Upon awakening in Kettlewell after a good night's sleep in the Blue Bell Inn, Joan & I went downstairs to the otherwise empty pub area and had our "becoming traditional" breakfast of yogurt, fruit, scrambled eggs with English bacon (more like what we Yanks know as "Canadian bacon") plus a good base of tea & coffee. Our friend & co-Team Turtle member Elaine Hopkins was due to arrive here after we leave today, meeting up with us two days hence in Ribblehead where we will all spend the night. This is little concerning since tomorrows walk is the longest of the trip (13 miles for us: 19 for Elaine) and the terrain is totally without cell phone or support services.
What is a Hubberholme, you might be asking? Good question and one that requires understanding that in the days when the years AD only had three digits, the north of England was ruled and largely populated by Viking invaders from the Norse (Scandinavian) countries. Many of the place names and indeed, family names today in Yorkshire and Cumbria are derived from those days. "Hubberholme" comes from a Norse phase meaning "Hunberg's Homestead", we are told by those who know about such things.
But off we go towards Hubberholme. Our six mile walk today is along the River Wharfe most of the way and we soon notice it must be prime fishing territory, since signs are tacked to the trees periodically stating that the fishing rights are owned by a local association and all others are forbidden to fish there. After a few miles of pastures, stone walls (with stiles & gates) and sheep by the score, we decide to jump off the trail for a break and walk up to the curiously named little village of Starbotton. The thought of a nice "cuppa tea" at the 400 year old Fox & Hounds Inn was tempting but alas, after walking over the bridge and up the narrow trail between two stone walls a quarter mile to the B6160 road through town, we find the Inn is closed on Monday! Worse, there is nothing else in this tiny town that's open to thirsty travelers.
So we slog back down to the river, cross over the bridge and continue up to Buckden, the next town about three miles further on. Just before we get there, we came upon a man fishing in the river and stopped to chat with him. Turned out he was a bailiff (now there's a word I've only heard in England!) hired by the private association to keep non-members off the fishing area and when I asked "Hows the fishing?", replies he had caught about forty trout. Incredulously, I wondered where they were, not seeing any big bags on his person and he laughed and told me this was a catch & release stream, as were most in England.
After walking into town, we find that there is only one place open for us, the Buckden Village Restaurant. This turned out to be a great find, as we sat outdoors at a wooden picnic table overlooking the valley and enjoyed some good food, soft drinks and our mid-day 1/2 hour rest break (shoes off, stretch and re-apply Vaseline to tired feet). The tiny (and I mean really tiny) grocery store in the basement has nothing we sought (especially Cadbury's Milk Chocolate bars), so we headed back to the pathway for the final mile or so to Hubberholme.
We were booked into the George Inn, the only Inn in Hubberholme, but since we had arrived so early (it was only a six mile walk), it was too soon to check in, so we waited around in the backyard courtyard, set up with tables and benches plus an outdoor grill. This old inn started off life in the 1600's as the vicarage house for the adjacent church but even afterwards has played a significant role; it's history is closely intertwined with church activities to this day, including the Hubberholme Parliament, an annual public action of haying rights to 16 acres of church owned land that takes place every year in the pub. The Inn's co-owner, Ed Yarrow, was extremely helpful to us the next day, as our plans changed and we needed to find some local contacts to accommodate those changes.
After a great dinner at the Inn (steak & ale pie again for me), we walked over to the old church and wandered around. It's always open and has an intriguing history. These ancient village churches are fascinating and so evocative of a simpler time, when life was localized and needs simpler. I sometimes ponder whether today's always inter-connected world of instantaneous information (usually about bad things) about everything, all the time, has diminished our ability to see and then wonder at life's simple everyday beauty. One of the best parts of our doing the long walking journeys through parts of Europe that most people don't see (or if they do, it's at 65 miles an hour through a car window) is that the "Information button" is pushed OFF for a while. 
The church was quiet and restoring in it's antiquity. A quaint part of it's history is the story of the church mice. Seems that long ago, a bad flood in the valley fields drove the field mice to seek shelter in the higher ground of the churchyard & church itself. Although soon driven out when the waters receded, a local carpenter, Robert Thompson, set out to memorialize the event by carving a mouse into parts of the church furniture and fittings. There are 32 mice so carved; we found 12 of them.
This one is carved into the leg of a chair. The old church is dark and its tough to spot them.
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