Coast to Coast E-W 2006
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| 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...
Day 0: FRIDAY 19/5/06 0-8½m Between a Wall, a Wood and a Wild Place
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| 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...
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| 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.
Day1 - SATURDAY 20/5/06 8½m-43½m Roaring Lion Not Easily Defeated
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| 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).
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| 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
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| Falling Foss waterfall |
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| The Hermit's Cave |
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| quick peek inside... dry bivvy if not already occupied? |
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| leaving Hermit's Cave |
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| 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.
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| Stepping Stones, Egton Bridge |
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| Ancient paved way through East Arnecliffe Wood |
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| Equally ancient guide post - Glaisdale Rigg |
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| 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!'
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| George Gap Causeway |
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| George Gap Causeway crossing the Lyke Wake Walk |
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| ...with marker stone where routes cross |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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)
Day2 - SUNDAY 21/5/06 43½-71m Latvia's Answer to Mob Bunkhouse
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| 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.
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| Lordstones and Roseberry Topping - fellrunners still abed |
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| Distant industial Teeside to the North East |
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| Trig point on Carlton Moor |
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| Delightful Scugdale |
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| Coalmire Plantation |
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| Arrival at Scarth Wood Moor |
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| '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...
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| Trig Point on Scarth Moor - original start of Lyke Wake Walk |
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| 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.
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| View back up track to Arnecliffe Wood |
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| Ingleby Cross church |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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...
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| Home and dry... |
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| 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?
Day3 - MONDAY 22/5/06 72-85m Decisions decisions...
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...
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| view back to Richmond from Westfields |
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| 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....
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| Blot on the landscape..? |
|
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| Applegarth Scar |
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| Flavouring for 'Old Peculiar'..? |
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| 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...
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| Rapids |
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| Feet finally get wet again here... |
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| Tarry Awhile... |
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| ...don't mind if I do! |
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| Footbridge at Ellers |
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| water water everywhere... |
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| View downstream |
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| Hmmm, teas - 200 yds |
|
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| Oh, er... drying facilities would've been handy |
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| 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...
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| Ronald's suggested high level route would come out over Fremington Edge |
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| 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.
Day4 - TUESDAY 23/5/06 85-108m Crackpot of the Heart
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' |
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.
Day6 - THURSDAY 25/5/06 129m - 155½m First Up: Norwegian with a Stutter
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.
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Fleswick Bay
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Sea Pinks
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| View back to Fleswick Bay - lighthouse just visible top right |
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St Bees coming into view
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Nearing the final descent
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The front St Bees
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| Getting their feet wet and collecting pebbles no doubt... |
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| 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'.
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| St Bees station |
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| 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...
*****
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