Paul's Coast to Coast Walk.

Day zero - A Brough Day

It's day zero of the coast to coast walk, which means we've just driven the nearly three hundred miles from home to Kirkby Stephen. A remarkable journey, with no roadworks on any of the motorways, which has to be a first for me making this particular journey. Mike is in good spirits and still talking to me despite having been subjected to my iPod for most of the journey.

Mike's cheerfulness may be explained by our first little outing, to Brough Castle, wot is in the photo above. Not only does he like old ruins (just as well, because he's walking two hundred miles with one over the next two weeks) but also, there was an adjacent ice cream parlour. He had Crunchy flavour, because he is a wuss while I, the brave one, had a tub of "Sheep Poo". Which was nice.

Checked into the first of a series of bed and breakfast places we'll be sampling on our marathon. There are two other groups doing the same walk tomorrow, so we'll either have decent company, or have to run the first mile to escape!

I've reassessed the contents of the bag that will be ferried to each overnight stop because it was too heavy. Mike's raised eyebrows as I removed the vast stash of technology suggest that he may feel I've over prepared on that front, but I've always said you can't have too many battery chargers (actually, I don't have enough, since I have forgotten one of them!). Anyway, something had to go, and Mrs Grumbler won't believe this, but the casualties were In the sock department. I'll just have to get by on two pairs a day.

Off for a pint and some solids soon, and then up at the first fart of sparrow in the morning as we must breakfast and be at the pickup point for the bus to take us to St Bees by eight fifteen. 'net and weather willing, there will be some highlights and pics of day one's walking tomorrow evening.

Day one - Dented, But Not Broken

When we woke up this morning, the weather was like a fairy tale - grim. Well, i say when "we"woke up, but I should really say when I woke - it was a shared room night, and since I snore, Mike was probably awake all night anyway. The forecast has been for rain, and it certainly looked like it would be. As it happened, it was dry at St Bees and it has stayed dry and sunny all day. Beautiful, and unexpected.

Unexpected is the norm in the lake district. For example, there were many things I expected to see, and was looking forward to. Two birds having sex on the cliff top was not one of them, but fun nonetheless. The high point of the day, quite literally, was reaching the top of Dent hill. I was utterly knackered. From there, on a really clear day, you can see five kingdoms. England, Scotland, the isle of Man, Ireland, and the peak of Snowdon in Wales. Today we got three, maybe four. If getting up was hard, getting down again was no easier, the steepest path on the walk, apparently, but we made it, and I'm now comfortable ensconced in the Fox and Hounds in Ennerdale. It's a nice little pub, in which we have our second shared room of the walk. I have drawn the short straw (natch) so I have an air bed tonight. It's only fair, Mike isn't gonna get any sleep cos of the snoring, so he might as well be comfortable.

More tomorrow....

Day two - Single at Last

*Before I get into terminal trouble with the sainted Mrs Grumbler, without who's gracious permission this walk would not be taking place, I should point out that I am referring to the sleeping arrangements for this evening. This is a popular area, and a room of one's own is hard to come by, and should be treasured. Tonight's stop is the Royal Oak hotel in Rossthwaite (the capital of Borrowdale), a charming establishment in a nice little village, and so far they have done us proud.

The fox and hounds last night turned out to be a happy place. We were made welcome and, while it wasn't the most organised operation I've encountered, they tried harder to make us comfortable than many others. Good ale, good food, good company, crap jokes. I felt quite at home.

We set out from Ennerdale this morning, walked alongside the lake, and through a forest to the Black Sail youth hostel - the most remote of its kind in the country. A rest, two cups of tea, and a pound in the honesty box, and we were off to tackle the stepped climb alongside Loft Beck. This is a bit steeper, longer and higher than yesterday's struggle up Dent Hill, but strangely I was less tired at the top today. Getting fitter already, obviously - or maybe it was the unparalleled view, which took what little breath I had left quite away from me. I'm certainly not the first or only person to do this little walk, but I honestly couldn't have had a better sense of achievement if I had been. If you ever get the opportunity, do it. Mike looks quite chuffed too.

At this early stage, we keep meeting the same folk on the trail - again and again. It's actually quite a nice thing to see familiar faces as you go, even if some of them have accused Mike and I of being brothers! From this point onwards we'll start to thin out, as some will walk further than others and the stops are staggered across many villages.

Once 'over the top', the workings of Honister slate mine bite deep into the hillside, but this scarring of the landscape somehow looks right. Shouldn't be a surprise, because industry's been responsible for a lot of the local landscape over the years. Down at the slate mine HQ, the cafe delivered a pair of well earned ice creams, before we trudged up to the crest of the Honister pass, and down the other side to Borrowdale.

A short day tomorrow, from here to Grasmere. I think we'll take our time!

Day three - Conquering Heights

Did I say today was a "short" day? Hah! Ok, the last two days we about sixteen miles each, and this one about ten, but ten short miles they most certainly were not.

Once again, it's been a fine day. We've been able to see rain in the distance, but it's never really come close enough to bother us, which is fantastic, lucky and, frankly, unbelievable. Having joked with the owner of the most excellent Royal Oak in Rossthwaite that we'd be in the pub in Grasmere by three pm, she supplied us with packed lunches after breakfast and off we went, along a gentle path next to Stonethwaite Beck. Well, it certainly started gentle, but the slope slowly and almost imperceptibly increased, as we reached a pretty flight of waterfalls until we found ourselves on a path with big stones set as steps. This continued, except for a short amusement where there was no path at all, requiring a scramble up a few metres of rocks, until we were at the top of the hill you can see in the picture on the right. A bit more that six hundred metres high, if I remember correctly. Now, this wasn't the easiest of walks, but it was ok, and I was basking in the glow of a job well done when Mike brought me back to earth (if not sea level) with a bump. We would soon, he informed me with evident glee, have to make a choice between the high level route, or the low level. Frankly, my dears, I would have thought after a 500 metre climb I was already on a high level route, but not so.

I needn't have worried, to be honest. The choice we faced was a ridge walk, or a descent into a valley and on into Grasmere. And we were already higher than the ridge, so that's the way we went. The views have been absolutely spectacular, Scotland across the Solway Firth in one direction, and Morecambe bay in the other, with hills, mountains and dales liberally sprinkled between them and us. Truly rewarding us for the effort in getting there. In fact, I'm pretty sure I actually got fitter during this walk. I certainly grew, as you can see from the not at all contrived picture of mike and me to the left.

After the lung busting climbs must, inevitably, come the knee knackering descents. Delivering us, on this occasion, into Grasmere for, you guessed it, an ice cream. This is becoming a habit. Suitably refuelled, we took a wander round the town, and found an outdoor gear shop. Since I have spent a goodly portion of the walk so far trying to hoik up my trousers before they fell to my ankles and tripped me over a sheer drop or, worse, made someone laugh, I decided that they - purchased as they were before my marathon loss of pounds - needed to be replaced. This led to the second high point of the day - I now officially have a 36 inch waist while only a year ago it was nudging 42.
I am quite clearly on a roll here and, if only I had a bottle of whisky, I'd try my luck at smuggling it in to dinner here at tonight's home from home - a Quaker lodging house. Remember, I didn't book these stops myself, and in a place like Grasmere beggars can't be choosers. In fact, the place and the people are fine, and my only fear was whether I would burst into flames on entry. However, since the building isn't actually consecrated, the risk of spontaneous combustion has been greatly reduced to the extent where my roll-up cigarettes still self extinguish after every three puffs. I have to give up again soon, I'm getting through four disposable lighters a day...
Patterdale tomorrow, will we attempt the terrifying Striding Edge on Helvellyn... We'll just have to wait and see.

Day four - When Helvellyn Freezes Over

We, and everyone else who was staying, have survived the Quaker guest house we resided in last night. I point out that the others have survived too only because Mike and I were the youngest guests by a positively geographical interval, and I was reasonable sure that at least one would pass away overnight. Judging by the multiple colours on Mike's leg, however, I am concerned that he may have contracted Ebola. Worry not, though, if anything falls off I have a plastic bag to collect the bits, and will faithfully record the details in these pages. (Dont worry, Chloe, I've got my own binbag - your bivvy bag is quite safe!)

Tonight, in Patterdale, we're at a place we have seen on TV (in Ms Bradbury's walking programmes) as Wainwright himself (a man who would have made the Grumbler seem cheerful) stayed here back when it was Monroe's Lodging house. It's just how you'd imagine it to be, but as I've supplied a photo, you don't have to.

Our walk started with a fair climb alongside Tongue Gill, which tumbles down the hillside in a series of pretty waterfalls, while we stumbled to the top to Grisedale Tarn, which despite being fairly compact had white-topped wind-whipped breakers which would probably have tempted many a surfer. You can't see them in my picture, but I know that you know that I'm simply not prone to exaggeration for comic effect.

At this point and if it hadn't been blowing a seventy mile per hour headwind, we'd have had a choice of two high level routes; Helvellyn and the fearsome Striding Edge, or the slightly lower but no less impressive St Sunday Crag. Elf and Safety decreed that we take the valley route between the two, which still proved cold enough to freeze the nuts off a brass monkey, of which fact the supplied picture of the aforementioned safety Elf provides mute evidence. I've never before been quite so pleased not to be a brass monkey...

Despite the gusts we made good time, and arrived here in time for an early afternoon ale. Tomorrow threatens to be a little rougher than today, weather wise, so if it looks nasty we'll take a low level alternative route. Otherwise, it's a slog up Kidsty Pike to say goodbye to the lakes from a high point.

Day five - A Jolly Decent Shap

I won't assault you with pictures today, mostly because I didn't take any. There were many things worthy of photographs, but both cameras were buried deep in the rucksack, for today, IT RAINED!

Oh boy did it rain. Last night, my bed was in the eaves of a converted bothy. Quite charming, warm and comfortable, but only inches away from the pattering of the raindrops on the roof. When I was up and dressed this morning, and trying to find somewhere to partake of the day's first roll up, I couldn't help but notice that last night's playfull bubbling stream which skirts the edge of our B&B for Wednesday was now a raging torrent.

Since the clouds were hiding the tops of the hills today it was clear that there would be no view for the tops, and once we'd established that Mike's leg hadn't fallen off overnight, and that the high route would be in cloud all day, we decided to walk the shore of Ullswater, and cut across to Shap, our end for today. We were joined by a couple we'd met on the packhorse bus, on day one; Ray and Christine.

We got scenery and rain in equal measure but, honestly, we can't complain that we got this far without getting wet. The walk along Ullswater was a gentle climb, with views out over the lake at evey stage. While the other lakes we have seen so far have been undisturbed by trafic, there are steamers on Ullswater, travelling up and down its length. In fact, one of the suggestions for todays walk was to take the steamer to Pooley Bridge and walk from there, but that would be cheating! Before Pooley Bridge, we veered off and across the fells, plenty of boggy patches ans swollen streams, which was to set the tone for most of the rest of the walk. Coming down into Bampton, the countryside has already changed dramatically. The fields are flatter, the grass thicker and longer, but the sheep seem just as happy. The sight of what's left of Shap abbey, after Henry VIII's bully boys knocked it down and pinched all the valuables to annoy the Pope signalled that we had only a mile or so to go, a very welcome sign!

After today's twenty mile slog, we finally reached the B&B at about five pm. Four drowned rats. When a lady meets me at her door and tells me that if I take off my clothes she'll bring me tea and scones, I don't argue. The legendary northern hospitality in action. There will be pictures soon, in which I can promise to be fully dressed, if indeed I appear at all...

Day six - Chips with Wainwright

With another twenty mile day ahead, it was a relief this morning to wake to a fine, dry day. According to the iPhone weather forecast yesterday, there was a thirty percent chance of snow, but fortunately that information was about as accurate as Stevie Wonder with a 38 special. Having ordered a packed lunch from the lady at Brookfield, who is becoming a legend amongst Coast to Coasters, it was necessary to rearrange the rucksack to fit all the food in, and then time to wave goodbye to the sleepy, country village that is Shap. That's a mainline railway to go under and the M6 to go over, via a bridge that surely must only be used by coast to coasters.

Despite its length, today's walk was billed as a recuperation day after yesterday's slog. It was certainly easier, but perhaps not as exciting, or with as much varied scenery as the days already gone. No less enjoyable, though and it still had its moments, like the viaduct on the disused railway in Smardale.

We also encountered a few limestone pavements, which gave me a chance to educate Mike, and now you, in the correct descriptive terminology for these features. The stones and the gaps between them are called Clints and Grikes. The compass sows that some of the Clints point northwards, meaning that those at ninety degrees must be... Clint Eastwards.... (sorry).

Mike's leg still hasn't fallen off, so I've not had to shoot him yet. This is fortunate, as it was his round in the pub after we had supper at the Coast to Coast chip shop which claims Wainwright as its most famous (late) regular customer.

So far, so good. I have to recommend this walk and I must be extremely "mellowed" by the experience, I've even noticed a distinct lack of profanity in my language, which is normally peppered with naughty words. Tomorrow we may pass by Nine Standards Rigg, a series of massive cairns atop a hill., and completely surrounded by killer peat bogs. Whether we do or not, the day is described as the "watershed" on the trip. Perhaps, as on the BBC, my language will deteriorate post watershed, but I f****** well hope not.
The end of the day will see us in Keld. Time will tell whether this fine hamlet has Internet access, we've just found out that it has no mobile signal...

Day seven - Spending Hours in the Bog

Today we spent hours in a bog, and I'm not talking about the downstairs loo with a tin of custard and a copy of Horse 'n' Hound (don't ask!) but more about that later... We awoke to a fine day, a fine breakfast and a fine five mile slog up a hill (naturally) before a decision point - Nine Standards Rigg, or "the low route". Technically, because of erosion, the trail to the Rigg doesn't open until May, but since we are only a couple of days shy, and the weather was good, we decided to go for it. It really would have been a shame to miss it, since it's the Watershed for this walk. Disappointingly, I have learned that means that now all the rivers flow east, rather than west - not, as I'd hoped, the BBC definition, which is that after nine pm they allow the 'F' word on TV. I must therefore keep my language clean!

It was genuinely worth the trip and, since my vocabulary is currently constrained, I was forced to say "Yay" on reaching it and "Wow" on looking at the view. No one knows who built the standards, nine large cairns atop the hill, or why. They stand there, mute witness to constancy and permanence. Perhaps that's why, given my love of the ironic, the next monument down (a dial pointing out and naming all of the hills we could see) made me laugh out loud. Erected nearly thirty years ago, it's inscribed around the edge as in commemoration of the wedding of Charles and Diana. Some things don't last quite as well as a pile of rocks.

From here, we hit the peat bogs, big time! We criss-crossed the fells, backtracking where we needed to, hopping, skipping and jumping when all else failed. By this time we'd been joined by couple on the walk, Phil and Anne, the latter (at four foot eleven) being an expert at lightly running across the splashy bits fast enough not to sink in. I tried. I failed. Wet boots. As we rather moistly ate up the kilometres, my anticipation began to build. My target was Ravenseat farm -seen many times on TV, and rumoured to serve the best tea and scones in the area. Finally we reached it to find that, just like John 'O Groats on my first motorbike tour, the bloody place was closed. Never mind, it was a comfy place to sit and eat our packed lunch,share it with the cheeky farm dogs, and to be entertained by Amanda's (the proprietress) free range children

And finally we have arrived at the idyllic village of Keld, nestling at the top of Swaledale. We stopped in the local campsite shop for a cuppa, and moved on to Keld lodge where we are staying tonight. The rooms he are small, but toasty warm and comfortable. And the beer, well, it's nectar. Frankly I'm surprised I can still type. Dinner is calling, more tomorrow (when we are assured it will absolutely p*ss down with rain all day!)

Day eight - Sail in Swaledale

At breakfast today we had snail. I know what you're thinking, but you're on the wrong track, we weren't eating snail, it was falling from the sky. For the uninitiated, snail is not, in fact, a biblical precipitation of molluscs, but rather an indecisive mixture of snow and hail. It's just as nasty as you'd expect it to be. Fortunately, by the time we'd munched our way through the usual mountain of bacon flavoured cornflakes, the weather gods had made their minds up, and we emerged to be pelted by tiny, sharp, ice pellets. Which was nice.

We elected to take the low level route today, in part because of the weather, but also because the Swale is a pretty river with many waterfalls and quite a bit of wildlife. Mike sometimes has a one track mind, and has been known to stop dead on the path if he sees an interesting bird of the feathered kind (I am apparently not allowed to comment on his behaviour if he sees interesting examples of the 'other' variety). He will, if pressed, blame a misspent youth for his avian expertise, and his grandfather for his knowledge of doubtful rhymes about them.

These random perambulatory cessations mean that apart from having been perforated in a variety of locations by the pointy ends of his walking poles, I have learned something. I can recognise a curlew by its call, skylarks by their flight patterns and grouse by its flavour. No-one told me this trip was going to be educational, damn it! The accompanying picture here is of a pair of Oystercatchers in the Swale. As far as I can tell, the Swale doesn't not actually support Oyster kind, so quite what they are doing there eludes me.

What we have missed, as a result of forsaking Wainwright's preferred high route for the riverside is a whole bunch of industrial architecture, beginning with the ruins of Crackpot Hall. This was not named after a bunch of loonies who lived there, though that would be more interesting than the real story behind the name, which I have already forgotten. Mike's rather unkind comment was that in spending several days walking with me, he'd seen quite enough old ruins, thank you very much. He'll probably regret that later, it's his turn to buy dinner at the pub.

It was so damp today, even the sheep were trying to hide. We finally arrived in Reeth in the mid afternoon, cold and damp. My waterproof and breathable jacket being wetter on the inside than the outside - a feat which I don't understand - and fell gasping and shivering into a tea shop. Tomorrow, we hope, will be a dryer day.

Day nine - Chinese Dentist

It took a while to get started today. After yesterdays liberal soaking we got ourselves down to the pub for food (black pudding scotch egg, yum!), crashed out at the B&B, and were the accosted this morning by one of the biggest breakfasts so far. I have to admit that I scoffed at the suggestion in the guidebook that by the time the walk was half done, most people can't stand the sight of bacon and eggs, but maybe there's a grain of truth in there. Still, where we are tonight, kippers aren't on the menu, so it's same old same old tomorrow. Hard life, eh?

Breakfast polished off, I popped outside to fumigate my nose with best Virginia, and was immediately accosted by one of the owners two dogs, who dropped a tennis ball at my feet and laid down with furiously wagging tail. I mean, what's a bloke supposed to do? So, I obligingly lobbed the ball into the middle of the vegetable garden (not what I was aiming for, but there's a reason I never made the school cricket team) only to have the drool covered object deposited back at my feet seconds later. Floyd, Ted and Rowley take note. Eventually, Mike got fed up with waiting and fetched the dog's lead, with which he proceeded to drag me, protesting, off on today's route.
About an half an hour into the stoll, we noticed a traffic jam at one of the stiles in front of us. There's a bunch of folk on the walk who, if you were to judge a book by its cover, you would not have thought of as coast to coast walkers. They have a little trouble with the squeeze stiles popular in these parts, but take nothing away from them, they are completing the same stages that everyone else is. One of the nice things about this walk is that you do tend to run into the same people every day or so and, if you want to, you can walk together for a while, or just keep trekking. Today, that meant we ran into Phil and Ann again, and we carried on with them pretty much to the end of today's walk.

Round about midday, and halfway through the journey, we stopped off at a tearoom for a hot drink. Others had the same idea, the place filled up while we were there for the next hour (not the fastest service ever) but clearly we had the idea first, and the latecomers were just slaves to the trend we set! While chatting to a Dutch couple we found out they had spent the previous night in the B&B run by the people who owned the tea shop (spot a pattern here?) we dried out in yesterday. I mention this seriously uninteresting fact simply because I commented "oh yes, the blonde girl from Kent" to which Mike added "not a natural blonde, though". Visions of Sean Connery drily muttering about non matching collars and cuffs assault me, but I swear he was never out if my sight for more than two minutes...

Navigation is easy at this point. The walk is so popular that signs appear at regular intervals. Eventually, we rocked up at Richmond at two thirty or, perhaps more appropriately and in keeping with the title of today's post, tooth hurty*. For I have developed a nasty toothache. This isn't what I'd expected to suffer on the walk, though we've obviously been eating the miles (groan if you want to). It's not nice though, and as we were walking past a dentists I popped in for some advice, explaining that hot drinks were making the left side of my face explode in pain, while cold drinks were ok.

It happened that the person the dentist was waiting for hadn't turned up, which is how I found myself staring at the ceiling while an Austrian called Stephan hit each of my teeth in turn with what felt like a small sledgehammer. Eventually he declared he could see nothing wrong, recommended a toothpaste for sensitive hampsteads, and suggested I forsake coffee and stick to beer. What a jolly sensible fellow.

Richmond. Well, compared to the places we have overnighted so far, this is a teeming metropolis, with shops, pubs, restaurants, a castle and a big river with waterfalls on it. A couple of days ago, I posted a pic of Mike above a waterfall twenty, thirty miles back. Here he is again, downstream on the same river. It's all growed up now.
Tomorrow will be our longest walk, some twenty three miles or so, but reasonably flat. It'll be an early start, and will once again see us in the middle of nowhere at days end. Feet, knees, teeth and net access permitting, I'll post more when we get there.

Day ten - The Long March

A thirty seven kilometre trek today, about which the cantankerous old Wainwright had little good to say. However, while he may have inspired this walk, we neither have to stick slavishly to is fictions, nor believe what he says about the points of interest on the way. So we didn't.

Straight out of Richmond this morning we deviated from the path, forsaking the advertised boggy footpaths for a pleasant stroll along a track by the Swale to the ruins of Easby Abbey. There seems to be a little more of this abbey ruin left standing than many others I've seen. Of course, the Tudor fatboy's thugs did a comprehensive job of knocking things down, and Henry Viii personally ordered the monks there to be hanged, in retaliation for them having supported the "Pilgrimage of Grace", a northern led protest/rebellion over the split from the Catholic church. Other abbey ruins have been comprehensively plundered by the locals who were encouraged to view them as a kind of "free quarry", but the monks of Easby were kind to and popular with the locals, so I wonder if what remained standing of the abbey was left alone out of some kind of respect.

The next twenty or so miles consisted mostly of road and path walking through and alongside field after field of oilseed and other crops. Part way along, we said goodbye to the Swale, which has been our Guide and companion for the last few days.
Geographically, today was not very interesting - in fact the sameness of it all made it seem a much longer walk than it was, which was a bit dispiriting. What we did get, though, was a nice little village pub stop for lunch at Danby Wiske, and quite a bit of wildlife to ogle, including yellowhammers, hares, linnets as well as the usual cows and sheep. Still no pigs, though. I am a little worried about Mike, though. Between you and me, I think he might be losing it. Sometime around mid afternoon, he stopped, pointed and excitedly cried "look, a sparrowhawk!" doubtless shocked at being thus identified, the bird concerned revealed its true identity by denying Mikes statement with a mighty and resounding "QUACK!".
Tired and weary (or given my drugs for toothache intake, maybe that should be wired and teary) we arrived at tonight's B&B, Park House, just a mile or so beyond Ingleby Cross. We've generally been lucky with our accommodation, and this one was a gem, the owners Mike and Beverley greeting us with a glass of bubbly before showing us round their place, which is really dedicated to walkers. Since its quite a trek to the nearest pub, they fed us, too, and you won't hear any complaints from this direction regarding either the quality or quantity (no wonder the table is so sturdy) of the repast.

My tooth still hurts.

Day eleven - The Touch of Middle Earth

This morning, at breakfast, we were introduced to the Park House B&B's resident cockerel, Alan. He's named after Alan Carr, partly because when he originally arrived he wanted nothing to do with the hens, was suspected of "batting for the other side" and harbouring a liking for quiche and flower arranging. Very soon after being released into the wilds of the garden he decided to bugger off into the woods, and wasn't seen for a couple of days, after which he came back with a dramatically different personality, and has been cock o' the roost ever since. That's one of the reasons that while I say "introduced" there was a good glass window between us. The other reason was that Mike and I were both chained to the breakfast table by a couple of good old fashioned doorstep bacon and egg sandwiches.

Soon it was time for us to follow in Alan's footsteps, and bugger off into the woods which, inevitably, meant an uphill slog for a while. Surprisingly, my legs felt pretty fresh, and we gained height pretty quickly until we were actually in the clouds, where we stayed for most of the rest of the day. Mike's day was set fair when his GPS beeped to signal a geocache location, and with a triumphant smile he unearthed a small Tupperware box containing what looked like a pencil, a notebook, and half a dozen toy soldiers.

Many ups and downs, and a side trip to a cafe which turned out to be closed, later, we got to the top of Cringle moor, where you can find Alex Falconer's seat, a stone bench and map at a viewpoint from which you can see as far as the North Sea, our final destination. Or at least you could, if the visibility was better that twenty feet. There were times, when all I could see was a thin track, with burned heather either side, with ghostly, ice cold fingers of cloud worming their way under any layers of clothing, that I though maybe "Yorkshire Moors" was a misprint, and that second word should be "Mordor", it was that similar to a scene from the Lord of the Rings.

And so, eventually, to Great Broughton, where I'm tapping this out in the company of a pint of Black Sheep, with a burger comfortable stashed away as fuel for the morning and our penultimate climb on this journey from west to east coasts. Internet access willing, there will be more tomorrow.

Day twelve - Not "On the Busses"

On looking out of the window this morning, the clouds from yesterday were a lot higher, and we could see the ridge that we'd walked to get here. Blimey. And indeed Gosh. The picture to the left doesn't quite do it justice, but it'll give you an idea. High moors, heather, and more ups and downs than a week's plot line on Eastenders.
Grouse, too, and I don't mean from the Grumbler either. The little bird from the whisky bottles is by far the most prevalent bird on these moors. You can't walk more than a minute or two without one of the little buggers exploding out of the ground cover and whizzing, no more than three feet high, like a squawking clockwork dervish shouting it's hoarse cry of "Go Way,Go Way!". Most of the time, it's not a problem, but every now and then one will appear right next to you, just when you're contemplating the scenery. I don't scare easily, but at least one of these wee beasties has startled me almost enough to be grateful I have more than one pair of walking trousers.
The hotel we stayed in last night offered us a lift to the point we left the trail to walk down to Great Broughton, but that would have meant jumping straight out of the car into the first (and only) climb of the day, so we politely refused. When this epic journey finishes (barring disasters in the last two days) we are determined to have been from one side of the country to the other on foot, and without having used any other transport. No more than two minutes out of the hotel we ran into Phil, with whom we walked all of today's stage. He seems to be in exactly the same kind of luddite frame of mind. It's a nice feature of the walk that we keep running into others that we have seen on and off throughout the adventure.

The curtain of cloud was most definitely following us, lending weight to my thoughts yesterday that some Tolkeinish wizard is watching with evil intent, but we managed to get as far as the OS trig point on Urra moor before it caught up with us. Phil has been walking this on his own while his dad meets him at various points with fresh clothes and provisions. Today, Phil's son, and a couple of mates are setting out from St Bees to ride the three day bike version of the coast to coast, and his missus and others are already waiting in Whitby (nearby Goth capital of the world!) so there's gonna be quite a family get together when they meet on the East coast. He was kind enough to take the picture here.

Not much to say about the rest of the walk, another misty tramp across the moors as far as Blakey ridge. As an avid watcher of the sixties/seventies tv show "On the Busses" I'd been hoping that we'd be greeted by a miserably inept bus inspector, but it was not to be. However, as soon as we walked into the Lion Inn, which is the only place to stay for miles, we were greeted by at least six other people on the walk. So tonight promises to be a pleasant evening.
Seventeen miles to Littlebeck tomorrow, and a good chance of rain. Internet willing, there will be another moistened missive at the end of the day.

Day thirteen - Steamed

Having arrived at the Lion Inn on Blakey Ridge early in the afternoon yesterday, and with a thirst on, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the title of today's post relates to the consumption of a great deal of ale, and indeed we had a few, but we weren't that far gone. Nor does this reference the fact that we left the pub this morning to find ourselves in the middle of a cloud. So read on...
In fact, there's not much I can tell you about the morning, as there wasn't anything we could see. To illustrate the point, here's a picture of Mike by the sign to the delightfully named and allegedly picturesque Great Fryupdale. I say allegedly because, as you will note, there's no way we could verify the fact.
So, before I describe the afternoon's much more successful walking, I'm going to digress, and tell you about something I learned last night in the pub. I was chatting to a bloke who claimed to be a Grouse Winder. Now I initially assumed, as you would, that this was local dialect for a gamekeeper, but it's not so! I wouldn't normally ply a chap with drink to ferret out his secrets, but it was Mike's turn to pay the bar bill, so I quickly abandoned my principles and got the fellow comprehensively trousered. This is what I learned:
Most people have probably never seen a grouse in the wild. In fact, if they've seen one anywhere other than on the front of a bottle of scotch, it's probably in the TV ad for the very same whisky, and they will have assumed that the bird in the ad in question has been very badly animated. Wrong. The grouse is, in reality, a badly animated bird. Well, "sort of" bird...
It turns out that in 1899, with hostilities escalating towards the second Boer war between the UK (and allies) and the Orange Free State, the Brits decided they needed a new and devastating secret weapon, the task of developing which was given to Major Tangible-Hairpiece of the Electric Light Brigade, who worked for several years with only the help of his assistant, Sergeant Merkin, of the same regiment. Their objective was to develop a bomb which could fly just above ground level, into the enemy forces front lines, before spontaneously exploding. The final fruit of their labours, cobbled together with the remains of a pheasant from the regimental kitchen, a hand grenade, and most of the inside of a cuckoo clock stolen from the junior officer's mess was the prototype of what we know today as the grouse.
That's right, the grouse is in fact a late Victorian example of a reanimated bionic bird. Unfortunately for Tangible-Hairpeice, his invention was too late to be used in the Boer war by a matter of days, and he eventually died penniless and unknown in Southern Austalia having fled the country in shame. However, this wasnt the end of the story for his creation, which was further refined over the years by a coalition between the league against cruel sports, the upper class twit association and the vegetarian society into what we know today as the modern grouse. A clockwork powered bird, which can fly at no more than three feet high, for twenty five metres or so, all the while making a ludicrous noise, before finally exploding. Its unique niche applications being in providing something that herbivores can shoot at without damaging their consciences, and which upper class twits can claim to have bagged despite the fact that, as shootists, most of them couldn't hit a cows arse with a banjo.
The grouse winder, then, has the task of regularly ensuring that the birds are fully wound up and, on and after August 12th, that they are properly armed and will explode in a satisfactory manor whenever someone so much as looks at them.

To get back to the walking, it's fair to say that by the time we had covered ten miles and sought shelter in the Cafe in Glaisdale, we were wetter that an Essex girl's T-shirt on a club 18-30 holiday. Fortunately, after several pots of tea and some excellent pork pies the three of us (we were accompanied for most of today by Phil) were a little drier, and ready to hit the road again under cleared skies.

A highlight for me today was the station at Grosmont, which is under the care of the North Yorkshire Moors Railway (used as the Hogwarts Express in the Harry Potter films). Our arrival being timed so well that we saw two trains! A final trek uphill to the moors has brought us to tonight's stop, at Intake farm in Littlebeck, leaving us twelve miles tomorrow to the finish of our walk, and a well deserved celebratory ice cream!

Day fourteen - They think its all over!

Our final day on the Coast to Coast, just like the first one, started with the promise of rain but finished in pleasant sunshine. A hearty breakfast at Intake Farm where we spent the previous night set us on our way for a relatively short 12 mile trip, but with greatly varied scenery.

A climb up a steep muddy track alongside a beck brought us to the "Hermitage", an enormous hollowed-out boulder (with carved date suggesting this was completed in 1790), where Mike treated me to a passable imitation of a grumpy hermit.

Now Mike has set some cracking paces at times, which have had me at a mere six foot one and a half (in the mornings) frequently skipping to catch up. Today, however, he'd clearly stepped up a gear.  I couldn't understand - we'd been enjoying the whole experience, was he really that keen to be finished? Then it dawned on me... I had promised him that Julia Bradbury (she of the walking TV programs) would be waiting for him at the walk's end, with a couple of Bath Buns taped to the sides of her head to replicate Princess Leia's Starwars hairdo. The poor fellow was hoping to have two fantasies fulfilled at once. My only chance of salvation was that at this rate, he'd be too knackered to kill me were we got there and he discovered the terrible truth of my lies.

During these past two weeks we'd both become quite skilled at bog-hoping - being able to traverse a man-eating peat-bog without so much as getting splashed.  Today we almost made it through the first bog as we crossed the moors, only for Mike to fill a boot about six feet from the road.  Karma had the last laugh, though - I got through the second bog only to step in a foot deep puddle on the path out.  This was not to be the last wet sock of the trip though!

Alternately clumping and squelching, we reached the very first road sign for our destination, where Phil caught us up.  Having started back in Grosmont, he'd overtaken three or four other sets of walkers so far. The man was clearly on a mission. He stayed with us a while, then stopped to wait for his son and two mates who were cycling the trail. Here I am at the sign, not posing at all.

The last few miles of Wainwright's route, just like the first few, are a cliff-top walk.  Anticipation builds as you round one headland after anther until finally, Robin Hood's Bay comes into view, and from here its downhill all the way to the North Sea, where tradition has us dip the toes of our boots in the sea, and fling the pebble we picked up back in St Bees.  If you've ever tried to dip a toe in the North Sea, you'll know that it often has other ideas. A series of really quite pathetic excuses for waves lures you further and further down to the water's edge until you've no hope of escape, at which point a mini Tsunami will fill your boots and, if you're particularly unlucky your trouser pockets too.  I dont (yet) have a picture of my calf deep soaking, but here's Ann and Phil getting theirs.