May has been one of those lean months on Running Buffet, with nothing posted so far. It’s time to address that.
The reason for this woeful lack of output is that we have been away and, being one of those ever-so-careful people, I tend not to advertise when we’re not at home, just in case. This is despite (a) no one knowing where we live, (b) us not really having anything of value to steal anyway, and (c) me still tweeting whilst we’re away (albeit in a slightly cryptic and location-neutral kind of way).
I am a mass of contradictions me.
As it was we got home to find the house unburgled, the fridge still on, and the jungles of Borneo in the back garden. I am guessing it rained? That was two days ago and, whilst we can now see out of the back door (thank you Mrs RB), the piles of washing are claiming squatters’ rights in our spare room. They may be here for the long haul.
Needing a break from the washing, I thought it was time to sit down and tell you all about What We Did On Our Holidays. With Pictures.
“Please, no!” you cry. “Don’t make us look at your holiday photos.” Don’t worry, I’ll keep it short.
In Yorkshire – where we were very pleased to find it wasn’t snowing – we got to see some of the Tour de Yorkshire. Including this guy, whose name might be Raph? But two wheels would be two too many for us. We were walking and, after the first in a long line of hearty breakfasts, we set off from the North Sea, walking west.
Then it rained.
But only for a few hours. After that the sun came out (sort of). It seems that you can travel half the way to the other end of the country, but the weather and the scenery will be quite like home.
Albeit the skies somehow seemed just that little bit bigger.
Why were we walking? What’s wrong with getting the bus? Where did I leave the map? These are all good questions, and ones that we asked ourselves as we hiked across the North York Moors. Our reason for walking was Wainwright’s Coast to Coast: a 192 mile route from the Irish Sea to the North Sea, passing through three different National Parks. Two things may strike you about that previous sentence. Firstly, the 192 mile bit is as woolly as one of Wainwright’s jumpers, with no two sources seeming to agree on how long the route actually is. The second is that we had started in Yorkshire, on the beach at Robin Hood’s Bay. We weren’t walking from west to east. Oh no, we were going the other way. Or, as many people stopped to tell us, the wrong way.
Why would it be the wrong way? For a start it’s longer. Say you wanted to walk from Richmond to Bolton-on-Swale in the usual easterly direction. According to out guide book that would six and a half miles. But if you want to walk from Bolton-on-Swale to Richmond in a westerly direction, then that’s a good seven miles.
The main thing to take away from all of this is to never take close-up photos of your fingers. They look weird.
The other thing to take into account when walking west – apart from the surprisingly strong urge to sing Go West! at anyone you pass – is that the wind will be in your face. And boy did we have a lot of wind across the top of the moors. I ended the day wind burnt and windswept and looking like a surprised pomegranate.
The North York Moors were a lovely place to walk, with fantastic scenery, more grouse than you could shake a stick at (don’t try this, they don’t like it), and some very hospitable places to stay. If you fancy some bratwurst on your travels, no need to go all the way to Germany, you can find some just off of the moors at the Buck Inn. They do a good pint of Hofbrau Dunkel as well, in case you were wondering.
The hum of the washing machine is calling me (and I’m pretty sure I can drag this out over several more posts) so I think I’ll leave you there, on the edge of the North York Moors, the Dales calling to you in the distance.