appealing! Earlier flurries of rain and hail apparently chased away by the unrelenting wind that rattles and clatters in sharp gusts around us. To my left, patches of sunlight and shadow spill over the slopes. Next time I look, the patch of light has changed shape and much of the distant land is a uniform lilac-grey. Constantly shifting, now a narrow horizontal strip of creamy pink contrasts with the dark line above. Before I can finish the sentence, it has gone. Clouds mass shades of grey and white overhead – gunmetal, pewter, tin. To my right it looks to be raining still, the hills indistinct. Directly in front, bracken or forest is almost black and there is a sharply-defined outline of the hilltops against a creamy sky. Looking left, a shelf of cloud glowers above a visionary patch of sky, sunlight almost breaking through.
And us? We sit inside the car, Carole in the front seat painting, I in the back, wriggling in search of any position where the sore ribs will hurt less and finding no comfort; like a couple who have fallen out with each other and can’t bear to inhabit the same space. The sense of an uneasy peace, the residue of yesterday’s challenges, hangs in the air. Our aim of mutual silence and concentration is repeatedly broken by one or the other. Eventually we retrace our steps via Yockenthwaite and then a rush to eat and change in time to meet Robin at the Falcon.
And us? We sit inside the car, Carole in the front seat painting, I in the back, wriggling in search of any position where the sore ribs will hurt less and finding no comfort; like a couple who have fallen out with each other and can’t bear to inhabit the same space. The sense of an uneasy peace, the residue of yesterday’s challenges, hangs in the air. Our aim of mutual silence and concentration is repeatedly broken by one or the other. Eventually we retrace our steps via Yockenthwaite and then a rush to eat and change in time to meet Robin at the Falcon.
The following morning the germ of an idea for a story: ‘Another Robin’. Although I’m not sure of the ethics of ’borrowing’ a real person for a character – especially when the events of the narrative are unlikely to pan out well! Carole heads out for a longer walk and I spend the morning recuperating, the after-effects of the ‘AW’ still lingering. So it’s mid-afternoon before I leave the cottage intending to walk to Litton. I turn back at the first field gate, deterred by cows. They look peaceful enough but I don’t feel inclined to risk it on my own. I stand by a gate in the sunshine opposite a barn, watching a swallow to-and-froing, presumably to a nest inside. A clutch of martins rides the wind. High speed acrobats, they dart here and there, experts in sudden changes of direction, wings closed then swooping and scissoring, their pale bellies flashing silver in the sun. I imagine they’re feeding although it’s hard not to believe they are at play, their aerial dance simply for the pleasure of it – because they can.
Then following the river footpath to Hawkswick and back along the road in warm sun.
Then following the river footpath to Hawkswick and back along the road in warm sun.
 And suddenly it’s our last day. A lift to Litton and a walk up to ‘Katie’s Honesty Box Tea Rooms’ in Halton Gill, where I chat with a biker from Keighley. ‘How long does it take to get here?’ I nod at the bike. ‘Oh I dun’t go fast, just cruise. That‘s what they call it, this model – It’s a cruiser.’ I miss my cue here, the opening to a discussion of the merits of the bike, engine size and mpg and the open road. Instead I thank him for guarding the loo for me then continue to Foxup. A rookery, querulous and shrill, a field full of lapwing. A handful of lovely slender birds – pippits, perhaps? – land on the fence and flit across the road in front of me. Two ducks squeak and take off in series; one rabbit in a field – blink and it’s gone. The wide flat valley bottom snoozes in hot sun: I’m definitely over-dressed for the weather and all too aware of the depredations of the disease, exacerbated no doubt by the heat as well as the fall-out from the cow episode and the demoralising AW. As I hobble the last half a mile or so to the Queen’s Arms, I can barely walk a straight line. Plus I’ve broken my second stick, pulling it out beyond its limit so that it’s well and truly jammed, awakening another echo of A.A. Milne, this time in the voice of Roo, from the chapter ‘In which Pooh invents a new game…’ (‘Poohsticks’): ‘I expect my stick’s stuck,’ said Roo. ‘Rabbit, my stick’s stuck. Is your stick stuck, Piglet?’ |
As I approach the pub, I happen to be looking in what I hope is a friendly fashion at a man cutting the grass verge on the opposite side of the road with a motor mower, at just the moment when he attempts to turn and the machine all but runs away with him, leaving him scrabbling desperately in its wake. I’m still grinning sympathetically in his direction as he irritably swats and swears at a fly which is bugging him – before I realise I am the target of his fury:
‘Fuck off! Fucking old cow. Fuck off, you old cow. Fucking cow…’
Obviously my social skills are not what they were. Can’t really blame the Parkinson’s for that, though…
As I approach the pub, I happen to be looking in what I hope is a friendly fashion at a man cutting the grass verge on the opposite side of the road with a motor mower, at just the moment when he attempts to turn and the machine all but runs away with him, leaving him scrabbling desperately in its wake. I’m still grinning sympathetically in his direction as he irritably swats and swears at a fly which is bugging him – before I realise I am the target of his fury:
‘Fuck off! Fucking old cow. Fuck off, you old cow. Fucking cow…’
Obviously my social skills are not what they were. Can’t really blame the Parkinson’s for that, though…
['ANOTHER ROBIN' possible opening – with apologies to C & C!
As you enter from the Green, the narrow bar is straight ahead, flanked as always on high stools by a couple with a dog. The barman scowls.
C breezes up to the bar. ‘Hello. Are you the new landlord?’
His frown deepens. ‘No.’
‘But you are new?’
'No, I’ve been here 4 years.’
‘Ah yes, I remember - you used to be part-time?’
'No, I’ve always been full-time. And I remember you.’
C collects the drinks, turns to me. ‘Can’t get a smile out of him.’]
['ANOTHER ROBIN' possible opening – with apologies to C & C!
As you enter from the Green, the narrow bar is straight ahead, flanked as always on high stools by a couple with a dog. The barman scowls.
C breezes up to the bar. ‘Hello. Are you the new landlord?’
His frown deepens. ‘No.’
‘But you are new?’
'No, I’ve been here 4 years.’
‘Ah yes, I remember - you used to be part-time?’
'No, I’ve always been full-time. And I remember you.’
C collects the drinks, turns to me. ‘Can’t get a smile out of him.’]
So I’m sitting outside the Queen’s with a pint of beer, soaking up the sun and reflecting on the events of the week. As always such a pleasure to be in Arncliffe and I’ve enjoyed the walking and the open air. Carole and I rub along together in relative harmony and find lots to talk about. This year in particular I’m grateful for her immense patience with the whole P thing. Despite many lovely moments, the week has marked a series of new lows: walking – any walking – is no longer easy. It’s hard to hold to a straight course and balance is tricky even on level ground. The freezing and the likelihood of falling as I turn are becoming more frequent and more difficult to avoid. One shocker is my total repeated inability to rise to standing. Granted this was most marked on Tuesday (the AW day!) – but it signalled a reliance on help from others which I have never needed before, or only occasionally. Walking downhill has long been a problem. For the last mile or two of Tuesday’s walk, though, I found that I needed Carole to hold my hand – literally – to get me to move at all and I fell, and struggled to stand, over and over. Soon I was too heavy for her to pull me up, to the point where we thought we would have to get help. Carole is still blaming herself for not anticipating the difficulties when really it’s much more about me learning to live with my limitations. Also, I have become such a messy eater! Several times I have felt either like a child, or as if I am turning into my mum in her last months, and sometimes both at once: dependent, tearful and demanding; simultaneously ashamed and without shame. There were moments on Tuesday’s walk when I was almost overwhelmed by the indignity of it all - and beset by worries for the future. With that all-too-frequently heard ‘Don’t leave it too late’ warning ringing in my ears, I’m wondering if it is time to set in motion some wheels for change.
On the day we left, woke to thick cloud and heavy rain...
On the day we left, woke to thick cloud and heavy rain...
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