Scourge of the Trail, Part 6

Previously on The Scourge (link to part 1)

Part VI: St. Bees.

Virgin Trains – they look fast, with that sloped front and stripes down the side, but they’re not. Fast enough to kill you if you crash, yes, but not fast enough to get to Carlisle in less than four hours. By any standard that’s not a good deal – if something is going to be dangerous, it should at least be efficient.

It was five before we wandered out into the citadel of Carlisle. We had half an hour to waste here before our connection to St. Bees, so we bought coffee, newspapers and sandwiches and wandered around the city gates. Being on the border of England and Scotland, the gift shops are all full of Scottish souvenirs. It was comforting to know that I could come away with Scottish souvenirs without having to set foot in actual Scotland. I wondered if there were English souvenir shops just over the border on the Scottish side.

In the news, the hitherto peripheral figure of Jeremy Corbyn was making seismic leaps towards political leadership, and astonishing pundits in the process; and a British scientist was being ripped apart by the lions of social media for making an ill-advised joke about women.

As we debated the efficacy with which a slip-up can turn into a career-threatening scandal, our train came and very nearly went. Carlisle station confused us and we found ourselves, heavy bags and all, clambering along the platform hunting for our train. It was hidden on one of those special little platforms, saved for the loser trains which the other trains don’t like. All the cool trains went to London, Manchester, Birmingham, Edinburgh. Ours, a rickety contraption, perhaps one of the first trains to have been ever rolled out back in the 18^th century when Britain was in the throes of empire, contained only the poor sods that time left behind, who had no choice but to venture, or return, to the bitter countryside; and the two poorest sods, all going to one destination: St. Bees.

We entered St. Bees cuddling the fields, looking over the Irish Sea towards the Isle of Man and a rocky-looking Scotland to the north. With these chunky bags, I felt conspicuous. I could hear the locals’ thoughts: another couple of city boys doing the Coast to Coast. Bet they won’t last a day.

Dave, being the man with the book, was responsible for finding places to stay. Coast to Coast not only gives you maps, but also a roundup of reputable accommodation in any given place, complete with a little review of facilities, price, and phone number. Our first night was to be spent, for a cool £6 each, in the garden at Stonehouse Farm on a delightful patch of grass overseen by a blond chap who sounded, to Dave’s ears, like his uncle. It was all very homey.

It was our first time putting up tents and we were grateful to have no one watching us, judging our ineptitude. Pegs were getting lost and bent, and refusing to go in the ground. Arms were too weak to force them. Poles were being thrown around, as were muttered expletives. Half an hour later, however, we were able to look with pride at our new homes, Dave’s palace and my pod.

The weather had turned, and a brisk wind had picked up. We flip-flopped down to the beach to take a look at the sea. The water was wholly uninviting, and we put off the C2C ritual of stepping in it until tomorrow. We found the Queen’s Head and I had a fish and chips while Dave had a vegetarian curry. We savoured it as if it were our last, for we were sure it would be. Back in the tent, our ‘kitchen’ awaited.

I read The Whitehaven News which told of the attempts of workers at Sellafield nuclear plant to save their jobs, and the contestants for Miss North West Great Britain, for which local farmyard animals were added to make up the numbers. It was also reported that hundreds of moon jellyfish had washed up on the beach at St. Bees, and the advice, against all popular remedy beliefs, was not to piss on the sting. Another story was about selficide – the act of dying while taking a selfie. People were electrocuting themselves, falling into ravines, getting run over by trains, and so on; and the craze was catching on all over the world. “Don’t take selfies,” Dave told me with authority. “It’s simply not worth the risk.”

“I suppose it’s comeuppance for an immoral act of narcissism,” I mused.

Sadly for me, the camera on my phone was half broken, meaning only the selfie shot worked. To take a picture of something, I had to take a ‘selfie’ and then awkwardly remove my self from the frame. This was a bit of a balancing act even of steady, safe ground, but on a windy mountain top...

“You’re going to die,” said Dave, and took a sip of IPA.

I considered this for a moment. “Fuck it,” I said. “I’m getting a beer.”

--

In darkness we reached the tents. A cat was in mine. I pushed him out and waddled in. The night air was brisk but my pod-tent kept the chills at bay. With my tiny torch a-fixed to my head, I read a Matsuo Basho haiku and went to sleep.

First winter rain,

I plod on,

Traveller my name.

Take me to Part 7.