As well as climbing Pen-y-Ghent, which is a joy at any time, the other main objective of this particlar walk was to continue on from the summit to Plover Hill, something I'd never done before. Along the great back of Pen-y-Ghent, the footpath became boggy, and reminded me of days on Kinder Scout and Mill Hill before the laying of flagstones. To prevent ones self from becoming entombed in deep sludge, it was necessary to keep veering off course in search of drier, firmer ground. This undoubtedly made the walk to Plover Hill longer than expected, and with time and light at a premiuim, we began to wonder if we would ever actually reach Plover Hill, and would it be worth the slog?

Well, we did, of course reach Plover Hill, which is a huge lump and not much more to feast the eyes upon, until you drop down into the valley to join the Foxup track back towards Horton. Here, the drop is actually quite considerable - and the views are impressive; and to top it all, there is even a bit of a crag to look back upon and marvel at where you've come from!.

With the sun setting over Ingleborough, we just had enough light left to enjoy a moment's meandering around Hull Pot - which is an impressive hole in the ground - reputed to be the biggest hole in the ground in Britain!

A big cheer for The Helwith Bridge Inn, between Horton-in-Ribblesdale and Settle - lovely, friendly pub with a fantastic atmosphere (all donned out for Halloween when we called in at the end of our walk).

After a night of relative luxury in the Cleveland Mountaineering Club's hut in Patterdale on the Saturday night, Caz and I headed for Langdale and set off up The Band at something just past midday. The Band is a huge lump of a hill that gets you up high quickly (well - I say quickly - there isn't an escalator or anything like that there, but providing you're willing to persevere at it, it is eminently preferable to the alternative slog up from the head of Langdale - more of that later!). From Stool End Farm, it rises like the back of some great crouching creature, not easing up until you're at the little crook in the hills, between Crinkle Crags and Bow Fell, known as Three Tarns. Oddly enough, there appear to be only two tarns there, but time spent pondering over the mysterious disappearance of the third provides a well-deserved recouperation time before the final steep climb up onto the summit of Bow Fell.

The weather was hot and muggy - excellent conditions for the high fells, which would stay with us for the whole duration of the two-day trip. Excellent, that is, for views, but not necessarily so good when you've got a 40lb pack on your back with all the camping gear necessary for an overnight stay. Having said that, it was a good feeling to heave said pack onto my back after such a long time. Memories of The Pennine Way and The Coast to Coast long-distance walks came flooding back to me, and the joy of doing this day-in-day-out over a two-to-three week period is not one easily forgotten.

The footpath over Bow Fell leads onward to the summit of Esk Pike, with stunning vews across towards the Scafell range, our ultimate objective. By the time we reached the foot of Great End, however, we knew that pressing onwards towards Scafell Pike was probably pushing things a little too far. It was 5:30 - we'd been walking solidly for five and a half hours, and our joints were starting to remind us of that fact. So, we dropped the original idea of climbing England's highest peak on the same day and headed down towards Sprinkling Tarn. Here, we found the perfect wild pitch. Backpacking often just seems like a series of decisions, one after the other, and the ability to assess things and change one's mind at the drop of a hat is often essential. I'd originally ear-marked Angle Tarn as a suitable camping spot, but Sprinkling Tarn looked so attractive, and thoughts of adding yet another 45 minutes or so to the day's hiking just to check out Angle Tarn first simply wasn't an option. If it looks good - go for it!

After several cups of the best-tasting tea available on the planet (Tetley tea bags have to be drunk at altitude and after much strenuous exercise, and out in the open), and a well-earned camp meal, we took a walk around the perimeter of the tarn before settling down to watch the sun go down over Great Gable, and watch the stars come out. Who needs TV?

Monday morning began with a hazy sun promising to burn off all cloud remains by midday, so we wasted no time in breaking camp and repacking our rucksacks ready for the day's big climb. We followed what is known as The Corridor Route, which winds it's way through gloriously Tolkinesque scenery, from the head of Wasdale, at Sty Head (at the foot of Great Gable), upwards, past the crinkly, scarred face of Lingmell, finally to the last few hundred feet towards the summit of Scafell Pike.

Here, we were faced with another one of those big decisions - whether to continue on the well worn footpath that offered a nice gentle run-up to the peak, or whether to scramble our way up the steep scree-slope on the Northern-facing slope. A barely-visible path hinted at the passing of previous hikers despite the preponderance of of loose rocks of every size that threatened to roll away from underneath your feet at the slightest mis-footing. We, of course opted for the big adventure. Actually - that's not strictly true - we were already committed to the scree before realising that there was another, slightly less fearful route. Caz, younger and far fitter than I, led the way, with helpful calls down to me as to where the path seemed to be, and less than helpful calls of 'Below!' to warn me of football-sized rocks that had already bounded and crashed past me. Visions of being swept up in an almighty rock avalanche kept me focused on reaching the ridge that would provide us with the last push to the summit.

The summit of Scafell Pike is a rocky, barren expanse in all directions. The results of cairn-builders abound, with half-built shelters signifying centuries of human endeavour, desperate to reach the top. It's not a particularly attractive place - it's finest feature being the view it provides, in all directions, across all of lakeland. There is, of course, only one structure that counts, and that's the trig-point, where everyone wants to snap the photographic proof that they have, indeed, stood at England's highest point (3210ft).

This trip was the first time either Caz or myself had used hiking poles. For years, I would be the first to scoff at what seemed like nothing more than a gimmick, or worse, a fashion accessory. My negative attitude towards them, I'm sure, was purely aesthetic, and pride would always insist that I really didn't need such encumberances. However, I'm pleased to report that we found them a riotous success. What a brilliant invention! Of course, they've been around for years, and now I think of how many painful descents and pulled muscles might have been avoided if only I'd taken them on board earlier (I've always struggled slightly with pains in my lower back and knees at the end of a long walk). With hiking poles, the weight is evenly distributed across more limbs and muscles, and the result is startling, to say the very least.

Saltburn Gill is a steep sided coastal dene, incised into glacial clays, shales and sandstones of the Lower Jurassic period, and supporting one of the few relatively undisturbed areas of mixed deciduous woodland in Cleveland.

Coppiced oak dominates the canopy with ash and small splodges of wych elm and wild cherry. Dense patches of regenerating sycamore are also present if you know exactly where to look. Of course, my tree-spotting skills are pretty weak at the best of times, and wouldn't necessarily know such a beast if it were to jump up and bite me on the nose (an activity with which of course trees are not generally associated). The floor of the woodland is no less impressive; of particular interest are locally abundant populations of early-purple orchid, wood vetch and rough horsetail. The shady banks and boulders of the beck (which, being bright orange looks like it could be flowing through a corner of some early prehistoric landscape) and its tributaries within Saltburn Gill are covered with a profusion of mosses, leafy liverworts and ferns as well as golden saxifrage and wavy bittercress (apparently).

With this image in mind I would like to recall how, having walked the length of the gill, and with our typical determination in all such matters being 'never go back', we followed what, certainly at the time, officer, seemed like a valid and well-used footpath, and apparently doubling back in roughly the direction we wanted to go, and managed to find ourselves in a corner of a farmer's field where the only options where; go back or climb through a barbed-wire boundary festooned with signs saying 'Private Land, keep out'.

Bearing in mind the time factor and how little light we anticipated having left to us, we opted, rather naughtily I feel, to head onwards, through what we perceived to be only a small patch of private land, towards where we almost certainly knew the return path to be.

It's at times like this that one can get nostalgic for The Famous Five and Indiana Jones. For that's what we felt like as we fair hacked our way through dense undergrowth and slipped down damp, orange becksides onto our backsides, and fought through agressive, and quite frankly unfriendly, bushes armed with very sharp spikes (the bushes, not us) until we came at last to the beck that we'd been following all afternoon. Unable to agree exactly on where the best place to cross was, we eventually crossed through to the other side (which quite bizarrely had mountains of mysterious-looking mushrooms growing on a fallen tree there) via a precarious series of not-quite-but-near-enough-stepping-stones.

Jake loved all this, of course - as always, he manages to bound through the undergrowth like a puppy and rustle the long grasses in a linear motion much like that of the fabled and much-loved veloceraptor!

To top the afternoon off, it wasn't until we'd finally managed to locate the path which would take us safely back to the car park, that we discovered we'd left the dog's lead somewhere back in 'Jurassic Park'. I had a vision in which I could clearly see the lead lying on the ground next to the mysterious mushrooms! I'd placed it there myself in order to video what would undoubtedly be a hilarious crossing of the beck by Caz (the resulting video is unlikely be appearing on You've Been Framed on account of the profusion of colourful language - her rendering of 'I want to buy you a mercedes benz' in the style of Janice Joplin might have swung it though).

Anyway, despite Caz's brave attempts at retracing her footsteps into the interior to retrieve the lead and put right what was essentially my mistake, she returned some twenty minutes later lead-less and conceding that the onset of darkness was incentive enough for her to cancel her quest (and Jake needed a new lead anyway).

When we arrived in Malham village, the weather hadn't improved at all. It was drizzling and quite cold, as we sat in the car eating our lunch and watching quite amazed as a bloke in a nearby car stripped down to his undies in full view of everyone before putting his walking gear on - you'd think he'd have made some preparation! His frumpily-dressed wife didn't seem at all alarmed at his baring all (Caz kindly noted that it wasn't her clothes that were frumpy - they just looked frumpy on her - why is that?) Having finished our breakfast barms (That's a kind of bread roll to you and me, bought in the Co-op in Gargrave, but appears to be Irish in origin) we stoically donned boots and waterproofs and headed for the mighty limestone escarpment that is Malham Cove.

Although having visited Malham Cove many times over the years, it never ceases to impress. At 260 feet in height, it would have one time sported a Niagra-esque waterfall, but now the stream disappears underground about three-quarters of a mile away at Water Sinks, by Malham Tarn and reappears at the foot of the Cove.

From the foor of the escarpment, a long stone staircase brings you to the top, which is a magnificent limestone pavement. The views from up there are spectacular, but the going can be tricky in the wet - the limestone pavement, worn smooth over the years and festooned with deep, potentially ankle-breaking gaps knows as clints or grykes, can be like trying to cross an ice rink in glass slippers.

From here, we followed the footpath east, over towards our last milestone of the day - Gordale Scar. This 150feet deep gorge is impressive at all times, but today, with the water in full speight, it seemed doubly so. Our original route plan was to continue on up the dry valley from Malham Cove and double back, to climb down by the waterfall of Gordale Scar. Under the circumstances, it was rather a good idea that we hadn't done so. It would have been a turnaround for certain - no way would anyone be climbing up or down it in these conditions!

This piece of coastline provided us with a freshly stimulating cliff-top walk along what is actually part of the Cleveland Way. Here we came across several pieces of outdoor art, manufactured from what seem like old pieces of boat and maritime machinery that must surely clang and chime in an eery way when the sea winds are at their highest.

My impression of Skinningrove upon arrival there was mixed to say the least. The cliffs above the village are absolutely festooned with cabins of every size, colour and manufacture, which give it a haphazard and unkempt feel. Having said that, the village (the older parts) is charming, and our only real disappointment upon being here on a monday was to discover that Sknningrove fish and chip shop doesn't open on a monday! There is also a great sense of community about the place - it is absolutely steeped in history - and how many other small coastland villages can boast its own radio station? Radio Skinningrove.

It was almost dark when we arrived back in Saltburn - even hungrier now for some chips, we discovered to our dismay that the chip shop in Saltburn (the decent one) also doesn't open on a Monday!

On the plus side - we had a chinese takeaway from Marton, Middlesborough!

Approximately 3 and a half miles in length and covering an area of about 500 acres, Castle Eden Dene is a densely-wooded, steep-sided valley which has been home to many rare plants (up until 1930 it was home to the lady's slipper orchid which has since become almost extinct in Britain thanks to ravaging hordes of thoughtful, but light-fingered plant collectors) and is still home to one of our rarest butterflies - the eden argus butterfly!

Originally owned by the Burdon family, who lived in Castle Eden, it was first opened to the public in 1850 by the Rev. John Burdon. Its popularity soon spread, and became one of the most frequently visited places in the North East. By the turn of the century, however, visitor numbers began to dwindle, and by 1950 it had fallen into a poor state of maintenance.

In 1951, the Dene was taken over by a local council department set up to create the new town of Peterlee, and in 1954 it was designated a Local Nature Reserve in a bid to preserve its importance as an area of biological and geographical interest.

English Nature took over the management of the Dene in 1985, and today it is a truly stunning place. Many myths and legends surround the area, particularly associated with such landmarks as Gunner's Pool and the Devil's Lapstone (apparently the Devil was a frequent visitor to the area whilst he was helping to build Durham Cathedral - interestingly, the official Durham Cathedral website mentions nothing of this!).

It was late afternoon when Caz and I visited the Dene. The light was fantastic and the atmosphere was serene. I love that time of day when the last of the sun casts long shadows and warm light across your path. It felt like it should be a place where fairies and elves live - sadly none showed there face whilst we were there, but you never know. Fallen trees hang across your path in lots of places, bedecked in thick, rich ivy that hangs like curtains through which you have to push your way. What was missing was the sound of running water; much of Castle Eden Burn's riverbed is limestone, so in dry summers (which we've definitely had) it disappears underground.

For fear of sounding like a North-East tourist board advertisement, I just can't help but heartily recommend Castle Eden Dene to anyone visiting the area - absolutely charming!!

Twice a year Craven Pot-holing Club organise what's called a winch-meet. This is the only time mere mortals can see what it is like to be lowered into such a huge, dark hole in the ground. The huge village of tents (including a beer tent, I noticed) around the site suggests that this is quite a gathering even for local pot-holers.

The first recorded descent was by a chap called M.J. Birkbeck in 1842, who was lowered a short way down; in a second attempt in 1848 he reached what has become known as "Birkbeck's ledge". The first complete descent, by rope ladder, was by a Frenchman, Edouard Martel in 1895. His first attempt on 30th July was unsuccessful because of high water conditions, however on the 1st August that year he successfully reached the floor of the Main Chamber, in a descent taking 23 minutes.

Other entrances to the system, of which there are currently 19 in number, include Disappointment Pot, Stream Passage Pot, Bar Pot, Hensler's Pot, Corky's Pot, and Flood Entrance Pot. The underwater connection to Ingleborough Cave was first made by members of the Cave Diving Group in 1983.

Caz and I managed to drive to Clapham and walk to the entrance of the cave for about 9am, which is pretty good for us! At that time, we only had a half hour's wait. We paid our £10 fee and kitted ourselves in a hard hat.

Only one person is lowered down or lifted up at a time, but the process is extremely efficient, and no time for slacking is allowed. The 340ft journey down is exhilerating, and if it's your first time down there (which it was for me), then no amount of what people tell you about it can really prepare you for the nervous excitement of it all. Once you're down there, the reality of it hits you. Suddenly you're standing in a very large, very dark cave (they do say that you could fit York Minster down there), lit only by one floodlight and moving lights strapped to the heads of a handful of serious potholers. The only sound really is that of the waterfall (which is also one of the largest in the country, re-directed as much as possible during the period of the winch-meet to make the descent a little more comfortable).

By the time we'd re-surfaced, more people had turned up and the waiting time was up to 2 1/2 hours.

We both thoroughly enjoyed it - the trip down and back up is exhilarating, and the chamber is truly awesome (in a way, I rather like the fact that it isn't fully floodlit - it gives a greater sense of 'being underground' and a taste of what potholing is really like - although you'd have to ask Caz about that, since she's the serious pothole junky out of the two of us. I think I'd like to have a proper go at it, but would be unlikely to get into it in any big way - I get too claustrophobic, I think, and the gear is expensive.

Gayle Beck, running through Hawes was about as high and wild as I'd seen it - always a good gauge as to how much moisture is actually running off the hills.

As I've said, the weather seemed to be in our favour today. Although dark clouds did seem to be a constant threat on the horizon, you could never tell exactly which way they were headed, and we didn't see a single drop.

Stags Fell is approached by crossing the valley via the road to Hardraw and taking the track up from Sedbusk which leads you conveniently onto the tops.

Several times we came across what can only be described as depressed sheep. I don't just mean slightly off-colour or can't-quite-be-bothered, but actually depressed and looking like being a sheep can really get to you some days. It wasn't until later we came to the conclusion (okay, so it was Caz that came to the conclusion) that it was the time of year when all the young sheep are taken away from their mothers to be weaned off their milk. In an effort to learn a bit more about the rearing of sheep, I came across a website which just about put me off eating lamb altogether - It's here, should you wish to learn some of the true grisley facts surrounding sheep production in this country - it doesn't make for easy reading I can tell you!

We stopped and had lunch by the two cairns that look like large people from down in the valley. This is a great vantage point for impressive views. Directly across from us was Wether Fell (the other fell walkable from the studio front door) and beyond, you could make out the flat top of Ingleborough, our target for next day).

This was the third day of what had been a good week's walking. On the Tuesday (he arrived late on the Monday evening) we climbed Buckden Pike and drank in The White Lion at Cray and the Buck Inn at Buckden, then several pints at the Skipton Folk Club on Tuesday evening. On the Wednesday we relived part of the Pennine Way by walking from Keld to Tan Hill Inn, where we had a couple of pints of Black Sheep before returning to Keld via Ravenseat (where we managed to get lost - how, I'm not sure).

Since some of my recent excursions into the hills have been a little damp of late, and lacking in any really good views, I was pleased to wake to what promised to be a good, clear day's walking. The weather in The Lake District has a habit of changing on a sixpence, of course, so it was with a healthy cautiousness, and a pack full of hefty waterproofs, that we set off from Threlkeld, where we'd strategically parked the car directly across the road from The Horse and Farrier Inn (where we planned to have a well-earned drink at the end of our walk).

Funnily enough, it is with perfectly good reason that my poor navigational skills are starting to become legendary. Before we'd even left the village, I'd already taken us on a wrong turning, passing a huge board that said BLENCATHRA on it and a bright yellow arrow pointing towards that big hill up there; fortunately I spotted our (okay, my) silly little error before too much embarrassment ensued. It is a worry though.

Once we'd successfully found our way onto the hillside, it was simply a matter of making sure we kept going upwards. Our route took us up the side of Blease Fell, via Knowe Crags, eventually to the summit of Blencathra (or otherwise known as Saddleback).

We both knew that it was going to be a long haul. The weather conditions were perfect, clear and sunny, but with just enough of a light breeze to keep us from overheating. The views across to Skiddaw and St. John's in the Vale were stunning, and as we got higher, so more lakes and landmarks came into view - Thirlmere, Hellvellyn, the distant Scafell Range. Despite knowing that the climb would be hard going and that the views would be more than compensation for the effort, it didn't prevent lots of cursing and swearing and lots of pauses to get our breath back (cunningly disguised, of course, as carefully planned breaks to take in the view). Richard had just turned 59 and I'm in my 46th year, so I don't reckon we do too badly at all!

From the summit, our route took us down Sharp Edge to Scales Tarn. Although shorter than Striding Edge, this is without doubt the more challenging of the two ridges, particularly on descent, and I was mightily pleased that conditions were dry.

Once at the level of the tarn, it was simply a matter of finding our way back to Threlkeld by skirting Scales Fell and crossing the fields back to the village (and I still managed to take us down a wrong path on a couple of occasions! Although, it must be said, that on both those occasions, I wasn't entirely to blame. The footpath we were following, although shown on the map, is not a big green one (which means public footpath), and in several places we were met with stoned-up stiles, barbed wire and PRIVATE, NO RIGHT OF WAY signs, necessitating a re-trace of our tracks. I know that there is, and always will be, an uneasy relationship between the needs of walkers and the needs of private landowners, but why, oh why can't they just splash a strategically placed little yellow splodge of paint on a rock to ease the walkers' passage through tricky bits and make life easy for everyone.

My only gripe would be the amount of litter strewn along its length. The walk is on private land, so a small charge of £3.50 per person or £7 for a family ticket is required to gain access (although it can be reached from a back road via Thornton in Lonsdale, but I didn't say that). Generally speaking the route is extremely well maintained, and I suspect wardens do the best they can with regards to litter. Why, though? Why do people drop their litter like that? It makes me so angry!!! It requires so little effort to take your rubbish with you, some people just do not think of others. Grrrrrrrrr!!

And they did.

By the time we were on Striding Edge, all hope of any views were quickly dashed. This is a place where many people come unstuck. Striding Edge is not for the unprepared. Okay, it's easy enough in good weather, with just the right amount of thrill element to make it a challenge. In poor or wet conditions it can become quite hairy!

We met several fellow walkers on the way up to the summit, whose walking/climbing attire varied enormously. In its most hairy sections, care has to be taken not to send yourself plummeting down into the abyss, towards Red Tarn way below.

We left it til quite late on before donning waterproofs on account of it not being really that cold. This is always a dilemma; put waterproofs on too early and you're soaking in your own sweat for the duration of the walk. Put them on too late and you lock in the rain and still end up being damp and uncomfortable by the end of the walk.

Whatever. By the time we reached the summit shelter conditions were about as cold, wet and windy as they could be on a mid-july day. We huddled in the shelter eating sandwiches and drinking from a hot flask, and reduced ourselves to tears of laughter as I attempted to put my long overtrousers back on in the howling gale.

I mention this because walking with someone other than just myself is something I've done very little of over the years. There's always the problem of pacing - walking with someone who is faster than you or slower can be frustrating. If your companion is also a winger, then it can turn a pleasant walk into something quite tiresome, and leave you wishing you'd set out by yourself anyway. Caz is a joy to walk with. She and I walk at the same pace and share the same sense of humour. Add to that the fact that she's also a bit of a babe, any walk with Caz is guaranteed to be an interesting day's outing.

We arrived at the Howgills at about 11:30 on this Monday morning, and the conditions were clear and the temperature was quite hot. Despite the fact that The Howgills are an impressive, lumpy bunch of fells sandwiched between the Yorkshire and Cumbria border, looking very like a family of elephants that have decided to lie down and take time out from their active elephant schedule, they are often overlooked in favour of the larger, more popular hills of Lakeland. The sort of place upon which you might gaze in awe and say "I must go and take a closer look one day", but never do.

Originally we'd only planned a leisurely stroll as far as the waterfall - Cautley Spout is an impressive series of drops into several tree-lined lagoons, 700ft high in total, one 90ft drop being its highest single leap - ideal for a picnic. Once we'd got there and seen it close up, however, the call of the higher places proved irresistable. A further hour or so's energetic scrambling and climbing (we took the hard route, right up by the waterfall itself), we found ourselves above Cautley Crags, from where we were treated to sumptuous views of the surrounding fells in all directions (it was a little hazy, so the views weren't quite as distant as I know they can be - but it was awesome nevertheless).

Coming down was quicker, but still a struggle in places. Downward walking puts strain on a different set of muscles and both Caz and I were feeling the pain of old war wounds. One thing that did fascinate us was a guy handgliding. These days they're super-lightweight, with the ability to fold them up into a backpack once you've landed. We met up with the guy back at the car (he'd parked behind us) and was able to quiz him about the activity - how long was he able to stay up? (about 15 minutes), how much did the pack weigh? (he let us lift it ourselves - no more than a heavy rucksack).

It occurred to me, as I walked past the Ladybower dam (famous for its association with the Lancaster bombers and bouncing bombs of World War II), that it always seems to be this time of year when I visit this corner of the Peak District, on account of the colours always being the same. What I don't recall, however, is it ever having been this cold when I've taken the trip before. It was so cold, in fact, that I only managed to make two pencil sketches during the whole walk! My first sketch was made on the banks of Ladybower reservoir itself, just before turning off from the tarmaced road and heading on up Howden Clough.

The footpath is easy enough to follow - a rough, rangers track ascends most of the way, alongside Abbey Brook, until a parting of the ways at Berristers Tor is reached. Here, the right fork took me onto the higher ground, via the cairn named Lost Lad, to Back Tor where I huddled out of the biting wind to enjoy my lunch of cheese and pickle sandwiches and flask of hot tea.

One of the main problems of walking at this time of year are the short days. With the light starting to fade around 3:30, there isn't time to waste, and walks should always be planned with this in mind (being caught out on the moors with fading light and a scant knowledge of the path home can be life-threatening).

From Back Tor, the path is relatively straight forward - keeping the high ground for as long as possible, along the top of Derwent Edge, via the Cakes of Bread, Salt Cellar and Wheel Stones before dropping down, finally, back towards the reservoir.

It was just above Derwent Edge that my mobile phone rang. Now, whilst I have to say that this is not a common occurrence for me, ignoring it is something I don't like to do, simply because it might be important - even more crucially - it might be business! Unfortunately, due to the badly packed and hastily filled fleece pocket, removing my phone also let free a small clutch of papers, one of which, to my horror, I realised was a twenty-pound note!

Okay, so anyone looking on might have found my chasing a twenty pound note across a cold windy moor on a cold December's day amusing. I have to say, I did not - particularly when I discovered that the call was none other than Orange trying to entice me to upgrade my phone!

You'll be pleased to know that I caught the twenty pound note and that I reached reservoir level safely without further incident.

This was also the first time I'd used a pedometer. When calculating mileages, I run a small mileage 'wheel' along the route on the relevant OS map (not one of those horrible plastic cheap ones - a decent, supposedly high-precision metal one). Whatever reading it gives me, I usually round it up to the nearest half a mile. What surprised me on this day was that, while my map calculation had come to 7.5 miles (rounded up to 8 miles), the pedometer told me I'd only walked 6 miles. Of course, this was the first time I'd used it; I'm not even a hundred percent sure that the initial stride-length calculation was correct (although I did what the instructions told me to), so it's left me slightly confused. I have to say, it felt more like 7 miles than 6, so I don't know. Instinct tells me to put my trust in the map calculation (expect a compromise).

Setting the alarm for 5am meant I was parked and booted-up ready to go by 8am in Buckden Car Park, the start of the walk (It's a two-hour drive for me, from home to this part of the Dales). Despite threats of deteriorating weather conditions, the morning was dry, if a little cool (but then it was early). After a couple of quick sketches made at Buckden, I was keen to move on to the middle-section from Hubberholme to Yockenthwaite. This entire first section (Buckden to Yockenthwaite) follows the route of The Dales Way, a long distance walk I've promised myself for many years, but never had the time to do it.

Hubberholme boasts one of the best pubs in the district - The George. I have had the pleasure of drinking in there and can vouch for the impressive list of real ales and excellent home-cooked food! At 9.30 in the morning, however, a pint would have been a little overindulgent (and I don't think the landlord would have opened up for me anyway). The best bit was to come - the stretch alongside the River Wharfe as far as Yockenthwaite.

I can honestly say that it exceeded expectations. I'm familiar with this part of the dales, but on this day, it felt magical. What made it even better was that the sun was starting to break through in bursts, bringing the whole scene to life.

What is unique to this area of the Dales is the rich abundance of limestone outcroppings, crags and natural pavements. At Yockenthwaite, which is little more than a large sprawling farmstead (or group of farm buildings, I'm not sure which), boasting an interesting and well-photographed packhorse bridge, and a ditch which I embarrassingly managed to back into in an unceremoniously comical fashion while photographing a herd of sheep, the route doubles back on itself, but makes the height, where the walker is tripping over such limestone features every hundred feet or so. That particular landscape has always fascinated me - it always strikes me as being somewhat alien in its appearance.

From Yockenthwaite to Cray, the altitude is pretty well maintained. From up here, the views of Upper Wharfedale are really quite stunning. By the time I stopped for a bite of lunch (quick praise here for Cross & Blackwell's Squeezy Branston small-chunk pickle!) at Scar House (above Hubberholme), the sun was well and truly out, and the day felt almost summery!

There's another pub at Cray, The White Lion, and it occurs to me that this particular route, although not overly long is well-served with alcoholic refreshment. If you do stop at the White Lion, I recommend you don't over-indulge. Taking the weight off your feet for a few minutes and partaking of a little refreshment can slow you down. And be warned: there's one last climb to the footpath known as Buckden Rake. Once the altitude is attained, however, it's plain sailing back to the village of Buckden. What I really like about this stretch of the walk is that you can see almost the entire route along which you've just walked (of course, should you wish to walk it the other way around, then you can oversee the route you are about to undertake).

Set into the rock just a few feet from the Trig point on the hill's summit is one of those fantastic circular plaques that show a 360-degree map of the surrounding hills. Shutlingsloe's nearest neighbour, Shining Tor is easy to spot over towards the Goyt Valley, as are the pointy peaks of Ramshaw Rocks and Roach End. What surprised me was that the plaque claims that you can see Black Hill far to the North. Certainly it would have to be a clearer day that this one to spot it!

After the scramble to the trig-point on Shutlingsloe's summit, the route descended to the fringes of Macclesfield Forest, where the trees do a good impression of Fangorn Forest, with their contorted, twisty trunks and dark forbidding interior. It is actually quite pleasant, of course, once you're in there. Good, well-maintained paths criss-cross throughout the area, designed with the visitor in mind. Once I'd left the forest paths, easy slopes led me on towards the Cat & Fiddle.

My original route-plan, here, was to join the main A537 Macclesfield to Buxton road just below the Cat & Fiddle Inn. Not because I enjoy the thrill of dicing with death in the path of heavy trucks and harrassed, constantly late, reps in BMWs (I like to swap the term 'Beamer' for 'BumWipe', but that's just juvenile of me), but because according to the OS map, there was no convenient way to link up footpaths. It was with relief, therefore, that I came across a signpost, just short of joining the main road by Torgate Farm, offering me a concessionary footpath which did just that.

Moments like this, in my experience, are far and few between, the underlying tension between the rights of those campaigning for the right to roam and those who own the land never being far from the surface. In a world where footpaths are often made more difficult to follow, a deliberately created concessionary footpath, requiring a high degree of trust and teamwork between parties who are more often than not opposing each other, is (in the words of Al Murray's Pub Landlord) a beautiful thing!

And what a great link-up it is too. A well maintained, well-waymarked path takes the walker through the delightful Chest Hollow before reaching the second highest pub in England - The Cat & Fiddle Inn (second in altitude only to the Tan Hill Inn in North Yorkshire, although this seems to be in dispute see this article for the full story), an ideal stopping-off point for ramblers in seek of liquid refreshment before the final leg of their ramble (but not on Tuesdays).

The route from Cat & Fiddle back down into Wildboarclough is at first wild and open, then reminiscent of many of the 'cloughs' on Kinder Scout, as you drop down into Danethorn Hollow and finally accompany Cumberland Brook back to Clough House.

After parking at the little car park in Birchen Clough, the walk alongside the Snake River in Lady Clough (Woodlands Valley) was a pleasant, leisurely stroll. This is always a dodgy attitude to take with a walk like this, since there was a long walk with some serious scrambling ahead of me and an easy, early section of the route is an ideal opportunity to get settled into the walk with a decent pace.

At the point where the valley opens out, and you join the snake path for a short way, I checked out the river, as I always do, to see if there was a convenient crossing point, to cut out the switchback on the route, and save a little time. But the water was high and fast flowing, and no crossing could I find this day, so I pressed on to the crossing a little higher up.

Fairbrook, when I finally came to it, was as brilliant as it always is. In summer, of course, it's a different kettle of fish, but even in winter, it has a quiet, understated charm (a little bit like me).

The easy-to-follow footpath is a long, steady climb, requiring only a little effort, with a short but steep scramble at the end, finally bringing you out onto the top of the great Kinder plateau. Navigation is easy, here, if you're following the edge as I was. It's only when you venture into the interior of the plateau, crossing from one side to the other, that things can get extremely tricky.

Reaching the tip of Fairbrook Naze, with its distinctive rocky promontary, signalled the half-way point of the walk. After sketching the rocks here, I settled down in a sheltered spot (it was very cold in the wind) to eat my packed lunch and enjoy the stunning views.

After Fairbrook Naze, the Northern Edge (also known as Ashop Edge) was inspiring. Navigation is easy on the whole, but with occasional frustrating diversions to avoid deep, sludgy peat and huge, uncrossable puddles. The route here is punctuated by rock formation after rock formation, each as visually interesting as the last. Just when I'm thinking "it's time to step up the pace", I would happen across yet another superb structure demanding to be sketched (okay, I know rocks can't demand but believe me, this feast of visual delights is simply impossible to ignore).

At its most Eastern point, the land finally drops away, and the route briefly touches The Pennine Way before skirting the watershed from where the River Ashop springs and the Snake Path leads you back towards Saukin Ridge.

At the start of the Snake Path, below Mill Hill, the footpath has been stone-flagged to slow down the effects of erosion. Being on the final, homeward stretch, this is okay; one of the major problems of winter walking is the shortness of the day and the onset of failing light, so an easy yomp back to base is relatively welcome at this stage of the day. My speed was shortlived, however, for the flagstones soon petered out, leaving me to struggle along a path that was boggy and slow.

This sounds like I'm a great supporter of paving footpaths. Not so: I acknowledge the need to take any steps necessary to prevent erosion in certain areas (The Pennine Way from Mill Hill to the Snake Pass, though, is like walking along The Yellow Brick Road). Walkers are often cited as the great eroders of our beautiful landscape, but I reckon the weather does a fair job all by itself. You only have to look at the surface of Kinder Scout to see how the rain is slowly wearing away the layer of peat to expose the bare rock beneath.

Hartington is a pretty little village, right in the heart of the Peak District, just a stones throw from Buxton and busy on weekends throughout the Summer. But this was a cold, windy monday morning towards the end of November, and visitors were, mercifully, a little thin on the ground.

Which suits me fine, I have to say. Parking is a doddle on days like this. Although a pay-and display car park is provided, I was able to slip my car into one of the last few remaining free spaces marked out in the village centre.

I'd booted-up and set off on my way by 10:30am. After taking a couple of photographs of the village green and accompanying ancient monument, I followed the road, North out of the village, signposted towards Pilsbury. No sooner had I left the main bulk of civilization behind than a steeply-climbing bridlepath (not terribly well signposted, but clear as day on the map) cut me across to a higher road, where I could leave the tarmac behind and feel the soft earth beneath my feet.

Several days of wet weather made sure that the going was going to be soft underfoot throughout the duration of the walk. After stopping to sketch an interesting stone wall system that took my eye and a group of farm buildings on the hillside, I pressed on to Carder Low.

In the midst of all this soft, green landscape, Carder Low comes as a bit of a surprise. I've walked similar terrain in the wilder parts of The Yorkshire Dales and The Lake District. Indeed, the preponderance of rocky limestone outcroppings is very reminiscent of the Dales. I think this, though, is the 'White Peak' at its best. It doesn't pretend to be anything it isn't. Higher ground beckons, but the footpath leads the walker over easy ground towards Pilsbury. Fantastic views of Chrome Hill and Parkhouse Hill can be enjoyed from here (North, beyond Pilsbury). On this day, despite the high winds (or, indeed, maybe because of them), conditions were very clear, and I wasn't disappointed.

I did, however, experience a mild pang of disappointment when I arrived at a point on the moor, just before the crossing of paths, where I'd expected to re-acquaint myself with an old barn there. To my horror, it no longer exists. Or to be more precise - the pile of stones that still mark the spot, do a very poor job! This is the location of an old stone cottage and barn that presumeably has suffered both from the weather that must be prevalent in these parts and the poaching of raw materials for local structures (I'm guessing here, but cannot come up with any other explanation as to why such a noteable old building, even in a derelict state should have virually disappeared without trace). This only helps to re-assert in my mind one of the roles of the artist as being that of historic recorder. I have produced paintings of this site which clearly show the farm buildings that no longer stand there. Photographs, too, help to record the landscape as it appears at a point in time.

Finally, battling against a severe wind, I arrived at Pilsbury Castle. This is what is known as a Motte and Bailey Castle. It is basically a series of huge earthworks that would once upon a time have sported a wooden watchtower and several structures for accommodation, kitchens, stables and store-rooms. An information board informs the inquisitive traveller that the precise age of the fort is unknown, but is believed to have been built sometime after the Norman Conquest of 1066. Its purpose would have been to control the local population and traffic along the Dove valley, and would have continued in use only for a few decades into the 12th century.

I decided Pilsbury Castle was a good spot to eat lunch. After a quick sketch of the rocky promontary there, I began the homeward leg of my journey, first to Pilsbury, which amounts to no more than a handful of houses on a gated road. I followed the route to the valley floor, where the young River Dove passes under a wooden footbridge, and on up the opposite side of the valley to a point where a signpost invites you to leave the track (which continues onwards and upwards towards Sheen Hill) and cut across the fields. On this day, deep, sticky mud was very much in abundance. The going was tough, making me wonder more than once whether or not I'd have been better to stick with the farm track. The footpath itself is also not terribly clear here. It's not until you're halfway up the hillside, reassured by the sight of a good stile and marker post that you can look back at where you've been and see the footpath clear as day. I suspect this is because most walkers, for some inapparent reason, walk the route more commonly in the opposite direction to the way I was going (who knows?).

Once I'd reached the top of the hill, the going became much easier. The route follows a road for only a short way before heading off once more across the fields, from Harris Close Farm towards Hartington. I stopped several times along this stretch, both to sketch the view across towards Sheen Hill (a diversion I silently promised myself for another time) and to photograph a rainbow.

I figured I was making good time. The path brought me back down to the valley floor, via a slippery and potentially dangerous (but exciting all the same), highly eroded footpath. Another wooden footbridge enabled me to cross the River Dove once more and arrive safely back in Hartington. Only one mishap threatened to hamper this. A branch strewn across the path, between a gap in the field border had me flying forwards into the deep, gooey mud. Fortunately, I was able to stop myself going face-first into it with my elbows. My fleece took the brunt of the fall and the only thing hurt was my pride. Fortunately there was no-one around to see my little fall, so my embarrassment was short-lived and the mud dried quickly, so my uncanny resemblance to a neolithic mud-monster lasted on briefly (I'm sure my muddy appearance would have led the residents of Hartington to conclude that here, indeed was one hell of a serious walker!).