TALES FROM THE COAST TO COAST WALK
By Chris White
Available in KINDLE version
Sister Mary glances upwards. Sister Kay follows her companion's gaze. For a second or two she remains dumbfounded. Then her lips slowly move. "Holy Jesus!"
Towards the end of the day you may encounter the worst stile in the world. Maybe that's an exaggeration. Let's say the worst stile on the Coast to Coast Walk. This is an uphill, uphill stile. You may ask why not describe it just as an uphill stile. I'll tell you why!
A figure emerges through the mist. As he approaches they see a small youngish man clad in beige mackintosh with a flat cloth cap pulled tightly over his ears. His feet are encased in a pair of ex-army hob-nailed boots. On his back is a huge square rucksack which, as he draws closer, they make out to be a blue canvas-covered suitcase with sewn on khaki webbing straps. He walks towards them from the northeast, a peculiar direction to come from as it doesn't lead to, or from, anywhere in particular.
As if by mutual consent, the herd of cattle gallops towards the opposite side of the field where they group up as if preparing for an attack. Trevor appears worried. "Okay lads, They're only cows, they won't hurt you. Er, speed it up a little."
It's compass time. That's if you have one or, to emphasise a practical point, if you know how to use one. The problem experienced by many when walking the Coast to Coast Walk is the four hundred metres or so from Lining Crag to the walk-off point on Greenup Edge.
Unknown to Colin, about a kilometre further on is the field where Eric grazes happily. Or at least, as happy as any proud ram who needs a bit of action can be.
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