The Flesh-pots of Muker
The Coast to Coast
Chris's Tale
I hadn't known Chris and Malc for very long. We'd been on a couple of short walks together. Chris is one of the most cheerful people one’s likely to meet, always joking and breaking into fits of laughing; which isn’t bad for someone who suffers from depression. Malc is a more stoical type, just keeps plodding on; he’s twice completed the Ultimate Challenge, a walk from the west coast to the east coast of Scotland. They'd planned to do Wainwright’s Coast to Coast Walk from St Bees Head to Robin Hood’s Bay and at the last minute invited me to join them. A friend volunteered to drive us to St. Bees so Malc and Chris came to my flat with their gear. As the plan was to stay at pubs or B&B's I'd chosen to take a small rucksack with a minimum of contents. This comprised of a sawn-off toothbrush, spare socks, underwear, cagoule, hat, water bottle and maps. My rucksack was very light so I was surprised when the others arrived to find that they'd brought 60 litre rucksacks. Chris seemed to have everything but the kitchen sink. He even had a large pair of binoculars on the off chance of seeing a golden eagle near Kidsty Pike. We were driven to St. Bees in the evening where we were booked into a local pub.
Day 1
In the morning we set off for St Bees Head, past the town's dog toilet, to do the traditional toe dipping in the Irish Sea. We might as well have waded out into the ocean for a few minutes because the persistent drizzle and wet, long grass soon made us soaking wet. Just after 11 o'clock we reached Sandwith as the landlord of the local pub, the Dog and Partridge, was unlocking his door, so we slipped in. Luckily, there was a stone floor so our dripping cagoules and sodden boots couldn’t do much damage. After a quick pint we felt a bit more cheerful and continued to Cleator. On the way, to try to keep the contents of rucksacks dry we each nicked a bin-liner that had been left at the front of houses. Cleator is a bit of a one-street town and we soon found a pub. Inside there were several other walkers and the walls were already festooned with wet gear. Eventually, we forced ourselves to leave and marched on to Ennerdale Bridge and our B&B. The owner was most helpful and took our boots and cagoules to his drying room. Shortly after us a couple came in who were also doing the C-C. They had large rucksacks and they'd also forgotten their bin-liners. They emptied the contents for the kind landlord to take to the drying room. They had a vast amount of soaking wet clothing. There seemed to be enough for a change of clothes for each day of the week. They were even carrying a large Coast to Coast book coffee table book; after Ennerdale Bridge we didn't see them again.
Day 2 continued with heavy showers and we became very adept at putting on and stripping off our cagoules as we made our way down Ennerdale. A long day was ahead as we were booked into accommodation at Grasmere. We kept score of the number of times we slipped on wet logs or tree roots. We squelched past Haystacks, Fleetwith Pike and slid down to Honister Pass. For a break we sheltered by the wall of the old slate works and, from the piles of sheep droppings, we could tell that we weren’t the only creatures to take refuge there.
We walked down the road, awash with water, to Rosthwaite, trudged along Langthwaite and slithered up to Greenup Edge, north of High Raise. Here, we caught up with an American girl who'd read about the walk and was determined to do it on her visit to the UK. On her back she had the kind of bag you associate with sailors on leave. It was huge and cylindrical with straps that are meant to be carried by hand, but instead these were looped through her arms and over her shoulders. Her footwear had little traction, at least this appeared to be the case as she repeatedly slipped and fell to the very muddy ground. Despite this she was very cheerful and we were tempted to stay at her pace and continue to assist her to her feet. But, after a while, Malc muttered something about food in Grasmere so we left her a couple of miles before the village. I have omitted to mention that whilst I have a healthy appetite my two colleagues would make shire horses put their hoofs together in appreciation. A tour of the pubs of Grasmere soon helped us forget about the weather.
Day 3
Another very wet day, as we headed up to Grisedale Hause and down to Patterdale. Any thoughts of Helvellyn and Striding Edge were cast aside and the easiest, shortest route was chosen. We found ourselves in The White Horse at Patterdale shortly after opening time and it was somewhat closer to closing time when we left. Coming from the warmth of the pub into the driving rain was rather a shock and we had to get to Shap16 miles away. It seemed to take ages to get up to Angletarn Pikes and we were totally soaked by the time we went past Kidsty Pike. Chris’s binoculars were not required, no sensible eagle would have ventured far in such conditions. In fact, you couldn't have seen a duck unless you trod on it. On the way down to Haweswater I took a short cut across a swollen Randale Beck to Castle Crag. Malc attempted to do the same and promptly fell in. Mind you he came out no wetter than before he went in. Chris shrugged and disappeared taking the longer route. Fortunately the weather improved a little by the time we reached the shore of the reservoir. By now Chris had developed a limp which was to cause problems and some amusement in the days to come. It was still a long way to Shap and it was close to 9pm when we staggered into the King's Head. We were unlucky to find the hotel bar inhabited by a dozen young men on a stag night. Also, as it was 9 o'clock on a Saturday their condition was fairly well advanced. Not surprisingly they saw three sodden hikers in shorts a target for fun. To take the friction out of the situation Chris and I took a couple of them by the arms and started dancing with them. This amused them, but didn’t do much for Chris’s knee. The landlady took pity on us and rustled up a meal whilst we did our best to catch up with the state of the lads on the stag night. These two long days had taken their toll on Chris’s knee; and he’d planned these stages.
Day 4
As we left the Lakes and progressed from west to east the weather gradually improved, Alas, only the opposite could be said for Chris's knee. From Shap we moved into limestone terrain. We visited the tiny hamlet of Oddendale, passed over Smardale Bridge where a man explained about the age and building of the stone walls. Our pace was slower than usual due to Chris's knee and it was early evening by the time we had covered the 19 miles from Shap to Kirkby Stephen; sorry, 19 and a quarter miles. As A. W. points out, the last stretch, indicated by a signpost to be a quarter of a mile, is a candidate for the longest quarter of a mile in the World.
We'd booked into a rather posh guesthouse but decided to have a couple of pints in the nearby pub first. Some members of the party were starving so we ordered meals then went to the guesthouse to book in and dump our rucksacks. The landlady was away so the guesthouse was being looked after by her sister who didn't seem very familiar with the habits of walkers. She seemed shocked when we simply went to our room, left our gear and went straight out again. We heard her calling after us something about the door being locked at 10 o'clock. A good evening was spent in the pub with one or two other C-2-C walkers. This is one of the pleasures of long distance walks. You become friendly with others on the same mission and often end up in the same bars. As usual we were the last to leave the bar at closing time. We eventually managed to arouse the disapproving landlady. Our room had a double and a single bed for the three of us. This is often the case and causes no problems as, after a day's walking and several pints you could fall asleep on a bed of nails. We were still quite amused by the manner in which we'd been received, when Malc started bursting his several large blisters. For some reason this started Chris giggling. This became contagious and it wasn't long before the landlady knocked at the door admonishing us for waking other guests. This only made matters worse but after seeing Chris and myself in convulsions she obviously decided not to make things worse with another visit. Next morning the chap in the next room greeted us jovially with "Good morning, gigglers". We went down to the breakfast where several guests were sat down round a single large table. We started helping ourselves to tea and toast that was on the table when the landlady came in the room and admonished us because this was for the other guests. We were very glad we leave and no doubt the feeling was mutual.
Day 5
This was intended to be a short day of just under 12 miles to Keld. We climbed up to Nine Standards Rigg directly having lost the path and meandered down the boggy hillside to Whitsun Dale. Chris was struggling and had dropped behind as we entered Keld. We asked a motorcyclist with a motorbike & sidecar, outside the Youth Hostel, for directions to the pub. We were overjoyed to be told that some well-meaning soul had bought it and turned it into a chapel. We inquired as to the nearest pub and were told that this was in the "fleshpots of Muker", some five miles further on. I pointed to Chris, 100m away, optimistically hobbling towards us, and explained the damage to his morale that would be inflicted by the bad news. The kindly motorcyclist got the non too subtle hint and volunteered to give Chris a lift to Muker in half an hour’s time.
The YH had a sign offering tea and cakes that we couldn't resist. The warden made the mistake of leaving us with the plate of cakes and was rather taken aback when he discovered that we'd devoured the lot; we were meant to have just one each! Fortified, Chris left on the back of the bike whilst Malc and myself set off down the river to Muker, Malc having the initiative to throw his rucksack into the sidecar as it drove off. We met Chris outside The Farmers Arms in Muker only to find out it didn't do B&B, nor were there any alternatives in the village. Stoically, we set off down the road in the direction of Gunnerside. After a couple of miles I spotted a chap doing a spot of gardening outside a large house. I asked him if he knew anyone who did B&B. At the sight of Chris limping he offered the use of his caravan at a very reasonable rate. He also drove us to the pub at Gunnerside and offered to pick us up at closing time. Next morning he told us that to use the bathroom we would have to go through his daughter’s bedroom, and, not to worry, as she wouldn't mind. The daughter, who we'd been introduced to, was a very attractive 20 year-old. I lost count of the number of trips Chris made to the bathroom.
Day 6
The weather was improving but the ground was very muddy so we took to the road down the lower part of Swaledale to Reeth. We chatted to a lad doing the walk by himself. He wore a jaunty cowboy hat and we nicknamed him Kid Nateby. After a brief stop in Reeth we carried to make Richmond by early evening. It was a hot, sunny afternoon and we were savaged by flies in the woods just before Richmond.
Day 7
The target was Ingleby Cross 23 miles away. After we'd sorted out the route out of Richmond the way was straight forward, much of it on tracks or lanes. After a few miles Chris was struggling so Malc and I went ahead in the hope that Chris could thumb a lift more easily if he was alone. We thought that if we got to Danby Wiske we might be able to order a taxi to go back for him. We marched past a young couple who we'd met a couple of times and explained that Chris was in a bad way and we were hoping to get help. They were doing the walk properly by camping and carrying all their gear but the day had become very hot and they were suffering. The lanes were totally free of traffic so Chris had no chance of a lift but when we got to the White Swan at Danby Wiske we could see his head bobbing above the hedges not too far away. We ordered beer and food and Chris arrived not much later. The young couple arrived outside just after 2 o'clock and struggled to take off their rucksacks. The bar was empty and the landlady had disappeared. When the lad came in to order, Chris put a towel over the beer pumps and told him the landlord had just stopped serving. The single expletive he uttered contained as much emotion as I've ever heard. When we told him it was OK, the bar was still open, he cried. Chris, given fresh strength by food and drink, coped with his limp and completed the remaining miles.
The campsite at Ingleby Cross had cheap accommodation in a simple blockhouse building next to a pub. By now we'd become friendly with several groups. The young couple were camping there, as were a group from the south. This consisted of a mother, her son (size 13 feet), and a couple of other folk with a support vehicle. On the first hill in the Lake District one of the party had slipped and the Mountain Rescue team had to called out. The injured member had retired back to the south with one of their two support vehicles. Most of the folk there were doing the walk and the camaraderie added greatly to the evening.
Day 8
A slow start was required but eventually we got going. The path above Ingleby Cross appeared to go in a large circle as we passed various fellow revellers from the night before. The route is a switchback until Clay Bank Top. This is also part of the Lyke Wake Walk which we did a couple of years later. Once the old railway track was reached we made fast progress to the Lion Inn on Blackley Moor where we had booked accommodation. This is a fine pub, remote and full of character. After a quick shower we were soon ensconced in the bar. The food was excellent, as was the beer and whisky. Next morning some of our fellow guests needed help in clearing their breakfast plates and as usual our party was willing to make the sacrifice.
Day 9
Two friends had planned to drive up from Manchester to join us for the last two days. They were due outside the Lion Inn at 9.30 am. We sat outside the pub until 10.30, gave up and returned to the Inn for a cup of tea. The barman explained that as residents we could be served beer. This was a mistake. Five pints later when Frank and Malc's brother, Mike, finally arrived we weren't in the best condition for walking. They'd set off from Stockport, where they lived all their lives, and managed to drive in totally the wrong direction heading south rather than north. Anyway, after another drink we left the pub and spotted a bloke with a huge rucksack in the distance. We'd met him before and knew he was a fellow C-2-C walker. We staggered after him and after a while caught up with him when he stopped and got his map out. The silly sod had gone the wrong way, heading north when he should have swung to the east. We joined him and after a long and involved debate had a guess at were we where. We set off in disarray, tripping and falling over the difficult pathless moor. We were pleased that the huge rucksack following us seemed to hit the deck a few times. Eventually we spotted a standing stone that turned out to be Fat Betsy, a marker on the C-2-C, and got back on route. We wove our way towards Glaisdale but never seemed to shake off the huge rucksack. As we dropped into the village we spotted a pub and entered it. Our request for five pints of beer was met with " it's not 5.30 yet. I can only serve alcohol to residents." Disappointed, we ordered pots of tea.
A few minutes later the rucksack arrived and made a similar request for ale. He was greeted with exactly the same response from the landlady. The bloke took off the rucksack with the air of a man who'd just made a major decision. Again, he asked for a pint but this time with a satisfying nod. A pint of beer was pulled and he took a long, slow draught. He turned towards us, looked at our tea, and grinned smugly. We left him as he prepared for a very comfortable night and made our way to our B&B in Grosmont near the station. We introduced ourselves and left our rucksacks in our rooms. Some of us were keen to get to the pub by the station. I didn't want to make our intentions too obvious so I chatted with the landlady outside and said we were going to have a look at the railway and other tourist attractions. At this moment Frank leaned out of an upstairs window and shouted "Are you going for alcohol?"
The pub was a real throwback with the best choice of records on the jukebox a 60's person could wish for: R&B, Dylan, Doors, Stones etc. The only bad news was that it didn't serve food. Normally I would approve of this but we were starving. Seeing our shock at the bad news the landlord rustled up some quiche and a couple of pies from his own fridge.
Day 10
We weren't on peak form next morning as we faced the steep hill that climbs away from Grosmont station. Frank shot off in front and reached the top of hill. The rest of us turned off through a gate into a field halfway up the hill and shouted to Frank that he'd taken a wrong turning. When he'd dropped back to join us we emerged from the field and continued up the hill. A punishment for over enthusiasm! This was our last day and one of the hottest. As we made our way to the coast savage thirsts set in. Frank and Mike, unacclimatised, started to suffer from heatstroke and dehydration but were saved by the pub at Hawsker. From there it was a short, pleasant stroll along the cliffs and down to Robin Hood's Bay. As tradition dictates the first call was the beach to dip our boots.
That evening we met up with various comrades we’d met, including the young, camping couple. They told us that their lowest point of the entire walk was on that hot day when crippled Chris had overtaken them after we had said that he was done for. Of the total distance 190 miles he had walked about 30 miles and limped the remaining 160 miles.
The southern party were staying at the same hotel as us. After closing time we all ended up in our room with a bottle of whisky. The woman rang her husband to tell him about the trip and had a little difficulty explaining why she was in the bedroom of some strange blokes at 2 o'clock in the morning.
Chris Me, Chris & Malc at St Bees Head
Malc, falling into Randale Beck Chris, limping up to Nine Standards Rigg