9.9 miles (16 kilometres) linear walk from Ribblehead station to Whernside summit, down past the tarns to Dent. April, weather both sublime and ridiculous, with lovely son.
It is the last day of our holiday and we meant to get up early for the sunny weather but failed, it’s a holiday after all. So when we set off to Ribblehead I throw anxious glances at the sky. When we leave the house we are walking up Ingleborough, but Ingleborough already has a gloomy, bruised and ominous cloud squatting over it. By the time we set off walking from Ribblehead we are walking to Whernside. It’s not that we think we can outwalk a raincloud, the wind, such as it is, is blowing from Ingleborough in our direction and if there will be rain I don’t relish the idea of walking with it in my face. Whernside it is.
And as if to validate and make us proud of our perspicacity, the weather as we approach Ribblehead Viaduct is sublime, blue skies and the proper fluffy clouds you expect from childrens’ drawings. I’m still choosing to ignore the bad tempered pall hunched on the fells behind me. For walking in this area we have chosen the road that very many people follow. There are more walkers here than I have seen in the entire week, and that’s because this is the big one. The peak everyone wants to bag. It’s also (usually) the first in line for anyone doing the Yorkshire Three Peaks challenge, the others being Ingleborough and Pen-y-ghent, which is not as it appears a Welsh name, we are nowhere near Wales after all, but a rare survival of a name from even before the Anglo-Saxons. It is a language called Cumbric, a form of Brittonic spoken in the north. Whernside is much more modern, being only Old English.
As we pass by the famous Ribblehead Viaduct (the closing scene of the excellent film Sightseers) a train trundles over, just like the one we were on. The viaduct is quite a piece of engineering, and one which took the lives of around 100 workers. If you look at it closely you’ll see every sixth pillar is 50% bigger than its neighbours, designed to take the load if any of the uprights fail. In 1989 we almost lost it, the Settle-Carlisle line was scheduled to be closed, but thanks to overwhelming public support it was saved.
I’m surprised how good the path is. I’ve walked to Whernside before, from the other side where the ‘path’ is somewhat more natural, and there is no one on it but oneself and maybe a grouse. This is a much more grand affair, I keep expecting it to run out but -spoiler- the road to Whernside is paved with limestone almost every bit of the way. It feels very lardy-dardy and I wonder if we might even keep ourselves dry.
We don’t, of course. It starts spitting not long after Blea Moor signalbox. On come the waterproofs, the usual dance of the demented as I try to balance on one foot and drag on recalcitrant plastic trousers which have no intention of being worn without falling into a bog.
The drizzle is patchy and not too troublesome, but as we climb higher just below the point we become cloud it starts sleeting, and as we’ve turned in an arc towards the summit, it is now hitting us sideways and the lefthand side of my face becomes entirely numb. I have also, as if you couldn’t have guessed, forgotten my gloves again. As my son points out, our hands look like Drumstick Squashies. (If you’re not British you may need to google that, it’s not a healthy option, either for sweets or fingers).
In this procession of strangers, most of whom I assume have chosen to be here, we slowly make our way up and up, mostly staring at the ground and cowering from mother nature. As we reach the steps, not far from the summit, we become the cloud and the rain stops. That is because we are the rain. It’s a strange and beautiful thing, if a little cold and wet, to be part of a cloud. It doesn’t do much for the view but every now and again there’s a swoosh of the stage curtain and we can see the magnificent panorama below us. It is quiet. Except for the birds singing madly. It is also arse witheringly cold. And in cloud we bag the peak and eat our pasties, our hands becoming numb and number.
We come back down the steps and take a left over the stile onto Knoutberry Hill, and into another world. There is no one else here, we have the moor to ourselves. I found it bizarre last time, and find it still bizarre that people walk all that way and then don’t bother to come see the tarns. The last time I was here was my birthday, and I paddled. But not today. Our feet have already paddled in the quag.
The tarns are gorgeous, they reflect back the grey clouds with a silver shimmer and I want to take a piece to wear it as jewellery. A grouse stands sentinel on a hillock in the distance, but I can’t see his awesome red eyebrows. I really want to see them but as we get closer he races off into the grass. This lonely side of the wall is wilder and in this cloud more desolate. I know which side I prefer.
It is a long way home, down to the Boot of the Wold and west. The Dales High Way is rough as guts, and all downhill so the backs of my calves are taking a beating. I’ll feel it tomorrow. But everything is worth it because son tells me how much better this side is, and he’s right. Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife.
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Walk info
You can begin this walk at Ribblehead station and stay in Dent, or start from the busy car park if you have someone who can drop you off. You could also do this station to station, instead of continuing into Dent, head to Cowgill and up the Coal Road to Dent station. My GPX is here.
I would consider this walk moderate to difficult, but not too long so plenty of time to recover in the cafés and pubs at Dent.
Walking Away 
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