Injury time

Wake up to blue skies and sunshine. I don't mind my 6.45am alarm one bit. Paddy is going to spend the day visiting Rieveaulx Abbey, completing his tour of the Sistercian jewels of the north. Mick has double strapped the knee he wrenched in the bog-hole last week and we've arranged to meet Hauke at our elevenses stop. We will miss Pad's whimsical musings on the walk, but he is fired up with the wealth of abbeys and priories around here. Last night he was telling Hauke all about the monastic murder mystery he's written and I've been suddenly fascinated in finding out about the history and habits of these religious houses. Hauke, too, had his area of special interest, which emerged when we got on to 18th century weaponry, as you do.
Anyway, back to today's walk, we quickly arrive on the Cleveland Way, another long-distance walk the Coast to Coast follows all day, much of it paved with gigantic flagstones. Good for the environment but hard on our joints.
The walk weaves over hills and through dappled woods where we encounter horses and dog walkers. It's certainly dog-friendly country. A sign outside a pub the other night said, 'Muddy boots and dogs welcome.' It was like Crufts inside.

All too soon we make a start on the roller coaster of the five hills we have to climb and descend (we've done 750m up and 650m down by the end of the day). The views are out of this world all the way. It's not quite clear enough to see the sea from the lunch spot we share with a couple of Coast to Coasters, but we can make out Middlesbrough – not sure that compensates.



It's like travelling along a high-level skywalk, or being in a plane looking down at the chequered fields and tiny houses. The climbs up and down are like being on a stone-cobbled Stairmaster. We have poles and boy do we need them. Boot removal during extended stops has become de rigueur.



The final hill is called the Wain Stones. Mick is suffering with his knee – he's not his usual cheery self – and I think he just wants to get it over with, so he ploughs on, as Hauke and I take photos of climbers on the rocks, which are one of the few climbing areas in the North Yorks Moors.



We get to the top and Mick's nowhere to be seen. I ask a few people if they've seen him, describe him, and people say 'no', then 'oh yes', and 'I think so' so we're not quite sure. But we arrive at the last descent and can't see him at the bottom, finally meet Paddy who's waiting with the car and he says he hasn't seen him either. Oh crikey. I'm trying to call him and Hauke is all set to walk back to look for him when we see him coming down the steps, hand dripping with blood. Apparently he'd taken the wrong turning at the Wain Stones and fallen off a rock into some bracken. He was lying there, quite happy, he says, because he was tired and it was so comfortable. He shouted 'Cate' a couple of times up at people on the cliff above but no one heard him. Eventually he thought he'd better try to get up, which he did, but then gashed his hand negotiating a barbed wire fence. It's not as bad as it looks in the end, but I get the chance to play nurse, and at last justify the purchase of those antiseptic wound wipes and sterile dressings. Woohoo!
Mick is much revived in the local pub over a pint of Bomber. And we all raise our glasses to a happy ending.