mutteringhousewife

Otherwise known as The Last Day of Walking. That’s right, we made it. I’m not going to say that the last day wasn’t tough, though. It wasn’t extremely tough, maybe just tough enough.

It started off well. The Horseshoe Pub pretty much epitomised the English country pub experience for me. I’ve mentioned the taxidermy and the multiple staircases going off at many different angles. There was also what looked like it would have been a very expensive Turkish carpet about a hundred years ago. Our room appeared to have been entirely upholstered in blankets, including blanket curtains in the bathroom, not shown here. Some of the walls were painted gold.

Egton Bridge had a little island in the middle of it, accessed by a picturesque set of stepping stones. And there was a lovely Catholic Church, St Hedda’s, although only a couple of hundred years old, not up to my usual standard.

And then as we left the village it started pouring with rain. We have a weather app, so we were attired in the full rain kit in preparation. It’s still a little dispiriting, and one is not inclined to take a lot of photos or to stop for any reason.

We climbed through the village of Grosmont which apparently has some picturesque steam engines stored near the train station which we didn’t bother with because a) rain and b) long way to go. Grosmont was built on a hillside with a gradient on average of 33% according to one of the road sign. And as we climbed out of the village into the moors we met our old friend, the fog.

We also picked up another American who had been following our bright orange daypack covers through the fog. She walked with us for the rest of the day. She had intended to do the walk in fourteen days, but due to a misunderstanding with her travel company was doing it in twelve with two travel days either end and she had not found it enjoyable. She appreciated the Commander’s navigational ability along the minor roads and tracks through the boggy moors the Coast to Coast took us along.

We dropped down into a misty forest where we came across a hollowed out stone that legend has it a hermit lived in in the 1700s. It was a little squeezy, but he had a lovely view.

A little further along the track we came to the Falling Foss waterfall and an outdoor cafe alongside it. An indoor cafe with a roaring fire and mulled wine would have been slightly more welcome, but a clean toilet and a pretty good latte gave us energy if not dryness.

There was a lot more walking through the moors in the fog and occasional rain, and we remembered our guide books telling us what great views we’d be getting of the North Sea by now. Knowledge that this was the last day kept our spirits high even though our socks were irredeemably wet.

When we started seeing seagulls and signs for holiday parks we knew we must be close to the coast. I actually took a photo of a particularly bleak looking holiday park with apparently no inhabitants to show my siblings to contrast it with the Crescent Head holiday cabins when we realised that the slightly different grey at the back of the photo was actually the North Sea.

As we walked down the path between the cabins the view of the sea became clearer. But the path terminated in a cliff, with a steep slippery stair winding down the side of it to a shelf of black rocks bordering the sea. So I’m not sure what the attractions are to any hardy souls staying in these cabins.

Wainwright designed this walk to terminate in a cliff walk like we’d started with at St Bees. The weather made it a very different experience, with the sea and occasional glimpses of where it met the land under the cliffs making the border between land and sea look perilous and forbidding.

The walk along the cliffs was a bit over five kilometres, with a farewell to pastureland populated with cows and sheep, and the black slugs we’d seen on the paths since the beginning. The first glimpse of Robin Hood’s Bay was supposed to be a delightful surprise, but we could barely make it out through the mist.

All good things must come to an end, and so our soaking wet boots took us down into the Victorian cliff top part of the town to check in to our accommodation, the Victoria Hotel. The trip wasn’t done yet though, we had to go down to the sea to cast in our pebble that we’d carried all the way from St Bees and dip our boots in the North Sea even though they probably didn’t need any additional moisture.

Then we had to go to the Wainwright bar for the obligatory photo, taken by an extremely footsore young man who had done the trip in eleven days carrying a full pack and wild camping. His feet were a sight to make a podiatrist clap their hands with anticipation.

And then upstairs to meet our friends the American doctors to drink a celebratory beer with them. Later, after a hot shower and getting out of the boots, we also had dinner with them and an unexpected trivia night where we scored 14 out of 25 correct with which we were extremely proud, but didn’t win any drink vouchers which was probably a good thing.

Our last walk, today, was a record 28 kilometres, but it certainly didn’t feel like my toughest day. I am looking askance at my boots, where the uppers appear to be starting to part ways with the soles and wondering if I could be bothered getting them back through Australian customs. But they’ve been through so much with me. I might make that call once they’ve dried out and smell less like bog.

Back to London tomorrow, and am planning to do a spot more reflecting on what has been a fantastic adventure that has given me quite ropy calves and a disdain for distances under ten kilometres. Not sure how long that will last.