There are also some rather lovely churches en route. St Edmund at Marske is a particular little beauty while the one in Bolton-on-Swale has a memorial to Henry Jenkins – said to be 169 years old when he died – where you’ll find drinks and chocolate bars for the price of an honest donation when you’re really desperate.
Having crossed the Yorkshire Dales, I enter my third national park – the North York Moors. It’s another contrast. The path is darker, more foreboding and the stages start to get grindingly long. My feet are bad but it’s the mind that starts to rebel here. Motivation suffers, particularly over the long final stretch towards the isolated Lion Inn at Blakey Ridge, trudging on a disused, gravel railway track. Feeling a little sorry for myself I decide to ditch my tent and lighten the load. It helps me through to my final destination, the village of Grosmont, the last stopping point before the sea.
That evening I stay in the relative unfettered luxury of the Periwinkle room at the Grosmont House bed and breakfast. I mull over the fact that I’m now only six hours from my final destination. I think about the 180-odd miles I’ve covered so far (not including retraced steps) and in a happy daze I fall asleep and my aches and pains seem to disappear entirely.
The next day begins with another steep climb, but today all is made beautiful by the presence of sun and a cloudless sky. From the top of the moors I get a view of Whitby Abbey lying ruined on the side of the coast, framed by huge clouds massing over the sea. Skirting down the final few miles by the cliffs I feel like an intrepid adventurer and wild man. I let out a victory cry as I rush into Robin Hood’s Bay, which is all tumbledown houses and tight cobbled lanes.
After being in solitary for so long it is a bit of a shock to be in the company of so many people once again. I feel a little self conscious in the city streets, me – nature man coming out of the fields – now with tourists and holidaymakers. The camaraderie and solitude of the wilds is now long gone. No one here to wave you a friendly hello. Once more into civilisation where you’re another face to the girl behind the chip counter. Some words of Wainwright come to me: “You are made to soar, to crash to earth, then to rise and soar again.” Sure. Life goes on.
