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Long walks provide obvious metaphors for life but Wainwright's Coast to Coast seems particularly so, especially if you are from this neck of the woods as I am. I undertook this walk earlier this year and pulled out all the stops to make it as poignant and memorable as possible. Words and pictures by Greg Hackett.
Standing at the sea's edge at either end of the Coast to Coast, gazing into the blank canvas of the ocean, it's easy to think about nothing, and nothing is also what there is at both ends of our lives.
In between those points there is a lot happening. Life thrives in the towns, villages and communities that are linked by this national trail. In the fields animals graze, birds sing, trees whisper. Mountains are pushing against the sky, valleys are scored deep. There are three National Parks to pass through, each with their own personalities and characteristics, like phases of life itself.
First the Lake District, the peakiest and troughiest of them all, with its sharp edges and uphill struggles. A place for adventure, exploration, limit-finding and awe. Then comes the Yorkshire Dales and things have settled a little. Here there is work to be done, livings to be made on the land, and long easy rivers to follow down clear courses. Finally, it's up on to the North York Moors, desolate but beautiful, peaceful but exposed. And at its end when the sea comes into view, there is calm and often gratitude.
A significant birthday was the trigger to finally make me commit to the C2C and I decided I would bring as much meaning to the experience as I could. I would be joined for the entire walk by my partner and a friend, but in addition I invited anyone and everyone I knew to come along for as much or as little as they liked. It would be an odyssey, a reflection, a metaphor, a meditation. But mostly, it was just a long walk.
Here's how it went.
Day 1: St Bees to Ennerdale Bridge, 14 miles. Full of excitement we make our way to the beach, where the tradition of pocketing a pebble to carry to the journey’s end brings a sense of ceremony to the day. One of our group later confesses, to everyone’s amusement, that she has tucked her pebble into a suitcase, which her luggage porters will carry for the next thirteen days.
Leaving St Bees, we follow the rocky coastline northward before veering west towards the mountains. The previous evening’s clear view of the Western Fells has been a treat, but today, fog settles in as we approach Cleator Moor, shrouding the landscape. The air is thick and salty, clinging to our skin. Yet, the arrival at Ennerdale Bridge is a breath of fresh air—literally. The sun finally breaks through, dissolving the fog and revealing our first lake and mountain. With the landscape now clear and inviting, the adventure feels like it has truly begun.
Day 2: Ennerdale Bridge to Rosthwaite, 15 miles. While it’s possible to ascend the fells and conquer a series of Wainwrights from Great Borne to Haystacks, we opt for a more leisurely route along the southern shoreline. This path takes us scrambling over the rocky outcrop known as Robin Hood’s Chair—a fitting nod to our final destination. Though less ambitious, the route still leads us past Haystacks, with time to enjoy a coffee at the famous Black Sail Hut, all while soaking in the breathtaking views of Pillar Rock and Great Gable.
We choose not to visit Innominate Tarn, Alfred Wainwright’s resting place, and skip the tempting detour to Fleetwith Pike for its iconic Buttermere view. Some of us have experienced these moments before or plan to later, but today our focus is on completing the day’s walk. Perhaps it isn’t the most adventurous attitude, but with 12 days of trekking ahead, we know we need to conserve our energy. Besides, the scenery we encounter is far from lacking.
After passing the old mines (now an adventure centre) at Honister Pass, we are rewarded with one of the most memorable views of the entire journey—looking out towards Great End. A well-deserved beer awaits us in the charming garden of the newly reopened Yew Tree Inn at Seatoller, before we continue on to Rosthwaite.
Day 3: Rosthwaite to Patterdale, 17 miles.
For many, this section ends at Grasmere—a short day—but we decide to push through the full 17 miles, making it one of the toughest days of the fortnight. The challenge lies in the double ascent and descent: first, a climb over Grasmere Common, just north of the Langdales, followed by a rest in Grasmere before tackling the grueling ascent to Grisedale Tarn, nestled between Fairfield and Helvellyn.
Sadly, Grasmere marks the end of the journey for one of my guests. She has been quietly mentioning foot pain since St Bees, but by the time we reach Grasmere, her discomfort escalates to the point where her comments are anything but polite. It’s a stark reminder that this trek is no guaranteed accomplishment. Later, her injury is diagnosed as a fracture.
After a refreshing dip in Grisedale Tarn, we encounter a schoolteacher who regales us with the story of the nearby Brothers Parting Stone. It is here that the poet William Wordsworth bids farewell to his brother John, who is heading to sea—unaware that it will be their final meeting, as John will die in a shipwreck four years later. I can’t help but think that if Wordsworth had walked from Rosthwaite, I’d be more impressed.
Day 4: Patterdale to Shap, 17 miles. This day and the next, leading to Kirkby Stephen, are the toughest of the entire trip. Perhaps our fitness hasn’t yet caught up, coupled with the hilliest terrain—and these are the hottest days by far.
My original companions have departed, replaced by fresh faces, including Tim, who is tackling his own Coast to Coast in sections from west to east. He plans to leave us at Orton, only to return in two weeks to continue his journey.
After climbing out of Patterdale, we encounter several Wainwright summits along the way—Angletarn Pikes, The Knott, and Kidsty Pike. We even take a slight detour to bag Rest Dodd as a bonus. The stunning Angle Tarn also offers an inviting spot for the second wild swim of the trip, though it is my first and last—I only manage two minutes in the chilly water.
Angle Tarn features in a tender scene in David Nicholls’ new book You Are Here, where the two main characters begin to cautiously connect. Coincidentally, in the months leading up to my Coast to Coast, I had the idea to fictionalise my own journey. I had characters, plot lines—everything. It wasn’t a romantic story by any means, quite the opposite, but it was still set against the Coast to Coast backdrop. My plan was to follow the trail, take notes, and let the story unfold naturally. But then You Are Here was published, and I know I can’t compete with Nicholls, so the book idea is shelved, leaving this blog as the only remnant of that ambition.
From the tarn, we make our way down to Haweswater. On the topic of literature, my partner has been reading the novel Haweswater by Sarah Hall before the walk. The novel tells the fictionalised account of the flooding of the village of Mardale to create the reservoir, a necessity for the booming population of Manchester. It’s a fascinating yet tragic tale, where the needs of the many destroy the lives of the few. Today, during times of drought, the ruins of the village can sometimes be seen just below the surface, or even protruding, drawing people from miles around to gaze upon them.
Haweswater itself is surprisingly long, and the walk to Shap seems endless. My old university friend David, who has joined us at Patterdale for today and tomorrow’s sections, has come down from Inverness. But the heat is too much for the Scot, and after tonight’s beers, I won’t see him again until Kirkby Stephen.
Day 5: Shap to Kirkby Stephen, 20 miles. The terrain begins to flatten as we transition from the Lake District to the Yorkshire Dales National Park.
The fields here roll like gentle waves, and we stumble upon yet another Robin Hood site—this time, his supposed grave, marked by a cairn nestled in a dell. There seem to be as many Robin Hood graves as there are King Arthur’s seats, but we still commemorate the moment with a biscuit.
Out of nowhere, we find ourselves surrounded by a throng of tourists—walkers from Canada, the US, and Australia. They’re all lovely, but it feels like an ambush. After a flurry of exchanges about where everyone is from, they vanish as quickly as they appeared. They’re on a whirlwind tour, one explains, visiting the “less boring bits of the Coast to Coast.” Their sheepish guide hurries them along.
Lunch is at a stone circle, followed by the sight of an impressive viaduct—these are the remaining highlights of the stretch. Finally, as we arrive in Kirkby Stephen, my overheated friend David waits with a cold beer and the promise of a curry.
Day 6: Kirkby Stephen to Keld, 12 miles. Finally, a short day. Keld is the first place I book for the trip, with the days before and after planned around this point. I read that accommodation here is limited, and we are keen to stay at the famous Keld Lodge.
Before reaching Keld, we visit the impressive stone pillars at Nine Standards Rigg. Tim had confidently briefed us on their history, claiming that the Nine Standards were built at some unspecified point in the past to resemble an encampment meant to deter marauders from the north. It’s a convincing tale, and on approach the pillars certainly look the part. However, a bit of research reveals that their origins remain a mystery, leaving us to speculate. My own theory is that they result from a pillar-building competition among local farmers or dry stone-wallers.
Beyond Nine Standards Rigg, we encounter nothing but bog—endless stretches of it. There’s so much bog, in fact, that different routes are recommended depending on the time of year. I’m not sure if the options are based on seasonal bog levels, nesting patterns, or something else, but we dutifully follow our designated boggy trail. Eventually, we descend into Keld, where we enjoy a pint at Keld Lodge, followed by a comforting dinner and a game of cards.
Day 7: Keld to Reeth, 11 miles. Once again, the guidebook presents us with a choice of routes—the high-level option, offering an educational trek past remnants of the mining industry, or the lower, gentler path through the vale itself. With fog hanging over the heights and a light rain falling, we opt for Swaledale, and it turns out to be a fantastic decision.
We have barely left the lodge when we take a small detour to visit a popular wild swim spot Kidson Force, giving me a chance to experiment with the long exposure function on my phone (resulting in the classic “fuzzy water” effect). Soon, the River Swale curves south, leading us through fields of bluebells, past grazing horses, and alongside beautiful, silent barns. Eventually, we reach the Ghyllfoot Tea Rooms, where, after seeing so few people for so long, we suddenly find ourselves in a small queue. It is worth the wait.
The river continues to wind its way onward. Near Low Row, the route unexpectedly jumps onto the top of a wall—wide enough to walk on, but wet enough to make it tricky. We stumble into Reeth.
Day 8: Reeth to Brompton, 16 miles. At some point, I have to mention the sheep—one of our group becomes so fascinated with them during the trip that they later gift me a tea towel to help identify the various breeds. Swaledale is renowned for its sheep, particularly the hardy Swaledale breed, which is perfectly adapted to the rugged landscape. Their distinctive curled horns and thick wool make them an iconic part of the scenery, dotting the hillsides.
Travellers on this section often choose to stay in Richmond, a town that offers a cultural break and a wider selection of dining options. We stop there for a late lunch and end up purchasing some unnecessary items in an outdoor shop—because who can resist? Richmond, with its impressive castle and cobbled streets, provides a brief but welcome immersion into history and local life.
When we arrive at St Giles Farm, where we stay for the night, our host kindly offers to drive us to a nearby pub for dinner. We enjoy a huge meal somewhere near Catterick, while our host catches up with a mate in the bar. This part of the journey feels a bit like a pause—a place between places, as if we are taking a commercial break between the grandeur of the national parks.
Day 9: Brompton to Ingleby Cross, 18 miles. Without a doubt, this is the dullest stretch of the fortnight, and it seems AW doesn’t think much of it either. There’s more road-walking here than anywhere else on the route, and when you’re not on the road, you’re skirting the edge of fields—many of which have been recently tilled, making the terrain even more challenging.
Danby Wiske is very pleasant, but the real highlight of the day is the hospitality of the Danby Wiske Campsite owner. We’ve counted on the local pub being open for food, but it isn’t. As we sit at the entrance to the campsite, wondering what to do next, the owner appears. Before long, we’re treated to baked potatoes with chili con carne. The campsite itself is well-run, with an honesty shop for treats and a great little kitchen area. We get lucky—thank you!
Before reaching Ingleby Cross, we face a couple of obstacles: some curious cows and the A19. The A19 is definitely more dangerous—it’s ridiculous that the only way to cross is to wait for a gap in the speeding traffic and then run for it. But the cows pose their own challenge.
Now, I know it sounds silly, but cows can be a worry. My mother is terrified of them, and I’ve recently read some stories about cow attacks that pique my concern. Apparently, such incidents are on the rise, possibly due to more walkers post-COVID, more dogs, or simply cows seeing too much machinery and not enough people. The reality is that attacks are rare and usually involve a dog and protective cows with newborn calves. Still, when we arrive at a farm and face a field full of them, I’m not keen. Worse, they seem overly curious.
I let my companions enter the field first, hoping the cows will be decoyed away from me. They follow my friends, but I still chicken out. Detouring half a mile around the fence, leaping over a beck into nettles, and climbing over a barbed wire fence, I eventually catch up with my group at the Bluebell Inn, where it’s, understandably, my round.
That night, we stay at Park House, which has recently been taken over by a young couple who are excellent hosts. They even have a signed copy of the David Nicholls book in their bookcase—he must have stayed here while researching.
Day 10: Ingleby Cross to Chop Gate, 14 miles. At this point, I should mention that my partner, Charlotte, leaves me—not permanently, but for a brief detour. She has a birthday party to attend in London, so she runs ahead to spend a night nearer Glaisdale, from where she’ll catch a train to London and back. Remarkably, she will rejoin us later without missing a single inch of the trail. Madness, but possibly some sort of record!
So, for today, it’s just the two of the core team of three. From Park House, we head uphill into woodland and soon join the Cleveland Way. Much of the walk is elevated, offering fantastic viewpoints, with the highest point being the cairn on Carlton Moor (408m). Lordstones Country Park, located along the way, makes for a very comfortable lunch stop. From there, it isn’t far to Cringle Moor, Kirby Bank, and a short descent to our overnight stop.
This stretch is perhaps the most anticipated of the entire journey because we’re staying at Beak Hills Farm. My brother meets me along the way, and we arrive together. The farm holds special significance for us due to some ancestral research revealing that a branch of our family once lived here—though we’re talking hundreds of years ago. Nevertheless, there’s something weirdly familiar about it. The farm’s position at the head of Raisdale is superb, and we’re treated to a sunny evening, followed by an episode of Heartbeat and then Last of the Summer Wine, no less.
The farm is the real Yorkshire deal, and the owners have done a great job, offering various types of accommodation, including camping and a repurposed farm building called The Bothy. However, we choose to stay in the farmhouse itself, and the experience is truly special and feels personal.
Day 11: Chop Gate to Glaisdale, 17 miles. We begin the day with a steep climb up to The Wainstones, a famous outcrop of jagged rocks that looks like something out of a Tolkien novel. The weather has other ideas for us, though—we’re deprived of any view, but instead, we experience the eerie sensation of clambering through mist, jagged rocks looming out of the fog, and murky drops vanishing into the cloud. As we descend, we pass some climbers heading up, helmets strapped to their rucksacks, disappearing into the mist where we had just been.
After navigating the rocky terrain and passing Clay Bank, we begin the long stretch of moorland walking towards Glaisdale. The weather is on our side, and the path stretches out ahead of us, inviting us into the vast expanse of the Moors. There’s a particular tranquility to the Moors on days like this—when the sky is clear, and the landscape rolls on endlessly, it feels timeless and peaceful. But we’re keenly aware that in the rain, this place could turn into a desolate, windswept nightmare.
At Bloworth Crossing, we part ways with the Cleveland Way as it turns north, while we continue eastward, our pace quickening with the thought of a well-deserved break at the Lion Inn, Blakey Ridge. This isolated pub is a welcome sight for many walkers, offering a brief respite before the final push out and over Glaisdale Moor and into the village itself, a charming reward after a long day on the trail.
Day 12: Glaisdale to Littlebeck, 7 miles. This is our shortest day, which works out well for Charlotte, who needs to catch up with us after her whirlwind trip to London for a birthday party.
The highlight of the day is our stop in Grosmont, where we take a break to explore the famous steam railway. Originally part of the Whitby and Pickering Railway, which opened in 1836, the line is designed by George Stephenson. We’re lucky to witness a beautifully restored steam engine puffing into the station, its whistle echoing through the valley. There’s something magical about these machines—they’re not just trains but a connection to the past.
After soaking in the atmosphere at Grosmont, we continue on to Littlebeck. Our accommodation for the night is at Intake Farm, another legendary stopover on the Coast to Coast. This is our second authentic farmhouse stay, and once again, we’re treated like family. We share a meal at the same table as other walkers, swapping stories and tips for the days ahead. Charlotte arrives just in time for dinner, perfectly poised for the big day tomorrow.
Day 13: Littlebeck to Robin Hood's Bay, 12 miles. We start our final day by plunging into the beauty of Little Beck Wood. The woodland is enchanting, with the serene Falling Foss Waterfall, a hidden grotto, and even a carved tribute to Wainwright himself. It’s tempting to linger and enjoy the cute tea garden, but we know there’s a bigger task at hand—the finish line is in sight.
The walk that follows becomes something of a blur as the excitement of closing in on Robin Hood’s Bay overshadows everything else. Anticipation builds with every step. Then, the moment arrives when the sea appears on the horizon, a glimmer of our final destination. We pause, pat each other on the back, and savour the moment.
A rare lunchtime pint at the Hare & Hounds in High Hawsker feels well-deserved, and here we meet two friends who act as our welcoming committee, joining us for the final stretch. Like the first day, the last leg offers exhilarating clifftop walking. It’s a brilliant design by Wainwright to have the route conclude this way, allowing us to fully appreciate the dramatic arrival at the coast before descending through the pretty village of Robin Hood’s Bay.
Here it was, apparently, the outlaw Robin Hood encountered French pirates and having defeated them returns their loot to the villagers. Perhaps this is why the stolen pebbles from St Bees must also be returned to the sea.
This is the end and we are joyful, sad, and many things in between. And such is life.
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