There used to be a singer called Grace Jones. She was an androgynous disco star from the late 70s early 80s. The only album cover I remember had her with an elongated neck and an Elastoplast over one eyebrow. Apparently a plaster was a top fashion accessory in the clubs of New York at the time. Needless to say I never followed this trend. The hit I remember was called "Pull up to the Bumper". There are two reasons for this anecdote. Firstly she is best remembered for hitting Russell Harty during a live interview, and Russell Harty was from and is buried in Giggleswick. Secondly Dave Watson’s nickname is Bumper. A tenuous thought process but it’s all I had to start with.

The club likes to walk firth of Scotland occasionally. It helps to remind us Scotland is best. So we embarked on a journey to North Yorkshire to sample their fells, moors and ale. More or less in that order. Some hardy soles went down on Thursday to blag the best bunks. The rest of us followed on Friday relying on our mates to have blagged a good billet.

I was surprised Settle is only 3 hours from home. It looks a lot further on the map. However the M6 makes short work of the miles and the A65 is reasonably fast, unless stuck behind a 42 tonner with no sense of urgency.

Parking at the barn was tight and so were most of the rooms. It was however well appointed and everything seemed to work. Ping-Pong and pool were available to those more adventurous members.

The turnout was about 40. This impressed me. I had suspected foreign moor would prove less appealing than Scottish Moor. It was also good to see some of our English based members such as Francis, Sally and Junior, and the Nobles.

"My name is Dave and I’m a Potholer"

More of Dave or the human Flymo as we came to call him. Dave is undoubtedly one of the warmest most enthusiastic members the club has. He has many admirable qualities. However, let’s face it, he has a reputation for navigation shared only with the ill-fated Irish Antarctic Team’s tragic death in the Gobi Dessert. It’s only a matter of time before we are joining a full-scale search for him and some hapless companions late at night in deteriorating weather.

Dave used to be a keen potholer in his past. He still harbours illusions about this, similar to why I still have a Scalextrix and model railway in the attic. In "Henry IV" Prince Hal say he will throw off the habits of Childhood when the time is right to become a responsible king. I suggest to Dave this may be a habits needing some aversion therapy.

We left the cars parked next to the Pennine Way and walked the mile to the area where the sinkhole and a cherry tree should have been. Two hours later we were still meandering across a bleak and misty moor looking for a prominent hole with a tree. Throughout this period Dave strode around with cheery determination never doubting that the hole was over the next bump. He reminded me of General Patton striding, purposefully across the Plains of Central Europe. He certainly needed slapping by the end of the day.

Others compared him to a solar powered Flymo. Buzzing across the moor in a random pattern only changing direction when he encountered an obstruction. Eventually he would have covered the entire ground but not in an efficient manner, nor while his team still had the will to live.

After two hours of fruitless searching for the cherry tree, we returned to pick up a large-scale map and a GPS. Both of these were left behind on the assurance, from our leaders, that they knew where the entrance lay. I decided to Chekhov (checkout) (two bad puns) and go for a bacon roll, coffee and a newspaper in Malham. Arthur lent me his car on the promise I came back for him later. After a convivial chat with the Deans and Fred Craddock in the Cafe I returned to find Garrey and Rosemary waiting to cash in their helmets. They had plodded back up, easily found the hole, taken one look at it and bottled out. Either that or Garrey was concerned about damaging his ultra light, ultra flimsy, ultra expensive Gortex jacket and over trousers.

Those that returned after dark and along the road rather than down the track as planned told tales of manly deeds in cramped conditions. Perhaps I am a woose and a big girl’s blouse but I have no regrets about my mutiny.

Other trips that day took various groups to Fountain Fell, Pen-Y-Ghent, Malham Cove and Tarn, Horton in Ribblesdale, Ingleborough and Stainforth. The weather was universally misty, and wet. Not the most pleasant of days. However everyone seemed to have a reasonable time.

"My name is Dave and I’m a Gourmet"

Dave had organised a communal dinner at the pub on Saturday night. The selection was Broccoli Bake, Steak and Ale Pie or Scampi. It was more than adequate and no-one had any side effects the next day. Dessert was an optional extra and my sticky toffee pudding was also fairly good. Some played dominos and some chatted before I returned to my penthouse flat and bed. Those not staying in the penthouse returned to their cells and organised the breathing rota as best they could.

"My name is Bumper and I’m a ................"

On Sunday the weather was slightly better. The trips were much the same, only the participants changed. Sue, Gill, John Donnelly, Francis, Sally, Junior, Hugh, Kate, Mary C and myself went to Malham. This was memory lane for Sue who spent a month at the field centre measuring acidity under trees as a student. Mary C who discovered a new species of shrimp in a pool also as a student and I who walked the Pennine way in 1979 because I had seen John Noakes do likewise and had a month to kill. I would be lying if I claimed to remember anything of the moorland. The highlight was climbing up the middle of a waterfall to the next level. The river was in spate and feet got wet but it was well worth the effort.

The cove was familiar but smaller than I remembered. Pot holers on top of the cove were being cautious due to the amount of water present. By now the sun was out and we were almost back. Soup, coffee buns and potatoes were consumed in the cafe and jolly tales told.

Brian and Ruth went off to see the museum about Mallory and Irvine up the road and since I have no route cards for anyone else I am unable to record their exploits in any more detail.

The weekend was a success and all present enjoyed the change. It will however be good to get back to our own bogs and peat haggs. There are, after all, far fewer walls to climb over and the hills are pointier.

Gordon Dykes