Travel Reference
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The next morning at breakfast we met Judy and her mom. Coming from Oregon, they were
excited to hear Chris' Texan accent and my now Americanized one—the first transatlant-
ic voices in many days. They had struggled into town late the previous evening, soaked
through, Judy's mom limping as the soles of her hiking shoes had parted company with the
uppers many miles previously. We learned that Judy's mom was a flight attendant - what a
way to get practice walking at altitude!
That morning, we were indulged with a late start. We were to walk a mere nine miles over
another precipitous pass into Patterdale, a village nestled on Ullswater, one of the most mar-
velous parts of the Lake District. With some excitement, Chris and I spent our extra time in
town, buying moleskin and other anti-blister preparations. We also purchased a small stock
of Kendal Mint Cake. Chris read the label avidly. It explained that Sir Edmund Hilary, on his
successful conquest of Everest had armed himself with this delicacy. It is a slab of almost
pure sugar, flavored with peppermint oil. Apparently, there is a new “healthy” version, made
of brown sugar. We scoffed at this and scoffed only the original Mint Cake. It was a pivotal
purchase; from now on we would eschew the “natural” snacks, protein and laxative bars, in
favor of Kendal Mint Cake, Crunchies and Mars bars.
Since the weather was once again co-operating with my plan, we had a pleasant hike up
Tongue Gill. The ascent was charming not only because we had broad, clear views, breath-
taking scenery, lace trellised flowers, but also because we were led on our way by a feisty,
red-headed little girl, who bounded up the path well out of reach of her grandparents puff-
ing below. I wondered if they had, in fact, intended to go this far! It put me in mind both of
the prophecy from Isaiah, “a little child shall lead them” and of the romantic poet and artist
William Blake. On this trip Blake seemed like a kindred spirit. Many of his contemporaries
thought him completely mad. When I had told my parents of our plans to walk the Coast to
Coast, they immediately and in unison said, “You must be mad!” I'd wager Blake's mad-
ness came from being a misunderstood genius. I can hardly claim the same for myself! But
it takes someone a little off beat to spend the summer, striding out rather than lolling in a
lounge chair. I hadn't thought of Blake's work in years. I had seen his original engravings for
the topic of Job on a visit to Cambridge when I was seventeen or eighteen and was stunned
at their power and passion, and I had attended a lecture about his poetry a couple of years
later. I recalled his work threw me off balance a little bit; it wasn't what it first seemed. I
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