Had it only been a year since we’d hobbled, soaked to the skin into The George at Hubberholme having completed our annual foot slog? In a week when Thomas Cook had gone pop, it was comforting to know that this year’s tour organiser, Leapy, would have us staying in rare luxury during the coming week. There would be no pig barns this year.
Speaking of animals, Big Al was scheduled to be joining us midweek unless the Spanish authorities found reason to send him home early from Murcia.
Doubtless he was in no danger, his custom sought by many local bars facing uncertain times.
With a cast changing as fast as Emmerdale, this year’s newbie was Five Pints. Only a few years ago he enjoyed a quiet hour in The Scruffy with The Sunday Times each week and now, fully converted, he was resplendent in new Mountain Warehouse kit, ready to take on Everest it seemed.
We assembled at Shipley Station as usual with Mission Control and kids waving goodbye. As tour veterans, Patch and I looked him up and down and carefully divided any kit we fancied should we have to leave his body somewhere en route.
Last but not least, Uncle Andy had made the cut again and so we braced ourselves for a week of tales of “when I were in the fire brigade…”
This year’s trip was sixty-six miles of the Cleveland Way, the coastal bit, where should we feel like it, we could all end it at sea in a noble fashion at a point of our choosing. Today was all about making base camp – Great Ayton – letting the train take the strain.
Leapy had been deposited looking like Captain Ahab ready for a whaling mission; Mrs Lee said a fond farewell as she sped off back to open the crate of Rioja. Talk turned to weather forecasts as I struggled to remember what all the straps were for on my rucksack; it reminded me of fumbling teenage nights.
I confessed I was travelling light and had savaged the toilet bag, the hair gel had gone. “That’s not going to bother me is it!” piped up Uncle Andy.
We arrived at Leeds as Uncle Andy and I failed our audition for team leaders getting lost within five minutes. No problem, seek Leapy, search bars.
The train to Middlesboro was quite slick, which was more than you could say for Middlesboro, a place so down on its luck I thought I was back home. That said, the people were as friendly as you could hope as we ventured into the Isaac Wilson pub – how apt.
“You lads from CAMRA?” asked the young barman as we scoured the bar pumps. We’d not walked a mile and clearly we looked like middle-aged tramps.
The place was quite lively, the ale good and the hot dog Patch wolfed down enough to feed a family. Not even the eighteen stone bearded transvestite could dampen our mood.
With Big Al not due to join us until Wednesday afternoon, we had an issue; who would get the single room for the next three nights. And so it was that we agreed a draw, in keeping with The Desperate Seven Tour of Lanzarote 1993, a trip Leapy and I represented in our more optimistic days.
The winner of one of three draws would enjoy solitary confinement and the remaining contestants would be paired off faster than speed dating.
I could not hide my delight as my name came out first with Uncle Andy and Patch winning the other two solo nights. In a gesture of enormous fortitude, courage and selflessness, Uncle Andy avoided the need for any further draws by volunteering to room with Big Al. Four other guys breathed a sigh of relief.
Eventually we rolled into Great Ayton on a train older than any of us with more staff per customers than a Boeing 747. We had a “short walk” as Leapy had mapped it with his little finger nail on his phone. Tempted to believe this as bullshit, I knew I was back on tour again.
Three miles later we walked into the beautiful village of Newton Under Roseberry with Leapy instantly declaring “I’ll be bring Mrs Lee back here for some romance!”
The King’s Head Inn seemed as if Leapy had set down a marker; luxury it would be.
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