June 2009 attempt

"Ah... of course! Midge Hall... not got its name for nothing then... The little blighters have hung back until I thought it was safe to unpack, and now, kneeling on my Ridgerest I'm quickly trying to stuff it all back before retreating to the minor road that will return me to the moor where I'm hoping the bit of breeze I noted as I came down will act as deterrent..."

It is now after 10.30 and I'm kicking around for that elusive bit of level ground on the edge of the moor, reluctant to switch on the head torch as this just might attract even more flying friends! Of course, the breeze has dropped now and I have insect repellant wipes hanging from my hat like Crocodile Dundee corks. The citrus floor wipes seem to keep 'em at bay for a while as well as I scrape at the layer of sweat accumulated in the last few hours from Robin Hood's Bay, though a quick flash-on of the Petzl reveals a cloud of excited and curious hungry critters. Well, I've got my Pocket Rocket this time and I'm going to make a cup of tea...
Once the stove is lit I begin to set light to my useless insect repellant wipes and this proves to be more successful as deterrent. As I'm unlikely to set a wet wet moor alight I'm surrounding myself with smouldering wipes! This, albeit temporary solution, proves most effective though the only hope for the bivvi-bagger who wishes to sleep is to breathe through a small scrunched-up hole - they don't like the moving air (or so I'm told...)
It soon becomes hot and clammy in the bag and this level patch isn't as comfy as first thought... in fact there's a nasty lump right in the small of my back... doh... this is going to be a long night...
It's after midnight... either it's started to rain, which was forecast for Sunday morning, or the critters are dancing on the bag trying to get in... this 1st night has become most unpleasant indeed and the sleeping bag is beginning to feel more wet than damp now. Still, nobody dies of hypothermia in June... do they?

With an 8pm start again I'd found a slightly nicer route out of Robin Hood's Bay - up King Street, turn right up a few steps to descend to the sea wall. This alternative was confirmed by the curator of the Old Coastguard Station when I'd phoned a few weeks earlier after zooming in on Robin Hood's Bay via Google. It looked as though the path to the roundabout through the 'park' must come out somewhere, and indeed it does. And an alternative to the route up through the caravan site below Hawkser can be tried by cutting up the hill at Bay Ness (2 miles from the start) - a short uphill pull brings you to the old railway track. Here I came upon a lady shepherd wondering whether to try and round-in two strays on the trackbed. Wise woman she... 'I'll leave 'em be,' she said thoughtfully. 'If we're not careful, we could have sheep everywhere.'
The detour onto the railway was not without forethought. It may well be June but the memory of being caught on Graystone in the dark on the last attempt has left a permanent scar. The very thought could induce a facial tick and accompanying nervous stammer to this day...
But the boggy bits are negotiated with relative ease this time and all was well until descending to the May Beck...

It's Sunday now: 3.30am and I have a raging thirst. There's some kind of grey light out there and the rain has stopped. At some point in the night I realised I could breathe through the silk bag liner but the night terrors become a sleepless blur. In late packing-up the night before setting off I'd not got to bed till 4am... so now I'm 2 night's sleep down. The idea of catching-up on the coach journey didn't work out either due mainly to the Yorkshire Coastliner being nothing more than a double decker service bus that 'went round the houses', literally. The fish and chip treat in Scarborough this time was no better than Robin Hood's Bay's very own last time. I'm thinking we must have a very good local chippy at home.
The first stage today is to Grosmont, and there's no rush. No point in arriving before the Co-op opens. The toilets at the NYMR will most likely be open and my schedule puts me there for 7.30. Plenty of time. The pre-bagged muesli goes down a treat and a cup of rosy lea is nice. Darting from spot to spot keeps the gathering cloud of early risers busy too and when I get going they'll be on the losing end.

I'm off down the minor road (again) then at 5.18am, but there's no rush. The woods are still very muddy but the ford is passable and I'm soon climbing steeply out of Littlebeck toward the open moor.
By 7.18am I'm sat on the bench at the Steam Railway. The dedicated staff are busying around like they've been here for hours already and probably have. My down bag is drying on the fence and socks soaked from the top of the Hawkser Intake Road onward from the night before. Quite civilised to have a wash and shave too... but as 8am approaches there's still no sign of the Co-op opening... cars keep pulling up, with drivers who also seem mystified at the closure. At ten past I'm thinking it a good idea to check out the opening times. This just to confirm the obvious... I rang last week to check the times... argh, hang on, it's Sunday.... Of course I slid the whole schedule forward a day to land at the A19 Monday morning and so now it's Sunday... and there it is in black and white: SUNDAY 9am...
The long and short of it is that I don't get away from Grosmont until 9.20! Once again... But I've not got much food and not sure if the shop in Glaisdale will be open either, so I just downed my second breakfast to fuel me on to the Lion Inn.

Beyond Glaisdale as the sun gets higher it becomes very warm and the pull up the Rigg turns into a slog.
I've scheduled for a coffee stop at the top of the Rigg, and it's here I discover that I added an orange tab to my only litre of water and have no plain water to boil up... The sun's out and so is the sleeping bag - to catch what little breeze there is.
I repack and set off for the Lion... I'm about an hour down on schedule now. I've had to tape some Spenco to the front of my left foot too as the shoe has rubbed and the tendon area has become tender and swollen. The NewBalance 1100 running shoes have a built-in scree cuff and the Velcro fastener has pressed the tongue against the forefoot - why didn't I realise this earlier? And why is it only the left foot that is affected?
The cut across Rosedale is shorter in map miles but longer in effort I fear and the sun is banging down - there's no breeze... an umbrella would have been worth its weight - the climb out of the Dale head leaves me feeling a bit knocked to say the least.
I arrive very sweaty at a very busy Lion Inn - hmm, 'course, it's Father's Day. The steak pie cloys and I have to leave two thirds of it as I begin to feel sick - I even leave half of the iced lime cordial, to make a swift exit to the toilet... when I return it's been cleared away, ah well, there you go, I should have left word...
I've been applying blister plasters at every stop since the start, but after around 3m I can feel them bunching up to my toes - they just won't stick for long enough to sweaty feet despite cleaning the area well with alcohol wipes.
The plan is to cover the old railway quickly, but the sun is still out. With little breeze any running is in short bursts of 20-30yds. I'm thinking it's better to have the mist down than see the endless miles ahead now (I thought this coming up the Rigg too...) Two Coasters (or ramblers) are sat on the bank enjoying a flask as I near the final bend and by now I'm talking to myself. 'Pointless!' I call out, 'this is bloody pointless!' They laugh in agreement.
At the stones that make good seats for Coasters and Cleveland Wayers just after Bloworth, I stop to try and sort me sore feet - the cinder track-bed seems to have made them all hot and the plasters put on at the Lion soon bunched up against the toes. I'm mad at myself now, I'm mad at New Balance... I'm just plain MAD! and it's angry mad...
It doesn't help when I misplace a foot descending to the road and jar my back quite badly...
I feel as though I've some form of chemical imbalace somehow - out of sorts. As though I'm only firing on 3 cylinders... 5 or 11? no, only ever been a 4 cyl model me... and not many cc's at that...
I can't believe where the time has gone... have I been abducted by aliens enroute or what? The thought of the three climbs over the tops seems a nonsense and I skirt by on the lower route - even the permissive bridleway that delivers straight to the Lord Stones door.
It is now 8.10pm! I've not made any progress on the last attempt... And angry clouds are gathering with spots of rain. If I leave here on foot I'm commiting myself to another night in the bag whatever the weather. I know I could make the next 6m physically, but mentally I'm done. It's the thought of another night in the bag that finishes me... it has all become a pointless excercise... 6 months training for nothing! I look at Robin Hood's small pebble and just know it won't get to StBees by Thursday. My better judgement tells me that if it is as hot again on the morrow - I just won't be up to covering the 38 miles to Cringley Bottom - I could maybe make it to Richmond... common sense prevails: this 5 day attempt is off...