What a difference a day makes. Yesterday I was blown all over the place by gusting winds along high cliff tops in brilliant although intermittent sunshine. Today it was equally hard going, but under leaden skies and in lashing cold rain amid giant steel and chemical works.
The day started badly. Leaving Redcar this morning I immediately got lost in Coatham Marshes, going around in circles in an industrial wasteland, and then some hours after that found myself in a muddle in Middlesbrough (or was it in the middle of Muddlesbrough), by no means England's loveliest city. However, as one man whom I asked for directions, wistfully put it: "Ugly towns sometimes produce good people. We're not all savages around here". Then he added, "some of us even read books". Later on, another chatty pavement informant told me that people from Newcastle are known as "geordies", those from Sunderland are "mackems", those from Middlesbrough are "smoggies", those from Redcar are "cod heads", those from the old mining communities "pit yackers", and those from farming villages (very cruel this) "sheep shaggers".
Alas, this good natured friendliness and banter is not to be found everywhere. When, damp and bedraggled, this afternoon I reached my destination (the Station Hotel in Billingham) the shifty-eyed hotelier (whose voice I recognized because I had spoken to him when I had reconfirmed my reservation a few days ago) declared there was no room available in his inn. Moreover, he said he had never heard of me. "It must have been one of my staff", he lied. Muttering foully I trudged off and found a room elsewhere, here in the village of Norton, a mile away, and irritatingly in the wrong direction of my travels.
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
From Redcar, North Yorkshire
This very short note -- several days after my last entry -- is written just in case anyone thinks I have given up the challenge or have already stumbled off one of the stupendous cliffs that guard the North Yorkshire coast line. But I haven't, and this evening I find myself in Redcar, just south of the river Tees. I would have blogged yesterday evening, but there was no signal at all in the tiny cove of Runswick Bay under the high cliffs.
For three days prior to that I had the company of a band of co-walkers. My oldest friend Roger, his sister Val and her husband Rob, as well as my cousin Lou and her husband Chris -- all of them seem to me to be experienced, properly attired and well-equipped hikers -- travelled many miles up to Yorkshire to cheer me up, reintroduce me to civilized society, wine and dine me, and shepherd me for a few miles along this magical shoreline. I must admit it took a while for me to shrug off the introverted mind-set into which I had fallen, but now they have all returned to their homes I am once again alone with myself and my thoughts. I should however thank them most profoundly for coming such long distances to support me, and for some exceptional meals, especially dinner at the Magpie Cafe in Whitby (thank you so much, Chris). Reader, if you haven't ever visited this famous seafood restaurant in the tiny port from which Captain Cook set forth, you really should.
To day I walked 20 miles to Redcar, a hike which included climbing and descending from Boulby Cliffs. At nearly 700 feet these are the highest in England, and I found them, and the long-abandoned ironstone and alum mines, a real slog. I must confess I have this evening compounded my weariness by drinking one or two pints (or was it three?) of Black Sheep ale, a truly wonderful local brew.
The air, the mud, the terrain, the gusting winds and rain -- all these make for unstable and exhilirating walking. Somehow I manage to continue to stumble along, mile after mile, and often complete the day along the huge empty beaches to my destination provided the tide is favourable. I am beginning to look a bit dishevelled, and my broom handle walking stick prompts a few comments, but despite my vagrant appearance I am becoming quite fit after all these miles despite the occasional rioting among my toes, some of which complain loudly about the daily pounding they receive from the footpaths.
Enough of this; the Black Sheep leads to sleep....and so, good night.
For three days prior to that I had the company of a band of co-walkers. My oldest friend Roger, his sister Val and her husband Rob, as well as my cousin Lou and her husband Chris -- all of them seem to me to be experienced, properly attired and well-equipped hikers -- travelled many miles up to Yorkshire to cheer me up, reintroduce me to civilized society, wine and dine me, and shepherd me for a few miles along this magical shoreline. I must admit it took a while for me to shrug off the introverted mind-set into which I had fallen, but now they have all returned to their homes I am once again alone with myself and my thoughts. I should however thank them most profoundly for coming such long distances to support me, and for some exceptional meals, especially dinner at the Magpie Cafe in Whitby (thank you so much, Chris). Reader, if you haven't ever visited this famous seafood restaurant in the tiny port from which Captain Cook set forth, you really should.
To day I walked 20 miles to Redcar, a hike which included climbing and descending from Boulby Cliffs. At nearly 700 feet these are the highest in England, and I found them, and the long-abandoned ironstone and alum mines, a real slog. I must confess I have this evening compounded my weariness by drinking one or two pints (or was it three?) of Black Sheep ale, a truly wonderful local brew.
The air, the mud, the terrain, the gusting winds and rain -- all these make for unstable and exhilirating walking. Somehow I manage to continue to stumble along, mile after mile, and often complete the day along the huge empty beaches to my destination provided the tide is favourable. I am beginning to look a bit dishevelled, and my broom handle walking stick prompts a few comments, but despite my vagrant appearance I am becoming quite fit after all these miles despite the occasional rioting among my toes, some of which complain loudly about the daily pounding they receive from the footpaths.
Enough of this; the Black Sheep leads to sleep....and so, good night.
Thursday, 12 April 2012
From Filey, Yorkshire
I see from my JustGiving page that one or two people have donated anonymously to my walk; whoever you are, thank you so very much for your generous support. Thank you also to Sarah, Alexander and Nicky for driving many miles in order to shake me out of my solitude, restock me with toothpaste and plasters, and also to walk with me along the disused LNER railway line from Oubrough to Hornsea and then the following day along the cliff tops to Skipsea.
The coast line around here is brittle and eroding quickly, and the cracked and friable cliff tops are dangerous for hikers. About two and a half miles of the Yorkshire coast have been lost to the sea since Roman times. A large stone in the tiny village of Barmston says: "On 1.1.2000 A.D. this millennium stone was 1200 meters (1310 yards) from the sea". As the current rate of erosion, the same stone will be far out at sea by the time the next millennium comes around.
The chalky cliffs are also home to many wild sea birds -- gannets, kittiwakes and gulls, and today I saw a few puffins as well. However, an RSPB staff member at the huge bird sanctuary at Bempton told me that climate change was driving many species away, and that some bird colonies had halved in the past 30 years.
Yesterday, slogging across the sand towards Bridlington at the end of a 20-mile day, I met a fisherman digging for worms. Because the rain had started falling, he picked up bucket nd spade and walked with me into town. Within a few minutes he had told me about his life (unemployed, hard), the fish he caught (mostly sea bass), and his partner in Filey who had just had her third baby, though her first with him (she is being "awkward"). Suddenly he stopped and took from the sand a piece of flat rock that looked like black slate, and put it in his pocket. "Jet" he said in his thick Yorkshire accent, "it comes down from Whitby". He told me that Whitby (a small port further up the coast) was once famous for jet, a semi precious stone popular in the 19th century, and that occasionally little pieces were still washed up in Bridlington. "It's about 150 million years old" he informed me, "and it comes originally from decayed monkey trees". I asked him where he sold the jet, and he said that he knew a few jewelers who "might be interested". As we parted at the harbour he added thoughtfully: "Funny really, but there must 'ave been an 'ell of a lot of monkey trees in Whitby back then".
I am now about half way through my journey, though at times it feels (and it perhaps looks) as if I have been plodding along for months.
The coast line around here is brittle and eroding quickly, and the cracked and friable cliff tops are dangerous for hikers. About two and a half miles of the Yorkshire coast have been lost to the sea since Roman times. A large stone in the tiny village of Barmston says: "On 1.1.2000 A.D. this millennium stone was 1200 meters (1310 yards) from the sea". As the current rate of erosion, the same stone will be far out at sea by the time the next millennium comes around.
The chalky cliffs are also home to many wild sea birds -- gannets, kittiwakes and gulls, and today I saw a few puffins as well. However, an RSPB staff member at the huge bird sanctuary at Bempton told me that climate change was driving many species away, and that some bird colonies had halved in the past 30 years.
Yesterday, slogging across the sand towards Bridlington at the end of a 20-mile day, I met a fisherman digging for worms. Because the rain had started falling, he picked up bucket nd spade and walked with me into town. Within a few minutes he had told me about his life (unemployed, hard), the fish he caught (mostly sea bass), and his partner in Filey who had just had her third baby, though her first with him (she is being "awkward"). Suddenly he stopped and took from the sand a piece of flat rock that looked like black slate, and put it in his pocket. "Jet" he said in his thick Yorkshire accent, "it comes down from Whitby". He told me that Whitby (a small port further up the coast) was once famous for jet, a semi precious stone popular in the 19th century, and that occasionally little pieces were still washed up in Bridlington. "It's about 150 million years old" he informed me, "and it comes originally from decayed monkey trees". I asked him where he sold the jet, and he said that he knew a few jewelers who "might be interested". As we parted at the harbour he added thoughtfully: "Funny really, but there must 'ave been an 'ell of a lot of monkey trees in Whitby back then".
I am now about half way through my journey, though at times it feels (and it perhaps looks) as if I have been plodding along for months.
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
From Oubrough, Yorkshire
Yesterday -- and I will confess rather unusually for me -- I managed to resist temptation. Very lost and tramping disconsolately through Hull city centre in the pouring rain, I came across a line of black taxis waiting in the square on this dripping bank holiday Monday. With ten miles or more still to walk, I thought about it for a moment...but then decided -- in the interests of actually completing the journey entirely on foot as I originally intended -- to carry on. This was fortunate because it stopped raining half an hour later, and Hull -- which once must have been a splendid Victorian city -- has many fine old buildings and monuments to admire.
One statue I passed commemorates the three crew members of "the ill fated trawler Crane who lost their lives in the North Sea by the action of the Russian Baltic fleet, October 22nd 1904". Apparently the Russian fleet, lumbering half way around the world to the Far East, mistook the English trawlers for Japanese warships, and opened fire. The great fear of mariners in those days was of the newly invented torpedo, and the Russians bombarded the Yorkshire fishing boats in panic, killing three men. The so-called "Dogger Incident" nearly led to war between Britain, which at the time was allied to Japan, and Russia. The Russian fleet sailed blithely on, only to be completely destroyed the following year by the Japanese Imperial navy at Tsushima Strait.
Another impression of Hull: after limping over the Humber Bridge two days ago, I made my way to my chosen B&B and then decided to visit Hull Royal Infirmary for further repairs to my right foot. At the Accident and Emergency reception, a tall security guard kept a watchful eye on everything. His role soon became evident, for within a few minutes a youth stumbled in, delivered a volley of foul abuse at the hospital staff on duty, and was thrown bodily out while the rest of us -- mostly drunk and disorderly -- snoozed on the benches or stared innocently at the floor. After a while I was ushered in to meet genial Dr Hossain from Hyderabad, who decried the falling standards in his city and then prescribed medication for the offending digit.
B&Bs vary greatly. The one I am staying in today is clean and comfortable, but the instructions in the bathroom are odd: "In the interest of yours and other guests enjoyable stay here. Please don't not put anything, other than toilet roll down this toilet".
One statue I passed commemorates the three crew members of "the ill fated trawler Crane who lost their lives in the North Sea by the action of the Russian Baltic fleet, October 22nd 1904". Apparently the Russian fleet, lumbering half way around the world to the Far East, mistook the English trawlers for Japanese warships, and opened fire. The great fear of mariners in those days was of the newly invented torpedo, and the Russians bombarded the Yorkshire fishing boats in panic, killing three men. The so-called "Dogger Incident" nearly led to war between Britain, which at the time was allied to Japan, and Russia. The Russian fleet sailed blithely on, only to be completely destroyed the following year by the Japanese Imperial navy at Tsushima Strait.
Another impression of Hull: after limping over the Humber Bridge two days ago, I made my way to my chosen B&B and then decided to visit Hull Royal Infirmary for further repairs to my right foot. At the Accident and Emergency reception, a tall security guard kept a watchful eye on everything. His role soon became evident, for within a few minutes a youth stumbled in, delivered a volley of foul abuse at the hospital staff on duty, and was thrown bodily out while the rest of us -- mostly drunk and disorderly -- snoozed on the benches or stared innocently at the floor. After a while I was ushered in to meet genial Dr Hossain from Hyderabad, who decried the falling standards in his city and then prescribed medication for the offending digit.
B&Bs vary greatly. The one I am staying in today is clean and comfortable, but the instructions in the bathroom are odd: "In the interest of yours and other guests enjoyable stay here. Please don't not put anything, other than toilet roll down this toilet".
Sunday, 8 April 2012
From Kingston Upon Hull, Yorkshire
In a fine misty drizzle I crossed the Humber Bridge today into Yorkshire. I am three weeks into my journey, and not yet half way to Edinburgh, but I feel that I am getting into my stride, despite sore toes and occasionally aching limbs. Kingston Upon Hull can be pronounced either to rhyme with "dull" or "wool". Apparently local folk never say they come from Kingston (which they say is in Jamaica); they like to say "I cum from 'ool".
The weather changes from day to day; on Wednesday a storm howled in from the North Sea as I struggled north from Chapel St Leonards to Mablethorpe, forcing me to crouch behind the sea wall. Rain and sleet blew horizontally into my face across the sand dunes, and the quiet sunny days of March seemed far behind. But the very next day it was warm and dry, and now we seem to have settled into a typical English spring, as the mood changes every hour or so. Fierce storms have been frequent along this part of the coast for centuries; I was told that some massive sand banks at the delightfully named Saltfleetby-Theddlethorpe dunes were thrown up in1286, according to local records.
At village after village as I edge along the coast I have been struck by the fading, lichen-covered war memorials erected after the First World War. The long lists of young men who just a hundred years ago lived in North Lincolnshire, unaware of the catastrophe that lay just ahead, are heart breaking. The pointlessness of the slaughter of that war is underlined by the addition of yet more names after 1945, when the whole bloody exercise was re-enacted. In one corner of the churchyard at the village of Tetney Lock I stopped to wander among the 50 or so beautifully kept graves of airmen killed in the Second World War. Many of the victims were Canadians, who operated in large numbers from Lincolnshire airfields, with a handful of British and Australians buried there as well. Scattered among them lie three German airmen, who, according to a gardener painting the churchyard fence, were shot down while bombing the Grimsby and Hull dockyards. "They were just boys too", he added sadly, glancing at the graves neatly aligned side by side under the spring trees.
Yorkshire, like Lincolnshire, is another very long, large county; I know that ahead lie steeper hills, and more rain and mud, but this is surely a most beautiful part of the world, and I feel very fortunate to be up here.
The weather changes from day to day; on Wednesday a storm howled in from the North Sea as I struggled north from Chapel St Leonards to Mablethorpe, forcing me to crouch behind the sea wall. Rain and sleet blew horizontally into my face across the sand dunes, and the quiet sunny days of March seemed far behind. But the very next day it was warm and dry, and now we seem to have settled into a typical English spring, as the mood changes every hour or so. Fierce storms have been frequent along this part of the coast for centuries; I was told that some massive sand banks at the delightfully named Saltfleetby-Theddlethorpe dunes were thrown up in1286, according to local records.
At village after village as I edge along the coast I have been struck by the fading, lichen-covered war memorials erected after the First World War. The long lists of young men who just a hundred years ago lived in North Lincolnshire, unaware of the catastrophe that lay just ahead, are heart breaking. The pointlessness of the slaughter of that war is underlined by the addition of yet more names after 1945, when the whole bloody exercise was re-enacted. In one corner of the churchyard at the village of Tetney Lock I stopped to wander among the 50 or so beautifully kept graves of airmen killed in the Second World War. Many of the victims were Canadians, who operated in large numbers from Lincolnshire airfields, with a handful of British and Australians buried there as well. Scattered among them lie three German airmen, who, according to a gardener painting the churchyard fence, were shot down while bombing the Grimsby and Hull dockyards. "They were just boys too", he added sadly, glancing at the graves neatly aligned side by side under the spring trees.
Yorkshire, like Lincolnshire, is another very long, large county; I know that ahead lie steeper hills, and more rain and mud, but this is surely a most beautiful part of the world, and I feel very fortunate to be up here.
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
From Chapel St. Leonards, Lincolnshire
This afternoon I walked up from Skegness along the promenade. The beach is wide and empty, and the wind turbines planted out at sea (I counted 53 of them) look slightly surreal. With Easter weekend approaching the British weather has been slung into reverse; last week it was 24 degrees in eastern Scotland, the hottest March day on record, and this morning there was 10 inches of snow on the ground. Some think the snow will come south. Right now it is raining hard, which will please some people, if not me. The Lincolnshire fields are very dry, and farmers are increasingly concerned about their crops. Many fields of cauliflower, potato and cabbage are parched.
Aside from fickle weather, for many people the coming Easter weekend has also been thrown into confusion by a rumoured strike by drivers of petrol tankers. A few days ago, a government minister advised the public to go and fill up their cars, and perhaps even store petrol in their houses. The result of this has been long queues at the petrol stations, many of which -- because of the extra demand -- have since run out of supplies. Politicians of all stripes have been capitalizing on the muddle, though nobody dare tell the truth and accuse the public of behaving like lemmings. The Anchor Inn in Friskney, where I paused yesterday, has caught the mood of the moment by hanging a sign outside its front door: "Beer shortage soon! Please panic buy".
Near Boston the other day I found a suitable stick -- perhaps a discarded tent pole -- with which to keep angry farm dogs at bay. A few have snarled angrily at me, but thus far I haven't had to use my new weapon. As I plod along, I tap the ground with it, and consequently it is becoming worn down and thus is becoming fractionally shorter day by day. It may be half its original length by the time I get to Edinburgh.
Yesterday a large black dog jumped out and accosted me. I raised my stick in alarm, but it turned out to be extremely docile. I stopped to chat with its owner, a middle aged farmer in a cloth cap, mutton chop whiskers and bundles of long grey hair who looked as if he had stepped straight out of a Thomas Hardy novel. He seemed to be looking after a scrapyard of old farm machinery; all around there were dozens of ancient, rusting combine harvesters and so on, some of them in the hedges. I asked him whether it was a tractors' graveyard. He seemed slightly offended by my question. "No, no, can't call it a graveyard. And it's too good for scrap," he said in his deep Lincoln accent. "So what will become of all this?" I asked, pointing to the silent, derelict farm equipment. "Don't know really," he replied wistfully, and then after a few moments added, "but it will 'appen". I found this enigmatic remark quite uplifting.
Aside from fickle weather, for many people the coming Easter weekend has also been thrown into confusion by a rumoured strike by drivers of petrol tankers. A few days ago, a government minister advised the public to go and fill up their cars, and perhaps even store petrol in their houses. The result of this has been long queues at the petrol stations, many of which -- because of the extra demand -- have since run out of supplies. Politicians of all stripes have been capitalizing on the muddle, though nobody dare tell the truth and accuse the public of behaving like lemmings. The Anchor Inn in Friskney, where I paused yesterday, has caught the mood of the moment by hanging a sign outside its front door: "Beer shortage soon! Please panic buy".
Near Boston the other day I found a suitable stick -- perhaps a discarded tent pole -- with which to keep angry farm dogs at bay. A few have snarled angrily at me, but thus far I haven't had to use my new weapon. As I plod along, I tap the ground with it, and consequently it is becoming worn down and thus is becoming fractionally shorter day by day. It may be half its original length by the time I get to Edinburgh.
Yesterday a large black dog jumped out and accosted me. I raised my stick in alarm, but it turned out to be extremely docile. I stopped to chat with its owner, a middle aged farmer in a cloth cap, mutton chop whiskers and bundles of long grey hair who looked as if he had stepped straight out of a Thomas Hardy novel. He seemed to be looking after a scrapyard of old farm machinery; all around there were dozens of ancient, rusting combine harvesters and so on, some of them in the hedges. I asked him whether it was a tractors' graveyard. He seemed slightly offended by my question. "No, no, can't call it a graveyard. And it's too good for scrap," he said in his deep Lincoln accent. "So what will become of all this?" I asked, pointing to the silent, derelict farm equipment. "Don't know really," he replied wistfully, and then after a few moments added, "but it will 'appen". I found this enigmatic remark quite uplifting.
Sunday, 1 April 2012
From Wrangle, Lincolnshire
I have reached the North Sea, after three or four days walking along river banks, disused railway lines and sea walls. Occasionally there is no choice but to use a main road, but I keep it to a minimum. The landscape is so broad and flat and the sun so bright in the sky that after an hour or two there is a danger of falling into a sort of metronomic trance; this afternoon I ambled in a daze three miles beyond the tiny village of Wrangle before I realized that I had overshot my destination; back I trudged, having walked six miles further than I had expected when I set out after breakfast.
Leaving March last Thursday I passed by Her Majesty's prison at Whitemoor where, according to the generous landlord of the King William pub (he gave me free lodging as a donation to the walk), several hundred very hard case criminals are serving life terms without parole. As I stared at this grim, stupendously guarded institution a jet aircraft flew high overhead, its vapour trail scarring the blue sky. I wondered whether some of the prisoners were watching it too, and if so, what a devastating loss of hope they must be suffering at that moment. In some ways I think that hopelessness must be one of the hardest things to bear; certainly the poor in cities like Manila must occasionally look up at passing aircraft and think: "I will never, ever have a chance to travel in one of those". Unlike the inmates of Whitemoor, however, such deprivation of opportunity is through no fault of their own.
Among the many things that will remain in my mind about this broad and pastoral eastern part of England, here are three: one, the numbers of huge wind turbines, waving their great arms silently over the fields like giant scarecrows; two, the puzzling numbers of east Europeans who have settled here (when I entered Boston yesterday not one of the three people I asked for directions could speak a word of English); and three, the weight and breadth of East Anglian bottoms, both male and female. The cruelly precise American phrase "lard-butt" often comes to mind. My landlady of yesterday -- herself a petite Liverpudlian -- told me the reason for this was the Germanic farming stock from which the locals are descended. I am fairly sure, however, that the bonfire-sized portions of chips which come with every meal must have something to do with it.
Leaving March last Thursday I passed by Her Majesty's prison at Whitemoor where, according to the generous landlord of the King William pub (he gave me free lodging as a donation to the walk), several hundred very hard case criminals are serving life terms without parole. As I stared at this grim, stupendously guarded institution a jet aircraft flew high overhead, its vapour trail scarring the blue sky. I wondered whether some of the prisoners were watching it too, and if so, what a devastating loss of hope they must be suffering at that moment. In some ways I think that hopelessness must be one of the hardest things to bear; certainly the poor in cities like Manila must occasionally look up at passing aircraft and think: "I will never, ever have a chance to travel in one of those". Unlike the inmates of Whitemoor, however, such deprivation of opportunity is through no fault of their own.
Among the many things that will remain in my mind about this broad and pastoral eastern part of England, here are three: one, the numbers of huge wind turbines, waving their great arms silently over the fields like giant scarecrows; two, the puzzling numbers of east Europeans who have settled here (when I entered Boston yesterday not one of the three people I asked for directions could speak a word of English); and three, the weight and breadth of East Anglian bottoms, both male and female. The cruelly precise American phrase "lard-butt" often comes to mind. My landlady of yesterday -- herself a petite Liverpudlian -- told me the reason for this was the Germanic farming stock from which the locals are descended. I am fairly sure, however, that the bonfire-sized portions of chips which come with every meal must have something to do with it.
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