Day 4, June 4, 2011 -- St. Ives to Portreath

Today was a long day – 17 miles and 9 hours. I departed the B&B in St. Ives at 9:30 and arrived at the Portreath B&B at 6:30.

The weather was warm and sunny. There were many people on the beaches, and a few families on the trail, but I couldn’t identify any true hikers. Nobody had backpacks or water, and everybody I saw on the trail was within a half mile of a parking area.



Hayle at low tide

 I arrived at the village of Hayle at 12:30, so decided to look for a bakery to buy a pasty for lunch. Near the end of town was the only bakery, with a long line of customers out the door and down the sidewalk. “This must be the spot,” I concluded, so I joined the line. The fellow in front of me told me this is the best bakery in the area; he himself drove from St. Ives just to buy a pasty. The wait took about 10 minutes, and as I approached the counter, the fellow from St. Ives said to me, “Order a medium steak pasty.” Well, OK. I added a liter of milk. The St. Ives fellow also ordered a medium steak pasty.

We walked outside together and I sat at a picnic table, but he couldn’t stay, muttering something about wives and cats.

The medium steak pasty weighed about 2 pounds, or maybe 2 kilos. Although it was absolutely delicious – the best pasty I’ve ever had – I could eat only half of it and placed the other half in my backpack for later. I also could drink only half the liter of milk, putting the other half in my pack. So the pasty and milk offset 7 maps which I had mailed yesterday.

Resuming the walk, I grew lonely not having anybody to talk with. I came upon a churchyard, and decided to talk with some dead people. They listened politely, but didn’t have much to say.

A little later, I talked with a cow. She was not friendly and told me to mooove on. Then I came upon a steer, but he just eyed me suspiciously. I think he doesn’t trust people any more.






With nobody to talk with I just plodded on and enjoyed the scenery.  I hope you do too.

© 2011 Ken Klug

Day 3, June 3, 2011 -- Trewellard to St. Ives

While I was traveling to St. Ives
I met a man with seven wives.
Each wife had seven sacks.
Each sack had seven cats.
Each cat had seven kits.
Kits, cats, sacks, wives;
How many POUNDS were going to St. Ives?

I don’t know the total weight, but it’s about 10 fewer pounds than it might have been. (4.4 kilos, but I can’t remember how many pounds a kilo is. Maybe I should take up smoking.) I mailed the maps today, and that’s a story in itself.



Gypsy Caravan

 But let’s start with the beginning. Last night I stayed at Gypsy Caravan B&B. The accommodation is a restored old Gypsy wagon (or caravan to the English), which was a 19th century (or maybe earlier) camping trailer, pulled by horses. I had seen a few of them in Ireland. This one has seen its last horse, but staying in it was quirky fun and comfortable. Those old trailers, of course, had no bathroom facilities, so the owners remodeled an old storage room for the bath. Without a doubt, it was the best, most modern bathroom facility I’ve ever seen in England.



Levant Tin Mine Ruins

 After a good night’s sleep, I was awakened by singing birds at 5:00 am. I like arising early, so took advantage of the opportunity.  I packed into the duffel the items to ship ahead, and then went for an hour-long walk to visit nearby ruins of a tin mine. Followng breakfast, I headed off to the post office in Pendeen, pack on my back and duffel in hand. But the post office had no shipping boxes, and no shipping envelopes. The postmaster suggested I ask at Pendeen’s only grocery store, a Co-op, similar to 7-11 in the US. The clerk was able to find one small box, which he gave to me. Now I had a problem, what do I send ahead? Sending the maps I had planned to send to Donald Gray meant carrying everything else, and with the weekend approaching, the prospect of sending the remaining stuff anytime soon was not good. But I couldn’t send everything to Donald, because some items will be required before I see him.

In the end I decided to send everything to the B&B where I’ll be staying before I get close to the Mendips. That means I’ll have to carry all that stuff again a week earlier than I anticipated, but at least the weight is off my back for the next two weeks. I have time between now and then to solve the future problem. Don’t worry, Donald. I won’t withdraw your title.



View from Coastal Path

 With the weight off my back, I moved along comfortably and swiftly. That is, except for the time consumed in conversation with virtually ever other hiker on the trail. (Hey, we all have our weaknesses.) That, plus the late start after the post office fiasco, caused me to arrive in Zennor (6 trail miles from my destination St. Ives) at 3:00. The trail between Zennor and St. Ives is reputed to be extremely difficult and correspondingly slow. With the prospect of arriving in St. Ives at 8:00 or 9:00 pm, I decided to take the faster route by walking the road.



Pauline, Roger and Nora Too!

 Roads are usually boring and unpleasant, and this was no exception. But I moved along rapidly until I met Roger and Pauline, from Devon, who were parked alongside the road in their beautifully restored 1972 VW bus. We had a nice conversation and made tentative plans to have dinner together when I’m in Barnstaple in mid-June. Maybe they’ll even treat me to a ride.

I arrived in St. Ives at 5:30, tired but happy.


© 2011 Ken Klug

Day 2, June 2, 2011 Land's End to Trewellard

The Angel of the Mendips


The Start



The signpost says 874 miles to John O’Groats. The joke around here is that 874 miles is the straight-line distance – a straight line passing through the Irish Sea. Today, I felt as if I walked (or swam) the full 874 miles. The trail passes through excellent coastal scenery, and many historical tin mines. I was not in a mood to enjoy any of that, and was totally wiped out by the time I reached my destination.

There are many possible reasons: jet lag, difficult terrain, age, etc. But the real reason is that my backpack is too heavy. The other conditions may have contributed, but the weight is just too much. The sole reason for my pack being over-weight is the quantity of maps I am carrying.



Directional Sign

 George and Ann are holding the maps for northern England and Scotland, and will deliver them to me when we meet. That accounts for 1/3 of the total maps, and I’m carrying the other 2/3 – 20 maps. When I walked across Ireland, I had a total of 12 maps, and I didn’t have the added weight of a computer. It’s pretty clear that I’m not going to be able to finish this walk carrying all those maps.

Some End to Enders solve the weight problem by having the maps mailed to them at various points along the route. That requires local assistance, which George and Ann can’t presently provide since they are in Utah. Other End to Enders use electronic mapping programs on their I-phones, which requires technical skills that I don’t have. I can mail a few maps ahead and pick them up when I arrive at a destination, but that requires having room reservations farther in advance than I want to do.



Lunch -- Cornish Pasty and Cornish Milk

 Yesterday, Donald Gray, who has been corresponding with me for over a year, sent me an email offering to be my map depository for Southern England. Donald is an avid walker, and lives in the Mendips Hills southern England. He has developed a delightful reputation for unannounced appearances on the trail and walking for a day with other End to Enders. He obviously anticipated my problem, and offered to provide in Southern England what George and Ann are providing in the north.

So tomorrow, I will mail to Donald 10 maps, and will mail six more to a B&B at which I will stay in a few weeks. I’ve already got a plan in place to mail George my used maps. I’m also going to send him the duffel bag which was necessary for checking my gear for the flight over. The total reduction will get me below the maximum I can comfortably carry.

In addition to being a depository for my maps, Donald Gray is also a repository of history of place names in southern England. The origin of place names has long been of interest to me, and I have studied the source of Yosemite place names. Southern England has some wonderful place names, and I’m looking forward to Donald’s explanations when he returns my maps in a few weeks.

If I'm successful in completing this walk, it is because there are many people who will make it possible.  At the conclusion I will acknowledge all of them. For now, though, I want to thank Donald Gray, the Angel of the Mendips.

© 2011 Ken Klug

Day 1, June 1, 2011 -- Pirates in Penzance

My flight to London arrived 7:45 am. After clearing immigration and customs I took the Heathrow Express train to London’s Paddington Station, where I bought a one-way train ticket to Penzance. I arrived in Penzance mid-afternoon. My B&B was a mile from the train station. Since time wasn’t an issue, I opted to take the walk rather than take a bus or taxi. The weather was cool, breezy and dry.

After checking into my B&B, I decided to look for Penzance’s famous pirates. These aren’t the same as the so-called pirates of Somalia, who are nothing more than terrorist thugs. No, Penzance’s pirates are the real thing, the fabled swashbucklers of yore, of Errol Flynn and Robert Louis Stevenson.

I’m not one to suffer from romantic delusions, so I anticipated that modern medical techniques had probably relieved pirates from peg legs and hooks. But I still expected to find rugged men with sabers, wearing 3-cornered hats sporting big feathers. And an eye patch wasn’t totally out of the question. Aargh.



Pirate's Inn

 Alas, I couldn’t find a pirate anywhere in Penzance, until I spotted the Pirate’s Inn.  Where better to find a real pirate than at their own inn?  I know that some of my detractors would assume that I was more attracted by the “real ales” sign than the prospect of meeting actual pirates, but some people always look for the worst.



Maria, Becky, and Richard

 So to prove them wrong, I went to the beer garden, where I met Richard, Becky and Maria. They denied being pirates, of course, but they were drinking beer just like real pirates. Then they happened to mention that – get this, Danielle F. – they mentioned that they learned to roll their own cigarettes on Mauritius. It doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to know that the Indian Ocean is a hotbed of pirate activity. And pirates always roll their own cigarettes.

In her defense, Maria said she was starting to design and sew clothes. I knew better; being a trained lawyer, I interrogated her until she let it slip that she’s actually using purples and pinks – which we all know to be colors fancied by pirates. Richard and Becky have their own car-parking business, catering to “people who sail to the Scilly Islands” off the coast of Penzance. Now I ask you, who do you think is sailing off the coast of Penzance, if not pirates.

So, bolstered by my success in finding actual pirates in Penzance, I’m looking forward to starting my walk tomorrow. Coincidently, I’ll be staying in St. Ives on June 3. I wonder what my detractors will make of that.

© 2011 Ken Klug

The Yanks Are Coming!!

Last week, Jack Frost of Arizona started walking from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Jack is reporting his journey at http://lejogjack.wordpress.com/

I’m planning to start in his footsteps next week. Now, this may not seem like an invasion, but given that few are presently walking End to End, two Americans must be a pretty high percentage.

Mother Nature is already throwing up her defenses – ash from Iceland’s Grimsvotn volcano. This is different from last year’s Eyjafjollajokull volcano. Iceland is a delightful country, but Icelanders really should do something about their volcanoes. They could start by giving them names that you can actually spell and pronounce.  Just don’t follow suggestions from Hawaiians.

Many years ago, when I first planned to hike the Irish Coast to Coast, an epidemic of foot and mouth disease closed down the trails, and I was forced to postpone the walk. Last summer … well, I was forced to postpone the walk. I don’t know what nature has in store for me this year, but I’m getting tired of it. I think the Europeans are also getting tired of it.

D’YA HEAR THAT, NATURE??  WE’RE ALL GETTING TIRED OF IT!!  YOU CAN DELAY US BUT YOU CAN’T STOP US.  READY OR NOT, THE YANKS ARE COMING!!!

Well, OK, you can actually stop us. But please don’t.




© 2011 Ken Klug

Ron's Secret Place

While enjoying my morning coffee yesterday, I received a telephone call from my good friend, Professor Ron. Ron is a living guidebook to hiking in southern Utah. “Ken,” he said, “I would like to hike to a secret place today – a place of such outstanding natural beauty that I was sworn by the person who discovered it never to disclose its location. Can join me?”

“Am I required to wear a blindfold?” I asked.

“No, but you must promise never to disclose its location to anyone,” replied the professor. “You know what happened to the Wave.” [Note: See the video embedded in the top pano of http://www.utah.com/playgrounds/the_wave.htm  for a report of what happened to the Wave.]

“Ron, I’m a highly trained lawyer. Preserving confidentiality is my stock in trade. Of course you can trust me to never disclose its location.”

“Good,” he replied. “I’ll pick you up in 30 minutes.”

I’m not only a trained lawyer, but also a trained hiker, so my backpack is always ready. All I need to add is a liter of water and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Thirty minutes was plenty of time for me to finish my coffee and assemble the sandwich.

It was also plenty of time for me to telephone my English friend, Dr. George, who happens to be vacationing in Utah. You may remember that Dr. George helped me search for angels on Halloween, and he is going to help me search for pubs in northern England. How could I hike to a secret place of outstanding natural beauty without including Dr. George?

“George,” I said, “Professor Ron is going to guide me to a secret place of outstanding natural beauty. Would you like to join us?”

Ever the gentlemen, George responded, “Well, unless Ron actually invited me along I don’t think…”

“Now, George,” I interrupted, “you know how absent-minded the professor can be. Had he thought about it, he certainly would have invited you. You’ve got to see this place before somebody spills the beans and the crowds discover it. Oh, and bring your GPS so we don’t get lost. Just be sure the professor doesn’t know you’re bringing the GPS, because he might be insulted if he thought we doubted his route finding ability.”

And so off we went to see the secret place of outstanding natural beauty, George carrying his GPS, I carrying my PB&J sandwich, and Ron carrying his secret.

There was no trail. Our route took us across the Utah high desert, where recent spring rains had brought out desert flowers

and the distant mountains were still displaying their winter snows.

In due course, we arrived at white petrified sand dunes, known as slickrock, created long ago by ancient seas. As we continued on, the slickrock gradually changed from white to red, evidence of staining by leaching minerals, probably iron from ancient volcanic flows. Candy-striped layers of rock are ubiquitous in Utah, but these were different. Normally the stripes are simply the result of layers of different sands deposited over time. Here, the candy stripes were stains, apparently caused by ancient iron rich streams and evaporating seas flowing over the white slickrock. Combined with the cubic fractures of the sandstone, the stains were a tiled mosaic – nature’s art. No wonder Ron wants to keep the place secret. Thousands of boots treading on the painted slickrock would quickly erase the marvelous swirls left by nature.

Awestruck by the beauty of Ron’s secret place, George and I reassured Ron that we would never disclose its location, despite the fact that the precise grid coordinates were captured by George’s GPS – the very same GPS we’ll be carrying when we walk together in northern England.

No, George and I will never, ever disclose the location. Our lips are forever sealed, and can never be pried open. Not even if you bribe us with a pint as we walk together in northern England. Not even for two pints. I dare you to try.

© 2011 Ken Klug

Rescuing Londoners in Yosemite

This week Janet wanted to attend a 3-day session of cooking classes in – of all places – YOSEMITE !!! Now, I don’t exactly need cooking lessons because I’m already widely recognized for making the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the planet. But it’s never a good idea to disappoint a spouse, so I reluctantly agreed that we would go to Yosemite for the cooking classes.

It was pouring rain as we left home, and I knew that driving into the Sierra Nevada during a winter storm would entail some risk. After all, look what happened to the Donner party. So, just in case we were to get stranded in the mountains, I took the precaution of packing my snowshoes, as well as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A cynic might speculate that bringing snowshoes to Yosemite was part of a plan to avoid the cooking classes, but I assure you that my motives were as pure as the driven snow. As it happened, the snowplows did their job, and the road to Yosemite was clear all the way.



Dangerous weather

 Knowing that we had safely arrived at the cooking venue was a great relief. But then it dawned on me: we weren’t the only persons planning to attend the cooking classes. What if some aspiring chef had taken a wrong turn and was lost? Sure, the roads were open, but what if somebody decided to walk to the cooking classes and got caught in the storm? How could I enjoy the classes worrying that some poor soul may be struggling through waist-deep snow while I was comfortable in a warm kitchen? No, that wouldn’t do. I had to launch a rescue.

Without wasting any time to mince an onion or par-boil a potato, I headed straight over to the ranger station, where I found my good friend Ranger Dick. “Dick,” I said, “there might be some cooks lost out there in the storm. Perhaps we ought to go out and search for them.”

“We usually wait for a report to come in before launching a search and rescue,’’ replied Dick.

“We don’t have time to wait,” I implored. “The cooking class will be starting soon, and if we don’t start searching right away, somebody might miss class.”

Being a trained observer, Dick quickly spotted my distress. “OK. I’ll go out on patrol and see if anybody’s in trouble.”

“Not you, Dick; BOTH of us. WE should go out on patrol – TOGETHER,” I pleaded in my most helpful tone. “Good citizens always assist the authorities in desperate times. Look, I just happen to have my snowshoes with me. You lead the way, and I’ll follow. Janet will forgive my missing class for an emergency patrol.”


The search begins



So, armed with a first aid kit and a PB&J sandwich, Dick and I set off into the back country in search of lost cooks.

Nobody at the creek

The weather conditions impeded our search. Any tracks which may have been left by a victim were obliterated by the deep, fresh powder of new snow. Any cries for help would have been muffled by the soft sound of snowflakes landing on the trees. Any victims, themselves, would have been concealed by shadows dancing on the hillside as the sun peeked in and out of the clouds. Yet we struggled on, hoping against hope that we would find a victim in time.



Brave Brits

 And then suddenly, there they were: an English couple, from London, totally out of place in the Yosemite wilderness. Bravely, they insisted that they weren’t lost – that they were merely out enjoying the day. But the look in their eyes betrayed them. Or at least the look would have betrayed them had their eyes not been hidden behind snow goggles. “We’re fine – really, we are.” But despite their courageous words, their smiles revealed relief at being rescued. They offered to share a Kendal Mint Cake with us. These brave Brits may have been stranded out here for days with nothing but Kendal Mint Cakes, and yet they were willing to share their meager provisions with their rescuers. They must be disciples of Shackleton.




Reflecting on the ridge

 Storms pass over California quickly, and the following day brought typical California sunshine. Still energized by the previous day’s rescue, I followed Dick to a high ridge where we could reflect on past events as the sun reflected off the snow. “The Londoners were remarkably calm yesterday, all things considered,” I observed.

“A very nice couple,” responded Dick. “Too bad about your missing the cooking class.”

“Yeah, too bad. Would you like half of my peanut butter sandwich?”



© 2011 Ken Klug