A Right Proper Trek : Osmotherley to Blakely Ridge

“It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.” 

Confucius 

Morning in Osmotherley 

We woke at Cote Ghyll Caravan Park & Campsite to the happy sound of children already running around the campground. It was only 5 AM, but it seemed as though every child in the place had emerged from their tent, caravan, or camper to begin the day. They cycled around the lanes, ran between pitches, played on the climbing structures, and generally greeted the morning with an enthusiasm that made sleep impossible for anyone nearby.

As a result, we too were soon awake.  One really can’t complain about greeting the day with exuberance.

The tarp and groundsheet were wet, but the tent itself had stayed dry, and the morning was warm, bright, and sunny. After the rain and uncertainty of previous days, this felt like a generous beginning. We made a quick breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, packed up our gear, and began the familiar routines of compressing our hiking world back into two backpacks.

As usual, our efforts seemed to attract a certain amount of curiosity from those around us. In a campground full of enormous family tents, caravan awnings, folding tables, chairs, coolers, and outdoor kitchens, our compact backpacking system appeared to be either impressive or deeply puzzling to others.

Camping Culture

The amount of gear people had with them still stunned us. So did the amount of food left out on tables overnight. As someone who has trekked across Canada and grown up around Algonquin Park and Jasper National Park, the idea of leaving open food on a picnic table felt almost unthinkable. In Canada, that would be an invitation to bears, raccoons, squirrels, mice, chipmunks, or any number of other opportunists – as well as the wrath of Parks Canada rangers. Here, however, the rules of the outdoors seemed different. There were no bears to worry about, no raccoons creeping in from the trees, and comparatively few small mammals visibly patrolling campsites for an easy meal.

It was one of the subtle differences we had not yet fully adjusted to in the UK. The relationship to wildlife here felt very different from the one we knew in North America. In Canada, large wildlife is often part of the practical reality of travel. Here, the absence of that same abundance felt equally striking. Perhaps nothing illustrated this more than the signs we had seen across England asking people to help protect local Red Squirrels. Species that might once have seemed ordinary now require public concern, conservation campaigns, and careful attention.

Here, what remains of nature is often loved fiercely, perhaps because so much has already been reshaped, cultivated, and lost. As I noted before – something we only notice things once they are gone.

Back to the Trail

Around 8 AM, we left the campground and followed directions from the staff, who had kindly explained how we could return to Wainwright’s Coast to Coast without backtracking all the way into Osmotherley.

Instead, we followed a beautiful forested route along the edge of Cod Beck Reservoir. The water was calm, the path shaded, and already there were people out enjoying the morning. It was Saturday of a long weekend, and the countryside had the unmistakable energy of a place beginning to fill with walkers, families, dogs, cyclists, and day-trippers.

Before long, the path rejoined the road and brought us to a stone marker for the Lyke Wake Walk.

The Lyke Wake Walk is one of the classic endurance routes of the North York Moors, traditionally crossing the moorland from Osmotherley to Ravenscar. It is associated with the old dialect word “lyke,” meaning corpse, and with the idea of a wake or vigil for the dead. The name gives the walk a wonderfully grim edge, which feels appropriate for a long, exposed traverse across open moorland. For many walkers, the challenge has been to complete the crossing in under 24 hours, though we were not attempting anything quite so punishing. Still, standing at the marker gave the morning a sense of significance. We were no longer only following the Coast to Coast. We were entering a landscape already crisscrossed with other routes, traditions, challenges, and stories.

Near the marker, we met an older couple out for a day walk. Both had recently undergone hip surgery and chatted good-naturedly about wanting to take their “new parts out for a test run.” Safe to say, we found them rather wonderful and hilarious.

They had completed several of the UK’s national trails over the years and were enthusiastic about the stage ahead. According to them, the route to Blakey Ridge would be challenging but beautiful, especially in good weather (as we had today). On a clear day, they said, we might even be able to see toward the sea from the hills.

Eventually, we parted ways. They turned westward toward Ingleby Cross, while we turned east, following the line of the Cleveland Hills. Before long, we had passed a busy car park and rejoined both Wainwright’s Coast to Coast and the Cleveland Way, which we had first linked up with in the final kilometres of the previous day.

The Cleveland Way

The Cleveland Way is one of England and Wales’s National Trails, beginning at Helmsley and eventually reaching Filey Brigg after tracing a long route through the North York Moors and along the Yorkshire coast. For us, it now overlapped with the Coast to Coast at several points. 

Back en route, the path became wide, clear, level, and beautifully maintained. After days of mud, bog, and uncertainty, it makes for nice trekking.  The trail led us into woodland, where the ground was dry underfoot and shaded by large trees. A peaceful stream moved nearby – around which ferns grew in abundance, and the forest held onto the cool of the waterway under the canopy.   We followed the path past Crook Beck, along the edges of fields, and then gently uphill through old beech woods, where stone steps led us through the trees.

We soon crossed a small stream that was running fast and high beneath a bridge, swollen from the rain that had defined so much of the previous week. After which, in short order, we crossed a pasture, ducked back into the woods, and passed a couple on horseback before eventually emerging onto a short road section.

From there, the trail led through a gate and past a rough wooden structure dedicated to erosion control and trail maintenance. Soon, the path began tracing the edge of the rolling landscape, climbing on stone pavers that rose in a visible line ahead of us. It was the first of many climbs that day.

Panoramic Views

For much of the morning, the pattern repeated itself. We climbed one hill, paused to enjoy the view, catch our breath, descended, and then immediately began climbing the next. The climbs were decent, but not overwhelming. Most were not especially long, and the excellent stone paths limited the need to navigate rough sections of trail. Even so, the repetition required energy and strong legs.  

Somewhere along the way, we passed a Bronze Age round barrow, marked by a plaque and protected as a scheduled monument. The presence of a burial mound in such an open landscape was a reminder that these hills have been visited and used by people for thousands of years. We were walking through a place that had been crossed, worked, buried in, and ventured into long before Wainwright or any modern trail signs existed.

By this point, the landscape around us had opened – there were few trees the fields were covered in heather, and we enjoyed wider views of moorland. The heather was not yet in bloom, but it was easy to imagine these slopes later in the season, covered in purple and pink. For us, the colours were quieter: browns, greens, golds, and the pale haze of a warm May day.

The trail continued upward toward a series of trig points. In places, cobbled or paved sections lead us across the moor, while providing us with the opportunity to look out over the green valleys below. As the temperature rose, moisture and haze limited how far we could see, but the region was wonderful nevertheless.

Break at Lord Stones

After the second major hill, we descended toward Lord Stones Country Park, where a café sat -  like a small miracle beside the trail.

It was a lovely place, tucked into the landscape with a large patio outside and a low stone building that seemed to belong exactly where it stood. We gratefully stopped for coffee, homemade lemonade, and a salted caramel square. I could say that we ate so much simply to build energy for the rest of the day’s walk, but the more honest answer is that after more than a week of hiking, we were both now constantly hungry…that and we are on holiday, so some enjoyment was in order.

Well supplied, we sat at a picnic table, drank cold drinks, ate cake, and enjoyed the fact that the trail had delivered exactly what was needed at exactly the right time.

As always, the backpacks, my binoculars, and Sean’s birding scope attracted comments. Some hikers seemed to regard our gear with suspicion, as though full packs and optics were unnecessary eccentricities. Others, especially those with an interest in birds, immediately struck up conversations about what species they had recently seen and where.  One gentlemen giving advice on what some local bird calls sounded like so that I could possibly ID them by ear.  Those were the conversations we enjoyed most – where you get to chat and learn about the region through firsthand experience.

Leaving Lord Stones, the refined gravel path was extraordinarily busy. Families, hikers, day walkers, dogs, and groups moved in both directions. The long weekend had fully arrived – and for a short while we had to navigate our way through it.

Memorials, Views, and the Wainstones

Soon we began climbing again, grateful that we were not fighting rain or strong wind.

At one point, we came to the Alec Falconer memorial, a stone seat and plaque set in a place of wonderful views. Alec Falconer, was a founder member of the Middlesbrough Rambling Club and trail campaigner. From this point, the views were amazing, and the landscape rolled away beneath us, fields and valleys spread below, and for a moment the steady push of the day gave way to simple appreciation.

Unfortunately, we soon moved on, and the undulating pattern of the land and trail continued. A steep paved descent was followed, inevitably, by another steep ascent. The trail seemed determined to make us earn every view.

Eventually, we reached the Wainstones, an iconic jumble of large sandstone rocks that required attention to navigate, especially with full backpacks. It was not a long stretch of the trail, but it involved clambering up, squeezing through, and moving carefully around people who seemed in a great hurry to pass, whether or not there was space to do so. 

We had heard that someone had recently died while hiking in the area, and that some walkers felt erosion was making the rock section increasingly unsafe. I do not know the details, but I could understand why people were concerned. It was a busy place, and not everyone was patient about letting others clear a narrow or awkward spot before pushing forward.

Still, it was also a striking place. The rocks gave the moor a new dimension, and the views from the area continued to be wonderful. We met a UK family who told us about their own travels and hiking plans for the summer before wishing us well – yet another of those brief trail conversations that pass quickly but leave an impression.

Leaving the Wainstones, we followed more pavers downhill toward a small road. As always, descents feel more unnerving to me than the climbs. Climbing asks for effort, but descending asks for patience and trust – at least in your knees, your balance, the stones, and the hope that the pack on your back will not decide to pull you forward faster than you want to go.

At the road crossing near the B1257, many of the Coast to Coast walkers we had seen and chatted with since St Bees were leaving the trail for the day. Taxis waited at the road, ready to collect hikers who had decided to divide the hills to Blakey Ridge into two stages.  At this point, I can honestly say that I understood their choice – but we had already made ours and still had a way to go for the day.

We said our goodbyes, knowing that, with only a few days left on the Coast to Coast, we might not see many of them again. It was a strange feeling. Long-distance routes create temporary communities, built from shared experiences, weather endured together, passing conversations, and the knowledge that everyone is moving toward the same far-off coast. Then, just as suddenly, those communities dissolve.

Back to the Moors

From there came another climb at Clay Bank, then a wicked descent on stone steps, a road crossing, and yet another climb back up to continue along the route, which now proceeded along a ridge skirting the edge of the moor.  On one side rolled open moorland. On the other, lush green countryside dropped away into fields, farms, and valleys. The contrast was beautiful.

The heather still held a small bit of colour and bloom, and there was a freshness in the air that became more noticeable the higher we climbed. We had worried that this section might involve more mud, soaked shoes, and miserable footing. Instead, the walking was generally easy, at least in a technical sense. The paths were good, the route was clear, and the ground was far kinder than we had expected.

As the day went on, we could feel the air change. There was a coolness in it, and something that felt almost like a sea breeze, though the coast itself remained out of sight. At one point in a nearby valley, a hawk circled above the fields.

Eventually, the route turned away from the ridge and into the moors proper, though it still continued along the wide gravel track that curved through the open landscape.

Here, the birds became the great gift of the day. Red Grouse burst from the heather again and again as we approached, their calls sounding strangely frog-like to my ear. Golden Plovers called across the moor with single, mournful notes that another hiker, an ornithologist walking with his wife, described perfectly as haunting, mournful, and atmospheric. Curlews called and periodically flew past too, their voices somewhere between gulls and loons, wild and liquid and utterly suited to the landscape.

There were smaller birds as well, and soaring raptors, and the clear sense that the moor was far less empty than it first appeared.

Near Round Hill, the highest point on the North York Moors, we met an older man who insisted that we should deviate to the trig point. According to him, there was no point in doing the walk unless we visited every nearby trig.

I doubted very much that we had the energy for such repeated deviations, but he was persuasive in the most literal sense. He took me by the arm and pulled us off the track toward the trig point, talking all the while about having worked in power stations across the UK and Canada, including Pickering, Simcoe, Saskatchewan, and Halifax.

Eventually, we managed to extract ourselves and return to the trail and continue on.

The route continued across open moorland toward Bloworth Crossing, where signs marked the point at which we parted from the Cleveland Way. For a while, the Coast to Coast, the Cleveland Way, and part of the Lyke Wake Walk had overlapped and braided together across the hills. Now the routes separated, and we continued onward across the moors toward Blakey Ridge.

The Long Push

The walking continued to be easy underfoot, but after a long stage, very little feels easy simply because it continues and mostly because the end is not yet in sight.  Bluntly put, by late afternoon, the moors began to feel endless. The path curved around one rise, then another. Each time we expected to see the Lion Inn, and each time there was only more track, more moor, more sky, and another bend ahead.

I have long puzzled about the fact (I use the term in the loosest sense here) that kilometres at the end of the day are always longer than those at the beginning. They stretch out, they ask more, and pass slower.   Perhaps it is only because they arrive when the body has already given much of what it has to give.

By then, we were essentially walking alone, except for one young man some distance ahead of us who had also come from Osmotherley. Gradually, he became the focus of our attention. We watched him disappear around each curve and hoped, each time, that he would give some sign of having seen the pub. Instead, bend after bend, he seemed to look just as disheartened as we felt.

At one point, we seriously discussed stopping, eating dinner, and possibly wild camping rather than pushing on. Unfortunately, our very vibrant orange Big Agnes tent is not exactly designed for inconspicuous camping on open moorland. It would have announced our presence to every sheep, walker, farmer, and passing vehicle for miles.

So we kept shuffling along.

Eventually, far later than we felt was reasonable, signs finally appeared welcoming us to Blakey and directing us across a rough track toward the pub. The track itself was mercifully dry, and after the long afternoon, simply knowing that the end was near gave us enough energy to cover the final few hundred metres.

The Lion Inn

The Lion Inn sits on Blakey Ridge in the middle of the moors, and by the time we reached it, the place already felt half-legendary in our minds.  The first thing we noticed was the parking lot. It was full. Cars were everywhere. People were everywhere. Of course, it was the holiday weekend. After hours of walking through open, quiet moorland, we had arrived not at a lonely inn on an empty ridge, but at a very busy pub rammed with visitors.

For a moment, my heart sank. We worried that there would be no food, no place to sit, and no camping available. Inside, the rooms were crowded, warm, and loud.  The few other hikers already there had a particular look about them: part happiness to be finished, part horror at the sheer number of people around them. To step from a nearly empty trail into a busy restaurant can be deeply jarring. With that said I enjoyed the warmth and chance to drop my backpack and sit down.

Despite the crowds, the Lion Inn was exactly what a Coast to Coast tradition should be.  It is the sort of place one envisions stepping into after a day on trail. 

It was low-ceilinged, dark-beamed, flagstoned, warm, and full of character. There were fireplaces, a long bar, old rooms, and the sense of being somewhere wonderfully separate from the contemporary world. Outside, fog began rolling over the moor, transforming the ridge into a place of shifting shapes and half-visibility. The world beyond the inn seemed to disappear.

Somehow we found what we needed. We arranged to camp, then pitched our tent around back in a pasture full of sheep, near the young man we had followed for so much of the final stretch. He looked as relieved as we felt.

After setting up, we returned inside to warm up. The fog thickened outside, the buildings disappeared and the mist pressed against the windows, making the inn feel even more isolated. We ordered vegetarian burgers and several pints of local beer, and slowly the effort of the day on the trail began to loosen its hold.

This, perhaps, is one version of hiker heaven: an iconic inn in an isolated location, kind staff, good beer, hot food, a flat place to pitch the tent, and knowing that the long stage and day are done.

By the time we returned to the tent, the moor had vanished into fog. Sheep moved as vague shapes in the pasture, the pub glowed behind us, and the air had cooled enough that our sleeping bags felt especially inviting.

It had been a right proper trek: hills, woods, moors, memorials, trig points, birds, crowds, cake, rocks, fatigue, and a final push that seemed to last forever – all before finding a stunningly beautiful pub on Blakey Ridge.

See you on the Trail!