Coast to Coast, the Finish.

We finished in a haze of driving rain and mizzle which headed from Germany across the North Sea into our faces, forcing us to keep our heads covered just when we wanted to raise them and grin with a sense of achievement. This was almost the only rain that Moonface & I had experienced during the whole of the fifteen days walk across England, 192 miles / 300 km of solid trudging over many types of terrain and landscapes, from Irish Sea to North Sea.

We did it!
The last five days were remarkably easy. I don't know whether it was the sensible distances which we covered or the type of walking; all I know is that it just seemed to be almost a stroll over the last eighty or so miles from Catterick to Robin Hood's Bay. Perhaps we are just fitter.

And on to the next walk. But what could be more satisfying than to walk across the width of an island country?


;o)

Interpret this, sucker !

I leaned out over the balcony of our room in Danby Wiske, overlooking a courtyard on a bright, sunny morning. The road behind the pub was quiet, but this was compensated by the number of birds which variously cheeped, chirped, sang and called all around us.

Then I saw the following:

First, a pair of doves in the courtyard.
Next, a pair of goldfinches on the red-tiled roof to my left.
Then, a pair of robins upon the wall opposite.
And finally, a single jackdaw swooped into the courtyard and preened and pranced about.

So, Oracle, tell me what it means.

**************************************************

And, if you're being predictive, that evening as we were being driven back to our farmhouse B+B high in the moor-surrounded dale, a chocolate-brown hind dashed across the road immediately in front of us, pursued by a flash of owl.

*******************************************

It's all nonsense, of course.



:Oo

Grey and Green

Moonface and I walked from Kirkby Stephen over the Pennines down Swaledale to Richmond, last week. It's one of England's most underpopulated areas, with vast swathes of bare moorland and upland bog. Even in the valley, there are few people and the villages are widely separated.

It wasn't always like this. From Roman times (and probably before) until early last century, the hills were one of the world's richest sources of lead. Metallurgists have found that Swaledale lead has been found as far afield as Jerusalem. ( like the lead and silver from the Mendips, closer to our home) There are strange hummocks and folds in the hillside throughout the valley where mines one were, and the remains of smelting mills on the moors. There must have been hundreds of people involved, from the miners themselves to the peat diggers who provided the fuel for smelting, to the wainwrights and pack-men who provided transport, and the cooks, builders and ancilliaries who kept the mines going. All of them needed food, so the farmers would have been richer and more numerous than now.

Now, on the tops, there is silence. The hills were stripped of peat to fuel the smelting works, so the bare rock is exposed. The mine working and mills are in ruins. It's like another planet, when the valleys are hidden by perspective.


:-]

Coast (half-way) to Coast, Day 1.

A half-day of travelling, a half-day of walking, and a Priory.
The railway journey for the three hundred miles or five hundred km from Bristol took six hours and three changes, but put us in St Bees after some wonderful views over the cold Irish Sea by 1pm. By two we set out on our first leg, taking the time to dip our feet in the grey waters before we commenced the steady trudge up the first hill to the cliff-tops.

Red cliffs, seagulls and cormorants, and the Isle of Man in the distance.
Sad post-industrial villages, just this side of slums, with unhappy looking gardens.
Views of Whitehaven, where five of my cousins were brought up, the last English town to be invaded during wartime. (And that was by Americans in their war of Independence / Rebellion. Their leader was from Whitehaven, and the raid ended in a pub, getting drunk. It failed.)

Then through green lush valleys to another sad town, Cleator, whence we were picked up to be taken to our first night's lodgings.

St Bees

After a long day's travel and a walk, what do you do in the evening?
Go for a stroll, of course.

So, on the first evening of our Coast (Half-Way to) Coast, we pottered through St Bees to the Priory. It was dusk, the first streetlights appearing, and the birds ceasing to sing as we walked around the pink stone church. The 12th century Norman door is worn but magnificent, and out of habit and interest, we tried to open it. Much to our surprise, it wasn't locked, so we tip-toed inside.

It was (I think) the first time that I had been alone in a dark church, with no lights inside and only a dull nightfall outside. It was quiet, hushed, anechoic. The church is plain inside, Spartan, bare stone walled with little decoration: a style which I prefer over the rococo ornamentation of High Church and Catholic places. My gods are of simple things and high places. As we moved forwards, single spotlights clicked on and showed us where to walk in the deserted aisles. The semi-dark and quiet made it a spiritual place, much more so than if we had seen it lit or in daytime.

Then we heard footsteps.
We were by the door, when a rumpled, flushed forty-ish man pushed open the door. We guessed that he had seen the lights and had arrived to investigate, but that wasn't the case. He almost jumped when he pushed open the door and found us there, but calmed when we turned out to be middle-aged greying oldies rather than young vandals. And, since he turned out to be the Priory organist and rather drunk, he insisted upon showing us the whole building, which was rather wonderful with its old memorial brasses and tombs. In fact, it was difficult and embarrassing to extricate ourselves from his over-enthusiasm, but we did so and were most grateful for the tour. So we walked slowly back to our B+B, to be fresh for the second stage of the walk in the morning.


:o)