Open Writing

Having negotiated the narrow streets of St. Bees, we reached the seafront where there is an enormous car park next to the beach. Even though it is a lovely sandy beach, it is hard to believe that this remote spot is so popular that all three hundred or so parking spaces are ever full, although it is nice to discover that there are still some places in this crowded country where it is possible to park without having to spend half the day searching for a space. If the word gets out, it may become the biggest attraction in the North West for the multitudes who like a drive out in search of a lay-by where they can spend the afternoon drinking cups of tea from a flask. Just imagine three hundred cars lined up, each with a little foldaway table and two foldaway chairs set out alongside and three hundred primus stoves hissing away. Bliss for those who enjoy nothing more than sitting next to their cars and looking at tarmac. It could be the making of St Bees.

Despite the fact that it was a beautiful day, only a handful of spaces were occupied (and I noticed only two primus stoves on the go) as we left the minibus, put on our boots, strapped our packs to our backs and walked on to the beach to dip our toes in the Irish Sea and collect the pebbles which we would carry to the North Sea coast, where we would dip our toes again in twelve days time and throw our pebbles out to sea.

I'd learnt a bit more about Joe during the journey and my suspicions about his age had proved to be justified. Not only did he look nearer Tom's age, he was the same age. To have two sixty-nine year olds in the group made me feel quite young, particularly as both Don and Paul were older than me as well. I had also established that Joe was a widower who lived in one of those mobile homes that are not mobile at all once they have been placed on site. He should have felt quite at home at St Bees as there is a vast area alongside the car park occupied by an untold number of these static homes. In fact, Joe is a remarkable man. Born in Sussex, he left school at an early age and went to sea as a young boy, serving in the Merchant Navy for a number of years before going into engineering.

Politically, his views are very much left wing and he even toyed with Communism at one time. He was a shop steward for most of his working life but, now retired, he is doing an Open University degree in Roman History. He also sings in a choir. With his background as a trades union activist, he had locked horns with Tom when they first met, as Tom had been a Production Director of a company in which he was a major shareholder, so their views on workers rights could not be more different. After a heated debate, they had both been wise enough to steer clear of politics again and had developed a mutual respect. I had also been able to verify Andy's remarks about the frequency with which he passes wind. When holding a serious conversation with him, it is quite distracting to hear his comments accompanied by a sequence of farts.

Confirmation of his age heightened my doubts about his ability to complete such a strenuous walk. However, I have learnt not to judge people by appearances and, as I knew that he did a lot of walking with Andy and Paul who are both very strong walkers, I was not overly surprised when he and Paul immediately forged ahead as we set off to climb up to St. Bees Head. Neither was I surprised that Trevor didn't join us on the first part of the walk before setting off for home. He was well on his way to the M6 before we reached the headland.

Tom, Don and Andy were bringing up the rear and I found myself trying to keep in touch with both groups. Perhaps the fact that Andy was not attempting to walk with Paul and Joe was proof that he really was suffering with his blisters, and it soon became apparent that Don was suffering as well but, in his case, because of the weight of his backpack. Although a long-time friend of Tom's, the fact that he lives in Norfolk means that they do not spend a great deal of time together other than on adventures such as this. Typically, he had decided that he would be different and would camp, so was carrying his tent, sleeping bag and all the other paraphernalia needed for camping and, judging by the size of his pack, had brought everything including the kitchen sink! Clearly, he had not taken much notice of Tom's helpful list of minimum necessities. Because he had completed the Coast to Coast Walk once before and had camped on that occasion, he planned to do the same again, apparently forgetting that his earlier success had been over fifteen years ago when he was in his mid-forties and much fitter. Now in his sixties, he had not been camping for years, and had not even done any serious walking for quite a while.

A mild-mannered man with a permanent sparkle in his eye, he can be very obstinate when he gets an idea in his mind, which is odd for a man who makes his living as a designer who has had to adapt to modern technology. This stubborn streak was apparent now as I looked at the golf umbrella strapped to the back of his heavy pack. He had always insisted that the best way of keeping dry when walking was to use a golf umbrella, and I had given up arguing that an umbrella would be useless on the high fells of the Lake District as the first gust of wind would blow it inside out. Telling him that holding a metal object above his head during a thunderstorm could be extremely dangerous was met with the same dismissive response. On one occasion, he had tried to convince me that his experience as a designer/inventor had enabled him to produce a wind-resistant, lightning-proof model but, much as I admired his ability in the designing world, the Legal and General banner on his brolly rather gave the game away.

Don's surname is Darby and, inevitably, he had suffered as a child when he was referred to as Donkey Darby. Having seen him struggle to lift his pack on to his back in the car park at St. Bees, we had quickly resurrected his childhood nickname.