The Coast to Coast Path – completing all 21 National Trails (Long Read)

On 26th March 2026, the Coast to Coast Path (C2C) became the 21st National Trail, 53 years after Alfred Wainwright first published A Coast to Coast Walk in 1973. “Surely there cannot be a finer itinerary for a long-distance walk!” he suggested, and having completed the route, I heartily agree. Any path that takes in three National Parks and connects two coastlines, over two weeks of challenging walking, will offer spectacular views. It is 190 miles long and usually takes 14 days or more to complete.

I chose to walk east to west, which is unusual. Alfred originally suggested west to east so the maritime winds would be at your back, but I have walked the Southern Upland Way east to west and enjoyed a fresh easterly for two weeks, bringing bright, sunny conditions in spring. Besides, I would meet more people and gain a different perspective. The LNER and TransPennine Express took me to Scarborough, where I caught a perfectly timed X93 bus to Robin Hood’s Bay, with enough daylight to get a few miles done. 

I decided to camp as much as possible and use hostels when they fit my schedule. After twenty years of long-distance backpacking, and with a recent Berwick-upon-Tweed to John o’ Groats coastal walk under my belt, I thought a 10-day schedule would be achievable. This is much faster than most walkers, who take the suggested 14-16 days, often on a self-guided, baggage-transfer, booked-accommodation schedule organised by many walking organisations. I carried a 10kg pack with tent, sleeping gear, and stove, plus 5 days of food, to allow for possible wild camping and the flexibility to stop if an opportunity presented itself.

I had been here before, once on the Cleveland Way and again on the King Charles III England Coast Path. It occurred to me that I had already walked between St Bees and Robin Hood’s Bay (and vice versa) twice along the coast. This new Coast to Coast Path National Trail (a bit of a mouthful) would be my 21^st National Trail – meaning that I will have completed all National Trails, a distance of almost 6,000 miles, since 2007, and over an entirely coincidental 365 days of walking, suggesting that you too could walk them all in a year.

I started the walk by descending to The Bay Hotel to meet several walkers receiving completion certificates, downing their foaming pints as a reward.  No doubt they had already dipped their toes in the sea and thrown their pebble into the waves.  I wondered whether the pebble I picked up had already taken the C2C journey and had mysteriously called to me to be returned to its home.  With extra weight in my pack, I climbed out of this delightful former fishing village and found the coastal path I knew so well.  It was a pleasant walk north, aside from the stress of shepherding several dozen sheep along the path, panicking near a cliff edge.  They dispersed, replaced by a few walkers with big smiles coming toward me, knowing their journey would soon be complete.

Turning inland, I soon found the honesty caravan at Coast and Camplight, managed by Ed and Verity, who confirmed that the field opposite was used for camping. As I settled in, barn owls hunting in the fields below interrupted my view of Whitby Abbey. The dark skies soon enveloped the site, and the stars shone as brightly as I had ever seen, but they brought a chill that made me hide in my sleeping bag. Six miles done, a hundred and eighty-two to go. 

The first full day’s distance ended at The Lion Inn, in the centre of the North York Moors, some 23 miles away. It is the only place to stay unless you wild camp, and it’s a gathering point for walkers in the area. My first taste of moorland came with evidence of fire, as the summer has been hot and dry across much of the country. That was followed by a delightful woodland walk to Littlebeck, with a café that would have been tempting if it had been open. After Seights Moor, the road descended steeply into Grosmont, and I started counting the obvious C2C walkers heading east to estimate how many walk this new National Trail annually. After 20, I arrived at the railway station in time to see the arrival of a ‘Black Five’ 44806 steam train from Whitby. The café was welcoming before setting off west alongside the River Esk to Glaisdale. The walk was very pleasant until the ascent to the moors reminded me where I was. It was a long haul to the pub, where I met the landlord, who was happy for me to camp inside the marquee erected as an education centre for the local schoolkids, as long as I left before 10 AM.

It was a strange experience to pack a dry tent while it was raining, as the campsite (with a few who had joined me inside the shelter) broke camp. I was alone, heading east, marching along the rough road tracks towards the Cleveland Hills without a care. The views into Farndale were exceptional, bathed in early-morning light. The skylarks sing loudly, though they are difficult to locate; a kestrel or two hovers, and I flush out a grouse or two from the trackside ditches; curlews call out in the still air – an eerie, haunting call.

In this moment of contemplation, I realised that an east-to-west itinerary has two benefits. First, the sun is behind you, lighting the landscape ahead and revealing its beauty; second, you can enjoy the experience in solitude, as no one else is starting the day with you. Only after Round Hill could I start counting C2C walkers again, to compare with the 50 I ticked off yesterday. Their ascent was steep, and then I hit the first of many climbs that day: Hasty Bank. I usually devour these, using my walking poles for extra four-by-four power, but today it is hot and the climbs are arduous. 

Of all the conditions I find strenuous, extreme heat is the most challenging. Even with electrolyte tablets in occasional water bottles and drinking as much as a litre an hour, I still struggle to keep up my usual pace. It is a relief to reach the Wain Stones, knowing the Country Park café is nearby. Several paragliders are on the tops, waiting for wind and sweating in their flight suits. If a welcome breeze doesn’t pick up, we will both struggle. I jokingly ask one of them if they’d like to give me a lift to Osmotherly.

The café is an oasis of ice-cold drinks and shade.  The parmo (cheese-topped battered chicken calorie fest) and Theakston’s Old Peculiar, at The Lion Inn, are absorbed and spent, but a toastie will be enough for the rest of the day. I rejoin the flocks of moorland sheep on the escarpment (another brutal climb as the heat approaches 30C), where I meet one of many walkers taking this journey for a lost friend or charity – cancer, MND, depression, suicide, and many other reasons.  It seems that walking this route allows you to process trauma and to come to terms with loss.

The Bell Inn, at Ingelby Cross, is reached by leaving the Cleveland Way/C2C path and is a wonderful pub campsite, one of many characteristic of this route.  I meet Australians, Americans and Canadians. I am sure that if I were to say “g’day” to the walkers I meet tomorrow, I would have a 50% chance of getting the same reply; such is the international flavour of the path, perhaps more than any other National Trail.  It is welcome to hear, and the diversity of conversation is truly inspiring.  I wonder what draws them to this journey?

In the evening, after a good meal, I watch the swifts and swallows arcing through the air, taking out hapless butterflies and insects with alarming efficiency. I sleep deeply, hydrated and refreshed, then wake at 4 AM to the sound of pegs and tents being packed, as everyone has wisely set out to cover a few miles before the heat of the day. This becomes my pattern for the next few days. A very, very early start, followed by a siesta until 1 PM (or an occasional dip in the river), then a late-afternoon stroll to my next hostel or campsite. 

I cross the A19, which is fortunately quiet at this time of morning, but would be a great danger in mist or fog. A 5-mile diversion is recommended, but I am sure thousands have crossed this busy dual carriageway. I disappear into the lanes and rescue a goldfinch caught in netting, my deed for the day. I am now in an inter-park section, which many find boring, but I enjoy it. I walk through barley or corn fields, pretending to be Russell Crowe (Gladiator, final scenes), brushing my hands over the tops. The harvest is about to happen, for the lanes are alive with combine harvesters.

Danby Wiske is ideal for a short stop before walking further to the church at Bolton-on-Swale, which has an honesty church for a cold drink or cup of tea.  The cold chill inside is lovely, and I spend half an hour chatting with another walker heading east.  Refreshed by the conversation, I walk towards Richmond and meet a ranger, checking signposts and overgrowth.  We chat for ages, discussing how many people we think walk the path each year.  He estimates 12-15,000, possibly as many as 20,000 in peak years.  Based on the 80-100 people I meet each day, that sounds plausible if we consider a 7-8 month season and a normal distribution.

After another stay in a pub garden (I shan’t say which, as I would not recommend it), I enter Richmond and stop to buy lunch and breakfast (I do recommend Thomas the Baker).  It is a pretty market town, and would have been a better place to stay.  It lies on the River Swale, which I follow toward Reeth for a short day, stopping for a swim in the river, encouraged by a local who has just ridden her bike there for an afternoon’s relaxation.  The chill of the water (especially if naked), is delightful.  Walking afterwards into Reeth, I feel like a new person, fully refreshed, with a core temperature reset.  This revitalisation continues with an afternoon nap in the hostel (Black Bull Inn), followed by a good meal and a few pints.  The shared room is full of cyclists, equally exhausted in the heat.  It is another oasis, which allows a good rest before a much longer day, as I plan to walk to Kirkby Stephens without stopping in Keld.

I leave at 4:30 AM, as the sun rises.  It is a good decision, for a low-lying mist hangs over the Swale, and the rabbits are everywhere, hopping in ignorance of the stoats I can see.  The golden light illuminates the landscape and reveals every texture of the Yorkshire Dales, which have every right to be known as ‘God’s own Country’.  The scenes are dreamy, a mix of stone walls, old barns, deep green glacier-shaped dales, and stone-flecked moors.  I chose the ‘low route’ for contrast to the high moors earlier in the week, and it seemed a good choice until I found myself above Gunnerside, when I should have been walking through it; such was the joy of walking along the ridge. 

Oystercatchers and curlews are everywhere, birds you would normally see on the coast, yet now move inland to breed. This is a downside of walking east to west: the Y-junctions, obvious for those coming towards me, are not often marked for me, and I can take a wrong turn.  My new map app (I recommend Organic Maps) gets me back on track, but I am now cautious when I have a choice of route. 

Back on course, a welcome breeze develops as I turn north near Muker, and reach Keld, where the west-to-easters have just finished their breakfasts. I have already walked their day, and now have a double to do, so I don’t delay as I cross the Pennine Way (looks familiar) and head towards Ravenseat, where I have heard a pop-up café has opened.  Sure enough, it is a welcome stop before I enter an expanse of moorland that will lead to Nine Standards Rigg, and overlook my destination for the day.  It is a gentle, dry bog walk that would be quite different after rain.  Flagstones have been laid (with one unusual gravestone too), and it is a constant ascent to a trig pillar at 662m.  I rest and eat before a long but quick descent into Kirkby Stephens, where the bikers are all parked up to show off their motorcycles.  The hostel, an old church, is perfect, and I can shop and cook a meal from ingredients sourced from a supermarket.  The place is full of C2C’ers, and quite a few football fans wanting to see England vs  Norway in the World Cup.  It is late at night, and England win, so the celebrations continue. Earplugs and eye shades work well that evening.

The town is deserted as I leave; a few hangovers for sure, but I want to get to Shap. I am out of the Dales now, heading into an inter-National Park section, this time built for sheep.  The grass is green, and the walking is easy, even when I have to tiptoe past cattle.  I curse what looks like an abandoned fridge, dumped in the middle of nowhere, only to discover it is another honesty box, full of drinks and snacks.  It is local humour, and I love it. 

The walking is gentle under Great Asby Scar, a limestone pavement, and it is a relaxing day to Shap.  I get a toot as I cross the M6 bridge and look for buses to Penrith, as a family event, and the prospect of England progressing in the World Cup is calling me home.  I don’t want to stop, but after twenty years I’ve learned that walking is not a competition.  Besides, the consequences of not going home exceed the pleasure of continuing.  There are no buses (don’t bother looking), so I get a taxi to Penrith (North Lakes), and rattle my way home on the semi-reliable Avant West Coast service to London.

The summer months intervene; my wife and I are away in the campervan, and my daughter has had twins.  We now have three grandchildren in a year, and I start a metamorphosis into a grandfather, just as I did as a father.  It is a bit disconcerting, another of the life milestones that mark the progress of time.  The oldest daughter is walking, which makes me wonder where she will go.  Plenty to reflect on as my walk continues.

I spent six-and-a-bit days getting to Shap, and now I have the Lakeland Fells to cross.  I return to walk a few miles to Rosgill Farm campsite, where Anna meets me to show me around.  That evening, her husband joins us, and we spend a few hours nattering with another camper, who has a wonderful story to tell of her adventures on a horse in Eastern Europe for three years.  The guinea fowl roost in the camping barn rafters, and the chickens scurry away to their hut.  We are joined by a friendly cat (who seems to own the place) with a healthy interest in the meals we have just cooked.  We depart together, but I head east.  The day opens with low-flying jets screaming over Haweswater (which looks like it needs a top-up). I have booked the YHAs at Grasmere and Ennerdale, so my schedule is set.  I have just under 60 miles to go, perhaps less due to the coastal diversion at St Bees.  Today is going to be tough: I estimate 23 miles, and the bulk of Kidsty Pike rises above me, with the path diverting from the awkward north-side reservoir paths to a steep, unforgiving ascent.  Welcome to the Lakes, I think; this is the best bit of the C2C, or not, depending on your perspective.  At least I have saved the best view for last (another east-to-west advantage). I reach the summit at 780m and am greeted by the first of 80 walkers heading east.

On reaching High Street, I descend gently to Patterdale and pass Angle Tarn, marvelling at its beauty.  This is not the type of landscape you come across often, and it is no surprise that our continental visitors admire it so much.  More often than not, their landscapes are on a much larger scale, yet the Lakes can be digested easily and offer new patterns and views at almost every turn.  At one moment, high fells; the next, you glide alongside a river in the dale and enter a chocolate-box-cover village for rest. I couldn’t resist a sausage, mash, and peas, as the morning’s exercise had clearly emptied my tank.

I took the path to Grisedale and made the slow, steady ascent to the tarn, which was tricky at times, on loose rock and broken paths. The recent rain had activated a hundred becks, which were in full flow, with occasional waterfalls.  Unfortunately, the water often flowed along the paths, and I was glad I brought boots rather than the trail shoes I used in July.  With grip assured and poles at the ready, the descent to Grasmere was steady, given how tired I had become.  The day concluded with a fly-past of RAF Typhoons several hundred feet below my position; then I reached the main road and took the farm lanes into Grasmere and the hostel.  The YHA staff had seen it all before: a tired walker at the end of a long day.  I checked in, showered, and sat down for a good meal in the dining hall full of chatty walkers with tales to tell.

I could hear the dawn chorus, a signal to sneak out of the dorm and join the breakfast queue. I am packed and ready to tackle another long day, and an early start makes a big difference to what you can achieve.  The weather is ‘fresh’, unlike the July heatwave, as broken clouds throw sunscalds onto the fells.  My GPX route shows an ascent onto Helm Crag, but I follow the signs and walk up Far Easdale Gill, a much easier route.  Picking my way around rocks and water channels, I disturb the sheep from their slumbers, reach the head of the dale, and walk towards Greenup Edge. As I start a descent near Lining Crag, I meet the first of almost 100 C2C’ers that day.  Foot placement is a challenge as I navigate the slippery rocks until I emerge onto safer paths.  A group of walkers wonders whether they should ascend, and I pre-empt a question with a “This way, hobbitses…” greeting, which draws a snigger, for we seem to be in a landscape akin to the path to Mordor.  A stream of walkers follows, heading for their fate, as I continue into Rosthwaite to snuggle inside the Flock-Inn Tearoom for a very tasty lamb pastie.  It is a perfect stop to refuel for the afternoon’s crossing to Ennerdale.

The ascent is relatively gentle, and I soon approach the slate mine along good tracks that run alongside Honister Pass.  A shepherd is gathering sheep to be dipped, and I mention the dead sheep I saw in Grasmere Common.  “Probably ticks”, he explains, which makes me wonder if I have collected any, as I have been wearing shorts. The ascent continues to Fleetwith, and the sharp right turn opens up a stunning view of Buttermere and Crummock Water, joined by the green fields of the isthmus.  It is one of the most iconic views in the Lakes, or would be if those pesky clouds cleared for a little longer.

I descend sharply to Black Sail, slipping for the first time on my journey.  My poles save the day again, but I watch the rocks closely for slippery lichen or organic growth.  It is a relief to follow the easier path to Black Sail hostel, with its very cwtchy décor and fell walker residents, who have managed to secure a booking. It must be wonderful to stay there, but I trudge down the forestry track to Ennerdale YHA, where I meet a couple from Switzerland walking in my direction.  They decide to move on, but I spend a wonderful evening in a great hostel, with rooms full of inspiring hostellers with stories to tell. 

Waking early, knowing I have a 7-hour train journey to take, I walk along the southern shores of Ennerdale, which I expected to be easygoing but turns out to be a difficult navigation through rock and river, as overnight rain has flooded the path.  The northern shore would have been better, and it is a relief to reach the weir and head west along easier paths to Ennerdale Bridge.  This is not only my last day on the C2C, but also the final day of a 6,000-mile journey along all 21 National Trails.  The enormity of that achievement is starting to hit me as my mind replays the highs and lows of the last 20 years.  Madame de Beauvoir said, “The distance is nothing; only the first step is difficult”, meaning to make a start and take each day as it comes.  I realise the last step is the most difficult, as I contemplate what I shall do next, because I am unlikely to experience this reflection again.

I ascend the daftly steep Dent Fell, and breathe.  Then I recall another Stoic quote that has been in my mind for years. “The beauty is in the walking; we are betrayed by destinations”, a quote from Gwyn Thomas.   Then I realise I must keep walking and enjoy the moment, for walking is not a sport (some will disagree), as the real value comes from the movement and sense of being in nature. 

I follow the cycle paths to the diversion into St Bees, for the cliff paths are closed.  I have walked those before on my coastal journey, and I have a train to catch.  The sea is raging, with huge breakers landing on the shingle.  I throw my tiny pebble into the waves and say a prayer, turning towards the café for something to eat before the Northern Line train departs for Lancaster.  A huge toastie sandwich renders me immobile, and I stagger to the station, pleased to see the train is on time, yet it doesn’t arrive, and a local explains a closed tunnel and the chaos it is causing.  Nevertheless, I catch my connecting service to London and plug in my earbuds to listen to music I know will stir emotion.  It’s been a tough, thrilling 3 days, completing a 9-day journey, plus a bit.  Time to rest and see what happens next.