Mud, Fields, and Stiles : Richmond to Danby Wiske

“At the end of the day, your feet should be dirty, your hair messy and your eyes sparkling.” 

Shanti

Morning in our Victorian Suite 

After the tribulations of the previous day, we were in no particular rush to return to Wainwright’s Coast to Coast.

Yesterday had been defined by torrential rain, flooded tracks, chilling winds, and the mounting urgency of reaching Richmond before the hotel receptionist left for the day. It had been one of those stages that left almost everything soaked and muddy, as well as leaving us slightly frayed at the edges. So when morning came, we allowed ourselves the luxury of taking things slower.

Our very expensive room had at least done what we needed it to do. Gear that had been dripping and sodden the night before was now completely dry. The lines of clothing we had strung around the room from chairs to the canopy bed came down. Chairs were returned to their places. Radiators were turned back to normal. Socks, shirts, rain gear, and damp odds and ends were folded back into their usual stuff sacks and returned to our packs. For all the cost of the night, the ability to dry our small world out again had been invaluable.

The room also came with a small breakfast, which we enjoyed before stepping out to see a little of Richmond. It was still early, around 7:30 AM, which meant that almost nothing was open. Even so, the town was beautiful in the quiet of the early morning. We wandered through the market square, walked along cobbled streets, visited the obelisk and main church, as well as making our way to the imposing structure of Richmond Castle.

The castle dominated the town in a way that was entirely intentional. Begun in the years after the Norman Conquest, it still stood above Richmond as a statement of power, stone, and control. Even without going inside, it was impossible not to feel its authority. After days of moving through the landscapes of England, including its hills, moors, and rural villages, the castle seemed to belong to a different England - fortified, hierarchical, and built to be seen.

Richmond itself felt like a place we might have enjoyed more fully with time. But long-distance walking rarely gives towns the attention they deserve. We pass through them at odd hours, searching first for food, shelter, a cold pint, or a place to sit down. Only after those needs are met do we become proper visitors.  Time and energy permitting, of course. On this morning, with another stage ahead, Richmond became a place explored in fragments.  With our brief wandering of the historic market completed, we found ourselves in a café where we bought a mug of strong coffee and some pastries for later in the day.

Before returning to our room to check out, we were surprised to find familiar Camino shells and yellow waymarker stickers in town. We had known the Camino Inglés as a route in northern Spain, leading from the Galician coast toward Santiago de Compostela, and yet here were those familiar symbols in the middle of Richmond. It was an unexpected and oddly comforting sight. After so many years of following shells, arrows, blazes, and signs across Europe and Canada, there is something deeply reassuring about rounding a corner and encountering a symbol that feels like an old friend.  As to why they were here in Richmond, amid the heart of the UK, was another mystery, however. 

Back at our accommodations, we checked out, shouldered our bags, and returned to Wainwright’s Coast to Coast.

Back to the River Swale

Rejoining the route, we wove through Richmond’s cobbled streets, descended a steep hill, and crossed the River Swale on a stone bridge. Behind us, Richmond Castle continued to stand above the town, its curtain walls visible as we trekked on.

On the southern bank of the river, the Coast to Coast led us along the edge of an athletic field and then onto a narrow path following the shoreline. The Swale was swollen from the previous day’s rain, no longer a contained and orderly river but a loud, powerful presence that had already pushed beyond its banks in places. The sound of the water drowned out almost everything else: birdsong, footsteps, conversation, and even the squelch of mud beneath our boots.

It was clear immediately that although the rain itself had eased, the day would still be shaped by water. Yesterday’s storm had not ended simply because the clouds had moved on. It remained in the river, in the fields, in the footpaths, in the soft ground around every gate, and eventually…seemingly inevitably in our boots.

From the river, the trail entered woodland and began to climb. Soon we saw signs indicating that we were passing through a military training area, which gave the wooded track a slightly different feeling. The path was wide and well established, climbing through the trees before eventually emerging near a small stretch of quaint homes known as Priory Villas. From there, we had wonderful views back toward Richmond and the castle walls standing above the town.

For a little while, the route became less romantic and more practical. The Coast to Coast followed a sidewalk beside the busy A6136 before taking us toward the local sewage and wastewater facility. Across the Swale, partly hidden by trees and overgrowth, were the ruins of Easby Abbey. Founded in the 12th century, the abbey now stood as another one of those English landscapes where medieval stone, working infrastructure, riverbanks, fields, and walking routes all overlapped without ceremony.

Near the sewage works, crows, rooks, and jackdaws fed over the tanks, picking insects from the surface. Around the damp trunks and mossy edges, there was life everywhere if we were willing to look closely: likely jelly ear fungus folding in soft, ear-shaped layers from the wood, large brown and orange slugs moving slowly through the moss, and broad brackets of what appeared to be dryad’s saddle, or pheasant’s back fungus, fanning out near the base of a fence line. It was hardly the most picturesque smelling section of the Coast to Coast, and yet it was still intensely alive. Even the least glamorous parts of a trail have their own ecology, especially after rain, when fungi, mosses, slugs, insects, and scavenging birds seem to rise into view all at once.

Into the Fields

Soon the route crossed a footbridge, passed the ruins of Hagg Farm, and began moving into the flatter agricultural landscape beyond Richmond.

After the challenges of the Lake District and the Yorkshire Dales, this section was clearly different in its own right. There were no exposed ridgelines, no steep rocky climbs, no scrambling descents, and no moments where we looked up at a near-vertical slope and wondered how we were meant to get ourselves and our packs to the top.

On paper, the day should have been easier.  In practice, it was simply difficult in another way.

The Coast to Coast now wove us through a succession of fields, lanes, roads, hedgerows, muddy tracks, stiles, gates, and farm boundaries. We would walk a short stretch of road, turn into a field, follow a muddy track, climb a stile, follow the edge of a hedgerow, squeeze through another gate, return to a lane, then repeat the entire process again. And again, and again.  The fields were rain-soaked, and many had become quagmires. The ground was sticky and slippery, holding onto our boots with every step.

Vale of Mowbray

This was also our introduction to the Vale of Mowbray, a flatter agricultural landscape lying between the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors. Here, sheep pastures gave way more frequently to arable fields, cattle, farm tracks, hedgerows, and open views. Walking, the hills receded behind us, and the route became a study in field edges, muddy gateways, and the hidden rationale of English rights-of-way.

We were grateful, once again, for the trail signage as well as the clear path of other hikers.  In a landscape like this, where the route moved from one field to another, and a wrong gate could easily send us in entirely the wrong direction, waymarks mattered enormously. Often, we followed not only the signs but also the muddy footprints of other Coast to Coast walkers who had passed before us. Their line through the field became a kind of reassurance, a proof that we were still where we were meant to be.

Navigating the English Countryside

Even so, a great deal of the day’s energy went into trying not to get wet and muddy, which ultimately proved pointless. We began by stepping around puddles, balancing on grass edges, choosing the higher line through a gate, and trying to keep our boots from sinking too deeply into the churned-up ground. But with each field, each stile, and each muddy gateway, the inevitable became clearer. By the end of the day, our boots would be soaked, our socks sodden, and our lower legs splattered with a mixture of mud and substances we preferred not to identify too closely.  In the evenings, especially while hand washing our gear, we often found ourselves repeating …just mud, just mud, just mud.

At Colburn, we passed the white structure of the Hildyard Arms, though it was closed when we came through in the morning. The trail followed the local roadway for a while before turning off again into another series of fields bordered by hedgerows. In places, the path became a narrow muddy track squeezed between barbed wire on one side and stinging nettles on the other. Queen Anne’s lace was blooming along the edges, making the scene visually beautiful even as the walking itself remained sticky, awkward, and vaguely hostile.

There were steep stiles, muddy fields, patches of woodland, grain fields, and plenty of nettles for Sean to brush against in his shorts. If yesterday had been hard because of the weather, today was hard because of the aftermath: the rain absorbed into every surface and waiting for us at every gate.

Roman Roads and Settlements

Beyond the fields, near St. Giles Farm and the site of the former St. Giles Hospital, the route passed beneath a roadway and an abandoned rail line before bringing us toward signs for the Roman town of Cataractonium.

Today, the area is associated with Catterick and Brompton-on-Swale, but in Roman Britain, this was an important settlement and crossing point near Dere Street, the major Roman road running north. It was another reminder that the Coast to Coast, while never formally a historical pilgrimage, continually crosses older layers of development and movement.  Roman roads, medieval abbeys, market towns, military training fields, drove roads, farm tracks, and modern highways.

Hoping to find somewhere to sit down, drink coffee, and perhaps have a piece of cake, we crossed the River Swale again and ventured into Brompton-on-Swale. On the trestle bridge into town, we met a man who was more than ready to talk about the route.

Wainwright was Wrong

According to him, Wainwright had got this section entirely wrong.  He told us, with great passion, that Wainwright had been too cheap to buy another map and had therefore taken walkers south of the river, missing the abbey, the tea room, the campground, and any number of better possibilities to the north.  In his opinion, we were foolish for following the Coast to Coast as marked. We should, he insisted, be choosing smarter routes, not simply following “Wainwright’s crap.”  He desperately wanted to show us a map of his route design, which by his own proclamation “was far superior”. 

This might have been an interesting conversation if it had ended after five minutes. Unfortunately, it did not. For roughly half an hour he lectured us and then several other hikers about the failures of Wainwright’s route and the need to quit blindly following it.

There was, admittedly, something fitting about the encounter. Wainwright himself never intended the Coast to Coast to be treated as sacred text. He encouraged walkers to devise their own routes, to use maps, to think, to adapt, and to make the crossing their own while they explored the countryside. In that sense, the man on the bridge was not entirely wrong. There is a difference between following a route thoughtfully and obeying it as though every turn has been handed down from on high.

And yet, there is also a point at which the theory of route-making meets the practical reality of two tired hikers standing on a bridge with full backpacks, wet boots, and a long day still ahead.

Eventually, discouraged and somewhat trapped by politeness, we managed to push on.  Unfortunately (as many a hiker has likely lamented), the local bar had not yet opened, so there was no coffee, no cake, and no restorative break. Instead, we returned to the route and tried to find our way forward.

Nature Reserves and Hairy Coos

Leaving Brompton-on-Swale proved less obvious than we had hoped. The trail seemed to disappear into a small slit in an unkempt hedgerow, which, with further investigation, revealed a narrow squeeze gate that in turn led into a chute between two fences. Struggling through, we followed the confined path around the edge of a farmyard.

There, to our delight, were pleasant horses and enormous hairy coos.  After days of sheep, lambs, cattle, and rain, the sight of shaggy Highland cattle with huge horns was unexpectedly thrilling. Some animals seem to carry their own atmosphere with them, and these looked like creatures designed for weather, mud, and moorland. Their presence immediately improved our spirits.

Not to be outdone, an elegant deer shot across the field behind all the seated beasts.

Bolton-on-Swale Nature Reserve

A little farther on, we reached Bolton-on-Swale Nature Reserve, a former quarry now managed as a wildlife area. Here, finally, the day opened into something we could linger over. Around the quarry pond were birds everywhere: egrets, swans, geese, ducks, herons, and other waterbirds moving along the shore and across the water. All adding to the sense that the landscape had shifted from farm track to something more varied and alive.

We stopped for a while to bird and enjoy the ponds. Amid our time here, church bells rang somewhere in the distance. Couples walked dogs and asked us about hiking and birding. For a brief time, the mud and stiles receded, replaced by the pleasure of standing still and having the opportunity to enjoy the region.

This is one of the great gifts of walking with binoculars and cameras. Even on a day that is frustrating or monotonous, birds can interrupt the mood. They create reasons to stop that have nothing to do with exhaustion. A flash of movement in a hedge, a call over water, a shape on the far side of a pond, and suddenly the day is about discovering something new.

Eventually, though, we had to force ourselves to continue on. The birds remained behind us, and the trail returned us to roads, fields, and hedges. 

Bolton-on-Swale

The route brought us through Bolton-on-Swale and past St. Mary’s Church, a beautiful sandstone church with stained glass, a graveyard, old yews, and stones dating back through generations of village life. The present building has early medieval origins and incorporates fabric from earlier phases of worship on the site, giving it that layered quality so many English churches seem to possess.

We stayed long enough to appreciate it, though not long enough to fully explore. By this point in the day, the pattern of the stage had become clear. The result being that hikers who had grown tired of the fields and mud were increasingly choosing the roads, taking more direct lines toward Danby Wiske. We both understood the temptation completely. In several places, the road ran close by, dry, and far easier than the official route.

But we had come to walk the Coast to Coast.  And so, whether out of stubbornness, principle, or stupidity, we stayed with the trail and the mud. 

Sodden Fields and Flooded Gates

Only a few kilometres from Danby Wiske, the Coast to Coast gave us one final stretch of fields. The road ran alongside us, making the whole thing feel more absurd. We could see the easier option, but we remained committed to the marked route, which meant returning to wading rather than walking.  Which is not much of an exaggeration given that I have been in swimming pools with less water than some of the fields in the UK.

The beginning of the section was uncertain. We crossed a small pasture, moved through a very mucky yard with a beautiful white building, and then followed a muddy track through a small stand of trees. The passage was overgrown, with shoulder-high vegetation, slippery mud, and large puddles that offered no clear way around.  The only option, as several of us were in the process of discovering, was to go through. 

Beyond that, we crossed several cow pastures. Around each gate, the ground had been churned into ankle-deep mud and manure by the repeated passage of animals and hikers. Every gate became a negotiation with gravity and stability. Where to place a foot. Where to grab a fence line without touching barbed wire. How to open the latch while keeping balance. How to pass through without sinking too deeply. How not to fall as fence posts wobbled and gates swung away. 

Then the cows began following us.

Large herds gathered near the stiles into the next fields, clustering around the very places we needed to go. We had to shoo them away before climbing through. They watched with great interest, as though trying to figure out how the gates worked.

I began to imagine them discussing the problem among themselves.

“I think it’s the thumbs. That’s how they open the gate.”

“Damn. We only have hooves.”

At which point the entire herd pushed forward again, clustering nearer and nearer.  There is something unsettling in having several tons of cattle so close by, watching you intently. 

Humour helped, but only a little. The truth was that every gate used by hikers was also used by livestock, and the result was always the same: a thick, slippery, oatmeal-like churn of mud, water, grass, and lord knows what else. By now, the mud was not only around us but on us, up our legs, and so, the remaining hope of keeping our feet dry had disappeared.

Then came the most unnerving section of the day.

Riverside Pathway

The trail was directed down the side of Bolton Beck, which was swollen from the recent rain and rushing high between its banks. In places, it had overflowed into the path. The space to walk was narrow, overgrown with Queen Anne’s lace, and bordered by barbed wire along the edge of the field. There are moments on a trail when a route feels merely awkward, and others when it begins to feel distinctly unfriendly. This was the latter.

Whether or not it was true, it felt as though hikers were not especially welcome here. The path was wet, hemmed in, overgrown, and uncomfortable. The river flowed close on one side, the barbed wire – the only available handhold if one slipped lined the other side, and the mud underfoot offered little confidence.

In the final indignity for the day, the last pasture held calf-deep water.  There was no other route.  At one point, Sean tried to swing me around one huge puddle using a gate, but there was no real avoiding it. The water went over the tops of our boots anyway.

The worst part was that the road was right there.  Dry. Sensible. Right beside us.

The Logic and Intention of Alfred Wainwright

It was in this stretch that a thought began to settle in my mind about the Coast to Coast. No matter how hard we worked each evening to dry our gear, and no matter how carefully we tried each day to avoid puddles, mud, and flooded tracks, the route seemed determined to send us into town wet, muddy, and splattered from the calves down.

I began to wonder whether Alfred Wainwright simply liked the idea of walkers arriving at the pub looking as though they had wrestled England itself and barely survived.

Perhaps that was unfair. The weather had been extreme. The fields were saturated. The route was never meant to be a sanitized walking corridor. Rights-of-way pass where they pass, and the English countryside is not arranged for the emotional convenience of two Canadian hikers with wet socks.

And yet, after several days of this pattern – a giant moor or muddy field right before the conclusion of each stage, it was hard not to suspect that part of the Coast to Coast’s character lay in making sure that no one arrived too clean.  The result being that you invariably walked into town each night looking like some grand adventurer – exhausted, soaked and mud-splattered.  At which point you were not just someone going for a walk, but someone who had earned their evening pint and Full English the next morning. 

As I said, perhaps I am being unfair.

Danby Wiske

At last, we made it back to the road. The final kilometres into Danby Wiske followed quiet country roads, periodically returning us to overgrown passages or along the edges of fields before once again giving way to pavement.  Regardless, it was easy trekking after hours, crossing waterlogged fields.

As we entered the village, a light rain began to fall. On the green outside the White Swan, hikers were waiting for the pub to open. A sign noted the opening time, and everyone seemed to have gathered in preparation.

We had intended to camp at Church Holme Camping, so after passing the pub, we continued down the road to find the site. It looked like a nice place with clean facilities and plenty of space. Unfortunately, the pitch had standing water on it. Given the forecast, which called for more rain before midnight, the idea of setting up our tent on wet ground and hoping for the best did not seem especially wise.

We also could not find anyone to check in with. There was a phone number listed, but with no active phone plan, that did not help us much. Uncertain, discouraged, and increasingly aware of how tired we were of being wet, we walked back to the White Swan just as the doors were being unlocked.

Inside, we put down our gear and ordered a couple of pints and sat near the fire while we considered our options. The proprietor had the wonderfully particular energy of a friendly hedgehog, or perhaps someone who had stepped out of The Wind in the Willows. He moved around the room telling everyone exactly where to put wet shoes, where to lean hiking poles, where to hang keys in the morning, and when to place dinner orders. There was order, warmth, and a system for everything. 

Overhearing us discuss the campground, he mentioned that someone had just cancelled a reservation and that he had a single room available for the night. Needless to say, we did not need much persuading.

Within moments, we had taken the room, paid for the night, ordered another pint, and accepted that once again we would be sleeping indoors.  The truth was that we wanted to be dry more than we wanted to prove anything.

Our room above the bar was lovely. We washed the mud (definitely not sheep or coo muck) out of our socks and pants, took warm showers,  plugged camera batteries and power banks in to recharge, and hung wet gear wherever it was permitted to dry. Like everyone else, we were allowed to put our boots in front of the fire and hang rain gear in the hall!

Evening in Danby Wiske

That evening, rather than eating one of our camp meals, we had dinner in the pub and talked with the hikers from Canada, America, Australia and the UK, all of whom were having their own Coast to Coast adventures. Around us, other hikers commiserated about the rain, the mud, the stiles, the fields, and the cumulative fatigue of the past few days. There is a particular comfort in shared complaint when it is honest and good-natured. No one needed to pretend the day had been glamorous. Everyone’s boots told the truth.

By 7 PM, we were already snug and warm in bed.  The result of over a week of hiking or the number of pints we had enjoyed is anyone’s guess.

It had not been a physically difficult day in the way the Lake District had been difficult. There were no great climbs, no high passes, no rough descents, and no exposed ridges. But it had been wearing in its own way. The endless shifting between road and field, stile and gate, mud and pavement had slowly drained us. More than anything, we were growing tired of wet feet and the creeping sense that on the Coast to Coast, arriving soaked and muddy was not an accident but part of the expected experience. 

Still, we were warm. Our boots were by the fire. Our clothes were washed and drying. We had eaten well, talked with other walkers, and once again found shelter.

Outside, the rain continued to fall thunderously over Danby Wiske.  Inside, for one more night, we were dry.

See you on the Trail!