C2C Day Nine - Kirkby Stephen to Reeth (Via Keld)

I was up and out of Kirkby Stephen just after 8am, motivated by a mix of ambition and a dodgy weather forecast. The predictions had promised improvement later in the day, so I did question whether setting off early was the wisest move. But in the end, it gave me the option of possibly turning one section into two — a tempting thought when the prospect of an extra rest day dangled ahead.

The weather at the start was uninviting: fine rain, grey skies, and a trail slick with overnight moisture. I skipped breakfast to get on the road quickly — a bold move, especially considering what was to come — and packed a ham sandwich from a local baker as a summit reward.

The path steadily climbed, and the wind and rain joined forces to make it a less-than-leisurely ascent. Visibility was poor, but the newly laid flagstones underfoot made the going much easier. These reclaimed slabs, courtesy of National Trails, were an unexpected delight. One had the date “1833” inscribed — a brilliant bit of history underfoot. Where they came from, I don’t know, but I found myself wondering just how many places they’d seen before ending up here beneath my boots.

Eventually, the ghostly silhouettes of the Nine Standards emerged from the mist like ancient sentinels. The cairns are about 12 feet high — a fact made more obvious when a couple of Swiss hikers kindly snapped a photo of me next to one. With cloud whipping past in all directions, the scene felt mystical, otherworldly, and yes — very cold. I didn't linger long. I unwrapped my long-anticipated ham sandwich just after the Standards, and while it was delicious, I suspect hunger (and the lack of breakfast) played a generous role in that assessment.

This point also marked a literal watershed: until now, every stream and puddle has been draining westward — from here, it's eastward all the way to the North Sea. Symbolic? Perhaps. Muddy? Definitely. The path just beyond the cairns lost the comfort of flagstones and became an ankle-deep bog in places. I waded through it, shoes squelching, and was soon reminded of the limitations of hiking shoes in these conditions. My feet were soaked through for hours. It was a slog.

But the day still had magic in it. As I descended into Ravenseat — filming location of The Yorkshire Shepherdess — the weather finally lifted, and I had a brief, breathtaking moment with an owl that took flight just a few feet from me, gliding silently through the valley foliage. A wonderful, unexpected encounter that lifted my spirits more than any snack could.

I reached Keld around midday, after just over 11 miles. At that point, I had a decision to make: stop, wait for the family to pick me up and enjoy the rest of the day... or push on to Reeth and earn a bonus rest day. Keld is charming but quiet — no signal, a small museum, a campground — and my legs, while tired, weren’t yet shouting at me. My Achilles made a small protest (they've been very quiet lately, have you noticed?), but I was “in the groove” and opted to push on.

The sat nav suggested I take the “High Route” — a term that should come with a disclaimer for weary walkers. Still, Wainwright himself recommends it on a first crossing of the Coast to Coast, so up I went. 

The path took me into a remarkable and haunting landscape dotted with remnants of Yorkshire’s industrial past. The most striking was the Blakethwaite smelt mill, its skeletal walls rising from the valley floor. I had the whole place to myself. It's impossible not to imagine what it must’ve been like when it was alive with heat, hammer, and hard graft. The remoteness and the sheer logistics of working there back in the day are staggering.

A series of small ponds have formed within the stream that runs through the ruins, and though a full dip was out of the question, I gave my head a quick dunk — partly to cool down, but mostly because I'd run out of drinking water. It did the job. 

The final climb took me over a high pass through the Old Gang mines, an old quarry where the landscape turned barren and industrial again, peppered with relics of mining machinery. Not my favourite terrain, but it made for fast going on the descent.

By 5pm I was stepping into Reeth, tired but proud, and found myself leaning heavily against the bar at the first pub I saw. One pint of Old Peculier and one pint of water later, I was more or less human again. The family arrived shortly after, and I’ve now got a well-earned couple of rest days ahead to recover, reflect, and dry out my poor, soggy socks.