Heading down into Keld, "proper", a small collection of houses and a very small building, signed as the "Keld Literary Institute."
The vistas of Swaledale were glorious and the walking temperature perfect (in the high 50's F).
Peter riding the remains of a tractor; photo for grandson, Theo.
Ah, Swaledale!
As usual, we decided to forego the higher-route (through boggy moors and abandoned mines with their remains of smelters, tunnels, forges, and flues), and instead take the easier, faster, and equally beautiful river route "through some of the finest landscape in the Yorkshire Dales."
The step-brothers, waving from their elevenses just outside of Muker (that's pronounced Muiker, not Mucker.)
Mucker, home to the Swaledale Woolens cooperative, where Therese bought herself a birthday present Swaledale woolen hat and gloves and we bought some Swaledale woolen gloves for the grandchildren.
We also joined several fellow hikers at a wonderful little cafe where Peter had scones and tea, Therese had a tomato soup, and Rob and Sharon had delicious-looking fruit pies. (Hard for Peter to resist, but he had his stomach full of scones.)
Instead of doubling back to the riverside path that we'd left to go into Muker, we walked more or less single-file along the narrow road. Peter led the way, signaling whenever a car, truck, or bus was coming toward us, so we could step as far off the road as possible (not far) and so the drivers could see us and move over a bit or slow down (Hah!) At one point, a bus stopped and asked Peter where they wanted to go and Peter explained that he wasn't hailing the bus, just signaling to his friends. The driver said: "That's OK; I'll get you on the way back," to which Peter laughed and waved him on.
Outside of Ivelet, we walked over the weak Ivelet Bridge.
Masterfully espaliered apples against a brick house in the charming little village of Ivelet.
(Peter was envious.)
Swaledale living for sheep in the forground and people in the background
A photo of another cow (as requested by Lourdes Noone)
But, in fact, there was a bus waiting for us; it was Peter's old friend, the driver who'd said he'd pick us up on the way back. And he gave us a thrilling (!) six-mile ride to Reeth up and down hills and (yes) dales on a road just barely wide enough for his bus and maybe a motorcycle going the other way. The other passengers (mostly day-walkers who had walked up to Gunnerside from Reeth) were amused by the way the bus was tossing Peter around, as he clambered to buckle himself in while still encumbered by his pack and walking sticks. As Rob exclaimed several times "This is as good a ride as Ice Mountain at Disney World!"
The market town of Reeth, but on a non-market day, the green seemed to be a parking lot for day-trippers, who had walked up to Gunnerside and taken the bus back. It was very early (around 1 PM) so Peter decided he'd spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on the blog and Therese thought she might go to the local museum after warming up with a shower. Unfortunately, it was so early that our B&B hosts were still out doing the day's shopping, so we decided to walk around the town a bit, but it was overcast and a bit damp and Therese was feeling chilled, so we went to a pub, bought some hard ciders and tried unsuccessfully to get on the Internet. At about 3 PM, Therese called the B&B and they were back, so we headed over, checked in, showered, warmed up, napped, and later (around 6:30) met our friends for dinner at The Black Bull, where we also saw practically everyone else we'd been seeing on the trail since Orton or Kirkby Stephen.
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