Fly with me at your own risk

You should only hear from the pilot precisely four times during a flight: 1) when boarding completes, 2) when the plane reaches cruising altitude, 3) right before the descent, and 4) when the plane lands. You know it’s going to be bad when, an hour into the flight, you hear the pilot come on the overhead speaker.

"Hey folks, this is your pilot speaking,"

Bad news.

"we're just outside of Calgary right now but, uh, we're having some issues with the engine..."

Seriously?

"...so we're going to have to turn around and head back to Seattle."

Well shit.

Low murmurs were starting to spread throughout the cabin. Some were more anxious, others less so. I poked my head above the seat in front of me to find the eyes of our friends sitting a few rows ahead. The four of us were tipsy off airport lounge cocktails, so we caught eyes and chuckled, gesturing a big thumbs down.

I probably should've been more alarmed by the prospect of engine failure. And I likely would have if this was the first time my plane had to turn around mid-flight. A few years back, I was on a plane headed to Paris, which also had to retreat home 3.5 hours into the flight. So, no, this wasn't my first brush with airplane malfunctions. I guess after schlepping myself around the world a few times, it's not too surprising. Though I think I'm just tempting fate at this point, so fly with me at your own risk.

The few hours before you get back onto the ground are pretty weird. All the built-up pre-trip anticipation dissipates within minutes, and you know the next few hours will be miserable at best. What do you do? There's nothing you can do, really. You're helpless, stuck in a metal tube at 40,000 feet, awaiting your customer-service-laden future. So sit back, slide the headphones on, and watch whatever trashy movie you had queued up.

Two hours later, we arrived back in Seattle at around 1:30 am. After a few minutes at the gate, the pilot told us we’d been automatically rebooked on another flight to London the following day at 8 pm. Not a surprising outcome, but that put the four of us in a bind. Across the next six days, we were supposed to walk about 90 miles, crossing English countryside, bucolic farmland, boggy moors, and ocean cliffs. Our itinerary was strict - a new, progressively more remote village each day.

We knew we had already lost a day, so we were in loss mitigation mode. Frantically, we scrolled through the Delta app to see if there were earlier options. Every second goes by, and poof, a flight disappears, booked by another delayed passenger. To add a layer of complexity, each of us was booked on a separate ticket, so we had to all rebook for the same flight. Every moment spent deciding, poof, another flight gone.

Eventually, after some hurried discussion and screen mashing, we found another flight that leaves at 8 am to London via Orlando. It was a beast of a flight, considering the flight to Orlando alone was almost as long as our original flight to London. But it got us to London earlier than any other option, so that felt like the right choice. With a mere 5 hours until the boarding, the only thing we could do was find a spot in the airport and get cozy.

The following 24 hours were not of this earth but rather a purgatory filled with unforgiving airport floors, lounges, fluorescent lights, and true delirium. All told, we didn't step outside for about 36 hours, forced to breath in recycled airline air.

There are moments on the road that test your mettle. How do you react? Where does your mind go? It's a thrill, and weirdly, I savor these moments.

When we stepped outside the Tube in London, the first breath of fresh air was life-giving. Though I sensed it was fleeting. Inevitably, the effects of the last 36 hours would take over, and the mind and body would have no choice but to surrender. So today was about just making it through.

After buying new tickets to York, we had about two hours to kill before departure. Coffee was a requirement. But the body was also depleted and needed to be satiated (attacked?) by eggs, black pudding, and beer. The only, only possible - sensible, even - thing to do now was to make our way to a 'Spoons. It was my friend’s first visit to a Wetherspoons, and it was only proper to make the pilgrimage in a mentally and physically vulnerable state. And let me tell you, nothing hits quite like the 10 am beer.

The train to York was seamless and easy. To this day, I'm charmed by train travel. The entire train experience feels luxurious, even if I'm not sitting in dining cars with white tablecloths and drinking champagne. Even LNER, which I'm sure is controversial in the UK, can humble Amtrak with the grace with which it glides on its tracks. Every time I take a train abroad, it always reaffirms one mantra that I try (but often fail) to live by - if possible, forgo the Ryanair flight and take the train.

Three hours later, we arrived in York. After missing a day, we had to catch up to our original route. By this time, we should've reached a small village called Gillamoor. With just a little searching and phone calling, a taxi was easy enough to procure.

If I were honest with myself, one of the real motivations for this walk was to stay at small country pubs along the way. Of course, walking, talking, and communing with friends and nature would be rejuvenating. But my obsession and reverence for the pub is no secret. Even better when they have a few guest rooms available.

Staying at a small inn, one with fewer than ten rooms and a pub downstairs feels medieval, yet familiar. The fluorescent hallway lighting and sterile rooms of hotels are replaced with a warm and rustic charm. The smell of steak and ale pie wafts through the kitchen and up to your room. There's a fire downstairs. Maybe some regulars chatting over a pint of cask ale. The publicans/owner are generally friendly and eager to chat. It's the only kind of luxury you'll ever want again.

The Royal Oak in Gillamoor was no exception. After a much-needed hot shower, a hearty meal, and a good sleep, we were ready to start walking.