Setting Off on a Sunday Soakedventure
Ah, Sunday 22nd June 2025. The kind of day when you wake up and think, “Yes, today’s the perfect day to walk across a treacherous bay in the north of England.” And that, dear reader, is precisely what we did.
Michele (that’s my ever-adventurous wife), and I, along with our wonderful friends Warren and Dawn—more like family, really—decided to take a leisurely little jaunt up the M61 and M6 to Grange-over-Sands. A mere 70 miles and a few chuckles in the car later (Warren kindly volunteered as chauffeur), we rolled into Berners Close Car Park.
Why, you ask, were we heading to this quaint corner of Cumbria? Well, not just to admire the faded Victorian grandeur of Grange-over-Sands, oh no. We were on a mission. A charitable one at that: walking across the infamous sands of Morecambe Bay from Arnside to Grange with the one and only King’s Guide to the Sands, Michael Wilson, all in aid of the fabulous Rosemere Cancer Foundation.
If this all sounds a little familiar, you’ve a good memory! Warren and I took on this very walk last year with a merry band of four others. Clearly, we didn’t suffer enough the first time.
To Arnside We Go!
After parking up, we strolled down to Grange-over-Sands railway station. With the wind doing its best impression of a blow-dryer stuck on ‘hurricane’ and the skies looking ominously broody, we were at least thankful it was dry—for now.
We boarded the pre-organised coach to Arnside, which, to be fair, was a rather civilised way to start a walk across potentially lethal sands. None of this wild scrambling or compass-checking nonsense for us. Just hop on the coach, have a chinwag, and enjoy the anticipation of being soaking wet within the hour.
Upon arrival in Arnside, we were met by Michael Wilson himself—the King’s Guide. A man of few frills but much authority, he delivered the all-important health and safety briefing. Something about tides, quicksand, sticking together, not licking dead jellyfish—the usual.
And then, with little fanfare but much excitement (and trepidation), we set off at precisely 14:40.
Onto the Sands: Wet Feet, Big Smiles
The early part of the walk was surprisingly gentle. We headed north, the clouds hanging low and the wind giving our cheeks a good slap, as if to say, “You sure about this?”
Once we reached Blackstone Point, it was time for a wardrobe change. Off came the trail shoes, on went the water shoes—a fashionable look somewhere between “enthusiastic rambler” and “confused beachgoer” (#Ad).
Unlike last year’s relatively straightforward route, this time the Bay had other plans. Not one, not two, but what felt like three separate watery crossings lay ahead. Tributaries, channels, little sneaky offshoots of the mighty River Kent, all gleefully ready to soak us.
The walking was slow but steady, with a real sense of camaraderie among the crowd. There’s something about tramping through ankle-deep water in sideways rain that really bonds people.
Enter: Horizontal Rain
Ah yes, the weather. Remember how I said it was dry earlier? Forget that. Just before the main crossing of the River Kent, the heavens opened and the wind howled like a banshee with a grudge. It wasn’t so much rain as a full-body water assault. Horizontal. Relentless. Biblical.
Thankfully, we came prepared—walking trousers, waterproof coats, even an emergency poncho or two. But let’s be honest, when the elements are determined to drench you, there’s only so much Gore-Tex can do.
By the time we slogged through the final channel and back onto the relative dryness of the shore near Grange-over-Sands, we were absolutely drenched. Not just damp. Soaked to the core, wringing-out-your-socks, what-even-is-dry-anymore kind of drenched.
A Little Separation, A Lot of Determination
Somewhere along the walk, amid the splashing and squelching, we’d managed to get separated from Warren and Dawn. Not entirely surprising—trying to keep a group together in a wide, featureless bay with hundreds of feet plodding along is a bit like herding cats with a megaphone.
Thankfully, there were designated regrouping points, and we did manage to find each other now and again. Sadly, Dawn had pulled a calf muscle (clearly not impressed by our high-octane pace), and was understandably struggling. But credit where it’s due—despite being in pain and more than a little sodden, she kept going. Absolute trooper.
The Final Stagger: Wet, Weary, But Triumphant
We finally reached the finish back at Grange-over-Sands around 17:00. A solid 5.7 miles walked in two and a quarter hours—compare that to last year’s 6.9 miles in three and a quarter and we’d clearly shaved off some faffing this time.
Back at the car, we performed a rapid transformation. Out of the wet, into whatever dry clothing we could unearth from the boot. There was towel-juggling, bare-legged shimmying, and a fair amount of squealing as soggy socks were peeled away like old wallpaper.
Chips & Disappointment: The Post-Walk Feast
With bellies grumbling and spirits flagging, Warren—ever the optimist—suggested we stop for a carvery. Sadly, Michele vetoed the idea, declaring that she simply couldn’t walk into a pub looking like a drowned stoat in hiking boots.
So, the compromise? A stop in Morecambe for fish and chips. We found ourselves at Bare Village Fish & Chips, which certainly had promise. The fish? Spot on—crispy batter, flaky insides, not a bone in sight. But the chips? A bit limp. A bit meh. The sort you push around with your fork and quietly wish you’d ordered a pie.
Still, food is food, and after an afternoon of semi-submerged trudging, we weren’t going to argue. Much.
The Big Question: “Would You Do It Again?”
Asking Michele and Dawn if they enjoyed the walk was, frankly, brave bordering on foolish. So instead, we asked the more politically savvy version: “Would you do it again next year?”
A pause. A sigh. And then a resolute, unequivocal NO from both of them. Fair enough, really.
Back home, we peeled off the last of the damp clothes, collapsed into the shower, made a cuppa, and then collapsed into bed with that peculiar mix of exhaustion and smug satisfaction you only get from surviving something mildly ridiculous.
The Aftermath: Aches, Laundry, and Laughs
Monday morning dawned, and Michele was definitely feeling it. The aches, the stiffness, the slow shuffling about the house like a retired ballroom dancer.
But on the plus side, all the walking gear was washed and dried by mid-morning. Not bad going, considering we could’ve filled a small paddling pool with the water we carried home in our socks alone.
And while the ladies might not be rushing to sign up for next year’s splash-fest, I wouldn’t rule it out entirely. Give it a few months, let the memory soften around the edges… stranger things have happened.
