After last week’s failure in maintaining our rough terrain standards, we returned to normality for the Capn’s traditional birthday treat from Strines. But first, with a forecast feels like temperature of -6⁰C, there was a kit check, particularly gloves. We were ordered (yes!) to hold out our hands and surprise, surprise, there was only one (guess who) who was wearing just skin, shame on the glove wearers!?
The formalities over and, possibly, as a punishment for glove wearing, we set off in total darkness, at least, for a short time, to tune ourselves to the rigours to come. I think we had four nominated check points, the Blockhouse, Howshaw Tor, the Cakes of Bread and Black Hole. We eight, nearly nine, as Jim had joined us in the car park but to do his own solo route, enjoyed the Foulstone Moor and a short section of Foulstone Road before the bogs of Brogging Moss, to successfully reach the semi-submerged Blockhouse. Beyond here, we seemed to enter the never, never land of lost boys as there was much spreading out and a diaspora of head torch lights. The outline of Back Tor provided a marker but, amidst a fair bit of shouting including one confidently declaring he knew where he was, not all of us reached Howshaw, our group were to the left of it. Instead, we continued drifting left and appropriately regathered at Lost Lad which I don’t think was one of the original check points.
The rigour continued as we did a bit of bone bashing on the flagstones from Lost Lad, via Back Tor, just about all the way to Cakes of Bread. This experience prompted a running discussion on the benefits of the cushioned, well-heeled Hoka shoes versus the “hair shirt” equivalent of studded fell shoes. We were nevertheless pleased to have reached the Cakes check point successfully this time and were determined to continue our navigational expertise. A plethora of precise bearings to Black Hole were suggested, somewhere east of north, and south. The landscape has changed over the years by the mowing (fortunately not burning) of the heather which usually makes good running until reaching the confluence of streams which become Running Moss Dike where very little running actually occurred or was possible, in its swampy terrain. The escape was to climb out of the dike and cross Strines Dike for an energetic very steep heather climb the latter providing the essential hand holds. But, in all of this excitement, we failed to go to Blackhole so missing another checkpoint; we were near enough! We had quite a long run in down the Strines Moor Ridge to the welcome orange glow of the Strines Inn lights to complete our two-hour wanderings.
It was splendid to enter the pub with its warm open fire despite our eco-consciences twitching about burning stuff. Gradually, the conversations drifted at the same rate beer was being drunk to our ancestry (again), and to who was Lancastrian, the majority, or from Yorkshire or even from the south (the club will take anybody) and, finally, politics. Fortunately, this discussion was short lived as we all started to leave declaring it was a good outing having seen, sadly, no hares, white or brown, but one vole so it was “better than nowt”. Thanks to all.
Graham
