Ganton to Filey - 9 miles

It is our final day. 

We awoke to a hard frost and the promise of a lift to Staxton Hill after breakfast from Steve the hotel owner. Because of our extra miles yesterday that would leave us just under nine miles to reach Filey and the end of the route.

We headed up the gravel road to the entrance of a much changed RAF Staxton Wold while reminiscing on those we knew who had worked here. We walked into and out of grassy valleys, shallow but still demanding effort on our part. We skirted farmers' fields to cut the route, snacked in woodland, missed a turning on the track and walked over a mile on road to rejoin the route at Muston on the edge of Filey as a result. Again a relaxing pub stop was thwarted by locked doors so we sat outside on the benches and enjoyed the sun, made warmer today by the complete absence of wind.

We were now once again on the edge of urbanisation. On leaving Muston and reaching the top of rising ground behind we could see the outskirts of Filey a short distance away. Above sat the blue line of the sea and the town dropped away to meet it. A short walk along the access road took us to Filey's centre - cafes, seaside shops, fast food - and from there it was a steep drop down to the beach, miles of wide sand and the sea receding in the distance. I paddled in the cold waters, icy needles piercing my feet and legs, while Shaun more bravely immersed himself. Then, our walk over, it was tea on the seafront and a stroll to the train station for the short trip to Scarborough.

We had chosen to overnight in Scarborough because of its cheap accommodation; a room each in the Scarborough Grand for cheaper than a room between us in most other places on the route. It was a town I had not previously visited and it seemed a town whose fortunes turned on the seasons; today summer had yet to arrive. Streets of old buildings, full of character and charm, mixed with others that had seen better days. And that stood true for the people too: a gap toothed young lady shouting abuse at two policemen standing calmly by the road; an old couple, tattily dressed and laden with carrier bag containing their belongings, looked lost in the streets; and a theatrically dressed girl muttering quietly to herself outside the shops. 

Our hotel was a picture of faded Victorian splendour, large and impressive but having seen better days. The mix of grand public rooms and casino style games machines gave a sense of undecided identity while the large terrace overlooking Scarborough Bay, covered in cigarette butts and occupied by two drunk and impoverished looking men, increased the sense of incongruity. But the rooms were decent, clean and modern, despite some of the horror stories we had been told by some when we had mentioned our end of walk plan.

At dusk we walked along the seafront, a muddle of bright neon and splendid traditional, an elegant past now trapped in a net of the modern from which it could not escape. Only the old harbour seemed to hold onto some vestige of unaffected history: lobster traps piled along the quay, a weather beaten working boat unloading its catch, and pleasure boats moored in the dark harbour waters awaiting the morning and their owners.

We rounded off the evening with two last-minute tickets to see the comedian Jimmy Carr at the Spa theatre at the far end of the sea front. His assessment of Scarborough was somewhat less restrained than mine.

Tomorrow we return home.

Wintringham to Ganton - 8 miles - to Staxton Hill and back - 4 miles

We awoke early. The comfort of kettles, tables and sinks allowed us to breakfast quickly meaning it was well before eight when we walked out to icy puddles, a matching wind and blue sky for a short day's walk. Frozen ground gave firm footing as we followed the escarpment edge, at first along woodland and then through fields with views far below of the main York-Scarborough road. We dropped down the slope in legs to eventually join a track that headed to the village of Sherburn where we had planned to take a break. However, with the next village only a gentle three mile walk away and it still being early in the day we decided to continue. After crossing fields and pasture we reached Ganton, our stop for the night, but again decided to press on. This time it was with a view to eating into tomorrow’s final leg. As it turned out we saved a climb around and up the fields to the top of Staxton Hill and the entrance road to RAF Staxton Wold radar site. Tomorrow morning we would get a lift to this point to start our day but for now we had to walk back to Ganton.

 

We arrived to find a closed pub but with a handy bus stop opposite. A short ride to Staxton village, a hearty meal in a roadside fish and chip restaurant and the ride back killed enough time to allow us to get into our rooms second time around. Soon after we were joined by Mike, a colleague from our RAF days, and it was only the fact that neither Shaun nor I were drinking that saved us from an evening that would have brought regret in the morning.

Fridaythorpe to Wintringham - 17 miles

It was a grey start to another long day, the beginning of which we managed to put off with another visit to the adjacent cafe for breakfast.

For three miles we crossed fields and dales of green and brown grass until tiny Thixendale and the forlorn hope of coffee in a pub, no longer open. We left the Wolds trail briefly to follow the Centenary route, past the village cricket ground sitting neatly in a dale of lush grass, up to higher ground of fields and woodland and then a long stretch to the isolated and abandoned medieval village of Wharram Percy - a tiny stream, a ruined church and a sense of history that sits at the end of a curving shallow dale. 

We lunched near the skeletal church and pressed on along mud tracks, past expansive fields of brown tilled earth, dotted white with chalk and flint and awaiting spring. Under clearing skies we climbed through pasture and plantations, enjoying afternoon sun and the sweeping views behind. A foot punishing road took us to the tiny village of Winteringham, no facilites but some beautiful cottages of white chalk.

Afterwards we climbed, gently at first to reach woodland and then up a steep and heart pounding hill, the signpost at the bottom comically pointing upwards at forty-five degrees giving a warning of what was to come. Tired and sweating, we broke out of the woods at the hilltop onto flat grass and alongside a modern sculpture. We enjoyed a moment of tranquility amid long afternoon shadows with the sky reflecting in the large dew pond which formed part of the art installation. Ahead, views across the Vale of York to the western horizon while behind ancient earthworks told of others who would also have enjoyed this setting but who would have been here for more practical reasons.

It was a short walk to the nearby farm where we planned to camp. However, the promise of a cold night and the kindness of the owner saw us both eating and staying in the warmth of the campsite's cozy washing room although as it turned out we slept with the door open: the heat that had seemed so welcome when we arrived after a day of walking became oppressive when we had to spend all night in it.

Market Weighton to Fridaythorpe - 17 miles

Today's frustration was not the cold wind high in the dales, nor the weather with its 'will it, won’t it' rain indecision. Neither was it the distance we had set ourselves despite the up and down of the terrain later in the day. It was the paths.

The day started easily: flat farmland, landscaped country estate and timeless villages lost in the countryside, their church bells tolling into empty streets and across empty hills. But those tracks were problematic: the mud too dry to sink into but too wet to stay on the ground, it clung to boots, filled the grip and made for smooth soles, perfect for slipping at any too casual a placement of the feet. It felt as if the effort to move forward was matched by the effort to stay upright, especially on the slopes. And there were slopes.

We sat high over Millington eating lunch in a biting wind but grateful of the need to not descend, at least here, and then pressed on for an hour-and-a-half across ragged grass and gorse as the route took us around, along and in and out of steep dales, showery weather and rainbows our only accompaniment. A detour through Huggate village gave us a pleasant section on tarmac, no distance saved but pounding of the soles a worthwhile swap for rhythm and speed and firmness of step. Our destination had been the pub but we were sidetracked by Rachel's tea rooms, warm cozy and inviting; a friendly group of locals in Sunday finery welcoming two unkempt and bedraggled walkers with fourteen miles under their belts. And yes, tea does taste better when sitting at a table and drunk from a china cup.

View to Millington

Road and fields took us to more dales, adding shape and form to the landscape but effort to our journey. We dropped into the last steep gully - images of lost valleys from old adventure stories- and then followed it, climbing steadily to the end. The tops got nearer and the slopes closed in upon us until the head and our final stretch along a path to Fridaythorpe. A short walk to the opposite side of town, a final warming tea in a biker's cafe and then we headed next door to the basic coziness of our blue and purple painted glamping pod, a cross between an upturned boat keel and a fairytale witch's cottage.

South Cave to Market Weighton - 12 miles

Today has been a day of long undulating stretches making distance through the Wolds landscape more directly than yesterday’s erratic and varying route. And for the most part those long stretches were walked under horizon-spanning skies.

We climbed the hill behind South Cave to the ridge, our path constrained on the one side by winter-bare woodland and on the other by ordered rows of vineyards descending the sloping valley. The vineyard owner broke from pruning to tell us of his business as we leaned on the wooden gate in the sunshine before our path continued on mud tracks hemmed in by brambles and spindly lichen covered trees. Our boots trod forest, rolling fields peppered white with chalk and flint, and the floors of angular, tree covered dales - dents in the undulating countryside. We walked the base of small valleys scooped gently from the landscape, meandering and river free, while all the time heading northwards and higher into the Wolds.

The trail ran alongside cultivated fields lined with hedges, open terrain under the sweep of open skies. We passed sleek white turbines rotating smoothly in the cold wind. And we ate by an old trig point, a historical footnote of map making that was now white painted and pristine and clearly cared for in a way that it never was when it had a function. Another historical footnote, the path of an old village rail line closed by Beeching, ended our day providing a sole pounding final mile-and-a-half to Market Weighton, the largest town on the route. Although the largest place we would pass through, Market Weighton is still small and with little in the way of facilities. It is probably most famous as the birthplace in 1792 of William Bradley, the tallest man in the country at 7 feet 9 inches although we will remember it for being kept awake by thumping music in our coaching inn accommodation and for a completely unsympathetic pub manager.

Life size Statue of William Bradley

Hessle to South Cave - 13 miles

Breakfast, Hull station and seven minutes of grey urbanisation - warehouses, concrete, industry - drifting slowly past outside our train window was the precursor to the start of our journey. They said the weather would be coming from the north and at Hessle we stepped out to meet it; the bite of the air on the face spoke of winter snow and ice from the Arctic while the blue sky spoke of a summer trying to arrive. 

We left the tiny station. Light rain briefly drifted through as we crossed rail and road to reach the Humber shoreline, the start of the route and of our break from the spread of the city. Birds waded near the water's edge leaving meandering trails of prints in the soft, sunlit mud. Our trail along the shingle was straighter but harder to spot as we made our way towards the graceful, imposing arc of the Humber Bridge spanning in one sweep the one-and-a-half miles from this shore to the next.

Shingle shore became gravel track. Track became grass and a diversion through North Ferriby to avoid the muddy shoreline of the low tide route, despite the timings working in our favour.  We climbed away from the river  and towards the countryside - up the gentle slope of a valley now masked by a town's streets - and headed into woods of bare trees and the tilled chalky fields beyond. It was a landscape in transition with the last sprinkling of brown winter leaves accompanying the yellow and white of celandine and snowdrop which heralded the arrival of spring.

Wenton gave us the opportunity for coffee, a tiny village with a tiny stream alongside the road running down to pool around the church like a protective moat. We headed into a narrow dale, a sharp V pressed by some godly hand into the grassy landscape and standing angular against the clear sky. Logging forced us to back track and climb its steep side from where we could see spidery strands of rain against the blue. Soon after, the gloom beneath the ridge tree line became gloomier and our muddy path muddier as we were forced to zip ourselves up against hail.

 

In the grey of the afternoon we walked a long chalky track and spoke of the Ridgeway. The high and straight path, rutted and soft, was everything I remembered of times on that route. Only the Humber river sparkling far ahead and below us suggested we might be elsewhere. Grey skies gave way to showers as we dropped into the rain misted village of South Cave, negotiating more muddy track, vines and coppiced willow to reach the certainty of tarmac, and the warm and dry of our overnight pub.

To Hull

London and my meeting with Shaun was a cramped and uneventful coach and tube trip from home plus an hour at Kings Cross awaiting the Eurostar. Another two hours and a light Korean lunch later and we were heading north to an evening in Hull.

A milky white moon seemed to be the only brightness as we walked through the city's dark and empty streets to our soulless and sterile hotel. It seemed quiet but not as quiet as the marina area to where three of us headed to eat, Shaun's school friend Rob having joined us for the evening. The marina seemed to have more character than parts of Hull I had seen on previous visits but it might just as easily have been the darkness. 

We shared an Italian meal and decided on an early night; it has been a long day of travelling and tomorrow is to be the start of the Wolds Way.  So we headed back through the still silent streets to our soulless accommodation in readiness for the morning.