Becoming a walker…

Five days into a 14-day walk and I’ve ticked off 46 miles of the 190-mile trek…

WHOA. CANCEL THAT.

My mind.. ever busy calculating and measuring… wants to organize my walk into tidy accomplishments that lead me to a “finish line”. Like some kind of ego reward.

But, What Fortune! I have a spirit that sings out in response to this majestic landscape… getting louder in the battle between head and heart. And slowly my mind is returning to quiet, letting go, taking in the “right now” of right now. The data collection function of my head is asked politely to have a rest. It is the time to wake up and look around and literally see the world! This world of green pastures lining the valleys between jutting crags, where stone walls run gravity-defying enclosures for flocks of Herdwick sheep. Carpeted mogul-like glacial remnants – called drumlins – lend velvety texture to the valley floor. Streams are “becks” and gentle, cascading brooks are “gills.” The language of the landscape rolls off the tongues of the numbers of English returning here for their holidays. Most of whom we meet visit regularly to walk the fells (hills) and climb to hidden tarns (mountain lakes). They want to know first where we’ve come from? America? and second… How on earth did we know about the Coast to Coast Walk…?! The truth is I said “yes, I’ll do this thing” before I really knew much about it. It felt right – good timing, lovely companion, a rare opportunity – and I’m certain this was put before me as a gift. So, because I’ve learned the wisdom that “in order to keep it, I must give it away”… I share here the path leading me through these idyllic farming villages where a hearty meal of Cumberland sausage or beef and Yorkshire pudding awaits in the local pub at day’s end. Then through the kindness of an innkeeper, I am provided a cuppa tea, bath and soft bed for the rest of weary muscles.

Out of St Bees we made for a 14-mile walk to the town of Ennerdale Bridge. Not far along, we were met by a monument to the c2c walker. This guy looked pretty content, and I must admit it gave me a certain sense of belonging to a new community. My new tribe! We moved through Cleator Moor, an old mining town that seems to have more pressing concerns than attending to the comfort of leisurely vagabonds. But we did manage to find a cup of coffee for the road toward Dent Hill, our first real climb out of the woods and up to a possible inland vista. The thick mists and strong winds dropped in and enfolded us, so the game became: “find the next rock cairn without tripping over a lamb.” A bog-slog down to the other side brought us below the clouds again – and through the beautiful valley of Nannycatch Gate.

Soon we approached Ennerdale and a room upstairs at the Fox and Hound pub. As I scanned the crowded pub at dinner – and at breakfast the next morning – it was clear that several of these faces would become familiar over the next two weeks. Maps and guidebooks covered tables, walking sticks leaned against walls, rain-drenched parkas dried over the backs of chairs. All invitations to share the story of today’s highlights or tomorrow’s route. Pints of strong ale were knocked back all around Laurel and me… and I felt grateful for the hydration of pure water and a restful night’s sleep.