Day 9 - 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 8 - Snail 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 7 - 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 6 - 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 5 - 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 4 - 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 3 - 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 2 - 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 1 - 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 0 - 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.

 

Starting to get ready to prepare...

Its the middle of Wednesday afternoon.  It's not that I'm counting the hours 'till Mike and I set off to walk from coast to coast (there are there are sixty six and three quarters between now and the off), but I am starting to feel demob-hapy. I cannot, in point of fact, wait.

I have the day off work to do a lot of running around and sorting of things out.  Dog to vets, paperwork to the bank, car to the fixer-upper and, of course, tidying and getting my 'stuff' together.

The sight of the cat nestling in the centre of cloth-porridge on the sofa which represents the multiple loads of washing I did on the weekend but haven't yet sorted and folded, along with the utter and indescribable chaos that surrounds me once I manage to ease my way in to my little office would daunt the most determined soul on the best of days. But not me. And not today.

Prepare yourself, mess, for I shall vanquish you this very day.

I only hope Ive got the energy left afterwards to walk up the stairs to bed!