Memories of the Lyke Wake – Alumni Stories, Les Padfield

Our latest blog comes courtesy of alumnus Les Padfield, who shares his memories of attempting to complete the Lyke Wake Walk while a student at York St John.

40 miles across the North York Moors. 40 miles, before you take a wrong turning or get lost. To be done in 24 hours if you want to qualify for membership to the Lykewake Club that allows you to buy and wear a black tie with coffins on it, or a headscarf with the same design. Origins of the walk clouded by myth, but something to do with a group of men carrying their dead friend along this route from the village of Osmotherly to the town of Ravenscar on the edge of the North Sea.

A number of students at college had attempted this whilst I was there, but it was only in the autumn after I’d left York in 1968 that I persuaded my friends Mike and Christopher to join me in the attempt. No training needed: confidence astronomical; our ‘meticulous’ plans set out as follows:

We would travel from London in Mike’s 1952 Morris Minor to Osmotherly, where, around midnight, we would begin the walk. There are only half a dozen or so roads that cross our route over the moors. We have arranged with our friend Dave that he will drive up from London in his car (accompanied by his dad) and rendezvous with us at the crossing near Blakey House, (The Lion), about half way into the walk next morning. He will provide refreshments and then meet us at one of the next intersections. Should we get there before Dave arrives, and decide to go on, we will leave a paint mark in the road from a tin of paint that we will be carrying. He will then meet us at the next intersection. These rendezvous places are agreed by us studying a map and estimating our times of arrival. Our plans have all the hallmarks of enthusiasm, inexperience and optimism bordering on stupidity.

We leave the car in Osmotherly with the intention of collecting it, once we have completed the walk, by Dave driving us back from Ravenscar. As the bewitching hour passes, we set off, armed with torches, map and compass, light refreshments and no paint pot.

The darkness of night immediately closes in. After about seven miles we encounter a problem: a path that goes nowhere except up the side of a sheer hill. We have taken a wrong turning. We backtrack and attempt to pick up the right path, but the detour has taken us a couple of wasted hours and added extra miles onto the journey. Walking in the pitch dark – there is no moon that night – with the aid of torches only, is a new experience for us and not one that we easily master. After 12 miles or so Mike and I begin to get annoyed with the younger Christopher because he does not appear to be as tired or footsore as we are. He slept most of the car journey up. He is also walking in front of us, assuming the role of leader.

The night is long and arduous. As dawn breaks we still have quite a number of miles to cover before we see the inn at Blakey. It’s already approaching the hour that we agreed to meet Dave. Christopher becomes more annoying.

When we finally reach the intersection and the Inn we are several hours behind schedule and Mike and I are both blistered and depressed. Our lack of practice and training walks for this venture now don’t look too sensible. It has not been the easy trek we anticipated and neither of us is in much of a fit state to believe we can complete the second half of the walk. In fact we are not sure we can complete the next section. Where is Dave? We assume he must have waited here long enough to convince himself that we have moved on, even minus a paint mark. We therefore take an executive decision: Christopher will have to walk to the next intersection where Dave should be waiting and inform him that we are awaiting rescue at Blakey. That will teach the young whippersnapper to look so fit.

Mike and I wait in the environs of the inn, feeling more tired than guilty or disappointed. The morning passes. It ought to take Christopher no more than an hour and a half to reach the next checkpoint and then 45 minutes for Dave to drive back. Three hours pass; then four. At mid-afternoon we see Christopher returning. On foot. No Dave. He has not managed to rendezvous, so we have no idea where he might be. On the off-chance that he might have rung and left a message I ring my home to ask if he has been in contact. I don’t want to ring and ask his mum in case it causes her to worry. There has been no word from him.

It’s starting to get dark and we can’t stay at the Inn and have no desire to sit, sleep or walk in the cold of night. It’s too far to contemplate a walking return to Osmotherley, so I enact Plan B, which has never been thought about or contemplated, by telephoning my college friend Phil, who lives in Leeds 55 miles away. Not every friend would be open to mounting a rescue such as this, but Phil has been on some equally daft schemes, such as leading a group of school kids up Skiddaw in a White-out, so I am fairly sure he’ll be sympathetic and helpful.

He is. Around ninety minutes elapse before he turns up in his Morris 1000 to save the day. At the back of our minds we are wondering just where Dave and his dad are, but he’s big enough to look after himself and we are actually too tired to care very much. It’s a slow, winding journey back to Osmotherley but we get there around 10pm. We thank Phil for his kindness and wave him off into the darkness before getting back into Mike’s car for the journey down to York where I have blagged some college accommodation.

300 yards along the road the car blows up. Steam or smoke or whatever noxious fumes exist begin pouring out of the engine and the old banger refuses to go any further. We ought to laugh at this point, but for some reason we don’t. Mike now comes to the rescue, or promises to do so. Fortunately he’s a member of the AA, so from a phone box in the quiet, deserted village he rings and asks for assistance. We wait inside the car for an hour before a truck arrives bearing the logo ‘Sinderby Garage’. Things begin to look up, but only for three minutes. A cursory inspection under the bonnet produces the verdict that the car cannot be repaired on the spot and so will be taken away to the garage which is on the edge of the A1 some miles hence. We don’t even bother to ask the mechanic what we should do; he is clearly miffed at being out at this time of night encountering three soft southerners who have probably ruined his TV evening. The Morris Minor disappears into the darkness on the back of the breakdown truck.

Because there is nothing else to do, we walk through the village. Maybe we can find a bus shelter, a hedge, a lorry we can pile into… Nothing looks very hopeful. And then we spot a Police Station, not an uncommon sight in those days, and not uncommon to be open all hours. So we go in, looking as pathetic as we can, without trying too hard, and ask the nice man in uniform if there is a chance we can be locked up in a cell for the night. He says we can’t: against regulations. Not possible. Our spirits droop.

Then comes one of life’s most memorable events. Also in the station, at the same desk, is a man with one arm. We have no idea why he’s there, but hearing our plight he offers to take us home, where his wife and children are soundly sleeping, and allows us to spend the night in the warmth of his front room. His generosity knows no bounds as he gives us breakfast also in the morning, and we are able to repay him with nothing but thanks, gratitude and admiration. A quite remarkable man.

Next morning Mike and Christopher manage to take a bus to the nearest train station where they head back to London to resume their day jobs the following day. Having no such pressing commitments, it’s left to me to somehow pick up the car when it has recovered and drive it down to London. I start my journey back to York by hitchhiking out of the village. Being transported south down the A19 I see a blue car coming the other way. Dave and his dad pass by without noticing me.

Later I learn that they duly arrived on the arranged day but why our paths failed to coincide at Blakey I never properly understand. There is some mention of a white mark in the road! Dave drives around to the next expected meeting point and then onto the next. Failing to see any sign of us he telephones his home to ask if there has been any message. He chooses not to ring my house as he doesn’t want to worry my mother. Come nightfall, he and his dad spend an uncomfortable night trying to sleep in the car surrounded by the mountain of sandwiches which had been brought for our rendezvous. Quite why he is travelling north the next day when I am travelling south I never fathom, but some days later we meet and hold an inquest back in London.

It takes two days before Sinderby Garage contact Mike, whom I telephone daily to discover the state of play. I hitch hike up the A1 to collect and pay for repairs, only to discover that there had been no actual mechanical fault in the car after all: it had simply needed water in the radiator.

I drive it south, and break down just after Doncaster.

It takes two more attempts at the Lykewake in subsequent years before I successfully stagger euphorically into Ravenscar after 18 hours on my feet. The tiredness and soreness are forgotten about by the sense of achievement and the experience of dawn breaking over the wild, empty moorland. I telephone my wife to tell her, but she doesn’t answer the phone. I call my parents with the news; they are out. I ring Dave and then Mike to announce that I’ve finally cracked it. Neither of them answers the phone. Nonetheless, when we next meet, I’m proudly wearing my tie with coffins.

Then someone points out that Dave’s father has just died !!

Les Padfield

Many thanks for sharing this with us Les, I wonder how many more of our former students attempted this challenge while at York St John?

We always enjoy hearing about some of the things our former students got up to while they were at York St John. Do you have a story or memories of your own to share with us? get in touch! we’d love to hear from you