C2C Day 13, Danby Wiske (Mile 129.5)—Sensory Perceptions

Going to bed last night at 8:30, I sleep through until 5:15. I am feeling refreshed, although my left ankle still hurts more than the right every morning. Some deep-tissue strokes ease the stiffness. I’m also using less lamb’s wool around my toes now, relying mostly on fabric bandaids. The plastic ones don’t work nearly as well—they make scratchy corners wherever they fold.

Today is the second to the last day my itinerary matches with John and Elaine’s. Osmotherley will be our last supper. Tonight is Danby Wiske, at mile 129.5.

I check out of The Old Brewery at 8:45 and meet up immediately (though without preplanning) with Nico and Marja and John and Elaine near the trailhead. Leaving Richmond with an up-the-cliffs view of its castle, we take a brief sidetrip through some brush to view the local step waterfalls of the river, which needs more water this time of year. Nico and Marja ultimately split off from the rest of us and we catch each other on the trail at intervals throughout the day.






Today’s 12+ mile walk grows to over 14, thanks to my decision to join John and Elaine off track to avoid four miles of road walking. Instead we take a longer but scenic trip along public footpaths that pass through or alongside crop fields—wheat, barley, beets, broad beans, chamomile, corn, stubble cut to the ground, some grain fields half harvested. My bare calves and the backs of my hands get up close and personal with stinging nettles, poky blackberries, prickly thistles, scratchy rushes, soft grasses, furry barley stalks, hard wheat heads, warm sun, cool breezes, and hot sun.


The summer heat has been harsh. The soil is dry, the ground is cracked, and the becks are barely trickling, if at all. Recently plowed fields have crusty, sculpted furrows that are hard on the feet and ankles. We walk among mine fields of dried cow patties, over crunchy stubble, and on sliding straw bleached by the sun.

The view is fields and fields and fields—which is why this area is Wainwright’s least favorite part of the walk. He hates the dales. He says there’s not enough elevation and too much trudging. Trudging it may be, but trekking over farmland, gravel roads, and grassy fields is easy, and the level walking is occasionally relieved by uneven ground, many step-stiles, and boundary crossings over barbed wire wrapped in yellow plastic bags.


One town we go through, Brompton-on-Swale, has a race track (there’s an event today, and crossing the main street takes a dose of nerve) and a hotel whose sign makes us laugh outloud: “HAVING AN AFFAIR? Special room rates available.”


Puffy clouds move across the sky. We have an eleven o’clock break with Marja and Nico (“elevensies” as John and Elaine call it) trailside at the top of a shaded hill, take lunch under trees by the River Swale (yes, we’ve been three days on the same river...), and have a three o’clock stop in a very buggy Douglas fir glade.

Every day’s walk has been different, with just enough variety from what I’ve seen before to keep me looking around. Yet by the end of the last mile, I’m done with the sameness of that day. And I’m done with walking it. This day-in, day-out trekking is hard on my feet and ankles, and I sometimes swallow a whine and a groan when yet another mile of anything lies ahead of me. I’m glad I didn’t create a 20-mile day anywhere on my itinerary. Twelve to sixteen miles is more than enough.


We get to Danby Wiske at five with great gratitude. Frank and Doreen of The Old School B&B take us right in as their own, whisking our boots away for a good airing, giving us tea and refreshments (gingerbread, cheddar cheese, a milk chocolate Penguin cookie bar), and settling us into our rooms. Mine is upstairs, cozy and warm. Our hosts even trust us enough to leave their house to our care as they head out for a family party. Doreen was coloring her hair when we arrived, and she goes out looking smashing in a black and white number that molds to her plump, buxom, hippy body as if it were painted on.

We meet Marja and Nico and a group of five New Zealanders at the White Swan pub in Danby Wiske for dinner. It’s the only pub in town. The Kiwis are the same Pack ’n’ Boots hiking group I met at Kirkby Stephen YHA. Some friendly Aussie/Kiwi competition goes on between them and John and Elaine before everyone calls a truce and we order meals.

My food tonight is a venison beef pie with a puff pastry placed on top like a crispy, golden brown hat. We receive a heaping bowl of new potatoes and another of peas and carrots to share around the table, and I polish off a boat of strawberries in fresh cream for dessert. The pub, surprisingly, has Internet, and I spend a half hour catching up on e-mail before turning in for the evening.

Sheesh. Mile 129.5. Compared to the Roman marches and travels that others have made over the ages, that’s not much—11 mikes a day average. But for me it’s an accomplishment.

I like this rhythm of walking, the new views, the daily tedium, the hunting for trails and signposts, the meeting of new friends, the fresh shower and bed at the end of the day. I suppose as I do this more, longer days will be easier, although the longer walks equal more hours in a day on the road. Walking from 9 to 3 seems most comfortable to me, but I usually end later.

Trail miles: 12.5; actual miles walked: 14.5