randomrabbit's Diaryland Diary
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He kept asking me to think of a number then showing me his winky
This one shall be mostly pictures I think. Get me back in to the swing of things and that. And besides if I just bung a load of pictures on I don�t really have to bother thinking of anything to say, which sounds a bit too much like hard work if you ask me. (actually that�s a big fat fib as I wrote more than I was going to but it�s a load of old bollocks and all very dull in a what I did on my holidays kind of way, which was nothing, so I�d say that unless you�re especially bored I�d skip reading it)
Not sure if I mentioned doing the coast to coast walk thing here or not and I�m too lazy to go check, but I got back last weekend from doing that with Mark, who I�m sure did it just to escape the missus for a fortnight, and knowing her you really can�t blame him. I am surprised she let him go though having something very much up her duff.
It�s 191.5 miles from St Bees on the west coast to Robin Hood�s Bay on the east, but we probably did nearer 200 because of a few �alternate routes� we took (i.e. getting lost). Planning, booking, shopping, fretting and then just under 2 weeks doing the pissing chuff seemed to take up pretty much 3 months solid, to the extent now that I�m back I�m not sure what I�m going to do to with all the time. I'm still semi-tempted with learning golf, but to be honest there isn't one person I know who plays that isn't an absolute twat, which puts me off somewhat.
We�d talked about doing the walk a bit and thought it sounded like it might be a laugh but I�m still a bit baffled as to how it went from that to actually going and walking it since I�m normally all mouth, and if I�m honest I can�t say that I ever really envisaged carting my fat arse from one side of the country to the other.
You can accurately gauge how rubbish you�ll be at something by the amount of new equipment you need to buy before you can do it. I don�t think there's much I took that was more than 2 months old - the only �equipment� we�ve ever needed on walks in the past being a cheese sandwich and maybe a thermos of tea if it�s a bit nippy out. Bugger me queer though, I spent obscene amounts. Socks were ten quid a pair and I had to effectively buy a whole new wardrobe in polyester because cotton kills on the hills kids. That old chestnut. No I don�t know either. It certainly chafes the arsehole but I thought it best not to take any chances with any other areas. A lot of stuff I bought was because I was worried about how inept we are and I had visions of some hideous tragedy befalling us where if only we�d had a little pink whistle, foil blankets and a bright orange Wendy house emergency shelter we�d have survived. There was a fair bit though that was probably me getting a tad carried away � a self-inflating sit mat and titanium spork?
I got it all packed on the morning we went and then had a massive panic after I felt the weight of my rucksack, then panicked some more, sat on the edge of my bed while I panicked a third time, thought what in the big fat pair of hairy knob-bollocks are we thinking to be even attempting it, and then started discarding everything that wasn�t absolutely essential to take, like the 27 bars of Kendal Mint Cake, superfluous underwear (I ended up taking 4 pairs, which included the ones I was wearing. And by underwear I do mean pants. They�re heavy shut up) and 2 miniature bottles of tequila. I kept hold of the self-inflating sit mat though to whip out at lunchtime and impress my fellow walkers with. I hung on to my knife as well because I had a bit of a Ray Mears fantasy where I stab a badger and carve out a mahogany kitchen from a stick to cook it in. As it was it got used for cutting the labels off all my new polyester clothes and sharpening my pencil.
So off we popped, and never were a bigger more unprepared pair of idiots let out in to the wild. Once you�re going your days just become focussed on walking, eating and trying to ensure you have a really good poo before you leave in a morning. In fact that became quite competitive. I read the guidelines on alfresco crapping of course, just in case, but I thought that given the weight situation carrying a trowel seemed a little frivolous, especially since I don�t think there�s a herd of wild horses that could get one out of me squatting on a mountainside. I tend to require, as an absolute minimum, an actual toilet and, oh I don�t know, call me exotic if you will, but a little room with, say, a door.
If I was to say that I learnt one thing about myself doing it, apart from that I can make a sheep turn its arse and defecate in my direction just by passing a bit close to it, it�s that, within me, I have the capacity for my entire body to stink worse that the mankiest pair of old wank socks you could ever imagine. I changed, I showered and many�s the evening I spent with my pants in the sink scrubbing my gusset, but it was just too ingrained. I felt embarrassed leaving the places we stayed in knowing the wall of smell that was going to smack them in the face when they walked in to the room and that they were going to need a bucketful of Fabreze and a million Glade PlugIns just to make a dent.
The start at St Bees where we dipped our feet in the sea and picked up a small pebble.
And Robin Hood�s Bay at the end where I jumped like a tit in to the sea and deposited my pebble to confuse Tony Robinson in 500 years. You kind of feel like there should be a fanfare or something when you get in but no one gives the tiniest shit and you just get odd looks because you�re smelly and bedraggled and a bit cumbersome around the place and bump in to people with your pack and it�s all a bit deflating really.
Was nice to finally see girls that weren�t eyeball deep in waterproofs though. And it was goth weekend in Whitby just up the road so more cleavage than you can shake a stick at :)
To say how shit we are we made it in relatively injury free. Well no broken necks or missing limbs so I class that as a success. I ached to buggery but fortunately I had a couple of hugely painful blisters to take my mind off it, and I managed to make it down a full pot of Vaseline on somewhere you only usually smear it if you�re about to have a large cock inserted.
Mark�s shin did go gammy and swelled up with about 3 days to go. I always thought I was quite a patient sort of chap, but I surprised myself at how irritated I was by it. He was walking as fast as he could but all I wanted to do was shake him really hard while smashing his head in to a rock and saying speed up you meandering bastard.
This was a bit of a landmark so we did make a bit of a palaver when we got here. Mostly I think because we didn�t reckon we�d make it that far, but also it�s about half way, you�re entering a different county and it�s the point when your worries change from falling to your death off a mountain to drowning (to death) in a bog. Interestingly (honest it is) all the rivers from here on flow east instead of west. Also if you notice they use a much more coarse road surface in Yorkshire than in Cumbria. Fascinating.
We were meant to be having a celebratory drink but someone had dumped the tequila, but we�d both had a flapjack so who knows what crazy antics we were up to. I think I�m meant to be straddling each county but sadly seem to have missed the line by a good foot.
This was also the day that, bored of tea, we decided instead to mix up Pot Noodles to put in our flasks thinking it�d make a nourishing broth come lunchtime. What it actually made was a noodly stodge that wasn�t too keen on coming out of my flask and gave a slight chicken and mushroomy taint to cups of tea for the rest of the walk.
This place was one of the highlights in what if I�m honest was a 200 mile pub crawl. It was at the end of a 23 mile trudge and then you turn a corner and there it is, sat atop a hill in the middle of nowhere, a glowing beacon of ale. I adore unique little pubs like that and there were so many in all the little villages along the way. Wonderful.
We came a very respectable second *cough* to last *cough* in the pub quiz with our team - Two idiots and a German with Stephan, from, er, Germany, who came over to do the walk and make us look even more rubbish. Oooh look at me I can read a map and don�t get lost three times a day. Ich bin gut. In my list of conversations I never thought I�d have with a German, discussing Margaret Rutherford�s virtues as Miss Marple was fairly high up there.
To say it was fairly early in the year there were a fair old few doing it and I'd say about half were non-Brits. There was a professor chap came over from where you live Jumbly to walk it, but he said he didn't think he knew you! I admit it was a bit of a long shot but I had to ask!
Biscuit the sheep who took a big mouthful of my sandwich when I wasn�t looking.
What is it about sheep? They start off life ridiculously cute and change in to these ugly, mucky-looking, daggy-arsed, sandwich-stealing, woollen batsards.
Goo�
Middlesbrough. Just. Right on the horizon if you squint.
In other stuff, my little Lilypie died before I left.
Sitting in a box - her second most favourite thing in the world, after watching you having a poo through the gap under the bathroom door. You really couldn�t have wished for a prettier, sweeter-natured pain in the arse x
6:09 p.m. - 2008-05-05
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