Coast to Coast (2016)
Straight across England: beautiful nature and the Nine Standards

One of Britain's most famous walks is the brainchild of one man. A man with a love for heather, hills and untouched nature. Alfred Wainwright's Coast to Coast, a 308-km trail, runs from the Irish Sea to the North Sea and passes through three national parks, the Lake Districs, the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors. Sounds good! That is why the Coast to Coast was high on my wish list for the last few years. Now the time has finally come. Let’s go!

Day 1: St. Bees - Black Sail - 37 km
The start of the Coast to Coast is on the beach of St. Bees and is graced by a proud marking, which Astrid and I of course photograph. The tide is high and the Isle of Man, 30 km away, is a blue mirage  on the horizon. The beach is dominated by an impressive 61-meter-high cliff, St. Bees Head, and that's where we aim our walking boots. We start with a bridge over a messy stream, Rottington Beck, and then we climb up, quickly leaving a holiday park full of mobile homes behind us. We walk right along the precipice and we see the places where the path has moved inland because wind and rain have chopped off the earth. To the right is a sheep pasture of such intense green that I suddenly think of Tolkien and his love for England. It is not difficult to imagine that someone in this landscape thinks up Hobbits, with their love for all that lives and grows. The green is illuminated by the yellow flowering gorse and delicate purple and white flowers. Although we are still fresh, Astrid and I struggle our way up and once there the enjoyment really starts. Every now and then the path makes a small turn, giving us a beautiful view of the rust-red rocks. Cormorants and gulls fly by below us. Two Englishmen are walking in front of us hiking another trail. We don't see any other hikers yet. We have a long stage ahead of us and therefore left immediately after breakfast. Halfway between South and North Head there is suddenly a gorge, Fleswick, whose narrow walls form a tunnel to the sea. We descend into it and climb up again on the other side. More meadows await us there, but not for a second do we find it boring. When we get to a birdwatching point overlooking a cliff, I can't help but look. And we are richly rewarded for my curiosity. The rock sees black and white of birds. Hundreds of guillemots, graceful birds with a white belly and black back and head, stand side by side on the shat on ridges. It is a constant coming and going and their chatter is plentiful. To my utter amazement, the English ignore this miracle. What is the pleasure of walking if you are not curious about the world around you? We soon catch up with them and don't see again them after that. We pass the elegant white lighthouse from 1865 and follow the coast through a kissing gate. The path is barely marked, but so far there are no side paths to confuse us and we keep on walking. As we round North Head, a decent city appears on the horizon, draped over the hills. Fortunately, we don't have to go that way. At a quarry full of deep red rocks, 250 million year old desert sand, we turn right and descend to Sandwith. For a moment we are unsure which path to follow, but we guess correctly. At the next intersection stands one of the first signposts that directs us to a grassy path near a farm. The way marks become a bit more numerous and it certainly helps as I don't know if I could have followed the path solely on the directions and map. We walk into an avenue that descends sharply and a grassy path through a meadow takes us further down to a tunnel under a railway line. On the other side again a pasture. I follow the hint of crushed grass to a bridge. According to the map, there should also be a big lake, but I give up looking for this clear landmark when I read in the directions that the lake is hidden by reeds and tall grass. With the help of the scarce arrows we find our way to a second, unused railway line. We pass underneath it again and then it is quite a climb to the A595. We cross the busy road and immediately on the other side is the mud brown statue of a Coast to Coast hiker. The man has a mouth with stern, downward curved angles. Very un-hiker. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here, hiking . Doesn't hiking make everyone happy?The statue is intended as a welcome to the village of Moor Row and there we stop at a bakery for a treat. We are soon joined by four other Coast to Coasters, three Australians and a Norwegian. They hiked this "loop" yesterday and today came straight from St. Bees to Moor Row on a tourist cycle path. I don't want to cheat. Our Coast to Coast starts today and I want to walk the entire trail from start to finish, without tricks or shortcuts. We walk down Moor Row quite a bit, until we are allowed to enter a public footpath through a gate, of which Great Britain has an inexhaustible supply. There is even an association of people who hike the least used paths at least once a year to prevent unwilling landowners from closing them down. Hills appear in the distance, including one whose top rises from the forest like the bald head of an old man. We cut through the village of Cleator, cross the river Ehen and then start to climb, not steeply but steadily. Initially there is forest and I am happy with that, because I have not seen that much in Great Britain and it is wonderful to breathe in the familiar and nutritious scent of pine trees again. Eventually in a firebreak the path becomes a bit too muddy and we choose the alternative between the trees that so many hikers have already chosen for us that a clear path has been created. Only when we have to jump over a stream do we return to the firebreak. By then we are almost above the tree line and the climbing has heated us so much that the wind is wonderfully refreshing. We arrive in a landscape of grass and rock and I would almost expect a alpine marmot. Behind us is English civilization. Villages, Sellafield’s smoking power plant, a police siren which competes with the jubilant song of a woodlark. The Lake District is unfolding before us. Mountains are beckoning, their tops hidden in the clouds. Our home for the next three days. We descend on the other side of the mountain, this time going down steeply. Very steep. Generations of hikers who walked against the current have worn the trail into a kind of staircase with their heavy shoes and we make good use of it. Once at the bottom of the valley we follow a stream, Nannycatch Beck. The name alone makes me happy, it reminds me of blushing nannies and boisterous young men. The water sings and jumps and regularly changes its mind about where it wants to flow relative to the path. The first time there’s a bridge, then there are stepping stones or the water just flows where it wants and we cheerfully stomp through it. It is an idyllic valley, the walls that enclose us are covered with yellow gorse and sheep who determine on their own which piece of grass is the most tender. To get to Ennerdale Bridge we have to climb out of this valley and we do so with enthusiasm. Once at the top we follow a road, although fortunately we are soon allowed to enter a footpath that looks down on the scarce traffic. Because there are no benches, we settle down on a set of stairs for a quick lunch of bread and cheese which I brought from the Netherlands. Then we walk on to the village, which is much smaller than it appears on the map. A few houses, a pub, a small playground. In the meantime the sun broken through quite unexpectedly and what I did not think possible this morning is happening: we are walking in our T-shirts. Wonderful. There is a quiet road to the lake and we follow it, until a beautiful landscape is revealed to us just beyond the parking lot. This is nature with a capital N. Beautiful mountains, from brown to rusty brown with a green blush. They merge, there seems to be no end. No electricity pylons, no road, not even a sound other than the singing of birds and the gentle lapping of water against the stony bank. Super beautiful. We choose the beautiful, but tough route along the right bank and because you can get here by car, for the first time we see a number of hikers. Well, hikers… Day trippers in flat shoes, picnicking by the water with a radio in a satchel. When we round the first hill and follow the path into the beautiful distance, we leave the people behind. I think I would much rather walk this way, deeper into nature, than vice versa, with a view of the clean-shaven fields. Our path is rocky, but doable until we get to Robin Hood's Chair. According to the guide, this is a difficult part, but I am used to hiking in mountains and don’t think it’s too bad. We do let the trekking poles slide off our wrists to clamber up with hands and feet. For Astrid this is the first introduction to more serious mountain hiking and she handles it like a champ. Every now and then there are trees that light up in the sun. Streams frolic down the path. We discover a dead sheep in the water, which is not too healthy, considering people swim in the lake. Later I will report it to the cabin warden of the Black Sail. She says that it is not allowed to let sheep graze here and that no one will want to admit to being the owner. But she has her suspicions and will ensure that the dead animal is removed. Meanwhile, were unsure whether to take the high or the low route to the Black Sail. The beautiful weather is ideal for the high route, but the afternoon is approaching its end and we don't want to overdo it. We postpone the decision for a while, but keep our break in the seductive sun short. We walk on to the end of the 4 km long lake and see a red-breasted merganser on the water, a duck with an almost punk-like head. The bird is rare in the Netherlands, so for me as a bird lover this is a special meeting. We continue and the path is less challenging now, almost paved with large, flat stones, but you still have to watch where to plant your feet. When we reach the far end of the lake, we walk through a meadow, a small piece of forest and then cross a small river. This is how we arrive at the Ennerdale Youth Hostel. I’s  not the end yet; the Black Sail, Britain's most isolated youth hostel, is a few miles away. We continue on a wide gravel road. The decision for the high or low route is taken off our hands when we miss the turn. In hindsight it’s a good thing we did. We are getting tired now and the gravel road seems to be endless. Then, behind a last corner, we are surprised by the Black Sail, like a present on an ordinary weekday. The hut, a former shepherd's hut, is beautifully situated at the end of the Ennerdale valley. High mountains tower above us on all sides. The weather deteriorates, the wind starts to blow and a little later it even starts raining.

Day 2: Black Sail - Grasmere, 24 km
 The clouds have crept down the mountains and fine raindrops tap against the windows as we leave Black Sail. The wide gravel road that brought us here goes no further than the hut and the narrow path we follow soon disappears into a swampy area. Via rocks protruding just above the water we cross Loft Beck and find our way through the swamp. Only the most subtle lines in the landscape and the slightest color differences in the grass show us the way. Yet even I get somewhat off track here. I read, I study the map, I read again. We are standing at a second stream, Tongue Beck, which flows down from a distant mountain wall like a silver ribbon. According to the guide, who has not led us astray  so far, we have to go up the right bank of Loft Beck. But no matter how I look, I don't see anything that resembles a path. Eventually I discover an unnatural line, which could be the first zigzag of a winding path. It's incredibly difficult to see from below, but I’ll take it. We carefully cross Tongue Beck as well and climb to the probable path. And once we are there, it is clear as day. A flat stone staircase takes us up through the gorge that Loft Beck has dug. We rise, we pant, we even get warm. Once at the top, we take a break to take off our rain pants, which we ultimately don't need and are suffocatingly warm. We end up in a bald hilly landscape, surrounded by gray fog. We are the only ones and that feels great. The peace, the silence, the space. We follow cairns, large piles of stones that mark the route. There seems to be no end to the cairns and just when I give in to my impatience, the author of the hiking guide reassures me. He incorporates his own experiences in the directions in a pleasant way and literally writes: "Don't worry if the cairns seem to go on for a very long time". Then a path joins from the right, Moses' Trod, named after a smuggler and illegal whiskey distiller. We follow the winding path through the lonely landscape and every now and then come across a cairn. The next point we are looking forward to is the ruin of a house on the former tramway to the Honister mine, where slate has been mined since 1643. We do not see the ruin, but the tram track is unmistakably situated on a low and straight slope. Metal is rusting at its base. We follow the tram track downwards and here we meet other hikers for the first time, on the way to the Black Sail. We continue on the tram track, which is getting stranger, because it has stairs and it ends with a narrow descent between two rocks. After another flight of stairs we arrive at the parking lot of the Honister mine, which is full of old army vehicles that are about to start their own tour. At the mine is a small shop and here we take a break, while it starts to rain again outside. Just as we continue, it is dry again, how luchy. We follow the road, but fortunately are soon allowed to switch to the old, disused road to Seatoller.The new road winds down along with a small stream through a bumpy landscape with strange red blushes. They are the dead ferns that are not yet overshadowed by fresh green. When we get lower, we also see trees that give the landscape much-needed color. Then a kissing gate deposits us on the road to Seatoller and we walk into the village. The name is derived from the Scandinavian word for ‘summer meadow with the alder tree’. The village dates back to 1893, when eight houses were built for the miners, who previously slept in primitive huts or even in the mines. Through a parking lot we walk into Johnny Wood, while the sound of the Derwent skips with us. Where the path heads towards the water is a rocky outcrop with a one foot wide ledge over which we must cross. There is an iron cable strung to help walkers, but in fact it's not that bad. The rocks gradually descend to the river and the cable is not necessary in this beautiful weather. When we come out of the forest, two more sheep pastures are needed before reaching the village of Rostwaite. There we cross Stonethwaite Beck and follow a wide path full of gravel and stones that slowly rises. The brook keeps us company on our way up and spoils us with increasingly beautiful waterfalls. As the impressive Eagle Crag towers above us, we admire the countless drystone  walls that wind their way up the walls of the valley to insane heights. This must have taken thousands of years of work and I wouldn't be surprised if they are on the Unesco World Heritage List. We climb higher and higher and when we look back Rosthwaite is a smooth green postage stamp in an otherwise rugged, gray-brown landscape. After every bend we think we have reached the end of the valley by now, but there is always a new climb. Even when we see the bowl that really heralds the end of the valley, we still have to pass a large rock to the left, further up. Fortunately, here is another kind of staircase made of flat stones and at the end of it we are really at the top.
The view is amazing 360 degrees round. How small I feel here. A little later there is doubt about the route, but when we cross the streams that are on the map one by one, I can orientate myself again. However, the path disappears into the tall grass and we walk randomly through nature. Only a little further on, at the iron posts of a long ago fence, do we see the few gravel stones that indicate a path. Here we can again choose a high or a low route to Grasmere. Wainwright wanted to encourage walkers to embark on their own adventures, so there is no single set route for the Coast to Coast. After a short break we decide that the weather is good enough for the high route. Because we are already quite high, we hardly have to climb anymore. Instead, we do not descend, but stay at this altitude until just before Grasmere. This gives us a fantastic view of the surrounding valleys, distant rain showers and a mirror-smooth lake in a dip on top. Slowly green fields, trees and houses reappear in the valley. Drystone walls draw abstract shapes in the brown landscape. Once the descent comes, we challenge our legs and go down sharply. The smooth asphalt after that is a relief. Just taking normal steps again, stretching your legs and stretch out wonderfully. The Coast to Coast turns left before Grasmere, but we go straight ahead, into the tourist center. The village has about three outdoor shops and Astrid needs a new backpack. The waist belt on her B-brand backpack has come off, putting all the weight on her shoulders, and with eight more days of hiking ahead, that's not a good thing. It's almost closing time, but luckily we end up in a good store with an extensive choice of backpacks. Equipped with an A-brand backpack Astrid likes, we walk out of the village to our B&B.

Day 3 - Grasmere - Shap - 40 km
It is official. Astrid and I are tough as nails. Walking from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. with only a half-hour coffee break at 11 a.m. is extreme even for me and I've already done quite a few crazy things in my hiking career. And that with a 60 km / h wind. Hard enough to blow us away anyway. Wind speeds at which experts advise against going into the mountains. But then, we did not go. The moment someone up there turned on the air conditioning, we were already there ... The day starts quietly and calmly. As usual, we wake up early and hit the road not much later. We walk on a gravel road along the stream Tongue Gill and according to the guide there is an interesting alternative on the other side of the water. We cross the first, still fairly new bridge that we encounter. We arrive in a vineyard, where the path soon disappears between the young trees protected by green plastic tubes. After a few attempts to find a route, we give up and return to the gravel road. Only a little later to come across a second bridge that promises better things. There is a clear path that follows the valley in the right direction. While the brook murmurs below, we cross the countless streams that frolic down the path. We slowly ascend and at the end of the valley there is a waterfall that plunges down from a high rock. Unfortunately we can barely see it because of the dense fog that descends from the tops. We go up further and are pampered with an easily accessible staircase made of flat stones. Once at the top, we descend again and below us see the smooth water of Grisedale Tarn. A large group of young people is camped out on the far shore. Bundled up they wait until everyone is ready to leave. And then we pass by, in T-shirt and sweating after our climb. At the end of the lake there is a rock with a Wordsworth poem on it, as this is where William last said goodbye to his brother John, who drowned in 1805. Imagine trying to find one specific rock among hundreds of other rocks. Here too we have the choice between a high and a low route, but it’s easy. In this weather, with peaks shrouded in clouds, climbing further  makes no sense. We descend into the valley and should head for Patterdale. Unfortunately the village is just around a corner and perhaps because we can't see a destination in the distance, the valley doesn't seem to end. Yet there is still plenty to see and enjoy. Every now and then a waterfall and when we are a bit lower, a yellow-hammer is singing prominently at the top of a tree. I have never seen the animal this good! After a few farms we turn to a road and for a moment we enjoy the flat asphalt under our feet. Walking normally, without thinking about how to put your feet down, what a luxury. Then we are introduced to a new nature reserve, Glenamara Park. The area is anything but park-like and the views over a distant lake, squeezed in by mountain giants, are more than impressive. When we do reach Patterdale, we stop in a hotel for coffee. The village is not big and I don't think we will encounter many other catering establishments. There’s a souvenir shop a little further on where we score a sleeve emblem and fridge magnet from Coast to Coast. Even if we have only just started, better to have it now than not at all. Shortly after leaving the village, we cross a stream to the hamlet of Rooking. There we start climbing again. Very gradually, thankfully. At a calm but steady pace we walk on, looking back to the mountains behind us and the lake, which is now a shiny silver fleck below. Once at the top quite a few trails converge and finding the right one is quite tricky as the guide suddenly switches from left and right to south and southeast. I'm no sailor, now am I? In the end I choose a path that goes in the right direction and of which the scarce cairns meet the directions of the guide, although we pass the peaks on the right, while according to the guide we should have passed them on the left. Fortunately, we meet a hiker who confirms that this is the path to Angle Tarn. With its special shape, peninsula and small island, the lake is unmistakable. On the shore are a few geese, who disturb the silence loudly with their alarm call when we pass by. Although we are approaching the lake from a different direction than we should have according to the map, I can now orient myself well and we continue on the only and correct path on the way to another lake, Hayeswater. Meanwhile a vicious wind has started blowing and the drizzle feels like hail against our bare skin. Our trekking poles are practically blown away and we do without on the flat parts. At the beginning of the lake there should be a path down, but we don't see it. Perhaps because we follow a second, less common path that leads to the top of The Knotts, at 739 meters the highest point on the Coast to Coast. Somewhere near the lake we have to turn left, but where? Due to the bad weather, the distance feels longer and I feel we should have seen the exit long ago. We take shelter on the leeward side of a hill to read the guide again and see if we can discover a path in the valley. Far in the distance we catch a glimpse of what might be Haweswater Resevoir, but the low ridge in front of it is not on my map. Eventually I brave the wind and climb a small hill, where I see that we have not yet reached the end of the Hayeswater. We descend to the official path from which we have wandered and I consider myself lucky that there is not so much fog that I cannot see it anymore. The wind makes thinking difficult and I am starting to worry. In these weather conditions you don't want to get lost in the mountains. Fortunately, Astrid remains positive and provides a cheerful note. A few hikers are walking in front of us and I hope they can give an indication of the correct direction. Two disappear over a hill and one follows a drystone wall to the top of The Knotts. Eventually we come to a cairn and a path to the left. At that point I don't really care much anymore and I just want to get off this mountain. The wind literally blows us over and I put my glasses in a jacket pocket to keep them from being blown off my nose. The path leads to a mountain top and then disappears. For a moment we don't know how to proceed, but when the fog clears briefly, we see the path reappear ahead. It is not an easy one. Every now and then there is a piece of gravel on which we can walk somewhat normally, but otherwise it is more scrambling and struggling over a mosaic of rocks. Below us we see a long water that can only be the Haweswater Resevoir where we need to end up. I don't know if it's luck or wisdom, but we're on the right path. When we are a lot lower and the wind has decreased somewhat, I want to put my glasses back on, only to find out I have lost them. Astrid wants to go back to search, but that’s hopeless. Moreover, without glasses I see well enough for hiking, only the distant views are a bit blurry now. The last stretch is on grass, but it is so steep that it doesn't feel like an improvement after the rocks. We carefully shuffle down until we are almost at the end of the lake. We have to go to the other end of it and it's a darn long lake. At least 6 km we meander along the water, occasionally still climbing and descending, but never again as bad as up high in the mountains. There are countless waterfalls and when we reach a pine forest, a red squirrel poses perkily for a photo. Every now and then it also drizzles, but without the wind there is no sharpness in the water and it hardly disturbs us. However, the wind and rain did ensure that we did not stop for lunch and only ate some muesli bars. Yet my stomach starts to rumble again and when we check it turns out to be half past three. We leave the sandwiches for what they are and I cut two thick slices of cheese from the piece of Gouda that gets smaller every day. We walk on strengthened and as if to end the day with a celebration, a beautiful rainbow appears over the lake. We walk towards the rainbow for half an hour, without ever reaching it. We do reach the end of the lake, marked by a strict, straight dam. There we expect the village of Burbanks, but except for a few houses, there is no life to be found. Certainly not a pub where we can get a hot cuppa. A fairytale forest area full of purple blooming bluebells leads us to Naddle Bridge, where we encounter our first honesty box. A crate full of goodies, with a small money jar next to it. We are both very in need of some sugar and enjoy the cans of cola. This really came at the right time! And when Astrid also turns out to have licorice, I am completely satisfied. With renewed energy we follow the brook through a number of meadows and past farms. It seems as if it is getting dark, because the sky turns dark gray. Fortunately it is only a drizzle, the umpteenth today. With the Lake District almost behind us, way marks are allowed again and the Coast to Coast is reasonably well signposted. Still, I am happy with the guide, which flawlessly shows me the way to Goodcroft and Fairy Crag. One last hill and then we look down on the ruins of Shap Abbey. It's only a short detour, but Astrid is just as crazy as I am and we walk to the frayed tower to play tourist. After that there is only asphalt road and so near the end that’s a relief. We arrive at a bare field full of caravans and have a chat with a lady who walked the Coast to Coast herself four years ago. Her daughter and her boyfriend are now hiking it and she has met them here today. She gives us valuable tips about the route and it’s very nice to hear her experiences. And then finally there is Shap, our B&B and a well-deserved bath.

Day 4: Shap - Kirkby Stephen, 32 km
The day begins with a railway line and grassy path to the M6 ​​motorway, while a cement factory vomits clouds of smoke against the backdrop of the Cumbrian mountains. Not exactly a nice start to this stage. Fortunately we quickly cross the highway and when we walk past Harrendale quarry, the traffic noise fades into the background. We pass the hamlet of Oddendale, which is largely hidden from us by trees. Because we are now walking a stage in sync with the guidebook, we meet several hikers who, like us, will end their day in Kirkby Stephen. There is a newly married couple from Arizona, a German who walks with a heavy pack and an Englishman with whom we walk for a while. It is soothing to not have to pay attention to the route as we enter the vast heathland of Crosby Ravensworth Fell. At the edge of it we come across a fairly straight line of pockmarked stones. It cannot be the lost Roman road between London and Scotland, because that has disappeared. It remains a mystery. We follow the marked path winding across the heath and arrive at a road that we follow to a slightly busier road. Our guidbook does indicate a grassy path so we can avoid some asphalt, but there is no traffic on this road and we are having too much fun to leave our English hiking buddy alone. We don't have to follow the busy road for long, we descend through a kissing gate towards Orton. Here we say goodbye to our hiking companion after all, because he is walking the alternative, with a wide arc around Orton, while we descend between low hedges to the village for a stop in the chocolate shop. Thus refreshed we pick up the route again, but not the official one. It follows a road out of the village, but on the topographic map I see that we can also get there on a public footpath. We follow the footpath through some meadows, until  we turn one meadow too early to the road and then we are faced with an impenetrable drystone wall. Fortunately, the meadow has a gate that can be opened and so we brave a last bit of asphalt before the main route and the alternative meet again. The landscape does not look as exciting and rough as in recent days. Man has clearly left its mark on it. And yet it is beautiful. The low drystone walls, the fields where cows graze in green patches of sunlight, the ominous blue clouds and far away the brown and dark brown hills. We end up on a road past several farms, where a dog growls at us semi-seriously. At the last farm the road ends and we continue on a grassy path to Tarn Moor, another moorland where a small lake has nestled among pale blond grass. We meander over the hills and come across two dead sheep, one of them still fairly fresh, the other a pile of bones with an ear tag. As a bird watcher I can only applaud this. The griffon vultures that recently strayed into the Netherlands had nothing to eat and disappeared. We leave the heather behind and happily walk on along a succession of drystone  walls and meadows. It never gets boring. Then we descend to the disused railway and in the valley on the other side we see the Smardale bridge over Scandal Beck that looks like a picture postcard. A pasture further on, a farmer is driving his sheep with a tractor and a sheep dog to the bridge. We arrive there at about the same time as the first sheep and with that we undo the dog´s and farmer´s hard work, because the sheep find us scary and flee back the other way just as fast. We cross the stream and climbing up and looking back to the railway, we see the bare rocks of a disused mine. There are also some trees, short and low as if the wind is stunting their growth. We expect to reach Kirkby Stephen soon now, but Smardale Fell, one final moorland is bigger than our impatience can handle. Behind every drystone wall a new one appears, behind every meadow more green grass. Finally, there´s our third unused railroad today and Greenriggs Farm. Apparently the farmer has the necessary experience with hikers in places where they should not be, because the yard has been abundantly arrowed. Via the driveway we descend to Kirkby Stephen, where we meet this morning's Englishman again. This is the last time we will see him, because we have a well-deserved zero day. 

Day 5: Kirkby Stephen - Muker, 24 km
Down a narrow alley we leave Kirkby Stephen's market square and descend to the copper-colored River Eden. Just across Frank's Bridge, a signpost says it's another 108 miles to Robin Hood's Bay, while St Bees lies already 82 miles behind us. We follow the river for a while and then turn to the village of Hartley. When at a junction we grab the guidebook for a second, a lady taps her window and points to the right. There we find a path to cross a very modest stream, Hartley Beck, and then start the long climb to the Nine Standards. The first part of the climb is on an asphalt road that turns around the Hartley mine. Young rabbits dart from here and there to their burrows under flowering gorse bushes. We have been warned by several hikers about the poor condition of the trail in this heathland and when we get to the last fence, we see a crowdfunding campaign to cover the border of Cumbria and North Yorkshire with stones. To limit erosion, there are three routes through the area, to be followed in different periods. The red route is ready for us, which can be followed in May and June. It consists of a gravel path that we follow uphill. Far in the distance we see a hill with a number of pimples on it, the Nine Standards that are getting closer and closer. The sun has now broken through and we are getting warm on our way up. Around us the skylarks sing as if they are having their own Idols competition. As we approach the Nine Standards the path does indeed get a little worse, but it's nowhere near as bad as predicted. It has not rained heavily in recent weeks and although the peat gives under our feet, we do not sink very deeply. After a few ´normal´ cairns, we then reach the top where the impressive cairns await us. It is immediately noticeable that they are not uniform. One is square, the other spherical, another third taper in steps. They are no ordinary cairns, guiding mountain hikers in foggy conditions. What were they intended for? Usually there are  legends about such unique objects, but the theory that they were built to confuse Bonnie Prince Charles's army, as the guidbook suggests, does not seem likely. Charles Edward Stuart led the Jacobite revolt in 1745, while a 6th century Welsh document already speaks of ´the toothed mountain´. After looking around and resting, we continue. Even if the day is not long, at the top of this mountain the wind is too strong to sit still. We descend again along an orientation board with the names of distant hilltops. The path is now indeed getting a bit worse and the ground has been thoroughly eroded by the many walkers. We walk around puddles and jump over swampy stretches, but once still I sink down to my calves into the mud. Astrid is more careful and it shows on her pants. While mine are black nearly to the knees, Astrid's has only a single speck. Rolling hills all around us, as if it never ends and there is no village, no city beyond the horizon. Wonderful. Astrid startles a pheasant chick who quickly leaves the path, the mother flaps wildly as if she is injured to lure away predators. We are not dangerous and when we passed her by, she returns to her chick. A little further on, a lonely calling bird turns out to be a golden plover. Very nice! We also come across semicircular walls that are neatly numbered, foxholes for hunting grouse. Unfortunately we do not see the bird, rare in the Netherlands. We are overtaken by a Dutchman who continues to Reeth today and despite his long stage he pauses for a chat. At a farm we say goodbye, because the family is known for its delicious scones and Astrid and I feel like something tasty. After the snack, which turns out to be delicious indeed, we continue along an impressive ravine, How Edge Scars. We follow it for a long time, enjoying the view it offers of the river below. At a fork in the road we choose the asphalt to Keld, completely counterintuitive. According to the guidebook, there´s a spectacular view that you will miss if you choose some extra meters of grass. We soon understand the recommendation. A huge limestone cliff, bordered by trees, towers over the brown river. Wain Wath Force Fall is an attractive, albeit not too high waterfall. Definitely worth the tarmac.Not much further we turn to Keld, a small village with a few beautiful waterfalls on the other side of it. Here we meet an Englishman who spontaneously starts to speak Dutch when he hears where we are from. How extraordinary. When we have crossed the river, we turn towards Muker. The main route from the Coast to Coast goes up to Reeth, a stage of five hours. We have booked an overnight stay in Muker and that means the alternative along the river. The route along the top passes the ruins of smelters and other signs of the mining industry that was once practiced here. Although the guidebook recommends it, it doesn't appeal to me. Although the landscape along the river has clearly been touched by people, this does not feel like a scar. It's beautiful. A long gravel road takes us high along the water until we descend and cross the river to Muker. We are very satisfied again. 

Day 6: Muker - Catterick Bridge, 35 km
We walk back to the Swale on the beautifully tiled path. We cross the river and resume the route. Little rabbits flee from us on all sides, a number of burrows close to the river and the critters venture over and under tree roots on their way to safety. We cross countless drystone walls through stiles  definitely made for slim people. The steps are barely 50 cm wide and where this is still found too much, a transverse stone has been placed to narrow the hole. Even the super slim Astrid still struggles with some stiles. We continue to cross pastures, of which England seems to have an inexhaustible supply. In many meadows there are dilapidated sheds, used for livestock and hay storage. Some are still in use, others no more than a ruin. The water of the Swale rushes over the shallow stone bed. Where the bed is wider and the water deeper, we miss the soothing sound. Pieces of rope in the trees and reeds in a barbed wire fence show that the water can be much higher than it is now. With this low tide I don't expect to see any kingfishers, but halfway through the morning we see two blue flashes skimming past. The route is slowly getting greener than it has been until now. Along the river we walk through a tunnel of trees, while white and purple flowers bloom around our feet. We see male pheasants, oystercatchers and a godwit. Astrid notices that the drystone walls here have fallen into disrepair and have been replaced in many places by barbed wire on wooden posts. It is undoubtedly more effective and simpler, but it does diminish the characteristic Englishness of the landscape. Soon we reach Reeth, which is a bigger place than we expected, with three pubs and paid parking. After Reeth we descend again to the river, follow it for a while on a lovely green path between the trees and then climb up through a forest like a fairytale. A  sea of ​​flowers and although they smell somewhat like onions, it is beautiful. May really is the best time to walk the Coast to Coast. It is quiet and everything is in bloom. At a road I follow the arrow of the public footpath to the right, before I realize that we should have gone to the left, via a switch into a meadow. There it is difficult to distinguish crushed grass from tire tracks, but we follow the road below in the right direction. One pasture further we see four ladies walking in the distance and because the path is also becoming clearer, we limit the damage to the cow´s winter feed. We follow the ladies to the ruins of an abbey, which now houses an outdoor center. Just like the four hikers, we can't resist taking a peek anyway. Soon an employee comes out to send us away in a typically English fashion, very politely. Still I quickly take a picture of the beautiful landscape through a attractively ruined church window. Then the climbing begins, out of the valley through a forest that is appropriately called Steps Wood. According to the guidebook there´s a staircase with 375 steps, but in fact it is a well-paved path up, so the ascent does not require too much effort. Moreover, we walk up through a forest, a welcome change after all those meadows. We end up in a meadow with a number of young cows and whether they are bulls or heifers, I do not know. They get up when we pass by and stare at us. We stare back and walk on. The ladies before us were so intimidated that they took a long detour. We cross the hamlet of Marrick and on the other side of the village is another field of curious cows. So curious, in fact, that they come after us when we enter their domain. Fortunately, they eventually give up the chase. We are heading for Marske from Marrick. We've been in Yorkshire Dales National Park since Nine Standards, but I don't feel like I am walking in a nature reserve. This is farmland, beautiful, but to call it a national park ... Or maybe we miss the highlights on our fast way from west to east. Just before Marske, Astrid finds glasses at a switch, neatly placed on a stone as if the walker who lost them here will come back for them. Would it be my strength, I think only when I have passed them by already. After Marske there is another vicious climb and we are happy with it. For a while we have heard helicopters and we also see them flying in a sort of search pattern along the hills. At first we think an accident has happened, but later we understand that it is a military exercise. After a number of farms all with Applegarth in their name, there is lovely woodland, Whitecliffe Wood. It ends just before an asphalt road, but the guidebook gives an alternative that extends the green for another kilometer or so. We turn right, down a narrow grassy path, where we reach the river again. Then we run out of options and walk into Richmond. What a culture shock after so many days of nature. So busy, so much noise, so much traffic. I am so glad that we will not spend the night here, but a hamlet further on. Still I find this city´s history interesting, such as the tower of the Albertines, also known as the Gray Brothers. Depending on donations, they were so successful in finding donors that their wealth became an eyesore for many and the monasteries were dissolved. The 1500 a.d. tower was not finished when the order in Richmond ceased to exist and is now all that remains of the monastery. A little further on, a second tower rises above the roofs and it´s Richmond Castle, the ruin of an 11th century castle, of which only the walls and a few buildings are still standing. While Astrid waits outside, I slip in just before closing time. I take a look at the main hall, which still has some of its former glory, and climb the keep dating back to the 12th century, because I can and because you have a beautiful view from above. In World War I, when conscription was introduced, conscientious objectors were locked up in the cells of the keep. The drawings and messages they left on the walls are too fragile to be seen by visitors and I have to make do with photos of them.
The guidebook does not give clear directions on how to proceed from Richmond, only that there are numerous small streets leading to Richmond Bridge. We choose the wrong street and end up at Station Bridge. Once I realize that, we continue on the map until we pick up the route again. We pass the remains of Easby Abbey, a tower in someone's backyard where firewood is kept dry. Because of our detour we walk longer than necessary along the busy A6136. The traffic noise starts to irritate after a surprisingly short time. Finally we are allowed to turn and because there is a bicycle sign to Catterick, we almost go wrong. Fortunately, at the right time we meet a dog owner who shows us the right way. In Colburn we again have doubts, but this time we choose the right direction. Then we come to a field, see the red roof of St. Gilles Farm over a hill and head straight for it, while according to the route we should have made a left turn. Whoops! Through someone's backyard we still reach St. Gilles Farm, a luxury B&B that we share with six Englishmen who are walking the Coast to Coast for the third time. They started three days earlier than we did and did not have a rest day. The fact that we have caught up with them feels quite strange. In Shap, the group had already heard of two Dutchwomen with obscenely long stages and were appropriately impressed. From now on we will take it slower and that means that we will be more or less in sync with the English.

Day 7: Catterick Bridgge - Osmotherly, 34 km
A tropical day like we have never had before greets us when we step out the door in the morning. We set out in good spirits, but almost immediately we take a wrong turn, according to our so far reliable guidebook. We turn around and soon meet the English, who set out shortly after us. They have a guidebook which was released this year and it contains a detour due to the construction of a new highway. Although they walk a bit slower than we do, we think it wise to walk together and thus we find the way to the viaduct across the highway and along the horse race track of Catterick. For the last time we cross the Swale and because the English have already fallen a few hundred meters behind unnoticed, Astrid and I decide to take off. Although we hardly see the river for the trees and weeds along the banks, we follow its course through one last sheep pasture. Ewes and lambs lie lazily on the path in the shade and with this heat we like to make a curve around them to avoid chasing them away. At a sand and gravel pit we leave the Swale for good. We walk around the excavation to Bolton-on-Swale and after the dark church are allowed to enter a meadow, where we follow a meandering stream. The grass is high and both my shoes and pants are getting wet. Wonderfully cooling in this heat. The route is a well-trodden path through the grass, partly because the farmer insists that the walkers stick to the edge of the meadow. Eventually we arrive at a busy road, which we follow past Kipling Hall, a country house that, as is often the case, remains hidden behind high walls. The road walk feels fairly long before we are allowed to turn, but in reality it will have been no more than a kilometer. I expect to have to turn right somewhere and get restless when the route insists on going straight. Still, we are in the right place, because an organic farmer´s guestbook and the ruin a little further down the road are mentioned in the directions. We follow the route from farm to farm across fields with waving young grain and fresh green grass. This brings us to Danby Wiske, a special name for a village. It reminds me of the name of a cartoon character, but it turns out to come from the old Norse words Danir en by, which means ´farm of the Danes´ and Wiske refers to the nearby river. We rest for a while at the pub and as we continue, the English take our places. In the distance we hear trains from London to Edinburgh rush past and soon we cross a railway bridge. This is followed by a few rapeseed fields, which we only saw from afar yesterday. The sun makes the flowers really smiley yellow and it´s beautiful. The path through the rapeseed fields is so narrow that my pants are yellow with pollen. We cross a second railway line, from York - Middlesbrough, via an unguarded crossing. A staircase brings us to the tracks and on the other side another staircase goes up. The wind is gradually picking up and carries the noise of the busy A19, a dual carriageway that we will soon have to cross. I worry about it, because it seems quite dangerous. The cars are fast and plenty. The English also warned us yesterday to pay attention. Since the Coast to Coast is not a National Trail, there is no money for way markers and something like a pedestrian bridge. In the end it is not too bad. Just as we arrive, I see a gap in the traffic from the right and we run to the traffic island in the middle. Immediately after that there is a gap in the traffic from the left and we are over it in no time. Relieved we continue to Ingleby Arncliffe and from there to Ingleby Cross. There a forest awaits us, Arncliffe Wood, but it takes a while before I recognize the trees on either side of a wide gravel road as a forest. The path is too neat, the trees are too far from it. We zigzag upwards and this time with fresh reluctance, because everything we ascend now, we will soon have to descend again. Eventually we come to a swing gate at the edge of the forest, where we leave the Coast to Coast for a while. Our B&B is in Osmotherly, 1 mile off the route according to plan, but it feels quite a bit further. The B&B is a long way outside the village and then we have to go back to the center for the pubs. But from now on the stages will be shorter each time, so we can handle the extra kilometers.

Day 8: Osmotherly - Blakey Ridge, 32 km
For the first time this Coast to Coast, we hardly need to consult the guidebook, because the route follows the Cleveland Way almost all day, which, as a National Trail, is well marked. On the advice of our hostess we take a shortcut to get back on the route and our Coast to Coast today starts with a last piece of forest before Scarth Wood Moor. That is a wide heathland, full of brown tones and a rainbow of green. To prevent erosion, the path is paved with flat stones. The walk is easy, but lacks the natural charm and challenge of loose sand or bare rock. I hope that the physical challenge of the Coast to Coast will not be undermined as much as the path becomes a national trail and gets a budget for path maintenance. From the heather we walk into a forest, Clain Wood, with another easy gravel path. The greenery on either side of the path is so young that it almost makes me feel old. Via an asphalt road we ascend a little higher and arrive on Live Moor and from there on Carlton Moor. We walk right along the edge of the heathland, where the earth takes a spectacular diving dive downwards. In the depths we see yellow rapeseed fields, neat green squares with grain or grass, villages like doll houses. Out of nowhere a hill rises, bare with a green forest on top, like a badly seated toupee. According to the guidebook we might be able to see the North Sea for the first time today, but we consider the chance of this to be nil. While the weather isn't nearly as bad as predicted, the distant view is limited by a white curtain of mist and fine drizzle. We walk on and consider ourselves lucky for every hour that it is not yet raining. Suddenly a bird flies past and lands a little further on in the heath. It makes a sound that I have never heard from a bird before. A kind of grunt, like a grumbling old man. When I zoom in with my camera, I see red combs above the eyes. A grouse! In the Netherlands the birds are almost extinct. In 2013 only two roosters and ten hens were found on the Sprengenberg near Nijverdal. A barely viable population. That year, 25 wild-caught birds were also imported from Sweden, but due to a lack of food, the young die within days of hatching. And now here just at my feet a black grouse! My day could not get any better. A little further is a fork. There is no mark. Until now I have walked hiked on the white acorns of the national trail and not kept track in the guidebook, on the map or the directions, of where we are. That is why it is a bit of a puzzle before I decide that we should go straight ahead. When we descend some sort of stairs, we meet an Englishman. He turns out to be a volunteer forester in the Lake District and tells that black grouse are bred in England and then released for hunting. None of the three of us see the fun in this. With some effort we say goodbye and walk on to an almost invisible café with a green roof for a well-deserved break. The café also has a shop with a butcher shop, bread, tomato paste and souvenirs. Impressive, especially as there´s no village to be seen anywhere. The saleswoman explains that the meat comes from their own cows on the estate and that many farmers from the area buy there. When we are outside, the six Englishmen from yesterday arrive. Another short but stiff climb to a heather area, Cringle Moor, awaits us. When we descend on the other side of the hill again, we see a second black grouse and then even a third! We keep going up, down and up again. Our effort is rewarded with a beautiful view and with the Wain Stones, an impressive rock formation that I did not expect in this otherwise calm undulating landscape. It is not immediately clear how the path continues from there and I follow a worn goat path around the stones. On the other side it is only a foot wide and the heather bushes brush against my trouser legs. I'm starting to have doubts. Where has my beautifully paved path gone? Via the worn out footsteps of hundreds of hikers in front of us, we hoist ourselves up against the steep mountain wall. There the paved path comes from the right. Whoops! We follow it to the left and happily walk on. And again a black grouse comes flying in. This one is clearly defending a territory, as it gets closer and closer, strolling down the path from left to right, while staring at us with outstretched neck. He stops at about two meters and I can take beautiful pictures. In the end we decide not to tease the animal any further and keep walking. Around 2 p.m. the clouds close in and it starts to drizzle. Together with the strong wind it gets chilly, but we don't expect it to be far to the final destination and we don't care. Drizzle isn't rain yet, right? A wide gravel path takes us quickly through Urra Moor. Along the path there are a kind of boundary stones, one of which has a smiling face on it. The Face Stone, as the stone is known, is reflected in the directions and so we know for sure that we are in the right place. Nice to get that confirmation. Every now and then we see and hear grouse, but we pay little attention to them anymore. What was so special only this morning has become common very quickly. In total we see a dozen of them, far away and close by. Shortly afterwards we reach the former Victorian mineral railway, the railway between the Rossdale iron quarry and Teesside. Here we say goodbye to the Cleveland Way and the high embankment takes over the function of handhold. From here to the end we only have to follow the railway and it is easy to walk on the fine gravel. Unfortunately it is still drizzling and to spare the guidebook, I only glance at the map briefly. I have not read the directions in detail, which says we should follow the railway for five miles. As a result, I expect it to end fairly quickly and if it fails to occur after half an hour and even an hour, I start to worry. Both Astrid and I are cooling off considerably and that is not a good thing. The railway winds around the low valleys with wide bends. Visibility is getting worse until we can see at most thirty meters.
Under other circumstances, we would enjoy it even now, because the heather remains beautiful. So many shades and shapes. No road, no house to be seen. It is precisely that ´no house´ which we would like to see differently now. Then we come to a stone that reads ´Blakey´ and while I know I can't expect a village here, the Lion Inn, our hotel, is in the hamlet of Blakey Ridge. From the slope we see a small red roof. A muddy cart track leads to it. There is no sign, no marking. Only a stone with some faded paint streaks lies along the path. We walk to the roof, but it turns out to be a cattle shed. Disappointed, we return to the embankment. Then the clouds lift their white skirts for a moment and we see a second, larger red roof further back. Could that be it? Whether it is the hotel or not, I want to go there. We don't see any other way to the left, so we return to the muddy path. We pass the barn and arrive at a stone wall. A parking lot full of cars. The Lion Inn! We almost passed it by, but we found it. We gratefully make use of the bath to warm up and dine at a table in front of the roaring fireplace.

Day 9: Blakey Ridge - Littlebeck, 28 km
Having wizened up from yesterday we don our rain gear and go out into the white world. Fog is everywhere and we set out in a drizzle. Out of misery I even put my camera in my backpack, a rarity. The first kilometers are on an asphalt road. Boring, the writer of the hiking guide also admits, but it can´t be helped. There is an alternative through the heath, but that is swampy and very difficult to pass. Despite the fog, some drive like maniacs and that while occasionally sheep cross the road. Fortunately, after a while we are allowed to take a second, calmer road and not much later we can cut a bit through the heather. As the guidebook predicted, the path is very bad. Many hikers before us have made new paths around the largest puddles, but every now and then it remains a puzzle and we have to explore ourselves. Before taking a step, I test the soil with one of my trekking poles and one time it disappears about halfway into the mud. Only because I have already gotten the message the trekking pole does not go in all the way to the handle. We survive this too and arrive at a road which we only have to follow for a short distance before we turn into a gravel path to Glaisdale. First it gets lighter, then it gets dry. Although we don't feel as though we have descended much, we come underneath the clouds and a green valley with a few farms stretches out before us. Numerous brooks murmur through the heather, some flowing boldly across the path. Again grouse regularly fly by and amuse us with their gurgling sounds. But golden plovers can also be heard. My camera gets its permanent place on my backpack again. The road we walk is easy to follow and just before Glaisdale we start talking with an Englishman who continues to walk despite two new knees, two new hips and rheumatism. What an achievement! We only say goodbye when he won´t stop talking about Brexit. No politics during my vacation. In Glaisdale we enjoy home-baked cake in a tiny tea house in someone's backyard. Soon more walkers pour in and we make room. Through the village we descend steeply to the river Esk. For a while the route is difficult to find, but fortunately there´s a clear marking here too. As a result, we miss the beggar's bridge, which according to the guidebook is definitely worthwhile. According to a group of English people it is only a few meters away, hidden from view by a railway bridge and we enjoy walking towards it. It is indeed a fine bridge, but the best part is of course the story that goes with it. The bridge was built in 1619 by Thomas Ferris. He was a poor man in love with the daughter of a rich farmer. He planned to go to sea to make his fortune. The night he left Glaisdale, the rain made the Esk so high that he could not visit his sweetheart. Eventually he returned from his travels a rich man and built the bridge so that other lovers would never be as separated from each other as he and his new wife were.After the bridge we walk back to the path and continue through a beautiful forest full of blue and white flowers. Yesterday's rain has also left its mark here, because it is incredibly muddy and slippery. Fortunately, here too the route is paved with flat stones and only where they are missing do we slither on our own. In the depths we hear the water roaring with force. When we get out of the forest, the flat asphalt is a relief. To reach Egton Bridge we have to cross the Esk again and this time we do not do so via a bridge, but stepping stones that have been worn by generations of hikers. Fortunately, they are not slippery and we do not have to take big steps and we get to the other side safely. The Catholic faith is still very much present here and the town is therefore nicknamed ´the village forgotten by the Reformation´. We visit the church and it is special. A Way of the Cross has been placed in the walls, in three-dimensional, colorful images. There are the relics of a saint, Nicolas Postgate, who was hanged and quartered at the age of 82 in York after the mass hysteria over the alleged installation of a Catholic Pope. There is also the model of a hidden church from the 17th century, which was recovered in 1830 when a servant accidentally put her hand through the plaster and discovered the hidden space. After the church we walk back a short distance for the path across an estate to Grosmont.In a meadow we see no fewer than three pheasants, two roosters and one hen. We also hear a steam whistling in the distance and the occasional puff of a train in motion. We deviate from the route and cross a meadow to an unguarded railway crossing. But although we keep hearing the train regularly, no white clouds appear on the horizon and the puffing doesn't get any closer. We continue our route and meet an Englishman who tells us that the train is probably going to Whitby, exactly the opposite direction. But when we enter Grosmont, we see the steam train on the shunting yard just past the cute little station, puffing patiently. Although the train only leaves in an hour, it is already entering the station, so that the countless tourists waiting can enjoy themselves. Satisfied and content we leave the village via a very steep hill of a 33% incline. Just stretching the muscles before we can descend. The North Sea is still nowhere to be seen. The road goes straight through a heathland where sheep graze. According to the guidebook we have to go clockwise past two stone circles. We try out a small path and although we see enough stones, we cannot detect a circle in them. We return to the road and follow it until we are allowed to cut a bit through the heather. Our shoes were just a bit cleaner… After crossing the A169, there is a last heathland before we reach the edge of Littlebeck, our end point today. Because the six English have reserved all the rooms in the B&B, we are staying with a friend of the owner. But we do get to eat together and that is very pleasant.

Day 10: Littlebeck - Robin Hood's Bay, 21 km
Usually the last day I am oppressed by a feeling of melancholy. The end is approaching. How fast it went. Not so with the Coast to Coast. It continues to be intensely enjoyable until the last kilometer. It starts on the edge of Littlebeck already, where we are sent into an almost tropical forest. So intensely green and moist that I feel like I'm back in New Zealand for a while. In the depths a stream roars as if it were a river. The trail high above the brown water is extremely muddy. We slide and shuffle along puddles and tree roots. Occasionally there are flat stones or a wooden plank to make walking a bit easier, but that is an exception. Only our trekking poles keep us upright. We enjoy it to the fullest. The trail takes us to the Hermitage, a rock hollowed out in 1754 for a local teacher, George Chubb. The guidebook does not explain the why. From here I follow the path down, as usual relying more on the map than the directions. This time it is not the right move, because a moment later it becomes clear that we are not in the right place. There is a junction that is neither on the map nor in the directions. I choose the path that the stream follows and by sense of direction and hearing we arrive at the right bank of a waterfall that we should have approached from the left. Fortunately I can now orientate myself again and there is also a Coast to Coast way marker. There are also two signposts, one for a path without stepping stones and one for a path with them. After our positive experiences with previous stepping stones, we now confidently choose to cross the stream instead of the safe-boring bridge. When we are at the edge of the water, we´re not entirely sure we made the right choice though. These are not sturdy, square stepping stones that protrude a long way above the water. These are large, flat slabs sometimes a few centimeters and sometimes much deeper under water. We´re not chickening out and shuffle carefully to the other side.The forest also continues for quite some time on the other side of the water. How wonderful, I never thought that the last day would be so beautiful and fun. It remains an adventure to stay upright on the thick, sticky mud, but eventually we see light and we end up on an asphalt road. We follow it up to the edge of Sneaton Low Moor. There a signpost points in the direction of Hawsker, the last town before we reach the North Sea. Small problem: we don't see a path. Sheep graze among tall, brown clumps. In the distance, a dark discoloration in the heather indicates something that could be a path. But where does it start? We haphazardly stroll through the clumps of tall grass and follow the slightest bend of the short grass on the other side. A little later the path becomes clearer, but that does not mean that it gets easier. You´ll never convince me the path has been in use for a long time. It is too new, too narrow and, above all, too wet. We have to cross the heath to avoid the worst puddles and as a nature lover I would rather not trample plants. The path is not that bad compared to the swamp that we are presented with on the other side of the busy B1426, however. The trail is also only visible with keen eyes and we are so glad to have our high, waterproof shoes. Where the path itself is under water, we go around it with a curve, which is just as bad, if not worse. We step right into moss and long grass, trample perhaps very special plants. It is a struggle, but one that makes our hiker´s heart leap and brings a happy flush to our cheeks. Ultimately, there is a last hill and Astrid is the first to see the North Sea. If no ship had sailed there, we wouldn't have noticed, because water and sky have the same gray-blue color and the ship seems to float above a farm´s roof. The weather is not suitable to mirages, otherwise we would have thought our eyes were deceiving us.When we walk through a meadow, we are hoping that the mud is now over and done with. But that´s celebrating too soon. A last, long and narrow path, full of yellow mud and uneven stones, takes us down until we reach a road. We follow it towards High Hawsker, stopping briefly to feed the small pears, which have been in Astrid's suitcase for a few days now, to two donkeys and a horse. Along the way we see a door on which an encouragement to two hikers is chalked. You are almost there! Although the congratulations are not meant for us, it still makes us happy. The pub in High Hawsker is still closed, so we continue to two holiday parks. The second has a café where we take a final break. Here the Cleveland Way and the Coast to Coast keep each other company again and we make good use of the excellent way markings. We descend between the mobile homes towards the coast. Just past the last one we get our first taste of that typical English coastline wich is completely missing in the Netherlands: steep cliffs that rise impressively high above the water. Precisely because it is so different from the gentle slope of a dune, the waving beach grass and golden sand we are deeply impressed. We follow the path slowly, because we could continue for weeks and the end, which is now fast approaching, always comes too soon. We follow the undulating coastline along the edge of the cliff, where the path is sometimes turned away and we take a detour through a pasture full of sheep and cows. A little further on, four lambs are standing on the wrong side of the fence and as we approach they keep fleeing from us, until they are very far from their own flock. Then there is a place where we can walk around them and they spear back to mum. Until the very last kilometer we do not suspect there´s an actual village behind the next hill. The inhabited world seems so far away. So far we´ve only seen the sea and green meadows. And yet there is that last climb, that last corner and Robin Hood's Bay appears below. We descend past increasingly beautiful houses, until we can dip our shoes in the water of the North Sea. There is a small beach, where a sand artist sculpts a dolphin, but otherwise it is mainly a large plain of stones and seaweed. After we have explored the village, we join the six Englishmen, who have now also arrived. We sign the log in Wrainwright's Bar and raise our glasses to a beautiful journey.