This morning The Buck House Hotel looked like a bomb had hit it after the previous night’s party. We had a decent breakfast though, after which we waved ‘bye ‘bye to Amanda, as she sped off back to London in a wheel spin of gravel and burning tyres, rather too hastily it seemed to me.
We set off on the long march through the Vale of Mowbray to our next destination, Park House guest house in Ingleby Cross.
I’m afraid I can’t think of anything remotely humorous to say about this stretch. It was just a hard, painful route march across one unremittingly flat field after another, punctuated by some long stretches down country lanes.
after 8 miles of plodding, we had to cross a filed that contained a herd of bulls – yes, bulls – which took an instant dislike to Sally. Following this encounter, which required Lia and Spike to ford a stream to avoid them, we decided it would be best if Lia took Sally entirely by road for the next five miles.
Of course, Spike, Emma and I met not one single bull, sheep, cow or goat on that particular stretch.
We met up at Danby Wiske and stopped for lunch outside the pub, where we had a nice cup of tea, and then set off for the final ten miles.
On the way we hit the lowest point of he walk (geographically) since starting out from St Bees, at around 58 metres above sea level.
We finally reached our guest house at five thirty, nine and a half hours after setting off from Richmond. And what a complete contrast it is to our previous stopover. Right in the middle of nowhere, quiet as the grave, and no bouncers required.
We weren’t in the best condition as we shambled in; I can’t feel my big toes any more, and my ankles have swelled up. I don’t think the others have fared much better.
At least we’ve hit our third and final National Park, the Yorkshire Moors.
Tomorrow we set off for our most desolate and remote section of the trip so far, Blakey Ridge, absolutely slap bang in the middle of nowhere. So forgive me if there’s no blog tomorrow morning as I don’t expect there to be much of a signal. Or any technology whatsoever.
FIFTY MILES TO ROBIN HOOD’S BAY!!!
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Blister count: We’ve lost count
Consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 12 out of a possible 13
Arguments: Too tired to care
Cowpats trodden in: three (all by Emma)
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