Nadine, Author at Nadine Walks

Day 15 on the Pennine Way: Byrness to Kirk Yetholm, 26-miles

May 21, 2019

My alarm went off at 4:30am the morning of my 15th and final day on the Pennine Way. Already the sun was starting its slow rise over the horizon and soft light was pouring through my window.

I was in the bunkhouse in Byrness and despite the early hour, despite the intimidation I felt over the challenge ahead, I couldn’t wait to get out of that place.

I woke up remembering the very poor reception I’d received the night before, but already the sting wasn’t as sharp. At this early hour I knew that I could pack my bag, drink a fast cup of coffee in the kitchen downstairs, and slip through the door and out of the village without anyone noticing. I could leave, and I would never have to return.

I remember learning this on the Camino Frances, and it’s one thing I really like about long-distance walking. Every day is a new day, and every day you move on to some place different. In regular life, a bad interaction or experience can linger: often, you need to drive down the same roads, go to the same building for work, encounter the same people, the same neighbors, sleep in the same bed. It can feel hard to get away from a bad day.

But on the Camino, or the Pennine Way, or any long-distance trail, you get to walk away and never look back! For better or worse, every day is different. From the terrain to the villages and towns, to the people and the locals. If you have a bad experience one day, at the very least you can be assured that it probably won’t be repeated the next day (unless you’re walking with blisters. Blisters follow you for far longer than you’d like).

So after washing my face and gulping down some coffee, I hoisted up my pack and started walking out of the village. It was just past 5am. I had never had an earlier start, nor had I ever carried a pack so heavy.

Both of these facts were due to the day I had ahead of me: 26-miles through a mostly wild and remote landscape in the border country of England and Scotland. There would be no water sources that day, no services or pubs or food trucks or towns or villages for just about the entire stretch. I’d be walking up and down, up and down for a total of 4800ft of elevation gain over the 26-miles. It was also due to be another hot and sunny day, and while I vastly preferred this kind of weather to rain, I knew that the heat would take its toll. And so because of this, I’d packed more water than I’d ever carried before, and I can’t even remember how much. 4 liters? Maybe? (Which is a little under 9 pounds).

It was July 4th- America’s Independence Day- but the date barely registered. Instead, I was grateful for the long hours of daylight that the summer days had been giving me, beginning with a sunrise around 4:30am. With a very long day of walking in store, I decided that I might as well start as soon as the sun came up.

I’d felt defeated the night before, but as soon as I started walking, I felt so much better. This was what it was all about: walking into the hills in the soft morning air, alone and free.

The climb out of Byrness was a doozy, and as soon as I started going up I could feel the weight of my pack pulling me back. But I just leaned forward and propelled myself up, stopping every once in awhile to look behind me. I was climbing above the tree-line, and soon I was above even a thin layer of clouds.

The morning light was golden, it lit against the blades of grass and shone through the white puffy flowers and etched out the trail so that I could see its snaking line, winding over the hills.

I was walking down one of these hills when I fell. It was the first time I’ve ever fallen on a walk, and luckily the fall was more funny than anything else. There was a subtle mound in the grass and as I was descending a small hill my foot hit the mound and threw off my center of gravity. Now, if I hadn’t been wearing a pack (or if I had a much lighter pack), I’m pretty sure I could have caught myself and straightened out. But my pack was just too heavy, and as soon as I was thrown off balance my pack did the rest of the work, and pulled me toward the ground. I felt like it was all happening in slow motion: I realized that I stood no chance against the pack and so I just sort of tipped over. I landed with my pack mostly underneath me and for a minute I just laid there, sprawled out in the grass, unable to get up easily because my pack was keeping me down. When I finally pulled myself up, I noticed two things. One: the end of my walking pole was now bent (I had tried to catch myself with it to no avail), and two: a group of sheep was staring at me in alarm.

“It’s okay, sheep!” I said, as I brushed the grass from my pants. “Nothing to see here! All good. Just a little tumble, no one’s hurt!”

My strategy for the walk was to break it up into chunks. I told myself I wasn’t allowed to think about the day as a whole, otherwise I worried that I might get too overwhelmed. Instead, I’d marked up the maps in my guidebook with notes and circles and arrows and I’d determined the spots where I could stop for a break.

My first destination of the day was the Lamb Hill Refuge Hut, about 8-miles into the walk. I didn’t note how long I had been walking but my guidebook estimates that those 8-miles take about 4 hours, and this is due to the constant up and down of the terrain. On and on I pushed, and those first 8-miles were difficult and glorious. I’m convinced that the quality of the light was different that morning: it was golden and glowing and it illuminated every blade of grass, every sheep, every rock, every wooden slab.

On and on and there, in the distance, the only thing for miles and miles was a little wooden hut. I waved my broken walking stick in the air and shouted, “The hut!!!!!”

No one could hear me, except maybe a sheep, because after those 8-miles I still hadn’t seen a soul. The hut was much further away than it appeared and there was a moment when I wondered if maybe it was some sort of mirage, because I kept walking and walking and it didn’t appear to get any closer but finally it did, and then I was there.

I threw off my pack and sniffed around. There wasn’t much inside: a flag and a some notes on the trail encased in plastic, a granola bar and a broom in the corner. The simple wooden shelter would be a relief in bad weather, and is used by some hikers as a camping spot. As for me, I kicked off my shoes, settled in on the wooden porch, and dug into some snacks.

When I left the shelter behind, I felt a bit like I was heading back out into the great unknown. I didn’t feel frightened or uncertain; the weather was fine and the path was marked clearly and I had good maps and despite the distance I felt like I would be able to make it to the end. But there was a wildness to that last day on the Pennine Way. To have that great, rolling, open landscape all to myself make me feel like I was alone in some far corner of the world. I loved it.

I walked and I walked: up Lamb Hill, down a sharp descent. Over stone slabs and wooden planks, down the narrow path worn into the soft grass. All around were the soft, rounded hills of the Cheviots, the highland range that marks the boundary between England and Scotland. Up Beefstand Hill, up Mozie Law, up to the trig point at Windy Gyle which was the halfway point of the day. I paused here for a photo, dropped my pack and stretched my back and stood sipping water for a few minutes, but then continued on.

Up to King’s Seat and then up, and up, and up, a long, drawn out ascent. It was somewhere around this point where I caught up to the four Australian women who had stayed in Byrness the night before. They had split this last stage into two days and were on their second and final day, having been dropped off somewhere a bit further back. When they saw me they stared in surprise. “What time did you start walking?” they asked. “How do you feel?”

I was tired, I could feel it all over my body, but I also felt like I had found a good rhythm. I chatted for a minute but continued on: on and on and when I got to the Auchope Cairn- a huge pile of rocks that sits just before the descent to the second refuge hut- I took a break. I’d been intending to stop at the hut but suddenly it felt so far away, down at the bottom of a very steep descent and I decided that some lunch and some time to prop up my feet was the best idea.

After the break, and after the second refuge hut, I still had 7-miles to go. I don’t remember as much about these last 7-miles, and I only have a few photos. Clouds had rolled in and I hunkered down and set my mind firmly to the task ahead. I just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other, over and over, and in this way, somehow, I would make it to Kirk Yetholm.

The Schil was the last ascent of the day, a slow and steady mile and a half climb from the second refuge hut, and I remember my determination as I walked. “The Schil!” I said as I walked, “The Schil!”. The name felt dramatic, direct. I paused for just a moment at the base of the steepest part of the climb, and looked at what stood before me. “This is it,” I whispered, “this is the final push.”

I made it to the top, slow but steady, and then on legs that were beginning to feel wobbly I continued walking: cheering when I saw a sign for Kirk Yetholm, 4 1/2 miles. It was here that the route divides, giving walkers the option of either a higher or lower route. The higher route is more scenic but also more challenging, the lower route offers a much more straightforward and easy path to the finish.

For me it was an easy decision: I was taking the lower route all the way. The day had been full of beauty and adventure, and I was done. I plowed ahead, willing myself to continue putting one foot in front of the other, savoring the last of the hills and simultaneously hoping that civilization would soon come into view.

And before too long, it did: I passed through farms and saw trees and the dirt path spit me out onto a paved road and after one final, sharp climb, I arrived in Kirk Yetholm (also, at some point, I’d officially crossed into Scotland!).

I was exhausted. Exhausted, but also quietly triumphant. I walked around the tiny village twice before asking someone to help me find my lodgings: the Kirk Yetholm Friends of Nature House (a hostel with a lovely name).

I think the poor reception I’d received the evening before in Byrness still had me a bit shaken because I felt somewhat on guard when I entered Kirk Yetholm, but very quickly the village righted the score and helped me end the Pennine Way on such a high note. The man working at the hostel was so kind and thoughtful: he congratulated me on my walk, showed me to my room, and promised that he would help me navigate my travel options for the following day. While I didn’t meet anyone else who finished the Pennine Way that day (aside from the Australian women, I was the only other one), I did encounter groups of other walkers who were curious about my adventure (Kirk Yetholm, in addition to being the start/end point of the Pennine Way, also sits along St Cuthbert’s Way).

And then, after my shower, I walked over to the Border Hotel, which has become something of an unofficial end point of the walk. Inside, if you ask, you can sign a Pennine Way guestbook, receive a free half-pint of beer, and a certificate, too. All it took was for me to mention that I’d just finished the walk and the guy behind the bar smiled, brought out the guestbook, wrote the date on my certificate, and quickly poured me a beer (the free beer tradition was started by Alfred Wainwright, who wrote a famed guidebook for the walk after his 1966-67 experience. He promised to buy a pint for anyone who completed the entire trail, and this tradition has lived on today, though it was downgraded to a half-pint sometime in the last few years).

After my half-pint I ordered a full pint along with a good, hearty meal, then walked back to my hostel. The sun was setting, the sky blazing pink and orange and yellow and I stood outside for a minute, watching the colors, watching the clouds shift and expand. I breathed deeply, and thought about how I felt. I felt tired, but I also felt strong. I felt sad that my journey had ended but I felt so proud, too. And more than anything I felt a deep contentment: content that I’d spent the last 15 days walking for 268-miles through the moorland and dales and countryside of Northern England. I’d done it, and even though this wasn’t my first long-distance walk, there is always a profound sense of satisfaction and contentment that follows each one, and the Pennine Way was no different. The walk was done, and for now, I needed a rest. But long-distance walking has me hooked, and I knew it would only be a matter of time until I started planning the next journey.

Day 14 on the Pennine Way; Bellingham to Byrness, 15-miles

April 24, 2019

My 14th Day on the Pennine Way (and my penultimate day!) wasn’t much to write home about. For all intents and purposes, it was a fairly standard day. 15-miles, modest ascent (which is to say- not much), mostly easy walking through farms and moorland and down a long forestry track.

The night before I’d stocked up on food at the grocery store in Bellingham, so I had plenty of supplies for snacks and lunch. I also stopped at a bakery around the corner from my bunkhouse before leaving town, where I bought a blueberry muffin that I carefully wrapped and tucked into my pack for a mid-morning snack.

The walking might not have been difficult, but it was another day where I felt like I was dragging. I couldn’t explain it because the day before had been one of glorious and strong walking. Maybe it had been a few too many miles with a little too much elevation, but I had eaten a good dinner and gotten an even better night’s sleep, so I couldn’t really explain my sluggish feeling.

(Or, maybe, this is just long-distance walking. Some days are strong and some days are a struggle, and it’s simply the result of so many miles, day after day after day. Somewhere on this blog I’d written about a theory, how every strong day seemed to be followed by a weaker day. This seemed to happen a few times on the Pennine Way, so maybe there’s something to this?)

But, as usual, there was nothing to do but keep walking, and so I did. Then, in the middle of a great stretch of empty moorland, I felt desperate for a break. I looked around for a place to sit and didn’t see much, but finally went off the path a few steps where I’d spotted a small rock in a very tiny clearing. I dropped my pack and dug out the blueberry muffin, along with a cold bottle of coffee frappuccino from Starbucks (a nice treat from last night’s grocery run!).

The muffin and coffee didn’t erase my fatigue completely but they certainly helped, and with a little more energy I continued on. But then, shortly after the break, I managed to get myself off track. I’d reached a section of open land and was following a very faint, barely discernible path through the brush. After awhile, the path just disappeared (or maybe I’d stopped paying attention?). My guidebook’s map didn’t help and so I just headed up a small hill, hoping something would look right.

I walked and walked, ignoring the gut feeling that was telling me I was wandering further and further from the Pennine Way. I thought I was heading towards a road in the distance- which I thought I saw on my map- but it actually wasn’t a road or wasn’t the right one in any case- and so I had to admit defeat and turn back around and retrace my steps. When I made it back to the point where I’d gotten confused I of course saw a Pennine Way marker and so I got myself back on the path. I probably lost at least 30 minutes, maybe more, to my mistake, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as those additional 4-miles of mistakes I’d made on the very first day of walking.

More walking and then I saw a man approaching me from the opposite direction, decked out in hiking gear. Much further down the trail was another man, and even from my distance I could tell that he was moving slowly.

“Hello!” the first man greeted me, with a deep voice and a big smile.

We started talking, and I learned that he and his friend had just started the Pennine Way, but were walking north to south. “We started two days ago,” the north-south hiker told me. “It’s been glorious so far, but my friend has really bad blisters and I don’t know if he’ll be able to continue.”

He marveled that I was walking alone, that I was almost at the end of my journey, and that I’d be doing the Byrness to Kirk Yetholm stretch in one day. I tried to think of some advice I could give him, some helpful hint or important information but how can you reduce a walk like this into just the essentials? Besides, these men probably already knew the most essential thing: that it’s about the walking, nothing more and nothing less, and that you have to just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

When his friend caught up they both carried on, smiling and waving as I headed off into the moors. “Congratulations on the end of your journey!” they called after me.

I walked and I walked and about an hour later, I came across two more hikers, this time two young women, also coming from the opposite direction! They, too, had just started the Pennine Way two days before, and were thrilled and exhausted and daunted and excited. We had a very similar conversation to the one I’d had with the two men, but I added that I’d just met these other hikers, that they were very kind, and that they should keep an eye out for them in Bellingham.

And this time I sent them off with encouraging words. “Enjoy this hike,” I said to them. “Enjoy every moment, even the hard ones.”

I climbed a big hill, I walked through rough grass, I entered an area my guidebook called “new forestry” which is a nice way of describing a landscape that looked like the apocalypse hit. The land was dry and cracked, trees were razed and for a long, long stretch all I could see were dead branches and stumps and there was no movement, no sound, no wind and no shade from the sun. I was still dragging and needed to find a spot to have lunch, and for the past several hours I’d been dreaming about a green patch of grass in the shade but instead I was walking through dead earth. It was so hot, and I was tired.

I found a big tree stump and threw down my pack and took off my shoes and sat on the stump and ate my lunch but it was uncomfortable, and unpleasant.

And then, because it’s all there really is to do, I kept walking. Soon the path spit me out onto the forestry track, a long paved road that would lead me to Blakehopeburnhaugh. At first it was nice to walk on flat, even ground, but very quickly I started despising the road. There was no wind, the sun was beating down and baking my skin, the road was covered in small rocks so it made easy and quick walking difficult. The road was dusty and if I stopped for a moment- to adjust my pack or take a sip of water- big horse flies would land on my arms and legs and bite.

I was walking like this for about a mile when I heard a sound somewhere behind me. It was a deep, low rumbling, but it seemed to be growing louder. I stopped, turned around, and squinted down the path. At first I couldn’t seen anything but then I saw a swirl, a great swirling dirty cloud coming up from the road and I realized that the cloud was attached to a truck. It was a lumber lorry and it seemed to be barreling down the road, gaining speed as it approached, the cloud of dust growing bigger, and bigger. My guidebook had warned me about this. “If you’re lucky you won’t be covered in dust by a speeding timber lorry!”

Well, this wasn’t my day, and I wasn’t lucky. The shoulder of the road was narrow and it dropped steeply off into the woods and I looked ahead and behind and I couldn’t find a spot where I could tuck myself away. So I moved as far into the shoulder as I could, turned my back to the truck and braced myself for its arrival.

And because sometimes the only thing you can do is to try to find humor in an unhappy situation, I decided to take a photo as the truck sped past. “Maybe I’ll look at this later and laugh,” I thought to myself, and so here it is, the truck just visible in the background and the dust that is about to coat me, head to toe.

You’d better believe the horse flies were biting as I stopped to let the truck past too. And then, about 10 minutes later, another truck approached but at least this one was moving slower, and I got covered by marginally less dust the second time around.

I’m not sure how much longer it took me to get into Byrness, but once I was finally off the forestry track the walking became easier, the views were better, and I was relieved to finally be close to my lodgings.

But this wasn’t meant to be a good day. I’ve struggled with knowing how to write about this part of my journey, thinking I would just skip it all together, say that I arrived in Byrness, settled into my bunkhouse, ate a good meal, went to bed. I guess I don’t want to be too negative or critical, but this was part of my journey, and I had a bad experience with where I stayed in Byrness.

Aside from a campsite, there’s really only one place to stay in the tiny village that’s 26-miles before the end of the Pennine Way. The next 26-miles are mostly through an empty, wild landscape, and the only options for breaking up the day are to wild camp, or to stay in the Bed and Breakfast in Byrness for two nights and be shuttled back and forth.

I’d planned to stay in the B&B but when I was making reservations I discovered that the owners also operated a bunkhouse. “This will be perfect!” I’d thought. So I made my reservation and assumed that all would be fine. I was going to do the final 26-miles all in one go, so I wouldn’t need the assistance of a ride back and forth from my ending/starting point.

My guidebook also raved about this place, and I think that’s one reason that my experience stung so much. The guidebook didn’t mention the bunkhouse, but said, “They also allow walkers to camp for free if they eat a meal in their restaurant, campers have access to toilet and shower facilities… they also have a shop (4-10pm) selling a wide range of foods. (The lodging) is designed around walkers and campers and is highly recommended for anyone camping or hostelling along the Way; nothing is too much trouble for the owners.“

I arrived, had to wait for the bunkhouse to be opened, but eventually was greeted by one of the owners. He led me to my room and then I asked about having dinner that night and that’s when things took a turn. A look crossed his face and his smile disappeared. “You’re supposed to have brought food with you,” he said. “That’s why we have a kitchen here.”

“Oh, I thought I could have a meal in the restaurant.” And then I apologized, several times, telling him that I was really sorry to have misunderstood. He just kept shaking his head, mumbling something under his breath. Then he looked at me and said, “This is why we’re closing the bunkhouse. It’s only open for a few more weeks. Too many people arrive here without food and expect to eat in the restaurant.” He left, saying that he would ask his wife about the possibility of a meal.

I’m sure some of this was probably my fault, because it had happened before, when I had to wait several hours to be served at the Inn in Dufton. So maybe, given that I wasn’t staying at the B&B, I should have known that I couldn’t eat in the restaurant without a reservation. But because they were owned by the same people, because my guidebook raved about their hospitality, I hadn’t even given it a second thought.

I ended up getting to eat in the restaurant, but the rest of the evening was awful. I’m a sensitive person, and so when the husband and wife barely looked at me for the rest of the night, never smiled, only talked to me when necessary, but were so kind and accommodating to their B&B guests, it really stung. I wouldn’t have eaten in their restaurant unless I didn’t really, really need to. The last 26-mile stage of the Pennine Way is a very difficult one, it would be the single most difficult day of walking I’d ever done. I was already nervous for it, and I couldn’t imagine how I would survive on a dinner of snacks that I could cobble together from what I was carrying.

And when they heard that I was doing all 26-miles in one day, they acted like I was a foolish girl who didn’t know what she was doing. The husband relented a bit and brought me an empty water bottle, telling me I needed to carry way more water than I thought I needed to. Other than agreeing to make me dinner, it was the only kindness I received. But even that act indicated that he thought I was unprepared and would have trouble.

There were seven other people eating there that night, four women from Australia at one table, and me and three men at the other. I was holding back tears for most of the meal, I just shoveled food in my mouth and listened to the conversation but I felt uncomfortable here, too. The men weren’t too friendly and they seemed more interested in joking with the women from Australia than talking to me. I think one of them was bothered that I was walking the final 26-miles in one day, like I was trying to show off or something, or maybe it hurt his ego, I don’t know.

But it was also me. I’m usually a very friendly, happy person, but when I’m uncomfortable or my feelings are hurt, I shut down really fast, which I’m sure made it difficult for me to make an effort in conversation with the other hikers.

So I finished dinner and then there was another sting- the wife announced that she was opening her ‘shop’, and that we could buy supplies for the next day if we needed them. She’d already asked everyone if they wanted a packed lunch for the next day- she asked me too, but the big smile that she had for the others vanished when she talked to me, and so I told her no, I wouldn’t need lunch. But then she announced the shop that my guidebook had mentioned, and I walked over with two of the Australian women. In a cabinet underneath the stairs were six shelves lined with so much food: cookies and biscuits, candy and chips, canned beans and milk and packaged noodles and tuna fish. I looked at all the food- food that I so easily could have bought and taken over to the bunkhouse and cooked in the kitchen for my dinner- and I almost started crying. Why, if they were so put out in making me dinner that night, why couldn’t they have offered their little store, and suggested I cook myself a meal with those supplies instead?

I bought a pack of noodles because I was now paranoid that I would arrive in Kirk Yetholm and once again be shut out of dinner, but I would have loved to buy more- a Twix bar, a bag of chips, a little treat for my long, long last day on the Pennine Way- but on principle I wouldn’t take a packed lunch, I wouldn’t buy myself a treat. I was made to feel small and so I didn’t want to take anything from them that I didn’t have to. I paid for the packaged noodles and my dinner and went back to my empty bunkhouse.

I let a few tears fall, because this wasn’t how I wanted to end my Pennine Way, but I quickly brushed them away. This wasn’t the end. I was close to the end, but this wasn’t the end. This wasn’t how my journey needed to end, because I still had one final, big day.

And so I opened Jane Eyre and ate my last ginger biscuit and I remembered the quote I’d seen on the wall of the parsonage in Haworth. “Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, that I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!” I closed the book and covered myself with a blanket and told myself that I was okay. I’d eaten well and I had a place to sleep and that was all that mattered. Tomorrow, I would walk 26-miles, from England into Scotland, and I would finish the Pennine Way. Nothing would stop me.

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My Notre-Dame Story

April 20, 2019

I began scrolling back through the photos on my computer to look for Notre-Dame. I knew there were going to be a bunch, but I was almost surprised at how many. Actually, I began laughing when more and more appeared. It seems that I not only spend a lot of time walking by Notre-Dame whenever I’m in Paris, but that I take a few photos each time, too.

Then I dug through my old photo albums, the thick and heavy ones I somehow managed to cart back from France after my junior year abroad. Page by page I searched through the photos and it seems that this habit is nothing new; it appears that I took a photo nearly every time I passed by Notre-Dame back then, too.

I might have 100 photos of the cathedral from at least a dozen trips to Paris, between the years 2000 to 2019.

Readers here have probably noticed how much I love Paris, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned that it all starts with Notre-Dame.

When it was time to pick a language in 7th grade, I listed French as my first choice, and I got into the class. I can’t remember exactly why I wanted to learn French, and not Spanish or German, only that I was certain that it was my top choice. I remember that hanging on the wall in the classroom was a poster of Notre-Dame, and sometimes during class I’d stare at it. In fact, that poster might have been the best thing about 7th (and 8th) grade French class; learning French was hard. Really hard.

But I continued with it through three years of high school, quitting after my junior year and vowing that I’d never study the language again. I’d put in my time, I’d tried, but understanding French eluded me.

What did pique my interest in those days was art and art history. I took drawing and painting and photography and I wasn’t very good at any of them (I think I got better at photography later), but I realized that one of my favorite parts of art class were the days when we had art history lessons. During my junior year I also took a Humanities course, and I chose to write about Notre-Dame for one of our papers (I also got to ponder the meaning of life through a paper on Siddhartha, analyzed the lyrics of Eleanor Rigby, and delivered a persuasive speech from the point of view of Scarlett O’Hara. That was a great class).

When I got to college I had to take one language class, and I tested into an intermediate level French course. Recalling my middle school and high school misery, I poured every bit of effort I had into that class, not wanting French to be the downfall of my college years.

It’d be nice to say that all my effort paid off and I could finally understanding French, but that’s not exactly what happened. The effort did pay off in that it gained the appreciation of my professor, a notoriously tough instructor who either loved you or hated you, and graded accordingly. She decided she loved me, and all but forced me to apply to spend my junior year studying in Toulouse, France. (This might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I remember parts of our conversation about my future, and hearing her say, “You do want to see France, don’t you?”)

Spending that year abroad was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. It was both wonderful and really tough. Sometimes I hear of my peers’ experiences in study abroad programs around that time, and they often involve tales of communal apartment living and lots of alcohol and late nights and a generally carefree life. My program, on the other hand, was rigorous. The philosophy was for students to become immersed in French culture and life. During that year, I often felt that the expectation was for me to ‘become French’, and I struggled with this quite a bit. I lived with a host family and took third-year level art history courses at a French university, with French students. Even when around my American peers in the program, we were strongly encouraged to speak in French, and our wonderful director could be very stern if he heard us speaking English.

My French wasn’t great when I arrived in Toulouse, and it was a shock to be whisked away by my host family and only understand about a third of what was going on at any given time. Much of the first few months of life in France were like that, and rather than becoming French, I think I spent a lot of time thinking about what it meant to be American, and missing my family back home.

But even though these first few months were difficult, there were these amazing moments sprinkled throughout, probably several amazing moments every day that made the challenge worth it. I was living in France, buying baguettes and riding a bike and finding the quickest route into the city center. I was meeting up with my friends and trying different restaurants every night, and learning how to like coffee, and how to tolerate wine. I was learning how to communicate, too, how to understand more and more every day. I was learning how to be part of a different culture.

But more than those smaller moments, it was the promise of Paris that got me through those first two months. As a group we’d taken a few small, local day trips around the region, but the big Paris trip wasn’t until the end of October, nearly two months after we’d arrived in France. I’d been counting down the days, so anxious to just be in Paris. Paris was the reason I’d continued making the effort to learn French, it was the biggest reason I’d decided to study abroad, at the time it was the place I wanted to travel to the most (it’s probably still the place I want to travel to the most, if I’m being honest).

We arrived in Paris after a very turbulent flight, immediately getting on the RER and somehow ending up underground in the Louvre (my memory may be totally wrong here, but I remember taking a tour of the Louvre before even breathing Paris air). The trip was a tightly organized affair, with something scheduled nearly every hour. From the Louvre we went to our hostel and had about 30 minutes until we had to meet downstairs for dinner.

I looked the map I had carefully folded and put in my purse. I saw that our hostel was nearly in the very center of the city, and very, very close to Notre-Dame.

“Does anyone want to go out real quick and find Notre-Dame?” I was sharing the hostel room with 5 of my friends, and two of them agreed to come with me.

We went outside and for the one of the first times in France, I felt giddy, and free. We bent our heads over our maps and wound through the streets and headed over a bridge and one of my friends said, “I can see part of the cathedral!”

I put my head down, covered my eyes, and my friends grabbed onto my arms. “We’ll tell you when to look up!” they said.

We stopped walking, they gave me the signal, and I raised my head.

We were standing at the back of Notre-Dame, the part of the cathedral that had long fascinated me: those flying buttresses and the small round windows, all underneath a wooden roof and an impossibly tall spire.

I looked at Notre-Dame and immediately spun around. It was so beautiful that I had to look away.

I have felt that way every single time I see the cathedral. When I arrive in Paris, I often stay in the same hostel that our group stayed in on that first trip to Paris. I walk the same route to the Île Saint-Louis, I put my head down when the spire first appears, and then raise my head to take it in all at once. It is almost always the first thing I do when I’m in the city, and I don’t feel like I’m in Paris until I’ve seen Notre-Dame.

On that first trip, Notre-Dame gave me something. It gave me peace and comfort, and more than anything, a feeling that I belonged. That I belonged there, standing underneath the buttresses. That I belonged there, in Paris. That I belonged there, an American in France. Notre-Dame belongs to so many people, and it also belongs to me. I’ve always felt that it’s my special place in this world, a place that I can always go back to.

Last summer, I had a picnic along the Seine with three of my La Muse friends, and we chose a spot not far from Notre-Dame. We sat and laughed and ate and drank, and I remember sitting back as the sun set, thinking, “I can always come back here. Notre-Dame will always be here.” I took a silly picture, a selfie, angling the camera so that a blurry Notre-Dame was just visible in the background. I wanted to remember the pure joy of that moment: a picnic with friends along the Seine, underneath a setting sun, Notre-Dame looming in the background, reminding me that it would always be there for me.

I was in Paris in February, just for a long-weekend trip. I’d found a cheap flight and I remembered what I had told myself the year before, and perhaps every year since I first went to Paris in 2000. “It’s there, waiting for you.” I wasn’t staying in my hostel this time, but in an Airbnb apartment in the 12th arrondissement, the furthest from the center I’d ever stayed. It was strange, arriving in Paris to a place I wasn’t familiar with. Arriving and not seeing Notre-Dame right away.

But after settling into my room I set back out, walking block after block, the Seine on my left, the Bastille on my right. I passed through the Marais, walked down the street past my hostel, over the bridge and onto the Île Saint-Louis and there was Notre-Dame, lit up by the setting sun. I was late to meet my friend, because I couldn’t pull myself away. That golden light, that beautiful cathedral, right where I’d left it.

When I heard, on Monday, that it was burning and that the spire had fallen, I was sitting on an outdoor deck of a restaurant in Key Largo with my sister. I’m pretty sure I made a scene. I felt frantic: scrolling through my phone, texting and messaging people, reading the news. Inside, in the bar, we watched a television broadcast that showed the cathedral on fire. I had to walk away, to be present with where I was and who I was with, but there was a pit in my stomach all day long. I felt like I was holding my breath. And it wasn’t until I learned that much of the cathedral had been saved that I felt like I could exhale.

It’s still there. It’s different, it’s not what it used to be, it’s not whole. But it’s still there.

I had to write about Notre-Dame, if only to share some part of what it means to me, to add my own story to all the others. It’s about what is lost, about art and history and religion and faith and the story of a nation, but it’s in the individual stories, too. Notre-Dame is the center of Paris, but in some ways, it’s my own center, my center when I’m on my own and out in the world, totally unsure of myself, trying to find my place.

Notre-Dame became my place.

Day 13 on the Pennine Way: Greenhead to Bellingham, 21.5 miles

April 19, 2019

(July 2018) I woke up in my bunk at the Greenhead Hostel feeling excited for day 13 on the Pennine Way. I’d be returning to Hadrian’s Wall! And I could start my morning with a hot breakfast and multiple cups of coffee!

After the morning fuel I headed out, back through the narrow pathway that had lead to Greenhead and onto both the Pennine Way and Hadrian’s Wall Path. The two routes overlap here, just for 7 miles, but these are 7 glorious miles and I was so happy to be walking them again.

When I walked Hadrian’s Wall Path back in the spring of 2017, I had mostly cloudy, windy days. I had walked east to west (into the wind, which maybe was a mistake), and spring had only just begun. The landscape was still feeling rough, and a bit wild.

But now I was here in the summer, walking west to east, and although my first steps of the day were under gray skies, after about 30 minutes the clouds rolled away and I was treated to more of that wonderful northern England sunshine.

It was so fun to be back at the Wall. I’d really loved my walk in 2017, walking through those long, gray, windy days along the ancient remains of what used to be a massive defensive barrier, imagining what the wall was like when it was built, who had walked the paths that I now walked on, what kind of fighting and battling must have taken place here.

This time, I mostly knew what to expect, and so I just enjoyed every second of those 7-miles. These miles follow the best preserved sections of the wall, from Walltown Crags to just before Housesteads Crags, taking in Great Chesters Fort, the trip point at Winshields Crag, my favorite milecastle (#39), and Sycamore Gap. I took so, so many photographs, I smiled constantly, I found an energy from deep within as I climbed up and down and up and down the steep small hills of the escarpment.

And the weather was perfect. It was perfect! This was the very best day yet, with clouds perfectly dotting the wide blue sky, a light wind that cooled the heat of the sun, the exactly right temperature for walking.

Here are a bunch of photos from the wall (and if you want to read a little more about that same section when I walked two years ago, here is that post). But keep reading after these photos, there were more adventures on the rest of the stage!

Approaching Sycamore Gap, Hadrian's Wall, Day 13 on the Pennine Way

The Robin Hood Tree! (Sycamore Gap)

I split up my time on the Wall at the Northumberland National Park Visitor’s Center, which is just a slight detour from the path, in Once Brewed. This would be a good place to split the stage if you have the time; there’s a youth hostel here, and an Inn (named Twice Brewed), as well as a campsite a little further down the road. It would make for only a 7-mile stage (Greenhead to Once Brewed), but it would allow plenty of time for exploration and site-seeing and you can take your merry time. I’ll touch on this in a later post, but if I could plan another walk on the Pennine Way, I think I’d give myself 17 or 18 days, rather than 15. And one of those extra days would be here.

The Northumberland National Park Visitor’s Center is shiny and new (and I think it must have been under construction/being built when I walked through in 2017), and it was a nice place for a quick break. There’s tons of information and exhibits on the wall, though I didn’t have much time to linger. I just used the bathroom, bought a couple postcards, stopped by the little shop for a Twix bar and a bag of chips (essential snacks along the way!), reapplied my sunscreen and then headed back out.

After another two miles I reached my turnoff to continue on the Pennine Way, and I have to say, it felt really good to turn left at the signpost and walk north, leaving the Wall behind me. It felt right. Walking along the Wall almost felt like I was on a vacation (even though, technically, walking the Pennine Way was my vacation). But how can I explain it? I’d been there before, I knew where I was going. Even though it was early enough in the morning that I was avoiding the crowds, I was still running into other day hikers and tourists. For those 7-miles, I’d stopped walking north, towards Scotland, and was instead on a bit of a detour and going out of my way to the east. I can’t be sure, but it seems like as soon as I turned left at the signpost, everything grew quiet. And calm. And peaceful. I’d left everyone else behind. I was back on my walk.

But almost immediately I- quite literally- stumbled onto some excitement. I was climbing over a wooden stile and coming down the other side of a stone fence when I nearly stepped on a little lamb. The poor thing was stuck in the gate next to the wall! It was butting its head frantically, shaking its whole body, but one of it’s horn had gotten wedged under one of the railings of the gate and he was trapped.

His mother was standing further off in the field, watching us. I climbed down from the stile, put my pack on the ground, and approached the little guy. As soon as I reached down he froze, terrified.

I was kind of terrified, too. Sheep are great and all, but only when they’re at a bit of a distance, grazing in a field or tottering away down the path. I’m not scared of sheep, but to be honest I’m not sure if I’ve ever touched a sheep before. Petting zoos weren’t really my thing, and if they ever were, I’m sure I was only looking, and not petting.

But I couldn’t leave the poor little lamb stuck in a gate, and the whole thing was probably comical if anyone else was watching because I’m sure it took me far longer to get the guy unstuck than it should have. But after some maneuvering and gentle pushing I got his head unstuck and like lightening he dashed away to his mother and then they ran off together.

After my valiant lamb rescue, I continued on, down a forestry track, briefly into a forest and then back out into the open land. My guidebook mentioned a small enclosure just off to the side of the path which would make for a nice rest spot (or wild camping spot). I saw it from a bit of a distance and when I approached, I found that it was- indeed- the perfect place to stop for lunch. I climbed over the low stone wall, found a flat spot on the ground, and settled in for a little picnic. Even though I was in the open country of Haughton Common, I felt secluded away, protected and safe.

Haughton Common, Day 13 on the Pennine Way

My perfect lunch spot!

A satisfying lunch and then more walking, on and on, the sky wide above me, the countryside stretching out before me. It was sometime during this afternoon section that I had one of my perfect walking moments. It’s a little hard to describe these, only that I know I usually have one or two on every long-distance walk I’ve ever done. The moments are made up of similar ingredients: usually there is nearly perfect weather, making for very comfortable walking. I feel strong and energized, full of food, my feet free of blisters, my legs free of any pain. I am all alone, with no one ahead and no one behind. Sometimes I am listening to music, sometimes I am listening to the wind.

This time, all I know is that I was walking along and this feeling was building and building- I think it was joy, or maybe utter happiness- and then it nearly overwhelmed me and I felt like I could fly. Or at least run, or dance, or spin, and so I did all three: there, alone in a wild field, spinning and dancing down the trail and smiling up to the sky. I feel so free in those moments, so certain that where I am is exactly where I’m meant to be. I feel like I want to do this- I want to walk and be free- forever.

The moments never last forever though, but I have to say that this time, the feeling of happiness followed me all the way to Bellingham. I had miles to go, but I can’t remember much of them, other than they felt easy and I felt strong.

But before Bellingham- maybe a few miles before?- I passed through a farm and saw a sign painted on an old green door, reading ‘Pit Stop’. “What’s this?” I asked myself, before venturing inside.

The little shed to the side of the main house was a walker’s oasis. It was a dark and a bit dingy inside, but obvious care had been taken to provide walkers with everything they might need. There was a fridge stocked with rows of cold drinks. There was a basket full of packaged biscuits, and jars of candy. There was a notebook registry, and a basket of medical supplies. There was a box full of things that walkers had left for others to use. There were couches and there was even a bathroom, with rolls of toilet paper! Toilet paper!

I only had a few more miles until Bellingham and I was still feeling strong, but I had already walked nearly 20 miles and I was starting to feel tired, so I gratefully sat for a few minutes with a cold drink. I left a few coins in a donation box and signed the registry, leaving a note for the friends I’d met that were somewhere behind me.

On my way out I met the owner of the farm and his wonderful black Labrador, chatted for a few minutes, then continued on. And because this was shaping up to be a wonderful day, the path continued to provide so much beauty and joy around nearly every corner.

Once in Bellingham, I found my lodgings- Demesne Farm Bunkhouse (I wrote about it for the Independent Hostels UK website!)- was shown up to my room (alone again, naturally!), showered and washed my clothing and then set back out into town, to buy supplies from the grocery store. Along with lunch and snacks for the next day, I bought stuff for dinner and took it back to the bunkhouse, and set up my little feast in the kitchen. Just as I was about to head up to my bunk room, I met several cyclists who were in the middle of the Reivers Coast to Coast Route. While they made tea, I answered their questions about the Pennine Way, and in turn, asked them about their own adventure.

Then my usual routine in my empty bunk room: a few ginger cookies, a few chapters of Jane Eyre, and then fast asleep under the heavy blankets with a cool breeze blowing through the open window.

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Day 12 on the Pennine Way: Alston to Greenhead, 16.5 miles

April 11, 2019

(July 2018) Day 12 on the Pennine Way took me from Alston to Greenhead, and overall the walking was straightforward and uncomplicated. It had been a few days since I could say that (field wanderings, a missed dinner, a drained cellphone, exhausted legs, hill/mountain climbing, no coffee), and so I was looking forward to this stage.

I think, however, I need to add a note about the weather. If you’ve been following along, you may have noticed that I’ve written- “It was another day of blue skies and sunshine”- in nearly every post. If I didn’t write it, the photos have shown you how great the weather was during my walk.

And, you guessed it, my 12th day was no different and the weather was perfect. So when I say that this stage was straightforward and uncomplicated, it’s especially easy for me to say that because of the weather. A fellow Pennine Way walker is posting photos from his trek over on Instagram; he walked in the fall and I think he walked at least half of his trek in the rain. He had 8 days in a row of soggy boots! He just posted some photos from the same stage I’m writing about today, saying that he walked through what is the wettest and boggiest section of the entire Pennine Way, at first trying to walk with plastic bags wrapped over his shoes, then forsaking the bags and just tramping through the mud and water and soaking his boots clean through.

I look at his photos and I remember what the same walk was like for me. I, too, walked through the fields that are known as being the ‘wettest section of the way’. What do I remember from this section? I only remember focusing on navigation and looking for signposts. Maybe I walked through a small puddle? Maybe one? But I doubt it.

The Pennine Way wasn’t an easy walk, it was the most difficult one I’ve done so far. Sometimes I wonder if I would have loved it as much as I did if I hadn’t had such nice weather. I remember how miserable so much of that first day was, my only day of rain: how difficult it was to navigate and keep to the trail, how cold my hands were, how wet my socks and shoes became. As I’ve been trying to churn out these posts, it’s meant that I’ve immersed myself in memories from my walk, and it’s so easy to long to be back on the trail, it makes me want to plan another walk in the UK. And I’m sure I will, but I also need to always remember that the beauty of my experience had a lot to do with the weather.

Okay, enough rambling, back to Day 12!

The weather was good, yes, but my last few days had been difficult and so I took an easy alternate path for the first 6 miles of the day and it was the best decision I could have made. The South Tyne Trail follows an old railroad track and runs roughly parallel to the Pennine Way. But where the Pennine Way climbs up and down little hills, traverses farms and is constantly taking you through a series of gates and stiles, the South Tyne Trail is totally flat and straight and stile free. Stile free! Plus, there’s no need to even worry about navigation or looking for the next marker or constantly checking maps to make sure you’re on the right track. It was free and easy walking, the kind where you can just let your mind wander and cruise along easily and happily.

And cruise along I did. I had sort of missed this kind of walking, and I was grateful for the break. Now, purists would probably shun the South Tyne Trail (or at least choose to stick to the Pennine Way) and once, there would have been a time where I would have made that choice. But in my 5 years of long-distance walking, I’ve learned a few things. And one of them is this: if there’s a much easier path that is running parallel to a more difficult (yet official) path, take the easy one. (I feel like there’s a life lesson in here somewhere…)

So I walked for about 6-miles on the South Tyne Trail, moving quickly and easily and happily. I took a slight detour to see about a snack or a cup of coffee at the Kirkstyle Inn (well-worth a visit, my guidebook told me) but I came up short and the Inn was closed (I think just for the day, so future Pennine Way walkers should try their luck). I didn’t mind too much- the morning had been easy and I was still full from my breakfast at the B&B in Alston, so I continued on.

I moved away from the South Tyne Trail and back onto the Pennine Way, immediately climbing out of the valley and walking through fields and fells, marsh grass growing high around me. I continued on through farmland, then reached Blenkinsopp Common, the fabled “wettest and boggiest” section of the Pennine Way. My guidebook also told me that navigation would be nearly impossible here, the path disappearing into the grass and heather, but just to look for the fenceline and follow it north. At first I couldn’t even see a fence but I eventually spotted it, far off in the distance. I headed towards it, picking my way through the moors, hoping I wouldn’t sink into a bog. My fears were unfounded; there were no bogs to be had, and the path was mostly dry.

I think the highlight of my afternoon was finding a Pennine Way marker in these fields: my guidebooks says, “Chufty badge for navigation if you find this” and when I did I let out a small cheer. I didn’t cross paths with another walker for the entire day, I was alone with my thoughts and my footsteps for miles and miles and so sometimes, finding a marker in an otherwise endless field of green feels rather exciting.

After another few hours I arrived in Greenhead, the Pennine Way having just overlapped with Hadrian’s Wall Path. I was excited about the next day’s walk- I’d get to walk about 7-miles along Hadrian’s Wall (some of the best part!), and ever since I walked the route in the spring of 2017, I’d been eager to go back.

In Greenhead I’d booked a bed at the hostel, which is in a converted Methodist chapel, and as usual I had the room all to myself. Just as I was thinking that my Pennine Way had turned into a very solo trip (despite having made several friends within the first few days), I ran into the Dutchman- Luke (or Luuk?)- at dinner! The Greenhead Hotel was just about the only place around for food, and there were a few other walkers there as well. Luke and I ate together and talked about our experiences along the way, and it felt really good to be able to share my experience with someone else. It felt like a long time since I’d said goodbye to David back in Horton-in-Ribblesdale, and while I’d had some nice encounters with locals, I hadn’t really met or talked to another walker like me. I’d resigned myself to a very solo and isolated walk until the end, so having that meal with Luke was an unexpected treat. We talked about the next day’s stage and he told me he was breaking what I would be doing in one day into two, so I knew that I wouldn’t see him again. But this is something I love so much about these long-distance walks: the chance to have a drink or a meal with a stranger who quickly turns into a friend, for the shared camaraderie, the understanding, the ease of it all.

Then back to my bunk in the hostel, under the covers, a chapter of Jane Eyre and then lights out, already dreaming about the next day’s walk along Hadrian’s Wall.

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Uncaffeinated on the Pennine Way: Day 11, Dufton to Alston, 19.5 miles

April 6, 2019

I woke up in my tent to discover- almost shockingly- that I’d gotten a good night’s sleep. I was in the Camping and Caravan Park in Dufton, a little over halfway through the Pennine Way. For this 268-mile walk, I was carrying a very heavy (heavy to me, anyway!) pack, my tent and sleeping pad adding to the weight. I only ended up using my tent for two nights on my 15-day walk, and maybe it seems a bit unnecessary to have carried all that extra weight for only two nights of camping.

But honestly, having that tent set my mind at ease. I had reservations for every night along the trail, but the thing was, this route was kind of tough. There was never a point where I thought I’d need to cut a day short and pull out my tent and make camp somewhere, but I think having that option added an extra layer of security to the walk.

In any case, the night in my tent in Dufton was the second and final night of camping on the Pennine Way, and overall, it was a good one. The temperatures were warm enough (unlike my first experience in my tent!), and I was so tired that I fell asleep quickly and easily.

After I woke up I broke down my tent and attempted to dry it out in the very early morning sun (dew drops everywhere!) while I got ready for the day. But there was really nothing to linger over- I didn’t have a stove so I couldn’t make myself a cup of coffee, and there were no open shops or pubs where I could have breakfast. So I wiped down the tent as well as I could and then stuffed it back in my pack, figuring I would really dry it out somewhere along the day’s walk (turns out that I forgot all about the damp tent and had to later air it out in my tiny B&B room, but that’s for later).

I left Dufton, heading out for day 11 on the Pennine Way, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. I like this kind of walking, the kind when absolutely no one else is around, but to be honest, I was pretty nervous for the day’s hike.

Out of Dufton on the Pennine Way

There was going to be some difficult walking, with a lot of elevation gain, up through the mountains where I wouldn’t pass any resources until nearly the end of the stage. Normally this might not be so bad, but the previous day had me spooked. I’d walked on very, very tired legs for the entire day, and I was dreading the possibility of more fatigue. What if I couldn’t make it up the final mountain? What if I didn’t enjoy the walk, what if I couldn’t have any fun, what if the rest of the Pennine Way ended up being a long, slow slog through the last bits of northern England?

These fears and also, I would be doing the 19.5 miles on no coffee. No coffee! Yes, the day before I’d only slurped down a bit of lukewarm instant coffee but at least it was something. But this day held no possibility of caffeine, and this might have made me more nervous than anything else. I remember how, on my first Camino, I walked through the Meseta for maybe 13-miles before my first cup of coffee, and my head was pounding and I was grumpy and didn’t really want to talk to anyone. But those were 13 flat miles with a much, much lighter pack. Uncaffeinated on the Pennine Way might be a whole other kind of beast.

But at least my blisters were totally gone! I’m not sure if I’ve clarified this in the last few posts or not, but it’s a good time to mention that my feet had completely healed, and I was totally free of blister pain. Little victories!

Full of fears but free of blisters, I set out from Dufton and began a gradual ascent on a lane that passed through several farms. When I reached the ruins of Halsteads, I passed through a gate and was in the open countryside and heading for those big hills. At this point the walking became a little steeper, my breathing became heavier, but I was feeling okay. I stopped for a sip of water, I felt okay. I kept walking, I felt okay.

Heading towards Knock Fell, Day 11 on the Pennine Way

I took lots of tiny pauses and breaks in my climb up to Knock Fell, the first summit of the day, but incredibly, I continued to feel okay. The bone-weariness feeling of the day before had lifted, and I had my hiking legs back. This isn’t to say that 1500ft ascent up to Knock Fell was easy, because believe me, I stopped to catch my breath quite a bit (but with another clear day, I was able to see all the way to the Lake District!). I stopped only for a small break when I reached the trig point- just enough time to take off my pack and drink some water- but then I continued on. As long as I was feeling strong, I wanted to keep walking.

Looking out towards the Lake District on the Pennine Way

Summit of Knock Fell, Pennine Way

Down from Knock Fell, onto stone slabs for a bit of level walking and then back up again, higher and higher until I could see the great white dome of the weather station growing larger in front of me and soon enough I had arrived at Great Dunn Fell. I didn’t take off my pack this time, only pausing for more water and a fist raised in victory and then I continued on, down then up then down and then up, up, up, all the way to Cross Fell, the highest point in the Pennines.

Radar station on Great Dun Fell, Pennine Way

Line of sheep on hill, Day 11 on the Pennine Way

Up at Cross Fell I took off my shoes and socks and stretched out in the sun. I’d waked 8 miles and still had 11.5 to go, but from here it would be mostly downhill. I knew I would be okay.

Summit of Cross Fell, Day 11 on the Pennine Way

Nearly as soon as I started the descent from Cross Fell, I saw several men running up the hill towards me. They were breathing heavily, totally focused and wearing racing bibs, but each one took a moment to nod and say hello as he passed. I continued down the hill, a few more men ran by. Then a woman, then another man, and as I looked down through the fields I could see a line of them. Another race! You know, there’s nothing like seeing a mass of people running through the same hills I was huffing and puffing over to make me realize that what I was doing wasn’t exactly extraordinary. That’s not to take away from my own accomplishment, but still, all morning I’d been totally alone, battling the inner voices that had me questioning whether I had the strength to climb each summit, feeling like I was in wild countryside, on my own epic course. Then, suddenly, here come the runners!

Nothing to do but smile and say hi to each one as they passed, and continue walking. There was a point where I had to help direct some of the runners- they’d gotten confused and couldn’t see the runners ahead of them, but since I’d just walked down where they would have to run up, I was able to act as a guide. “It’s up that way!” I yelled, pointing up the hill, my voice carrying away with the wind.

“Thank you!!” the runners yelled back.

A race on the Pennine Way

From here the Pennine Way continued on a rough and rocky dirt path that wound for nearly 8-miles down through the hills and towards the village of Garrigill. At first the walking felt rather easy as I picked my way around the larger rocks, but soon my feet grew tired. I passed the lovely stone structure of Greg’s Hut, another place that would be a relief to stop in during bad weather, and a little further on, resting on the hillside, was the Dutchman. We waved at each other as I walked past, and then I continued on and on, further down that rocky road, the bottoms of my feet protesting as the miles accumulated.

Greg's Hut, Day 11 on the Pennine Way

The rough and rocky Corpse Road, Day 11 on the Pennine Way

At least my guidebook was hilarious. Each little map had something to say about the awful experience of walking Corpse Road: “The path is rough and stony and there are miles to go before you sleep.” “As you round a bend and see the path ahead snaking away into infinity, the heart sinks. It’s a long, long way to Garrigill, I kid you not. And as for Alston…” “View of Garrigill, a sight for sore feet.” And, finally, “I’ve had enough of this…”

Arriving in Garrigill was, indeed, a relief, but I didn’t stay long. I stopped and used a toilet but then kept walking, wanting to push on to Alston where I could finally put my feet up after a long day. The rest of the walk wasn’t as bad, and honestly I can’t remember much. I’m pretty sure I was on auto-pilot, just moving forward until I arrived in town.

Bridge over South Tyne River, Pennine Way

And then, when I finally walked into Alston, I felt a bit triumphant. It had been a long day… it had been a long several days, and I’d made it. There’s something about staring down a fear or a challenge, walking into it and walking through it, and coming out on the other side.

With my arrival in Alston I only had four more days left on the Pennine Way, but I think this was the first moment where I felt like I could do it. That it didn’t really matter what else came my way: unless something disastrous happened, I was going to be able to finish this walk.

And what better way to celebrate a feeling of accomplishment after 19.5 miles and 3500 ft of ascent on no coffee than with a night in a B&B? My reservation for the night was in the Victoria Inn, a small and relatively cheap establishment on one of the main streets of the village. I was welcomed and escorted up to my tiny room on the top floor of the building, and the owner apologized over and over for how small the room was. But when I walked inside I couldn’t stop grinning: the room was perfect. Yes, it was tiny, with just enough room for a bed, a dresser and a little nook with a sink and a mirror, but I didn’t need anything more. There were three windows surrounding the bed with views over the rooftops of the village. I instantly fell in love with my little nest, deciding that I would only leave to go out to look for food.

My perfect little room in the Victoria Inn, Day 11 on the Pennine Way, Alston

And that’s what I did. I aired out my tent and took a shower and washed my clothes and hung them from the curtain rod over the bed, then set off for the grocery store where I bought dinner and hiking snacks and lunch supplies and tiny bottles of wine. I took my loot back up to my room, opened a bottle of wine and a bag of chips, and sat on a pillow on the floor in the corner of the room where I could get wifi. I spent the evening feasting and relaxing and writing in my journal and reading- you guessed it- a few chapters of Jane Eyre.

Food supplies for the Pennine Way

It was a good day. A long, tough day, but a good one. And now, with only four more days left on the Pennine Way, I was in the final stretch.

Victoria Inn; a view over the rooftops of Alston

Next Post: Day 12 on the Pennine Way

Previous Post: Day 10 on the Pennine Way

Day 10 on the Pennine Way: Holwick to Dufton, 17-miles

March 31, 2019

(I had a little trouble with my website last week, so in case you missed my recap of Day 9 where I found myself lost in a field for an hour or two, here it is!)

I woke up around 5:00am in the camping barn in Holwick. I hadn’t set an alarm because the battery on my phone was low, really low. There was no electricity in the barn and so I’d powered down my phone the night before, hoping to save what little battery I had, in order to take a few photos the next day.

The bright sun woke me up, and despite the early hour, I decided to get out of bed and start the day. I moved slowly through the morning tasks: brushing my teeth, loading my pack, eating breakfast. My food situation was not ideal, but still okay- I’d eaten my bread the night before but still had a granola bar and banana for breakfast, and I hoped it would be enough to keep me going until my lunch of cheese and tortillas and an apple and another granola bar. I had a few other snacks as well, but the day’s route was isolated and wouldn’t pass by any pubs or restaurants or stores.

There was no good way to make coffee, but I tried anyway- dissolving a packet of instant coffee into some hot water, shaking it up and gulping it down. It was bad, but I think it got at least a little caffeine into my system, which I suppose is better than nothing?

I left early, before 6:00am, and I was glad to be moving on. The camping barn was adequate but after my misadventures of the night before, I was ready for a new day.

But within about 20 minutes of walking I realized that my body was tired. It was a particular kind of tired, and not the kind that I could shake after warming up my feet and my legs. It was a drained kind of tired, and later I would wonder if it had anything to do with not eating enough the night before. In normal life, a dinner of quinoa and bread wouldn’t be a lot but it would be enough. Maybe I wouldn’t be satisfied, maybe I would be tired the next day but it wouldn’t really affect me too much. But when hiking day after day, on an often strenuous route no less, my body was burning through the calories and needed the right kind of nutrition.

Or, who knows, maybe the Pennine Way had just tired me out, and I was having an off day. In any case, my weariness persisted the entire day. Just about every single step felt like a great effort and it was probably one of the most difficult days of walking I’ve had yet. This was also the sort of day where the mental challenge became almost as difficult as the physical challenge: I had to work hard to keep my mind focused, to not overwhelm myself thinking about all the miles I still had to walk, to not stress over the challenging sections ahead.

Because this day’s stage, from Holwick to Dufton, wasn’t going to be easy. It’s one of the more popular stages of the Pennine Way because it passes several great spots: three big waterfalls- Low Force, High Force, Cauldron Snout- then a long, slow ascent up to High Cup Nick, one of the most iconic images of the Way. And I had a great day for it, too, another day of blue skies and sunshine, but almost from the get-go I couldn’t enjoy it. As I walked, all I could think about was sitting down. I fantasized about a food truck appearing in the distance. I pictured a bed with fluffy blankets and lots of pillows.

I wasn’t enjoying the walking, and I also couldn’t whip out my phone every few minutes to take photos, because the battery was almost dead. Every time I reached a waterfall I’d pull out my phone, turn it on, take a photo and then turn it back off. And then I’d keep walking, moving slowly, my head down, counting steps, trying to distract myself from how tired I felt.

One of my worst parts of the entire Pennine Way came in the approach to Cauldron Snout. It was a flat section of the route that ran along the River Tees, but the path was through what felt like a small boulder field clinging to the side of the river bank. This section took me forever- I had to watch every footstep so carefully, picking and choosing where to take my next step, needing to climb up and over rocks, watching my balance. I nearly stepped on a dead sheep (this is probably way too much information, but it just felt like either a bad omen or else more proof that the day was not a good one), and when I finally reached the end of the boulders I had to scramble up a rocky wall alongside the raging waterfall of Cauldron Snout. I climbed up the rocks mostly on my hands and knees and when I reached the top I stopped for a long break, relieved that I’d made it. The scramble wasn’t dangerous or even too difficult (I thought the scrambling section up Pen-y-Ghent was harder), but I was bone-tired and scrambling makes me nervous even on a good day.

Walking through boulders towards Cauldron Snout, Pennine Way

Raging water of Cauldron Snout, Pennine Way

From here it was a lot more walking until I would reach High Cup Nick, a geological formation that’s kind of hard to describe. It’s a valley, a chasm, an enormous chunk scooped out of the earth and the Pennine Way takes you right up to the edge. To get there, I had to walk through moors, up Rasp Hill, through the long and open valley of Maize Beck. Along the way I met two old men, both shirtless, coming from the opposite direction. They stopped me to comment about the weather, and one of them, gesturing to the clear blue skies, said, “Ahh, but you’re so lucky!”

And despite how difficult the day’s walk had been, I had to agree. I was lucky to get to do this. I was lucky that the weather had been so beautiful, that- aside from my first day– navigation had been easy, lucky that the ground wasn’t boggy, lucky that my socks and shoes could stay dry. I was lucky that my mishaps so far had been small, lucky that it was only fatigue that I had to walk through, and not something much worse.

High Cup Nick was, indeed, beautiful, and the few photos I was able to take on my now nearly charge-less phone don’t do the landscape justice. If there is ever time for a wide-angle lens, it would be here. But it’s not about the photos, is it? It was about my ability to sit at the rim, peel off my shoes and socks, lean back on my pack and lift my face up to the sun. It was about a good chunk of cheese and a crisp apple, chocolate that hadn’t yet melted. There was a large school group off to my right, the kids must have been between 8 and 10 years old and I watched them, how they listened to their leaders talk about how the valley was formed, how they smiled and laughed, how they dutifully went off into the bushes for a bathroom break before continuing their trek.

High Cup Nick, Day 10 on the Pennine Way

A couple other hikers drifted in and out, but after the school group left I had the view mostly to myself. And then I carried on, and although my body was tired, the walking from here on out wasn’t too bad- just four more miles until I reached Dufton, all downhill.

Dufton is a small hamlet, not much more than a few streets, a restaurant, a corner shop and post office, a youth hostel (completely booked) and a camping caravan park. I walked through the village and before figuring out my campsite for the night, I made a stop at Post Box Pantry, the little corner shop. I walked inside, then had no idea what I wanted. Do you ever have those moments when you’re just so tired that you can’t make basic decisions? I looked at the food on the shelves, I looked at the small menu, and then I ordered a strawberry milkshake. But the milkshake wasn’t really a milkshake, not the kind with ice cream anyway, and I was handing a large glass of pink milk and so I took it outside to drink it on a bench in the sun.

There was a Dutchman sitting at the next table who was also walking the Pennine Way. “I couldn’t find a bed in this village,” he told me, “So I’m staying a few miles away and the owners of the B&B are picking me up.”

This had been my dilemma, too, when I’d been making reservations. There were no beds available at the only Inn or in the hostel, and so I’d settled on a campsite. But now hearing that being shuttled out of Dufton and back in had been an option, I realized that maybe I hadn’t needed to bring along a tent at all. But before I could sink further into these thoughts, the Dutchman introduced yet another stress.

“Look where we need to go tomorrow,” he pointed. “It’s going to be a really, really hard stage.”

Far off in the distance, way above the village and into the mountains was a round, white radar station. It was jut a pinprick on the horizon and tomorrow, I would have to walk up there, and then I would have to keep going. I couldn’t imagine having the energy.

I pushed those thoughts away, too, telling myself that I’d worry about that tomorrow. So I finished my strawberry milk, said goodbye to the Dutchman, hoisted up my heavy pack and headed off to my campsite. Once there, I found a sign that said I needed to call a number to check-in. My phone was dead (and I didn’t have an international calling plan or a local SIM card so I wouldn’t have been able to call if I tried!), but there was an address listed on the sign so I set back out.

I arrived at a house with a fenced in yard, so I let myself in though the gate but stopped short when I heard loud, angry grunting coming from a small enclosure. I waited, and then a huge black pig appeared, and can pigs ever be aggressive animals? Because this one did not seem happy to see me. And why in the world was I standing in someone’s yard, in a showdown with a pig? Things were getting stranger and stranger.

But I was in the right place and a man came out and took me back over to the campsite, showing me where I could set up my tent. It wasn’t the most ideal situation- I was on a patch of grass in the middle of a circle of camper vans, where people were parked on holiday. There were no other tents and for the life of me I can’t figure out where other Pennine Way walkers stay in this village. Maybe there weren’t other walkers that day, maybe they’d taken up all the rooms in the Inn.

I mentioned that I was planning to have dinner at the pub that evening, and once again, I got a concerned look and the manager asked if I’d made a reservation. “You might not be able to get dinner,” he told me, “you really need a reservation and at this point they’ll be all booked up. But go over anyway and ask at the bar. You might have to wait until every else is served, but if you ask nicely they might be able to make you something.”

My heart sank. I needed dinner that night, I couldn’t face the possibility of another difficult day on not enough calories. The corner shop had already closed so there wasn’t the possibility of buying food items there at this point (note to self: stock up when you have the chance!!), and so the restaurant was my only option. This is something that I wished my guidebook had pointed out. Maybe I was supposed to have known that I needed to make reservations at restaurants (and not at pubs?), but there was no mention of this in my guide and I assumed that as long as I showed up at the right hour, I would be able to order some food. But this was now the second night in a row where I was running into problems!

After I showered and washed my clothes and set up my tent, I went over to the restaurant. It was around 6:00pm, and I went to the bar and asked about the possibility of food. The response was along the same lines of what the owner of the caravan park had given me, and once again, the barmaid looked at me a little sternly, showing no sympathy. But I persisted, asking if there was any way she could ask the chef if he could fit one more meal in. She disappeared into the kitchen, the came back a few minutes later.

“You can sit at one of these tables,” she pointed to a section of the restaurant in front of the bar. “You might have to wait awhile but the chef said he’d make you something.”

Nearly two hours and a couple of beers later, a piping hot meal was placed down on my table. I ate every single scrap and then left a very generous tip that I hoped would make its way to the chef.

The sun was beginning to set as I arrived back at the caravan park, but the golden light was still pouring onto my tent and the inside was toasty, and warm. I snuggled deep into my sleeping bag, my belly finally full, listening as children and dogs ran together in wild glee, watching their shadows dance across the walls of my tent, watching as the light dimmed and faded to darkness.

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Day 9 on the Pennine Way; Tan Hill Inn to Holwick, 20+ miles

March 25, 2019

Day 9 on the Pennine Way started with another full English breakfast in the dining room of the Tan Hill Inn. Actually, it started with something better.

Have I mentioned my little trick when it comes to breakfasting on the Pennine Way? When I stayed in a bunkhouse or B&B that served breakfast, I’d make a note of the starting time and always arrived at least 5 minutes early. Often I was the first one there, and the tables were set and the cooks were in the kitchen. Within moments I’d have a hot cup of coffee and my breakfast ordered placed, the food being cooked up quickly. I could have a good but fast breakfast and be out the door before others had even tucked into their eggs.

But on this morning, in Tan Hill, I experienced a little coffee magic. The owner or manager of the Inn, who I’d seen milling around the night before, came over to my table.

“Good morning,” he smiled at me. “Coffee, or tea, or…, ” he paused. “Maybe a cappuccino?”

Now I’m not sure if I got the cappuccino offer was because I was early, or because he offers cappuccinos to everyone (I didn’t hear him offer one to anyone else, but I could have been mistaken), or who knows, maybe he was being extra friendly and trying to flirt by offering me good coffee (and if so, he was on the right track).

In any case, you better believe I ordered the cappuccino and the coffee was strong and milky and GOOD. I think I said this in my last post but I’ll repeat it one more time here- if you’re planning a walk on the Pennine Way and are interested in staying in the Tan Hill Inn (Britain’s highest pub and all-around cool and isolated place), consider booking a bed in one of the bunk rooms. I lucked out and had the room to myself, but even if you have to share it’s a good deal. The beds are basic but comfortable, you get a towel (a towel!) and use of a bathroom with a shower and a tub. Breakfast is included in the price and if you’re lucky and smile at the cute owner, you might just get yourself a cappuccino too.

But back to business, I had walking to do. I finished breakfast, laced up my shoes, and headed back out into the wide open countryside.

As usual, it was another blue sky day with full sunshine. The walk out of Tan Hill through Sleightholme Moor can be boggy (and probably IS boggy 99% of the time), but aside from a couple slightly wet sections, the walking was dry and not too difficult. In foggy conditions I imagine it would be really difficult to follow the path; even on a clear day, it was hard to keep track of the faint trace of a path through the tall grass. My guidebook recommended keeping an eye out for the white posts that dotted the landscape, and this is how I followed the path out of Tan Hill: scanning the open field for a marker somewhere far in the distance and when I found it, I’d head there, then start scanning for another.

The walking went on and on, and I remember it being mostly pleasant and not too strenuous. After a few hours I reached a milestone: I was halfway through the Pennine Way! Just a little past the halfway point I stopped by a small hut; there aren’t a lot of these on the route, but when the weather is bad I can imagine that being able to stop and rest and get out of the rain would be most welcome. I only stayed for a few minutes, taking time to read some of the notes left on the walls. The one pictured below caught my eye; what an incredible way to honor a 50th birthday! And those words- “Enjoy the freedom”- echoed in my head as I continued to walk and walk down the trail. The freedom to walk under trees and through meadows and along the reservoirs, the freedom to kick off my shoes or drink deeply from my bottle of water, the freedom to walk as fast or as slow as I wanted or needed.

7 more miles to go, and on tired but content legs I walked into the very charming village of Middleton-in-Teesdale. I wouldn’t be staying here; my reservation was in a bunkhouse another 3-miles down the path, but I stopped in the village to look around and buy some snacks for the next day.

I was feeling happy. It had been an all-around good day on the Pennine Way. The sun was shining and I was smiling and even though I was tired, I felt good as I walked away from the village and onwards to my bunkhouse.

Everything was going fine as I continued to congratulate myself on a walk well done when, all at once, things took a turn.

My reservation was for Low Way Farm Camping Barn, and my guidebook’s very basic, hand-drawn map showed the location of the barn to be in the middle of a field. There was a faint, dotted line on the map, veering off from the Pennine Way and straight towards the camping barn and so I assumed I would be looking for some sort of path. I walked up, I walked down, I walked back and I walked forth, over the same stiles and stone steps and through the same gates several times. I could see a few buildings in the field, so I headed towards one, making my own path through the tall and rough grass.

I arrived at the first stone building, circled around it a few times, peered in windows and shook on the locked doors. There was no one around and there didn’t seem to be much going on in the building, either, but I thought that perhaps this could be my camping barn. I wasn’t sure. I scratched my head, considered the expanse of green field, and continued walking. Back to the the path of the Pennine Way, up and down and back and forth, through the fields again to try another building, with no luck.

So then I set off further into the fields, attempting to reach a road that was running parallel to the Pennine Way. I went up and over hills, to climb over fences I had to navigate around barbed wire, I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going but I could hear an occasional car drive by so I knew I was close to the road.

And once I arrived at the road, I easily found the pub where I planned to have dinner later that night. It’s not that I’d been lost at any point, it’s just that I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where my camping barn was! I headed towards the pub to ask for help but before I could get inside, a white van pulled up beside me, the window rolling down.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice called out. “You’re not Nadine, are you?”

This was the owner of the camping barn, and she’d come to find me. I suspect that a farmer must have seen me wandering cluelessly around the fields and sent out the SOS on my behalf. Who knows. I was just grateful to have a key in my hand and easy directions to my accommodations. I followed a gravel path and arrived at one of the stone buildings I’d been convinced couldn’t have been the camping barn. From outside the building I could look across the field and see exactly where I’d been traipsing up and down, hopelessly confused. I think my wanderings cost me nearly 2 additional hours of walking- you should have seen the things that came out of my shoes! The owner of the barn had warned me that the pub might stop serving food around 7:30, so I showered as fast as I could and then raced back out again: up the gravel path, over the hill, down the road where I arrived, breathlessly, at the pub.

I checked the time on my phone. 7:18pm. “Perfect,” I breathed to myself. I went inside, up to the bar, and was promptly informed that the kitchen had stopped serving food.

I’m not sure what I said, though I probably asked if they were sure that no food was being served. I didn’t want to beg but I certainly pleaded, explaining that I was walking the Pennine Way and that it had been a very long day. The woman behind the bar didn’t seem to care, she just shrugged and said I could order a beer.

I sat at a table, watched as another couple were served heaping plates of hot and delicious-looking food, drank my beer quickly and then headed back out: down the road, onto the gravel path, over the little hill, past the sheep in the field, into my camping barn.

How many miles did I end up walking that day? A lot. Over 20. I was alone in the camping barn, and feeling very alone in general that night. I opened my pack of emergency quinoa, tore off a hunk of bread that was supposed to be breakfast the next morning, and sat glumly on a bench, eating my simple dinner.

I had enough food, I’d found where I needed to be, I had a bed to sleep in and my body was tired but feeling fine. All of this was true, all of it was important, but I still felt kind of defeated.

But the light in the fields was golden, and little sheep wandered up to my door, sometimes peering inside. I still had a couple ginger cookies left and so I ate them and read more of Jane Eyre, I read in the dimming light until I could no longer see the words on the page.

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Day 8 on the Pennine Way; Hardraw to Tan Hill Inn, 14.5 miles

January 26, 2019

When setting out to do a long-distance walk, there are going to be all kinds of days. Days when the rain obscures the beautiful views (like this, and this); days when you feel sick, or tired, or unenergized; days when you forget your passport and have to take a taxi all the way back to where you started.

But then there are the days when everything just seems to work out. The cafés and pubs are open, and they appear just when you need them. You pass an honesty box with ice cream in the middle of a warm afternoon. The skies are blue. Your legs are strong. The day ends with a pint of beer at a bench in the sunshine.

And this kind of perfect day is what I had on my eighth day of walking the Pennine Way. Blisters? What blisters? I left my lodgings at the Green Dragon Inn to another clear, crisp morning, the sun slanting through the trees and the tombstones in the little cemetery.

Almost immediately after leaving the village I began the long and steady climb up to Great Shunner Fell, an ascent of 2349 feet over 4.5 miles.

I’d been dreading this climb. So far, I’d found the Pennine Way to be really challenging, due to a combination of a heavy pack, blistered feet, and difficult days. So I expected the climb up to Great Shunner Fell to be more of the same, but what a surprise to find that I moved steadily, almost easily! The four miles passed without too much effort, and suddenly I was at the rocky shelter at the summit.

I sat for a few minutes, had a snack, and silently congratulated myself for a solid walk. But I didn’t need to stop long because I was feeling good, so I continued down an easy path to Thwaite, where I arrived just in time for the café to open. I assumed that since the café was 7 miles into the walk that I would be here in time for lunch, but I was making good time and it was too early to eat. So I ordered a mocha- a large, delicious, chocolate-y coffee drink- and sipped it slowly while resting my feet.

Before leaving the café I ordered a sandwich to take along with me, and then I was off again, a steep climb up Kisdon Hill, past sheep and little stone huts and waving fields of bright green ferns. I walked on a narrow dirt trail, winding past farms, up and up until the path flattened out and my views stretched over the valley below.

I remember feeling so good as I walked, so happy. For the first time, my mind ran free: I didn’t have to think about the pain in my feet, or worry about losing the path, or focus on how tired I was or how heavy my pack felt.

Finally, the walking felt good, and easy. I’d adjusted to the weight I was carrying on my back, my legs were strong. The sun was shining and the path stretched out before me and I didn’t have a care in the world.

Soon enough the path led down to Keld, where I found more people than at nearly any other point on the Pennine Way. Keld is where the Pennine Way overlaps/intersects with the popular Coast to Coast trail (one for the future, perhaps?), and it’s a popular stopping point. I would be walking another four miles to Tan Hill Inn, but I couldn’t resist a stop here. I found a bathroom, a little shop selling small tubs of ice cream, and a tucked away “Well-being garden” (isn’t that a charming name?) where I sat on a bench, ate my sandwich, then my ice cream, and looked down over the village.

The rest of the walk to Tan Hill Inn was a bit of a slog, and I was beginning to feel the strain in my legs, but I just kept going (what else is there to do?) and before long a building appeared, far in the distance.

The Tan Hill Inn is known for being the highest pub in Britain, and the building sits totally alone and isolated in the vast moorland of the Yorkshire Dales. I could see it from at least a mile away, just a speck in a wild and lonely landscape. The building dates back to the 17th century, and in the 18th century was used as an inn for the miners. Supposedly there used to be smaller miner cottages scattered around the inn, but they were all torn down in the early 20th century. Now the inn is all that’s left, and it’s become a destination for walkers, bikers, tourists and, according to the website, “bohemian like-minded individuals”. There’s an open fire that’s been burning for over 100-years, and scores of ghost stories as well, but I didn’t know any of this when I walked up.

I just saw the picnic tables in the sun, lots of people milling around, drinking beer, laughing and telling stories. Inside the pub there were several cosy dining rooms, and after checking in at the bar, I was led up to my bunk room. (In addition to two bunk rooms, there are also nicer Inn rooms as well as campsites out back).

I’d reserved a bed in one of the two bunk rooms, and as usual, had the place entirely to myself. There was a towel on my bed and breakfast would be provided the next morning- I was beginning to think that I’d cracked the secret of the accommodation on the Pennine Way! Bunkhouses: less expensive than b&bs and more comfortable than camping, and if the timing is right, you’ll have the rooms to yourself!

I didn’t encounter any ghosts that night- none that I knew of, anyway. Instead I settled in for a relaxing evening: a beer in the setting sun, a warm meal in the pub, a cool breeze from the open window next to my bunk bed, where I tucked myself under the blankets, nibbled on a ginger cookie, and opened to a new chapter of Jane Eyre.

A day of walking doesn’t get a whole lot better than that.

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Day 7 on the Pennine Way; Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Hawdraw, 15-miles

January 23, 2019

Time for another Pennine Way post! Yes indeed, these recaps are rolling out slowly; every time I sit down to write I think, “This is the time I’m going to write as many posts as I can and just get through the re-telling of my Pennine Way journey!” I tell myself that I will combine days, that I’ll just give highlights, I’ve even thought about using very few words and lots of photos.

And maybe I will, eventually, recap the days in an efficient way. But for now, each time I sit down to write, I look through my photos and read the notes I took (if I have any), and I become immersed in memories. And then as I write, I realize that I am trying to find the story of that particular day.

So what, then, will be the story of my Day 7 on the Pennine Way, a 15-ish mile stretch from Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Hawdraw?

This wasn’t an eventful day, in fact, it was fairly straightforward. I woke in my empty bunkhouse at the Golden Lion Hotel, splashed water on my face, threw on my hiking clothes and stuffed my items into my pack. It was early- just before 6am- but the night before, David (my fellow Pennine Way walker who’d helped me find the right path on Day 1) had inquired about an early breakfast and the owner of the hotel agreed to leave out basic items so that we could eat whenever we wanted.

When I arrived in the dining room David and his nephew were already there, and before I could even sit down, the nephew had jumped up and run into the kitchen to bring me a cup of coffee. We ate cereal and toast and fruit, paged through out guidebooks, talked about the days ahead.

David was returning to Malham to walk what he had skipped over the day before, and I would be continuing from Horton. After breakfast and a final rearranging of things in our packs, we said goodbye. Part of me was sad that I was leaving another friend, and to not know if I would see him again; the other part could feel that familiar thrill of the great unknown, that unparalleled freedom of heading into it alone.

Just before I left I asked David about a walking pole that I’d seen propped up against a corner outside of my bunkhouse. “This isn’t yours, is it?” I asked. He assured me it wasn’t and encouraged me to take it. “If it’s been here since yesterday, I’m sure it’s owner isn’t coming back.”

It was perfect. Just a single walking pole, but exactly what I needed. When I go on these long walks, I typically look for wooden sticks as I’m hiking, and I’ve always found something. But I’d already been walking for 6 days and since the Pennine Way hadn’t passed through too many wooded areas, I hadn’t found anything suitable.

So I headed out, alone, armed with a full pack and a walking pole. The path promptly headed out of the valley and into the hills, through a walled lane up to Jackdaw Hill and on to Cam End. The first mile was the steadiest climb, but afterwards the path flattened out a bit and the walking wasn’t difficult.

Walled lane leading away from Horton-in-Ribblesdale, Pennine Way

My blister situation was also improving. There was still a tiny bit of pain but nothing like it had been just two days before, when I’d had to take a train and skip a portion of the walk. Today, I was finally starting to feel good.

I walked on, and on. What is the story of the day? Maybe it’s just this: the walking. I was mostly alone, only passing two people coming from the opposite direction, who had started the Pennine Way in Kirk Yetholm and were walking south. They warned me about the lack of water at the northern end of the hike, but told me that the scenery was stunning.

I walked and walked, sometimes listening to music, sometimes listening to the wind blow through the valley below, something listening to the soft baaing of the sheep in the fields beside me.

Winding path and stone wall, Pennine Way

I was carrying a packed lunch that I’d ordered the night before, and eventually I found a flat rock lodged into a hillside with a sweeping view below and I settled down here: my pack at my side, my socks and shoes peeled off, my feet resting in grass, the warm sun on my back. I ate my sandwich and chips and apple and tucked the Twix bar away for later, and then laid down across the rock with my head against my pack. The weather was that perfect in between: not too hot, not too cold, and a soft wind blew against my face.

“This is why I walk,” I thought to myself. That intimidating first day full of rain and wrong turns and numb fingers and aching feet felt very far away. Laying here on this warm and sunny rock, I felt so content, so strong, so sure of myself.

View of valley, Pennine Way — My lunch rock

The path continued, I continued. Gradually the route wound down into the valley and towards Hawes, an old English town that holds a weekly market. As luck would have it, I was passing through on the day of the market! I wasn’t staying in Hawes- I would be continuing another mile and a half to Hawdraw- but I stopped anyway to take care of some errands.

I didn’t regret my idyllic lunch on the hillside, and I was arriving in Hawes a little too late for lunchtime anyway, but the smell of the fish and chips shops was tantalizing. I contented myself instead with walking up and down the street and listening to the bustle, weaving in and out of villagers and tourists, carefully not to bump into anyone or anything with my large pack.

There was a grocery where I stopped to pick up a few supplies, most importantly a new tube of sunscreen (of all the things that I didn’t think I would be needing to restock on! But with the sun shining strongly every day and the coming forecast showing more of the same, I was worried about running out). While waiting in line, a man who must have been in his 70’s started talking to me, and asked if I was walking the Pennine Way.

“I walked when I was in my 20’s,” he told me, a small smile on his face. “That was a long time ago.”

I asked if he could remember what his favorite part of the walk was, and he told me it was Swaledale, an area I would be walking through the next day.

“Enjoy it,” he said, “Enjoy every moment.”

Single file path through meadow, Pennine Way

Before I left town I stopped for an ice cream cone, and ate it on a bench in the shade. The remaining walk to Hawdraw was easy and short. I was staying in the bunkhouse of the Green Dragon Inn, but I was beginning to learn that no two bunkhouses are the same. This particular one was connected to the Inn and the pub, down a series of hallways and up a staircase and I worried that I would never be able to find my way back out. And the bunkhouse was more like the floor of an old hotel, or motel, or a dormitory. There was a long hallway lined with doors that led into separate rooms, presumably all holding bunkbeds. In keeping with the trend of the trip, I was totally alone up there: alone in my room and alone on the floor. There was a tiny kitchen that was cramped and not exactly clean, but I gladly put some cheese and fruit into the fridge. My room was clean and the bunk bed was comfortable, and the shower had hot water so there wasn’t much more I could have asked for.

Dinner was in the pub downstairs (after a few false starts, I eventually found my way back); I drank a beer and ate a huge meal in what was probably my favorite pub of the trip (the building dates back to the 13th century!). There were no other Pennine Way walkers- none that I could see in any case- and the patrons of the pubs seemed to be either locals or tourists just passing through.

But I didn’t mind the quiet evening, and after dinner I went back to my room to read a little (you guessed it!) Jane Eyre.

I was nearly halfway through my walk, and I was just beginning to feel like I was ‘getting it’. Getting into the rhythm of the walking, the rhythm of the way. I was starting to learn what to expect, I was settling into it all, feeling comfortable, feeling rooted.

Beginning to feel like part of something.

Previous Post: Day 6 on the Pennine Way

Next Post: Day 8 on the Pennine Way

The Best Travel Moments of 2018

December 31, 2018

With the end of the year rapidly approaching, I thought it would be fun to write a little round-up of favorite travel moments from 2018. As regular readers are well aware, I’m still in the thick of posting about my Pennine Way adventure from June/July, and as a result, haven’t mentioned much (if anything!) of other travels.

So this post will give you a little taste of some of the other things I’ve been up to, as well as give me a chance to dive deep back into those memories.

I really loved the travel experiences I had in 2018; for the majority of the year I’m home and working, and my days are very routined. But for a few months in the summer and a few weeks scattered here and there throughout the year, I’m able to plan trips and small adventures, and this year had a good balance. Some new places, a return to some familiar places. Time walking, time writing, time exploring. Time with family and friends, time alone.

In chronological order, here are five travel highlights of my year:

A sunrise wedding in the Buttermilks, CA

In early January (almost a full year ago now!), I traveled with some friends to see two other friends get married in the mountains near Bishop, CA. The couple are both avid rock climbers and they chose to have a sunrise ceremony underneath a boulder in the Buttermilks. I’ve never been to that part of California or ever been in a such a landscape, and it was incredible. Soft golden light and long shadows and sandy paths and massive, smooth boulders and a beautiful wedding.

There were so many other, little parts of this trip that I adored: staying up until 4am with a friend who drove in to hangout for a night/morning, driving past Lake Tahoe and stopping for photos and to marvel at the huge pinecones, taking a call from my mechanic moments after I climbed out of a natural hot spring (my car broke down the morning of my flight out to CA, of course), my friend and I being rather overdressed for the wedding reception (“But the invitation said sequins! And cocktail attire!”), winning about $40 at the slots in Reno and Vegas (the only time I’ve ever played a slot machine; I’ll take it!).

Pilgrimage to Ben Orr’s gravesite, Geauga County, OH

In mid-April, I drove out to Cleveland to visit my sister and to attend the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony. It’s the second time I’ve been to an Induction Ceremony and both experiences have been fabulous, and leave me remembering just why I love music. I wasn’t a huge fan of any of the inductees, though The Cars, The Moody Blues and The Dire Straights were all bands whose music I’d connected to at some point in my life.

And without a doubt, The Cars were the highlight of the show. My sister and I listened to some of their music in the days leading up to the show, and I read about the band, hoping to learn a little before we saw them perform. “Ben Orr died sometime in the early 2000’s,” my sister told me. Along with Ric Ocasek, Orr sang vocals on many of the band’s hit songs, including “Drive”, my favorite.

One thing led to another, and on the day following the Induction Ceremony, my sister and I found ourselves driving out to the cemetery where Orr is buried. When we learned that it was only about an hour away from Cleveland, it seemed like a no-brainer. We listened to The Cars’ music on the drive and then stood in the rain in the small cemetery, and studied the mementos and notes left by other fans in front of Orr’s gravesite.

I can’t claim to be a true fan, of either Ben Orr or The Cars, but this is what I love about travel. It gives you the opportunity to experience new things and it opens your mind to possibilities, it lets you make connections and it takes you down roads you might never have known existed at all.

I let the lyrics of “Drive” run through mind, and remembered the times that song played out in my own life, who I was in those moments and who I was in that moment, standing in a cemetery in the rain.

“Thanks for the music, Ben.”

Walking with Jane through the moors of Northern England

There was a lot I loved about the Pennine Way, but I think the best part might have been my decision to buy a copy of Jane Eyre when I stopped in Haworth. I’ve written about that part already, but I should say here that I never regretted the extra weight of that book in my pack. Every night I would read a chapter or two, tucked in my sleep sac, often in a bunk bed in a large and empty room. Sometimes I sipped a mug of tea and I nearly always had a package of ginger biscuits and there was something so satisfying and comforting about reading that book as I walked through the countrysides and moorlands and hills and mountains of the Pennine Way. I was alone for so much of my walk, but I never felt lonely. Jane became, in a way, a companion to me, I could almost imagine myself as one of the characters in a Brontë novel. And if not a character in a novel, then a very real woman walking through landscapes in the footsteps of women who have walked those landscapes long before.

Top Withens, Wuthering Heights, Pennine Way

Cheering for the cyclists in the Tour de France

What an unexpected highlight of my time at my writer’s retreat in southern France! This was the 4th time I’d been to La Muse, and I pretty much knew what to expect. I knew my room and favorite shelves for my food in the kitchen, and I even had learned how to shop for a week’s worth of groceries and where everything was located in the massive Carrefour store. I knew the walking trails and the hills and some of the villagers and most of the village dogs, and I even knew some of the other residents.

I already had my routines, the patterns of my days, and I didn’t think that this visit would bring many- or any- new experiences.

But then one day a few of us ran into the mayor of Labastide, and he told us that one of the stages of the Tour de France would be passing very close to the village.

I did some research; I pulled out my computer and a large map of the area and plotted how we could get there; a few days later the mayor took me and a couple others in his car to scout out our walking path. (This tiny road trip was another highlight; Régis, the mayor, is in his 80’s and barely speaks a word of English. He is kind, regal. Tall, with bright blue eyes and long fingers. He drove us all over the mountains that afternoon, taking us up to the Pic de Nore, the highest point in the Montagne Noire, and then to the lake, where he bought us beers and we sat around a table and drank in the summer sunshine).

On Tour de France day, six of us walked from La Muse to the nearest road of that day’s stage. The trip was about 7km and the weather couldn’t have been better: blue skies and temperatures in the mid-70’s. We brought lots of water and snacks and found a spot on the grass to camp out for the afternoon. We all felt kind of giddy, none of us could believe that we would get to experience part of the Tour de France.

About an hour before the riders cycled past, we got to experience something called ‘the caravan’: dozens of vehicles drove by, many outfitted with characters or people in costumes or colorful banners and signs, and each one had several people tossing out swag. Biscuits and gummy candies and small packets of laundry detergent and shopping bags and hats and magnets and juice boxes. We were thrilled, but then again, the experience was thrilling. There was nothing contained or regulated about the caravan: the vehicles sped past, there were no barriers and sometimes it felt as though there were only inches between the spectators lining the sides of the road and the vans or trucks speeding by. The people with the swag didn’t toss the items gently into the air, but rather, they hurled these things down at the ground as hard as they could. There would be a manic scrambling for these items, children and grandmothers got into the action, everyone fighting for their prize.

Maybe the caravan knows what it’s doing, because by the time the Tour de France cyclists came through, we were cheering and yelling like everyone else, like we’d always done this. The cyclists were gone within minutes- we were standing on a downhill section- but it didn’t matter. We clapped and cheered and walked home with great smiles on our faces.

Heading to the Tour de France, Labastide 2018

An unexpected performance in a chapel on Le Chemin du Puy

After my writer’s retreat I had three free days, and since I was in an area of France not far from where I’d stopped walking the Chemin du Puy the year before, I decided to walk a few more days of the pilgrimage route. I left La Muse on a Tuesday morning, took a train ride to Cahors, and was on the Chemin by noon. If I can ever finish writing about the Pennine Way, I’d love to tell you about my three days on Le Puy; after 20 minutes of walking that first day I thought I might have to quit- my pack might have been 50 pounds (seriously) and I was walking through a heat wave and I was seriously questioning the decision to do this tiny part of a pilgrimage. But, as it is with nearly any Camino, I was so happy I’d gone. I still can’t believe how much life I fit into those three days, and it was incredible that I could drop into the middle of a pilgrimage route, be there for only moments, but still experience some of the magic of the Camino.

One of these moments of magic was on the second day of walking. I’d stopped for a break at a picnic table outside of a small chapel, and was just finishing some plums that I’d bought from a man at the side of the road a few kilometers earlier, when I saw a car drive up. A middle-aged woman jumped out of the car and walked briskly into the chapel. I didn’t give her much thought until a few minutes later, when I heard a clear, bright voice singing Ave Maria.

I walked into the chapel, slowly, and took a seat in one of the pews in the back. The woman was standing in the altar, her arms stretched out, her hands gripping the edges of a large stone slab. She finished Ave Maria and began another song, and when she finished this second one, she stood still for a moment, and then turned around and walked away quickly.

I heard her car door slam shut and an engine start and she was gone before I could even think about what I’d just heard.

It happened so fast, it was almost as if I’d never heard it at all.

A Fox in the Alps

After the Chemin, I spent the last few days of my summer trip in Italy, with a friend I’d met on my first Camino. He was working in Sappada, a small town in the Dolomites, and I spent several wonderful days doing nothing but hiking and writing and eating pasta and drinking a lot of espresso.

One evening we took a walk after dinner; darkness had fallen and the streets were quiet. “There’s a fox here,” my friend said. “Sometimes one of the neighbors comes out to feed it.”

“Hmm,” I replied, a little absentmindedly. I was only half-listening, my attention diverted to the dark, looming mountains surrounding us, the warm lights in the windows of the cottages, the cool evening air.

But then I saw a shadow in the field to my left, and a moment later, a small fox trotted into the street in front of us. My friend and I froze as the fox walked straight towards us, and I swear that he looked into my eyes as he approached. When he was just before us he stopped, and turned his head to the side. It was then that I noticed a woman on the side of the road, holding out a large piece of meat. The fox walked over to her, slowly took the meat in its mouth, and then darted away, back into the black shadows of the field.

I still don’t know how our timing could have been that perfect, and sometimes it feels to me as though we were meant to see the fox. Or, that it had wanted to see us. Maybe it was the mountains, the air, the feeling of a journey at its end, the unrealness of an encounter with a wild creature, a brush with magic.

*****************

These are just a few of the things I got to do, the people I was with, and the places I saw in 2018. I think about the year ahead, how some things are planned but so much isn’t yet. Sitting here now, I can’t begin to imagine the kinds of experiences that 2019 will bring.

I hope you all have had restful, peaceful and joyous ends to this year. And that the coming year will bring new opportunities, new hopes, new dreams, new walks, new relationships, new happiness.

All my best, and I’ll be back with more soon.

Day 6 on the Pennine Way: Malham to Horton-in-Ribblesdale, 16-miles

December 19, 2018

My sixth day of walking on the Pennine Way started with a solid breakfast in the YHA hostel. Toast and eggs and sausage and lots of coffee. I ate with Margaret, the northern Californian woman I’d met four days before (at this point it felt like weeks before!), the one who had told me that she also went very off route on that first day of walking.

Margaret was planning to walk to Horton that day, and we looked at our maps and guidebooks together.

“This is going to be a really long day,” she said, pointing a finger at the elevation profile.

There would be two rather tough climbs- one to Fountain Fells, the other up Pen-y-Ghent- as well as a series of 421 steps up to Malham Cove, a challenge we’d encounter first thing in the morning

I slurped down a last sip of coffee and tied the laces of my shoes, and, after picking up the packed lunch I ordered the night before, was the first one out of the hostel. I’d gotten to breakfast as soon as they started serving food (here’s a pro tip for walkers who want to leave as early as possible but also take advantage of your lodging’s breakfast: arrive at breakfast about 10 minutes early, and often someone will come out and bring you coffee or tea, and get you started on toast. I’d found that breakfast could be a rather long, drawn-out affair if you let it, and sometimes that’s nice, but on long days I often wanted to get going as soon as possible).

It was another gorgeous morning. I walked away from the quaint village and almost immediately headed towards Malham Cove, a fantastic limestone amphitheater (and now home to peregrine falcons!). The light was soft and golden, the grass seemed to shine a beautiful green, white fluffy sheep wandered slowly through the fields and I was the only one around. What a feeling of peace! And for the first time, I noticed that my feet didn’t feel quite as bad. There was still a little pain from one of my blisters, but this was a noticeable change from the past several days. The realization put a grin on my face. Despite the difficulty of the day ahead, I might actually enjoy the walking!

And then came the stairs. 421 of them. The stairs were endless! This is when my counting trick began (and really, it’s not a trick at all, just something I started doing on the Pennine Way to help me continue to move forward). I’d count my steps, 1-10, and as soon as I got to 10 I’d start back over at 1. The idea was that I couldn’t stop to rest or to catch my breath until I got to ’10’, but often when I arrived at ’10’ I decided to keep going for another 10. I certainly stopped- multiple times- as I climbed all of those stairs, but something about the marching repetition of the numbers pushed me forward. It became almost like a game.

Before too long I was at the top, at the top of a field of limestone, large rocks that were smoothed and polished and shining in the sun. I hopped around the rocks for a bit, admired the views, and then looked around for the path. Where in the world was I supposed to go? When walking through fields, or the moors, the path is rather obvious. Sometimes it’s just barely visible, but if you stare at the ground long enough, you can usually find a path. But up here in the limestone any trace of a path was gone. There weren’t any signs, or arrows, and my guidebook was hopeless.

Well, the guidebook referred to a path that was the wrong one, and indicated that I was to turn right at the top of the steps, but of course I somehow managed to think the wrong path was the right one and I climbed halfway up a rather steep hill before realizing that I must be going the wrong way.

But, have no fear, I eventually figured things out, and breathed a small sigh of relief when I found a signpost. The path led through a narrow valley and I felt like I was the only person on earth (well, me and the sheep), and then there were another 150 stairs to climb to get out of the valley (of course there were), and then I arrived at a sign that pointed back to Malham, which was 1.5 miles away.

All of that effort for a mile and a half! I adjusted my pack, settling it more firmly against my back, and continued on.

The rest of the day followed a similar pattern to those first few hours of my day: climbing, counting to ten with each step, expansive views, sheep and green fields and sunshine, more climbing, more counting steps, more beautiful views.

The last climb of the day was up Pen-y-Ghent, and as I stood at the base of the mountain, looking up at the little peak that I would have to pull myself over, I felt tired. It had been a really good day but, in hindsight, I think I was still getting my walking legs under me. I felt like I could keep walking on a flat path for miles and miles, but the 600 feet I would have to climb that was looming over me? That was a different story.

I took a deep breath, and started. Before long I passed a man coming down in the opposite direction. He stopped and we chatted for a moment, and he reassured me that the climb wasn’t nearly as hard as it looked. “You’ll be up at the top in no time!” he said, and with a wave, he was off.

I used the old 1-10 counting trick to keep me moving up the mountain, and I stopped several times to take a video (it appears that most of the videos I took on the Pennine Way were when I was struggling. Hmm, maybe I needed something to distract myself with? A way to laugh at myself a little bit?).

The man was right- the climb wasn’t quite as bad as it seemed, all except for the bit of scrambling at the top. I’m not a big fan of needing to use my hands and arms to pull myself up over rocks when I’m hiking, though the scrambling at the top of Pen-y-Ghent was minimal and really not too difficult. I think the hardest part was the fact that I had a heavy pack strapped to my back, threatening, at times, to pull me backwards.

But I made it! I was dripping with sweat and my face was beet red and as soon as I found a place to sit I threw down my pack and took off my shoes and peeled off my socks and gulped down as much water as I could (bonus points! Drinking water makes your pack lighter!). I sat on the summit for awhile, watching as people arrived at the top and took photos at the trig point. Everyone sprawled out on the grass, people and sheep mingled together in the bright sunlight. I didn’t recognize anyone up here; most, if not all, were day hikers, and were here to climb Pen-y-Ghent, rather than walk the whole Pennine Way.

The rest of the way, to Horton-in-Ribblesdale, was all downhill, and it was mostly enjoyable walking, though under a very hot sun. I arrived in town tired but rather triumphant. Aside from the unexpected challenges of Day One, this was the most physically challenging day yet, and I’d done it! I headed straight for the “famed” Pen-y-Ghent café, a place that my guidebook describes in great and glorious detail. In addition to drinks and snacks, the café doubles as a tourist information center and sells camping gear and maps and generally provides a great service to Pennine Way walkers. There are volumes upon volumes of “guestbooks” that Pennine Way walkers have been signing for years, and I was excited to add my name to the register. Unfortunately, the café was closed when I arrived! I’d made it in time- well before the 5:30 posted closing time- but it appeared that it had been closed all day.

I peered through the dark windows for a minute, and then continued down the road to my lodging for the night, the bunk room of the Golden Lion Hotel. I checked in at the pub of the hotel and was given a tour of the bunkhouse, which I would have all to myself. There were triple bunks but by now the novelty has faded a bit, and instead of climbing uncertainly to the very top, I unrolled my sleeping bag on one of the bottom bunks.

After I took a shower and rinsed out my clothes from the day, I headed out of the bunkhouse to see about getting a drink in the pub. But as soon as I walked out the door of the bunkhouse I ran straight into David, my friend from the first day of the walk! We stared at each other and started to laugh. “What are you doing here?” I asked, a great smile on my face.

David was staying in the hotel that night, along with his nephew, who had driven out to meet him for the evening. The three of us gathered in the pub for a drink and stayed through a long and lingering dinner, talking about the last few days. David had several adventures since I’d last seen him- wild camping at the base of Stoodley Pike, wandering off route for miles around one of the reservoirs- and he was behind schedule.

“I haven’t walked this last section yet,” he said, referring to the day’s walk I’d just done. “But since I had plans to meet my nephew here, I took a cab and tomorrow morning I’m going to get dropped off back at Malham, and continue from there.”

I told him all about Pen-y-Ghent, and advised that he take more water than he thought he would need for the day’s walk. We talked and talked, and it felt so good to have a friend who could understand the journey that I was on, because he was on a very similar journey of his own. His nephew asked lots of questions and we ordered another round of beer. Just as we were winding down, who shows up in the pub but Margaret! We ushered her over to our table and she sat down with shaky legs. I glanced at the clock on the wall- it was after 8:30pm. “Margaret,” we asked, “Have you just arrived?”

She looked at us with wide eyes. “That walk took longer, much, much longer, than I thought it would.” David bought her a drink and we told more stories and for what I suspected might be the last time, I sat around a table in a pub with my little Pennine Way family. They were people I’d only known for a few days, but who had nearly instantly become friends, comrades of sorts. I truly love undertaking these walks alone, and continuing to walk alone. The sense of isolation and solitude and freedom give me such an expansive, open feeling; I feel a deep sense of myself, my truest self, when I am out alone on the moors, or on a hillside, or scrambling up a mountain.

I love being alone, but there’s also something about this: a tableful of people who cheer for me and support me and understand what it means to be on this particular journey. I know that their footsteps are ahead of me or just behind me, and that knowledge brings me such comfort. Charlie was out there somewhere, and so were Nigel and Judy. That night I would say goodbye to David and Margaret and I wouldn’t see either of them again, but it was okay. We were all part of the same walk.

Up in my room I crawled into my bunk and read a few chapters of Jane Eyre and ate ginger biscuits, wiping the crumbs from the mattress. The bunkroom was empty, but I didn’t feel alone. I doubted that I would ever feel truly alone on this journey.

Previous Post: Day 5 on the Pennine Way

Next Post: Day 7 on the Pennine Way

Stepping into fear, my own little pledge drive

December 7, 2018

I hope you’ll all bear with me just a little longer while I talk more about this Patreon thing that I set up, as I use this space to continue to drum up support.

I realized that I owe it to myself to do this, to move into the discomfort of asking for help and support, rather than shy away from it.

Shying away feels like the easy thing to do. It is the easy thing to do.

If you missed my last post, or haven’t been over to my accounts on Instagram or Facebook, then here’s the nutshell recap: I set up a page at Patreon.com, a site where people can pledge a certain amount to the creators that they support. It’s my way of asking for a little help and a lot of support as I move through this long and often difficult process of trying to write and publish a book. There are more specific details on my Patreon page, including how I could expect to use any money earned from the site, what my goals are, more about the reasons I decided to do this.

I launched the page earlier this week, with a post here and over on Instagram and Facebook and I waited, curious to see what- if anything- might happen.

The result was interesting. There was really nice engagement and encouragement from these posts, and I can feel that there are a lot of people behind me in taking another step towards these dreams of mine. And that feels really amazing. Though this Patreon effort IS about extra financial support- it would be a lie to say that it’s not about the money- what runs underneath it has always been the most important thing to me. That I have my people out there, cheering me on.

But because this is about the money, I looked anxiously to see if anyone would be willing to be a patron. And the results here give me really mixed feelings, and it’s so hard to articulate this. Maybe because it’s about money, and that’s a difficult subject to talk about and be really honest about? I’m not sure. But it’s also about expectation vs hope, that tricky balance of asking for help but also not expecting it, and in needing to see the effort all the way through.

I currently have four patrons (one of whom is my mother. Hi Mom!!). I can’t say that I expected anything from this little venture, and to be really honest, the fact that there are three people out there who are not related to me or even a friend to me “in real life” who have willingly and enthusiastically pledged to help me out with my art… it’s so incredible.

My first reaction was to want to pull back and say, “Wait! No! I’ve changed my mind, I can’t accept any money, this feels strange and different and I’m not sure that I’m 100% comfortable with it and maybe I should just wait until there is a real book I can put in your hands to ask for any money.” Part of me still feels this way.

But part of this whole process is about fear. It’s about facing something that’s uncomfortable and scary and taking a step towards it. And then, when it continues to feel scary, my reaction is to want to stop and say, “Yes, this is good enough, it’s more than good enough, I can stop now.”

I wasn’t going to say much more about this Patreon, other than to keep the button on my blog and mention it briefly, from time to time.

But maybe what I need to do, instead of back away and go back to being quiet and keeping small, is to just step into this space of discomfort and come back here and keep talking about it.

Maybe four patrons is all it’s going to be. I didn’t expect more or less, but I’d hoped that, maybe, there could be a few more. And maybe there can be?

There’s the $1.00/month level on my page and I think it’s a really interesting concept. $1.00 a month isn’t much and might seem like only a drop in the bucket. And, well, yes, if just one person comes over from this post and pledges at that level, it’s not going to make a huge difference (but man, I have to tell you, I’m going to appreciate it). But I just have to wonder- what if 25 people in my audience make that pledge? What if 25 of the people who support me make that pledge? An additional $25.00 a month becomes something altogether very different.

So if this were a pledge drive (which, in a way, I suppose it is), and I were on TV or the radio and urging listeners to call in, that I wanted to hear the phones ring and see the numbers rise, then this is my drive, my call. I wonder if I can get 25 pledges at the $1.00/month level. I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.

Nothing has started to feel more comfortable as I’ve continued writing this post. I think, again, about expectation vs hope and the difference between them and how I’m trying to come from a place of hope. I’m back here again, trying to not back down and let it go, but instead to keep this up. To really launch this idea, rather than mention it and then pretend it never happened.

I will happily continue to blog and take photos and work on my book, and so happily share all of this with you, regardless of the money raised on Patreon. My readers and followers and friends and family- all of my supporters- I take so much from the encouragement and support you give. I always have, and I truly hope that I always will. If you’ve liked my blog and liked hearing these stories, and if you’re in the position to be able to make a small pledge on Patreon, that would be amazing. But regardless of what does or does not happen over there, I’ll continue to be over here, wrestling out the stories from my walk that happened over 5 months ago. (Yikes, I really behind on this one!!).

So thanks again for being here, in whatever way that you are, and I hope to keep writing for many more years to come. To sign off, I’ll leave you with the photo that kicks off my little Patreon video, as well as one of my very favorite photos from all of my Camino’s. There is such joy and happiness here.

If Not Now, When? Part Two

December 4, 2018

Earlier today, when I was on a hike, the phrase “If not now, when?” went through my head.

I’d been thinking about how and when to take the next steps in life, and about barriers and fears and uncertainties. And then I remembered that the phrase “If not now, when?” was something I wrote on this blog, in one of my first posts. Actually, that was the title of the post, and I wrote it on January 14, 2014, nearly 5 years ago. I’d been learning all about the Camino de Santiago and thinking that I might want to walk across Spain, but I hadn’t fully decided that I’d do it. Or, maybe I had, I just needed to push myself through the questions and into decision.

And a big part of making that decision was asking myself, “If not now, when?”

I’m thinking about this again because I’m feeling ready to take another step. Lately, over these past nearly 5 years, my walking/writing adventures have followed a similar pattern. I plan some big trip in the summer, spend at least part of that trip walking a great distance, and then spend a lot of the following months writing about it. Though the rest of the year, I work on writing my book (about that first trip on the Camino Frances), and I research other walks and start thinking about the next journey.

It’s been a great pattern, and it fits nicely into the rest of my life. My work counseling teenagers gives me two months off in the summer, so it hasn’t been hard to take a long trip every year. I’m careful with my money and sacrifice certain things so that I can afford to travel (the top sacrifice might be fixing the air conditioning in my car, eek).

And the writing fits in, too. Sometimes I blog while I’m on my trips, lately I’ve been blogging about these trips in the fall and winter. I work on my book during the week, in a small pocket of time that I guard as my ‘writing time’, often in the early evening twilight hours. I published an e-book last year, and also started sharing photos from my walks on an Instagram account, but otherwise I just keep plugging away at the blog and my book and it all still feels very quiet, and slow, and nice.

But I’ve always wanted something a little more. I keep saying that my book might only ever be for me, but if I’m being really honest, I would love to publish it and work hard to connect it to its audience (many of whom are you, you who are reading this blog). I still have work to do, but I’m getting closer to needing to figure out next steps: to have some friends start reading pieces of it, to search for an editor, to work on a book proposal.

And when I think about moving this book from just this thing that I’ve been slowly working on at my kitchen table… to a real thing that others might see… it both terrifies me and thrills me.

It also ignites my dreams. Because writing a book has been a dream of mine for a long time, and when I think that I’m actually doing it, that it just might happen, it seems like all of my other dreams flood in and I can’t ignore them.

I want to travel all over the world and walk in places other than Europe. I want to try to climb Kilimanjaro and trek the Annapurna Circuit and lately I’ve been reading about the Shikoku Pilgrimage in Japan. And there’s this little trek in Guatemala that I researched a few years ago, and the Lycian Way in Turkey, and the list goes on and on.

I want to walk and walk and write about it all. I want to take beautiful photographs and sometimes I wonder if I can create a book where I can put it all together: the walks and the stories and the photographs. Or, if there are more of these longer stories in me, if the story of the Camino de Santiago is just the first one, the first one in the series of my walking years.

I’ve realized a few things in these last few years, because these ideas and dreams aren’t exactly new. I wanted to quit my job and go off and walk around the world and write my stories ever since that first Camino in 2014. But I also knew that it would take a lot to get to a place where I could do this for a year or two, and that maybe I’d never be able to get myself to that place.

So I’ve worked hard to accept where I am and what I’m doing with my life, and all of the beautiful little pieces of it. There are still so many things that I love about the way my life is arranged: the work with my students and my little apartment and my clunky car without AC, and the summers of European travel and long walks and my writer’s community at La Muse, and the writing at the kitchen table in the twilight.

My way is to move slowly. It’s just my nature and that’s something else that I’ve learned to accept and embrace. I’ve learned how to be patient with myself, patient with my dreams and my motivations and my desires. So I’m still here, still moving slowly towards my dreams, but trying to take steps when I can. Begin with that first, single step. And then take another, and another.

I’m not sure where, exactly, these small steps are leading, but right now I feel like I have to take another. I mentioned, in a post a few weeks ago, that I was considering setting up a Patreon account, and asking for your sponsorship and patronage. I’ve hesitated, I’ve thought and thought about it, I’ve read a lot and looked at other accounts- at other writers and bloggers to see what they were doing- and I’ve sat with this idea for little while.

The idea behind Patreon is that it’s a way for artists to get paid for things they’re already creating. Fans, or followers, or patrons (I love saying patrons! I reminds me of all the art history classes I used to take) pay a few dollars every month for the work you’re creating. It’s a way to show support for the art you love, and it helps artists to continue to create their work. In some cases, it enables artists to do and share even more.

I’ve set up a page and you can go there and check it out; I explain more about my work and how and why I’m using Patreon. I’ve even made a little video so if nothing else, you should go watch it! (It’s only a minute long and one of the few videos I’ve ever put together, so don’t expect much!).

The idea of putting out a call for support makes me really nervous. It’s not even a product that I’m putting a price tag on, not here anyway. It’s something looser, it’s like a call for encouragement. It’s a dollar a month or three dollars a month but it’s something more than that too. I’m starting to recognize that all of this work that I’m putting in IS worth something. It always was, but over the years it’s become part of my art; my writing here on the blog is intentional and the stories of these walks- while always true- are also shaped and formed. My photographs are, too. I work to create something beautiful to share with whatever audience I happen to have. It’s something I value highly, it’s something I’ve set out to do with my life.

So I’m going to keep blogging and taking photographs and sharing them in the ways I always have, regardless of what happens with this Patreon. I’m going to keep going on long walks, too. But I’m curious to see what might happen with a Patreon, if it could help support some of these ventures, if it might lead to other opportunities or possibilities. And the thought of that is really exciting.

And really, if not now, when? It’s been tempting to continue to think that I need more time, that I need more practice and skill and that what I create should be kept small, and easy, and quiet.

It might be that way for a little while longer, but I can feel things stirring. I want to see what I can make, where I can go.

Thanks for being here, or on Instagram, or wherever you happen to be. It continues to be such a pleasure to have this small audience. I’ll be back to the regular program soon- I’m determined to keep these Pennine Way recaps coming! Its been fun to dig back into the walk and relive those glorious summer days, so stay tuned.

Men in the hills and bulls in the field; Day 5 on the Pennine Way, Haworth to Malham (with a train ride… 6 or 7 miles of walking)

November 28, 2018

Day 5 was the day that I skipped part of the Pennine Way.

When people ask about my summer travels or I talk about walks that I’ve done, I always say that I walked the Pennine Way. I don’t say that I skipped part of it or that I didn’t walk the whole thing; I say that I walked it, that I walked it all.

Some may disagree with me and I suppose at one time- during my first Camino on the Frances- I was a bit of a purist. If I was going to do a walk, I wanted to start at the start and end at the end and walk every step of it in between. It wasn’t that I considered it “cheating” if I didn’t walk all of it, but I think my thought was that I would do everything in my power to walk every step.

And, now that I think about it, I maintained that view through my next two Caminos: the Norte and the San Salvador. In fact, on the Camino de San Salvador, I walked when I was very sick and absolutely should have just hopped on a train and skipped the last 30km of the walk. Maybe it was because the route was a shorter distance, maybe it was because I wanted to arrive at my destination on foot, or maybe it was just that sort of purist view that if you’re going to walk a long-distance walk, you should try your best to walk the whole thing.

To that I now say… nonsense!

If I’m able to, if I have the time and my body is in good shape, I still love starting at the start, ending at the end, and walking every step in between. But sickness on the San Salvador taught me my lesson, and now I have (almost) no hesitations about skipping a section of a long walk if it’s in my best interest. I don’t want to skip a section if it’s hard, I don’t want to skip a section if I’m bored, and I even hesitate to skip a section if there’s bad weather (unless it makes the walking dangerous), but if I’m sick or hurting or if I’m falling short on time, I’ll hop on a bus or train or hail a taxi and skip those miles.

I put this into practice during my second sojourn on the Norte and even at the end of last summer’s Le Puy adventure, and you know, nothing bad happened. No one shook their finger at me because I didn’t walk all the stages in my guidebook, and honestly I didn’t feel any differently. A little disappointed, maybe, that I couldn’t quite fit in all that I had set out to do, but at the end of the journey I felt accomplished, and proud, and very, very much like a pilgrim.

So after four days on the Pennine Way, with four blisters on my feet and a 26-mile day looming ahead of me, I thought and I thought and then finally the answer was just so clear and obvious, like a great voice booming overhead: “Nadine,” the voice said. “Take the bloody train.”

I was in Haworth, after all, and there was a train station just down the hill from where I was staying.

So after a truly splendid full English breakfast, I hoisted up my heavy pack and walked down to the station and the whole experience was just the best. A little luxury on a pilgrimage or a long trek is something I could get used to! (Though, to be fair, some people camp and cook their dinners on stoves every night during their walks; with my beds and my glasses of wine/pints of beer, some may consider my walking adventures quite luxurious!).

In any case, I bought a ticket on a steam engine train that took me from Haworth to Keighley- who knew I’d get to ride on a steam engine??

From Keighley I took another train to Gargrave, which was where I picked up the Pennine Way, skipping over about 20-miles of walking that I’d originally planned to do.

Did I miss the walking? A little bit. But honestly, the blisters were such a bother that it was really nice to sit back on the train and watch the countryside whiz past. Gargrave is a quaint town that sits across from the River Aire; I got off the train and headed straight to the wonderful Dalesman Café, where I ordered a packed sandwich and bag of chips to stash in my pack for a little later in the afternoon. Because I only had 6-miles to walk and it was still late in the morning, I sat for awhile on the banks of the river with my feet stretched out in the sun, giving my blisters as much time to heal as I possibly could.

Eventually, I put my shoes back on and started walking and the blisters still hurt, but maybe not quite as much as the day before. Soon enough I was out of Gargrave and into the rolling countryside and fields of Eshton Moor. It was fairly easy walking and I mostly had the open fields all to myself, not another soul around for miles except for the cows and the sheep. Not another soul until I heard a sound behind me, and turned to see a young man walking briskly- nearly running- on the path behind me. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and carried a small day pack and the muscles of his legs reminded me a bit of a racehorse.

“Hi,” he called to me as he approached. “Are you walking the Pennine Way?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Are you?”

“Yeah, sort of,” he laughed. “I’m doing the Spine Race actually, crazy fool that I am.”

I’d heard about the Spine Race sometime in the days before; to quote the website, it’s a “non-stop, 7-day, 168 hour race from Edale to Kirk Yetholm.” Edale to Kirk Yetholm is the entirety of the Pennine Way, and to try to complete the trail in 7 days is, indeed, rather foolish. And a bit insane.

“When did you start?” I asked, as the man moved past me.

“Yesterday morning!” He was ahead of me now, and turning his head back he smiled. “Good luck with your walk, it’s a lot harder with a bigger pack like yours.”

I marveled at what he was attempting to do, and watched as he began to jog lightly through the grass. I thought about how he must have walked through the night, pausing only to sleep for an hour, maybe two. And then I thought about my own night and morning: a room of my own in a cozy B&B, a breakfast of eggs and toast and bacon and tomatoes and beans, and then a pleasant train ride on a steam engine. A sandwich in my pack, waiting to be eaten under the shade of a tree, perhaps along a babbling creek with my bare feet in the grass.

We all walk our own walk, I thought, smiling to myself.

But about 10 minutes later I’d caught up to him. I’d just approached a closed wooden gate when I saw the man on the other side of the field, backing slowly away from a large group of young cows who were advancing on him.

I carefully reached up and unlocked the gate, the swung it back towards me so the man could come back into my field. We shut the gate, the cows (or, possibly, bulls, according to the Spine Race Man) crowding against the wooden fence.

“I got worried when they start to advance on me,” he said.

We stared at the bulls, they stared back at us, pushing and shoving against each other so they could all get closer. They seemed friendly enough, but now that they were blocking the gate I couldn’t see how we would even be able to enter the field at all.

“Let’s hop over the wall here,” the Spine Race Man said, “it looks like this other field runs parallel to the path, and we can cross over again once we get away from the bulls.”

The man hopped the wall easily enough, but it was another story for me. I had to take off my pack and shove it over the wall to Spine Race Man, who was waiting to catch it. I attempted to effortlessly climb over the wall but who are we kidding? Once on top of the wall I needed the man’s help to get down onto the other side, and he was gracious enough to wait and help me, and even picked up my pack and helped me get it back on.

I figured he would take off- him being in a race and all- but he walked with me down through the field until we found a safe spot to climb back over the wall and get back onto the Pennine Way, well away from the bulls.

“Good luck with the rest of your way,” he said, and then he was off, running this time, off through the fields and away into the hills and after awhile I wondered if he was just a figment of my imagination, a man in a race over the mountains who helped me scale a wall and escape a herd of bulls.

The rest of my walk was beautiful and fairly easy. But then another funny thing happened, when I was about a mile away from Malham, my destination for the night. Walking towards me and coming from the opposite direction were three people, as they drew closer I saw a younger couple and a older woman. We all smiled at each other and I was about to move past them when the younger girl said, “Excuse me, but you aren’t Nadine, are you?”

I blinked. I was about 75-miles into a long walk through England and currently in the middle of a nondescript grassy field, and here was a group of people who were all looking at me and smiling and knowing exactly who I was.

I nodded, a bit hesitantly, and the girl beamed at me. “I’m Charlie’s sister!” she exclaimed. “This is our mother,” she pointed to the woman at her side. “We were just with Charlie last night and she and Dad went ahead to do the next stage, we’re going to take a car and meet up with them later.”

I laughed then, so happy to have run into these strangers who could give me news of Charlie, my friend from the day I walked into Hebden Bridge. I had last seen Charlie just two days before but already it felt like an entirety, as though I had been walking alone for a really long time.

Her family encouraged me, saying that Malham wasn’t much further and that the walking would be easy, and with big smiles and waves we said goodbye and I continued on. I thought about Charlie as I walked, how she was just a day ahead of me. The thought warmed me, as though I had some invisible guide on my journey, someone who was walking just miles ahead: checking the path, making sure the route was okay, leaving her trace by her footprints in the mud.

I arrived in Malham by mid-afternoon, and first walked in a circle through the tiny, charming village. There were several pubs and restaurants, a couple B&Bs, a small general store and an ice cream stand, all surrounding the River Aire. Families and hikers were seated at the outdoor tables and spread across the grass and with the bright sunlight filtering through the trees, I couldn’t think of a much more idyllic spot.

My hostel (Malham YHA Hostel) was just at the corner of town, and I stopped inside to deposit my bag and change my shoes and then went back into town to kill time until I could check into my dorm room. I added myself to the beautiful tableau before me: armed with an ice cream cone and Jane Eyre, I found a bench in the sun and whiled away a peaceful hour, reading and writing and people watching.

Later, over a hearty dinner in the pub, I thought about how I had given myself all the things I’d needed that day; how I had moved slowly and skipped those miles and met the Spine Race Man and Charlie’s family, how my feet were finally starting to feel better and how, after 5 days of walking, I was starting to feel like I was on the Pennine Way, really on it. I was settled and more sure of myself, I’d picked up a set of maps and an extra stake for my tent and several more blister patches (just in case!) and I had a belly full of food and a heavy copy of Jane Eyre and a forecast that showed nothing but sunshine.

I was ready for the rest of the way. Ready, and excited.

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Blisters and Jane Eyre; Day 4 on the Pennine Way, Hebden Bridge to Haworth, 15(ish) miles

November 15, 2018

Blister paaaaiiiiiinnnnn!

I’m promise this is (sort of) the last post where I’ll talk about my blisters. Maybe I’ll mention them in the next post. But I’m not sure how else to lead off a post from this fourth day of walking on the Pennine Way, from Hebden Bridge to Haworth, without making it pretty much all about my blisters.

Because this day was all about my blisters. Blisters, and Jane Eyre. But Jane comes later.

I’d woken up early- after a decent night’s sleep in my private room at Hebden Bridge Hostel- and after packing my things I went downstairs to take advantage of the complimentary breakfast. I’d bought some yogurt the day before, and along with a hot cup of coffee and a big bowl of cereal that the hostel provided, I felt ready for my day ahead.

What I remember most about leaving the hostel is that, on my walk back along the canal and heading out of town, I had to stop and adjust the bandages on my toes. I wasn’t even 20 minutes into the day’s walk and I had my pack opened before me, my little medicine bag open, my socks and shoes off. Once the blisters were re-wrapped I was again on my way, but my steps were still painful. It wasn’t impossible to walk- not at all- but the pain was ever-present.

But worse than the pain was my worry over the carefully planned itinerary I’d set for myself. I was going to walk the Pennine Way in 15-days, and this is a slightly ambitious plan but one that I thought I could manage. (In hindsight, if I were doing this over I’d give myself a minimum of 17-days, but I’ll save that post for another time). One of the issues with my itinerary was that I’d planned a 26-mile day for myself towards the beginning of the walk, the entire reason being that I’d wanted to detour to Haworth. The details here aren’t important, but basically, the detour meant that I’d have to cover a whopping 26-miles the next day if I wanted to keep on track and finish the walk in the time that I’d allotted.

On a good day- weather wise and with feet and legs in good working condition- 26-miles on the 5th day of a long walk would be difficult, but possible. But as I walked out of Hebden Bridge that morning, my four little blisters crying up to me with every step, I couldn’t imagine how I’d be able to accomplish what I’d set out to do.

And stopping in Haworth was a priority. Haworth is the home of the Brontës, that great literary family of the nineteenth century, and while I haven’t read all of the works from Charlotte and Emily and Anne, I adore the story of Jane Eyre. I’d also heard about the family’s home- the parsonage- and once, years before, I’d seen an old photograph, a grainy black and white image of a solid old home set against a wild and stormy sky, surrounded by open, empty fields. “I’d like to go there one day,” I said to myself.

When I was researching the Pennine Way and discovered that Haworth was just a few miles detour from the main path, I knew I’d have to work this into my plans.

But since the 26-miles wouldn’t be until the next day, I decided to push that detail out of my mind and focus on what was around me. And despite the blister pain, and despite how the path began to rise rather steeply as I made my way off the canal and through the hamlet of Mytholm, I loved the path. There was something really beautiful about the morning, about the dark and quiet little cemetery tucked into the side of the hill, about the way the path narrowed and curved around tiny waterfalls and stone cottages, steps tucked into the dirt, how flowers seemed to spill out onto the path- a burst of red and pink and white.

Once I climbed well away from the canal and passed through a series of farms (and an orchard!), I entered Heptonstall Moor, the first true moorland of the walk. Ahh, now this was what I had been waiting for. There is just something about an open landscape, about the wide skies and the fields that stretch to the horizon, and the feeling of vastness and freedom. It’s my very favorite kind of walking. I’d discovered this back when I walked the Camino Frances and really loved the Meseta, and on the Norte with all those sweeping coastal views, and the Aubrac Plateau on the Chemin du Puy. But it was crossing through moorland on the West Highland Way that had me researching other walks through the UK. “I want more of this moorland,” I’d said to myself.

And here it was. A winding, faint path through the heather, stone slabs appearing occasionally to prevent wet, muddy feet and to help guide the way. I stopped in a grassy spot by a creek for a snack- a banana, a handful of dried apricots, a few rounds of Babybel cheese- and then continued walking through the moorland, on service roads and past reservoirs, on grass and dirt and more stone slabs.

Eventually the path wound up to Top Withens, the farm that was supposedly the inspiration for Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights (this is greatly debated and totally unproven, but accuracy aside, Top Withens has become associated with Wuthering Heights and is quite the tourist destination). I’d been alone all morning long, passing the occasional hiker, but now that I’d arrived at Top Withens it seemed as though everyone else had, too.

I walked around the remains of the old farmhouse and then found a quiet spot on the hill behind the building and ate another snack. The skies were overcast that day, and I started to get cold there on the hillside, with the wind whipping around and I could imagine that Emily Brontë had walked here once, or maybe a dozen times, among the weathered stone and gnarled tree branches and dreamt up her dark tale of Catherine and Heathcliff.

The path detours just after Top Withens, with the Pennine Way carrying straight on and the detour to Haworth descending down to the right. I had about 3 1/2 miles to go, and most of the way was pleasant, but the last bit of walking on the road had my blisters roaring again. But I could see the town of Haworth in the distance and it was early afternoon when I arrived, giving me plenty of time to check into my B&B and then head back into the town for some site-seeing.

I was staying in the Apothecary Tea House which was right in the center of the town, in a quaint square filled with shops and restaurants. Haworth has a youth hostel and when I was planning my itinerary I think the hostel still had open beds, but it was located a mile and a half up a long hill on the way out of town, and I decided that I was going to splurge on a B&B.

And I’m so glad that I did! The staff were among the kindest of any that I’d met on my walk; the owner greeted me when I arrived and when he found out I was from Philadelphia, referenced every song and movie he could think of (and then told me more at breakfast the next morning). I was taken up to my room and even though I had only been walking for 4 days, the room felt like an oasis. A big soft mattress and extra blankets, a sink in the corner of the room with a fluffy hand towel (and a full bathroom that I had sole use of, with toiletries and more fluffy towels), a large window that overlooked the town, a hot water kettle and a tin full of tea. I took off my shoes and socks and made a mug of tea and stretched out on the bed before I did anything else.

After my shower I headed back out, but before touring the Brontë parsonage I made a stop at the tourism office. I’d made a decision when I’d been up in my room drinking my tea. When checking in, the owner of the B&B asked what time I’d like to have breakfast the next morning. “What’s the earliest time you begin serving?” I asked.

“8:00am,” he said. “It’s a little later than usual because it’s a Sunday morning.”

I told him that 8:00 would be fine and then I set about coming up with a Plan B for the next day. I knew I’d never be able to walk the full 26-miles if I started at 8:00am, especially if my blisters were slowing me down. Haworth had a train station, so I figured that there must be a way to skip a portion of the path.

In continuing with the trend of ‘Haworth as the friendliest village just off the Pennine Way’, the women at the tourism office spent a good 20 minutes with me in order to figure out a plan. They gave me multiple maps and timetables and made phone calls and wrote down train numbers and assured me that not walking 26-miles was absolutely, positively, the right thing to do.

Initially, I thought that I might just be able to skip about 10 miles of the path, and still give myself a decent day’s walk, but after looking at options and considering the state of my feet, I settled on a plan that would cut out nearly 20 miles of my planned walk. I’d still have about 6 to do, but it would practically be a rest day, and maybe it would even give my feet a decent shot of healing.

Armed with a plan and the friendliness of the village of Haworth, I bought a ticket into the Brontë parsonage and of course everyone there was friendly and helpful too. The man who greeted visitors as they entered the house followed me around the rooms for a bit; I’d come during a quiet pocket of time, and as I walked from the drawing room to the kitchen to the dining room, he pointed out small details and told me interesting facts.

The table where the sisters wrote each evening!

This kind of site-seeing isn’t something I normally do during my long walks, but this time it felt just right. I wanted to learn more of the Brontë sisters, to see where they lived and wrote; I was, quite literally, walking in their footsteps through this part of the Pennine Way, and I wanted to immerse myself into their world. On my out of the parsonage I stopped in the gift shop and bought a 488-page copy of Jane Eyre. My pack was already heavy- was I crazy to add this very unnecessary weight?

I’ve never carried a book on any of my walks but now I don’t think I’ll walk without one. It adds extra weight, sure, but I can’t explain how wonderful it was to read a few chapters of this book every night in my empty bunkhouses, eating ginger cookies and drinking tea and night after night and then even into the day, Jane became my companion. I was walking alone but I was also walking with this great character. “Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!”

I read the first few chapters that night, in my cozy room in the center of Haworth, a mug of hot tea and a bag of chocolate candies and if I’d had any dreams that night, I think they were probably full of the wild and windy moors.