Wednesday 12 June 2013

North Clwydian hills to Southern Cumbria

Late February 2009

Alex set out from Prestatyn train station at first light, heading eastward towards the rising sun. Very uncertain of when or how he'd return, but ready to burst with excitement nonetheless about travelling to far flung corners of the country. The last time he found himself here was when he completed the Offa's Dyke Long Distance Path in April 2008. A major reason why he chose this particular place instead of his nearby hometown, Colwyn Bay, to embark on this personal challenge to walk the British Isles.

Soon after leaving the town centre he decided to head uphill along quiet country lanes, in favour of the flat, but very busy, A548 main road. Passing through Gronant and then Trelogan, he enjoyed uninterrupted views across the Dee Estuary to the Wirral Peninsula, which he planned to walk around tomorrow. Nearing Whitford he noticed a familiar outline thirty miles away to the west, the Carneddau range. Some recent snowfall clinging to the tops gave an artful contrast against the bright blue sky. He hoped for more great vistas like this and was spurred on with renewed determination along gritty pavements through the market town of Holywell.

He followed another peaceful minor road downhill to Bagillt and finding an empty bench there, elected that it was a good place to stop for an elevenses break. Three council men working nearby came over for a quick chat. Witty Merseysiders, they were entertaining to pass the time of day with. Talking initially about these early stages of his walk, until they noticed the Everton football T-shirt he was wearing, which they then couldn't resist teasing him playfully about.

After being left alone to finish his apple and packet of crisps, he got himself up and moving once again towards Flint, encouraged by the distance he'd managed to cover before lunchtime. Not even a quick glimpse of the castle ruins near Flint train station could make this noisy road walk memorable, but he was still content, knowing that he would direct himself up to some classic walking country in the coming days.

He crossed the River Dee via Hawarden Bridge then continued on the National Cycle Route 5 past an industrial estate, before following a rough track over the England/Wales border, which lead him into Shotwick. After walking past many noxious factories today, the architecture in this tidy little Cheshire village instantly soothed his eyes, featuring a smart red sandstone church with tower as the focal point.

Continuing deeper into England along a footpath, he made an embarrassing map reading error a little way on. He had turned right into a field too early, when he should have first passed under some electricity pylons ahead. This wasted precious time and energy as he soon came to a fence blocking his progress. He climbed over anyway, but only succeeded in roaming further astray. After admitting to himself that he was hopelessly blocked off, he stopped for a minute to gather his thoughts and call on past experience. He quickly realised where he went wrong and taking a diagonal line west back through the field, he was then able to scale one final fence onto the path once again with minimal fuss. It was not ideal to have got lost, even just slightly, this early in a major walk, but it was better doing it here than somewhere truly remote and isolated, and he planned to be doubly more vigilant in the future.

Turning left onto Puddington Lane it began to drizzle slightly, so at Burton he sat out the short shower in a bus shelter, as the afternoon moved into early evening. The weather stayed overcast but dry as he walked the edge of the salt marsh beyond Parkgate and with plenty artificial light coming across the estuary to navigate by he could see just fine without needing his torch. With the surrounding area being so densely populated, it was a pleasure to witness twilight's march in quiet solitude out on this marginal expanse between land and sea. The passing geese and wading birds were all the company he required for the moment anyway.

Nearby Gayton Cottage he decided that it was time to stop for the night. So after quickly cooking a warming meal, he rolled out his bivvy bag and inflatable mattress and made up an unlikely bed directly on the path under a few trees. Once he'd zipped himself in it didn't take long to fall asleep. After months of planning and preparation the first day had gone by in a hurry, but as good as he could really expect. Now he was mentally and physically ready to enter a daily routine of: waking, walking, eating, drinking and then walking some more, with the rest of the year at his disposal.

*

To start off the day he enjoyed a nice easy stroll along the Wirral Way to stretch his legs, passing many Saturday morning joggers on the course of the dismantled railway bed. At West Kirby he had a chance to cross the sands to Hilbre Island, but deterred by warning signs about dangerous tides, kept to his route along the seafront. Once he swung round northeast towards Hoylake he searched for an early glimpse of the Sefton Coast across Liverpool Bay, but a low sea mist a few miles out spoilt the view.

It seemed that the downturn in the weather was keeping all other walkers indoors now, out of the cold north wind chilling the exposed path atop Wallasey Embankment. Giving him the chance to take in a peaceful hour through the North Wirral Coastal Park and prepare for the inevitable hustle and bustle ever present in Liverpool. After the welcome respite of lunch taken in a shelter, he continued on his way.

The familiar city skyline grew ever taller as he moved along New Brighton promenade. Every 100 metres was measured with a marker, counting down a distance of 3.5kms to the Seacombe Ferry, which kept his mind occupied calculating his average speed. He was soon down to just 500 metres, but quickly abandoned all sums when he saw the ferry headed his way and getting ready to land. As it docked he was not yet past the Kingsway Tunnel Ventilating Station. Hoping that there would be a crowd of people disembarking first, he tried sprinting the rest of the way to the terminal to make up the distance.

Breathlessly stepping into the almost empty foyer he faltered a split second, not sure if he needed to buy a ticket up here first. The helpful lady at the desk said that there still was a chance, if he was really quick, he could pay onboard. Otherwise it was an hour long wait until the next ferry. She had barely finished speaking when he turned and made a dash for the long ramp down. Ahead, a woman pushing a pram was hurrying as well and thankfully when she called out the ticket collector heard and made the ferry wait for them. It was a bit close for comfort as they set sail immediately, but in his favour, he now had enough daylight remaining to guide himself through the built up areas across the river before it got too dark.

It was nice to be back on the Mersey just three weeks after departing from Birkenhead to walk around the Isle of Man. Today he would get to see further upriver, as they were running a River Explorer cruise route during the afternoon. A few more passengers were picked up at Woodside. Then the ferry travelled an extra mile on this side of the river, before crossing over and it ultimately landed at the Pier Head in front of the famous Royal Liver Building, after passing by Albert Dock. The anthemic Merseybeat song Ferry Cross the Mersey played out over the ship's tannoy system as everybody filed up the gangway. Alex, the only one among them wearing a sheepish grin, thought it was a perfect send-off for starting another new chapter of his wanderings.

With no cause to visit the city centre today, he turned north along King Edward Street for a lengthy main road trudge through Bootle, whilst docks monopolised the entire waterfront stretch. The noise and fumes from the busy dual carriageway contributed to a nasty headache, which had set in to stay by the time he made it past Seaforth Container Port and into Crosby. Exiting the first corner shop he found with a bottle of milk, he then spent twenty well needed minutes sat down on a park bench filtering clean air back into his lungs.

It was too dark now to be able to see cast iron figures of the well known 'Another Place' modern sculpture lining the beach with any detail, so instead he pushed on past the Coastguard station and out into the wide open sand dune system. He needed to quickly find somewhere hidden from view to pass the hours of darkness and just a short distance further he found an ideal spot, tucked away behind an operational pumping station. Once a few little stones and glass fragments had been brushed aside, he was all set to bed down. All in all he enjoyed a comfortable night there, even if he was awakened several times by restless motors inside the building whirring into life.

*

He was on his feet and already moving by first light. At Hightown he followed a path leading between Altcar Rifle Range and the railway line, before tracing a quick route through Formby via its peaceful suburban streets. He arrived at the National Trust car park on Victoria Road shortly after nine o'clock and was very relieved to find the toilet block there had just been unlocked.

Nearby, in a lonely part of the forest, he sat himself down quietly and tried to lure shy red squirrels out of hiding with a handful of peanuts. Before long though, a large dog came rummaging through the trees. It had a good sniff around Alex's observation spot and certainly scared away all remaining wildlife within a quarter mile radius as it plundered on ahead, with its owner hot on its heels. Conceding defeat he listened to a selection of tunes aloud on his phone to raise his spirits once more and then stepped out onto the beach, headed now towards the Ribble Estuary.

It began raining as he drew near to the Royal Birkdale Golf Course. He decided to stop and put on his gore-tex over-trousers in case it started to pour heavily, quickly slotting them out of his rucksack's instant access side zip. Wearing heavy four-season boots covered in wet sand it was an awkward procedure and it would have been better instead to continue walking, as by the time he was ready to go it was dry again. He didn't let this frustrate him too much as it was all good practice and the extra layer of clothing helped to keep the wind out.

In the centre of Southport was Lord Street, which brought a touch of Victorian class to the day with its covered walkways, gardens, distinguished public buildings and suave restaurants. Alex however just had his mind set on a hot Cornish pasty, but having picked the wrong day of the week to pass through, left town with nothing but an empty stomach.

Crossing The Sluice at Fiddler's Ferry brought him back out into the countryside. At the quiet village of Banks he debated going into a pub to try and find out the latest news of Everton's away match against Newcastle United. In the end he kept on walking as it would be getting dark in under an hour. It turned out the match was a lacklustre goalless draw anyway, so he wasn't missing much.

He found his way east through an intensively farmed landscape filled with massive greenhouses and vegetable fields. The roads were long and straight and as it was very flat the view rarely changed. It currently appeared devoid of people too. Feeling the need for a quick sit down, he propped himself up against his pack right in the middle of the lane for several minutes, before dusting himself down and heading on once again.

It was pitch black by the time he reached Tarleton and as he was now only a few miles from the outskirts of Preston he had to think carefully about where he was going to camp. For the moment though he'd just carry on and hope that a good place would come along. He joined the busy A565, which thankfully had a pavement that he could follow for nearly a mile, until turning left onto a much quieter side road. Approaching Much Hoole he took a chance look into St Michael's churchyard to notice an open covered porch and with a black flash he had already crossed the path and unfurled his bed roll faster than you could say 'Get me to the church on time'!

*

Well away from Much Hoole before any early morning church goers showed up, he was already through Walmer Bridge, Longton and Hutton when he joined the bedlam of the school run coming into Preston. As soon as he'd crossed the River Ribble he turned left and proceeded to follow it back downriver. After a nice quiet walk around the marina he then faced a long two hour march alongside the A583 and A584 in turn to reach the amiable village of Freckleton.

The first stop had to be the bakery, then a coin operated lavatory kiosk and he was good to go again for the afternoon. He powered up his iPod for the first time through Warton and the loud guitars helped him forget about the incessant sound of traffic shuttling by, as he homed in on the coast once again. After joining the Lancashire Coastal Way at Lytham he encountered a large gathering of walkers as he strolled by the windmill. As it turned out they were just heading to the end of the prom and back, not right through to Blackpool as he thought when saw them setting out.

It took him two hours himself to reach the centre of Blackpool, passing holiday camps, fairgrounds and amusement arcades aplenty along the way. As he waited to cross the road a young man approached and asked him if he wanted to buy a joke book. He explained that he was homeless and that monies raised from any sales would help pay for his accommodation. It seemed a genuine cause so Alex gave him a couple of quid to hopefully keep him from sleeping rough.

A few blocks inland he found The Fylde - International Backpackers on Palatine Road. He hadn't booked ahead, but being out of season they were quiet and he was given an en suite double room to himself on the ground floor. After settling himself in he didn't have the energy to pull off his boots, so just grabbed a couple of pillows and flumphed out down on the carpet. He reached for the Joke Factory book and had a look at the first page. 'T.S.Eliot is an anagram of toilets' it said. Most of the rest was far too rude to repeat and it kept him amused for a good many minutes. The remainder of the evening he spent taking it easy and even got a turn on the free internet terminal to find out the winner of the previous day's Welsh Open snooker final, before settling down for an early night.

*

He had a nice friendly chat at breakfast time with Vicky and Kate the mother and daughter proprietors, before taking to the streets again. Through the latter portion of yesterday, he couldn't help but watch the famous landmark of Blackpool Tower slowly nearing, as he inched his way along the long seafront. Now after getting so close to it in the evening he was finally able put it behind him and continue heading due north.

Outside Cleveleys a local man commented to him that he looked very determined to get somewhere in a hurry. There was a ferry to Knott End-on-Sea leaving shortly, but he'd not given himself enough time to reach it comfortably. He was charging along with a walking pole in each hand and must have appeared quite a sight to all those out for a casual stroll. As he turned east towards Fleetwood he still had a good mile more to go but less than ten minutes remaining. There was no point in trying to run, so unless the ferry was late he would put the spare hour to use leisurely exploring the town centre.

The high street was reassuringly busy, even on this dull February morning and he treated himself to an exceedingly tasty sausage roll, which was soon after washed down with a mug of tea in The Ferry Cafe. He sat looking out across Morecambe Bay, or rather, into the mist that seemed to obscure everywhere except Heysham Power Station. Switching his view to the foreground he noticed a lorry with a phone number for Colwyn Bay on the side. If he was going to get homesick at all it would be now, but keeping himself constantly on the move meant that he never got the chance to dwell on the loneliness.

There was a bus replacement service running for the ferry today. It would involve a 13 mile long journey via the A585, instead of 400 direct metres across the River Wyre to get to the same place. He could easily walk the detour himself, but like before at the River Mersey, the time saved could prove useful later for visiting hard to reach Scottish islands. The minibus driver didn't have a ticket machine or anything for taking the fare, just a RNLI donation box which he told passengers to fill at their discretion. Alex only had a little loose change beside large notes, so put what he had in whilst writing out a mental IOU.

Leaving Knott End-on-Sea he walked a few miles of the right of way upon the sea embankment before continuing to follow the Lancashire Coastal Way, as it led slightly inland along Fluke Hall Lane. Near to Pilling his attention was drawn to the sky by the sight and sound of lapwings’ pinballing through the air over a large field. After several attempts he managed to photograph one with his mobile phone camera, but because of the day's poor light conditions the result was very disappointing.

At Pilling Hall a footpath led him across farmland and soon he came upon a house being renovated. He could see that where he imagined the path ran was covered over with rubble and would therefore need to trespass through the garden. The noise of a cement mixer rumbled from somewhere out of sight and then next a man unexpectedly appeared with an old window in his hands, which he dutifully chucked on top of the rubble heap with a satisfying clatter. Well, Alex definitely wasn't going to attempt to walk over that death trap now. 'Hi. Is it alright to cut through here?' he asked politely. The man looked around, quite startled and when he saw Alex said. 'Oh sorry, I didn't hear you approaching. Yes, come on through.' It seemed like he was beginning to develop a knack of scaring poor unsuspecting locals, turning up when they'd least expect.

After some more miles along car free lanes, his route took him back to the coast and past Cockersand Abbey. Which appeared dreary but stoic in the gathering twilight, nuzzled up to the mouth of the River Lune in a rather bleak and exposed situation overlooking Cockerham Sands. It was only a total of four miles from here to the M6 motorway but it felt much more isolated than that distance suggested.

A really muddy path from Crook Farm well and truly christened his new boots and by the time he came into Glasson it was also pouring with rain. He stopped for a quick glance at a toposcope beside the road and it was interesting to discover what he would have otherwise been able to see on a clear day. The Forest of Bowland moors were to the east and the Cumbrian Fells stretched out to the north, but for now he'd just have to take the diagram's word for it.

It was time to find somewhere to take shelter from the rain, but first he paused near the marina and tried to make his filthy boots a bit more presentable by swilling them in a puddle. He didn't really want to go squelching his way into a pub looking like he'd just been mucking out. Glancing up the road he noticed a wide shelter lit up, which was a more than satisfactory alternative given the circumstances. When he walked over there it turned out to be the frontage of public toilets, so he could fill up his water bottle as well as clean himself up.

Once the rain had eased off he continued walking, following a deserted cycle track for nearly a mile. It felt like a good time to give his dad a phone call and fill him in on how the first few days had gone. He had so much he already wanted to tell him in a short space of time and only broke from his monologue once to remove his torch and investigate a building in the shadows. It was likely the only place off the cycle track that he could sleep out of sight. So, after getting dad to agree to upload some pictures onto MySpace and then saying his brief goodbyes, he set about getting himself unpacked for the night.

*

It took a couple of hours to reach Lancaster and only a few cyclists passed him along the way, otherwise the day began similarly to how the previous one had ended. He took a little time away from his route to look around this historic city and was highly impressed with its imperious medieval castle, which he reached up a creepy flight of steps. After a bowl of soup to warm him at the Cashino Gaming cafe he took a bridge over the River Lune and then, with a slight element of luck involved, reached the Lancaster Canal through residential roads of Skerton. After returning from his Isle of Man trip at the start of the month, he walked along the stretch of coast to the west from Heysham to Morecambe, so today he didn't mind heading directly north to Carnforth instead. He was just looking for an excuse to avoid the great big power station over there anyway.

He took a late lunch break beside the canal at Carnforth where he met some friendly swans, before descending through the town, past the train station, under the railway bridges and then across the River Keer. After following the low road to Crag Foot, he crossed the flats on the coastal way and then continued to Jenny Brown's Point with glorious afternoon sunshine illuminating all of Morecambe Bay. As he continued round towards Silverdale he put some music on through his headphones and couldn't have chosen a more uplifting song than Wildest dreams by Iron Maiden for lyrics that perfectly encapsulated the moment.

I'm gonna take the car and hit the open road
I'm feeling ready to just open up and go
And I just feel that I can be anything
That I might ever wish to be
And fantasize just what I want to be
Make my wildest dreams come true


By the time the final chorus came around he couldn't keep himself from singing out aloud.

I'm on my way
Out on my own again
I'm on my way
I'm gonna break away


Striding along like on cloud nine through Silverdale, he was eagle-eyed to notice the beach garage he passed on Shore Road being owned by somebody named A.Walker. It appeared that each subtle sign at present was in some way or another encouraging him to Go! Go! Go! After a quick stretch of rocky foreshore he reached the end of the Lancashire Coastal Way and soon after passed into Cumbria feeling that the journey was really starting to come into its own.

As day drew to a close over Arnside he sat down by the pier, watching an occasional train slowly crossing the Kent Viaduct. It wasn't worth attempting to trespass on the lines to save himself a few miles walking, so once he was ready, he began the lengthy trek to the first road bridge. It turned dark quicker than he expected, so he had to be super alert walking the B5282, which was without a pavement or any street lighting. At Sandside he had the option of sneaking behind a water treatment building for the night, but in the end preferred to try and find somewhere else away from the houses. He only needed to keep his patience for another 15 minutes, when he found a secluded bivvying spot nearby a weir on the far bank of the River Bela, right at the start of the Cumbrian Coastal Way ready for the morning.

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