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Time: 8.25h. Up: 985m. Down 755m.
Distance: 32km. Difficulty: medium Day 12: Osmotherly (170m) to Blakey Ridge (400m) At breakfast we learn that neither Russ nor Dad (the former because of his chafing, the latter due to exhaustion and a disturbed night brought on, in part, by his monstrous meal the night before) will be hiking today. Four down, three to go. Since Miles is still feeling a little weak, and today, like yesterday, is not a good day to rejoin the hike, we are only four: Sally, Dave, Oliver, and me. We set off early: it will be another long day: 32km (20 miles) with almost 1000m of ascent (3300 feet). There is a sea-mist sitting on the hills and we trudge up through a dripping forest onto the moors. The weather and the setting fit perfectly; this is just like moors are supposed to be. Empty, shrouded, and spooky. My legs, I notice and remark, are not feeling very springy today. Dave concurs. We have clearly not recovered from yesterday’s hike. And the path isn’t helping: we are doing a lot of ascent and descent, which is somewhat perplexing since I thought that we would have only three significant climbs today. Worse, I have told the others this and thereby set expectations. Not good. We trudge on. The path takes us to an unexpected cliff edge and through a parting in the mist we see that we are walking alongside a drop of a hundred and fifty meters or so (500 feet). It seems that at least here the moors are more like mesas, raised up out of the countryside in dramatic isolation. The glimpse adds to the feeling that we are in another world. We trudge on. At one point, I think it is at the top of climb number fourteen of the original three, we are all bent over, catching our breath, huddled as in American Football, when Sally says, OK, the next play will be to flatten the Quarterback… quickly renamed “QB Splat”. Everyone, except for the QB, concurs. Not a highpoint of the C2C for any of us, it seems. We trudge on. The mood is perhaps just a little somber. Sally, walking faster than everyone else (of course), disappears into the mist ahead. Oliver, Dave and I follow, talking quietly. Suddenly Sally jumps out shrieking from where she has hidden behind a cairn, then laughs maniacally and walks on chuckling. Somehow it is a turning point, as if not only we but the world has had a shot of adrenaline. A short time later the mists begin to thin and we start to see more of what is around us. Our spirits lift. We realize we are not far from Clay Bank Top where we will have lunch… one more climb. At the top is an ancient rock outcrop, looking as if it had just been used for a performance of Macbeth. The sun finally breaks through the mist and we sit for a couple of minutes, dangling our legs over an edge and enjoying the first real views of the day. It is a pleasant moment. After lunch we climb a short way up to the main body of the moors. Under the blue sky they look warm and friendly, a mixture of browns and greens, buzzing in the afternoon sun. We can now see for many miles and our path is plain to make out even if our goal, the 500 year old Lion Inn at Blakey Ridge is just out of sight on the other side of a ridge. The contrast to the damp and spooky gloom of this morning’s walk is striking. Oliver’s phone rings. Nothing particularly unusual about that… Oliver’s phone has either been ringing, or he has been using it to write SMS messages, or respond to emails, for most of the trip. For a smart chap he seems remarkably unclear about the concept of “vacation”. Anyway, he has been telling us a story about a colleague of his, let’s call him Steve, who also seems unclear about the concept of vacation and has been calling him with minor issues and problems on and off for the past ten days. He looks at his phone… it is Steve. It’s that fuckwit, Steve, he announces with disgust. But Oliver, you may remember, is a very polite young man. So does he ignore the call? Does he tell Steve that he is hiking on a moor having a beautiful time ON VACATION and that if Steve doesn’t have a good reason for disturbing him, then he is going to ignore all further calls from Steve until the next millennium?? Does he tell Steve to BUGGER off and DIE and STICK IT WHERE THE SUN DOESN’T SHINE??? He does not. Instead he puts the phone to his ear and says, in the most awfully cultured and neutral and English of tones, “Oliver Smith”, and then, as if surprised but you know really quite pleased at the same time, “Oh, hello Steve”. And then he talks to Steve for at least ten minutes. If I were Steve I would have thought that Oliver was in love with me. Politeness can, the rest of us think, be taken too far. The remainder of the walk should be a pleasant stroll, and for the others it no doubt will be, but as for me, I am starting to feel a little pressure. Well, more than a little really… I am starting to doubt that I will make it to the Lion Inn. It isn’t any one thing… more a combination of circumstances. Those massive full English breakfasts, the nightly three course dinners, the vague thought to leave my own areas of friction more time to recover, and the early and precipitate departure this morning all have played a part. The bottom line (so to say): I need a toilet and I need it badly :-(. It is remarkable how acute gastro-intestinal distress focuses the mind. I don’t remember anything else from the rest of the walk until I charged into The Lion Inn, politely waited my turn (I’m English too, after all) to talk to the bartender, received my key, walked carefully but quickly upstairs, with great self-control unlocked my door, located my bathroom and… bliss. And I think that’s all I’ll say about that. Dinner is excellent, the Lion Inn ancient and atmospheric, and, after more than 70km (44 miles) hiking in two days, I don’t know about the others, but I slept like a log. Summary:
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C2C: The Coast to Coast Hike