Up North

It seems that there comes a point in the life of a challenge eventer's feet when they finally give out a definitive signal that they've had enough. Losing sensation in my big toes was pretty much it for this year at least. Discretion, and the avoidance of gangrene and subsequent amputation, being the better part of valour, I finally had to accept the inevitable and withdrew from this year's North York Moors 100.

Yet having overcome the feeling of being gutted this actually turned out to be a good decision on many levels. First, I had always wanted to see the North Yorkshire Moors, and now I could walk around some of them at a leisurely pace with a camera. Second, Dingo Baby could  join in, rather than sit in a community hall waiting for me to arrive at some ungodly hour of the morning to hose me down and carry me home. Third, I could drink as much ale along the way as I wanted.We soon discovered however that there are other challenges that need to be overcome when travelling up North. All restaurants seem to close at 9pm (at least in Whitby) and if you happen to be still eating your spotted dick and custard too bad; cleaning of floors and tables will just go on around you. And don't even think of being a soft Southerner and asking for a spoon just because the waitress forgot to give you one. You can manage your seafood chowder with a fork like everyone else.  Likewise should you put on a jumper when sitting outside on the pub terrace, no matter that the sun is setting, the temperature dropping and the wind picking up, expect a chorus of 'soft Southerner'. 

The need to  test the plethora of 'best fish and chip/yorkshire pudding/homemade cakes in Yorkshire' claims in every village in the county led to challenging mathematical calculations of the ratio of calorie intake to walking time necessary to burn it all off. And if you ever want to sadistically see your Siri SatNav lose it, then tell it to find Botton Village or some other obscure, but ridiculously beautiful, dot in a dale. We also walked through fields with some of the scariest looking rams I have ever seen. I am still haunted by their appearance of being the bastard off-spring of a pig-sheep mash up and if anyone knows what breed they are I really need to know so I can stop thinking I imagined them.

Such challenges, however, are more than compensated for by big sky walks that take you from the sea, to moor and dale, forest and fields of rampaging wildflowers, interspersed with people that will stop and chat along the trails (even if only to point out that you're a soft Southerner for walking in boots instead of sandals).