Despite a fabulous dinner, the comfort of a luxurious room and my newly acquired facemask, I slept badly. A recurring dream kept disturbing me; who had taken “our” seats in The Scruffy?
Was this what we would look like in twenty years time? I tried to order a Peroni with my breakfast to steady the nerves with no success. Patch and Leapy already looked twenty years older having caned the red wine with little thought of a day of walking ahead.
The weather was set fair according to the BBC’s Carol as we consulted the maps. Patch vanished for his early morning regime of blister protection, pain killers and his new frictionless tights.
We bumped into a fellow traveller, Herman the German, who was too bloody cheerful for our liking.
“Is gut day ya? I vill see you along ze vay…no?” Which was utter bollocks given he was off like a whippet with five hungover Brits in his wake.
Eventually Five Pints gave in and left the comfort of his room; the day of reckoning was here.
Inevitably – almost a tradition by now – our first mile was vertical and Patch had a definite tint of red wine to his sweat.
Pretty soon we had proven – once again – that navigators we were not. Despite us taking the easy route, Herman caught up having hardly broken sweat tackling the summit of Roseberry Topping.
I hoped it was the last we saw of the cheerful bastard.
With the promise of lunch an hour or so away it was heads down and a footslog to churn out some distance. The route was very well populated. A couple of dog lovers passed us, the dogs excitable to say the least.
“I don’t get people who choose hyperactive dogs” mused Uncle Andy “I prefer those who just lie by the fire, walk themselves and lick your bollocks every now and then.” I quickened my step.
After more U-turns than Jeremy Corbyn, we finally crested a hill and there was the sea; not exactly the Caribbean or the Mediterranean with Redcar coke works dominating the back drop but sea, shimmering sea.
We took lunch and started to count the initial aches and pains, the food a well appreciated break to the proceedings. Patch adjusted his tights, Uncle Andy got the prosthetic legs out and we were off again, click-clacking away.
A few miles of relatively easy walking followed until we landed on the busy A171 and the Cleveland Way signs vanished. The next hour was torture; first we went off in completely the wrong direction only for the right one to mention climbing “a few steps”. One hundred and ninety-five later we were wheezing in unison.
Unbroken we strode on, the conversation exhausted as we were too. Straps bit into bodies, legs ached and even thoughts of beer were dismissed in preference for a “right nice cup of tea”.
Eventually we saw a sign – Saltburn 1m – which we were wise enough to know was utter fiction. However, when we finally reached our hotel you could not help but be struck by this place and the welcome of the sea.
Leapy had done it again and The Spa Hotel looked another great choice even if it didn’t actually have a spa. With a choice of foot massage or tea and scones there was no contest. We settled in for the early evening.
One down, four to go.
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