Coast to Coast Day 14 – Grosmont to Robin Hood’s Bay

“Are you doing the Coast to Coast then?” asked the man behind the Post Office counter at the Grosmont Co-operative Stores. Given the size of the rucksack sat on my back, it was a pretty safe assumption.

“Second most popular trail in the world”, he went on. “Second only to that Andes trail. More popular than New Zealand. We get people from all over the world doing it. Even from Taiwan!”

He seemed stunned that people would come all the way from the other side of the world to get soaked and cold in the hills of Northern England. And to be rather frank, so was I.

“Really?” I replied. “Because almost everyone I’ve seen seems to have come from the North of England!”

It was perhaps a slight exaggeration however there was an element of truth in it. We really had seen a large number of Northerners whilst we’d been out walking.

The popularity of a walk like the Coast to Coast is such that, inevitably, you regularly see the same group of people. Your itineraries may be slightly different however if you’re all doing the same route in the same number of days, well you’re going to keep on bumping in to people. Often I’d play a game and see if I could correctly guess who we would be sharing the breakfast table with the next morning.

However it was soon to end. It was our fourteenth and final day; the day we’d finally complete our journey from west to east and arrive in Robin Hood’s Bay.

And it being the last day, we began to see lots of people who we didn’t recognise – the people who had done the route in 12 days, 13 days, hey, maybe even 9. The ones who had caught up with us, and those who were going even slower, had taken a rest day or whatever.

The climb out of Grosmont was spent following two such people – a Sloane Ranger-esque couple, where the woman had an amazingly small rucksack with a large bum-bag underneath it. As she walked, the two bags moved in different ways and the whole effect was as if an ant had stood on its hind legs and was walking up the road.

Without the burden of weight that we had, they soon sped on ahead as we hit the moorland, helped by us wandering over the heather filled land seeking a pair of stone circles which barely seemed the effort once we did locate them, and admiring the local wildlife which to seemed to consist mostly of sheep and ants.

Ah the wildlife. Inevitably going over such huge distances meant you are going to see a lot although much of the animals I could tick off in my I-Spy book seemed to consist of different kinds of sheep. Every now and then Catherine would proclaim something like “Is that a peregrine falcon?” but almost without fail it would turn out to be a crow or a blackbird.

Swifts and swallows were plentiful, grouse even more so whilst in several fields butterflies had danced happily around our heads. A turkey once wandered out on to the road. However we never did see what is apparently an amazing sight.

Our guide book proclaimed we may see “the horrendous sight of a stoat dancing before a terrified, hypnotised rabbit” but most of the fluffy creatures we saw were running in an un-hypnotised fashion across fields, or lying in the middle of the road rather squashed. I did see a mole and a hedgehog however both were similarly lifeless.

Coming off the moorland we entered Little Beck Wood where a sign proclaimed we may see roe deer or foxes, and although initially peaceful and rather tranquil we saw little bar fellow walkers.

Then came a sudden change in the woodland life – people, lots of people, ambling around in trainers, shrieking kids running around.

We were suddenly back in civilisation, near a pretty waterfall complete with busy tea shop, and equipped with two huffing and rather rotund men hogging the best view of the cascade by parking their similarly large cameras on tripods there. Even seeing me struggle to actually take a photograph due to their piles of equipment getting in the way did nothing for their selfish hearts and their tripods remained unbudged.

After nearly two weeks spent with lovely, friendly and kind people, it was a harsh welcome back to the real world of selfish, self-centred and ignorant people and I just wanted to pick up their tripods and throw them in to the waterfall below.

Quite what they even expected to catch on the cameras by setting them up so perfectly was beyond me. Were they expecting some rare woodland nymph to suddenly pop out, see the crowds and then hurry away as fast as possible?

Walking through the rest of the woods was similarly disheartening – the kids barging all over the paths; the woman who had barely walked five minutes from her car but couldn’t cope without lighting up a cigarette – and sadly I couldn’t wait to be out of such a lovely place. The empty moorland afterwards was far more inviting and welcoming, back amongst our “own kind” once more. But it was a sharp reminder that soon we’d be back in the normal world properly. The walk would not last forever, even more notable as the moorland fell away once more and left us in areas filled with holiday parks and caravan sites.

The Coast To Coast took us through one such park before finally hitting the coastline. We’d been welcomed by a staff member who had told us to feel free to use the toilets, however that good vibe was spoiled by an unfriendly and downright patronising sign demanding we “respect the privacy of our residents” by not looking through the caravan windows.

It was a ridiculous request. No one feels the need to put such a sign at the entrance to a housing estate. “Waterfield Avenue is a residential area. Please don’t gawp through the net curtains of number 42”. If such a sign really needed to be erected – and that’s dubious – it could have been worded in a much warmer way rather leaving a bitter taste in the mouth of walkers.

Still we were heading for the sea and that was enough to put some joy in our hearts. For most of the afternoon Whitby had been in our sights and if you hadn’t known, you would have assumed it was the place that the Coast to Coast ended. But instead Wainwright had a trick up his sleeve and we were heading south, rejoining once more the Cleveland Way for the last stretch to Robin Hood’s Bay.

The cliff path that would take us there was decked out with a plethora of wild flowers making it a lovely stroll, joined by a number of day trippers taking the path down from Whitby.

Our destination remained hidden until right near the end and even when the bay itself appeared, the town remained invisible for some time. Then, in a crack in the bushes, as if by magic, it appeared; the old buildings of the town suddenly visible next to the sea.

Coming in through the grand streets lined with Victorian guest houses, we made our way steadily towards the beach, fighting our way through the crowds to finally arrive at the Bay Hotel and the sea beyond.

It was hopelessly busy and the journey of two walkers with giant rucksacks meant little here, but we’d made it. Enthusiastically dipping our boots in the sea, we left our pebbles splashing around in the waves as we adjourned to the pub to celebrate our completion with our fellow walkers.

It seemed an appropriate way to end. Usually such long distance paths end at some dull location like a roundabout or a shopping arcade, with no one around to revel in the occasion with you. You’re just some nutter in scruffy clothes with walking poles and a lump of cloth on your back. But here, others knew too. Others to compare notes and mutter things like “wasn’t the Lakes awful?” or discuss the purchasing of celebratory certificates and plaques.

However that wasn’t our only celebration. We’d found a special treat to round off our trip.

At Grosmont Catherine had spied a poster proclaiming, entirely by coincidence, that the Waterson Family would be preforming at Old St Stephen’s Church in the village that very night.

As soon as we’d arrived at Robin Hood’s Bay we got tickets and after a hasty meal at the chip shop and a quick shower we headed right to the top of the village and beyond to visit the old church to see and hear the vocal stylings of some legends of the folk world. Eliza and Martin Carthy were otherwise engaged, however Mike and Norma Waterson and a plethora of talented family members (and someone called Jill) more than made up for it in a concert in the now defunct church which normally sits quietly at the top of the hill with little around it.

As the sun went in, we headed back to the bay for another celebratory pint of two – to sit down and relax.

The following morning would see us heading home. It would all be over. The thought of going back to work in an office in West London just didn’t appeal. We’d spent fourteen days walking across some of the finest landscape in Britain and I’d loved it.

Except the Lakes. Cos frankly they were awful.