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.
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