In which Sara injures several ribs and milks the injury for all it’s worth, Mark is valiant, we walk 38 miles, drink a lot of tea, and discover over and over again that English cuisine is much better than it used to be.
On Thursday, June 27, we took a train from London to St. Bee’s, the start of our 191-mile walk from coast to coast, that is, from the Irish Sea to the North Sea. My first mistake, perhaps, was to allow myself a bit of smugness when I saw a couple on the train embarking on the same walk with medium-sized daypacks and gigantic suitcases, clearly having engaged one of the many baggage services that Mark and I have all along eschewed, opting instead for larger packs stuffed full with everything we need.
However—however—I should have learned long ago not to be smug about anything. Our first night in St. Bee’s, after dropping off our packs at our B&B, putting on a layer of rain gear and tromping back into town for a delicious dinner, we walked up to St. Bee’s church, a wonderful historic place dating back to the tenth century, and in continuous use as a house of worship from then until now.
We explored the church yard behind the church, where several headstones were decorated with the same distinctive, ancient cross I saw in a niche against the church building. In the back of the church year was a wall about chest high, over which my dear husband suggested we climb to get to the public footpath back to our B&B. There was a little ledge about the size of a banana half-way up the wall; he put one foot on the ledge, swung himself over and landed, gracefully as always, onto the other side. I followed, but my foot slipped off the mini-ledge. Had I been in better shape, I might have used that opportunity to do a handstand on the top of the stone wall. As it was, I came crashing down on it, landing squarely on the left side of my ribcage. (Ouch.) No more “hotel workouts” to supplement the walking, no more smugness about not paying someone to carry my bag, no more coughing or blowing my nose without a constant reminder of my own frailty.
Luckily, I wasn’t seriously hurt, and while sleeping has been a pain (literally), I am happiest when I’m hiking, and the hiking has been glorious, especially after the second day when I engaged the baggage service.
The first day we walked north along the coast about four miles, then inland toward Cleator, our first overnight on the walk. Along the way we stopped in a pub for tea and met a delightful father and daughter making the walk, and walked with them the next few miles. After the dramatic climb up the coast from the beach at St. Bee’s, this first day was mostly flat, walking through fields and woods along stone fences and creeks, passing the occasional farmhouse. I don’t have a lot of photos from this day because, well, it was pouring rain.
Day Two was the shortest day of the whole 18-day walk; about five miles, including a dramatic up-and-down hill. We arrived in the village of Ennerdale Bridge in time to enjoy a late lunch at one local pub and then, a few hours later, an amazing dinner at another. (This is when we began to realize that English food is not what it used to be. In London, we ate mostly Indian, Caribbean, or Thai food, but here in the country, it’s all local, and good. Not a mushy pea in sight.)
By the time we get to Day Three, we’re coming to know the written voice of the author of our ever-handy Coast-to-Coast guidebook, whose maps strike fear and trembling in the heart of most walkers. The Zen koan for this day’s map: “The steep path is the right path.” We walked fourteen miles from Ennerdale Bridge into the heart of the Lake District, including an amazing climb up a “Beck,” or creek, onto a high windy (like 55 mph) ridge. During the climb I was grateful for every single lunge and every minute of cardio over the past few years!
Day Four: Sunshine! And scenery that defies description, three-hundred and sixty degrees of it. The word for the day is “crag.” As in “we just go over one more of these and then we descend down into the town.” There were a whole lot of these crags, but each one rewarded us with fabulous views and ever-increasing anticipation of the descent into Grasmere, the epicenter of the Lake District and the town of Wordsworth.
To be continued….