August 4, 2018: Newton-Under-Roseberry to Saltburn-By-The-Sea

 

Gavan and I were gratified to discover that the King’s Head would offer a breakfast service as early as 7:30 and we were already rattling the back door of the establishment at this early hour. The doors were unlocked for us but as we entered it was obvious that the staff were still vacuuming the place; I know this because I interrupted this process by tripping over the vacuum cleaner cord. We were happy to complete the breakfast process at this early hour (and to receive our packed lunches) because this was to be not only the last but our longest day in this year’s expedition.

There was controversy in our projections for this march. Gavan insisted that, once we had regained the heights of Newton Moor, it was downhill all the way. I maintained that I could count the word “up” or “uphill” at least a dozen times in the guidebook description for this final stretch and that we really had close to twelve miles to complete – I had measured out the miles and marked them on the little OS Xeroxes I kept in my front pocket.

We left the pub at 8:30 and began our attempt to return to the Cleveland Way. It was a quiet but sunny morning and there were few people about at this hour. Of course we would not regain the needed altitude by re-climbing Roseberry Topping itself but Gavan had researched a route around the northern side of this eminence and so we set off to climb in a far more gentle fashion along public footpaths in the bracken. Eventually we rounded the peak and reached a spot between it and the heights from which we had descended yesterday. This meant a last, very steep ascent on flagstones up to the memorial bench, where we once again had a nice rest. It had taken us a little over an hour to return to the CW.

Our path now lead us over Newton Moor with the next great objective of the morning, Highcliff Nab, soon coming into view. To reach this rocky cliff face we needed to make a brief descent and then, in stages, follow outside the fences of Highcliff Farm, moving uphill in a roughly northerly direction. As usual Gavan was well ahead of me and I found him sitting on a bench adjacent to some woodland when I had completed most of this march myself.

Gavan was not alone since he was chatting with a senior citizen who had with him a bicycle and a lovely mid-size dog named Max. “It’s a Southern Illinois” dog, Gavan said – though I don’t suppose that many of those on the trail today would know that he was referring to the Salukis, the home team at SIU. The chap said that Max was a rescue dog and that he loved running alongside the bike as his owner made his way cross-country. He added that a relative, daughter or grand-daughter I didn’t quite get the reference, ran the Green Inn pub in Skelton Green and since this was on our itinerary today we promised to stop in.

We could then walk forward to the end of the path and climb a steep but short stairway up to the rocky summit of Highcliff Nab itself. The way forward, northeasterly in direction, brought us to an extended section of woodland walking near the top of a dominant ridge. From its trackways we could now catch many a glimpse of the North Sea itself. Walking was relatively easy on tracks and roadways and only occasionally was there any ambiguity about how to proceed. As the noon hour had passed I suggested that Gavan look for a shady spot for us to sit down and have our lunch and he was not long in discovering a grassy spot above the northern escarpment.

Sitting down (as my scraped left arm might prove) is always difficult for me – with the final stage always in free-fall. This time I begin to roll over several times, coming to rest several feet from the edge of the cliff and thus saving myself from bouncing all the way down to the enormous urban spread of Guisborough below us.

I managed to crawl into a more acceptable seated posture but no sooner had I done so then I experienced a most unusual phenomenon – someone was licking the back of my neck!

This proved to be a mostly Boxer who, its owner added, loved everybody. After this greeting we opened our lunches and I tucked into a really delicious tuna sandwich, one imaginatively made with chunks of red onion. An orange drink and crisps followed. Gavan was able to point out, contrary to his earlier pronouncement, that in a while we would have a steep climb over Cripple Hill, off in the distance. In the meantime we could begin a gradual descent to civilization on footpaths that soon deteriorated in a morass of redevelopment. For some time, as we neared the A171, we lost track of which path we should be using, even signage having disappeared for a while. Eventually we were reconnected, though it was necessary to climb a fence first, and thus we at last emerged on the highway in the village of Slapewath.

I could tell, incidentally, that Gavan was begin to fret over our pace – even though it was far better than that of a year ago on the Yorkshire Wolds Way – and there was a good reason for this: he had booked himself an end of walk massage at our terminal hotel for 4:30! I had tried to reassure him that, if worse came to worse, he could dart ahead for his appointment and I was sure I could make it to Saltburn on my own. Perhaps thus reassured he gave way to my demand for a stop at the Fox and Hounds, soon located across the highway, and here I had a welcome pint of Foster’s.

While I was doing so he went out to do some scouting and he came back with the reassuring news that the steep hill could in fact be circumvented with a more low level alternative to Skelton Green. The latter began in the parking lot of the pub and so we agreed to part here, he taking to the heights and leaving me with a lovely stroll in woods and fields that paralleled his high-level route. I used my OS Xeroxes whenever I needed to check on my progress and in half-an-hour or so I was back in civilization. But where was I? I had somehow dropped my Xerox and I couldn’t be quite sure how far I had come – though, of course, I did have the guidebook in my knapsack.

Two women were standing on the pavement of the village street I had at last reached and as I approached them one said, “Do you think they’ll ever build them?” She was referring to a large housing project, intended for a space next to the town playground – but of course I could only say, “Well there is a housing shortage.” I asked them for directions. I had emerged from my low-level route in Boosbeck but they assured me that I had only to turn to the left and follow the road as it turned right and climbed a hill into Skelton Green itself.

This I set out to do – having to accomplish some of the elevation gain I had avoided by dodging the famous hill. As I was struggling uphill I received a call from Gavan – checking on my whereabouts. I assured him I was now in Skelton Green and would meet him at the Green Inn, where he was already into his pint. I took a picture of some Highland Cattle and reached the summit of the village – soon seeing my companion lolling against a fence opposite the pub with his pint.

Naturally I was thirsty again and Gavan did not object to my ordering half a pint of Moretti’s. The Green Inn was a most louche establishment. Someone was smoking at an inside table and there was a kid sitting on a stool at the bar counter. It wasn’t a place you would want to linger and we were soon on our way. Or on our ways, I should say, for Gavan now assented to my idea of his speeding ahead for his massage while I trailed along on my own. He helped me orient myself – since I had not arrived on the Cleveland Way – and we had soon reached a paved path over a field top across the street. He took off and for the first time in many a year I was on my own to complete the last stage of a walk. I quite enjoyed this.

I paused at a kissing gate and retrieved my guidebook and map case and put one in the other, hanging the case over a shoulder and referring to the text at regular intervals as I made slow but steady progress toward the sea. I never obtained any view of Skelton Castle but after passing along a suburban street and down a staircase (and not a flagged one any more) I reached the main street of Skelton itself. The CW was well waymarked hereabouts and I continued forward down Coniston and Derwent Roads – earning a scolding from a Chihuahua just emerging with its mommy from one of the bungalows that lined these streets. The roadway took a turn to the right and reached a field and then on footpath I crossed a busy street and thus reached field and forest again. The late afternoon sun was shining brightly.

My route led me through woodland as I began a descent to Skelton Beck. A dog, looking for its lost owners, took a close look at me before darting off. I reached the beck, which had plenty of water in it – indeed local lads looked like they were about to have a swim – and eventually reached a footbridge to the opposite side. Dominating the scene nearby was a huge railway viaduct on my right – a most impressive structure. Perhaps because of my map case I was easy to identify as someone not from these here parts and there seemed to be a natural curiosity about my origins and walking plans. A woman out walking a dog said that I had just one more hill to climb and so I did, resting on a bench at the top.

Then I continued forward, still rising a bit and encountering dozens of people out to enjoy the delights of the Valley Gardens. One chap stopped me to discuss Bill Bryson and the latter’s adventures on the Appalachian Trail. He wanted to offer his opinions on a number of subjects and didn’t want to let me go but I was anxious to bring this walk to an end and so I pressed on, at last meeting the main road in Saltburn. This was fine but I now realized that I was not altogether certain where the Spa Hotel was and I waited on the pavement a bit until I spotted some locals. They advised me that I just needed to keep heading toward the sea and that I was actually close to the hotel in question. Thus I dropped into its parking lot and finished my walk at 5:20.

The Spa was hosting a wedding reception and the place was buzzing. The lady behind the counter knew instantly that I must be Gavan’s walking partner and she whisked me along a maze of corridors and up one flight of stairs as quickly as possible. She suggested a nice warm bath – I think she thought I was lowering the tone of the place in my sweaty walking outfit. (I did take a shower.) Fortunately we were at the rear of the hotel and thus escaped the blare of the disco up front. I had been resting for twenty minutes when Gavan returned, singing the praises of masseuse Mandy.

We had decided that, as last year, we would celebrate our reunion with the sea by seeking fish and chips at dinnertime and, though we learned that no reservations could be made at the nearby Seaview, this is where we headed an hour or so later. I was quite stiff and still used my walking stick ­– Gavan disdained use of the one borrowed walking pole, the one which I store in my basement against the return of my brother-in-law, Adrian.

To reach our restaurant we had to drop steeply down the roadway to the seaside promenade – where another establishment was blasting away its musical enticements and here there was no escape. There was, in fact, a bit of a queue at the entrance to the Seaview but we had only ten minutes or so to wait before being seated upstairs. The meal was very good – in spite of our being bombarded by music here too. Gavan and I had some time to reflect on our walk, one that had brought us close to 56 miles from the start in Helmsley. Both of us were deeply impressed by the beauties of the countryside we had covered and Gavan was certain that my energy levels had perked up with the installation of my new pacemaker. Indeed our last day on the Yorkshire Wolds Way was almost the same distance as that covered today but, though we started at roughly the same time, our walk had ended then not at 5:20, as mine had today, but at 7:10.

Gavan wanted us to use the tramway to reach the top of the town cliffs but it was broken and so we had to use our feet once again, making our way through the holiday crowds and their unneeded ice cream cones. I insisted on using a short, steep stairway to regain the parking lot of the Spa Hotel and not the contours of the nearby roadway. “I want to be prone as soon as possible,” I argued. From our window we had wonderful sunset views of Hunt Cliff, part of the route of the Cleveland Way as it makes its way along the coast down to Filey. Already we were talking about the resumption of this route next summer.

In the morning we had a leisurely breakfast and, my bag atop his and his atop a set of wheels, Gavan and I made our way to Saltburn’s train station shortly before 9:00. (One reason for choosing this place as our terminus was its proximity to rail travel.) There was no ticket office and Gavan’s attempt to use a machine to buy York tickets was thwarted on several occasions. He succeeded in printing a Senior ticket for me but his turned out to be for a child and the conductor of our train said he could sort this out at the ticket office in Middlesborough.

We left on the 9:16 and after many stops in an increasingly industrial countryside, was reached Middlesborough in less than half an hour. Gavan did have time to straighten out his ticket here and then we got on a train to Manchester Airport. This was full of young people off for a day of fun – one chap sat down with a bottle of wine, unscrewed it and sipped at it as though he were drinking Coke. Gavan said that the chap behind him was already drunk. We changed trains again in Northallerton, having a very short wait on the platform for a five-car service to King’s Cross. This train was very crowded and we were lucky to find seats. Most of the others aboard this service talked into their phones or played with their screens though one family, on its way to the Hard Rock Café, played cards and actually talked to one another.

We reached London at 12:43 – a remarkably quick return when you consider that we had been on three separate trains. Nor was there any waiting for a taxi and we were home by 1:30. We had some lunch and then Gavan, who was scheduled to return to his work as a hospital chaplain in New Jersey the next day, headed off to Heathrow to begin his return journey to the States. I was invited to supper with Linda and Rob and thus I could reclaim my dog in the early evening. I must say I was weary enough from the adventure but very happy that it had been accomplished so successfully.

To continue with this account your need:

Day 8: Saltburn to Staithes