I can't find words good enough

When we woke today it was sunny and about five degrees. Centigrade, fortunately.

We had enjoyed a lovely dinner in Grasmere the night before and had a marvellous suite (yes a suite, with a separate lounge and a blissful bath), had slept well and were ready for any challenge.  So the sunshine came as a welcome surprise.

The views were gorgeous, even before we left Grasmere. They just got better. We kept stopping on the stiff climb to turn and look back at the view - not, you understand because we were tired. The day continued like this with heart breakingly beautiful scenery every time you crested a use or rounded a bend.

We met up with several people we recognized from the previous days: the policeman, Ken, and his wife, Linda; the happy couple with a dog; a young and cheerful man doing the C2C on his own; the Australians. Everyone was happy and cheerful.

The descent into Patterdale gave us excellent views of Ullswater, where we could see small boats sailing in the breeze. A circuitous walk past a cream colored bull rounded out the day. (Our host says the bull wandered down the hill into town and into the reception area of the local hotel one morning.)

What a truly delightful day. A blister the size and shape of Ireland is a small price to pay.

Tomorrow: sixteen miles to Brampton. The last big hills of the walk.

"It were a bit wet ..."

I expect it would be boring to give you a detailed description of the pain I am in, so I won't, tempting though it is.

Instead I will talk about the weather, like any good Englishman of good upbringing.

I see from the BBC website that this year is the wettest on record.  By a curious coincidence, the Lake District is the wettest part of the UK.  Put the two together and what do you get?

Let the answer come from the wise lips of a local, retired shepherdess.  She now runs the Walkers Drop in Cafe in Moor Row, a must-visit if you are in the area.  She said she's never known as much rain.  When we described where we were going she said brightly "You'll have walking poles then?" and a significant "Oh" when we answered in the negative, followed by a falsely cheery "Never mind" which put dread in my heart.

(Just so you know how much pain I am not telling you about, I thought I would mention that I took a pair of Ibuprofen two hours ago and it's still painful.)

On our first evening we stayed at a lovely farm.  The farmer, a retired doctor, now keeps all kinds of animals, including bees.  He said he had eight hives.  "Do you know how much honey I've had this summer?" he asked.  "Eight pounds."

I clearly didn't look sufficiently taken aback.  In retrospect I realise I should have staggered and gasped "No! Never!" but I just looked blank so he said "I normally get 400 pounds.  It's all this wet weather."

All this is by way of introduction.  Shortly after leaving our hotel this morning, we turned into the path on our gentle climb on the route to Grasmere.  There was quite a big puddle which we skirted. And another. And another.  After a while the path just became a stream, with water cascading along it.  I would have written "cascading merrily" but it was cascading along the path I wanted to take, damn it.

For the next couple of hours all that happened was that my boots and gaiters got wet.

Then we got to a part where the guidebook explained we would have to ford a stream.  It didn't explain where we would get a 4x4.  I was dismayed to realise I would have to ford it on foot.  Well that wouldn't do so I walked around the fording point.  I then discovered why it is a good thing to ford the stream.  The alternative is to end up knee deep in the bog.  Which I did.

In the end, one becomes inured to a touch of dampness, to walking through streams and swamps.

On arrival at the wonderful Silver Lea B&B in Grasmere, we rang and when our hostess, Gill, came to the door we asked if we should take our boots off.  She looked at our feet and replied "I think that would be better."

I was shattered.  So was the retired policeman I told you about yesterday, who we met just after supper.

But ...

.. tomorrow the sun will shine and all will be good.

How the worst day turned out

It may have struck the avid reader of this journal that I might have been just the teensiest bit grumpy about having to walk the Coast to Coast with my DBW.

Well today changed all that. It came tipping down and when morning in the bowl of night flung the stone that put the stars to flight I opened the curtains at our delightful B&B (a farm just outside Ennerdale Bridge) to see not the bright summer sun, but gloomy grey clouds scudding across the sky.

I felt a sense of foreboding.

An hour or so later, I felt a sense of dampness. We had just left the farmhouse when a squall of rain descended at high speed. I pulled my hood, allegedly waterproof, over my Tilley hat and marched grimly on. The DBW chattered happily beside me. We spent the morning walking around Ennerdale Water, which I must admit was rather pretty and then gradually climbed the valley.

Within a minute of us entering a youth hostel to have a bite, there was thunder and then hail started falling at 45 degrees. My word, what a lucky escape.  I thought my fortunes must be changing. We set off a few minutes later and the scenery just got prettier and prettier. A steep climb of about 1,500 feet followed and the view changed from pretty to magnificent; gorgeous fells, delightful waterfalls, chocolate box meadows and a strange lack of killer sheep.

A long and gentle descent followed, with far views over Ennerdale Water and Buttermere, followed by the slate mines and a welcome drink and sit down in the cafe there. Bliss! We chatted to Americans from Las Vegas and a policeman and his partner from Scarborough.  Then we kept descending further and further, alongside a rushing river until we fetched up at Rossthwaite.

The hotel was somewhat suspect. Called the Royal Oak, it looked like a bit of a dump. I was feeling misgivings when the manager, Neil, came out and welcomed us.  It is, perhaps, a little tired and retains quaint customs from the mid-twentieth century; a dinner gong and after-dinner coffee in the lounge. Howeve, the service was excellent and friendly and the food (mushroom soup, gammon and vegetables, sticky toffee pudding) was delicious and welcome.

They lack mobile phone coverage, but do have WiFi. And plenty of hot water. And a room to dry wet clothes.  What more could one want?

A good night's sleep.  Which is where I am going now.

Tomorrow: two or three thousand feet up and down some peaks and then into the metropolis of Grasmere.

With rain.

Naturally.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

So here I lie, my painful blisters and bunions stoicly ignored, made weak by time and fate but strong in will.

I tell you, reader, of an epic adventure among these barren crags.  My eye is fix'd upon a distant peak; my mind is fix'd on deeds heroic.

I woke this morning at four a.m., fully prepared for a day that would live in the annals of history.   But then I thought I would prefer a lie in.

It was later on the bus from Kirkby Stephen to St Bees that I began to have doubts.  The journey took almost two hours.  My word, one can cover an immense distance in that time.  Why would I want to walk it?  Well, of course, I didn't.

At St Bees it was blowing like billy-o.  There were legions of sea horses and the sea itself was so churned up that it was brown.  There had been a family in the bus with us whose daughter said she'd barely slept a wink all night with excitement at the prospect of walking the coast to coast.  I sympathised, except she had the wrong emotion.  The son was wearing shorts.

So while these benighted fools set off up St Bees Head, Colleen and I took a short cut up the valley.

Sheep were scattered like confetti across the fields.  One has to be careful of these brutes.  Overtly they are so mild but, given half a chance, they will sneak up behind one and bite one's bottom.  There have been 27 fatalaties this year in England alone.  I took a photograph of one while he was distracted by a svelte ewe but I haven't yet worked out how to upload photographs using Lakeland internet.

On the way up an enormous peak, we ran into some Americans.  They claimed to be from Vegas and felt the lake district was a bit damp.  I told them I thought Vegas was a bit dry.  These were the fit type of Americans, in their fifties and sixties, slim and with perfect teeth which they were prepared to demonstrate in bright smiles.

I put on my sunglasses.

On the way down Dent Hill, I became a little confused.  One guide book told us to go straight on.  The maps said to turn hard right.  At that stage one of the natives appeared, walking three dogs.  I asked which way was right and she said summat like 

"Arr eee ye be wharrkin t' cos tu cos?"  I would quote more from her but I think my iPad would run out of saliva.  She pointed off to her left and cackled something about a cliff.  Ten minutes later I found myself walking down a cliff.  To avoid undue worry, dear reader, I will let you know that I survived.  An RAF Tornado flew by, so low that we were looking down on it.

We arrived at our B&B farmhouse about 4.30.  The lady, a charming retired doctor, said it had rained 2" the day before.  I took off my boot and most of that rain tipped out.  I had a marvellous bath, a hot cup of coffee and recovered.  A day's walk across the fells with no rain.  Excellent.

Tomorrow the rain returns.  Could life be better?

The easy bit

It was a really good idea when I thought of it, six months ago.

"Sweetheart", I said, speaking to the gorgeous item with whom I have cohabited for the last thirty years "Why don't we have a staycation this year and walk the Coast to Coast path?"

"What a good idea!" she exclaimed, much to my surprise and consternation.  I know she doesn't like climbing hills.  I only did it to annoy because I know it teases.  "We'll need to start training."

I put my head in my hands.  She was meant to say "I thought we were going to Canada this summer." Instead with the enthusiasm that sent a chill through my heart she was talking of training.  Training?  That would take all the fun out of it.  I did training when I spent a year in the army in 1979.  In case of any doubt, I would like you to know that training is no fun at all.  My motto is "No pain,no pain" and training breaks my motto into tiny fragments before crushing them beneath the iron heel.

On the plus side, compared with the Lake District, through which the Coast to Coast path passes, Hampshire is like an ironing board.  So we trained by walking a circuitous route to the news agent every morning.  I practised carrying a backpack by carrying the Telegraph, which is a broadsheet and therefore very heavy.  All the way home.

And today we set off for the Lake District, having in the interim bought maps, boots, walking trousers, a compass, a transparent map pocket (which I left at home, together with my pyjamas), hiking socks and a book or two.

My heart quailed so, having got all the way to Bicester, I said "You need some clothes, dear.  Why don't we go shopping?"    I had in my mind that we would spend a few hours there, discover it was far too late to get up to the Lake District and abandon the exercise.

Instead, with unbecoming haste that set new records, the DBW found some clothes that fitted her perfectly within 43 minutes.

So, a few hours later, here we are at Kirkby Stephen.  It's not the worst small town I have been too.  Indeed I am compelled to admit that it has it's own water-logged charm.  Our host, Nick, admitted us to the B&B, which is actually quite delightful.  It's a Georgian house and from the miniature chaise longue in the entrance hall to the sashed curtains on the window, it feels lovely.

At the top of the stairs is a library of holiday reading - hundreds and hundreds of lovely books, from classics to thrillers.  You could easily spend a week reading them.    Let me repeat that: you could easily spend a week reading them.  I may just settle down and let the DBW have a refreshing walk and report back to me on how it went.