Hadrians Cycleway (Ravenglass)

The walk down into the village was pleasant, the weather was balmy, the midges were not out or were busy midging elsewhere, the birds were singing, it was a truly beautiful evening. So it was with a spring in my step and an eager anticipation that I crossed the railway bridge and headed into the village.

Ravenglass is a small coastal village in the Lake District National Park - in fact it’s the only one, and is the official start of the Hadrian’s Wall Cycle Way. It is situated on the confluence of three rivers and dates back to the second century when it was the Roman garrison town of Glannaventa. I had pictured it in my mind as a quaint little village- a few period houses around an estuary, a church perhaps and a couple of pubs if I was lucky.

I had not walked too far before it became apparent that this was no different to any other small English village. So, with ever deepening disappointment, I headed for the seafront, in search of a beer.

What I still struggle to understand is how after a continuous occupation of 300 years, during which time it was a major port and the start of their western defensive line, all that remained were the ruins of their bath house.

I reached the estuary and stood looking out over the mud flats trying to imagine what it must have looked like when Roman, Saxon and later Norse ships had docked there. During the Roman occupation this would have been a cosmopolitan town where trade was as important as its defensive role - it will have been a very busy, colorful, and vibrant place.  There would have been noisy taverns, houses, warehouses and bustling markets offering wares from all over the empire. Had you walked along any of the cobbled streets you would have rubbed shoulders with traders, soldiers, sailors and people from all over the then known world.  Up until the beginning of the Industrial Revolution this had been a major port when due to a change in priority, it had been allowed to silt up. Standing there watching a lone seagull skim the surface of the still estuary, one could never have guessed what had been here.

 I walked a short distance up the narrow main street, when quite unexpectedly, the tar gave way to cobbles and I stepped back in time. All the buildings were set right back on either side of the street, creating a large rectangular courtyard, which in times gone by had been used to hold sheep and cattle that had been brought to the market.

There was no one about except a black and white cat that befriended and then accompanied me down the street. The street was lined with well kept, attractive houses and buildings from various periods in the last three centuries; it ended on the beach where there was a large robust steel door that looked as if it had been designed to keep the sea out at high tide. During the 18^th Century this village had been a base for smugglers, and I’m sure that had those buildings been able to speak they’d have a few choice tales to tell. It was an absolute delight.

So, with a warm glow of wellbeing, the cat and I headed for the Pennington Hotel, a converted 16^th Century Coach House named after the Pennington family. The Pennington family owns and runs the Muncaster Castle, which is about a mile away, and has been in their family since 1026 and is said to be haunted. One of the ghosts, a certain Tom Skelton was the court jester in the 1600s. Mr. Skelton was by all accounts a rather odious character who was suspected of murdering and then decapitating the castle carpenter, as well as a host of other equally grizzly practices. His antics gained him a certain notoriety and in so doing, gave the English language a new word - ‘tomfoolery'. Now, I’ll bet you never knew that.

Now, indulge me for a moment if you will. When you think of a 16^th Century Coach House, what springs to mind?

Is it low beamed ceilings, stone floors, open fires, good food and beer, great cheer and a buxom barmaid, or is it a modern, chic, sterile designer hotel?

Well, if you’re anything like me, it would be the buxom barmaid every time, and so like me, you’d have been disappointed.

When we walked through the doors we could have been in any city in the world, the décor and the fittings in any other place would have been outstanding, but in this building were just wrong.

Given that we had come this far, we decided to have a look at the menu, after a cursory glance it immediately became apparent that not only would my budget not stretch to this, but the portion sizes would be far too small for someone contemplating riding 75 miles the next day.

I did however, have to agree with my new found friend that the grilled water rat smothered in a sauce of reduced bat intestinal fluid, served on a bed of swamp vegetables, sounded intriguing. And so, after declining the offer of a tour of the sewer, I thanked the cat for its company and bade it farewell.

I headed back up the street towards a pub that I had passed on my way in. I found a table in front of the fire, ordered a meal, sat back with a beer, stretched out my legs, and relaxed. As I sat watching the fire, enjoying the warmth and listening to the various conversations going on around me, I had a few beers, each tasting better than the last.  I couldn’t quite say how many I had, but what I do know is that it was far more than was good for me.

When I eventually decided to leave, I was surprised to discover that the relationship between my brain and legs, which for the most part is generally quite good, had somehow broken down. To make matters worse, my legs now didn’t seem to be getting on very well either. One of them started for the door as requested, but the other, in what I can only presume was a fit of pique, decided to go and have a look around the kitchen. The result was that I lurched across the small room, narrowly avoiding a couple who were sat just opposite me only to bump into a woman, slopping her drink and clearly startling her. Broadening my vacuous smile, I bleated an apology, lunged for the door, made it through and went down the short flight of stairs in one fluid motion, as if on skis.

Now, for reasons that elude me, I thought she needed a more fulsome apology, and after accepting that said apology, might quite fancy a drink or something.  So, with a stagger and a graceful weave, I launched myself back up the stairs and through the door skidding to a halt against the bar.

“Ah, there you are…so you’d like to square up then would you?” the landlord asked, looking totally unfazed by my antics.

“Oh yes, the bill,” I replied nonchalantly. I paid the bill and turned around to face the aggrieved woman.

“Don’t even think about it” she said, in an even measured tone.

So, after a rather lively encounter with a herd of cows in an adjacent field, I made it back to my tent and collapsed. My last thought was that at least progress had been made, she hadn’t told me to F……..