Sunday 13 October 2013


Coast to Coast E-W 2006




The Start

First five day attempt at Wainwright's route through two counties and three National Parks. Inspired by Ronald Turnbull's account in 'Coast to Coasting' (co-authored with John Gillam) entitled 'Three Days to Kidsty Pike'.

Successful? er.. not quite... 

 


Bay Hotel from The Slipway
Polystyrene cracks and complains squeakily as the last few cold chips are squashed into an overly-full litter bin. The fish and chips were poor — disappointingly so, as we're talking Robin Hood's very own long-awaited chip fat here.
I'm almost contemplating dipping my toe in the North Sea when a wave sloshes forward and swamps both feet... there you go — is this some kind of omen? Hm..? I should have gone for the pebble, but the tide's in and a good portion of it is now in my running shoes. The weather has been dire for the past week — I'm only here because I believe it is on the turn for the better... and that the time has come to make peace with this 'ere 'Way of Wainwright'. Faith is strong, but I've not spent five consecutive nights in the bag before... and just how waterproof is it anyway?

It's a squelchy start then — off up the slipway at 8.00pm. The bus stops at the top of the hill, so you descend to sign the book (for the finishers really), have your chips and find your pebble — or get your feet wet, before regaining your original height to find the cliff-top path. Only a few weeks previously, in training for this route, I'd injured my right knee (it just gave way), and it's on the uphill pull that I'm reminded of it's condition. It's a fact though that John Hillaby started his 'Journey Through Britain' with a dodgy leg and teacher Mike Cawthorne began his incredible 'Hell of a Journey' with a bad knee. Good company then...

On clifftop path

The going is pleasant along the cliff path with a rather promising sunset and, full of starting-out gusto, I see every other dog-walker as a potential Coast to Coast finisher.
After Hawsker Intake Road dusk finds me taking a compass bearing across Graystone Moor. And this works fine for about 30yds, but the right of way as described on the map degenerates rapidly into pure fiction with very realistic-looking deep murky pools. I labour toward higher ground and find a path of sorts but am still floundering an hour later in my tiny beam of light. Beyond the tarmac, when it eventually comes, it's no better — just as bad, if not worse, and backtracking to the road seems the sensible alternative. Thoughts of reaching the Hermit's Cave in Littlebeck are dismissed and over a low wall, I come upon a comfy-looking roadside wood of sturdy pines.
Time now to enjoy a muesli bar supper. A hot drink would be much appreciated, but the stove's at home and so it's a good while before my feet start to warm up. Brrr.

Scribble in log: Graystone bad - v slow. Good dry spot for bag - cosy. 4m up 

Overhead, a vagrant breeze gently stirs sighing branches — ah... such a whispering hush: a pleasant soothing lullaby ... before hungry owls begin their night shift that is.



Sneaton Low Moor
It's the owls rather than the discomfort then that get me off to an early start.
Breakfast is pre-bagged muesli — just add water — goes down well. A quick peek over the wall reveals mist hanging over Sneaton Low Moor like a chilly damp duvet.
At ten-past-five then, I'm away — trying to get a picture of a young deer on the road side of the fence, but even zoomed in he bounds away before I can get anything like close. And later, apart from a little blood from the mouth, the badger in the road looks unharmed, although with tongue sticking out and gargoyle-like ghastly inane grin, the bulging eyes seem to portray a painful end — perhaps hit by a late arriver at the Caravan Club site — and a photograph seems disrespectful. I sneak through the site gates to fill my water bottle (fair do's — I am a member).

Upstream from ford - Bridge near Midge Hall
It's slow through Littlebeck, where the rain comes — heavily too, and progress becomes more sideways than forwards. So much so, that I slip and fall down the bank... tch. This incident well and truly christens my fancy new jacket. Hmm... shit sticks as they say. The bank is too steep to clamber back up and I have to find a way round. The ford is quite impassable too and requires another incredibly muddy detour. Thankfully the rain eases as I come to the open moor.

Scribble in log: Lots of Curlews up on moor



Falling Foss waterfall


The Hermit's Cave
quick peek inside... dry bivvy if not already occupied?


leaving Hermit's Cave





Arrival in Grosmont and the NYM Railway level crossing
8am and the road descent into Grosmont: two ladies — one shop; one platform (with station Café). Both provide breakfast: pasty and cold milk from the shop, but the second says the café doesn't open till 9am. She's official-looking all right — she's got a brush. Maybe nothing till the Lion Inn? Okay, so I'll hang around for a bacon sandwich and coffee — sounds good. Hmm? Think on... this is losing a lot of time — it's the hot drink that persuades me though, and the toilets provide a good wash and brush up facility until opening time.



Stepping Stones, Egton Bridge
Ancient paved way through East Arnecliffe Wood

Equally ancient guide post - Glaisdale Rigg
Glaisdale Rigg

After Glaisdale the rain returns, accompanied now by a driving wind. Off the rig comes a swift runner; a mere 100yds behind, his lady partner emerges and claims that we must be mad. A sensible statement, surely? 'No,' I insist through the mist. 'We are mad!'


George Gap Causeway


George Gap Causeway crossing the Lyke Wake Walk


...with marker stone where routes cross


Arrival at Rosedale nearing Dale Head Fm
 Running shoes quickly fill with wet grit on the water-laden tracks over the moor, so without the overtrousers I arrive at the Lion Inn somewhat demoralized.

Lion Inn looms


 The fire doesn't help. I get comfy. Well you would — soaked to the skin — it's understandable. Although I'm at a loss — my fire is a simple Bob Cratchit affair, but next door, theirs is roaring and I suffer a case of  'Laughter in the Next Room'.
     On the next table three younger guys from my own nearby Worksop have called off their Lyke Wake attempt due to the conditions and are waiting for a lift. They can't get a phone signal it seems. Giving up is always a good sensible option, as is not starting out in the first place... Though the former will serve to haunt you; the latter will intrigue you — "I'd love to do that," people will say, "just go and sleep under the stars like that ..." Well, it's not difficult I tell them... but enough of that, there's calories afoot and a plateful is plonked right in front of me. Yummy.

Scribble in log: Lion Inn — stayed too long — got comfortable 

It's true then — the rain has stopped. I set off steady and dry, fortified, but all too soon the wet stuff is back — with spiteful vengeance on the exposed track bed, though it could be worse as the wind comes from my right (north west) instead of full-on, and the hood on the jacket affords some protection. By Bloworth it eases and I make reasonable time to the Wainstones.



The former Ironstone Railway trackbed

Stone guide post

... and another

Hasty Bank

 A figure I take to be a local farmer is in the process of attaching signs to gateposts. I'm all for going off down to the right, but no — one more climb yet he tells me — and he's right, of course. Not so hasty off the Bank then ...


The Wain Stones

Memorial - Cringle Moor

view North that day...

descent to Lordstones
Thank the Lard! - Lordstones is still open - turns out there has been a motor bike scrambling rally today and the National Fell Running Championship is to be held here tomorrow which explains the mixture of bikers and fit-looking sharpies around the camp site.
My destination lies over yonder hill, but there's hot water here and the gas fire is warm, and the owner is as congenial as they come — so what's another 6 miles anyway?

*****

"Wha' 'you think y'doin'..?" I hear as I roll out my bag later. It's a strong Lancashire accent is this — a fell runner with attitude! Apparently I'm too close to his tent and if I snore I might disturb his sweet slumber and ruin his chances of winning tomorrow's big race ... Hey, never mind if I snore. What if he should snore? Will this ruin my big day — will Reeth be ever far away? I find myself another level spot... tch. 'Skid Marks on the Summits' or what?



Scribble in log: Lovely place — you could live here! Dry night - very snug. (RT: Beacon Hill - now 6m down)






Early start - Lordstones Cafe
The dawn sky holds a feint promise of pink (whose warning?) and up the hill I'm so chuffed to see a little sunlight that I take a photo of my very own shadow. A good opportunity too to try and dry some of the things washed through last night. So I trot along merrily wafting a tee shirt.


Lordstones and Roseberry Topping - fellrunners still abed
Distant industial Teeside to the North East
Trig point on Carlton Moor

Delightful Scugdale
Coalmire Plantation
Arrival at Scarth Wood Moor
'All together now': Lyke Wake Walk, C2C and Cleveland Way
Passage is swift over to Sheepwash Bank, and rather a little too swift down it: I fall on my side on the uneven stones. Is it serious? Careful now... don't think so.... Something's definitely broken though: the point off my pencil. You might laugh, but it's not easy to sharpen a pencil with your teeth. The early man with dogs just thinks I'm hungry perhaps...

Trig Point on Scarth Moor - original start of Lyke Wake Walk
Transmitter Station on Beacon Hill
On the way up Beacon Hill a couple on horseback coming down seem to delight in telling me to: "Make the most of it..," as apparently, they've seen the forecast, and: "...it's not going to last."
At the top is where I should have been last night, it's here that Ronald spends his second night. Were I not so soft I could have made it to here. There's enough junk up here to start a scrap yard - and the thought of all that electronic jangling gives me a headache.

View back up track to Arnecliffe Wood

Ingleby Cross church

A19 crossing is quiet
The first of the day's Coasters approach in Ingleby - as it's still early they most likely stayed here. The quiet A19 is soon trotted over and the transport gaff has loads a cheap grub. Bad news though: it's here that the first blister plasters are needed too. The wet N. Yorks moors have taken their toll...

Ahead lay tedious footpath sections through the flat lands - these are the bad lands, where footpath inspectors fear to tread... My route takes me via Lovesome Hill - maybe the name's derived from 'Love Some Hills' (as opposed to this flat stuff!)... My equestrian chums got it right though and the rain comes just as I hit the road before Danby Wiske.

Looking back to water tower - Lovesome Hill
 At the White Swan chatty landlord Terry knocks me up a sandwich and landlady Paula kindly does me cash-back via Pay Pal - how cool is that! I'm also able to post my progress on the Sherpa Van c2c chat page. Out of the cost of a Bed and Breakfast the landlord explains they are lucky if they come out with a fiver for themselves. We talk about the dangers of working on ladders and the expense of builders...

Post on C2C Chat Site: at Danby Wiske (landlord Terry has kindly let me use his pc - hence the re-register - just had a pint of Black Sheep - raining again - need to get going, just put 2nd blister plaster on! - not a good sign! was 6m down last night - stopped at Lordstones (hot water!) 5 days could be slipping away!!!

A lady kindly gives me some blister plasters. Hers are 'in date' whereas, it transpires, mine aren't - ha ah, so that's why mine aren't sticking very well... her first aid kit is bigger than anything - a whole carrier bag full of all kinds of ailment creams and plasters and tablets and stuff: a veritable lucky dip of first aid goodies.

I set off again in worsening conditions. I've already decided to keep to the quiet roads and cut across field paths in search of a little respite. And, when I get there, Kiplin Hall is open. Afternoon tea is being served. So I sit in out of the rain gorging on tea and cake - well they are raising funds. I've already had a cream scone, so I'll have another slice of the fruit cake - and it's a good place to do blisters as the toilet has a small heater. The kind lady thinks I've died in there though - and they are closing now it seems.
     With all the torrential rain they have endured lately she advises me to keep to the road and avoid the riverside path as it will be waterlogged. She talks of flooding and how the river 'could burst it's banks any moment if this keeps up'... with that she hands me three pairs of brand new socks.
     Again the prospect of trudging around wet field edges inspires little so I stick to the busier road to Bolton-on-Swale.

Bolton-on-Swale in the rain

Where's my maps? Oh, no... argh! ...only gone and left my maps in the entrance while changing into those lovely new dry socks - which are now very wet.
Over to my right is the church and final resting place of one very old man indeed - hmm? ...wonder if he took up trail running in his later years then?

Tut, I should be ashamed of myself - mapless and bereft - now totally dependent on road signs - either until I buy some more maps, or get to where my next sealed batch begins just beyond Keld! ...and the rain is coming in stair rods. Dependence on road signs explains why I'm looking up beside the traffic lights. Perhaps this is the reason I don't see the big big puddle and fail to appreciate the kind motorist who has just given me a muddy grit-laden shower. It's warm running in a jacket and it's unzipped directly in the path of the oncoming shower... tch, must've made his day that one...
That all too familiar sense of defeat is beginning to crawl over me... I pass under the busy A1 and in Bromton-on-Swale pass a sign for a bunkhouse... is this too good to miss? It's still early... not half-past five yet but £6 a night seems affordable, hmm... too good to miss indeed. Am I honestly mad enough to bivvy out in these conditions?
Three Latvians are the only other occupants - though the proprietor is quick to explain that 'they're good lads' and would I like a cup of tea bringing across? I can't part with my six quid fast enough!

It's quiz night in the pub next door - funnily enough the accent is more Geordie than Yorkshire, with plenty of 'why aye' and 'away Pet'... and as anyone knows, Leicester is farther south than Coventry, right? Er... apparently not - I should have got that one right - been there often enough. Bugger. Who thinks these questions up anyway? That's him - him at the bar, yes, him with the mic. that's who - it's all his fault.

From the call box I learn that there's a major crisis back home: those spots she thought were chicken pox before I set off have now become scabies it seems - I will have to strip off and be doused in insecticide as soon as I get back as I will most definitely be infected! So, no talk of turning out up the A1 to pick me up then... oh, and the dog's had to go to the vet...
     Uh... so, it seems the Coast to Coast could still be on after all, I'm beginning to scratch profusely now... and, come to think of it... my lower back was itching a lot yesterday. I could still get the bus back from Richmond tomorrow though...

I hurry back to the bunkhouse in the rain. The good Latvian lads are enjoying a comedy.
     'You have the Sky?' I inquire, as though ordering from a menu. 'Satellite?'
     'No Satellite... ve 'av DVD.' He shows me the cover with a picture of a comedian who looks rather like an overweight version of Bob Monkhouse.
     I try and laugh when they laugh... but have absolutely no idea what they are laughing at. I could be in Eastern Europe never mind North Yorkshire. Maybe I am in Eastern Europe... might as well be. 'Dey are 'avin' many lagers' too...
I've had my potion in the form of Black Sheep, so I go up and take some pictures of my blisters...

Home and dry...
Blurred blister

It rains heavily in the night and I'm most grateful of the shelter afforded by the bunkhouse. It's hard to get settled though, what with itching for England an' all...

Scribble in log: (RT: Beyond Reeth - moor rim) Well down on schedule now (approx 14m) slim chance of 5 days... give up or press on?






Time for a re-think this morning as I breakfast on the Latvians' toast and coffee.
     Surely, I can't call it off... after all, its only a bit of rain - I'll just have to use more B&B's to dry out in between... see how it goes. Okay, so I'm basically back on track. Yeah, that's it, I'm back on track. My left knee hurts going uphill and now my right knee hurts going downhill... I'm aware of this coming down the steps this morning - hmm, well nothing is ever straightforward... there's always something...
As a first bit of positive thinking I decide to dump some weight and so bid a ceremonial 'bye-bye' to my trusty Ethel Austin leggings! A whole two pounds ninety nine they cost me... still they were getting a bit worn and wet stuff is heavy stuff.
     I find one of those plastic bag organisers stuffed full of carrier bags. The blue ones are good. No holes - they'll do nicely. I'll use some as socks and run the 4m into Richmond and take stock, that's what I'll do. This can be a reccy for a future attempt if nothing else... ease back a bit maybe.
It's well chucking it down as I set off. England! this England... though it's only a couple of miles into Richmond ...

Hey! look a'ya here: Wetherspoons - ideal for a proper late breakfast... all you can eat for just about a quid. Fantastic. Marvellous.
     Chomp, slurp, burp... I'll check the Tourist Information for maps... Boots: I'll look at light boots. Boots - blister plasters too - buy loads. It's a quest now...

In Yeoman's Outdoors the salesman is young and quick witted. Peter would be ever so proud. I buy some comfortable lightweight boots, over trousers, socks and a pack cover. I don't like pack covers... they're useless. I've just bought a pack cover for a tenner... Why? Oh, and Boots the Chemist is right behind me apparently. This is explained to me by a lady on a day trip. Oops: so it is.
     Blister plasters aren't cheap either... I come out with twelve quids worth! I usually carry Morrison's own brand - but these are the Rolls Royce jobbies: Compeeds. Proper sole bashing repair outfit stuff...
     The butchers is the last port of call: a pasty, a sandwich... even a pint of milk. Go forth and fortify!
The water now falling from the sky is reduced to the fine stuff... yeah, I know: 'the stuff that wets you through', but now I'm better prepared for it - do your worst... I start out of Richmond over a hundred quid lighter but better prepared than Napolean.

     I find 'Westfields' that leads to wet wet fields to Marske. At least the wind is not in my face today - could be worse then...


view back to Richmond from Westfields

The Gate Keeper


   Rain proper is back in charge again by Whitcliffe Woods though where I pass a cheery group of souls - they take it all in their stride - all in a day's walk....

Blot on the landscape..?

Applegarth Scar

Flavouring for 'Old Peculiar'..?

This waterfall is the path...




In an effort to keep my nice new feet dry and rest up the blisters, I'm picking my way round the worst of the wet patches... and my waterproof breathable boots are living up to their label... until, that is, one extra deep bit... nice while it lasted...

Rapids

Feet finally get wet again here...

Tarry Awhile...

...don't mind if I do!

Footbridge at Ellers

water water everywhere...

View downstream

Hmmm, teas - 200 yds

Oh, er... drying facilities would've been handy

Nuns' steps - looking back

Marrick Priory should have a nice little tea room selling postcards and it should have a nice cosy little hearth, and it should have nice old ladies raising funds as they bitch just a tiny amount about each other's baking standards... But it hasn't. It has a sign, that in the pouring rain might just as well say 'BOG OFF!' - with some apologetic small print that, as you squint through your rain-soaked glasses, could be interpreted thus: 'unless that is you really are interested in a little bit of original stone archway - in which case I suppose we'll have to allow you a very quick peek at it - because this is most likely how we got a grant to become an Outdoor Pursuit Centre - but then why bother 'cos here's a very detailed drawing of it anyway.'

Meeting the Swale


Ronald's suggested high level route up valley to come out over Fremington Edge is quickly dismissed, and I head off up the road in search of the footpath to Ellers and Marrick.

     Wary of the way-marking after the badlands and with the Footprint map lacking fine detail, I'm taking a bit longer with route finding, but it's no real problem and I'm soon at Marrick under the cover of an open barn chomping on mi'pasty. Must be the finest pasty in all o'Yorkshire - all the more so as the rain squalls and the wind rattles the tin roof of the barn.
Shivering, I set off again as it bates and find the gate leading down to the former Priory steps. Either I'm clumsy or the steps are slippery - 'cos I'm on mi arse again half way down...

Ronald's suggested high level route would come out over Fremington Edge

Road bridge into Reeth



In Reeth the lady who runs the Copper Kettle (part of the old workhouse) does me a fry-up and very kindly rings round for a B&B. Many people I know would rather get out of this country is all I can say to the American couple on the next table. I find it hard to explain the malaise affecting the nation. They mention someone called Blair... and I don't respond when they make apologies for there own Mr Bush... Well, what can you say, sat steaming with a half-a-sausage in your mouth..?


There's lots of newspaper about the floor in the B&B - there's one other walker staying explains the host. He's a proper walker, I think, spying the top-notch boots, stuffed with more newspaper by the radiator. Bet he doesn't keeping falling over...

*****

We meet up later at the Black Bull where the fire roars with enough heat to melt glass. I was intending on a five day crossing I explain with a foolish grin, and now I've rescheduled for seven...
     Thing is, if you do a normal crossing you will bump into the same people daily it seems, and here's a crowd who all know each other.
     Most leave for an early night and left alone I wonder why on earth people come half-way round the world to walk this 'ere 'Way of Wainwright'... The pint is good though and there's no shortage of glasses - in fact I'm the very, very last out...

Scribble in log: (Ronald: Robin Hood's Grave - me 35m down by now at least)

In the early hours, once again rain lashes against a window that rattles to the rhythm of an angry wind.




You don't get an early start from a B&B. I tuck into my third fry-up in a row. The other walker is a motor caravanner too. We talk of seized back axles... cost him £600 for a new one. I make a mental note to jack mine up as soon as I get back! It was so windy up on Kidsty Pike that he was blown over he tells me. This morning he was up early - took his cuppa outside and was surprised to find a sharp frost on all the car windscreens.
     Later, we kit-up in the entrance hall: he making for Richmond; me for the post office... There's a pebble on the floor - no doubt it's from St. Bees - 'Don't forget this,' I say.

In the corner shop, I reel off 2 feet of sticky tape from a roll that's just cost me £2.50 - then hand it straight back - no good to me now I explain. And no I don't get a refund... but the box was free. It's now a parcel: in it are my wet and well ponging road shoes - now on their way home.

Leaving Reeth
Wicker igloo at Reeth school
So it's goodbye to Reeth, and I'm looking for the steps beside the school that will lead me onto the moor where Ronald spent his second night. Could I have made it here, I wonder - even had the weather been better? Hmm? Certainty has one big fat arse, for sure.

Swaledale

Calver Hill

Onward to 'Surrender'

The morning is fine and the going is good along the edge of the moor. Cringley Bottom is fine too and would make a good little overnighter... from here though we begin to enter lead mining country: surrender your ore - or else...

Cringley Bottom - looking down

Cringley Bottom - looking up



Ruined Surrender Smelt Mill

Track to Old Gang Smelt Mill

From Surrender Bridge the area takes on an industrial feel - so much so that by the next bridge at Level House my feet are sensing this very industry and begin to give me some gyp.
     As I sit sorting my blisters there are some spatters of rain...



View back down Old Gang Beck

Old Gang Mill

Crossing Melbecks Moor

Approaching Gunnerside Gill

Descending Bunton Hush

From up Bunton Hush the stream in the bottom looks very passable - from the Gill itself, once you get down there it still kind of looks passable even after all this rain - so who needs bridges?
     I pick my crossing carefully, and, guess what? With a very unsatisfying 'splosh' I'm sat in the Gill - the water's very cold when it gets to your prickly bits 'an all! There are muttered forms of indignation as I head off upstream in search of the bridge...
     Oh Venerable One, what are bridges for, pray tell..? 'Bridges, Grasshopper, are for keeping your arse dry...'

Single slab footbridge crossing Gunnerside Gill

Slippery Gunnerside Gill

En route
 to Swinner Gill and Crackpot

The descent by East Grain to Swinner Gill is excellent and a bit of trotting doesn't get in the way, but my knee is twinging so it's easy does it on the rocky path, but I did come to run some bits - and run some bits I shall!


Swinner Gill - path on right ascends to Crackpot

Miners arch footbridge over Swinner Gill





Swinner Gill Mine ruin

View down Swinner Gill and Swaledale

Swaledale

'tis The Crackpot..?

Rounding the corner it's face to face with the wind that's keeping the rain at bay... Ah, so this is Crackpot Hall... (oh, no it isn't...) oh, yes it is... (oh, no it isn't...) Oh, yes it is - it's here on the map... (no, it's BEHIND you...) Okay, so, this is a barn, there's the Crack Pot. I want a tearoom with crisp damask tablecloths and a nice little guide book... and a nice little waitress with a right fit arse... But all I get is a ruin. I've come all this way for a ruin... and suddenly it's all just too much... and out of nowhere come the lyrics of  'Catch the Wind':

'In the chilly hours and minutes of uncertainty...
I want to be, in the warm hold of your loving mind...
To be with you now would be the sweetest thing,
t'would make me sing,
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind' **

No... 'it's behind you!'

A wild and lonely ruin

Crackpot Hall Plaque

Feeling exposed and quite wind-chilled from standing, I turn to make my way down into Keld. With clouds in my eyes, I almost trip over the skeleton of a dead tractor. Now, if that's not litter...


Drive this into Keld Clarkson!


Keld - noted for its waterfalls

The café-come-shop has picnic tables outside and the man on the next table puffs on his pipe Wainwright-wise and I get to thinking (I admit it's a dangerous pursuit) that this route of his is basically conceptual in that he's taken two nice Northern bits of coast and joined 'em up as best as he could, and then, to cap his uncertainty, he tells us to work out our own routes. Rather like The Buddha then: leaving us to 'work out our own salvation with diligence'... 

     I'll take some more fruit cake... The woman behind the counter swats a slice onto the plate as though she's ready for a holiday in the sun...


leaving Keld

     It's a bit of decent moorland track out of Keld then, to where, apart from the odd chuckling grouse, peace and quiet reign supreme. It's not until after Ravenseat that the rain returns. I put off getting into those newly-acquired over trousers until it's too late - as usual - and by the time I get to the shooters' hut I'm wetter than the underside of a lily leaf.

Approaching Ravenseat

Marsh Marigold

View out of shooters' hut

The hut is a godsend. I consider staying the night, but I'm starting to get back into the feel of it again and want to get into Kirkby Stephen - before dark if possible. It's certainly wild out there now though as the wind rattles the tin roof and rain lashes against the window.
     With chattering teeth I sit down and have a chocolate bar. The hut itself shakes at times and I even consider setting off on the winter route to the road as all this is going to make the black stuff up there very sticky. And we all know about the brown stuff... if it's anything like Bleaklow up there progress could be very slow indeed.
     I'm clock watching and calculating now... if I can't be out of this hut soon... I venture out tentatively, almost get blown over and quickly scuttle back in and slam the door to take some pics of the graffiti!

Quick peek outside...

Clearly a refuge for many Coasters...


Trish, John and Bob too..?

On the Red Route

Not as bad as expected...

Approaching view indicator Nine Standards

The Nine Standards

Good underfoot down to Kirkby Stephen

Shepherd's delight..?

     I enjoy coming off the hill in the fading light with a steady 4m run into Kirkby Stephen. Not like flying as such, with singing blisters and a complaining knee, it's more of an early Wright Brothers attempt to get airborne...
     First stop: chip shop. You've got a choice of two Chinese take-aways, says the man with the dog, but no chippy. Hmm? Bean sprouts..? - you can't march an army on bean sprouts.
     I book into the King's Arms (recommended by a couple going the other way earlier) but no food is available. The pub across the street do a fair fish and chips though.

     With tea and biscuits for a civilised supper back in the room, I plan the rest of the route...
     I can pull it back to seven days...

 Scribble in log: Ronald: Gibson Knott tonight - his last night. Me, most likely 3 more days

In the night the window rattles and water gushes from a broken faucet onto the courtyard below...

*****

 'No..! Argh, not the bean sprouts...!' I wake in a cold sweat - yet still the rain rattles...








Day5 - WEDNESDAY 24/5/06 108m-129m   Congenial Brew at Smardale Bridge


 It's pleasant enough out of Kirkby Stephen - full of yet more cooked breakfast, I'm beginning to look like a sausage. This is far too civilised an existence for a bivvy bagger! The morning is fine and warm and fields are negotiated up to the Settle to Carlisle railway.


View back over Kirkby Stephen


Dancing fairies...

Quite suddenly I'm buzzed by two RAF jets... frighten the life out of me at around three hundred feet. Jeeze! I very nearly 'touch cloth' and drop mi'fungus!

...of the inedible 'marasmius oreades' kind..?

  
very pleasant going on Smardale Fell...

...very pleasant indeed

Give me a sign...

    The turf underfoot encourages a little running down to delightful Smardale - this is limestone country at it's finest surely? And Scandal Beck? From what manner of misdeed does the name derive? I'll give it some thought... time here for a proper foot stop. A stove, a stove, my Kingdom (well, ladders and bucket then) for a stove...


Good going to Smardale

Smardale


Footstop at Smardale Bridge

As I come to move off a very fit looking guy in Ron Hill's comes down the bank. He's a backpacker - the first I've met... behind comes an older man. They're stopping for a brew and would I care for one? They're raising money for a local charity - it's Jason and Dave from Liverpool. They want to provide MP3 players for kids with ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) ...try saying that with a mouthful of Victory Vee's. (I'm interested because she at home is convinced that I have this condition... though, if it's good enough for Daniel Bedinfield...) Embarrassed now that I'm not using my own effort for charity, I make an on-the-spot donation. I was sat up the bank - we've moved to the bridge. Eliciting heat from a gas bottle is serious business. The little stove roars in a gentle soothing homely kind of way. I offer my map case as mug, but it's okay says Jason - I can drink out of the pan. The brew is good - why am I not carrying a stove? Of all elementary things in life a hot drink is paramount. I should always carry a stove... It should be compulsory.
     Dave is suffering badly with blisters - it's his toes, his boots, socks, anything and everything - worse than mine then it seems. They hope to make it to Keld... I tell them about Cringley Bottom... but can't for the life remember where it is... These are good lads - lads you'd like to down a few pints with...


There go Jason and Dave

Rare C to C finger post

After Ewefell Mire I'm accosted by a fine-looking beast... He rears up... 'ere, I'm not interested in your wedding tackle matey... But no: 'give me all your food', he says... I reply that I'm a horse whisperer... and this seems to work... we can be mates: 'we talks for free, you and me...' He takes my word for it - ears are good but cars are a better bet: they have sandwiches...

Oh oh, here comes trouble...

'Give me something'

What  a beauty

And then it's a good minor road stretch with Mazon Wath sounding more like somewhere in Cornwall. I'm going to detour to Sunbiggin Tarn - that's because I've just passed my right turn.

Road to Mazon Wath

Limestone scar enroute to Sunbiggin

     Anyway, there are birds at Sunbiggin Tarn. There are more birds to be found on this upland expanse of water than anywhere... it's famous for 'em - I've seen it on telly. A veritable bird watcher's paradise. But when I get there I can't see one - not one. Nothing. Mind you, birds are relatively small... and tarns are relatively large... by comparison of course. But then I haven't got binoculars, and all self-respecting bird watcher's carry binoculars, don't they? Hm, ah well, not to worry, not much of a twitcher anyway. Maybe they've all nipped off to some other upland tarn... or the south of France for their holidays...

Sunbiggin Tarn

Kidsty Pike in sight

South to the Howgill Fells

     Somewhat disgruntled, I cut across the moor in the direction of Orton.
After the hamlet of Sunbiggin I find the footpath from the road at Acres. With a couple of achers of my own now, I skirt Raisbeck en-route for Orton hobbling with very sore feet indeed.

Arrival in Orton

    I buy Ibuprofen from the corner shop (this is a first) and after a sudden downpour the lady at the award-winning New Village Tea Rooms offers to dry me out... except, she apologises, she doesn't have a dryer yet. Rather a protracted thought... but it is the thought that counts and I take on more calories in the form of fine home-made fruit cake with a second pot of tea.

    My way out of Orton passes the white-washed church tower. At the top of the hill is the dry valley that leads delightfully down to Robin Hood's Grave. If it's not special, it's a funny old place just to have a cairn. It should be remembered that Sherwood Forest extended much farther than the few miles north of Nottingham as it does today.



The white painted tower of Orton Church
View back over Orton to the distant Howgill Fells

Lime Kiln

Head of dry valley to Robin Hood's Grave

Robin Hood's Grave

     'Robin Hood's Bay to Robin Hood's Grave' - I like it. Sometimes a bit of romance is not such a bad ol'thing. I wouldn't mind being buried here. Better than Little John's lot fo'sure... down in Derbyshire's busy bottle-neck of Hathersage.
     Over the wall here is where Ronald spends his next-to-last night. He writes of twinkling stars and sleep-disturbing mossy boulders. Suddenly I feel like I'm faking it... I'll sleep in the bag for the rest of the way, I decide.

Nearby: Ronald's 'uncomfortable wood' perhaps?

     Somewhere over there is the source of the Lyvennet and the Black Dub monument. I wouldn't know King Charles if he popped up out of the heather. If this 'ere monument were next to the path now, I might just get to know him a little better, but it isn't, and I'm making for Shap... before the chippy shuts...


View back over the Lyvenet Beck from the erratic boulder

Stone has been robbed from the Limestone pavement for centuries

     But there is another point of interest up here which is the Roman Road that crosses the Crosby Ravensworth Fell near to the limestone pavement summit that shares the name of Wicker Street. The OS map shows the line of this as less distinct from a parallel, later track, and the Footprint map surely shows the Roman Road wrongly? My photo here is probably of the later, more distinct, track.


Roman Road... or not?

     Beyond Oddendale as I descend to cross the quarry access, there's a kerfuffle of birds ahead - a pair of Curlews, a pair of Black Headed Gulls and a pair of Lapwings all seem to be involved in some kind of territorial dispute.

     And in passing the Nab I seem to get into a similar territorial dispute of my own! I'm on someone else's patch it seems and he want's me off it! A feisty pony charges over and helps me along by butting me forward - my horse-whispering tactics don't work and twice I'm almost face down in the mud! This fella means business. I offer a small orange, a few segments at a time, while trying to back away... you might think this funny but I have a friend who had most of her ear bitten off by a horse. The orange, peel an' all, just gets me to the gate before the M6...

One fiesty pony!

Nearing fair Shap


    " 'scuse me mate. Is there a chippy open tonight?"
    "Erm..." The guy thinks... "There is, but you'll have to be quick - shuts at eight. Up the other end, opposite the Black Bull... Can't miss it."
      I turn as he looks at his watch.
      "You should just about catch 'em," he shouts after me. 
So there's me legging it through Shap, sore feet an' all.
Hmm, thinks: I fancy a pint tonight...

     And then there's a Main Street bench where you can ponder on the 'work ethic' of the chip shop owner as you sample his fare: 'For many shall be excluded - chipless and bereft... and there shall be much wailing and gnashing of teeth' - for there was one behind me that was serveth'd not...
     But the workmanship is fine - fried potatoes, peas and battered North Sea cod, in the northern tradition, with a lashing of vinegar and salt enough to work up something approaching a thirst... Not much for the bin out of this supper then.

Scribble in log: Ronald finishes tonight. Me most likely 2 days to go - all being well 

     It's late then when I roll out my bag on the lawn at the back of the pub - well it was raining earlier in the evening and I had to wait till it stopped and then there's the minor point of there not appearing to be a 'clo-shing time' in Shap... n'anyway, where's the bloody tchoggle for this binner bag? Brrr... hic.







Damn and double damn... it's 6am! I've over-slept. Pints at midnight - pains at midday (or somewhat before...) I think the beer must've knocked me out...
For your 'camping' fee, it's not unreasonable to expect the back door to the toilets to be open, but then it is a bit early for the cleaners. So toilet arrangements then are: the shed (which is open), a bucket and a bin liner... don't ask...
        The newsagent is open though (papers sell early - beer sells late...) and with sandwiches and milk procured, I'm up past the fire station at 7am. Should write in big book: you don't get an early start from a pub lawn either. Though up here is the Boggleby Stone (with a name like that you've just got to...) er, and some very wet overgrown enclosed footpaths - my life already...

Kidsty Pike on the horizon

Fan club

The Boggleby Stone

     I have one sealed portion of home-made muesli left and there's a very nice big stone that makes a seat for breakfast at Shap Abbey. It's a grand morning, no doubt about it; lets hope it stays like this for entry into the lakes, where the pain killers could just come in handy - more for the down bits than the up bits by the feel of the knees this morning...


Pack horse bridge over Swindale Beck

There's a delightful pack horse bridge over Swindale Beck and a nasty little bit of open moor before Rawhead. Hmm, seems I've followed the Land rover track, the map tells me I need to be over there. But all's well that starts well and it's good n' grassy down to Naddle Bridge.

Remains of earlier Bridge - Naddle

Bluebells at Burnbanks

Haweswater comes suddenly into view

Track along Northen shore

Elevenses are spent watching a wren working the drystone wall. I'm on a Snickers bar, while he (or she) is doing rather well on little spiders that have made their webs along the wall. This is very pleasant indeed, at last the weather is kind.


Below Birks Crag

    Below Birks Crag I meet the first walkers of the day. The forecast is good, but rain is coming in tomorrow morning they tell me. Then on the first real pull of the walk (Kidsty Howes) I meet a Norwegian with a stutter on the way down - a good chance for a breather if ever there was one!

Crossing Randale Beck

There go the Norwegians

Haweswater from Kidsty Howes

     This is now literally the high point of the walk: lunch in glorious sunshine on Kidsty. A peakbagger is about 'collecting' Rampsgill, High Raise and Kidsty. He was doing the Fairfield Horseshoe the previous weekend, he tells me, before heading off up the High Street - something of a high point all of it's own - a Roman Road with altitude. The Footprint map tells me I've just 50 miles to go... but there's a few hills yet...

  
Peak Bagger

The rocky outcrop of Kidsty Pike

Riggindale from the High Street Roman Road

The High Street continues south

just 50 miles to go now

     There are confusing tracks in all directions up here. Mind mist creeps in, and on the way down to Angle Tarn I find myself asking a young couple if they think we're somewhere near Satura Crag. 'We hope so', is the uncertain reply... Then Angle Tarn confronts like a thief with a sharp thing, and all becomes plain to Boredale Hause and Patterdale.

Angle Tarn

Patterdale

Descent to Rooking and Patterdale

     The lady on the bench is waiting to collect her husband. I apologise as I do my blisters. It's here that Ronald, when sorting his feet, became an impromptu extra as the TV Series 'The Lakes' was being filmed. A pot of tea doesn't go amiss at the pub either and the guy in the shop tells me the seven miles to Grasmere can be done 'easily' in 2 hours



Grisedale

Grisedale

Grisedale

     Sounds 'easy' enough but with these legs it takes me an hour to get up Grisedale to the climbing lodge. It's serene and peacful up here at this hour, though there's tents about up by the tarn, but I don't pass anyone and it's pleasant going, but a little harsh on sore knees and feet descending the Old Packhorse Road by Little Tongue Gill to arrive at Mill Bridge with a mind on a little supper.

Ruthwaite climber's Lodge

View back down Grisedale

Grisedale Pass summit

Grisdale Tarn

Descent from Grisdale Hause

On the Tongue

These boots were made for walking... not running

     Pubs are amazing places, are they not? They put plates of food in front of you at all hours... that is, being open and still serving food an' all. I need to let someone know of my whereabouts, but the payphone is acting up, so I beg a call from some other patrons: 'Excuse me, do you have access to a phone? Would you please just ring this number and say I'm okay?' The barmaid perhaps thinks this just might not be good for business and relents to let me use the pub's own private phone, as long as I'm not on long... well, no one is home so I have to call the mother-in-law... 'Is it Michael..? Just let me turn the television down,' comes the reply, '...now what is it you're saying?'

     I've got myself a plate of Eggs Benedict - positively delicious, and a bowl of chips for the calories... the ham's a bit thin on the muffin but the cheese sauce makes up for it. Compliments to the chef... he sticks his head out of the kitchen door... bemused, I think. I give him the thumbs-up. Maybe I'm just plain old hungry...

The Travellers Rest, Mill Bridge from Goody Bridge
 
     It's already quite dark in Easedale and it would be improper to be ascending Helm Crag at this hour. It's a level spot I'm after and I find one atop a grassy knoll half-way up the dale side in the direction of Gibson Knott.
     I shoo the sheep away and settle down into the bag...






Day7 - FRIDAY 26/5/06 155½m - 190½m  Fifth Fall and Final Submission


Odd spatters of rain render consciousness.
      It's almost ten to four. Hmm? bit early to set off up the hill then, hardly light an' all. What's for breakfast? - flattened flapjack from the shop in Patterdale and a cereal bar.
     The initial patter of tiny feet soon develops into a full downpour of continuous free-style drumming. I try and fold out the hood of the cover to allow the rain to run anywhere but into the bag... I'll give it half an hour to stop...
     There's still a need to keep the down bag dry as it's my last ditch survival aid and it's a good way yet to St Bees - if indeed it's possible to make it that far on increasingly dodgy pins...
     At some time it might be a good idea to punch some small holes in the Ridgerest because, er, a rather deep puddle is forming underneath me. If this bag is going to leak, it's going to leak now... I think the bag is keeping the water out but won't be breathing sufficiently for the condensation to clear...
     It's a long half-hour before the Geronimo effect kicks in.
     Once the decision is made and the first of the clothes are on it's not so bad. More dismal mentally than physically, though spiritually, quite refreshing.
With feet full of drawing pins then, it's a steady start up the hill. The map tells me it's 36 miles to the Irish Sea. The first 5 miles will be slow miles: break a leg up here at this hour and you might be discovered with a feint heartbeat, if one at all...


Bivvy site

Grasmere Common and Far Easdale

Keeping one step ahead

     The low cloud mist comes and goes with encroaching swirling fingers beckoning ever onward in search of a broad path at the head of Easedale... And it comes, but the 3 miles to Greenup Edge in all take up most of 2 hrs - ridiculously slow, but compass sure...


Arrival at the head of  Far Easedale

View back down Far Easedale


Lost shoe - Greenup Edge ahead

Approaching Lining Crag

     A hang glider would be the quickest way out past Lining Crag. As it is the way down is harsh - the natural rocky steps require some over-extending of the knees. It's never good when you feel something go, and a muscle above my left knee has just decided to call it a day...  The pain was sharp, a one-off sensation... maybe a warning... enough to bring tears to the eyes though and endorphins enough to fill an egg cup. So I descend in a kind of painful euphoric ecstasy. Must write in big book: knees are like people - always let you down in the end...


Knee gave out here on descent...

     As it levels out beside Greenup Gill I'm wondering if it's a limp... yep, it's a limp. Manageable though... easy does it - ha, only 31 miles to go...



Langstrath Beck

     At Stonethwaite the search is on for calories. A hot drink would give a tremendous boost too, but this is a Bed and Breakfast haven.... there is a call box though, and you can send a text - it says so in big letters on the outside. For some strange reason I decide to go with this option... and twenty minutes later I've sent a text... I think, honest... Anyway, it's taken long enough to have forgotten about the step-up into the call box, and in reversing out, still with pack on, I go reeling backwards, perhaps to the amusement of the couple who've most likely had a long wait to use the phone... several minor expletives forgiven thereby hopefully... ahem.
     Then a discovery: neighbouring Rosthwaite supports a shop... minimum spend by card is a tenner. Hmm? let's see...
     Two pairs of socks it is then, plus a sandwich and a pint of milk with cash-back...
     And there's toilets... and there's a little Herdwick Sheep café doing bacon sandwiches... There's proper tourists in here though, and is it easy to peel blister plasters and swathes of skin from dead-looking feet in the corner, out of sight? The lady behind the counter has seen it all though. With a smile she hands over another slice of the really nice Cumbria cake. Spot on, though this taking-on of calories proves to be most time-consuming!


Enroute to Seatoller at Johnny Wood beside The Derwent

Borrowdale

    There's a rush of walkers about on the next few miles up to the Honister Slate Mine.  When I get there a man in a protective white hat says there's free tea and coffee inside. This is another welcome stop for the weary as it's well pissing down again now. Inside a nice open fire and wicker fireside chair beckon...
     Hum, well there was an empty chair, some bugger's only gone and claimed it while I got me cuppa. Smile sweetly... they're Coasting the other way it seems.

 *****

     The tramway gets a wide berth and I limp off up the track that winds a less weary route. Trouble is this peters out at the top and it requires a bit of grey to locate my way again through the mist. Once the first of the cairns is located by the tramway though, it's easy going from one cairn to the next just visible ahead. 

Head of Loft Beck

At the top of Loft Beck, for no discernible reason I fall over backwards... I don't know what happened - one minute me just standing there looking down into Hades, next thing, on mi'arse again... What..?

Loft Beck below the mist

     Just follow the stream then... but that left knee becomes increasingly difficult and just refuses to flex beyond a certain point. It's feeling so bad that I wonder if I'll make it to Black Sail never mind the twenty three-odd miles to St Bees. The descent is painfully slow - tediously and agonisingly so with the left leg though learning to keep it mostly straight avoids most of the pain. Cold stone compresses help me down... then the mist clears and my spirit soars with the sudden realisation that I can see this through... not as planned okay, not a closure, but a completion of sorts nevertheless.

Not frozen peas...

     Before Black Sail two young coasters approach. When asked about the underfoot conditions of the far shore path, they tell me it's very stony, then add with enthusiastic spontaneity that they are intent on burning as many Wainwright guides as they can find after this - bearing in mind they have just toiled up the five miles of forest road with full backpacking kit...


Black Sail Youth Hostel

Man made Ennerdale

Ennerdale Water

     After the youth hostel it becomes possible to combine a little running as this doesn't involve too much leg flexing but each footstep is becoming an agony of hot coals so much so that the shore path is ruled out. And it may well be a mistake, when, with seventeen miles to go, the decision is taken to change back into running shoes at the lakeside car park.
     The three miles to Ennerdale Bridge are made a little more interesting by finding sheep pouring from an ill-fitting gate. I've become a shepherd now it seems - they feel foolish, tell me about it! But there's a bend ahead - they mass on the grass allowing me to skirt round on the road. I flag down a lady in a land rover: she well knows whose they are she says. Then, blow me, if another band of brothers (or sisters) don't burst through a bit more dodgy fencing farther on... They say sheep farmers have their problems... But whey hey, I find a stick and manage to herd them back through the gap... problem solved - till I'm out of site at least.


Entering Ennerdale Bridge

     In the pub it might be possible to learn a little more about the cliff path as I've read that it's falling into the sea in places. As it'll be dark by the time I get there there's some concern that it might just give way under me.
     Omelette and chips make a fast last supper before the final fourteen miles. My legs are shot and my feet feel like hot thick-shredded marmalade but it still seems achievable particularly if some trotting is still possible... I can do this it seems... might take me till midnight though in all honesty. Sometimes you just have to dig a little deeper. Besides, by now, the promised all-over application of insecticide is beginning to sound attractive... even though, come to think of it, I don't remember itching much since Bromton-on-Swale...
Nannycatch and Dent are for another day. If Flat Fell is good enough for Footprint, then it's good enough for me... And from here comes the first view of the Irish Sea and the beginning of the end for sore feet.

First glimpse of the Irish Sea

From Nannycatch Beck

     Entry into Cleator is heralded by a 'meet' in the lay-by. The girl leaning into the de-badged Corsa has a tattoo across her... well, it's good to be back. Hang on, that's a 'chavved-up' remix of N-Trance's 'Only Love Can Set You Free'  - how profound is that? It takes the younger generation to remind us of the universality of love - how it affects us all just as surely as the air we breathe... not necessarily the kind of love the song lyric and tattoo were designed for mind... but then, who am I to say?     
     This train of thought propels me along in a kind of blind stupor. As Moor Row recedes though my pendulum of perception has swung to it's opposite extremity: has 'Fat Boy' Norman Cook got it better with, perhaps, his more 'existentialist' lyric sample: 'Bang up y'body, love's not real' in 'Right Here, Right Now'?


Cumbria coast and the Irish Sea from Flat Fell

     The tired mind continues thus until reality kicks back in at Stanley Pond... I never liked the look of this on the map and I can tell you it's no better when the sun has snooked to bed with it's cup of cocoa. It's just a mire of dirty stodge. I've the good sense though to make for the corner of the field and lo and behold! in my tiny torch beam, there, on the other side is a trail of bootprints leading in the direction of the railway underpass.
     The track deteriorates after Demesne, but only needs to be tolerated for a short stretch before the road crossing down into Sandwith.

     There is increasing concern about the cliff-top path with its sheer drops to the beach...
Well thirsty too now, though finding a source of drinking water at eleven pm would put me on par with the Son of God fo'sure - forget the wine - just give me the water... But miracles can happen it seems: there's no tap outside the pub, no hosepipe, nothing, and worse, the landlord comes out and wonders what the hell somebody's doing poking about at this hour. But no, it's okay, he's not the landlord, but a late customer leaving, although he's no idea where I'll get water at this hour...
     We walk down to the road junction to the lighthouse with me pursuing my line of enquiry on the condition of the cliff path when he suddenly announces that he does know where I'll be able to get water. He's having a house built on the corner, he says, and I can fill my bottle out of the builder's tap.
     As the site is muddy he stays on the footpath and directs me to where there's a big blue plastic water main with a big stopcock on the end in a big blue water tub. I drink from the hose to begin with, gulping straight down - never mind diluting the blood.
     The cliff path should be okay, he tells me, but warns of the steep descent to Fleswick Bay.
     I'm now three and a half hours over the revised seven day target so it matters little whether I bivvy it out on the cliffs or keep going... I'll keep going while it's physically possible I decide, in for a penny...

     Thus decided, I pass up a good few level spots early on along the cliff path. There's always a better one a little farther on, yeah..?
     There are some airy bits where erosion has taken the path altogether, but it's navigable. Just as well as the tide's in and the waves can be heard quite plainly crashing along the shore down there - some 300 feet below. No worries though, I'm taking it real slow though I imagine a headline in the West Cumbria Gazette: 'Did Midnight Cliff Walker have Death Wish?' Well just maybe he did...
The lighthouse comes into view and is getting brighter with every step. As I round the headland it's bang full face-on - like a tall strobe - not your usual lighthouse kind of light. Forward progress slows considerably - count between flashes - close eyes, open eyes and hobble forward... this seems to take for ever...
     Then, as I get level with the light, something very strange happens... I start to get the feeling that I'm being followed... I stop and look back... nothing, just the fresh breeze and distant sound of the waves breaking along the rocky shore... and then the sudden bright flash from the lighthouse. I've had this experience before walking alone at night, but this seems much more lucid somehow... I'm tired, that's what it is... utterly butterly bollocksed.
     Off again... hobble along... damn it! ...what is that behind? Maybe it's to do with the light, behind me now... then intuition kicks in... I fine tune my senses: this is bad... this could be bad, is what I feel instinctively. So when I arrive at the descent to Fleswick Bay my better judgement is ahead of me. My tiny beam of light shines into a black void - the fence disappears at a sharp angle into a nothingness of total despair and I know, with only a mile or so to go, I've reached the end.
     So near yet so far...





Day8 - SATURDAY 190½m - 192m  At Last: St Bees - 'Agreeably Dismal'


The sensible option had been to backtrack to the last best bivvy spot which had been the bird viewing area (though in retrospect not such a good idea to bivvy on rapidly eroding cliffs...) I wake to the complaining sounds of hundreds of sea birds as they wheel above and about the cliff face. Initially too tired to get into the bag I'd huddled up to my pack on the Ridgerest: fetal like - a loved one newly discovered. Gradually chilling and coming to terms with exhaustion, it became necessary to unpack the sleeping bag and in the tiny beam the soles of my feet had looked the colour and texture of the wavy mashed potato on a shepherd's pie... Finally settling into the bag, sweaty, clammy and damp, it was close on 2am.


*****


So we must be well ponging by now - a veritable minger, surely?
     'I stink, therefore I am' seems appropriate... and I've managed to oversleep again despite determination to get the first train out... Fleswick Bay and the descent are certainly safer by the light of day and it's left to tired legs to transport me through a light rain round the headland and somewhat steadily down to the official start.

Fleswick Bay

Sea Pinks

View back to Fleswick Bay - lighthouse just visible top right

St Bees coming into view

Nearing the final descent

The front St Bees

Getting their feet wet and collecting pebbles no doubt...

The finish - 'eyup, Wainwright plaque's been nicked...

     Although two and a half days over Ronald's five day target, at least the final moments of each journey share something in common: the tide's out and it's raining, and despite the rain's best effort to add a shine to the otherwise grey concrete, St Bees certainly does appear 'agreeably dismal'.

St Bees station




Next stop: Carlisle

     Many thanks to Ronald Turnbull for instilling in me the confidence to have a go at a five day crossing in the book Coast to Coasting - well, he does make it sound easy!

     A fail this time, but I'd learned from the experience and I'd be back...


*****