The truth behind the legend of the Minotaur

The Creative Writing Course couldn’t have ended any other way. Put a bunch of Scribblers in the same room, and guess what! It didn’t matter how big the room was. The egos had landed.

But the back room of The Pig & Whistle was just about the smallest venue Jim could have chosen for their end of course closing party.

Earlier in the day there’d been the review of their dramatic offerings by the Literary Agent drafted in for the purpose.

It’s not a competition, the course tutor had said.

It’s not about the winning.

It’s the taking part.

It’s not that the Agent didn’t like them.

And on and on.

Easy for a published author to say. Harder on the Creatives.

But there could only be one winner, and the Agent’s decision had been final. Everyone shaking their heads in astonishment.

The tensions had been building all week. The pleasantries spoken between the students masking bitter jealousies, unspoken sarcasms. Jim’s assumption that all writers spent their lives in attics, brooding over yellowing parchments, quill pens scratching away to the light of a guttering candle, their eyesight gradually failing, was somewhat far from the truth.

Some of them were quite handy with their fists, as well.

He wished he’d taken Pauline (whose idea this had all been) to one side, pointed out the risks involved, the inevitability of personalities poised to clash.

But in the end, a general vote had carried the idea.

Fancy dress and an open mike session at The Pig & Whistle for the last night!

Jim had gone along with it, despite his deep misgivings.

Most of the students agreed that his and Pauline’s beef-and-horse themed costumes were spot on. In fact, they’d been the only outfits left in the party shop.

Jim should have predicted how Bob the Butcher (who’d called his entry for the competition “The Steakhouse Incident”) would have reacted.

The open mike session had soon deteriorated, Trevor’s sarcastic remarks directed at the competition winner finally bringing the week’s barely concealed tensions to boiling point.

And now, as Jim dragged the drunken Pauline out of the pub, he wished he’d been firmer.

His lasting image was of the pub landlord’s hands as he’d ejected them from the premises, the intended message clearly conveyed;

Don’t any of you ever come back again!

The Nurse and The Patient

Nurse Anna stood by the open window of The West London Hotel’s penthouse suite, smoking a cigarette. Seven floors below, the rush hour traffic was at a standstill. It was early evening, and the hotel was busy that night, as it always was. But not on the seventh floor, which had been cleared of all other guests. Security guards outside the penthouse slouched on sofas in the foyer, reading magazines, one eye on the movements of the pretty nurse assigned to the room’s sole occupant.

The wail of a distant police siren cut through Anna’s thoughts. She inhaled deeply, and considered the very special patient committed to her care that evening.

The patient, an old woman, had once been a significant figure in the politics of the country. She’d been taken ill a few weeks ago, but rather than attend a nursing home or private hospital, the old woman had decided to convalesce in the wealth and luxury of one of the best hotels in London, an option not available to the majority of Britons approaching the end of their lives.

Anna wished her own parents could have enjoyed the rude good health and long life that God had granted the old woman.

Thirty years ago, Anna’s mother had been a singer, a beautiful and popular entertainer well known in the clubs around Yorkshire. Her father had been a miner at the local Orgreave colliery. Anna’s parents loved each other, and their daughter, very much.

Anna had been three years old at the time, but the images of those shell shocked days of strikes and protest were burnt forever into her thoughts. She remembered the baton charges of the police against the protestors. She’d watched as her father had been singled out from the other demonstrators and beaten so badly he’d been hospitalised for months. It changed him.

Soon afterwards, the pits closed, and her father lost his job, along with thousands of others. Anna’s once happy household disintegrated. She remembered the arguments and recriminations, the long silences, the tears. Her father had walked out a few months later, breaking all contact with his family.

Anna’s mother never sang again.

Years later, Anna heard of her father’s death. His body had been discovered in a derelict house in Leeds, empty bottles of cheap spirits surrounding the corpse. They said he’d probably been there a few weeks, months, maybe.

The image of his decaying body dissolved into the view of the stalled traffic below the window. Anna flicked the cigarette into the night, watched it drift slowly down until it disappeared from sight, then turned and made her way to the bedroom where the old woman was sleeping.

She checked the old woman's pulse, and found none.

Reflection

This was the spot. Brian was sure of it. The bulldozers had already taken most of the old familiar reference points; the Palace Cinema, first victim of the wrecking ball; the Railway Tavern, on the corner of Station Road and Manchester Road; the UCP Tripe shop next door. All gone. It would have been impossible for Brian to find the spot but for the partly demolished Co-Op Laundry building, still standing at the centre of the demolition site.

 

For the next few days, at least.

 

The ground was soaked and muddy, grey sky puddles reflecting the twisted lattice girders of the shattered old laundry. Brian loosened his collar. That morning’s flash thunderstorm had left the air hot, still and oppressive. The storm had moved south, probably halfway through Cheshire by now, soaking the stuck up residents of Wilmslow and Alderley Edge.

 

‘The rain it raineth every day,’ hummed Brian, ‘Upon the Just and Unjust fellow. But more upon the Just because, the Unjust hath the Just’s umbrella.’ He’d always liked that little poem; the vindication of crime with a little humour. He turned and paced out fifty yards from the front entrance of the shattered laundry to where he thought the small cobbled yard at the back of his first home would have been.

 

Wilmslow was where Joyce’s mum and dad had lived. Naturally, when Brian and Joyce were courting, he’d never dreamt of taking her to the Railway Tavern, or the Bricklayer’s Arms down the road, or even the Midland Hotel on Burnage Lane. Beer might have been one shilling and eleven pence a pint in those pubs back then, but those pubs weren’t for the likes of Joyce.

 

No; for Joyce, it was chicken in the basket at the Berni Inn, Didsbury. Or scampi and chips in the Dog and Partridge next door. Beer was three times the price in those places, “Establishments,” as Joyce’s dad used to call them. But needs must, his own dad used to say.

 

When The Devil Drives, thought Brian.

 

It hadn’t taken long after their marriage for Brian to realise his mistake. You can’t marry outside your class, his dad said. If only he’d dispensed his sage, nodding, pipe smoking, after the fact, stable-door-locked-too-late-the-horse-has-bloody-well-bolted advice a bit sooner!

 

The arguments. The neediness of material possession. The cramped little terraced house behind the laundry that they’d rented for twenty years, waiting, scrimping, saving for the deposit on a semi-detached house fit for Joyce, from Wilmslow, Cheshire.

 

Brian still recalled their arguments, sometimes violent, the hatred always simmering just below the surface; a cruel retort, a door slammed, the silent replay of how he could have won the day with a smart response always delivered too late, always delivered to an empty kitchen or parlour.

 

And then she was gone.

 

Brian put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the puddle. Just another old fool reminiscing over lost times and happy days. The pool of water obscured most of the ground, but he thought he could make out the foundations of the walls surrounding the yard.

 

He should have done this months ago, when he’d first heard the area was being redeveloped.

 

Never mind, he thought, this particular stable door’s still open at least. He’d come back after dark with a pick and shovel and get Joyce. He placed a brick, upright in the centre of the puddle to mark the spot, and walked away.

Two years!!

It's been two years. More than that actually - two years, four months and two days since I last posted a blog. Even by my standard that's considerable procrastination.

Excuses have always been in plentiful supply though. Let's have a closer look at some of them.

"I'm working all the time, and too tired when I get home to do anything other than watch Midsomer Murders, or fall asleep, or most likely, both."

To be fair to Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby, I've made it through the entire two hours more often than not. On the occasions when I have drifted off, I usually wake up in time for the denouement, to realise that missing around two thirds of the programme hasn't made the slightest difference to my understanding of the plotline.

The program which works its soporific magic on me better than a bottle of Tamazapam is, without question, "Who Do You Think You Are?" I'm usually out cold well before the minor celebrity in search of his or her past has finished that first conversation with Auntie Betty about the mysterious second great uncle twice removed who left Stevenage for a better life running a cotton plantation in St Lucia, thus providing said lucky minor celeb cum amateur genealogist with an all expenses paid holiday in the Carribean.

But I digress. I'm not working any more. In fact, I might even be retired! It's hard to tell when your a freelance worker. Am I having an extended "rest" between contracts? Or is this it? It's a bit like giving up smoking. I last had a cigarette in 1996 (September 14th, 2pm to be precise, at the A14 Service Area). But have I really given up? Once a smoker, always a smoker? Only on my death bed (if I make it that far) will I truly be able to say 'I gave up smoking!!'

So not working has given me plenty of time to write. Sadly no. You see, all the inspiration comes from the characters and situations I meet on a daily basis at the workplace, so that's it - no more inspiration.

"There are so many chores which I have set aside to complete during these resting periods between contracts."

How attractive these chores suddenly seem compared to sitting at the PC, staring at a blank Word document. I've been off for four months now. New kitchen cupboards have been put up; the spare bedroom has been repainted; every item in the house has been cleaned, fixed, patched, polished, painted, re-arranged, dug, planted, weeded, tidied, taken to the tip or handed in to the Charity Shop.

That just leaves the cars to be washed, but really! I do have some principles left.

"Writing is antisocial." Lia works from home and it's extremely rude of me to lock myself away for hours on end, when instead I could be distracting her from running her own business and making money for me to spend. Those cups of tea don't make themselves you know!

Lia's suggestion is to pack me and the laptop off to the pub to do my creative writing over a pint. So far I haven't taken up this golden opportunity (I still have a few other excuses outstanding). I've a feeling she wants me out of the house for a bit, and anyway, it sounds like a bit of a slippery slope to me. I expect that's how Dylan Thomas became an alcoholic.

'Look you Dylan,' (for that is how I imagine Caitlin Macnamara would have addressed her husband), 'why don't you just pop down to the Sailors Arms and finish off that "Under Milk Wood" thing you've been fretting about for months! Just one pint now!'

But Lia's been away in Italy since last Tuesday, visiting family. It was 10:30 when we arrived at Heathrow Terminal 5 departures bay; I remember because Ken Bruce's Pop Master had just started on Radio 2.

'I'm really going to miss you this week,' said Lia tenderly, as we pulled into a free space.

'DIDO!!' I shouted, for this was indeed the correct answer to question one of Pop Master.

'And don't forget to blog!' she added. 

Well I've tried. Every morning, sitting at the PC with a nice, clean, fresh, blank Microsoft Word document displayed on the screen, but inspiration? None.

Now a week has gone by, Lia flies back tonight, and not a single sentence written. I'm so sorry to have let her down. It would seem that I'm just not the writing type, after all.

Resting, retiring or just wasting time?

You will have noticed that the days since my last blog entry have become weeks. When the weeks became months, I thought it best to stop the rot before the months turned into years.

It certainly beats job hunting. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d be better off putting my job applications into bottles and throwing them into the sea, than emailing recruitment consultancies. The responses would be pretty similar to the ones I’m getting at the moment.

Quiz question: how many replies did Sting get to his message in a bottle?

Answer at the end of the blog.

Maybe, seeing as the festive season is approaching, I should write a letter to Santa, outlining my relevant experience to date, projects managed, blue chip companies worked at, and daily rate expectations.

Then I’d set fire to it and throw it up the chimney, just like I used to do when I was a five year old back in the sepia coloured days of my Manchester childhood.

The only real flaw that I can see in this approach, in all honesty, is the fact that I don’t have a chimney. I think it would make a bit of a mess of the central heating.

“Dear Santa. I am a highly motivated and commercially aware Prince2 accredited project management professional, with a proven track record of digging other people’s tragically misguided projects out of the mire, and getting them back on track, whilst at the same time using my gift for concealing the massive budget overspends I’ve inherited, behind a blinding set of spreadsheets which conclusively prove that black is indeed, white. Please send me a job for Christmas.

PS I’ve also got my eye on the new Keith Richards’ autobiography, and maybe a couple of CDs as stocking fillers. Regards, Chris”

In the meantime, I had a very pleasant weekend in Bournemouth with Diane and Malcolm, a couple of friends from the village, who have decided to live down there. On Saturday we took a stroll along the beach, from Alum Chine to Sandbanks and back. Sandbanks is at the end of a short spit of land, with magnificent views of Poole Harbour, and Brownsea Island in particular. Diane told us that Sandbanks had some of the most expensive property in the country, and was indeed, if proof were needed, the home of Harry Redknapp.

I nodded sagely, whilst wondering to myself if I should know who Harry Redknapp was, and at what point in his life – presumably when he became a millionaire – did his (or his neighbours’) sense of taste and elegance abandon him. Doric columns and Ponderosa style mansions seem to define the self made millionaire, but are not my sort of thing.

In the evening we had dinner at The Coffee Club, a charming little restaurant on the high street in Westbourne. I’d certainly recommend the dish that I had, if only I could remember what it was. My memory lapse probably had something to do with the several bottles of house red which accompanied the meal.

ANSWER TO THE QUIZ QUESTION: More than I’ve had responses to my job applications.

Coast to Coast: The end

It’s been a month since we completed the walk. I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on our adventure and consider the big questions: would I do it again? Was it a life changing event? Will my feet ever return to normal?

But first, Wednesday 23rd June: the day after the end of the walk.

I awoke quite late, with a bit of a hangover, not surprisingly considering the amount we’d had to drink the night before.

After breakfast we drove Spike and Emma to Scarborough railway station, in time for their 10:47 train back to Nottingham. Lots of emotional hugs and kisses ensued, but eventually Emma and Lia prised Spike & I apart and we said our farewells.

Our own drive back to Hertfordshire was quiet, mainly due to Lia and Sally both being spark out asleep in the car for almost the entire journey. I had a little doze as well, but it was perfectly safe because I was driving an Audi.

We unpacked, had a cup of tea and remarked how small the house now seemed. After about an hour I was outside again, walking Sally around the fields for an hour or so. We had an early night; and that was that.

Looking back, was it a life changing experience for me?

Well, it was certainly a foot changing experience. Luckily I’ve not increased a shoe size, which is a relief, but I still can’t feel the tips of some of my toes. I eventually lost the nail on one of them, but happily a brand new nail had been growing underneath all along.

From a culinary point of view, it’ll be a long long time before I’ll be able to face Steak & Ale Pie, Fish & Chips, Lasagne (meat or veg), Cumberland Sausage & Mash, or indeed any other pub grub.

What will stay in our memories?

Dent Fell, the first tough climb of the walk, just before Ennerdale Bridge; eating the equivalent of my own body weight in chips at the White Lion in Patterdale; Spike getting food poisoning in Shap; being smothered in matronly care by the Landlady at Jolly Farmers Guest House; watching helplessly as an expensive bottle of champagne exploded across the bar of Weatherspoon’s in Richmond; my five second down-in-one pint at the Lion Inn on Blakey Ridge; feeling like an extra in Fawlty Towers at Grosmont House; our first glimpse of the North Sea; the moment we walked into the sea at Robin Hood’s Bay. Plus great scenery, excellent companionship and many other experiences that words can’t describe.

Would I do it again? My original response when people asked me this, was “No.” It was hard work and now I’ve done it, so why bother doing it again?

Four weeks on and I’m giving a different answer. The pain has faded, the toenails have grown back and I’m pretty certain I would do it again, but with some important changes, thanks to the benefit of hindsight.

I wouldn’t walk forty five miles in two days, for a start.

I wouldn’t do the spirit sapping forest trudge from Ennerdale Bridge to the Black Sail hut, for another (I’d climb up over the top, via Hay Stacks and Buttermere Fell, whatever the weather conditions) and I’d vary some of the route. We faithfully followed Wainwright’s walk, but there’s a million variations, and the Old Man himself would have encouraged everyone to find their own way to Robin Hood’s Bay.

I certainly wouldn’t do it in reverse. The climax of the walk, along the cliffs towards Robin Hoods Bay and the Bay itself, is so much better than the anticlimax that would occur if the end point was St Bees. The whole place would probably be closed, like it was when we arrived there.

I think we might be doing some of it again anyway, as I’m sure Spike will decide to complete the twenty three mile section from Orton to Keld that he missed. I don’t think we’d be staying at the Greyhound pub in Shap, though.

Before I finally draw a line beneath the adventure, a few thanks are in order.

First and most importantly, to my wife Lia, for putting up with my grumpy morning moods (morning being defined as from me waking up until just before that first post perambulatory pint); for editing this blog, in particular by removing all the bad language and taking out the more libellous comments pertaining to Julia Bradbury; for adding in the pictures at the right points in the story, and finally for begging various landlords to divulge their broadband passwords, connecting up to the internet to post the blog and for generally making all that technical stuff just “happen”

I’d also like to thank my other fellow travellers, Spike, Emma and Amanda, for being the most entertaining of companions and for contributing much of the material for this blog (not the funniest bits, obviously).

Thanks also to Sally Dog, for shepherding us relentlessly along the way, for overcoming the most difficult and malicious stiles that some of the farmers had constructed in an attempt to block our path and for probably covering nearer three hundred miles altogether, without a single complaint.

I’d also like to thank:

Captain Beaky and his long suffering wife, Striding Man and his forgotten family, the American Ladies (Yanks #1 & #2), Yellow T-Shirt man, and the many other minor characters who failed to make it into the blog, for providing unintentional comic relief;

The Sherpa Van Company, who successfully transferred our bags from one lodging house to the next without losing a single one, and who generally helped us to organise the whole adventure;

Crookes Healthcare Ltd, manufacturers of Neurofen pain killer tablets, which I was popping like Smarties throughout most of the holiday;

Larry at Ekulibrium for kicking me into some semblance of shape in the months leading up to June;

and finally the great man himself, Alfred Wainwright, for showing us the way.

So that’s it! Hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chris P

PS keep checking the blog every now and then, as I will be posting regularly. At least, that’s my intention.

Coast to Coast: Grosmont to Robin Hood’s Bay, 14 miles, Tuesday 22nd June, Journey’s End

So this was it. The final leg of our journey. After the obligatory Full English Breakfast, we said farewell to our eccentric hosts, pulled on our boots for the last time, and headed off east towards Robin Hood’s Bay.

The moment we turned left out of the hotel we were faced with a steep climb of almost two miles, to get back on to the moors. As we neared the top, we had our first clear view of the sea – Whitby and its ruined Abbey - in the far distance. But soon the sea view was lost as we reached the summit of Sleight Moor. The only really difficult section was when we had to negotiate a particularly boggy area, where Emma ruined her otherwise flawless performance when she lost her footing and fell spectacularly up to her waist in the peaty, muddy stream. Luckily it was another incredibly hot and sunny day, so she soon dried off.

Wainwright has designed his Coast to Coast walk to end as it began, with a final four mile coastal section along the cliffs above Robin Hood’s Bay, before eventually descending to the sea. The additional miles are, however, definitely worth the effort, as the view of the coastline above Maw Wyke Hole was breathtaking.

Soon we were descending into Robin Hood’s Bay itself. Luckily the tide was in, so we didn’t have to walk too far before chucking the pebbles we’d collected on the beach at St Bees into the North Sea.

So that was that. The final stretch was completed in just over six hours; plenty of time to adjourn to Wainwright’s bar for a pint of Adnam’s, my favourite beer.

Other than being right on the shore of the bay though, the bar held little charm, so we moved further up the hill to a more pleasant pub for a few pints of Ruby Red ale, before finally settling in the beer garden of the hotel at the top of the hill for some Black Sheep Ale, just a short stagger to our lodgings for the night; the Clarence Dean Guest House.

Clarence Dean is a typical seaside guest house; clean rooms, a sensible and efficient landlady, and a view of the sea from our room, just visible in the distance between the roof tops of the hundreds of other, identical guest houses.

After checking in and having a quick shower, we moved to the little Bistro restaurant next door-but-one from the guesthouse for our celebration meal. We ordered a bottle of champagne which Spike opened perfectly (unlike the fiasco at the Weatherspoon’s pub in Richmond, were, you may recall, the bottle went off like a bomb).

After dinner we sat out on the patio of the restaurant until nearly midnight, enjoying another bottle or two of house red.

And what of our fellow Coasters? Well, we saw the American ladies on the coastal path, and again in the village itself, so they made it. Yellow Tee Shirt man walked into the bistro at around 9:30 in the evening, so he made it as well, I’m happy to report. The only irony being that the tide was out by then, so he must have had to walk an additional half mile to throw his own pebble into the sea.

I don’t know what happened to Striding Man, or Captain Beaky and his long suffering wife, as we never saw them again.

So concludes our adventure, but don’t worry, there will be a final wrap up blog tomorrow on my return to Hertfordshire on Wednesday afternoon, where the first thing I will do will be to head off to the Rose & Crown for a pint of Greene King IPA, which as everybody knows, is my truly favourite beer!

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Full English Breakfasts: 14 out of a possible 16

Number of completed Coast to Coast walks: 1

Coast to Coast: Blakey Ridge to Grosmont, 14 miles, Monday 21st June

Today we set off early as we had steam trains to play with at Grosmont.

Unfortunately this meant we had to sacrifice the traditional Full English, as for some reason the pub wouldn’t fire up the ovens until 8:30. So we had to make do with cereals and toast instead.

We left at just after eight, back on to the gruelling moorland path. The views were splendid and the weather was cracking, but before long I’d come to the conclusion that I’d just about reached the end of my tether. My feet, ankles, back and neck were aching; I’d not had any feeling in either of my big toes for several days; my blisters had blisters, but added to that, today my hayfever set in with a vengeance, and I was getting pains in my stomach, probably from the unaccustomed muesli and milk for breakfast, fermenting away. All in all I was rapidly becoming a bit of a wreck, to be honest.

To add insult to injury, the lay of the land meant that the path down from Blakey Ridge meandered aimlessly around, gradually descending to the dales below. The net result was that after an hour and a half trudging along, we could still see the Lion Inn, just about a mile away as the crow flies. Very dispiriting.

At midday we finally arrived at the village of Glaisdale, just as the local pub opened its doors for business. We lingered for a cup of tea and the usual sugar fix (kit kats, muesli bars etc.), and then cracked on at a much livelier pace through woodland surrounding Egton Bridge, finally arriving at Grosmont just after 2pm. We’d walked fourteen miles in just over six hours.

Grosmont isn’t really as charming as I thought it would be. Many of the villages we’d passed earlier, Egton Bridge for example, were far prettier. But Grosmont had one thing that the others didn’t possess; the fully functional, giant, oily, smelly North Yorkshire Moors Railway, complete with station, trains, sheds and a staff of enthusiastic volunteers.

After checking in at Grosmont House, our lodgings for the night, we adjourned to the Railway Hotel for a couple of pints of Lancaster Brewery Ruby Red bitter (we might have had more but the pub shut at three thirty). Afterwards we wandered around the engine sheds, watching big trains with names like “Sir Thomas Tank Engine” being filled with coal and water. They even let Spike and me on to the train itself, which was a bit geeky I suppose.

At around five thirty we returned to Grosmont House, which deserves a bit of a mention, as it’s pretty unique compared to our stopovers so far.

Grosmont House is a huge, dilapidated manor house, which probably had it’s glory days when the station was a proper station and not a tourist attraction.

Our elderly and slightly tipsy host and hostess showed us to our rooms, which were actually a small self contained cottage at the bottom of the garden, backing on to the railway station. From our cottage window you could literally touch the carriages of the Pullman, it was that close. Every time one of the massive engines entered the station (which was remarkably regularly), the whole building shook. I’d read earlier in the station itself that the engine’s boilers were fired up at 5am, so this could present us with a wholly novel new way of being woken up in the morning.

The whole place was a Trainspotter’s dream come true.

After getting ready for dinner, we strolled over to the Big House itself, where we’d been instructed that dinner would be ready at 6:30.

Mine Host clearly fancied himself as a bit of a gourmet chef, as he’d changed into his Chef’s Whites for the occasion. We were ushered into the library and offered gin and tonics all round as a sharpener before the meal, the library contained mostly railway books – Great Train Disasters, British Rail Timetables, 1963 – 1965, that sort of thing. But I did find a book dating back to around 1950 called “Teach Yourself Ventriloquism,” so I blew the dust of the cover and practised my skills on the others until Mine Host came staggering in with the tray of G & T’s, tripped over the carpet and almost lost the lot all over the coffee table. Clearly his afternoon hadn’t been wasted by merely reading the paper.

I have to say though, that dinner itself was superb. Mine Host really did know how to cook, and my lobster thermador was perfectly presented, with prawns, salmon and a salad to accompany it.

Lia’s duck in Grand Marnier was literally just that; half of a huge free range duck on a massive plate. I could barely see her over the top of it.

Spike and Emma had the chicken in a white wine sauce, which was also pretty good, I believe.

All washed down by a couple of fine bottles of chef’s house merlot.

We retired back to the library, and later back to our cottage at the bottom of the garden, where we built a fire in the grate as it was getting chilly.

And that’s how our evening ended, sitting around a blazing fire in an old converted railway cottage, on the longest day of the year, June 21st, 2010.

Lia fell asleep next to me and succeeded in pouring her glass of wine all over my trousers, at which point we decided it would be best if we retired for the night.

Tomorrow is our last walking day and the Grand Finale to the whole experience: Grosmont to Robin Hood’s Bay, the end of our journey!

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Consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 13 out of a possible 15

Consecutive Lobster Thermadors: 1

Steam Engines ridden on: 1

Glasses of wine spilt: 1

Coast to Coast: Ingleby Cross to Blakey Ridge, 21 miles, Sunday 20th June

Ah, what bliss it was to stay in Park House, our stopover at Ingleby Cross. It’s a tiny cottage, remote from the village, high up in the woods overlooking the Vale of Mowbray, with nothing to disturb it.

Yet it’s fully licensed and served the best food we’d had for days. Marvellous!!

A lovely Full English in the morning set us up for the next longest walk of the holiday; up and over the Yorkshire Moors, climbing all of the main peaks along the way.

The going was tough once again, but at least the weather was fantastic, and we had superb views in every direction; back across towards the Dales, where we’d left Richmond, and north east towards Tees Side and the coast (which I’m sure I could spot, probably somewhere around Saltburn-on-Sea.)

On the way we saw a chap on crutches struggling manfully up to Cringle Moor summit. I don’t think he was attempting the Coast to Coast; more likely he was doing part of the Cleveland Way, which shares the C2C route for around twenty miles.

‘Fair Play to him,’ I thought to myself, as I elbowed him out of my path on the way past. ‘You don’t see that every day.’

You may have noticed that I haven’t recently made mention of our travelling companions Captain Beaky, Striding Man et al. That’s because we’ve either left them behind us, or ahead of us, I expect. Or maybe they’ve dropped out, as this stretch has been no laughing matter. Either way, we’ve been virtually alone on the walk since leaving Richmond.

We stopped for a spot of lunch after we’d descended from Hasty Bank, the last of the series of peaks facing north towards Tees Side.

After lunch it was what I can only describe as a gruelling (that’s a new adjective I haven’t used before. I’m beginning to run out of them) ten mile hike across Danby Moor and Glaisdale Moor to our hostelry for the evening; the Lion Inn at Blakey Ridge. On arrival I ordered a pint of Theakston’s  Black Lion Ale (my absolute favourite), which went down so smoothly, so easily, and so fast, that I managed to get another one in before Spike had completed the order. That’s how thirsty I was.

But what about the Lion Inn?

In my mind’s eye, I’d conjured up a vision of this pub as being rather Spartan, with stone floors and wooden bunk beds, a tin bath tub to bathe in, and a stone jug to rinse your hair with.

The reality is somewhat different. The Lion Inn is what’s known in the trade as a “destination pub,” and this one was certainly the destination for hundreds of people today, especially due to it being Father’s Day and brilliant weather. The place was packed, but we managed to get a table, however we were back to the standard pub grub once more – Cumberland Sausage, Fish & Chips, Lasagne (meat or veg), Steak and Ale Pie.

I found Chicken Kiev on the menu, so I ordered that, as I hadn’t had it since the early eighties. Lia had Lasagne and Spike and Emma had Fish & Chips.

I realise I haven’t mentioned Yellow Tee Shirt Man yet. We’ve met him on and off at almost every stopover.  YTS Man travels alone. He’s very friendly, but always turns up late. He’s not really built for the task in hand if you get my meaning, and seems to have problems map reading. As every day goes by, he seems to become more and more wounded and dilapidated.

Yellow Tee Shirt Man turned up at about 9pm, having apparently been wandering around the moors since leaving Osmotheprly about twelve hours earlier. We had a discussion about his increasingly troublesome feet, then retired to bed.

I really do hope he makes it all the way.

Tomorrow we’re off to Grosmont, a “mere” fourteen mile trek, where, if we’re early enough, I’ll get to play on the vintage steam trains.

One final note; I will NEVER, NEVER, walk forty five miles in two days, EVER AGAIN!!

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Blister count: Not funny any more

Consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 13 out of a possible 14

Coast to Coast: Richmond to Ingleby Cross, 24 miles, Saturday 19th June

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)

Coast to Coast:Richmond rest day, Friday 18th June

Technically it’s Saturday 19th June, 1:30 in the morning to be precise, as I lie in bed, watching the plaster drift lazily down from the ceiling, dislodged by the endless vibrations from the juke box in the bar downstairs.

Every football fan from a thirty mile radius (the kind who thinks it’s a great idea to stick flags on both sides of his car) has assembled downstairs in the bar of The Buck Hotel to watch England’s dismal, dismal performance against the Uzbekistan Saturday Second Eleven reserve team.

Luckily the more unsavoury elements of Richmond society were not in evidence; the bouncers on the door underneath our window made sure of that.

But at least they washed their hands after going for a pee; I know this as the vibration from the hand dryer in the Gents was conducted directly up through the walls into our bedroom.

And there was me, yesterday thinking we’d got away with not being disturbed! How foolish! What a triumph of optimism over bitter experience!

While we’d been out during the day, celebrating Emma’s birthday, another flat screen TV had been installed in the Snug underneath our room, and the old men had been evicted to make room for more underage drinkers.

Smoker’s corner was directly under our window, where the punters  analysed the game at the tops of their voices, and argued with each other over who was the worst player.

It all ended at around 2am, and I finally managed to get some sleep.

Anyway, back to the rest day. Fairly leisurely really, with a visit to one or two pubs while Lia moved the car from the gypsy caravan site to our final destination in Robin Hood’s Bay (Amanda kindly followed her there in her car, and gave her a lift back to Richmond)

We took a stroll around Richmond Castle  before adjourning to the local Weatherspoons pub for a celebratory bottle of champagne. Big mistake. The dozy landlord insisted that the even dozier girl behind the bar open the bottle “as the cork might hit one of my customers”

Even as she took the wire top off the bottle we could all see the pressure start to force the cork out, but could only watch helplessly when it finally freed itself with a massive POP and took out one of the ceiling tiles. The girl screamed and just stood there watching the contents of bottle empty themselves all over the floor.

“Don’t just stand there, pour the damn thing!” I shouted at the dimwit. Which she did, but only after half the stuff had ended up on the floor.

This impressed Spike no end as you can imagine, who’d stumped up for this little luxury in the first place.

I can now, at least, happily record our first argument in the statistics; not between members of the party as I’d originally anticipated, but between me, Spike and the manager of the Weatherspoons pub in Richmond.

Sadly this is our last day with Amanda; an administrative cock up entirely of her own making prevented her from booking the full holiday required for the walk.

Amanda says farewell to us tomorrow morning (Saturday) when the remaining four of us, plus Sally, set off for the final seventy six mile push towards Robin Hood’s Bay. That’s seventy six miles in four days, possibly the most challenging section of all.

The Vale of Mowbray awaits us, on our longest stretch yet; twenty four miles in one day.

PS I forgot to mention that we’d completed our second National Park (the Dales) when we entered Richmond, so that’s another landmark completed.

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Blister count: Lia 1, Chris 1, Amada 1 HUGE one but getting better

Consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 11 out of a possible 12

Arguments: 1

Coast to Coast: Reeth to Richmond, 11 miles, Thursday 17th June

And so begins another stroll on an exceptionally sunny day, darkened only by the fact that the effects of Spike’s bout of food poisoning experience are beginning to return.

The walk to Richmond turned out to be exceptionally easy, starting with a gentle stroll along the banks of the river Swale, followed by an easy climb up Whitcliffe scar before finally descending gradually into Richmond.

We completed the stretch in just under five hours, a record time for us so far.

As you can guess, the walk was uneventful save for the occasional sympathy stop for Spike’s benefit. We passed Captain Beaky and his wife, and The American ladies (Yanks #1 & #2), who appear to be following us again. No sign of Striding Man though.

An early finish to the walk meant more time to explore Richmond and its hostelries. But first off was our own hotel, The Buck Inn, which you might recall featured in an earlier blog, when we dropped off the cars before bussing it to St Bees.

We wasted no time in shrugging off rucksacks and freeing our feet from hiking boots, and the first Black Sheep ale (my favourite) was gone in a few seconds. I took my time over the second one, after which we checked in and freshened up. 

I suppose you’ll be wanting to know if our room is over the quiet Snug or the heavy metal football bar. Well I can now reveal that in fact our bedroom is above the Snug, where the old Yorkshiremen reminisce over pewter mugs of ale, and not the football bar with the wall to wall plasma TV screens bashing out twenty four hour MTV or football. So that’s a result.

It’s also the best room so far on the trip, and very dog friendly. So I take back any comments I may have made earlier. However we still have to endure the England v Turkmenistan match tomorrow night (we are staying here two nights) so final judgement will be passed when we check out.

Then it was time to explore Richmond, which took about ten minutes, so we retired to the Kings Head pub in the Market Square, for some more refreshment. Sadly the beer was John Smiths, served in a plastic glass, and food wasn’t on offer. We didn’t stay long there, and shortly found a few more convivial pubs.

We bumped into the American Ladies in the town, who took a photo of us. They will not be stopping in Richmond for a rest day, but plan to be in Robin Hood’s Bay on the same day as us, so that’s where we’ll no doubt meet up with them once more.

Dinner was the much anticipated indian cuisine, at the very pleasant and highly recommendable Amontola Tandoori restaurant, where a few Kingfishers (my favourite indian lager) were consumed. It was obvious that Spike was well into recovery mode by now.

After a nightcap on the way back to the Buck Inn, we finally retired at around midnight, the latest we’ve managed to stay awake till, so far.

Tomorrow is a rest day, so further exploration of Richmond will be carried out. It’s also Emma’s birthday, which I’m sure will need celebrating somehow.

Coast to Coast: Keld to Reeth, 11 miles, Wednesday 16th June

You’ll be vey happy to know that Spike’s constitution is very much improved today, following his disagreement with Sunday night’s beef burger which caused him to abandon the walking for a couple of days. Amanda has also sorted out her various blisters and is mobile once more.

So the five of us set off together again after breakfast (full English of course), on day nine of our epic stroll across England, in beautiful sunshine.

We had a decision to make this morning. To take the high road or the low road? The high road takes you across the top of the moors and passes through the abandoned remains of the 19th century lead mining industry. The low route follows the river Swale and passes through lots of pretty meadows.

The fabulous weather made the decision for us, and we opted for the high route. We left Keld village behind and soon started climbing up narrow rocky paths and crossing formidable gorges.

At the top we encountered Striding Man once more, having a spot of lunch with his long suffering wife. Soon we reached the top of the moor, where industrial remains were scattered everywhere. The whole place had been devastated by the lead mining industry over two hundred years ago. I can’t say it was particularly beautiful, but if you had an interest in industrial architecture, or big pre-Victorian Boy’s Toys, then it was fascinating.

It’s worth noting that shortly before reaching Old Gang Smelt Mill, one of the bigger ruins, we achieved our ONE HUNDREDTH MILE ON FOOT!! Quite an occasion, apart from the fact that we missed it, and couldn’t be bothered to walk back and commemorate the event.

The other, slightly less memorable event, was Spike and I trying to find latitude 00:00:00 and longitude 00:00:00, which was not far off the track we were taking down towards Reeth. After climbing over a dry stone wall and passing through a couple of sheep folds, we finally located that very point, using my GPS. Then we took a photo of the GPS. How pointless was that?

 

 

 

Finally we reached Reeth, a small but perfectly formed picture postcard Dales village on the banks of the river Swale. We’re staying at the Black Bull Hotel, which judging by the angle of its doors, ceilings and most of all, its staircases, must be about five hundred years old. It was like trying to negotiate one of those fairground Fun House staircases, not particularly amusing when you are lugging up heavy bags to your room, which is always on the top floor, it seems.

But first things first, and a pint of Deuchars IPA (my favourite beer) was called for, before strolling around the village to check out the other shops and pubs.

I can report that my whole gang of characters is staying in Reeth tonight, despite my earlier assumption that we’d never see our fellow Coasters again. Striding Man is here, reunited with his family again (I assume they took the low route this morning), and Emma says she saw Captain Beaky and his wife on the village green. But most surprising of all was the re-appearance of Yanks #1 and #2 in the bar of the Black Bull. They must have somehow seen through my earlier ruse to re-direct them back to St Bees. They asked Spike what the “ale” meant in “beef and ale pie”, and being nice Spike, he told them the truth. Probably it was for the best that they hadn’t asked me.

Dinner was Ok, but quite frankly I’m beginning to get more than a little tired of the endless round of standard pub fare. There’s only so much Cumberland Sausage and Mash, Lasagne (lamb or veg), Fish and Chips, Steal & Ale Pie or Lamp Chops that I can take. So tomorrow, when we reach Richmond, it’ll be the best British food of all – curry, washed down with a few pints of Kingfisher, my favourite lager!

Blister count: Lia 1, Chris 1, Amada 1 HUGE one but getting better

(No longer) consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 9 out of a possible 10

Arguments: 0

Coast to Coast: Kirkby Stephen to Keld, 11 miles, Tuesday 15th June

I’m what’s known in writing terms as an “unreliable narrator”. Events might be exaggerated slightly, or I might present myself in a somewhat better light than my travelling companions, for example by suggesting they’d hail a taxi the moment it gets a bit cloudy.

My fellow travellers, who are also reading this blog, have started to complain, so I thought I’d set the record straight. Here goes.

So far…

I’ve left my hat behind on the very first day of the walk, and made Spike run about a mile to retrieve it;

I’ve lied about the height of St Sunday Crag (see earlier blog) which Lia and Emma climbed, because I didn’t climb it. The actual height is 841 metres, not 650 as I’d recorded;

On the same day, I applied Spike’s factor 50 suntan lotion, thinking it was factor 10, and no matter how hard I tried, it wouldn’t sink in. Other walkers were taking a wide berth around me, and even three hours later, Lia wanted to rush me to hospital because I looked so pale;

While descending Kidsty Pike on the way to Shap, I slipped and executed a perfect parachute roll;

I’ve got a massive blister on my little toe, which may yet prove a problem over the next day or so;

Rather than acquiring a healthy dark tan like the others, my face has turned a ridiculous puce colour instead;

I’ve charged up the battery for the camera, but left the battery in the charger (hence no photos for that day);

I’m always the last one out of the hotels because I’m hopelessly disorganised, which I can tell irritates everyone else, who assume I’m doing it on purpose.

Well that’s that out of the way, so on with the walk.

Breakfast was overwhelming, like our Landlady, however I must confess that I have ruined my unbroken full English breakfast marathon, as I was definitely becoming egg-bound.

So instead I had a lovely fillet of poached haddock. With a poached egg on top.

Today’s been another day of excellent weather, and the waterproofs have remained in the rucksacks once more.

Lia, Emma and I set off from the Jolly Farmers guesthouse at 9am. Sadly Amanda and Spike chose not to join us, for reasons described yesterday.

Within minutes we were lost, unable to find the way out of Kirkby Stephen. I think I can safely say this wasn’t our ineptitude, as we encountered many other Coasters similarly lost.

Eventually we got out of the town and started the long climb across Hartley Fell to Nine Standards Rigg, 562 metres above sea level.

This is a significant geological location, as it lies on the watershed of Britain. Waters to the west of here flow towards the Irish sea; to the east, they flow towards to North sea. Interesting eh?

This was also the point at which we entered our second National Park, the Yorkshire Dales.

After a brief rest we started a steady three mile downhill trek through “The Peat Bog From Hell”, searching for a route that didn’t leave us up to our necks in soggy peat. Literally.

On the way up we’d passed our old friends Captain Beaky and his wife, and on the way down were overtaken by Striding Man, but only once this time as he appears to have abandoned his burdensome family. No sign of Yanks #1 and #2 – yet.

Eventually we arrived in the tiny hamlet of Ravenseat, where the kindly farmer’s wife provided a welcoming pot of tea for three, and a cream tea for one (that being me, as I was absolutely starving having only had a bit of fish and one egg for breakfast). All for only £3.50.

Anyone who’s seen Julia Bradbury’s Coast to Coast TV series will recall that she interviewed this kindly farmer’s wife. So I thought I’d interview her as well, and find out the answer to the question on everyone’s mind: did Julia come striding down from Nine Standards Rigg, as suggested by the series? Or did she turn up with a full camera and sound crew from the nearby main road, do the interview and then disappear off to a nearby five star hotel for the  night, before being chauffeured off to the next location?

Suffice it to say that the Farmer’s Wife and her husband shared with me the full facts of what really happened on that day’s filming…

We then took a leisurely stroll following the Swale river, arriving six hours after setting off, at our destination for the night; the smirkingly named Butt House.

Despite the name though, it’s a lovely guest house, and definitely one of the better places that we’ve stayed in so far. They even provided us with Black Sheep ale on arrival, which is my favourite beer, much better than that Jennings stuff we’ve finally left behind.

So all in all a very agreeable day today, and definitely the easiest so far.

What about Spike & Amanda?

They wandered around Kirkby Stephen for a bit, then got a taxi to Keld as soon as it got a bit cloudy. Spike is definitely feeling better and even joined me at the guest house for a Black Sheep. Or two. Followed by a nice bottle of wine.

Amanda’s blister still looks painful but hopefully she’s on the mend as well.

One last fact: we are now officially half way through the walk!

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Blister count: Lia 1, Chris 1, Amada 1 HUGE one

Consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 8 (no change from yesterday)

Arguments: 0 – we must be getting on after all

Coast to Coast: Shap to Kirkby Stephen, 21 miles, Monday 14th June

So, this is the first big one… twenty one miles, and by the end, we’d had our first casualty!

Was it…

Amanda, who joined a silent convent of Nuns at Oddendale, took Holy Orders, and decided to stay for ever, or

Emma, who purchased a flock of sheep and retired to the dales to become a shepherd, or

Chris, Lia and Sally, who bought a Bed & Breakfast business and lived happily every after in Crosby Ravensworth, taking in paying guests and then posting sarcastic blogs about them on the internet, or

Spike, who took a turn for the worse after eating a dodgy burger the previous evening, made it seven miles to Orton and then had to take a taxi to Kirkby Stephen.

All will be revealed by the end of the blog!

So, we’ve completed our first National Park, walking around eighty two miles in total.

As we set off for Kirkby Stephen, we couldn’t help but look back sadly, at the receding mountains – still covered in cloud.

Our own weather was much improved, but still overcast, as we very soon approached the bridge over the M6, which in a way was another landmark point in the journey. A long climb across Ravensworth Fell soon brought us to the pretty village of Orton, and views of the next challenge lay ahead; the Yorkshire Dales. But there was little time to linger so we pressed on to across Crosby Garrett Fell, Smardale Fell, and passing under the Settle-Carlisle railway line, before arriving in Kirkby Stephen, eleven hours and ten minutes after setting out from Shap.

We’re staying at the Jolly Farmers Guesthouse, and were offered tea, home made scones and were generally smothered with hospitality by the landlady and her family. We were also offered tins of beer and lager, but as this isn’t my favourite beer, I declined.

Dinner was at the very agreeable Kings Arms Hotel just down the road where they served Aviator Blond beer, a very nice pint even after the wait.

So, who was the first casualty?

Well actually it was virtually all of us, but not necessarily for the reasons I said.

If you guessed Spike was the first, then you’d be correct. Very bravely he soldiered on to Orton, where he finally gave in and got a taxi to the next Kirkby Stephen.

Amanda was the next to go, suffering the biggest blister I’ve ever seen. The taxi came for her just west of Kirkby Stephen railway station, with less than four miles to go.

Of the remaining three, Emma trapped her fingers in a farmyard gate; Lia’s calf muscles started to seize, and I developed my first blister.

The taxi driver told Amanda that “lots of people get picked up around here, but usually a few miles earlier, about ten miles out of Shap”

Blister count: Lia 1, Chris 1, Amada 1 HUGE one

Consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 8

Arguments: 0

Coast to Coast: Patterdale rest day, Saturday 12th June, and Sunday 13th June, Patterdale to Shap (16 miles)

Ah! what better way to spend our rest day from walking the C2C than… walking! Just a four miler, actually, to Ullswater and the tiny lakeside town of Glenridding. The weather was fantastic, with not a cloud to be seen, just perfect for sitting outside pubs, we decided.

We thought we’d lost all our fellow travelling companions by now, but who should we bump into on the way to Glenridding? None other than the two Greytop ladies from America, Yank #1 & #2, who you will recall had been following us earlier in the week, because they couldn’t read UK maps and didn’t know where they were. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, and they asked us which was the way to Shap (their next destination). After helpfully pointing them westwards, back in the direction of St Bees, we continued our stroll to Glenridding,

It’s sad to think that we’ll never see Striding Man, Captain Beaky and Yanks #1 & #2 again, but we all have different rest days, different hotels, and very soon we’ll all be thinned out across the route.

At Glenridding jetty we boarded the little boat cruise around the Lake. That kept us busy until lunchtime, when the boat dropped us back at Glenridding.

Lunch was at the Ullswater Hotel (chicken fajitas washed down with a couple of pints of Jennings), after which we strolled back to Patterdale, calling in at the Patterdale Hotel, conveniently situated between Glenridding and Patterdale.

It was here that our surprise visitors arrived: Roger & Laura and baby Imogen had tracked us down, on the way back from their own holiday in Scotland. At first thought this might seem quite difficult, given the lack of mobile ‘phone signal in the area, but Roger had our itinerary, and pretty much guessed where we’d be. He found us in the second pub he went to.

So, we had a couple of beers and adjourned back to the White Lion for dinner

The pub bar was crammed with footie fans who had assembled to watch England screw up its first game against the United States, so it was lucky that Spike had reserved a table, as far from the TV as possible.

Dinner was more or less a replay of the night before; monster sized pies, served with mountains of chips or sackfulls of potatoes. Imogen’s “children’s portion”  would have beaten the average adult, and even Roger had some difficulty getting through his own meal (but he managed it, as he is, after all, Roger).

Roger, Laura and Imogen left at about eight, and we finished the evening with a couple of bottles of house red, retiring relatively early (before midnight) as we had a massive day ahead of us, Sunday being a sixteen miler, from Patterdale to Shap.

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The Coast to Coasters

Blister count: 2 (Lia & Amanda) – no change as no serious walking today

Consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 6

Arguments: 0

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Sunday 13th June; Patterdale to Shap, 16 miles

This morning, all trace of warmth and sunshine had disappeared, and we were back to the traditional Lakes weather of pouring rain. We set off early and began the slow, long climb upwards towards Angle Tarn. After an hour we were well and truly in the clouds, and all visibility had gone. Eventually we began the descent out of the clouds towards Haweswater Reservoir, via Kidsty Pike, where we stopped for lunch. The rain had reduced to a thin drizzle as we began the four mile hike along the northern bank of Haweswater.

Rumour had it there was a tea shop at the village at the end of the lake. Amanda and I discussed what we would do to the owner if he told us dogs weren’t allowed in the tea shop, and we’d have to sit outside.

Anyway there wasn’t a tea shop at the end of the lake, so we trudged on, the weather just getting worse and worse, and we eventually left the Lake District National Park, as we’d arrived in it; wet, cold, and in the pouring rain.

We arrived at the Greyhound Inn, Shap, and had an early dinner after a rewarding pint of Lancaster Stout (my favourite stout), and retired to bed, knackered, at 8:30.

Coast to Coast: Grasmere to Patterdale, 8 miles, Friday 11th June

It is with more than a little sadness that we prepare to leave Grasmere this morning. Yes, it’s picture box touristy; yes, it’s overwhelmed with visitors almost every day of the year. But it is just about the ideal base for walking; it has the best gingerbread shop in Britain; and after six o’clock, when the tourist buses have gone, it becomes a quiet Lakeland village once more.

As we cannot seem to avoid the World Cup football, I might as well use football analogy to describe today’s walk as was a walk of two halves.

We set off, once more, in dull, overcast weather, but by the time we’d finished the long uphill haul through Grasmere Tongue to Great Hause, the sun had broken through.

For the first time, the group split into two, with Lia and Emma electing to continue their walk via St Sunday Crag (650 metres high), and the lesser mortals following the low path through Grisedale.

Both groups enjoyed fantastic weather, superb views and scintillating company, and arrived at the next base camp at more or less the same time.

Base camp in Patterdale is the White Lion pub. We’re checked in for two nights, as tomorrow (Saturday) is our first rest day. Luckily it dispenses Tirril Brewery White Lion Ale – my favourite bitter – which allows me to forgive the rather functional bedrooms.

We meet at seven thirty for a quick sharpener, then order food from the bar, and receive the biggest portions ever. Massive steak and ale  pies, eighteen inch long Cumberland sausages, and giant battered fish fillets are served up with massive piles of chips and an entire allotment of vegetables and salad. This pub must have needed its own landfill site to dispose of the food its customers couldn’t eat.

But we gave it our best shot, the fare was pretty good, and even Captain Beaky (who’d made a late appearance at the pub that evening) grudgingly enjoyed it – although rather satisfyingly he was turfed out later on in the evening as he’d been sitting in someone else’s reserved seat.

Tomorrow is a rest day. Let’s see what that brings.

Blister count: 2 (Lia & Amanda)

Consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 5

Arguments: 0

Coast to Coast: Rosthwaite to Grasmere, 8 miles, Thursday 10th June

“The third book in the series brings the Famous Five once more back to the Lake District for the summer holidays. Chris, Lia, Sally & Amanda head off to the station to meet Spike and Emma as they arrive by train. Excited, they discuss plans for the holidays and decide it would be simply smashing to spend a week or so walking the Coast to Coast.” etc. etc.

But back to reality, and we head off this morning with by far the best cooked breakfast (in terms of style & presentation – little bits of parsley on the egg! Imagine!!) under our belts.

Maybe its the fact that we’re only doing a mere eight miles today that puts such a spring in our step, but we set off at a cracking pace, all aches and pains forgotten, into the most stunning scenery so far.

By now we’ve left Yanks #1 & #2 far behind, but Striding Man still lurks ominously. Captain Beaky doesn’t reappear until Grasmere village.

A pleasant amble through Borrowdale soon gives way to a more laborious climb upwards towards Grasmere Common. We all agree that the tougher climb, over Calf, Gibson Knott and Helm crags, would be much more rewarding than a simple stroll down Far Easedale, so that’s what we elect to do.

By early afternoon the sun finally breaks through the clouds – first time so far – and we descend into Grasmere, heading immediately towards Tweedies Bar.

A small digression… The last time I was in Grasmere was November last year, when torrential rain flooded the whole of Cumbria, and we were cut off for four days. That was when Tweedies and the Co-Op were our only means of survival (mainly Tweedies, actually).

After a couple of pints of Westmoreland Blue Bird (my favourite beer), we explored the village on search of new shirts for Spike, to replace the ones left folded neatly on his bed back in Nottingham.

Several Outdoor shops later, Spike is the proud owner of two box fresh, crisply laundered Craghopper shirts. Apparently these are special shirts which have extra collar bits to protect your neck from the intense sun (which we haven’t seen any of, yet). Spike demonstrated, but the overall effect was “Christopher Lee as Count Dracula” when the collar was fully unfurled.

We retired to our hotel (The Red Lion on the High Street) for the four s’s (shower, snooze etc.) before reassembling for a crisp, refreshing sharpener (a chilled Macon Villages 2008) in the bar.

Dinner was at The Jumble Room, a restaurant conveniently located between our hotel and Tweedies Bar. There was, as you can imagine, wine on the agenda. What a pity that the evening was somewhat spoiled for Spike, when he successfully spilled chilli sauce  - the sort that doesn’t wash out - down the front of his new, crisp, box fresh Craphopper shirt.

Later we returned to Tweedies in time for the Quiz night. We went in with little expectation of winning and were not disappointed. Very much to blame was the round rather misleadingly called “Sport & Leisure,” which consisted of ten football questions.

Our disappointment at coming third (out of four teams) was tempered by the fact that we won the best joke competition in spite of (or maybe because of) Spike’s inability to write down what I said.

But I have the beer token to prove that we won that particular round.

Blister count: 2 (Lia & Amanda)

Consecutive Full English Breakfasts: 4

Arguments: 0 (but the veneer of civility is beginning to wear a bit thin)

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