Road to Richmond

     We set out this morning walking to  Richmond and shortly overtook Fred on the trail. Fred is in his 80's and a great story teller we met a few nights ago.  When he collects a suitable number of listeners in a pub, he pulls out a book he wrote, and reads to the assembled.
     As it happened, the path we were on was once used to carry coffins up the hill for burial and there are great level stones along the way that are said to be there for the bearers to rest the coffin on while they caught their breath.  I couldn't help remembering Fred telling us in a pub that if he died on the trail, to just roll him out of the way so no one would trip and remember that he had died doing what he wanted to do.  Indications are, however, that Fred has years to walk yet; a great pair of legs on the man and besides, he doesn't hold with a lot of hand washing. It lowers your immunity, says Fred.
      One is constantly opening and closing gates because the public footpath runs through private farmland. The challenge of the various gate latches reminds me of the interlocking metal puzzles we got for Christmas as as kids.  A sign posted requests that walkers go single file to decrease damage to the meadow.  Fred tells us that he once watched a woman cautiously walk a wide circle around a huge bull sitting in the middle of the path only to be berated by the farmer shouting , "Stick to the bloody footpath, woman!"

      A problem with morning walks, especially after swallowing a big pot of coffee at breakfast, is finding a little privacy, especially on the moors.  It's pretty hard to conceal oneself behind heather that only grows a foot high. One can only hope to come across a useful boulder, propitiously left behind by  some ancient glacier.   

(Note boulder)

     One of the great advantages of being a guy, as far as I can tell, is that they don't face the same logistical problems in this matter.  With rain gear, by the way, the logistics can involve three or four layers to get up and down.  Down and up, rather.
     I complained about the lack of direction signs for the trail in the Lake District.  In the Yorkshire Dales the trail seems to be much more clearly marked.  However, since we're on the subject of elimination, here's a special direction sign, left by a considerate cow, for people who walk along looking at their feet.

       

     There is no doubt a great deal I could learn by listening to Fred. However not being by nature a very congenial person, after a bit I decided I'd rather listen to the sound of my own footsteps and the bleeting of the sheep. I moved off and the castle town of Richmond, where we plan to spend a day as tourists, soon arose on the horizon.