C2C Day 2, Ennerdale Bridge (Mile 14)—Shoot, Overshot

I fall into bed at 9:30p Tuesday night and sleep well until 1:39a. Hot in the room, so I open the window and the French door. A breeze rustles the curtains against a dried flower arrangement in the recessed window. I step outside onto a landing that overlooks the back garden and stable yard. The white laundry from the B&B is pinned to two rows of line on the lawn. Towels, sheets—vast expanses of fabric. The breeze moves into them, and the center pole sways like a poorly anchored mast. To and fro, to and fro in a slow rocking wave.

I can see the stars tonight. The Milky Way, even. Faint because of the amber street lights around the corner. The Little Dipper is just visible beyond the rooftops to my right.

I remember something I sometimes forget in my day-to-day details: “The sun is always shining, the moon is always full, the stars are always present.” It’s that big-picture faith that I keep losing sight of—that faraway vision I would do well to hold to.

I’m not so far north now, and it’s dark enough to see stars. Another reminder that I’m no longer in Scotland.

A satellite slides across the sky north to south; a meteor shoots away at the southwest. Bats flit like oversized moths in and out of the pale light around the buildings. I stand in a T-shirt and briefs, feeling cool for the first time in two days. My bare feet feel the bumps of aggregate concrete, also cool. My hands rest on a rough concrete wall.

My shoulders are tense. I relax them. Relax them again 30 seconds later. My legs are tight. I shift my weight to stand more squarely. My ankles hurt a little to move. My shoulders tense again. Why do I expend so much energy merely standing?

And lying down for that matter? Even as I return to bed to type on Perry, I can find opportunity to relax my legs, belly, shoulders, face—repeatedly, nearly every 10 seconds.

Tension must be a habit. A flight response, a freeze response, a get-ready-to-do-battle response, a be-ready-to-run response.

What would change for me if I were willing to let go of all that tension while stand, lie, or sit? Would it also dissolve when I walk? Would I expend less energy living? Ensuring my survival? Would I still be enough after letting go of the need to be “ready for anything, bring it on”?

That’s how I’ve felt much of my lifetime here. That I’m supposed to be ready. For anything. Rain, snow, heat. Trouble, danger, mishaps. Tests, quizzes, hidden traps. God, as I have seen it, has been someone who puts obstacles in my way just to see how I do with them. Pass, fail, grade. All about getting it right or wrong or better than what I did before or than what others do.

And most of my life I’ve been functioning in fear that I won’t be ready. That I’ll get lost, be without something I need or without something someone else needs, not have the answer, miss the turnoff, not arrive on time, not have everything together, not be rehearsed, prepared, overprepared, careful, careful enough.

Fear, fear, fear. Focusing only on the one goal at hand, myopic in my concentration.

That’s what I notice most about my habits tonight. That I’ve been creating myopic vision in my life since I left college. And that it’s time to start letting that go.

* * *

I stack my bag alongside others in the lobby of Stone Cottage for the Sherpa people and head out at 9:02a for the 9.5-mile walk to Ennerdale Bridge. I’m finally going officially eastward on the walk, and I feel eager and confident. I have a choice of following the Footprint map trail, which takes me around Flat Fell, or Wainwright’s preferred option of going over Dent. The early heat of the day makes the Dent less likely, but I decide to decide on that when I get there.

An hour and 2.5 miles later, I sit down for a break in a shade-covered lane with hedges on both sides. I’ve just passed under an unused rail trestle that’s been converted to a bike path and am nearly at mile 7 of the C2C path. The A595 is a short ways away. Peering back down the lane, I can just see under the trestle and to the cow fields and stream I’ve left behind. I have learned to take every stream and brook that’s presented as a chance to wet my neckerchief, and the front of my pink cotton T-shirt I bought in Salisbury (thank you, Marks & Spencer) is dark with water. It feels cool on my skin.

The cows and sheep were very accommodating as I crossed their territories this morning. I tried to skirt them, but sometimes I had to go straight through a group. The sheep usually scattered, but the cows stood around and followed my progress with their massive heads and placid brown eyes and slow, cud-chewing jaws. I said hello to them all.

I am still hearing booms of navy guns in the distance every 20 minutes or so. I peel off my boots and socks and put some found lamb’s wool around my fourth toe on the left foot—a tender area for blisters.

The trail hasn’t been as well marked as I expected it to be. I am trying to focus on my surroundings, not just the path and map, which makes it easier to figure out where to go when the path becomes faint...something that happens across these fields.

I reach Cleator (mile 9 on the trail) at 11:02, feeling hungry and hoping for a public toilet. A ask the woman behind the counter at a grocer where the nearest restroom would be.

She states flatly, “There are no toilets in the village.”

I don’t take this news with particular grace, but I thank her anyway and head out. The Three Tuns, the local pub, is closed because it’s too early for lunch, so that’s out. I walk about a half mile north through town hoping to find a park or recreational spot or fuel station that might offer facilities, but I eventually turn back, having chosen a road that’s clearly not leading to additional civilization and not wanting to spend a lot of time wandering around.

I return to the grocer, buy a warm onion/cheese/potato pasty, a banana, and fresh water and try to find a place to sit down in the shade for lunch. I end up backtracking to the local church, where I push through the iron gate and take refuge under the arched walkway outside the church doors. The building is locked shut. The chill of built-in red sandstone benches is welcome to my overheated body, and I sprawl out to use as much surface area as possible. The date “1903” is carved above wooden doors whose hardware has weathered poorly. The cemetery is about 10 yards away, and a flower garden is in full bloom in front of me.

On leaving Cleator, I am desperate enough for a toilet that I double-back for two blocks to return to a white-haired lady I had seen working in her garden. A cane is propped beside her. I gather my nerve. “Uh, excuse me.”

She doesn’t hear me. Right, elderly. Probably hard of hearing.

“Excuse me!” I say more loudly.

She looks up. “Yes?”

“Um, I’m on the Coast to Coast walk, and could really use a toilet. There are none in town.” I point back to the main street. “May I use yours?”

She smiles and straightens. “Of course, dearie.” She grabs the cane, totters out of the garden, and leads me through her screen door. “Down the hall to the right.”

My single impression of the house is that it’s pink—everywhere. Walls, carpet, side rooms. The bathroom, too. It’s equipped with a handicapped toilet that has a cushy padded seat and chrome handrails on both sides, like some kind of bizarre office chair for an aging CEO. A cute little corner shower. Pink towels, pink soap, white flooring.

As I thank her profusely on the way out, she asks of my whereabouts, wishes me good luck, and points me to where the trail continues down the street and around the corner.


The temperatures are soaring, and I have definitely decided not to walk over the Dent. This is an exposed hill that offers many criss-crossing trails at the top (read: great potential for getting lost), as well as some steep descents down to a charming-sounding brook called Nannycatch Beck on the far side (read: hard work on a hot day). Despite Wainwright’s obvious penchant for this part of the trail, I opt for a lower path that will take me along the north side of Flat Fell. It’s also treeless, but with no altitude gain and seems a little more direct to Ennerdale Bridge.

I pull off first at Blackhow Wood, though, to snack, drink water, and nap away the noon heat under huge alders. This is the only bit of wood I’ll meet up with on today’s walk. I park myself on a spot that has very little grass and a few tree roots to use as a pillow. I’m on such a slant that I must position myself carefully so I don’t slide downhill as I snooze. It feels good to take off my boots and socks.

The Footprint map I’m using works like tunnel vision—great as long as you stay in the tunnel, but not so great if you want to know how the tunnel relates to what’s outside. It has basic contour information, but that may only extend to a mile on either side, and therefore not illustrate a hill that I’m looking straight at a few miles away. And not everything is labeled, either—some farm buildings might be a little unnamed black square, for instance, and paved roads or streets generally go unidentified.

So when the trail that I follow around Dent and to the beginning of Flat Fell peters out where the map says it should have continued on a left fork, I am more than mystified—I am miffed. No amount of searching for a path gets me onto anything more than a labyrinth of sheep trails on the hillside. I drop down lower, find a horse trail and a gate, but that trail dies off, too. Sunshine is beating down on the open fields, and I’m hot and sweaty and crabby. I gamely continue heading east, tromping through knee-high grass until I spot the Meadley Reservoir—a mapped landmark that at least assures me I’m on the right track. Oh yay.

But still no trail. I struggle up Flat Fell to search for a stile in the stone wall to get out of my current field. No such luck. Panting, headachy, and grumbling, I rest in the meager shade of the wall for ten minutes and then dare a careful climb over the rock and wire fencing to reach a proper trail on the other side. Whether it’s the actual C2C path or not, I’ll never know. But it does seem well used. I pass the rotting carcass of a sheep in a ditch; its matted wool is marked with blue paint—the brand of its owner. The sheep looks like a coyote had gotten it.

My mood lifts as I spot the glint of cars in the distance. It’s the main road into Ennerdale Bridge. Still on the fell, I pass within a quarter mile of a farm in time to watch a fellow and his two dogs work sheep from paddock to paddock. It is an amazing sight, with a hundred or so sheep all pouring through one gate, spreading out in the new pasture, and being collected again to funnel through another opening in a different wall. Now I know why Pip at Torlundy was always crouching to herd the chickens. These dogs do the same to keep the sheep in line.

At another part of the farmyard, seven draft horses amble down the gravel road from the barn to a field to graze; no person is guiding them. I am fascinated by their calm deliberation.

I finally leave Flat Fell through a rocky gully that’s the end of Nannycatch Beck, and come to a paved road where horses are standing and grazing on mounds that are right by the street. No fencing is up to keep them from the cars, and they seem perfectly safe and content.


The final stretch to Ennerdale Bridge, another one and a half miles, goes along a footpath that parallels the road which, true to UK form, has no shoulder that’s safe to walk on. Once I arrive at the sign announcing my arrival at Ennerdale Bridge, I call my B&B for directions, but the fellow who helps me is as muddled as I am about my current location and what direction I’m facing as we talk. He tells me to cross the Ennerdale bridge and then look for the road signs that have a horseshoe on them. I had seen one such sign already on my way from the fell, and figured there must be lots of riding stables in this area.

I dutifully head across the bridge into town and stop at the first people I see—two women in the yard of a primary school. They are dismantling and folding a bright yellow awning that’s been used to shade the children during the day.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Low Cock Hill Farm. It’s a riding stable and B&B. Do you know which way?” I wipe my face with my kerchief. Now that I’ve stopped walking, the usual supply of sweat is starting to pool around my eyes and upper lip. I can feel a drip slide from my right temple to my jaw, and I know my face is red.

“Low Cock Hill. Low Cock Hill.” The brunette pauses. “Riding stable? Do you mean the Bradley place? That’s the only horse farm I know of. Down the road that way. Go over the bridge, then go left. It’s about a mile or so down the road.”

She is pointing in the direction I just came from. Go across the bridge, look for the signs with the horseshoes. My stomach sinks. I consult my map and its little unnamed black squares that indicate farmhouses. “You mean the one I passed half an hour ago?” I try to keep the whine out of my voice and posture, but with little success. The thought of doubling back makes me want to sit down and cry. Before I can act on it, the brunette extends the kind of friendly help I’ve come to appreciate from the Brits.

“We’re almost done here. I need to pick up my boys from school, and I’ll give you a lift back. Here, go in and have some water.”

I could have hugged her. The woman waits while I drink a large cup of water, then she piles me into her van, collects her three sons, and drops me off at the farm. I not only had passed the turnoff to the farm, but it is also the very same facility whose sheepdogs I had watched and whose horses I had seen on the grass mounds. Sigh. And I’ll need to walk that same mileage back to Ennerdale tomorrow because I overshot.

The proprietress, Dorothy, is such a delight that my frustration soon evaporates. She shows me my room and the small self-catering kitchen with—hurrah!—a washer. I take a welcome shower, get into fresh clothes, and stuff the rest of my raunchy wardrobe into the laundry.

My room is upstairs, in the converted cow barn. It overlooks a farmyard that’s cluttered with tractors, dilapidated buildings, an old stable, a rusting shipping container or two, and all manner of equipment in varying states of repair and disrepair. Beyond are the rock-wall-lined fields where the young man and his dogs had herded the sheep. And beyond that, in the very distance, I can see the lights of St Bees and the silver ribbon of water that is the Irish Sea. According to Wainwright, this is the last I will see of that body of water on the C2C path.

The house dates back to the 16th century in places. My room is in the hay loft of the old barn. Recently renovated, it’s very cozy all in white with old beams exposed and painted black. Downstairs is a lounging area with wood stove, warm rugs, and a cushy sofa that I curl up into with a cup of hot tea. There’s not a square corner in the place, and the walls are thicker at the bottom than at the top. White plaster is everywhere, with interesting beams and supporting members and flagstone floors retained.

I hang my clean laundry on the line in the back garden and go in search of Dorothy. I have been alone all day and feel an urgent desire for company. I find my hostess in the kitchen with her two Rottweilers and a cat that, like most felines, comes and goes as it pleases.

I sit with her at the kitchen table as we talk and she cooks my dinner—chicken and lots of vegetables, casaba melon as a starter, and strawberries with toffee ice cream for dessert.

The horses here are all shires. She has lived in this area most of her life—the farm was her family’s. Dorothy has always loved animals, and is skilled at animal communication. I ask her for tips.

“Forget about yourself,” she says. “Forget about yourself. Go inside, and ask the animal what they want—they’ll tell you. Touch them in rows of circles with your knuckles. You can find out a lot about where they hurt. They’ll look back at you when you’ve found a spot.”

The guests’ dining area is a glassed-in room that overlooks her front garden. On one wall is a color map illustrating the Lake District fells that are ahead of me; it presents them three-dimensionally, like an aerial-view painting.

I trace the hills I’m to go up and over during the next few days, and once again feel outfaced and a little panicky—I’m not ready for those yet. My baby right toe and number 4 left toe both are blistered—the left one badly enough I needed to pop it. I’m a little worried about how they will hold up, as favoring them could stress other parts of my feet and back. The base of my heels has skin that’s flaking off. I rub them twice a day with the patchouli oil that Patty gave me before I left. My heels feel hot when I stand on them too long. I’m already very glad I used the Sherpa Van service for my bag.

I tumble into bed that night to the sound of light rain and endlessly bleating sheep coming through the window in the slanted ceiling. Today I learned that when I feel lost, I should look at the resources I have instead of fretting over those I don’t have. I won’t be getting too far off track.

And the truth is that I always have just the right resources I need to find my way. If I don’t, they come to me—like that fisherman who showed up yesterday to lead me to Sandwith, the railroad workers who were there to point me back to St Bees, the farmer today who gave me directions as I walked through his Black How farmyard, and the locals who gave me a lift, a glass of water, the use of a toilet. And even when no one’s around, sooner rather than later, I spotted a landmark to get me on track—first I voiced the need for one, then the landmark itself appeared. It’s all been there for me the whole time.

This walk across England may be the hardest, most challenging thing I’ve ever done. What am I made of? What inner reserves do I have? I’ll find out day by day, road by road.

Trail miles: 8; actual miles walked: 12