I have now organised my next leg – I am very far behind where I had hoped to be, but the new website http://www.tudortimes.co.uk is eating up my time.

Nevertheless, I have now fixed 12 days carrying on from Plymouth where I left off in September of 2013.  I start from Plymouth on 10th July, and plan to reach St Ives on the 21st of the month.

It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that Hull on a very wet Monday in February put the grim into “oop North”.

I have walked 26.7 km in fairly persistent rain, and enough mud on the last couple of miles to almost suck my boots off. Nevertheless, it has been a red letter day – I crossed the mighty Humber Bridge-a truly awe in sprinting piece of engineering: 1.5 miles long, with the tops of the 155 meter towers 36mm further apart at the top than at the base, to allow for the curvature of the earth, and a swing up to of 4 meters (yes, 12 feet) in the centre to stop it breaking up in high winds.

Fortunately, today was not a high wind. It was brisk enough but nothing out of the ordinary. I set foot on the bridge at around five to nine and descended at around 9.30. Sadly I had very little view down the estuary as it was so cloudy, but standing under the towers and seeing the steel work was view enough. The cables that suspend the 21,000 tonne road, plus 5,000 tonnes of traffic, are actually twists of 14,498 lengths of wire of 5mm diameter each. Laid out, each would reach almost twice around the globe – heady stuff!

Following that excitement, the day was a long, hard slog, mainly along roads, and through deserted docklands to arrive in the not- entirely-inspiring village of Hedon by 4pm. Reading the tourist material in my hotel room, I feel I must have walked through a very different Hull from the one they are advertising. Perhaps it’s a Sliding Doors thing – had I turned left instead of right at Dagger Lane (yes, really) the whole thing might have looked quite different….

I’ve finished walking for the weekend. I shall go to Beverley tomorrow to admire the Minster.

I’ve finally organised next walk to start on 13th Feb at Mablethorpe!  Looking forward to dusting off the walking boots.  I should get over the Humber Bridge and into Yorkshire!

Contrary to what you may have thought, I haven’t been drowned off the coast of Lincolnshire.  However, I have had to put my walking plans on hold as I have been superbusy setting up a new website.

You may have noticed from my posts that I am interested in history, so, working with a colleague, we have set up a new history website at:

www.tudortimes.co.uk

It’s a website devoted to Tudor and Stewart history 1485 – 1603.  Pop over and have a look, if you are interested in history.

As you can imagine, this has taken a lot of work.  However, I plan to get the walking boots back on in February – looking at the weekend of 6/7 to crack on – will post an update when confirmed.

Merry Christmas!

I had an appointment in North Lincolnshire, so I grabbed the opportunity to come down to Skegness and finish the walk from the Bank Holiday weekend. My friend, Graham, who has heard a good deal about the walk, but so far has not taken part was, conveniently, free to come over from Nottingham, so he joined me here last night.

So, Skegness. Well, what can I say? And Skegness on a Saturday night, too! I wish I could say that we rode the roller-coaster and partied in the tasty night-clubs till dawn, but, sadly, not. We went for a very sedate drink and snack in the same hotel Rachel and I stayed in last time, but did not have the opportunity to admire the Bollywood antics.

This morning, I drove down to Gibraltar Point to pick up the path opposite the frustrating locked foot-bridge. For the first time since turning inland south of Hunstanton, I could actually catch a glimpse of the open sea. Not for long however, as the salt marsh has built up here into a huge nature reserve. It took the best part of an hour to reach the Clock Tower in Skegness where I had arranged to meet Graham – he declined to get up early and join me at Gibraltar Point, as, he informs me that he likes a leisurely breakfast.

Skegness was rather quieter in the day than it had been the night before. We walked down to the sea front, and at last I could see the ocean. The beach was golden and smooth, absolutely glorious. The weather was kind, too as we walked along the South Bracing, and then the North Bracing – I am sure the names are usually reflective of reality, but today they were not.

We divided our walking between the promenade and the sand close to the sea. The prom is hard under foot, but conducive to swift progress. The sand is slower and ruinous to boots, but pleasanter under foot when just above the water line.

We did not see much of any remark on our trip – there were lots of people around, children determinedly bucket-and-spading on the last day of the summer holidays. We marvelled at the terrifying rides at the funfair we passed. The roller coaster was shockingly high and steep, and I started to feel sick just watching people hanging upside down.

Sadly, many of the cafes and buildings along the front for the whole stretch to Mablethorpe are rather unattractive – concrete and corrugated iron with neon lights, garish colours and EXTREMELY LOUD MUSIC. Still, I suppose tastes differ and everything cannot be a twee tea-shop.

Sutton-on-Sea has set its face against modern development, but was not outstandingly attractive – some unusual beach huts – the roofs look rather pagoda-like in shape.

After an easy day, we arrived in Mablethorpe around 4.45pm, having done some 18 ½ miles. We were in time for fish and chips before catching the bus back to Skegness.

Just got into bed feeling completely exhausted. Last night, I hardly slept at all, behaving elected to stay at the Youth Hostel in Sheringham with Chris and Rita who walked with me today.

Unfortunately, I was in a shared dorm with two perfectly lovely women, who unhappily both snored like drunken sailors.   Now generally, one person snoring is just about bearable if it not too loud but both of them were appalling in both frequency and volume. I was reminded of the Ancient Mariner – they cracked and growled and roars and howled all night without ceasing, First in counterpoint, then in harmony, and finally in some devilish syncopation that kept me awake all night. Even the chickens at five am couldn’t bother me as I was ready wide awake.

Other than the noise the YH was good – excellent meal last night, though breakfast was indifferent.

Rita, Chris and I set out around 8.45 along the front at Sheringham. The forecast had been for torrential rain at 9am, but it did not materialise. We walked along for a half mile or so. Then, after going a little too far, and having to turn back, climbed up onto the low cliffs at the golf course.

The loveliest part of the morning was being surrounded by sky larks. I have never seen so many – not just in the air but on the ground too, and seemingly, unafraid of humans.   It really is the sound of a British summer. We walked for about four miles on the cliff path. As well as the sky larks, we saw plenty of butterflies and also seven spotted burnet moths.

Our favourite sight of the day was a group of “fishermen.”  Well, their fishing rods were propped up, working away, but the chaps themselves were lolling on a large, inflatable sofa, with a cooler full of beer.  We thought they were probably watching the match on their phones at the same time.  No doubt they will return to their wives with stories of all the fish that got away.

Eventually we came down to the shingly beach at Weybourne, then turned inland to Salthouse where we stopped for a coffee. Rita left us there and Chris and I continued to Cley-next-the-sea (apparently pronounced cleye to rhyme with eye.) A number of these towns named “next-the-sea” really need to be renamed “used-to-be-next-the-sea-in-the-early-middle-ages,” often being a mile or so inland.

As we walked towards Cley we were delighted by the sight of a very elderly man, he must have been 90 plus, walking towards the sea with a collar and tie and tweed jacket and cap, long staff in his hand. We decided he had walked to the sea every day of his life since his was a nipper. He was very gentlemanly, and touched his cap to us as we passed.

Going through Cley, the path runs inland along the main road to cross a river.   Carelessly, Chris and I were so carried away by the delights of home-made Norfolk ice cream (I chose Norfolk Apple Crumble flavour – mmm!) that we missed the turning back towards the shore and took an accidental 2.5 mile detour, only discovered when Chris wondered why the sea was behind us instead of to the right. Grrr.

The Norfolk coast path is uneventful. It is hard going on the shingle areas, and the beaches today were all shingle, not like the beautiful sounds further east.  There are numerous churches along the way, all unfeasibly large, remnants no doubt of the days when East Anglia we the most prosperous, and populous area of the country after London.

We walked steadily though Blakeney, Morton and Stiffkey – no idea how that is pronounced, although we have heard that it is Stukey. We did come up with some interesting variants.  Well, I say we walked steadily. But the signage is poor and we often had to double back to find the track as it meanders through the wetlands. Despite predictions of violent storms and heavy rain, we encountered no more than a few drops. About a mile out of Wells, we met Sally and Trevor and, with the addition of Bridget, who will walk tomorrow, adjourned to the Albatross, a splendid floating pub in a converted Dutch Barge.

I am unusually tired tonight, both as a result of last night’s sleeplessness, and the detour that gave us an extra couple of miles, to make just over 20 rather than the planned 17.5. Also, I have been quite poorly for the last few weeks, and this is my first real outing. I hope I will be able to cover the distances planned.

Today I saw something I have never seen before in Britain – seals en masse. I have seen the odd one off-shore in North Wales, but never in groups (pods? colonies?). I had heard talk about seals north of Winterton in the pub last night, and Sally had mentioned that it was an area noted for wild life, but I had given the matter no further thought, until, about an hour north of Winterton I saw some people sitting on rocks doing nothing. This is unusual: unless the sun is out and they are sunbathing, people tend to walk on beaches, or, if they are sitting, they are fishing. As I came closer, I saw what I thought was a black labrador playing in the waves, and assumed that the sitting people were waiting for their pet, then, a bit closer I realised it was a seal playing in the shallows.

A hundred yards further on, what I had taken to be rocks were, in fact dozens, if not over a hundred seals of all shapes, sizes and colours, basking on the sands. The vast majority were having a Sunday morning lie in, but the odd few sat up, scratched and waddled into the waves. It was a magnificent sight and repeated a few miles further on where a different, slightly more lively colony were also lying on the beach, completely impervious to the sight of me walking past.

The was spent entirely walking along the beach, initially, it was firm enough but there were a few places where it was hard going over soft sand. I had an unexpected wetting when I stopped to throw a stick for a friendly labrador and didn’t spot the wave coming up behind me.

The cliffs gradually changed from white sand dunes to golden cliffs by the time I reached Hapisburgh. (This is apparently pronounced “Hazeborough”).  The light house is a lot closer to the sea than it used to be! The wave damage to the caravan park there has been huge, the cliff is covered with dangling pipes, wires and bits of fencing, with lumps of concrete all over the beach, all suggesting a fairly recent fall. After Hapisburgh the sea defences are formed of a rather ugly line of fencing that effectively cuts the sea off from the foreshore. I hurried along this bit, my feet starting to ache with the effort of walking on sand.

I climbed up to the cliff at Walcott Gap and walked through a timeless stretch of countryside, a ploughed and harrowed field with a church behind and an elderly man digging and delving in his allotment.

Keswick, where I am staying, has rather a good ice cream parlour where I treated myself to some vanilla and honeycomb, but it was plagued with midges this afternoon, as the weather has turned rather muggy. I am awaiting the arrival of Tom who is joining me for the walk to Cromer tomorrow.

22km today, around 13,75 miles which was easy after yesterday’s 20.25 miles. Distance is influenced by the availability of accommodation!

It’s definitely been a game of two halves today, with this afternoon absolutely blissful, and this morning rather less so.

I am finding that where there aren’t local train services linking towns on the coast (as there were in the south east) it is complicated and expensive to use the car, as I have to get a bus (few and far between) or a taxi (ruinously expensive). I therefore decided to try walking with enough stuff in my pack for a long weekend. Of course, I have walked with enough gear for a week in Wales and on the West Highland Way, but I was a good deal younger then, though maybe not fitter. Anyway, I decided to give it a try this weekend, so with my shiny new backpack (see equipment section if you are interested in the minutiae of packs and packing) I leapt on the train at Liverpool Street, to be decanted at Lowestoft at around 7.45 last night. My B&B was only five minutes’ walk (see review).

I set out at 8.30 sharp, and retraced about a hundred yards that I had done last time. Lowestoft is not beguiling, and the wind was, if not howling, at least moaning. The first few miles were along the sea wall. In due course, I came to Lowestoft Ness, which makes this a red letter day, as that is the most easterly point in Britain. I have done the most south easterly (South Foreland) and should bag the most south westerly later in the summer.

The sky loured, but it didn’t actually rain. At the beginning, walking along the sea wall was fine, but it began to get narrower and more slippery as it went on, with warnings about using the path at one’s own risk, and a few places where the waves came right up and crashed over the path in front of me. The sea wall and cliff paths have been badly damaged by the last couple of winters’ storms and I eventually had to go inland to make a long and very frustrating detour through a caravan site. Not because it was further, but because all of the paths and roads seem to go round on circles with no exit. Eventually, I emerged onto a golf course at Gorleston. I could see Gorleston point and Great Yarmouth inland of it.

Great Yarmouth is no more appealing than Lowestoft. Both towns seem very poor and there was an air of deprivation about the whole place. I walked up the west bank of the Yare amidst light industry and deserted coastal type buildings, to cross the river some two miles inland. Were I a purist, I would have walked right down to Gorleston Point on the east bank of the Yare, but I’m not, so I didn’t.

Today was market day and the town square in was very full. I walked through it stopping in Boots to replace my toothbrush. In the interests of packing light I had a tiny travel one with me, but it more or less disintegrated and left me with a mouth full of bristles this morning, which was quite horrible, so be warned, and do not economise on tooth brushes.

Down on the sea front again, at Scroby Sands the scenery improved over the dunes, towards Caistor, which still has the remains of its Roman fort. I saw a couple of chaps thatching a sea side shelter.  I have never seen thatching actually being done before. It looked like hard work – balancing whilst handling armfuls of reeds, about 3 – 4ft long.

Out at sea I could see the Scroby wind farm. As I have said before, I think, I rather like off shore wind farms. Once I passed Caistor, I walked along the beach, and this is where the afternoon triumphed. The beach was superb; a long, flat stretch of firm golden sands as far as the eye could see. The sun had more or less emerged and the wind had dropped so that the sea was a vast expanse of blue with a fringe of white.

On this day last year I put my feet in the water for the first time, and I decided to do the same today. It was marvellously refreshing, but achingly cold. Nicer under foot than the pebbles at Chichester harbour had been.

I was not tempted to do more than stand in it for twenty seconds before putting the boots back on.

I walked along this magnificent stretch of coast for some eight miles to Winterton-on-Sea, a quiet fishing village with a very pleasant atmosphere (and a lot of adders!) I am now sitting sipping a cuppa in the Fisherman’s Return (see review) having covered 20.25 miles.