long-distance hiking Archives

Repeating a Camino

September 8, 2019

I don’t think I wrote quite as much about my pre-Camino planning this year as I normally do, or what my process was like deciding how I wanted to spend my summer, but I was, in a word, conflicted.

I’ve been feeling both a pull to do something new and to go some place totally new, as well as a small tug to spend a little more time at home. So there was all this pulling and tugging when I’d been thinking about Summer 2019 plans, and I kept thinking: “Is this the year for another Camino? And if it is, which Camino do I want to walk?”

There wasn’t a clear answer, and that’s the first time this has happened. I’d felt really certain about each of my previous walks. That’s not to say that I don’t spend time researching and flipping back and forth between various options, but I usually have a feeling in my gut about where I want to walk. But I just didn’t this year.

And yet, it had been several years since I’d been in Spain. Without any obvious answers coming to me, I wondered if maybe it was time to go back to the Camino. I planned a 10-day walk on a new-to-me route (the Aragonés, read more about that here and here), but I’d still have more time to walk. I wanted to walk for a month. I didn’t want a route that was too crowded, I didn’t want a route that was too isolated. I wanted the Goldilocks of Camino routes, and there was one I couldn’t get out of my mind: the Camino del Norte.

I’d walked the first nearly 500km of the Norte in 2015 and most of the remaining 300km in 2016 and I loved it, especially the first half. It’s not a perfect Camino, and there are a few things I wish could be different or “better”, like maybe a stronger ‘Camino’ feel, a few more albergues especially in some key places. Walking in the summer can be tricky as tourists as well as pilgrims flock to the beach towns, and lodging tends to fill up. Prices are a touch higher than in other parts of Spain. There’s a lot of asphalt walking.

But there was also so, so much that I loved. When I first walked I thought that it had nearly the perfect amount of people for me: just enough so that I could form my own little Camino community, but not too many that I would constantly see other pilgrims throughout the day. I loved how solo it felt, and I also loved the friends that I made. The food was really great. While at times I may have wished for more of a Camino feel, it was also nice to walk through parts of Spain that didn’t feel dominated or defined by the Camino. More locals tried to have conversations with me, curious about why I was walking alone, making sure that I was okay and having a good time.

And, most importantly, the scenery. Another caveat: just as the Camino del Norte isn’t perfect, it’s not 100% beautiful views either. Every time the path dips away from the coast, my heart sinks. Sometimes the Camino runs nearly parallel to the coast but also frustratingly just out of view. Sometimes it rains. But the rest of the time, it is just so, so beautiful. I’m not sure I’ve found anything on any walk that I enjoy more than rounding a corner and arriving at a small, pristine beach with perfectly worn sea glass and gentle waves and not a person in sight. And it happens over and over.

When I walked the Camino del Norte in 2015, I learned how to truly be independent on a long-distance walk. I learned how to ask myself what I both needed and wanted, and I learned how to give that to myself. I learned when I needed to show up for others, and when I needed to go my own way. I sort of figured out that I loved the freedom of being alone on the Camino Francés, but I gave myself that freedom on the Camino del Norte, and I’ll never, ever forget what that felt like.

So the Norte has had this special role in all of my Camino-ing, and for the past several years I’d been adding to a document on my desktop, making notes for my next walk on the Norte, knowing that someday I’d return.

All of this and yet, even though I’d sort of decided that I would probably walk the Norte after I finished the Aragonés this summer, I wasn’t totally convinced. In fact, I didn’t make a final decision until the day before. I hesitated and hesitated because I didn’t quite feel ready to repeat a walk that I’ve already done.

There are so many other walks out there! There are so many other experiences to have! Despite sometimes feeling like I could live forever, I know that I won’t. Despite feeling young and strong, I know that I’m aging out of my youth (maybe already have). And what if my situation, having 8-weeks of freedom every summer, what if it changes? Because surely, one day, it will. Maybe soon. And all of these thoughts made it really difficult to say with any certainty: “Yes, I’m going to walk the Norte again.”

So I hemmed and hawed and honestly one thing that made the decision kind of easy was that, as I was finishing the Aragonés, I was walking through a heatwave. It was intense. Sitting at a table surrounded by pilgrims in the albergue in Puente La Reina, I could feel the sweat rolling down my back, my legs. I wasn’t even moving or exerting any energy, it was just that hot. I looked at the weather app on my phone and checked the temperature in Irun and it was significantly cooler and my decision was made. Go north. Go to Irun, start walking.

This has been a long introduction to a post where I wanted to talk about what it was like to repeat a Camino, so here we go:

It wasn’t what I expected.

It felt nearly like a totally new experience.

And I guess that makes sense, though I certainly didn’t anticipate that I would feel that way. But maybe I should know better: I don’t have the greatest memory, and I marvel at people who can remember specific details about their long-distance walks, especially details of the landscape. I think back on my walks and I can certainly remember the bigger picture, and the memorable moments are etched into my brain, and I take photos and write in my journal (and blog!) to try to remember the details, but so much of the daily walking just gets lost.

I just didn’t realize how much of it escapes my memory, I didn’t realize it until I went back to the Norte. Because once I started walking, there was so much I didn’t remember. In fact, there was a point where I was convinced that the path had been altered considerably since I’d last been there, like they’d rerouted big portions, because I just had no memory of it! I arrived at an overlook over the beach of a sizable town and… nope, nothing. Had this part of the Camino even existed in 2015? Had this beach even been there at all??

But, also there were other parts I remembered, some things were so clear. One day, I was walking on the path and rounded a bend and looked up at a slight hill and thought- ‘This is where I saw that white horse.’ And then I looked to my left down the field and there was a white horse, hanging out by the trees! And it dawned on me that it was probably the same exact horse, and something about that made me really happy.

And that kind of thing happened a few times, when I’d be walking and not really remembering the specific part of the trail but then be suddenly hit with an intense feeling of familiarity, and remember all at once exactly where I was.

So it was this interesting mix, of things I’d completely forgotten but also things I’d remembered. But there was another layer too, and that was that most of the things that were familiar were also different. It’s because I was often walking different stages than the first time, staying in different albergues, passing things at different times of the day, in different weather, with different people, and it all adds up to a new experience.

Sometimes, I recreated an experience. I love a good tradition, and walking a Camino twice is enough for me to start up traditions. And so, I took the detour down to the little beach in Onton to look for sea glass, like I did in 2015. I had the really good tortilla in Liendo. I got ice cream before the long walk along the boardwalk in Laredo. I ordered tostada con tomate at the beachside café in Noja. And I took a lot of the same photos. Sometimes this was intentional- I remembered a photo from my first walk on the Norte and came to the same place and couldn’t resist snapping another. But now that I’m home and reviewing all my pictures, from both 2015 and 2019, it’s shocking to see how many times I took the same photo in the same place, unintentionally (ahh, that photographer’s eye!).

Then there were other times when I purposefully set out to do something different. And this, I think, is the beauty of returning to walk a Camino for a second time. There were a couple towns and albergues that I wanted to revisit, but mostly I tried to stay in different places. I discovered new and wonderful albergues (I have a post that lists my favorite albergues on the Norte, which I’m going to update soon), and I discovered new villages and towns too.

I also hit the beach more. Last time, in 2015, I walked on the beach when it intersected with the path of the Camino, and sometimes during the walk I made little detours to small beaches along the way. But I never really took the time to go down to a beach in the afternoons or evenings, and I didn’t plan my stages to end in towns by a beach. This time was different. I love the feeling of my feet in the sand and the sound of the waves and I wanted more of it. I stayed in villages that were on the coast, and after finding a bed in the albergue, I went down to the beach and lounged on the sand. After much hesitation, I went swimming at a little secluded beach in Pendueles (there are two things of note: 1. To access the beach you practically have to rappel down the trail with a provided rope; I was in flip flops but I made it. 2. I’d decided not to pack a bathing suit and it turns out that there’s another handy use for the buff I always bring!). That little swim in the sea was one of the highlights of my Camino. I also went for several evening walks on the beach, after everyone had packed up and left for the day and I had the stretch of sand all to myself.

Another goal for my return to the Norte was to take more coastal alternatives. As mentioned above, the route of the Norte sometimes veers away from the coast, and while often it’s not very far, it’s far enough that you can’t actually see the coast. After some searching on the Camino forum, I discovered a great document that lists out a bunch of coastal alternatives; some I’d already explored when I walked in 2015, but there were more I wanted to find for my second time around. One very fun day was when I walked the 36km coastal route from Santander to Boo. It wasn’t an official “Camino variant”, but with some detailed instructions I’d found online, I was mostly able to find my way, and so much of the route was stunning.

I had a thought as I was walking the Norte this summer, I wondered if I could try to come back every 5 years to walk. Wouldn’t that be fun? To see how the route has changed, to see what has remained the same. To return to my favorite albergues and to find new favorites. To take the same photos, again and again, to sink into my traditions. To find that white horse. To walk more of the coast, to brave the chilly waters, to meet new friends, to remember who I was when I last walked.

It would take a lot, to return to a place and commit time to repeat a long walk and to do this continuously throughout my life. I may never walk the Norte again; to walk most of it twice was a gift. To walk like this at all is a gift, and I wonder how long I can make this last. I dream of having enough time and enough health to walk all the long walks on my list, to walk the walks I haven’t yet discovered, to return to walk the paths I’ve already been down.

Maybe all of it will happen and maybe none of it will, but I know this: I’m happy I returned to the Norte.

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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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

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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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