C2C Day Twelve - Osmotherly to Ravenscar (Lyke Wake Walk)

I’m not sure I’ve mentioned this before, but there is a Wainwright-approved alternative way to finish the Coast to Coast: a 24-hour challenge walk known as the Lyke Wake Walk. You must complete its 40 miles (around 64 km) in a single stage. However, it doesn’t end in Robin Hood’s Bay, so I’ll still need to travel there tomorrow to cast my stone and dip my boots in the North Sea.

Waking at 3 a.m., having only drifted off around midnight, was a struggle made a tinge more difficult by knowing exactly what lay ahead. You see, I tackled this tough trek back in my early twenties, and even 30 years later I still vividly remember the test of mind, body, and soul it put me through.

For this crossing, I was grateful for some company. My brother was aiming to complete the full walk, while Paula, his girlfriend, was planning to walk the first half despite her training having been disrupted by a particularly bad case of COVID.

We set out at roughly 4:30 a.m. from the starting stone, full of energy and with just enough dawn light to leave our torches tucked away. The forecast promised extremely favorable walking conditions—a light breeze and sunshine with scattered clouds. After the week’s unpredictable weather, it felt almost too good to be true.

Heading out toward the first hills of the day, we were scoffing at our phone apps predicting 9 p.m. and 10 p.m. finish times, convinced we’d be wrapping our lips around a pint in the Ravenscar hotel pub by 7:30 p.m.

The first climb up Gold Hill coincided perfectly with sunrise over the eastern horizon. We were treated to fantastic views north toward Teesside and a clear look at the next string of hills waiting their turn.

I have to admit I felt pretty good about the shape my legs were in after weeks of Coast to Coast mileage. The first few ascents—Carlton Bank (408 m), Green Bank (301 m), and Cringle Moor (432 m)—felt comfortably challenging rather than draining. (I’m choosing my words carefully here.) In total for the walk, I recorded about 4,100 ft of climbing—almost the height of Ben Nevis, Scotland’s tallest mountain.

A couple of stops for bacon butties and liquid refreshments kept us fueled, and soon enough we found ourselves striding along the old Farndale railway track. It winds beautifully—meaning mercifully flat—around valleys carved by the River Dove and Hodge Beck. The hard-packed rubble underfoot is tough on the soles, but it does let you keep a brisk pace.

It was around this stretch that my brother executed an inspired prank on Paula, involving a toy snake, a long piece of fishing wire, and a spring clamp. I’ll leave it to your imagination to picture the results—but even now, typing this out, I’m still chuckling.

Arriving at the Lion Inn on Blakey Ridge brought much-needed relief and the only real pause of the day. A greeting party of mums, dads, and kids was a wonderful lift for morale. Here, Paula bowed out of the trek, having put in an incredible effort to get that far, especially given everything she’d overcome.

With fresh socks, a round of hugs, and plenty of good wishes (thank you all—it meant a lot to both my brother and me), we headed back out into the afternoon sunshine, with only another 24 miles to go.

You’ll notice there are fewer photos from this point onwards. That’s because this is where the Lyke Wake Walk starts to test your resolve. The “path” often dissolves into faint lines threading through thick bracken, occasionally widened by farm vehicles but usually more guesswork than trail. The heather hides loose stones that trip you up just as your tired legs are least able to catch you.

And then there’s the psychological trickery. You spot the Pyramid of Fylingdales RAF base in the distance and think: “Fantastic, we must be nearly there.” Three hours later, the pyramid is still taunting you, seemingly no larger, no closer. We even started to half-seriously discuss whether someone was rolling it away from us as we walked. Eventually, and grudgingly, it relented, and we reached the base much later—and much more exhausted—than we’d hoped.

And just when you think you’re done with illusions, you spy the communications tower at Ravenscar on the final horizon. It looms there for what feels like eternity, daring you to believe you’re almost finished. This is why many people complete 80% of this walk and choose to bow out before that last punishing stretch. The Lyke Wake Walk is not just distance—it’s a test of determination.

But we prevailed. At around 10 p.m., 17 hours and 29 minutes after we’d started, we touched the end stone. For comparison, when I was twenty, I clocked a time around 15 hours and 40 minutes—so 30 years later, I’ll take that as a small personal victory.

Tomorrow, I’ll make the last symbolic gesture of this journey: dipping my boots in the North Sea and sending my pebble off to its new home.