Biting off moor than I could chew with Dales’ jaunt

MY aim was to cross the great divide between Wharfedale and Airedale – over the top and on foot.

And February can have clear, cold, sunny days that delight the walker. This was not one of them. Afternoon rain was forecast, so I set off from Ilkley town centre after breakfast, taking it easy on the steep climb to Rombalds moor.

Then it rained, cautiously at first as if feeling for weak spots under the anorak.

And it blew, my heaven did it blow, but ever onward, ever upward. A large roadside tent advertised the Rombalds Stride, a daft Tyke ordeal for the superfit: 23km of weather defiance.

As the road turns into a rough track metalled with lumps of limestone. The gale is howling needle-sharp rain into my face, and tearing the stick from my hand – that’s never happened before.

At the summit, well over a thousand feet, I take shelter in another Striders’ tent. Some are giving up – “that’s enough,” says one lady.

But your correspondent marches on, all right staggers, with baby steps, sometimes sideways in a crablike motion.

What goes up must come down, and surely that’s easier? Not so.

On the Keighley side, the wind – officially 45mph, but gusting higher – makes walking virtually impossible.

With the hood over my face, I hardly notice a passing grey van, until it stops and reverses. The driver offers me a lift, and to hell with Yorkshire grit.

I’m in there faster than a rat up a drainpipe. Well, as quick as soaking clothes, feet and rucksack will allow. Honour is more or less satisfied. I got over the top, but thanks, Richard from Silsden, for saving me from further torment.