Haweswater to Orton – Hey Joe

Thanks Jimi.

I slept poorly in a comfy bed, but switched on radio 2 in the middle of the night, and my breathing, heartbeat and general internal comfort settled down. Enough to sleep in three sections, divided by a piss, in the right pot, for 6 hours in total. Breakfast was delightful, just bacon and eggs but cooked really well.

Then I was on my way, expecting rain. Thanks Bob. And as I stepped out of the hotel the rain stopped, and didn’t start again until I got to my destination. Which was the George Inn at Orton. Bed and breakfast £35. Kismet Hardy.

Bye bye Lakes. Again.

I followed a footpath up the valley from Bampton Grange (where I’d stayed) to Rosgill, another tiny but attractive village.

Looking across the valley again the final fells were lovely.

And back down the valley northwards was a substantial peak in the distance west of Penrith. But I didn’t know what it was, and maybe never will, Honey.

Walking over the hill to the east, towards Shap, I came across the Wainwright Coast to Coast path, which I would follow most of the way from here on.

I love ancient bridges, and I love old churches. This is a good one. St Michael’s in Shap. Pity I’m not a Christian, but I’m thinking things through whilst I’m walking. If I could link the enormity of the Universe, as well as the eternal nature of time, to a bloke in Palestine 2,000 years ago, then I might believe. But it looks ridiculous to me written down.

The first footpath to the east took me out to and over the M6, looking back.

Carrying on, the link with the Lakes was gone. And looking forward were the Pennines. Home territory nearly.

One field I walked through had two horses waiting for me at the only stile leading out. Now, I’m not brave where big animals are concerned, particularly when they came up and started nudging me. They were probably after apples or sugarcubes or summat but I felt abused. I’m outraged and offended. They behaved like animals.

Turning south the path cut through fantastic limestone pavements, and limestone landscapes are my favourite. Home territory, caves, potholes, dry valleys and rivers springing up from the ground. Lads using blazers as goalposts. Wet, leather footballs leaving scars when you head them. People laughing at you because you’re not capable of appropriate social interaction. Oh! Those were the days!

The Yorkshire Dales were emerging to the south. Is that Whernside second in from the right? Is it Pen Y Ghent third from left? Not that far from home, but I’m skirting it to the north.

This cairn marks Robin Hood’s grave. He’s got quite a few. Must’ve been a cat.

Up the valley, due south and over the top to Orton, with the sun shining in the Yorkshire hills. Just 12 miles today. A good, steady day for tired limbs.

And another hot chocolate waiting for me in the village. With cream!

A night in the George Inn. Lovely.

Night night.