Day 1 – St. Bees to Ennerdale Bridge, 16 miles.
Day 2 – Ennerdale Bridge to Rosthwaite, 16 miles.
Day 3 – Rosthwaite to Patterdale, 18 miles.
Day 4 – Patterdale to Shap, 16 miles.
Day 5 – Shap to Kirkby Stephen, 20 miles.
Day 6 – Kirkby Stephen to Keld, 13 miles.
Day 7 – Keld to Reeth, 11 miles.
Day 8 – Reeth to Richmond, 11 miles.
Day 9 – Richmond to Ingleby Cross, 23 miles.
Day 10 – Ingleby Cross to Chop Gate, 12 miles.
Day 11 – Chop Gate to Glaisdale, 19 miles.
Day 12 – Glaisdale to Robin’s Hood Bay, 19 miles.
Part 2 (East). Keld to Coast.
Day 7 – Keld to Reeth, 11 miles.
Today was going to be a very short day – the shortest day so far, and indeed along with tomorrow the shortest day of the whole trip. So this us allowed us to have a leisurely start, which was much-needed after the previous night’s carb-loading. (These carbs being derived from malted barley). I was disappointed that the Keld Lodge’s buffet-style breakfast didn’t provide any porridge. The only place that didn’t. Pretty much everything else was there, so everybody else was happy – unless they wanted something cooked to order of course, but I do like my porridge. I think I asked the gaffer there, but was met with short shrift. The manager (owner? or whatever he is) isn’t a man to be questioned. A very rude, puffed-up, arrogant, corpulent chap who cared more for upkeep of his moustache than being genial towards the guests. He was an ex-MP, the military police sort – this was a very rare occasion where I would have much preferred the company of an Honourable Member – but in his mind he seemed to think he still was, and all the paying guests in his Lodge were naughty officers – unpopular with him, but still forced to treated with begrudging minimal politeness.
As I was in no rush to leave I waited for Mike & Alan and was going to walk with them – for as long as I could anyways! While I stood in the doorway surveying the sunny morning I attempted some pleasant weathery small talk with Mr Keld Lodge along the lines of “Looks like another hot one!”. His withering reply was that I should get my hair cut and have a shave. Don’t talk to me like that thank-you very much! As there’s nowhere else really to stay in Keld he’s probably difficult to avoid, so be prepared to be constantly reminded that he’s in charge and hear about what good pals he and Julia Bradbury are. Ah good – here’s Mike and Alan – let’s get away from this man.
We’d originally planned to walk the high way and go past Crackpot Hall and through the desolation of the abandoned lead workings up there. But after some little while of not crossing the Swale we realised that we’d missed the turning, so never mind – there’s plenty worst places to be walking through than Swaledale.
Although it was sunny it was still not too hot at this point, but we hadn’t been going very long and I was already struggling to keep up with Mike and Alan – speeding away from me here on the left. The views over the valley to Crackpot Hall on the right were lovely, so we really weren’t too upset with out unplanned change of plan.
We caught up with Mr & Mrs Larry from Utah again after not long, making slow but steady and determined progress on his poles. After a few pleasantries we left them be. Quite how this generously proportioned fellow coped with the dozens and dozens of narrow stone stiles that seemed to be every 100 yards or so for seemingly most of the valley I don’t know!
A little bit further long the dale I saw something that surely beat Crackpot Hall and the sterile lunar landscapes that we had intended to see. I caught a quick glimpse of something in a tree, or darting towards a tree. A little flash of gingery-brown! “Woaah!” I exclaimed to Mike & Alan “A red squirrel!!”. I had never seen one before, and thought that my best chance was in the Lakes and now gone. Mike and Alan knew their wildlife, Mike (or Alan… I get them mixed up now!) was a dairy farmer and so spent much of time outdoors and was a source of information about all the flora and fauna round and about. But neither had seen what I saw. “Where? Where?” they asked, but I kept my eyes fixed on the little rusty lump and adopted the best stealthy-stalker pose I could and moved towards it…
There he was. Clear as day and as red as United, sitting and scampering about the tree. My mobile phone isn’t really the best photographic instrument for such wildlife photography, so the snaps above don’t really do it any justice. I’m sure he saw me ages before I saw him and he wasn’t hanging around posing for a tourist’s photos and he soon shot off through the trees, along a wall and off away out of my gaze. But I saw him, I saw a red squirrel. I was absolutely thrilled, and one of the highlights of the walk – perhaps the highlight.
Although sunny weather makes for great views, and great photos for me there’s two drawbacks. One is that the rivers look so sad! The poor old Swale looked very sorry for itself, although the 300 year old Ivelet Bridge was still looking fine. The other drawback is, as I found the previous day, the effect it was having on me. Again I was really feeling it.
Approaching Gunnerside we hit 100 miles! The halfway marker. All downhill from here you could say. We celebrated with some homemade lemonade, which I thought was disgustingly sweet – but at least it was cold. And we carried on along the ever attractive dale, although the constant ‘pipitting’ of the many meadow pipits was getting bit tiresome. I’m not interested in your stupid nest! Leave me along, I’ll be gone in a minute!!
As we got near to Healaugh we realised that none of us knew how to pronounce it. I also realised that trying to keep up Alan & Mike was proving increasingly difficult. I wonder I was actually holding them back at bit… anyways we were nearly done for the day now so not to worry.
Eventually I made it into Reeth with Mike & Alan – just about, and I felt like I was burning up. They had got to the pub just before me, and the TWaTTS were there already, or there not long after. But on this – and only this occasion – I wimped out of a manly beer to slake my first, but went for a girly pint of lemonade. The others were in the sunny yard at the front of the pub but I limped off up a cool shady stone passage by the side and slumped to the ground, boots off. The chaps kept coming to check on me, but I knew like yesterday after a rest I’d be ok. After about 20mins and good dose of secret R. White’s I was ok. Although the people passing by asking – nay, implying – that I was resting because my feet were sore were asking for a face full of my fizzy pop.
Reeth is a lovely place, perhaps the most picturesque along the way. Although this meant is was very popular with day-trippers. But I had a good drink in a few of the boozers, and was in bed nice and early – and determined that tomorrow I would not be beat by the heat! Top
Day 8 – Reeth to Richmond, 11 miles.
After really suffering in the heat of the past couple of days I decided that today I would get up very early and hopefully get the lion’s share of the walking done before the heat got too bad again. This meant that I would have to get up before the landlady and make my own breakfast, and she was ok with this but it meant no porridge again! No matter. So after a nice evening sampling the delights of Reeth I was tucked up nice and early. Unfortunately the landlady’s teenage son and a couple of his mates had decided to have a party / sleepover in the dining / living room downstairs, with more partying then sleepovering. Obviously my sleep wasn’t as uninterrupted as I’d have liked. I took much delight at 5am in turning the lights on, walking round them and stepping over them and making my breakfast not quite as quietly as I could have been. Oops sorry about that boys. ha.
Up with the sunrise, the morning was lovely and quiet and fresh as I headed off. A quick detour to get a look at Grinton Brigde showed again how low the Swale was, but the views back along Swaledale were as pleasant as yesterday. But to be honest, I don’t remember a whole lot about this day… I think it being a combination of a very short day and not hugely eventful. I don’t remember it not being a nice though. I remember taking a quick look round Marrick Priory…
And I remember the shady Marrick Wood, with its Nun’s Steps and plentiful wild garlic and bluebells.
I vaguely recall seeing the only road sign for the C2C along the route in Marske, and pretty little beck just outside there.
I do also remember Marske being very pretty, a lovely church of St Leonard the Martyr, and nearly getting caught by an inquisitive Border Terrier with my trousers down underneath Marske Bridge! I definitely remember being intrigued by the public telephone in Marske that with a nod to Schrodinger both did and did not take coins. See here.
Then I remember Mike & Alan catching up as usual, and quickly speeding off. I think they were missing out Richmond today and heading to the next town along, which for me was Ingleby Cross – and I think it was for them too, which would make for a very long day. But they were confident as it’s fairly easy walking so off they I went. I wouldn’t see them again all being well (you know what I mean) so we bid our farewells and I made my way towards the white cairn – a welcome landmark.
From there on it was, if I recall correctly, a long but steady descent in to Richmond. I stopped off along the way for two more of the usual photocalls. A local chap whom I asked to do the honours with the West End Stores photo seemed quite surprised that I’d wanted my photograph taken there, as if I was asking for a photo stood by a dustbin or something.
What I remember very clearly indeed was getting into Richmond at around 11.30am – before the pubs had even opened!! I spent some time watching the Green Leonards Veterans’ Parade go past and then met up with the TWaTTS for a few pints and a Sunday lunch in a Wetherspoons. Amusingly we had to help the lad behind the bar work the till and when the meal came, they’d carefully left the vegetables in the plastic pouches they’d been microwaved in! We chuckled as we tucked in. Still very tasty.
After a rest and freshen up at the B&B I met Tim & Graham back in town later on for a few more drinks round Richmond’s market place, with a few others – Canadians I think. On a nearby table in one pub there was the angriest man I’d ever met, a South African and his very embarrassed wife. He was shouting – to himself presumably – about his dislike for everything. The pub, the beer, the town, the country – and the Canadians. I think we made him angrier by chuckling at him as he left.
Tim & Graham were having a rest day the following day in Richmond so I wouldn’t be seeing them again, again I said more cheerios and headed off to bed. Top
Day 9 – Richmond to Ingleby Cross, 23 miles.
The longest day, and one we’d been talking about but it was fairly easy-going so it’s probably just going to be a head-down and a just keep-putting-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other type of day. After all, we don’t want to have to stop of in Danby Wiske do we!? Or do we. I’ve no idea as it happens.
So off we go, heading off into another clear day past the nice sights of Station Bridge and Easy Abbey.
It gets warm quickly on days like this! Traipsing through the hot flat and somewhat uninspiring farmland was getting a bit boring already! A quick rest in Bolton-on-Swale at the grave of 169 year old Henry Jenkins was in order.
And so it continues… farm after farm and farm. Pointless stiles and humourous signs…
Somewhere round here once again I got very lost… and still don’t quite know how. I was following the path, albeit a bit overgrown but still quite clear, next to a hedge and just plodding on not really thinking about much when suddenly it just ended. I walked back – quite some way… I’m sure this was the right way and I’m sure it was. I think now I might just have missed the overgrown turning I was supposed to take, I can’t really remember. I do remember being jolly annoyed though!
At least there were pleasant distractions along the way, like the treehouse and honesty-box refreshments. These little things do perk-up heat-wary walkers! Muchly appreciated – but I didn’t buy anything mind.
More tedium is broken up by some very tame animals playing round a stile, and by scampering across the East Coast Main Line.
If only all the paths were as obvious as this I’d never go the wrong way! After this we come out onto a road just past Brecken Hill road and I was fortunate enough to just be behind a tractor carrying a large trailer of something white and dusty. Not sure what it was, chalk? fertilizer? Dales cocaine!? but the dust was everywhere. Cough cough. But at least it was something interesting.
And then something even more interesting happened – I started feeling a sharp pain on the end of one my toes. I took my dusty boots off to have a look – and indeed a foot-cool-down – and it turned out I had a blister… under a toenail!! Goodness knows how that happened. But it was treated my normal way, and I resigned myself to losing said toenail at some point but this a small price to pay I suppose.
The last mile of road walking was still pretty tedious though. A quick scamper across the A19 and then it was downhill through Ingleby Arncliffe and into Ingleby Cross’s one pub. And tantalising walk past the 16th Century Monk House B&B – I wish I’d known about this when I booked mine! Not there anything wrong with mine, but 16th Century!!! Top
Day 10 – Ingleby Cross to Chop Gate, 12 miles.
Another shortish day but there’s a bit of upping and downing involved so it shouldn’t be as dull as yesterday. With a pre-cooked-breakfast early start again I left the B&B when past the water tower and an odd looking outhouse building with curiously high doors – and a curiously high sand bag! Then down the hill and passed others sorting out their bags for the Sherpa people at the Blue Bell and generally faffing about – what a palaver that all looked!
No time to visit the church or Mount Grace Priory I headed straight into the Arncliffe Wood. Usefully my “clever” guide-book had shown a short cut through the woods saving me perhaps ½ a mile or so – it looked steep but half a mile or so is half a mile or so! I should have learned my lesson about steep shortcuts by now – but this one was in guide-book, and I seem to recall on my OS map so I came to it I swung east and followed it.
After not very long the path had disappeared but I continued on in the straightest line best I could through the trees. The trees got denser and denser, and the ground steeper and steeper and more uneven. Many trees were fallen or just so dense they were impassable so had be bypassed or clambered over. Or under. The one brief highlight in these woods was a deer darting out right in front my me and then disappearing back into nowhere. The trees by now were so thick I had no idea where I was going so thought about going back – but there was no-way I could recount my steps, every direction looked the same! So I got my compass out and decided just to head due-east best I could and eventually I would meet the path somewhere near the telecoms tower. Then I got to a huge boulder or rocky outcrop on top of a very steep & high drop. No way down there… I headed north a bit. The drop got no better and although I had started descend a bit the terrain and trees forced me back slightly west. I sat down for a bit of rest, hair, rucksack and boots full of little bits of tree and every green which lichen scrapings! I set off again and after a little while went to check my bearing – for what it is worth – and horror of horrors couldn’t find my compass!!! Argh. I must have put it down when I’d had a rest. Now I was really lost! I thought about going back but there was really no way of knowing where I’d come from. “Bugger!” I thought – most inconvenient. I had my Dad’s GPS in the bottom of my bag somewhere just for emergencies – I didn’t think I’d be using it as a compass replacement though.
Once it had fired up I got a shock – the clock on it suggested I’d been in these woods for an hour and a half! And having no watch I believed it. (Turned out it was still on GMT!). Second shock was not being able to get a signal. It’s quite an old handset for GPSs, and turns out it doesn’t get much of signal under tree cover. Great!
But I eventually got enough to get my co-ords and predictably I was nowhere near where I thought I was. But thankfully I wasn’t too far from the track – albeit also not very far at all from where I’d left it! So off I went again, a bit fed up and following the GPS & map made a beeline more or less due south as I recall to get back on route, determined that nothing was going to get in my way.
Then – ALLEJUIAH! Glimpsing up checking for occasional breaks in the tree cover I spotted a tiny bit of the unmistakable red & white plastic warning things they put near overhead cables for the forestry workers, which could only mean one thing – a track!! I knew how sailors drifting in a lifeboat must feel when they sight land! I put the map and GPS away and made straight for it, branches and bracken holding no obstacle for me. To say a I relieved when I back out to the bright, dusty, wide, clear track would be an understatement! And so it would be to say I was a bit annoyed at the guide-book for marking on such a short-cut – one of the reasons why I wouldn’t recommend it.
Having emptied my boots of bits of twig and bark and once back on the rising, curving track I made some good progress and caught up with some others who looked quiet surprised to me behind them. “But you set ages before us!” – “Don’t ask” said my look. The views from the top of the woods of the Vale of Mowbray and the Cleveland Hills made for a refreshing change from the dark imposing gloom in the woods. That’s enough excitement I think!
The walking was pretty hilly, but the path was good and it was ok walking weather. Warm but there was a good breeze up here. A pleasant walk through a much friendlier bluebell carpeted wood was followed by an odd but nice old abandoned wagon at Huthwaite Green. Nice in that it’s mentioned in the stupid guide-book, and is a nice gee-up that you’re on the right path.
A nice easy path takes up to and over Live Moor, nice and exposed up here and there’s many a curious boundary post along the. Well, a few. The one below is quite literally A boundary post. It’s then straight forward over these high moors to Carlton Moor with its gliding club. Bilsdale television transmitter serving the north-east can be see in the distance below.
The views from Carlton Moor are pretty impressive, even with the chemical and steel works of Teesside in the distance. Technically this is our first sight of the North Sea too – but we all knew it didn’t really count yet.
To get to the de rigueur stop off at the Lord Stones cafe, there’s a sudden jolt of civilisation by having to walk through a car-park. I met up with fellow walker Pete here, and shared a cream-tea together joined by a friendly finch. Or should that be cheeky??
No time for a big meal here as I was nearly done for the day. Just another couple of miles along Kirby Bank, a very quick descent and a long trek down the track to Beak Hills farm, my B&B for the night – the building in the middle of this photo:
Can you think of a nicer spot for a night’s rest? No neighbours for… well, no neighbours! The Cooks were very welcoming, the youngish daughter greeted me and showed me my room. And we watched some telly together – my first bit of goggle-box since I walked past a Dixon’s in Carlisle – while Mrs Cook made a delicious roast lamb tea. Mr Cook had taken the others who hadn’t booked an evening meal down into Chop Gate to the nearest pub, which is some way off. Later on Mrs Cook drove me down in the truck bouncing down the stoney track. A dead pheasant lay by the side: “Tomorrow’s tea?!” I joked, “No, too young” expertly replied Mrs C.
The good people of Chop Gate had gathered in the pub to have meeting about getting broadband internet brought to the village – I think the motion was passed. I just tried not to get too drunk while we waited our lifts back to the farm, with partial success. Top
Day 11 – Chop Gate to Glaisdale, 19 miles.
Penultimate day now – you could almost smell the sea air. Almost. All I could smell this morning was my delicious porridge – see what I mean about farmers’ wives?!
Naturally it was another clear bright morning, and these last two days were going to be fairly long. I got away nice and early again from my lovely night’s surroundings. Beak Hills farmhouse is above left, and the view from my window on the right.
No sooner had I got to the top of Beak Hill’s track I was met with a long and steep clamber up Hasty Bank, but to be greeted by the impressive and much noted Wain Stones it’s the worth the clamber. The guide-book says they look like cake decorations but to me they’re more like North Yorkshire’s very own natural Mount Rushmore.
Now we’re up high and again, and wonderfully exposed on a fine warm day on the North York Moors. The views from Clay Bank Top were very nice.
The moors can be feel very open and desolate, but at least on Urra Moor there’s a good selection of boundary posts with queer markings and runes – and even the odd face. What could they mean?? As you plod along the old Ironstone Railway you have plenty of time to ponder it, as although the views are, well, expansive there’s not a lot else to ponder. This slog was pretty rough on the feet and boring on the brain. At least the weather was nice, on a miserable day it would be just that. Somewhere along here I gave in and finally popped my iPod in my ears and entertained myself with some episodes of Whacko! and tried to work who was who in the tiny dots of figures spread out in front of me and behind me. Thank God for Jimmy Edwards!
Gradually the White Lion came into view, although things come into view a long way off up on the moors. When I got there after passing the cock-fighting boundary post I wondered if it was open… but thankfully it was. I guess in these parts front doors are left open! It was lovely, comfy and cosy inside but I didn’t fancy a drink just yet – it was just gone noon. I got myself a cuppa to warm my uppers and slipped my boots outside and cool my lowers.
When the tea had gone down we set off again, with a lengthy trek along a road. The book suggested another short-cut, but I was wise to these by now so we stayed on the tarmac and headed straight for Fat Betty, past a dead adder – another new wildlife experience for me. Well, “wild-death” anyways, although I’m still not sure if it was an adder or just an adder-skin. When I got to Fat Betty I did the traditional food swap thing, that’s probably dates back as far the 1990s. I didn’t fancy the Polos or couple of boiled sweets there but I did leave an unwanted item from packed-lunch for the next walker after one his five-a-day.
Back off the road now and as we pass Trough House, above left, we get our first proper glimpse of the North Sea – ahhhh yes! The end is now in sight. And with Great Fryup Dale just a bit further along a famous and lovely view was also now in sight.
But these moors drag on and on. Why did they make so big!? The North Sea still seems miles away. As does Glaisdale as it happens. But with the head-down thankfully it’s all down-hill now and after what only seems like hours we hit home.
Lovely little Glaisdale, the wild garlic capital of North Yorkshire! No wonder you can’t smell the sea air yet. But then I went right off the place… the bloody pub was shut! Seems modern licensing laws haven’t reached up here yet. My heart sank, a bit. Oh well. Off to the Beggar’s Bridge B&B, which as you might guess is right by the most romantic spot on the whole walk. Awwww!
The lack of a pub was more than made up by the lovely B&B and the best welcoming tea laid on on the whole walk! There wasn’t a drop or a crumb left. Thank you Mrs Rogan.
A lengthy soak of achy limbs in the huge en-suite bathtub and I was right and ready to head back to the boozer, where everyone else was too. It being the only pub in the village, but a lovely pub in a lovely village.
Day 12 – Glaisdale to Robin’s Hood Bay, 19 miles.
The end is nigh! And spirits were suitably high in the pub last night, although they couldn’t be allowed to get too high as today was not a short one. The morning mist soon lifted and just like every other day the sun soon shone through.
Crossing the Esk at a ford – actually I think there was a bridge next to it – took us into Arncliffe Woods. Wait, where did I know that name from?! Thankfully these Arncliffe Woods were a lot more friendly than the last ones!
I had to wander off the path slightly to find the memorial bench to man’s best friend, but glad I did. And Egton Bridge we found that the bridge is not as much fun as the stepping-stones. I needed all my concentration not to tumble into the gushing torrents of the Esk.
Not far from Egton Bridge, past the old Barnards tollhouse, we get to Grosmont – with its lovely old bridge and love old Co-op, and its seemingly lovely old interesting notice board.
Grosmont is the home of the North Yorks Railway, and is well-known to get train spotters very steamed up! The Lord of the Isles was a handsome sight, but the inviting sign to the engine sheds was just too tempting – walk or no walk!!
Ahhhh engine sheds!! Much more fun than walking along roads. But hang on – what’s that smoking over there in the distance…??
Well if it isn’t old Sir Nigel herself!! Fantastic. All steamed up and ready to go, but unfortunately not actually going anywhere for at least half an hour, maybe much longer. Drat it… although I had already spent 45 mins gawping at locos I still had a vague schedule to keep.
Lots more rather tedious road walking, made worse by a self-inflicted wrong turn – or rather missed turning – just outside of Grosmont which probably added a good mile to the day. The walk up to Sleights Moor did give us a glimpse of Whitby Abbey, and another tantalising peak of the North Sea again.
The highly anticipated Low and High Bride Stones were a bit disappointing I must say, and not really worth straying off the path to take a closer look at, as I did. And so the roads and moors and woods go on.
The famed hermitage afforded a nice opportunity for a rest, and a ponder as to its orgins. A 19th Century folly I decided. And Falling Foss would be better with more water falling over it, but you can’t have everything I suppose.
No time for tea at the Falling Foss tea-shop, so we carry on with a nice walk through the rest of Little Beck Wood and on to Sneaton Low Moor. And then Graystone Hills – which are actually more moors.
And are very boggy! Well, very boggy compared to the rest of parched ground we’ve been walking over. This was only the 2nd bit of bogginess encountered, and it made a nice squelchy change actually. I encountered a youngish couple who bizarrely were lost here, and I must admit I’d lost the path too but could clearly the see the road that we were aiming for so told them just walk towards it, like I was. But they didn’t listen – perhaps they’d already heard about my shortcuts! I left them studying their map and was soon at said road – and exciting news! A signpost telling me that the ultimate destination was just 3½ miles away!! A mere stone’s throw… right?
Past a dried up spring, seemingly built by the same folliers who were responsible for the hermitage and by the time we got to High Hawkser I was very much ready for a scone and a cuppa! But annoying the cafe at the caravan park was closed. Grumble. Oh well. Nearly finished now anyways.
Through the somewhat unromantic caravan park (are there any romantic sorts…?) onto the cliff tops heading towards Robin Hood’s Bay – the first sight of which is below right. And here we had only the second rainfall of the trip, not as heavy as the Keld downpour – but much worse!!
Although the rain was quite fairly substantial it looked like it would blow over soon, so although I got my coat out I couldn’t be bothered getting the waterproof strides out too. I was right – it did blow over fairly soon and it brightened up again. But my trousers were soaked, not a problem I thought – they’ll soon dry out. And they did helped by the cliff-top breezes. But this caused my legs to get very cold and a sort of crampy-stiffness set in and the last couple of miles in to RHB were to be a hobbling agony and an embarrassing hobbling agony at that!
On the steepish drop to the sea through RHB I walking very awkwardly indeed – rather like Douglas Bader. Much to the amusement I’m sure of passers-by and other walkers I very much had the look of just having walked 200 miles, when in reality I was fine up until 20 minutes ago. If it wasn’t for the rain – or if I’d put my plastic trousers on – I’d be hopping, skipping and jumping down the hill.
Anyways to the sea I hobbled – thanking the tide Gods that they’d brought it in for me. A very satisfying moment indeed. Some throw their St Bee’s pebble into the sea here, but I romantically picked up another to go with it. I met Pete (from the Lord Stones here) and he’d been carrying a bottle of bubble with him all the way which he shook up and cracked open like a Grand Prix winner!
So having now wetted my boots, my thirst needed wetting too so off to the obvious pub. Quite a few others were in there, and much beer was had safe in the knowledge that no more walking was needed tomorrow, sadly.
But no time to think about the return to grindstone and the odd sensation of getting up in the morning and not pulling the boots on… there’s some lovely pubs in RHB and they all needed checking out along with a large platter of fish & chips.
I don’t think I can imagine a better way to spend two weeks. Is there anywhere lovelier than England? Top
Complete photo album of the pubs. (It’s not just about the walking!)