August 13, 2017: Hessle to Melton
Gavan and I get ready for eighty miles on the Yorkshire Wolds Way.
At about 1:20 on a sunny Sunday afternoon Gavan, my former student and longtime walking partner, grabbed my heavy bag and his own as we climbed from our King’s Cross train onto Hull’s platform – where we took our first steps on an eight-day expedition on the Yorkshire Wolds Way.
Hull was celebrating its position as UK City of Culture and it was therefore appropriate, as we began a search for a taxi, that we were welcomed by the bronzed statue of Mr. Philip Larkin. According to Contours, the walking company we would be using on this trip, it was 13.5 miles from Hessle to South Cave. I had reasoned that this was perhaps too much for a first day and I had asked if we could be placed at a b&b some three or so miles into this stage. In fact it would be closer to 5.5 miles to Melton and I had arranged with a telephone call to our first landlady to have a taxi deposit our bags at about 2:00, the driver having first dropped the walkers off at Hessle station – where the guidebook instructions for our route begin in earnest. Gavan felt it would be better to ride all the way with our bags to Melton, drop them off ourselves, and then have the cabbie drop us off at Hessle. I agreed that this was an even better plan.
Was this the first day of our walk or the second – it certainly had seemed like a very long walk indeed at the World Athletics Championships, which we had attended at the Olympic Park only the night before.
The driver used his navigation app to get us to Melton Bottom (a street, not a village) and we had dashed inside with our luggage. This method had another dividend for we had now travelled some streets that we could use to make our own advance on the b&b later in the afternoon. There were a number of traffic diversions that delayed our arrival in Hessle but we were ready to begin our walk at last. I carried my knapsack on my back as usual and tapped happily along on my usual walking stick. Gavan had a knapsack as well and on this trip he used the walking poles left behind in June by my brother-in-law, Adrian – at the conclusion of a recent walk in Wales. I often deployed my clip-on sunglasses and they were certainly useful as we walked into the sun all afternoon on this day.
Gavan carried in his map case Tony Gowers and Roger Ratcliffe’s National Trail Guide of the route and in mine I had a copy of The Cleveland Way and Yorkshire Wolds Way, a Cicerone book by Paddy Dillon. Contours had sent four two-and-a-half inch Ordnance Survey maps and Gavan had downloaded these on his iPhone – so it was not necessary to fold these into map cases as well.
At 2:00 we crossed a footbridge over the busy A63 and turned left along Livingstone Avenue. A former pub was our first landmark and across the street from it we encountered the first in a series of YWW waymarks and, in fact, this route, one of the earliest National Trails, was extremely well signposted throughout. A short path, Jean’s Walk, then introduced us to the dominant feature of the afternoon, the mighty River Humber, whose north bank we would follow for several miles.
Underway at last, the famous Humber Bridge now lies in the background.
A variety of surfaces, all dead level, were on offer – I didn’t care very much for a short section of shingle. The riverbank was crowded with Sunday afternoon activity – lots of families strolling along, many on bicycles, and a cricket match was also in progress on our right. We passed a plinth celebrating the start of the walk, and the stump of a former windmill and it wasn’t long before the scene was dominated by the gigantic Humber Bridge. Opened in 1981, it held the record for seventeen years as the largest single span bridge in the world. It seemed busy with automobile traffic today but by contrast there were no vessels of any size on the river itself.
Nearby there was a bench and Gavan took the first of a daily series of shots of me – so that I could update my sister-in-law, Naomi, and Linda, who was looking after Otto the Schnauzer, on my progress. Ahead we encountered an ice cream van and Gavan made a purchase. I was amused to see that this treat was supplied by the (nearby) Beverley Ice Cream company for it took me back to my Los Angeles youth where at every game of the Hollywood Stars, you could head vendors shouting, “Hey, Beverly Ice Cream.”
A dividend of the so-called “high tide” route – The Duke of Cumberland pub in North Ferriby.
The route abandoned direct contact with the foreshore and followed a track that kept company with the railway line for some time. At certain times of the day high tides make an inland detour advisable – but we did not have this problem now. Nevertheless I suggested to Gavan that we take the high water route anyway. This was because I had noted that in North Ferriby there was a pub that might off some liquid refreshment on a warm afternoon. Gavan agreed and he began a careful study of the map on his phone as we gained elevation on suburban streets. In fact he was using a variation of the official high tide alternative – we were always looking for such diversions, particularly if they cut distance or altitude gain.
I have to say that this was not my first visit to this East Yorkshire village for as far back as 1970 Dorothy and I and her mother and sister had been here on a visit to cousins. Could I have visited the Duke of Cumberland – the pub we soon found on the High Street? Here there was a lively Sunday afternoon scene and I can add that the pint of beer certainly went down well.
When we continued on our western journey we were were accompanied by a lot of car traffic as we crossed over highway slip roads and, disdaining the YWW’s climb up to the local quarry, we followed the road taken by our taxi in the direction of Melton Bottom. We arrived at Eastdale b&b at 6:55 and had a chance to clean up and put on some of the nighttime clothes in our cases. Our landlady, Liz, was asked for recommendations on where we might take our evening meal and we set off in search of The Sandpiper.
This turned out to be a difficult place to find, in spite of Liz’s directions, and involved a number of twists and turns and a complex footbridge crossing of the A63. We ended up in a featureless flatland with nothing to help us out and we were not alone for a driver pulled over and asked us for directions. “If he comes back ask him if we can have a ride,” I suggested to Gavan – and this is just what happened. By this time Gavan had gotten his map-phone into gear and it was possible at last to locate The Sandpiper.
Gavan ordered something mentioned on the menu but unknown in the kitchen – so he had to make a second choice. I had a sticky plate of ribs and went outside in order to be able to hear the voices of our next two landladies, whom I had been advised to call about pick-up times and dinner options.
When it was time to head for home Gavan felt he could figure out a new route over field paths and behind domestic gardens in order to reconnect with the A63 and its footbridge. It was almost dark by the time we had returned to our b&b and climbed into our beds. For the first hour the snores of my fellow walker were stentorian but I did at last get some sleep at the end of a very successful first day.
To continue with this account your need: