Roadways and Right of Ways : Danby Wiske to Osmotherley

“The world reveals itself to those who travel on foot” 

Werner Herzog 

Morning in Danby Wiske

Comfortable, dry, and perhaps a little reluctant to leave the warmth of the White Swan, we stayed in bed until 7 AM.  It did not take long, however, for the smells of breakfast cooking downstairs to draw us out of bed. After several days of rain, mud, wet socks, and improvised drying systems, the prospect of a hot meal in a warm pub was more than enough motivation. We dressed, repacked, and made our way into the common room for breakfast.

There, we discovered one more reason to be grateful for the White Swan. Sometime during the evening, the proprietor had spent a considerable amount of time arranging and rearranging everyone’s sodden hiking boots around the stove so they would dry properly. This meant that, for the first time in what felt like a very long while, we put on completely dry shoes in the morning. Let me amend that – they were not merely dry shoes, but warm dry shoes.

It felt like a blessing.

Before leaving Danby Wiske, we walked through the village to look at the old church. Most other hikers had already set off, and a group even ran after us, kindly assuming we were heading the wrong way. In fact, we had only wandered over to see the church before rejoining the Coast to Coast.

Danby Wiske Church is one of those small English churches that holds far more history than its size suggests. Its south wall and doorway date to the 12th century, and above the south door is a weathered Norman tympanum, likely carved between 1090 and 1120. The figures are worn now, but they are thought to represent the weighing of the soul at judgment. It was a fitting image to encounter at the beginning of another day on foot – the notion of crossing a threshold, reckoning with what you have done, and a reminder that each moment is important.

From the church, we returned past the White Swan, rejoined Wainwright’s Coast to Coast, and walked out of Danby Wiske to begin the next stage across England.

Almost immediately, the dry comfort of the morning began to fade. We passed a cottage whose lawn was largely underwater from the nearby beck, then crossed the water on a small bridge. The route briefly followed a quiet local road, and in the distance, we could hear a morning train race past on the busy line we had also heard the previous day.

The fields around us were still leaking water from the heavy rain of the past few days. The storm had moved on, but its consequences remained everywhere.

Navigating Fields and Roadways

Soon, the route left the pavement and returned to the boundaries of agricultural fields.

Within moments, everything the proprietor of the White Swan had done for us the night before was undone. The tall grass was soaked. The muddy track through the field was slick. Our boots darkened and soon after began once again taking on water. The warm dryness of the morning lasted barely long enough to enjoy it. 

This was the immediate lesson of the day: on the Coast to Coast, dryness is sometimes less a condition than a brief emotional or psychological state of mind.

We crossed fields of wheat, grain, and possibly barley, their greens and yellows made more vivid by the dark, sticky mud beneath them. The mud had taken on a new quality today. It was no longer only wet or slippery. It was adhesive, clinging to our boots in heavy clumps and making each step slightly more effortful than the last. Around the stiles, huge puddles had gathered on both sides, forcing us either to leap awkwardly with full packs or simply accept that our feet were going in – often deep in.

After several fields, we reached what I believe was the A167, a busy road that had to be crossed with care. Fast cars, sore legs, and large backpacks do not make for a relaxing combination. We waited for a gap, crossed safely, and, more than a little unnerved, ducked back into the fields.

There we encountered livestock, including a few bulls. Here I should say that while we are not generally nervous around cattle, and after years of walking through agricultural landscapes, we have learned to be calm, observant, and respectful. Still, being carefully watched by a large bull only a dozen feet away is not an especially soothing experience.

Regardless, everything was fine, and from here the Coast to Coast continued on repeat.   Roads, fields, stiles, mud. Roads, fields, stiles, and mud.

Crawling Through Mud on the Coast to Coast

Then came the morning’s nasty surprise.

After a few more wet fields of grain, the path ducked into a hedgerow. From a distance, it looked like a narrow right-of-way squeezed between farm boundaries. Up close, it became something else entirely: an overgrown tunnel of mud, water, thorns, nettles, hawthorn, brambles, and frustration.

At first, we tried to pick our way carefully along the middle, clinging to branches, balancing on broken sticks tossed down by others, and choosing small patches of ground that looked slightly less likely to swallow our boots. Very quickly, the goal changed. We were no longer trying to stay dry. We were trying not to fall and end up being soaked.

About a quarter of the way through the tunnel, the water deepened. The mud became more suctioning. Low branches snagged at our packs. Hawthorn and brambles caught at our clothing. Nettles and thistles seemed to lean in from both sides. The path was so overgrown that in places we had to bend almost double, and later, effectively crawl, to make any progress at all. 

Within minutes, we were splattered in mud from our elbows down, from our knees down. Then the mud rose higher. Our boots slid, sank, and stuck. Each step had to be extracted before the next could be taken. The tunnel seemed to go on far longer than it reasonably should have, and for the final few hundred metres, there was no choice but to give up entirely and simply slosh through calf-deep brown water beside a farm that smelled strongly of cow manure.

It took us nearly forty minutes to clamber, slip, slide, stumble, duck, and crawl our way through that trough of mud and water.  The sole saving grace was that, for once, it was not raining.

That, in itself, became a reminder that days on trail do not exist in isolation. A deluge two days earlier can still change the ground beneath your feet today. Weather is not only what is falling from the sky. It is what remains in the fields, what puddles at gates, what fills ditches, what softens rights-of-way, and what climbs into your once dry and warm socks before 10 AM.

Later, we discovered that many other hikers had simply left the path, pushed through the hedge, climbed a fence, and crossed the farmer’s field instead, regardless of the signs. It certainly sounded easier. But it also sat uneasily with us.

Rights-of-way depend on a fragile relationship between walkers and landowners – we have seen what happens when this breaks down on the Bruce Trail and East Coast Trail in Canada. If too many people decide the official path is inconvenient and begin cutting across fields, damaging fences, or ignoring access rules, then the possibility of others walking the route in future can be affected. We understood the temptation completely.  By that point, I might even have envied them. Crawling through a passage of brambles and cow manure is not my idea of fun.  But we did not want our actions to become part of the reason a route became harder for others to follow.

Besides, how anyone managed to get through the hedge of thorns and brambles with a backpack remained a mystery. Ours were snagged continually by low branches and thorns even while we were staying on the path.

Eventually, after navigating a broken stile, we emerged from the tunnel of mud onto a stretch of road bordered by hedges and blooming Queen Anne’s lace. For a brief moment, the open air felt wonderful.

Then the route turned again. There was to be no real reprieve.

Electric Fences and Barbed Wire

The next property sent us down a farmer’s lane filled with standing water, which in turn led us to an incredibly narrow passage with an electric fence and barbed wire on one side and stinging nettles growing on the other. A swollen waterway ran nearby, the path was slippery and muddy, and the footing felt precarious. Staying upright once again became the entire focus. There is a particular kind of concentration required when you are walking through standing water inches from an electrified fence line. It is not the kind of attention usually celebrated in walking literature, but it is attention nonetheless.

After that came an equestrian centre with a beautiful horse parading itself about.

Then another road. Another farm lane. Another property that looked as though it had fallen on hard times, with a sagging roof and an abandoned-looking caravan out front.

And then, unexpectedly, one of the best honesty stops we had ever seen.  The farm had an honesty fridge stocked with cold drinks, water, chocolate bars, and more. Around it were brooms, plastic skulls, humorous warning signs, and a small rest area with a table and chairs. We did not stop for long, but the sight of it was enough to improve the day. It was a reminder not to judge a place by its cover. After the tunnel of mud and the long sequence of wet fields, that strange, generous setup felt like a perfect oasis – skulls and all.

Railway Crossings and Highway Crossings

Pushing on, we crossed another farmer’s field and reached a large metal stile leading to a train crossing. As if on cue, a fast-moving train raced along the double set of tracks, blowing its horn as it saw us waiting.

As a related aside, I should say that I absolutely love trains.  Perhaps it is simply a North American thing. They remind me of crossing Canada on VIA Rail’s Canadian year after year, and of walking the Trans Canada Trail where engineers would sometimes wave and blow their horns as they passed. There is something about a train moving through the landscape that always makes travel feel larger than the present moment. Standing there with our muddy boots and heavy packs, waiting for the line to clear, I felt briefly connected to those earlier journeys across Canada.

Once the way was clear, we crossed the tracks and continued over a narrow concrete bridge that was overgrown and led us – perhaps predictably - back into another field.

Much of the morning continued in the same rhythm: roads, stiles, fields, mud, repeat. At times, we passed curious sheep. Birds called from nearby trees. The landscape was not unpleasant, exactly. It was simply exhausting. The day was of course, less physically challenging than the Lake District, but the constant transitions required constant focus on our footing. Each stile, each gate, each field edge, each road crossing asked something of us.

After crossing another flat field of grain and skirting around a farm, we reached the roar of a major road. We could hear it before we saw it.  We had planned to stop at the highway service station to withdraw cash from the ATM for the coming days, but there was a power outage, and the machine was unavailable. Thankfully, we were still able to buy a couple of bottles of iced tea, which we drank while sitting on the grass in the shade with our shoes off.

A few minutes without boots on, sitting down in the sun, can transform morale.

Then came the A19.  Simply put, the crossing was terrifying. Lines of transport, lorries, and cars raced past at speed. There were four main lanes of traffic, plus turning lanes, which made the whole crossing feel more akin to seven active lanes. We waited for a gap, dashed to the median, waited again, and then repeated the process on the far side.

It only took a few minutes to get a cross, we had been lucky with a gap in the traffic.  But it left us rattled nonetheless.

Given the popularity of the Coast to Coast, and especially given its movement toward National Trail status, it was hard to understand why there was no pedestrian bridge, tunnel, or safer crossing. It seems this crossing is simply a bad accident waiting to happen.  Suffice to say, we were relieved when it was behind us.

Ingleby Cross

A short time later, we reached a stone water tower at Ingleby Arncliffe. Built in 1915 by Sir Hugh Bell as part of the water supply for Arncliffe and Rounton, the small tower looked far more decorative than purely functional, with a carefully landscaped area in front. Here we met a father and daughter from Saskatoon who were taking a break outside it.  We happily joined them on the bench while recovering from the road crossing.

Despite being so close to the A19, Ingleby Cross felt quiet and relaxing. There was a beautiful war memorial, lovely cottages, gardens, and the distinct sense that we had crossed from one kind of day into another.

From there, we descended into the village along a pleasant street bordered by houses and gardens before reaching the Joiners Shop Café and Kitchen. It had baked goods, tea, coffee, and exactly the kind of food that can set a day to rights. We sat outside on the sidewalk with coffee and fruit scones with jam and butter, directly opposite the popular Blue Bell Inn.

The Blue Bell was where many of the hikers we had seen over the previous week were ending their day. It was a sensible stopping point and one that our guidebook also noted. But having walked only around 15 kilometres from Danby Wiske and taken several breaks as well as given the fact that with the weather finally dry, it felt too short for us. We had a decision to make.

We could stop here, camp, and call it a day. We could push much farther, leave the Coast to Coast, and walk a little off route toward Lordstones. Or we could continue to Osmotherley, where there was camping another few kilometres along the trail.

We were not interested in leaving the Coast to Coast, and the idea of reaching Osmotherley seemed reasonable. After tea, scones, and a bit of deliberation, we set off again with plans to continue toward Blakey Ridge the following day.

Climbing the Cleveland Hills

Leaving Ingleby Cross required another busy road crossing, after which the trail changed almost immediately.

The Coast to Coast began climbing toward the Cleveland Hills, ascending through Arncliffe Wood on a steady gravel track that felt like a forest access road. After the flat fields, wet rights-of-way, and road crossings of the morning, the climb was welcome. It was long and constant, but it felt like the route was finally going somewhere again.

We passed Walkers B&B, where a sign announced that we were 48 miles from Robin Hood’s Bay and 132 miles from St Bees. It was surprisingly exciting to see those numbers. After days of mud, rain, damaged gear, and uncertain stages, there was evidence of progress. We were moving across England. The Irish Sea was far behind us now, and the North Sea was beginning to feel possible to reach.

At one point, we got a little off route on the ascent, but eventually came out where we needed to be. The trees gave way, the landscape widened, providing us with beautiful views over the green farmland we had been crossing for the past few days. The Vale of Mowbray stretched below, lush, flat, and patterned with fields, stone walls, roads, and villages. From above, even the mud began to look scenic.

That is, of course, one of the tricks elevation plays. From within a landscape, the route can be challenging, wet, and frustrating. From above, it becomes comprehensible, orderly and beautiful.

As we continued, we took a short side trip to the Chapel of Our Lady of Mount Grace. Set quietly among the trees, the small stone chapel felt peaceful in a way that many grander religious sites do not. Built in connection with the Carthusian monks of nearby Mount Grace Priory, it is a sparse, simple, and reflective space. To me, that is often what a holy place should be: not an accumulation of gold, wealth, and spectacle, but a peaceful place.

Osmotherley

From there, the track descended toward the community of Osmotherley.

The approach was lovely, passing upscale-looking homes with large windows, carefully tended gardens, and views out toward the surrounding hills. Osmotherley itself was immediately appealing, with stone buildings, an old-fashioned general store, and welcoming pubs.

We stopped at the Golden Lion – whose name immediately reminded us of a similar venue on Queen Mary2 - and sat outside on the patio in the sun with a couple of pints. After the morning’s mud and the afternoon’s climb, it felt wonderful to sit still. We also said goodbye to several hikers who were leaving the trail here. By now, the Coast to Coast community had become familiar enough that departures felt noticeable. People appeared and disappeared along the route, but after several days of shared stages and pub conversations, we had begun to recognize faces.  

Before continuing to the campground, we visited the shop and bought newspapers to help dry our wet shoes, along with scones for the morning and cookies for the next day. These were not glamorous purchases, but they felt entirely practical. Long-distance walking turns ordinary objects into minor luxuries.

Today also marked the end of our time in the Vale of Mowbray. Ahead of us lay the North York Moors and, with them, a new phase of the Coast to Coast.

The Cleveland Way and Camping

Leaving Osmotherley, we continued toward the campground and joined the Cleveland Way.

The Cleveland Way is a National Trail of roughly 109 miles, or 175 kilometres, running from Helmsley to Filey Brigg. Officially opened in 1969, it was the second National Trail in England and Wales. Its route combines the heather moorland of the North York Moors with a later coastal section along the North Sea, and for a time, the Coast to Coast now shared its path.

It was not long before we walked into the Cote Ghyll Caravan Park & Campsite, which, we were shocked to see extremely busy.  Unknown to us, it was a long weekend in the UK, and we were fortunate to be able to get a pitch without reservations. All around us were enormous tents, some larger than two-car garages, as well as caravans, vehicles full of equipment, folding chairs, tables, mallets, duvets, barbecues, and the full infrastructure of holiday camping.

It was striking to see how different camping in the UK was from the backpacking and backcountry routines we were used to in Canada. People seemed to arrive with entire households packed into their vehicles. Tents were not shelters so much as temporary estates.

With that said, I think seeing our tent come out of my backpack and watching us boil up water with a small backpacking stove we may have terrified the people beside us.  While we settled in they unpacked several folding tables, set up a BBQ and several coolers of more food than we could imagine. 

We arrived with everything we owned on our backs, muddy from the knees down, our gear damp, our shoes wet, and Sean’s backpack still held together by my ongoing repair work. While they continued on laying out foldable hammocks, duvets, a generator, and the components of a very comfortable outdoor life, I sat there sewing another torn section of Sean’s pack. Our crawl through the hedgerow tunnel had clearly caught a branch on one of the seams I had worked on earlier, and another hole had opened in our patchwork repairs.

This had become my evening routine on the Coast to Coast: shower, wash clothes, eat, and sew Sean’s backpack back together.

Still, the campground was a gift. We were able to change into sandals, leave our shoes in the sun, do laundry, take long warm showers, and feel clean for at least a few minutes. There is a smell that gear develops after days of damp, mud, rain, and sweat. Somehow, no matter how much you clean up and dry out it never entirely leaves. It only waits until the next time things get wet and rises again.

That evening we made a camping dinner of curry, finished our chores, and watched the busy life of the campground around us. Happy children seemed to be running and playing everywhere, families arrived, organized, cooked, and settled into their own versions of being outdoors.

As we went to sleep, the sky was very overcast and looked like rain, though so far none had fallen.

Evening Reflections

Yesterday, I had complained about spending the whole day trying to keep our feet dry, only to end the stage with sodden shoes after wading through a marshy section near Danby Wiske.

Today, we discovered there was something worse.

Last night, the owner of the White Swan had done an extraordinary job drying everyone’s boots and rain gear. He had rotated shoes around the heater and stove until everything was warm and dry by morning. It was the first time in days that we had put on dry boots.

Then we walked out the door, crossed a short section of road, entered a wet field, and immediately soaked them again.  And so it turns out that getting your shoes wet first thing in the morning is actually worse than getting them wet at the end of the day. When it happens late, you only have to endure the final miles. When it happens early, you carry that wetness all day. By the end, your feet are sore, softened, and tired in a way that is hard to explain.

I’ve long maintained that the world reveals itself to those who travel on foot. Some days, it reveals itself and teaches you lessons by filling your boots before breakfast.

See you on the Trail!