C2C Day Eleven - Richmond to Osmotherly

The earliest breakfast I could manage at my Richmond lodgings was 8:30, so I was up early, packed, and eager to be underway as soon as my plate was cleared (Full English, perfect). Today would be one of the longest days of the whole walk, and I knew every minute counted.

I set off promptly at nine, feeling surprisingly free of any major aches and pains—no doubt thanks to my rest day exploring Richmond. I’d spent the previous afternoon happily plodding around the imposing outer walls of Richmond Castle, ambling along the banks of the River Swale, and generally soaking up the atmosphere of this historic market town.

Once back on the trail, I fell into a steady rhythm as I followed the south bank of the Swale, moving in step with the brown-tinged water. The colour comes, I suspect, from the peat soils in the surrounding dales, tinting the river with that distinctive earthy hue.

I knew I’d have to press on briskly for the next ten or fifteen miles if I was to arrive at a decent time—a strategy that felt especially fitting as I passed the sprawling Catterick Garrison. The largest British Army garrison in the world, it’s a place I remember from my RAF basic training days: a blur of hard physical work punctuated by fascinating lessons in survival skills (thankfully, none of which I’ve ever had to use in earnest).

Long before the modern military moved in, Catterick was the site of the Roman fort of Cataractonium, an outpost guarding the old Roman road north. It struck me how this landscape has been a supply route for soldiers since ancient times—some things never change. (Yes.. there was a sign along the way that I read, these facts were not stored somewhere in my head)

Before long, I reached the first of the two big road crossings of the day. The mighty A1(M) barrels north and south here, but mercifully the Swale provides a convenient bridge with a footpath tucked alongside. Crossing it was easy, though it did feel like stepping briefly back into modernity before returning to the fields.

I’d love to wax lyrical about the next stretch, but the truth is, it was working farmland as far as the eye could see—flat, functional, and utterly unsentimental. Wheatfields shimmered in the heat, and the walk became a matter of simply finding the next stile or kissing gate, orienting by hedgerows and the occasional stream. Where there was water, the butterflies clustered in clouds, offering a momentary distraction.

Here and there, small curiosities punctuated the monotony: a field of inquisitive alpacas, a horse beside a young foal, and sheep hunkered down in the shade of a tree away from the heat.

Somewhere around mile fourteen, I felt that familiar sensation I call “zombie feet.” It’s not that your feet go fully numb, exactly—it’s more like they stage a mutiny, turning insubordinate and refusing to acknowledge your brain’s instructions. From that point, you have to pay close attention, lest you catch a toe on a rut or a rock. I found a patch of shade, lay back, lifted my legs, and let the blood drain away for five blissful minutes.

The miles wore on, and a couple of charming villages offered brief relief—each with a sign gently reminding coast-to-coast walkers of how far there was to go. On a good day, this feels motivating. On a day like today, you could be forgiven for cursing the numbers.

After rehydrating with a couple of cold drinks in the relentless heat (temperatures across the country were smashing records), I steeled myself for the notorious A19 crossing. Here, the route briefly becomes an unglamorous real-life game of Frogger. My luck held: with patience, I found big gaps in the traffic and scurried across without incident—no angry horns, no heart-in-throat dashes. Perhaps on this blazing Sunday, most sensible people were parked in beer gardens rather than thundering up and down the dual carriageway.

Unfortunately, with about five miles left, the trail decided to add insult to injury by throwing in the only proper climb of the day: Beacon Hill. My legs, which by this point were issuing increasingly desperate protest signals, did not appreciate the development. What would normally have been a gentle ascent felt closer to an assault on Everest. But step by stubborn step, I inched my way to the top, and with that came the familiar surge of second wind—the certainty that the finish line was near.

Sure enough, after what felt both like a thousand years and the blink of an eye, I reached the outskirts of Osmotherley. To my surprise, I arrived a full twenty minutes ahead of my walking app’s prediction, despite a couple of navigational mishaps earlier in the day.

I sank into the first pub I could find—though to be honest, anywhere with a cold drink would have done—and reflected on the day’s journey. The relief was mingled with apprehension: the final section of this alternative coast-to-coast finish will be a daunting 42 miles called the Lyke Wake Walk.

I have three days now to sweet-talk my left Achilles tendon into forgiving me, and to muster the belief that I really do have one last push in me. But that is tomorrow’s problem. For tonight, at least, the only task left is to rest my feet—and to raise a glass to the longest day so far.