mutteringhousewife

I’m afraid you’re not going to get a lot of photos of today’s walk. We did have a grassy and heathery climb out of Chop Gate, farewelling Wolfgang and his dreams of being back in Australia. It was about five kilometres winding gently up the hills through moors before we rejoined the Coast to Coast – Chop Gate is down the valley from the track. You can have a mossy wall for atmosphere.

Something I really wasn’t able to photograph was walking through a grouse hunt. We’d almost got used to walking past a thick chunk of heather and having a startled grouse leap out of it and fly heavily away, clucking like a broken mechanical toy. So when we walked past a chap clad in matching green flat hat, waistcoat and knickerbockers, holding a walkie talkie and a giant orange flag, accompanied by two wet spaniels – we had our suspicions. I couldn’t quite work out what the mechanics were – some of the green clad chaps had yellow flags and there was some kind of signalling going on. But as we made our way up to the ridge, we heard the shooting start. It was very innocuous sounding shooting, like someone tapping on a metal tea tray. I’m sure they had their methods of not shooting walkers.

The Coast to Coast today, once we got onto it, was massively non challenging. Wainwright like it because of the views, and because he admired the engineering of the old iron mine railway track that we mostly walked along today for following a contour very closely. Views would have made it a delightful walk, but we didn’t have any. Occasionally the mist would lift for a quick teasing peek down into the valley, but would then roll back over us. I think what we were experiencing was wuthering. The wind wasn’t blowing us off our feet, but there was enough of it for my watch to occasionally issue a reprimand. That plus the swirling mist did have me expecting Heathcliff to stride past on his way to dig up his dead love.

That did mean, however, that instead of being able to sight our accommodation – the Lion Inn – from kilometres away perched on a hillside we only sighted it from about twenty metres out.

Inside it was a storybook medieval inn. Mind your head signs on every lintel. Heaving with a mix of day trippers who’ve driven up, hikers, cyclists and dogs. And a fine collection of open fires – we were rather in need of thawing out after our nineteen kilometre day in the fog and wind.

I think we’ll have a very comfortable evening here. I might buy one of their T-shirts.