Day 2 - Cleator to Ennerdale Bridge

This is our first big climb of the trip. The tiny arrow you see in the distance to the left marks St. Bee’s. The other tiny arrow just to the right of center is Cleator, our last stop. Dent Hill is about 1,000 feet up from Cleator. It’s excellent that our next stop is just over Dent Hill. We can celebrate our first significant climb by collapsing on the doorstep of Low Cock How Farm.




The photo below is taken at the very top of Dent Hill. Do you see that chartreuse patch at the right? That’s up the hill from St. Bee’s. The view from Dent Hill is fabulous and it shows the meandering path we’ve taken from St. Bee’s to get to where we are. We are so lucky, lucky, lucky that the weather has been clear and warm, but not too warm, and we can see so far all around Dent Hill. We think we can even see where we are staying for the night. To get there, we have to negotiate the steepest descent of the entire trip. You go first, Frank, so the rest of us will have something soft to land on.



But first, we have some stiles to jump. The variety is amusing. Single step and double step stiles are old hat to us now. So this is what we ran across today.




The double-step, cross stile.













The enormous stile with narrow slats set at an impossibly small distance from each other.










The stiles and gates have turned out to be benignly treacherous. Mary had just finished telling me about how she wrapped duct tape around a pill bottle in case she needed some, when she climbed a stile and tore her backpack on a wayward prong of barbed wire. Aha, immediate use for the duct tape!

Some of the gates have proven to have too small a space for a person with a backpack to pass through. Contortions, lifting of backpacks like barbells, climbing backwards up the fence posts and hilarity ensue. I always hope no one is taking a picture of me navigating one of those gates.

Random complaint #1: We slowly came down the steepest descent of the walk step by painful step, only to have the people after us canter down the slope with ease. And I’m not even going to mention the man coming up the slope with his six dogs, no water bottle or backpack. Are you going up to the top, I asked. Yes, he said, we came down from the road (he pointed off into the distance) and are going up and around and back to the car. Where’s your water bottle, I asked. Oh, he said, I don’t need one for a short walk like this. But I’m not even going to mention him.

Here’s a picture taken just before we plunged down the side. (Perhaps plunge is the wrong word, but it was really steep.) The other picture is of the last part of the descent.

Nannycatch Beck, a beautiful, meandering stream, was at the bottom. We followed it for a ways, crossing it back and forth, sometimes walking in its overflow (see second picture below). We stopped in the shadow of a steep (if a hill isn’t rolling, it’s steep; no in-between state exists) hillside to have our lunch. Birds were singing, there were very few ants and no hordes of tramping hikers, the hotel had packed a great ploughman’s lunch, life was good. Overhead (remember, the cliffside was steep) a sheep tried to find its lost lamb. It baa-ed all through lunch. More about this soon.

It was an easy stroll to our next B&B, a working farm just off the pathway. Along the way we noted a dead sheep in the beck. Not that we were inclined to do so, but we were happy that the cool, clean water hadn’t drawn us into dangling our toes in the stream earlier downstream!

Here is the entrance to Low Cock How Farm. (BTW, the proprietors don’t know why it’s called Low Cock How. Insert your own joke here.) I looked at this picture later that evening, and I’m sure that’s a flying saucer in the corner there. I circled it so you can see it.











Dorothy runs the B&B. The picture on the right is of her husband (name unknown) talking to Frank. He’s the ranching part of the couple. It was obvious that he was making a great effort to be understood when he talked with us. We understood about 70 percent of what he said. A friend of his stopped by to tell him about a lost sheep (the mother of the lamb we heard earlier during lunch) that belonged to the farm. I only know that’s what the friend said because the husband translated for us. None of us understood a single word! So off the husband went on his motorcycle, with one of his sheepdogs perched on the back.

Dinner was very English: meat and veggies. One meat, eleven veggies. Frank enumerated the veggies in his journal.

I was trying to turn on the light in the shower room. There was a string there. I pulled it. Nothing happened. I pulled it again. And again. Nothing happened. I finally decided it was not for the light and whatever it was for didn’t work. I found the light switch outside the shower room. Mary later told me it was the cord you pull in case of an emergency. No one came to investigate. I guess many Americans had been guests on the farm and pulled that cord, and the farmfolk wisely knew to ignore it.

A pleasant four-hour walk, a pleasant farm, a pleasant sitting room and tea. If this is what each day will be like, bring it on!

Day 1 - St. Bee's to Cleator

We said goodbye to St. Bee’s by dropping by St. Bee’s statue in the park. We met a young lady and her dog named “Puppy.” Irresistible.

You must dip your foot in the Irish Sea at the start of the hike. Here is my clean boot entering the sea. As you will see at the end of the first day, I seriously doubt I can lay claim to that adjective again.














A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. All I have to say after the first day is, thank goodness it isn’t a thousand miles. Ten was hard enough. In any event, this was our first step, up the cliffside at St. Bee’s.






We started with a full English breakfast: eggs with brilliant orange yolks, ham/bacon, the local sausage, broiled tomato, sauteed mushrooms, but no blood pudding, thank goodness.

Based on the previous day’s experience, I girded up for the first day’s walk in long underwear, a wool shirt, a lightweight hiking shirt, convertible pants/shorts, my poufy jacket, a hat, and a wool scarf. Standing by in my backpack were a waterproof jacket, waterproof pants, gloves, and handwarmers. As you can see by the pictures, the day was sunny and in the mid-60s, By the end of the day, my pack was crammed with the hat, scarf, wool shirt, and zipped off pant legs. For dinner in Cleator, I took off the long underwear, hiking shoes and socks, and put on sandals. That’s the kind of day it was.

The first part of the walk started with a strenuous climb to the top of St. Bee’s Head South. We stuttered along after that, starting and stopping to remove clothing, adjust shoelaces, take photos, drink water, kibbitz with other walkers, and stare at rare birds. It took us about 45 minutes to go a mile. At that rate, we realized that we wouldn’t get to Cleator, our first stop ten miles away, until sundown, so we picked up the pace somewhat.

I have to say it’s lucky that Frank put his foot down about how far we would go that first day. Traditionally, walkers go to Ennerdale Bridge, about 14 miles from St. Bee’s. It took us six hours to go ten miles. We learned a lot about what we should have done and what out GPS couldn’t do. Once again we were lucky. Other walkers helped to steer us the right way when we got lost. I didn’t trust that the walk would be as well posted as it was and was always second-guessing where our next turn would be. Plus the home-drawn map we were using had a serious scale problem. As Frank said, “Everything was farther than we thought it would be -- especially towards the end!” :)

Usually our map would point out the significant features that indicated a change in direction; e.g., go right at the first house; climb the second stile, not the first; turn by Birkham’s Quarry. At one point near the end of the first day’s hike, the information simply said “Stanley Pond” and “muddy.” No and yes and maybe. No, we never saw Stanley Pond; we saw a puddle where Stanley Pond should have been. Yes, the pasture was very, very, very muddy. Our feet made disgusting sucking sounds as we tried to extricate our boots from wherever we stepped. Maybe the whole field was now Stanley Pond, having wicked the water away from the legitimate site to ensnare unsuspecting hikers.




Looking back at St. Bee’s from the first steep climb up to St. Bee’s Head South.












And looking forward to St. Bee's Head North.










Hundreds of rare black guillemots crammed into the cliff face.











Looking back across the chasm to where we had been.









Making friends with “the loneliest bench” on the C2C walk.











The countryside was bucolic, warm, and quaint.








In fact, Cleator is only ten driving minutes away from St. Bee’s. Our hike had involved a semi-circular path from St. Bee’s to Cleator. I guess a straight line is the shortest distance between two points; it surely isn’t a semi-circle.

We talked to a lot of friendly and informative people (including the ones who steered us the right way occasionally). Faster walkers slowed down to talk with us. Locals stopped to let us admire their dogs. Bird fanciers/experts shared their telescopes and gave us mini-lectures on the bird population.

We’re not sure why that particular bench is called “the loneliest bench,” since 18,000 hikers started the C2C walk last year and some of them surely sat on the bench. A BBC production on Wainwright’s original C2C walk that’s now playing on TV has increased interest in the walk even more. We are all very glad that Frank and Mary urged us to make advance accommodations. I was ready to be a happy wanderer and just plant myself wherever I landed in the afternoon. Who knew?




“The Big Muddy.”











This picture does not do justice to how muddy we were, but these are “The Big Muddy” souvenirs.










Stile

Kissing gate.

Lesson #1: What’s the difference between a stile and a kissing gate. A stile is usually a one- or two-step stair built next to a fence so people can climb over. Sheep and cattle still haven’t learned to use stiles, so they are a popular method of traversing fields. A kissing gate is a gate that swings in far enough so a person can squeeze into a triangular space, then the gate swings the other way and the person can exit on the other side. It’s a very clever, low-tech invention. Frank and Mary misunderstood (on purpose, I suspect) what the gate was for. Tom thought it was the “air kissing gate.” Sheep and cattle don’t kiss, so they can’t use this gate.

Having washed my muddy clothes, scraped an enormous amount of mud from my boots, unpacked and repacked yet again, watched “Britain’s Got Talent,” and drunk a half-pint of Younger’s best bitter, I’m tired. Tomorrow is our last short day and it’s supposed to be sunny again. I plan on enjoying every single dry minute because the storm clouds are looming on the horizon.

Coast to Coast, Day 0

Tom and I were minding our own business, having a salad at the Beaverton Bakery stand at PDX, waiting to board our plane. Frank & Mary were off getting pounds (as in British money versus the Beaverton Bakery kind). We were munching on our said salad when a PDX worker asked us if the scarred and battered briefcase and backpack at the next table were ours. They weren’t. The worker hollered (hollered!) to the Beaverton Bakery people, “Call security about this briefcase and backpack. They’ve been here for about 20 minutes and no one has come back for them.” Hmmm, I thought, perhaps we should move. Before I could say Mack-the-Knife, Tom said this very thought out loud.




I don't know who these people are







During the next 20 minutes from a table a discreet distance away, we observed … nothing. No ka-boom, no security people, nobody to claim the bags. Anticlimactic, but that’s anticlimax I can live with. In any event, we weren’t bored.

Mary and Frank are our traveling companions. Jonathan will be joining us a couple days into the walk.

There are so many things that could go wrong -- weather, missed connections, lost luggage -- but we didn’t expect things to go astray so soon. At our gate, we heard an announcement paging Mary. Oh, oh. When she returned, she explained that the airlines had checked Frank in twice but they had missed her. Since there is only one of Frank and Mary was definitely along for the ride, everything eventually got sorted out. In the meantime, we had been double-franked! (That’s a stamp joke, my father was a postmaster, oh..never mind.)

I was thinking: boy, howdy, I sure will be fit at the end of this trip. I thought this as I ate my way through my salad and a snack before the plane even took off. I thought this as I ate my way through the snack, lunch, snack, dinner, and breakfast on the airplane. I continued to think this through the two half-pints, snack, and dinner at the quaint pub in St. Bee’s. Total walking distance at the end of the first day: one mile.

Random thought #1: How did F&M manage to get all their stuff into two tiny suitcases. Our two large suitcases and backpacks and tote are crammed to the gills. Of course, maybe they aren’t carrying a jar of peanut butter, 36 Luna bars, three hot water bottles, six books, and a computer.

Random thought #2: What was I thinking when I decided to wear my hiking boots onto the plane? (I was thinking they were heavy and bulky and if I wore them they wouldn’t take up all that room in the suitcase, the room I’d need for a jar of peanut butter, 36 Luna bars, three hot water bottles, six books, and a computer.) I forgot that I’d have to take them off to go through the security line. Sorry, sorry, sorry, I murmured, as I held up the line while I struggled out of my boots and struggled to get my computer out of my backpack, and further held up the line while they inspected my (empty) metal water bottle.

Actually, the trip has run smoothly so far. All our planes were on time, the flights were smooth, we found a driver to take us to St. Bee’s. The latter was the best group decision we made. I can’t imagine how we would have coped with getting a train from Manchester, transferring to another train, and walking with all our luggage (!) to the B&B -- and all for the same price as getting the car and driver who delivered us to our door. F&M happily chatted with the driver during the three-hour trip to St. Bee’s. Tom and I alternated prodding each other in the back seat to stay awake. We were largely unsuccessful and snoozed most of the way. I’ll pay for it when I wake at 3 a.m.





Left: Our luggage waiting to be let in.
Right: Frank calling the B&B. He’s pointing to the bell that’s ringing.






Random observation #1: The rain (and hail) came pelting down as we drove to St. Bee’s. It fell harder and faster the closer we got, which leads to:

Random thought #3: I could have gotten this in Portland. It’s hard to enjoy the sights while you’re walking if you’ve got your head down all the time because you’re trying to avoid the sideways pouring rain.

We arrived a little early at The Fairladies’ Barn, our St. Bee’s accommodation. No one answered the doorbell. Frank got out his phone and called the number we had for the B&B. We burst out laughing as we could hear the phone ringing inside, a bell conveniently located outside as well. Of course, no one answered the phone. Hmm, we collectively thought.

Fortunately, it had stopped raining as we entered St. Bee’s, and the sky was moderately blue. (Obviously, the weather can turn on a dime here.) As we were contemplating hiding our luggage in the large hydrangea bush next to the front door and wandering off, a woman burst through the garden gate with a bucket of cleaning supplies. Oh, she said. Oh, we said. “Didn’t anyone answer the door,” she asked. No, we assured her, no one had. After she let us in, a teenage boy hurried through the entryway. “Didn’t you hear the doorbell, then?” she asked. He didn’t pause as he answered, “No.” “Teenagers,” she muttered.

To stave off both hunger and sleepiness, we explored St. Bee’s. We walked a half mile to the beach where our adventure is to begin tomorrow. We bought funny postcards. I took a million photos. Here are some of them.






















Left: Aw, shucks, we missed the comedy team of Chuck & Albert by one day. Center: At the St. Bee’s priory. Right: Acquiring the traditional pebble to carry to the other end of the trip. The hill in the distance is where the hike begins.

Lastly, every good travel story should end in a pub, and so ours did. The Manor is where we had our first pints of brew, in my case “Old Speckled Hen,” a hearty pale ale. We instantly met a fellow hiker and his wife, who was dropping him off -- and picking him up at the end -- and laundering his dirty socks mid-walk. They were from Edinburgh and taught me how to correctly pronounce my favorite single malt scotches. We talked mystery books set in Scotland. They told me about a hike in Scotland that travels through many distilleries. That’s the one for me next time, I said. Slainté.

With Lura & Divvy, in the foreground, at The Manor.