54 Degrees North - Walking Across England in a Straight Line

2021-01-08T12:47:00.000+00:00

This is the introduction and first chapter from my first book, 54 Degrees North, where I walked across England in a straight line just for the fun of it. If you like walking, and you like history, you might like my books.

Introduction

Okay, so I’ve had this idea.  I love walking. No, I LOVE walking. And I wanted to do my own walk. You know, maybe something a bit different, something that no one has done before. Well, I’ve decided. I start tomorrow. Now, I’m no Wainwright, and this is no Camino; I live in England after all. So obviously it’s going to rain. And I’m probably going to get lost.  But that’s half the fun.

Ulrome, East Yorkshire. That’s my starting point. It’s precisely, EXACTLY, at 54 degrees of latitude north. It would have been cool if I could have started at zero degrees longitude as well, but that point is about eight and a half miles offshore, and under fifty feet of water, so Ulrome will have to do.

I’m going to follow a path westwards right across England, and I’m going to try to stick as close as I can to the 54-degree line of latitude. I know that I will be going against the grain, in that people tend to go west to east when walking across England, something to do with not having the prevailing winds in your face, but I’m just a rebel and will have to deal with the consequences.

Now let’s not be silly. I’m not going to swim across swamps getting covered in leeches, or risk getting shot by irate farmers as I trample their crops, and I’m certainly not going to climb through some old lady’s window just for technical accuracy. I will instead venture a few miles either side, north and south of the 54-degree line, and take in whatever gets in the way, hopefully finding out about famous and interesting people and places, and also perhaps the odd grisly murder. My long-suffering wife has agreed to drop me off and pick me up if needed, and I’m sure she won’t mind me saying that with her map reading skills that should be interesting. But it should certainly be a fascinating journey as the landscape, the people and the weather will continually change. I will be accompanied by two friends of mine, Rob and Chris, though we will spend as much time walking apart as we will walking together. This separation is no reflection on our friendships, though. We just tend to walk at different paces and meet up several times throughout the day whenever we happen to. There might be a bit of camping involved, and hopefully, nothing will go drastically wrong, and no-one will die.

So the plan is to start on the east coast, at precisely 54 degrees north, and head west, in a reasonably straight line where possible. A quick look at a map tells me that we will pass near to Driffield, York, Knaresborough, Harrogate, Blubberhouses, Skipton, and finally, Lancaster, with hopefully many surprises in between. The finish point is a few miles south of Lancaster on the coast of the Irish Sea, at a place called Sunderland Point. Other than that, there is no plan, no route, and no single path per se; we will just head west and hope to make it all the way. There are many obstacles in the way, including a couple of motorways, several railway lines, mountains, lakes, and who knows what else. The Romans had the right idea in building roads as straight as possible, so it is in that spirit that we set off to venture across our beloved little country in as straight a line as possible. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 1

Ulrome to Driffield 16 Miles

As I have already said, I rather love walking. I could walk to the ends of the earth and back. If someone paid me, I would walk for a living. In fact, I wouldn’t mind being a postman apart from the obvious statement that I’m not exactly partial to being bitten by dogs. Or tigers come to think of it. But there aren’t many tigers in Bradford, which is where Andrew Leckenby, a postman, was attacked. He was bitten on the bum while delivering letters in 2012 by a dog, of course. Mind you; he went on record that the dog had bitten him after he rattled the animal’s cage. Rattled the animal’s cage? That is quite literally a saying where I come from, and if anyone rattled my cage, I think I would bite them on the bum too.

Anyway, I’m not a postman or postwoman, for that matter. And I’m reasonably sure of that last fact because I checked this morning. But to come back to walking, which, to be honest, is what this is supposed to be about, I can’t get enough of it. However, my body sometimes disagrees. Knees, thighs, legs, buttocks, feet, you name it. I’m no spring chicken nowadays, and I can assure you every part of my lower torso is more than aware when I have done a considerable walk.

I haven’t done many what you would call proper walks, though. I completed the St Bees to Robin Hoods Bay Coast to Coast in 2016 with a group of friends that included Rob and Chris, and that’s about it. Mind you, that was more of a stagger from one pub to the next in all honesty. And the ‘Jack Daniels’ incident, well, I’d just rather forget about that if we’re going to be honest with each other. It was one heck of a laugh, though—five blokes roughing it in tents at the height of midge season. And any rumours that we had a chef and a driver are somewhat incorrect. It was a chef and an accountant who could drive, that’s all.

I also managed time in my busy schedule to fit in the Hadrian’s Wall Walk, which was considerably shorter and wasn’t as good as the significantly longer Coast to Coast. I was somewhat dismayed to discover that the name of the walk, leaning very heavily on the use of the word wall, after all, is slightly lacking for technical accuracy. By slightly, I really mean severely. There is hardly any wall left, but there are very many suspiciously sturdy-looking farmhouses and other assorted buildings dotted along the entire route. Anyway, here I am, on the east coast of England, and for once, it’s not raining. Yet.

The panorama before me is a wonderful sight, especially on a beautiful sunny day like today, but come here yourself, and you too will be able to witness it. Looking north, with weather permitting, you can easily see the two lighthouses of Flamborough Head. The one on the left is the oldest, built in 1674. Constructed on the orders of Sir John Clayton after being commissioned by King Charles II, it is the oldest known lighthouse still standing in the United Kingdom. Although it is rarely open to the public, if you are lucky enough to find it unlocked one day, you may be surprised to learn that it was never lit, which seems a bit of a waste. Bearing in mind that it wasn’t a lighthouse in the way we would imagine today, with a rotating light thingy, the idea was to just light a bonfire on top. Maybe it was because they simply couldn’t be bothered to carry all that firewood up the steps (what with the lift not being invented for another few hundred years, idiots) or maybe it was because the idea was to charge passing ships a fee which would then fund the building costs. Belatedly perhaps, Clayton considered the otherwise obvious problem of not being able to collect money from passing ships. At this point, he presumably got the huff. Ultimately, he decided that if he’s not getting paid, then those passing sailors can pretty much take their chances on the rocks. The light stayed off.

And many, many, many of them did take their chances, often with a less than optimal outcome - death. Nobody knows how many sunken relics are out there, but there are quite a few, I can tell you. According to the Scarborough Maritime Heritage Centre, the Great Storm of 1871 took as many as thirty ships alone to a watery end, claiming more than seventy lives. It was the 10th of February, and initially, the weather was calm. A change in the wind direction allowed many ships to put to sea only for a storm to spring up out of nowhere. Once again, the wind changed, and the ships were unable to make it back to port. The coastal inhabitants saw many distress lights, and significant attempts to rescue those in trouble were made. People came down to the beach to help, and two lifeboats were launched. Some lives were saved, though, and sometime later, a monument was placed in the church to commemorate the event.

It reads ‘In lasting memory of a great company of seamen who perished in the fearful gale which swept over Bridlington Bay, on 10th February 1871. The waves of the sea are mighty and rage horribly, but the Lord who dwelleth on high is mightier.’

So if you’re thinking of having a paddle, just be careful.

There are, as mentioned, many more shipwrecks in the waters up and down the east coast. One notable wreck is that of the Diana, a steamer sunk not far from shore during the first world war. Built in 1899 in Bergen, Norway, the Diana had been carrying coal from Newcastle to Rouen in France. She was sunk by a U-boat, UB-108, commanded at the time by Wilhelm Amberger. Amberger spent most of his war in command of UB-38, sinking 26 ships and damaging one more, the Teeside, which deliberately ran aground after being torpedoed due to its proximity to the coast at the time it was hit. It had been travelling from the River Tees to Falmouth, and was Amberger’s penultimate hit while on UB-38, and would have been the biggest ship he would sink during the war had he been successful. Perhaps the Teesside’s size helped to save it. When the Diana was sunk, towards the end of the war, Amberger had only recently taken command of UB-108, on 1st March 1918. She was his first recorded hit with this particular U-boat, hitting her on 7th June 1918, though all of her crew survived. With the end of the war imminent, he only scored one more hit following this, the Kennington, also in the area east of Flamborough Head, a few days later, on 12th June 1918 and with the loss of four lives. UB-108 was herself sunk on 12th July 1918. She hit a mine, which killed her entire crew of 36, just a few months before the end of the war. For a long time, she was believed to lie in the English Channel, but it is now thought that she lies off the coast of Belgium. One of my uncles served in the Royal Navy on submarines, though at a much later date. I always thought of the immense bravery and guts that must be required to confine yourself in such a vessel, especially in a time of war.

Perhaps the most famous ship that is lying out there, though, is the USS Bonhomme Richard, which is thought to lie somewhere just around the headland of Flamborough to your north, close to Filey. The Bonhomme Richard, or Bon Homme Richard, as her captain, John Paul Jones originally named her, in honour of Benjamin Franklin, was built in Lorient, on the Atlantic west coast of France, starting out as Duc de Duras, or Duke of Duras, in 1765. Jones took command of her on 4th February 1779 and subsequently proceeded to become a regular problem for the Royal Navy. In August of that year, Jones took the Bonhomme Richard north-west, completely bypassing the British Isles and came around the top of Scotland where he headed south into the North Sea, presumably surprising and then capturing many merchant ships as prizes along the way. On 23rd September, the famous Battle of Flamborough Head was fought in which the Bonhomme Richard was to find her watery grave.

USS Bonhomme Richard engages Serapis

Image used under creative commons licence

The battle started late on, around 6 pm, and lasted approximately four hours. At one point, it looked like the British were going to win, with HMS Serapis bombarding the Bonhomme Richard to devastating effect. At one moment, John Paul Jones, upon being asked to surrender by the captain of the Serapis, Robert Pearson, defiantly and famously replied, “Sir, I have not yet even begun to fight!”. Ultimately, Jones prevailed and captured the Serapis after boarding her; however, the Bonhomme Richard, severely holed and on fire, sank at around 11 am on 25th September 1779, some thirty-six hours after the battle. In 2018, one British company claimed to have found her wreck. Still, some say that this location, relatively close to shore, does not relate to where the Bonhomme Richard sank, as she is said to have disappeared over the horizon before sinking. She may not be found any time soon, either. The United States Navy and the French navy, who had both been involved in the search operation, are reported to have had a falling out over the correct legal ownership of any wreck, should it ever be found.

As I look out over the North Sea today, another thing I am looking at is the location of the strongest recorded earthquake ever known to have hit the British Isles. Indeed, this area before me is one of the most tectonically active parts of the British Isles, although you would never guess. Principally, earthquakes around here have two causes. One is the compression caused by the movement of tectonic plates themselves, but another is the uplift resulting from the melting of the ice sheets that once covered the country, something known in the trade as glacial rebound. Now, regarding this particular quake, the UK is not exactly noted for its propensity for shaking, so don’t get too excited. We are not talking about the widespread destruction that occurs in other, less tectonically fortunate places around the world such as Japan or New Zealand, for instance, other earthquake zones are available. Still, for such a small island, this was the whopper. On the morning of 7th June 1931, at around 1.30 am, the earth, and presumably, the water began to shake profusely. Aside from waking a few fishes, this quake did, in fact, do some real damage. It is estimated to have reached a magnitude of 6.1 on the Richter scale, and its effects were felt as far away as London, where Dr Crippen’s head fell off, a real example of the irony of art imitating life.

This was, of course, the waxwork in Madame Tussauds. But who was Dr Crippen? It is one of those names that many people have heard of, but when it comes to it, they don’t necessarily know much about him. All I initially knew was that he was hanged for murder. Dr Crippen, or Hawley Harvey Crippen to his besties, was indeed a murderer, who was unceremoniously hanged in Pentonville Prison in 1910. This was after murdering his second wife, Cora Crippen, and moving in his lover, Ethel Neave, who then proceeded to flaunt the former’s clothes and jewellery. Incidentally, his first wife, Charlotte, had died of a stroke in 1892, unless of course, he killed her too. He concocted a story that initially claimed that Cora had died in California and been cremated. This explanation conveniently left no trace and was not easy to corroborate or refute at that time. Not satisfied with this explanation, a good friend of Cora Crippen, going by the name of Kate Roberts, reported the fishy circumstances to the police, with Chief Inspector Walter Dew duly looking into the matter. Incidentally, Kate also went by the name of Vulcana and was a Welsh Strongwoman of some fame. When he was questioned by the rozzers, who did a cursory search of the house, Crippen then stated that he had indeed fabricated the whole tale due to the embarrassment of his promiscuous wife having run off with her own lover, which for anyone who knew Cora, sounded entirely plausible. While the police were satisfied, Crippen’s guilt and paranoia got the better of him, so he decided to do a bunk, which quickly rekindled police interest. Following a series of subsequent and more thorough searches of the Crippen dwelling, what was believed to be the remains of Cora were finally found buried beneath the basement. They dug up a torso, but the limbs and head, and therefore identification too, proved elusive. Boarding a steamship to Canada, eh, he shaved off his moustache and disguised Ethel as a young boy, though this was probably for practical and not kinky purposes.

The ship’s crew nevertheless quickly saw right through both disguises and telegraphed back to London to raise the alarm, where Chief Inspector Walter Dew, who had previously interviewed Crippen, was notified immediately. He jumped on a faster ship to Canada, eh, and upon arrival, awaited his target, at which point he boarded Crippen’s ship disguised as a pilot. The captain of the boat offered to introduce Crippen, who was travelling first class, to the pilot as a courtesy, but this was a cunning ruse. Upon meeting Crippen, Dew promptly revealed his identity and arrested Crippen. I imagine Inspector Dew much enjoyed this, and I have visions of him, removing his hat, whipping off his cape, and finally tearing away his false moustache to reveal himself to the startled culprit. This was all set amongst a backdrop of a flash of light and a puff of smoke. Gotcha. Though it was reported at the time that Crippen was relieved to have been put under arrest and that this meant the end of the saga, there is now a school of thought that suggests Crippen was not guilty, and that the remains discovered beneath the Crippen house were not Cora, and may have even belonged to a male. Perhaps even more bizarrely, the waxwork that had been put on display in Tussauds way back in 1910, was only finally removed from display in 2016, after which it was presumably buried beneath the basement, minus limbs, and head.

To get back to the earthquake, however, there were far more severe effects other than a broken waxwork. Alarmingly, chimneys crashed to the ground in my home town of Hull, where one woman also died of a heart attack following this craziness. Her name was Ellen Bradley, and she was said to be suffering from shock following the upheaval. Despite this, she still insisted on attending church later that same day, it was a Sunday after all, but she then fell seriously ill upon arriving at the church. An ambulance was called, but unfortunately, she died on the way to the hospital. The local paper, The Hull Daily Mail, suggested the following day, that more early morning cups of tea ‘with a drop of something in’ were drunk that morning than had been since the days of the Great War. This is wholly understandable, and having witnessed one or two moderate earthquakes myself, I can attest that they can be a bit unnerving, to say the least. The Yorkshire Post reported that on the same day, the quake had been felt all over England and Scotland but that no lives had been lost. They had clearly not heard of Ellen.

When I went back to have another look at these two newspapers, I was also astonished to read that the RAF accidentally bombed a farm at Hutton Cranswick belonging to Mr Walter Duggleby on the day before the earthquake. Perhaps they caused it then? After making enquiries with officials, the paper quoted the local aerodrome commander at Catfoss, near Beverley, as saying ‘we have no statement to make today,’ which I imagine translates to ‘bugger, they’ve rumbled us.’ I suspect if this happened today, it would be somewhat of a bigger story, and it wouldn’t be just Dr Crippen’s head that would roll. Perhaps this friendly fire would have made more of a newspaper headline had it not been for the Great Quake of 1931 overshadowing it, but I somehow doubt it. I just hope that afterwards, someone decided to have a rethink about giving those idiots at Catfoss the responsibility for and exciting combination of planes and bombs.

The worst-hit town, though, was just around the headland to the north, at Filey. There was even a small tsunami, and it was reported that some sea life was washed ashore. Now 6.1 may sound a lot, but we have to understand the Richter scale to get a proper feel of this quake compared to others. The scale was developed in 1935 by Charles Richter, not surprisingly, and is a logarithmic scale, which means that every whole number increase signifies a ten-fold increase in power. This means that the wave amplitude in a level 6 earthquake is ten times greater than that of a level five. It would, therefore, be a hundred times greater than a level 4, and so on. Simples. To put this into perspective, the most powerful ever recorded earthquake, which occurred at a place called Valdivia in central Chile in 1960, was almost two thousand times more powerful than what happened here in 1931. It was estimated that it had a magnitude of around 9.6. This goes some way to explaining why approximately 1,900 people died in Chile, with billions of dollars’ worth of damage to property, and we just got a few broken chimney pots and a fallen wax head.

Surprisingly though, the Great Quake of 1931 was not the most damaging earthquake ever recorded in our green and pleasant land. That occurred in Colchester in 1884, damaging some 1200 buildings. Though this earthquake was estimated by the British Geological Survey to have had a magnitude of only 4.6, this demonstrates that it is not merely the strength of an earthquake that signifies its damage but many other factors such as its depth, the composition of the land and countless others. Do sleep at night, though. Reassuringly, Britain lies more or less in the middle of the Eurasian tectonic plate and therefore is relatively immune from the effects of earthquakes and tsunamis. You’re more likely to get hit by a meteorite.

Which is, funnily enough, what almost happened when one of the largest meteorites ever known to have hit the UK landed in these parts too. Just a dozen or so miles away, in Wold Newton, way back in 1795, farmer James Shipley was presumably somewhat surprised when, at three o’clock in the afternoon on 13th December, what became known as the Wold Cottage meteorite unexpectedly landed just a few yards from him as he ploughed his field. He was probably a bit annoyed as well, because having just expended a considerable amount of time and effort into his work, he now had a big dirty crater right in the middle of it full of crispy, half-cooked sprouts. The offending item was not an insubstantial piece of space rock either, weighing in at around 25kg, and would have given him a bit of a headache had it hit him on his coconut. That is equivalent to a large sack of potatoes, just so that you are aware. In true British aristocratic tradition, Shipley could not keep the meteorite, and the benefits that came from it, however, as the land where it had landed belonged to Edward Topham.

The Wold Cottage Meteorite

Image used under creative commons licence

Topham was not only the landowner but was also the local magistrate, so we can at least be grateful that this event was well recorded. He took witness statements from Shipley and others who had seen the rock fall, who all provided complementary accounts of the event. Keen to publicise what had happened, he arranged for the meteorite to be put on display in London, eventually selling it to a man called James Sowerby in 1804 for ten guineas, or just over ten pounds in proper money. Sowerby published a book called British Mineralogy in 1806, which presumably did not become the best seller of the year. In volume two of this comprehensive tome, though, he dedicated an incredible nineteen pages to the Wold Cottage meteorite, though he more or less plagiarised Topham’s account of the event. Sowerby later sold the meteorite for the grand sum of £250 to the British Museum, turning a tidy profit. Still, by the time he did this, it had presumably been on a diet, having lost a considerable bit of weight, now weighing only 20.6 kilogrammes.

You may even have seen this intergalactic traveller if you have ever visited the Natural History Museum in London. It sits there to this day as a significant exhibit, forming a part of their permanent treasures collection. For his part, Topham paid for the construction of a brick and stone monolith to mark the impact point forever more, which you probably have not seen, but I have. I must say it is the most excellent tribute to a rock that I have ever encountered and in fact the only one.

The meteorite also made a significant contribution to science, at least in one respect. At the time of the Wold Cottage incident, many people seriously thought that meteorites had their origins in volcanoes. Well, why not? It makes sense when you think about it. However, when someone pointed out that there were not that many volcanoes in Yorkshire or England for that matter, this claim became somewhat dubious and had to be reconsidered. The nearest volcano was almost some 900 miles away, at Öræfajökull in Iceland, with Mount Vesuvius considerably further away, at nearly 1150 miles.

No, I cannot say Öræfajökull, either. When trying to find out how to pronounce it, I was advised to pronounce it phonetically, like so: œːraivaˌjœːkʏtl. Still not feeling it? It sounds something like err iver yerkotl. If you are reminded of cancelled flights and closed airspace in 2010, then this is not the volcano you are looking for. Öræfajökull has not erupted since 1727 so you must be thinking of the equally unpronounceable Eyjafjallajökull.

Pondering such frivolities is not going to help us walk across England, however, so it is time to shut up and move on. We had been dropped as close as possible to the spot that marked where the 54-degree line of latitude met the sea, but to do this properly and not cheat ourselves, first of all, we had to find the exact spot. Leaving my family behind, we proceeded on foot to finally start the journey. The sea had long ago taken the road, so we had to take a short cut through a traditional English holiday camp. As we walked past an amusement arcade called ‘The Kingdom’, I could hear the slot machines and the jingle of cash along with the traditional seaside holiday music. This part of the coast is supposed to be one of the fastest eroding coastlines in Europe, if not the world, receding at a pace of several feet per year in some places, with some top scientists saying it is receding even faster than my hair. It is not inconceivable to imagine that some of this caravan park, and many others like it, will be downsizing very shortly, or at least moving the caravans a bit nearer to the sunset.

We seem to have picked a pretty nice day to do it mind you; although it was a bit windy, the temperature was comfortable, and the sun was shining, so I was in pretty high spirits. As we made our way through the holiday camp slowly edging towards the cliff, we were hoping to find a way down, but there were none that did not involve the use of several carabineers or perhaps a parachute. At the end of the camp, however, there was a small gate which led to what was left of the old road.

It was at this point that I realised that I needed to find a toilet. Unfortunately, though, there were people everywhere and not a single forest in sight, which would usually be my first port of call. I briefly considered just peeing over the edge of a cliff but decided against it as I didn’t want to get locked up at this early stage of the walk. I was going to have to wait. We were now walking along the edge of the old coast road, much of which had long ago collapsed and had been washed into the sea. Presumably and hopefully, the road was now closed to traffic, though there were some cars parked ahead. Luckily this meant that the area was more or less deserted, so I took advantage of a deep gorse bush and relieved myself. It was at this point that my camera tripod fell apart, which was not the best start; however, I did manage to clip it back together. We continued north, thinking that we were nearly at 54 degrees, though having checked the GPS, I discovered that it was about another half a mile north of our current position.

While walking there, I thought about my kit. I have got my mobile phone, a backup charger (as smartphone batteries only last 5 minutes if you do anything other than look at them), a compact superzoom camera, my trusty tripod, and a small video camera. I also have 3 litres of water, waterproof gear, a hat, (for the sun as well as rain), and various items of food. Various bits of camping gear and cooking equipment would accompany us later on, but for the first couple of days, we would just be day walking. It seems a bit pointless to camp out so close to your own home.

My wife, who just dropped me off, didn’t really want me to go walking by myself as I usually go as part of a group. I reminded her that this is just a walk, and it’s not any kind of dangerous oh my god I’m being attacked by two dogs sort of walk. Perhaps she had a point, though luckily, these two dogs were just friendly! This is why I had roped Rob and Chris into coming, so I thought of them as my two bodyguards. Although I very much enjoy the solitude of walking by myself in the middle of nowhere, you can’t beat a bit of company, especially when it is the right company. Robin and Chris were two such examples of good company.

They are of the same sort of personality as myself (twisted), which, far from creating a clash, ensures that we all tend to get along together reasonably well. Easy going and down to earth, in other words, poor, we call a spade a spade, and we are generally pretty relaxed. If someone heard us talking, they might be mistaken for thinking that we don’t like each other. If one of us falls over, we will probably not help them, preferring instead to stand there laughing at them and perhaps even taking the odd photo as both proof and something to laugh at later. We may also choose to shout ‘don’t move’ at this stage, not in any sense of avoiding any further injury for our good buddy, but just to make sure we get the perfect shot. This extends to our wider circle, too. We have a good friend called Deano, who we affectionately call the poor man’s Stephen Hawking, so I am sure you get the picture there. When we were out and about in the Lake District a couple of years back, Deano somehow managed to fall out of his electric wheelchair, probably because he was pissed. Of course, we laughed at him and called him all sorts of politically incorrect names before we finally dragged him up, much to the disgust of passersby who knew no better, but I can tell you absolutely that Deano would have it no other way. He doesn’t want special treatment, he is in no way any different, and therefore he expects our behaviour to be the same regardless of physical capability. And he can give as good as he gets, with a sharp mind and a quick wit. This is commendable, as I have known people in the past who have had only the slightest condition, yet claim every concession available to them under the sun and bleat about it continually.

My wandering mind aside, we now found ourselves at the second campsite where there were caravans and happy campers everywhere, with many people sunbathing. I walked over to the cliff edge, which was only about 15 or 20 feet high at this point and figured I could probably survive if I fell. There was a wind farm to the Southeast, ships plying the trade northwards towards Flamborough Head as they have done for hundreds of years and a small scattering of people on the beach below. It was, in a word, summer. The other two were ahead of me, as is often the case. I think my natural walking pace is about a tenth of a mile less than the others. Although this doesn’t sound much, it soon adds up over any given distance.

As I walked along, I noticed a young man doing an excellent job of cutting the grass. Lots of people are out with the dogs, but one thing that alarmed me is how precariously close some of the caravans were to the cliff edge. I’m not sure I could sleep on a night knowing that just one storm could see my humble Pioneer 42 engaging in midnight acrobatics towards a salty end.

Suddenly, the GPS bleeps, which means that we were on at the exact spot of 54 degrees north latitude, and it feels like now the work is going to begin. I shout the other two back, and it turns out they have walked an extra half a mile for nothing, suckers. I take my trustee ordnance survey map and try to figure out the best way to go because I haven’t got a clue, and apparently I’m in charge of the map. I can see the route I want to use but can’t see how to get to it, so we are probably going to get lost. I should probably reiterate at this point that an exact route has not been planned as such, or even marked or thought about in any serious way, so technically we cannot get lost. As I stand here now, I can certainly see the merit in the fact that I maybe should have planned a route, but then I think to myself that as long as we head west most of the time and try not to venture too far north or south, and certainly not east, how hard can it be? I will just try to keep the sun to my left most of the time and walk into the sunset later on. What can possibly go wrong? Anyway, while we are here, we decide it’s time to go down to the sea and dip our feet in. This was the done thing on the coast to coast walk, so we figured we would follow this example.

Just a word of caution, if you’re going to do that, don’t do what I did and end up getting your feet soaked, especially right at the beginning of a long walk. Yup, that’s right, the wave washed right over my boots. Not a great start at all, but it made Rob and Chris laugh. Anyway, inland we go. I can’t seem to find a way out of the caravan site towards the fields the way I wanted to go, so we’re forced to head out of the driveway back to the village of Ulrome itself. I suppose in hindsight this is how the walk should start as it is only polite to have a look at the village itself. Who knows, there might even be a pub.

I thought we’d seen the last of the sea, but as we head out of the caravan park and back to the main road, there it is again before us, the beautiful blue shining North Sea. It is at this moment that I feel the rain. It’s only a couple of spots, but in England, a couple of spots of rain often lead to more rain. I expected it would rain at some point, but I didn’t expect it to be this early on.  Still, I’m not bothered; I’d rather be out here in the rain than stuck in some sweaty office.

Looking South across the fields, I can see a huge sign announcing the construction of a sizeable new beach hut, however, now being so far from the sea it is a bit cheeky to use the word beach in all honesty, and it’s a bit too big to be called a hut as well. Also in the distance is the village of Skipsea, not part of my route today but worthy of a visit due to its castle.  Interestingly, Skipsea was initially earmarked as a test site for the atomic bomb in the 1950s until the boffins at Aldermaston figured out that the locals were not exactly thrilled with the idea. Really? They had initially chosen Duncansby Head near Caithness in the remote far north of Scotland but decided that Scotland being Scotland, in that it was always raining, wet, or at least damp up there in the land of the long shadows, and they might have a bit of bother setting the thing off. Presumably, this would have impacted on defence protocol at the time and led to a policy of only going to war with arid countries. They then looked at Donna Nook, a lovely beach in the north of Lincolnshire, which would have surprised the seals that gather there every year to bonk and have babies, and decided once again, perhaps not. That Grimsby missed out, therefore, on a significant remodelling program for its town centre will be never be forgotten by all Grimbarians. When the focus of attention spotlighted Skipsea, the local MP, and presumably everybody else, went absolutely nuts, creating so much noise that the MOD backed down. They then apparently had a meeting where everyone happily agreed to bomb Australia instead, as nobody lived there, well, nobody that mattered anyway. Which is what they did; after all, it was nice and dry and was well outside of the home counties, so whatever could the problem be? They detonated four fission bombs of considerable strength there in 1956 once they had forcibly moved the aboriginal population out, leaving the area contaminated for years to come, the true extent of the ecological damage impossible to gauge. I later found out that the MOD did not just want to detonate one bomb at Skipsea, but at least twelve over a few years, the nutters. It was hoped that the prevailing winds would help disperse the significant clouds of radioactive fallout over the North Sea towards those foreign types in Scandinavia and Europe. Hoped. My, oh my.

My hope for the final destination today is to at least get to Driffield or, if possible, a little further to Wetwang. Now stop it, stop laughing, I know it’s a funny-sounding name, but I’ve grown up with it, so I’m used to it, I guess. From Ulrome, we would head to Beeford, then in the general direction of Wansford before heading into Driffield, and if there were any time left, we would carry on a bit further.

For now, though, we are in Ulrome.  The village does not even announce itself; we just find ourselves here. Passing the phone box, I open the door and lift the receiver, and to my surprise, it is working. About 100 yards further on, some tourists ask me if I know where the bus stop is. I’m tempted to give them completely wrong directions. However, I relent and point them in the right direction. The village disappears as quickly as it arrived. There isn’t much in the way of shops or pubs that I have seen, so perhaps it is just too small to support anything. I can’t imagine the villagers using the shop in the holiday park though, as these always tend to be expensive. I didn’t even see the church, which is a shame, as I usually like to have a quick look inside them and maybe have a scout around the graveyards too. I have certainly left the village, though, which is confirmed by the farmers’ fields before me.

Heading north along a small but busy road, I find myself distracted by a pick your own strawberry farm.  It’s closed, but I climb over the fence anyway just to have a sneak peek and maybe sample a strawberry, but I’m too late, they’ve all gone.  As I am climbing back out of the field over a steel gate, the other two catch me up, and I tell them I have eaten the last of the strawberries. We head on and are looking looking for a footpath on the left just before Grange Farm, which is more or less at the 54 degrees north point, and the other two are soon ahead of me.

The hedgerow here is very thick, and I do not see any sign of a public footpath. It is said that the age of a hedgerow can be measured by the number of creatures living in it. This one is thick and old, so it must be full of animals; however, I see none. I guess they knew I was coming. Apparently, the number of woody species in a thirty-yard stretch of a hedge is equal to its age in centuries. So now you know. That this hypothesis aroused considerable excitement amongst historians is testament only to the incredibly dull lives that they must lead.

Rounding a bend in the road, I see Chris disappearing through a hole in the hedge, and assume that this is the path we are looking for. I enter a magnificent field; it looks like peas are growing, but immediately I come across the blight of 21st-century English countryside, which is, of course, fly-tipping.  Someone has dumped an old monitor, a big one, and a really old one of the cathode ray tube type, along with various other items. Disgusting. Unfortunately, this will continue to happen as long as the government continues to charge exorbitant fees for some people, particularly businesses, to dispose of rubbish. I often think something like this should be free at the point of use, and the cost should be tagged onto the purchase price of products when they are new, thereby removing all incentive for anyone and everyone to fly-tip in our beautiful countryside. I mean, it must cost more to continually have to come out here and clean up this mess?

It’s still a pleasure to be off the road, though, as walking through the field, I can hear all kinds of bird song, and the landscape around me is just absolutely fabulous. This whole region is very flat, which is why I have always done a lot of cycling as I have grown up. It is the ideal country for cycling as well as walking, yet every time I come out here, I have the place entirely to myself.  The countryside of the East Riding is generally always empty like that, most people choose to go to the better known Yorkshire Moors or Dales, which is fine with me, but they are missing out on a little gem. It is at this point that we are, for what seems the first time, finally heading directly west, although the sky doesn’t look very promising. I can hear the gentle hum of what I presume is the sound made by the wind turbines and can see them in the distance. By the way, I’m using my phone to dictate this speech, and I don’t think that the technology has been entirely worked out yet as sometimes it works and sometimes eat fish. See what I mean. However, I cannot complain, after all, it was free, and it seems to be working a lot better now I’m away from the traffic.

As I walk through this field, my thoughts return to my family, and specifically to my son. I think I’m doing this walk as a kind of mental healing process for myself. To say he’s been through a difficult couple of years or so would be an understatement. No parent can ever be prepared to be told that their little boy has a severe illness. Just a couple of years before, at a routine examination for something unrelated, my young son, who was only eleven years old at the time, was diagnosed with cancer. To say this turned our world upside down would be an understatement and entirely unrepresentative of what happened next. I am just thankful that we live in a country with a universal healthcare system that promptly and efficiently took control of the situation in a way that also showed an unimaginable level of care and humanity for him but also all of our family. That day is still as fresh and as painful in my mind as if it was yesterday, and I imagine it always will be. Surreal doesn’t describe it. Nightmare does not go far enough. Our lives shattered that day, and I think my whole family came out of that experience as different people, I know I certainly did. The effects were not limited to us, though, as it affected the whole family, particularly his grandparents.

I’m brought back into the now by the sting of a nettle. In my wisdom, I’m wearing shorts, and decide that next time I will definitely bring the trouser attachments for them. Just passing a small wooden bridge over a stream, I decided to stop and pull my socks up in what proved to be a vain attempt not to get stung. As I bend down to pull them up, I realise that my rucksack is not fully zipped up, and the contents come spilling out, washing over my head and almost disappearing into the drain next to me.  I carefully rake through the long grass, making sure that I leave nothing behind, especially my lunch, which has escaped from its Tupperware container and scattered in all directions in a vain attempt to flee. At this point, the path does not go the expected westward direction but instead goes north-south along the edge of the beck, but as I figure that we’re going to be heading south to Beeford anyway, south it is.

Our gamble in the field sort of paid off.  We skirted around it, with me getting a little more stung in the process, but we did find a track that I guessed was the original one we were looking for, and we finally find ourselves heading towards the village of Beeford.  We still haven’t seen a single person since we left Ulrome, so it is still just the three of us. Halfway across this field, my tripod fell apart again, and I decide to ditch it as soon as I find a bin.

As we are walking, a couple of tractors go past, and then a Land Rover pulls up. A gentleman inside winds down his window and asks us what we are doing. Thinking we must be trespassing, I mutter my apologies, but he proves to be friendly.  Called Nigel, he says he only stopped because my tripod looked like a gun. As we get to talking, it proves a very opportune moment to stop and get in his Land Rover due to the rain becoming quite heavy.  We had a good chat about Brexit, about Trump and about how farmers are often perceived as just wanting money to subsidise their Land Rovers.  I did think that was a bit ironic as we are currently sat in his. The long and short of it he said was not that he wanted the subsidies, but that he wanted to get back to doing what farmers do, which is producing good quality food and not being bound by all the rules which dictate to him what he can and can’t do. And one of his beefs was the growing of food for fuel and bio-oil, he made that very clear. He also had some lovely quail eggs, which he offered to me; however, by the end of my walk today, they would have become an omelette, so I tactfully though reluctantly declined. He also said that he was diversifying into manufacturing concrete walls for silos, ones used on farms presumably, not for missiles. We got out of the car, bade farewell, and as luck would have it, the rain had stopped, and the ground wasn’t even wet. By now, I could hear the thunder booming in the distance though looking around it was merely cloudy with plenty of blue skies, and I could feel the sunshine warming my skin. I once again hear the reassuring crunch of gravel under my feet, which reminds me that I am out walking and doing a long-distance walk at that.

Nigel told me that he doesn’t have pigs anymore though that is how he started out and how he made himself. There are, however, trust me, many, many pigs around here as we suddenly come off the track and find ourselves skirting around the back of a farm, and the smell cannot be described. You, however, probably have better map reading skills than me anyway so will not get lost and end up here.  As we’re walking through the pig farm, a car pulls up, a young lad gets out, and I expect shouts of get off my land at any minute, but he just ignores us, though in a good way. Luckily, as we turn a corner, we are back on the main road.

After another mile or two of twisting country lane, we arrive in Beeford and have a quick sit down outside the chip shop. A sign announces free manure. No thanks.  Initially, I wasn’t going to have any chips, but the aroma got to me, and my will crumbled. So how disappointed was I when I tried to open the door only to find it was locked. We had a choice of waiting twenty minutes for them to open, or to carry on. Not wanting to wait around for so long, we made the difficult decision to go. Judging by the portly shape of us all, however, I don’t think there is any danger of any of us starving to death any time in the near future.

Crossing the main road heading east, we came across another phone box. I thought I’d try it to see if it worked, but alarmingly, there was a notice on the door. Briefly, it said that the phone is going to be removed due to lack of use. Unfortunately, this is the age we live in when everyone has a mobile phone, one of which I am using as I type, so I am partly to blame. Luckily BT has relented, at least temporarily, and given the phone box of stay of execution for two or three years. Come on BT, be a good lad, leave it there. These boxes are an essential part of the British countryside. I’m also seeing a few notices stuck up in people’s gardens and windows saying NO to some kind of power plant or incinerator or something.  I will have to find out more about that.

As we walk through Beeford, the rain once again threatens us, and I’m looking for the church but having no luck. I know it’s on the right somewhere when I see the sign. St Leonards, here we come. Having given up on the idea of any kind of food when I found out that the chip shop was closed, imagine my sheer joy when I turn the corner towards the church only to find a proper good old fashioned English butcher shop, so I wait for the other two to catch me up before we go in.

Worried that they would only have steak, lamb, and beef, etc., we tentatively approach.  I mean, I am hungry but not hungry enough to eat raw meat. But sticking my head in, I found an excellent selection of pork pies, pasties, and sausage rolls. Interestingly the Cornish pasties are called Yorkshire Cornish pasties. When I asked the difference, the butcher, who I assume is the Stephen named on the sign outside, told me it was a trading standards thing and refused to comment when I suggested maybe Yorkshire Cornish pasties are the same as Cornish pasties but just better.  Sorry, Cornwall. I plumped for a pork pie though, which was interesting as it was marked small but didn’t look very small to me, until I compared it to the large one. But it did the job and filled me up I can tell you. Rob and Chris also partook in this meaty surprise and were as happy as me. The butcher was quite a big guy, and I ventured to Chris that I wondered what he weighed. Sausages, I imagine, replied Chris.

We looked around the churchyard, which was beautiful, but unfortunately, the door was locked to the church itself so we couldn’t get inside. We then proceeded westward across the playing fields to resume the journey. The rain was falling gently once again but not enough to get wet and to be honest, it was quite refreshing, as you do tend to get warm when you walk. We were heading north once again on a little track towards the village of Gembling, where we will once again be precisely 54 degrees north. In the meantime, Stephen Harrison, you are an all-time pork pie genius.

Going north, we trudged through various farmers’ fields, some of which were cut to cater for Walker’s to a very high standard, some of which were not. I turned one corner and found to my immense surprise and satisfaction a few baby owls just sat on the floor. They looked at me for a second and then, of course, fled in terror. I don’t blame them; I would do the same. We were now deep in wind farm territory, which can be a very divisive subject for some. I can see no objection, but then I don’t have 50 of them in my backyard. But what is the alternative? I certainly would not want to live next to a nuclear power station.

As we walk, the rain starts and stops, then starts again. We passed a succession of farms, and the bugs are really coming out now, I feel like I’m beginning to get bitten. We’re getting near Gembling, and I spy another phone box; however, as we get closer, I realise it has no door, no paint, and upon closer inspection, no phone. Shame on you, BT. I’m beginning to wonder if, by the end of this walk, I will have come across more out of order phone boxes than ones that actually work, which is an unfortunate sign of the times. I thought I might ring my wife, but ironically, there was no phone signal here either. We quickly pass through the village and turn north across the fields towards Great Kelk.

We skirt along several fields without any problems, with good, well-worn paths running along the edges. At the end of the last field before the village of Great Kelk, however, the public footpath seemed to disappear. It would appear that the farmer did not want people coming through his farm and had blocked it off, so we had to climb over some hay bales to get through. This was clearly marked as a public footpath on my map, so again, come on farmer, make it easy for everyone.  He’s even got a no entry sign on his gate, but upon double checking my map once again, it is definitely a public footpath.  Some people, eh? We clamber over the bales and plough straight through the yard into the village, half expecting shouts of abuse at any moment, but none come.

Great Kelk was very pleasant, but there’s not a lot there.  The pub was closed, so we carried straight on our way, looking for the path that leads to Kelk Beck.  It was fairly obvious which one it was, and again it was nice to be off the main road, but it was beginning to get a little bit muddy. We headed downhill, along a pleasant lane, and had a good view of the countryside to the west, over which we would at some point be walking. It was a sizeable shallow valley, looking as far as the Yorkshire Wolds, and looked fantastic at this time of day, with the sun just beginning to drop.

Every now and then, I thought I could hear a train, which means that we must be getting near the Driffield to Bridlington line, but on the map, it still looks a considerable distance away. Another sound I keep hearing is farming machinery, presumably, combine harvesters and tractors. I think I can also hear the gentle whoosh of wind turbines, but I am not positive about this. I definitely thought I could hear them and I’ve heard people complain about them, but it was more of a background noise really. As we walk, the sounds and interactions of the combine harvester and the tractors keep us amused and entertained until once again we find ourselves walking in silence along an overgrown Lane with what looks like lilies growing on my right and countless birds chirping away in the trees.

I briefly caught sight of a hare and was surprised by the size of it. Other than it and the owls, I haven’t seen much wildlife; however, it’s now getting later in the day, so you never know. Thinking about Wansford, on the map, the village looks very lovely, which might be a strange thing to say, but I’m just looking at the layout of the houses against the road and the river, and it looks so neatly organised. Oh, and it has a pub.

As we get nearer to the village, the sound of the trains becomes much more distinct.  As I’m thinking, I’m interrupted by a tractor and trailer flying towards me at some speed. How come is it that when you’re stuck behind them in a car, they can only do 5 miles an hour, yet when you’re a pedestrian on a single track lane, they seem to be doing 50 miles per hour and appear to be unstoppable? Explain that, please. We all dive into the hedge, narrowly escaping certain diced and splatted death. Unbelievable.

The spire of Wansford church is taunting me. I can see it across the field, and if we could go there in a straight line, we could probably be there in 15 minutes.  But we cannot go in a straight line, of course. We have to go in a completely different direction and just keep adding the miles. However, in a few moments, we should once again be at precisely 54 degrees north, which is kind of the point of this trip.

We found ourselves crossing the 54th parallel once again and pause for a minute to have a look around and realise that it’s strange that these places are entirely unconnected, however, at each and every one the day and night is exactly the same length, and that’s true as you go around the globe. Now you might be forgiven for thinking that because the country we live in has quite a temperate climate here in England, and with the latitude being at 54 degrees, this is the same all around the world too. But this is not the case, and it cannot be more clearly stated than me telling you we are at the same latitude as the Polar Bear Provincial Park in Canada. Yes, that’s right, I said polar bear.

Now I can tell you one thing for sure, if a polar bear came bounding out of the wheat field to my right or from the apple orchard to my left, it would damn well surprise me as well as ruining my underwear. I’ve done a little bit of research about Polar Bear Park, and it’s quite unsettling. First of all, it’s inaccessible other than by aircraft, and the visitor information suggests that if you want to visit, you should bring an extra week of supplies just in case. Also, don’t put your tent up too high, presumably so the polar bears can’t see you and come to eat you for a snack.  I’m kidding, of course. It’s so you don’t get blown away and die.  Oh, and by the way, it might be a good idea to have your appendix removed before you go, and to make sure you’re well-armed. Perhaps the most dangerous time to frequent the park is mid-November when up to 200 polar bears’ lumber’ through the park. Confusingly, black bears can also be common in the park, as well as caribou, moose, marten, and seals. If you are getting the impression of Polar Bear Park being something of a barren area of tundra, then have a star, you are correct. North of this park, trees do not grow well, and the few that do somehow manage to sprout from the ground there are described as stunted. There is no permanent human settlement there, and the only sign that humans have ever been there is old cold war military bases, eight in total, with a selection of crumbling buildings including control towers and old satellite dishes. When the military left in the 1960s, they just left the lot, with no clean-up operation, although this is now beginning to be addressed. The radar dishes have been left, however, as they make handy landmarks, and barn swallows have taken to nesting in them.

Back to the walk; guess what jumped out of the hedge just now?  No, not a polar bear silly, but it was some kind of deer.  I’m going to say it was a Fallow deer because that’s the only one I know the name of, but I really have no idea. At about the same time, we find ourselves in Wansford. I can smell smoke from someone’s coal fire which always reminds me of my grandad’s house. There are lots of droopy willow trees, and it’s all very picturesque, so let’s have a look at the village.

It is as it looks on the map, very pretty, (told you so), and I’m optimistic when I get to the church to see a sign saying the church is open.  It’s a shame then that it wasn’t and intend to complain vigorously about false advertising to the local parish council. It’s also here that I found another telephone box, but I don’t know if it works or not because the door was jammed shut with mud splatter, so technically that’s a zero British Telecom.

Wansford Church is the first of the churches we have come across that benefited from the extensive philanthropy of the Sykes family during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. The Sykes family lived at nearby Sledmere House, and it was the 4th Baronet, Sir Tatton Sykes, who instigated spending the family silver on doing up and sometimes building from scratch, churches in their local area. He was noted for liking a bit of horse racing and fox hunting, and he was also a first-class bare-fisted boxer. However, it was his son, the 5th Baronet, that really got things going, splashing the cash on doing up no fewer than 17 churches up until he died in 1913. Interestingly, Sir Tatton the 5th is remembered for marrying eighteen-year-old Jessie Cavendish-Bentinck at Westminster Abbey in 1874 when he was nearly fifty, the old dog. It is also worth mentioning that she was known as Lady Satin Tights and liked a drink or two, as well as a gardener every now & then. Unsurprisingly, therefore, this marriage didn’t work out, and they eventually separated, him disowning all of her future debts, and even going so far as to put an advert in The Times saying as much. As if to rub salt in the wounds, his house at Sledmere burnt down on 23rd May 1911. Legend has it that he refused to leave the burning timbers until he had finished his pudding, which let’s face it, suggests that it must have been a really nice pudding. I would discard my apple pie like a dead badger if my house was on fire. I guess he was probably already in a bit of a mood by then courtesy of Lady Satin Tights. This marriage did, however, leave him with a son, Mark, but also with the distinction of being indirectly related to our Queen Elizabeth II, not that he would ever have known of course. He was then, by all accounts, a bit of an eccentric, though I bet his parties were bloody good.

Image used under creative commons licence

His son Mark sounds a lot more sensible, to be honest, taking part in the armistice talks in Paris at the end of the Great War. His full name was Colonel Sir Tatton Benvenuto Mark Sykes, the 6th Baronet. Benvenuto. Wow. Mark to his mates, though. You may know his name from the Sykes-Picot Agreement, which was essentially a gentlemen’s agreement to carve up areas of the middle east between French and British control, which as we all know, didn’t end well. The ill-founded effects of this disaster are still being felt to this day, of course. Perhaps then, it is a shame that Mark abruptly died of Spanish flu in 1919, especially as it was Mark that rebuilt Sledmere. Oh, and he was well ahead of his time in matters military too. Senior officers scoffed at his suggestion to camouflage rifles way back then. At least he can have the last laugh now. Well, if he hadn’t died, that is. He was buried at St Marys Church at Sledmere, and surprisingly, was dug up in 2007 so scientists could attempt to recover samples of the virus that took his life. Why Mark? Well, he had been buried in a lead-lined coffin, which would presumably have kept his corpse preserved relatively well, however upon exhumation, it was found that the coffin had split. Samples of tissue were recovered, though how useful they proved to be, I have been unable to find out.

Anyway, this particular church at Wansford was built from scratch in less than three years, completed in 1868, which is pretty amazing when you look at how beautiful and solid it is. It has recently been refurbished and is looking good, I can tell you, at least from the outside, because did I mention it is locked?

We stop at a picnic table next to the canal, and it was at this point that I find myself thinking that I wish I had brought some sandwiches. Going back to polar bears for just one minute, please indulge me, I would just like to point out that they are also regularly spotted in Newfoundland, Canada, at about 53 degrees north, which is a lot further south than where I am currently sat in the sun catching some rays.  Just for comparison, that is like finding polar bears wandering around in the fields and villages just south of Sheffield. Perhaps that wouldn’t be a bad thing. I can’t think of any other reason to go to Sheffield, but if it had polar bears, why, I’d be on the train right now.

Anyway, picnic over, and it is time to leave Wansford on the last leg, and perhaps the most pleasurable one, as we will be walking to Driffield following the old canal along an immaculately cut footpath. Due to the lateness of the day, it is unlikely we will get any further than that. The path proves to be wide and spacious with lots of animals running in and out, the only problem being the early evening insect life that suddenly decides it wants to have me for supper.

There was, of course, one other tiny problem; it looks like I’ve taken a wrong turn, and this was not a public footpath after all. I think we might have just wandered through someone’s back garden. Oh, I know, I said I wasn’t going to do that, but this is basically just a big lawn, so I figured I’d risk it, rather than have to walk the half-mile back to Wansford to cross the canal again. It’s a glorious evening though, as the sun has finally come out. I can see what I assume is Driffield church in the distance, and little rabbits are bouncing around on the grass in front and behind us. When we get near them, they scatter, and when we’ve gone, they come back out. One of my favourite sounds is the call of geese flying overhead. I can hear a couple now, but to be honest, I always assume that to be a sign of a change in the seasons, and I certainly hope summer isn’t over yet.

Strangely enough today, we’ve bumped into very few people on these paths, which is not entirely a bad thing, of course, and this section is proving to be equally empty now. I’m just surprised that though we live on a crowded little island, we’ve managed to find such peace and solitude so close to our home. Hopefully, that’s a sign of good things to come because the further west we’ll go, the less populated the area is. After a mile or so, though, it becomes apparent why this path is empty. The river, or canal, has overflowed recently, and we increasingly find ourselves hopping along dry embankments in order to avoid huge puddles. Very soon, the puddles become more dominant than the dry bits, which are now just isolated islands.

We probably should have turned back, walked the mile or two back to the road, and gone around, but we were already wet so just carried on. At some point, we crossed a ford, which meant we were now thoroughly soaked, or at least our feet and lower legs were, and figured we could not get any wetter. How wrong we were. Finally wading knee-deep in water in what was a significant flood, we had bitten off more than we could chew. The final straw came when I missed my footing and fell forwards. The others heard the splash and turned around to see me doing the doggy paddle while trying to get back up. I was drenched, and they just laughed. I’m sure I heard Rob shout ‘don’t move’.

When we finally got to a drier stretch, I took off my shoes and socks and tried to squeeze as much water out of my socks as possible. When I put them back on, they actually felt wetter before. I had no option but to dry off as we walked, but luckily it was still relatively warm as the evening drew in. Even though I was pretty damp, it was still a pleasant walk into the sun, and we were not far from Driffield at all by now.

Our pleasant walk is suddenly abandoned though when a large German Shepherd type dog comes bounding menacingly around the bend. Robin and Chris are a bit behind me by now, so I find myself alone. As the owner’s shouting that it’s okay, he’s friendly, the clearly out of control beast is upon me, growling nastily and then without warning it takes a bite out of my right buttock. The owner professes how sorry she is, which I’m sure she is, just as the monster makes a lunge for something much more valuable. She might be sorry, but at the end of the day, it wasn’t her bum cheek that just got bitten. And anyway I don’t have as much cheek to spare as she does, so can’t afford to be donating any of it to hungry canines.  Strangely, during the attack, I decide to use my pathetic tripod to defend myself, but it proves to be too little, too late, and finally succumbs to a crunchy death. 

These people always surprise me when they claim that their dogs are friendly. I’ve read too many incidents in newspapers about dogs that have gone rogue, even against their own family members, so why don’t these people just keep them on a leash if they cannot control them. And to think, only a few minutes ago, I was complaining about the insects wanting to have me for supper and how I was a bit wet! Someone once told me that the human brain is one of the most intricate and complex objects in the universe. It is little wonder, therefore, that so many people never learn to use it. I have dogs of my own, and always keep them on a lead, for their own safety as much as anything else.

I have always thought of myself as more of a cat person, however, though both have their own particular advantages and disadvantages. For instance, a dog has an owner, whereas a cat has a staff. I didn’t even want a dog initially, it was my wife who wanted the dog, so we compromised and got a dog. As for the cat, well, it doesn’t listen, doesn’t come when called for, and just lays around all day at home, sleeping on the sofa or making viral videos. Basically, it behaves exactly like me but somehow manages to get away with it, where I apparently cannot. As far as I am concerned, my pets are only useful for one thing, and that is helping me to remember my passwords.

Anyway, by now, we’re moving on into Driffield itself along the canal, and I had thought that the 54° line was near the train station, but it proves to be a little bit further south and is actually by the side of the canal in a very picturesque location.  But to be honest, I’ve had enough of picturesque today, and I just want to go home, so we’re off to get the train.

Doing my research before I started walking, I discovered that Driffield derives its name from, literally, manured field.  I find this to be a tad unfair, as it is a very nice place.  I will definitely come back and have a mooch about before we move on because it certainly has some history to it. For instance, on 15th August 1940, RAF Driffield was targeted by the Luftwaffe with Junkers 88s, resulting in 14 people being killed. One of these was Marguerite Hudson, who was the first WAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) death of the war.  She was only 19.  There is now a memorial to her & 23 others at the nearby Yorkshire Air Museum at Elvington.  Also, Mick Woodmansey was born in nearby Victoria Road.  He is, of course, famous as being a drummer with David Bowie’s band, the Spiders!  Who would have thought?

So as we head for the train, I can only hope that we don’t witness a sight that greeted commuters on the Hull to Bridlington line way back in 2002.  A young man was seen in a field having sex with a goat one evening as a packed commuter train sprinted past.  He was convicted of buggery, and jailed for six months, the judge quoted as saying that he doubted there was any rehabilitation programme that could help him.  (Sharp as a die, that one.) No one ever mentioned what happened to the goat.  Tonight though, there was no chance of seeing anything anyway, because as we finished the walk into Driffield, we saw the train leaving. Isn’t that typical. The next train is in a mere hour and a half at 9 pm—stuff that.

So I had to ring my wife and beg for a lift home. She’s going to bring one of the kids with her to do the navigation as she doesn’t trust the Satnav, and she is not great at driving out of her comfort zone, which is essentially the road between our house and Asda. I’ve given her some rudimentary directions, so I’ll wait for the call saying that she’s just on the outskirts of Paris and will be here in a jiffy.  On a positive note, we get to walk an extra couple of miles, just what we all want at the end of the day.

For a nanosecond, we considered hitching a lift; however, the problems here are twofold. There were too many of us, and if we split up, I didn’t want to end up in somebody’s freezer chopped, sliced, and diced by some maniac. We finally bumped into her a couple of miles further on, near to Hutton Cranswick, having carried on walking just for the sake of it. I wondered to myself where Walter Duggleby’s farm was and also if they ever found out who dropped the bombs.

I very much hope you enjoyed reading this. If you want to carry on reading, my books are available on Amazon as either an eBook or in print, and if you have kindle unlimited, you can read this for FREE!

Here is the link for this book:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08FKW8B8W