Wolds Way Day 6

Ganton - Filey

The week’s effort was telling on me on the final morning.  My knees were stiff, my feet sore and, despite a good night’s sleep, I felt tired.  Still, there was only one day to go, 20km remaining between me and the end.  The weather wasn’t looking good but there was no option now but to press on.  Jill dropped us at Ganton and we set off – again the lads set a cracking pace and I lagged behind.  It was dry but the weather was threatening so we were soon in all our wet weather gear.  It made us a little warm and sticky as we (or least I) puffed up the initial climb but the light rain that came in justified putting it on.  Like the previous day a lot of the paths were along field boundaries and were heavily overgrown.  The cow parsley doused us and spotted our overtrousers with tiny white petals.  The views were severely limited and the radio mast at RAF Staxton came and went in and out of the cloud.  The base was eerily quiet, nothing to disturb the silence.  A board said that the terrorist threat status was ‘heightened’.  They might have been waiting for someone to say ‘boo’.

My guidebook described this section as ‘demanding’.  It was correct, as the path dropped down and climbed up endless small valleys.  At the top of one climb we caught up with Dave and Sue, as was becoming traditional, and they told us in what ways the Ganton Greyhound had failed to live up to their expectations (packed lunches, primarily).  We trudged on in heavy rain.  Around Camp Dale the path clings to the top of a valley, following the edge of an oilseed rape field.  It wasn’t much of a path and was canted down to the right, making for awkward going, especially for Pete’s dodgy ankle.  At another of the poetry benches, next to a five-mile marker, we took the chance of a break.  The poem talked about seeing a church spire but in the mist and dreich it was impossible to spot anything beyond the immediate vicinity.

A slight change of terrain followed as we swung north again through a valley bottom full of wildflowers, shrubs and trees.  From here reasonably broad and solid paths took us towards Muston.  The weather was improving now, after the severe drenching in the middle part of the day, and we started to take some of the gear off.

In the distant murk I saw a grey mass that could only be the North Sea and started to feel excited.  The last time I had seen the water was in the Humber estuary.  The goal was in sight.  I also started to feel emotional at the thought of the imminent achievement of my aims, and the help and the company I had had, the good times on the way.  Soon we were in a quiet Filey, walking the streets in the chilly air.  Along the front were the usual sights of the English seaside – fish and chip bars, crazy golf (no one playing), a fairground with an empty carousel turning around.  Bempton Cliffs and Flamborough Head loomed darkly across the bay as wind-surfers made the most of the weather.

By the toilets at the north end of the town we spotted a Wolds Way sign, but it was pointing back the way we had come.  A chap followed us into the Gents to ask if we needed directions.  I thanked him but said no.  On the opposite side of the road a sign pointed upwards to the Brigg country park and also the Wolds Way.  We climbed to find ourselves in a big field.  I was looking for a visitors centre here so we made tracks for a building in the distance.  Swallows were flying all over the field, a few inches above the cut grass, twisting and turning around us.

The building turned out to be the campsite reception.  There was no sign of the carved stone to match the one by the Humber.  Handily, however, there was an information board which showed the Wolds Way carrying on towards the Brigg and there was an image of a trig-like monolith there.  We headed that way.

As we approached I could see the stone but there were other people hanging around there too.  ‘We’ll have to barge them out of the way,’ I suggested.  When we arrived we found that they had a right to be there too: they were greeting a group of blokes who were just finishing the Cleveland Way.  What timing.  The family group had banners, streamers, a finish line ribbon for the walkers to breast.  We shuffled around the carved stone as best we could, while Rick positioned me carefully so the photos would exclude the other group.  There was no sign of Jill.  It felt like a fitting end: unshowy, low-key, a bit farcical but also private, personal, silently acknowledged.

I called Jill to find she was in the Tourist Information café in town (there was no visitors centre at the country park, I had misread the guidebook), so we walked back down.  The woman behind the counter in the café recommended a particular fish and chip restaurant to us, but a bloke outside told us it wouldn’t be open and suggested another one up the road, John and Ginny’s.  This was indeed open and, if the batter needed a little more draining, it was all cooked freshly and was very hot and tasty.  That had been my promised reward for completing the journey and I ate it happily, looking forward to having a bit of a rest.