Coast to Coast: Ennerdale Bridge to Rosthwaite, 14 miles, Wednesday 9th June

A couple of apologies. First for not posting this morning. Technology hasn’t yet made it to Rosthwaite; there was no mobile signal, and no broadband at the hotel.

Second apology is for the naff Tolkien poem at the start of yesterday’s blog. I was looking for a quote on the internet that went something like “and so, Bilbo Baggins and his faithful band of followers, set off for the far hills, on a journey which would change their lives forever”

Unfortunately I only had time to find that poem, as the courier was demanding to take the bags on to our next hotel, so I went with the first thing I could find.

I didn’t realise what a pants poet Tolkien actually was, until yesterday. You might also have mistaken me for a sword-and-sorcery fan. Which is quite the opposite, as I really dislike all that Tolkien Hobbit Pratchett wizard nonsense stuff. Quite a lot.

Anyway, that’s the apologies out of the way so I can begin today’s blog.

The weather was dull and drizzly in the morning, as we’ve become used to  by now. But this didn’t detract from a very pleasant stroll along the south shore of Ennerdale Water. But this was followed by what I can only describe as a dull, agonising and long (five mile) trudge up through Ennerdale forest to the head of the valley, where we finally stopped for lunch at the Black Sail Youth Hostel (no youths though; just the usual grey and silver tops). Tea making stuff was available, and Emms made what I can only describe as the very best cup of tea I think I’ve ever had. Even though the water was lukewarm and I know (but didn’t actually witness) that she’d probably poured the tea in first, then added the milk, rather than the other way round. But I was too tired to complain.

Once some semblance of feeling had returned to my feet, we set off for the mostly vertical ascent towards Seatoller. This was definitely the first real challenge of the walk, every other pain experienced previously, paling by comparison.

Finally we got to the Honister Pass, and descended towards Rosthwaite, our next destination.

We’re staying in the Scafell Hotel, actually quite a charming (think: fading genteel) hotel, with proper food in the posh restaurant. So in the evening we treated ourselves to a very nice four course meal. Certainly better than Lasagne, Cumberland Sausage, or Fish & Chips, which has been the standard fare of everywhere we’ve stayed at so far.

And of course they served Catnap Bitter, which is my favourite beer.

A word about some of the fellow Coast To Coast travellers (or Coasters) that we’ve met on the way.

Some are OK, some are irritating, but we don’t know their names so of course, we invent names. Here are a few;

First off there’s Captain Beaky, a chap with a huge nose and the most miserable personality you can imagine. He complained at the Shepherd’s Arms Hotel (see last blog) because they’d run out of Lasagne, or Cumberland Sausage, or whatever he and his wife had set their hearts on. He continued to complain the following morning while checking out, and I rather hoped that the manager would hit him.

Then there’s Striding Man, constantly overtaking us and getting on Amanda’s nerves. Most fast walkers overtake you, say hello, then you never see them again. But Striding Man’s family also couldn’t keep up with him, so he’d stride past, hang about somewhere up front, then about twenty minutes later he’d be striding past again.

Finally of note were the two American Grey Tops, Yank #1 and Yank #2, who have been deliberately trailing us from St Bees, presumably because they couldn’t be bothered to read the map and figure out where to go for themselves. If we stopped, they stopped. When we moved off again, they moved off again. It was like being stalked, and became extremely irritating, particularly to Sally Dog, who decided that they were part of our group, and kept pulling us back to let them catch us up (this is all part of Sally’s herding instinct, to ensure there’s no stragglers left behind). I felt like waving my stick at them and shouting “GERROUTOFIT!!”, like you do to frighten away cattle, but eventually I told them to watch out for the Ennerdale Grizzly Bears, and they finally took the hint. We haven’t seen them since checking in at Rosthwaite.

So, dinner was very pleasant, washed down with a few bottles of fine wine and a small glass of port.

Tomorrow we’re off to Grasmere, a short walk (relatively) of eight miles via Calf Crag, Gibson Knott and Helm Crag.

Blister count: 1 (Lia)

Consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 3

Arguments: 0