Just before our descent to Black Sail Youth Hostel

We’d spoken about doing the Coast to Coast for a while. We’d been to Scarthins, our local bookshop and purchased the requisite Cicerone Guide, we’d played with alternative routes on Google Maps for a few days and then, as often is the case, with the initial burst of enthusiasm having waned, the plans were shelved, to be supplanted by longer, more exotic routes - and more Cicerone’s - Walking in the Dolomites, Across The Eastern Alp, Walking in Austria.

But then, Esther‘s beloved mother Lydia, finally succumbed to pancreatic cancer, and so it came back into focus. For one it was in the UK so it would be easier to arrange last minute (and rearrange - more on this later), plus it would give us the flexibility to shorten if needed with easy access to public transport along the way.

But most importantly of course, it would provide Esther with the best bereavement therapy of all - nature and motion.

Knowing we wouldn’t have the time to complete the 192 miles in one go, which realistically would take far longer than the 12 days the Cicerone Guide suggested, we settled on seven days walking, starting at St Bees on the Cumbrian west coast.

Having booked all the necessary accommodation, updating my Google Sheet with every confirmation, I thought it prudent to take Esther through the plan in detail , which we did over beers one evening in The Royal Oak. It may have been prudent but it would have been far wiser to have done so before booking, with several of my proposed routes and reservations needing to be altered due to Esther’s insistence that there was no way on earth that she’d be walking 22 miles in one day up and down the Lakeland Fells and called my sanity into question…

The Train to St Bees

There is something quintessentially English and mildly depressing about most northern seaside towns and St Bees didn’t disappoint. However, a brief and enforced stop at Whitehaven - to buy a left behind phone charger - established the fact that there were worse. Even though we only really experienced the local Tesco and Railway Station - they were enough to make the judgement.

The St Bees B&B, at Stonehouse Farm however, was as clean as it was twee and we pleasantly lolled on each of the three single beds on offer in the ‘garden view’ room that was Room Number 2, as we pondered the taxing dilemma as to which of the two high street pubs to gamble taking our evening meal.

The Queen’s Hotel appeared to have time warped from several decades previous which might explain why it didn’t have a website. But having stumbled across a few customer photos on their long since updated Facebook listing, I could see why.

But then the Manner Arms, with its ‘considered’ font and Farrow and Ball colour palette raised alarm bells of its own with a menu of pub classics which stretched ominously over several pages.

However, given each were or a mere two minute walk from our B&B, a visual reconnaissance was called for.

The Manner Arms won - more so because The Queen’s appeared questionable as to whether it was open or not, judging by the rust stained, desultory exterior. Or for that matter, if it was indeed open for business, whether we’d want to touch the front door handle, let alone eat there.

So we entered The Manners. The staff were friendly and judging by the level of obscenities heard around the bar, at least we felt we’d stumbled across a ‘locals’ pub.

Having ordered a pair of pints, both pale ales, we surveyed the extensive menu – Esther opting for the sirloin steak and I the beef brisket. When they arrived however, it soon became clear that we had somehow ordered each others by mistake, as my choice looked far the better of the two. So plates were swapped and Esther was able to at least keep up her vegetable intake, whilst I was left with the best-worst steak I’ve ever had - tasty but almost inedible. A bit like eating a stale Peperami.

Wine was followed by whiskey (Irish) and Scrabble (I won) and finally chocolate, before our self imposed 9pm curfew.
To dream of breakfast at 7:30 am

Scrabble Paul 400 Esther 338

NO SEVEN LETTER WORDS

Day 1 - St Bees to Ennerdale Bridge
15.6 miles | 1,850 ft climb

We were promptly ushered into the breakfast room at 7:30am by Carol and who generously allowed us to sit anywhere. We chose a table set for two overlooking (we assumed) Carol’s collection of miniature pony figurines along with accompanying comic pony framed illustrations adorning the peach painted walls.

It didn’t bode well, but to be fair, the coffee and the home-made marmalades served as a first course, were above average.

The same sadly could not be said of the pale pink sausages, nor the flat tasteless tomatoes nor the fried egg which had the appearance of an AI render and tasted little better.

But there was lots of it.

So after packing and drying the coffee stained curtains with toilet roll and a hair dryer (my fault having knocked over my flask) we settled the bill, and set off with full bellies and fuller expectations.

The sun shone down, the beach beckoned and we had our first encounter of the trip with fellow trekkers - a father and his three sons who were equally as keen as us to get their feet wet in the Irish sea. Oh and of course to select a small stone or pebble to carry along the width of England to cast into the North Sea on the other side as is the Coast to Coast custom.

I chose two, each for their Netsuke-like qualities in the hand – one to represent myself and another for Esther‘s mother, Lydia, whose memory I vowed to keep me company throughout the journey.

After the beach the walk ascended along the coastline to St Bees Head. An exemplary stroll with exceptional wild life. We saw low flying cormorants, nesting and inquisitive Herring Gulls as well as Guilemots complete with fledgelings

Turning inland after the St Bees lighthouse and Redstone quarry (which was used for the Anglican cathedral in Liverpool) the landscape and vernacular descended into the humdrum before descending further into the predictable ugly grim reality of northern who-cares architecture. Poverty, abandonment, neglect and despair were as obvious as the satellite dishes.

The diversion didn’t help, driving us further along suburban streets and roads rather than the grassy fells which we had longed for.

A brief stop by a rain induced rampaging river crested by a low slung stone bridge, gave us a chance to devour wild raspberries as well as douse our hair to mitigate the sultry late afternoon heat, before we began the uphill trudge towards our destination for the day.

Finally tarmac gave way to track and then to field delivering us from the urban back to the rural. Esther took the low pathway whilst I traversed Flat Fell competing with a straggle of Cumbrian sheep for the best route to the top.

An hour’s descent along ravines and hedge lined sidewalks brought us eventually to Ennerdale Bridge, stopping at the Fox and Hounds for a thirst quenching pint of Loweswater Gold, beside a small tributary to the River Ehen, before making our way to the Shepherd‘s Arms, our hotel for the night.

John Cleese and Prunella Scales would been delighted that such a credible tribute act was still performing, perfectly aping the Fawlty Towers experience of provincial, tired interiors with a smiling but ultimately shambolic service. Even the chef looked ready at any moment to either quit or die of boredom.

Our evening meal of Lamb Henry (slow braised shoulder) and St Bees lobster linguine (with red sauce, that’s the only adequate adjective) were deemed hearty enough, but perhaps the further three pints of Loweswater Gold may have skewered my culinary evaluation.

Tomorrow promised a shorter day, meandering along Ennerdale Water before the slow incline to Black Sail Youth Hostel – a lonely and lowly 8 miles away.

Which meant we’d have more time to savour our breakfast, pre-ordered on A4 sheets of multiple-choice selections and detailed options which had probably remained unchanged since 1975. Basil would approve.

Scrabble Paul 415 Esther 357

UNVEILS (72) BALLSIER (83)

Day 2 - Ennerdale Bridge to Black Sail Youth Hostel
10 miles | 1,175 ft climb

We started the day with breakfast in the clearly defined ‘Breakfast Room’ complete with a mantelpiece display of gaudy gold and silver candles. Esther devoured a large bowl of plums accompanied by our own smuggled blend of muesli and chia seeds, whilst I wallowed in the decadence of white sliced toasted bread, butter and marmalade.

My pre-selected breakfast arrived - perhaps I’d accidentally ticked the box to denote a child’s portion as the Cumberland sausage was no more than 80mm in length – served with a solitary tomato, a singular poached egg and a slice of black pudding that was cooked on one side only. If I hid my disappointment then it was through a misguided sense of duty as an Englishman, not wanting to make a fuss. Not so Esther. She had written copious notes along with her ‘tick’ next to ‘Scrambled Eggs’ detailing the exact creamy (but not watery!) property of her desired eggs, to accompany her smoked salmon. But alas, as usual, they arrived overcooked in a homogenous pale yellow mass, with an appearance reminiscent of expanding foam. A pitiful sadness mirrored increasingly is Esther’s expression with each mouthful.

Still, my coffee was good. You have to take your victories where you can.

Not to be downhearted, we set off as planned at 9am, walking out of the village through roadworks to a Forestry Commission track, which was unhelpfully declared closed with signs warning of ‘Potential Death’ - which of course we ignored.

Surviving the near death experience of traversing a route at least 80 yards from any potential danger, we emerged beside the serene shoreline of Ennerdale Water. Having sat for a while to take in the view, we opted for the southern track, taking in a spectacular rocky outcrop called Robin Hood’s Seat and a series of lovely birch woodlands interspersed by pebbled beaches and lapping waters. The sun broke out and, as we had lots of time to spare, Esther decided took to the water for a cooling plunge, whilst I looked to safeguarded the rucksacks with dragonflies for company.

On reaching the end of Ennerdale Water, the path turned sharply first left then right to the start of a four mile stretch of monotonous forestry pathway – a rough hued road with decaying forests on either side. After two miles, Esther however, through studying her OS App in frustration with the route, discovered a parallel pathway across the river which proved too tempting not to try and forge our way across.

I started my traverse across the raging torrents of the River Liza having de-booted and de-socked at the first obvious grassy plateau, whilst Esther decided to explore further down the bank, in the hope of finding a better point to cross - stepping stones or similar. Perhaps a rope bridge or a St Christopher. So we found ourselves, on the far side of the river, separated in the woods with no phone signal or Wi-Fi. We were reduced to the humbling experience of having to shout one another’s names, rather than simply messaging or consulting a FindMy app. Neither of us initially heard the other calling and when I did get a response, the tone was not exactly that of a woman relieved to have found her man… Eventually, having our pathways converge along the track, and after the briefest of fallouts (for us at least), we continued on our way until we arrived at the wooden bridge which would return us to the same forestry pathway.

Before crossing it though, Esther took another plunge downstream of the bridge, to cool off from the afternoon sunshine as well to cool her ire with my lack of assistance across the river.

As we still had plenty of time, we opted for one final detour before Black Sail Youth Hostel. The path ascended steeply to 400m - too steeply in places for my liking as I suffered the full weight of my rucksack on my 90 degree bent back.

It was worth the 20 minutes of agony though as the views back to Ennerdale, as well as the descent to YHA Black Sail were equally spectacular. It’s always better to arrive at your destination going downhill than up.

The hostel itself was as good as hoped, its simple interior perfectly balanced by the simplicity of the proffered evening meal; three sausages, a pile of mash, a big jug of gravy and copious amounts of peas. All prepared by the Hostel Manager Rick and his young Scottish apprentice (he put the sausages in the oven) and was followed by a definitely not home-made carrot cake. We opted, despite Rick’s best sales pitch, not to go for the squirty cream. Don’t get me wrong though, this place was absolutely perfect – hosteling at its basic best and most beautifully isolated.

Having booked single bunks in gendered dorms, we were pleasantly surprised to be told we had a dorm all to ourselves as there were only us, a family of three and two others staying the night - for once not full, but still too busy to be kind to a group of young campers in search of a place to pitch their tents for the night. Rick, in his best managerial tone, told them they could only do so where he couldn’t see them so that he didn’t have to report it to the Forestry Commission, and that they could use the toilet now, but that was it.

During the night, as I woke to the winds howling and the rain rasping the windows, I felt a pang of guilt as I nestled beneath my warm duvet.

Somehow I couldn’t imagine this was a feeling shared by Rick.

The walk tomorrow would take us across two tops to Grasmere - a long arduous day called for an early start, so Rick’s Full English declined, we set our alarms for a 7 am start.

Scrabble Paul 386 Esther 369

MINERALS (86) FRUITERY (92)

Day 3 - YHA Black Sail to Grasmere
15 miles | 2,825 ft climb
(Being written on day 4 as too tired on day 3)

What a day! 11 hours hike. Two tops traversed and one near suicidal wife. At least now I know that 15 miles was at least 5 miles too long for Esther, especially as the sun came out for the last two hour tortuous slog down into Grassmere. Tortuous for Esther due to exhaustion and a pained hip. Tortuous for me to know I’d caused it. Thank God it wasn’t the originally planned 22.

But back to the beginning…

We woke up at 6 am ready to gather our thoughts, pack our bags and gird our loins, to set off at the agreed hour of 7 am.

We left Black Sail behind, beneath the drama of the morning mists and low clouds. I decided on the word ‘brooding’ for the hostile itself – dark, dramatic and dangerously attractive, like the Mr Rochester of Youth Hostels.

As we started our first climb, we could see the two tents of the youthful group below whom we’d briefly met the night before. Fellow coaster to coasters but doing it the hard way – with tents and intentions to wild camp across the length of the 192 mile route. Typical of the youth of today.

After 45 minutes tough slog we crested the first top, chased behind by clouds and enticed onwards by the promise of Lakeland vistas, who teased us for the next ten minutes between swirling mists and battleship grey clouds. Lake Buttermere and Ennerdale Water could both briefly be seen, linked by High Style, with distant St Bees Head – or possibly Whitehaven (begrudgingly) visible in the distance.

The path caressed the contours of the tributary hills to Great Gable before descending via the old tram line down to Honister Slate Mine, where we had to stop to explore the offering a ‘world of slate’ but also an exceptionally good sausage roll. Spicy on the seasoning, enclosed in crisp pastry and generous in size, it was good enough to evoke the mention of Adrian, a work colleague with a penchant for such savoury snacks, who we both agreed would wholeheartedly approve.

Onwards. We descended into Borrowdale, where we were treated to a live re-enactment of a Thomas Hardy novel, as the young, dark haired and plaid shirted young man steered his flock of Cumbrian sheep with the help of his three dogs – small dark Collies Esther assures me. I felt a small pang of jealousy knowing the pleasure Esther would take in watching him at his work, might be enhanced by his likeness to a certain Gabriel Oak.

We stopped for mugs of hot tea and apples in the excellent and appropriately named Flock In Tea Rooms at Yew Tree farm, at Rosthwaite, where we once more bumped into the four young campers from the night before and where Esther, her conversation being overheard, was informed that the Sherlock Holmes story she’d been listening to would be A Study in Scarlet.

It was now midday. We had been walking for five hours and only amassed seven miles. We knew the path would now cross over the tarn onto the eight mile stretch to Grasemere, through which we knew no more tea rooms, pubs or even houses would be encountered. We were heading into the wilderness.

The first hour and a half of climb was through sublime, fern lined slopes with the feverish tarn rushing downhill beside us. We stopped several times on our way up, to what we assumed was to be the second and final summit of the day - the magnificent Lining Craig, whose promontory afforded spectacular views back to Borrowdale and beyond.

But behind which rose yet another 100 metres of incline to Calf’s Crag.

The highest peak attained, the main note of interest of the next two hours crossing Grasmere Moor were the monumental stone slab paving stones – like a hard landscaped garden path, that ran for a mile across a precious peat-bog crested top, before the path eventually opened up towards the Eden Valley.

Paradise it may have been but ten miles in and with still five to go the sun came out, and with it evaporated all of Esther’s enjoyment, energy, life force, will to live - so much so that by the time we had finally arrived to the ancient cobble paved road leading into Grasmere, her demeanour was more like a like a resentful teenager being dragged by her Fascist parents along a walk she never asked for.

Still, the four star rated Swan Inn would surely lift her spirits?

I don’t want to rant about the overpriced, badly designed money machines that Lakeland hotels seem to be, but I do resent paying good money for such a woefully soulless experience.

The Interior design was like a poorly executed Weatherspoons - more suited to an article in a Readers Digest than a four star hotel -maybe I was being a little harsh? Having tasted the humdrum food and paid the £6.75 for a pint of lifeless beer, not to mention the £185 room bill - I don’t think so.

But Esther was so tired it didn’t really matter.

No scrabble – too tired.

Day 4 - Grasmere to Glenridding, Helvellyn YHA
9.5miles | 2,900 ft climb

We both slept well that night in room 22 - probably in part from the exhaustion of trying to find it within the writhing labyrinthine corridors, shape-shifting stairs, and maze-like false turns that made up the accommodation annex of the pub.

We breakfasted on poached eggs and premade Bechamel sauce, served on (probably) Warburton muffins, before collecting our gear and heading out for our day's walk.

Following the clearly prescribed route we encountered our first taste of local hostility “Technology has got it wrong! You can’t come through here!” she hollered “You need to head back to the main road and look for the big wooden sign…”

Suitably chastened and admittedly chagrined, I consoled myself by comparing her to the farmer's wife in Withnail & I.

Anyhow, once on the correct route, as denoted by said large wooden sign, we soon started a shallow ascent across Rowan‘s Ground and passed the waterfall near Gaul Haus Moss to the plateau of Grizedale Tarn. Here we met a tall Dutch couple, a single German female trekker and finally an English woman with her German husband who were both living in Australia. The pleasures are of walking in England.

Esther made an instant connection with the solitary German woman, so much so, she even turned off Stephen Fry‘s narration of Sherlock Holmes – the ultimate compliment.

Having studied the map together, we saw that we were still to ascend further, along the ridge from Deepdale Haus, up to St Sunday Craig, standing at 841m. After a steep 30 minute climb, the dense clouds miraculously broke just as we approached the top – although the view it revealed was, in all honesty, a little underwhelming.

It improved greatly on our descent as splendid views of Ulleswater revealed themselves as we traversed the often steep incline down to Glenridding, avoiding the numerous fell runners following their red flagged route at crazy speeds. It reminded me of the serenity of skiing on wide open pistes only to be continually buzzed by snowboarders – but I kept my patience in check and instead focussed on the incredible stamina, the amazing levels of fitness and the breathtaking stupidity of those taking part.

We descended onto the main thoroughfare of Glenriddings and immediately went shopping for our evening meal, loading our already bulging rucksacks with potatoes, aubergines, courgettes, tins of chickpeas, olive oil, tinned fish - like we’d been deprived of food for days.

With at least an extra 5 kg in our bags, we set off to the YHA Hevellyn, stopping en-route at the Travellers Rest for an hour, to enjoy a couple of excellent pints of Helvellyn Pale, whilst I wrote up yesterday’s entry and Esther stretched out on her side of the bench, before we readied ourselves for the final push to the hostel, a further 1.6miles up the relatively gentle incline of the track.

Having checked in, we immediately headed to the showers, after which we set up a near industrial arrangement to wash clothes, utilising three sinks with varying temperatures and laundry liquid. We did so in the hope that the hostel’s drying room would work its magic and leave us departing in the morning with clean, dry clothes, boots and bodies….

Esther 383 Paul 378

Day 5- Helvellyn YHA to Haweswater Hotel
12.5 miles | 1,475ft climb

Again we slept well, having dined on vegetables and olive oil, and despite the best efforts of the camping pod gathering outside our window - complete with campfire laughter and their pet dog’s barks.

Breakfast was kept light with just fruit and yoghurt, after which we packed and headed out into the Sunday sunshine by nine.

Last night’s pained climb to the hostel was now reversed into a gentle amble down to Glenridding with the intention of catching the bus to Hartsop.
On our way, however, we met once more the solo female walker from Germany, who mentioned the landlady from her B&B of the previous night recommending the steamer to Pooley Bridge to save a few miles on the walk towards Shap.

As we are heading to the Haweswater Hotel and not the normal pitstop of Brampton, it didn’t actually offer any reduction in miles, but did save a 1000ft of climb. But it was also the romantic appeal of an hour’s steamer on the sun-dappled water of Ullswater that sealed the deal and made the £32 ticket price seem worthwhile.

The steamer itself must’ve been 50 years old or more, named the Lady of the Lake (though I assume not in a tweaked homage to Raymond Chandler) and was crewed by an old hand and two young apprentices, who both positively radiated the glow of youth but strangely only one the confidence.

The trip was accompanied by a piped narration detailing some of the history of the lake, including a rendition of Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’, penned two years after the journal entry which inspired it, apparently.

Allighting at Pooley Bridge we were soon reminded that the Lakes are not just for mountain lovers and outdoor pursuit enthusiasts, but equally for those seeking a day of family fun in the countryside - complete with gift shops, sweet shops and pubs with large gardens and garishly branded sun shades.

The first two miles of the route itself took us along a few village streets until the tarmac ended and the rough hewn moorland path commenced.

The landscape was strewn with heather and fern and offered ever wider glimpses back to the Ullswater as we climbed.

Our path took us away from the main viewpoint however, so we left the crowds behind and forged on our route, which was not always based on, it would seem, official footpaths. This proved the cause of some conflict with opposing directions from Esther’s OS Maps to my Komoot app – especially when my route led us through a field of rampaging young cows.

As we first approached the field we realised that there were maybe 30 or so of them, all looking our way. Suddenly, they startled and decided to stampede, not at us thankfully, but into the adjoining field, through what was only a part opened wooden gate. As all 30 rampaged through, trying to do so three or four abreast, the gate was smashed in the mayhem as if made from matchsticks.

They regrouped at the extreme corner of the adjoining field, so we decided we had time to cross. The fear of them returning though, to smash into us like they had the gate, had us running, complete with bouncing backpacks, to the gate at the far side. This turned out to be the wrong gate of course, but as the cows were making moves signalling their unwelcome return, we looked quickly for an alternative route.

Whilst exploring our options I managed to soak my left foot completely, then on making for higher ground, we were able to watch the cows stampede from one field to another to another to another, as if they’ve been given a giant hamster play cage, made of stone walls, trees and us.

Esther reassured me that had I fallen or tripped, she had reconciled herself to the fact that she’d have to go back to “save her man, whatever it took.’

Thankfully no such trip occurred - so those cows will never know what a lucky escape they had.

The weather has changed as we knew it would, to sporadic showers, so the walk was punctuated with regular stops to put on rain gear only to five minutes later take them off again. The landscape was mainly farmland with the paths meandering through a selection of sometimes picturesque but more often dilapidated farmsteads. At one point we stopped beside a small arch stone bridge, whose engineering prowess was wasted on the sheep, and climbed through the fields to a wide stretch of boggy marshland, when we spotted in the distance, a group of wild horses.

As we drew nearer, we realised that there were far more in number, maybe 15 in total and with three or four fouls, which seemed only days old.

A magical but all too brief interlude.

Now no long distance walk can be completed by two people without at least one good argument, and normally this will be about the route. This was our time. I planned the route unquestionably bowing to the greater knowledge of Komoot and had therefore religiously followed the blue pathway for the previous six days. Esther‘s preferred app though was OS Maps, which shows all the public footpaths and highways you’d expect. So when I ventured through fields where no route was shown on Esther‘s app, this was fine, unless the terrain was not to her liking. Up hill, across bog, through ferns. Each edged her closer to the point of erupting, not in anger over the technological disparities between the two apps, but in my apparent arrogance of not acknowledging the superiority of hers. Still, after another 30 minutes or so, we were back on a regular forestry trail, soaking wet from waiting through 5 foot tall ferns and bloodied of hand from brambles. We still had a 2 mile hike to go (which turned out to be 2 1/2) along regular single track tarmac roads, in heavy rain, avoiding oncoming cars and potential further soakings from roadside puddles.

Still, by 4:42pm the hotel came into view and I said I hoped it was going to be as good as I hoped it would.

It was.

Built in 1937 it boasts the retention of many of the original features, from the parquet and linoleum floors, to the beautiful Crittal windows and bold Art Deco fireplaces, the hotel exuded old world charm and casual style.

I had booked a room with its own balcony and although it was still raining as we arrived, we just had to take to the private terrace to behold the glorious view of Haweswater itself. A reservoir serving the good people of Leeds and Manchester since 1935 – it was not so the good folk of the village of Marsdale, whose homes, farms and even graveyard, all had to be relocated the nearby Sharp to accommodate its construction – itself a stone through from the soon to be opened M6 – talk about out of the frying pan…

Dinner was pre-booked for 5:30pm in the bar, offering ‘the more relaxed dining experience’ which was certainly taken on board by our laid-back, nigh on bored waiter for the evening (we did manage to get him to smile later ). Beers and wine were ordered along with home-made sourdough bread, pork crackling with black aioli, chicken terrine (all most excellent), heritage tomato salad with mozzarella and Beef Wellington to share for a main (more so excellent) rounded off with cheese, Eaton Mess and whiskey sours served in the majestic games lounge. I even managed to hide the two glacier cherries in the fireplace before Esther returned (Esther objects to glacier cherries the way the women of Greenham Common objected to nuclear missiles).

Eventually, we settled on a game of Scrabble. Three seven letter words later, including two back to back, and I at least returned to the room happy…

Breakfast was booked for nine. A taxi to Orton for 10:30.

So we could relax and make the most of our time together in the lap of luxury, with the promise of the morning sunlight dancing on the waters below.

Scrabble Paul 444 Esther 369

EBONIZES (89) EGOTISTS (78) SPEILED (70)

The Haweswater Hotel - Worth Every Penny

Day 6 - Haweswater Hotel to Kirkby Stephen
(Taxi to Orton) 12.8 miles | 1,000 ft climb

Too few days start off with an excited leap out the bed, but falling to sleep beside the double doors overlooking Haweswater left me dreaming of the possibility of the dawn. So when Esther woke around 5:20 am convinced she’d been bitten (turns out she probably was) my first thought, after due consideration to Esther, was what was beyond the golden velvet curtains?

The crisp light of the first hours of day have their own beguiling lucidity and when combined with the hazy reflections on the water’s surface of trees, mountains and clouds, the delight is doubled. I asked Esther to join me, to take in the views and together we read, drank black coffee, listened to the singing of the birds, and watched the shifting shadows of the clouds. And so to breakfast.

It was served in the main restaurant so we got to experience the main dining hall as well as the bar. It made you realise the modest size of the hotel as we could have been no more than 20 covers, all managed by the blonde lady of East European heritage and character – efficient almost to the point of surliness. Even when she dropped someone else’s full English across the beautifully parquet floor, it was quickly spun into an opportunity for her to show her professionalism and the lack of everyone else’s. Within the two minutes she had to wait for someone to fetch the mop, she must have rolled her eyes four times at least. In fact, to the new observer, you’d have never have guessed it was her clumsiness, no doubt exacerbated by highly impractical heels, which had seen the bacon, fried egg, beans, hash brown, and solitary sausage bedeck the restaurant floor

But to give her due, she had arranged a taxi for 10:30 to take us to Orton, so that our day’s walk to Kirkby Stephen was a manageable 12.5 miles rather than the 21 from Sharp.

The taxi driver was a nice Edinburgh born gentleman, who told of being rent for her family home at the tender age of 16, to move to Newcastle, despite his pleading to stay. It was obvious the 60 year-old wound still needed stung. I’m sure the £80 taxi bill he charged us will have helped.

We started the walk well, by visiting Orton‘s renowned chocolatiers, selecting six apiece, to be kept in separate bags to save arguments.

Our first day walking in Yorkshire was pleasant enough – countryside with rolling fields, beautiful birdlife, impressive sheep (in stature as well as number) but little else. No dappled woodland. No fields of fern. No cascading waterways nor ancient trading routes – just good arable and farmland, with few trees, but no doubt superior efficiency yields.

Esther’s hip started to play up after a few miles, so some items of clothing, make up bags, sandals and water were transferred to my rucksack to try and stave off any trip-ending injuries.

Apart from the sheep and the soporific landscape, the main attraction was the sky. High white clouds clashed with angry grey complete with boisterous claps of thunder in the distance. Jet fighters, military transport planes and pilot trainees all graced the air span above as did Wagtails, Eurasian Wrens and a host of others I was too lazy to identify.

By 5:30 we finally turned into the High Street of Kirkby Stephen, with but one thought - the day’s first pint. We tried first the Black Bull Inn but sensibly turned around immediately using the terrible music as an excuse to run from the appalling atmosphere of a pub left to the whims of it staff, feeling like a poorly run youth club. The Pennine down the road wasn’t much better, but at least the Wainwrights was decent and they had tables outside. It was there we agreed to call an early end to our walk. My foot was playing up which I put down on my boots weary thin, but probably also to shouldering the added weight for the last 8 miles. At 57 these things take their toll.

Two more pints of Wainwrights gave us enough time to book train tickets home before we walked back down the high street to our accommodation for the night.

The Band Room was tucked behind the Black Bull Inn, but thankfully this time we only had to suffer the stares of the chef and not the music from the bar.

Stephen, the owner of the barn, had to come to let us in, as there was an error on the key safe, but it meant we got to meet him – and a lovely guy he was too, with that warm soft Yorkshire accent that rolls and caresses like the Dales themselves.

A decent meal at the Mango Tree Indian and Asian Restaurant, eaten within a suitably gaudy colour combination, was taken to a higher level by the ghee smothered paratha breads, which as well as being the perfect vehicle to scoop up every drop of flavoursome sauce, were themselves beautifully light and crispy.

Home then to the barn with the promise of an hours TV and no scrabble, before hobbling into bed to let our bodies and bones start their slow recovery from the week’s endeavours.

Lydia’s stone will be kept safe for our return, to perhaps complete the middle section from Kirkby Stephen to Richmond over a three day walk later this year. Who knows, maybe even with Inga.

Richmond to Robin Hoods Bay can wait until the spring.

No Scrabble – just beer an Indian and some crap TV