Beginning Wainwright’s Coast to Coast : St. Bees to Low Cock How

“...looks to be bad weather to hike, but then again

there is always going to be an excuse not to set out....”

 

Patron at Manor Inn, St. Bees

 

Morning in St. Bees

When we woke in St Bees, a steady rain was already falling, and it showed little intention of letting up.
It was not quite the first morning we had imagined for Wainwright’s Coast to Coast. In addition to this, despite the assurance of breakfast when we reserved our room, the owner had not returned, and no morning meal was forthcoming. There was still no hot water either, which made the prospect of a cold shower less than appealing on a morning already defined by rain. So instead, we opened our camping supplies, grateful we had purchased food the night before, and ate crumpets, peanut butter, and coffee in our room while watching the weather continue outside.

Even after years of hiking, the first morning of a new trail always feels slightly awkward. The routines we know so well take time to return. Packs need to be reorganized, straps adjusted, rain covers fitted, guidebooks stored in an accessible place, and snacks placed where they can be reached.  More simply put, the routines of backpacking life need to be rebuilt once again. We knew that in a few days, all of this would once again become second nature. On the first day, however, everything takes longer than it should.

Despite these delays, by 7:30 AM, we were walking through the wet streets of St Bees, heading toward the Irish Sea and the official beginning of the Coast to Coast.

The town was quiet in the rain, but not lifeless. A Blue Tit moved excitedly through an ornamental tree in someone’s front garden, while garden snails made their slow, slimy way along the stone walls and mossy drives of local cottages. From a nearby park, a European Robin sang through the rainshower, and on a lawn, a Pied Wagtail moved boldly through the damp grass, its black and white plumage standing out in the morning mist. It was a wet beginning, but it was not an empty one.

To the Irish Sea

 
We walked out of St Bees toward Seacote, passing the golf course, a few large homes on the edge of town, and a group of cyclists who cheerfully wished us good morning as they rode by. Within about twenty minutes, we had reached the caravan park and the sandy beach where the Coast to Coast begins.
By then, the rain was falling hard, and the cold wind was blowing off the water, but the air was warm enough that we were already overheating inside our rain gear. It was hardly picturesque in the way trail beginnings are often imagined, but perhaps it was more honest because of that. Long walks rarely begin in perfect weather, with perfect bodies, perfect logistics, and a perfect sense of readiness. More often, they begin because at some point the waiting has to end.

As tradition (or at least the guidebook) dictates, we made our way down to the Irish Sea, dipped the tips of our shoes into the water, and each picked up a pebble to carry across England. If all went well, those small stones would travel with us through the Lake District, the Yorkshire Dales, and the North York Moors before being released into the North Sea at Robin Hood’s Bay two weeks later.

Standing there in the rain, with the sea at our feet and the whole width of northern England ahead of us to the east, everything felt new again. No matter how many trails we have walked, the beginning of a long-distance route still carries a strange excitement. There is anticipation, uncertainty, and a kind of hope that all will proceed well. There is also the simple fact that the only way to reach the other coast is to turn away from the first one and begin – one step at a time.

Beginning Wainwright’s Coast to Coast Trail

 
From the beach, we followed the Coast to Coast signs and began climbing toward St Bees Head. The muddy path rose quickly above the shoreline, passing sheep, gorse (of course) and red cliffs that glowed even beneath the increasingly grey sky. The climb was steady but straightforward, and before long, we were high above the Irish Sea, following a clear trail along the cliff tops.

The landscape was immediately beautiful, even in poor weather. The red sandstone cliffs, wet grass, yellow gorse, and spring wildflowers created a vivid contrast against the dark sky. Slugs and snails were everywhere along the path, thriving in conditions that were less agreeable to hikers not relishing walking in wet shoes. Jackdaws and crows moved along the cliffs, while Stonechats and Linnets perched among the gorse. Below us, the sea came and went through shifting sheets of rain.

It was not long into the morning and early section of the C2C that we arrived at the first of several bird hides and viewing areas.

At St Bees Head, the Coast to Coast also passed through an important birding landscape. The RSPB reserve here – RSBP St. Bees Head - protects the only cliff-nesting seabird colony in north-west England, and even in the rain, the cliffs below were alive with birds.

From the viewing points, we could see Common Guillemots packed tightly into the cliff ledges, many of them facing inward toward the rock rather than outward toward the sea. Razorbills were mixed among them, along with gulls wheeling over the water and calling into the wind.

It was exactly the kind of beginning we had hoped for, even if the weather was not. The Coast to Coast had barely begun, and already it was giving us a great deal of wonder.  The birds tucked into the cliffs, the colour of the rock, the shape of the coast, and the fact that this first stretch was not simply a departure point but a place of stunning natural beauty in its own right.

We passed the remains of an old coastguard lookout and continued toward St Bees Lighthouse, though much of what should have been visible was lost in the low cloud cover. Soon after, the route turned inland, and with that, the Irish Sea began to disappear behind us. We would not see it again. If all went according to plan, the next sea we reached would be on the far side of the country.

Turning Inland

 
The change from coast to countryside happened quickly. One moment we were walking along cliffs and watching seabirds, and the next we were following a narrow lane bordered by high hedgerows and making our way through fields. The hedges were beautiful and offered shelter from the wind, but they also created blind corners on roads barely wide enough for a single vehicle, let alone two cars and a pair of backpackers. 
 
This was also our first proper introduction to the gates and stiles of the Coast to Coast and UK national trail system.  We found that many were narrow, awkward, and clearly not designed with large backpacks in mind. We had to turn sideways, squeeze through, climb over, or awkwardly manoeuvre ourselves and our packs through one barrier after another. It was not especially graceful, but it quickly became part of the norm of the trail.
 
For the most part, the trail was well marked, something we never take for granted. After years of hiking in Canada on the Trans Canada Trail, where signage can vary dramatically from one section to another, we were grateful whenever each turn was clear, and each junction offered reassurance. Even so, the day was not without mistakes. At one point, we lost the route near the beginning of a logging road and found ourselves on a muddy track heading into a dense, half-cut forest. It was the kind of navigational error that feels more frustrating in the rain because everything is already wet, heavy, and slightly uncomfortable.
 
The weather was beginning to wear on us. Our new backpack rain covers were failing, our gear was getting damp, and the combination of steady rain and full rain gear meant we were soaked as much from sweat as from the weather. After a winter spent at desks, followed by the comfort of VIA Rail across Canada and the luxury of crossing the Atlantic on the Queen Mary 2, our bodies were being reminded very quickly that long-distance walking is not a theoretical activity.  Put more simply, it became clear this morning that we were not in very good shape.
 
As such, we were grateful when we reached the small community of Cleator.  Here we got the chance to sit down and slip off our backpacks for a few minutes.  As we rested, we enjoyed a bottle of orange juice and an overly sugary muffin.
 

Dent Hill in the Rain

 
After our break, the Coast to Coast wove to the base of a nearby hillside.  The climb up Dent Hill was long, muddy, and slow. Logging work was underway, and the track was cut up by trucks and machinery, leaving us to climb through slippery mud in steady rain. The guidebook promised views, but dense cloud and fog had swallowed the surrounding countryside. Instead of a sweeping introduction to the Lake District, we had a wet uphill grind with little to see beyond the next section of track.
 
Somewhere on the climb, we met two other Canadians, a father and daughter from Saskatoon who had also started the Coast to Coast that morning. Like us, they were carrying full backpacks, which already seemed to make each of us unusual among the UK hikers we encountered. Many of the walkers around us had day packs and were using luggage transfer services, moving from hotel to hotel with lighter loads. There is no single right way to walk a trail, but there is a real difference in how a day feels when everything you need is on your back and getting heavier by the hour in the rain.
 
Given the conditions with dense clouds and rain meant that we had no views of the surrounding countryside, which the guidebook claims is stunning.  Added to this was the fact that, at least for us, trekking in the rain and with full rain gear is often less than inspiring – being soaked from both the downpour and sweating heavily in our gear.
 
The descent from Dent Hill was worse than the climb. After gaining all that height, the trail dropped so steeply that it seemed almost impractical, especially in the conditions. The ground was slick, the slope severe, and keeping our footing became nearly impossible.  Sometimes there are no words that can describe how tense and frustrating a situation can be in the moment.  Here, both the trail signage and the trail seemed to disappear – likely lost to the logging activities in the area.
 
As a result, we began tracing one of several possible routes down the hillside that indicated that they had recently been used by hikers.  We were not alone in this. Around us, other hikers were also struggling, and soon a loose procession of people began slowly switchbacking down through the tall grass, abandoning any idea of descending neatly in favour of simply getting down safely.  Each of us was essentially working towards where our GPX tracks indicated that the trail should be and hopefully would be.
 
By the time we reached the bottom, we were wet, muddy, and tired. Eventually, we made our way onto a gravel track, crossed a swollen stream, and followed a stone and wood fence line until we regained the clearly signed route. From there, the path became easier, tracing a narrow track beside a creek swollen with rain.
 
Strangely, this was one of the parts of the day we both really enjoyed. The fog softened the trees and fields, and the wet light gave the landscape a muted, almost mystical feeling. We had never had the grand views the region is noted for, but in their place got the opportunity to walk through a realm of fog and beauty.
 
Low Cock How
 
Soaked through, we followed the riverway toward Ennerdale Bridge and Low Cock How. By then, we had no interest in pushing farther than necessary. We wanted and very much needed to get inside, dry our gear, and reset our small world before the next day.
 
Having not made any reservations for our hikes in the UK, we had begun to get worried when other hikers continued to inform us that we were “wool-headed fools” and that “we would never find a place for the night.”  As such, discovering Low Cock How Bunkhouse, B&B and Camping on the edge of Ennerdale Bridge turned out to be exactly what we needed. 
 
The moment we arrived, the host started a roaring fire, his wife brought out a clothing rack, and soon tea and biscuits appeared. After a day of rain, mud, fog, and slipping downhill through wet grass and mud (we hope it was mud), the kindness of that welcome felt enormous. We stripped our packs apart, hung everything we owned wherever it could possibly dry, and began the long rotation of turning socks, shirts, rain gear, pack covers, and shoes toward the heat.
 

Evening in Ennerdale

 
Had we continued farther, or had we pushed or been camping, we would never have dried everything. Instead, we found ourselves inside, warm, sheltered, and able to put the day back in order. We both enjoyed warm showers and the chance to sit in the warmth – which we did until almost 10 PM.
 
Ultimately, we were the only ones staying here for the night – a reminder not to take the rumours of not being able to find any accommodations en route too much to heart.
 
Throughout the evening, we rotated clothes by the fire, charged devices, transferred photos, and made up a package of TentMeals Italian food for dinner, which we split and ate with tortilla wraps. It was not glamorous, but it was warm, filling, and – given the conditions outside – more than enough.
 
By 10 PM, we were exhausted. We tried to write in our journals, but the room was too warm, too cozy, and we were too tired to get very far. I managed to identify the day’s bird sightings, which included Blue Tit, European Robin, Pied Wagtail, Jackdaw, Carrion Crow, Raven, Herring Gull, Common Guillemot, Razorbill, Swallow, Linnet, Mallard, Stonechat, Blackbird, Magpie, and Cormorant. There were also snails and slugs everywhere, which seemed entirely appropriate for the day we had been given.
 
It had been a wonderful day, but also an exhausting one. We had begun the Coast to Coast in hard rain, climbed onto the red cliffs of St Bees Head, watched seabirds nesting above the Irish Sea, turned inland, slipped through mud, struggled over stiles, climbed Dent Hill, and descended in a slow, wet shuffle with other hikers who were all trying not to fall.
 
Yet by evening, we were warm. Our gear was drying. Had enjoyed several cups of tea while seated by a fire.  Once again, after a difficult day on trail, we had found exactly what we needed when we needed it.
 
See you on the Trail!