BEGIN THE BEGUINE
DAY 1 ST. BEES TO ENNERDALE BRIDGE, 23KM.
The beguine began at 9am, on friday 4th june with the traditional toe dip in the irish sea and the picking up of a pebble to transport across england and deposit on the shores of robin hoods bay.
I had the previous day donned the quikie boardies and swam albeit very briefly in those same waters, I think I was still blue from the cold. Todays walk was a 23km walk from St Bees to Ennerdale bridge.
As I took the first step I thought I could hear the theme from chariots of fire in my head and I thought hang on a minute that’s 14 days too early.
Well the hard work began immediately as we climbed a very steep ascent from the beach and my lungs were doing some serious overtime and I thought hey I’m struggling and I shouldn’t be. I soon discovered I had tied the chest strap on my pack too tight and it was restricting my lungs to half capacity (I am Irish you know). That fixed the task became easier.
We headed north up the spectacular, ever rising coast line with the stark water colour meeting the emerald green landscape. The path took us right on the very edge of the cliff and we would occasionally plunge downward into little bays and then head skyward to the top again. This continued for about 7 km. and then we took a sharp right near an old lighthouse and left the coastline behind us.
Over the next 15km the terrain varied from flat and easy to long steep slippery shale hills and animal ploughed soft fields and across streams, styles, fences and walls. It meandered through gates, farmyards, up country lanes, down byways and across the occasional highway. often rising very steeply. We rose around 600m during the day.
We stopped for 2 drink breaks and lunch and powered into Ennerdale bridge around 4 pm right on schedule. the feet were on fire inside the boots and this was partly doused by a long, long cold pint of Britain’s best bitter followed by a long soaking bath
The weather was good for walking, overcast, cool breeze, occasional sunshine. A good first day, about 20 percent harder than anticipated. about 28000 steps completed, around 360000 to go. Perhaps that was chariots of fire I heard from the other coast .

MAHLER’S 2ND IN F SHARP MAJOR
DAY 2 ENNERDALE BRIDGE TO ROSTHWAITE, 24KM
If I thought day one was tough it was really only a light warm up for the f sharp day. It began easily enough down rambling country lanes and grassy riverside paths. Then we reached Lake Ennerdale, one of the numerous beautiful lakes in this exquisite countryside. At first on the lake shores, easy going but then moving gradually upwards along winding, rock, boulder and shale infested terrain. There was a fairly sheer drop on one side to the water below of about 30 metres. No real room for error or stumble. It was just complete focus on the ground and where the foot landed. Finally about the 5km.mark we reached the end of the lake and the music softened as we strolled down country forest lanes and dirt roads full of wildflowers and bird life.
We stopped for lunch at a beautiful spot near the yha hut and under the base of a 700metre escarpment, having no idea that later that day we would be atop it. After a gradual incline we began to suddenly ascend straight up a narrow shale and rock laden path with a gradient of around 1 to 2.5m.
This was serious going and one of the moments when you doubt your sanity. This was ankle breaking, knee jarring, foot bruising, lung bursting lakes district prime walking country. It’s what walkers from all over the world come here for.
There were about a dozen or more other walkers on that path.
Then suddenly the top and the going became once again calm and easy and then began a long steep narrow descent which was even harder than the climb. Finally we reached the valley and headed along country lanes and rivers to our destination Rosthwaite.
Nice b and b with a bath about 6 ft long so I was first in.
Then to the local.

ROCK AROUND THE CLOCK
DAY 3 ROSTHWAITE TO GRASMERE, 17 KM.
Apart from about a k at the start and finish this was all rock, shale, boulders, pebbles, climbing, scrambling, rock grabbing progress. Hardly warmed up when we arrived at our first sheer ascent of about 700m with a 1 to 3.5 gradient. It was tough going and the knees were feeling the pressure. In parts the going was boggy where in a really soft spot you could slip in up to your nuts in bogland. High sheep country, yo del a e oh, where is frankie eifield when you need him.
But if it proved tough going up, the long, long, long downward descent( can a descent be anything else but downwards) into the valley below took some serious concentration and effort.
On the peak the mist closed in and visibility was to say the least dodgy but we muddled through and it cleared lower down and soon the sun was upon us.
Today was the toughest day on all the muscles particularly with the hard downward travel. The best investment I made for the trip was a pair of sprung walking poles which I think saved me from a few falls and some injury.

A WOP BOP A LUBA A WOP BAM BOOM
DAY 4 GRASMERE TO PATTERDALE, 14KM
Day four was a short sharp walk of about 14 km. from Grasmere to Patterdale. What it lacked in distance it made up for in the very steep 650m ascent which began less than 1 km. from our village start point. Up, up and away.
So it was straight into 4wd for the 1 in 3 gradient. Again the absolutely obligatory Lake District rocks, boulders, shale and pebbles.
We reached the peak in a little over 2 hours and had lunch near a cairn (mountain lake) which was a stunning setting to soak in and enjoy after the torturous climb. From here we could see 3 of Cumbria’s many famous lakes sandwiched between awesome, green, sheep laden rocky steep slopes.
The beauty of this area is hard to capture on camera. The hardness is forever memorised in the muscles and tendons of the legs and feet and the bones of the knees.
Then it was downhill on similar paths. Not perhaps as steep as yesterday, but nonetheless a long and careful one. It’s quite meditative, AS THE MIND IS TOTALLY FOCUSED ON ONE THING, WHERE YOU PUT YOUR FOOT. ONE LAPSE OF CONCENTRATION COULD RESULT IN MANY HOURS OF PAIN. THERE IS PAIN ANYWAY OF ACHING, TIRED MUSCLES, NO MORE IS NEEDED.
We eventually meandered into the tiny village of Patterdale and booked into our accommodations.


HELP WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, SO MUCH YOUNGER THAN TODAY, I NEVER NEEDED ANYBODYS HELP.
DAY 5 PATTERDALE TO SHAP 30 KM.
This was the hardest day of all. This was F - - - - - G hard. Only a soft 400metres and the first climb begins. Over 600m at around 1 in 3. The muscles are aching, the bones are cracking and the sky is beckoning, come up here its nice.
But its still hundreds of metres of rock, shale, boulders to climb, scramble and ache over to get there. Then we level out over some rocky, craggy terrain which is hard on the foot bones and then suddenly it’s up and up and up again for over 700 metres. This time at about 1 in 3.5 and the pain in the legs continues. but I figure I can stop, I can slow down, I can rest, I can take a drink. 4 hours after we start we reach the summit, overlooking the world. It’s all peace and quite, its all me, focused, adrenalin preparing mentally for the descent back to planet earth and I think I can hear Bowie singing ground control to major tom.
On those slopes you almost plunge straight downwards and the effort is not in the speed but in the speed control and its much harder than going up, much, much harder. and I learned today that you are never up till your up and never down till your down although at every twist and turn you think you are there.
Then suddenly we are there at this large reservoir, a flooded town much like old Jindabyne in the Snowy Mts. and you think we must be nearly finished when you find that the dam is 14km long and you have to walk to the end of it. It’s along an upward ,downward, sidewards, backwards plunging shaley, rock strewn path. But you make it and suddenly you can see your bath, smell your well earned pint of Britain’s best bitter, taste your dinner and feel the luxury of the sheets and again you find its another 6km. and you just go F - - K.
After 10 long hours we are there. You sink a pint of coldest ale, you soak in a large bath and the pain is eased, we find out 2 Americans got lost and have spent nearly 14 hours on the same walk.

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD
DAY 6 SHAP TO KIRKBY STEPHEN, 34 KM.
Today is the longest walk to date and is through the sort of countryside you originally imagined the walk to be across. It’s undulating, green, expansive rolling hills and the rock formations change from volcanic to limestone, from hard to soft.
A relief sets in that the Lake District hardness (but amazing beauty) is being left behind and the softness of Westmoreland begins unfolding before us.
For the first time on the walk its rains. Driving, squally rain and we don the waterproof pants. It’s cold and windy but by comparison to the hardness left behind its quite pleasant. The rain stops after about 4 hours and we have lunch at Robin Hood’s grave and I look around for Errol Flynn to appear out of the mist. The real mystery is why he finished feet up so far away from his beloved Sherwood Forest. Perhaps he was out searching for the lovely maid Marion.
The beautiful rolling hills of England continue on unabated. The distance today, added to the toughness of yesterday’s climb combine to bring back the pain as we move along the long winding road to our rest at Kirkby Stephen.
Today we met a Scottish couple who were doing the walk with 2 small dogs, one a Scottish highland terrier. They had decided that they would send one wee dog back tomorrow as it wasn’t going that well.

GREAT BALLS OF FIRE
DAY 7 KIRKBY STEPHEN TO MUKER 23 KM.
A milestone day today as just before the finish we reach the half way mark on the c to c walk and have completed over 160 km, more than 200000 steps. The realisation sets in that I am going to make it all the way and it feels good. We have found out that a number of groups including an American group of 7 have given up and others have opted for a day out by taking the bus to the next point. We now only see a few of the many we saw on day one.
Today like most days starts overcast and threatening but holds well. Within a few hundred metres of the start we begin a long steep 2 hour ascent to the summit of the nine standards which is about a 670m climb. It’s about 1 in 4.
The nine standards are 9 extremely large conical rock piles spread over about 100 or more metres and can be seen for miles away. They are parked majestically on the very peak. They were apparently built by the English army several hundred years ago in order to fool the Scots into believing they had nine battalions massed on the peak.
On the peak it was high wind and bitterly cold so after a brief rest in the shade of the standards we head along the ridge for a long undulating descent across very boggy moorlands. Last year an American sunk up to his chest in the soft ground and was pulled to safety by two passing walkers as his wife looked on helplessly, or so she said. He was beginning to panic but thought enough to put both arms out at right angles to support himself.
Our journey continues along river sides, through farms and occasional steep rises along narrow footways and some stunning Yorkshire dales landscapes. For most of today my legs were in great form, seemingly having recovered well from the previous 2 days of torture. About an hour out it was GREAT BALLS OF FIRE around the knees and it was a real effort to encourage the left leg over the many styles along the final few kliks.
We arrived in Muker about seven and a half hours after starting to find my accommodation was a magnificent English b and b over a small family owned tea shop. It was en suite and I gave it a 7 star rating. The now obligatory pint, a shower, a rest, dinner at the pub next door and once again a welcome journey to the land of nod. In Yorkshire they have a bitter called black sheep and the locals just call it sheep. It’s quite weird to walk in to a pub and say to the barman I’ll have a sheep please.

MACARTHUR PARK
DAY 8 MUKER TO REETH, ABOUT 19 KMS.
Today was the day we had been waiting for, a day we had dreamed of each night for the last 7 nights. a short stroll across dreamtime James Herriot’s Yorkshire dales country where you could occasionally catch a glimpse of Siegfried or James driving by on their way to a difficult lambing.
Compared to the previous 7 days it was like a walk in the park. A sort of latte set, Sloan ranger rambly, jaunty, strolling, rolling glide across Wimbledon common. THIS IS LIVING. Any moment I expected HUGH GRANT to pop up with a boater hat, long sleeve stripe shirt and camel shorts and leather slip ons and black sox.
It was a literal stroll across England’s sweet meadows of dawn with fields of green, green grass. A canvas for golden buttercups, Queen Anne’s lace and blossom dapple and patches of dazzling white wild flowers. It was truly magnificent, it was extraordinarily peaceful, it was England in June and I was there.
We followed the river for almost the entire journey, sometimes flowing with popping trout, occasionally almost dry beds of rock and pebble and limestone. Every now and then our path would arc upwards as the river coiled snake like one way or another. Then along grown over shady, sometimes nettley, blackberry lined long, narrow, smooth paths but always descending again to the river.
Soon our path might meander about 40 metres away from the river and through more meadow of glorious wildflowers and a stop to breathe in the sweet smell of the wild poppies of the field. Then we might pass by some high rise rabbit apartment jutting from the hillside overlooking the river. The rabbits would sit on their balconies with the kittens darting occasionally towards the water all looking like extras from Watership Down. A hare or pheasant might dart out to reccy the landscape before hopping or scurrying away into invisibility.
The miles of meadows we traipsed through were constantly divided by beautiful stone walls and we would climb through narrow slits in the wall with a small sprung gate and over hundreds of styles and through a few gates and finally to our destination at Reeth after an 19km. stroll through dreamtime park.

COUNTRY ROAD
DAY 9 REETH TO RICHMOND, 18KM.
And country road it was over winding undulating dairy country, through fields of cows and occasionally confronted by a pack of inquisitive young bulls. We tiptoed gently around them in a wide arc with great care. With the old bulls it was okay if they had all their girls with them. They could otherwise get very toey and dangerous.
The road was narrow. Generally light traffic as it wound onwards. Occasionally our path would divert across fields, over styles and then maybe past old priories and nunneries. . And inevitably the odd steep incline.
All in all not too difficult and soon the country road took us into the lovely old market town of Richmond with its wide expansive square, which was circled by shops and full of market day stalls selling all sorts of wares.
Arrived about 5.5 hours after starting. It was a lazy day to prepare for tomorrows marathon.

FOR THE LONGEST TIME
DAY 10 RICHMOND TO INGLEBY CROSS, 38 KM.
I could hear Billy Joel whistling for the longest time as we set off early for the longest walk on the cross England trek a distance of 38km in hot conditions.
And long it was and foot burning it was. Today was the day the feet would move into overtime. We initially strolled through long winding shady overgrown narrow paths and across fields of dairy cows and the occasional bull. Funnily the beware of the bull sign was often at the other side of the field we were crossing.
Then, on through sylvan glens of emerald green and a few small villages and suddenly the hard, hard road. About 16km of road and the feet were literally on fire.
On the odd stop the boots and socks came off to let the steam out. Then we began a long march through endless fields of waist high wheat with hard uneven ground which made for mawkish, stumbly progress.
The final stretch was down long winding country lanes to emerge near the freeway. We had to cross 8 lanes when a gap appeared in the speeding, whizzing, human piloted projectiles called cars.
A short stroll down a lane to reach our hotel and try and douse the flames emerging from the boots.

EVERY DAY IS GETTING CLOSER GOING FASTER THAN A ROLLER COASTER
DAY 11 INGLEBY CROSS TO CLAY BANK, 20KM.
Today was a magnificent sunny day as we moved into our first steep incline into the north Yorkshire moors to begin what was to be an amazing kaleidoscopic, landscaping, roller coaster ride across these beautiful moors.
We crossed 3 sets of 3 peaks, each peak plunging downward along steeply stepped stone paths and then ascending like a roller coaster to an even higher peak to again soon plunge valley wards. It was hard, careful downward going but always exhilarating with brilliant eternal views. And again we learned Yogi Bearas, you are not at the top till you get there.
We sailed across the ridges along stone paths especially laid to give access during wet weather. These were large slabs of hewn paving stone torn from the floors of the abandoned Yorkshire woollen and cotton mills after Thatcherism sucked the economic soul out of this former industrial heartland.
The slabs were brought up by chopper and laid on beds of shale and pebble to form an amazing, beautiful, contrasting path across these now lightly heather speckled moors.
The peak reached on the day was the Wainstones. These were a group of Everestian like large Thor hewn slabs of bluestone rock.
Finally, the long, long descent, a virtual plunge into the valley below before hitting the road into Great Broughton, a beautiful village with 3 pubs and one post office shop. A truly lovely town and I was in a superb b and b which had a bath room as big as any of the 3 previous rooms I had stayed in.

BAD MOON RISING
DAY 12 CLAY BANK TO BLAKEY RIDGE, 16.5KM.
A le mans start and straight into a very steep twisting incline which had the rev counter and the temp gauge at the higher end of the scale. The steep climb was about 500m and at every twist and turn I thought I could hear the fat lady warming up.
Then suddenly the top and into bad moon rising, bleak, beautiful, foreboding, heather tinged, Yorkshire moors c ountry. Any of the Dracula, Frankenstein, or vampire films could have been made up here in the unyielding toughness of the north Yorkshire moors. And some of them were. Don’t go out tonight.
Then a long flat winding walk through this lonely place, with high, howling vampire like, strong whistling winds bending the heather and gorse and slicing through us and disappearing into never, never land.
A lunch break, lying almost flat in a protected spot and the final sprint towards home. A short, sharpish rise and suddenly the peak and like magic THE LION INN, our inn for the night, stood before us. The highest pub in Yorkshire. With a little help from its friends.

FRIDAY ON MY MIND
DAY 13 BLAKEY RIDGE TO GROSMONT, 25KM.
Friday was on my mind as then the walk would be over and I wondered how I would feel. Would I be relieved, pleased, proud and would I relax or would I get up as normal at 6.30 and prepare for another days walking. Shower, shave, clean boots take overnight washing off radiator, make tea for flask, fill water bottles, apply sun protection and lip salve, check back pack contents (waterproofs, survival bag, whistle etc, etc, etc),adjust back pack. Breakfast and the mind was now focused on the 25km walk to Grosmont. Slowly up the gradual incline tarmac hill with its flying steel tomb projectiles whizzing by on each side.
Again cold piercing winds but later calm, warmer conditions and jackets off. First hard and rocky underfoot, narrow trails and occasionally soft, boggy going. Suddenly, magically down into fairy glens following the river Esk. Sharply undulating, up, down, up, down narrow sometimes paved paths to reach the road and into the village of Egmont. A final run down a long, flat, dusty, hard traffic free old toll road to Grosmont.
Grosmont, a one shop metropolis was a revelation. It was a steam train centre and the station was like Spencer St., or Central on a long weekend or school holidays, packed with steam train enthusiasts. This was the steam train centre of the universe and the steamies were orgasmic. There were more than 10 in regular service and several more in huge workshops. They were running regular services up and back to Pickering, a return journey of about 2 hours. The first stop was Goathland where the steam train scenes for Harry Potter were filmed. GO H.
A pint, a great meal, a b and b with views over the kingdom and sleep to dream of the chariots of fire finishing line and the cold but welcoming waters of the north sea at ROBIN HOODS BAY.

CHARIOTS OF FIRE
DAY 14 GROSMONT TO ROBIN HOODS BAY 25KM AND THE NORTH SEA FINISH LINE.
I awoke this morning thinking I could faintly hear the fat, coloratura, mezzo soprano warming up 25 km away. Humming the opening bars to chariots.
It was blowing a gale outside and looked like our run of dry weather was at an end as we headed immediately out of the village up an extremely steep macadam grade of 1 to 2.5. This twisted. Turned and wobbled furiously, steeply upwards for over 3km testing lungs, knees, thighs, calves, ankles, feet and mind.
We finally reached the top and we could see the North Sea in the distance and for the first time our objective was in sight. Now I could definitely hear the fat lady.
We then tracked left across the moors, along now drier paths and now and again across boardwalks put over the wet a reas for passage during heavy rain. A long trek across the flat moors and then down to the woods and along the cool river through golden glades, across babbling brooks, small bridges and styles, steeply up and steeply down and into a small village. Through the village and merge again silently into the heather dotted moors. Now across and along a road then back again to the moors.
A village suddenly appears as we step off the moors onto a narrow road. The small village led us to the towering cliffs of the north sea and what a glorious sight it was. If it hadn’t been a hundred metres high I think I would have jumped in there and then. And now I could hear the fat lady really start to warm up in the wings.
Now we begin the 6km final stretch down the coast along the cliff top with its eroding grey bank. The fat lady was getting louder. We travelled along an upwardly, downwardly, inwardly, outwardly grassy, sandy path sandwiched between the cliff edge and the sheep dotted canvas of the English green countryside sweeping sharply down to meet the sea in a wonderful, sudden collision of jagged, zig zagging, contrasting lines, hues and angles that only nature can provide. This was livin’ and the fat lady was on fire, now centre stage building her chariots of fire for a final crescendo.
Suddenly around a corner and into the red bricked, red tiled roofed, red multi chimney stacked village of ROBIN HOODS BAY. On through the streets and the village which meandered very steeply down to the shore where sea meets village and man there she was, the fat lady standing on a small wave and belting out the final notes of chariots.
Off with the gear, boardies on and a jump into the cold North Sea waters, burn my clothes I’m in heaven. Then we walk into the water front smugglers style pub to sign the book, receive the official coast to coast certificate followed by a French champagne toast, and of course a pint for me and a pint for my feet which I poured over them on the pub balcony overlooking the sea. They had done the job for me, they had transported me 324 km. Over 400000 thousand small steps across England.
And the fat lady had stopped after an amazing final, riveting, massive, high pitched crescendo which shook the cliffs around the bay. She was silent and I loved her. THE FAT LADY HAD SUNG AND IT WAS OVER.