The Swale Trail of Swaledale

At times, I find myself wishing we could type in accents, because I'm almost certain you're not reading it how I'm writing it. But such is the risk we take in sharing our thoughts (or art, some might say) with the world, is that we set it out to be, potentially and probably, misinterpreted. Oh well. I'd like to keep sharing anyway, if that's alright with you. Do me a favor though? Read this one in an English accent ;)

There's no room for heads down here, no time for people living out of the moment. You keep your head down, you're likely to miss it. Miss the small faded sign pointing in the direction of a nearly invisible footpath. Miss the bus, zipping down the narrow village roads, intending to pass you by unless you wave it down. Miss the next smiling face, looking your way and offering advice you never actually asked for, but you're glad once you've had it, as it comes in hand later. This place was built by people present in their moment, and there's no room for the oblivious drones of my generation. Heads up, lads.

I wake early(ish), scramble some eggs, throw some snacks in a pack, layer up to the best of my ability (basically wear everything I have), and bounce down the lane to catch the half 9 bus. There are only two other passengers, a pair of old men, and I smile as I listen to them compare trail tips with the driver.
"And how was it down at the low end? Was it knee deep?"
"Oh yeah! At parts you had to just take off your boots and your socks and muck through!"
He drops them in Gunnerside and turns the conversation toward me. I say I'm going to Keld to do the Swale Trail back down to Low Row and that's all it takes. The rest of the ride he explains spots I may lose the trail and what to do. He drops me right at the head, points it out, and wishes me luck. With snow on the mountains to my left and quite a muddy trail ahead, I grin. Alright, let's have an adventure!

What an incredible journey it is. In the first half mile I probably pass a half dozen people, but after that...nothing. It's silent and serene and isolated for at least the next hour. I come through a gate and find a small ruin on the other side with a waterfall beside it. I know I'm still at the beginning of my journey for the day, but the spot is too perfect to pass up, so I sit atop a wall far older than my country, and pull out a thermos of hot coffee. With wonder and peace filling my heart, I promptly dump coffee all down my chest and into my lap. Whoops. Nothing to be done but laugh at myself and mop it up with my sleeve. There are plenty of messy things on these clothes already after helping with the animals a few days.

I move on and about an hour in, the track I'm on...well...it's simply no more. Suddenly all the reasons I was loving this walk are all the reason I feel a slight panic coming on. There's no one around for who knows how long, and I know the path I've come on is well marked, but the last thing I want is to back track miles to town. I'd feel I'd failed the day.
Alright...let's think, I must have missed the right track...I find a higher piece of ground and survey the land. Perhaps that's it there....I retrace my steps, and eventually find where I'd gone astray. Of course it was at the waterfall. I'd been distracted by beauty and wearing hot coffee and allowed myself to be misled. Better stay focused!

Two walkers are heading my way and I see their faces quickly crack into silent laughter. I join them shortly.
"What are you doing? You're going the wrong way!!" One of them shouts. It's the two old men from my bus.
"No, I think maybe you are."
"What, you've gone to Keld and walked back? You could have come with us, you know."
"I didn't know what you were doing!"
"Well you do now. Come on then!"
We chat for a few minutes before one asks me where my accents from.
"Canada!" His mate shouts and I have to laugh, as he's the second person today.
"No, not quite. Texas, actually." But I'm fighting myself to keep it a Texas accent, just as I've been doing since my arrival in England. Europe, really. My instinct is to blend, and I sometimes find I've changed my voice and word patterns without intending to, and the last thing I want is for anyone to think I'm mocking them.
"What walk are you doing tomorrow then?" One asks.
I shrug, "Who knows!"
They laugh and we part ways.

With the epic scenery, soaring views, and rumbling river, I soon begin to feel a bit like Frodo and Sam. Out of the shire and off to adventure. Give me a wool cape and some gloves and I'd walk for days. I quite like the alone time, animals for company, meeting the occasional traveler in the other direction to know I'm alone, but not too terribly much.

Eventually the road splits with no sign. As I'm quite sure I'm not meant to be on a road for this portion in the first place, that doesn't really surprise me. Lost again. Oops. I find a hill once more, but my trick doesn't work this time as I'm trapped by bigger hills. Alright, well...just then a car comes. I wave at them and to my surprise they actually stop and roll down the window. I miss country life.
"Hi! Do you happen to know if this is still the Swale Trail?"
"Actually, we're quite lost ourselves!"
"Oh, lovely!"
I watch them drive off....look left...look right...shrug and find a wall to sit on. In my bag there's a thermos of coffee, a bottle of water, a couple oranges, an apple, a banana, and a chunk of cheese. With all that, I find I'm really just not terribly concerned with when I make it back. I eat an orange, sit on my freezing hands a minute, and pop off in the direction that looks the most appealing. I know that as long as I head in the same direction as the river, I'll eventually make it back to Low Row. So it's really just a matter of how pleasant the walk is.

With all my picture taking, walking slow, and getting turned around, it's nearly three hours before I wander into Gunnerside. I spot the King's Head Public House and decide a soup of the day and another coffee are in order (I think I haven't been more than three feet from a cup of coffee or tea since arriving in England) to warm my hands and my tummy. The sign at the door makes me smile. A small thing written in chalk; Muddy boots? Use a blue bag. And a little drawing of dirty boots. I smile simply at the picture this paints of the town and the pub, always filled with farmers taking a break or walkers needing a warm up. I check my boots and, finding I've washed them well in the creek, head inside.

It's totally empty. Not a soul in sight. Including any staff. I have half a mind to head back out, something in me not wanting to ring the large bell on the counter and disturb the peace. But that's silly, right?
I put in my order with the friendly girl who comes down the stairs to greet me, preceded by one of the biggest dogs I've even seen. He comes around the counter lazily, gives me a friendly hello lick, and plops himself directly blocking the door so the next customers to come in have quite a struggle. My kinda dog.
When I go for my coin purse, it's nowhere to be found. Shit. "Sorry, can you hold my order a sec? I'm not sure where I've put my money." She waits while a search a bit, but eventually I think myself bested.
"Yeah, sorry, I'll have to cancel that. I guess I've dropped it."
"Oh no, it's alright, I'll get it for you. You can just call in another day." *
I find it just then, triumphantly pulling it out of my bag, but her offer to give it to me, trusting I'd do the right thing and come pay later has caught me by surprise and I fall just a little more in love with the village life. What a concept...to trust the people around you to be honest...even strangers. To give someone a warm meal simply because it's the decent thing to do, and hope they're decent too and will come back to settle with you. Can we get back to this? Is there a way?

*side note, it took me hearing it like 10 times before I realized "call in" was to actually go to someone's house (or a business, etc.) physically and call on them, not to use a telephone. ha. I feel silly.

Having walked five miles already in the biting wind, and now full of hot soup and bread, I decide to check the bus times. Maybe I'll be lazy and ride the last two miles. It's coming in 15. Perfect.
I stand on the side of the road kicking at pebbles and glancing up now and again, but I'm getting the feeling there's no bus to speak of.
"Hello there."
Turning around I find an elderly  couple smiling at me.
"You look like you're doing what we just did for half an hour, half an hour ago."
"Oh no, really?"
"We got here early, and waited long passed, but there was never a bus coming. We just thought we'd like to warn you so you didn't do the same."
"Ah, well...I was being lazy anyway. It's only two more miles. Thank you for warning me! I'll head off then."
Is everyone around here kind and considerate? Goodness.

At Gunnerside the type of trail changes, and now I'm cutting directly through peoples fields and their flocks. I don't realize just how uncomfortable this makes me til I've lost the trail and the only sign I see says "private property". At home I could get shot for this. I know nothing like that will happen here, and I can hardly be the first visitor to stumble the wrong way, but the training is still in me. I cut my losses and backtrack to the road until I can spot the next footpath sign.
When I do find it I'm immediately met with a big latched gate. I stand for a minute, looking at the gate, looking for another sign, wondering if I've gone the wrong way again, but I know I haven't. At home gates are warnings, meant to keep people out. They are boundaries with which the owner says, "this is mine, and if you cross my border, your fate is my discretion." Here, they're just meant to keep the animals in and as long as you latch it behind you, you're not likely to find a quarrel. Which leaves locals and visitors, alike, free to enjoy this stunning country side.