The SBH Weekender 💛🖤

Fresh from a five-star review on Trip Advisor for the Parkrun weekend in Kettlewell, though I was thinking that that was the reason we were there, as distinct from the twenty-four miles of moorland to be done afterward… Anna takes no prisoners.

Been on the odd venture with running groups based Ormskirk ~ guilty, your honour ~ and would have booked the North Wales too had I known there were individual glamping pods for discerning visitors. Either way I can recommend as a means of forgetting altogether that you ever have to go to work.

Many otherwise detained that way on the Friday, nonetheless several among two-dozen set off on that morning and took the opportunity to stop in Skipton, where a trip on the canal was vetoed (or mutinied?) in favour of lunch instead. I did do the trip and have the video of the antique Gardner marine diesel-engine to prove it, which is probably why I’ve never had a girlfriend.

The hostel opened its doors at four, providing time for a modest hike up one side of the fell for a spectacular view of the dale. Thereafter a change of clothes, a straw-boater and gin and tonics on the seating in the rear garden as the sun set: much like a Merchant Ivory production, in fact, and we all wondered who was about to be murdered that night.

There’s no resting with Anna, however, and ‘boot-camp’ rules required a breakfast at seven sharp followed by a kit inspection prior to dispatch to Fountains Abbey for the titular parkrun. Being of pensionable age I’d a book of complaint vouchers with me, one of which was that Skipton’s was only twenty minutes away as opposed to fifty… which is what some among us feint-hearts chose on the day. Sadly these included Tom, who came third thereabouts, losing me money on my each-way bet on him at Fountains.

Fountains was curious in that there weren’t any, but apparently the most scenic of the sixty Anna had done… and was not wrong. The National Trust realise that parkruns are a great thing nowadays, because despite disturbing the badgers the restaurants make more revenue than the ones doing hangover breakfast in Vegas. The run itself ran to familiar form with the sort of times we’d expect us all to see on the Tawd, and me pushing small children out of the way during the final sprint.

Afterward Anna’s schedule provided for a ‘free period’ during which we had to think of something edifying to do instead of vaping. I chose a visit to Ripon Cathedral and was frankly disappointed that my guided tour and insight into the life of St Wilfrid (only £10, including coffee and pastry) was passed over by most… everybody in fact. Instead they went to Brimham Rocks to take selfies, which is what young people apparently prefer.

Back on schedule however for the rendezvous at Malham, which included a six-mile diversion that only the vicar and I actually pursued, the rest of the group driving through or around the plastic barriers. After seeing it and my “Great, can we go now?” we were punished with an eight-mile hike around it, and the Tarn too, in the rain.

Saturday evening one of eating and drinking to the extent that only the King’s Speech was missing, though it included the ceremonial presentation of a mug with a sheep on it for organising the weekend ~ which brought tears to Anna's eyes until she realised there was a charity shop nearby who’d appreciate it.

Sunday itself I planned to do nothing except lie in a darkened room, but made the mistake of tagging on to a sixteen-mile hike that kicked off with an ascent of Great Whernside, which is where the sensible would have left it. I’m glad I didn’t, because it was much like one of those Antarctic dramas that star Kenneth Branagh that end in bitter division and people eating each other.

First to split where Anna and Bernice, who continued to run or hike the full twenty-two miles, leaving the rest of the group to their own devices. These poor souls subsequently split into the hardy sixteen-milers ~ practically all women incidentally ~ leaving behind a rump of a half-dozen stragglers albeit with Andy amongst should a helicopter need to be used. I’m mentioning no names, but you know who you are as Mr Heseltine used to say.

Sensible people meanwhile settled for a stroll and a sit in the sunshine outside the pub, watching the world go by during the local Scarecrow Festival, one of which I was mistaken for as the lone survivor of the ‘Sixteen-Mile Six’ who had turned back. In fact prolonging the stay to enjoy the atmosphere was so popular that some people like James threw their car keys away and vowed to live off-grid in perpetuity!

The picture says it all, however, and not just because I was excluded. If you’d like more of a glimpse than the incoherent ramblings here, though, do check out the musical montages by ktlou on the Kettlewell group. Meantimes examine the photo here and there’s a prize for anyone who spots the dummies from among the group: it’s an attractive sheep-mug that I found at a local charity store.

Colin