Read, Write, Ramble

Anyone who knows me well, knows that 3 weeks is my upper limit for being away from home. By the time I get to 3 weeks, I am itching to be back in my safe space, in the same country as my family and the people I love, no matter how great the travel experience I am having. I have been known to push through the homesickness and make it to 5 weeks, but it’s a stretch. The fact that I have been away from home for 4 weeks and 3 days now, is a miracle in itself, but add to that the fact that I had to leave one beautiful grandson behind, and while I have been away, another grandson has been added to the family, that I have managed to remain absent this long, is a miracle worthy of a sainthood. But I am at Heathrow airport as I write, and will soon be winging my way back home, albeit without Wallsy. But let’s backtrack a little… We made it to Robin Hoods Bay and settled  into our beautiful B&B called Lee-side for a well-earned rest. We had one day to explore the quaint little sea-side

We finished as we had begun – fully decked out in wet weather gear. There had been rain overnight, as forecast, but when the rooster crowed at dawn (his personal version of dawn), there was a suggestion of weak sunlight, and we mistakenly thought the day was going to fine up. We had already looked at some alternate lane-based routes to skirt us around the wet-underfoot and boggy bits, if necessary, so we felt well prepared for the day. Back in the room after a quick breakfast, we readied ourselves for our predetermined departure time of 08:30. This time was based on information that the North Yorkshire Moors Railway steam-hauled train would be arriving at Grosmont Station, 2 miles up the road, at 10:25 and we thought it would be nice to have a coffee there and watch said train arrive and depart. Ready to leave right on time, we looked out the window, to see the rain bucketing down. So it was packs off, waterproof layers and pack covers on, and we were again ready to leave. The walk

We must have looked like a line of forward slash symbols marching across a page, as the ten of us who left the haven of the Lion Inn at Blakey Ridge at 9 am today, walked across the edge of the moor, leaning into the cruel wind. The wind was cold and lazy, wanting to go straight through, rather than around us, and trying to blow us off the edge of the moor with every gust. We had walked for an hour and covered 2 ½ miles from High Blakey Moor to Danby High Moor, but when we looked across the dale, we were still looking directly at the Lion Inn across the breach.   We soldiered on, battling the wind, which was sometimes blowing across our path, and sometimes pushing us on from behind. We turned onto Glaisdale Moor, our ranks quite spread out by then, each making our own way to the best of our abilities, and followed the line of Glaisdale Rigg. At some point on the Rigg, Wallsy and I found a suitable large stone, there had not been one seat on the whole walk, and we had been hiking fo

Often in life we are encouraged to forget the past and look ahead, setting our sights firmly on our goals. But when hiking it has become apparent that looking back is equally as important. By stopping and turning around every so often, we see the places we have been from a different perspective. We can see the beauty we have passed through, and all that we have achieved, necessary motivation to keep us walking towards our goal, especially when it is up a steep hill.   We had organised the hotel van to return us to Clay Bank Top carpark this morning at 9 and our New Zealand friends joined us for the same shuttle. We got a headstart on them going up the steep pinch towards Carr Ridge, until, just through the first gate, ½ a kilometre in, Wallsy spotted a seat which provided him with an appropriate spot for a quick sock adjustment, and I decided to pop my coat on, as I could already sense the cold wind on top of the moor. This gave New Zealand a chance to overtake us. Suitably rugged

We began the day by retracing our steps. Last night, we had stayed in the attractive village of Osmotherly, but as it was about 1.5 km, or a mile, off the route, we had to backtrack to rejoin the track, making the distance for the day about 13 miles (21km). The hill out of the village was a step pinch. Wallsy found a lovely seat, but I told him it wasn’t time for a break as we hadn’t even walked a mile yet! He tried it for size anyway, but only briefly, and we were soon turning onto the track which would lead us along the north side of Arncliffe Wood on the Cleveland Way. We would be following a section of the Cleveland Way all day today, and generally, it boasts better waymarking and clearer tracks. Wallsy took the lead as we followed a stone wall along the wood, until we reached Scarth Wood Moor. As this section was a bridleway, we were joined by a couple of horse riders at this point. A bridleway can be used by people on foot, bicycle or horse, whereas a public footpath is only

Our 12 th day of walking. The countdown is on, and all along the track today there were reminders that we were counting down to the end. The café in Ingleby Cross had a sign above the door for example, saying St Bees Head 140 miles and Robin Hoods Bay 50 miles - a total of 190 miles - but the overall distance is meant to be 192 miles. Further up the road as we ascended Worm Hill, another signpost indicated St Bees 132 miles and RHB 48 miles … a total of 180 miles. We seem to be losing miles as we progress. This would confirm my previous premise that a mile is an arbitrary and variable measurement. It will be interesting to see what our final tally is, based on the daily distances recorded by our OS maps App. It was another perfect day for walking, except for one brief shower, which caused us to dive for our fleeces, but the sun soon reappeared forcing us to stop and remove them again. There was a light breeze and intermittent cloud cover, making walking comfortable. We slightly over

It happens every day: the final three-mile trudge. Conversation stops, and our heads drop, the only sound is the sound of our footfall to the backdrop of birdsong in the nearby roadside hedges. There is no chatter about things we are seeing along the way, no friendly banter or bad dad jokes; instead we plod, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, for the last three miles. A mile, I have realised over the past 11 days of walking, is an arbitrary measure of distance used in the UK. A mile is quite long (compared to a kilometre) and the thing about a mile is, it gets longer as the day progresses. This explains why the final three-mile plod seems like the longest three miles of the day - it actually is - and while my feet, at this point in the day, no matter how many miles they have already covered, want to move faster, because they know the end  is near, Wallsy seems unable to continue moving his with any purpose, and the divide between us inevitably widens. The firs