The Lazy Cherub Enigma: Orton

Showing posts with label Orton. Show all posts

Sunday, 7 June 2015

Walk on. Walk Hard.

There is no rest for the wicked and that is a good thing after all the chocolate and blue cheese. Time to lace up and suffer for your sins! I should have buns of steel after this trip…

Day 7 – Orton to Kirkby Stephen – 24.1 km

One thing I need to mention about Orton is their strange obsession with “scarecrows.” Outside of every house and business are life-sized dolls that look frighteningly real. Apparently, every year there is a contest for best scarecrow. Since no crops are grown in this area I am at a loss to the significance of this. That said, I seem to remember an episode of “Taboo” that profiled a man who lives nearby who has an obsession with silicone love dolls. Maybe he is the village mayor? But enough weirdness – time to hit the paths! You know you are off to a good start when right away you take the wrong road out of town. We walked 2 km before a man fixing his roof says “Are you walkers? If so, you are on the wrong path.” Great. Just great. I so need more useless kilometers to make my days meaningful. Soon enough the day did turn out great because...PONIES!!! How can you not love a flock of little ponies to amble through? There are still sheep but we’ve begun to transition into other loveable undulates. We are now entering the world of James Herriot. Sun shining. Fields of buttercups. Farm animals that actually look healthy, happy and not covered in flies and manure. Things were bright and sunny until mid-afternoon where we took a wrong turn (again) and shortly thereafter ended up in another rainstorm. Thought we might get some respite in a tunnel under the railway but that turned out to be a vortex chamber straight from hell. We arrive at our B & B in Kirkby Stephen as per usual – soaking wet and in need of tea and scones. Thankfully, the landlady provides just that at 4 pm in the front parlor. After we shower and change into our finest crap dinner trekking attire, we partake in the British custom of jams, clotted cream and awkward socializing. Then it is off to dinner. God I was SO HUNGRY. By now it was raining so hard I could barely muster the will to walk 20 feet to the Spar supermarket to get a sandwich. We really wanted a hot meal and with Kirkby Stephen being an actual town that should have been an easy feat. There were, after all 3 pubs, 2 chippies, a Chinese AND an Indian takeaway to choose from. Well no – there actually wasn’t. This was Monday and that meant pretty much every food place was closed except for one pub that only had one kitchen person. My blood sugar was at an all time low and I was dealing with so much wind and rain that 5 minutes into our dinner search, I was soaked to the skin – again. One thing you do a lot of when you walk forever in a day is fantasize about the fantastic hot meal you will have at the end of it. One thing that tips you right over the edge is when you realize that said hot fantasy meal is just not going to happen. So on the brink of hypoglycemic insanity I drag my soaking wet body back to the Spar where I see the shelves pretty much empty except for 2 bacon and cheese sandwiches and a couple of boil-in-a-bag stew packets for half price. I have never fantasized about boil-in-a-bag stew and room temperature Strongbow but I guess I am now. Get back to our room, which is now like a sauna because we had cranked the radiators up to inferno level to dry our clothes. Can’t open any windows because the landlady has them all glued shut to keep the gypsies out. It is so hot in the room the air is not moving so I have an anxiety attack and start ripping my clothes off. Ken wraps me in bath towels soaked in cold water (yeah I know – I started out cold, wanted to be warm, now I want to be cold – IT’S CRAZY THAT WAY ON THE WAINWRIGHT!). So there I am on the floor of our room in my underwear, draped in a wet bath towel eating cold boil-in-a-bag stew, drinking luke warm cider. Ken is so hot he decides to cool off by going back out into the storm to go to Spar and get a cold Diet Coke. Problem is, the landlady won’t let him out because there really are gypsies in town and she wants to keep the doors permanently bolted until they leave. Our night ends with us both having cold showers and realizing we have just lived a "Little Britain" skit gone horribly wrong.

Day 8 – Kirkby Stephen to Keld – 17 km

I can sum up this day in four words: Rain and road kill. So remember that rainstorm from yesterday? Well, it was thriving the next morning and we had to endure that for the entire 17 kilometers. The route from Kirkby Stephen to Keld is where one can see the 9 Standards, an ancient man-made structure, featured prominently in Wainwright’s memoirs. Problem is even on a good day, the trek up and out of there is seriously boggy. So much so that in bad weather you are advised to not take that route lest you be swallowed alive by the peat bogs (and it happens – people sink up past their knees on a regular basis and need to be rescued or worse, they sink and then fall over and suffocate.) Our guide book provided us with an “extreme weather alternative” route which we took because dying in a peat bog was just not how we envisioned our last moments together. This route was simply 6 hours of road walking in pounding sleet and wind. Arrived at the Keld Hotel, which is the only place in Keld other than a yurt camp down the road. Our bathroom had a parabolic heating fan above the toilet. You pull the string and for 10 minutes it blast hot air onto you. Then it shuts off and resets for 30 minutes. Every 30 min we sat on that toilet together blasting ourselves with hot goodness. When we couldn’t do that we sat in a fetal position leaning against the radiator. It was one of those I love/hate my life moments. I don’t even remember what we ate that night other than it was not boil-in-a-bag and there were warm buns involved.

Way to go, Bessie - another section of Hadrian's Wall bites the dust.

The Master at work

I can't even... So done with rain. So done.

My pretty pony

PONIES!

Red spotted wool is so in for 2015.

Thursday, 4 June 2015

No Pain No Gain

We are now at the moment on the Wainwright Trail where we fully appreciate there really is no such thing as “leisure walking.” The past few days in the Lake District were all an elaborate ruse to get us to Patterdale in order to begin what our guide book says is “the toughest day in the whole trek and it remains tough even if you opt for the bad weather alternative route.” That’s right people – time to “Woman Up” and feel those hip flexors in action.

Day 5 – Patterdale to Shap – 28.4 Km.

This was the day we were dreading and why Ken needed his beauty sleep because, man, was he stressed out. He must have stared at the contour maps for 4 hrs. the night before trying to work out how in the hell we would make it to our next destination without search and rescue being called out. To make matters worse, we were expected to arrive in Bampton Grange to be shuttled by car to Shap for our lodgings. Our trip notes told us that the driver was expecting us between 4 and 5 pm. At our current rate of slogging up and down the fells, we knew we had not a hope in hell of reaching Bampton before 6 pm and that was if we never stopped to eat or heed the call of nature. If Ken had his way we would have started walking at 6 am but thankfully, the White Lion did not start breakfast service until 8 am so I got to have some beauty sleep! Again – another surreal pub moment. NO ONE WAS AT BREAKFAST in the morning! This completely freaked Ken out. He was convinced everyone else who was walking had forgone food and left at the crack of dawn. The waitress thought it was hilarious we were even up this early to start. Needless to say, we were on the trail by 8:30 and, thankfully, doing so in good weather. Another good thing – the epic climbing was at the beginning of the route and not at the end. It was a steady ascent up to Angle Tarn – the half way point to Kidsty Pike –, which is the half way point for our day. I was feeling pretty good now that I had trekking poles but still, I was not a mountain goat like Ken. This would have been fine except “Team Holland” (a young Dutch couple doing the Coast-to-Coast for their honeymoon) passed us (again) and Ken’s competitive streak came out. “ Team Holland passed us AGAIN. You need to pick it up if we are going to make it in time for our taxi ride,” he tells me. I burst out crying. “We just had this talk last night about how bad I feel I can’t keep up with you and you said it wasn’t an issue. Now you’re saying it is.” It does not help that during this time another couple who are RUNNING this route pass us as well. This is when I realize that Ken has been gauging our performance for the past 4 days based on our ability to keep ahead of people half our age. “A.W. SAYS YOU NEED TO MEANDER AND SAVOUR THE DAMN WALK!!,” I sob, “THIS ISN’T THE GOD DAMN TOUR DE WAINWRIGHT!” Then Ken hands me a Snickers bar and we hug because what else can you do when there is still 20 km to go and you’re trying to race the rain clouds. We summit Kidsty Pike along with a dad and his 5-year-old daughter (day trippers mind you so it really doesn’t count). It’s freezing cold plus we realize that the descent down is a steep vertical drop covered in boulders. Most sane people go back the way they came in but being Coast to Coasters, what goes up must come down and what you gain on one end you lose on the other. I was never so happy to have trekking poles as I was this day. After what seemed like forever we made it to the bottom and begin our “stroll” along Haweswater. Not much to report on those 4 hours. Just more undulating rocky terrain and quiet sobbing. Eventually you come to a very eerie "model village” called Burnbanks. Honest to god this place was straight out of a Twilight Zone episode. It only ever existed for workers to live when the Haweswater Dam was being built in the 1930’s. The look and feel reminded us of a Hutterite colony. As we pass “Aragon Campsite” we see a forest carpeted in blue bells – and an “honesty box” filled with treats. Lured in by candy bars and soda, we get a second wind and decide we can push straight through to Shap. Who could resist a walk through “The Hobbit Forest?” It was well worth the diversion. It was exactly what you’d expect a Hobbit forest to look like. There were even Oreo Cookie cows! Then reality set in and we realized that Shap was still another 2 hrs. walk and it was approaching 6 pm and the 25 km mark. It seemed like forever until we reached Shap Abbey where holy upon holies – ANOTHER HONESTY BOX! This one even had Budweiser, Strongbow and Mars bars! I honestly needed about 8 Mars bars and 6 Strongbow at this point. Then it was into Shap - the longest most boring village ever. Main Street went on for an eternity and of course, our lodgings where at the very end in the Kings Arms, the pub where “common people” congregate to drink heavily and curse loudly over games of pool. Upshot – the next day of the walk began right across the street. We had 20 minutes to get food before the kitchen closed and the heavily intoxicated bar brawling began. Thus ended a 30 km day and Ken’s realization that I am – in fact – a god damn fell walking machine of awesomeness.

Day 6 – Shap to Orton - 14.2 km

Because we marathoned our way to Shap we now had a more humane 12 km to get to Orton – “a quaint unknown village with a number of surprises for walkers.” I won’t kill you with suspense. The surprise is chocolate and you will be reminded of it constantly by all the little placards that dot the route from to Shap. This area is also known for its ancient stone circles and Robin Hood’s Grave which isn’t even his grave and is impossible to find so no one bothers and heads straight for the chocolate. There is also an interesting geological feature that looks like ancient pavement stones laid out by giants as well as warnings to keep dogs on leash at all times lest they be shot for disturbing ground nesting birds. And just to prove how serious you need to take those warnings there are also more signs letting you know there are CCTV cameras watching you. I almost wanted someone to release their dog just so I could see what sort of drone technology the Wainwright Trail employed to protect its ground swallows. Arrived in Orton by mid afternoon and stopped at a cafe for what was the worst latte ever but the best carrot cake ever. Small rant: Brits cannot do coffee and they definitely cannot do a latte. Lattes here are coffee flavored hot milk. No one actually uses espresso beans – just a shot of regular coffee. How can a café catering to cyclists and very bitchy walkers NOT have espresso beans? I did find a copy of Alfred Wainwright’s biography on the take-a-book shelf so again; I was clearly meant to be here. Though why A.W. would want me to swallow a crap latte for enlightenment purposes is beyond me. Or is it? Crap lattes means one has to load up on dark chocolate at the shop…. Hmmmmm….. Dinner was lamb burger topped with blue cheese and mint sauce. Sounds good doesn’t it? Wrong. It was a lamb patty from Tesco on a white hamburger bun that I have not seen used since 1973. Blue cheese was a giant slab cut and put on the bun – not melted. Like the latte it was one of those “just how much can I not try in making this” dining efforts. What was lost in the dining experience was gained in the bedroom. Size does matter. We had a room that had 6 beds in it and enough empty floor space to hold a German Techno Rave. Team Holland got the closet.