Having sorted my campsite in rain and oncoming darkness the night before I was a bit slow getting moving in the morning and at 8am the farmer arrived with his quad bike , collie dog and about 150 sheep.
I though I might be in for a bollocking but he was fine about it though he did pint out the field could flood at high tide.
“How much ?” I asked.
“About four feet on a spring tide “ he replied.
Packing up my mercifully dry tent I set off towards Morecambe via Lancaster.
Breakfast was at Glasson and the cafe was full of bikers which is always a good sign. They were sensible ones though one chap regaled us with a story of how he’d broke both his arms when he was hit by a bloke test driving a BMW 1250 on a narrow lane.
The walk to Lancaster was mainly by cycle track and then crossing by a railway bridge. This bridge seemed to be a magnet for suicides as it was covered in bunches of flowers for at least three victims.
The rain descended as I crossed the farmland to Morecambe.
I managed to arrive at one farm at just the moment he was trying to get half his herd down a track to the milking parlour. Unfortunately the cows found me most interesting and there was a 200 cow traffic jam till I moved away.
Chatting with him he milks 400 cattle twice a day, even with staff sooner him than me.
I finally arrived in Morecambe to find my room was about 30 yards from Eric Morecambe’s statue and 40 yards from a Wetherspoons named after him.
Result.