Hi! :)

 

Peace

Pace

Paz

안녕

 

I'm Anton. I'm from Italy. I'm going to cross England on foot along Wainwright's Coast to Coast walk, from St. Bees on the Irish Sea to Robin Hood's Bay on the Northern Sea. I'm starting the walk on September 14th, 2013.

 

I happen to live in a city, Venezia, that hosts a precious Tibetan Buddhist Centre. Here I've been receiving wisdom, kindness and  the opportunity to practice meditation.  

 

While on walk I'll be practicing meditation daily. It will help me enjoy this beautiful way with enthusiasm, consciousness and openness. It will assist me in making the most of this journey of self-discovery. Finally meditation will certainly be an excellent means to ease fatigue, pain and unfavourable conditions.

 

I would have loved to raise funds for the Venetian Centre directly, but Italian fiscal restrictions prevented this possibility. So I chose ROKPA, which is part of the same family as the Venice Kagyü Samye Dzong. 

 

I'm sure that any gifts or funds to be collected for ROKPA will be a great help to who is in need.

 

I won't be grateful enough for any thoughts or prayers you'll be kind enough to send towards me.

 

Hugs to Tiziano, Elena, Marco, Gaia and all the folks at the Centre in Venezia.

 

 

 

"There is no way to peace, peace is the way."

 

 

 

 

I'm at the train station of my home city. It's night. 4 o'clock. In one hour I'm taking the train to the airport. This is my own city train station. The usual place I'm used to. Yet knowing where I'm headed changes everything.  The whispers of a French couple wrapped in a blanket, snuggling, the low-fi buzz of an arabic pop song from the cell phone of a tired and bored North African guy, the absent stare of a Japanese or Korean girl lost in this - the other - side of the globe... all these things echo in the scope of my journey. And this is no ordinary station anymore. Because here is where my adventure is going to start. Here is there, too. So, I'm wondering... if my journey is already beginning here - already - where everything is so normal... what are the boundaries of this, or any, journey? When, exactly, did this quest begin? When have I started becoming part of the journey? 

 

 

 

 

Two quite unfortunate events occurred. Accidents happen, and I had to address a couple of them this morning while trying to reach the airport of Bergamo. I'll start with the last one because it is more relevant to the journey. Just before arriving at the station of Verona Portanuova, a coach of the train preceding mine on the same line caught on fire. The train had to stop to a halt blocking both ways. The fire spread out to the copper cables that supply electricity to the trains, cutting off Verona from all the trains coming from Venezia and Trieste. It resulted in a 4 hours delay and my plain took off without me. Moreover, just before this hoolabaloo, a couple of thieves robbed me of my smartphone, a lush brand new smartphone that I had bought for the occasion. A nice camera to take nice pictures of the walk and modern hardware and sensors to help me out with maps, weather, directions and all that jazz. Most crucially it contains all my personal data, like my document backups, credit cards numbers and the credentials of my most valuable accounts.

 

These events didn't come without a positive meaning, though. If all of this hadn't happened, I wouldn't have met a person whom I had lost contact with while ago. Liliana was on my same train. We had a rather insignificant problem of communication some time ago, that I nonetheless took much seriously. Was I too thin-skinned at the time? Probably. I was gloomy and fragile and even little hits would make me crash. Today she supported me in every way, by providing me practical help and, most importantly, by stirring me up on my quest. "Don't give up" she was gently telling me during that long wait. Thanks Lili. Today we shared some real moments that let all your character come out. One thing I know, that despite her display of strenght and perseverance - despite all the difficulties she's going through - when I hugged her with gratitude she was trembling. Be strong Lili, today you gave more than you might think of. You're an important part of my walk now, because you played a positive role just when the crap hit the fan. And this made me conscious that, despite the events looked like hindering against my journey, they were actually the journey - just a most twisted, creased, dramatic part of it.

 

I'll try my best to reach England by tomorrow, and I'll try my best to make up for the lost days of walk with longer and more demanding stages and greater enthusiam.

 

 

 

 

...I'm back riding a train. Luckily this time everything will go just fine. A nasty headache struck me yesternight and it still won't wear off. Thanks to my friend Gianluca I managed to book another flight for tonight. I'll get to Manchester at midnight so I need to spend the night there. Unfortunately there are no trains nor buses to the north of England on Sunday hence I'm reaching the start of the walk on Monday. This is going to cause a four days delay on my schedule and knowing that I'm beginning my journey with such a lag has rather dampened my momentum. I will most likely need to shorten the route by 40 miles or so. I somehow feel this is like cheating, but on the other hand I'm trying my best to get it done. 

...

Finally, I took off.

...

And I peacefully landed, with a deep feeling of calm quietly arising.

 

 

 

 

Do I like British cities! As soon as I landed I felt at home. The low, all identical, earthen coloured buildings reminiscent of the first industrial era. The large, multicultural, busy streets with blokes at the junctions chanting "two pounds brole!! Two pounds brole!!" and the sirens of police cars screaming aloud all night long. Let's mention a most lovely custom of the ladies of Manchester, who on a Saturday night all seem to wear miniskirts on stiletto heels, even with 5 degrees and a chill rain hitting the bare milky skin of their pale legs. That indeed cheered me up. How intriguing is to be glancing at the faces in the streets, rushing or loitering on the pavements.  The worldwide ever common mixture of African, South American and Asian people sits on a totally different and unique kind of fair and redheaded pale folks. Which is indeed rather different than the Venetians.

 

Accent isn't thick as I expected and what I can hear all around, besides the one spoken by foreign immigrants, is a nice standard British English sporting some 'oh'-pronounced 'u's. ("I got no lohk t'day", just said the madame sitting next to me).

 

On the train to Whitehaven the sky's cleared up to a pleasant partially cloudy weather and I'm enjoying this ride quite much. I can almost ignore my already soaked clothes while reading the very evoking names of the towns on the route.

Fingers crossed I'll be able to sleep in St. Bees tonight already.

 

 

 

 

Here I am writing these few notes just before hitting the pillow. I managed to get to St. Bees with only three days of delay, that is one day less than I feared! I arrived here too late to set up my tent, as the dim moonlight was already being obscured by a thick cover of storm-bringing dark clouds by eight o'clock. From Whitehaven I shared a taxi with other five people plus the driver, who kept throwing folks into the cab until there was none left in the train station. A respectable albeit 'steamy' tipsy madame in the taxi party claimed that in the 60's her Mini sat eleven people and that the specific situation we were in looked to her very comfortable indeed. Her husband didn't seem to appreciate her outspoken attitude and high pitched laughters quite much. Once stepped out the overcrowded cab, I walked half an hour in the windy town of St. Bees, a beautifully desolated northern seaside town. A town that remembers its miners and seamen died in their duty with plaques and drawings on the walls. After a handful of inns had turned me down I finally found a room for the night. The presence of a private hot shower is a treat that I'll soon have to forget. I enjoyed it greatly nonetheless. Arriving at St. Bees and Whitehaven just before sundown was spectacular. The black cliffs down the road and the railway itself were being slapped by the ruthless white and foamy force of five metres high waves and the darkened silver sky above the Irish sea completed the picture of a merciless place for any boats or ships to sail its perilous waters. 

 

Time to sleep. The waves, the rain and the wind are a chorus. They are singing a prelude to an adventure. Good night.

 

 

 

 

Sausage, beans, bacon & eggs. I'm fueling up at a lovely B&B, where the landlady does have indeed a nice thick northern accent. The 'prosodic contour' of the villagers is somewhere in between Irish and Yorkshire English.

 

...

 

What a start! Marvelous and unpredictable. My iPhone battery is 25% and I need a little charge to see the time for tomorrow's wake. I crossed bogs, rivers, a couple of towns, a hill and a promontory. Up there the sudden gusts of wind almost slammed me down. The ocean roared as I was walking along the cliffs. The view on top of St. Bees Head was spectacular, just as magnificent as the one from the top of the 'Dent' hill. I found three extremely nice people from England: Fiona, Wendy and Bob. I want to talk about them later. I just want to mention that Bob is the most selfless and altruistic person I've met in years. But everyone is kind and helpful, really. A group of Australians was glad to help me when I explained my shortcomings in terms of maps. Solidarity seems to be a part of this walk as much as it was on the Way of St. James. 

This night I'm sleeping in a cold greenhouse - sort of, like a small hut with glass walls and roof, namely a 'conservatory' - which is nonetheless better than a tent, since the rain is falling heavily and the wind is cold and unrelenting.

Good night.

 

 

 

 

We're back on the road. I have by now been adopted by the jolly party of Bob, Fiona and Wendy. We had an abundant and typical English breakfast at the farm - I ate a bowl of sticks-to-your-ribs pudding along with sausages, bacon and eggs. The farm lady was nice and welcoming since our arrival. We arrived drenched and cold and she immediately offered us a hot 'cuppa' and the coziness of a crackling fireplace which served perfectly as a means to drying our clothes and boots. The people here are always on spot. Questions and answers don't linger in formalities. Nonetheless, everyone's very polite and friendly. A 'dry' way of communicating, a punctual counterpoint to an extremely wet environment. Today I'm following the party up until a certain point. After that I'll see whether to choose a different path or to stick together. They want to walk a longer and more challenging route, which is not good for me as I need to arrive at destination at least one hour before sunset.

 

Conversations are marvelous. Not only am I able to listen to a perfect British English all day long, but the very thing of participating to their humorous wits gratifies me enormously. 

 

 

 

 

In a cottage in Rostwaithe. I had to rent a room, because the rain and the wind have been hitting the land vigorously during the day, leaving me no other options than a dry and warm place where to spend the night. Today's stage was really and unexpectedly hard. Climbed mountains. Crossed rivers. Climbed streams. Had breaks under a heavy rain. Walked in bogs for miles and miles. The notorious Lake District lives up by its name indeed. By 2 PM I was already completely soaked: the heavy rain from above and the muddy bogs and rivers' water from below. After a short pause for lunch, when Wendy offered me a delicious energy bar, I was chilling. And this feeling kept on all day every time we stopped. On the top of the mountains the cold clouds finished drenching the last dry spots. The climbings were strenuous and actually all the stage was dire. This is because I was always dependent to a guide, Bob, who by the way is the kindest person on earth. Nonetheless, knowing that without him I couldn't have done it absolutely frustrated me. The company was fantastic: Fiona is nicer and funnier every hour that passes. She's very generous with her opinions and ideas and shows a great respect to me by sharing her thoughts. She always smile and her smile holds both the robustness of a profession and a true warm and lively sparkle of spontaneity. I'd love to have her as G.P. or maybe not! As I would feel very embarrassed. Wendy is determined and sweet. There's something very motherly in her but not too much. She's got youth, she's young. Both these ladies sport an inner true elegance since I never saw them letting go of a moment of frustration or any other hard feelings despite the problems our journey presents us with. Bob. What can I say about him? Two lines wouldn't be enough. A fact can resume its character: last spring he went and donated one of his kidneys, because he felt the urge to making a positive difference in another person's life, another random person. "There's no explainable purpose" he says about some important things - like this walk - and when he talks like this, I see a man proclaiming the highest point of human nobility, his unconditional freedom. 

 

 

 

 

It's 9:50 in the morning. I'm still in my room in Roswaithe, a beautiful typical cottage room with its sink next to the bed and a jar of homemade biscuits on the bed table. 

 

I'm lingering a little today, to let the healing paste work on my articulations and muscles. Yesterday's climb, done at someone else's pace, was a killer. 

There's no mobile phone signal since yesterday. This fact makes me nervous. Not only am I incapable of looking up the maps but I cannot either access to my bank account to check the status of my debt card - I'm still afraid about the thieves trying to use it - and most importantly to transfer some money. Last night's extraordinary rest costed me 60£ because everything was booked in this village. The village is extremely precious. The cottages are made of a particular kind of slate that is mined from the quarries in the mountains I crossed yesterday. The colour is blue-gray and its texture feels very 'dry', almost waterproof. On the other hand, nearly everything I have with me is not waterproof. Despite the spray I used on my items and clothes last week, I get completely soaked every day. This is a problem for camping, because I need my essential equipment to dry by the next morning when it gets drenched, and I can't achieve it in a tent.

 

Today the weather seems a little better. I'm a little bit sad about Bob, because I felt like I disappointed him by turning down his generous offer of a room - they booked one spare. Notwithstanding it could look like I would have taken advantage of their kindness and I really didn't want that to happen. This happened during the day, too. They are much faster than I am, mainly because of my heavier and more cumbersome load. They would often wait for me. I was really grateful about that, since my navigation system wasn't working and the chances to get lost there were very, very high (and that is scary). I felt like I impeded their journey. They denied this fact and showed an even greater gentleness and sincere kindness. Nonetheless I felt guilty about that.

 

I'm leaving in ten minutes. Today's stage leads me to Grasmere ("... but honey pie you're not safe here..."). The stage is rather short and should be less demanding than yesterday. Also the weather seems to be much better. Yesterday, during the most difficult moments, I silently called for help to my dad and mom and grandma and grandpa, and I could feel a warmth accompanying me. I'll try and be strong today, in case the same difficulties will occur.

 

 

 

 

Today was an awful day. The trade off between prizes and problems was heavily unbalanced. Let's just start saying that I almost died twice. Albeit rather short, the stage from Rostwaithe to Grasmere was a never ending series of perils. Two paths out of three were live steep running torrents. This was actually something that I already got used to. All the hills I had to cross were steep crags on top of which there were only bogs. And bogs from one crag to another. And streams of mud every so often. I already had to cross bogs, but today there was just nothing but bogs, deep, muddy bogs. Several times my legs suddenly disappeared to above the knees. A couple of times I got stuck in quicksands of mud. The reaction was immediate and strong. I yelled while trying to free my legs and reach the closest solid piece of dirt or the nearest stone. 

Walking in bogs can be excruciatingly tiresome. It's not about getting your feet and legs wet in cold windy day. It's the suction that happens due to your weight  and grabs your boots at each and every step. At every step you have to pull up your feet with a not indifferent amount of force. Consider doing this for miles. Consider that in the bogs there's no path. You need to work out your route in another way. Consider that during six in twelve hours it rains - and that was a day of good weather compared with yesterday when it rained more heavily like the day before yesterday. Consider the wind, that among these crags is ruthless, evil, it won't stop blowing and sometimes it presents you with powerful and irresistible gusts. The temperature in this conditions is low even at noon. The rain is cold and slaps in your face at high velocity. Your body - especially if you're carrying a huge backpack - behaves like a sail. The sudden gushes can slam you down easily and you'd better be facing the right side of the crag when you get pushed so suddenly and violently. I won't count the times I got into the muddy quicksands as real life-perils - although one actually experiences them as a death danger if he's alone - so the first time that I put my life at risk was because of the wind: the boots constantly muddy and the steep stone paths run by live streams make up for the most slippery concoction you can think of. I'm not very stable by myself, my legs not being quite strong, me being quite tall and my rucksack being quite cumbersome. While descending towards Helm Crag, I got blown away by a sudden gust. I fell down hitting the rocks and rolling down into the stream. The backpack saved my back but behaved as an added weight against my arms. A bloke on the other side of the basin seemed to see my fall and stood still for a while until I managed to signal him I was OK. After a couple of hours my wrist was swollen and I was afraid some bone in my hand got broken. The hand now is still swollen, but I'm quite sure the blow didn't damage my bones.

 

Now I'm really tired and tomorrow I have to wake up early and decide what route I am going to take. In the morning I'll be writing something more.

 

 

 

 

Last night I dreamt of an old friend whom I haven't been meeting for ten years or more. In my dream, Andrea was organizing and hosting a philosophy related meeting with participants such as Manlio Sgalambro. The atmosphere was relaxed and familiar and everyone seemed to show him the sort of respect you show to someone who provides you a shelter. Along with other vivid dreams, possibly triggered by the nice chat I had with the person I share the room with. Neil, a very polite and kind person from Leeds who's on a 4 days holiday on bike and travels with a bottle of red wine. 

 

Yesterday evening I called Bob not before half past nine. I thought the network had a problem, because neither messages nor voice calls would work, but it was eventually just the matter of prepending the international U.K. code to his number - I didn't think that was the issue since we actually are in the U.K. He had been worrying about me - how dear! - he kind of expected my day would become a little bit unpleasant, because even he - and he's extremely skilled and trained in orienteering - got lost a couple of times. So, after the fall that made my hand swell - now it is still swollen but much less than yesterday - I got lost up on the crags. The first time it was an acceptable mistake. Since it was 2 PM or so I wasn't much worried. The second time was difficult. Being at the end of the day, I was cold, wet and very tired. I had lost any possible tracks at half past five in the afternoon and I went back and forth on the same boggy two squared miles three or four times. The bog was actually on top of a crag and the chilly strong gusts of wind were the icing on this dreadful cake. My only resource at that point was my compass. The instructions given me by Bob the day before couldn't be of any help at that point because I couldn't tell were I was - and, by the way, I still don't think I understood exactly what a 'col' is... - My digital maps had partially got erased by a malfunction on the outdated phone I'm carrying with me and I just entered into a blank tile - by the way, I hope this old 3GS will last until the end of the journey as it suddenly dies even with 25% or more battery - so no maps. From the top of the crag I could only see precipices, yet that was the only possible direction for at least four miles. Going back four miles in the bogs at six o'clock was absolutely impossible. Nay, I had to take a decision: either to reach the bottom of the valley as soon as possible or to find a sturdy and dry enough piece of terrain to set the tent on and spend the night up there, with the risk of getting blown away by the presumably tougher night wind gusts. I dared to the very border of the crag and saw the bottom of the valley, with a road! And vehicles! So I started looking for a way down but there was none. I went back for a while and I found a wound, a vein in the mountain similar to the 'canaloni' in the Alps. A once a stream being deviated by human intervention? I don't know, but it was the only way without running water going down to the bottom. I made some rough calculations: I would have jumped a couple of times. The jumps not higher than my own height. So I started going down. How scared I was! The riverbed of the 'channel' was made by deep black puddles of mud alternating with long patches of a dark gray gravel that resembled the same slate stone I had encountered the day before. The same material but in the form of crushed tiny bits similar to pointy marbles. I then decided to go down a grassy side. Once there I found that there was no grass, but all that green was moss and the rocks beneath it were friable as crackers. As I kept going down, chunks of stone rolled down for hundreds of metres, disappearing. I couldn't go down at that point neither climb back up. So I calculated that the patch of dirt some 50-60 meters below would serve a catcher in  the case I started rolling down hill. I had to push myself and slide on the moss sideways enough to arrive at the patch down beneath. So I did it, I tried to use the backpack as a bobsleigh and slide. It was definitely scarier than funny as while I was going down a couple of heavy rocks began rolling into the valley and after a handful of seconds they were jumping 3 metres high jumps and higher, disappearing hundreds of meters in the foliage beneath. But I made it! I slid sideways and managed to get stopped by the patch! That was actually only the first slide I had to make. In less than 20 minutes I was at the bottom of that 550 meters high crag. Once arrived at its base, finally safe, I admit I almost shed a tear while looking up at that giant, that I later found to be called Steel Fell, and respectfully thanked it.

 

Today I need to get hold of working maps and some food. The town of Grasmere is some kilometers south of here and there I can find everything I need. I think I will skip today's stage and take a coach to Shap. This way I can restore my body and make up for the days lost to the initial train accident.

 

 

 

 

The rain is pouring down heavily. The top of the hills I should've climbed today are covered with gray thick clouds. Even in the town of Grasmere there's no phone signal whatsoever. I'm thinking about Bob, Fiona and Wendy. The fact that they are up there right now makes me worry about them. Bob is indeed a skilled guide and a very resourceful person, which makes me a little more serene. Anyhow, the stage is going to be very tough and demanding for them today. I'm cheering for them and sending my most warm thoughts. In this very moment I'm waiting at a bus stop to take a coach to Kendal. It seems that my only option is to reach Kirby Stephen on wheels. The villages in the Lake District are rather isolated and there's no way I can go to Patterdale or Shap by today. Surprisingly, there's quite a lot of Chinese people in Grasmere. The village is most typical and tranquil. In between the houses and cottages are meadows with cows and sheep grazing with dull indifference. One of the most practiced pastimes of the inhabitants of this village seems to be staring at the cows, silently, from behind the low stone walls. Even in the rain.

 

I decided to call my mother and tell her I'm OK. She filled me in on the departure of my aunt. It happened quickly, due to a stroke. I regret I had never talked with her much. She was a kind and intelligent person. Her husband, my father's younger brother, died some twenty years ago and I didn't talk to him much either. I'll call my cousins as soon as I go back to Italy. 

...

Kirby Stephen is a merry town and the journey by bus was fine. It seems that the weather here is better than in the west. My digital maps are now available again. The last erased tile is some miles west of Kirby Stephen. I'm eating a hot meal in a pub, which I needed indeed, not having eaten almost anything since yesterday morning.

...

The hostel in Kirby Stephen is unique and the landlady is kind and welcoming. I just had a chat with her and another lady who is on the Coast to Coast too. They were talking about an American man who fell into the storming river Lisa by the Blacksail Hut that I passed two days ago. He broke his ribs and someone had to call the rescue service, saving his life. This journey is by no means a joke. Mountains are deadly and I'm profoundly grateful to have made it safe and sound yesterday. I'm more and more happy with the decision of skipping the last two stages. It looks like that tomorrow stage is going to be the boggiest of the journey. It's the so called "nine standards" route. Nine tall cairns have been standing there since forever. Some say they were first put there by the Romans, as a mock-up line of soldiers to scare the northern tribes on the other side of the basin. This hostel was once a chapel and the common room, the dining room, has still a balcony and a grand coloured stained glass window on the wall facing the main street of the town. I'm less worried about the bogs now, because my maps have started working again. I've been warned that my next destination, Keld, is notorious for the midges, very annoying bugs that infest Scotland and parts of northern England. Tomorrow morning I'm going to buy some effective repellent before leaving Kirby Stephen. The heating system is working and I'm going to bed soon, by 7 o'clock. I need a long, sound sleep. I'm going to have another cuppa and after that I'm taking my meditation session. 

 

 

 

 

What a gorgeous day! A virtually rainless walk from Kirby Stephen to the small village of Keld. 28 kilometres on beautiful roads and idyllic paths. Halfway I finally entered the North Yorkshire County! Yes! Fare thy well Lake District, you'll be remembered as the wettest place on earth. I'm pretty sure that even a toad could catch a cold in there. It's just 3 PM and I'm already at my destination. These places are exactly the reason why I wanted to do this journey so much. One can't help but think of the Shire depicted by Tolkien. On a side note, I forgot to mention that yesterday morning, before reaching the village of Grasmere, I walked into a precious pub on the road. There I quickly ate a sandwich and took a brief shelter from the heavy rain. At a distant table a couple of elders was having a conversation. The man was identical to the late J.R.R. Tolkien. 

...

I finished pitching my tent. The comfort of a room in a hostel or B&B is unbeatable. But the intimacy of my tent is also unbeatable. Fingers crossed for the midges. Midges thrive on humidity and I'm camping near a river, but it's windy and midges aren't supposed to take off when it's windy. This river is called Swale. There are some tales around it, mostly about strange energies surrounding the water flow. Mr. Moody, the author of the camping guide I'm using for finding suitable sites for my tent, reports about what it seemed to be a ritual involving a group of people sacrificing an animal. The route I took today was the winter one. There's one that goes through the supposedly most boggy miles in the whole Coast to Coast. That route includes the famous "nine standards". I had a vivid dream last night. My professor of contemporary history was teaching in a very large auditorium, the size and shape of a large concert hall. Eventually, someone asked a question and a brief ping-pong started between the student and the professor. While talking, the student made a clicking sound and the professor laughed and stated: "Baraka!" Everybody seemed to get the message and soon they all were moving altogether as to create waves of arms, heads and bodies, like in the movie Baraka, when a Polynesian shaman leads a chanting ritual. Suddenly I felt like I had to lead the still dance of the audience and started driving the rhythm. Suddenly the dream changed and I cannot remember exactly what happened but when I woke up I had a dreary feeling about adventuring to the Nine Standards. I could recollect not just an evil, but an inexplicable, senseless coldness coming from those nine figures. I couldn't help but think about the Nine Wizards of Angmar, the Nine Nazguls of the Lord of the Rings. Therefore I opted for the bog-less and Shire-like way south. 

...

The cold wind has dried my clothes and I'm going to eat some food in the barn near the field. As desperate as I was two days ago, now I feel I'm filled with enthusiasm and energy! The stages ahead are overall easier than Lakeland. The moment I crossed the border with the Yorkshire I yelled "YEEEESSS!!!" so loud that I must have made all the hundreds of sheep flee from those hills. Today I saw squirrels (I love those!!!), three or four different kinds of sheep, cows, a group of colourful pheasants and, as usual, a lot of crows. It seems to me that crows are the inland English version of seagulls. They look like intelligent creatures, though. Creatures with a character. By the way! In Kirby Stephen I saw two big multi-coloured parrots squeaking and flying from roof to roof, from one side of the main street to the other. A man told me there are four in the village! Their wingspan is impressive and that vision of flying colours against the dull gray sky was blissfully unexpected.

...

I paid a visit to the local pub, the only one in a 15 miles range. A beautiful and cozy place. I had a hot coffee there. It could be the year 1813 here. There's no sign of modern civilisation, aside from the rare cars and a classic British red phone box at the corner of the road. No telephone or electric wires or poles. There's no cellular signal whatsoever. I had the owner of the campsite prepare me a hot meal, which consisted in a frugal dish of boiled rice and mushrooms, which I eagerly consumed in the farm's barn. The houses are old and the interiors, albeit elegant and warm and provided with electricity, could fit perfectly in the XIX century. Even the clothes of the local folks are so simple and sober that look timeless. I saw two gentlemen in their late twenties wearing the typical English green velvet shoulder-padded jacket and trousers, the latter being tucked into a slightly lighter and washed out hue of green woolen socks. People are reserved but every time I cross their eyes they never fail to greet me and they all look into my eyes and smile. I really like the people here, they seem to be naturally endowed with the same politeness that I cannot easily find in Italy. I used to find it when I was a kid. Now, I always feel like I'm either wrong, naive or mistaken for a fake courtesy. There's more maliciousness than not in my country. It would be hypocritical not to admit it. There's often suspicion and there's a wide foundation of disrespect. Here, when I behave like myself, I receive kindness. When I do the same in Italy I see people obliquely looking at each other as if I am wrong, that is to say, as if I'm not showing enough "furbizia". 

I'm so glad my friend Alex contacted me today. I was just thinking about her earlier and how grateful I am to have such good friends.

 

 

 

 

Last night was a struggle against the coldness. At first I was utterly pleased with the coziness of my tent and sleeping bed. By midnight I woke up due to the intense cold in my knees, feet and loins. The temperature dramatically fell to near zero degrees. People say that this weather is quite harsh for a September and it rather resembles a typical Autumn weather. I had to create a pair of makeshift knee-warmers by properly cutting a pair of socks with my knife. By three o'clock the cold was unbearable and kept me awake until I passed off due to the fatigue of a prolonged wake. With the first lights of the sunrise I remembered the hair drier inside the cabin in the back of the barn. Yet I didn't rush out. I had been warned by the owners of the site about the midges. Even though they try to combat the tiny evils by any means, in the night and in the first hours of the dawn, when the wind settles down, they come for you. Midges are the size of a gnat but unlike mosquitos, which can roughly get the message, if you slap a midge that is into eating your skin, that tiny thing won't fly away. You actually need to squash, dismember, destroy the micro evil-doer in order for it to understand your disapproval of being bitten. Hence I waited until 7 o'clock - and still the midges attacked me - to rush into the barn and use the hair drier to warm my body up. 

I decided that I wouldn't camped anymore, not without heavier night robes and a pair of woolen socks. After the beautiful walk to Reeth, I had to climb two additional miles onto the hills of Grinton to reach the youth hostel. The lack of luck stroke again, as there were no vacant beds in the hostel nor vacant rooms whatsoever in any B&B in either Grinton or Reeth. I'm spending another night in the tent and unfortunately the field where it is set sits on top of a hill, which means a very chill and windy night. I'm preparing for tonight by wearing plastic bags on my feet and filling up two half-litres bottles with hot tap water. The hostel whose camping site is adjoined to is actually an ancient manor. 

...

I just finished my dinner and topped up the bottles. They indeed provide a source for warmth. I just hope it will last enough. The wind outside is blowing. The thought of my tent in the dark is dreadful, but I'm definitely going to spend the night better than yesterday. The facilities in the hostel are brilliant. There's a drying room where my socks and trousers are getting ready for tomorrow. While waiting for them to finish drying I'm sitting in a cozy lounge. A couple of ladies just stepped inside and I'm delightfully listening to their conversation while taking down these notes. It seems that youth hostels in the U.K. are usually booked by middle age people and that during the weekends spending a night or two in a hostel is quite the thing here. The only foreigners around here are from Australia and Canada. In Kirby Stephen I had a chat with the owner of an outdoor goods shop. That shop is a must for anyone hiking in these places. He told me he never saw an Italian there before, and that he could only remember a French man stepping into his shop twelve years ago. I'm indeed in a very British place. By the way, whoever said that English people are unfriendly must have been mad, drunk or probably both. English people are the most polite, kind and friendly folks. Every day I have a conversation with someone. Tonight I had one with Richard, a nice guy who's in his Coast to Coast on bike. We talked different things with politeness and kindness. Today while walking along the river Swale - what an amazing walk! - every group of people or single persons I crossed always said hello with a sincere smile. I asked information to many and everyone showed gentleness. Nobody shows bad or hard feelings and this fact reminds me of South Korean people. 

The long stroll along the Swale was idyllic. I spotted hares, squirrels and pheasants. The quiet and tranquil fauna of Northern England! 

I can't seem to be able to access the Internet yet. It's been four days, since the wi-fi in Grasmere.

Last night I had a terrible nightmare. I dreamt of a group of black people loitering on the roof of a gray building in a gray city. There were dismembered parts of human bodies hung here and there and I just passed by trying to remain unnoticed. The dead flesh was gray and the shape of those chunks of corpses is still haunting me. I still can't understand what triggered this dream, as it was totally unrelated to anything that had happened during the day. I hope Fiona. Wendy and Super-Bob are alright. I heard that storms are still lingering in Lakeland. They ought to be arrived at Kirby Stephen today. I'm really curious if Wendy will have a dream about the "Nine Standards" as I did. This journey is making me more and more conscious - and grateful - about the commodities I'm used to. Even more than the way of Saint James, because here having your feet dry or warm - go figure both! - is a privilege that I can afford seldom. Sleeping in a warm, comfortable bed looks already like a lush. Thanks.

...

In the tent. The choice of planting the tent along the south-eastern wall of the manor was brilliant. No winds are storming my shelter. The bottles are providing a surprisingly amount of heat. I guess that two one-and-a-half litre bottles could heat up the tent till sunrise. I wore the plastic bags on my feet and that should do. Fingers crossed it's not going to rain. The weather forecast on the hostel's telly made me optimistic. The Northern English night sky, with the silhouette of the hills on the other side of the valley of Reeth looming beneath the clouds lit by the moonlight, looks just amazing. How I'd love to listen to "Northern Sky" by Nick Drake now! I hope my walk can bring happiness and relief to the people assisted by the charity I'm foundraising for. I hope more people will donate and I'm deeply thankful for those who have already done it. Thanks Alessandro, Michaela and Massimiliano.

 

 

 

 

What a fantastic night! A deep, sound sleep fully restored my body and spirit! A beautiful morning and a cozy kitchen to have a breakfast in. It wasn't cold at all. The bags around my feet did the trick and this morning the tent looks like drier than yesterday evening. There was a lot of wind, but my tent was quite repaired. The sun is shining and today is going to be a nice day.

...

In Richmond. This a quite lively town, the first sign of true modern civilization along the walk. Lovely. I'm sleeping at a cheap hotel this night as there's no chance to camping nor hostels in town. Today I meditated under a sycamore tree, while the sun was shining. What a beautiful weather! It's almost summer all over again. I'm grateful for having two working feet, two working legs, a working body that can carry me around the world. I'm absolutely grateful.

 

I'm drinking my last pint of Black Sheep ale at the pub before hitting the pillow. This town is precious. The buildings, most prominently a medieval castle and the morphology of its roads, they all converge upwards to the top of the hill where the castle sits, and the mild temperature and clear weather all make up for a sensation of not being in U.K. It rather resembles an Italian city merged with Austrian features. I just ate a "pizza" from the prolific Indian fish&chips. Not actually a pizza. But I needed a tasty break from the English cuisine which is rather... tasteless. I'm sorry British people. You are the kindest folks. But as regards cooking... I'm not saying it's bad. On the contrary I could live on English cuisine whereas I couldn't on Indian. English dishes are straightforward and no-nonsense. A mushroom first course with rice is some mushroom juxtaposed to some rice. Just calling it "delicious first course with mushroom and rice" doesn't make it delicious. In England sugar doesn't sweeten and salt doesn't make food more savoury. Everything you could shove into your mouth is trapped in a spell of non-tastiness. Actually, when a kind, beautiful, smiling lady serves you a mushrooms&rice saying with a tingling voice: "here's your delicious *whatever*" and it happens to be a hot meal, when your major foes are coldness and wetness, that is really the most delicious thing. So it's a matter of wizardry, of spell-casting combatants, more than ingredients and recipes: the blonde fairy casts her spell and *sprinkles* it's tasty. You chew it and the vulgar matter casts its counter-spell: suddenly no taste. 

Today I received some rewarding recognition. A man was hiking for a one-day trip in the other direction: "Are you doing the coast to coast? You are doing it the hard way!" The hard way - aka the hardcore way - involves carrying your everything and sleeping in a tent. I've been doing the latter mostly, although I also slept in two B&B and in a hostel's bunk bed. The loaded rucksack heavily weighs on your shoulders and knees. Carrying it all the way through - whether it's across the peaks or along a river - is no joke. I feel a lot of sympathy coming from the people I meet. Many of them feel the urge to saying some kind words or just having a quick chat. I've been receiving smiles every day so far. But I actually think that they would have done the same in any case, being their attitude so spontaneously polite and gentle. 

Alright, I'm off to bed. I'm going to sleep at least ten hours this night. 

Nighty night!

 

 

 

 

Good morning Richmond! 

Out of my window a couple of starlings are playfully chasing each other above the treetops and the roofs. Yesterday a chattering of them followed me all the way from Grinton through here along the river Swale. They resemble black paper origami birds with tiny and pointy triangular wings. And yes, they sound like a chatter! A faint nuance of sadness dawned upon me as I woke up conscious that my journey is going to end in five days. Today's destination, Danby Wiske, is some five kilometers farther than the previous two. I need to push a little more and cannot linger much in the wilderness. It's sunny, the temperature is fresh and I'm frisky. An ideal day for a walk!

...

I'm drinking a Black Cat dark ale at the inn in Danby Wiske, the White Swan. It's been quite a long walk. The green hills landscape of ever munching sheep swap in favour of flat, cultivated fields of barley. Yellow patches alternated with pale green ones. I've been following the river Swale now and then. Leaving Richmond was pretty fabulous, with its churches and tombstones at the margin of the riverbed. The tenant of the White Swan pub is a jolly person. He made me immediately notice that my beloved Black Sheep beer is not in the number of the local ales anymore. This is indeed a complete different part of the North Yorkshire. The more I leave the Pennines behind, the more different the people, the customs and the landscape. My left hand has returned to a normal state, fully healed from the wound that Steel Fell had left on me. These temporary scars are the marks of that mountain's mercy. A very small tribute to the crag that spared my very own life.

It's been a day of meditation. After noon I started thinking about my duties back home: deadlines, promises, my overall existential to-do list. Up until the fatigue for the long walk and a persistent albeit not problematic pain in my left knee and feet crowded them out. Meditation arose quite spontaneously for hours, much more than the days before. I didn't feel the need for stopping, sitting down and practicing it "formally". The sun shone all day long and the rather monotonous landscape converged into a mental state ideal for meditating. 

The very moving feelings I had the days before left for a much more conscious focus on everything. Breathing became a useful friend again. Memories, recent, past and ancient, all appeared in their nature of "traces". I could distinguish between "active" and "passive" traces. The traces that appear as they are and the ones that appear as a sort of speeding vehicles inside which I am moving. The latter being promises, goals, anything that I am committed to. Regarding the movements of thoughts and general entities that arise within the horizon of the mind, I could name two significantly different kinds. The "horizontal" kind, where everything just follows everything in an unpredictable chain of feelings, thoughts, memories and so on - the "analogue" one, as someone might have called it. And the "vertical" one: thoughts arise from the consciousness of their mental nature itself and immediately start a meta-recursive process. A self-sustained structure which one can only escape by understanding its void nature. Here the consciousness must perform a clearer and freer choice. Of course I'm aware that these are abstractions too. During meditation I let go of them as any other thing.

It's time to set up my tent. The kind owner of the inn told me that there's a hut available for only ten pounds of charge. Let's see!

...

The hut comes with a complimentary male red cat who's extremely lovable and can't stop cuddling and purring. I hope he's going to come over for the night. I would love to have a warm furry fuzzy heating device inside my sleeping bed. The hut is cold, maybe colder than the conservatory at the farm near Ennerdale. The waitress at the White Swan is absolutely beautiful. Her white skin resembles porcelain and her gaze, framed by a pretty blonde fringe, couldn't be any sweeter. I have 95 pounds left in my pocket for 5 days. I need to spend less. I guess the only expenses I can cut are the ones for food and beverage. I've been drinking a pint everyday for five days. No more ales now on. I probably don't need full English breakfasts either. As far as dinner is concerned, I can eat just one course. That'll do. The kitty - his name's Toffee - came in again but eventually decided to go away. I guess there's no Toffee for me tonight. 

I started being less communicative. I can't seem to find the energy to set up a proper conversation. Long days of walk are weighing on my spirit. Shame. Everyone's kind and behaving like this just mortifies me. Since a couple of days I look like an idiot to myself. Monosyllables and prefab phrases. I don't want to miss the connection with others, but tiredness and days of lonesomeness make my conversation skills poorer. It's as if I got used to the walk and I lost the drive to know new people. Maybe I just miss Bob, Wendy and Fiona. By I think I would be rather silent even if they were here. On the other hand I've been talking with animals all day long. Sheep, cows, horses and a cat. Now to sleep. The goal is nearer. Five days to go.

 

 

 

 

Sleeping in the hut turned out to be brilliant. The provided mattress was extremely comfortable and the wooden walls were insulated enough to keep the warmth inside during the night. As I opened the small wooden door, Toffee jumped inside and decided that it was purr therapy time. I won't forget any animals of this journey. Pheasants, squirrels, hares, crows and starlings among the wild, untamed ones. Cows, sheep, horses, dogs and Toffee among my domestic friends. I met a couple of donkeys today as well. Sheep are rather shy, so I can't pet any, as they tend to flee in a panic for any kinds of movement, sudden or slow, that you might perform. Two days ago I heard a couple of women speaking Korean but I hadn't had the guts to talk to them until I found them accommodated in the room in front of mine! I seized the day and went: 실례지만 한국사람이에요? Their immediate reaction was quite of the unimpressed kind (later I understood why: my misuse of honorific terms simply sounded offensive to them), so I kept on: 한국학생이에요. 만나서 반갑습니다. 이 여행이 좋아요? One replied in a super fast Korean. Wow! I understood nothing. The other was still quite silent and asked me why I am studying their language. We talked (in English) about how during my experience on the Way of Saint James I met a Korean person and how I liked her manners and soul. That person is Haley, a bright star that's been thriving in my heart ever since. Thing is they did el Camino de Santiago too, five years ago. 

By noon I was already at destination, Ingleby Cross. A small yet precious village born in a crossroads with a very nice inn called The Blue Bell. I had a nice English coffee there. The host explained me how different an American coffee is than an English coffee, as I had ordered: "one Americano, please" and he replied with a grin: "we do English here". The sky's been cloudy all day. Perfect weather for walking. As I left Ingleby Cross behind, I entered the dark and gothic hill of Arncliffe Woods. I could almost see goblins and elves battling among its trees and arrows cast from a thicket upwards, towards the dense foliage where countless red eyes of orcs were lurking. The cottages on top of the woods are fabulous. As I was passing by them one by one, I was sure that those couldn't be but writers' houses. And I was waiting the moment Neil Gaiman would have crossed my path while on a stroll to get inspiration from the wild and gloomy nature of the woods.

Sometimes, in my walk, it happens to me that I reminisce the adventures I had with my friends in the virtual world of Warcraft. Mostly my friend Alex, with whom I shared many adventures and that I met for the first time in a dark wood much similar to the one I walked through today. Moreover, I think on my first adventures with my neighbourhood's friends when I was a kid. We used to explore abandoned houses of my city, equipped with rope, hatchet, torches and all the gadgets that any adventurer can't do without. Massimiliano, who kindly baptized the donations to my cause, was the one who ignited my passion for adventures and exploration. During a late summer afternoon he led all the youngest kids, including me, into an unforgettable adventure among the ruins of a forbidden, vast area of my home city, Udine. We entered into a realm of wilderness and unknown just in the middle of the familiar places of our childhood. That experience changed me forever and since then I always had an appetite, an insatiable hunger for adventures that eventually led me through the practice of role playing games in my adolescence.

The lounge in the hostel is cozy. It reminds me of a kids' playroom from the 70's, with a stack of Milton Bradley's table top games, moquette on the floors and pea-green sofas with polka-dot cushions. In half an hour it is going to get dark. I'll have a stroll down to the stream to give a glance at the ancient mill this hostel takes its name after. Hopefully, I won't find vampires, ghosts nor werewolves.

...

The trip into the woods at twilight was intense. I climbed up a rough path until my sandals let me walk onto the stones, mostly hidden by the darkness of the woods' depths. I sensed the idyllic nature of what gothic means. A sense of companionship and familiarity, not of terror. The darkness reflects in the most fragile innards of our spirit and at the same time it summons silent forces within us. I remember the time I took hallucinogen mushrooms in the Black Forest in Germany when I was 21. There's an invisible layer one needs to cross through in order to find themselves as part of the darkest nature. Darkness is whispers and the tingling of the senses and seeing things at a completely different level. It means that what you smell, smells different. The forest in the night has another smell. And the boundaries between you and everything else fade in the darkness. Your breath is the breath of the trees and the tiny, crackling movements you perceive when the owl is not singing, they happen on your own skin. And every leaf blown by the wind is a hair on your head that moves as you brush by invisible boughs.

Among all the steps in this journey that seems to have begun so long ago, here is where I would linger the most, to go off track into the obscurity of the forest, towards the call of the Source.

How did they dare to steal my new phone! It's a pity I cannot take the pictures all this immense and obscure beauty incontrovertibly deserves. 

Time to sleep and get prepared for the peaks of tomorrow's stage. It's not going to be a long walk, but the last mountains before the Northern Sea are the last gate to the lunar York Moors. 

May the darkness be pitch black. And all the colours shine in their unsophisticated light.

Good Night.

 

 

 

 

I'm chilling and trembling inside the tent. I managed to plant it as fast as I could on a field next a semi-abandoned farm in Beakhills, one mile south of the track along the Cleveland Way. It's raining, although not heavily. Half of my equipment inside the tent is wet and the wind seems to find its way into it. I've been walking for miles inside a thick mist. Visibility was dramatically limited for all the day. I must tell that this way the moors looked impressive. The crags are scattered with tumuli and cairns. One cannot believe that Tolkien didn't take these places as the source for The Lord of the Rings' Barrow-downs.  If it weren't for the conspicuous number of pheasants that dwell on these moors, I would expect that only spectres and ghosts roam the silent crags covered in heather. I took many photos today and also a couple of videos to best record the ghastly feeling I had while seeing one tumulus after another appearing from within the thick fog. I hope that someone in the farm has food to sell. This morning I had no breakfast at Cote Ghyll since the cook of the hostel was on duty as a jury member at a trial. The wind is already very cold. I hope it will settle down for the night. I'm going to ask for a hot shower or just for hot tap water to the farm owners. 

...

The lady at the farm kindly let me use a hot shower inside a decadent and dirty trailer. Better than nothing. They also have a wooden hut outside the yard that serves as a toilet. Since my tent is set up on their property, I guess I'll be asked a small fee tomorrow. Unfortunately she can't cook any hot meals for me but she was kind enough to offer to drive me to the village's pub in one hour and to pick me up again at half nine. There's no hot water though. The only one comes out from the shower and there's no use in trying and filling the bottles with it. I'll ask her, before going to bed, if she can fill them up for me. I'm going to eat as much as I can at the pub. I need calories, lots of them. This place looks totally shabby. The first I've seen in England. If yesterday's hostel resembled the Overlook Hotel from The Shining, today I'm just in a different and maybe worse horror movie location. The York Moors Chainsaw Massacre. Or: The Moors Have Eyes. Today I stumbled upon some very peculiar blokes in the mist. One was a hobbit. I swear. The typical hobbit way of treading, a couple of red cheeks, a benevolent smile, a dark green mantle and the standard walking wooden stick. I only forgot to check for hairy feet and pointy ears. Afterwards I crossed an incredibly fit bloke dressed in tactical black garments. He was rushing downhill and I saw a military emblem on his sleeve. He looked like a very tough Maori or something like that. It was apparent he was exercising. I wonder if he was a member of S.A.S. training in the moors. Immediately after the Shepherd Hill woods and just before entering the moors, on the track was a blue cabinet were anyone could pick up the goods from the near farm and leave some coins in a box as a payment. I took a bag of "toms" - that is tomatoes - which I ate eagerly. Again, I'm pretty hungry and in one hour I'll be eating a cow or two. There was a group of kids in the moors too. They came suddenly out of the fog and it was quite the strangest vision. Of course there were a couple of adults with them. I think they were practicing orienteering. I also sat on a throne of stone at the top of the crag before coming south to Beak Hills. It is dedicated to Eric "Rambler" Falconer, presumably a popular mountaineer, and sitting on it was a timeless feeling. I felt like a druid or a war chief of ages forlorn. It's six o'clock and my hands are freezing. I only need to get over this night before arriving at more welcoming places, such as Glaisdale, 30 kms from here and tomorrow's destination. The day after I'll be arriving at Hawsker, only 5 miles from Robin Hood's Bay. This walk is coming to a conclusion and yesterday, in the comfort of Cote "Overlook" Ghyll hostel I was quite sad about it, now I'm glad I won't sleep in a cold and wet tent for a long time.

 

The lady's husband drove me to the pub down to the village. You can't go to the smallest and most insignificant villages without stumbling upon cozy and welcoming pubs. These places changed my perspective on English food dramatically. The cuisine is usually very tasty and nutrient and eating it provides great satisfaction. Driving from the top of the hills to here, the Buck's Inn, was most exciting. The farmer kept speeding through the rough roads while horses and cows were running in front of us, trying not to get run over! The enormous red-faced man yelling out: "Bloody horses!" "Stupid cows!" hitting the hooter furiously as if there were no tomorrow. At first I was concerned for the poor animals, but they weren't harmed at all and it almost looked like they were provoking the driver for a chase. I loved that. We had also had small talk about the weather, Venice, the heathers' late August full blooming and the trouts and salmons he proudly catches with his net. He was keeping saying "Yup!" "Yup!" with an obedient, powerful, resonating low voice. In the pub I found a very charming London native gentleman from Singapore who's doing the coast to coast in only ten days! Then a local couple who's going to Lake Garda for the second time next July and the owner of the pub, Wolfgang, a German native Australian who has done pretty much everything in his life. I had a chat with everyone! The local daughter of the pub's owner is beautiful. She smiled to me from under the rain-wet cape and her wet black hair, and I almost died. 

The food is delicious. I won't forget this dinner any time soon.

...

Two nights have passed since I last wrote in this diary. These have been the coldest and wettest nights in all the journey. Alas, the weather forecast was wrong and aside from a blessed morning and afternoon, it continuously rained, especially last night. 

I'm at the Lion's Inn in Blakey Top. A mirage on the horizon of the coast-to-coaster when it first comes into sight. And an actual refuge once you've worked out the optical illusion that the moor's morphology casts and have understood where the semi-hidden bridle path conjoins with the road to the inn. 

This place is absolutely fantastic. It's got the feel of an Alpine refuge but with moquette and carpets on the floor. Coziness and warmth. And good food. And a little bit of elegance, why not! Yesterday, the day began with a solid breakfast in the farmer's kitchen in Beak Hills. The house was poor but decent, nice and cozy. It had everything to make you feel comfortable. The owners really love animals, since there was a never ending collection of figurines of cows, horses, chickens and whatnot in each nook and cranny of the house. The owner had quite a thick accent but we managed to have a rather normal conversation anyway - at least, I hope! 

My tent got wet during the night. The thick fog, the showers and the dew soaked it completely. Packing it was a wet job indeed. My sleep got interrupted all night by the pheasants, jumping and quarreling around my tent. Eventually one of them started gurgling just next to my head. That sound is somehow funny and goofy but while trying to sleep it can be pretty annoying. 

The first four hours of walk were demanding. Up and down four moored crags across steep climbs and descents. The view was shockingly beautiful. The very same places that looked so spooky and ghastly the day before in the mist, now they appeared in all their vastness and light. Under a blue sky and placid white clouds, hues from browns to greens and large patches of heather's purple. The third peak was the famous Wainstones peak, a geological marvel. I wrote my name on a stone there, but I guess the night rain already deleted it. Later on I started listening to music for the first time in my walk. As the first words of "Un oceano di silenzio" were being spoken, the path took a tight bend inwards, onto the valley side. All the valley opened up in its magnificence and the notes and choruses from the song celebrated that glory. I thought about my father, and the fact that he was seeing all that beauty through my eyes. How much beauty in this world. I cried. And thanked him, my mother, my grandparents and all the ancestors I never knew. For letting me be there. To witness the light that casts even upon my darkest thoughts. I experienced an uncontainable joy of blessing and gratitude. 

...

I'm sitting on a rock in the woods of East Arnecliff, south of Glaisdale. A little break before setting off to Grosmont and there to Littlebeck. So many things. So many beautiful moments. Views. Chats with other walkers and the inhabitants of these places. I feel so blessed. Hardly can I think that tomorrow I'll be arriving at Robin Hood's Bay and this journey will come to an end. 

I just want to write something very unexpected that happened yesterday. While I was treading on the never ending old railway tracks from the Wainstones to Blakey Top, a couple of cyclists coming from my same direction yelled: "Anton!!" I was speechless. It turned out they had met a guy whom I had a nice chat with. We talked about these places, the Wainstones, and the meaning of walking. Having provided my description, he asked them to say hello to me if they would have met me. I must have left a very good impression to the man, as the two cyclist were very glad to exchange some words with me before keeping on the road. It might seem a little thing, insignificant maybe, but it made me incredibly glad and actually feel at home in all this wilderness. The home of who walks.

Now, to keep on to Littlebeck.

 

 

 

 

Here I am, with my head out of the tent, nose up to the stars, staring at the full glory of the Milky Way. It's been years since I saw it so clear, whole and magnificent. I walked thirty kilometres today. A long day up and down the hills, through the woods and across the last moors of England before the Northern Sea. My shoulders almost cracked up the very last hill that leads to Intake farm, a lovely farmhouse, probably the most lovely of my journey, where the landlady welcomed me carrying a tray with tea and a cake that I gladly consumed on the meadow. It was almost sunset and I was utterly relieved to arrive just before dark. Here I found the two German guys I first saw in Ennerdale, at the end of the first day. We shared our food and talked about the stars. This farmhouse is just perfect, with its courtyard filled with newly born kitties; the lovely landlady and the nice landlord; the windows on the second floor lit up under the starry night, just like a drawing, and the dining room full of the goods from the farm, like a huge heap of red apples on its floor and the oh so warm and cozy smell of delicious food. 

The night owl is singing and I can't wait to meet the sea tomorrow.

Good night.

...

Good morning world!

Early wake as I couldn't keep sleeping in this exciting day. I did a sortie in the cold morning to top up again the bottles that were almost iced. A kitty came close to me from a bush saying "morning pal!" and I feel like I'm setting off to the Universe, with all the memories of this journey following each other in my dreams and wake. On my earbuds Eddie Vedder is singing songs of freedom and I'm overwhelmed with joy and love. 

Thank you dad, we have been walking together in this journey. As much as I carried you in my eyes, you had been carrying me to this very point of existence since the very beginning. Off to the Universe to pay our tribute to the Northern Sea, where I will throw the pebble I took up two weeks ago on the shores of the Irish Sea. This stone has been with me during all this marvelous journey and has seen things many never will. If we can set a piece of rock free, and make it fly across mountains, hills, crags, bogs, rivers, woods, plains, streams, moors, fields and towns, villages and cities... If we can bestow freedom, if we can accelerate the destiny from the slowness of geological movements to the burning pace of the living, if we can lift up what is dead and make it dance... If we are free. 

 

 

 

 

Immersed in thousands of memories, I stepped into Robin Hood's Bay, the last destination of my journey. The path doesn't go straight into the fishermen village, but it takes a long bend north, passing by the vertiginous cliffs on the Northern Sea. This walk is specular to the beginning, to St. Bees Head, the windy promontory that overlooks the Irish Sea and the village of St. Bees. As the very first steps of my walk were under the rain and hindered by the strong gusts of wind, today, like in a happy-ending tale, the sun was shining and the walk was just perfect. The descent into Robin Hood's Bay, a tremendously beautiful seamen village, thriving with youth on a Saturday afternoon, was the grand finale of my journey. Once I reached  the beach and dipped my feet into the seaweed covered waters, I threw the pebble I had collected fifteen days ago, on the other side of the Country. I let the stone fly and seek for a new home for the next million years. During the last miles I met a lovely couple from Washington D.C. - Annette and Jim - two beautiful people who have just retired and are on an open trip in Europe. They did the coast to coast walk too and were calm and serene on their arrival. As Annette was caring and sweet, Jim was smiling and friendly and was talking to everyone with sincere openness. 

How I wish I could remember every single person I met in this journey. How I wish everyone I know could have experienced what I experienced. I wish you all were here, to participate to the joy I felt. 

Before heading to Whitby, I had a pint with Max and Sebastian, with whom I shared a lovely camp-cooked spaghetti bowl on the meadow at the Intake farm. I first had met them at the end of the very first day. I remember how they entered into the farm house in Ennerdale with the fireplace alive and sparkling, drenched and soaked after that rainy day. They did this journey in the most authentic way, always carrying and cooking their own food and without skipping any stages. Congratulations guys, it's your attitude that keeps this walk's spirit alive.

With a deep and spotless feeling of achievement and satisfaction, I'm going to end this diary. Thanks to everyone who cheered for me, to everyone who let me know they were thinking about me and to Alessandro, Michaela, Andrea and Massimiliano who kindly donated to the charity I had the privilege to help. This journey has transformed me, my spirit and my flesh. As everything in our existence, it has come to an end. 

 

Thank you.