Go Down Moses - Hiking England's Coast to Coast Way: Landscape, Laughter and Love - page 9

We had barely caught our breath before the rain came and we had to scramble into wa-
terproofs. I realized that in some naiveté I had not tried pulling waterproof trousers over
hiking boots, it was a close run thing but with a little writhing and wriggling it worked. I
scanned the group, bedecked pixie-like in colored hoods and capes. Now we were equipped
for the singularly named path, "Moses Trod."
Every generation in every place and time breeds some stalwart souls, but few are doughtier
than the Lakeland slate miners. Eighteenth and nineteenth century mining in the Lake Dis-
trict was very much a manual affair, the matching of strength and sinew to earth and rock.
Once the slate was extracted it was dragged on heavy pallets down to the keeping sheds—a
skilled and difficult task; but the return trip, hauling the heavy sleds without the aid of grav-
ity, was even worse. Records show that the strongest men could drag fifteen or more pallet
loads a day, the empty pallet weighed around 800 pounds and the slate a further 640 or so
pounds. One quarryman, the now infamous Moses Rigg, found a way to exploit the harsh
conditions of his trade. With every pony load of hard won slate he dragged up the path that
now bears his name, was hidden a quantity of illicitly distilled liquor, that he distributed
at a profit to the folks of Wasdale who needed a little something to take the edge off the
harshness of their lives. We too needed a little something to sweeten our saunter, so we
stopped at the tearooms at Honister Slate Mine. This was once a functioning mine, but now
functions mainly as a tourist attraction. As well as the tea rooms there is the obligatory gift
shop, where you can find finely polished slate placemats, thermometers and cheeseboards,
and even engraved coffee tables. We would have liked a souvenir of this attractive rock but
we didn't dare add weight to our packs. There is a zip line and via ferrata or “iron way”—a
modernized and safe version of the precarious rock scramble with guidelines and hoops
that Victorian miners used to speed their journey home. Having neither time nor need of
further adventures, we blew on and then sipped frothing hot chocolate laced not with spirit
but with a liberal dash of marshmallows.
Revitalized, we pushed on. There were still several more stiles, hurdles, and precarious
paths to negotiate. As the effort of the day began to take its toll, Pete brightly informed
Chris and me that we had an extra mile and a half or so beyond the others to reach our Bed
and Breakfast but, not to worry; we were “en suite” whereas the rest billeted nearby would
have to share a bathroom.
Later, we all gathered at a local hostelry for dinner. For the most part, pubs in Britain are
struggling against societal and economic trends, but this one was thriving. I sat in a con-
tented stupor contemplating “Lamb Henry” - my feeble inclinations toward vegetarianism
faded away and with only a slight questioning as to how one could be sure this wasn't
“Lamb Henrietta,” I licked my lips!