Hello; how are you? Good, good. How can I help you……oh God, I’m fed up with this stupid approach to a travel blog al(bloody)ready. Why can’t I just tell you what I’ve done and put in photos. After all, everyone who looks at this blog is only interested in the photos. So why tell you what I’ve bloody well done when it just gets in the way of you looking at the photos? Here are the bloody photos.

Night night.

I caught two trains yesterday to travel most of the length of the British mainland from Leeds to Kingussie with a view to catching an early train this morning to Fort William, which was to be the starting point for my trek.

I arrived at Kingussie late into the twilight. It’s a village in the Cairngorm mountains national park. Outside the station was the local memorial for those who gave their lives in two world wars.

I always find these incredibly moving, but this one was off the scale. It’s a village that you can walk through end to end in 15 minutes and the number of lads who gave their lives was massive. This was one of three lists. Poor little buggers.

The first thing I did was stop at the chippy on my way to the hotel and get my usual haggis and chips.

I was the only one staying in the hotel. I had to put a code in a box to get the key out and never saw anyone. It was an old building. There were footsteps upstairs. I knew it must be another customer and nothing paranormal so I played it cool, gathered my thoughts and shit my pants!

You can’t write decently for more than 5 minutes can you? Answer me boy! Can you? You have to refer to bodily functions in a rude way don’t you boy?

Yes sir. Please don’t hit me again. I’ll be good.

This morning came and I had to get down to the station for a 7.30 train to Fort William. The only one of the day. A quick East to West dash. I arrived at 7.15 and the platform screens didn’t indicate that a train was coming, but a screen in the locked ticket office said it was a bus and it was on time.

The long and short of this tedious story is that the bus never came and I had to get a train down to Stirling, another train to Glasgow , another train to Crianlarich (which was delayed as it had run over somebody on the track – sadly true) a bus to Fort William and a bus to Spean Bridge. I got here at 18.15. I feel so brassed off that I could ****.

BOY!!!!

The route in red is the one the Magic invisible bus would have taken. The blue route is the one I took.

The big plus is that the route from Glasgow to Fort William was the most beautiful route I’ve ever taken on a train/bus.

Tomorrow I have to get a train from here at Spean Bridge back to Fort William to the start of the East Highland Way. I had to stay here because I’d already paid for the hotel. Well…..Maggie had. I have to go back because I’m walking the East Highland Way, not part of it – all of it. But; and this is the rub – it’s not a train tomorrow morning at 7.19 because the line got knackered last week. It’s a bus! And if it turns into a Magic bus and is completely invisible, like the useless non-arrival this morning, I’ll scream until I……. Until I……. Until…..oh ****!

BOYYYY!!!

Night night.

Well this old, fat bastard doesn’t evoke Scotland the Brave in my humble opinion. But he’s going trekking there in two days time, 140 miles from Fort William to Aviemore and down, through the Cairngorm mountains, to Pitlochry. Some remote country with more than my share of wild camping. And just to add a bit of spice to it the BBC is forecasting snow in Aviemore. But only light snow.

Keep an eye on this blog. I’ll start it on Thursday if all goes well but there will be several days between posts as there is no signal, no roads and no buildings (apart from the odd bothy) for many miles on one or two legs.

Night, night.

As Bob foresaw there was darkness at the break of noon. But by then we’d had an early breakfast and hit the muddily meandering Coast path to Ravenscar. With a view back towards RHB.

Getting a bit of a sweat on with climbs and falls due to streams cutting little valleys on their way to the sea. But we can handle it.

Then up to Ravenscar on the top of the cliffs.

We got a cup of tea to go in Ravenscar and switched from the undulating Coast path to the Cinder Trail, an old railway line. No steam trains here.

We got wetter and wetter. Richard’s phone lost it’s ability to take photos and mine just packed in for good, destroyed by damp in my pocket.

By mid-afternoon we’d made it to Scarborough, with a speedy sprint along the defunct railway. Well that was a decent trip.

The 5 highest peaks in England and 226 miles across the Northern uplands. I won’t do the Coast to Coast path again, it’s no doubt stunningly beautiful in summer but there are many, many walks to do. Enjoyed it and at least I got a trek in 2020. Suck that you dirty Covid bastaaad!

I’ll let you know what I’m up to before my next adventure.

Night night. Love Dave. X

You’re watching yourself but you’re too unfair. Thanks David.

I was shortly not to be alone, as Richard Taylor, father of Samwise, a close friend of my youngest, was walking up the coast to meet me.

But first a decent early morning with a decent breakfast and a decent hike over’t Moors. My bedroom window view of Eskdale was pleasant.

The Inn was near the bottom of a steep hill as the road drops off the Moors and down into Sleights. It was a good workout hauling my kit up this 1 in 4. Looking back was my first view of Whitby .

The route climbed further, turning eastwards to Littlebeck, then dropping steeply down to the village and the river running through it.

On the basis that whatever goes up must come down, and vice versa, the track climbed steeply again up onto the top, and I regained the Coast to Coast path which I had left at Grosmont. With a view from a different angle down to Whitby and a crock of gold.

Now I was making better time but the moor was very boggy and I had to make numerous detours around deeper mud holes. Then the rain came back. Richard rang and, as I was dropping down to the coast, he was walking up in the opposite direction.

Then he appeared, like King Lear on the desolate, storm blasted heath.

It was good to see him and we had a catch up on the way to Robin Hood’s Bay. We was slippin an we was slidin on that coastal path. A good indicator for the walk down to Scarborough tomorrow that we should switch to the disused railway line which Richard had found. Good lad! Then we were there. RHB.

We dropped our gear off at the B&B and hurried on down through the village to the sea.

Only another 16 miles to go and then I will have completed my route. But for tonight a few beers and a pleasant meal with Richard, whom I was finding to be an agreeable companion. As Jane Austen might say. Particularly as he doesn’t care for red cabbage, which meant that I could take all of it. Capital chap! Although I did effect a quid pro quo on the mange tout. TTFN.

Night night.

I hate you Butler. A bit of an obscure reference for under 60s. Anyway, I’ll let it pass.

Today it rained. Not only rained but persistently. It just makes it hard to get decent photos when all you can see is the inside of a cloud. Great breakfast, latish start (9am) and I’m away, with my rucksack contained in a cheap, plastic poncho bound by garden twine. And my boots still holding together with superglue. New kit? No need. Up-cycling, hillwalking, freewheeling, Bob Dylan. How did you get here? You got a lot of nerve, sing Positively 4th Street for me.

This standing stone appeared out of the mists (of time) and seemed mysterious. But the inscription below the cross of the Cross gave away its age. MM. A youngster.

This was a 15 mile walk today and the first 9 miles were over the Moors in the rain and cloud and wind. I was wet, and wanted to sit by a fire drinking hot chocolate. But when you’re Miles from Nowhere, thanks Cat, all you can do is walk. When the cloud lessened temporarily there wasn’t much to see anyway.

Oh look, a dead rabbit, said the old bloke desperate for photographic material. Or could it be an alien species?

Dropping down into the Esk valley I was so wet that I didn’t want to take my gloves off to take photos. When my hands are wet I can’t get them back on. Glaisdale was shut, but there was a covered entrance to the local pub and it gimme me shelter (thanks Mick/Keith) to get my kit in better shape, re-tie the twine and dry out for ten minutes or so. In the valleys it isn’t cold but it’s the rain that gets your clothes and kit.

It was a decent but damp walk down to Egmont, then on to Grosmont.

And what great timing had I? The steam train was in the village as I walked towards the station.

Even more magnificent, it set off.

Anyone who lived during the 50s and 60s would be hard hearted not to shed a tear and feel that lump in their throat at the passing by of this beautiful, evocative, historic yet present, representative of British greatness. Engineering greatness. Romantic greatness. I’m not jingoistic but I love a lot of what this great country has produced.

Including steak and ale pie and sticky toffee pudding, which I ate at the Inn that I was staying at tonight. To die for. But don’t believe the old lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Just saying.

Night night.

The times I left the tent to pee were cold as midwinter and clear as a gateway to the Universe. Wow! All too soon the alarm went off at 5.45am. Jesus!

I packed the rucksack, bent double in my mini tent, and then dismantled the tent, after dragging it in the darkish early lightish to the campsite reception, where there was a dry surface to work on. When I was packed I had a cold tin of baked beans and half a litre of cold water for breakfast.

Setting off up the valley to join the Cleveland Way, which formed the bulk of the route today, the view over the back of the ridge, towards the north, was subdued in the early light.

As I walked round the rollercoaster the light grew.

But so did the wind and, shortly followed by, the showers. The views were obliterated. Shame.

Historic country though, like most of the UK, peppered with ancient sites. We take them for granted but these are enormously significant. If one of our forefathers is buried under here we could add over 200 ‘greats’ to the grandad. Awe inspiring? You bet!

Over to the left, out towards the North Sea, the sun had been shining on Middlesbrough continuously for nearly an hour. What for? It’s still a craphole, rain or shine. Shine on me instead of this wind and rain, and the backstreets and the backstreets. Thanks Van.

The sections of flat walking on top had become paved, like the Lakes and popular Dales hikes.

And just when it looked like the future was flat, a drop and a climb intervened! This is it, looking back to where I was half an hour ago.

Finally the climb that culminated in rock faces for a number of real climbers, not scramblers like me, ended with an ongoing even walk into the Moors.

Looking back the hilltops to the right, which I’d stepped gingerly down and vigorously up, where bathed in sunlight.

And up into the Moors the sun brought a bright and optimistic perspective. My pace quickened, but around 14.00pm hundred hours I was starting to flag.

And then, after another half hour of gritted teeth I saw the Lion Inn up on a hill. But I was so concentrating on getting there that I couldn’t loosen my grip on my walking poles to take a picture. Twenty miles from start to finish, 14 of them rising and falling. Persistently. (Word of the week).

And then at 15.15 I arrived. Had a bath for an hour, slept for a while then got an early dinner and went to bed. £30 bed and breakfast. Private bathroom. Result.

Night night.

Tomorrow is a long, long walk with not a lot of daylight, so I took my time today to complete the short 10 miles to save my legs, lungs and energy. Breakfast at the farm was nice and the first 8 miles of the walk were along the rest of the Vale of York. The last 2 miles were up the Yorkshire Moors and over to the campsite at Osmotherley. A brief taste of tomorrow.

For the moment it was a goodbye to Lovesome Hill. Bye.

And the Sun was out, shining on the Moors that I would walk to today.

It looks like dry land but it int. It’s sodden, muddy and sodden muddy. Oh, I’m so clever with werds. This was flat farmland but it wasn’t a bad walk at all, if you like wading. And the sun stayed out for me, just mee, how lucky am I?

Some folk say ‘What do you think of when you’re walking Dave?’Well they don’t because nobody talks to me apart from my missus. Well, if any folk did ask that I’d answer, ‘I hope I get across before the next frickin train.’

I did. That’s why I’m writing this. I looked back from the mini hill in the midi stance (there I go again 🤗 mit dem werds) . And with maximum telephoto I got a grainy shot of the hills in the Dales which I left two days ago.

Starting to climb into theMoors was the first Coast to Coast way-sign that I’d seen with details of what was achieved and what needed to be achieved. My own details were a bit top heavier with distance and altitude as I’d climbed dem mountains in the Lakes and was walking on to Scarborough. Interesting though.

From the top of this low section of Moors the view was clearer back across to the distant Dales.

In Osmotherley I pitched my tent, in sodden grass, walked down to the village and had a jolly good beef roast. Returning to el tento I was in my sleeping bag by 6pm. The alarm was set for 5.45am. My sleep was broken by cold conditions, the need to pee, pain in my right knee and discomfort. Apart from that I slept well.

Night night.

This was going to be a relatively grim day. The Swale below Richmond empties out into the broad Vale of York, which isn’t spectacular like the Lakes and Dales. In fact some of it is just grey. Coupled with which the weather was a poor forecast, rain and rain. Oh well, 16 miles to achieve with my reduced rucksack. My sis took a fair amount of stuff home for me, spare clothes and things I hope I won’t need.

Yesterday in Richmond she had a chat with the local MP.

Richmond itself is great. A decent, farming focused, well to do, not up itself, Yorkshire town.

With a peat coloured river rolling through the valley.

And rolling out into the plain below.

Walking down by the riverside I came across this unusual plaque, which intrigued me. The Richmond drummer boy.

Moving on, the dead further down the valley at Bolton on Swale were rocking it.

I was meandering slowly as the owners of the Lovesome Hill Farm B&B were out and not back until 18.00. But I left it late to pick up speed and the weather was getting worse. The photo below sums up this afternoon. Wet farmland with no distinguishing features.

In the end I was wading through muddy fields and rainy country lanes right up until 18.00, with the light fading and my shorts, socks and boots sodden. The superglue was working a treat but this water came over the top, for which there is no protection.

All in I’ve walked 152 miles, and something like 70 to go. It’s fun. Come on – even when it’s raining I love it. Tomorrow the forecast is good. And I’m camping again. Hooray! Until then……

Night night.

Bloody sister cooked me breakfast, washed up, gave me a lift to Gunnerside, drove back to pack the tent away, hung around for the day and drove down to Richmond to drop off my rucksack when I arrived there. She failed, failed I tell you, to give me a packed lunch or iron my socks. Bloody sister. Where can I get another one? This one is brock. Doesn’t it have a 65 year guarantee? She dropped me off at the pub where I met her yesterday afternoon.

Luckily there were public toilets in the village and I had 20p. I needed a poo after the previous night’s fantastic Indian. There was a light on the inside of the door saying ‘Press to Lock’. I had already sat down, and dropped my shorts and undergarments, and was beginning to engage with the task when I saw the light. Well….not a revelation, just the light saying ‘Press to Lock’. This meant the door wasn’t locked.

It’s uncomfortable when you’re in a public khazi, knowing the door isn’t locked. Worse, I couldn’t reach the light to press it without getting up and walking across. What might happen? But to compound it the light also said ‘Press to Unlock’. What if I got up, waddled to the door, pressed the light (with the sound of a metallic clunk), finished off and pressed the light again…..but it wouldn’t unlock! It was a quiet backwater, the toilet I mean, not an obscure part of my lower anatomy. What if it didn’t open now? Panicked I rushed to finish and pulled at the door. It opened, joy of joys! Freedom! Now I know how Mandela felt.

This was a long run down the Swale valley, along tracks higher up the valley side, paths down the bankside and a few road sections.

The weather cleared, then clouds gathered and it rained a bit more, then it brightened a bit. But it wasn’t cold, despite the breeze, and for the time of year I had, over the last 11 days, been very lucky. The Lakes and North Yorkshire are not the Atacama Desert, where average annual rainfall is 0.04 inches. But these two weeks have been good for October.

I was making very good time. 16 miles today was the total and I was eating them up.

Reeth was a nice village, with a decent cheese van, so I bought some Wensleydale Blue for my sis. And some for me, obviously. Up and over the top of the valley side this time, down into Marske. A farmer on a quad bike herded sheep up the lane past me as I was weighing up whether to take the hill road or the valley side path into Richmond. He knew what I was thinking.

‘Are you looking for the Coast to Coast?’ ‘Nay’ I answered, for that is the way folk converse up here. ‘Nay, I’m wondering whether to go up the hill road or down the valley path. The paths so far have been awfully boggy and slippy.’ He let out an involuntary guffaw at my namby pamby nature.

‘Road’s an awful lot longer’ he added. ‘Right, I’m off down the path then,’ I concluded. He smiled, waved an adios and drove after the sheep. Happy in the knowledge that he’d helped to clear an impasse.

Rain incoming again. Hood up.

The colours were delightful, really delightful.

And finally Richmond sneaked up the valley towards me.

My sis was there and handed over my rucksack. I didn’t check if she had taken any money from the inside pocket. Well, not then, but I checked later. No point in souring the atmosphere if I found that she hadn’t nicked owt. She hadn’t. Could of, but didn’t.

Richmond is a nice town. And across the darkened Vale of York I could see the North Yorkshire Moors. The last leg of this journey. But fish and chips eaten from the paper and a warm hotel room come first.

Night night.