Day 15 -- Richmond

I spent today constructively and educationally. Constructively, I repaired my boots; educationally, I toured an historic theater in which I will attend a performance this evening.

The upper of my right boot has started to split. The sole still has plenty of tread, but I’m not sure why the upper has weakened. It’s possible that I caught the upper on a nail or barbed wire that caused a slight tear; or more likely, my feet are moving faster than my boots, and have started to break out. It’s tough for manufacturers to make boots that move as fast as my feet.

It really isn’t possible to repair the boot, but with the magic of duct tape, I have attempted to reinforce the upper to slow further tearing. I know the fix would work in dry Utah, but I doubt the tape will hold in wet England. Still, the uppers need last only six more weeks and 450 more miles to complete their task.

 

In any event, these boots will be retired at the end of this walk, and will not be returning home with me. I suspect that the US agricultural inspectors are rooting for the boots to last the entire walk, because if I buy new boots, the new ones will be coming home.

My private tour of the theater was led by a charming guide named Pat. I can't remember everything she said, so I'm making up a lot that follows.

 

Pat

 

The Richmond Georgian Theater dates from 1788, and is one of several built throughout northern England to accommodate roaming performers, but is the only one remaining. Aside from updated engineering to comply with fire and safety regulations, most of the theater retains its original construction. Some parts that were lost forever as the building evolved to other uses over the centuries, were lovingly restored as accurately as historians could reconstruct from information known about other lost theaters.

 

I’m told that all stages slope towards the audience. In a small theater, the slope is very pronounced. But even large stages slope, especially in Utah where productions involve water.

 

 

The little theater originally held as many as 400 people. But over-indulgence in beer and ice cream now limits the occupancy to 200. If I wear my boots to tonight's performance, there will be many fewer. 

Day 14 -- Richmond

I was supposed to walk to Reeth today, but the hotel where I had a reservation was double-booked, so I was bumped. Bed and breakfasts in the U.K. charge by the person rather than by the room, so it is likely that I was bumped in favor of a two-person booking. With no other accommodations available in Reeth, I opted to say at the same B&B in Richmond where I was scheduled to stay on Friday. I planned to walk to Reeth, then take a bus to Richmond.

 

Keld
 

The bus service in Swaledale (where both Reeth and Richmond are located) is poor. There are three buses between Reeth and Richmond each day. Each bus is a mini-bus holding 16 passengers; reservations are required for the afternoon bus. While I may have been able to make reservations for the afternoon bus, I wasn’t sure I could arrive in Reeth before it left, so I decided to take the morning bus from Keld all the way to Richmond, and spend the day there.

Richmond is a delightful market town, with ample restaurants and services, an historic castle, a lovely river walk. Janet and I had already visited the castle in 2012, so today I walked a pleasant 4 miles along the River Swale.

 

Bridge over River Swale 

Along the way, I stopped at “The Station,” a former railway station that was closed in 1969 with the dismantling of unprofitable railroads by Richard Beecham. What had become a derelict building has been restored to commercial businesses as such buildings often are. It was after the lunch hour, so I stopped at The Angels Share Bakery that recently had won a top award for its “Cumberland pie.”  I had a nice discussion with the owner/baker, Alex, and Sam, who was serving the customers. The pie was delicious, but it disappeared too quickly.

 

Cumberland Pie

Alex and Sam

Outside, Yvonne and Mike were celebrating the completion of a walk with ice creams, a British tradition possibly second only to quaffing pints.

 

 

Resuming my loop walk, I passed St. Agathas Abbey, yet another monastery dissolved by Henry VIII.

 

 

Continuing along the river, I eventually returned to my B&B, whose garden is occupied by a weather frog.

 

Day 13 -- Kirkby Stephen to Keld, 14 miles

Elaine, the hostess at Bollam Cottage B&B, recommended a route to the Nine Standards different from that recommended in the Coast to Coast guides. Her route crossed several pastures, and passed through a lovely wood into Ewbank Scar, a striking rock formation through which Ladthwaite Beck cascades. Her recommendation required some time-consuming route finding and careful map-following, but was worth every bit. About the same length of the “official” route, her route substituted about 2 miles of scenic footpath for approximately the same distance of road walking. Thanks for the recommendation, Elaine.

 

Ewbank Scar

Where Elaine’s route joined the “official” route, I met John and Charlotte, who were walking separately, but happened to be at the trail junction at the same time.

 

Charlotte; John

While talking with them, I saw several approaching walkers whom I mistook to be Dennis, Lynne, Dave, and Sara, but who turned out to be a group of ladies from California and Washington. They have been hiking together, on and off, for about 40 years. Unfortunately, one of their friends, Patti, was unable to join them this time, so they carried her image with them. We all (except Flat Patti) chatted as we hiked up to the Nine Standards.

 

Julie, Cheryl, Tricia, Flat Patti, Donna and Maggie

The Nine Standards are 9 large cairns that have adorned the ridge east of Kirkby Stephen since time immemorial. Nobody knows who built them, or when or why they were built.

From the Nine Standards I followed a very boggy ridge approximately 2½ miles, with a cold wind blowing incessantly. A feeling of isolation permeates one’s being atop the high, exposed, featureless moor; to the far horizon in every direction I saw no one else the entire time – not even sheep. Except for the ever-present water, I might as well have been on the moon.

After more than an hour, I reached a crossing path on which Andrew, Normand and Marie-Helene were walking. Andrew and I are kindred spirits: he is an Australian, solo walking 500 miles in England and Scotland this summer. Normand and Marie-Helene are Canadians, living in Montreal. I had briefly met them last night at dinner with the Ullswater steamer group, but hadn’t had a chance to speak with them.

 

Marie-Helene, Normand, and Andrew 

Normand is a meteorologist working for the Canadian government. I asked if he had heard of my brother-in-law, James Holton, who was a professor of atmospheric sciences at the University of Washington. As if we had been transported to the scene from Romancing the Stone in which Juan discovers that author Joan Wilder is outside his compound's gate, the following dialogue ensued. I am absolutely not making this up.

“You know James Holton?” he responded.

Marie-Helene joined in, “Holton?? He knows James Holton??”

Normand continued, “I read his book. It’s a classic of meteorological science. I keep it on my desk. I met James Holton some years ago at a lecture he presented to Canadian scientists.”

When I mentioned that Jim had died 12 years ago, Normand said that he still uses the 2^nd edition of Jim’s book to study for competitive exams necessary for promotions. He observed that Jim’s book is somewhat dated, but it’s apparently still the best thing out there for its subject matter.

Jim had walked the Coast to Coast a few years before his death, so we were traveling in his footsteps.

Jim Holton

Andrew, Normand, Marie-Helene and I continued on and met up with Leo and Lynn at Ravenseat farm, where writer Amanda Owen maintains a primitive tea room in an old shed. We stopped for tea and scones as the rain started falling. The sun was shining when we left a half hour later to walk the rest of the way to Keld.



Tea time
Lynn, Leo, Norman, Marie-Helene, and Andrew

Lynn and Leo

Day 12 -- Orton to Kirkby Stephen, 13 miles

At breakfast this morning, Sara mentioned that she had seen a hedgehog yesterday. That, in itself, was not startling because virtually every walker sees hedgehogs. But they are always flat, two-dimensional things that have become one with the road. Nobody has ever actually seen a three-dimensional hedgehog, until yesterday.

Universal practice in scientific communities requires that new discoveries be named after the discoverer.  So it’s only right that Sara’s discovery be named after her. Of course, it would be confusing to name the hedgehog Sara – poor Dave wouldn’t know who to accompany if, for example, he and Sara were invited to dinner. So to avoid confusion, Sara’s hedgehog will henceforth be known as Sarah, the “h” signifying “hedgehog.”

 

Sarah  (Image by Sara Watkins)

It is commonly known that walkers can be a jealous lot, and as soon as the others at breakfast learned about Sarah, they wanted their own hedgehogs. And so off they went, all pretending to be walking to Kirkby Stephen, but each secretly searching for his or her own hedgehog. So engrossed were they, that they lost track of where they were. That’s when things got interesting.

 

The search begins

Dave and Sara
 

Dennis

Lynne

Dave, Sara, Lynne, Dennis and Lynn

 

 

With a lot of pointing and misdirection, Dennis tried to get the others to go where no hedgehogs could be found, hoping to save the prime territory for himself. Harry and Leo took off on their own to find more lucrative hunting grounds. I wasn’t so much interested in finding hedgehogs, as finding the fastest way to Kirkby Stephen for a beer. Meanwhile, Lynn and Leo were surreptitiously texting each other directions to good hunting territories. Dave stayed at the back hoping that the commotion of the other walkers would chase a hedgehog his way, while Lynne wondered whether hedgehogs could read maps better than we could. And through it all, Sara just strolled on smugly, comfortable in the knowledge that Sarah will go down in history as a highlight of this group’s Coast to Coast walk.

Day 11 -- Shap to Orton, 9 miles

Over the past week, I’ve been accumulating considerable weight in coins given as change for purchases in markets, pubs, train stations, etc. Rather than pay for last night’s lodging with currency, I decided to pay as much as possible with coins.

British coins come in denominations of £2, £1, 50 pence, 20 pence, 10 pence, 5 pence, 2 pence, and 1 pence, distinguished by different colors, shapes and thickness. After breakfast, I sat in my room and meticulously counted out £10 in coins and the rest of the room charge in currency. I was able to use all my coins but for 17 pence – which I saved for later in a zip-lock bag. Back downstairs, I handed to Margaret, the innkeeper, several currency notes, and began counting out the coins. “That’s not necessary. I trust you,” she responded. But I continued to count. “Five pounds, eight pounds, nine pounds fifty, nine pounds seventy, nine pounds seventy-five, nine pounds eighty… nine pounds eighty… nine pounds eighty…” I frantically searched my pocket for a buried coin that wasn’t there.

“That’s close enough, it’s only 20 pence.” Even though 20 pence isn’t what it used to be -- what with the Brexit exchange rate decline -- I wasn’t about to short her by 20 pence. I quickly ran up to my room to see if perhaps I had dropped the coin on the floor. I hadn’t. “It’s OK, really,” she continued. Then I realized I probably put the coin with my 17 pence saved for later. I opened the zip-lock bag, but it’s only contents were the 17 pence. I gave her that.

I also had in the bag my “lucky” euro, a coin I found on the footpath the first day. I gave it to her. “That’s not a euro,” she said. “Well not a whole euro, but it says 50 cents,” I replied. It’s got to be worth more than 3 pence. “Don’t worry about the 3 pence,” she replied. “I don’t know what coin it is, but it’s definitely not a euro,” she continued.

“Well, in that case, I won’t give it to you. After all it is my lucky coin.”

 

Maybe she’ll find the 20 pence coin somewhere in my room, and that will be her lucky coin. If she does, it’s OK with me that she keep my 17 pence that I was saving for later.

Today’s walk passed over the noisy motorway by footbridge, through several muddy pastures, and climbed into limestone country. As I got farther from the motorway, the heavy roar of tyres on wet roadway gently receded, being replaced by the rhythmic slosh-slosh-sloshing of water inside my boots with every step. The rain finally stopped, but by the time I reached Orton everything below my knees was covered in mud.

I’ll give my pants an extra-good washing today. Who knows, maybe I’ll even find that missing 20 pence coin.

 

Day 10 -- Patterdale to Shap; 8 miles by steamer, 10 on foot

I’m not one to normally listen in to other people’s conversations, but when you are on a walking trip and the weather is ugly, eavesdropping can be more fun than walking. So this morning, with the wind blowing the rain sideways onto the breakfast room windows, I listened attentively as one of the guests discussed the Ullswater Steamer with the innkeeper.

Sara and her friends were headed to Shap, just as I was. I leaned my ear towards her to better hear the conversation.

The innkeeper said there were two alternatives: one was to slog along the traditional route for 17 miles over a high, wet, windy and muddy ridge; the second was to ride the steamboat 8 miles to Pooley Bridge, and then walk an easy trail 10 miles to Shap. Steamboats are a close second to steam trains on my fun scale. I leaned a little closer.

The innkeeper said that Alfred Wainwright, the guru of walking in England, often took the steamboat on his treks. I idolize Wainwright almost as much as I idolize Shackleton, so if a steamboat was good enough for Wainwright, it would be good enough for me. It didn’t much matter that the boats are now powered by diesel, they are still called steamers, so that should count for something. By this time my ear was closing in on Sara’s cereal bowl.

“Would there happen to be room for one more person on the steamer?” I asked non-chalantly.

“The steamer holds 200 passengers, so there will be ample room on today’s sailing,” replied the innkeeper. Just then, two Canadians sitting at an adjacent table looked at each other with a silent nod of mutual understanding. I wasn’t the only eavesdropper. “Leave here by 9:00, and you can get to the pier by 9:25 and catch the 9:45 sailing.”

The room’s air pressure dropped noticeably as a half-dozen guests raced for the door.

 

Despite the winds, the one-hour cruise to Pooley Bridge was smooth and comfortable. As the scenery unfolded, we chatted with one another and with other passengers. Tracy wasn’t hiking today, but rather reminiscing about having recently swum the length of Ullswater, 14 kilometers in 5 hours. She is training to swim the English channel, and is in the process of swimming all the lakes in the Lake District. The longest, Windermere, at 17 kilometers, is next on her agenda. We all wish her luck in her endeavor.

Tracy

 

At Pooley Bridge, I disembarked along with Leo and Lynn, from Yukon, David and Sara, from Washington D.C., and Dennis from Austin. (I may have gotten some of that mixed up, but since we’re all walking the same route over the next few days, I’m sure they’ll correct me.) Because the steamer route was a last minute itinerary change, I was the only one with a map. (Dennis conjured up a map on his smartphone, but Wainwright wouldn’t approve, so that doesn’t count.)



Leo, Dave, Sara, Lynn, and Dennis

 

Our route took us through the hamlet of Bampton and past Shap Abbey, dating from 1199, but destroyed by Henry VIII in 1540 when he split with the pope. Perhaps he thought the monks were eavesdropping on him.

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A moor bigh as art

 

 

Church in Bampton

 

Shap Abbey

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Day 9, Grasmere to Patterdale, 9 miles

This was a 5-hour trek covering 9 miles in heavy rain and wind. The weather spoiled my plans to climb Helvellyn, the highest peak in the area, and to descend via striding edge, a narrow arête. The peak, itself, would be bad enough in poor weather; striding edge would be unsafe in wet conditions..

The alternative route involves a steadyclimb of 1500 feet alongside Little Tongue Gill to Grisedale Tarn, followed by a steady 1200 feet descent to Ullswater following the course of Grisedale Beck, on the other side of the saddle. The trails on both sides of the tarn were flowing streams. Notwithstanding the conditions, there were several dozen hikers on the trails.

The rain let up only several times, allowing me to remove my camera from its protective plastic bag and take only a few pictures.