By now it was late afternoon and the light was mellowing. The sky was still clear, a breeze tickled the leaves of the oak tree and swallows swooped about. We had camped near a tiny brook and a tree on the other side was breaking down with apples. A couple of kids splashed around in the stream, picked some apples, chased the hens, played ball and generally made a nuisance of themselves. Despite this, I willed them on, hoping they would overexert themselves, collapse in heap come nightfall and sleep in until at least 6 or 7 the next morning.
As for us, it was time for the Calf’s Head pub, about a mile back down the road in Worston. A wedding party was in full force and we had to give our names to the chap on the door to wait for a free table in the dining room. This gave us time to walk around their extensive gardens which had a tremendous view of Pendle Hill lit by the setting sun
and a family of ducks paddling in a stream out back (mother duck had about ten ducklings in tow).
The pub had four real ales on tap (Black Sheep, Jennings, Brains and Moorhouses at the time) and the wine list touted a dozen English varieties. The food on offer was classic pub grub: meat pies, burgers, lasagne, etc. They had sold out of the turkey, leek & stilton pie so I had steak & mushroom pie instead while Christian had the lamb shoulder. Both came with peas, carrot mash and steamed new potatoes. We struggled to finish our huge portions. It was delicious and we certainly got our money’s worth, well recommended!
By now it was completely dark outside, although we managed to pick out the outline of Pendle Hill against the orange glow of the towns behind it. We fired up our £1 torch and followed its dim beam down the back roads, dodging fresh cow pats and keeping an eye out for any deranged ghosts of Pendle witches.
This is when the dreadful realisation kicked in, that this was it: this square bit of stretched nylon in a field was to be our home for the night.
It took some acrobatic manoeuvrings in order to get into our sleeping bags. My pair of earplugs which I had carefully set atop my pillow had disappeared and no amount of LED light from the wind-up lantern could pick them out. The pillow turned out to be as substantial as a ball of lint. The sleeping mat provided all the comfort of corrugated cardboard. I must have passed out from sheer exhaustion at some point, because I remember being wakened by a gale whipping through the trees. Sheep bleated, dogs barked and before we knew it, dawn broke.
The toddlers in the tent across the way were up with the larks, stomping about and whining like a right pair of candy-asses. About half 7 and the sun hit our canvas so we had to get up or else be steamed alive, thanks to all the condensation dripping off the nylon. Dew dripped off the tent ceiling and down our necks as we performed more gymnastics in order to get dressed. We unfolded our spoons and ate our muesli.
Time for a morning constitutional, which turned out to be a 5-mile stroll. This time we went over the lower slopes of Worsaw Hill to the village of Chatburn,
crossed fields to a fairytale packhorse bridge,
returned to Downham and followed back roads to the campsite.
By now it was warm, sunny, but hazy. We dried off the tent, packed up, managed to fold everything back into our rucksacks and loaded everything up onto our backs. It was then a 3-mile walk through cow pastures and across the highway into Clitheroe where we caught the train home with seconds to spare. A rough idea of that morning's 8 miles of walking is here.
Maybe we were delirious from the fresh air, maybe it was the delicious crumble we made from the apples we’d nicked, but despite the sleepless night we decided to give camping another go. Click back soon for our Yorkshire adventure!
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