A guest post by Steve 

Do you believe in magic? That undefined power to make things better. A source of help to those most in need. I did not but then everything changed.

The coastal path stretches out before me like a song. I recognise some of the tune, but the lyrics escape me for now. I am not sure how far I will walk today. I am in no rush. No one is waiting for me at home. No one will miss me.

My wife died in my arms. Months of brutal treatment had been unable to rid her poor body from the ravages of cancer. I tried to save her, I really did but I am just a man, not a magician. Now, I am just a widow.

I am walking part of the Cleveland Way, a 108-mile National Trail that starts in the heart of the North Yorkshire Moors and then stretches down the Yorkshire coast from Saltburn to Filey. It provides an outstanding coastal experience, with dramatic cliff tops and attractive former fishing villages to enjoy.

I have always walked. The freedom that my feet could find always helped me through the tough times. The simple act of getting lost, finding a way home, of being at peace.

I start at Saltburn-by-the-Sea, a real mixture of the old and new. Smuggling was rife all along the coast and it was only in the 1860s when the Victorians poured into the newly found seaside resorts that it became somewhat respectable. I walk quickly pass the Zetland Hotel and simple pier. I want to be away, to seek solace and wake up from this dream.

In that fleeting moment, that chance encounter, I knew. No words were needed. I had just met the woman I would love forever. Starting out is great. Our first jobs, buying a home, getting a dog, being blessed with children, exciting holidays surrounded by family and friends, love and laughter – all before the storm. Even if you knew, there was no way you could prepare.

The gaily-painted fishing boats known locally as ‘cobles’ are beached on the shore along with their salt-worn tractors. The herring may have declined but now the search is on for crab, lobster, cod, plaice, and haddock. Life can be tough and not just for those that live by the sea.

Dramatic cliffs now await with Rock Cliff near Boulby being the highest point on the east coast of England. The route undulates constantly and being a sea level never lasts long. Small becks spring out of deep breaks in the cliffs and take careful navigation especially in the wet where a twisted ankle would cost you dear.

Life was good. We had it all. We had each other. We did not invite the stranger into our home and lives. It comes uninvited and never leaves. You never beat cancer. It takes what is most precious and its scars last forever.

With the sea on my left it was easy to follow the path. The distinctive acorn symbol on all signpost shows me the way. There is a saying that ‘mighty oaks grow from little acorns’ and maybe the trial will help me find my foundations and roots again.

Cattersty Sands is a lovely, open beach and the first chance for me to feel the sand between by toes. It slows me down and I search the pebbles looking for something that maybe I will never find. I leave footprints but they will soon disappear, a reminder that nothing last forever. More stretches of amazing beaches will surprise me along this forgotten stretch of coastline.

The doctor was not hopeful. The cancer had spread, and her body was riddled with the invisible disease. They would try, it is all they could do. I watched, waited, prayed, sobbed, raged but was helpless. She took it all. Never giving up. Brave beyond reason.

Blue Nook, Hole Wyke, Cowbar Nab – names that used to mean something to someone but now just strange places along the coast. There is a sense of history everywhere and it is easy to be transported in thought to a bygone age. The past is important but too painful for me and I need to focus on the now and the future. It is what she would have wanted.

So why do I walk this path? I guess I need space, to feel the wind, to smell the sea and most of all find something I thought I had lost – me. Each step takes me in a new direction. I will get lost but maybe that is the only way we will ever find ourselves.

The picturesque village of Staithes is a photographer’s delight. It is undeniable charming with its narrow, cobbled streets and sheltered harbour but today all I see are couples holding hands and enjoying lunch at the Cod and Lobster Inn. I eat alone, sat on a bench overlooking the North Sea. Just me, my loneliness, and a desire to get away from it all. Maybe a certain Captain Cook felt the same?

I try to catch my breath whilst surrounded my dramatic views. A limitless world of sea and land broken only by rugged coastal cliffs set against the North Sea.

There is danger all around with steep cliffs awaiting those that dwell in the past and daydream of the future. It would be easy to give in to the whisper of the cliffs. It is a long way down and certain death awaits. That is the easy way out and I am not that brave.

Overlooking Runswick Bay are numerous caves called ‘Hob Holes’ – a place where legend has it that whooping cough could be cured by the resident hob-goblin. I wonder if he could have cured cancer?

Walking the east coast has a distinct advantage of being in one of the driest parts of England but you need to be prepared for sudden and unexpected changes in the weather. A sea-fret known locally as a ‘roak’ is a notorious feature in the summer when a low blanket of fog envelopes the coast and is accompanied by a slowly, penetrating drizzle. I do not notice it, lost in my thoughts and dead to all feeling.

The hardest thing I will ever do is tell my daughters that their mum had died. It just does not make sense. It unfair but it happens to thousands every day. Why should we be different? Tears came but I still had to make tea, get them ready for bed and life had to go on. ‘Let a smile be your umbrella’ they say but the storm is too much at times.

Wheeling, screeching sea birds become my constant companions. The raucous calls of the gulls, the majestic flight of the fulmar and if I am lucky, I will see the most travelled bird in the world – the Artic tern. I am thankful of the company.

I wish she was here with me now. Her hair flowing in the wind, her laugh on the breeze and her hand in mine. I stand alone on a path made for two.

The prairie landscape continues inland, with old hedge lines indicated by small, grass banks and the odd wind-worn hawthorn bush. Bracken and heather abound, and a haze of purple covers my view.

She would have loved the colours, the smells, and the sounds. She embraced life to the full. Why did she have to go so soon? Could I have not gone instead?

Whitby was once the greatest whaling port in the country, but it was Jet that gave the town remarkable fame. Jet is fossilised wood with a very dark, black-brown colour and is sometimes called ‘Black Amber’ and since the 1800s workshops have been a source of local employment. Jet is also a symbol of mourning since Queen Victoria wore it after Alberts death.

I find a piece, but it leaves a black streak when I rub it along a light-coloured stone whereas Jet would leave a brown streak. I hold in my hand just a piece of sea-washed coal. I put it in my bag anyway.

The kids watched their mum change. The treatment was brutal. It might take her beautiful hair, destroy her fair complexion, and make her body constantly ache but it never took her smile. I can still see it now lighting up every room and our lives.

The 199 steps dating back from 1370 lead me to the ruins of Whitby Abbey that stands overlooking the town and out to sea. St Hilda would have smiled because the tourists are doing a better job than the invading Vikings in trying to destroy this dramatic scene. I am glad to leave.

Fossils, including ammonites can be found all along this part of the coast and are a distinctive feature of the Jurassic rocks of the area. I cannot afford to stand still and become stuck in time hoping someone will find me and take me home.

Routine, family, and friends save you. Having to get through each day helps. Family have their own battles and friends struggle to find the words, but you are thankful for their concern. Does it get easier?

An air of mystery surrounds Robin Hood’s Bay and its isolation was well suited to smuggling. I sit and enjoy an ice cream. Watching families play reminds me of the good times. I cannot go back only forward. Staying here would not help.

Small inlets along the coast are often referred to as ‘wykes’. There are steep descents and corresponding climbs where the sea interrupts the clifftop walk. Boggle Hole, with its hidden Youth Hostel and Stoupe Beck take me down to beach level before the breezy cliffs of Ravenscar await.

Sleepless nights are common. I am shattered after a day of survival but being alone, even in a house full of grieving, dreaming kids is my life now. I agree that it is good to cry but I have no more tears. Our bed is bigger without her and when I dream it is of her, of us.

Alum are crystals used in the dying of cloth and the debris from the quarries litter this part of the coastline. Looking out at low tide I can see the concentric circles of rock ledges called ‘scars’ that look like the chopped off top of an onion. We all have our own scars, both physical and emotional. Some may never heal and cannot be seen even as the water recedes.

Solitude prevails but the views remain. Is this what I am seeking, to be alone? I am not sure because she is still with us. In our daughters faces, in their laughs and the pure joy of being alive. It comforts me and I know I need to be strong. Grieving takes time and I have the rest of my life.

Scarborough or ‘Scarbados’ was the first seaside town and history is everywhere if you care to look past the arcades and fast food outlets. The bays are full of happy families laughing in the sun. There is something for everyone except me. I want her back in my arms.

The Yorkshire coastal path stretches before me and I am at peace. Everything that we think matters is just an illusion. I am not sure where I will end up, but I hope it will be in a better place.

The official finish of the Cleveland Way is on Filey Brigg, but I have a strange feeling that this is only the start of a new beginning, a new adventure, a new me.

So, do I now believe in magic? What I do know is that I cannot live in the past. It is not about forgetting. I will rejoice in the now, look forward to the future and always walk with her by my side. It is what she would have wanted. She would have loved this coast.

Sitting on the train up to Newcastle, I have to admit I felt a bit nervous – I’ve been building up to this race for almost a year. Before I settled for the night in my hotel, I had a bit of a wander and a rather awesome supper at I Scream for Pizza on the quayside. I saw the Tyne Bridge wearing its Great North Run logo (designed by the late Jon Wilks) and I started to get excited.
 
The next morning dawned rather grey, but the city was buzzing with people wearing running numbers. Kitted up in my WAY running vest and WAY Pride logo I walked over the assembly area and met a fellow widow who used to be a member of WAY. She was fundraising for a charity and was wearing her wedding ring, and her son, also running, was wearing his dad’s wedding ring.
 
I saw the elite wheelchair racers and the elite women racers head off, and then the long walk to the assembly area past tens of thousands of runners in charity shirts, running club shirts and fancy dress (much kudos to the man dressed as Freddie Mercury in I Want to Break Free, complete with wig, vacuum and audio on repeat). The fog was replaced by rain and the waiting seemed to last forever, but eventually we were off – across the Tyne Bridge and towards South Shields. There’s something quite surreal about running on a dual carriageway with 60,000 other runners.
 
I hit a bit of a wall at 8 or 9 miles, but Kendal Mint Cake, my friend Lindsay shouting ‘there’s just a Parkrun to go’ as she passed me, and spotting the road sign to the coast kept me going. Seeing the sea at Mile 11 was a huge boost, but the last mile along the coast road seemed like the longest mile of the race. A grin from Ed Spooner (the running photographs are his – thanks Ed) got me over the line and I was done! 13.1 miles in 3 hrs 11 mins, ten minutes faster than I expected.
 
It took me longer to get back across to Newcastle station that it did to run it from Newcastle to South Shields, and stepping through my door at home at 10.30 pm, I announced that I was never going to do the GNR again. I’m plotting some local runs – I’m booked on the Loftus Poultry Run, I’m thinking of doing the Bridlington New Year’s Eve Eve half or 10k, and planning the Ilkley Half with another widow (though apparently it’s hilly…). Perhaps when it comes round to booking, the GNR fever will hit again.
 
Thank you so much to the people who have sponsored me, and if you would like to support the amazing charity WAY Widowed and Young, the link is still open.
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