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he flicked his tail, tossed his mane and began to prance threateningly, we realized that lunch
had come to an abrupt end and we should be on our way again.
Today was changeover day, the day we would say goodbye to Pete and meet “Get a move
on Ron,” our guide for the second half of the trip. Ron looked every inch an Australian
with long legs and a hat that lacked only the caricature dangling corks, but when he spoke
he was every inch a Lancastrian. Where Pete was short, soft-spoken and wiry, Ron was
lean, louder and lanky. Both guides walked with us for the rest of the afternoon, or almost!
Having clung closely to one guide for a week, we now managed to lose both! It was late
afternoon and quite a group of us had gone on ahead since the path was clearly marked,
but Sarah lingered behind chatting with Bob and Joanne and the guides. Mistaking another
group for us, who had headed in completely the wrong direction, she told Pete who imme-
diately charged off to set us straight. Before long, Sarah realized her mistake and yelled
to Pete to turn around. But besides being an incredibly efficient walker, Pete is also more
than a little deaf. Ron then left in hot pursuit of Pete. Meanwhile, the rest of us began to
worry about our missing guides, so we took a break and gave sharp blasts on our combined
whistles to attract their attention. Thank goodness it wasn't a real emergency, since nobody
came to our aid and all we achieved was to scatter some befuddled sheep. We were wary
of sending out further search parties for fear of losing them, so we took a long break while
Sarah reproached herself with guilt and remorse and the rest of us searched our packs in
hope of Mint Cake, Crunchie bars, or heaven help us, something healthy. As the guides fi-
nally approached, we rose and applauded their return. They both looked a little sheepish.
I had enjoyed the interlude, my feet were seriously sore, and my body weary, but the break
and the KitKat I had just eaten had refreshed my spirits and I was ready to do the last stretch
into Kirkby Stephen. The Coast to Coast slips into the villages and towns on its route with
little fanfare, but the approach to Kirkby Stephen was especially understated. We reached
town via a back alley strung with the day's washing, drying nicely in the stiff breeze. It
was steps from there to the guesthouse, and the dispiriting news that, after the long day's
grueling walk, Chris and I had three precipitous flights of stairs to climb to reach our room!
It is unlike us to decline food, but we turned down the landlady's offer of tea and scones
- we simply couldn't face going up and down those stairs again. Later, after a rest and a
shower in a cubicle designed seemingly for a small, skinny child, we mustered the energy
to stagger out into the pleasant town to find dinner and a glass of Wainwright ale. If we'd
been on a less demanding vacation, we might have stayed long enough to visit the livestock
market, or the fine church with its carving of the Norse god Loki, chained up to keep him
out of mischief, but as it was we needed to stay in motion.
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