EATEN BY LESBIANS
Wednesday 7th September 2022
Hebden Bridge to Ickornshaw
“You’ll get eaten by lesbians there”, says a man in reception, with a beautiful Mancunian drawl, when I say I’m going to Hebden Bridge. “Then again you might enjoy that”, he continues with a throaty laugh.
I catch the tram back to Victoria Station. In preparation for the day’s exertions, I follow the advice of sports nutritionists and employ a careful strategy of carb. loading for a slow release of energy throughout the day. Or, to put it another way, I buy a ton of shite from Gregg’s and scoff it on the train.
Once back in Hebden I walk through the town this time, only dropping down to the canal towards the end. This is the first time I have seen the town properly and it looks very nice. I wish I had stayed here last night. Forget it, Jake, it’s Trousertown.
Along the canal I see my first Dippers of the walk – another charismatic bird of the northern and western uplands – alongside Grey Wagtails, that other classic canal-side denizen.
As usual the walk starts with a steep uphill climb, but today I seem to be finding it easier. Either my legs are getting stronger or Gregg’s have done me a solid one.
Meet another Pennine Wayfarer and stop for a chat – a young Scouse lad who I meet again another couple of times during the day.
Stop for a midday pint at The Packhorse Inn and sit out in the warm sunshine, followed by a bit of easy, level walking alongside a reservoir where I have to be careful to avoid stepping on numerous tiny toadlets that are out and about on the path.
I’m not really doing insects on this hike but I notice good numbers of migratory Painted Lady butterflies along the reservoir, alongside the usual Red Admirals and Small Tortoiseshells.
I stop for a rest and snacks at Top Withens, a ruined farmhouse said to be the inspiration for Wuthering Heights, but with no real evidence. With Haworth nearby, we are in Brontë country now.
The rest of the day’s walk is a bit of a slog. Some of it over boggy ground which could have been much worse had we not had such a dry Summer. When I arrive in Ickornshaw I head for a campsite that my guidebook tells me also has a bunkhouse – I’m trying to avoid setting my tent up. I can’t find the place and three locals I ask have never heard of it. Fortunately there’s another campsite and I ask if they have a bunkhouse. They don’t, but the lady shows me instead to a wooden summerhouse with two camp beds, electrical sockets, kettle with tea and coffee, and a mini fridge. I expect the price to be about £30 to £40 so I bite her hand off when she quotes me £13. Yes Please! It seems the Accommodation Gods, after fucking with me yesterday, are smiling on me tonight. To put it in perspective, a tent pitch here is £10.
The only other camper here is The Dutch Guy. He sees I have electricity and comes over to ask if he can charge his phone. Later we meet again in the pub and have dinner together.
I fall asleep to the sound of a Tawny Owl calling nearby.
15.5 miles; 25 km; 9 hours
Vole Explosion 
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