Pebbles in pocket and boots baptized in the Irish Sea (coast-to-coast tradition), we set out this morning from the tiny village of St Bees on the first nine of our 190-plus miles across Northern England. For those who closely followed our planning, today was meant to be an orientation day. However, feet itchy for the trail after three days off from walking drew us onto the coastal path early. This approach not only divided our first leg into two shorter segments, it also took advantage of the day's glorious weather. After a week of mostly wet hill walking in Scotland, today's blue skies and light breezes were divine (tomorrow's forecast is not so favorable).
It's our first day and already we find we're referring to our map and notes quite often to confirm the route and remind ourselves that a scar is a cliff, a beck is a stream and a kissing gate and a stile, while serving the same purpose, are quite different structures. So today, we climbed along a coastal scar, crossed a few becks and passed through many a kissing gate as we navigated narrowly rutted and sharply canted paths, through fields of sleeping sheep and around stands of trees giving refuge to the coveted black grouse. No wonder the Brits sound so mesmerizingly lyrical to us Yankees, eh? And the language, while fanciful, simultaneously is so literal it amuses. Why not brown or white for toast at breakfast? (It's all wheat anyway). And how simplistically charming is "No fly tipping" as a plea to curb littering?
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| Coastline at St Bees |
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