Читать книгу The Pennine Way - the Path, the People, the Journey онлайн

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Again, returning to Marion Shoard’s article in The Rambler magazine, I found that Tom Stephenson had summed it up well: ‘There’s a silence that you can almost hear. The wind in the different kinds of vegetation: you hear that in different tones – a whisper or a rustle on the ground, the heather and so on. There’s the sound of a curlew, the plovers, the little plaintive peep peep, and the snipe drumming in season. They’re all part of the attraction. Then there’s the different shades in the vegetation: grey-green, grey in winter with the heather sooty black. It’s surprising what different tones you get in the landscape. I like the moors at all times of year. The Pennine moors are even more colourful in winter than in summer.’

I spent the night at Cowling, an untouristy Pennine village just off the trail on the A6068. There seemed to be an unending stream of traffic heading from Burnley to Keighley, or Keighley to Burnley, including huge wagons that made the pavements shudder. My B&B was tucked away just off the main street, a short terraced row where Susan and Sandy couldn’t have done any more to make a footsore Pennine Way traveller more welcome. As soon as I arrived, I was ushered through the kitchen and sat down in the tiny back conservatory amid the geraniums and wellies, a cup of tea and slice of home-made lemon drizzle cake thrust into my hands whether I liked it or not. Where had I walked from? How did I feel? What was the weather like? Susan, in particular, was a keen rambler herself and empathy flowed in waves. Cowling might not have been the prettiest place I stayed in, but the welcome at Woodland House was certainly among the warmest.