“How come we always start going up?” Five Pints.
Although our first day of walking had been characterised by the apparent desire to lengthen the number of miles walked, nobody was about to suggest Patch stick his GPS up his new frictionless tights.
Nor were we about to burn the back-up – Leapy’s fingernail guided map – as none of the other three of us had a clue either. There were unlikely to be any late life applications to the SAS.
It’s a point worth considering if you ever consider such a walk; I have to admit, were I to try this solo, they would be scrambling the RAF. To further prove our ineptitude, Five Pints and I duly got lost trying to find our room at The Spa….twice.
And now follows a confession.
After dinner at The Spa, I was lured into one of Leapy and Patch’s legendary whisky sessions, aided and gleefully abetted by Five Pints. Having never drunk whisky, there was an explanation.
Whilst traversing the A171 seeking a sign to anywhere earlier in the day, we had witnessed an “event”. Across the road there had been a commotion; two by now ex-lovers were having a “to do”.
It started with a rather large lady either worshipping her former lover’s Ford Focus or praying to Allah. Clearly unimpressed, the lady behind the wheel had decided to run her over.
Up leapt the aggrieved one to depart to the woods from where we had exited only a few minutes ago with a cry of “I’m off to top meself!” Manfully – in a gender friendly sense – she tried to haul her body over the gate to the woods but she’d never done the high jump at school that was for sure.
We watched from the other side of the road unsure what to do until tour elder Leapy offered sage wisdom. “Crack on…its not as if she’ll find a tree big enough to swing from!” Reluctant to interrupt our quest for the first pint of the day, the motion was carried without need for a backstop.
The rain had been relentless all night but Five Pints reassured us the forecast was favourable for the morning. In keeping with our other guiding technology, his App was also clueless. Returning back to a room now without a view, my liver screamed at me to never touch whisky again.
We were going to get a hosing, that bit was clear; what was less clear was if Northumbria Police were searching five potential witnesses to a crime of passion. It had out me off lesbian films for life I have to say.
Fortunately, Piers and Susannah plus the bit of fluff at the newsdesk seemed unconcerned and Lorraine clearly could not give a shit, surrounded by two massive inflatable pink boobs that looked as if they would break their moorings. I said a silent prayer they would crush the irritating co-presenter in a pink suit.
We joined the others for breakfast in the conservatory as the wind threatened to rip off the roof. Leapy had still not solved his over-packing crisis so we suggested sending a parcel to Oxfam.
Patch informed us that we had averaged only 2.4mph the day previously although we had cruised occasionally at 3.8mph. To further pump morale, he told us that we had the highest point on the walk to look forward to; jaws sank in unison as the rain hammered down.
There is no denying that the next four hours were a monumental slog with some very treacherous parts of a decaying coastline to keep us all on our toes.
We passed numerous spots marked by plaques to those for who life had got too much and many offering hope for those considering a final step. It seemed a lonely spot to end it all and a bloody long way to walk to do it.
Meanwhile, Uncle Andy hobbled on regardless, click-clacking to the rhythm of life, loads more steps left in those short, fat, hairy legs, his giant bag often the first thing we saw as the climbed another hill, never to be beaten.
The rain eventually relented as we cracked on, the sea still a grey snarling mass, a long, long way down. I was starting to taste the whisky again, not a good feeling, and vowed to avoid Patch later on.
Finally, we hobbled into Staithes and found the delightful Dotty’s tearooms serving cakes and scones to die for with wonderful service. Our time here was short-lived but I could have lingered all afternoon in this wonderfully quirky place.
Before we left Staithes we had a chance to catch up with an old acquaintance. If you knew the Priceless discount store in Undercliffe, Bradford many years ago, you knew Maurice and Maureen. In fact everybody did.
They emigrated to Staithes and Maurice set up again, a natural born trader. Sadly, Maurice passed away recently; no more would anybody hear him utter the words “mega” or “pukka” like a toned down version of Arthur Daley.
So we had to knock on her door and say hello; she seemed pleased but wouldn’t let us in!
There were only three more miles to crack as Five Pints and Uncle Andy compared the number of steps taken on various unreliable gadgets. Whatever they said we all knew Uncle Andy had shuffled those legs a few more strides than most.
Patch claimed to be stiffening up and confessed he needed a bath and a rub down; there were no takers. So, it was on to Runswick Bay and the “wild card”. Before we set off they had advised us that the chef had “****ed off!”
Anything could happen…bar another whisky night.
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