C2C Day 4, Grasmere (Mile 37.5)—The Agony and Ecstasy of Ridge Walks

I sleep more poorly than I hoped, given how tired I am. It is warm in my room, and using the fluffy duvet—the only bed covering available—leaves me too hot, and going without it leaves me too cold. This is one of those times when having a top sheet and blankets works better than this British way of having only a bottom sheet and a duvet on a bed.

This morning I do TTouch on my legs and feet to ease tight muscles and sore ankles. I recall Tracy’s warning at St Bees—it’s not each day’s trek that’s the challenge, it’s the daily repeat of it that’s the thing.

I am off at 9:20a after the typical full English breakfast and a last-minute repair to my trekking poles. The foam handles have lost their glue and slide down whenever I push on them for support. Some Elastoplast wrapped below the grip solves the problem. I’ve also remembered to request a sack lunch today, and I load myself up with water and Tracey’s ample meal of sandwich, crisps, biscuit, fruit, KitKat, and juice. As I leave, I sample a ripe raspberry from a vine stretching over her garden wall.

The bridge that leads to the C2C path is just outside Tracey’s B&B. I am onward to Grasmere by one of two routes: a high walk along the ridge, or a shorter, more direct route through the valley. The decision point comes later, after Lining Craig. Not sure yet which trail I’ll choose.

This part of the walk—a two-day jaunt to Patterdale—is one of Wainwright’s favorites. Rather than go directly over a wall of fells that run north-south, the track requires a jog south through Grasmere and then back north to Patterdale along footpaths that follow ridge lines or go through valleys. The eight-miles-as-the-crow-flies trip to Patterdale is doubled by this detour.

I meet Barry from Manchester along the lovely Greenup Gill (a river, now very low because of the hot summer) that flows through Borrowdale outside of Stonethwaite. He’s on a few days’ walk, not the C2C, and is going to Grasmere for his last day. I quiz him about the two trail choices ahead, and he recommends the high road. We’re staying at the same hostel in Grasmere—there are two there, the place is such a popular stopover.

He becomes a dot ahead of me on the way past Eagle Crag, and two fellows in their early twenties later puff by me carrying packs large enough to hold camping gear. They, too, become dots near the top of Lining Crag, even when I’m at the bottom of it.

The day is turning warm, and the prospect of Lining Crag, that hill to the left in his photo, daunts me. It is steeper and longer than yesterday’s Loft Beck, and looks like it’s full of scree and those ankle-breakers I dealt with yesterday. I start up the hill, one foot in front of the other, trekking poles at the ready, winding left then right then straight up, and frequently finding blessed sets of stone steps that hardy C2C volunteers have installed to help keep down erosion.

I am again pausing every hundred feet or so on the ascent, winded and panting, which I find utterly appalling, and I use each stop as an excuse to look back upon the dale, the gill, and how far I’ve come from Stonethwaite. A 30’s-something couple passes me about two-thirds of the way up. We don’t expend the energy to say more than hello. I stick a pole to the next rock and keep going.

I finally reach the summit of Lining Crag and take the detour to its very top for a rest rest rest and to take in the well-earned spectacular view. I am breathing hard, pink in the face, and ready to fall down on the spot. There I meet the two young guys who had passed me, packs on the ground, sweat on their shirts, sitting on two boulders.

One is on his cell phone. The other is smoking a fag.

I laugh outloud at the absurdity of it all. They are David and Wessel from Holland, out to walk the C2C in 10 days (the average is 14) before going south to meet David’s family, who still live in England. They need to make it to Patterdale tonight—over 16 miles from Rosthwaite, traveling the most grueling part of the trail and carrying full packs. They’re already thinking about hiring the Sherpa Van for the rest of the trip.

The route from Lining Crag to Grasmere requires going over a pass called Greenup Edge toward a place called the head of Far Easedale, and then following a stream straight down to Grasmere. The fact that Wainwright warns that it’s easy to fall into the “Wythburn trap” (to mistake the Wythburn valley stream as the Far Easedale path and thereby end up on the wrong side of the ridge from Grasemere) does not ease my mind. I ask to join David and Wessel over this next tricky bit of Greenup Edge.

This time I’m the one with the OS map, and David, who did this walk two years ago, has a vague idea which way to go. The top of the Greenup Edge is squishy peat and tall grasses. No signage is to be found, and the only waymarkers that Wainwright lists are landmarks such as “old fence,” “the remains of a wire fence,” and “an iron stile incongruously standing in isolation.” About as much help as the names of the locales themselves. (Why do people even bother to refer to geographical names at all on walks like this; I mean, it’s not like I’m going to find a sign up here that reads, “Welcome! You are at Greenup Edge. The Head of Far Easedale is that way. Turn left for Grasmere.”)

Fortunately, the weather is also with us, and the glorious, mist-free day allows us to see Grasmere in the distance as we, miracle of miracles, actually do spot a bit of rusting iron stile sticking incongruously from a nondescript pile of granite and grasses.

With the lake of Grasmere in sight almost five miles away, I practically skip down the rock-strewn gully of a now-dry stream, stepping on the big stones and letting gravity take me to the next one. It becomes almost a dance—balancing and falling forward to catch the next rock instead of trying to pick my way around and between them. I skim down the hill the entire way, gleeful as a child tripping across a river on stepping stones.

The boys and I soon reach our split-off point: the junction of the ridge walk to the left and the valley walk straight into Grasmere, with the sweep of Grasmere Common banking the right side. They take the shorter, direct route in hopes of getting there for lunch. I decide to try my hand and feet at the high-rise walk along Calf Crag, Gibson Knott, and Helm Crag. I can follow the ridgeline visually from here, three summits that will afford some great views of where I’ve been and where I’m headed. Wainwright says it adds a mile to the walk and an hour to the time, and is worth the additional effort.

I take inventory. So far my feet and legs are holding up well. Water supply is good. I’m hungry, so I eat my sandwich and get going again before 12:30. Just as I am climbing along an old fence line to the ridge, four ravens come soaring from beyond Calf Crag and fly around over me before heading off.

Calf Crag, at 1,800 feet, offers amazing views, which I video in a panorama using Perry. The walking is easy along this ridgeline, and very windy. A cairn is at the top of the crag, and I add a stone to it.

I sit here at the top of Calf Crag, looking ahead to Grasmere and to the third ridge for today, Helm Crag, and feel so proud of myself for doing this walk. I wanted to back out at the beginning, and I’ve had help and support all along the way, plus time to find my own way for miles.

Watching the trail ahead instead of the ground today has been pushing me to use my peripheral vision to guide my feet in all but the most sticky places. I’m trusting my body more too. I feel stronger, knowing when to rest, when to pause to deal with sore feet, when to eat, drink, or soak in the view. The tune of “My Boyfriend’s Back” runs through my head with different lyrics: “My vision’s back and it’s gonna stay forever. Hey now, hey now, my vision’s back.” It’s true, too—my distance vision is definitely sharper, the more I relax into my own self guidance in the day.

At Gibson Knott, I stop for a snack with Grasmere lake in closer view and take time to belt out songs to the hills. The same kind of joy is bubbling through me as when I was walking on Jura. I love this place, this day, this moment. Myself.

Two swallows speed by doing aerobatics like F-16s; they actually make a whizzing sound, they are moving so fast. A kestrel or similar bird hovers over the heath. Its outspread wings catch the wind, and it hangs motionless in the air. I find a large fluffy, air-worthy feather anchored to the ground by pellets of sheep shit. The analogy isn’t lost on me—lighten my load of unnecessary stuff, and I’ll be able to float on the breeze.

Two hours after first getting to the ridge, I reach the third hilltop, Helm Crag, also known as the Lion and Lamb. Thank god for volunteers who keep up this trail. There are stone steps on the steepest of most ascents, and their welcome regularity of stride makes for happier knees here at Helm Crag. By now, my body is beginning to feel the strain of the day’s continuous up and down. Looking back to the west, I photograph where I’ve come from. “I did that. I walked the ridge.” Some do Mt Everest. I did this fell range.

Grasmere and its lake are beautiful seen from Helm Crag. It’s an awful walk down to get there, though: punishing in its scree and rocks and steep pitch. “Please, level road!” my ankles and knees keep begging of every turn. It takes me forty-five minutes to make the descent, and every step shoots pain through my leg joints.

The last mile into the hostel is blissfully tarmac, albeit a bit uphill, and I reach the YHA at 4:00p, just in time to check in, get settled into a bunk, and go back out to wander around Grasmere in hopes of picking up a few things before stores close at 5:00. Weather reports look good for tomorrow—more sun, no rain.

I’ve been to Grasmere before, over 25 years ago as part of a two-week UK bus tour I took with my grandparents after I graduated from high school. I forgot how large the town is—and it seems to have grown. Lots of stores, hotels, restaurants, bookshops, side streets. A veritable metropolis after so many nearly one-street villages of the last few days.

Grasmere’s most famous son is William Wordsworth, who lived here most of his life and is buried just across from where I sit right now. I’m in a lovely garden that volunteers started two years ago from a waste area. It’s tranquil and shady and right next to the church Wordsworth attended and the cemetery where he helped plant a lot of yew trees that are now almost 150 years old. The town has planted 3,000+ daffodils in this park and they are slowly paving the walkways with stones bought by sponsors. Benches, too. They want to plant an oak tree in one of the corners—no one has stepped up to buy it yet.

There’s a Wordsworth Hotel and Restaurant in Grasmere. Lots of Wordsworth china, books, tourist trinkets, etc. I wonder what good old William would think of all this merchandizing in his name. He’d probably like the garden.

Lots of people are walking by as couples. How nice that would be to have at the moment. I feel sad that I didn’t connect with Michael and David today. I wonder if they took the short route in.

I find a walking shop and buy a second pair of shorts for my wardrobe. The weather’s been warm all day, with good breezes and some cloud-shadowed sun. The top of my thighs got sunburned. I can feel their heat through my black slacks.

I eat a popsicle, Hula Hoops, and a Snickers bar to replenish my energy enough to walk the mile back to the hostel. Physically, I am exceptionally tired—weary feet and legs. At my core though, I feel very fit and calm and pleased with myself. Walking, exercise, is good.

Waiting for dinner at the hostel, I meet up with the couple from Australia whom I’d met last night at the pub in Rosthwaite. Elaine and John. They are outgoing and easy, and I like them both.

John has made a huge project of the walk preparation—laminated, color-coded printouts of each day’s trek, with abbreviated notes about landmarks and interesting spots to see along the way, and enlarged maps of the route. Even punched holes in the sheets so he can wear them around his neck and refer to them as they walk. It took him months to research everything on the web and set it all up.

I’m both impressed and amused. That kind of detailed, organized groundwork is something I would have done years ago—and might have done still, had I not chosen to go more serendipitously on this trip. I begin to judge all that setup as anal, then realize that that kind of deep preparation is undoubtedly vital for safety and survival when walking in Australia’s wilds, as John and Elaine often do. Certainly it alleviates the fear factor of getting lost.

Barry joins me for dinner at the hostel, and John and Elaine, who often do their own cooking in hostel kitchens, join us for company. The hostel staff has taped balloons and a Happy Birthday message to the end of the table I’m sitting at. A little girl is celebrating her birthday with her family. Her little sister is going around with Daddy’s big digital camera taking pictures of everything in macro mode, from her own waving hand to the frosting on the cake to strangers like me eating rice and curry.

Three days ago, in the heat wave from St Bees to Ennerdale Bridge, I was beginning to question the wisdom of this trek, and reading Wainwright’s book in between hasn’t always instilled confidence in my decision to do it. Had I gone through Wainwright’s book before leaving the U.S., or done the kind of research that John did on the C2C, I probably would have bagged the whole idea. I’m glad I didn’t.

I’ve read that the first days on the eastbound walk are grueling ways to get in shape for the rest of the C2C. Looking back, the path hasn’t been hard per se, but it has been strenuous and rough going, requiring significant stamina—and sometimes plain old stubbornness—just to keep on track.

Until today, I’ve also felt an underlying urgency to get to each day’s destination on the map, to not dawdle too long, to make sure I don’t run out of time. Now I’m beginning to settle into the feel of the walking itself, and am finding a rhythm in which my body knows how many hours it takes to go a certain distance. This allows me to pace myself better and to take more time out to enjoy where I’m at.

Fell walking is not for the faint of heart, although it is growing on me. The hills aren’t as intimidating now that I’ve met them. As strangers, they were unreadable and frightening. But having walked them, viewed them, followed their contours, found them labeled on maps, I’ve made friends with them safely.

And their heights are manageable. There are no permanently snow-covered peaks that require special gear to climb, or that give me altitude sickness. The trails here lead me to places, instead of just being fresh-air loops or arduous climbs that I walk for the sake of walking. “Think I’ll go to Grasmere.” Snap. I can do it in a day.

Having seen them first-hand, I can see why Wainwright calls these fells and dales “delectable,” and proclaims today’s walk to be “a walk in heaven.” While I never expected heaven’s steps to be so hard on the knees, I agree.

Trail miles: 8; actual miles walked: 10

C2C Day 3, Stonethwaite (Mile 29.5)—Lofty Goals

I am traveling a road that thousands before me have taken, yet it is still new, for I am embarking on it for the first time myself.

Today is 15.5 miles, from Ennerdale Bridge to a little village called Stonethwaite. Dorothy’s daughter gives me a lift from the farm to town, so I don’t need to walk the same 1.5 miles from their farm again. I stop for cash at the town’s hotel, where, for the first time ever, I actually drain the ATM of its remaining funds—£70—while asking for a larger withdrawal.

I am also planning to buy some snacks before I leave Ennerdale, but the grocer recently closed down, and there are no other stores in the village. How can a village not have a grocer? But there it is—no grocer. I resign myself to trail bars, peanut butter crackers, and water for my lunch break. I’ve forgotten to request a sack lunch from Dorothy.

Today is much cooler than yesterday, for the heat wave has finally broken. A light rain falls as I shrug into my small daypack at 9:10a and head out of town toward the long lake that is Ennerdale Water.

Wainwright describes today’s walk as “easy, with no difficulties of route.” Almost three miles along Ennerdale Water, a four-mile forest walk to Black Sail youth hostel, and the rest of the way over hills to Honister Pass and Borrowdale, a valley that houses several hamlets that, says Wainwright, know how to cater to walkers who have “outsize appetites and tired bodies.”

I start out alone, but am soon overtaken by two C2C’ers near Angler’s Crag, a rocky outcropping on the lake. We pause for introductions. They are Michael and David, brothers, both retired, from Nottingham.

“Traveling alone?” asks Michael with a friendly grin.

“Yes.”

“Well done!” He gives me a round of applause.

Turns out that Michael has walked UK’s trails for 50 years, traveling over many parts of the C2C path, but never all in one shot. David, like me, hasn’t done much long-distance trekking. This is his first time on the C2C—part of his recent retirement celebration.

He’s not sounding particularly celebratory as we compare notes about yesterday’s walk through the second day of heat wave. They had taken the Dent route, and David had suffered from heat exhaustion over the top.

“I nearly died out there!” he says with a half accusatory look toward his older brother, who’s apparently the mastermind behind this idea of the C2C as a sendoff into the life of retirement.

Michael laughs, “Oh, you did all right. Not like that mother and her daughter. You hear about that?”

I shake my head. Michael’s voice and accent remind me of Wallace in Wallace and Grommet.

“They went over Dent yesterday and got turned around on those trails at the top. Heard they were still up there at 7 o’clock, and finally found their way back down the western side and ended up back in Cleator.”

“I’m glad I didn’t do the Dent then,” I say. “I took the easy way around, going along Flat Fell.”

“What!” says David. He turns to his brother. “You mean we didn’t have to go over the Dent? What else are you not telling me about? I could’ve died out there, you know.”

We all laugh, then we sort of walk together up to Angler’s Crag, where we take separate breaks, wave a farewell, and they move ahead at their faster pace.


The rain has let up, the air is muggy, and the morning haze has just about burned off. I peel off my rain jacket and roll it up to attach it to the bottom of my daypack. The trail along the water is easy to follow but rugged, with lots of stones, rock-strewn gravel, and a brief bit of scramble over Angler’s Crag. The second half is punctuated with lovely wooded areas like grottos, but rather than smooth footpaths, there are tree roots everywhere, each one a potential trip-up.

The only safe chance to take in the view is to stop and look around. Otherwise, it’s an unrelenting near-three miles of watching where every foot falls to avoid falling on my face. Very slow going. Still, I do pause often and am rewarded with breathtaking views across the lake, ahead to where I’m going, and back from where I’ve come.


The path along the water ends in a track that allows for a lovely final backward glance before it crosses a field of sheep. The transition from there to forest road happens over a wooden bridge that this morning is blocked by several fat sheep and lots of white and black lambs. They mostly scatter as I approach, but one little fellow panics and gets himself onto the bridge platform, too afraid to go past me and unable to get through the stile that keeps animals off the bridge. I back away reassuringly, and after a few more failed attempts at the stile, the lamb scrambles back to the grass yelling for its mother.

A noon lunch break at the Ennerdale YHA, at Gillerthwaite, gives me the chance to kick off my boots and rest on the grass under a shady tree. I am at mile 19 of the 190-mile trek, and a little over five miles from today’s starting point. The hostel is locked up at the moment—no chance of an indoor toilet. As usual, the hostel guests are gone during the day, and only two other people, staff by the looks of it, come through the gate while I sit here. Some bicyclers on the forest road behind me are noisy and yelling to each other as they part at the gate. They sound like a boisterous group of nine, but there are only four of them.

My toes are holding up magnificently with the lamb’s wool—thank you, Christi, for that dancer’s tip—and I’ve collected a little more from the fields and nettles over the past two days, so I have a good supply. They washed up wonderfully in the machine inside a nylon stocking stuff sack at Low Cock How farm.

Ahead of me is a four-mile track of forest road to the Black Sail hostel, then a two-mile tricky bit that follows cairns instead of fence lines. Despite Wainwright’s assessment of the trail, I’ve been warned that the area is easy to get lost in. I’ll need to be attentive to my surroundings, not just to my feet.


The jutting mass of Pillar Rock, one of the many landmarks that Wainwright had lovingly drawn in his book, is visible beyond the hostel at the east. I read about it in the guide—his drawing matches the profile well.

Starting off again after lunch, I know I’ll make good time on this bit of road. True to Wainwright’s description, however, Ennerdale Forest is a trudge. And a misnomer. It’s really an enormous evergreen plantation, much like the ubiquitous Weyerhauser and Simpson woods in the Pacific Northwest. The same kind of trees—they look like firs here—planted as a crop for their wood. They are homogenous in species and size, crowded together, falling over onto each other like pencils in a jar.

Except in Wainwright’s days, more of the trees were actually there. Now most of them to the north are gone, the plantations having been harvested in a clearcut that leaves hillsides denuded of all but brown stumps and debris. To my left, the bald fells of High Stile, High Crag, and the Haystacks—a favorite ridge walk of Wainwright’s and one that he describes as being “for very strong and experienced fell walkers (only)”—hold the northern horizon away from view. To my right, trees tower and often block the view of the southern crags, and I am lucky to catch a glimpse of the River Liza that flows down the valley to feed Ennerdale Water.

The trail isn’t some lovely little nature walk curving through the remaining woods, either. It’s a straight-on, dusty, unrelieved, exposed gravel road that’s built strong enough to be used by logging trucks. “Just keep plodding along the forest road,” says Wainwright, and he’s right.


A little after 2:00p, the Black Sail hostel, one of the smallest in the YHA collection, is finally in sight. Woohoo! I am out of the clearcut and back into sheep-grazed, grassy hills.

I come around to the front of the hostel, and who’s there on the benches but David and Michael! They praise me for making it here. They’ve just finished lunch and are putting socks and boots back on. David counts multiple blisters.

Unfortunately, the hostel is closed due to unforeseen circumstances—full septic. No toilets. No water. Drat. David and Michael fill their bottles from the hostel’s filtration system up the hill, and they welcome me to join them when I ask if I can travel with them through Loft Beck, that tricky bit of today’s walk.

The trickiest bit turns out to be guessing which steep hill to climb: two of them face us once we follow a shorter side trail from the hostel to the end of the valley. Which one is Loft Beck—the one at the left with all the scrabbly rock and no apparent path, or the taller one to the right that has a faint path up part of it? We spend 15 minutes comparing maps, notes, Wainwright interpretations. David and I, neophytes that we are, dare to outvote Michael and suggest we take the scrabbly track at the left. It seems to fit their OS maps better, as well as descriptions of where to go in my Footprint map.

Willing to give it a go, Michael forges ahead up our chosen trail. David and I push on much more slowly, clearly lacking the mountain-goat blood that Michael has been endowed with.

Michael is practically a white dot against gray rock when he calls down from about halfway up, “There are steps!”

Hoorah, we’ve chosen correctly. I repeat the news to David, who’s not far below me. “We did it! You chose the right path!” I whip out my camera, and David whips off his hat for a photo of the happy moment.

The climb for us is arduous, and David and I buck each other up with jokes and encouragement in between rest stops to lower our heart rates. Michael has disappeared over the top of the hill and doesn’t answer my yells.

“He’ll never hear you,” says David. “He’s long gone. Just wait, when we finally catch up to him, he’ll be all rested, we’ll collapse, and he’ll say, ‘OK, let’s go!’”

The cairns at the top of the hill, which I expected to be difficult to spot, couldn’t have been easier to follow if they’d been neon signs. They are huge pyramids of stones and seem to be placed every two hundred feet. Michael is still nowhere to be seen.

We finally meet him resting among the cairns, having waited at least 20 minutes for us to catch up. His handkerchief is draped over a trekking pole like a white flag. Just as we approach, he grins and acts as if to stand. “Let’s go!”

“See?” says David. “I told you, didn’t I?” He drops down to the grass and groans, “Good thing we’re not expected to have sex once we get up here.” We all break out into laughter.

“Right,” I say, also folding to the ground in relief. “The only thing we would get up here is our bodies.”

We all laugh heartily. It feels good.

The trail leads next into Honister Pass, an old slate mining area, where Michael and David will stop for the day. I am to go on for another three miles to Stonethwaite. The trail to Honister is not only well marked but well trodden. The rocky, uneven ground is even more rough going than Ennerdale Water, though, and my feet and ankles hurt, and my legs are tired.

The last downhill trail—an old tram road that was used to haul slate down from the mine to the processing plant—is grueling in itself: more of that uneven slate and stone jutting all over the place, plus lots of loose rocks. “Ankle breakers,” Michael calls them.

We pull into Honister Slate Mine/Museum/Shop at 4:50p, and I take a half hour break on a slate wall and take a moment to appreciate the snaking trail we just came down. We exchange contact info and kisses and goodbyes. We’re likely to catch each other on the trail to Grasmere tomorrow. Their itinerary ends Aug 2, mine Aug 5; our schedules split off around Keld, I think. Michael tells me I’m supposed to go to the Wainwright Chip Shop in Kirkby Stephen to sign a C2C travel book. It’s close to the halfway point of the trail.

I leave for Stonethwaite, with the intention to have a leisurely supper stop at either Seatoller or Rosthwaite on the way in. I hope to get the Stonethwaite by 9p, which is still daylight at this latitude and time of year.

I reach Seatoller within an hour of walking down another rugged trail, and duck into a restaurant to buy a yogurt and banana to tide me over until dinner, as well as three OS maps to get me over the Lake District and through to Shap, a few days away.

After seeing the additional information that Michael’s OS map provided today, I’m feeling the need to supplement the Footprint maps. The greater topographical detail and wider geographical context allay my fears of getting lost or being unable to take an alternative path if I need one. Too bad OS no longer makes a C2C system map, though—it takes lots of individual maps to piece the whole path together.

I decide to forego the official C2C trail from Seatoller to Rosthwaite so I can stay on the paved road. My feet appreciate the level, smooth ground, and there’s a decent shoulder or sidewalk most of the way.

My arrival at Rosthwaite around 7:00p means I’m just in time for supper at the local pub. I order dinner at the bar with the recommendation/help of a patron who’s the brother of the chef and used to work here, and find a table at the back of the main room. I pull my daypack off and begin telescoping my trekking poles for storage on the booth seat.

From a table nearby, a man says with a smile in his voice, “We should all be wearing a sign saying ‘Coast to Coast Walk’ on the back of our packs.”

He’s bearded, friendly, and the male part of a couple in their late ‘50s or so.

I manage to pull out enough energy for a chat. “You too?”

“Yes. We just came from Ennerdale hostel. Very crowded last night. They had to take in several people from Black Sail because of emergency septic problems at Black Sail. Are you American?”

“Yes. Seattle area. You?” I can’t place his accent, although it sounds familiar.

“Australia. Where are you staying tonight?”

“Stonethwaite Farm, half mile or so down the road. Heading to Grasmere tomorrow.”

“So are we!” says his wife. “Where are you staying?”

“The hostel, I think.”

“Oh, we’re going there! Which one?”

I dig out my notes. “Uh, YHA-Grasmere.”

“Isn’t that great? We’re staying at the same one. Perhaps we’ll see you there, then.”

Another couple from across the room starts talking with the Aussies about the C2C walk. They seem like locals who know a little about the trail, and are familiar with meeting walkers. My dinner arrives and I’m far too tired to keep up with the cross-room conversation, so I disappear into the pleasure of lamb shank with jacket potato and salad and sticky toffee pudding with ice cream. I’m very hungry, and very eager to get to the B&B and collapse for the night.

After a few false turns and wanderings, I finally find Stonethwaite and Stonethwaite Farm. Tracey, the proprietress, has left me a note on the door to find her at a pub down the street. She and some girlfriends are having dinner out. She breaks away from her meal to settle me into the farmhouse.

It’s another cozy renovation with white plaster walls, unsquare corners, and walls wider at the base, plus the added challenge of slanting floors in the hall, my room, and the bathroom. It is reminiscent of the Haunted Shack at Knotts Berry Farm—I lean slightly uphill to walk into the room, sit down on the toilet by falling slightly backward, and take a bit of extra effort to get up out of bed to the left because of the floor’s uphill tilt in that direction. It is, however, altogether warm and comfortable.

Oh, to shower, to sit, to rub oil on my feet, to lay myself down on a bed and ruminate after today’s rough trek! Luxury following luxury. Foot inspection shows signs of stress at my right foot big toe, fourth toe, little toe—tenderness and white skin. The left foot has only the two smallest toes hurting as yesterday, but no fresh blisters. The wool is doing wonders for my comfort; I found more fresh wool to use today, this time in gray and black, too.

Everyone creates their own C2C walk, and I am, too. That’s the fun of meeting people on the way: finding out how they’ve decided to do it, comparing itineraries. And having the chance to share groans over the tougher parts of the trail, or highlights of what we’ve experienced.

My highlights today were definitely meeting Michael and David, and accomplishing Loft Beck. And making it all the way to Stonethwaite after more than fifteen rough-going miles, before dark.

Trail miles: 15.5; actual miles walked: 16

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