Long Day : Shap to Kirkby Stephen

“Walking thus, hour after hour, the senses keyed, one walks the flesh transparent.”

Nan Shepherd, The Living Mountain
 

Tough Morning in Shap

 

It seemed appropriate, in the way long-distance trails often have of testing those who set out, that our longest day thus far on Wainwright’s Coast to Coast followed directly after our hardest day thus far.

 

After three days of climbing hills, steep descents, damaged gear, poor sleep, and long days on our feet, we were beginning to feel the cumulative exhaustion of the Lake District in our bodies. We had now enjoyed five glorious days of rambling, but glory and exhaustion are not mutually exclusive. By morning in Shap, both were very much present.  Rolling over in our sleeping bags seemed to jostle one set of sore muscles, and sitting up seemed to require an almost herculean effort to say nothing of what it took to stand up.

 

We woke to the sound of a tractor driving through town and striking a metal barrier, followed by the reminder that there had been traffic on the road for much of the night. Everything in and around the tent felt damp, as though we had slept in a swamp rather than behind a pub in town. The grass was wet, the air was wet, and our gear seemed determined to hold on to every bit of moisture it had collected overnight.

 

We made coffee at the picnic tables outside the pub and spread our tent out in the sun as best we could, hoping to dry it even a little before packing it away. Several other men who had camped there were doing the same thing, each of us engaged in the small morning ritual of trying to make damp camping gear slightly less miserable before carrying it for another thirty kilometres. There was also someone staying in one of the fibreglass pods, though he had not yet emerged by the time we left around 7:30 AM.

 

None of us seemed especially eager for breakfast. The smell from the rubbish bins in the parking area did little to encourage an appetite, and I had no real interest in revisiting the washroom provided for hikers. The one clear benefit of the previous evening was that it had created a small bond between ourselves and the other hikers who had also had the misfortune to camp at the Crown Inn. As one of the gentlemen drying his gear out observed - “well that was memorably bad”.

 

As we dried, packed, repacked, and tried to restore some order to our small travelling world, I made a decision. We were going to get a hotel room in Kirkby Stephen – perhaps even for two nights.  A rest day was no longer simply a nice idea. It was becoming a necessity.

 

Using international roaming with Bell, which is always an expensive undertaking, I managed to reserve a room for the night. One way or another, we were going to cover the thirty kilometres ahead of us. According to the guidebook, the day promised no major climbs or descents compared to what we had already endured in the Lake District, but it would still be long and exposed. More significantly, it would carry us out of the Lake District’s mountainous terrain and into a different kind of landscape, where the route begins to move toward the Yorkshire Dales.

 

Leaving Shap

 

Grateful to put Shap and the Crown Inn behind us, we set off toward Kirkby Stephen.

The morning began with a walk through town, past the King’s Arms, community gardens, and more rabbits than we expected to see in one place. We also passed the old Market Hall, built in 1690, reportedly using stones taken from Shap Abbey. It was another reminder that in England, landscapes and settlements often hold their histories in layers, building each era on the efforts of the last.

 

Soon after leaving town, we crossed the railway on a bridge. Beyond it lay the industrial edge of Shap, which we later understood to be connected with the local cement works. After days of waterfalls, fells, tarns, and green valleys, the soundscape changed. The rush of rivers was replaced, at least for a while, by the roar of traffic.

 

The path then led us through damp fields where the grass was so soaked with dew that our feet were wet almost immediately. It was not raining, but the trail had still found a way to begin the day by filling our shoes with moisture. We passed two men who had been wild camping in the field, then continued toward the M6.

 

Crossing the motorway by pedestrian bridge felt like a small mercy. After so much road walking on other long-distance routes, especially on the Trans Canada Trail, we never take safe crossings for granted. On the far side of the motorway, we entered the Yorkshire Dales National Park.

 

Into Limestone Country

 

Almost immediately, the landscape began to shift. Across one field, beautiful apple trees stood in bloom, while birds moved along what appeared to be the beginning of a limestone escarpment. The route skirted the edge of quarry country near Shap, where signs explained the area’s industrial history and warned of dangers in the region. One section noted the former extraction of limestone and the gradual return of parts of the area to nature.

 

It was here that we found one of the morning’s great gifts: Lapwings.

 

At first, I noticed a striking black-and-white bird with a delicate crest, then realized there was a pair with young nearby. It was a new species for us, and suddenly the morning and trek both felt more alive. Around the fields were larks, crows, rooks, swallows, raptors, Black-headed Gulls near a pond, and birds moving constantly along the ridge.

 

From there, the route entered more exposed ground. On our maps, the region was marked around Orton Scar, though other hikers referred to parts of the area as Crosby Ravensworth Fell. Whatever name one uses, it was a striking stretch: wide gravel tracks, open sky, limestone, and very little shade.

 

We stopped for a break on the fascinating limestone pavement. The weathered, eroded stone immediately reminded us of sections of the Bruce Trail, and in particular of the strange, exposed landscapes around the Cheltenham Badlands. The resemblance was not exact, of course, but long walks have a way of layering landscapes on top of one another – at least in your mind and memories of each one. A piece of England can call up Ontario. A limestone ledge can bring back another trail, another day, another set of memories.

 

Walking through this section was not difficult, and after the previous days in the Lake District, the gentler farm tracks and limestone pavement felt like a relief.   With that said, easy underfoot does not mean effortless. The day was already warm, and the distance ahead remained long.

 

Stunning Landscapes

 

As the morning continued, mist created variable layers across the surrounding hills. Lone trees stood out in the fields, the kind of trees Sean always notices and photographs, their shapes made more striking by the emptiness around them. Sparrows lived in the drystone walls that separated the sheep pastures, flying in and out of gaps in the stone as though the walls themselves were small villages.

 

We passed hillsides being replanted with saplings, each young tree protected by a grey tube. From a distance, the rows had a strange, almost battlefield quality, and for a moment the image brought Flanders Fields to mind. Nearby, Meadow Pipits and skylarks sang from the open land, and somewhere out of sight, a Cuckoo called loudly, repeating its unmistakable song through the air.

 

We took a break sitting on a limestone ledge. From there, we watched birds moving through the walls and grasses. A bird that looked somewhat shrike-like appeared briefly, and sparrows fed nestlings hidden in the drystone wall nearby.  Around us, birds called from the grasses and the heather was near to blooming while we laid out our damp tent on the warm limestone to dry it further.

 

Rested, happy and somewhat drier, we walked on.  At one point, we passed a large glacial erratic standing improbably in the middle of the landscape. There were others too, stones moved, pushed, and deposited by ice sheets millennia ago.

 

Around us, while some plants bloomed and showed new growth, others appeared brown and burnt.  We wondered whether this was the result of controlled burning, part of heather management for grouse, or perhaps damage from insects. Either way, the land felt worked and managed, not wild in the untouched sense.   Regardless of the answer, it felt full of life.

 

Soon the trail led us out into rolling pastures.

 

Fields, Walls, and Birds

 

The next stretch of the Coast to Coast involved a great deal of weaving through sheep pastures. Signs on gateposts reminded walkers that it was bird nesting season and asked hikers to avoid disturbing ground-nesting birds. It was an important reminder. For hikers, open grasslands can look empty or simple. For birds, they can be home, a nursery, shelter, and a source of survival.  It is one of the challenges we have seen in farmlands and agricultural communities across Canada, where early harvests often and unfortunately coincide with nesting season and fledging periods.

 

We eventually reached a long stretch of road walking amid what felt like a horde of hikers. On the pavement, we spotted what may have been a Curlew flying overhead, its long curved bill visible as it moved through the sky. There were also larks, Stonechats, and other birds calling from the surrounding fields.

 

A group of hikers ahead had stopped at a support van for refreshments. I will admit that, by then, a cold drink would have been very welcome. Instead, we kept walking as the heat of the day was beginning to build and the road was getting warmer.

 

Shortly after leaving the road, we came upon the remains of old lime kilns near Broadfell Farm. The stone arch and remains sat in the hillside, part industrial ruin and part landscape feature. Again, we were reminded of the Bruce Trail and of the shared industrial histories that appear across different countries: quarrying, lime burning, rail corridors, old farm lanes, abandoned structures, and the ways land is used, repurposed, and sometimes allowed to return to nature.

Ahead of us, green and yellow fields stretched outward, divided by stone walls and by small patches of trees. The sun was now hot, and shade was becoming increasingly rare. When the trail passed a small stand of trees near Orton, we took the opportunity to sit against a moss-covered wall and rest. I had already been walking with my sun umbrella for a while, grateful for the shade relief it offered.

 

Though a popular place to stop, we did not take the road into Orton. Instead, we continued onward toward Kirkby Stephen.

 

A Long Afternoon

 

Once again, the afternoon became a long sequence of fields, drystone walls, gates, stiles, and navigation.

 

The trail passed through colourful farmland where stone buildings seemed used more for agriculture than habitation. We walked down farm drives lined with trees, grateful for whatever shade they offered, then continued through sheep pastures where the path was sometimes little more than a faint line of shorter grass. Each trail gate seemed to have a different kind of latch or closure, turning progress into a small puzzle. At times, figuring out how to open, pass through, and close them felt like a Mensa test designed for tired hikers.

 

There were also many stiles. On another day, perhaps they would have felt charming. On this day, with sore knees and feet that did not appreciate climbing over yet another obstacle, each stile felt like a hurdle.

 

In the hot afternoon sun, sheep lay in the shade of drystone walls. Around them, the patchwork of the landscape became more visible. Fields with sheep were bright green, likely encouraged by grazing and manure, while areas outside the enclosures were filled with yellow and white flowers, blooming hawthorn, and apple trees. Despite the temperature, the region was beautiful and it was wonderful to have the opportunity to roam across it.

 

We passed stone outbuildings and farm ruins, then stopped again beneath a huge tree near one of the farms, grateful for a break in the shade. Further along, we reached Sunbiggin Farm Café, which sat directly on the trail in a lovely-looking farmhouse with picnic tables outside. Sadly, it was closed – which was disproportionately disappointing.

 

After another short stretch of paved road, we passed Sunbiggin Tarn, where cars were parked nearby, and Lapwings called out around the water. The tarn and surrounding area had the feel of a small bird sanctuary, with open water, pasture, and protective walls around it all.

 

Beyond Sunbiggin, the route picked up another track through pastureland. The surface included a lot of loose gravel, which brought back memories of the T’Railway Trail in Newfoundland. Once again, it is amazing how quickly a surface or landscape can call another trail back into the body.

 

The next section, across Tarn Moor and Ravenstonedale Moor, was confusing. We watched the hiker in front of us, one of the men we had camped with the previous night, get turned around. Then we became uncertain ourselves. Eventually, he found the way and helped guide us forward, and the three of us continued separately but within sight of one another across the exposed, treeless fields.

 

There were few sheep here, little shade, and a great deal of openness. We passed Bents Farm, which had been a possible place to stay, though we had not been able to find enough information about it when we finally had an internet signal. It looked like a lovely property, but by then our reserved room in Kirkby Stephen was waiting, and the thought of that hotel room with a cozy bed and proper shower had become a powerful motivator.

 

All of which was still six or seven kilometres ahead of us.

 

Smardale

 

What followed felt, at that point in the day, almost unreasonable.

 

The trail dropped steeply toward an abandoned stone building, only to require us to backtrack and descend even farther toward a river crossing. On fresh legs, it might have been interesting. But after more than twenty kilometres today, it was not exactly what we wanted.

The route eventually led us down to Smardale Bridge, a beautiful stone arch crossing the water. Here, a Grey Heron flew along the river as we arrived, a small reward for the extra effort en route. Then, of course, we had to climb all the way back up onto Smardale Fell.  Along the way, I began to wonder if there were any flat areas in the UK or along the Coast to Coast route.

 

The late afternoon sun was extremely hot, and the path ran beside a drystone wall that blocked the breeze. Every time we reached a gap in the wall, the air moved through like air conditioning. Through one of those gaps, we could see the Smardale Aqueduct stretching across the valley. As we climbed, a storm cloud approached from the left, dark streaks of rain hanging beneath it, though it never quite reached us.

 

The effect on the landscape was remarkable. The yellow wildflowers seemed brighter beneath the darkening sky, and the hills layered themselves in shadow and light. All day, we had been moving toward the Pennine Mountains ahead, and now they stood more clearly in front of us, beautiful and daunting in equal measure.

 

We passed by the Giants’ Graves, another feature in a landscape already thick with stories as the trail continued to undulate. At one point, a fingerpost informed us that Kirkby Stephen was still two and three-quarters miles away, which meant roughly another five kilometres. A fact was not welcome news.

 

We stopped again on the limestone with the hiker we had been leapfrogging all day. Eventually, the father and daughter from Saskatoon appeared over the ridge, and slipping our backpacks on we followed them down the hill, along the road, and into a lane bordered by white-blossoming trees that smelled wonderfully sweet.

 

The Final Fields to Kirkby Stephen

 

Near the end of the day, the route ducked beneath an active railway line through a large stone arch, following an old railway track before weaving through a farmyard full of rabbits and cows. From there, we dragged ourselves across a final series of fields toward Kirkby Stephen.

We said goodbye to the Canadians, who would be moving on the next day, while we stayed behind to rest. It felt strange to part from people we had only known in passing, but on long-distance trails, even brief connections can feel meaningful. Shared weather, shared climbs, shared exhaustion, and repeated sightings across several days create a kind of temporary community.  Much like on the Camino Frances, it is hard to know that part of your trail family would be continuing on without you.

 

The route into town felt longer and warmer than we wanted it to be. By the time we reached the Pennine Inn, we were sore, tired, dusty, and deeply grateful that we had reserved a room. Of course, our room was on the top floor, which meant climbing to the third floor on legs that had already done quite enough for one day.

 

We had dinner at the hotel and left any exploring for tomorrow.

 

By then, the decision was easy. Burnt out and exhausted from long days, steep climbs, poor sleep, damaged gear, and the simple accumulation of effort, we added a second night to our reservation. We would take a day off in Kirkby Stephen to sleep, recover, do proper laundry, and perhaps explore the town in a manner more relaxed than cursory.

 

Kirkby Stephen seemed worth the time. It is an important stopping point on the Coast to Coast, with a long history, a thirteenth-century parish church, and the Nine Standards visible from the surrounding hills. From our hotel room, we could see those high markers in the distance, waiting for the route ahead.

 

That evening, though, the route ahead was not our concern.  Later, as we settled into bed with our windows open, a Tawny Owl called outside the window.

 

After the longest day of the trail so far, we finally let ourselves stop.

 

See you on the Trail!