Author: apathtosomewhere

Stranraer. Probably better known as a ferry port and a link to Northern Island rather than a true holiday destination, but me, Hubby and The Dog were heading up there in the Van for a 3 day break.

Well, just me and The Dog actually. Hubby was nipping over to Belfast to connect with some old work colleagues for a couple of days. Initially we had thought about taking The Van too, but it was very expensive for less than 48 hours, so we decided to base ourselves in Stranraer while Hubby went over as a foot passenger. In the meantime The Dog and I would check out Stranraer and the surrounding area.

So we got up early, packed our last bits and headed off, picking up the northbound M6 on a day which hadn’t really decided what it wanted to be – bright and sunny or showery. Big puffy clouds were all around us, but the sun shone in between them.

We then spent a little time debating whether to have breakfast en route – actually I don’t know why we even bothered to debate, it was a no brainer. We did our usual, pulling off the M6 and heading into the village of Shap to our favourite little cafe when we headed north, for a Full English Breakfast. It’s now a ritual, a pilgrimage. And as usual, they didn’t disappoint and even The Dog got a sausage, neatly cut up and served in a dish………

https://theabbeykitchen.co.uk/

We were soon back on the road, suitably replenished, abandoning the M6 for the more relaxed A6 which runs parallel. It’s like a mini geography lesson with the M6, A6 and the West Coast Mainline railway line criss crossing each other as they meander up the Eden Valley. We drove through little villages, through Penrith before coming up to Carlisle. The Sat Nag wanted to take us through the city centre, but not fancying that, we jumped back on the M6 briefly until Gretna Green, where as we hopped over the border into Scotland, we turned left onto the A75 and headed west.

You think you’re nearly there at this point, but we had another 2 hours and nearly 100 miles to go, all on the same A road. I wanted to check out the town of Annan as a few years ago, on a solo trip, I nearly visited it and regretted not doing it. People had said it was a nice town. So we peeled off, following a road into town, wondering why motorists were all turning right into a housing estate. We quickly found out – the road was closed for roadworks further down so we had to turn tail and followed the road through a new build estate, most of the front gardens devoid of any greenery and lavishly paved or gravelled to plonk a car on. So we had a tour of Annan’s housing estates before being burped onto a rather handsome High Street, full of dark sandstone buildings with bustling shops. It had a certain charm about it. I had it in my head that Annan had a pleasant harbour area, but the road we took ended in a low industrial park, full of fish processing plants and other industry. There was a car park and notice board, so I think we could of walked along the river, but it wasn’t floating our boat today. We nosed our way back to the High Street, pausing whether to park up and have a wander. We weren’t in the mood of just wandering around shops, so we decided to drive on – we turned left across a very pretty bridge over the river and was immediately out of Annan. We picked up the A75 again and headed west.

The fluffy clouds of the morning were now getting together and looking rather menacing. As we were bypassing Dumfries, the heavens opened and we were lashed with heavy rain, so much so that we had to employ the double wash wipe to see. The roads soon became a river as the drains struggled to cope. This was aquaplaning territory. Then, as if someone had turned a tap, it stopped. It went on like this for a while. Sun-angry clouds-deluge-sun. There were parts where it hadn’t even rained and the road was dry and at one point, it was raining on us, but the field next door was in brilliant sunshine. Just one of those days.

The countryside was getting prettier and more undulating as we headed further in. This area of Scotland is very much overlooked and in my mind, a hidden gem. The further west you go, mountains start to rear up and the road hugs the Luce Bay for a while. There’s the Galloway Forest Park, a large area of forest It’s is quite stunning and even more so, in the sunshine with the spectacularly stormy clouds as a backdrop.

We stopped briefly at a roadside cafe and deli place looking for something for tea later, but nothing appealed so we headed to Newton Stewart, a small town just off the A75. We’ve been to this town before as our eldest daughter lived in a nearby village for a few months during her university gap year. We drove into town and managed to park up on the High Street. We decided to have a stretch of the legs, find that elusive something for tea and generally have a nose. So we pottered around, looking in shops, chatting with the friendly locals and got a few provisions. We only had an hour parking, which was enough – it had been a long journey and we just wanted to get to Stranraer and put our feet up!

Our campsite was just off the main road as we entered Stranraer, but before we drove in, we had a bit of a recce primarily for me to figure out if it was worth the walk into town tomorrow with The Dog.

You get it into your head that port towns are just full of ferry terminals, tatty harbours and industrial units, the town down on its heels, but we found a thriving and rather large High Street and handsome buildings. Another road closure thwarted our intended route so another unscheduled tour of the town’s outer edges. There were some quite lovely houses, but mainly long terraces of the traditional Scottish single storey cottage with pitched windows in their roofs in this part of town. Of course, as in most British towns, some pen pushing bureaucrat had given permission for a competition to design the ugliest building possible, plonk it somewhere totally inappropriate and then totally fail to maintain it, ensuring it becomes a real blot of the landscape. Words just fail me. And here it was, an awful block of flats sat in amongst some really nice buildings. I think the council members back in the 1960’s were definitely sniffing something when they passed the plans for these monstrosities, under the pretence of architectural utopia. We averted our eyes until we dropped down onto the shoreline.

Stranraer nestles in bay of Loch Ryan and as we drove along the road, parallel to the sea wall, we looked out towards the mouth of the Loch where it joins the sea. The tide was in as the water lapped the sea wall. In the distance, down the side of the Loch, were the twin ferry terminals of Cairnryan, serving Northern Ireland’s Belfast and Larne ports. No wonder the A75 is chocker with lorries, vans, juggernauts and cars with two ferry companies disgorging vehicles on a regular basis.. We decided to go and check in so had to do a U turn to get back. Here, modern bungalows hugged the road, with fantastic views over the sea wall of the Loch and beyond. Personally I would have an upside down house here – bedrooms on the ground floor and a huge picture window upstairs to make the most of the view, but everyone seemed content with their bungalows. We weaved through an abundance of these properties (was it another pen pushing trend?) before we drove down a narrow lane and found the Aird Donald campsite.

We checked in and chose our spot, perhaps not the best as it was close to the loos and washing facilities, but we had neighbours and wouldn’t be Billy No Mates over in the adjoining field. It was quite a nice campsite, with nice facilities and pleasant surroundings. We set up quickly to make the most of the sun, but to our dismay, cloud barrelled in and promptly rained on us. Still we had our awning and we sat outside for awhile until it got a bit too cool. The Dog had a wander and a sniff around the campsite and with 10pm approaching, we prepared for bed. Hubby had an early start – up at 5am to get a taxi and his Belfast ferry – but with it being the longest day and further north, it wasn’t really getting dark. So we blacked out The Van as best we could though The Dog joined us on the bed and pinned us into not so comfortable positions (she was not for moving and actually she does keep you warm) and settled down. Tomorrow would start slow and we would go for a wander somewhere, but there was no rush to make decisions. Weary from our travels, we snuggled down for a good nights sleep.

I woke up to rain.

It had been predicted but still annoying. I had planned to drive down to the Mull of Galloway – a recommendation from Eldest Daughter – but didn’t fancy spending the day in possible mist and low cloud and not see anything.. There again, did I want to hang around in the campsite all in day in drizzly rain? So after a bit of mulling and definitely deciding that staying at the campsite would drive me insane, I started the chore of packing up the Van and suddenly realised that the sun was poking its head out. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

When you look on a map of this area, the land west of Stranraer looks like the head of a Hammerhead shark and it was at the bottom of this that we were heading. The Dog and I headed out towards the town centre, briefly popping into a Morrisons for milk for a cuppa and a couple of other bits. We followed the A716 to Drummore, some 18 miles south. It was a lovely drive in the sun past pastures, fields, little hamlets, woodlands – it was ever changing. Just past the village of Ardwell was a picnic area and I instinctively pulled in as now we were starting to hug the coastline. I was after a decent beach for The Dog. A big sign said “No Overnight Camping” but the few campervans and tents had evidently ignored that. The beach was muddy and didn’t really inspire, though it was a pretty little bay, so we turned around and carried on.

The scenery was stunning. We were now overlooking the Luce Bay, a fantastic arch of land and sea. We pulled into another parking area, but although pretty with a woodland backdrop, the beach wasn’t a sandy beach – to be honest, I didn’t want to get clagged with mud and it being traipsed into the Van. We carried on passing little hamlets which were very pretty – a lot of the traditional crofter style cottages, painted white. This was a lovely drive.

We dropped into Drummore, following a sign that said beach, The Dog getting giddy as she could smell the sea air. We drove past the small harbour and along a narrow road, past cottages and bungalows facing out to sea. It ended on a tiny straggly piece of grass which already had a car on it. Perhaps I was being fussy here, but again it wasn’t ticking my box for some reason. So we turned tail, much to The Dog’s disappointment and retraced our steps back to the High Street. Drummore was a charming little community, again with that lovely mixture of cottages and houses, painted or just left in stone. Apart from a shop, there wasn’t much else and by now we weren’t far from the Mull of Galloway. So we nosed our way out of Drummore and was directed down a single track road with passing places (the signpost said for 4 miles – I just hoped I didn’t meet anyone coming back, I was in the Van after all). As we turned into the lane, we could see the lighthouse on the Mull in the hazy distance. The scenery was now more exposed – fields and the odd bent tree. We were on top of a headland with hardy sheep and cattle. There wasn’t much there at all. At one point, we could see the sea on either side of us as the land narrowed. We had met no other vehicles and we felt we were the only ones on this isolated landscape.

https://mull-of-galloway.co.uk/

Finally the car park hoved into view as we passed a grass roofed visitor centre. There was about six other vehicles parked up and as I turned the engine off, the wind rocked the Van. The sunshine had disappeared and a huge blanket of cloud, as far as the eye could see, covered us. Looking back up the coast, it was actually quite low and misty. Perhaps we had the best of the day.

I watched two people being whipped by the wind, their coats flapping furiously. There was nothing to stop it, so I donned my waterproof to keep warm and in case it rained. We jumped out of the Van and went off to explore. We went through a gate and decided to follow the sign that said “circular path to Lighthouse”, which took us along a mown pathway between stubby grassland where ground nesting birds fluttered against the wind. We came up to the RSPB building, a low slung building painted white, which was shut, so we peered through the windows instead. Another sign pointed us down another grassy path and the very southern point and the very edge of Scotland. It hadn’t been on my bucket list to stand on Scotland’s most southerly point, but here I was with my hound and we looked at each other. I gave her a congratulatory pat, and walked a few more feet south to peer over a sheer drop. Perhaps we would stop here, it was southerly enough for us and anyway we were getting a bit fed up being battered by the relentless wind. It was quite humid too, so with my waterproof on, I felt quite warm, but knew if I took it off I would feel chilly. Couldn’t win. We turned around and plodded back up the hill with the Lighthouse peering down on us, hoping to get some respite. However, we got distracted by another sign, pointing down a path, declaring “Path to Foghorn”, so off I set, dragging The Dog behind me, her eyes rolling.

The path turned into a steep stone stairway with the huge dark red foghorn at the bottom, pointing out to sea. As the amber light wasn’t on (it wasn’t foggy enough to have to blast at passing ships) we could go down right up to it. We passed two large gas tanks (presumably to supply it with gas to work) and walked underneath the horn. It was huge and could be cranked to face in different directions. It was perched on the edge of a cliff (how someone had built that there, goodness knows) where seabirds nested on perilous crags, as waves crashed against the rocks way below. This was unforgiving and raw. It was amazing – the power of the sea, the foghorn ready to warn of danger, the inaccessible cliffs and the swirling birds gave it a real atmosphere and a feeling of awe. Again, you felt you were the only person there. Just you and nature.

The Dog was itching to get back, so we pulled ourselves back up the steps and followed the garden wall of the lighthouse, apparently featured in the film The Vanishing/Keepers, starring Gerard Butler. The surrounding outbuildings of the lighthouse house an exhibition, but we couldn’t go in as I had The Dog. The lighthouse itself was closed too. So we pleased ourselves looking at the huge stunning photographs pinned on the wall surrounding the lighthouse by some wonderful photographers. They were stunning and I spent many minutes studying them.

Unable to go in the lighthouse, we walked to the viewpoint and checked out some other paths (all circular to the lighthouse), coming across various views and looking at the Lighthouse at different angles. It must of been a very lonely spot to live and work, but very very special. I was glad I had come and quietly thanked Eldest Daughter for her recommendation.

Desperate to escape the wind and fancying a coffee and possibly a large slab of cake, we headed down the road to the Visitor Centre. It declared itself to be opened six days a week, but evidently Fridays weren’t one of them. It was firmly shut. I thought Friday would of been one of your best trading days but I was wrong. Anyway it didn’t allow dogs in either though they did have an outdoor seating area which was perched on a balcony, so you could peer down the cliffs as you supped your cappuccino. I would of liked to have done that actually, but on this overcast, windy Friday I just had to be content at peering over the barrier to the sea crashing against the rocks far below.

Having exhausted Mull of Galloway and fed up being battered by the wind, we jumped back into the Van and decided to wheedle back. Halfway along the single track road, there was a little bay with a sandy beach. Yes, The Dog deserved a treat after being dragged around by me! A quick U turn and to my dismay, as I committed myself, realised that it was a rather rocky track down. Halfway down, I also realised that the field below and where the Van would be parked, was full of cows and their calves. Vehicles and tents were down there already but I didn’t fancy coming back to find a cow satisfying an itchy ear against my Van’s door. So we did another U turn and The Dog settled back on her mat in disappointment. We weren’t doing well on beaches.

We drove back to Drummore where I kept seeing signs for Port Logan. It piqued my interest – what was there? Checking on Google Maps it was on the opposite coast overlooking the Irish Sea but just some three miles away and it looked like it had a sandy beach. So with some confidence, we headed down more narrow roads and dropped into the tiny hamlet of Port Logan, hugging the most perfect sweeping bay of sand. Oh yes! We excitedly parked up right on the edge of the sand and jumped out! The Dog was ecstatic, her face delighted. Finally her human had found a beach at long last! She loved it and chased stones into the sea, frolicking in the waves. We walked right round until we could go no further and turned around and retraced our steps. Back at the car park, we checked out the stone harbour wall with a disused tower and wandered the single village road. Feeling peckish, I made some lunch and perched on the side step, sharing bits of cheese with The Dog. We had a great view of the bay and were feeling quite contented, when a large campervan pulled up in front of us, blocking our view! Oh for goodness sake! Luckily the occupants quickly realised, and with a mouthed “sorry” pulled up a little further along (not far enough in my book, but hey ho). Blow me, 5 minutes later, a huge motorhome rocked up on our right and completely obliterated most of our view. There was a whole expanse of car park here and they sit right on top of you. I was also slightly peeved as up to that point, I had the whole car park to myself, so I wasn’t a happy bunny. Perhaps it was time to go.

https://scotlandstartshere.com/point-of-interest/port-logan/

We rejoined the A716 and I stopped briefly to check out a campsite as it had looked spectacular as we passed it earlier – on the edge of a sweeping bay bathed in the sunshine. Now under leaden skies, it didn’t look so alluring and anyway it was a Camping and Motorhome Club site and guess who are not members……

https://scotlandstartshere.com/point-of-interest/sandhead/

So we headed to Sandhead, a place we’ve been before and has the best beach around, miles of it, a doggy paradise and very beautiful. We parked up and walked along the beach together – we walked so far until The Dog decided to head off, indicating she wanted to go back – why do I let my hound make all the decisions? Back at the Van, I made a cuppa and sat, out of the howling wind, watching the world and ended up chatting to a lady. She was Scottish and was telling me of other places to visit. She had a really lovely accent, but the way she pronounced these place names, sounded like she was bringing up fur balls. I didn’t recognise any of the place names and didn’t have a clue where they were, so I just nodded and made the right noises and hoped I was convincing.

With black clouds appearing on the horizon, we trundled back to the campsite and quickly set up the Van again before it rained. It was feeling humid and damp, but we had managed to escape the rain and got the best out of the day. I was pleased that we did what we did. The Dog was happy to snooze on her mat and I watched newcomers come into the campsite and set up. Hubby was due back from Belfast late tonight. It had been a lovely day of exploring and seeing some beautiful countryside. Tomorrow we would head back home.

(Hubby appeared at the Van door at 12:30am after some ferry issues – namely the ramp unable to be lowered).

Awoken by an alarm and a Hubby preparing for his trip. The Dog and I dozed while he got himself sorted and left at 5:45 for his taxi. We had a slow morning watching fellow campers doing their camping ablutions – emptying toilet cassettes and filling water carriers at 7am in the morning. Me and The Dog fell out of the Van about 8:15 and promptly sat in the sun, like a pair of lizards warming up on a rock. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and it was warm already. Perfect. Britain had been basking in hot weather for about a month already but this past week we had actually welcomed the first big doses of rain for a long while, so while we kind of rejoiced in the dampness, we readily welcomed the sun back.

We decided to go for a walk down to the sea before it got too warm, so headed off about 10:30 down the lane to the main road. Then across and down a side street – The Dog was not impressed by this route and dawdled, looking fed up – she’s not one for walking the streets. But this gave me a chance to nosey at the properties, mainly bungalows, but they were all individual, all slightly different, well kept and tidy. It was nice rather than a line of identical houses and it was fascinating comparing the different styles. It was a lovely road. We soon found ourselves at the bottom of the road and overlooking the loch.

There was a utilitarian grubby concrete sea wall separating the road from the loch, so we went down some steps to find ourselves on more concrete, looking at an expanse of mud and damp seaweed – the sea being a few hundred yards out. So much for a paddle and anyway, it was impossible to access the mud if we were inclined as there were no steps. The Dog looked at me still unimpressed. So we walked along the concrete path towards town before rejoining the main road. On the loch side, it was industrial, surrounded by high metal fencing with derelict areas in between (though not looking run down at all), the other side of the road, neat houses, an impressive hotel and a pretty public garden. We came up to a junction and followed the sign marked Town Centre and found ourselves almost immediately in the shopping area. We carried on, not really knowing where we were going, when we came across an impressive stone tower in the middle of the shops! It was the Castle of St John apparently. I dithered whether to go inside as though it was free entry, I wasn’t sure if dogs were allowed in. Maybe I would check it out on the way back.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Castle_of_St_John

So we carried along the road (Stranraer seems to have two High Streets running parallel to each other) and running out of shops, we dropped down a side street. I was liking Stranraer’s town centre very much with its higgly piggly buildings of varying heights, all different to each other and painted various colours. Most were either rendered or pebbledashed which in its raw state is downright awful, but painted looked very smart. It was compact and very pleasant. We dropped down onto a road across which was a car park and a harbour. It looked like that it had been landscaped and renovated. Again, it was very nice. Spotting a fisherman with a line, we sauntered to the railings and looked down. The tide was in! I checked the OS map on the phone and just along the way, there seemed to be a beach! I informed The Dog that I had found a beach for her, but she still looked dubious. So off we set, past a wide entrance to another working harbour and down a wide expanse of road before we came across a bay with a sweeping beach. The Dog’s attitude changed completely as I let her off lead and she galloped into the water, a big happy smile on her face. She swam after stones that I threw in and ran around like a puppy. We spent a good 20 minutes messing around here, but was aware that The Dog was now 15 and we had a way to walk back to the campsite. So reluctantly we wandered back towards the High Street.

There was a low squat building that seemed to be a tourist office so I aimed towards that, hoping to find out more about Stranraer. But as we arrived we found out it was shut and actually didn’t allow dogs in. They wouldn’t of appreciated my hound dripping water across their floor anyway. So we retraced our steps back to the High Street and stopped at a cafe opposite the Castle of St John where I ordered a coffee and a piece of cake and The Dog turned her nose up at a bowl of fresh water – probably too clean. We shared the cake and basked in the sunshine which was good as The Dog kept shaking and showering me with loch water.

While sitting there, people watching, I noticed an abomination across from the tower. A 1960’s flat roofed concrete carbuncle had been built, so neglected that it had bushes growing out of its guttering. It housed several cheap looking shops with cheap hoardings over their shop fronts. It was quite tatty and depressing, especially adjacent to the ancient building with its attractive square. What were they thinking all those years ago? So I kept my eyes trained on the tower and to the right as I sipped my coffee. With The Dog getting restless, we decided to head back with me studying the buildings of Stranraer – we didn’t go into the castle due to my very soggy doggy. There seemed a good mixture of independent shops as well as the usual national chains which was nice. We came across a couple of impressive buildings on our wanderings – one with a lovely turret – that were falling in disrepair, rendering falling off, foliage growing out of the roof and looking shabby – one was marked with a date 1902. I had seen a similar building shrouded in scaffolding earlier so I liked to think that these buildings would be restored some day. Stranraer had its fair share of empty shop fronts like any British town, but it felt homely, rather charming and seemed to be ticking along quite nicely.

So we got back to our Van to find our neighbours had upped and left (explains all the vehicle ablutions this morning). There was just us and two other motorhomes, but as we relaxed together, another couple of motorhomes arrived and set up. I made lunch, The Dog snoozed in the sunshine, drying off but leaving a salty tide mark on her fur. Mid afternoon, I fancied checking out a nearby woodland walk which didn’t excite The Dog at all. We couldn’t access the woodland from the campsite so had to do a loop onto the main road and into a residential cul de sac with big bungalows in big gardens. We found the entrance of the woodland between two properties and sauntered along the earthen path – The Dog found a stream and jumped in, taking big slurps of water. At least the salt would wash off. We walked down a wide path, between a mixture of tall pines and deciduous trees. It was very pleasant with the dappled sunshine. We crossed over the railway line where we could hear trains rattling along from the site and discovered why we had to do our tedious loop – we could actually see our Van through the trees, but unless you fancied climbing over a barbed wire fence, wrestle your way through thick rhododendron bushes and plunge down a steep ravine, the loop seemed the far better option. We crossed a busy road and could of walked quite a way, deeper into the woods but again, thinking about The Dog, we stopped after about 10 minutes, took a photo of the surrounding countryside and sauntered back the way we came. It was a pleasant hour’s walk.

So we got back to the Van and hung out. It was perfect weather and with us facing the evening sun, it was lovely and warm. The Dog soaked up the sun until she got too hot and went and laid under the nearby hedge. I made some tea and together we enjoyed each other’s company, nodding hello’s to fellow campers and watching them potter about. A final lap of the campsite for The Dog and we settled down together in The Van as night slowly fell. It had been a very interesting day.

We were heading back home today after our weekend in the Lincolnshire Wolds, so we decided, before going back, to go and visit one last place. Daughter had mentioned that Louth was worth a visit, so after a slow start, we packed up and headed along the A631 to Louth, some 20 minutes away. We crossed over The Wolds – Market Rasen on one side and Louth on the other. It was quite pretty – mainly farmland, but with lovely villages nestling in hidden valleys – it was a pleasant drive. We dropped into Louth and headed to the town centre, down roads lined with sturdy old brick houses and tree lined avenues – it was very handsome. We found the town centre, but missed the turn off for car parking and found ourselves heading immediately out of Louth again! We pondered about just carrying on back home – it being a Sunday and nothing really would be open – but we had just driven 13 miles in the wrong direction, so we turned around, found the car park and had a wander through the High Street.

It was a typical British High Street, but seemed to have more independent shops. There seemed to be a main thoroughfare, but with numerous little offshoots and alleyways leading to other streets, a mixture of shops and residences. It was a little rabbit warren. Louth town centre seemed to be full of elegant old buildings and any modern ones, sympathetically fitting in – nothing seemed to make us wince. We were liking this place and thanked our daughter, in absentia, for her great suggestion. Just off the High Street, was St James’ church with its impressive steeple – we had seen it on the way in, dominating the town. The steeple was exceedingly tall and now, standing next to the church, you had to bend your neck right back to see the top. The church was offering tea and cake, so we sauntered in (they even allowed The Dog in) to have a look. What a beautiful and stunning place of worship. A chap came up to us to chat (he had just read a sermon apparently, but was dressed in a shirt and slacks). He started to tell us the history of the church and how all the local churches, in days gone by, tried to outdo each other with the highest steeple. Louth won with its 300 foot one (it’s got the second highest steeple in the land behind Salisbury Cathedral apparently) – we stood under it and looked at the ceiling some 100 feet up, realising there was another 200 foot beyond that. Apparently, some ladies had decided to knit all 7 local churches and put them on tour – the chap had us in stitches with his recount of how St James church dealt with 7 rather large knitted churches in its midst. We could of listened to him all day as he was rather politically incorrect, but very funny with it, regaling stories of rival churches getting each other drunk and pinching their buried martyrs back in the mediaeval times. We didn’t partake in the tea and biscuits, but hovered near a television screen showing the Peregrine falcon chicks nesting high up in the steeple!

We left the church and had a wander around its periphery before making our way back to the High Street for a coffee and something to eat. We were wandering down a side street, admiring the buildings and generally minding our own business, when we passed an old lady outside her front door, chatting to a chap about to get on an ancient motorbike. She called hello to us and we acknowledged her as she started to tell us something. Well, before we knew it, she said goodbye to the chap, called us over and invited us down a little alley to her front door. “Oh please come in, the dog can come in too, I’ve got something to show you” and the next thing, we’re in her little lounge room, full of pictures, cards, memorabilia, ornaments and much more. She starts telling us all about her life and various other people, pointing to the many photographs adorning her wall. She casually dropped in the conversation that she had received a MBE from the then Prince Charles pointing to a framed photo, a little reluctant to reveal why (we later found out it was for her contribution to the community) and later showed us her medal. She flipped from subject to subject in quick succession, but she was absolutely fascinating. She certainly had lived a life – she told us that she had a big birthday coming up the following week. We wanted to sit down and just listen to this wonderful lovely lady, but we only had another hour on the car park! She wasn’t showing off or boasting, just wanted to chat and enjoy some company. After a while, she said “oh I mustn’t keep you, you must have better things to do than listen to me” and reluctantly we began to shuffle towards her front door though it still took us many minutes to leave as she kept showing us more stuff, finally wishing her a lovely birthday and soon we were back outside, wondering if the last 20 minutes had really happened. It felt quite surreal. An elderly lady invites two complete strangers and their dog off the street into her house and tells part of her life story as if we’re long lost relatives. Even The Dog looked bemused. I wondered if her family knew she did this and was happy about it – I’m not sure if I would be with my own mother. But we definitely needed to do some research and see if we could find out more about this lovely lady.

We finally found a little cafe for coffee and cake, deciding to dine outside in a seemingly sunny square, but the wind was an easterly and decidedly cool, so we didn’t linger. A little shopping was done and with the time ticking on, we decided to head home. Of course, with time to spare, we didn’t go the easiest, fastest direct route, but meandered home via Gainsborough, Doncaster, Wakefield, skirting the edge of Leeds before heading home in our little corner of the Northwest. What a splendid weekend, if somewhat unusual.

We later Googled our lovely little Louth lady and discovered more about her. The University of Lincoln had interviewed her about her wartime childhood and the complete transcript was available. We sat and listened to her remarkable story, told simply as if it was yesterday. We were quietly in awe of this wonderful lady that we were so lucky to meet albeit for just a short time. And to think we nearly drove off – looked what we would of missed!

With our eldest daughter living near the Humber Bridge, we always make a weekend of it as it’s just too far for a day visit. But for ages we have always said that we would like to spend some time in the Lincolnshire Wolds which are not too far from Daughter’s house, so we arranged to stay at a campsite in the Van with Daughter joining us for the day.

So mid afternoon on Friday, we stuffed The Dog in the campervan and set off eastwards. There’s no easy or quick route from west to east – okay, it is all A roads, but they’re typically twisty and turny, making overtaking difficult. Inevitably, you get stuck behind a tractor or some other slow moving vehicle until finally you reach the A1 and the it’s all motorway for the rest of the way.

We had booked a Caravan and Camping certified site just outside the village of Tealby, which in turn is about 3 miles east of Market Rasen. We arrived just after 7pm and it doesn’t take us long to set up. The certified site this time was just a farmer’s field with very basic facilities. This one had drinking water, a chemical waste area and a small brick building housing a loo, handbasin and shower, tastefully tiled and reasonably large (I even showered in it – I’m not one for campsite ablutions normally). There was also electric hook ups too. With just two other caravans, it was just perfect. Quiet and with a lovely view across the sheep field to the Wolds.

The Dog was itching for a walk, so we wandered down in the evening sunshine to the village to find the pub. We took the long route to have a good nosey and found two fords across the road – the first one was relatively easy to cross in an ordinary car, but the second one was deep and quite long in length. Firm signs informed motorists not even to think about traversing it – even a Land Rover would find it difficult. We strolled along a country lane and turned right into a road full of 1970’s executive homes – big brick houses surrounded by large gardens. They were all different. Here and there were bungalows and older cottages dotted in between. We were expecting quaint 17th century houses and cottages – obviously there had been a bit of a housing boom some 40/50 years ago and it had extended the village along this road. We abruptly turned right again by a sign saying “Pub this way”. Some new housing was still being built down this lane, a small development of terraces, tastefully designed to fit in with the local area and in the typical style of stone with brick edging doors and windows. It was in the middle of the village and not taking more of our precious green belt either. See, we can build properly when we think about it and try!

We found the pub – a beautiful thatched building dating from the 1300’s and declaring itself the oldest thatched pub in Lincolnshire (as our daughter noted, it’s probably the only one as there’s not many thatched places which are pubs!). We sat inside as it was decidedly cool out and ordered a couple of pints, a bag of Cheddars (shared with The Dog) and a bag of peanuts. Happy, we wandered back down another route for more staring at houses and came across a delightful old mill stream running through a garden, next door to a lovely cottage. It was very pretty. We carried on down the lane to the campsite and the sun setting, we sorted out the bed in the Van and settled down for a good night’s sleep.

The next morning was bright and sunny and we sunned ourselves as we ate breakfast. The Daughter appeared with her Labrador who just loves everyone and gave us a boisterous welcome. After a cuppa, we decided to walk to Ludford, a nearby village following the Viking Way which runs for 147 miles from the River Humber, through Lincoln and finishing in Rutland. (A possible long distance walk to tackle in the future!) So we set off back towards Tealby village and walked through the Sutton Estate, along tracks and footpaths in between undulating fields of cows and ploughed fields. It was very pretty and at one point, a long distance vista opened up looking west, the spire of Lincoln Cathedral could be seen and the Drax power station on the horizon.

We had a brief but exciting walk along the B1225 road (bit of a race track) before returning to the peaceful fields via a gap in the hedges. We dropped onto A631 and walked along the pavement to the edge of the village. We were aiming for the pub, (we discovered later that it was another half mile or more up the road) but a small garden centre cafe beckoned and we ended up having paninis and coffee there. The Dogs sucked up all the water out of the nearby doggy bowl before enjoying a sausage each and a quick siesta, recharging in the shade under the table. Suitably refreshed, we followed the same route back, the sun high in the sky, but with a cooling breeze. We passed a cordoned off field with the odd motorbiker racing across the brown earth – there seemed to be some sort of motocross being organised. Further down the hill, we came across a herd of cows by a gate with a huge lumbering bull in the middle of them. He seemed a gentle giant, pushing his way forward to enjoy a scratch on the nose while his harem warily watched, though they were happy to follow us as we walked along the adjacent footpath, the bull bringing up the rear.

We were soon back in the village, coming across yet another little ford which The Dogs happily stood in and drank copiously. It was a warm day for them. We seemed to be in the older part of the village, pretty cottages draped in wisteria and surrounded by cottage gardens. It was such a typical English village scene and really lovely. We came across the village shop where we bought icecreams and sat in the park next door, under a shady tree. We had booked a dinner table at the pub f0r 5.30, but we had a bit of a dilemma (it was only about 4 o’clock) as the campsite was way out on the opposite side of the village and it seemed pointless to walk all the way there to spend a little time by the Van and then having to come back for the pub. So we made an executive decision and waddled straight to the pub, sitting in the garden, basking in the sunshine and nursing pints. It was so warm that we ended up eating our booked meal out there while The Dogs snoozed under the table. They were so tired that they didn’t even bother scrounging for titbits. Finally we wandered back to the campsite and had a cup of tea and relaxed, apart from The Labrador who discovered the farm cats mousing between the farm buildings and a nearby caravan. He was itching to chase them. Our elderly hound had crashed on her bed in the passenger footwell and was sound asleep.

Later we discovered that there were 17 feral cats lurking, from just one cat last year. The farmer admitted he had a bit of feline issue, but probably no rodent problem!

The Daughter reluctantly said her goodbyes and headed home as the sun set on the horizon. We tidied up and got ready for a well earned sleep, though The Dog beat us to the bed and refused to move. We squeezed ourselves around her and gradually fell asleep. It had been a lovely day!

Today, there was very little walking to do. All we had to do was get back to Melrose to pick up the car and drive home, but we had to get there first.

Of course, there wasn’t a daily bus service to the island, despite all the numerous visitors. I had phoned a lovely lady at Borders Buses yesterday and had spent a considerable amount of time discussing the various ways of getting back. The buses served Lindisfarne on Wednesdays and Saturdays only (why are we so hopeless at public transport?) but she went beyond the call of duty with her research to get us to Melrose by public transport (bless her), informing me that we had to get a taxi to the A1, catch a bus from there to Berwick upon Tweed and then another bus to Melrose. With the information scribbled over three takeaway boxes, we decided that if we needed a taxi to get to the mainland anyway, we might as well go the full hog and get him to take us straight to Berwick. Let’s make life easy and less complicated. We had ordered one for 9:30 this morning.

So we rose early again and had tea in bed with biscuits. No need to snuffle today. We stuffed all our gear down to two bags – rucksack and suitcase – as we had a lot of lugging to do between here and Melrose and wandered down for our final English breakfast.

To be honest, we didn’t really want it, but as we had already eaten five, we felt it only right to have a sixth to celebrate again. We clinked our orange juice glasses together. The chap from the bar last night was serving breakfast and he was in the same clothes as last night – had he been up all night or had just collapsed on his bed for a few hours, too tired to undress? We didn’t enquire.

We bounced our bags down the stairs and went outside. Our taxi was already waiting which was perfect. We chatted to him as we drove across the causeway and looking at where we had walked yesterday. The sun still shone and it was beautiful.

He dropped us off at the rail station, busy with anxious travellers as trains had been delayed or cancelled. We stood by the bus stop in the sunshine and waited for our bus to appear. The bus finally chugged its way to where we were waiting and we climbed aboard, getting window seats. We had a delightful 1.5hour magical mystery tour of the Scottish borders, through towns and villages and lovely rolling countryside. The bus never got full at all and when people got off in a small sleepy community, you wondered what they were going to do there. Finally, we could see the Eildon Hills rise in the distance – it seemed we had climbed them years ago, but it was only 5 days ago. We looked at them through steely eyes – they looked small and unremarkable now after our hilly walks over the Cheviots. What a fuss we had made over them. The bus pulled off the main road and dropped into Melrose, stopping outside Burt’s Hotel. It was weird to be back. We dragged our luggage to the car, thankfully still in the car park untouched – no parking ticket, no wheel clamps and still with 4 wheels. We dumped the bags in the boot and headed for a coffee shop for sustenance, sort of reluctant to leave. The holiday was practically over and deep down, we didn’t want it to.

Eventually, we went back to the car and pulled out of Melrose. We took the A7 back to the M6, a very scenic route through Border towns and through a stunning valley of towering hills. The sun shone, but there were dark clouds all around. The three of us were quiet as we drove home, each of us in our own little thoughts.

We arrived back mid afternoon, our eldest daughter coming to visit us for the weekend and had the kettle on. And on the dining room table, she had bought two bouquets of flowers and a big box of sweets with a congratulatory message underneath. It was the perfect ending to a really fabulous week.

We used Walk With Williams who booked our accommodation and transferred our luggage. They offered an excellent service with a detail itinerary with the option of maps and a St Cuthbert’s Way guide book – which we never got round to burning…………….

We woke at 5:30 to a lovely morning. It was our last day of walking, the last day of pulling on boots, packing our rucksacks, snuffling biscuits. We had a nervous energy today as we had an schedule to keep – the tide was due in around 1:30pm, cutting Lindisfarne off with the mainland and with a hotel booked on the island tonight, we couldn’t dilly dally.

We met in the breakfast room at 8am and had breakfast by the window. We spotted Pepsi and Shirley eating their breakfast quietly – we were sure they were still hobbling. We went back to our rooms, gathered our stuff together and got a lift back to Fenwick village store.

We set off eastward on the main village road and soon came up against to the Great North Road, the A1. This could be interesting, dodging thundering lorries and speeding cars across two lanes so we approached it with some trepidation. In reality, it was relatively easy – about a minute of waiting when both lanes were clear and we casually strolled across. We dropped down to some houses and then took a footpath across several fields, the sea in the distance. Lindisfarne was getting closer and closer. It was relatively flat and an easy ramble. It was quite warm too and we started to shed coats and fleeces, though still blowy. We came up to the East Coast Railway Line, the major rail link between London and Scotland, where we had to phone the signalman, using the phone booth by the path to ask for permission to cross. He told us to wait as a train was coming, so we waited for a couple of minutes before an Intercity passenger train came whistling through. We waved at it as if we were the Railway Children and then had to call the signalman again who confirmed that we could now cross. Our next crossing would be the sands!

We had a few more fields to cross before finally dropping on the beach, by a line of huge concrete squares set there to deter a potential German invasion back in World War II. Across the damp sands was Lindisfarne and to the right, hugging the corner of the island was the hamlet of Holy Island, our final destination. We wandered to the road and joined the causeway that took vehicles across to Lindisfarne. We shared the narrow roadway with a constant stream of tourist traffic passing very close to us until we had a chance to jump down onto the sands. A row of poles running across the sands showed walkers the safest way across – it had always been our plan to traverse this route to end our epic walk rather than jostling with cars on the causeway. We quickly and excitedly undid our shoelaces and pulled off our boots and socks, startling our feet as they hit the sands – we started to walk, but this section was a bit gloopy, our feet sinking into black sand, oozing between our toes, making us slip and slide. This isn’t what we expected, but after a few more steps, we hit firmer sand and we were off, striding purposely to the finishing line.

It was the best two mile walk I think I have ever done. Boots in hand, we strolled across – walking through water, through sand, admiring the views of the mainland shimmering in the sun and seeing Holy Island getting closer. It had a spiritual feel about it. We walked separately, all three of us in our own little worlds, enjoying the last miles of this fantastic walk, soaking up the last moments. It was just the perfect ending.

Apart from finding a rather gloopy bit in the middle that Hubby and I managed to find and spent a considerable amount trying to rid our legs of black slimy gunge that refused to be washed off, the end of this fantastic walk across the sand soon came up as sand dunes and tufty grass loomed up. We had made it and what a fantastic way of arriving on Lindisfarne. We whooped loudly in celebration startling some nearby tourists and hugged each other. Behind us the vehicles were still piling onto the island. We dried our feet and rubbed the sand off before stuffing them back into our boots for the final stretch of road walking. We fell into conversation with a local walking guide and asked if there was an official end for St Cuthbert’s Walk like on Hadrian’s Wall. Apparently not but he offered a couple of spots where we could commemorate the moment in our little way. We joined the crowds of tourists shuffling down the road to the village centre and found a cafe serving coffee in a walled garden. We found a sunny spot to sip our drinks – watching hordes of people, many with dogs on leads. It was a bit overwhelming to suddenly find ourselves thrown back in the thick of humanity. We went to find our hotel – on the way we found a cross surrounded by railings and decided to make it that our official end. We toasted our achievement and walked into The Manor Hotel – it was just past midday.

The girl behind the bar curtly told us we couldn’t check in until 2pm as per the email sent to us (the transfer company got that) and we retreated, wondering where we could eat. We tried the two or three hostelries but they weren’t ticking our box. We wandered into the Lindisfarne Mead, a large shop dedicated to selling Mead and various other alcoholic beverages as well as other tourist tat to the masses. Thwarted by the lack of an official end, we thought we might be able to acquire a St Cuthbert’s memento. All we found, in a desperate corner, were some grey t-shirts with a St Cuthbert’s logo on the front and a map of the route on the back, vastly overpriced (I suppose if you have a limited trading time, you make the most of it) and all one size. Obviously, St Cuthbert’s Walk wasn’t high on Lindisfarne’s tourist agenda.

Our stomachs reminded us that we were still looking for nourishment and we ended up in a cafe ordering takeaway sandwiches, not wanting to sit inside. While we waited for our food, we spotted Pepsi and Shirley getting up from a table and heading towards us. We smiled, said hello and asked if they had done the St Cuthbert’s Walk. They fell into a brief conversation with us as we compared notes about the walk – Pepsi looked positively relieved. We wished each other safe journeys and for the last time, Pepsi and Shirley walked out of our lives.

We decided to walk down to the beach to eat lunch and as we made our way through the village, felt a distinct change in the air – the relaxed jovial atmosphere was replaced by a fidgety tension, subtle glances of watches and nervous nudging of browsing partners “are we nearly finished?” “what’s the time?” “we need to be getting back to the car y’know”. The streets were draining of tourists, heading with a hint of urgency back to the car park, everybody on a schedule. The tide was due.

We went down to the beach overlooking the mainland where Cuthbert, growing weary of his hectic life, took to another little island across the way for some solitude, reflection and some time to himself. We fancied that after a few hours with the bustling crowds. We had a good view of the causeway too, full of cars heading back. We sat there for ages, devouring our lunch watching the exodus. It was coming up to 2pm and though most cars had gone, there were still the odd motorist racing along trying to beat the tide before it consumed the causeway for the next 8 hours. There were numerous warnings and signs, but apparently people still got caught out. We had no sympathy.

After a while, bored with watching the cars, we decided to go and check in, so we could enjoy the rest of the afternoon. We went back into the village and it was totally empty, spookily empty as if some unseen apocalypse had befallen the island. It was like a ghost town. The shops, which had been heaving, were now firmly shut, scuppering our plan to get icecreams. It was one extreme to another and was rather weird. We went back to our hotel where we met the girl again and she took us to the reception area. Yes, she had our rooms – one under Sis’s name and one for Paul Docker. Who? We looked at each other with alarm – was there a booking mistake and Hubby and I didn’t have a room? This could be bad. Sensing our rising panic, the girl who was now a lot friendlier and helpful, went off to double check. A black guy turned up and waited behind us – was he Paul Docker? Would we have to wrestle the room keys with him? The girl returned telling us that they were definitely our rooms and we legged it upstairs before anybody changed their minds. Apparently the black guy didn’t having hotel reservation and we wondered what he would do, now stranded on the island til early evening.

Our rooms were pleasant enough though the shower door only opened half way as the loo was in the way and it clunked against the bowl. (During the night, the toilet roll holder would part company with the wall too). We had to squeeze in – thank goodness we weren’t very chubby. With a whole afternoon free, we waddled down to the Castle and found Gertrude Jekyll’s Walled Garden perched on an incline opposite the castle, with nothing else around it – we didn’t know anything about Gertrude, but her garden was lovely, sheltered from the wind, a pleasant suntrap and so we sat there and reflected on our achievement. Our fitness apps told us that we had clocked up 70 miles (it’s suppose to be 62.5)and we had covered that distance in 4.5 days – we weren’t young people anymore, suffering from the usual aches and pains of daily life, but here we were, feeling fitter than we had been for a while, feeling very proud and accomplished, our bodies and feet not complaining too much. We were quite impressed with ourselves. Our families back home had been tracking our progress and cheered us on everyday – now they sent us congratulatory messages, telling us how proud they were of us. We had every right to feel proud.

https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/visit/north-east/lindisfarne-castle/things-to-see-and-do-in-the-garden

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gertrude_Jekyll

But as we sat there we had mixed emotions – we didn’t want this adventure to stop, feeling we could walk further, sad it was ending, but with the sun on our faces, we were, deep down, tired of walking too. The journey had been special, fun and magical, great to hang out with each other, which had been lovely – we didn’t get many chances to spend so much time together. We were very happy, not having a care in the world at that particular moment and wished it could continue, but we were missing our families and our cats and our dogs and wanted to go home and share our adventures. But this would always be a special spot in our memories.

We meandered back to our hotel, through the sleeping village. We were still amazed at the transformation from lunchtime. It was a strange feeling to have a whole island to ourselves as if we were the only humans left after an alien invasion. After a nap and packing away our walking gear, we met Sis downstairs for a pre-dinner drink and our last evening meal. We watched the girl who checked us in early – she was now manning the bar and serving meals to other people staying on the island overnight, amongst many other tasks. She seemed to be the only staff member in the hotel, holding it altogether. No wonder she was a bit short with us when we rocked up too early. She showed us to our table, explaining everything we needed to know and then returned to take our order. Sis had some questions which the girl answered and displayed a quick and wicked sense of humour with an easy laugh. We were liking her very much and as the evening wore on, we fell into conversation with her, discovering she had been on duty most of the day and her expected 12 hour shift would turn into more like 15. She was joined by a chap, who was equally charging around like a headless chicken. They introduced us to their new chef who was starting the next day, leaning nonchalantly on a bar stool, beer in hand. They explained that getting staff was a tortuous affair, the last two people they had hired had been sacked within the week for stealing. We were aghast! There were no words – you secure a job and then steal from your employer. It seemed that nobody wanted to work in hospitality with its erratic and unsocial hours, and the likes of these two wonderful, hardworking selfless people end up working ridiculous hours.

We spotted the black chap chatting to some other diners in the corner. He had obviously secured himself a room here. We had overeaten again, our eyes bigger than our bellies, but the food had been delicious and it was our last night too. Hey, lets go out with a bang – we had even ordered a bottle of Prosecco.

Here’s to St Cuthbert and his long distance walk!

After that, we said goodnight to the lovely staff of the Manor Hotel and took ourselves off to bed. We didn’t need a lot of rocking…………..

We would religiously set an alarm for every morning, fearing that we would be so tired and knackered, we would oversleep, but every morning, we beat it by some considerable distance.

Today was no exception. We got ready for the day, now set in a good routine of efficiency. I bumped my suitcase down to the pick up point at the bottom of the stairs, not wanting to wrestle with everything later on, before joining Hubby and Sis for breakfast. Again we ordered an full breakfast, this one being an English one (there’s not a lot of difference), but deep down we were getting a bit weary of them. We just wanted enough calories to carry us through the day.

With only 10 miles to cover today (according to the still unburnt guide book – we added another couple of miles to that), we were a bit more relaxed and enjoyed a bit of a late start. We lost track of the time until Hubby got a call from the luggage couriers. “I’m missing two bags and I’m on a tight schedule”. There was a few frantic moments of getting suitcases downstairs to a waiting driver. Ooops.

We popped out onto the High Street and bright sunshine, locating a nearby cafe that was open. Hopefully we would get a decent sandwich rather than a soggy grated cheese offering between two bits of limpid white slices. We were about to set off, when a member of hotel staff burst out asking for a room key. In the chaos of getting luggage downstairs, Sis had forgotten to hand in her key – we weren’t having a good start to the day!

We waddled down to the cafe to met by a jolly, chatty lady behind the counter. She did takeaway sandwiches and we happily ordered though balked slightly at the cost. But this lady was such a happy soul, that we forgave her and with a skip in our step, headed down the High Street, briefly accosted by an elderly local, asking where we were walking, only to launch into telling us her life story.

We had a brief tour of the outskirts of Wooler to get out of town, but soon found ourselves walking up a back lane before joining a footpath and after a steep pull up, contoured around local Tor. The views back to Wooler were stunning, nestling below the Cheviots, if you cared to blot out a main road and a long line of pylons marching up the valley. We had gained a little height enough to walk through heather and low moorland, before descending into fields and small woodlands. We dropped sharply downwards to a road, continuing towards a small hamlet abutting a small river, crossing a rather stately bridge and following a country lane. Though it was road walking, it was quite pleasant – it was a gorgeous spring morning with long distance views and we were able to walk without thinking where our feet were going and if we were going to trip over anything. It was lovely and we got into a rhythm.

We were strolling along a long straight road where about halfway, standing next to a World War II defence pillbox, we spotted two people and squinting we realised it was our two ladies from yesterday. As we approached, they set off again at a pace while we decided to linger for a snack break. Hubby who loves apps and stats, mentioned last night that he had been beaten by a Shirley on some part of this walk and we wondered if these two were a Shirley. They did warrant names. We decided to call them Pepsi and Shirley after the 1980’s pop duo. Again, we kept spotting them for the rest of the morning, but never really caught up with them – either we were dawdling or they were on a mission!

The wind was constant, arriving from the east so it was particularly cool out in the open. We found a lovely spot for lunch and to air our feet, sheltered from the wind and enjoying the sun’s warmth, the blue sky and the greens of early spring. A farmer was preparing his field for some crop with a tractor and the birds sang, bees buzzed by and butterflies flittered around. The feet were doing well, just sporting micropore tape – they were enjoying the flattish ground. I rolled up my trousers to catch the afternoon and to scare the wildlife with my pasty white legs. After a quick nap, we were off again. We all agreed that there were less St Cuthbert markers in England than in Scotland and a couple of times, we stopped to check the map. A few hundred yards later, we came to a house with a life sized wooden carving of St Cuthbert with a sign to knock on their door if you wanted anything. It was just so sweet. We carried on, walking uphill on the road alongside another ploughing farmer with his tractor – he was a great distraction as we plodded up a long incline and then turning off onto a footpath. The view was a patchwork of undulating green fields and woodlands in the shimmering haze and it was beautiful. We walked through grassy fields before walking up a wide track towards a coniferous woodland and skirting it along a track. We entered a National Trust plantation and where St Cuthbert’s cave could be found.

When St Cuthbert died, he was buried on Lindisfarne, but when the Vikings threatened to invade Britain, it was feared that they would discover his body. The monks carried St Cuthbert back to the mainland and deep in a wood, hid his body in cave for safety, one of many places his body was hidden over the next 7 to 8 years.

The sandstone cave was set back into the managed plantation. Today it’s not exactly hidden and it’s more of overhanging lump of rock, than a cavern, but way back in 875AD, Britain was covered in deep woods and forests, so to find this cave wouldn’t of been easy. We were the only people there and we had a snoop around – other visitors had scored their visit deep into the nearby rocks and there seemed to be a memorial for some worthy somebody there too. A small group of older people arrived and we took the opportunity to leave.

https://www.britainexpress.com/counties/northumbria/countryside/st-cuthberts-cave.htm

We dropped back down to the path and then walked up the side of the plantation, where as we summited we got our first glimpse of the sea!! We were so happy. There was the coast and the North Sea – it was a great feeling, we just couldn’t believe we had gotten there. Our spirits soared. We couldn’t quite see Lindisfarne, so we quickened our pace , desperate to see the island. We checked the mileage to see how far we had got left, added another couple of miles onto the guide book’s estimation, pulled on warm coats as we were the only obstacles in the way of the biting east wind and followed the grassy tracks before dropping into a dark forestry plantation where, due to bogginess, the path was diverted and we briefly lost sense of direction. We soon picked up a marker post and wandered through the forest tracks – we popped out of the woodland and walked along the edge of it – trees on the left and Lindisfarne, our destination tomorrow, firmly on our right across the sea. At this point, excited to see the end point we felt we could carry on walking and get there tonight.

We had our usual last 2 miles of drag, with a long downhill walk to the little village of Fenwick before plopping on a convenient bench beside the village shop. This was our destination of the day and we were feeling a bit pooped – maybe we wouldn’t walk to Lindisfarne tonight. Happy to finish another day, we called The Black Bull in Lowick, a couple of miles away, for our scheduled lift to our accommodation for the night and waited for 10 minutes for them to arrive.

This Black Bull was the complete opposite to its namesake in Wooler -it had been refurbished in the last two years and was of cool calm colours, green tongue and groove and oak flooring. It was all rather trendy. There seemed to be lots of little dining areas as we were led to our rooms which were a little tiny with all our gear, but fresh, bright and clean. This was certainly the best accommodation, though it was on a level par with the rustic charm of The Plough in Town Yetholm – we couldn’t decide which one we liked best. It did however have the very best rainshower shower with the perfect temperature that I crave and where I stayed until I was going wrinkly. It was perfect.

We relaxed for a little while, inspecting our aches and pains, the feet not suffering at all being taped up. Tomorrow, we had just six miles to cover and our feet were in for a treat. We met Sis in the bar and ordered beers – we were in a rather silly mood, the combination of seeing Lindisfarne and knowing we were so close to the end, tomorrow being a morning stroll, made us a bit daft. Somehow we ended up in helpless sniggering heap – y’know when tears run down your face and you can’t look at anybody with convulsing more -for many many minutes that we were gaining an audience. It took us sometime to regain some composure and dignity.

It was while we were recovering from this episode we spotted Pepsi and Shirley walk into the bar area – no let’s rephrase that – hobble through the bar area. Sis tried to connect with them by asking Pepsi “how you doing?” which she replied with a grimace “Fine”. When they were out of earshot, we just collapsed into laughter again. Such a British reaction – you’re deeply in pain, but the old stiff upper lip kicks in and though you can barely walk, you still say you’re fine, nothing’s wrong, thanks all the same.

We dined in one of the dining areas. It wasn’t particular cheap and offered only one vegetarian option for the main meal – ratatouille which didn’t float our boats. We ended up ordering a starter as a main and added vegetables to get round it. It was a bit of blip in such a lovely place, but the staff were attentive and helpful. We sat in the bar for a while to let dinner go down a bit and gently yawning, called it a day. Tomorrow would be our last day of walking – it was weird, on Sunday when we began this trip, it seemed it would be a very long few days and now, it felt that it had all shot by too quickly and we couldn’t believe it would end tomorrow, though Sunday now felt a such a long time ago…………….

And on that note, we went to bed.

We woke to a foggy morning. You couldn’t see across the road. We got ourselves ready and met Sis downstairs where she had made friends with Stanley, the border terrier. We were missing our own hound by now, so Stanley got himself lots of ear rubs and pats. All he was after was a dropped sausage.

The breakfast, yet another full Scottish, was delicious, probably the best so far. We were given another packed lunch and the evitable cheese sandwich, by which time, Sis asked why the Brits always proffered grated cheese in between slabs of bread rather than the more easily handled and eaten sliced. We came to the conclusion that everybody in the hospitality business must buy industrial sized bags of the grated stuff and sprinkled it on everything.

By the time we left, the fog was just a mist with the morning sun rapidly burning it off. I nipped over the road to the village shop to stock up on more emergency Jelly Babies. With final checks on how we were feeling, we set off. Last night, Sis’s feet had hurt so much she wondered if she could walk any more, but with the amazing overnight healing powers of the human body doing their magic, she was up, mobile and ready for the day.

We retraced our steps back down the alley and into the field and walked the short distance to Kirk Yetholm, the neighbouring village. The mist clung to the valley bottoms in patches and as we climbed out of the village up a steepish hill, it looked like it was going to be a cracker of a day. We climbed up, a panorama opening up before us, the gorse covering the nearby hillsides with yellow. It was fabulous. We reached the top of the hill, thinking that we had gained quite a bit of height, only to discover that it plunged back down again. Oh really? We would be back to square one as, at the bottom in the valley, was the start of the Cheviot Hills, a path snaking its way gently upwards on the other side. Why did it have to do that?

We stepped over a little beck and on the proper Cheviot footpath, following a narrow dirt track snaking up the side of the first hill. Two chaps had been dropped off by car nearby and informed us that they were walking St Cuthbert’s – our first fellow walkers! We kept overtaking each other until finally we paused long enough for them to get a decent gap between us. We didn’t want to be followed or catch up other human beings. The sun was out properly by now in a cloudless sky, just us high on the hill with nothing but gorse, heather and sheep on the fellsides surrounding us. We came up to the border of England and Scotland, a simple weathered footpath finger post in the middle of nowhere, a dry stone wall demarking the border between the two countries. Another selfie opportunity and the novelty of having one leg in Scotland and the other in England. Pine plantations dotted the hillsides – we walked through one that had been harvested, all dead stumps and vegetation and not easy to walk through. We walked up and down along grassy tracks and through gates, between the peaks of the fell, sheep and cows grazing high up before finally dropping down towards Elsdon Burn, a pretty stream in the valley. It was nice to drop down out of the persistent cool wind and find the heat of the sun. This was stunning.

We walked through a farmyard when a large lorry approached up the track. As we prepared to move over, the driver shoved it in reverse towards a pile covered in tarpaulin and got out. As we passed, the driver whipped the tarp off to reveal the carcasses of several dead sheep and we recoiled. What a lovely job he had, collecting carcasses in a lorry. We quickened our pace along the valley floor.

We followed the tarmac road alongside the Elsdon Burn dropping down into the hamlet of Hethpool, nestling in amongst the towering hills. It was so pretty with the yellow gorse, the sunshine, the light and shadows playing on the fellsides. We saw our first swifts and swallows of the year, darting across the sky, catching insects on the wing. We took a break just outside Hethpool to admire the stunning scenery, soak up some warm sunny rays and to have a snack. A man in running gear walked up to us, his forehead glistening with sweat. He stopped to chat, informing us that he was running hopefully to Town Yeltholm from Wooler. He made us feel even more weak by telling us he was training for the St Cuthbert’s run – the whole path completed in 19.5 hours. We looked at him incredulously – walking it was hard enough! We chatted a little more before he bade us goodbye and jogged up and over an incline, with us watching him go feeling a bit deflated. We reckoned that once out of sight of us, he was really just walking……….

We walked through the Hethpool with charming cottages snuggled in its quiet corner of the world. It couldn’t get more perfect. We crossed a little stream and sought a lunch spot – we found it as we started to pull up a hill on the other side, convenient stones to sit on, by a gate. A gaggle of sheep followed us up and joined us, grazing on the stubby grass nearby and watching us with beady eyes from a respectful distance. We took our boots off allowing our feet to feel the sun and ate our rations. I had rubbed the back of a heel and so, blaming new clean socks, tended to it with blister plaster. My plastered feet from yesterday were sore and I looked in alarm at the huge blisters under the plasters – oh goodness, my feet were wrecked. I was glad to hide them back into my boots after lunch!

As we munched, two women appeared – a middle aged lady with a shorter older looking companion following behind. We acknowledged each other as they briefly paused after climbing the hill, panting and then they were gone. We ended up having a quick forty winks in the warmth for about 20 minutes, before we continued to contour past waterfalls and gorse, with views down long distance valleys and beyond. It was beautiful and was thankful that it wasn’t lashing with rain – it would be a completely different story. The marker posts weren’t so frequent and evident in England and as we crossed a large field of pasture, spotted the ladies that had passed us. They were some distance – the taller one climbing over a wall, the smaller one walking away from her. It made us stop in our tracks. What were they doing? We checked our map and realised that we were coming off the path and needed to adjust – the path headed upwards, not straight across to where they were. We changed course and walked up back onto the path proper and continued to contour until just past an isolated pine planation we were burped out by Torleehouse, a small holding on the road. We followed the road a little way til a finger post directed us back onto pastureland and a steady pull up a steepish hill. By a gate, we paused to gather breath and spotted the women along the road. They had finally worked out that they were off piste and had followed us. Through the gate, on a grassy path we were gaining height again, passing a couple with probably the perfect lunch spot ever – overlooking the hills towards the coast of Northumbria and the lowland on the edge of the Cheviots. The wind had blown all day and here, with nothing to stop it, felt quite cool despite the sunshine. The path was quite a pull up and over, rough pasture which turned into heather moorland where the grouse and pheasants lurked, before leaping out and upwards squawking loudly without warning, a desperate flap of wings scaring the beejeezus out of us – I wish they didn’t do that – following the irregular St Cuthbert’s sign posts. A couple of times, we stopped to check maps to make sure we were on the correct path. After a lengthy, but pleasant march through the heather, we came up to a wall and a gate, where on the other side, we decided a snack break was in order. It was sheltered here so Hubby and Sis had another lie in the sun – I was restless wanting to carry on walking, wondering if I just abandon them both and meet them in Wooler. Suddenly our two ladies bobbed their heads over the gate and after pleasantries, asked me which way to go. I directed them and as they descended into the distance, I seriously wondered if they actually had a map or were relying solely on the waymarkers……

Our walk resumed after a 10 minute nap in the sun and where I got slightly reprimanded for rustling and being fidgety. This section of path seemed to be endless, not quite dropping down and at the every rise in the path, we hoped there would be a view opening up with Wooler waiting expectantly way below, but at every rise, there was just more endless moorland stretching as far as the eye could see. We nearly caught up with two women, checking something on the path, but then they caught sight us approaching and seemingly alarmed at our sudden appearance, took off at speed – we didn’t see them again that day. After what seemed to be an eternity, the ground finally gave way and we dropped down to the edge of a pine woodland. We weren’t long in the wood, before being popped out into a small car park – civilisation at last! Looking at the map, the path took a circuitous route around through another woodland (there had been a few of these extra bits on the route which Hubby had started to name as “Pointless Loops” as they just added pointless and seemingly unnecessary length to an already long walk.) However, somebody was looking down upon us as there was a laminated sign nailed to a post informing us that the pointless loop was blocked by fallen trees and to walk down the road for Wooler. We quietly cheered – okay, we were chopping a bit off, but it was a legitimate excuse and relieved we set off down the road. I think we were starting to hate these last two miles of each day – not quite grasping how long a mile really was, the hope that just around the corner would be the end and the silent curse under the breath when it was all turned out to be a cruel deception as the path stretched out into another endless distance.

Finally, houses loomed into view and we entered the edge of Wooler – with the distraction of looking at people’s houses, the last ten minutes whizzed by and we were soon rocking up outside the Black Bull Inn. The guide book had lied again – we had walked an extra mile or two.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wooler

We pushed our way through the heavy doors into a dated bar area, it had the air of a working mens club – huge and cavernous. We checked in and lugged our luggage up two floors. Sis went to her room and us into ours, finding a compact room with a bay window overlooking the High Street. The boots came off and we put the kettle on. Tea and biscuits were in order before anything else and we sat in the bay window, basking in the late afternoon sun and watching Wooler’s High Street closing for the day.

With dinner looming, we decided to get ready and have a shower. The bathroom was tiny as if it was an afterthought. It was long and thin – sit on the loo, you could touch both walls with your elbows. The basin was in the middle and at the other end, a shower. A sign by the basin informed us to run the hot water for several minutes as it had to climb two floors. So I turned on the shower and waited, sticking my hand in periodically to test it. It started to feel warm, so I tweaked what I thought was the temperature control and immediately lost the heat. I frantically tried twiddling both controls to get it back, but no avail. I turned it all off and started again, then called Hubby who was equally unsuccessful. He galloped downstairs, returning with the young girl who had checked us in to our room. She tried to no avail, but then blurted out that they always had trouble with this room. Not helpful or confidence inspiring. She disappeared and returned to tell us we could shower in another room, so we had a bit of a tour to Room 8 where she checked this shower. She declared that it was warm, but when I checked it distinctly wasn’t. I told her, firmly but nicely, that I was a person who would not consider a shower unless it steamed and frankly this shower was not meeting my exacting criteria. She tested the shower again and confirmed that it was indeed cold. After a little more time of messing around, including the offer of transferring and upgrading to another room (we were too knackered to gather all our stuff up which was spread everywhere and move) there was a triumphant yell from Hubby from our room- the shower was running hot! He issued instructions as I shot past him – “Get in quick, don’t adjust anything or turn it off!” I must of had the quickest shower ever and swapped with Hubby in record time. It was, despite all its failings, a decent shower. This would be story to tell everyone.

There was a knock on the door – it was Sis ready for our evening meal. We started to tell her about our travails with the water, when she informed us that she had had a lovely relaxing hot bath…………We looked at her in disbelief! “You what?” It transpired that it wasn’t her fault at all – she had just beaten us to the taps and got the hot water first, such was the inadequacies of the Black Bull’s plumbing – it just couldn’t deal with two rooms demanding hot water simultaneously. Shaking our heads, we headed for our dinner.

The Italian restaurant we had booked, was literally down the side of the Black Bull at the bottom of an attractive alleyway. We were shown to our seats and we enjoyed a lovely meal, going through the nightly ritual of comparing steps, aches, pains and congratulating ourselves on the mileage – the place was busy for a Tuesday and had an atmosphere. Sis and I couldn’t finish our pizzas and thought we would save them for lunch tomorrow – we asked if they could wrap them in foil rather than a box which kind of blew their minds. It sent them into a panic as they tried to source foil to wrap our slices in – obviously the good people of Wooler don’t throw in such curveballs in their restaurants. We would probably be the talk of the town for days.

We headed back to the hotel, happy in the realisation we had no more stupidly high hills to contend with. Today we had done 14.1 miles (instead of 13) and tomorrow we had 10 miles (make that at least 12) over rolling countryside. My sickening looking large blisters earlier transpired to be the tiniest, most pathetic little bumps after my socks got stuck to the blister plasters, which I was quite relieved about and my heel just looked red. I would air them overnight and maybe tend to them tomorrow. Happy, feeling very proud of ourselves and totally exhausted, we sunk into a deep deep sleep.

A better night’s sleep. We had tea in bed again and rendezvoused with Sis in the foyer of the hotel. We nipped down to the local McColls supermarket for some lunch, but as it was just gone 7am, we had beaten their delivery lorry for the day’s supplies, so the choice was rather limited. We bought sandwiches and some crisps again – though it was a cheaper option, there was no improvement on the quality – and went back for breakfast. A solitary chef looked after us and served us another Scottish breakfast. It was nice, but looked rather pale and wasn’t inspiring. Once ready, we called the taxi again and got him to drop us off by the roadside near the bridge we had passed last night. He was going to take us further along, but we were determined not to miss do any shortcuts and stay true to the path.

So off we set under overcast clouds through the countryside park -it was full of paths, side lined with rhododendrons and trees. It was very pleasant. Squirrels scampered across in front of us and the birds still sang. We walked along the path, noting that the St Cuthbert’s signs were well spaced and clearly marked. Again it was a mixture of woodlands, riverside walks and ploughed fields – it was getting a little more agricultural, but still very varied. Carpets of wild garlic covered the ground, white flowers swaying in the breeze. We were gradually ascending, the ground rising higher. Soon, we were walking up steep tracks, making us pant for breath. The vista opened up – the Waterloo Monument now behind us and now again we could see the Eildon Hills in the distance. It was amazing how far we had walked. We carried on through rolling countryside, across fields, farmland, woodlands and plantations, getting long distance views. Bees visited the wildflowers, numerous butterflies danced before us and swifts and swallows chased each other in the sky. This was wonderful and we felt good.

After some steady walking and contouring, the track suddenly dropped down to a river which was a bit dispiriting as almost immediately, was another hill to climb up. We pulled ourselves up and skirted a farm, before another concrete track reared up to a woodland to Littledeanlees. Flipping heck! We paused to make cooing noises to some cows and their gorgeous baby calves, took a deep breath and steadily stomped up the hill. Gathering breath, we wandered through a wooded ridge when I felt the balls of my feet starting to throb. Mmmm. Hopefully just hot spots. We were also starting to feel hungry and in the distance through the trees, we spotted a castle as well as the afternoon’s hills. That would be our lunch spot.

We carried on walking, spying the hills that we would walk later on – the highest point of the walk. Having taken Eildon Hills, we were in a positive frame of mind and felt we could conquer anything. The hills looked low – they didn’t look too bad from this distance. We were now on quite high ground as we skirted ploughed fields and tall pine plantations, eventually coming to a huddle of pretty terraced cottages on the edge of Cessford and back onto a country lane. We followed the lane and finally came to Cessford Castle, a ruin standing prominently on a small hill. It was a long time coming. We sat on the grass and dug out our supplies. Sandwiches, crisps, Naked bar, hotel biscuits and we broke into the emergency Jelly Babies too. We took off our boots, much to the alarm of our feet, donned jackets as it was still quite overcast with a cool breeze and munched our lunch. I looked at my feet and decided to put some blister plasters on them as protection. Getting cool, we stuffed our bits away and continued on along the roads to Morebattle – the road walking was getting tedious and we were glad to reach the village. The low slung hills that we had spotted earlier now had started to rear up alarmingly as we approached Morebattle and looked far more daunting. And we still had to climb them! Oh blimey. There was a little village store that had a coffee machine at the rear. We bought coffee, a little snack and fell into conversation with the owner. He asked what we doing and we told him we were heading to Town Yetholm and following the St Cuthbert’s Way over the hills to Wideopen Hill, the highest point of our walk. He gave us a look as if we were mad and told us we had, at least another 4 hours of walking. We sat outside and had a quick debate. It was 3pm and we hadn’t even started the big hills which would slow our pace considerably. Our hearts fell. 4 hours? We wouldn’t get to our next accommodation til 7pm and dinner was reserved at 7.30pm. Our spirits dropped. We looked at our devices which informed us we had done 15 miles with another 4 to go. We vowed to burn that guide book.

We could of walked through the valley to Town Yetholm and made our lives easier, but that wasn’t walking the St Cuthbert’s Way – we weren’t going to start cheating. We gave ourselves a pep talk – we get to Town Yetholm whenever and we would figure things out like food later. We psyched ourselves up for the challenge ahead, gathered up our stuff and walked determinedly out the village, looking at the huge imminence before us in defiance. We had to do about a mile of road walking, before coming to a small bridge, the start of the big hill and Wideopen Hill, the highest point on the path. We agreed we would do our own pace up the hills and take it easy, taking it in chunks. We had to walk through a large field of cows and their calves, the mothers watching us with casual nonchalance. Cows are unpredictable when they have young and we keenly listened for the sound of thundering hooves and quickened our pace, but the cows just carried on chewing lazily and left us alone.

It was a steady pull up, numerous pauses to admire the opening views and to give our aching leg muscles a rest. We were now on the open hillside, exposed to the elements – the path was on the wrong side of a dry stone wall and we had no protection from a stiff wind howling up the hill. Layers and coats went on along with hats and hoods. However the views were astounding, far reaching despite it being hazy. It was nearly a 360 degree view. We had now done the hard climbing, and it was now just following the grassy path, up and down until finally a sign proclaimed that this was “Wideopen Hill, the highest point of the walk”. It certainly lived up to its name – Wideopen – as there were just wide expansive views of the neighbouring hills and valleys. It was amazing and we just stood there with huge smiles on our faces. We had done it – we had got to the top. We celebrated with loud whoops of joy and the emergency Jelly Babies, took selfies to prove our accomplishment and stood to admire the view. But that keen relentless wind was yanked at our clothing and was starting to make us feel cold. We needed to move on. We had a quick snack and began the long descent down – we could see our little town in the distance. So near yet so far, but at least we were going down. The fell turned back into fields filled with sheep, hedges returned and finally we were burped onto a road. Yes, we had made it!

Again, a lot of road walking, but there was hardly any traffic. Just outside Town Yetholm, we rejoined a footpath where a friendly cat came to say hello. We crossed a field and then took a left through an muddy alleyway which popped us into a small residential street. A chap was chopping wood and we asked him where The Plough was – we didn’t fancy traipsing around the village looking for it. It was literally just around the corner and we fell noisily into the bar area that the punters stopped drinking and turned around and stared. We must of looked a sight. It was 6.15pm.

We were shown to our rooms, tastefully decorated in this charming old building. The room was huge, but very hot, so we turned the radiators down, opened the windows and spread all our gear out. Then we dived into the shower which was over the bath. I put the plug in so my weary feet got a soak too. They thoroughly deserved the treat.

We reconvened in the bar downstairs, took a large table and ordered large cooling beers. While we waited for our meals, we compared mileage, steps and sore bits. We had done an incredible 19.2 miles. We were on a high. Behind us were two chaps who were walking St Cuthbert’s from east to west, so we swapped stories and advice. One of them had been walking all the footpaths in Britain over the years which made us feel in awe of him. Our food arrived – the fish and chips were huge, very welcoming and we woofed them down. We sat there, relaxing though Sis had curled up in the corner of the bench seat and could hardly keep her eyes open. We threatened to throw a blanket over her and leave her there for the night.

We took an early night and staggered upstairs to our rooms. They had cooled considerably. We clambered into bed, our stomachs full, the beer making us drowsy and we gradually fell asleep. The hard bit was over, but tomorrow we would be crossing the Cheviot hills and back into England.