There are degrees to being alive. Some prefer the same old same old; living a calm day to day existence. Either out of choice, or necessity. Some, unable to contemplate a no-change status, constantly search for excitement and the next adrenalin rush. Most, like us, I imagine, prefer a bit of both.
Today, sees us pull up short of Cayton Village Campsite. Beastie is left to nestle kerb-side, like a discarded coca-cola tin. Left to have an afternoon snooze, while we take the coastal path – Cleveland Way – and tread our way towards our goal of Scarborough. 7K north.
Deep below us on spectacular Cayton Beach, word has leaked out. The incoming surf is a mass of black water-suits. Like patient fishermen, vying to catch a bigger than average, they constantly test the water, in wait for that perfect ‘rush’.
Eighty minutes later, our sea level approach into town necessitates a different type of rush. The incoming tide creates a dramatic entrance that needs to be negotiated with care and attention. Like hopping in and out of a looping skipping rope, choosing just the right moment is key to success. In our case, it’s key to keeping dry.
With the afternoon all but gone, the number 12 drops us back at Beastie. We step down feeling like a couple of extras in Peter Kay’s latest sit-com “Bus Share”. A bunch of red roses from across the border are on holiday. Their constant Bolton chatter emulates his comedic incredulous style to a tee.