June 24, 1999: Shap to Orton
The Lees in front of the Market House, Shap
There were a number of unusual aspects in our return to Wainwright’s Coast-to-Coast Path in 1999. First, fourteen years had passed since our last venture on this route. Second, a train crash on the day before departure had put the whole expedition in doubt. And third, I was walking with a broken arm!
For years the Lees and I had wanted to get back to Shap to undertake the middle third of Wainwright’s famous route, but we had been preoccupied with completion of the South West Way, a task accomplished only in March. But our seat reservations on the 7:30 Euston to Crewe train now seemed less than useful after a Virgin train had slammed into the back of a commuter carriage in Cheshire – blocking the way forward on the main line. As for my arm, a victim of a head-on collision with the pavement (as I stumbled over an upraised slab on Abercorn Place a month earlier) – well I would just have to see how a fracture of the lateral condyle and the capitulum of the left elbow could be managed on a long distance walk.
To minimize the effects of this weakness on my left side, we had decided to have our backpacks ferried forward by van on this trip. Also, I had bought a space age, adjustable walking stick at the YHA store and this would give additional balance and purchase at many points on the route. I would have to rely on Harold, whenever I needed help getting the big pack on or off, and his first task, after I had arrived at Euston by taxi, was to help me get it aboard our train. Tosh and I had each made enquiries about our mode of travel on this difficult day for the British rail system – and we had received a number of helpful but totally conflicting responses. I was told to take the 8:30 and Tosh was told that our route was not affected by the wreck at all – but announcements at Euston convinced us that the latter was certainly not true and that we might as well proceed to Crewe, as scheduled, and see if a promised bus service to Preston would actually materialize. We settled down in our seats and I revealed my new ultra-short haircut. The Lees made no comment.
We reached Crewe at about 10:00 and, sure enough, buses were outside, ready to move us in a northerly direction beyond the blockage. We traveled slowly through Wigan and Warrington, coming off the motorway each time we wanted to visit the train station of another shabby town made more awful by the close exposure of a radiant sunshine. The bus was crowded with office jerks, each intent on making up for lost time by conducting the morning’s business on the mobile phone. At the volume they talked it was a wonder they needed a phone at all. We reached Preston at 12:15 and searched out an appropriate carrier northwards. The Glasgow train was much delayed but the Edinburgh one was almost on time and by 12:55, ten minutes late, we were off.
At 1:30 we got off at Oxenholme. Here we had intended to take the train to Kendal but we were several hours behind schedule now and we had missed a Kendal to Shap bus connection anyway and so I decided to improvise by seeing if there was a taxi about. For £35 we got our driver to take us not only to Shap, but to do so by stopping off in Orton on the way – so that we could drop off our big packs and switch to our much smaller and more comfortable day packs while he waited for us in front of the George Hotel. I must say that the return to the wonders of the Lake District – with the ring of heights, the green fields, the grey villages, the beasts of the fields and the wildflowers blossoming in the lanes – was a wonderful tonic. By 2:10 we had reached the ribbon village that had been our termination point in 1984, Shap.
The cabby, whose deodorizer pendant had been making us all sick (and this with printed warnings about extra charges for soiling his cab) let us out at the King’s Arms, but this pub had stopped serving food and we trudged northward, finding that the Crown, where he had cowered in 1984 after a morning’s soaking, had already closed. Fortunately the Bull’s Head was still open for business. The lady publican, a friendly woman with a large facial birthmark, was hesitant to feed us, however, since she was expecting a large party of mourners who were coming here after the burial of an infant. But she offered us a table in the garden and brought out a lovely repast of sandwiches, fruit cake, and cream-filled scones. We drank our first lagers as well.
We left at 3:00, just as the place was filling up with a stunned congregation, and retraced our route back down the street past the Knead the Dough bakery. It was a late start for a walk but I knew we would have plenty of daylight, a fairly easy terrain, and that no one was expecting us to make a specific dinnertime rendezvous at the George. I was using Paul Hannon’s revision of Wainwright’s original guidebook – that is I had blown the pages up by another third on the school xerox machine and carried folded A-4 sheets in my pocket, where they could be fished out for handy reference. I now experimented with slinging the camera over my right shoulder, rather than across my body, since this seemed to provide for better circulation and less tension around the neck. I was determined to take it easy and enjoy this reintroduction to the walk and we made a good and orderly progress on an afternoon that was humid and grey (I now took off my black sweatshirt) and then, increasingly, sunny and warm.
We turned up a street called Moss Grove and followed a track up to a bridge over the railway line. Field paths led us in a southeasterly direction up to a second bridge – this one over the mighty M6 with its hurtling lorries and screaming cars, a roaring tide that could still be heard echoing for miles, it seemed. The path was a little harder to follow as we scrambled among boulders and hawthorns uphill and around a corner to emerge on a road next to a farmhouse called The Nab. Another thin trod took us around the next hill, a “lagoon” on our right, as we neared the gravel road of the Hardendale Quarry, whose trucks were raising dust as we approached. Harold missed a stile here and we had to descend somewhat gingerly to this road, rabbits scurrying in every direction as we did so.
Tosh atop the limestone pavement near Oddendale
We now followed a track in open country as we headed east toward the tree-embowered hamlet of Oddendale. There were a few walkers on the horizon, some of the them walking up to the distant Oddendale stone circle, but Tosh was enraptured by her first limestone pavement, and we had a five minute rest here so she could do some exploring. The sun was out now and this was a most pleasant interlude.
Our direction was now south, on a good track rising and falling – with the occasional walled plantation to help me pinpoint our position. At one of these we encountered a C>C plinth and there was a moment of confusion before we realized that the “>” did not have anything to do with the required direction. We climbed a hill in a southeasterly direction, without much evidence of path, but soon there was a signpost and then a large boulder to lead us down to a crossing of the Lyvennet Beck. Stone walls now served as useful landmarks and we rounded a corner of one and continued along the south side of another. There were some ups and downs here and lots of other inviting public footpath signs that had to be resisted.
We descended to the Crosby Ravensworth road and crossed it to follow a path up a valley, with a plantation on our right. The Lees, I’m afraid, got a good deal ahead of me on this incline, and took a rising alternative to the left, putting us out on the Orton-Appleby road much too soon. So we had to make our way up to the summit of this incline against the flow of cars charging downhill. But at the top, Orton Scar – where a cattle grid rattled every axle – we were rewarded by a magnificent view of the Lune Valley against the backdrop of the Howgill Fells.
The descent to Lunedale from Orton Scar
You can follow the road into Orton, still a little over a mile distant, but we followed a route that called for a steep descent into muddy farmland by bridleway. At Broadfell Farm, whose yard formed part of the public right of way, Tosh offered an enthusiastic, “We sure do thank you for letting us use your path” to a dour chap in overalls – who offered not a word of reply. This was unusual because most of the local people we encountered on this trip were welcoming and hospitable.
We went through a number of gates as we followed the local beck southward, eventually arriving at the lanes and tarmac of Orton itself. This proved to be a beautiful place, with a number of fine houses, magnificent trees, and a giant green across which we could see the whitewashed facade of the George Hotel. It was 7:15 and we had walked 8.5 miles.
We got the keys to our rooms and deposited our daypacks before descending to the bar – where we had some lagers and ordered our evening meal. This was a very placid and comfortable establishment – though none of us has en suite rooms – and we settled down for a comfortable evening. I had scampi and chips. At the other tables walkers had stationed themselves and were comparing notes on the journey so far. We were a little bit removed from this convivial chatter but over the next few days we got to know many of the personalities we first encountered here.
I went outside to use the mobile phone to call Dorothy and while I was doing so an old man with a white stick came up to talk to me about the pleasant evening. I also called Mrs. Bowman, the proprietress of the Coast-to-Coast Packhorse Company, and arranged for her to pick up our packs and ferry them forward to Kirkby Stephen the next day. There was still plenty of light in the sky when we repaired to our rooms. In mine I managed to get through half a New Yorker article before it was lights out at 10:00
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