The mountain-top adventure pretty well banged up my body, leaving me stiff, sore, and most unfortunately, left my toes painfully bruised. I hobbled up and down stairs at the B&B, into the dining area, even had trouble walking the 100 yards to the nearest pub. Time to re-evaluate exactly what I am doing here.
On Sunday morning, in Grasmere, I decided that two more weeks of this would be stretching the concepts of "vacation" "adventure" and "fun" to uncomfortable limits. Was it worth it to keep forging on, or should I just bag this whole venture and chalk it up to a "learning experience." So I applied the tried and true formula used when sitting through a bad play or opera: if you aren't having fun and enjoying yourself at intermission, why stay through the whole performance? I calculated how much money I had already spent (tolerable) and how much I would save in future expenses over 14 days (considerable), and decided it was time to come back home.
A taxi ride to Oxenhall, the train to London, the Heathrow Express to the airport, and a flight to Newark filled the rest of my Sunday. (I missed the Dulles flight by about an hour). Amtrak took me home the following day. Thus, as you read this final posting, I'm home, safe and sound, taking it very easy on my still sore feet.
Sorry to disappoint those of you rooting for me to soldier on and complete the hike. I'd never saw the coast-to-coast as one of those life-defining challenges that would somehow make me a better person or would cast out some demons in my psyche. My life is not that complicated or nuanced. Rugged hiking just isn't that much fun; now I know that for sure. I'll stick to the more civilized pursuits of walking in the city, stopping at a book store, enjoying a latte and a chocolate croissant along the way.
If I can retrieve them, I'll post some pictures of my short-lived adventure in a few days.
Dr. J's Excellent Adventure will go on hiatus for a few months, to be resumed next summer with Part II. I'll be in Beijing next summer working on my Chinese, and, hopefully, will be in China during the entire academic year, August 2010 through June 2011. Keep your fingers crossed.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Kindness of Strangers
In the last posting, I had just ended my most exhausting day, by knocking on the door of the country house at 11:00 p.m. Surely, someone will take pity, I hoped. A kindly man, Paul (I think), my age, tentatively opened the door, and I told him my tale of woe. All I wanted was for him to call the owners of the inn I was supposed to stay in that night in Rosthwaite, and perhaps if I could arrange for a taxi to pick me up. I even offered to pay Paul if he could get me there. As I suspected, the owner of the Rosthwaite inn, Gillercombe, had gone into alert once I didn't show up at a reasonable hour. The local police and the mountain rescue squad had been told of my absence. (Nothing would have helped, however, given the blanket of fog).
Fortunately, adjacent to the country house was a B&B, the Burnthwaite Farm, owned by Gillian and Andrew Race. Andrew sort of snickered and rolled his eyes when he found that I had been lost all this time. "Happens all the time. You aren't the first, won't be the last," he tried to reassure me. Andrew made sure that the police and mountain rescue squads were called off. Gillian swooped in with tea, ham and cheese sandwiches, and sympathy. I found out that a taxi at that hour was probably impossible, and the trip would take me at least 90 minutes. It might be just 8 miles over the mountains to Rosthwaite, but to get there by roadway meant a circuitous, 90-minute trip. We decided I should just stay at the B&B; it was filled to capacity that night, but Andrew and Gillian were kind enough to offer me a sleeping bag in the television room.
The B&B was filled (all 8 rooms), mostly with a rowdy bunch of farmer-buddies who were driving their antique tractors through the Lake District. They had come to Burnthwaite Farm because Andrew was a friend and had worked with some of them earlier. By 7:00 the next morning, when I was rousted and the room prepared for breakfast, I was still very groggy and exhausted. By 7:30, the breakfast room was boisterous with the farm boys. I marvelled at how I could make out only about half of the things they were saying, even though we all presumably speak the same mother tongue. It must be the Cumbrian brogue.
"So you must be the lad that got lost last night," said Tommy, the most voluble of the bunch. "Come sit with me. We was out all night lookin' for you!" His buddies broke out in laughter. They were out drinking, of course, not looking for hapless Yanks. After downing several pieces of toast, a beaker of tea, and a huge bowl of cereal, Tommy declared to Gillian that he was hungry and wanted a proper English breakfast. Rising to the challenge, Gillian in a few minutes came out with this enormous platter groaning with that most British of gastronomical phenomena, the English breakfast: eggs sunny side up, baked beans, two enormous slices of blood pudding (oh my god), sauteed mushrooms, ham, bangers, stewed tomatoes, two slices of deep fried toast. This was followed by more toast and jams and tea. Tommy polished it off with an efficiency that belies description. We all had our pictures taken at the breakfast table and outside next to the line of tractors. Tommy and his lads helped brighten my day.
It was time to leave the B&B, and my gracious and friendly hosts, Gillian and Andrew, would not take a penny from me. But I do give them my heartfelt gratitude. Paul and his wife generously drove me up to Keswick ("Kessick"); it was the last day of their holiday, they were going home, and Keswick was on their way as well as mine. Again, they would take no money from me. I then took the local bus down to Grasmere, were my luggage was awaiting me for the night. Had a very nice dinner at the Swan Hotel, and in a little swipe of revenge, dined on roasted lamb.
I have been struck many times at the kindness and warmheartedness of the local folks, as well as my fellow hikers, like Peter, and Ted and Terri (from the US) who, upon hearing my tale of woe, were more than willing to walk with me throughout the trip. That was very thoughtful, but I certainly did not want to hold them up: they were experienced, solid walkers, not to be hobbled by rookies.
Well, perhaps I can make lemonade out of lemons. I had decided that my walking days were over: used up at least 8-1/2 of my nine lives the night before, and no sense tempting fate again. The next few days were going to be extremely hilly, but then the walkway flattened out. But no amount of reassurance from locals, fellow hikers, or blog readers was going to change my mind: ladies and gentleman, I have retired, permanently, from mountain climbing, sheep gazing, and nature defying. A walk in the park will be all I'll attempt. So I decided that I'd simply go from the B&B in one destination to the B&B in the next, shuttled by a bus or taxi, and ending up with a nice holiday, albeit without sore feet and dirty clothes. That was my plan, but, alas, it didn't work out that way.
I'll explain in the next posting.
Fortunately, adjacent to the country house was a B&B, the Burnthwaite Farm, owned by Gillian and Andrew Race. Andrew sort of snickered and rolled his eyes when he found that I had been lost all this time. "Happens all the time. You aren't the first, won't be the last," he tried to reassure me. Andrew made sure that the police and mountain rescue squads were called off. Gillian swooped in with tea, ham and cheese sandwiches, and sympathy. I found out that a taxi at that hour was probably impossible, and the trip would take me at least 90 minutes. It might be just 8 miles over the mountains to Rosthwaite, but to get there by roadway meant a circuitous, 90-minute trip. We decided I should just stay at the B&B; it was filled to capacity that night, but Andrew and Gillian were kind enough to offer me a sleeping bag in the television room.
The B&B was filled (all 8 rooms), mostly with a rowdy bunch of farmer-buddies who were driving their antique tractors through the Lake District. They had come to Burnthwaite Farm because Andrew was a friend and had worked with some of them earlier. By 7:00 the next morning, when I was rousted and the room prepared for breakfast, I was still very groggy and exhausted. By 7:30, the breakfast room was boisterous with the farm boys. I marvelled at how I could make out only about half of the things they were saying, even though we all presumably speak the same mother tongue. It must be the Cumbrian brogue.
"So you must be the lad that got lost last night," said Tommy, the most voluble of the bunch. "Come sit with me. We was out all night lookin' for you!" His buddies broke out in laughter. They were out drinking, of course, not looking for hapless Yanks. After downing several pieces of toast, a beaker of tea, and a huge bowl of cereal, Tommy declared to Gillian that he was hungry and wanted a proper English breakfast. Rising to the challenge, Gillian in a few minutes came out with this enormous platter groaning with that most British of gastronomical phenomena, the English breakfast: eggs sunny side up, baked beans, two enormous slices of blood pudding (oh my god), sauteed mushrooms, ham, bangers, stewed tomatoes, two slices of deep fried toast. This was followed by more toast and jams and tea. Tommy polished it off with an efficiency that belies description. We all had our pictures taken at the breakfast table and outside next to the line of tractors. Tommy and his lads helped brighten my day.
It was time to leave the B&B, and my gracious and friendly hosts, Gillian and Andrew, would not take a penny from me. But I do give them my heartfelt gratitude. Paul and his wife generously drove me up to Keswick ("Kessick"); it was the last day of their holiday, they were going home, and Keswick was on their way as well as mine. Again, they would take no money from me. I then took the local bus down to Grasmere, were my luggage was awaiting me for the night. Had a very nice dinner at the Swan Hotel, and in a little swipe of revenge, dined on roasted lamb.
I have been struck many times at the kindness and warmheartedness of the local folks, as well as my fellow hikers, like Peter, and Ted and Terri (from the US) who, upon hearing my tale of woe, were more than willing to walk with me throughout the trip. That was very thoughtful, but I certainly did not want to hold them up: they were experienced, solid walkers, not to be hobbled by rookies.
Well, perhaps I can make lemonade out of lemons. I had decided that my walking days were over: used up at least 8-1/2 of my nine lives the night before, and no sense tempting fate again. The next few days were going to be extremely hilly, but then the walkway flattened out. But no amount of reassurance from locals, fellow hikers, or blog readers was going to change my mind: ladies and gentleman, I have retired, permanently, from mountain climbing, sheep gazing, and nature defying. A walk in the park will be all I'll attempt. So I decided that I'd simply go from the B&B in one destination to the B&B in the next, shuttled by a bus or taxi, and ending up with a nice holiday, albeit without sore feet and dirty clothes. That was my plan, but, alas, it didn't work out that way.
I'll explain in the next posting.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Day 2: Ennerdale Bridge to Rosthwaite
Easy Going, then Rain, then Disaster
Left Ennerdale bridge 8:45 a.m., finished at 11:00 p.m.
Day started out fine: overcast, a little breezy, a comfortable feeling. Took the south route along Ennerdale Lake, along with about 5 other hikers. They soon left me. An easy five miles over gravel road; then the rains started, and by the time I stopped at a Youth Hostel, I was soaked. Then I started my way--by myself--up the steep hills, carefully following the path. This was around 2:00 p.m.
From then on until 11:00, it was unmitigated disaster. The higher I climbed, the nastier the weather turned, with gale force winds, and then the entire mountains covered in mist. I could see perhaps five feet in front of me. I continued following the trail, spotting footprints of those ahead of me (but nowhere in sight). The climb became more and more treacherous. Wet grass, wet and loose rocks, gale winds, visibility ten feet, sheep turds everywhere, and me not knowing where the hell I was. I was stuck on that mountain, going up 2,700 feet, for eight hours.
One of the hardest things to do is climb up the 40-degree steep slopes; harder still, was coming back down the other side. I fell at least ten times, fortunately just scrapes. And for a time, the only way down was to crawl backwards feet first. I did this for probably 500 yards, down the steep slopes.
I have to admit I was truly frightened. One false step could mean a broken ankle or a very nasty fall. It had to be the worse eight hours of my life: freezing cold, constant rain, lost, with no help in sight (cell phones didn't reach out here). All I could think of was my old friend David B., who loved to mountain climb, and who froze to death on the Andes Mountains some twenty years ago. I wasn't going to freeze, but who knows what shape I would be in. After one climbed ridge only led to another, I was accepting the fact that I might have to spend the night on one of these high ridges. Just me, the rain, and the sheep.
Finally, at 9:00 p.m., the mist lifted, and I could see far down the valley and see some signs of civilization. If only I could get down there (from about 2,400 feet) in two hours, before the daylight was completely gone. I made it, bruised, demoralized, totally fatigued, with five minutes to spare. Fortunately, it doesn't get dark this time of year in this part of England until 11:00, but by the time I knocked on the farm house door, I was barely able to see any thing. Too close for comfort.
More on my physical travails and my rescue from the wilds of the Lake District in my next posting. Suffice to say, I'm bruised, battered, but okay. Perhaps learned a lesson or two about what is and what isn't within my grasp. Maybe I should stick to Bach Two-Part Inventions.
Left Ennerdale bridge 8:45 a.m., finished at 11:00 p.m.
Day started out fine: overcast, a little breezy, a comfortable feeling. Took the south route along Ennerdale Lake, along with about 5 other hikers. They soon left me. An easy five miles over gravel road; then the rains started, and by the time I stopped at a Youth Hostel, I was soaked. Then I started my way--by myself--up the steep hills, carefully following the path. This was around 2:00 p.m.
From then on until 11:00, it was unmitigated disaster. The higher I climbed, the nastier the weather turned, with gale force winds, and then the entire mountains covered in mist. I could see perhaps five feet in front of me. I continued following the trail, spotting footprints of those ahead of me (but nowhere in sight). The climb became more and more treacherous. Wet grass, wet and loose rocks, gale winds, visibility ten feet, sheep turds everywhere, and me not knowing where the hell I was. I was stuck on that mountain, going up 2,700 feet, for eight hours.
One of the hardest things to do is climb up the 40-degree steep slopes; harder still, was coming back down the other side. I fell at least ten times, fortunately just scrapes. And for a time, the only way down was to crawl backwards feet first. I did this for probably 500 yards, down the steep slopes.
I have to admit I was truly frightened. One false step could mean a broken ankle or a very nasty fall. It had to be the worse eight hours of my life: freezing cold, constant rain, lost, with no help in sight (cell phones didn't reach out here). All I could think of was my old friend David B., who loved to mountain climb, and who froze to death on the Andes Mountains some twenty years ago. I wasn't going to freeze, but who knows what shape I would be in. After one climbed ridge only led to another, I was accepting the fact that I might have to spend the night on one of these high ridges. Just me, the rain, and the sheep.
Finally, at 9:00 p.m., the mist lifted, and I could see far down the valley and see some signs of civilization. If only I could get down there (from about 2,400 feet) in two hours, before the daylight was completely gone. I made it, bruised, demoralized, totally fatigued, with five minutes to spare. Fortunately, it doesn't get dark this time of year in this part of England until 11:00, but by the time I knocked on the farm house door, I was barely able to see any thing. Too close for comfort.
More on my physical travails and my rescue from the wilds of the Lake District in my next posting. Suffice to say, I'm bruised, battered, but okay. Perhaps learned a lesson or two about what is and what isn't within my grasp. Maybe I should stick to Bach Two-Part Inventions.
Day 1: St. Bees to Ennerdale Bridge
Hot, Humid, Difficult
That about sums up this most difficult of days. About 14 and 1/2 miles, started at 8:30 a.m., finished at 6:15 p.m.
Walking along the Irish Sea coastal path was steep, narrow and tortuous. Had to watch every single step, for fear of twisting an ankle. This certainly is not taking a leisurely stroll down Connecticut Avenue! Several hikers, more powerful and more comfortable, passed me by, but for the most part, I was by myself. Lots of rocks underfoot; fortunately, I had sturdy boots that helped keep my footing and provide some support. The trail was marked fairly well, but in too many places, it was difficult to discern where the trail was, particularly when going through fields. Some of the trail was on gravel roads (fine), but then it could deteriorate to a six-inch wide path overgrown with weeds.
It was so hot, that I had to drink like a fish. Probably had four liters of water. I was so dehydrated and so hot that I couldn't eat anything, not even a power bar. (Made up for much of this after the conclusion of the day at the pub and a lasagna dinner).
My trip was saved by my partnering up with Peter from Somerset. A stout-hearted fellow, former Royal Marine, who (a) knew what he was doing and (b) could read maps. I would have been utterly lost without his guidance. The guidebooks warn you, "Never walk alone." Now I understand. Only because of Peter did I make it to my destination safely. My map reading skills are pretty basic, and until Peter showed me how to use a compass, I was still struggling away.
Glad to have this first day over. But I was slyly warned by a veteran walker that the next day would be even more difficult. Stay tuned. Pictures will follow once I get home.
That about sums up this most difficult of days. About 14 and 1/2 miles, started at 8:30 a.m., finished at 6:15 p.m.
Walking along the Irish Sea coastal path was steep, narrow and tortuous. Had to watch every single step, for fear of twisting an ankle. This certainly is not taking a leisurely stroll down Connecticut Avenue! Several hikers, more powerful and more comfortable, passed me by, but for the most part, I was by myself. Lots of rocks underfoot; fortunately, I had sturdy boots that helped keep my footing and provide some support. The trail was marked fairly well, but in too many places, it was difficult to discern where the trail was, particularly when going through fields. Some of the trail was on gravel roads (fine), but then it could deteriorate to a six-inch wide path overgrown with weeds.
It was so hot, that I had to drink like a fish. Probably had four liters of water. I was so dehydrated and so hot that I couldn't eat anything, not even a power bar. (Made up for much of this after the conclusion of the day at the pub and a lasagna dinner).
My trip was saved by my partnering up with Peter from Somerset. A stout-hearted fellow, former Royal Marine, who (a) knew what he was doing and (b) could read maps. I would have been utterly lost without his guidance. The guidebooks warn you, "Never walk alone." Now I understand. Only because of Peter did I make it to my destination safely. My map reading skills are pretty basic, and until Peter showed me how to use a compass, I was still struggling away.
Glad to have this first day over. But I was slyly warned by a veteran walker that the next day would be even more difficult. Stay tuned. Pictures will follow once I get home.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
St. Bee's in the Throes of a Heatwave
Countdown: Day Before
Finally, I'm at the beginning of my journey, in the village of St. Bees. Not on many maps, but nonetheless a lovely little place. Trip from Carlisle was on the Barrow-in-Furness train, a two-car clickety-clack conveyance, far more bumpy than the Virgin train that brought me from London to Carlisle. Carlisle to Wigton to Aspatria to Maryport to Workington to Parton to Whitehaven to Corkickle to St. Bees. You have to ask the conductor to make a special stop.
Everyone here is sweltering in the heat, but is pretty cool in Washington terms, and except for the humidity, would be almost pleasant.
Walked around the village, such as it is, listened from the street to the students at the music building at the St. Bee's Priory Church school playing Pachebel's Canon in piano reduction. Went down to the seaside, the Irish Sea, and ceremoniously dipped my boots into the water and gathered up a small seashell. The seashell will be dropped off at Robin Hood's Bay in 17 days, assuming I make it that far.
Staying at a small inn, the Queens Hotel; quaint, clean, no air-conditioning. But nice people. Innkeeper even let me use his own computer when mine couldn't connect to the wireless. Probably the last time I will communicate for a couple days. Going into the wilds, with little hope for an Internet connection.
Still not very comfortable going into this venture; but I'll press on.
Finally, I'm at the beginning of my journey, in the village of St. Bees. Not on many maps, but nonetheless a lovely little place. Trip from Carlisle was on the Barrow-in-Furness train, a two-car clickety-clack conveyance, far more bumpy than the Virgin train that brought me from London to Carlisle. Carlisle to Wigton to Aspatria to Maryport to Workington to Parton to Whitehaven to Corkickle to St. Bees. You have to ask the conductor to make a special stop.
Everyone here is sweltering in the heat, but is pretty cool in Washington terms, and except for the humidity, would be almost pleasant.
Walked around the village, such as it is, listened from the street to the students at the music building at the St. Bee's Priory Church school playing Pachebel's Canon in piano reduction. Went down to the seaside, the Irish Sea, and ceremoniously dipped my boots into the water and gathered up a small seashell. The seashell will be dropped off at Robin Hood's Bay in 17 days, assuming I make it that far.
Staying at a small inn, the Queens Hotel; quaint, clean, no air-conditioning. But nice people. Innkeeper even let me use his own computer when mine couldn't connect to the wireless. Probably the last time I will communicate for a couple days. Going into the wilds, with little hope for an Internet connection.
Still not very comfortable going into this venture; but I'll press on.
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