islands mag-walking across england trip

June 2 0 0 9 ISL A N DS .com

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Walking

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TAKE AN EPIC HIKE THROUGH THE HEART OF A NATION STO RY BY TED AL AN STEDMAN PHOTOS BY ANDREA PISTOLESI

Walkers on the fabled Coast to

Coast Walk pass Haweswater

reservoir in the Cumbrian Moun-

tains of England’s Lake District.

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ueer fish, the local fellow calls us. Which is odd because about 7,000 hopefuls like us set off from St. Bees Head every year. But even here in the Coast to Coast Bar the night before our departure, we can’t convince one Englishman that our English adventure

makes sense. “Why?” he asks, meaning why would we put our-selves through this. It’s the prevailing question. Addled from trans-Atlantic jet lag, plus an English ale or two, I present my best case: “Our goal is to cross England, and we hope the experience enriches our souls.” I’m not sure he buys it.

At dawn the next day, we follow Dandy Walk path through an emerald pasture where neighing horses scatter into a gauzy morning mist befi tting of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. A ways on, the eastern edge of the Irish Sea laps at our feet. With my gal, Tami Van Meter, I’m setting out to traverse England on its premier walking route. Plotted in the early 1970s by guide-book author Alfred Wainwright, the Coast to Coast Walk, or C2C, undulates across the isle’s narrow midsection. The offi cial tally from decades past pegs the distance at 190 miles, although a recent remeasure with modern gadgets supposedly fattens it a bit. We’ll do it in 19 days. Or so we’ve been told.

We make good on the C2C custom of wetting our boots in the froth and collecting a pebble that hopefully we’ll toss into the North Sea. The symbolism of this act — linking sea to sea one step at a time — smacks us. “I hope we can do this,” Tami says. I give a pep talk and avoid mentioning how roughly 15 percent of C2C walkers drop out from sprains, weather or worse. Still, this won’t be some hardened death march — no damp tents, fi nicky camp stoves or freeze-dried foods — but a proper British walk. We’ll enjoy fresh beds, warm meals and cold pints at each day’s end, staying at country B&Bs and small inns — all C2C traditions, patently English but accessible to anyone with fortitude and sensible shoes.

We climb northward for several miles along the sheer red sandstone cliffs of St. Bees Head, which Wainwright called the most beautiful part of this coast. We follow the north-east arc of the headlands through wavy fi elds of tall grass and wildfl owers, passing the bygone St. Bees Lighthouse, hundreds of roaming sheep and gorgeous gardens.

“You’re walkers, aren’t you?” asks a woman in a sunbonnet as she looks up at us from fussing over her fl owers.

The C2C Walk begins along the Irish Sea at St. Bees Head. Opposite: The keeper of Keld Lodge in Swaledale welcomes a walker.

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Hiking through the fields of St. Bees Head or the slate mines near But-termere requires its reward, such as a pint at the Lion Inn (opposite bottom). Walkers (top right) reach Stonethwaite.

“We … are,” I answer between breaths after a sweaty uphill trudge. She studies us before breaking into a smile.

“Oh, brilliant. And you’re Yanks, I see,” she deduces. “Well, you’ve picked a lovely day. I certainly hope you enjoy walking England. June is a wonderful month for fl owers and such.”

This chipper woman is Alyson Smith, we learn, and spot-ting walkers — English parlance for long-distance hikers — comes with her territory. The C2C runs smack-dab through her front yard, a pretty seaside parcel overlooking a craggy bluff 300 very vertical feet above the Irish Sea. Birds wing through air sweetened with the licorice scent of wild fennel. Craning my neck above the blockade of hot-pink foxgloves and a circus of other botanicals made possible by Alyson’s green thumb, I see the Isle of Man on the misty western horizon. And what’s this? Now she’s offering us tea.

Birds, fl owers and tidy gardens, pleasantries with strangers who become friends, storybook landscapes here and afar — it’s all so tit-tat British. Precisely the bloody point. And it resonates with my DNA. Half the blood in my veins I owe to this island, and I’m intrigued by its places and faces. This impromptu meeting marks the fi rst of what I hope will be many purely British encounters in the far north English countryside.

Walking on after tea, we reach Birkham’s Quarry and there turn eastward, glancing back to say goodbye to the sea. A mile ahead, near the hamlet of Sandwith, we study the distant profi le of the fi rst of three mountain ranges stand-ing between us and the North Sea.

“We’re climbing those?” is Tami’s panicky reaction to the sight.

“Yes, the Lake District,” I tell her. “We’ll be there in two days.” When the English talk of their mountains, the Cumbrian Mountains get the most verbiage. All the territory in England above 3,000 feet in elevation lies in this extreme northwest county, and it’s home to Lake District National Park, one of the lushest and wettest areas in the United Kingdom. I throw out a half-hopeful assurance that we’ll make quick work of those “hills” with our Colorado-conditioned legs. They say confi dence is as important as a good pair of boots on this path.

Birds zip around us on their feeding sorties as we navigate leafy avian tun-nels and peer into tree hollows cradling nests of chirping chicks. It’s all won-derfully distracting, and we pay the price at Pow Beck when we — I — miss a trail connection and we circle more than two errant miles back toward

St. Bees. We’re both shocked to see the 12th-century Benedictine Priory Church in St. Bees — where we started fi ve hours earlier. The dearth of posted trail signs has already humbled us.

“New rule,” Tami says. “We both read the map and agree on a path.”

The path along Scarny Brow toward Ennerdale Bridge leads through a bur-row of ferns, 6-foot sunfl owers and wild rhubarb. Just before the T junction there’s a nearly hidden signed path through a tree plantation bearing west toward Brackenwray Farm. We almost miss it too, which would be terrible because our night’s stay at Brackenwray promises to be inspiring.

“You’re the Americans, right?” shouts Steve Sullivan to us after we emerge slightly scarred from a potent thicket 100 yards across his tilled fi eld. “We’ve been expecting you. Come on in and wash up. We have tea waiting.”

In England, skipping afternoon tea is a sin for which there is no redemption. As we relax in overstuffed armchairs, Steve tells his story. He’s a retired medic “with a nice pension.” He and his wife, Valerie, have refurbished a centuries-old stone farmhouse and crafted a well-appointed B&B loft. Steve points with pride to exposed 400-year-old raft timbers recycled from an old English ship, then takes us on a tour of his subsistence farm. Everything we see — ducks, chickens,

pigs — the couple will use themselves or sell at farmers markets.

“We’re not sentimentalists,” he says. “We try to limit our needs and sustain ourselves in the most practical fashion. It’s a good living.” So it’s the 21st century in an industrialized country, and they live off the land next to a prized national park. Some would call that brilliant.

Under grim skies the following day, Steve and Val see us off on what will be our biggest climbing day, with a dif-fi cult scramble up Loft Beck and a total gain pushing 3,000 feet. Within an hour we enter Lake District National Park and begin the slog past Ennerdale Water, a three-mile-long lake cradled in a steep-sided valley below toothy peaks. A light drizzle settles in, add-ing to the challenge of clambering over the airy 100-foot rocky outcropping named Robin Hood’s Chair.

I’m resting alone above a steep switchback when a NATO fi ghter jet screams past 75 yards in front of me as it threads the valley, the roar reverberating

SCOTLAND

ENGLAND

North Sea

Irish Sea

Robin Hood’s Bay

Grasmere

ShapKeld

RichmondSt. Bees

Head

Stonethwaite

PEOPLE’S PATH“One should always have a de� -

nite objective in a walk, as in life, ” wrote guidebook author Alfred

Wainwright. Crossing the English countryside via public paths and bridleways, his C2C makes the

Lake District, the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors —

some of England’s � nest sce nery — available to anyone with the

proper attitude and shoes.

PLAN YOUR TRIP, p. 93



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my insides. Military practices over populated European areas are normal, but I’m guessing this pilot is acting out his inner cowboy. My heart takes a second to restart.

If I’m freaked by tons of metal rocketing past my face at 600 mph and weary from a 15-mile day, I’m soothed into submission that evening as we plod into the Edenesque Borrowdale valley — dry-stone walls amid luxuriant grassy pastures, fl ocks of sheep and enchanting whitewashed stone cottages topped with mossy slate roofs. Smoke curls from chimneys, and a stone bridge arches over a brook that actu-ally babbles. I see no cars, just corralled horses.

We trade worldly stories with Dutch and British couples — fellow C2C walkers — in the Langstrath Hotel’s cozy pub, warmed by a glimmering fi replace. Our eyelids slacken. “Had a long day from Ennerda le, have you?” asks Sara Hodgson, the hotel’s spunky, attentive co-owner. “Well, luvs, you have a nice upstairs room with a big bed just 20 steps from here, so relax and enjoy yourselves.” Tami and I eventually melt into fi reside chairs, content as purring cats.

Vales, tongues, fells, leas and other features with English names lace the green slopes like an embroidered quilt as we climb and descend Lining Crag on our way to Grasmere. The great English poet and Grasmere resident William Wordsworth christened this valley “the fairest place on earth.” Entering a glorious sylvan setting with gingerbread houses, we can see that this peaceful village on the banks of the River Rothay hasn’t lost any of its charm.

Tour-bus loads of adoring travelers make the pilgrimage here. But despite the infl ux, Grasmere remains the archetypal English village, a genteel artist’s enclave where everything is

hopelessly civilized. We stroll the Storyteller’s Gardens, then the forested Poet’s Walk where we fi nd the Latin inscription describing how Wordsworth’s sister, Dorothy, would sit at this spot while her brother paced nearby and composed verses. And we visit Wordsworth’s quaint and venerated Dove Cottage, where he likely penned his trademark poem “The Daffodils,” which even I’ve read: “I wandered lonely as a cloud … .”

Of course, it’s not all peaches and cream on the C2C. The recurring rhythm borders on torture — consecutive early starts; walking and walking rain or shine to make your evening’s reservations; the inevitable blisters; and, I must admit, sheep poop. We constantly have to adjust our cloth-ing to the whims of wind, sun and rain. Then in our case, there’s getting lost on occasion. But just when the prospect of another mile seems dreadful, the C2C redeems itself.

It’s day nine, and we’re in a brief “Where are we?” quandary after taking an alternate path out of the Lake District from Bampton. Except for the bleating sheep, which are starting to look appetizing, it feels lonely here. The maze of worn paths leading out like spokes on a wheel is an infuriating reminder of the antiquity of the land. People of purpose — Roman soldiers and medieval serfs, tally-ho aristocrats and postal deliverymen — defi ned these paths over centuries. Walkers like us are not nearly as emboldened.

“Isn’t that Shap Abbey ?” Tami asks, looking through our binoculars. “It’s on our route.” The imposing stone tower becomes a beacon we easily aim for. When we arrive, we’re the only ones at this remote, eroded edifi ce frozen in the

The C2C links historic English landmarks like the tower of Shap Abbey, which is visible for miles. Along the way, you meet the locals.



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Middle Ages. For centuries, locals plun-dered the abbey’s carved stonework. But the looming tower stands mostly intact, casting as heavy a shadow as it did hun-dreds of years ago when it was built.

Nearing the midway point now, half of me wants to run, and the other half

wants to linger. Tami and I are developing an emotional bond to England that we didn’t anticipate. The countryside is fascinating, the history enthralling. But it’s the people we’ve met whom we’ll remember the rest of our lives. Fatigue not-withstanding, I’m already starting to regret the journey’s end.

Two days and 20 miles farther on along the C2C, with big weather moving in off the North Atlantic, we get a pre-dawn start from Kirkby Stephen, a market town that was fi rst settled by the Romans along the perfectly named River Eden. It’s a “red-letter day.” We’re leaving Cumbria and entering Yorkshire Dales National Park — and cross-ing the Pennines, England’s mountainous backbone.

Within the fi rst miles, the wind is howling with 60 mph gusts, sleet pelts us and we can see barely 20 yards, peer-ing through our cinched all-weather hoods. In the English

tradition, I keep a stiff upper lip, but I know a situation like this can quickly deteriorate from unpleasant to perilous.

The weather worsens, and by now we’re bowing into the raging winds and stinging sleet. We can barely see the mucky earth in front of our feet. We scramble around boulders, strug-gle through bogs and try to discern the correct path from inter-secting sheep trails. We climb blindly until the eerie stacked piles of slate known as the Nine Standards Rigg materialize out of the mist. Historians speculate they were built about 400 years ago to resemble towering soldiers that would scare off the invading Scots. It’s a good story. But for the next half-hour, the imposing cairns serve as bodyguards, shielding us from an icy gale fi erce enough to stop walkers dead in their tracks.

Amid the worst of the fusillade, we hunker down behind one of the stone barriers. Even with gloves on, my hands are starting to get numb. I’m not worried about surviving. We have emergency gear and food. Still, being on one of the high-est precipices in England during a raging storm makes us question our C2C out-come. Tami gives me an exasperated look that seems to say, “Look what you’ve gotten us into now.”

ISLANDS.COM/england� FOLLOW THE ROUTE� WATCH TED’S VIDEO� FIND PLACES TO STAY

All downhill, the last leg of the C2C runs down to Robin Hood’s Bay. Opposite: Wildflowers bloom in Yorkshire Dales National Park.

(continued on p. 92)TE

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Miles later, the worst weather and the knee-deep bogs behind us, we ren-dezvous with a group of Brits, also hur-rying off the 2,200-foot-high moors.

“Ghastly weather,” exclaims an older gentleman with a walking staff, “not fi t for a living thing.” I tell him we’ve been a little anxious. “As you should be,” he warns. “It’s been a sticky end for more than a few walkers on the moors.”

As we walk the day’s 13th mile, the cozy radiance of Keld Lodge, a reno-vated hunter’s guesthouse, draws us in. We remove our disgusting boots, and one of the lodge’s owners, Tony Leete, greets us like heroes with a couple of cream-topped pints of Guinness.

“You crossed the Pennines today! Good going in that horrible weather,” says Tony. Over dinner that night, we learn he’d previously done some kind of police duty. “Details of which are strictly off-limits,” he says. But now he’s poured his soul into Keld, turning the lodge into a homey, tavern-style inn with a sign — “We welcome all” — overlook-ing the lush landscape of Swaledale.

A day later, we exit the Yorkshire Dales and meander into beautiful Richmond , an old French name meaning

“strong hill.” It’s the largest settlement on the C2C, built around an ııth-century castle. Eateries and shops line the huge cobblestone square. We stay at nearby Frenchgate Guest House , a magnifi cent old hilltop home with massive picture windows that take in the whole town.

“Did you know there are 57 Rich-monds in the world, all named after Richmond in Yorkshire?” poses John Barnes, a fellow guest in his late 70s. We sip sherry in the great room looking

out at the castle and talk like old friends. He recounts his life, his love of England and wistful memories of his late wife. “I feel privileged having spent most of my days here. I cannot imagine a life any-where else beyond England,” he says.

Richmond’s castle, its Sunday mar-ket and glorious medieval streets are the salve we need before hoisting our packs two days later to cross the Vale of Mowbray . Wainwright took the unevent-ful segment to task: “Those who believe the earth is fl at will be mightily encour-aged on this section,” he wrote. But his bane is our boon. This 14-mile day is the ultimate pastoral stroll — without hills or bogs, thank you. We walk past the Catterick Bridge, Shetland ponies laz-ing in fi elds near Bolton-on-Swale and down country roads fl anked by massive hedges bursting with birdsong.

Best of all, Frank and Doreen Philips, a lovely, gentle couple, greet us with tea and gingersnaps at Old School House B&B in the tiny rural hamlet of Danby Wiske. Doreen, 59, actually went to grammar school in this exact build-ing. “It closed years ago,” she says. “We couldn’t let it fall into disrepair now, could we?” They feed us a king’s feast topped by desserts and good wine. We talk into the night, and I hear a new set of life stories nurtured in the English coun-tryside. We may never see them again, yet they become friends for life. “I’ll rather miss your company,” Frank says the next morning. “It will be quite lonely here without you.” When Tami and I leave, it’s all we can do to keep dry eyes.

The next 40 miles and four days crossing the North York Moors, our last national park, aren’t easy, climb-ing 1,200-foot plateaus separated by narrow valleys. Walker’s fatigue begins to set in. Early-morning starts seem a little harder. We eat ibuprofen like candy. I don’t yet loath the sheep, but their odorous effect on my boots is starting to make me nauseous. Still, the end is now literally within sight. From the forested hills above Littlebeck , we can make out the indigo North Sea.

England (from p. 77)

June 2 0 0 9 �� June 2 0 0 9 ��

Walking

England

6666

TAKE AN EPIC HIKE THROUGH THE HEART OF A NATION STO RY BY TED AL AN STEDMAN PHOTOS BY ANDRE A PISTOLESI

Walkers on the fabled Coast to

Coast Walk pass Haweswater

reservoir in the Cumbrian Moun-

tains of England’s Lake District.

Virgin IslandsU N I T E D S T A T E S

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PLAN YOUR TRIP: England� FLY into the Manchester Airport (MAN) , the closest international gateway to St. Bees Head at the start of the C2C. British Airways has direct � ights from New York, Los Angeles and other major U.S. hubs. britishairways.com

� STAY at Frenchgate Guest House in Richmond, a charming town in the heart of the North Yorkshire countryside. Sitting on a hilltop overlook, the Victorian Frenchgate lies within short walking distance along ancient cobbled streets from the historic market-place, Richmond Castle and nearby Easby Abbey. Rates from $95. 66frenchgate.co.uk

� EAT at La Piazza Pizzeria, a slice of Old Italy perched above Richmond’s market-place. Run by an Italian family, this busy, friendly eatery serves pizzas, pasta, meat and seafood dishes, a welcome variation from the standard English fare C2C walkers subsist on. Try the Milano baked seafood dish combining salmon, sea bass, prawns and mussels. Complement your meal with wine or Italian Peroni beer.

� VISIT the Richmond Castle, whose � rst stones were laid in 1071 by the Norman French. Stroll the grounds, climb the towers and learn what daily life was like inside one of England’s oldest castles. Open daily. richmond.org.uk

And by the time we reach the head-lands leading to Robin Hood’s Bay, we’re almost prancing. Golden fi elds of wheat ripen in the sun above a white-capped sea that fades into distant fog banks rolling toward Denmark. We reach the old-world fishing village, and soon we’re walking the fi nal yards down cobblestone streets to the water’s edge — the offi cial end of the Coast to Coast Walk. It’s Sunday and families are picnicking. Kids build sand castles and catch little fi sh in tide pools. I feel a rush of accomplishment and a bitter sense of fi nality. We wet our boots. I remember the stone I picked up three weeks before and toss it into the water.

As Tami and I hug, a beach-goer comes up to us. “Did you walk from St. Bees?” he asks, seeing our backpacks and fi lthy boots. We nod. “You’ve walked across a nation — our nation,” he declares. “You’ve seen more of the coun-try than most Brits. Congratulations.” ̂

� RELAX after a long day of walking with a tra-ditional Theakston ale at the very English Lion Inn pub on Blakey Ridge in North York Moors National Park. A very English rainstorm out-side only redoubles the sense of cozy calm by the grand, crackling � replace. And a helping of Old Peculiar Casserole will fuel another pleas-ant all-day stroll tomorrow. lionblakey.co.uk

� HIRE Coast to Coast Packhorse for accommodation packages and door-to-door baggage transfers. This out� tter also provides basic services and support for inde-pendent travelers handling their own accom-modations. Standard 15-night B&B packages start at about $1,200 per person, including airport transfers. c2cpackhorse.co.uk

� PACK comfortable, quick-dry, non-cotton hiking clothes. A waterproof jacket and rugged Gore-Tex-lined walking boots are essential. Also carry water bottles, a compass, a multi-tool, sunblock and a well-stocked � rst-aid kit.

� STUDY your route. The best C2C maps are the waterproof, two-map set (west and east) from Harvey. www.harveymaps.co.ukThe up-to-date guidebook Coast to Coast Path by Henry Stedman (no relation) details the route. trailblazer-guides.com

� LEARN MORE about the route at islands.com/england and visitbritain.com — TAS



islands mag-walking across england trip

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