Over the years, visits to my grandparents’ farm seemed like one of those things that would never change. For most of my life, this has remained true. Nestled in the Mississippi River bluffs near Quincy, Illinois, “The Farm,” (as our family often lovingly called it) hasn’t changed much since I was a child. After my grandparents’ passing, the historical character of the land and building have been preserved in large part because of the foresight and hard work of my Uncle Joe, Aunt Sandy, my mom and her husband Ralph.

A few years ago the bittersweet decision to sell the farm was made. It made sense. It’s hard work maintaining a farm. With family members scattered across the country, there isn’t a new generation to take over.  

Fortunately, my mom still owns and lives on a small parcel of land adjacent to “The Farm.” Our visits more or less have stayed the same. While the barn, the old farmhouse and the lovely waterfall just across the road have changed little since I was a child, the people have. Both my grandparents and my aunt and uncle who lived on the farm have long since passed. My summers spent helping my grandpa on the farm and the big family reunions are now only a distant memory. With my mom getting along in age, it’s only a matter of time before my visits to “The Farm” become a memory too.

With this in mind, I’ve decided to do a little filming when I visit my mom. I hope to capture some of the inherent beauty and history of the countryside of which I have so many fond memories. Stay tuned to more short videos in the coming months.  Enjoy!

A few weeks ago I finished walking the Coast to Coast path in the United Kingdom. Starting in the coastal town of St. Bees, I traversed the entire width of the country ending up in Robin Hood’s Bay along the North Sea. It took me 13 days to walk the 192-mile route which courses its way through three National Parks: the Lake District, the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors. It was a trip I will be hard pressed to ever forget.

I have been often asked why tackle such a long trip? For me it was the chance to see firsthand the countryside that veterinarian James Herriot wrote about in his books. His stories are what inspired me to follow the same career path. Sure, one could take car or bus and see the same country. I wanted to walk it for the simple reason of seeing, smelling and feeling the countryside close up that I was traveling through.

The planning was relatively easy. I hired a service, Sherpa Van, to arrange all my accommodations, plan the route (I would have made one change, but more on this later), and transfer my luggage from stop to stop. I planned on doing the trip solo, but as it turned out I was never alone for long, and the people that I met enriched the experience in ways I could have never imagined.

The Path…

I’ve backpacked and hiked through a lot of different wilderness areas in my life, walking the Coast to Coast route rivals everything I’ve done before. I wasn’t completely prepared for the ruggedness of the trail, the climbs and descents, the wet, slippery surfaces. The walking was tough on my feet and legs. On average I walked about 15 miles a day and many of those miles were slow going. I had to learn to pace myself, take short rest breaks and keep moving if I was going to make it to my destination for the night. It didn’t take me long to figure out that having a walking partner(s) made all the difference in the world.

The People I met…

I became acquainted with fellow walkers right away. I met Matej and Rachel as I waited to get off the train at St. Bees. Erin and I ran into each other on the first climb off the beach in St. Bees. Over the course of the next few days Steve, Cheryl, Feargal, Domenico, Rebecca , Sofi and Sally would become a part of the crew of walkers I looked forward to seeing and could be counted on for help if needed. Amazingly, though we all had slightly different walking itineraries, somehow we managed to connect on the trail on most days. It was always a joyous occasion seeing a familiar face appear. Later on, having walking friends was never more important than on my trying day in the Vale of Mowbray.

Lining Craig…

After leaving the coast along the Irish Sea, the most popular way of walking the Coast to Coast, I was thrust into the mountainous region of the Lake District. It still gives me chills thinking back as I came over Dent Hill and saw the peaks rising on the horizon. I had a lot learn about pacing myself, especially in the Lake District with all the ups and downs. Sally, whom I had briefly met along the trail the previous day, was staying at the same bed and breakfast that night, and so it turned out we would be walking partners the next day. It was fortuitous for me as Sally had the perfect walking pace and seemed to know the right moments to take a break.

It was one of the more challenging days, wet and foggy as we started off heading up a 3-mile climb. We started early around 7:30 am for the 9 mile trek to Grasmere, my stopping point for the day. Sally on the other hand had an additional 8 miles planned before she would finish in the lake town of Patterdale. We didn’t waste much time climbing past Eagle Craig and then to the basin below Lining Craig, a massive rock outcropping. I stared up at the imposing rock looking for a trail. If there was one I couldn’t see it.  

As we got closer, it became apparent it wasn’t so much a trail but a rock stairs. It was like Sally and I were Sam and Frodo climbing The Stairs of Cirith Ungol from Lord of The Rings. Needless to say I heaved a sigh of relief when we finally reached the top.

 

We followed the trail leading down the valley to Grasmere and like most of the paths in the Lake District, it wasn’t easy walking. At times it was more like walking in a dry stream bed than a designated pathway. Though I had taped up the hot spots on my toes and heel, I was certain I had blisters forming. Sally too was having trouble with her feet because of ill-fitting boots. We were both happy to see the town come into our view.

Sally and I parted ways as we entered the town. She was headed to buy new boots and me to a shop for a piece of walnut cake and a pot of tea. Later I would learn that Sally made a smart move and had taken the bus to Patterdale. Better to rest sore feet with still a along way to go.

 

St Sunday’s Craig…

There are often different path options a walker can choose when hiking through the Lake District. My day walking from Grasmere to Patterdale had three options, two high routes and a low route through the valley. That morning I was walking with Erin, Steve and Cheryl when we came to diverging pathways. With Steve’s urging I decided to climb St. Sunday’s Craig. The weather was perfect, only a few scudding clouds with bright sunshine. Though I would be going alone, the other three were headed down the valley route, he assured me the path was straightforward.

Steve was right, it was a gentle climb and it wasn’t long before I had a perfect view across the valley to Helvellyn and Striding Edge. The top of St Sunday’s Craig was flat and easy to walk (for the Lake District) and the far end of the Craig had a stunning view of the lake Ullswater.

It was the first day on my trip that I actually took a long break to eat lunch. As I was eating, a woman in her early fifties came up the trail with little sheltie dog.

“Are you hiking the Coast to Coast,” she said at a distance. I said that I was and she walked over so that I could pet her dog. She proceeded to tell me with great enthusiasm how she and her son had walked the Coast to Coast some years before. I listened as she recounted her stories. “You know, it was the best thing I have ever done,” she said before she and her dog continued down the trail.

A Magical Moment on Kidtsy Pike…

Another day of climbs and I was joined by Feargal, the Irishman I had met briefly on my first day. I was fortunate to have a walking partner as the weather forecast was iffy, and today we would climb the highest point on the route, Kidtsy Pike. We were both hoping to get over the pike before the weather hit, but it was not to be.

Heavy rain poured, the wind howled and the bracken-laden hillside swirled like an angry sea. I followed Feargal who had an umbrella braced against the rain. The rain intensified with the clouds rolling over the ridge like a river, and even though I had on my waterproofs, I could feel the rain dripping down my legs and into my boots.

We could see only a few meters ahead of us, the path, but not much else. We were close to the top when suddenly for a brief moment the clouds parted, the rain subsided and right there in front of us was a clear view of Kidtsy Pike. It was astonishing how quickly it happened and even more stunning how, in a matter of minutes, the clouds and rain buried the pike again.   

The Hard Working Inn Keepers…

It was comforting to know at the end of the day that a warm bed and shower or bath awaited. I have to give credit to my fellow walkers, Rachel, Matej, Feargal and Domimeco for camping most of the way. They were carrying large mountain packs at least 3 times the weight of my daypack. The thought of camping never entered my mind when I was thinking about the trip. I wanted the experience of staying in the tiny country inns, the ancient pubs and bed and breakfasts. With one exception, all my accommodations exceeded my expectations.

My positive experience was because of the hardworking inn keepers. They seemed to be working all hours of the day catering to the needs of their guests, from serving breakfast in the morning, the bar tending, directing the new arrivals.

One specific inn keeper stands out and even now weeks later I smile thinking about him. It was at the Keld Inn and we had quite a crew arriving all in muddy rain gear at the same time. A tall, slender man with brown hair and thick plastic glasses came to the door and started directing. “Boots off here, remove your rain gear and head up the stairs down the hallway to a drying room. Then come back for a key to your room.”

I was the last one to remove my things and as I struggled to take off my rain soaked pants a woman came in and said, “Parlez vous francais?” to the inn keeper.

“Oui Madame, je parle francais,” he replied.

I was awestruck by this guy so calm, cool, and he spoke fluent French.

That night Erin, Steve, Cheryl and I sat together for dinner. After studying the menu, the same guy popped around the corner and standing very close to the table with an order pad pressed close to his face. “Are we ready to order?” He nodded at Cheryl. “For you Ma’am?” Cheryl ordered, Steve ordered, I ordered and then came Erin. She wanted the same thing, as the rest of us, the chicken. But could she have the sauce on the side, say in a small jug?

I watched the face of the waiter/bar tender/ maitre d’, he seemed to do everything, raise his eyebrow slightly, his posture stiffened. Oh, better be careful Erin, I was thinking. And then Cheryl chimed in, “I think I’d like the sauce in a jug too.”

The man, without batting an eye, ripped off the sheet from the order pad, sent it sailing in the air and said. “Okay, let’s start over.” The four of us nearly fell on the floor in laughter. It’s amazing he didn’t kick all of us out the door.

The Lovely Swale River Valley…

At last, we entered the heart of James Herriot country, the Swale River Valley. Immediately I was captivated by the miles of stone walls and stone barns that peppered the valley and hillsides. The old farmhouses, obviously refurbished, looked inviting. We passed through field after field of green pastures and sheep. It was obvious even James Herriot’s poetic description of the landscape we were walking through had a hard time doing it justice.  

We passed an elegant bridge curving over the Swale River and I wished I could have spent the afternoon basking in the sun, listening to the water sweep under the bridge’s curving stonework. Alas, we had miles to make and so onward we trod.

Richmond and saying Goodbye…

My last day walking in the Yorkshire Dales was maybe the most relaxing of the whole trip. Nearly everyone I had met gathered for the final miles to the market town of Richmond. It was great having walking friends. There was never a shortage of someone to talk to, and with Matej leading the way with his expert map reading, all I had to do was follow along.

We had a nice rest stop that day at an ancient church in Marske. Like many of the churches along the route, the parishioners set out drinks and snacks in exchange for a small donation. It had been raining and not wanting to muddy the inside of the church, we all congregated on the stone entryway resting our backs against the hard wall. As I sat there listening to everyone’s conversation, I couldn’t help to wonder how many folks had passed through the tiny vestibule over the centuries. It was humbling to think about.

With Richmond in our sights, the time had come for many of us to say goodbye. A rest day was in store for a few, others had differing accommodations to get to. I was happy that Matej, Rachel, Steve, Cheryl, Erin and I could share one last meal together at the swanky Kings Head Hotel on the square.

I’m not sure they appreciated a bunch of sweaty walkers with their backpacks, but the cream tea I had sure was good. Though it was a bittersweet moment having to say good bye, I felt lucky to have met them and share part of my journey with them.

The Vale of Mowbray…

I can still feel the ache in my legs when I look back at the day I crossed the Vale of Mowbray, a stretch of rolling farmland connecting the Yorkshire Dales with the North York Moors. The plan for the day was for me to walk nearly 40 kilometers or 24 miles. An obvious mistake on my part for not making an adjustment to the route when it was first set up by my travel planner. But the day was upon me and I was determined to do it.  

I started early in the morning knowing that Erin, Steve and Cheryl, who had walked several miles further to their accommodations the night before, would wait for me to catch them. Having reliable walking companions was one thing I underestimated when I was planning my trip. Not only did having trail friends make the long hours of walking ease by, but thanks to social media, we could check up on one another when our paths took different routes.  

Today was one of those days when our group split apart. It wasn’t long before Steve and Cheryl arrived at Danby Wiske, their stopping point for the day. Erin and I walked another four miles together before she headed off on a different route to Ingleby Cross. Once again, I was on my own. It was later afternoon now and though I had been walking for nearly 8 hours with few breaks, I still had seven miles to go.

While some have called the walk through the Vale of Mowbray boring, really there was a lot to see. The rolling farmland, the cattle and sheep in the fields, the tidy farmhouses, the valley had a beauty all of its own. I walked past the ruins of a Harlsey castle where you could still see the remains of its moat. If I hadn’t been so pressed for time I was certain I would have enjoyed it more.

Hour nine of walking came and went and the edge of the rising moors and my destination for the night, the town of Osmotherly, seemed a ridiculous distance away. Self-doubt was creeping over me. I pulled out my phone to check the gps and noticed I had good reception. On a whim I called my wife, Sheila, back in the states. Hearing her voice and news of home and the sound of our dog barking in the background cheered me.

I crossed one of the UK’s major highways, the A19. Dodging cars going 70 mph is not my idea of a safe crossing. They need a footbridge. I walked past the remains of Mount Grace Priory and the roadway I had been following ended. There was a stile over a fence leading into dark woods. I unfastened my backpack and sat down in a heap on the wooden step. I could barely bend my legs. After 10 hours of walking I was completely exhausted. For a fleeting moment, I contemplated calling a taxi. Instead I fished out some stale peanuts and water from my backpack, massaged my thighs and pulled out my map.

It wasn’t exactly clear where I should go. My GPS was pointing me in a direction that didn’t seem right. I took out the written directions my travel planner had given me and read through the two paragraphs describing the final route through the woods to Osmotherly.

It was like reading directions on a treasure map. Follow the fence for 200 meters, climb the hill and angle through the trees into a cow pasture, after 800 meters go… I closed my eyes and sighed. I was too tired to think.

I studied the map again. Osmotherly wasn’t far, maybe 2 to 3 kilometers. It must be the German stubbornness in my blood. I drank some more water, tightened the laces on my boots and after taking a compass reading from the map, I slung my backpack over my shoulders, climbed over the stile and walked into the woods.

Osmotherly and Alan …

Believe it or not the travel planner’s directions were spot on and before I knew it, I was walking through the downtown of Osmotherly. I rounded a corner and there like an oasis in a desert was my bed and breakfast. I rang the doorbell and Alan, a retired RAF fireman, stood in front of me greeting me like some long lost traveler. He ushered me into his office where he took my order for breakfast. Then after showing me the intricacies of my room, he called a local pub and made dinner reservations for me.

I limped down the hallway carrying my luggage and though I contemplated skipping dinner, it was getting late, I knew I needed sustenance for the next day. I quickly showered and made my way down the street to the Golden Lion Inn.

It was nearly 9 o’clock when I came through the door. The 18^th century Inn held a charm that quickly captivated me. All the tables were lit with candles, their wax drippings collecting in a heap on the candleholder. The wait staff, all dressed in white aprons, scurried around taking orders and catering to their guests. That night I had the best meal of the trip. Perhaps it was because I was famished and tired, or it was the skill of the chef. I expect it was a combination of both.

As I sat there wishing I had my wife to share the wonderful ambience and the delicious food, I started getting messages from Steve, Cheryl, Erin and Sally. Though I was alone, it didn’t feel that way. I was happy to hear we were all safe and accounted for!

The North Moors and Robin Hood’s Bay…

The next day was expected to be another long one, 21-miles and with 5 climbs and descents, some guidebooks suggested the most difficult day of the trip. However, when I look back on my first day in North York Moors, it turned out to be a pleasant walking day because of good weather and the wonderful people that I met up with.

It wasn’t long into the morning when I ran into three guys I had briefly met the previous day. Ian, David, Bob and their dogs, Sky and Bonnie. A cheerful group I would later learn were related. Their two dogs were especially cute. Sky, a border collie, was constantly trying to round me up when I fell behind to take pictures.

Then around lunchtime, another surprise, I caught up with Sally whom I had hiked with nearly a week earlier. As it turned out, she and I had the same itineraries for the last two days of the walk. The night before I had wondered if I would be completing the remainder of the hike alone, I was happy that turned out not to be the case.

The North York Moors is bleak compared to the glorious Lake District and the Yorkshire Dales. The moors are a treeless rolling terrain with a large expanse of iridescent heather, and a population of Red grouse clucking calls punctuating the otherwise silent countryside.

As we climbed into the moors, every ascent led to spectacular views and for the first time, the North Sea.

Although I’m glad to have experienced moor walking, and staying at the Lions Inn perched in the middle of nowhere, I was relieved when we dropped out of the moors and into Little Beck Woods and under trees again. We walked beneath a canopy of Oak, Ash and Cherry trees and along a meandering stream with ferns and mosses. The tea shop at Falling Foss falls, with its array of delicious sweets, was a huge pick me up before making the last push to Robin Hood’s Bay and the sea.

It was a surreal moment for me as Sally and I ambled down the steep hill and narrow street leading into Robin Hood’s Bay. I couldn’t believe I had trekked the full 192-miles and was only steps away from finishing.

As I tossed the pebble I had carried from St. Bees into the North Sea, I couldn’t help having mixed feelings. Abruptly, my journey across the UK was over. I had said goodbye to my new friends. Yet, the euphoric feeling of actually finishing and the fact I would be seeing my family soon buoyed me.

Though the weeks have slipped by, every day I think about some facet of the trip. There’s no doubt that the long walking days, the rough terrain, the magnificent landscapes, the adverse weather and the unexpected friendships have left an indelible mark on me. I’m certain my memories of walking the Coast to Coast will last forever. 

A few years ago, I was browsing through my old memory albums and came across the above photo. It’s a picture of my dad with a horse named Sego taken after a day of working cattle on my aunt and uncle’s ranch in Montana. Even though it’s an old and grainy photo, I was struck by the affection my dad shows for the horse. 

It’s funny how an old photograph can conjure up memories. Seeing the picture of my dad made me think about the summer vacations I spent in Montana with my cousins. We rode horses and explored the mountains, milked cows and moved irrigation water on the alfalfa fields. It made me think about my life as a veterinarian. I spent countless hours helping farmers and ranchers like my aunt and uncle, not only attending to their livestock, but also hearing of their personal and financial struggles. These past experiences and the photo of my dad with Sego inspired me to write the short story “The Last Rancher.”

Here is a link to The Roanoke Review where you can read The Last Rancher for free.

I’d like to thank the staff at Roanoke Review for publishing my work. Also, I want to thank all my first readers, Al Long, Nancy Webb, Ruthanne Brule and my wife Sheila, who all took time to help refine my story.  

A couple of weeks ago, my wife’s coworker sent an email with a link to a trailer for a new series on PBS’s Masterpiece Theater.  I did a double take when I saw the title, “All Creatures Great and Small.” The “All Great Creatures Great and Small”stories, based on the books by James Herriot, are one of my favorite all-time story collections.  It’s about the life of a country veterinarian in Yorkshire, England back in the 1940s.

I discovered Mr. Herriot’s stories while studying to get accepted into veterinary school.   I still remember that day in the library when I pulled his book from the shelf, read the first few pages and was immediately hooked.  While I had always wanted to be a country vet, “All Creature Great and Small” reinforced my aspirations.

I was skeptical when I saw the PBS announcement as James Herriot’s stories had previously been turned into a wonderful television series back in the late seventies.  That series starring Robert Hardy, Christopher Timothy and Peter Davison had already won me over. I had a hard time believing a new version could capture the same intrigue. 

But as I thought about it, I realized these wonderful stories, filled with loveable characters, have a timeless appeal.  I can say as a veterinarian myself for the past thirty one years (I retired this past May) that while a lot has changed in veterinary medicine since Mr. Herriot’s time, much has stayed the same.  We still traverse the country roads in all weather, day and night to visit our farm patients.  We rely on the animal’s owners to help discern what’s wrong since our patient’s can’t tell us what hurts, and like depicted so well in his stories, we experience the same joy of bringing new life into the world and feel the sorrow when called to end an animal’s suffering. 

After viewing the trailer for the new series and reading a few reviews, I’m convinced the retelling of Mr. Herriot’s stories is a great idea.  Perhaps it will bring a new audience to the world of veterinary medicine, and at the very least provide some great views of the English countryside at a time when life was a bit less complicated.     

You can watch the trailer for the new series here. 

Twenty years ago, I started writing down the stories that had floated around in my head for much of my adult life.   During those years, I consistently spent time every day writing, learning the craft, studying markets, sending out submissions; all the things a writer whose goal is publication needs to do.  But for the first time since I started my literary journey, this summer I stopped.

Finding writing time has always been difficult for me.  Between having a busy career and raising a family, somehow I’ve found snippets of time to work.  While a slow process, I’ve managed to complete many manuscripts and even get some of them published.

About a year and half ago I started up a website and an accompanying blog/newsletter.  Writing a regular blog is not as easy as I thought it would be.  Coming up with material my followers might find interesting is a definite challenge. However, by the end of spring, I had outlined 4 to 5 different topics I planned on covering during the summer months.

As summer approached, I was ready with blog topics, plans to finish up a short story and continued working on a novel project that was starting to take shape when wham…life got in the way.

In my case, three big events happened.  First, my younger son, Tristan, graduated from college in May.  Second, in June, my older son Nathan married Lauren, a lovely young woman he met in college.  Granted neither event was a big time sink.  Being the father of the groom didn’t require a large time commitment and Tristan’s graduation just meant moving him home, but both events knocked me off my game.  How had these two sons of mine grown up so fast?  For the first time it seemed I was getting old.

The third, while just as exciting and life changing as the first two, has commanded much more of my spare time.  Tristan’s lifelong interest in raising ornamental fish, his main reason for studying biology and aquaponics in college, took a major leap as he decided to turn his interest into a fledgling small business venture.  For the past six months, my wife Sheila and I, with major assistance from a local businessman, have helped Tristan transform a local greenhouse into his new fish hatchery.

 

Though I own a business, starting one from scratch was a new experience.  Besides the plethora of infrastructure needed, there were many other details to be thought out and considered.  This summer has felt like I’ve taken a class in how to start a small business.  Needless to say, with all these life-changing events this past summer, my writing time suffered.

However, with the cool winds of fall beginning to blow, it’s time to stop thinking about getting older and get back to writing!