Hikers' march to the sea

Angry voters take Britain out of the European union.  Scotland threatens to secede.  The Economist urges Parliament to eliminate the park-like Green Belt surrounding the Greater London area, in order to permit construction of new housing.  The London skyline itself is littered with skyscrapers, designed in appalling taste, revealing no attempt to conform them with their surroundings ( St. Paul's, the Tower of London) in either size or architectural style.

Britain seems like a mess.

But behind the headlines and outside the large cities lies a country little changed over the centuries.  I returned from this magical country last Tuesday (and have since been nursing my jet lag before attempting to share my impressions).

Kathy, Clinton and I defied predictions of daily rain (didn't happen), lack of physical preparation (by some of us), and the depredations of advanced old age (well, I exaggerate) -- and walked 109 miles from Kirkby Stephen in eastern Cumbria to Robin Hood's Bay on the North Sea.  We also took a bus from Robin Hood's Bay six miles north to Whitby to see the abbey ruins, and walked back along the coast line.  We did great, we enjoyed it greatly, we'd do it again gladly, and we recommend that viewers give it a whirl as well.

But aside from the statistics and the bragging, walking in rural northern England is an experience with time travel.  Although we occasionally had to walk along a paved back road, for the most part we walked on paths and gravel tracks that have been in place for centuries.  We stayed in small villages and in isolated inns.   When we entered Richmond (population 8,413), where we laid over for a day, we felt -- as Yorkshiremen no doubt felt in centuries past -- that we had entered a major city.  A city dominated by the ruins of Richmond Castle -- parts of which date back to the twelfth century.

The hike encompassed three main phases -- the crossing of the Pennine range, the descent of the Swale river valley ("Swaledale") in Yorkshire Dales National Park, and the march to the sea across the high moors of North Yorkshire Moors National Park. 

Although diverse in topography, the hike throughout all regions gave a sense of how well the English have preserved the rural countryside, even while permitting its use for grazing and some cultivation.  We stayed at picturesque bed and breakfasts, and dined in centuries-old pubs.  We were greeted cautiously by thousands of sheep, and sleepily by almost as many cows.  We ended each day tired and hungry, and began each morning with enthusiasm.

We felt it our duty to sample the varying ales of Yorkshire, and we did our duty.

We were surprised at the conclusion of the trip by the charms (and pubs) of Robin Hood's Bay, a village built on steep and winding roads that work their way down to the sea, a village where we mingled with fellow hikers and with less ambitious folks who arrived by more modern means for their holiday, walking their children with pails and shovels down to the seashore.

Not one person mentioned "Brexit" to us.  We were circumspect, and avoided the topic ourselves.

It's hard to believe that a week ago, I was still living in an Anglophile's paradise.  I'll be back.