Crossing England
Cutting the Old Dart in half, the Coast to Coast Walk across northern England is a challenge with plenty of character…
Words Mary Harris, photos Adam Long
My 14-year-old raincoat had packed it in. The rain stung my face and an unwelcome chill was setting in. I was on the 300-kilometre Coast to Coast Walk across the mid-north of England. It was day three, a strenuous 26 kilometres in the Lake District from Ennerdale Bridge to the village of Stonethwaite. The thought of having lunch crouched behind a wet rock held no appeal, so you could imagine my delight at seeing a stone hut ahead.
The Black Sail is England’s most remote hostel. Perched on a windswept hillside it’s a basic hut that used to be a shepherd’s shelter. A scrawled sign on the front door welcomed walkers to have a cuppa and a homemade flapjack – a delicious oatmeal slice. Peeling my now saturated jacket off, the hostel was heaven.
The Coast to Coast Walk is eccentric and a little old-fashioned. The official guidebook, written by the late Alfred Wainwright – the much-revered founder of the cross-country route – is straight from 1950s England. Its hand-sketched maps and rambling prose reflect an era when walking was for strapping, ruddy-cheeked English lasses and lads. Before starting the walk, Wainwright suggests that you pick up a pebble from the starting point at St Bees, overlooking the Irish Sea. The idea being that you carry it across the country to throw it into the North Sea at your final destination of Robin Hoods Bay. I selected my pebble carefully. I wanted something lightweight.
THE COAST TO COAST is not a wilderness walk but it can still be challenging. Deteriorating weather can quickly turn a delightful hike into a wet, boggy grind. How long you choose to complete the walk can also notch things up. My partner and I chose to spread it over 17 days, but we met a fellow walker who’d bitten off the full 300 kilometres in seven days and was putting in 40-kilometre-plus days back to back.
The Lake District is considered the walk’s highlight, a rugged area of peaks and lakes. If you are heading west to east you pass through this area in the first five days. It’s also one of the busiest parts and, particularly if you time your crossing with a rare sunny day, it can seem like half of northern England is out there on the track with you.
The Lake District also seems to be the area with the worst Coast to Coast signage. I didn’t think I’d need to refer to the guidebook regularly, but after a day making navigation errors that Hansel and Gretel would be proud of, it became clear that the Wainwright’s bible was more valuable than anything else I was carrying.
On one confusing mountain pass we were joined by Brad, an Aussie. Brad had been plagued by a series of mishaps on the previous day including getting lost, pulling a tendon while jumping a stream and falling head first down a steep grassy hillside. To add insult to injury he had arrived too late to be served dinner at the local pub. Brad had only decided to do the walk ten days before and his pre-walk training had consisted of one 12-kilometre walk along a flat canal towpath near London. The walk attracts all sorts of people, from beginners like Brad to more serious rambling groups. We found that we crossed paths with the same people along the track or joined them at the local pub each night. Walking camaraderie is very much alive on the Coast to Coast.
LEAVING THE LAKE DISTRICT we headed towards flatter country and the town of Shap. Our accommodation at Shap was a lodge operated by two young Jamie Oliver look-a-like brothers. They had been running the place for a year, were frothing with ideas but still hadn’t got things going smoothly.
We had ordered a pre-packed lunch to take with us for the day’s walk. Eager to get started we asked Jamie Oliver One if our lunch was ready. ‘On its way!’ he said, bounding off towards the kitchen. I suspected it would take some time and headed outside to get some air. There I witnessed Jamie Oliver Two bolting out of the kitchen, grabbing his bike and screaming off to the village. Five minutes later he was back at full speed, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm. His enthusiasm to get back to the kitchen resulted in him slamming against the barn door and falling off his bike – but the loaf was held high. Dusting himself off he raced inside and soon we were on our way, content in the knowledge that the sandwiches were fresh.
The walk takes on a different personality away from the Lake District. As we left Shap, the route headed into low moorland and past a set of stones in a circle. It’s not exactly Stonehenge – you could walk straight by this circle, mistaking the tiny stones for sheep – but it is a bona fide pre-historic mystery.
The busy market town of Kirkby Stephen was our next destination and this is a great spot for Coast to Coasters to resupply and do some much-needed washing. Many walkers rush through the towns not allowing much time to explore and relax, but I’d recommend building in at least two rest days – not only to appreciate the local sights, but also to give your feet a rest.
From Kirkby Stephen our route climbed steadily on to the windswept tops of the Pennines to a feature called The Nine Standards, two-metre-high rock cairns that sit prominently on a ridge. Legend has it they were built to resemble an army encampment to scare away the marauding Scots to the north. Past the Standards the track became boggy but we were lucky to have done it in a dry spell.
Accommodation choices on the walk are varied – including camping barns, youth hostels, B&Bs and pubs – and mostly good. However, it pays to do your research beforehand and book ahead in the busy spots. One spot where accommodation was problematic was the Yorkshire Dale village of Keld, the official halfway point of the track.
Keld is a sleepy little village with a boutique pub, a couple of B&Bs, no shops and one forlorn phone box. To secure a bed for the night I had booked an inn, seven kilometres off the route. The Inn’s website promised so much and after an eight-hour walking day we were really looking forward to putting our feet up. Josh our driver turned up at Keld in a battered hatchback to pick us up and, like many 18 year olds, drove fast and recklessly. I sat in the back seat, surrounded by adolescent car clutter, my daypack clutched to my chest – this was going to be my make-do airbag if Josh collided with one of the countless sheep wandering across the single lane road. As we screamed around another blind bend Josh informed us that not many people stayed up at the inn.
‘Here we are,’ said the ever-cheerful Josh, as the inn appeared on the horizon. The white building was striking in the late afternoon sun, but even this couldn’t hide the abandoned shipping containers, rusty machinery and the leather-clad bikie gang at the front door. ‘Yur rooms aren’t reedy yet’, said the sour waitress from behind the bar.
Twenty minutes later our room was ready and we followed Ms Sour around the back of the bar and through the pub’s kitchen. Greasy plates were stacked high and my shoes were sticking to some mysterious substance spilt on the floor. We were led up an unlit staircase piled with dirty washing to our cramped bunkroom. I sat on the sagging, stained bed, head in hands, wondering if my partner would ever talk to me again. Out came the ever-trusty Wainwright guidebook and we started looking for alternative accommodation. I called the boutique pub in Keld begging for rescue and a bed whatever the cost. ‘Yes’, someone had cancelled and they had one room left and, ‘yes’, they could send someone to pick us up. We were indeed lucky.
FROM KELD WE had a choice of two routes. Rather than doing the official Wainwright high route through abandoned lead mines we chose the lower more scenic route following the valley of the River Swale to Reeth. The landscape here was characterised by stone barns, quaint little villages, countless stiles and rolling hills. The sun beat down relentlessly and the temperature hit a whopping 32°C. Thankfully this section had a fair smattering of English pubs en route.
Richmond, next on the map, is the biggest town the Coast to Coast passes through. Indeed, our Wainwright guidebook encouraged us to comb our hair and freshen up, as the town is renowned for its attractive lasses.
The section across the Mowbray Plain was dull, with flat walking through farms and along roads. Every so often the walking monotony was shattered by the need to sprint across a busy motorway. To break up a 35-kilometre day we stayed at the small village of Danby Wiske. After 18 kilometres of road bashing we were looking forward to having a break but the tiny village had no sign of life. No birds cooing, no children playing, no cars…even the pub was boarded up. A serious sign in England.
When we found our B&B the owners told us that they would be cooking our dinner because there was no-where else to go. After having a shower I headed downstairs where our host Arthur was pouring me a cup of tea. Clearing his throat, Arthur leaned towards me and in a hushed tone said: ‘There are strange things going on around here. Sixty years since the D-Day landing, that plane going down in the Atlantic and the green hail that fell here last week. I think it might be forces beyond our planet.’
Great, I thought. I’m stuck in the Village of the Damned with the local conspiracy theorist. I hurriedly finished my tea and excused myself. The next morning couldn’t come fast enough.
Another day of flat slogging was finally broken by the sight of the Cleveland Hills and the Yorkshire Moors. We were looking forward to walking through the last of the national parks on the Coast to Coast. After a short climb the track followed a windswept escarpment with great views across the Mowbray Plains. We even got our first distant view of the North Sea – a thrill as it made our final destination of Robin Hoods Bay more real.
We decided to break up another long day by staying at an isolated farm on the Moors. As we approached our accommodation it became clear that this wasn’t a farmstay from the pages of Gourmet Traveller, rather it was a genuine working farm. Our cheery hostess Pauline welcomed us in a Yorkshire accent so strong I found it impossible to work out what she was saying. My British born partner could understand her, so I smiled on mutely. We were lead through the kitchen, dodging meat joints dangling from the roof. Our room upstairs was freezing and Pauline informed my partner that the central heating was bung. I sat on my sagging bed huddled under four mismatched blankets looking through the window at the windswept moors feeling a little dejected. My partner on the other hand was enjoying the stay immensely, heading downstairs to chat with Pauline over a cuppa in front of the wood fire.
The next morning we continued our progress east. The undulating escarpment gave way to the moors with endless views as we moved towards the heart of the Yorkshire Moors and the isolated Lion Inn at Blakey Ridge, our home for the night.
The following day we headed out in brilliant sunshine, tramping along some minor country roads. Eventually we left the moors and traversed above a farmed valley called Great Fryup. As I contemplated the origin of its name my daydreaming was interrupted by the sight of the North Sea. After 17 days our destination at last seemed to be within reach.
After descending a valley and passing through a couple of villages and patches of shady forest, we headed towards a pub in the village of Grosmont, which turned out to be a railway enthusiast’s dream. A lovingly restored steam engine runs most days on a trip that takes you to the coastal town of Whitby.
FITTINGLY, THE FINAL day of the Coast to Coast, to Robin Hoods Bay, was anything but a doddle. Instead of heading straight to the coast, Wainwright’s route is a 25-kilometre zig-zag through valleys and across boggy moors. We headed along a pretty patch of forest called Littlebeck Wood, said to be the oldest forest on the entire walk. At the end of the wood was a dainty waterfall called Falling Foss, and beside this was a tiny stone hut with tearooms out the back. Tucking into our scones we were joined by a man clutching a local walks guidebook. ‘Have you walked the three miles from Littlebeck village?’ he enquired. ‘No, we’ve walked the 188 miles from St Bees.’
‘Oh that’s a bit further then’, he laughed.
Robin Hoods Bay is a picturesque fishing village jammed into a notch in the cliffs. The final mile descended steeply to the Bay Hotel, the official end of the walk. Before having a celebratory drink in the pub I had one more task – to throw the pebble into the ocean. Launching my little pebble into the messy waves I felt a great sense of achievement. Alfred Wainwright summed it up well when he wrote: ‘In a walk, as in life, it’s so much more satisfying to reach a target by personal effort than by aimlessly wandering.’
