| The contemplation of this mammoth trek was, I admit, a trifle awe-inspiring. There would be mountains to cross and high moors to get lost on, and all this with a 30lb pack on my ageing back. I knew people who had ‘done’ the walk, but only with the aid of nightly accommodation and wives to drive them to and from starting and finishing points everyday. None of those luxuries for me! However, I had faith in my little tent – whatever the weather might bring, I could always pitch my tent and crawl inside! |
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On Monday 23rd June friends drove me the 160 miles to St Bees in Cumbria. This part of the journey I found pretty grim. Sitting in the back of the little car (so different from my camper van!) with endless hordes of giant lorries roaring back and forth. I felt like a tiny, static part of some gigantic machine with thousands of moving part flashing and sliding all around me. We arrived at St. Bees – a not over-exciting place, - at 11am and at 11.30 I bade farewell to my friends and set off up the cliff path in a westerly direction. The day was fair with sunshine, but clouds were building in the distance and I anticipated rain. Along the cliffs the RSPB had established a bird sanctuary where thousands of seabirds bred and screamed and sailed to and fro. The coast path was most pleasant with delicious sea breeze keeping me cool and a mainly level course. The cliffs were red and yellow sandstone, layer upon layer, interesting and colourful.
Having completed the bulge of the coast, one points ones nose eastward and passes through Sandwith, Moor Row, and Cleaton. The last two are drab villages with streets of terraced houses, built during the iron boom, looking exactly like those at Portmadoc. I drank a pint of milk at Moor Row and saw a dozen herons near Bell House and had lunch at 3.30. Then came the climb up to the summit of Dent which, although a mere 1200ft, I found most arduous in the hot sunshine. My resolve to continue non-stop to the top collapsed ignominiously and I fell on my face and lay there ‘flat out’ with rucsac still on my back, for some time, dozing off with dreamland and waking much refreshed. My first error of navigation – I took an obvious cart-track instead of the correct one further on – occurred soon after, but it brought me to the road quite close to the proper place. On to Ennerdale Bridge – the edge of the Lake District, and here the Fox and Hounds provided a delicious pint of bitter and a large plate piled high with chips and many layers of ham – very good ham too. Camp was at a scruffy little farm with a peacock. There were, besides myself, only a party of two men and their sons. They were trying to complete the walk in a limited number of days and had already ‘cheated’, - missing out several miles. I was weary and leg muscles – especially my right thigh – were feeling the strain. Slept well, woke early and on Tuesday was away at 8am.