The sky was darker now, and the thunder that had been only a distant growl an hour ago had turned into a loud rumbling.  It would be at least a couple of hours before I reached The Pig and Whistle, the most remote inn in Yorkshire.  The weather had been cloudy but benign when I had left the warmth of the hostel at nine o'clock that morning to undertake the next stage of my hiking holiday through England. 

At first the track had been fairly gentle and undemanding as I headed south along the shore of Malham Cove, an odd name for a lake out in the middle of nowhere.  Occasionally I would have to climb over a stile to cross one of the dry stone walls common in this region.  As I rounded a huge cluster of boulders I could see a flickering of lightning away to my left. The gentle slopes, dotted with sheep, were giving way to steeper, rock strewn hills that would challenge my stamina.  Irrationally I found myself wishing for a shelter, my mother, my teddy bear, anything!

The next half-hour was hell, as the path not only zigzagged around boulders and the occasional marshy area, but seesawed up and down across terrain that couldn't seem to make up its mind whether it was rising or falling.  The rumbling thunder had now escalated to frequent loud crashes, while the flickering lightning had approached to well within scare range!  These audible and visual delights were now accompanied by large drops of rain, a prelude to a drenching downpour that had me casting around for some kind of shelter.  I had unpacked a raincoat from my backpack at the first sign of rain, but the rain, as stubborn as anything else in this northern county, soon found its way past my collar to trickle its merry way down the back of my neck.

Eventually I spotted an overhanging boulder forming a shallow cave, offering some protection from the weather.  The sky was so dark by now that the inside of this cave was hidden from me until I stumbled into its welcome shelter, to be greeted by a very wet figure of a man huddled against the back wall. All I could see was the tip of a cold red nose peeking from the confines of a large grey scarf, but as my eyes adjusted to the dim light within the cave I could see that a matching grey beanie partially covered a thatch of straggly fair hair.  A pair of light blue eyes summed me up as we began to talk.

'Nice weather for ducks!' he said, an old Yorkshire observation, which told me that he was much more local than I, and introduced himself as Henry Barton.  'You making for t'Pig and Whistle?' he asked.

'Well, I was,' I said ruefully, 'But I've got myself turned around in this muck, so I have no idea where I'm headed for now.'

'I've travelled this way before,' he said, 'So I know which way to go as soon as this lets up.  Mind you, it's been a helluva long time, but it can't have altered that much.'

'I've heard the beer at the Pig is worth the walk,' I observed, as I took a swig of lukewarm stewed tea from the old fashioned flask he offered me. 

'Allus was good, right back as far as I can remember.'

I thought his comment a little strange, as he didn't look much older than about 25.  Maybe the locals started on beer sooner than normal, in the absence of the law!  We found plenty to chat about during our wait for the weather to clear, as he was fascinated by Australia, and plied me with questions about the place.

Eventually, the rain and the lightning stopped, the thunder retreated to its occasional far off growl, and we left our shelter, stretching stiffly before hoisting our haversacks onto our backs and heading off down the slope.  The going was treacherous, as the ground was slippery from the rain, and we had to hold on to each other to avoid falling.  Without Henry's assistance, I would have been completely bushed, and would never have found the Pig and Whistle, whose windows emitted a welcome glow in the gloom.  As we started down the last slope towards the front door of the pub, I changed my mind about the beer, and decided that a large scotch would make a much better heart starter.

I reached the door first, and swung it open to feel the warmth flow outwards to greet me.  I held the door open for Henry and stepped across the threshold.  Glancing back, I was surprised to see that Henry had not followed me.  Making my way back outside, I ignored the shouts from inside the bar to 'Put t'wood in t'hole!' and looked around in vain for my companion.  With a sudden chill that had little to do with the weather, I noticed only one set of footprints in the mud leading to the door, mine!

Feeling somewhat faint, I tottered to the bar and tried to talk to the barman, but I could feel my mouth opening and closing without any sound escaping.  I must have looked very pale, as he poured me a tot of whisky without me having to get my speech centre operating again, and pushed it across the bar to me.  I clasped it in a trembling hand and became aware of a few pairs of curious eyes following my every move.

From the corner table came a cackle, and a toothless old bloke in a flat cap said, 'I reckon he's met old Henry!'

'Old Henry?'  I managed to ask, as the whisky burnt its way down.

'That's right,' he cackled.  'He's still seeing lost hikers safe to t'pub, and he's been dead for t'past twenty years!  Got lost in a storm and died of exposure before anyone could find him.  There he were, huddled up in a little cave under a boulder, stone cold dead and stiff as a stump!  I'd say tha'd be about t'fourth lost traveller he's brought in here since then.  I reckon tha's a real lucky bugger, lad!'