The Wild Rover_ A Blistering Journey Along Britain_s Footpaths - Mike Parker [20]
Read any number of accounts of that distant April day, including first-hand ones, and they differ quite markedly, even in basic facts such as the number of participants. Benny Rothman claimed 600–800. The reporter from the Manchester Guardian, who accompanied the protest, stated it to be in the region of 400–500. The Daily Express went with 500 too, while the prosecution case at the trial in Derby put it at between 150 and 200.
In the north-west, I’d heard a fair few disdainful things said about the Kinder trespass, and Benny Rothman in particular. He had a terrific, unabashed flair for promotion, self-promotion included, a tendency guaranteed to upset those of more oatmeal tastes, if only because of their secret envy of his showmanship and shamelessness. As he got older, though, he was treated increasingly as a holy relic and, almost until his death in 2002, was regularly wheeled out to inject a little Kinder stardust into ramblers’ meetings, rallies and photo-calls. And as I followed his footsteps up past the reservoir and into the William Clough, I looked up at the snow-smeared black pillows of the summit plateau, and any antagonism dissolved. Off to my right, the spray of water coming over Kinder Downfall was catching the wind and being blown upwards like smoke. An intoxicating jolt of freedom surged through my veins, and all I could do was thank him.
I thanked him and his comrades again when I reached the top. Despite the wide-eyed warnings of some locals, it had been a relatively simple ascent, following an easy track up the side of a peaty brook. The reward was magnificent. Views were endless, as was the sea of black peat rippled and cut into chunks and slabs by streams the colour of an old-fashioned porter beer. In the keen sunlight, the great slabs of millstone grit glittered like black diamonds, presenting themselves as terrific impromptu picnic tables, chairs and even sunbathing platforms. I stopped to munch my sandwiches by Kinder Downfall, watching the spray of the water tumble over the edge, vaporise and float free into the sharp sky.
Melting snow had swollen the river and, to cross it, I joined with a group of others in trekking upstream to find a spot where it could be forded. We nearly lost one braveheart, who strode out, shouting ‘Follow me!,’ on to a packed shelf of hard snow over the river. Just as he reached a point where he could almost jump to the other side, the shelf groaned and cracked, dropping with a splash into the rushing water. Looking like a surprised polar bear in a nature documentary, our man flailed downstream towards the fall, but managed to jump free back on to the rocks before cartoon calamity struck. We were all a bit hysterical by then, wheezing laughter and shouts of ribald piss-taking at each other in clouds of wintry breath. There was, I realised, a different atmosphere on these northern peaks: far more comradely, much less pompous than you’d sometimes find elsewhere. And more than anywhere I’d walked in years, Kinder looked and felt like a completely different world to the one below, a world that would never fail to lift sagging spirits or inspire new ways of seeing things. It had been a peak well worth fighting for, even if the fight had been a little overcooked by the Chinese whispers of constant retelling.
The descent back down into the Vale of Edale was equally delicious, down the boulder-strewn track that serves as the first (or, less commonly, the last) stretch of the Pennine Way. Well-worn tracks, smooth gates, numerous discreet signs and little wooden fingerposts make it impossible to lose your way. Not for the first time, I marvelled