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Below is a photo-journalism article on a trip that has become the most popular long distance hike in all England

This is a day by day journal of our 2006 two-week walk across the famous Coast to Coast trail from St. Bees on the Irish Sea to Robin Hood's Bay on the North Sea. The scenery, as you will see, was quite remarkable as we crossed the three national parks of the Lake District, the Yorkshire Dales, and the North York Moors.

Overall Trail Maps: The two strip maps below are credited to Sherpa Van Project, a company in the U.K. that transports hikers' luggage between stops on the main walking routes of the United Kingdom. They performed an outstanding service for us. They can be found at www.sherpavan.com.

The Coast-to-Coast trail covers the Lake District, the Yorkshire Dales, and the North York Moors spanning the most scenic regions of the North of England. The brainchild of Alfred Wainwright, renowned English hiker, the route is followed each year by thousands of determined hikers. Most of them finish!

The choice of stopping places, and how many days to take, varies from hiker to hiker, but the route generally follows the small towns and villages shown on the map. Our route, and what happened during the 14 days follows.

St. Bees railway station, admiring the roses with the Fairladies Barn (FLB) owners, breakfast at the FLB, and the Queens Hotel (where we had dinner), and the plaque noting the start of the Coast-to-Coast

Today, filled with a full English breakfast and a sense of trepidation, we begin our much anticipated walk. It is traditional to dip one's boots in the Irish Sea at the start and to pick up a stone from the St. Bee's beach to be carried and deposited in the North Sea at the finish of the trip. Unfortunately, I understand only half of these traditions and, stupidly, throw a rock into the Irish Sea, expecting that at some future date, this same rock will find its way to Robin Hood's Bay. Don't ask me how! Leaving the beach at 10:00 in the morning (see St. Bees from the cliff) we have

expected to be part of a merry band of Coast-to-Coasters departing on this date, but we are alone as we ascend the cliff head. Black guillemots and gulls scream overhead, a young hawk flaps away for cover, chaffinches tease us, fluttering ahead. The path, by no means always smooth, leads us up and down, through gorse, red, pink and white clover, nettles, buttercups, magenta foxgloves, purple loosestrife and thistles. Chest-high, then head-high bracken border our path as we approach the light house. Finally, after two hours, we turn east, leaving the cliff path and observing a two-minute silence to remember last year's London bombing victims.

By now the weather is warm and sunny and, just to be on the safe side, we ask two nice ladies in the village of Sandwirth to refill our water bottles. By now, also, we have begun to feel extremely confident. The route appears well signposted and our Harvey map is easy enough to follow. Needless to say, we are in for a surprise. The map has instructed us to cross the railroad lines and follow the path across a field to a small bridge which will carry us across a stream. We safely negotiate the train tracks, tromp through the field, but can find no trace of a bridge, not even a plank! The steep banks of the stream are covered in nettles, otherwise we would wade the stream, our boots already soaked by the wet grass. We search and search for the bridge, consult the map, grow angry at the map, blame the map, and finally decide to hike back along the tracks to where we have seen a group of orange-suited railway workers. Alarmed at seeing two hikers approaching along the line -- "This is a live line, you know!" they re-direct us to a far corner of a distant field. Here, we manage to find a passage across the stream blocked by a large cow reluctant to move. The rock offering safe footing is covered by a large dollop of cow dung, but the cow does move and we cross. We enter fields full of cows and possibly bulls. There appears to be no trail so, giving the animals as wide a berth as possible, we negotiate the fields as best we can, feeling very let down by our now useless maps.

At 4:00 p.m. we reach the village of Cleator. We have been walking for six hours and are tired and out of sorts. Surely, we think, there must be a bus service to Ennerdale or at the very least a taxi. Wrong on both counts. We will have to walk the remaining five miles. The village shopkeeper asks us to sign her Coast-to-Coast book and Tony writes "Struggling!" which well describes how we feel. Fortifying ourselves with three raisin slices apiece and a sit down, we are continuing on

through a farmyard (see the rooster) when an angel from Heaven appears in the guise of a young woman hiking alone sans backpack. "I can't decide whether to climb over Dent or just to take the road to Ennerdale," she says. Of course, we think, there is a road to Ennerdale and, really, no shame in taking this more direct route, given the fact that we have put in extra miles today searching for that non-existent bridge. So, we do. Exhausted and sweaty, we arrive in the pretty little village of Ennerdale Bridge (see the lake) at 5:40 and collapse in the pub, falling asleep over our sandwiches and beer.

After a somewhat stingy breakfast, but secure in the knowledge that we have packed lunches due to today's anticipated great distance, we begin the day under overcast skies. A mile or more on the road brings us to the start of

Ennerdale Water, with a well defined path along its southern shore, and then soon we are faced with the obstacle of Robin Hood's Chair, a large outcrop of rock jutting upwards and outwards. The lower path looks easier, so we take it. Bad mistake! Moments of difficulty, even panic, ensue as I try to descend a crack. Tony, a former climber, talks me down encouragingly and says that

was a Level 3 climb. I am impressed with my ability, until I later learn that climbs range from Level 1 difficulty (very easy) to about Level 14! Meanwhile, as I recover from my brief bout of mountaineering, I glance up to see another couple, about our age, striding along the upper path (see right) with no difficulty whatsoever.

The path alongside Ennerdale Water is typically rocky, but generally flat, and we reach the end

(see left) uneventfully. It has already taken us about two hours and we are ready for a bite to eat, so we throw off our packs and tear into our bags of potato chips -- greasy and salty, just the thing! I remember Wainwright being disgusted with the "concentration camps for trees" on the next part of the hike, but I think things have changed in the twenty or so years since his publication. At least on

our side of the River Liza, the forest is mixed deciduous and coniferous and the trees appear to be thriving (see picture). Our main challenge on this stretch is sharing the path with several young families, their toddlers, strollers and tricycles. Towards the end of the forestry road, a most unattractive sight appears -- an entire hillside logged down to hundreds of tree stumps. I have seen this kind of thing in Oregon, and although I fully appreciate the need for lumber, clear-cutting seems an environmentally poor choice.

At Black Sail Hut (England's most remote youth hostel) we stop to eat our packed lunch. The hut is locked, including the bathrooms, as the septic tank is full. By now, the skies are gray and threatening, the wind has picked up and a

most persistent sheep appears interested in approaching our food, quite unlike normal sheep

behavior. Tony and a fellow- Coast-to-Coaster, Graham, confer over maps, trying to decide on the best way to approach the steep climb up Loft Beck (see picture) and to the left of Great Gable. It really is a massive climb, hands and knees stuff. Graham goes first, followed by Tony, then I drag along at the rear. Up and up we scramble. I look down and see two other couples struggling below. Up on top, the rain begins.

It is time to put on our jackets. It's a good thing that Tony and Graham seem to have the route figured out. Left to my own devices, I would have headed off right and ended up who knows where, but we edge left and see the Dubs Slate Quarry in the distance. It is a long and steep climb down the old tramway path. In spite of the rain, tourists are climbing up the path clad in shorts, t-shirts and open-toe sandals. At the slate quarry exhibition rooms we stop and have a most welcome cup of tea.

The route down to Rosthwaite is partly on trails, partly on the road. Even the sheep try to escape

the wind! We walk with Graham, who reveals that he is recovering from a serious illness which has made hiking impossible for the last three years, so the C2C is a celebration. Kudos to you, Graham. Reach Rosthwaite (see picture) in an absolute downpour, tired but pleased to have made it through this challenging day.

It has been raining all night and we have not slept well. We awaken at 8:30 and breakfast is at 8:30, so it’s a rush. After a big, but greasy, meal we resolve not to eat the full English tomorrow.

We make a late start, hoping against hope that the rain will abate, but it doesn’t, so off we set wearing our ponchos that are lightweight but act as sails against the strong wind. Greenup Gill, normally a mild-mannered stream at this time of the year, has turned into a raging torrent.

After an hour of flat walking, the path begins to climb and we are faced with deciding how to cross a wild and nasty stream. We climb a little higher looking for a safe crossing but that doesn’t pan out, so we climb lower, still looking and still having no luck. It occurs to me, privately, that our Coast-to-Coast may be over at this point. Tony, however, makes the

crossing in a triangular fashion, holding out his hand or hiking stick for me to grab. It’s scary! Underneath lie slippery, moss-covered rocks. I don’t want to slip and be carried away with the torrent. I also want to try to keep my boots and socks dry. Two things become evident after our crossing : first, I have failed in my efforts not to soak my footwear and henceforth will simply walk straight through the rest of the rivers and streams today with perpetually wet feet; second, we are horribly cautious and slow at river crossings. A fellow hiker appearing out of nowhere has apparently marched through our raging torrent with ease.

The climb steepens. Ahead, through breaks in the rain and low-lying clouds, we see June and Mike, fellow C2Cers, and we hurry to catch them up. They have top waterproof gear – rain jackets, pants, boots and hiking poles, a GPS system, and three different types of maps. The ascent of Lining Crag is not easy. It is very steep and the rain sheets down. It’s windy too, billowing out our plastic ponchos. Now, on top of Greenup Edge, the mist and clouds have closed in around us and we are thankful for Mike’s GPS system. The trail, such as it is, is rocky, wet and slippery, and it is not difficult to get off-trail where conditions are so boggy that our feet get sucked in. The going is not easy, though it is downhill now, steeply downhill in fact. Without benefit of a hiking stick or poles, I count on strong quadriceps to prevent me from falling; well, those and a couple of Crunchy bars, though Tony swears by Kendal Mint Cake.

On we plod, as the rain begins to abate and the clouds start to clear. Now we are more amenable to our surroundings. We notice a dejected sheep baaing and baaing and then, next to the path, a dead lamb, her lamb no

doubt, and I wonder what could have caused its death? I can’t think of any predators, so perhaps just natural causes. It is the first of four dead lambs or sheep I will see on this walk. In the distance we think we see a known bridge, the one crossing Far Easedale Gill, and we are quite buoyed at finding this familiar landmark. Tony is excited to see the familiar tents of Manchester Grammar School’s Lake District camp, erected in the same field where he camped 50 years ago. Two

MGS boys ask him if the tents leaked back then like they do now! We check in at our Grasmere hotel, the Harwood, and plan for dinner at the Red Lion. Grasmere is quiet and lovely and perhaps my favorite place in England. We watch the final of the World Cup at the Red Lion pub, culminating in Zidane’s astonishing head butt.

This is a day I have been looking forward to: the weather seems to have improved, our route is a known and familiar path which we have hiked many times before, and today would have been my brother’s 56^th birthday. We stock up on Kendal Mint Cake, Crunchy bars, crackers and Wensleydale cheese at the Co-op store. I am sad to be leaving Grasmere. When I retire, I’d like to come and live for a year in Grasmere, watch and record the change of seasons, and maybe write a book about it. Tony is in a bad way; one contact lens is inside out. He removes it, then drops it on the ground! Luckily we find it, clean it with water-bottle H2O, and he puts it back in.

The usual long pull up to Grisedale Tarn takes almost two hours, but it’s warm and sunny and we turn around to watch RAF fighter jets screaming over Grasmere Valley. At the tarn the weather

turns cold and windy and the paths are often waterlogged. We put on our jackets, round the tarn and begin the steep descent, stopping outside Ruthwaite Lodge (see picture) with its plaque commemorating two local climbers killed in 1988 on Mount Cook in New Zealand. The scenery is breathtaking, dark scudding clouds overhead and swollen waterfalls. The trail continues steeply downhill and I am considering the advisability of purchasing a hiking stick in Patterdale. It drizzles, then stops. We

put our jackets on, then take them off. This continues for about an hour.

Finally, we are on a flatter path past a tree plantation enclosed by charming stone walls. How I love these walls. There is an artistry in their construction, often capped and topped with moss. An old stone barn is in a state of collapse, and a red fox slips quietly around its corner. We are in Patterdale before 3:00 p.m., passing a lovely stone house where a dozen bird feeders hang, each with a different type of birdseed. Our room at the White Lion is small, but at the back and quiet with a sensational view. To see the end of the day's hike, the stone walls, and the White Lion Inn: click on the thumbnails below.

After breakfast, the first order of the day is to buy a hiking stick. It costs me sixteen pounds, and I hate the expense, but believe it will be a help and, funnily enough, I feel as though I bond with it right away. We are walking with June and Mike along a steep uphill path taking us out of Patterdale. We stop often and turn around to enjoy the spectacular views of Patterdale Valley, Ullswater,

Brothers Water and Hayes Water. From our vantage point, it all looks like "Toytown". We struggle on up, finally overlooking Angle Tarn (see pictures below), and remarking that it’s always reassuring when the tarn actually resembles the one on the map. Now the weather has turned cooler, spitting with rain, and we need our jackets and wool hats. I walk with June who tells me that Marks and Spencer’s big knickers are called “Bridgets” after Bridget Jones’ Diary. Just the thing for hiking!

Today we have brought along packed lunches and eat them sheltering in the lee of a stone wall : a cheese and pickle

sandwich, a tomato, crisps, a hard-boiled egg, a Penguin and a biscuit. At a V-bend in the path, Mike whips out his GPS, takes a reading and coordinates it with his map. Good, we are on the right path! It is still very cold and two fingers on my right hand have turned white, so I put on gloves.

We have now reached Kidsty Pike, which I think is a funny name, appropriate to our daughters' rooms when they were teenagers. The thumbnails below cover the Angle Tarn to Haweswater section. Down, down, down we scramble, a very steep descent of Kidsty Pike, and particularly hard for Tony after last year’s knee operation. My new stick is a big help.

Reaching Haweswater (a reservoir for Manchester) is all very well, but also demoralizing when I look at the map and realize that we now have a five mile trek, up and down, along its length. I had thought that this bit would be an easy finish. We are a bit short on water

too, so it has to be rationed. Actually, the first part is the worst, but it still takes us two hours to reach the dam. Next to the path, we come across our second dead sheep, an adult ewe, recently dead and covered in flies.

We leave Haweswater behind, but where is Bampton? We ask a lady gardening and she tells us : “Only a mile and a half, dear, not far!”, but far to us, so I hitch a ride from a local farmer, Lenny, who deposits us right in front of the Crown and Mitre. Bampton is tiny – two pubs, a church with a clock that chimes the quarter hour, and a few houses. I eat the best sticky toffee pudding ever for dessert, then fall asleep hearing the church clock chiming the quarters. We have covered 59 miles of the walk to date.

Lawson, the owner of the Crown and Mitre tells us that he had considered having the gravel in front of the pub cleared away to expose the original cobblestones; however, the cost was prohibitive -- eight thousand pounds! Bampton is a pretty little village, though, and with the cobbles exposed could stand in for a period TV movie. Horse riding down the lanes of Bampton emphasizes its remoteness. I wonder if the BBC scouts sites around the country for upcoming productions? Since Bampton is off-route, we are directed to a path through the churchyard which ultimately connects with the Coast-to-Coast. “Beep, Beep!” Someone calls out “Jackie!” and I turn to see Catherine and Tom, a young couple we have intermittently criss-crossed on the route. Tom had been ill the previous day and they had had to quit at Mardale, then got a ride into Bampton. Now that same kind person is returning them to Mardale, and we admire their determination to stick with the trail.

We cross many fields, stiles, and It’s a question of crossing many fields, stiles and gates on our way to Shap. At one point I drop our map into a big patch of nettles while crossing a stile. We try using a pincer action with both hiking sticks to grab the map, but it’s slippery and keeps falling back. Finally, Tony reaches quickly into

the nettle patch and snags the map. Surprisingly, no stings! While sheep are no bother whatsoever, other than their ubiquitous droppings, I don’t much like walking past cows and bullocks. They are so big and never seem inclined to move, so we have to give them a wide berth. The trail gets thin at some points, suggesting that few hikers have been through recently. Based on hikers that we meet, perhaps 5-15 a day start out at St. Bees.

We reach Shap. I have read quite a bit about its glory days (see the 17th century market hall in the picture), but the M6 by-passed Shap, its stage coach history as a main artery to Scotland has faded, and now it is a grey and grim village. A thick coat of grime appears to cover all the buildings. A celestial powerwash is in order. In the

newsagents we buy a new strip map – this one with the route marked and detailed step-by-step written instructions – as well as a Mars bar, a Crunchy and some throat sweets for Tony’s sore throat. After Shap we find small, isolated, and in some cases ruined farms. This is a region for tough Yorkshire folks.

Using our new map’s instructions, we cross the railway line and the M6. How incredibly noisy it is by the motorway.

Mike and June join us and soon we are passing tiny Oddendale and reach the moor. This area is as beautiful in its own way as the Lake District. Although RAF jets intermittently streak overhead,

we could be travelers hundreds of years ago. We see no one as we pass ancient tumuli, limestone pavements, which Wainwright considered desecrated, erratic boulders and Robin Hood’s Grave. Mike remarks that he’s heard the man has a bay as well at our destination. Hope so! The trail gets very thin again and we need to check our compass occasionally. But we find the right location

on the B6260 road, and drop down into Orton.

What a delight Orton is, even a chocolate factory! Our stop for the night, the Barnhouse, is the best so far.. Lillian, serves us tea and home-made scones in her airy conservatory with its amazing cucumber plant. Later, dinner is at The George with Mike and June, and I end the day reading a biography of the village, put together some years earlier by older residents. It makes me realize that winters are hard here and that, prior to World War II, life was a hardscrabble existence.

Kudos to Lillian at the Barnhouse! Her breakfast is the best yet – Alpen, yogurt, croissants and fruit, including raspberries, kiwis and redcurrants. Tony has the full English breakfast.

We leave Orton at 9:45 a.m., first returning to the village to stock up on goodies. Interestingly, the general store lady

remarks that she could not afford to buy and live in Orton, so perhaps it has become a bijou retirement area. We anticipate passing “Bland House” on our route out of the village, and joke that it must be a pale, or less awful, imitation of “Bleak House”. Turning off the road and onto a track, we discover

Tom and Catherine (both very pale) sunbathing in the path. Now we make our first mistake of the day (which will not be our last). We miss the path, get stuck in a field and have to backtrack. Tom and Catherine have now overtaken us, but soon we encounter Catherine feeding four tiny ponies, so we pass them. We are approaching the moor with its evocative sounds and smells of our English childhoods. I would like to be eight years old again and roll down these grassy hills.

Now we have a two-mile stretch of road walking. In a nation of 60 million people, how amazing it is to

be so alone; we see no other humans but the Royal Mail van driver. Every so often we have to teeter across cattle grids set in the road and I am always happy to have made it across successfully and not fallen in. Skylarks soar overhead and am I so very glad to see a lapwing.

Back on the moor, we take a break to eat lunch next to a long stone

wall and admire the magnificent view . I now make the unfortunate discovery that I have thrown away a bag of perfectly good Wensleydale cheese in our B&B’s garbage and have been carrying the bag of trash instead, so all we have to eat is an apple, some raisins and a few nuts.

Heading toward Smardale Bridge, we take note of the enigmatic “giants’ graves”, then cross the bridge and head on up the hill following a steep track set between stone walls on either side. Our map warns that “there may seem to be a confusing number of paths and tracks”, so we try to be alert, but to no avail and we make our second mistake of the day. We are to “keep the stone wall in sight on the left” and we do, but it must be the wrong stone wall because soon we are stuck in endless sheep fields. We crisscross the fields looking for a way out, but are thwarted at every turn by barbed-wire topped fences. Finally, after almost an hour, we precariously scale a dry-stone wall and end up close to where we should have been. Tony’s compass readings had been right all along. Moral: climb stiles that look like

stiles!

We can see Kirkby Stephen in the distance, so we stride off downhill, but are easily passed by a young man who is doing the Coast-to-Coast in eight days, quite believable if he can keep this pace up. Before entering the environs

of the town we have to pass through a farmyard and it is milking time. Cows with huge swollen udders obediently walk in from the field to the milking barn, numbers stamped on their rumps. We enter Kirkby Stephen at 5 p.m. My left eye is red, swollen, itchy and feels as though there are rocks in it. I am anxious to check in for the night, to have a shower and to put drops in my eye, all of which help. June and Mike are staying here too, so we enjoy another dinner with them. I have cauliflower cheese and Tony orders a shrimp and cod dish. Nowhere is far from the coast in England!

Our night in Kirkby Stephen is spent in the front bedroom of a pub overlooking the center of town with a resultant bad night’s sleep. First, there are no curtains at the window, only a thin pull-down blind which does nothing to block out the pub’s outdoor lighting, so it never gets dark. Then, the pub seems to stay open until the wee hours, and when people do leave, they are drunk, yelling and arguing. Also, the idiot next door keeps her/his TV on loudly until 1:00 a.m. Grrr!

We have requested an early breakfast at 7:30 a.m. to get an early start. We love the fact that almost every place has Alpen, which is an expensive and rare treat for us back in the U.S. As well as Alpen, I eat a yogurt, fruit, toast and tea. Tony, again, has the full English breakfast.

We quickly buy apples, cheese, Mars and Crunchy bars to get us through the day and are on the trail

just after 8:00 a.m. We cross Frank’s Bridge over the River Eden and, looking back, wish we could have spent a bit more time exploring Kirkby Stephen. Up, up and up we climb on the small steep road out of the town, taking quite a long time to pass the big quarry, then we’re out on the moor. Tony stops to take a photo of sheep being sheared – 20 seconds per animal – while a lovely Border Collie sits patiently in the truck just waiting to go back to work intimidating its flock. Even though it is a warm, sunny, breezy day, we need to add a second layer as we climb ever upwards.

Because of the fragility of the moor, the Yorkshire Dales National Park authority has designated separate routes for different

times of the year. Luckily, we are permitted to take the May-November route past the enigmatic Nine Standards. We have heard about the Nine Standards cairns and indeed they have been visible for quite a while now on our ascent, but finally we are there. They are certainly impressive, yet little appears to be known about them though they have appeared on area maps for three hundred years.

Not long after Nine Standards we take the right hand, May to July, route across the high, empty moor. Not a soul is in sight

for hours. The moor is peaty, damp and squelchy. After being directed along the seasonal path there are no more signposts and really no obvious paths, so we have moments of concern and are glad for our compass. It’s not hard to understand how human footprints can impact this delicate land.

Although Birkdale Tarn in the far distance has been a reassuring landmark, more reassuring still is the sight of two other humans, an older couple coming towards us, who confirm that we are

indeed on the right path. We locate the Coast to Coast sign, celebrate by eating our apples and cheese lunch, then hike on in glorious sunshine to tiny Ravenseat, with its charming stone bridge. As we stop here two other C2C hikers go past (Nikki and Adrian), the first Coasters we have

seen since leaving Kirkby Stephen, five hours ago.

Three miles later we approach the little village of Keld, a good place to stop for a cup of tea, and about the half-way point on the Coast-to-Coast. It is

such a lovely afternoon, and we drop down into the village, passing several chickens and a Westie named “Toddy” who is far more interested in the chickens than in being petted. We sit at a picnic table down in the village, drinking our tea and eating our cake and being visited by a friendly little chaffinch who shares our taste for fruitcake.

Our next stop is Reeth, where we stop at the Buck Hotel. We are more than ready for showers on our arrival. It has been a long, warm day and the pub’s outdoor seating area with its bright umbrellas looks inviting. I order my customary pint of draught cider and Tony tries a pint of Black Sheep ale. We feel we deserve a big dinner, so Tony goes for the leek, mushroom and potato pie with bread pudding for dessert, while I have cheese and tomato quiche followed by an apple and blackberry crumble. Feeling extremely full, we console ourselves by agreeing that we’ve walked off thousands of calories so far and that we’ll eat less tomorrow.

A quick perusal of Reeth before we leave and time to buy a couple of apples and three English tea towels. We have

enjoyed both the charming town of Reeth and the Buck Hotel. As we adjust our packs to leave, we see a group of cyclists gathering on the green and wonder whether they are riding the Coast-to-Coast bicycle route.

We expect that it will be very warm weather today, but you never really know in England, so we are

carrying jackets, just in case. Our first three miles take us along the River Swale, past Marrick Priory and into the little village of Marrick where we lose our way. We simply take the wrong turning, knowing that we’ve made a mistake, yet trying to persuade ourselves that we’re on the right path. Back into the center of the village, we ask for directions and set off again on the correct path. Here, I’d like to interject that without exception, everyone we’ve asked for help, whether it’s been refilling our water bottles or pointing out directions, has been unfailingly kind and helpful.

From Marrick we set out for the village of Marske, almost three miles away. We are generally ascending, often through large fields containing both sheep and cattle. In some fields, bulls sit or stand guard over their

harems. We make sure to keep a good eye on them and to give them a wide berth. I, for one, have great respect for, and a little fear of bulls. Reaching Marske requires a very long, steep descent of a shady hill and I decide that stopping at the local pub for a lemonade will be a good idea, but to no avail.

Marske, apparently, has no pub, so we leave the village, cross fields where hay is being made and the path is thus non-existent, cross Clapgate Beck and make for a white stone cairn high on a hillside overlooking the River Swale. Here, with the outstanding view of Swaledale spread beneath us, we sit and eat our lunch of apples, nuts and raisons. Not a very exciting lunch, but one that is good for us. Way below is the A6108, apparently a favorite with motorbikes, whose noisy, buzzy engines offend our ears far more than do those of cars.

We continue on beneath Applegate Scar whose limestone cliffs are being climbed by a group of young rockclimbers, then beneath Whitcliffe Scar, along stony paths, past subsistence farms and through shady woods. As we leave

the wood we read a notice about a murder! Last year, a 20-year old Richmond woman disappeared and has never been found. Foul play is suspected and it adds a chilling note to today’s hike. We are joined for the last mile by an older couple who completed the second half of the Coast-to-Coast walk this past May.

The town of Richmond is dominated by its 11^th century Norman castle on a hill and we see it long before we descend into the town. My, how steep the streets are! The Old Brewery Guest House is reached by a set of very steeply descending hills from the Market Square. After a hot day, we shower, rest and then climb back up to the square for dinner. We order food in a pub and have a drink while we wait and wait and wait. Other people coming in are being turned away and we’re pretty certain that something has happened in the kitchen. Yes indeed! Our money is refunded and we decide to just buy snacks and dine in our room, so we do, polishing off all six Bakewell tarts.

This will be a day of bulls, bugs and great heat. Temperatures today will reach into the 90s and we slather ourselves with suntan lotion.

Leaving Richmond's ancient castle walls to the sound of Sunday church bells, and trying to follow the trail along the River

Swale, we encounter a crabby old character who leans out of his upstairs window and hollers at us : “Hey, that’s no right of way!” He is the only unpleasant person we have encountered on the whole walk, but then a much nicer older man stops to give us directions and we are soon on the path past the sewage works.

Our path alternates dank, dark, woody paths with open field crossings. It is extremely hot. Herds of sheep shelter under the umbrellas of trees, then disperse to let us pass and

we feel bad about bothering them. We cross diagonally through a potato field, then skirt fields edged with nettles, weeds and wildflowers which brush at our legs.

There are crowds at Catterick Bridge, for the race course I suppose, which makes it hazardous

crossing the A6136, but we manage and set out next to the River Swale once more. Bolton-on-Swale looks like our last, best chance to refill our already almost empty water bottles on this hot day, so we ask a young girl in riding gear who has just been dropped off at her home, a

palatial house set in lovely grounds. While she is off filling the bottles (from the servants’ taps, no doubt) we notice the three cars parked in front -- a Volvo station wagon, a BMW and a Maserati!

Our next challenge involves 20 bullocks massed around the stile that we need to cross. They are in no

mood to move. Clacking our hiking sticks together only makes them approach us with some curiosity. Another hiker comes along, and we confer. Finally, as a joint effort, we scale the barbed-wire fence further down the field and away from the bullocks. I want to thumb my nose at them

as we walk back past them on the far side of the fence. We hike alongside wheat fields and small streams before finding our way onto the deserted B6271.

It looks like the next three-plus miles will be on a small blacktop road. No one passes us and it’s as

though we are in a time warp. An old, rusty signpost looks like something from World War II when directional signs were turned around in anticipation of a German invasion.

This has not been our best day. It’s been hot, flat and buggy, so we picnic by the roadside to eat our lunch of mealy apples, cheese and fruitcake. Suddenly, we get the creepy feeling that little insects are walking all over us. They are! We are both covered in tiny,

1/8 inch long black insects that appear to have no wings, but do move, so they must have legs. What are they? Do they bite, sting, burrow under the skin? Quickly we get up and begin brushing them off ourselves and each other. Just when we think we are finished, there are more. We brush and brush, shake out our clothes and our packs, and continue brushing them off all the way into Danby Wiske.

Dragging and sweating into The White Swan at Danby Wiske, we are worried that we will infest the pub. Perhaps we will have to be fumigated! We decide to separate our hiking packs from the Sherpa Van bag in order not to contaminate those clothes too. Even after a shower these little bugs keep appearing and now we see them climbing the bedroom wall. What have we done? Dinner is beer and chicken curry in the pub, then we wander along to the pretty village church. We go to bed wondering whether we shall ever be free of our bug infestation.

Following a good breakfast enhanced by thick, delicious locally produced honey, we leave tiny Danby Wiske at 9:15 a.m. It looks to be another terribly hot day, as well as another day of following minor roads, with forays into and along the edges of farmers’ fields. The wheat appears just about ripe and ready for harvesting. I hope that the warm weather holds for another week (maybe just not quite so hot) so that farmers can get their harvest in. Some fields are planted in a grain we do not know; might it be canola?

Today’s horror for me is allergies. Once in a while, at home and usually in the spring, I’ll get red, itchy eyes if I am out running near grassy fields. Here, I am horribly allergic to some airborne pollen. I sneeze continuously, my nose drips, and I have red, stinging eyes which are only made worse by sweat dripping off my forehead. Within a short time, it has become so bad that I can barely see. I have taken to tying a red bandana around my hiking stick and constantly swipe at my forehead and eyes, which gives me seconds of relief. Then the agony begins all over again. I am actually looking forward to reaching the A19 and its nearby service station, expecting to be able to buy some kind of allergy medication, but I am disappointed. The service station does not sell it! We stop in for a quick cuppa in the adjoining grotty café with its blaring and tedious music and inane radio patter, then risk our lives dashing across the A19! We hear that a foot bridge is being considered for the A19/C2C intersection, hopefully before the first tragedy.

The famous 300 year-old store in Osmotherley is now closed, so we try the Post Office/general store for allergy medication. Again, I draw a blank, but the proprietor, Dave, kindly offers me a ride into Northallerton when he closes the Post Office at 5:30 and I accept. The Vane House, our stop for the night, is next to the Post Office, and since no one is home, we wait on the grass outside and cool ourselves with ice cream and ginger beer,

and meet more roosters. Every

village in Yorkshire seems to have them! A young boy on his way home from school tells me that today has been so hot that one of his friends got burned on the metal slide at school!

After a shower and a rest, my eyes marginally improve, but I still take Dave up on his offer of a lift into Northallerton. He drives me to a pharmacy where I find a plethora of allergy remedies to choose from.

We stop at the local Tesco supermarket so that Dave can stock up on bread and milk for his little local store. I buy shampoo, apples and jam tarts. Osmotherley has three pubs we are spoiled for dinner choices. We eat an excellent meal at The Golden Lion. Tony has cod and I choose salmon fishcakes. We cannot resist dessert, the first course has been so tasty. At the base

of the North York Moors, Osmotherley is quaint and pretty and hard not to like.

The weather forecast informs us that we are in for another day of blistering temperatures, so we buy an extra two-litre bottle of water and now have five litres between us. I have taken the recommended dose of allergy medicine and hope for a better day.

We are away at 8:45 a.m., which is quite early for us, and just before we enter the bull field, retracing the last part of

yesterday’s walk, our landlord, Alan, dashes up in his driving school car and asks whether we still have our room key. We don’t. We left it on the bed. I hope he finds it. We join the Cleveland Way and climb up through a thankfully shady forest before reaching the TV masts on Beacon Hill. Wainwright thought the masts had "a revolting appearance” which I suppose they did, but I think a lot of trees have since grown up around the TV booster station, so that they are no longer quite as visible. As we climb up into Scarth wood moor, above Arncliffe wood, Scugdale is spread out beneath us. We will be staying on the ridge top for a while.

Another mistake occurs! We miss a sign, along with two other groups of Coast-to-Coasters, and instead of turning left, we walk half a mile too far along a wooded path, then exit through a farmyard and all have to backtrack for a mile. A fellow hiker we have met along the way, Sue, who is hiking alone, has cleverly not lost the way and, back on the right path again, we follow her up a very steep hill. It’s so hot and we are thankful for all of our extra water. I’m also thankful for the allergy

medication, which seems to have done its job.

Now we are on top of the high moor, Carlton Moor. We pass three cairns, a glider runway, the glider club hut and a triangulation point, then it is time to descend, and a steep and long descent it is.

Someone has mentioned the mythic “Lord Stones Café” and there it is! How welcome too. It’s lunchtime and we are so hot, but not so hot that we cannot drink tea, so it’s tea, cheese sandwiches and the jam tarts I bought in Northallerton. The café is a stop not only for us Coast-to-Coasters, but apparently is popular with people from the surrounding towns, who come out for a drive, a snack and a stroll. After filling our water bottles, the waitress kindly agrees to call ahead to our landlady at Great Broughton, telling her we are on our way and will need collecting at

the Clay Bank Top parking lot in about two hours. We really appreciate this.

Setting off uphill again, we feel fortified by our lunch and by the good breeze that cools us as we climb

up on to Cringle Moor where the triangulation point registers 1427 feet. It is just beautiful up here and the moors extend in the distance. This will be tomorrow's walk, but this is a day of uphills and downhills, and we drop down Kirkby Bank before heading along a two-mile path paralleling Broughton tree plantation. Shortly, we meet a well-dressed lady in non-hiking clothes. She is walking by herself, and ten minutes later a young man approaches us from the same direction anxiously asking : “Have you seen an elderly lady walking along here?” We reassure him that indeed we have, but privately we agree that we hadn’t thought of her as “elderly”, more as someone about our age! Walkers come in all ages.

Clay Bank is our goal today. It is the entrance (for tomorrow) to miles of open moorland with little if any

habitation. A natural stopping point, Clay Bank has no nearby accommodation and hikers need to search for an overnight place off-trail. At 3:30 we are at the Clay Bank parking lot and half an hour later our landlady’s daughter picks us up and drives us the three miles into Great Broughton. Ingle Hill Bed and Breakfast has the most incredible garden, with fabulous blue and white delphiniums. Mrs.

Sutcliffe has tea and scones ready for her guests in the lovely garden. We are impressed with her kindness and her energy – she is in her 80s! That night, we and two other parties of Coast-to-Coasters eat dinner at the Jet Miners pub, named from the time that jet mining was the occupation of most locals. The restaurant is very good. Tony chooses lobster and cod pie, apple crumble and two pints of Kronenburg lager, while I have Whitby scampi, sticky toffee pudding and a pint of Fosters (Australian for beer, mate). Back at Ingle Hill, we pack our bag ready for a very early start tomorrow. We’ll need to be on the trail at 7:00 a.m.

Today is a day we have anticipated with mixed feelings. We will have to walk more than 23 miles, and although we are certainly better walkers now than we were two weeks ago, it is still a daunting distance.

Mrs. Sutcliffe has arisen early along with us and insists that we eat a small breakfast before leaving, then her son-in-law drives us to Clay Bank Top, our stopping point yesterday. At 7:15 a.m. we are back on the trail. There’s a lot to be said for

an early start, and we enjoy the cool breeze as we begin the seven mile traverse of Urra Moor. At first, we appear to be the only ones up and about so early in the day, but at Bloworth Crossing we spy another party in the distance, a party of three or possibly four. No matter, we are now on the track of the former Rosedale mineral railway, and the walking is easy, if tedious. Far ahead, the Lion Inn hoves into view, but it seems a mirage -- although we are walking in its direction, it never appears to get any closer. It’s time to stop for bananas and most of an entire packet of cookies.

Finally, at 11:15, we reach the Lion Inn. It is certainly a famous landmark, dating from 1533, and perhaps the most isolated

of all the inns in England. The elusive party of four ahead of us has not only stopped here to rest, but their day ends here, as they are staying at the next-door bed and breakfast. They are a very friendly and jolly group of four women who, I think, must enjoy each other’s company as they hike along. Tea addicts, as usual, we order a tray of that genial beverage and finish our packet of cookies.

Having topped up the water bottles, we reluctantly leave the Lion, wishing we too we staying nearby

overnight. The Lion’s dinner menu looks impressive. We head north, walking along the grassy verges of the road and keeping our eyes open for several ancient boundary stones. The first is a very weathered standing stone named Old Margery, then the two Ralph crosses, Young Ralph and in the

distance, Old Ralph. Our favorite is a squat white stone aptly called Fat Betty. Just whom these stones commemorate or what boundaries they mark, I do not know, but they seem typical of the many happy enigmas found in the English countryside. Although we think we have missed a path, we are glad to find a coast -to-coast sign that shows we’ve

actually gone a little further than we’d expected. It’s about the only thing that does make me happy as my right eye is, once again, stinging and drippy and I’m mopping away with the bandana. A lunch stop is called for and Trough House, a stone shooting box, is just the place. Of course, it’s not open, but there’s a fine stone seat nearby with marvelous moor views, so we break out the apples, cheese and a Mars bar.

After a long but gradual descent along the ridge, we approach the village of Glaisdale. This

necessitates an extremely steep descent, our thigh muscles tightened to stop us falling down the hills. We complain about having to lose all of the height we’ve gained, but there’s no alternative, so we take a deep breath and set off along the steep, uphill path of East Arncliffe Wood. Our last mile of the day is along the tiny road leading to Egton Bridge, and I’m surprised to see a sign for a ford, with a

measuring pole alongside. Does the River Esk really flood its banks and reach a flood height of six feet? Pondering this question, we trudge into the Horseshoe Inn at 5:30 p.m. As Tony showers, I put my feet up, but they jingle and jangle and hurt so much that I don’t know what to do with them. Still, after a shower, some tea and a quick look at the news on TV, we feel refreshed enough to find out about dinner. It’s another good one in a pretty pub dining room, but we’re more than ready for sleep at 10:00 p.m.

Day 14, July 20, Egton Bridge to Robin Hood’s Bay, 18 miles, Total Walk: 200 Miles

If everything goes according to plan, our journey should end today, although we still have many miles

before Robin’s Hood Bay comes into sight. This morning’s weather is gray and overcast as we leave Egton Bridge and its lovely country homes at 9:30 a.m. on our way to Grosmont. Our route takes us along a former toll road, now closed to vehicles. I’m amused to read the 1948 tolls : three shillings for a motor bus, one shilling for a car and sixpence for a hearse!

Grosmont looks like nothing special as we enter the gray village, but it has delightful treats in store,

especially delightful if you were a train spotter back in the 1950’s, as Tony was. Quite by chance, as

we are crossing the rail line, we notice a steam train pulling into the far end of Grosmont Station. A steam train! By the early 1960’s they had all gone for scrap and been replaced by the cleaner diesel engines, yet at least one still runs, and it is here.

The North York Moors Railway Society, made up largely of volunteers, has managed to locate and restore a number of the old steam engines and runs them from Grosmont to Whitby in the summer. Better still, the sheds

are just a short distance away and can be visited, so we do, walking through the first ever train tunnel,

designed by George Stephenson. In the sheds we find a real treat – the Sir Nigel Gresley, an A4, the fastest of British streamliners has been restored. Another A4, Mallard, reached a world record 126 mph, pulling a full train, in 1950. The A4 is gorgeous, shiny and dark blue. While I peruse the souvenir store, Tony goes to have a word with the train engineers and gets a look at one of the trains he “spotted” as a young boy – the Lancashire Fusilier. We make a mental note to come back one day, maybe next year, and take a ride on this railway.

Leaving reluctantly, we begin our trek out of Grosmont up a long 33% gradient hill. Wow! The only way to ascend this endless hill is slowly. Thankfully, today’s weather remains overcast, otherwise we’d be drenched in sweat. We cross Sleights Moor on what appears to be a good path on the map, but is in fact non-existent most of the way. We end up post-holing our way through peat and heather, which I feel badly about. In the distance we see cars speeding along the A169 which we need to cross, but still it takes a long time before we, quite by chance, arrive at the stile signaling our path across the highway. We agree that, on this entire hike, moors have consistently been a challenge to navigate.

A mile later we descend into the tiny and picturesque village of Littlebeck on the May Beck river,

crossing the road near yet another ford. I remember these from my childhood in the 1950s, and it’s hard to believe they still exist. In drizzly rain we enter the two and a half miles of Great Wood, and one mile in we are amazed at the “Hermitage”, an enormous boulder whose inside has been carved out to accommodate a shelter with seats. Then, it’s on to Falling Foss, quite an impressive waterfall, but we’ve joined the Falling Foss Nature Trail, so it’s not only quite busy, but

littered too.

We exit into a parking lot, and I am hoping for a tea van, but it’s almost deserted so, in our rain ponchos, we climb the steep hill up to New May Beck and get ready for our last moor crossing -- Sneaton Low Moor. Because of the past week’s record high temperatures, the moors were on fire a couple of days ago. We see fire trucks and fire fighters everywhere and truly expect that we will be denied access, but surprisingly we are told : “No, you can cross the moor. Just look out for the hotspots.” The fire fighters are, in fact, still on the moor putting out hot spots. It seems like all in a day’s work for these guys.

Tony gets his first, and only, blister of the trip on the moor. It’s on the end of his left big toe, so we doctor it and go on, through the smoke. Then we get lost again! The trail is just not there and we feel completely turned around. We should be more or less paralleling the A171 to High Hawkser, so we make for the road and begin walking along its verges in the High Hawkser direction. It’s terribly dangerous, though. Cars barrel along at 80 miles per hour, so the only sensible thing to do seems to be to hitch a ride. Big expensive cars completely ignore us, but a nice lady in an old, red car stops and drives us the mile and a half into the village. How kind of her. Now we have only five miles left. We meet Sue, whose husband has driven to Robin’s Hood Bay, left the car and has walked back to High Hawkser. They walk the last miles to the finish together. It seems a long time since we've had anything to eat and we are hungry, but we press on through manicured caravan parks to the cliff edge.

We turn right and begin the final three mile hike along the cliff top. It is endless, but seems a good

bookend to the cliff top walk we began at Saint Bees. Up and down the path takes us, around bends and through cow fields until, finally, yes, there in the distance is Robin Hood’s Bay. I have not been to this part of England before and am very impressed with the gorgeous scenery; the sunshine doesn’t hurt either. We leave the path through a kissing gate and begin the long descent to the beach, passing our night’s accommodation, but we cannot stop, we are on a roll. The very steep

descent to the beach is an insult to our tired legs, but we have no choice. We must dip our boots into the North Sea, even though the tide is out. We have to content ourselves with a dip in a tide-pool puddle, while our photo is taken.

Of course, there is an immense feeling of satisfaction at

having completed the Coast-to-Coast, yet there is also an anti-climactic sensation. Where is the brass band and the piper I had thought would be there to welcome us? Never mind, we deserve a drink, and take ourselves off to the

Wainwright Bar at the Bay Hotel, where we both order cod, chips, peas and beer. We toast Wainwright and inscribe our place in the Coast-to-Coast book. It’s over! Almost 200 miles and we’d do it again tomorrow!

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One of the literary centers in the Santa Cruz area of Northern California is our local Capitola Book Cafe. Recent visitors to the area who have spoken to us about their publications include world-renowned authors Frank McCourt, Simon Winchester, and Laurie King. McCourt from Ireland, Winchester from England, and King from California have recently published new books and their talks are highlighted below.

Frank McCourt, talked to a large gathering of local teachers about his newest book Teacher Man. McCourt's earlier publications Angela's Ashes and Tis! gained critical acclaim and won him a Pulitzer prize. His presentation was full of amusing anecdotes from his 30-year experience in the New York school system, and from his earlier education in Limerick , Ireland. This remarkably alert and trim 75- year old was in his 60s when he turned from teaching to writing, and he pondered on where his life might have gone if he had started his book -writing 30 years earlier. Bottom line for all of us to think about : it's never too late to redefine one's future path in life. Below are some of the shots I took of McCourt's session.

Less than 10 miles from the coastal town of Capitola (picture above) is the epicenter of the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, a quake that shook San Francisco, caused many deaths and is still discussed by locals. Recently, noted author Simon Winchester spoke to us at the Capitola Book Cafe about his recent publication A Crack at the Edge of the World, describing the events before, during, and after the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. Winchester, an engaging and humorous speaker, expressed amazement that we still build houses close to the San Andreas fault, and that residents in towns such as Portola Valley, live in total disregard of an upcoming even bigger earthquake. Having said that though he acknowledged that he could think of no more pleasurable a life style that to live in the Bay Area drinking California Chardonnay! Winchester's background as a journalist and author has taken him to many parts of the world, including of course the U.S. where he has a home in Massachusetts. Since his early life took him climbing in North Wales, paralleling my experience, I had the opportunity to discuss with him early climbs near Mount Snowden. See pictures of Winchester, and Snowdonia photos below. Remarkably at the Tyn-y-Coed hotel in Capel Curig, North Wales, close to Snowdon, we experienced our only earthquake in England, a real shaker in the 1980s. So they can happen anywhere.

Laurie R. King lives in Freedom, about ten miles from the Capitola Book Cafe, and is a perennial local favorite. Her Edgar award winning book The Beekeeper's Apprentice, featuring Sherlock Holmes and his pupil/partner, Mary Russell, has led to a series of 1920s Mary Russell mysteries, while her Kate Martinelli books portray a very modern San Francisco police detective. Ms. King's latest book The Art of Detection cleverly showcases a 1924 Sherlock Holmes mystery within the body of a 2005 Kate Martinelli mystery. Laurie King's many fans have come to expect a new book from her every year, and she does not disappoint. Here she speaks to an audience at the Book Cafe at the beginning of this year's promotional tour.

Yosemite in March of 2006 was heavy with snow. It had been a winter with massive precipitation in the Sierras. The snow melt was swelling the waterfalls into the Valley, and the Merced river and its tributaries were close to flood stage. Then more snow fell during our March visit making for some spectacular photo shots. Surprisingly, though this is the most scenic time in Yosemite, tourists are few and far between and so accommodations are often available. Yes, it's colder, so you need to layer up, but most of the trails are open including the Yosemite Falls trail and the trail to Vernal Falls and beyond up the John Muir trail. A crisp day in the mountains followed by dinner at the Ahwanee is worth the trip from the Bay Area!

1,2. Cross country sky course, Badger Pass 3. Cathedral cliffs from Yosemite Falls trail 4. Tenaya Creek 5. Mirror Lake 6. Half Dome from Royal Arches meadow

1. Merced River 2. Half Dome from Stoneman Bridge 3. Half Dome from Curry Village 4, 5 Tenaya Creek tributaries 6. Curry Village

In March 2007 we returned to Yosemite and found a valley under two feet of new snow after a cold arctic storm swept in to Northern California. Look for updated views on this site.

Winter on the Monterey Bay coast brings Pacific storms, menacing cloud formations and often brilliant sunsets. This month has seen weather patterns that brought unusually warm winds from the east, and cold polar winds from the northwest. The two evening skies below, one week apart, were shot over the California central coast south of Santa Cruz. A week later the winds picked up again from the east and hang gliders were soaring up and down Monterey Bay under ideal wind conditions. Weather conditions in February are relatively mild of course compared with the rest of the country and attractive for outdoor activities, such as running and biking. For those close by to the Central Coast I recommend the Forest of Nisene Marks in Aptos for both jogging and mountain biking. Also the 20 mile stretch of wide beach around Monterey Bay is virtually unspoilt. Across the Santa Cruz mountains the Tour of California bike race, modeled on the Tour de France started this month in San Francisco and now heads for San Jose, Monterey, San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara, and Los Angeles.

On a personal note, while biking last week above Palo Alto a mountain lion was sighted by one of our biking group in the Bay Area foothills. Unfortunately it was gone by the time I showed up. This is the third time in a year that I have missed a lion sighting by a few seconds, and I still haven't seen one even though all my jogging and biking trails are in prime cougar country!

More views of the Central Coast from a remarkable warm start to 2007 are upcoming.

Some readers may be interested in the upcoming Santa Barbara orchid show, reputed to be the biggest in California and perhaps the second most prestigious in the U.S. San Francisco currently has an orchid display at its Conservatory of Flowers and my wife asked me to take a couple of photos at the show. I did find these flower displays to be quite remarkable and recommend a visit if you are in the San Francisco vicinity. I'm even beginning to understand the obsession (some say madness) of the orchid hunters. As for the Santa Barbara show, I'll be taking another look at the hobby that has driven people to devote money, and sometimes literally their lives, to acquiring rare orchids.

At the San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers, from the left: African water lily, and orchids: Cattleya hybrid ("impressionist" image), Miltonia Lillian Nakamoto, Cattleya Lemboglossum Uro-skinneri, and Vanda Taylor Blue.

A 2007 update on orchids from a home grower perspective will be described shortly.

In the British Isles section you will find additional photos, with supporting text, from the Lake District, from Snowdonia, Wales, from Suffolk's Constable country, and from Lynmouth in Devon.

Jim, from Cupertino, CA, returned from a bike tour of the Dolomites in Italy, starting in Venice and taking in some of the dramatic mountain scenery in the Cortina-Alleghe-Marmolada region. I had the opportunity to hear his presentation on this trip in Los Altos, CA (outfittertours.com) and he sent me some outstanding photos, three of which I show here.

Venice is the archetype must-see Italian city, and the usual approach for tourists is by train. The train station is right on the Grand Canal. You leave the platform and step outside on to a water taxi that carries you to the city and permits stop-overs to all the famous bridges, canals, and buildings. That the city still exists astonishes visitors. It has fought off the sea and tides for hundreds of years and from all we are told Venice architects, builders and the Italian government will ensure the integrity of the city for years to come. This jewel of the Mediterranean with its artistic treasures will remain intact to enchant us all.

The little village of Alleghe, 3000 ft up in the Dolomites, has a population of only 1500. Before a landslide blocked the river Cordevole in 1771, and inundated the valley that now is Lake Alleghe, the few hamlets that existed as Alleghe were essentially a remote and undiscovered part of the province of Belluno. Its beautiful lake at the foot of some of the region's great peaks, and its access to summer and winter sports, now make it a mecca for outdoor activities.

Jim described the bike leg to Lake Alleghe as one of the highlights of the trip. Lying at the foot of the Gruppe di Sella, a group of four of the famous passes that the Giro d'Italia follows in the annual bike classic, this lake is less than 250 years old. Mountain climbers will recognize the Marmolada, a magnet for those who challenge Europe's steep climbing faces. At 10964 feet the Marmolada is the highest Dolomites mountain. Its south face is 2700 feet high and reputably has the most difficult climbs in the Dolomites.

Lewis, from Sunnyvale, CA, on a biking trip from St. Louis to Oregon following the Lewis and Clark trail, sent me some examples of the spectacular scenery he and companion biker Neal saw as they followed the Missouri, Salmon, and Columbia rivers to the ocean. As Lewis describes the "moose" shot:

"Neal and I had been told of a good moose sighting area about a
mile off the Lewis & Clark bike trail so when we got to the right spot on
the road, we stashed our bikes and hiked the trail along a tributary of the
Lochsa river (in our bicycling shoes, no less!). When we got to our
destination, people already there said we just missed our moose sighting by
10 minutes. Dejectedly, we hiked back to the bikes. Several miles down
the road, we came across a moose feeding in the Lochsa, right alongside the
road, and we didn't have to hike!"

Their trip across Missouri, the Dakotas, and Montana led to the Rockies where the biking got harder and sometimes camping surrendered to motels. As Lewis says:

"Neal and I had "roughed" it in a motel room right alongside
the Salmon River in Salmon, Idaho. The next day, the road to the
Continental Divide between Idaho and Montana led along the Salmon river for
a while. I found this spot along the Salmon river to be