The dawn sky holds a feint promise of pink (whose warning?) and up the hill I'm so chuffed to see a little sunlight that I take a photo of my very own shadow. A good opportunity too to try and dry some of the things washed through last night. So I trot along merrily wafting a tee shirt.

Passage is swift over to Sheepwash Bank, and rather a little too swift down it: I fall on my side on the uneven stones. Is it serious? Careful now... don't think so.... Something's definitely broken though: the point off my pencil. You might laugh, but it's not easy to sharpen a pencil with your teeth. The early man with dogs just thinks I'm hungry perhaps...

On the way up Beacon Hill a couple on horseback coming down seem to delight in telling me to: "Make the most of it..," as apparently, they've seen the forecast and: "...it's not going to last."

At the top is where I should have been last night, it's here that Ronald spends his second night. Were I not so soft I could have made it to here. There's enough junk up here to start a scrap yard - and the thought of all that electronic jangling gives me a headache.

The first of the day's Coasters approach in Ingleby - as it's still early they most likely stayed here. The quiet A19 is soon trotted over and the transport gaff has loads a cheap grub. Bad news though: it's here that the first blister plasters are needed. The wet N. Yorks moors have taken their toll...
     Ahead lay tedious footpath sections through the flat lands - these are the bad lands, where I suspect footpath inspectors fear to tread... My route takes me via Lovesome Hill - maybe the name's derived from Love Some Hills (as opposed to this flat stuff!)... My equestrian chums got it right though and the rain comes just as I hit the road before Danby Wiske.

At the White Swan chatty landlord Terry knocks me up a sandwich and landlady Paula kindly does me cash-back via Pay Pal - how cool is that! I'm also able to post my progress on the Sherpa Van c2c chat page. Out of the cost of a Bed and Breakfast the landlord explains they are lucky if they come out with a fiver for themselves. We talk about the dangers of working on ladders and the expense of builders...

A lady kindly gives me some blister plasters. Hers are 'in date' whereas, it transpires, mine aren't - hm, so that's why they aren't sticking very well... her first aid kit is bigger than anything - a whole carrier bag full of all kinds of ailment creams and plasters and tablets and stuff: a veritable lucky dip of First Aid goodies.

I set off again in worsening conditions. I've already decided to keep to the quiet roads and cut across field paths in search of a little respite.

And Kiplin Hall is open. Afternoon tea is being served. So I sit in out of the rain gorging on tea and cake - well they are raising funds. I've already had a cream scone, so I'll have another slice of the fruit cake - and it's a good place to do blisters as the toilet has a small heater. The kind lady thinks I've died in there though - and they are closing now it seems.
     With all the torrential rain they have endured lately she advises me to keep to the road and avoid the riverside path as it will be waterlogged. She talks of flooding and how the river 'could burst it's banks any moment if this keeps up'... with that she hands me three pairs of brand new socks.
     Again the prospect of trudging around wet field edges inspires little so I stick to the busier road to Bolton-on-Swale.

Where's my maps? Oh, no... argh! only gone and left my maps in the entrance while changing into those lovely new dry socks - which are now very wet ones indeed...

Over to my right is the church and grave of one very old man - hmm? wonder if he took up trail running in his later years then?

Tut, I should be ashamed of myself. I'm now totally dependent on road signs - either until I buy some more maps, or get to where my next sealed batch begins just beyond Keld! ...and the rain is coming in stair rods. Dependence on road signs explains why I'm looking up beside the traffic lights. Perhaps this is the reason I don't see the big big puddle and fail to appreciate the kind motorist who has just given me a muddy grit-laden shower. It's warm running in a jacket and it's unzipped directly in the path of the oncoming shower... tch, must've made his day that one...

That all too familiar sense of defeat is beginning to crawl over me... I pass under the busy A1 and in Bromton-on-Swale pass a sign for a bunkhouse... is this too good to miss? It's still early... not half-past five yet but £6 a night seems affordable, hmm... too good to miss indeed. Am I honestly mad enough to bivvy out in these conditions?

Three Latvians are the only other occupants - though the proprietor is quick to explain that 'they're good lads' and would I like a cup of tea bringing across? I can't part with my six quid fast enough!

It's quiz night in the pub next door - funnily enough the accent is more Geordie than Yorkshire, with plenty of 'why aye' and 'away Pet'... and as anyone knows, Leicester is farther south than Coventry, right? Er... apparently not - I should have got that one right - been there often enough. Bugger. Who thinks these questions up anyway? That's him - him at the bar, yes, him with the mic. that's who - it's all his fault.

From the call box I learn that there's a major crisis back home: those spots she thought were chicken pox before I set off have now become scabies it seems - I will have to strip off and be doused in insecticide as soon as I get back as I will most definitely be infected! So, no talk of turning out up the A1 to pick me up then... oh, and the dog's had to go to the vet...
     Uh... so, it seems the Coast to Coast could still be on after all, I'm beginning to scratch profusely now... and, come to think of it... my lower back was itching a lot yesterday. I could still get the bus back from Richmond tomorrow though...

I hurry back to the bunkhouse in the rain. The good Latvian lads are enjoying a comedy.
     'You have the Sky?' I inquire, as though ordering from a menu. 'Satellite?'
     'No Satellite... ve 'av DVD.' He shows me the cover with a picture of a comedian who looks rather like an overweight version of Bob Monkhouse.
     I try and laugh when they laugh... but have absolutely no idea what they are laughing at. I could be in Eastern Europe never mind North Yorkshire. Maybe I am in Eastern Europe... might as well be. 'Dey are 'avin' many lagers' too...

I've had my potion in the form of Black Sheep, so I go up and take some pictures of my blisters...

It rains so heavily in the night that I'm most grateful of the shelter afforded by the bunkhouse. It's hard to get settled though, what with itching for England an' all.

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Jan 2007 © m.l.weller