It's all Downhill From Here

Now begins the final days of the journey.  It didn’t feel “right” to lay it out like all the other days as a daily log.  These last 2 days had a mind and spirit all their own. It has been difficult putting that into words.  Perhaps it is because no words can ever really describe what happens when you walk in nature for a very long time.  It changes you.  Life becomes less about the telling and more about the living. 

As we began the leg from Blakey Ridge to Egton Bridge (20.0 km), our first task was to visit “Fat Betty,” a large white marker in the middle of the moors.  The ritual is you leave something to eat and take something to eat courtesy of the abundance and generosity of other walkers.  I had the fortune to get almond butter in return for a handful of Werthers and Ken a "Fruesli" bar.  And with  these small noshible tokens we headed off to Egton Bridge.  By now you know what to expect from the weather and scenery.  So I will share instead what you might not expect and perhaps, what you have to look forward to if you choose to slow down.

Walking slackens time.  Sixteen days feels like a lifetime and walking all day has you feeling like you have traversed the world.  What you begin to realize is how everything you need is a lot closer than you think.  In only requires some effort to attain it.  Life has a way of happening on a walk that makes everything succinct.  Along the way you realize there is respite and a bit of warmth.  There is dependability and a connectedness that exists between the people and with nature.  It seems trite to say “everything is as it should be” but it is.  It doesn’t get much simpler than walking.  There are easier ways to get from A to B but simplicity is far more elegant in design.  With that elegance comes a refreshing sense of knowing that you are designed to be all you need to be.  You are your best resource.

On this day we talked a lot about how this journey was about to end.  We were now in a steady routine of blissful solitude and fresh air.  It was unsettling to think that we would soon leave that all behind.  The acceptance that we would no longer just walk and talk and meet like-minded people every day was a hard pill to swallow.  The real world was creeping up as the kilometers counted down.  Like belligerent children we denied reality for as long as we could.  Our first dose of it being the realization that the people we met in the beginning would not be there at the end.  Practicalities being they split the last few days up to make the walk less arduous.  Emotionally it struck us all a blow since we all assumed we were going the same way together.  But life is like that.  People come and people go.  And truth be told, we never say good-bye on our own terms.  Those words and moments are divined by forces far greater than us.  The hero’s journey begins and ends alone but richer in wisdom and fuller from those who shared the path.

There was a moment when we reached Glaisdale that I thought this might be where the journey should end.  There, for sale, was the old railway station house now converted into an artist’s utopia and a gardener’s dream.  I should be living here, I thought.  Right here on the old steam rail line across from the Lover’s Bridge.  I have no idea why someone would want to sell paradise.  Perhaps it was time to pass the torch to another wayward soul.  This may have been my Excalibur but I never lingered long enough to reach for it.  Life, as they say, must move on!

Our final day was Egton Bridge to Robin Hoods Bay. It would also be our biggest walking day yet – a whopping 31.2 km and no, we were not any more ready for it now than we were at the beginning.  There is a reason villages in England are only around 15 km apart from one another.  The human body likes to put its feet up after  6 hrs. of continual movement.  Any more than that and you loose the spiritual gain and become mired in the physical pain.  Awareness of one’s limits need never be about pushing the boundaries of suffering.  Suffering comes to us enough as it is.  I’ve never seen the point in self inflicted misery to prove I am alive.  I would rather enjoy a day well spent moving through the world on my own two feet than prove that I can do it faster/harder than anyone else.  That awareness of needing to prove – or not – stayed with me on this last day.  This entire walk began as something to prove.  For me, just simply that I could do it.  I don’t think I doubted that I could not.  What I doubted was if I would be able to glean any of the magic Wainwright felt all those times he walked these same paths.  This was more than just a walk for him.  It was his calling.  It was his healing salve.  It was his purpose.  It also consumed him and that had a profound effect on those around him – not always good.  In the end, Wainwright regretted he ever developed this route.  What appealed to him was the solitude and the discovery.  Now that he had shared it it was no longer his anymore.  So had I added to the magic or was I bleeding it dry?  Ken and I talked the night before of the sadness we felt that this was our last day.  We had wanted the walk to magically last forever.  By the time we reached the coast and saw the sea again, we felt somewhat ashamed that we were aching for it to end.  This last stretch was difficult to navigate and as a consequence, we had added more kilometers than our feet were willing to allow.  I somehow felt that his was Wainwright’s reminder that journeys taken to awaken oneself also mean paying attention to the little things – particularly those things you think are of no consequence.  He peppered that nicely with “the most obvious choice is often the right one.”  There was a reprieve at Falling Foss Waterfall where, over coffee and cola, Ken and I remarked how this felt a bit like Machu Picchu.  After days of hiking to that glorious city in the clouds, we crested the top and were swarmed by day-trippers fresh and well heeled from the bus trip up.  Well – no one has ever accused us of taking the easy road well travelled! 

And then we were here – Robin Hoods Bay.  We began the slow painful decent through the town down ancient cobble stoned streets with grossly mis-matched stairs.  For anyone else this would be an exciting walk through time.  For us every step was a painful reminder that we never should have done this walk without good gel insoles.  At the end of the street is the Bay Hotel – official end point of the Wainwright Coast to Coast.  It is here you walk another painful kilometer out to the North Sea (tides  out!) and dip your toes and toss you pebble from St. Bees.  This we did and then headed back to the hotel to sign the registry and have a drink.  I don’t know what I expected the Bay Hotel to be but it wasn’t a Goth bar.  For all the hype around Wainwright’s Coast to Coast you never hear how Robin Hoods bay is a mecca for Goths and Goth Festivals.  This, our epiphanic moment, shared with some of steam punks finest and most probably a few drug smugglers waiting for the midnight tide to roll back in.  It doesn’t get much better than that – expectation tossed on its head and concussed into your wildest dream.  My feet ache.  My heart is full.  And tomorrow I will take AW’s sage advice and find another adventure.

 

Me, my cider, my aching feet and my sheep at The Bay Hotel

Wayward glances...

You know its a good day when you get almond butter!

Man on the Moors

We did it!  And with no blisters and minimal whining ;-)

Just one more shot of the sheep and the moors...

The original Red Bull

This is the End (or is it...) Robin Hoods Bay

Happy as a sheep on grass

My kind of marriage!

"Bring out your pebble!"

Moo-ving on into the Moors

OMG I am getting to old for this!  Walking all day is great if you have nothing else you want or need to do afterwards. Like eat or shower…  Or sleep or binge on Netflix...

Day 12 – Danby Wiske to Osmotherley - 19.1 km

This was another one of those plod through the fields days.  Instead of canola we had oceans of green rippling wheat to wade through.  Then it was the death defying crossing of the A19.  Nothing says tranquil walk like human frogger on a 4-lane freeway.  I think it’s important to have moments where your life passes before your eyes in order to appreciate the need for good sidewalks and pedestrian overpasses.  Surviving a freeway no sheep could cross, we headed up to Mount Grace Priory to thank god we did not become Wainwright Road Pizza.  The Priory was founded 1084 by St. Bruno – a Carthusian monk.  He and his followers believed the world to be inherently evil and filled with temptation.  Therefore, anyone belonging to this particular order was a hermit.  To achieve this, each hermit had his own deluxe cottage enclosed in high brick walls.  Quite spacious actually with personal gardens and – holy of holies – PLUMBING.  The drainage system rivaled anything the Romans came up with.  I am still trying to get my head around luxury hermit condos. Then there is the fact that they were only allowed to sleep between 2 AM and 5 AM.  Three hours sleep is ungodly but, if you are a hermit – who checks up on you if you nap?!?!  In any event, all that came to an end in 1539 when Henry VIII became too tempted by the Priory’s wealth.  Skipping through the bits where the Priory was plundered and the land sold and resold to various people of personage it finally ended up in the hands of Sir Lowithian Bell - "high priest of British Metallurgy" - and total douche bag and patron of the arts.  And why does this matter?  Well because Sir Lowithian also had a granddaughter, Gertrude, who inherited Lowithian’s fierce intellect (and wealth) and decided she would see and change the world – by camel.   My solo travelling feminist friends know exactly who I am talking about and for those who don’t, you really should.  Gertrude Bell is a billion times more fascinating than T.E. Lawrence and is the entire reason he was even in the Middle East in the first place. Highlight of this site:  being told by the ticket lady to head upstairs to the attic to check out the “Lonely Thomas Exhibit.” This happened to be a guy sitting in the attic who just wanted to talk about hand hewn wooden beams.   Onto Osmotherby and our accommodations – The Vane House.  This place is run by a 74 year old man who looks at least 20 years younger than that.  He owns half the town.  Anyway, we noticed in his office a giant framed photo of a 4 yr. old boy and assumed he was a proud grandfather.  Nope.  It’s his son.  Turns out he had been a bachelor and “property dealer” all his life.  Then, a few years back, he met a woman and decided it was time to retire and start a family.  So The Vane House is for sale if anyone wants to run a B&B and perhaps find a bodacious 30 yr. old farmer’s daughter to breed with…

Day 13 – Osmotherley to Clay Bank Top - 20.5 km

Now’s the part where we get into the Moors proper.  Nothing says Wainwright experience than a tough day roller coastering your way up and down the hills of North York.  It is a walk that I absolutely loved and would have hated if I did it in the peak of summer.  With no shade and vast open expanses it is a ground bird’s paradise and a ginger’s demise. Thankfully, I am not fair skinned but my lips have still not forgiven me for denying them salve.  This particular area is, in fact, a massive spread of privately owned land.  It is where the elite come for 3 days in autumn to shoot pheasant and grouse for around $10,000 (not including accommodations, or cooking of game.)  I was able to inadvertently flush out a number of “grouslings” so perhaps I can rent myself out this season as a game wrangler.  At the half waypoint of this walk we arrived at Carlton Bank and the most welcome Lord Stones Café.  LATTE AND SCONE TIME!!  There seriously needs to be a coffee shop every 5 km on this walk.  Happening simultaneously to this was a Hunting Dog competition just up the hill.  This meant copious amounts of dog love from Golden Retrievers and Labs who are way, way more skilled than our dogs ever will be.  We really got a kick watching them find the “sock bird,”  These dogs actually listening to their owner’s when they say “go back” or “come forward” as well as various whistle tweets to  cue “warm or cold” in getting closer to the prize.  Then it was the slog up to the “Wainstones” where, finally able to get cell reception, we called in our pick up at Clay Top.  There are no accommodations per se at this point of the Coast-to-Coast so B&B owners come and pick you up a the side of the road and then drop you back in the morning.  For this night we were staying at the West Cote in Chop Gate.  I am really loving the B&B owners at this stage in the walk.  They are all unabashedly unconventional and treat you like family.  Judy and Stuart were an absolute riot!  Judy does equine therapy with autistic kids and rescues gypsy dogs.  Stuart hangs out at the pub and feeds baby lambs.  So about the lambs…  When it is a good year, ewes will often have triplets but can only manage two.  In that case, the farmer seeks out the strongest lamb and separates him/her to be bottle-fed.  Stuart’s job is to bring the teat bucket to the lambs that are too strong for their own good and reside with the rams in a separate field.  Nothing says “SQUEAL” than arriving at your B&B and being swarmed by a flock of wool balls running to you with open hooves.  Nothing is more heart breaking than when the wool balls realize you are not in possession of the teat bucket of sustenance in which case they pee in your general direction and run away.  Dinner was at the only place in town – The Buck Inn – run by an off the grid German guy.  Everything he cooks has a pastry shell and comes with cabbage.  From the looks of him, I am pretty sure the game pie I had was from game he caught with his bare hands.  For breakfast the next morning, Judy did a full on cheese tasting platter with homemade bread and preserves.  This woman loves cheese.  I now know more about English cheeses than anyone in their right mind needs to know.  But I am not complaining.  I can’t think of too many times one gets sheep’s milk cheddar along side goat feta and Yorkshire Stilton at 8 am.

Day 14 – Chop Gate to Blakey - 14.9 km

Another spectacular day walking the moors and disturbing ground birds.  We eventually make our way to the 400 yr. old Lion Inn – a lonely isolated refuge that is the fourth highest in Britain.  This is another one of those pick up places where we overnight away from the trail and are dropped off again in the morning.  I was so tired that I just curled up in a ball on a bench and slept until our ride came.  This night had us at the August Guesthouse run by Michael and Mary – insanely avid bird lovers.   There are birds everywhere at this place.  Nesting in planter boxes, grazing in the lawn, chilling on the laundry line.  I have never seen so many Tits and Peckers in my life!  Mary refilled all the feeders so we could enjoy our tea gawking at the avian hordes. For dinner, Michael had to drive us into  the village of Rosedale Abbey to a pub that had the most massive wolfhound I’ve ever seen.  We saw her lying by the fireplace and at first thought she was a rug.  There was one other guest at the B&B who also came down for dinner with us.  He was doing the Cleveland Way walk as “training” for the Coast-to-Coast.  He never said much – just sat at the bar with his Songs of Fire and Ice book pounding back pints and most likely brooding over the one that has him shunning all human interaction.  All I know about him is he abhors cold food.  I know this because Mary offered to pack him a lunch for the following day.  “No thanks,” he replied curtly, “I will take a big breakfast and wait until I get to the next place for dinner.  I don’t like cold things of any sort.”  Unless, they are pints.  He seemed to like those well enough the night before.

None Shall Pass the Gauntlet of Calf Love without paying tribute with copious head scratches.

"We are the Calves of Ni!"

Some dogs actually pay attention if you dress like Sherlock Holmes

Beware of Vampire Sheep of Clay Top Bank.

GOT TEATS?

Ken lording over the Lord Stones

A  L-O-N-G and winding path...

Mt. Grace Priory

Making my way over the Wainstones

House of Gertrude 

Just another day in the wheat fields.

Sunshine and Sore Feet

It is always a relief when you reach a turning point.  The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.  No – we didn’t inadvertently walk into a railway tunnel (again). We crossed over (so to speak) from Cumbria to Yorkshire.  In other words, we bid the rain farewell and said hello to the sun.  Hallelujah.  Life is infinitely better when you no longer have wet feet.

Day 9 – Keld to Reeth – 23.1 km

Growing up I had two careers in mind – fireman or veterinarian.  I have absolutely no idea how, at the age of 7, fireman became an occupational consideration.  But I do remember why veterinarian came to be – James Herriot’s All Creatures Great and Small.  I challenge anyone who has read the books or seen the series to not want to heal large livestock in fields of green.  If that didn’t put you over the edge into large animal husbandry then being here will.  The journey from Keld to Reeth puts you right in the epicenter of James Herriot’s memoirs – with a little Tour de France thrown in.  When I imagined what the Wainwright Coast to Coast “would” be like it was this – undulating green pastures, gurgling streams, shaded woodlands etc.  All this would be dotted with pubs run by ornery dwarves and teahouses owned by elves.  Fairies would sell cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles out of little caravans pulled by unicorns.  Everyone would be wearing tweed and own at least 6 yorkies.  Today’s walk came pretty damn close to giving me all that.   We awoke to a glorious sunrise beaming into our bedroom window.  After a breakfast of kippers and poached eggs it was time to lace up and bask in the glory of all that is not rain soaked and wind battered.  Taking the low route we reached the cross roads of the Pennine Way and the Coast-to-Coast.  This is where Wainwright flipped the Pennine Way the bird and said, “No peat bogs for me!  I am off to Muker for lattes, scones and to mingle with elite road cyclists!”  (Ok – maybe I am making up the bit where AW wants a latte…)  Muker is a tiny little village with a teashop, a wool shop and a church with the Ten Commandments carved into its walls.  We had the most amazing lattes served in wedgewood china cups surrounded by sweaty road warriors.  It was pretty  obvious from the amount of Lycra on display that serving anything less than real espresso would result in a village lynching.  Then it was a delicious saunter through the valley checking out riparian wildlife and trying not to break a leg or ankle navigating the stiles.  These are very narrow gaps between rock walls for humans to pass through (theoretically…reality is much, much different) You have to climb up and over and pray to god your backpack or upper thigh doesn’t get caught  because then you are in the Aaron Ralston Wainright Experience and that just takes the walk to a WHOLE new level of intensity.   Ken was a bit gleeful about this since 1) it proved to him how slim, trim and agile he was and 2) with their full camping packs on, this meant a serious loss in lead-time for Team Holland.  Coming into Reeth we were greeted by a plethora of dogs out with their humans for good times in the fields.  We met a couple from Whitby – The Doves – who are both 90 and still walking (says a lot about the Wainwright…read into that what you will.)  They invited us for tea when we are done as we pass their way heading to the Farne Islands.  If I haven’t had to gnaw my leg off from a stile mishap I plan to take up their offer. 

Day 10 – Reeth to Richmond – 18.8 km

A few words about Reeth:  It is the capital of Swaledale and was used as the location for the TV series “All Creatures Great and Small.”  It was also one of the villages the Tour de France passed through in 2014.  This explains the abnormal amount of white with red polka dot décor on buildings as well as yellow bicycles welded to  sign posts and roof tops.  There is also a very grand and ostentatious hotel, which we did not stay in or eat at.  Instead, we stayed at the Buck Inn across the road where a meal is one one hundredth of the price and dinner dress is not enforced.  Now it is off to Richmond!  Again we had amazing weather and vistas.  We continue to be astonished at the farm animals we see.  They genuinely like to have people around and to be honest, we don’t think they are under the influence of any human domination.  For one, we never actually see a person on these idyllic farms and two, these animals look and act far too happy to be future food or labor.  So perhaps Swaledale has been colonized by sentient farm animals that build annoying stiles to keep humans in check…  If the stiles don’t get you then the 375 “Nun Steps’ from Marrick Priory will.  This is about as idyllic and spiritual as you can get – 600 yr. old stone steps laid out in a forest taking you up into the heavens (top of a swale but close enough.)  Other than the intense machine gun fire and low fighter jet fly overs it was all very serene.  Along the way we met a troop of soldiers who just sort of appeared out of no where in full combat gear and a group of very eccentric British walkers who had even less of a clue what they were doing than we did.  To be honest, any time you meet an actual Brit on these walks it goes without saying they are eccentric.  I don’t think they allow locals access to the trail unless they score high on the Asperger’s scale.   We crested the hill into Richmond just as Team Holland was pulling up from the rear (they claim they beat us but WHO TOUCHED THE SIGN FIRST?!?! )  I was going flat out because our guidebook said there were two places in town that served lattes and I was going to hit both even if I broke a leg on a stile and had to crawl my way there.  Richmond is an actual town – population of 8000+ - and has a lot of steep cobble stone streets – perfect for cyclists and walkers with bad knees.  Many we had met on the walk were taking a rest day here.  Team Holland quit here (they said something about having to get home and go to work but I am deluding myself into thinking I intimidated them with my deft tortoise racing skills.)   We did not have a rest day because we were over confident in what our legs could accomplish and completely unaware that “The Mikado” was playing at the restored Georgia Theatre.  So there was no foot massage or riotous Gilbert and Sullivan to soothe my aching bones. 

Day 11 – Richmond to Danby Wiske – 23.8 km

Another fine day weather wise but not so much walking wise.  After a gentle meander through the forests leaving Richmond it was time to pound the pavement and navigate the canola fields.  Wainwright considered this section of the walk to be the dullest and for the most part, he is right.  The upshot is that it is all flat.  Around half way, you get to a Bolton-on –Swale  - a small hamlet with a church that has treats!  You’ve got to love an old church that does pet services (as in, on Sundays at 11 am you can come to service WITH YOUR PET – and yes that includes spiders.)  It also has the grave of a certain Henry Jenkins who according to his head stone, lived to the ripe old age of 169.  Inside the church was a table with snacks, a kettle to make tea or coffee and a small fridge stocked with cold drinks. Beside that was a large world map and a box of pins for you to stick in the place you are from.  There is no one around except two red squirrels.  I am happy to report I did not burst into flames as I partook in the holy refreshments.  Then it was off to Danby Wiske and the White Swan – Wainwright's’ “Favorite” inn.  I say favorite because Wainwright actually though Danby Wiske was a bit of a s***hole and they have been trying to live that down ever since.  It is a funny little place.  Only around 40 people live here and every year they do a “class photo” on the green outside the White Swan.  There is also a large orange cat that lives at the inn who figures prominently in watercolors done by local residents.  The White Swan also has the most ales on tap I have ever seen.  They seem to have shed the Wainwright curse in that they have won three years running “Best Ale House in the Dales.”  Despite having an abnormally well stocked supply shelf, I did not see any Orc killing knives or magic potions to ward off sore feet.  I did spy dorritos.  I wonder if there is any Mountain Dew....

A little bird told me to walk this way

A bridge over non-troubled waters

Ken conquers the canola fields of doom

Mom and I got our ears pierced together

Hello!  My name is Marly.  How may I facilitate your check in process?

Herding sheep is so much easier with my quad!

Death by Dog Love

I moment to reflect on my lack of caffeine...

Gypsy Horses

I GOT NEW SHOES!!

Ken realizes his true calling is Horse Whisperer

What a coincidence!  I loved War Horse too!

Living in paradise

This is my good side!

Fresh born baby lambs are the BEST

Vogue for Wool

Another intense moment on the Wainwright

Ken making sure we don't take the high road into the bogs

Warm breath on gentle hands

Reeth!

Ahhhhh - a chance to rest my feet and eat some chips!

Richmond

More random sheep and cool old buildings

Team Holland - TOUCH THE SIGN!

Zombies have become a serious issue on the Wainwright