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Barry Pilton was born in 1946 in Croydon, and educated at Dulwich College and King’s College, London. In 1967-8 he lived in Paris and taught English. In 1969 he worked in Fleet Street as a journalist for the Sunday Post. Before eventually becoming a freelance writer in 1976 he trained unsuccessfully as a surveyor, a fork-lift truck driver, a furniture removal man, a cooking-oil operative, and a dishwasher; on days off he travelled extensively in Europe, the Middle East, North Africa and the U.S.A. Since 1984 he has lived in mid-Wales. TV work includes sit-coms Shelley and It Takes A Worried Man, comedy show Not The Nine O’Clock News, and the play Slimming Down. Extensive radio work ranges from Radio 3 talks to documentary series, sketch shows and situation comedy. These include The 27 Year Itch, Weekending, The Jason Explanation, Miles of London, and Degrees of Humour, a history of the Cambridge Footlights. He also broadcasts occasionally, was a contributor to the live chat show Extra Dry Sherrin, and has written for Punch. One Man and His Bog started life as a Radio 4 series of talks. One Man and His Bog Barry Pilton CORG/ BOOKS ONE MAN AND HIS BOG A CORGI BOOK 0 552 12796 5 First publication in Great Britain PRINTING HISTORY Corgi edition published 1986 Copyright © Barry Pilton 1986 This book is set in 10/11 pt Plantin Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd., 61-63 Uxbridge Road, Ealing, London W5 5SA, in Australia by Transworld Publishers (Aust.) Pty. Ltd., 26 Harley Crescent, Condell Park, NSW 2200, and in New Zealand by Transworld Publishers (N.Z.) Ltd., Cnr. Moselle and Waipareira Avenues, Henderson, Auckland. Made and printed in Great Britain by Hunt Barnard Printing Ltd., Aylesbury, Bucks. Author’s Note If this book should in some small - way encourage people to take up walking themselves, then the author suggests that they read the book again more carefully. Cartographer’s note These maps are not to scale. Nor are they an accurate representation of any of the places shown thereon. Nor do they in any way imply, or suggest, the existence, or otherwise, of any such places, here or elsewhere. Any similarity with any features is purely coincidental or malicious. These maps are particularly not recommended for use in mist. Foreword Anyone who has ever walked the Pennine Way will relish every mile of this book, anyone who has never walked it cannot fail but to enjoy this literary journey for he will travel with Barry Pilton through the peat bogs and over the limestone pavements of the Pennines in the company, not of a great, but of an honest explorer — the sort of Captain Oates who would have stayed in the tent and said ‘You bugger off out Scott — it was your idea in the first place.’ I walked the Pennine Way a couple of years ago and know exactly where the pub is near Thornton in Craven with the Fascist landlord that won’t allow hikers in his ‘best room’ and I too encountered the grim wastes of Sleightholme Moor, only I was the wally who went across the moor and got so lost that I became the only human example of Brownian motion. This book made me relive all those long miles and laugh at them all over again, but if I ever see a large shambling figure lurching towards me through the mist, mushrooms growing from his rucksack and albatross about his neck, I shall avoid him like the bogs of Black Hill for ‘twill be none other than B. Pilton Esq., the Marie Celeste of Kinder Scout. Mike Harding President of the Ramblers’ Association 1 FOREWALK It was some time last year when I first realised that I no longer had an uninterrupted view of my feet. Several medical textbooks diagnosed the problem as middle age, a condition with no known cure. Indeed, this most contagious of diseases can be held in check by only one, highly unpleasant, course of treatment — what leading physicians privately describe as ‘exercise’. So I decided to take a walk. The Pennine Way is Britain’s longest walk, running from the Peak District to the Cheviots, a distance of between 250 and 300 miles, depending on how often you get lost and how much you like to exaggerate. It is called a high-level walk (which means one goes from A to B via mountain-tops C to Z) and it has been claimed — probably under the influence of oxygen starvation — that all its ascents added together would total over 32,000 feet, which is Everest plus the uneroded bit of Snowdon. The reason, however, that people climb Everest is ‘because it is there’ — a major challenge of the Pennine Way is that frequently it isn’t there, since an unpleasant feature of watersheds does tend to be water, usually in the form of man-eating bogs which have swallowed the path as an hors d’oeuvre. And if the bogs don’t get you, the mist will. I do not have the best walking credentials — I usually walk by car — so I approached the three week trek with a commendable degree of caution; indeed, I filled my borrowed rucksack with so many contingency planning items that I was unable to lift it. Maps, bandages, whistle; fluorescent red anorak so the rescue helicopter could spot me easily; and enough Kendal mint-cake to make a profitable living as one of their salesmen. I was also weighed down with advice, of which the best, in retrospect, was not to go at all. But go I did, one Saturday afternoon in June from St Pancras Railway Station — and quickly found even suburbia is not without its challenge. Alone in front of my bedroom mirror, smugly preening myself in all the macho gear of A Walker, I had rather fancied my public image would be akin to Monarch of the Glen. Out on the streets I soon learnt that boots and a bulging rucksack are, to the urban eye, merely a sure sign that one has no home to go to and has arrived, socially, at the stage immediately prior to becoming a meths drinker. Even on the train, few passengers seemed to appreciate I was travelling on a rare Marco Polo Away Day ticket. It was a warm summery evening when the local whistle- stop train arrived at the Derbyshire village of Edale, home of the Pennine Way starting blocks. The village nestled in all the comforting domestic rurality of cows and sheep and fields and things. Down the valley, the setting sun was posing for a picture postcard, and everywhere Nature was making it clear that at least She loved a walker. I made my way to the Youth Hostel, a mile distant. As I remembered them, Youth Hostels used to be reassuring sanctuaries, full of spotty cyclists, butterfly-lovers and believers in the values that made Sparta great, such as outside toilets. Hostels were refuges, communities where lovers of the simple life in shorts would gather to discuss the latest in wild flowers, and sing healthy walking songs. The first song that I heard on approaching Edale Youth Hostel was a rather rude punk number, which the disco loudspeakers pounded through several floors, causing the giant Coca-Cola machines to vibrate gently. Then, as I unlaced my Sherpa Tensing boots, a school party of teenage boys rampaged past in pursuit of a school party of teenage girls, whom they apparently wished to engage in field studies. And when I went to the rest-room, I found it being used to rehearse the next round of inner-city riots. So, feeling something of a freak in my red bobbly hat, I settled down outside on the grass, tore the cellophane off i my new compass and opened the instruction manual on how to use it for map-reading. An hour’s close study made it clear to me that each of the surrounding hills had been placed in the wrong position, presumably by a lax National Parks Authority. I turned to the page which explained how to find North just by pointing the hands of a watch at the sun. (The technique with a digital watch was unclear.) Unfortunately, by the time I had fully mastered the theory, the sun had gone down, sinking gloriously in the East. I decided to concentrate instead on my sleep. All the D.I.Y. explorer’s books are very keen on sleep, and recommend at least a night’s worth every twenty-four hours. Unhappily, I was in a dormitory of hyper-active primary schoolchildren, and this viewpoint put me in a minority of one. Apparently, none of the children had ever been in any wide open spaces larger than a cage before. First, we had the running about, then the rude noises, then the stealing of blankets, then the rustling of crisp packets, and finally the tying of a dozen empty Coca-Cola cans to a pyjama cord, which was then lowered from the window to scare witless their little mates in the dormitory below. Nowhere do the great Victorian explorers like Burton or Livingstone mention such problems. In all, I spent an exhausting, almost sleepless, night, in which fevered visions of Hieronymus Bosch landscapes played a major part, and gradually my mental preparedness evaporated. Even the passing of time itself had difficulty that night, and around 4 a.m. my watch — presumably worried by the prospect of learning new tricks — came to a full stop, and was quite immune to any winding. A vigorous, no-nonsense shake caused both hands to fall off, severely reducing my chances of making it to the North Pole, and I began to feel a very ill-starred voyager. Over the coming weeks, though, I was to feel alone in space as well as time.