Day 18 - Dipping, pebbling, & tossing

A good night's sleep, Advil, a hearty breakfast are great cure-alls for the footsore walker.

After this and that and the other thing, Mary, Frank, Tom, and I headed down the steep and winding (what else?) path from our B&B to the beach. Only Tom, Frank, and I didn't want to put our stinky and wet boots back on. Mary put her boots on and agreed to be proxy for all of us. Tom and I remembered our pebbles, Frank never got one, Mary forgot hers in her suitcase. While I think our team was more organized than this would lead you to believe, we are satisfied that this will cover the bases for all of us.



























Tah-dah!













As tradition dictates, we stopped at Wainwright's Bar in The Bay Hotel for a pint and salute to our trip. We signed the register and, to our surprise, noticed that the day before a woman from Forest Grove, Oregon, had finished the walk.





This is a ritual we added. Earlier Mary had thrown away her shoes. Here Tom is throwing away his and mine. They were coming apart, no longer waterproof (if ever they were), scuffed, and the soles were worn. Sentimentality stayed our hand briefly, but practicality won out.




Frank is still trying to decide if our adventure was fun or not. It wasn't fun, but it was meaningful. It was a challenge we were proud to have met. The scenery counted for a lot, however. The walk would have been pointless without it. I feel sorry for the walkers I see hurrying by, on an insane 7-10 day schedule. We would have added about three more days to see some of the little towns in more depth, and to let our tired tootsies rest on occasion.

This was a good one; it was brilliant; we were knackered, yeah, but pushed on. Now have a packet of crisps and turn on the telly; "Britain's Got Talent" is on, dearie.

Day 17 - Egton Bridge to Robin Hood's Bay

Yippee, yippee, hooray, hooplah, happy dance, yay! We made it! We made it!

Sort of.

We started at 9:30 a.m. and arrived at Robin Hood's Bay at 7:00 p.m. Seventeen miles. But the trip is not over until you dip your boot in the bay and leave the pebble you have brought all the way from St. Bee's. We haven't done the boot and pebble bit yet. And this is why.

I drank a toast at dinner to Mary 's determination. She came down with a cold a couple days ago. It has steadily gotten worse, but Mary was determined (is there a word for extra-, super-determined) to finish the walk. The last five miles into Robin Hood's Bay were an absolute misery for her. She likened it to childbirth, only with red, screaming feet to show for it instead of a red, screaming baby. That's not much of an incentive. Our B&B was very close to where we entered Robin Hood's Bay, so we just stopped there, a few hundred feet short of what Stedman (our guidebook author) labels, "The End." We will do the official stuff tomorrow. Right now my feet are also red and screaming and I'm absolutely knackered, and I didn't even have a cold to contend with. I voted right along with everyone else to postpone.

This last walk encapsulated almost every environment we've come through over the last 17 days. The only thing missing were the fells of the Lake District, and I gladly will give a sampling of that a miss.

This is the righteous Horseshoe Hotel, home of Sunchaser and Falling Stone ales.














The little town of Grosmont was on the way, and we stopped to share in the spectacle of a steam locomotive pulling out of the train station.




We kept on a country road that eventually climbed into the moors. The contrast is always startling, the desolate moors and the lush valley, and the change is abrupt.





After the moors, we descended into another valley and a forest that reminded us all of Forest Park, except for the waterfall.




We had been tramping pretty steadily since we began, with a brief stop for lunch right before plunging into the forest. We were all feeling the weight of our packs and the mud on our shoes. We were about ten miles into our hike at this point. Cue Volga Boat Song.

When all of a sudden … another miracle. At a place in the forest the guidebook said was abandoned was Midge Hall, a newly opened TEA ROOM. The sun had been going in and out all day, and this was at an "outie" point. We sat on their lawn, ate delicious scones with cream, butter, and jam, and drank strong, revivifying tea. They listed a fairy cake, which none of us had ever tried, so we ordered one. "It's only a cupcake," the owner/waiter whispered to us. That's okay, we said, we've got to have one just because of the name. It was indeed a cupcake. Oh, well. Now we can say we've tried one. Their loo had a better view (over a burbling stream) than some of our B&Bs!

We all agreed later that this was a turning point for us. We now had enough energy to plug on.


We came out of the forest onto another country road and then onto another moor. This one was boggy. The map said "somewhat boggy" and "boggy." We would have labeled it, especially since it started to drizzle, "boggy" and "nastily boggy."

We were about a couple of miles from the sea, within sight of cars traveling on a coast road, when we hit the cruelest bog of all.

We had fairly dry shoes, the rain wasn't really a significant force, we had visions of a sunny walk down the coast, similar to the one we had when leaving St. Bee's. We were soooo close. Then we hit the bog to end all bogs. It was the kind of bog that sucked at boots, erasing all boot marks within five seconds. You never knew if you were stepping onto fairly solid ground or into a two-foot hole that would drain marshy, smelly water into your boots. People who had come before had tried to help. Planks from rotting duckboards had been placed forward to create a dry stepping spot. But let me remind you: You don't beat the bog; the bog always wins.




A sliver of the sea, tantalizingly, is in the background.







The rest of the walk was straightforward, and not without its charms.

On another country road, we came across a group of ducks, waddling up the lane, all in a row. (Why didn't they fly?) We followed at a respectful distance. Mother, father, two teenager ducks, and a doting uncle.





Just before we hit the path that would take us along the cliffside into Robin Hood's Bay, we descended THROUGH an asphalted trailer park. "Please be respectful of the residents," the sign said. Yes, ma'am.




Throughout the day, dark clouds would loom over us, only rarely spitting anything out, for which we were extremely grateful. As we hit the coast, this is the sight that greeted us.





But as so often has happened to us in the past, the weather dramatically turned around. We walked the rest of the way in sunshine, sporadically interrupted by light clouds. It was the walk we had hoped for.

Sort of.

Did I mention we were walking beside sheep pastures? A sheer drop to the water on one side, sheep pastures on the other. A farmer had just manured one of the fields closest to the trail and was working hell-bent-for-leather on another one further away, upwind of us. The delightful smell of grass after a rain was smothered, stifled, choked out, eradicated, and stomped on by the malodorous and pervasive smell of…manure. And the tiller had thrown clods of crap all over the trail. Dee-lightful.

About a half mile before we actually hit the border of Robin Hood's Bay, we passed into Nirvana. The manured field ended. The smell drifted to the north of us. The sun was shining. The sea was blue. We could finally see Robin Hood's Bay peeking out at us.






The thing in the middle is a "rocket pole." A rope was tied to the top, a rocket attached and launched toward a distressed ship at sea. The ship would tie its end of the rope to the ship, and a pulley system was used to pull shipwrecked sailors to land. Neat trick.











Welcome to Robin Hood's Bay. Our B&B was about a block and a half away. We headed for that immediately and collapsed. We roused ourselves briefly for dinner, then back to collapse.

Dipping, pebbling, and celebrating have been left until tomorrow.

Day 16 - Blakey to Egton Bridge

The trouble with a day that goes smoothly is there's nothing much to write about.

Okay, here's one story. At one point, Frank said, You lead. I promptly turned in the wrong direction. The others then said I could only lead them where they told me to go.

It was supposed to have been hot, about 85 degrees. The cool breeze saved us from being fried enroute. Plus we were high up in the moors again for most of the walk.

We finally descended to Glaisdale but only saw the outskirts. Two miles further on was Egton Bridge, where we were staying. It has the requisite English babbling brook. The luggage hadn't arrived when we stumbled in, so it was the perfect excuse to sit on the hotel's lawn, wiggle our toes in the grass, and have a glass of Sunburst ale, made in the Midlands. The sky was blue, the ale was good.

We're not even going to think about tomorrow's SEVENTEEN-mile walk into Robin Hood's Bay.




Saying goodbye to friends we met along the way.













That white spot is a dog, and he found one way to cool off: plunge into an algae-filled pond.









We were way up on the moors, but we could see the lush valley below.













No, we are not cheating by taking a train. Just resting.







The Beggar's Bridge story: A young man and woman could not marry, because he was too poor. He went one way off the bridge to seek his fortune; she went the other to wait for him. He came back. They got married. I said, Humph, where's the comedy, where's the tragedy? Frank said, "They got married, didn’t' they?" Good point.

Day 15 - Great Broughton to Blakey

We left Great Broughton in style -- riding in a car. I haven't been in a car in two weeks. It felt really weird. The car from the Wainstones Hotel (ironically named because we didn't make it to the wainstones) dropped us off at Clay Bank. Since we had dropped off the trail earlier and never made it to Clay Bank, we weren't familiar with the area. There was a big road where the car had dropped us off, so we just started walking. We had gone a half mile before Frank said, "I don't think this is the Cleveland Way." It's true we had been walking on flat stones on the Cleveland Way and now we were walking on a forest track. We should be heading into the moors, not the forest. Checking the map and the GPS proved Frank right, so we had to backtrack a bit. The real start of the Cleveland Way was over the rise from the forest track we had taken, so we hadn't spotted it. Anywho.





The view from the real Cleveland Way, after a bit of a hike up!







We're soooo lucky that it was a gorgeous day. The sun was out but it wasn't oppressively hot because a cool gentle breeze blew the whole time. The moor is, well, the moor, but the view from it of the valley below was spectacular. Tom had read blogs that bemoaned not being able to see the scenery because of the weather, so we know we were sooooo lucky!















The road was smooth, if somewhat congested with bicyclists and other walkers, so we made pretty good time.

One group of people we met were the Yorkshire Own Rule gents. They had done the C2C in 2005 going the same way we are and were now going the opposite way. They said Yorkshire must seem pretty dull compared to the Lake District. We assured them it was just different, but very beautiful. They seemed satisfied.

At the famous Lion's Inn, we indulged in an early afternoon beer (scotch in my case). There were tons of people at the inn just for the day. Dogs, kids, babies, helicopters, motorcycles, bicycles, people up from their farms. The "English Brothers" joined us and they are hilarious. They teased Frank as good as he teases other people. It was, I repeat, hilarious. To them, I am "Blister Lady." I guess nicknaming isn't exclusively my province, and their nickname is certainly more colorful than mine of them.

Nine miles in about four hours, with lunch and mistakes. Not bad.




It was thrilling to get our first sight of The Lion Inn and know that a pint of best bitter on the terrace in the sunshine was waiting for us.

Day 14 - Osmotherly to Great Broughton

We're headed to one of those lumpy things in the distance. Way in the distance.












And this is where we came from viewed from one of those lumpy things.








This was a perfect day.

We got started at 9:00 for a change.

The guidebook had scared us by declaring this a "difficult" day. Granted, in the end we took our own course, but we did the double arrows (harder ups and downs) and fairly skipped through it. After two weeks of hiking every day, most of the days with unexpected physical challenges, our legs are stronger and our ailments are manageable. Plus we are a band of very stubborn people.

In contrast to the irregular stony paths of the Lake District, the paths through the moors were paved with large, flat flagstones. We all thought, You're kidding me; this is too easy (relatively speaking).

We went from road to meadow lane to forest to moor to forest to moor to meadow lane to road, with various other elements thrown in for good measure.





Large, flat stones pave our path through the moors.







There were many more people on the trail than we were used to. It's a bank holiday weekend, so there were day trippers who joined the walk-about. There were runners (!) who were doing a Lyke Wake Walk endurance challenge. There were dogs and babies.

Unexpectedly, in one of the dips from the moors to a rural area, we came across a café. It was near a road, so not only were there walkers, but there were motorcyclists, mountain bikers, caravaners, campers, day trippers, dogs, and babies. (The Lyke Wake Walkers/Runners just hurried on by.) It was a treat to drink hot tea and share a cheese scone. Frank said there should be one posted every thirty miles or so on the trail. I agree.














We gave ourselves a treat in the end. There are many ways to get into Great Broughton, where we were spending the night. The traditional way is to go to town through Clay Bank, site of the wainstones, huge rocks that some people rock climb, but most people just stare at with their mouths open. We, however, chose one of the earliest footpaths leading down to G. Broughton, giving the wainstones a miss.

As we neared the town, Frank found a shortcut on his map. He later said the only reason he suggested it is because Tom, Mary, and I seemed so fond of "shortcuts." In fact, our shortcuts, as I've related, have worked out only sometimes.

In any event, we turned off onto the shortcut. It was a footpath that skirted the edge of cow pastures. As we walked by one of them, a calf started looking at us strangely and sort of charged the fence. Then it began running alongside the fence to keep up with us. Then it got a lot of the other cows interested in following us. Soon there was a small stampede in the pasture. The cows were hightailing it to beat us to the end of the pasture. At the end of the pasture, the gate of that pasture and the gate of the next pasture were open and tied together. In other words, we would have to climb the gates, run across the path some of the cows had stampeded across and others were now patrolling and climb over the other side. Did I mention the bull? We walked back to the road and took that into town.

When we got to our hotel, we immediately went to our rooms and fell asleep.

The end is so near!

(P.S. In England a "thwaite" is a meadow. When we passed out of the meadowed area to the moor onto the Cleveland Way, a famous national park trail, I said, "Thwait is over, we're now on th'way." I thought that was pretty clever. I think I was the only one.)

Day 13 - (Near) Danby Wiske to Osmotherly

Quelle disaster! The Sherpa van arrived on time, but we were not packed. Tom and I jammed everything in sight into our suitcases and sent them off to Osmotherly. Ten minutes after the suitcases left, I tried to get dressed to go. Where were my socks? Answer: They were all on the van on the way to Osmotherly. Frank and Mary were very sympathetic, but did not have extra socks. Tom donated his liners to me, as did Frank. Frank had the genius idea to ask the landlady if anyone had left socks behind. Previous guests had left lots of pajamas, but no socks. Sorry.

But wait. The landlady had bought a pair of socks for skiing. Would those do? They were a perfect fit. She wouldn't take money for it, so we made a donation to a local charity instead.

It was a good thing we only had to go ten miles of mostly flat countryside. The delay wouldn't harm us; we'd be to Osmotherly in no time. (Where have you heard that?)




In front of the wonderful Lovesome Hill Farm









On one of the first roads we walked down, we saw a man on an ATV with a dog on his lap and another one running like hell in front of him. I wished I could have taken a picture, but he was gone too fast.

Later down another road, here he came again and pulled into the farm we were headed straight for. The trail ran through his farm's property. In his driveway were these two turkeys, Sid and Chad. They had been destined to be Christmas dinner one year, the farmer's children fell in love, so here are the most spoiled turkeys in all of Yorkshire.

They love the farmer and let him ruffle their feathers. The farmer also talked about the dogs. The one on his lap was sick and the farmer had just been taking him for a ride. The other dog was running just for the hell of it.

Nailed to the side of the stile that took us off his property were a couple of playful toy rats. This farmer was quite a character, and he now has four fans.





My new substitute socks were great but hadn't been washed and were a little stiff. They chaffed a couple of toes, so I had to stop to apply moleskin. So this was the scene. Frank was hunched over applying some sticky stuff to my toes so the moleskin would stick better. Mary and Tom were hovering over me and holding my things. The father and son Dutchmen and the two English brothers came on this scene and after they determined no one had died, burst out laughing. They took a picture of all of us, Frank, Mary, and Tom hamming it up, like I was the queen of the wheat fields, or something. The four guys offered to put together a litter and carry me to Osmotherly. I should have taken them up on it.

I wish every part of the trail had been as clearly marked as this!

Shortly after this picture was taken, we were crossing over a teeny tiny stream, but the banks on either side were incredibly muddy and slippery. In trying to help Mary up the other side, Frank pushed her a little too hard and Mary landed in the mud. I then made it over to the other side and in trying to help Tom up the slope, pulled him a little too hard and he landed in the mud. Is this an example of "pushy" spouses?


Our last push into Osmotherly was through a forest. The area around the road had recently been logged. The path was littered with small branches. Logs were stacked by the side. The place smelled like Christmas. The further along the road we went, the more worried I got. Although we were headed in the right direction, according to the GPS, we were not on any marked trail or road. At one point a faint footpath showed up to the right. Some were convinced this was the first path to Osmotherly. I saw a faint path on the GPS, but it led down the west side of Osmotherly, not into it. We were "discussing" this issue, when a woman happened on us. She had a hat in her hand. Is this yours, she asked us. Why, yes, it was Mary's. She had lost it way at the bottom of the big hill we had been climbing for the last twenty minutes and didn't feel like going back down for it and climbing back up. Isn't this the path to Osmotherly, we asked her. No, we should continue down the big road and take the right hand lane at the fork further on. She was right.

First the little old man with his canes at Lovesome Hill Farm and now this woman who just happened to be walking through the woods. Sometimes you just have to believe that things were meant to be. My first half-pint of Theakston's Black Sheep Ale was toasted to them and to what a lucky day it turned out to be.






Tom has them eating out of his hand.









Tom is pretending to be lost. A few minutes later we almost were lost for real.













Celebratory ale.

Day 12 - Richmond to Danby Wiske

Goodbye to big town Richmond.











The sewage treatment plant, one of the big sights on today's hike.








This day has no outstanding features, except that we said goodbye to Jonathan, who had to return to the U.S. There are no dramatic fells, no sudden sight of a wide, green dale, no bleak and imposing moor. What it does have is 14 miles of road. And hail, thunder, lightning, and incredible amounts of sticky, gooey mud.

This is the first day that we've had truly horrid weather. As we were standing around getting stoned by the pebble-sized hail, we had to laugh. Hail in May. We have been repeatedly told since we entered Yorkshire that the weather is unseasonable. No duh.

Since there are no great vistas or challenges -- except for the last mile -- we found ourselves walking down a country lane or a pasture, increasingly devoted to cows instead of sheep, with our minds wandering and thinking deep thoughts. For instance, almost every town has a distinctively brewed ale. It has a peculiar name, like "Old Peculiar." Maybe it's my surroundings, but I immediately thought that if I had an ale, it would be named "Big Muddy Boots." Then I'd have an ale that would change from a light to darker color as it sat there. I would name that "You Think Your Socks Are Clean, But They're Not." (This is actually what Mary said as she washed her muddy socks for the second time a few days ago.)

There's a note on the map in the guidebook that labeled a path as "muddy." We know from previous experience what that means: big time muddy. This time it surpassed even our expectations. There was not a single blade of grass, leaf of weed, or root of tree to break the monotony of mud. With my walking sticks, I felt as though I was skiing as I slipped and slid down the path.



This was the second outstanding sight of today's walk, far and away better than the sewage treatment plant. Although the mystery of why the sewage treatment plant did not smell is intriguing.












Today's view was either a pasture or a country lane. This is the typical country lane.








And this was the hands-down winner of outstanding sight of the day: sheep playing soccer. We think their rules might be different than ours, with players lying near the goalpost to distract the opposing side. It seems to be working, as the opposition has forgotten about scoring and has gone quietly to sleep.







The storm, having writ large, has moved on to frighten other sheep and hikers.











That's hail at the edge of the grass, still there about 20 minutes after the storm passed.










After negotiating the mud path, several pastures, many country lanes, more pastures, another country lane or two, the sky darkened. We saw sheep run to stand in the shelter of the hedgerows. The wind gusted and big drops started to fall. The drops turned to small hail, which rapidly turned to pebble-sized hail that really stung when it hit our bare skin. Then a humongous thunderclap sounded right over us. Okay, we're not supposed to be by a tree if there's lightning, but we'll be darned if we'll let hail punch holes in our head. We decided to head quickly down the path and pretend nothing was happening. The path ran down the side of one of the hedgerows where some sheep were cowering. It was a miserable battle in their pea-sized brains about which was worse: the hail/lightning or us. We won. The sheep stampeded back to the middle of the pasture and collected a fair amount of hail on their backs. As far as we know, no sheep or hikers were harmed in the making of this storm. But now we were soaked (no rain pants) and the water had run down our pant legs into our boots.

The other advantage to wandering down the road with nothing spectacular to look at, I find myself listening and looking at the ordinary more carefully. There are beautiful wildflowers scattered all over the place: bluebells, buttercups, a pink thing, another blue thing, and the white flowers of wild garlic. The birds are singing like crazy. There are nests on many of the trees. A heron pauses to let us almost take its picture. Six bunnies sit on a highly manicured lawn in front of a modern mansion.

But nature can be vicious. Besides "Mud Path," we wandered through "Prickly Lane." Within a short space (maybe 100 feet) there were nettles, thistles, holly, gorse, and hawthorne, all things that sting, jab, prick, and stab. It was a prickly convention. Ducking and dodging became a matter of survival.

The day mostly wasn't as miserable as I'm making it sound, it mostly was just ordinary. Until the last mile.

We actually are not staying in Danby Wiske, but about a mile and a half out of town at a place called "Lovesome Hill Farm." We were sent instructions on how to get to the B&B using a "shortcut." I put "shortcut" in quotations because that it was not. Supposedly there was a footpath across several fields leading straight to the farm. We managed to find the start of the path, but then it petered out in one of the many fields that were planted with some kind of crop.We extemporized and wound up slogging through heavy mud, the kind that clung to our boots and made each foot weigh 20 pounds. Then we found ourselves in a field with no exit. Tantalizingly, I could see the farm on the GPS and the right footpath one and a half pastures away. We clambered over a fence, trespassing on someone's field to get back to the path. The GPS said it was just one more field over, but there were horses in that field and it just didn't seem right. I wanted to go back, but Tom had had enough, so we walked through someone's backyard and exited through their driveway. I was sure I could hear the police sirens. As we walked by the house next door, the one whose backyard I wanted to go into, a HUGE dog came barking over and placed its massive paws on the fence. It was salivating and its eyes were on fire. Food, he said, come here. Eek, we said, and walked quickly away. Close call.

So there we were:on a path up the bank on the side of a busy street -- I mean those cars were really moving -- and no visible means of crossing over. We couldn't see how to get down the bank either. And there was Lovesome Hill Farm. Right across the street. Right there. The sign said so. We could almost touch it. If our arms had been fifty feet long.

We looked up and down the path we were on and saw nothing that could help us out of our dilemma. The only thing we saw was an old gentleman, slowly toddling along with the help of two canes. What could he do to help us? He saw us looking around, and immediately sussed out our problem. He pointed to right where Mary's foot was and said, "You go down that path to the highway. Careful crossing over." Sure enough there was a path hidden in the grass. We never would have found it. Never underestimate where your help may come from. And never underestimate how much 20 pounds of mud attached to your shoes will slow you down as you play "Frogger" over a highway.

Ree-bit. We made it across.

Day 11 -Reeth to Richmond

We didn’t have a lot of time to explore Reeth yesterday, but then there’s not a lot to explore. The village green has a couple of benches. Surrounding it are the pubs, tiny stores, and a church.

Jonathan’s pub/hotel has its sign upsidedown. A previous owner had gone to much expense to blast the worn paint from the rocks underlying it. The government informed him that he needed to repaint it because that’s what it looked like during an historically relevant period of time. Grumbling, he repainted it. When the sign for his tavern was put back up, the hanger accidentally put it upside down. Purportedly the owner said, “Leave it that way. I don’t care anymore.” The official site for the tavern, The Black Bull, says that “pranksters” turned the sign upside down in protest of the official command. Who knows?

We have almost always wished to have more time to explore the little villages we’ve come across, but it was not meant to be this trip. The walk is everything. It consumes our waking hours. If we are not walking, we are washing, sorting, unpacking, packing, or buying supplies. As you know, we have been in a new place every night! Last night I asked Tom what The George Hotel was like because I couldn’t remember it. Cyclists, pub, chocolate factory, two hairdryers. Ah, yes. And that is the sacrifice we are making to do the walk. We are not tourists, we are drifters, pilgrims, passers-by. We look in windows to glimpse flashes of an alien culture.

Speaking of looking in windows.

I took this picture of a house next to the bus stop bench where we ate our lunch. I liked the garden (which you can barely see in this tiny shot). I noticed a woman sitting in one of the windows, talking on the phone. I waved to her, and she waved back. Someone in a bigger city would have called the police.

At breakfast at our B&B, we sat with a Dutch father and son. We’ve begun to recognize and fraternize with many of the walkers. We had seen the father and son before but never talked with them at length. (The number of parent and child walking groups has been larger than I would have expected.) When we were saying goodbyes, the father said he had heard that the day would be really stormy. It set the gloomy tone for the beginning of the walk. Storm clouds did look to be on the horizon as we left.




Storm clouds, wet streets, our B&B









A couple of miles out of town, we came to a 15th, 16th, or 17th century abbey. (I read the sign, but don’t remember. Everything is old.) It is now a working farm/retreat. Not far away, our ascent up a hill began on the “nun’s steps,” 375 of them, the guidebook claimed.














The forecasted rain had not started. It was distinctly warmer. Before tackling the nuns’ steps, I briefly wondered if I should remove my rain jacket and pants, both of which can be torture if it’s warm. Nah, I thought, it’s bound to rain. The Dutch guy said so.

(1) There are no steps; there are a lot of flagstones and littler stones paving the way. (2) The nuns must have had big feet, because (3) I took at least 500 steps before the stones disappeared. (4) It would have been treacherous had the steps been wet. (5) Meaning, it didn’t rain. (6) Meaning, the rain jacket and pants were torture.

At the top of the hill I took off the rain jacket and pants. Whew.

Little cool gusts of wind would scare me every once in a while, but it didn't rain the rest of the walk.





The only hill in sight for miles, and we have to climb it -- of course.









James Herriott country












It turned out to be a fairly quick walk. We arrived in Richmond, the biggest town we've been in so far, at 2:30. We hit a tea room, Boots (a pharmacy/health needs place), a bookstore, teller machine, Scottish woolens store, and grocery store within a short period of time, thrilled to actually get to experience a town before everything shut up.

Dinner was at a fancy pub. A half-pint of Guinness and a half-pint of Thurston's something-or-other. A mozzarella salad so I don't feel so sluggardly.






Tom on a turtle bench outside a 15th, 16th, or 17th c. church.