Edited August 2016, East Lodge, Holton, sitting in my shed (while the Scud is being renovated), one Saturday afternoon. Reading it now I am intrigued by both what I recorded and what left out. All those breakfasts and terrible dinners, names of places, the naming of trees that are so vital to me now and noticing my first Ash. Both arguments (who was caring the orange) on differences and love of Bob, sharing baths. No mention is given of what was in those Sunday papers that Bob loved to read, what was happening in the world outside our world. Was John Major our PM? Spitting Image?
St Bedes to Robins Hood Bay, with Bob, under the guidance of Wainwright and a few OS maps. It was Bob’s idea.
‘September is the best time’ Bob said with his confidence I was getting to know and like. We were in our first flush of love, and I’d never been to the Lakes before. This was our first adventure as lovers.
Sunday 18th September – Sunday 3rd October 1994 Day 0 Sunday London Euston to St Bedes
By train, ensuring plenty to read on the way with two or three Sunday papers. At St Bedes checked into Queens Hotel, and took what we called a walk then, around St Bedes – a stroll up the sleepy village and back. The first of the terrible pub food dinners.
Day 1 St Bees to Ennerdale Bridge 14.5 miles
Excellent breakfast, with unwatered bacon.
Passed South and North head, Bob sighting the Albright detergent factory he had battle with some time ago, complete with discharge pipe. (They manufacture detergent out of Moroccan phosphate stone.) Lowther Arms – only good for washing dishes – we called Nigel to arrange a meet that evening. Bob and I had a disagreement over pace – I was dawdling picking blackberries, not spat on by the devil yet, and determined not to be on a forced march. Willow herb still pink but becoming bearded.
Mt Dent at 350 meters, when is a hill a hill and a hill a mountain. On the cairn we drank our pea and ham soup, smoked an excellent joint of grass, with the excuses of missing a cigarette. We hid our maps as a party passed us by, not wanting to be seen as unsure, but it turned out that they too were lost (“I always get lost on these south downs” said one). Bobs excellent sense of direction prevented us from following the crowd, and we turned right to the main road. Soft rain accompanies us. Put in at the Shepherd. Shared hot bath, hearty congratulations, we had made the first day.
Nigel and Irina joined us for dinner with an unctuous landlord, eager to hang his anorak on any conversation he could. Of St Petersburg Irina spoke little, but Nigel besotted and eager to expound she enjoyed a good quantity of food. She on her part said “Please do not translate, just choose dish for me”. They met at a corn dance in August in Pembrokeshire.
Day 2 Ennerdale Bridge to Rosthwaite 14.5 miles
The first part of our walk was along my first lake of the lakes, Ennerdale. Once again soft rain. Rising to our right, Pillar, which Bob had climbed before with one of his lady friends that I was to hear about frequently on this walk. We did not opt for my suggested detour over Scarth gap and the Haystacks, where Wainwrights’ ashes were scattered. Bob had taken a leaf from Wainwright’s book, saying “ordinary mortals should ignore the alternatives and keep plodding along this road”. I, of course, wanted to climb.
Black Sail Youth Hostel, the loneliest and loveliest Youth Hostel. Beautiful moss clad Drumlins also called Moraines, hugging the foothills looking like a posy of young breasts, firm and gently peaked. Wainwright calls a collection drumlins a ‘prairie’. Great Gable, Green Gable and Kirk Fell dominate the valley, heavily interlaced with light grey cloud which, like shirts, gently lift themselves and descend. The prose of both Bob and I conforms to Wainwright’s theory that the Coast to Coast is an intrinsically feminine walk, compared to the masculine Pennine way.
We enjoy our first lakeland climb up Loft Beck, and meet some lads come off the ridge from Haystacks – they did look fitter than us – but I am still frustrated to have missed the adventure and battle ahead alone across a sodden path. From the top we can see Buttermere valley and Crummock water. We join the course of a dismantled tram way to the former quarry Sheldon to Honistor Pass. Bob remembers his father saying with great pride that he had driven his new Triumph up Honister pass, an impressive gradient. But even more so for the cart horses carrying slates to further valleys. The slate is a vivid light green colour – I collect a small piece to carry.
One mile to Rosthwait, down through oak forest following the River Delwent. However disparate we are during the walk, in the end we come in together, usually indulging in talk of ourselves.
School dinners. We smoke a final roll up in the bar. After this I throw my tobacco away. It is the last.
Day 3 Rosthwaite to Grassmere. 10 miles
We start with enough blue sky to make a sailor some shorts, and soon enough for a complete navy – good weather has arrived! Bob posts off his jumper. I have already discarded mine at Nigel’s.
At first it is a river walk, up Stonethwait Beck, then up Greenup Gill (never learnt so many words for rivers). Cut up Lining Crag, (pausing to remember the hard graft involved in path restoration) and another pairie of drumlins to Greenup Edge, a pass between Borrowdale and Grassmere. Lunch of delicious asparagus soup and stolen Bavarian wood smoked cheese and crumbled biscuits (as they were sold in shops, Bob said). Best picnic yet.
“Lets do a ridge walk” says Wainwright. “One mile and one hour extra, is a small price to pay for the advantage of a delectable tract and beautiful views. So let’s do it”. And along with a keen and ebullient group of the over 60’s we do an good ridge walk from Calf Crag to Gibson Knott, to Helm Crag. While resting on Helm Crag, a young man arrives up,
“Thank god” he said “You are the first person I’ve met today who is not drawing a pension”. The sun is bright, and I divert to a tarn surrounded with sparkling red spiked grass. Photographs of sheep. At the top we are both desirous of a fag, the old reward syndrome tugging hard. I ahead contemplating finesses and Bob thinking GP thoughts.
Descent to Grassmere. We met a grand old lady of Kensington Church Street, and a veritable garage of polished Rovers parked in spotless geranium lined driveways. I do not like this place. After a compulsory visit to the grave of Wordsworth, (simple), a shop to pick up supplies of pork pie and soup, and of course the papers, we willingly head out of town to the first pub booked by me, Travellers Rest. Delighted to be out of Grassmere, and even more delighted to find it serves Jennings beer. Usual bath, and pub food with the inevitable chips (Bob has Cumberland sausages).
Day 4 Grassmere to Patterdale 8 miles
Nine minutes to nine, up Tongue Gill, wisely selected by Bob in favour of Little Tongue Gill. We got off to an excellent start, now both wearing shorts, and discussing the weight of our rucksacks. Our rucksack content is a frequent subject, today the objects are the weight of my toothbrush and an orange. Bob complains that he has been carrying this orange for 3 days – it has had a really good outing – so we eat it overlooking Grisdale Tarn. We are joined by cunning sheep, who no doubt loiter at this place, an obvious stopping place for walkers, eager to have their first bit of chocolate of the day.
“Let’s climb a mountain”, says Wainwright. Bob handled the psychology well in this case. Knowing I would want to climb the adventurous, exacting Striding Edge of Helvellyn, instead of trying to dissuade me, he simply gave me Wainwright to read. There are two ridges, St Sunday Crag and Helvellyn that descend to Patterdale. Wainwright describes Helvellyn as being very attractive, but a tourists mountain. St Sunday, on the other hand, he described as a mountain for connoisseurs, lovely to walk up on, unspoiled and free from crowds etc. I was seduced, and did not regret the decision. It was a delightful little mountain, easy climbing, with a few scrambles for texture, passed a multicoloured slate pile, metallic green and grey and pink, to a desolate gentle top. We stuck together during this climb, talking of things like do balls get in the way of climbing or walking or bicycling.
At the top over looking north easterly to Dollywaggon pike, Nethermost pike and through some bins at Helvellyn and striding ridge, we beheld an imitation of Piccadilly Circus – we had made the right decision. We ate our pork pie and mustard at the top, and descended to an excellent view of Ullswater.
We were early to our lodgings, Home Farm, our first B&B, and left our rucksacks in the shed (negotiating the gnomes and dinky wheelbarrows) before hitting Patterdale, stocking up on postcards and mars bars. The farmer greeted us on return. He had fell rights this side of Helvellyn and St Sunday, having 1,500 sheep. It was an excellent and unpretentious bed and breakfast, and I vowed to find only farms for us to stay at from now on – hoping to find the ultimate Mrs Archer.
Patterdale church: Jugal Kisor Adior, d 1974, Violet Moderina Nicholson, Gertrude Venus Commer.
We met Nigel and Irina again in the evening. Even I began to find Irina hard going, and was the ever attentive amorous Nigel waning? Difficult to be sure, but we both gave the affair limited timing. So keen are we on our achievements, that we walked the mile or two home to our B&B, and home made marmalade.
Day 5 Patterdale to Shap 16 miles
Day of saying good-bye to the lakes and one of our longer walks. (we were premature last night to look down our noses at our untired legs).
8.30 sharp departure, moon still up, beautiful morning. Best ever breakfast and new word bifurcate, the river did this. Gentle climb to Angle Tarn, one of the most beautiful we had seen, and proud and blue in the sharp sun. Looking back occasionally on St Sunday and Helvellyn, knowing today we were leaving. Took a right across boggy ground as Wainwright said, “the only excitement hereabouts being generated by the reflection that 50 miles have now been accomplished”.
Round the Knott, then the great excitement of High Street. We had been talking about this for days, Bob having already walked on it – with another of his lady friends. Here, at a height of almost 2,700 feet, is an ancient track considered to be used by stone axe traders later taken over by the Romans linking forts at Ambleside and Brougham, and also used for chariot racing. It was a wonderful site, a broad saddle rising gently up. But the climb was not for us, we moved on to Kidsty Pike to take our last long look back at the lakes. Good-bye to the well ordered, patch work quilted fields and villages, to the tourist board orchestrated lakes, but above all good-bye to the ridges, rounded saddles and ragged crags, the sudden tarns, the overall view. Bob is right – the lakes are like a miniature Scotland, an approachable and climbable Scotland. We ate our pork pie and drank our tomato soup, Bob threw his normal gauntlet about northern beer being rubbish to some fellow walkers, with strong northern accents. Then our cruel descent to the man made Hawswater and sunken village of Mardale. Easy to be angry at this man made invasion as we pass the romantic ruins of the farm, and find the 4 mile walk long and gruelling – but as Bob says, the people of Manchester need water as much as we do. On our way down, we encountered 3 ravens acrobating in the sky, calling and replying to each other.
Slight discrepancy as to how many miles to Shap after the end of the reservoir. I, in a stoned state said 3. It was the longest 3 in history. Bob marvelling at the red berries on the rowan trees, taking photographs, I with full munchies gobbling fudge. Never been so glad to see an Abbey. On the famous A6 the main artery to the north before the M’s
We stayed the night at the Queen of B&Bs, Mrs Kirkby at Ing Farm, a 3 story house converted to B&B 15 years ago and, we heard later, the one used by Nigel’s mother when she was a coastie all those years ago. Towels twisted into a fan, soap in lace doilies, assortment of bubble baths and hair shampoo – everything a walker could want but not carry. She is a professional B&Ber. 8 rooms, once full this year with 14 people – its a good business.
Excellent fish and chips next to Mrs and Mrs Nurd, discussing Alan’s capacity for loosing his way. It curls me in laughter. He cursed the Lakes for not obliging with the C to C sign posts on the way.
Day 6 Shap to Kirkby Stephen 19 or 20 or 22 or 25 miles
From ridges to limestone platteau, which means according to Wainwright, easy travelling on velvet turf. From picture book blue skies to grey , north then north east slanting rain; from well trod paths to disgruntled farmers diversions; from cosy tourism to desolate prehistoric settlements.
We met up with Alan the map reader (talk of Nepal, which he was in training for – Bob reassured him he had done well to avoid the trek to Everest base camp) and eventually Mr and Mrs Nurd, arguing the way, but we dallied long enough to loose them.
Black Dub monument referring to King Charles II drinking the water on his march from Scotland August 1651. At Orton, we dallied in a pub, and watched the rain come down. Bob made some enquires about local buses, to find there were none. I was the purist keen to walk and endure the rain and distance, although I often thought longingly (and silently) about a hot fire on this walk. At Rainsbeck there was no going back (or calling for a taxi). Bob well ahead – this was not part of the plan, we were supposed to be enjoying ourselves, not punishing ourselves in rain, we stomped the tarmac road to Sunbiggin Tarn. Then over heather moreland, to Rayseat Pike Long Barrow where a wet photograph was taken. Here they found remains of both children and animals, and unexpectedly a cremation trench containing many burnt bones. Bob and I were talking again, joined in our wet misery, both our feet sodden, Bob still proud in his shorts. On to the Severals village settlement. Wainwright says “indeed a man with other matters on his mind could walk across the site without noticing any features out of the ordinary…” Disobeying the polite keep off the Serverals signs, Bob walks over them, down a gully of grass, to the railway decision.
Our direction took us down to the river then up to walk over the wind swept hill the other side. I proposed the shelter of the railway. Bob conceded. It was an well protected railway track, lined with sycamore, lime, hazelnut and oak, preserved by some local worthy body. Over a magnificent viaduct, and the live Carlisle Settle railway, until the end, then up a road, over a few last fields, and at last into the village of Kirkby Stephen.
We stay at Fletcher house, a pompous, put pleasant town house. Brown bath downstairs, extra-ordinary half tester bed. Too tired to test it out.
Day 7 Kirkby Stephen to Keld 12.75 miles
A ‘no smoking’ breakfast (squeaky clean, no fried bread), and late departure, after phone calls to book next two B&Bs and Sunday papers buried into Bobs rucksack. We had had an animated discussion over breakfast about whether to do the climb to Nine Standards Rigg, or take boring road way. Yes there was mist and little could be seen, but I was keen to explore our compass skills and have an adventure. Bobs sense and sensibility won this way – and I was sometimes glad in the end we didn’t, the walk was wet and long.
We did explore our compass skill however, getting lost for first and last time around Hartley quarry. Filled water bottle with very orange peaty water. We were coming to the peat district! We met the young lads, seen previously coming down from the Haystacks, who were definitely not going to do the Nine Standards – a serious deciding factor. After that tarmac road all the way. Wainwright describes it well: it is “lonely and inhospitable, no more than a narrow tread of tarmac through barren hills, where a passing motorist feels and obligation to offer a lift to a solitary walker, if this happens you will decline of course”. No one tried to stop for us – times must have changed. However it was an historic day in more than one way:
a. We crossed out of Cumbria into the Yorkshire Dales (drank asparagus soup on the signpost)
b. We cross the Pennine watershed. Thus far all rivers and streams have flowed into the Irish sea west, now we will be walking with the flow to the North Sea.
c. Above all Keld is half way. Hooray!
We saw a phone box in the middle of no where crying out to be used, so Bob called GP to check up on the politics, spoke to Paul who said we were missing nothing. Finally passed a sign post to Keld saying 1/4 mile that Wainwright describes as being the longest 1/4 mile in North Yorkshire.
We were dog tired, after only 12 miles. Keld a lovely hamlet, no longer any shop or pub. We stay in a recently purchased converted farm house Greenlands run by Sue Thompson, and her rather strange husband, eager to talk and to please and rather slow. However he does take us up to the local pub at Mucker, a good warm welcome to cosy and unpretentious Yorkshire. Sadly the usual terrible pub food.
Day 8 Keld to Reeth 12 miles
An easy day, and climbing again. It was the deal struck if the weather was clement, and thank god it was! We climbed to the old lead mines, graveyards of industrial relics as Wainwright describes them.
Down through Keld main square, up the valley. After an hour climbing, I realised I had left my bum bag at the spot I had changed into my shorts. Bob surprisingly un-reactive, settled down to wait for me to collect it – but with great fortune, a crowd of over 60’s coming up behind us had picked it up thereby saving my descent and hours wasted. On to the bulldozed path created for shooters, an intolerable eyesore according to Wainwright, we all toppled on, the oldies and us. They were a delightful bunch of ramblers, having taken 5 years to get to this stage on the C to C and easily kept pace with us. Blackthwaite Smelt Mill was our first encounter of a mine, and very impressive.
A bit about lead mining in Swaledale
They were built near rivers, using them to either pump or cut the rock, called a hush (a ravine contrived by prospectors on a steep slope caused by the sudden release of water artificially dammed above it in such force as to strip the vegetation and scour the ground with the object of revealing any mineral content in the subsoil that might indicate the presence of a vein). The lead mining expanded in the 17th and 18th centuries, collapsing in the 19th with cheaper imports. Its earlier revival coincided with the rebuilding of the great houses (Hardwick and Huddon) for gutters, pipes. In the 18th Britain was the worlds main producer.
By products include: red lead added to crystal glass; Wedgewoods white Devonshire; paints; added to bread for white loaf; added to sweeten wine; used to make electric cables and for batteries
Geology: Lead ore is found in veins together with other gangue minerals. Common in limestone. Only found in highland regions. Most deposits formed 230-180 million years ago. Found in fissures resulting from faults or joints in rock. Prospecting still uses the old skills, for example the divining rood. There are many plant indicators, as few survive in lead region, the exception being sandwort sometimes called leadwort.
The method used was the ore removed and waste (deads) thrown aside (stopping) leaving passages (gates) for access. Pits were connected to surface by shafts equipped with jackroll or windlass. Water drained by hand or horse gin. Ore was crushed with spalling hammers, then bucking hammers, down to pea size, then horse crushes, then powered rollers. Smelters. Bellows of one hearth frequently blew fumes into smelters faces. At one Sheffield works in 1830’s according to the doctor “men died like sheep”.
Soon after passing the 100 mile mark, (made out of stones on our path,) we took our lunch in part of the Old Gang Smelt Mill, being renovated as we ate. Chimney well and proud, with peat dryers above us on the hill.
We stayed this night in council house. An interesting contrast to the Queen and pomp of our previous B&B experiences. But our welcome was the warmest, and the bed comfortable enough to fully test it out. Stocked up on strong ginger biscuits.
Day 9 Reeth to Richmond 10.5 miles.
An uneventful day, of variations on a style theme – crossing farmers fields through various stone/wood styled styles.
I bought a book on trees and put to good use. We are surrounded by Ash, a tree I had never looked at before. It is elegant and airy, with its 7 fingered leaves. Asked stone waller why the stone walls contained stones jutting out half way down, and he described how the width of the wall was composed of many stones, and by occasionally putting one single one across, gave strength to the multiple structure.
Bob continues to call me darling and we try to have a serious discussion on why I should stop taking the pill. We have come close these past few days. Bobs attitude is refreshingly different to my more conventional reactive thoughts (‘settling down’, compromise), as he questions the commitment we would both have to the child, not ourselves as being the driving factor. I munch over this during much of the walking time. It is a good meditation, this walking coast to coast with the person I am considering a future with.
Merrik Priory – old gravestones – Marske church – very old with beautiful dog teeth around the Norman font and the windows (one dedicated to John Hutton 1630). Photograph of family graves, children often predeceasing their parents.
Through oak and hazelnut forest to Richmond, where we check in at the Restaurant on the Green (chosen by Bob). Hit the tourist centre where Bob talks sweetly to a lady to study cross country trains for our return. Force some food down us.
Day 10 – day of rest in Richmond
Occasional guilt crept into the day that we avoided the boring flatland walk of 25 miles, and enjoyed ourselves. Bob is without his edge. We take a stroll to Easby Abbey via St Marys – an excellent graveyard – once again many family graves and an interesting grave of a Frenchman fleeing from hostile France in 1800. Why? Too late for Huguenots. Easby Abbey was a pleasant little jaunt, an abbey built for Premonstratensians – from the Abbey of Premontre in diocese of Laon. Easby church next door was more interesting, simple early nave, and in the chancel some unusual frescos, black drawing lines dominated, with colour now faded.
We took a couple of buses cross country, one with brazen school children, to arrive at Ingleby Cross (looking very sheepish on descent – but far too early for the walkers to see), and checked into the Blue Bell Inn (mentioned by Wainwright). Being early we got a gruff welcome, and found modern sparten bedsits built adjacent to the pub, with pully overhead light, and no electricity, so decided the best thing to do was make love and sleep. Lights came on at 6.oo. We had a good bit of grass before attacking food in the pub – terrible chips, coq au vin, climaxing with chocolate fudge cake
Day 11 Ingleby Cross to Clay Bank Top 12.75 miles.
North York Moors, grouse and heather.
High level traverse along the escarpment of the Cleveland Hills.
Glad to be walking again, we marched up to the North York Moors. “The broad expanse of moor land extending for 30 miles heather clad, unenclosed, uninhabited remote from industry “(although great views of the stacks and crackers at Teaside). “Open country like the Pennines, yet more handsome and colourful – and friendlier by far. It is a wilderness crossed by few roads but many ancient tracks plateau reached by easy gradients where one can wander tirelessly all day”
Outside the Blue Bell we chatted with Alan and met his lady driver, a delightful Scottish lady called Mary who described us as all mad. More discussion as to why they did not signpost the c to c through Cumbria “Some of us enjoy walking but are not so good at reading maps” said Allan sadly. We set off with Alan, but lost him as we diverted into a graveyard and spent every day after trying to catch up with him.
We walked the whole day on an escarpment looking down onto the flatlands. The walking easy and following two well trod tracks, the Cleveland Way and Lyke Wake Walk, begun on Beacon Hill (memorable for the television booster station dishes). Later some walkers describe the Lyke Wake walk to me as being a way people carried coffins of old, to bury the people within site of the sea. The walk is 42 miles long, and these days the walk is done in 24 hours, usually in the summer months for the longest daylight hours. It ends at Ravenscarr, where presumably the bodies are were buried. A protective grouse tried to prevent us from continuing. Loving the colour of the heather which has changed from postcard pink to pink orange rust. Met the two engineers eating at the Blue Bell, well into complaining. They had begun the c to c three years ago. I talked to the more interesting one of AI and knowledge based systems as he’d just completed his PhD in Neural Networks – at an age of 60. These are the best years in his life he tells me, as we discuss upside down lives. We down some delicious tea and chocolate cakes at a perfectly positioned tea place.
We descended through beach and oak forest to Great Broughton, passing the pub the “Jet Miners”, yes here they mined jet. Arrived at another converted farm, Holme Farm, run by a rather strange and effete Don Robinson, who I assumed was gay, although he referred to his son. The home was Spartan, cold with no detail or womanly style
Day 12 Clay Bank Top to Glaisdale 20 miles
Trumpeted in his guest book as serving the best breakfast of all 12 previous, it was a manicured breakfast, served in a hostess, each item in a separate glass dish.
We got off to good start as he drove us up the hill to Clay Bank Top, where we hoped to catch up with Alan. The plan thwarted when we caught sight of the Lion Inn at Blakey. Cockpit house was another old burial ground, on the LWW. Bob downed 3 pints, I indulged in Yorkshire pudding and Mississippi mud pie both terrible. The electricians joined us and were the only reason we eventually got up to leave was boredom. Walking again was tough. Bob frequently pointing percy, wind getting up, I tetchy, forbidding kissing! But at last we came up to Glaisdale Ridge – a wonderful last hike, the sun came out, blue skies, strong wind, glorious heather and fern around us. I tried to imitate the grouse noise, so distinctive. We rolled a spliff in a grouse hut, and came down stoned to our last B&B, a working Red Farm.
Interesting combination of a broad Yorkshire man, travelled 15 years mainly in the Middle East (rig worker?), married to an American. They had designed the house well in good if self-conscious taste, and took pride in showing us to our room at the top, with brass double bed. We still held that the Queen of B&B Mrs Kirkby held the prize for best B&B – she was a natural. We were welcomed into the kitchen to partake of communal tea, where we met a train anorak, and quiet girl, also coasties. Later discovered he had a PhD in chemistry, and worked at Tetley brewery. Bob and he had much to say on taking chlorine out of water. Night walk to the local pub.
‘And you want to become a mortician” said Bob, as I took his arm acknowledging my fear of going through a grave yard at night. I put it down to being stoned. ‘You never admit you are wrong’ he said. ‘Being vulnerable is your great fear.’
Day 12 Glaisdale to Robin Hood Bay.
Luckily it all came right in the end, but it was a tough day. I was still angry with Bob, giving him a rough time – he retaliated well however, calling me all style and no content! We had after all spent 13 days together, walking, eating, making love, sleeping, only my extra 20 minute soak in the bath separated us each day. We had come to know each other better. I still refused to say I was tired of his company. I sought more stimulus from him and perhaps that was why I was so provocative.
It was a disastrous grisly day, drizzle and mud. Ostensibly the walk had everything; forest, river, open moor land, even a church or two, and of course, it would have sea.
The highlight was meeting the North York Moors Railway enthusiasts at Gorsmont, seeing a steam train go by and listening to two anoraks in the shop discussing trains.
Then on through an endless muddied forest, the last soup tasted terrible and of nothing. The last moor was not a real moor, no grouse or wild heather, and there were domesticated green fields around. To cap it all, my shin began to hurt. We decided to cut out the 5 miles circumnavigating the coast to allow an elegant descent into Robin Hoods Bay, and came in on the road. An excellent decision.
As we hobbled down the step road into the old part of town, our spirits rose. We dipped our boots in the North sea, landed at our pub for the night the Bay hotel, and met up with the young lads that we had bumped into throughout the 190 miles. We sadly missed Alan the map reader. I even drank pints. The young lads could hardly bare the heat of the room for it was the longest they had been inside somewhere in 2 weeks. It was the first beer they had drunk in 2 weeks, had frequent pees and at the end amusingly wobbly. Bob and I, happy in each others company, found our room – Room Number 1, overlooking the sea. It was a fitting crown. We had our last shared bath, washing our tired feet, took the last line of cocaine, and went down for our last pub meal, which was fittingly awful – frazzled lamb chops, overloaded and soggy chips and peas, washed down thankfully with Theaksons bitter.
That night we still loved each others bed time company – that was never in question – we both said we could not imagine sleeping alone again – we woke occasionally to hear the roar of the high tide just under our window, and in the morning the cry of the gulls. We walked before breakfast, on the shore carpeted with seaweed like multicoloured tagliatelli, before forcing down our 14th and last cooked breakfast. At 10.00 we left Robin Hoods Bay to the trippers.
The journey back to London was long but comfortable, packaged with various Sunday papers and Hello magazine (a surprise from Bob), with good tuck on the way.
In Clarendon Road, we had a simple soup and salad, and a glass of acceptable wine in Julie’s wine bar. What a treat to have a plate of food, where the plate was visible through the food, and the food clean and fresh. But the people, of course, they talked to themselves, they had none of the warmth of those laughing Yorkshire men and girls in the Bay Hotel.
Kalikellett 