Danby Wiske to Robin Hoods Bay

The North Yorkshire Moors National Park

Christina Rossetti, Up-Hill, verse 4

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

   Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

   Yea, beds for all who come.

I had found comfort at the end of each day, when I would always arrive fatigued from the day's exertions. Campsites, family and B&Bs always provided a welcome bed (or patch of grass).

Monday 20 September and after the flat of the Vale of Mowbray I climb onto the Cleveland Hills escarpment and pick up the path where the Coast to Coast follows the Cleveland Way National Trail which makes navigation easy with the usual acorn symbol signage. From a distance, the Cleveland Hills appear to have a flat top once you have completed that initial climb but in reality you bounce up and down so the day's total ascent is close to 800 meters. Growing up on a farm on a mini-escarpment above the River Swale the kitchen window looked out across the Vale of Mowbray towards the Cleveland Hills which you could see on a clear day, so it was an unexpected bonus that the Coast to Coast Walk was pulling together this and other individual strands of my childhood into a nostalgic whole.

Looking down on the Vale of Mowbray

The Cleveland Hills escarpment with Roseberry Topping a distinctive pimple in the far distance

The Cleveland Hills with clouds scudding overhead

I'd walked about 19 miles already and knew I had to leave the main path for my farmhouse B&B soon though with my concentration on the wane and no distinct features I worry I might miss my turning. Luckily, as I crest yet another hill, laid out in front of me is a small valley drifting away to the right and I can see all the right paths in all the right places, and walls laid out as the map indicates. I take stock and decide on the path that runs down the left hand side (looking down) which goes more directly to my B&B rather than the nearer one on the right hand side. The benefit of the birds eye view. I get the lay of the land before descending. As I get close to my accommodation it has the air of a working farm with its rusting machinery out in the open thick with nettles and grasses; yes, working farms are quite scruffy looking. Getting closer it is not clear where the entrance is and I push on to the house, find a gap in a hedge that takes me to an open door, and happen upon an elderly man in the hallway. The door is open as this is Yorkshire and it's a farm so why would you close it unless its snowing? The man observes me without much interest as if I might be about to offer him a better rate on his energy bills. To break the silence I announce that I am indeed the very same Anthony Rickaby who has a booking for this evening. He is not moved by this and simply nods to his side towards a room I cannot see and drifts away without a word and not to be seen again. I overhear my host on the phone - "my B&B has just arrived so I will be able to meet you on time" - and I make a mental note that we are all now on a tight schedule. I am invited in, shown my room and told to be down for tea and biscuits. Two big mugs of tea later and after a quick shower I am down again for cottage pie and lots of gloriously uncomplicated vegetables; as my host says, the coast to coasters just want vegetables by this stage and definitely no chips. I am confused as there is more than enough for three people on the table, there are to my knowledge three people in the house but I am the only one sat down to eat. I eat 2 of the 3 portions which is followed by a portion of an apple based desert which is sweet and caramelised with sponge. It is as if the Tartin sisters had decided to experiment with sponge instead of pastry. Food done, my host clears the table and is out of the door to her first ladies darts tournament of the post-covid season. Somehow in the whirlwind of getting me fed and watered (there was beer in there as well) I learn a few things.

I had walked through a flock of partridge and pheasant on the way down the valley and they are being reared to provide shooting with a partridge shoot planned for the following day; the pheasants get their turn in October. I had noted a small field of what looked like a variety of wild barley and this turned out to be an american variety of buckwheat which is sown annually and will provide winter food for the surviving birds. Some dogs kick up a fuss outside and I am informed she does puppy walking for two of the beagle pups from the local Ampleforth hunt. There is a discussion between my host and the unseen man and he goes out with a hunt whip. The loud crack of the whip is enough to quieten the puppies (and make me start) but as the kennels aren't big enough to hold the cracking whip and as there was no yelp  we can assume no dogs were hurt. We are close to a place call Clay Bank, I say place, really a feature or point in the landscape so it can be named and distinguished from the other banks, fells, tops, hills and valleys. I mention this as I had walked over something red though more gritty than clay on my descent to the farm. During the process of mining iron, a grey oily shale is excavated and it is fairly useless stuff unless you are into fracking. Anyway, the spoil heaps of grey oily shale were set alight and allowed to burn for a couple of years. Once the oil is burnt off you are left with a red coloured shale with clumps of clinker and this now non-oily material is excellent for making up roads and cart tracks and is still used by the current farm.

My host is of course an animal lover and the two Yorkshire terriers that had terrorised me on arrival now welcome me when they see I am allowed in their home. The terriers had clearly overheard the conversation about a girls night out and when they saw the flat shoes being replaced by heels started to look concerned. She chatted to them and re-assured them they would get their evening treat at 7 pm instead of the usual 9 pm. The dogs were rightly re-assured and soon after at 7 pm they received their evening treats.

If last night's Farm Stay was a contemporary model of that genre of accommodation then tonight's was still in transition. Immaculately clean, new kitchen and bathroom (shared with the owners) and the bedroom is newly decorated with new carpets. However, much of the traditional furnishings remain and draw the eye so much that you miss the newness. My large bedroom has a double and two single beds. The double bed is modern with Dunelm Mills style bedding. The singles are from the 1970s with non-matching bedding. I sleep well in the knowledge I have enjoyed 20 miles of glorious walking, people to talk to and amazing views over the Vale of Mowbray and (possibly) the Vale of York. I have been cheeky today in surveying the locals on the start and end of the Vales of York and Mowbray. They are as confused as me and most think the Vale of York comes up further North than my later research indicates. The Vale of Mowbray dates back to the Norman Conquest when the lands were held by a French baron before the name morphed to Mowbray presumably when being french become unpopular. I had to do some research to identify that Thirsk is at the southern end of the Vale of Mowbray.

I am out nice and early on Tuesday 21 September. I had taken note of the 10 am start to the partridge shoot and this prompted my early breakfast and departure. This is early enough to find a wild camper by the Wain Stones with tent still pitched. He stops me and starts a conversation; clearly in need of company as his opening gambit is to ask where to buy camping gas as he it out and has valuable provisions to cook. Describing himself as a hobo, he is spending about a month travelling from coast to coast on a tight budget before he finds work to pay for a roof over his head for the winter. His patter is practiced and he is honest enough to say that the state is funding his travels and that he plans to work as a kitchen porter as the waiting work I suggest for the winter is too demanding. "Demanding" isn't the word he used though. His response was as if I'd suggested he work for an illegal arms dealer. I extracted myself with the promise that I would see see him at The Lion Inn where we were both headed. I did see him later and heard him regale a new companion with his story. 

Today is a largely solitary day and being only 10 miles I take a detour to the top of an old railway line to see a model of what the old line head would have looked like. It was a cable railway where the laden trucks of ironstone going down by gravity pull the empty trucks up by a cable. When I arrive a group of five women are using the model and the side benches for a picnic so I find a quiet spot for my own lunch and am entertained by the torrent of overlapping conversations coming from the women before they pack up and walk off revealing the heavy rusty model. I reflect on the fact that my grandfather on my mothers side used to work the mines here until their closure meant he had to seek work elsewhere and ended up in the Vale of Mowbray.

Today's target is The Lion Inn which is remote and accessed from a B-road in the middle of the moors. More accurately, Blakey Ridge. Arriving early I chat to Mike from the previous day and we chat about trips and adventures and like many ex-military personnel it doesn't take long for him to reveal that he is ex-military. The Lion Inn is something of a community hub and quite a number of people stop and ask if I'm doing the C2C. With only 2 days walking to go everyone is keen to exchange stories. The Lion Inn provides camping but only for coast to coasters and for a mere £2.50. You can also order a breakfast.

The North Yorkshire Moors National Park

Grouse Butt No. 9

On Wednesday 22 September I wake to the sound of grouse cheeping outside. My pitch is 400 meters above sea level and luckily I had taken note of the predicted wind conditions, made my tent extra secure and layered up against the cold. As it is still windy I pack as much as I can inside the tent then copy a fellow camper in hauling my tent to the shelter of the beer garden to finish packing. I enjoy breakfast with Poppy (a dog) and her jovial companion (a human) before standing up to leave. It is at this point that Mark appears, apologises for missing our dinner date as it clashed with his window of opportunity for phoning home and we walk off together over the expanse of moorland bound for Grosmont. We talk about walks we have done and those walks we want to do and I am particularly taken by the West Highland Way which has less climbing than you might expect and fantastic scenery. Mark explains that Grosmont is from the French for "big mount" or "big hill" which we will encounter when we try and leave that town. At Grosmont we exchange email addresses and he to his B&B and me to the rail station where I am entertained by two steam trains and some passable station café food. As my campsite is another mile and a half I fill up on food, check I have some provisions and head out. At the campsite it is blowing hard and I opt for an upgrade to one of those wooden camping pods so popular these days. The campsite is not exactly on the Coast to Coast Walk itself but had attracted me by its website and promise of a seemingly glamorous off-grid camping area. Off-grid is good, yes? On arrival I am tired and decide that off-grid just means a field like so many I've stayed at - on? in? - but with the added advantage of a compost toilet. The upgrade is a no-brainer. The pod itself is like a pine sauna but without the sauna and comes with a simple sofa bed and power. Luxury.

Siting in my pod listening to the wind howling outside I get to reflect on the people I have met and why they have been out walking. Walking 192 miles is strenuous, uncomfortable, tiring, painful, expensive if you use hotels and B&Bs, and extra strenuous if you camp. So why do it?

• Passionate about walking, some of whom also enjoy the camping aspect
• An adventure between studies or after a career
• The physical challenge
• Opportunity to meet new people
• Getting back to, or simply being in, nature
• Open space to relax and unwind
• Clear space to make life decisions, sometimes camino-like

Of course it is really a mix of these and it is the proportions that differ for each individual.

Sunrise at The Lion Inn from the campsite

Lady of Legend No. 2999 at Grosmont

Grosmont station

Grosmont station

The opposite of wild camping; a snug pod

Thursday 23 September and after 13 days of walking I wake to my final day. The wind had blown force 4 gusting force 5 overnight and I was relieved I'd opted for a secure pod. Breakfast is a penguin bar which has become something of a staple on this trip and I have been amazed by the joke writers, yes they are still at it. So much so I come up with my own. Why don't polar bears get along with penguins? Because they are poles apart! OK, maybe I need to work on that.

As I am off the main path I review my options. Go back to Grosmont and rejoin where I left off, try some paths which may or may not be easy to navigate, or walk the road and effectively cut a corner. I opt for the later as it is the simplest and most reliable and this becomes something of a theme for the day as the path later is closed and I repeat this method and take the road to bypass the perceived obstacle. In the event there is no real blockage (more a local authority health and safety issue) but there was a navigation issue as I learn later. With no real dinner last night or breakfast this morning I stop in the village of Hawker for pub fish and chips and as we are close to the sea I am rewarded with thick, white, flaky cod wrapped in a crispy batter. 

Approaching the North Sea

The east coast

192 miles

One pair of worn-out boots

This is followed by a walk through two caravan parks to the cliff top and a walk along the cliff to Robin Hoods Bay. I like to think that Wainwright started with a few miles of coast walking on the west coast and finished with a few miles on the east coast to add some emphasis that his walk really is coast to coast; you get more of a sense of coast if you spend an hour or so walking it. On starting the final decent down into Robin Hoods Bay I hear my name being called; turning round I see I am just in time to congratulate (and be congratulated by) Mark who is waiting to be picked up by his baggage transfer service. He reminds me of the C2C traditions which include dipping your boots in the sea on the west coast and picking up a pebble. Then dipping your boots in the sea on the east coast and dropping your pebble. The other is the mandatory photo (see above) and signing the coast to coast register (see below) in Wainwrights Bar in The Bay Hotel. I sign the register, enjoy a beer, then up the hill to pitch my tent, down the hill for food, back up the hill to sleep and in this way I more than make up for any of today's shortcuts. It was reassuring to see that Hilary made it and I notice also the two women who had passed me while they were running - yes running - the coast to coast.

As the sign outside The Bay Hotel says, THE END