Polystyrene cracks and complains squeakily as the last few cold chips are squashed into an overly-full litter bin. The fish and chips were poor — disappointingly so, as we're talking Robin Hood's very own long-awaited chip fat here.
I'm almost contemplating dipping my toe in the North Sea when a wave sloshes forward and swamps both feet... there you go — is this some kind of omen? Hm..? I should have gone for the pebble, but the tide's in and a good portion of it is now in my running shoes. The weather has been dire for the past week — I'm only here because I believe it is on the turn for the better... and that the time has come to make peace with this 'ere 'Way of Wainwright'. Faith is strong, but I've not spent five consecutive nights in the bag before... and just how waterproof is it anyway?
It's a squelchy start then — off up the slipway at 8.00pm. The bus stops at the top of the hill, so you descend to sign the book (for the finishers really), have your chips and find your pebble — or get your feet wet, before regaining your original height to find the cliff-top path. Only a few weeks previously, in training for this route, I'd injured my right knee (it just gave way), and it's on the uphill pull that I'm reminded of it's condition. It's a fact though that John Hillaby started his 'Journey Through Britain' with a dodgy leg and teacher Mike Cawthorne began his incredible 'Hell of a Journey' with a bad knee. Good company then ...
The going is pleasant along the cliff path with a rather promising sunset and, full of starting-out gusto, I see every other dog-walker as a potential Coast to Coast finisher.
After the Hawkser Intake Road dusk finds me taking a compass bearing across Graystone Moor. And this works fine for about 30yds, but the right of way as described on the map degenerates rapidly into pure fiction with very realistic-looking deep murky pools. I labour toward higher ground and find a path of sorts but am still floundering an hour later in my tiny beam of light. Beyond the tarmac, when it eventually comes, it's no better — just as bad, if not worse, and backtracking to the road seems the sensible alternative. Thoughts of reaching the Hermit's Cave in Littlebeck have been dismissed and over a low wall, I come upon a comfy-looking roadside wood of sturdy pines.
Time now to enjoy a muesli bar supper. A hot drink would be much appreciated, but the stove's at home and so it's a good while before my feet start to warm up. Brrr.
Overhead, a vagrant breeze gently stirs sighing branches — ah... such a whispering hush: a pleasant soothing lullaby — before hungry owls begin their night shift, that is.
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Jan 2007 © m.l.weller
