Out now at numerous local outlets…seek and ye shall find…in full colour too.
Each year five of us abandon The Scruffy for a week to walk various magnificent trails; this year we chose a section of The Cleveland Way from Great Ayton to Scarborough. Supplementing our regular Sunday night crowd was our celebrity guest, Bingley exile and tour organiser, Leapy.
Not a man known for slumming it, we knew there would be no damp pig sheds this year. Speaking of animals, chief swiller, Big Al, was scheduled to be joining us mid-tour unless the Spanish authorities found reason to send him home early from Murcia or ran out of beer.
DAY ONE – BASE CAMP
We welcomed tour virgin, Five Pints, who, only a few years ago enjoyed a quiet hour in The Scruffy with The Sunday Times. Now “converted” he was resplendent in shiny new kit, ready to take on Everest.
At Shipley Station, Patch and I looked him up and down, carefully dividing any kit we fancied should we have to leave his body somewhere en route.
Uncle Andy guaranteed more tales of “when I were in the fire brigade” as Leapy arrived looking like Captain Ahab; Mrs Lee bid a rather quick farewell, speeding back home to open the Rioja crate.
Talk turned to weather forecasts; would we get hosed again?
Our first day was travelling up to Base Camp Newton-Under-Roseberry with a promised warm-up hike of a mile or so which soon turned into a few more. With Big Al absent, the question was who would get the single room for the next three nights?
We agreed a referendum, the winners enjoying a clean air zone. In a gesture of courage and selflessness, Uncle Andy volunteered to room with Big Al for the remainder as the rest of us breathed a sigh of relief.
Walking into the beautiful King’s Head Inn Leapy vowed to bring Mrs Lee back for some “romance”. Many miles away another cork popped…
DAY TWO – SALTBURN
Our base had set down a marker for luxury. The weather was set fair too as Patch engaged his early morning regime of blister protection, pain killers, lubing and pulling on his frictionless tights.
The gorgeous Roseberry Topping awaited – we would go around it – as we bumped into Herman the German.
“Is gut day ya? I vill see you along ze vay…no?” This was hopeful given he was off like a whippet with five hungover Brits someway behind.
Soon we had proven – again – that navigators we were not. Despite us taking the easy route, Herman caught up having hardly broken sweat; I hoped it was the last we saw of the cheerful bastard.
The route was busy and a couple of dog lovers passed us, the dogs excitable.
“I don’t get people who choose hyperactive dogs” mused Uncle Andy “I prefer those who lie by the fire, walk themselves and lick your bollocks now and then!”
After more U-turns than Jeremy Corbyn, we finally crested a hill and there was the sea; not exactly the Caribbean with Redcar coke works dominating the back drop but sea. We took lunch and a few miles later landed on the busy A171 as all signs vanished.
The next hour was torture; several times we went off in completely the wrong direction only for the right one to mention climbing “a few steps” … two hundred of them.
The conversation was exhausted, straps bit into bodies, legs ached and even thoughts of beer were dismissed in preference for a “right nice cup of tea”. Eventually we reached Saltburn and the welcome of the sea.
The Spa Hotel looked another great choice even if it didn’t actually have a spa.
Our cock-ups had lengthened the number of miles walked but nobody was about to suggest Patch stick his GPS up his tights. Nor were we about to burn Leapy’s fingernail guided map as we were all clueless.
To prove our ineptitude, Five Pints and I duly got lost trying to find our room at The Spa…. twice. After dinner, I was entrapped by one of Leapy and Patch’s legendary whisky sessions; having never drunk whisky, there was an explanation.
Earlier in the day, we had witnessed a commotion with a rather large lady either worshipping her former lover’s Ford Focus or praying. It looked like the lady behind the wheel had decided to run her lover over.
Suddenly, up leapt the aggrieved one to depart to the woods: “I’m off to top me’self!”
Manfully – in a gender friendly non-binary sense – she tried to haul her body over the gate to the woods but she’d clearly never done the high jump nor belly-flop. Watching on, Leapy offered sage wisdom.
“Crack on…it’s not as if she’ll find a tree big enough to swing from!” The motion was carried without need for a backstop.
DAY THREE – RUNSWICK BAY
Five Pints app had assured us the forecast was good so it was no surprise to find it pissing down; at breakfast the wind threatened to rip off the roof.
Patch informed us that we had averaged only 2.4mph the day previously. To further pump morale, he told us that we had the highest point on the walk to look forward to. A four-hour slog with some very treacherous parts of a decaying coastline soon cured any hangovers.
Numerous spots were ominously marked by plaques to those for who life had proven too much; it seemed a lonely spot to end it all and a long way to walk to do it.
Finally, we hobbled into Staithes and found the delightful Dotty’s tearooms.
With only three more miles, Five Pints and Uncle Andy compared the number of steps taken on gadgets still predicting a heatwave. Patch claimed to be stiffening up and confessed he needed a bath and a rub down; there were no takers. Eventually we limped into Runswick Bay.
Leapy announced that he had inadvertently mentioned the existence of my daily blogs to Mrs Lee. “What blog?” she had asked, he now fearful divorce proceedings would be underway.
It was also my turn to room with Leapy and in no time at all he was snoring like a contented pig, oblivious to another divorce.
The chef was new at our hotel so we took dinner at the pub down the road. With only Leapy travelling with a wardrobe big enough to contest Strictly, the rest of us made the short hop in beachwear in the chilly evening air.
There was clearly discomfort amongst the team as far as the daily reportings and not just where Mrs Lee was concerned. I was forced to issue a disclaimer:
All references to anybody referred to as Five Pints, Leapy, Patch or Uncle Andy do not relate to real people. Big Al is a real character but has been toned down for sensitivity. Any reference to canines is purely coincidental.
With some degree of pathos the pub labrador did show an unhealthy attachment to Uncle Andy.
DAY FOUR – WHITBY
We woke to a glorious morning with the sun rising over the bay. News of the walk was less encouraging; we could either drown or tumble down a cliff today and that before meeting up with Big Al.
With my gear now into its third day, I feared being stalked by flies. Big Al was apparently full of cold leaving Uncle Andy facing two nights on animal farm.
We were delayed setting off as Patch needed extra lubing. Unusually we started out downhill, the beach was unspoilt and seemed to stretch forever, the sun fighting through the clouds, utterly beautiful.
Our first climb was brutal and Patch was sweating distilled whisky, his chubby rosy cheeks aglow by the time he crested the summit.
Leapy announced he had taken an injunction out to prevent me quoting anything about Mrs Lee mentioning the word “romance”. In the distance we could already see the outline of Whitby; Big Al & Count Dracula awaited.
We dropped into Sandsend for lunch, an affluent little outlet on this rugged coast.
Whitby was in sight as Five Pints quipped that Sky News had replaced the Brexit countdown clock with Big Al’s arrival.
Across seemingly never-ending sands we strode as one into the breeze. Far too early to countenance a beer, we eventually found our location which, strangely, was a pub.
Within ten minutes of Big Al’s arrival we were in another pub. Knock, and it shall be opened to you – Matthew (7.7).
Leapy naively attempted to up-skill the big man in the Trainline app; it was like a senior citizens IT class as the rest of us watched on convinced he would be hitch-hiking home.
He jabbed furiously at his phone as if it had giant buttons like ten pence pieces. I wondered if he expected it to spew out his train tickets as well.
Together in a corner of a little inconspicuous pub, the stories flowed effortlessly. With a man who would make a combination of Boris Johnson and Donald Trump look like a snowflake, Big Al, was in the mood.
We ate a place called Moutreys which was very stylish and did not insist we sit outside. The food was excellent, however, having been out several hours the consensus was that early finishes were a very bad idea.
A minimum future standard of twelve miles per day was agreed, otherwise our trips would be a monumental pub crawl. Big Al asked for another referendum and a backstop.
Fearing this, I retired to a pot of tea, Grand Designs and my sleeping mask.
DAY FIVE – RAVENSCAR
The next day was Patch’s birthday and he had two hundred steps to start it.
“**** me nobody told me that!” said Big Al “Is there a chair lift?” Not one big enough for you was the consensus.
Birthday Boy looked paler than normal after another night on the whisky with Leapy, who was celebrating his last days of freedom in the knowledge that by the time he got home, he would need a new one.
Patch asked the waitress if there was a ghost, claiming that his bed had been rocking in the night. She was quite understanding but said that the only haunted room was that which Big Al and Uncle Andy were in.
The ghost most probably took a look inside, cast an eye, heard the noise and took a night off.
The route out of Whitby to Robin Hood’s Bay was by far the most scenic. Uncle Andy was flying: “I’ve treated me’self to a fresh pair of undies” he declared. I asked how old the others were: “Sunday!”
We strode on awaiting one more big climb but, unfortunately, Leapy chose the wrong one. As we began to attempt a steep descent to the sands, there was considerable grumbling in the background.
Eventually, we reached the summit once again and finally sacked Leapy as navigator.
Soon, Ravenscar sat for all to see in the distance. On arrival, the staff took one look at us and quickly advised us that there was segregated dining. It was becoming a theme.
Leapy’s lucky streak appeared to have exhausted itself as much as we had, our hotel was clearly a euthanasia retreat.
We’d gone in search of the promised jacuzzi to rest our limbs but there wasn’t one. Oblivious to four elderly residents – not including Big Al – and various signs around the pool, I belly-bombed Patch.
That might have been okay back when I was twenty or if I had a belly the size of my target but it hurt like hell and I almost drowned.
It was all getting too much for some.
Dinner was magnificent, the kind of last supper I would want if attending a Dignitas ball.
DAY SIX – SCARBOROUGH AND HOME
Our last day was time critical as a train awaited at Scarborough so a fast trot was intended and Big Al had the bus timetable to hand. There were several obvious flaws in our strategy.
1 – Leapy said it was all downhill.
2 – We had a big fat cripple in tow.
3 – Patch had latched onto the whisky teat again like a new born lamb.
Morning broke with Five Pints looking like a Dignitas candidate as we assembled for our early breakfast, talk turning already to the guide book claims of an easy twelve miles. Big Al disappeared having failed to get a volunteer to cut his toenails; our suggestion of the local sheep farmer was not well received.
Unfortunately, Uncle Andy still had the key to the room. Of course, we could have called him back but waited for his eventual frustrated return to the dining room – 5-4-3-2-1! – and burst out laughing in unison. It was good to be nine again.
What was supposed to have been a gentle stroll into Scarborough was never destined to turn out that way, not that Leapy and I had anybody else to blame.
As we found the first steep descent, there were two confusing signs; predictably Leapy and I took the wrong one. There were tell-tale clues to turn us around such as ground that had barely seen a mountain gorilla plus cries in the distance from Uncle Andy of “you’re going to die!”
After about an hour of fighting jungle, having written last notes to our families, we chanced an old rail track and set off as if being chased by the Japs.
Eventually, we found the rest of the gang and a week that began in the splendid surroundings of Great Ayton ended in the Railway Men’s Club at Scarborough station, somewhat fittingly.
Roll on next year.
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