Open Writing

Richmond is a busy little town nestling in a kink in the river Swale. It has a large cobbled square with pleasant cobbled streets and a castle poised on a hill above. It is the largest town visited on the Coast to Coast route and has plenty of hotels, pubs and guest houses and, with a small Woolworths and Boots the Chemists, it is a shopper's paradise after what has passed before. However, the unpleasant weather meant that we did not see it in its best light and we were glad to be on our way next morning.

We had left the Yorkshire Dales National Park on our approach to Richmond and would not enter the North York Moors National Park until later in the day on our final approach to Osmotherley.

The taxi drew up outside the guest house at exactly eight thirty on the Saturday morning and, bugger, it was the same driver who had picked us up from Bolton-on-Swale at five o'clock the day before. We could not ask him to drop us off a couple of miles further along the road then. Not that the thought ever crossed our minds, you understand. He left us at the village green at Bolton-on-Swale, exactly where he had collected us the evening before.

Although it was not raining, we agreed (or, Tom decided) not to change our resolution to do this section to Osmotherley on the road although, after a couple of miles, we did have to follow a footpath across three or four fields to reach the eight mile section of road walking described by Wainwright. This short section was the only non-road walking we would do that day but it was to prove rather exciting.

We reached a gate to a field where the map showed the footpath going from the gate down the left side of the field. What the map didn't show us was the herd of excited heifers milling about in the corner of the field on the other side of the gate. They showed little sign of wanting to move to the other side of the field to let us through but, being four strong, brave men, unperturbed by the threat posed by several tons of agitated beefsteak, we opened the gate and strode through, waving our arms around to find a passage between them and the hedge marking the limit of the field. Didn't they know that this was a public footpath and that we were the public? I was leading the way and had gone only a few yards when I heard Tom's voice behind me.

'There's a bull,' he whispered, hoarsely.

'You don't expect me to fall for...oh, shit.'

Only a few yards away and surrounded by the rest of the herd, a bull was pawing the ground, with hot breath steaming from his nostrils exactly as depicted in the comic strips in the Dandy or Beano, except that this one didn't make me laugh. Despite my panic, I did not fail to notice just how fast the over-sixties can move when death or serious injury is the alternative. I was particularly impressed by my own athleticism in setting a new world record for the combined high and long jumps, clearing two heifers and the field gate in one stupendous leap.

Safely outside the field, we leant on the gate wondering what to do next as the restless animals gave no indication that they had any intention of moving from this corner of the field. The farmyard was not far away and our athletic activities had alerted a farm dog who was barking incessantly, prompting the farmer to come out and investigate and he joined us in our sojourn at the gate.

'There's a bull in the field,' I said.

'Arr.'

'The public footpath goes through the field.'

'Arrr.'

'Well, isn't it going to be dangerous to go through a field with a bull in it?'

'Arrr.'

All five of us leant on the gate, surveying the scene and, as we watched, the bull de-heiferised one of the herd.

'What are we going to do?'

The farmer suddenly became more talkative and explained that he had only just put the bull in the field, so he was likely to be very aroused and, therefore, he could not give any assurance of safe passage across the field. Whilst he was telling us this, the randy bull de-heifericated another one of the herd. Several minutes passed, during which he had his evil way with two more virgins, but this gave me a ray of hope. If he continued at this rate, he could tire himself out and we could race down the field and out-pace him. The problem was that he showed no sign of flagging yet.

Eventually, the farmer decided that he would have to try to help us and entered the field, waved his arms around and ushered the herd away from the gate sufficiently to allow us to make our way down the field, looking over our shoulders at frequent intervals.