REFLECTIONS.
A memoir on the value of life.
by Kim.
Part V.

In the morning we headed toward York via secondary roads, passing through picturesque villages and hamlets and a countryside so green that words defy me. We have decided to travel this way for the rest of our time in the British Isles, staying well away from the main roads. We reached York which was dominated by huge stone walls that virtually encircled the city. First, we found the National Railway Museum was located in York so popped in to check it out. I absolutely love steam locomotives and they housed so many different ones including the “Mallard” which, at the time of writing, held the world record speed of 126 mph reached in 1938 and, to my knowledge, still does.
Exiting the museum, we found that we were able to climb and walk along the walls for quite some distance. Back on solid ground we wandered about the city and found the grave of highwayman John Palmer, better known by his alias Dick Turpin. We also explored the magnificent York Minster cathedral, the largest Gothic church in England – it took 250 years to build!
On the way back to the car we came across some more Rome ruins – they were becoming rather run-of the-mill. Departing York, we headed for the North York Moors. That night we parked on a farm that also operated as a campground just outside the town of Helmsley. We took the chance of having a much-needed shower. You know it is much needed when the person offended by your odour is yourself! That night we fell asleep to the sound of bleating sheep.
The next morning the wind had calmed somewhat compared to the previous couple of days. We packed the car up and drove into Helmsley to visit the bakery. These visits had become very commonplace during our travels. I think it was the weather in England, so bleak with a constant drizzle that we found we were constantly hungry … and wanting to go to the toilet!
Before departing Helmsley, we saw the ruins of yet another old castle – the place is littered with them! We drove into the town of Thirsk where we visited a laundromat to wash our clothes. We also bought some groceries and filled the car with petrol. We located a shop that sold a book of walks in the North York Moors which we purchased along with an Ordinance map, just in case.
The next morning, we set off on a 6-mile hike called the Paradise Route on the western half of the North York Moors. We were following the book of walks, but the directions were a bit dubious, so we decided to follow the map as far as possible.
Now, whoever gave this hike the title “Paradise” should be shot. We purchased all our gear months before we departed for the UK. I took to “breaking in” my hiking boots by walking to work in them every day – some 11 kilometres. I did that daily for about a month without forming a single blister. Great, I thought, I’m ready. Well, after about 2 miles of “Paradise” my feet began to become very sore. The idea of walking that 2 miles back was bad enough so, deciding not to continue, I said “adios, have fun” to Steve, turned tail and fled back to the car where I swiftly removed the boots and freed my poor feet.
When Steve returned to the car at about 1:30pm waxing lyrical about the splendor of the view from Boltby Moor, blah, blah, blah, we set off further east through the moors to Chop Gate. Here we were met by a welcoming committee consisting of one old Yorkshire farmer. I had dressed the wounds on my feet and we were about to set off on another 10-mile hike, but our new friend would not stop talking. This was in stark contrast to the lady at the pub we had stopped at briefly for a beer. Her vocabulary consisted entirely of “yes” and “no” intermingled with giggles. This area of the country is full of characters.
We set off on our hike not knowing what to expect as my feet were still sore and Steve had a nasty blister on his right heel. But it was worth it. The views of snow-capped moors were utterly magnificent, even through the pain. We reached probably the highest point in the Moors when we ascended Cringle Moor which had an altitude of 1427 metres. As walking uphill was forcing my heel against the back of my boot, I decided to reverse the pressure by walking up backwards, much to Steve’s entertainment. I’m glad my agony amused him.
After losing the direction of the route (or, simply put, getting lost) as darkness fell, it was 8:45pm by the time we returned to the car. Hungry and sore we had walked an astonishing distance. All-in-all, Steve walked 30 kilometres and I walked 22 kilometres. We decided that next day would be a rest day.

END PART V