apathtosomewhere

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.

We woke ridiculously early, beating our alarm clock by some distance. We had a lay in, a cup of tea in bed and a packet of biscuits and eventually began to prepare for our first day of walking – the first challenge getting over the Eildon Hills (the steepest part of the walk) and then onto Jedburgh!

We went downstairs to the dining room, feeling nervous, excited with a hint of trepidation. What had we signed up for? We ordered a full Scottish breakfast – we needed all the calories we could get! – and the waitress brought us our packed lunches we had ordered the night before. We got a cheese sandwich in white bread, crisps, bottle of water and an orange – we handed back the oranges and the cardboard box the sandwiches were in as we had limited space in our rucksacks. We later snuffled the biscuits from our room, packed some Naked bars from a supply we had bought with us and stuffed in a giant bag of emergency Jelly Babies. We wouldn’t die of hunger on this walk. Finally packed and ready, we bounced our luggage down to the foyer ready for the transfer people, paid for the sarnies, hoisted our rucksacks on our backs and stepped outside.

The day was cool and overcast, but had signs of brightening up. We waddled back down to the Abbey again to start the walk at its “official” start, where we took a selfie under the St Cuthbert sign and with a whoop of encouragement, we set off. We were on our way. It was 08.45am.

Cuthbert was born near Melrose and felt a strong call to become a monk. He was accepted into Melrose Abbey where his leadership skills became apparent. He travelled to Ripon to assist in establishing a new monastery and on his return to Melrose, found the Abbey in the throes of the yellow plague. It took the life of Boisil, his friend and mentor and Cuthbert became prior. Cuthbert travelled widely. Eventually he travelled south, following the footsteps of St Aidan to the holy island of Lindisfarne to be prior.

The road back up to the High Street was on an incline and the street beyond that, got steeper. The climbing had already begun. A St Cuthbert’s signpost pointed down a gap between a row of terraced houses and dismayingly, dropped back down to a stream via some stone steps. At the bottom, a sign sternly told walkers walking into town, to wipe their muddy boots before climbing the stone steps to the street, but as we were going the other way, it didn’t matter. We crossed a bridge and came to the bottom of an extremely long flight of wooden stairs climbing up a tall embankment. We were convinced it had a vanishing point. So with a big deep breath, we took our first steps and plodded upwards, stopping at little landings to check our progress, admire the limited view through the trees and to be honest, to catch our breaths.

The stairway popped us out into a field with a well marked path and we steadily followed it, climbing all the time. The St Cuthbert path actually went between the two peaks of the hills rather than summiting them, so was in fact, considerably lower but still got the blood pumping and the legs aching. The landscape behind us opened up and we could see other little towns and villages. It was very pretty. We spotted the Abbey way down below us and our hotel – we could almost touch them. We carried on, past pastures and fields of sheep with their lambs before the land gave way to rugged moorland heath and heather. We just took it steady, stopping to give our legs and lungs a brief respite at regular intervals and to look at the expanding views. A couple of drizzly showers scudded through and we wondered whether the waterproofs should come out, but we were too warm to add layers so we just hoped it didn’t get worse.

Finally, finally, in between the two hills of Eildon, we reached the top of the path. Behind us was Melrose and border country to the north and in front of us was rolling countryside and somewhere in the hazy distance, Jedburgh. We high fived each other, jubilant that we had cracked the first of the “hard bits” of the walk and the rest of the day would be a breeze. We also agreed that it wasn’t that bad a climb and wasn’t as steep as we had envisioned (think we had visions of a bit of scrabbling up on our hands and knees). It had been a steady plod. A dog walker appeared with his hound and bounded up the easier peak – we were so pumped up that we nearly followed him to the top, but reminded ourselves that we had another 14 odd miles to do and a deadline for dinner tonight.

After patting yet another dog that had bounded through the heather and chatting to its owners, we took the chance to swap coats. The drizzly showers were getting a bit too frequent for our liking and we were extremely hot from our exertions. We stuffed our fleeces into the rucksacks and donned the waterproofs. It ticked two boxes – kept us dry and cooler too. Sorted, we began our descent through a beautiful woodland of mixed coniferous and deciduous trees, the first signs of spring sprouting in the undergrowth. It was magical. We kept an eye out for deer and other animals as we wheedled our way through the woods. The scent of wild garlic drifted to our noses, primroses, anemones and celandine blooming with yellow flowers and the birdsong of many birds singing high in the trees. It was a beautiful walk. We finally dropped down onto a track and followed that a little distance before crossing fields where local villagers exercised their four legged friends. We dropped in to the village of Bowden, all quiet and sleepy, peering at the boxes of books left in the bus stop for everyone to take, leave or swap. Just love that. We did a little road walking before picking up a footpath and following a little river. The footpath meandered up and down, across the river and back again. The sun started to pop its nose out of the cloud and the temperature rose. The waterproofs went back into the rucksacks and we walked together in just our jumpers. The footpath went into field that on one side dropped steeply down to a water meadow where black ewes and their lambs grazed. The mothers baa-ed loudly and in unison as we entered, as if in warning. We looked down towards the cacophony when we noticed a couple of the sheep coming up to meet us. One ewe in particular, with two very young lambs in tow, began to follow us and we turned to face her. We half expected her to stomp her feet or even charge towards us, protecting her lambs but she just trotted right up to us. We put our hands out and she allowed us to pat her briefly while her lambs skittered around, very wary of us. We carried on walking, the ewe joining us as we approached a gate. We were amazed at this ewe’s audacity and fearlessness. She then trotted ahead reaching the gate, looking at us as if to say “open it then” and stood in front of a kissing gate at the side, blocking it. We hesitated, watching this brazen sheep blocking our way, while her lambs baa-ed as if to say “Mum, what are you up to? We don’t like this!” We shooed her gently away, giving her a final scratch on the head and squeezed through. We looked back – she wasn’t impressed about being thwarted in her escape attempt, gathering her brood and trotting back down the path in disdain…………

We had some road walking to do, but the sun was warm as we dropped into Newton St Boswell. We crossed a main road, wondering if there was a cafe nearby for a drink. A young couple with a baby were preparing for a walk and asked if we were lost. No, no, just checking it out. We dropped down behind some houses and decided that another layer needed to be shed. We snacked on the Naked bars and took a drink. The young mum we had just passed strolled past us with baby slung on her back – she briefly told us that she was walking St Cuthbert’s in sections, meeting husband further up in the car. We were now back into woodland, running beside the river, following a narrow path. It was gorgeous. We kept meeting the young mum for a while until we dropped down on a tarmac track where cars were parked and people were starting to have afternoon strolls. A splendid suspension bridge spanned the river here to Dryburgh, a pretty hamlet opposite. We were following the River Tweed now, past fly fishermen standing deep in the waters, the path snaking through wide water meadows, the wild flowers just starting to bloom. This was a lovely walk.

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

We walked into St Boswells, the next village and onto the High Street, where we came across a bookshop and cafe which was open. Delighted with our find, we were equally frustrated with the fact we had been told there was nowhere to get food on this leg, hence the hotel sarnies. We went in – it was busy. Two tables had been reserved, but as we only wanted coffee and cake, we were allowed to sit there. We were very happy to unload our gear and sit for a while. This was perfect. We had a quick look at the bookshop and the adjoining deli and gift shop next door before continuing up the High Street and dropping down side lane. We came to a T junction where several cars were being manoeuvred around, causing chaos – we skirted round them and dropped down right into a long lane where cars were parked haphazardly on the verge, while others squeezed past them and at the bottom executing terrible 3 point turns. This vehicular chaos was jarring after our lovely morning, an irritating intrusion of our serenity. It turned out to be the entrance of the local Golf Club and it seemed to be a Ladies Tournament – various women were manhandling golfing bags out of the boots of their cars, dressed in that unique uniform that golfing ladies seem to adhere too. The path took us along the side of the fairway, we listened out for any stray balls heading our way, watching the groups of golfers working their way round the course. We eventually left the golf course behind, following the course of the river, through woodland, the path rising up and down – it was so varied and we savoured every single minute. The birds sang. We came across a group of five older women, letting them come down some wooden steps from the road above and fell into brief conversation with them and decided they weren’t a good advert for the St Cuthbert’s Way. They listed their aches and pains, apologised for being slow and old, making us feel a lot better about ourselves on one level, but on another, would this be us tomorrow, regaling hapless walkers with our maladies? We hoped not. We hastily bade them good luck and goodbye and carried on. We followed some more dog walkers, but commented that we hadn’t seen any other St Cuthbert walkers as yet. Maybe we had the path all to ourselves.

We came up to a sort of a well, under an arch with another building above and a large metal sign. On further inspection, it transpired it was indeed a well and that donkeys were used to pump the water up the hill to the main house high on the hill. The donkeys would be tied to a contraption, presumably with a dangling carrot so that they walked in endless circles to enable the pump to work. What a life. I really felt for those poor creatures, working so hard so that wealthy people could have instant water and wondered how well they were looked after and treated. I feared probably not very well.

The path pulled up the side of the river until we stopped just behind a beautiful church on the edge of Maxton village. A convenient bench allowed us to eat one half of our cheese sandwiches, now squashed flat and looking worse for wear – they looked anaemic and positively beyond redemption. They had been a waste of money in the end, but we felt compelled, at least, to consume a part of them rather than chucking them in a bin. They would be sustenance for the last few miles.

We bobbed out on a main road through Maxton which we briefly walked along, before diving down a side lane. A lengthy bit of road walking, brought us near the busy A68 road, vehicles hurtling along and the first substantial noise we had heard all day. It was frankly annoying. Just before the road was another Cuthbert sign, pointing through trees. This was Dere Street, an ancient Roman road and the last leg of our walk. We checked our watches and phones for how many miles we had covered and dismayingly discovered that we had already covered the 15 miles as mentioned in the guide book, with probably another two to go. Our hearts sank – we just wanted a long cold beer and a comfy seat. We could only shrug our shoulders as there wasn’t much else we could do and launched onto the path, feeling rather deflated and hoping the path steered away from the awful traffic noise.

I think we just got our heads down and marched that last bit. The path parted company with the road as we weaved through straggly woodland and bright yellow gorse bushes. We stopped briefly to read an information board about some battle fought in the nearby field, but had no inclination to check it out further. We just wanted to reach the end of the walk. In the distance we saw Baron’s Folly and high on a hill, the Waterloo Monument. Finally, we dropped into woodland and the edges of Harestanes Country Park, finally we could see light at the end of the tunnel, though it took a while coming. We came to a back road, but decided to carry onto the Visitor Centre, passing a bridge that would be the start of tomorrow’s route. We staggered to some benches and finally dropped our bags. It was 5.15pm and we had walked 17 miles. We were tired but very happy! We had done Day One – we were relieved, but felt accomplished and proud of ourselves in equal measure. It was a great feeling actually and our spirits rose. We called our pre-planned taxi who would take us into Jedburgh a few miles down the road and we cancelled our dinner reservation. There was no way we were going to make it. At the time of booking, they could only offer us 6:30pm which at the time I thought would be tight. They were very nice about it and thanked us for letting them know. Our White Knight in the shape of dark coloured taxi rocked up, threw our bags in the back and gave us a running guide of what there was to do in Jedburgh as well as a brief history while he drove. He was fab – we asked him if he was a tour guide and he no replied that he just loved telling everyone about Jedburgh. He was a great ambassador for his town.

https://www.dayoutwiththekids.co.uk/attractions/harestanes-countryside-visitor-centre-14e4f775

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

He dropped us outside the Royal Hotel in the centre and we staggered in. A lone woman welcomed us and was very informative. Our luggage had been delivered and we dragged it upstairs to our rooms. There was a smell of fresh paint and the decor of white walls and grey carpet was soothing and very new. We crashed onto our beds, easing our feet out of our boots. The feet seemed to have done remarkably well with no sore spots or blisters. We dived into showers, sorted out our bags ready for tomorrow, topping up with more snuffled biscuits from the tea tray. Refreshed, we regrouped and hit the town in search for food – the receptionist had listed all the eating establishments in town, one of them being an Indian which we rather fancied now. So we tracked it down and took a table. There were a couple of tables already occupied, so we weren’t the only ones as we settled down to read the menu and choose drinks, as a rather bubbly and chatty waitress hovered near, tending to our every need. She wasn’t British, possibly American or Canadian, (we were too tired to ask) and was a bit too keen and eager to please, telling us allsorts. She was lovely really, but we just wasn’t in the right mood for any bounciness. We just wanted to eat and go to bed.

The food was delicious and just perfect for our needs. We began a Top Trump game of how many steps walked, how many miles (our devices all showed slight variations, but it was definitely 17 miles) and the state of our feet, legs , backs and other body parts, but overall Day One had been a success. We took our bloated bellies back to the hotel and flopped onto our beds. Day Two tomorrow and the highest point of the walk – bring it on!

It’s never a good idea to plan a trip during those dark winter nights, when you’re curled up in front of a roaring fire with a bottle of wine and nibbles………….

62.5 miles over 5 days, walking the St Cuthbert’s Way from Melrose to Lindisfarne, all our accommodation booked and luggage transferred, only a back pack required – it seemed so easy all that time ago. How difficult could it be – blimey, we were veterans of Hadrian’s Wall! But now, with a few weeks to go, Hubby, his Sister and I were starting to wonder what we were thinking way back in deepest January, as we started to receive information packs from the booking company. The first two days were around 15 miles each – one with the steepest part and the next, the highest. Gulp. It seemed all a bit over ambitious.

And so it was, departure day arrived and with encouraging words from the family, the three of us set off up the M6 motorway on a bright but cloudy day. The plan was to travel up to Carlisle, pick up the A69 and follow Hadrian’s Wall. There was a reason for this as Hubby’s Sis had walked it 4 years ago, and with her living in America, we thought we’d give her a trip down Memory Lane. However our Satnav (or as our daughter calls it – the Sat Nag) had different ideas. It suddenly decided that the A7 was a better route, so just after Brampton, while I was saying right at a roundabout, the SatNav said straight on and believing an app rather than his wife, the driver continued over. We ended up on a 20 minute scenic detour of the back lanes of the greater Brampton area to get back on the A69, which was, I must say was lovely. Successful, we headed towards the A68, passing Hadrian’s Wall and reminiscing all our adventures on our Walks.

We were starting to get peckish by this time and started to look out for cafes, but of course, when you want one, you can never find one. We drove through small villages and communities, all quiet and sleepy. We pulled up outside a pub, unsure if it was open or shut, but we decided that all we wanted, was a small cafe that served coffee and scones with lashings of cream and jam. We passed another pub with a sign “Last Pub In England” and wondered how far we would be driving before we got sustenance. But as we went round a bend, in the distance was a stone building with a huge banner on its side declaring it to be the “Last Cafe In England” and we instinctively pulled in and parked.

As we opened the door, we were a bit dubious – it looked rather old fashioned and there was just one customer. Mmmm, but we were hungry. We closed the door and turned left into another room and it was completely different – there was a counter heaving with cake and savouries, an excellent drinks menu, all very trendy and a lovely Northumbrian lady welcoming us in. We ordered 3 sausage sandwiches and coffee and sat in the conservatory watching a cockerel and hens scratching through the grass in the garden. The food arrived and we dived in, it was all very nice and more people came in – it was quietly popular. It was ticked the box with us. Later I went upstairs to use the loo decorated in decidedly 1970’s decor. Actually it probably hadn’t been decorated since 1970. The loo, basin and shower were all dusky pink, squeezed in a very narrow room. The shower was perched on top of steps and had seen better days and the rest of the bathroom, cladded in pine. It was a time warp. I had noticed two numbered doors. Can you imagine rocking up to this? That shared bathroom down the corridor? I got the distinct feeling that the place had new owners who had concentrated on the cafe downstairs first and would eventually bring the rest up to scratch. I wished them luck.

Fed and watered we carried on, crossing over into Scotland. We scooted around the edge of Jedburgh’s town centre which looked very nice. This would be tomorrow’s overnight stop. We drove through St Boswell and onto Melrose and on a long stretch of road, we got our first glimpse of the Eildon Hills, our challenge for tomorrow. They looked really high, rearing up from the rolling countryside – three massive hills. We spent the rest of the journey in awe and trepidation.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melrose,_Scottish_Borders

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

We soon dropped down into Melrose, a small pretty town with a little High Street where our hotel was located. We parked the car at the rear where it would spend the next five days and checked in. There seemed to be just one member of staff on duty and after a little wait in the reception area, we finally tracked her down serving beers in the bar and taking food orders. She proffered her apologies, but we were happy to wait. Finally she scuttled to the reception area with us in tow and sorted out the keys before walking briskly back to the bar. We lugged our luggage up a flight of stairs and found our respective rooms. They weren’t particularly big, but they were clean, reasonably modern and didn’t lookout over the kitchen bins and the staff smoking area. The Eildon Hills poked their heads over the town and into our bedroom windows. After a while, we decided to check out the town and stretch the old legs. It was quite small and compact, but we headed down to the Abbey where Cuthbert, as a young man, felt a strong call to the ministry and become a monk and a prior. It’s owned by Historic Environment Scotland and there was a small charge for entrance. By now, the sun was out and it was lovely late afternoon so we had a wander around the grounds – the actual Abbey, half in ruins, had metal fencing around it as it needed some restoration work to secure loose stonework. We found the Museum and wandered inside, looking at pottery and other artefacts. Back outside we went to the other side of the Abbey to look for the stone pig playing bagpipes, high up near the roof, in amongst numerous gargoyles, dragons and other stone creatures. The Eildon Hills peeked into the grounds too – we realised that Melrose snuggled right up to the foot of these hills. We were trying to convince ourselves that they weren’t that steep at all, despite the guide book’s musings and figuring out where the path went.

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

Having exhausted the Abbey – it was also nearing closing time anyway – we set off in search of a watering hole to celebrate our arrival in town. We had seen a place advertising cocktails, so we headed there. As soon as we walked in we knew it was a mistake – a solitary family of five huddled around a table for an early tea. We sat down and discovered that they weren’t serving cocktails that night either. It’s great having a relative who’s lived in the States for years as Sis just got up and left with us following slightly sheepishly (we would of probably stuck it out in there) and went off to find something a bit livelier. There were probably six establishments we visited – either devoid of customers, jam packed with Grand National punters watching the horse race on huge TV screens or the local where everybody stops drinking and gives you long and hard stares before whispering amongst themselves. We finally stopped in Burt’s Hotel, a cosy inn just up from our own hotel with a smattering of clientele, where we ordered three beers and toasted ourselves.

We loitered there for about 45 minutes before wandering up to the old railway station, now converted into an Italian restaurant for our evening meal that we had pre-booked. The Monte Casino was very busy and had a great atmosphere – we ordered pasta and a bottle of wine and toasted ourselves yet again. With full stomachs we took a convoluted route back to our hotel, and headed to our rooms. We started to organise for tomorrow morning, but spent a lot of time just shuffling stuff around and not really getting anywhere. Just a lot of debating whether to pack the waterproof trousers or not – total indecision. We gave up and jumped into bed for a fitful night’s sleep.

Banks. I had no intention of going to a town, but my bank had been testing my patience recently and knowing full well that I wouldn’t get anywhere by phoning, texting or emailing them, took the only other option open to me. To present myself in one of their branches.

Now, British banks don’t seem to like their customers and like closing a lot of their local branches. My nearest branches are some 15 miles away, so after some deliberation, plumped for the Kendal branch. Daughter had told me of this lovely little woodland on the outskirts of town, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone and combine it with a dog walk too. So off we set.

The weather wasn’t brilliant. Overcast and threatening with rain. But this being Britain in March didn’t deter us until we reached the periphery of Kendal and the heavens opened. Yuk. I stopped at a small retail park to get some bits and by the time I came out, the rain had thankfully stopped. It might even brighten up. So confidently we drove into the town centre, through Kendal’s convoluted one way system and parked in a small pay and display car park opposite the bus station.

Kendal was quiet on this drizzly day as we wound our way through the streets on towards the Bank. I was prepared to unleash my pent up frustration, but the lad dealt with me quietly and efficiently, so I did another British thing and stayed quiet though I did leave a trail of dried mud from my walking boots, which made me feel embarrassed, but satisfied in equal measure. Light rain was in the air as we wheedled our way to Elephant Yard and using my digital OS map, found an alleyway at the side of Booths. (It is quite a maze of streets and dead end alleys here so can easily get lost or just end up wandering up and down the same paths, looking baffled). It was the start of quite a climb.

The Dog is never impressed with walks in a town centre, but thought she would perk up as we began to walk up away from the town, interested in where we were going. Instead she just dawdled behind me. The steady slope turned into flights of steps, which gave you a bit of a cardiac work out. Little stone terraced cottages and houses lined the route, with little alleyways and ginnels darting off at the side. It was quite fascinating. We crossed little back roads which gave a little respite from the steps and a chance to catch our breaths. The area had an air of bohemia/arts and crafts, of a tight knit community, hanging on the side of the hill. It must of been one of the oldest parts of Kendal and I wanted to have a good wander and nose later.

Towards the end of the steps, I sighed in despair. In amongst this pretty little corner, an atrocity had taken place. (well, in my opinion). Back in the 1960’s when everything had to be utilitarian, Kendal’s town planners had plonked a mini estate of white rendered modern and characterless housing right in the middle of this old part of town. It just so jarred. There had been no attempt to make it blend in at all.

Now this is where I struggle and have a real dilemma with this brutalist architecture. My first immediate thought is to order a couple of boxes of dynamite to which to blow these monstrosities up and replace with something more in keeping. Then, I think, they actually tell a story and are part of our heritage, whether we like it or not and are here to stay. We can’t erase a whole chunk of history just because it doesn’t fit into our expectations anymore ……….

And anyway they’re a good reminder to future planners how not to do it!

https://www.visitcumbria.com/sl/kendal-serpentinewoods/

Finally we came to a road and opposite there was a sign welcoming us to Serpentine Wood. Yes, finally! It was not, alas, the end of the climb and we followed the path steadily up through the woodland. The Dog is still not impressed and I’m wondering whether to give up this endeavour, (there’s nothing worse than your dog dragging their feet and looking like they want to be elsewhere) but hey I’ve paid for 4 hours of parking and want my money’s worth! So we continued. Despite the weather, damp and sogginess, the wood retained a magical air – there were numerous paths darting off in every direction, all well defined. On the edge were large detached Victorian houses that now looked they had been turned into flats or a business premises. I wondered who had lived there before. The wild garlic was starting to sprout and the trees were tentatively budding, there was a hint of life. Now and again, there were wood carvings of animals and a maze made out of logs, little areas for the kids to investigate. A hexagonal building overlooking the town, another rectangular one with no obvious meaning. Trees had been felled by high winds and gales had been left where they had fallen, only touched to clear pathways and left for the wildlife. I was liking this wood very much.

We hit the back of the woodland. We could of climbed even further, crossing the golf course to the summit of Kendal Fell and beyond to the A591 road, but the weather was closing in and the rain heavier. I looked at The Dog – you could see she was just aching for a comfy bed and a blazing fire. I thought she would be excited for a new area to sniff in, but she looked unimpressed. So we followed the path and started to go downwards. A side path took my interest as it went out of the woods and onto a field that gave you a view of Kendal town. Daughter told me that the views were amazing up here, so off we went to check it out. There would of been an amazing view if there wasn’t low cloud, mist and heavy drizzle. It was like being in a plastic box. This would be a lovely spot for a picnic and watching the world below, but not today. We didn’t hang around and slithered through the mud, back into the woods. I was glad we didn’t go for the summit – it would of been pointless and thanked The Dog for her apathy.

We wandered back down, now getting quite damp, though we still turned left and right, taking various paths to see what there was. There were lots of birds flittering around – blue tits and finches and there was a cacophony of birdsong which was lovely to hear. We met a few diligent dog walkers, wrapped in waterproofs, their dogs damp and shaggy. This would be lovely in the summer and it deserved another visit, but on a grotty rainy day, it was still wonderful. Soon we were back on the little back road road. I wanted to walk further and investigate the local streets, but the weather wasn’t improving so we retraced our steps down and found another abomination. A little stone church surrounded and overwhelmed by modern utilitarian housing. My shoulders sagged at the sight.

We dropped onto the last road and on a whim, I decided to have a walk along it, just to look at the houses here. The Dog rolled her eyes, Gromit style and plodded on after me. An eclectic mix of period housing, cottages, terraces, a house dating from 1660’s, quirky buildings. It was fascinating, the higgle-piggly style punctuated by little alleys and roads. I could of wandered around these streets for ages, but feeling a drop of water working its way down the back of my neck, dampened my enthusiasm for investigation and The Dog wandered behind me with her head and tail down despondently, which didn’t help. Below us was a little park and we dropped down to this and walked back into town. Here I dithered. Did I want to find a cosy little cafe which let wet dogs and humans in, order a large latte and even larger piece of cake or just head home? It transpired that the car was nearer than a cafe and I didn’t fancy having to peel off wet coats and feeling damp and uncomfortable. Anyway I was trying to be good and not eat cake, so we went back to the car where The Dog enthusiastically jumped into and plopped down, looking rather bedraggled, but relieved. I pulled out of the car park and had a tour of Kendal courtesy of their meandering one way system before being burped out onto the road out of town, windscreen wipers on, lights on and steaming up slightly, headed for home.

After a few days of snow and sub zero temperatures, there was a chance of a day out in the Lake District albeit with high chance of rain later in the afternoon so Hubby, Daughter and Partner, The Dog and I grasped the window with both hands. After some procrastination and discussion, we decided to head to Grizedale Forest on the west side of Lake Windermere for a walk, then onto Ambleside for some light retail therapy and an evening meal. So we set off along the South Lakes Peninsula and the A590 before doing a right just past the Lakeland Motor Museum at Newby Bridge/Backbarrow and followed a narrow country lane up to Grizedale forest.

https://www.forestryengland.uk/grizedale

https://www.visitlakedistrict.com/things-to-do/grizedale-forest-and-visitor-centre-p1211031

The route was pretty in the weak sunshine, with white washed cottages dotted here and there in between the more traditional slate. Some properties were high on the hillside and had fantastic views from picture windows. Past fields, valleys and woodlands, it was very interesting and the little hamlets like Slatterthwaite, huddled in this stunning valley. I saw little of the scenery as I drove carefully along the road – there were dry stone walls, oncoming traffic, potholes and even a wandering peacock to contend with!

Finally we arrived at the Visitor Centre at Grizedale Forest without further incident and parked up. The Forest comes under the jurisdiction of Forestry England (formerly The Forestry Commission) which allows their woodlands to be open to the public chiefly for walking and biking with a network of waymarked tracks throughout as well as hosting other activities. It is also a working landscape as Forestry England manages logging within the woodland, with large swathes given over to wood production.

We had a map of the various paths on offer which were of varying distances – some short strolls, others 10 mile hikes around the perimeter. We picked the Grizedale Tarn Trail as it was a nice 4 miles and perfect for our 15 year old dog without breaking her. We had to look out for wooden posts with a white strip on them, indicating the Tarn Walk and so followed the large arrows pointing to the beginning of our walk. However, we were stopped in our tracks before we had even started, as orange barriers barred our way down the path. A sign read “closed for maintenance work, follow the signs for Millwood Trail to connect with the Tarn Trail”. So we turned around and followed the signs for the Millwood Trail, which took us through the Visitor Centre, a clutch of Victorian buildings (it reminded me of the grand stable blocks that the Lord of Manor built for his prized ponies) housing artisan workshops, art gallery, a cafe and other facilities.

We popped out by the bike hire and the entrance of Go Ape, an adrenaline junkies and lovers of heights playground. Suspended high up in the treetops, a series of challenging high-level tree-top crossings wheedle their way through the canopy before dropping these mad people back to terra firma via a zip wire. I would love to have a go, but just know I would freeze at the first platform and would need rescuing while my family looked on, howling with laughter. You are all hooked on, but I still wouldn’t be happy. There would just be a lot of screaming on my part. There seemed to be quite a few adventurous souls up there, apart from an older lady looking rather petrified as she walked along a slatted walkway – she looked like someone’s granny who had been coaxed up there by a keen and excitable grandson who had now abandoned her as he was young, carefree and super confident. She looked like she would be more comfortable hugging a latte in the cafe! I was in admiration of her.

https://goape.co.uk/locations/grizedale

We followed the path by the side of Go Ape looking out for our white posts, but came to another parking area and found no other signs or diversions. We asked a passing Go Ape employee but he offered no useful information. Maybe it was on the road somewhere and so we set off on the lane, heading back towards the Visitor Centre keeping a beady eye out. We were practically back at the Centre when we spotted an A4 laminated sheet, on the other side of the road, nailed to a footpath sign in amongst another cluster of purple barriers!* Our path! We had done a complete loop for nothing!

* there seemed to be a lot of barriers and maintenance work being carried out around the car park and Visitor Centre. Presumed they were preparing for the summer season!

This path instantly went straight up an incline, so we were thankful that the loop had inadvertently given us chance to warm up. We walked steadily up on the stony path, stopping to admire the opening vista and one of the art installations which are dotted throughout the forest. As we stood there, a large family group passed us and we let them have some distance before we resumed the pull up.

We joined a broad logging road and continued upwards, though not so steep now. There was patches of snow still on the ground here and there, which instigated a brief snowball fight between us. A couple of filthy mountain bikers cycled past, blathered in mud, but thoroughly enjoying themselves. Finally we reached the ridge by the statue of a fox and we admired the long distance views of snow covered Lakeland fells.

Spotting a white post to the right we followed the road and caught up with the large family. We passed them and dropped down a gravelly side path through coniferous and deciduous woodland, the path gently rising and dropping, us skipping over little streams while The Dog had a slurp of water. There were muddy spots, but not too many and easily negotiated. We stopped by a patch of grass and dug out our cake we had bought as a snack. The Dog got her treats but was also surreptitiously supplied with cake too. As we were finishing it off, we felt rain and put up our hoods. Onward bound!

We followed the white marker posts with ease – they were frequent and easily spotted. The rain wasn’t heavy and we were sheltered by the trees. We came across another road covered with snow – the Lakes had been covered by a thick layer of snow only a couple of days ago after an Arctic blast, but with the temperatures rising quickly again, there wasn’t much left of the white stuff. Stacks of logged wood lined the road here – evidence of the logging and management of the forest by Forestry England. Stern signs told us not to clamber on them!

We suddenly realised that we had permanently lost the large family we had been regularly overtaking. We carried on walking. We were starting to drop down again into the valley and it was getting prettier. Waterfalls, stone bridges, dry stone walls in amongst the bare native trees on the hillside. The pines trees huddled together nearby, their dark gloomy interiors groaning gently. We hoped to see a deer.

We started to come across blocked off paths again with diversion signs which we dutifully followed. We could see the car park far below through the trees. Suddenly our large family reappeared coming from the opposite direction, the adults looking baffled at their phones. When we met in the middle we exchanged pleasantries until one of them piped up. “Are you going back to the car park?” We said yes and that we had been dropping down. There was a flurry of groans and a lot of “we should of turned off back there”. They turned on their heels and followed us at a respectable distance. We came across a normal footpath sign and looking at our digital OS map realised it sliced off a hefty corner – we didn’t hesitate -we plunged down the path to a lovely little beck at the bottom. The large family followed. We carried on up the other side to a gate and was burped out into a field which we crossed. We spotted familiar landmarks and knew we weren’t far away now. The large family had obviously been distracted by the water and were no longer behind us. Over a wall stile and we were back on the steep track and a few hundred yards later, the visitor centre loomed up in front of us!

We headed to the cafe for a well earned coffee, bagging a window seat. This would be lovely in the summer with the courtyard and outdoor seating – probably quite a sun trap. Instead we watched people scuttle past in wet rain gear as we hugged our drinks. We wandered back to the car and paid the car parking fee. There must be an ANPR (automatic number plate recognition) system in operation as the machine asked for your registration plate. I had only entered the first two letters before my car reg popped up on the screen! Wow! I winced as I paid the fee – it’s expensive to park in the Lakes, but if it maintains a woodland like this, I am happy.

We got back to the car just in time as the heavens opened and the mist descended obliterating any views. We jumped back on the narrow lane heading towards Ambleside, having the added bonus of heavy rain to contend with, skirting past Hawkshead, a popular tourist village in the summer and meandered our way into Ambleside which we know fairly well.

Ambleside is a pretty town full of traditional Lakeland stone buildings, but is a tourist hotspot. In the summer it’s clogged with traffic and heaves with people with their holiday heads on but on a rainy Sunday afternoon in mid March, there were only a few brave souls dodging the puddles. We parked up, but the rain suddenly intensified and there was a reluctance to venture outside as it pounded on the car roof. As it eased, we jumped out, donned wet weather gear (including The Dog) and waddled quickly to the centre of town. We had two hours to kill before our restaurant reservation so we contented ourselves perusing in a nearby outdoor shop.

Ambleside, like many of the main towns in the Lakes is geared up for the tourist masses that regularly descend upon it throughout the year. It’s streets are full of outdoor shops, tea shops, high end clothing outlets, gift shops, pubs and anything else that attracts tourists in their hoards. We avoid it in the summer months – just too busy for our liking, but today was okay. I needed some new shoelaces for some boots and bought a little day rucksack too, but after two outdoor shops we were bored – there are only so many you can visit. The rain was now steady, but wasn’t conducive for wandering the streets or going further afield, so we went into the nearest pub, a large, but cosy affair done out in wood, found a suitable table and nursed pints of beer for an hour to kill the time.

At 5pm, we skipped through the unrelenting rain to Lucy’s On A Plate, an unassuming restaurant down a side road, slightly off the beaten track. We found this place with some friends a few years ago and is the place we always head to whenever in Ambleside. It’s simply decorated, no airs and graces, the staff attentive but serves the most amazing food. It’s a little gem. We settled at a table at the back, The Dog napping under the table and ordered our food after a lengthy deliberation. It all sounds delicious. We had been raving for ages about Lucy’s to our daughter and about how wonderful it was. Now she could see why. Every table is candlelit, a balloon is placed on the table if you’re celebrating and on the menu’s, there’s a write up telling diners who celebrating what or who’s just revisiting because they love Lucy’s. Simple little touches that make it that bit more special.

Home

Suitably stuffed and very happy, we prepared to face the wet weather again and walked quickly through the darkened streets of Ambleside, everyone now warm and cosy inside. Jumping in the car, everything gets turned on full whack – heater on full blast, the a/c to stop steaming up, rear heater, windscreen wipers, the lot. The car park has no lighting whatsoever, so we creep out back to the main road and head for home, driving slowly down the A591 past Windermere and Kendal, keeping an eye out for puddles spilling over across the road. We finally make it home, The Dog crashing on her mat, us on the sofa and all of us falling asleep. It had been a lovely and very enjoyable day.

We didn’t break The Dog, though she refused to move out of her pit from underneath the stairs the next morning. She could just about move her eyes. She had an extra hour in bed before moving to the fire where she stayed for most of the day. What a life.

The Hubby wanted to climb a big hill to touch a far flung trig point, but I wasn’t in the mood. The Dog was due a walk but she wouldn’t be able to do 6 miles up a 2,000 ft hill, so Daughter, me and The Dog took the low road, dropping him and Daughter’s partner off in the village of Barbon for their walk while we continued on up the valley of Barbondale before eventually dropping into Dentdale.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dent,_Cumbria

https://www.visitcumbria.com/yd/dentdale/

We parked up in the main car park on the edge of the village of Dent, a charming huddle of stone cottages, paid for a ticket, wrapped up well and headed along the cobbled street, down a pathway through the churchyard and onto the road out on the other side. We walked down to the bridge and dropped down to the the riverside. We let The Dog off lead and began to follow the route we had plotted on our OS map.

Dentdale is probably my second favourite dale after Swaledale. It is just stunning – the pretty traditional village of Dent nestling at the bottom of a wide valley with farmhouses dotted all around, the fell sides rearing up on either side. It is just beautiful and so so quiet. Though it is in the county of Cumbria, it is part of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, after that organisation’s recent expansion and therefore comes under their protection. It really does confuse the tourists!

We hugged the river. The cloud was high and there was a hint of sunshine trying to push through. We wandered through gates and over stiles, across fields, spotting sheep and their young lambs. There was a definite a feeling of spring in the air and it was a lovely stroll through gorgeous countryside.

We found ourselves walking down a cobbled path that started to look more like an overflow for the river than a footpath, so much so that we wondered if we had taken a wrong path, but checking, we were on course. A bridge appeared and it looked like that we would waddle underneath it, but suddenly the path veered left and up and we ended up level with the bridge! Rather relieved, we crossed the bridge and came to some stepping stones crossing the river. This walk was getting exciting! There were probably about 10 stones, but the river wasn’t particularly deep – if you fell in, you would just get rather wet boots. We couldn’t see the last stone, fearing it had been washed away so Daughter decided to investigate and trotted across. The Dog took the easy route and strolled purposely into the water, supping water as she did, despite the cold. She has always loved water so any excuse to get in it. Daughter reported back – stone is there, just slightly submerged and all is good. We crossed it without incident and The Dog waded, looking pleased with herself.

We were now on the other side of the river and hadn’t gone very far when we noticed that the river had gone silent. We glanced down and just saw a dry river bed covered in cobbles of varying sizes. We looked back and could just about see water in the distance. We just stood and stared. How did that happen? One minute a flowing stream, next dry as a bone! We carried on intrigued, searching for evidence and figuring out the reason. Suddenly we spotted pools of water and then a flow of water! We couldn’t access the riverbed as it was fenced off, but between the trees we spotted what looked like a sinkhole and the water trickling down. Ah ha! It looked like it all disappeared underground for a while. We considered the idea of a water table feeding the river and it had dropped – February had been quite a dry month. Later while studying our maps in depth in a warm cosy cafe, we discovered the area to have quite a few limestone caves. Limestone is a porous stone, so there would be many escape routes for the water. It all started to make sense.

We reached the halfway stage – we crossed a wooden bridge and had a bit of a pull, up a hill, getting our hearts working. The Dog was on lead as there were sheep in the field, either with lambs or on the verge of giving birth. Despite being nearly 15, The Dog’s inner collie emerges and she has the urge to round up creatures, including humans. Farmers have every right to shoot your dog if they are worrying livestock in any way. Today, The Dog decided to stick to her Labrador character, be the perfect hound and ignored them completely. We then came to a ladder stile with a rung missing, so The Dog was unceremoniously manhandled to the platform on top (she’s not impressed with this treatment) and was preparing to leap down the other side before I managed to catch her (she’s so impatient) and lowered her down, much to her annoyance. She is probably still capable of making a decent landing, but we didn’t want to risk her face planting the road and carrying her home.

We found the river again and wandered along. We hadn’t met anybody really on this walk. It was lovely, enjoying each other’s company. We found another section of missing river which set us off again looking for sinkholes. Finally we reached the bridge again, The Dog starting to dawdle and wandered up back through the churchyard to a cafe we know called Stone Close, where we had a coffee, a sandwich and The Dog got a treat. It’s a small little place, but has a good menu and quite cosy. We were the only ones in for a while and then everybody came in, filling it up. Suitably stuffed, we wandered around the village which didn’t take us long really. The road is cobbled and narrow, the house doors right on the street. There’s a little village shop and remnants of other businesses – Martin Bank still had its sign above a window, Dent Reading Rooms. It was a mixture of cottages – some whitewashed and little alleyways (or ginnels in this part of the world). We snucked down one, finding a door lintel marked 1673! It was quiet, hardly a soul around, but Dent is quite popular in the summer months and on the outskirts there are a couple of large caravan and camping sites. There was also a museum, but with time ticking on, we didn’t go in.

https://stoneclose.com/

We have a “Stalk Your Own Family” app on our phones and we could see our intrepid pair starting to make their way down from Calf Top, a nearby summit. The Dog looked like she just wanted to sleep, so we found the car and retraced our steps through the hamlet of Gawthrop and climbed out of Dentdale. The countryside here was just fellside dotted with sheep with steep sided hills. We peered upwards to see where our walkers might be but it was just a sheer rise of grass and rock. There’s nothing up here, but it’s just stunning scenery. We dropped back into Barbon village and decided to meet them, much to The Dog’s disgust – we walked along a tarmacked lane until we met up them. They looked flushed with success, but tired. We lured them with a promise of a steaming cup of coffee and a slab of cake at The Churchmouse, to celebrate their achievement. The Churchmouse is a purveyor of fine cheeses, but also doubles as the local shop and cafe. We listened as a game of Top Trumps started with how many steps they had done, elevation, heart beats etc. Tired, but happy, we retired to the car and headed home for tea and well earned sleeps on the sofa.

Later that night, we watched a programme about the state of Britain’s rivers and was appalled to learn that every river was probably polluted. I had been taken in by the clearness of the water, the blues and greens and the vibrant plants, but was this a river in trouble? It made me feel sad that this picture perfect corner of Cumbria probably wasn’t immune to pollution (probably from farming practices) and that we need to look after our countryside. It does make you think……..

Paul Whitehouse, Our Troubled River, BBCiplayer.

A few weeks ago, Hubby, The Dog and I had done a walk from a little village called Bardsea, just outside Ulverston. We had done a 5 mile walk along the coast, through woodland and over common land and back to the village. I had heard a lot about Ulverston and was intrigued to check it out, so on the way home, we dropped in. It was a Sunday so all the shops were closed, but we wandered around, much to The Dog’s reluctance, and felt a vibe. This place needs checking out.

https://www.visitcumbria.com/sl/ulverston/

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

So a few weeks later, accompanied by our very good friends and The Dog, we drove back and parked on the edge of town. Ulverston is hard to describe – driving in on the main A591, which carries traffic to Barrow and beyond and lies just south of the main shopping area, it gives you the impression that the town’s fathers looked like they had some spare concrete left over from the trunk road and celebrated by building some really uninspiring buildings to match. It’s not particularly attractive, but persevere and Ulverston is a little gem.

We parked up and weaved our way to the High Street. At ground level, Ulverston is probably best described as shabby chic, with shops looking a bit world weary, (and some with shop fronts so out of keeping, it was a crime – why do councils do that?) But look closer and Ulverston has an eclectic range of shops – well heeled clothes shops, a fantastic double fronted butchers, whisky shop, hardware shop, health food shop, greengrocers and much more. This was my kind of town and wished it was nearer to me – I’m a real advocate for small independent shopping and this had everything. And then look up above the shop fronts and see the stunning architecture to reflect a town that was prosperous and wealthy – there are some very handsome and imposing buildings here, all very different in styles. I was liking Ulverston very much. We found the indoor market, housed in a red brick edifice down a side road with a variety of traders – a pet shop, haberdashery, clothes, a deli, book stall, rugs and a hardware stall which overspilled to the opposite wall. I spent a small fortune at the pet stall, so much so that I had to traipse back to the car to dump it and we lost our friend to the book stall. The deli provided us food for tea and feeling happy, we went off to find out more about Ulverston.

We wandered back onto the High Street and carried on looking. It’s quite quirky, with a spiritual/New Age feel with the cobbled High Street and people bustling about. Yes, the odd national chain had a toehold, but Ulverston had retained its charm. We nosed through the outdoor market, some half a dozen stalls stretching across the cobbles and reached the top of the High Street.

The road split both ways here and more shops beckoned us down to the right, so off we set. Again a selection of shops, but it was sliding more towards the fast food as there were pizza houses and other eateries. On another corner, having just run out of shops, we hesitated until we spotted The Mill pub, tucked down a side street and looking an enticing and feasible lunch spot. But first, we fancied burning a few calories in preparation of indulging ourselves and decided that a little stroll up to the nearby Hoad Monument, would suffice. The Hoad, just outside Ulverston and perched on a tall hill, dominates the town and the surrounding area, resembles an inland lighthouse which makes it somewhat pointless. It transpires that it’s not supposed to be a lighthouse at all – the locals crowdfunded it for the commemoration of a local worthy. I just love stories like this – just so British. It can be seen for miles and it had been on my list to cross off for many months.

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

To reach it, we wandered along residential streets with handsome houses until we reached the church – up through the church yard, which was full of snowdrops and carpeted the ground between the headstones. The Hoad peered over the town and we kept catching glimpses of it. We walked up another path which then opened up on the foothills of The Hoad and spotted a clear path snaking its way up the side of the hill. We went through the kissing gate, took a deep breath and began to climb.

There was quite a few people either coming down or walking slowly upwards. It was a gentle pull initially on a paved path which gradually got steeper as it curled its way around the hill. The surrounding landscape opened up – Ulverston nestling at the bottom, expansive views across Morecambe Bay and across the River Levens estuary. We stopped periodically under the pretence to admire the view but really was to gather our breath. We carried on climbing steadily around the back and approached the rear of the Monument over a grassy mound. Here, the wind which had been a steady breeze, now roared past us and was quite cold, making exposed flesh chill quickly. Finally we were at the base of the monument and stood amazed at the far reaching views – Blackpool Tower right on the horizon and in the opposite direction, the fells of the Lake District and Scafell Pike. There were two very useful information boards – the ones with an outline of the local topography and the names of notable landmarks etched into the metal. There were even Welsh names and we realised on a very clear day, Wales probably could be seen. Today it was hazy, so we waved to the day trippers in Blackpool and ventured to the other board to see if that offered any shelter from the howling wind. We were wrong – it was blowing straight out of the Lakes and made The Dog squint and her ears flap.

We didn’t linger there long. The monument wasn’t open today – you can climb up to the top on certain days and with the incessant wind making us feel quite chilly, we opted to walk back down to our beckoning lunch pub, taking the more gentle footpath off the back of the hill and back into town. We meandered back and found ourselves outside the The Mill pub again, where we studied the menu outside. It seemed to tick our culinary boxes and so we headed inside. We’re ready to eat.

Inside it was cosy with a log fire blazing and armchairs around it. We found a large dining table by the window and studied the menu while hugging a well earned pint. It was reasonably busy and had a nice atmosphere. Above us was the old flour chute, remnants of the old working mill which was a nice touch. It was a pleasant place to eat and we ordered our meals -good quality food and reasonably priced for this day and age.

https://www.mill-at-ulverston.co.uk/

Suitably stuffed, we had another wander around and came across the Coronation Hall, a beautiful stucco building not far from the indoor market. It’s the main theatre known locally as The Coro and it was rather splendid in its architecture. Outside was a life sized statue of Laurel and Hardy as Stan Laurel was born in Ulverston before emigrating to America and enjoying enduring success. Beside them, etched into the pavements, were their famous quotes and around the corner was a Museum dedicated to the duo. Unfortunately we didn’t have enough time to go and visit that.

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

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

We sauntered back to the car, admiring the stonework above the shop fronts again. The old Co-Operative Building with its stone carvings and high windows, enforcing its reputation as a major force in town. Then there was yet another sturdy building with an engraved stone lintel with the words BANK high above, giving the impression of security and invincibility. And here was two lintels across the top of another building with one engraving crudely filled in by cement, the surviving lintel reading BUILDING. Below was a shabby door with the words Central Buildings, so we presumed it originally read Central Buildings, but wondered why just one lintel was so dishearteningly vandalised.

We wandered back to the car and started to notice beautiful residential 3 storey cottages – each one painted a different colour. White, blue, grey. They looked smart and the surrounding houses and cottages looked well looked after despite facing a council car park on the edge of town. I discovered later that Ulverston has a wealth of listed buildings which didn’t surprise me. Across the way was the old Hartley’s brewery, a towering edifice now sadly empty and looking shabby – broken windows, weeds growing out of guttering and a general neglected look. It had been shut in 1990 and left, though there are plans to convert it into apartments which I don’t mind as long as the outside of the building remains intact. It’s part of Ulverston’s history and hopefully will be part of Ulverston for many years to come.

It was time to go home and driving back onto the A591, I made a concerted effort to look at the buildings on the edge of town. In amongst the new supermarket, industrial units and others flotsam of modern life, there were pretty little cottages and buildings. It’s so easy to miss as you whizz past and pick out the bigger, dominant, utilitarian buildings and make assumptions.

And as we drove passed The Hoad, high on its hill, looking after little Ulverston, I looked up and thought “Blimey, that looks a long way up!”

After days of greyness and damp, the clouds hinted that they may clear and offer a hint of decent weather, so grabbing our chance, The Dog, The Hubby and I piled into the car and headed to Grassington in Wharfedale for a walk. About 30 miles east of our home, we drove down to Settle on the main A65 before passing through Settle and meandering over the tops to Wharfedale. We fancied a bit of a slow scenic tour, along narrow Dales roads lined with unforgiving dry stone walls. The car hauled us to the top, offering a large expanse of exceptional views south, across towards the town of Skipton and beyond. Patches of land basked in tunnels of sunlight when the clouds briefly parted, but looking north, the hills were shrouded in a mist of rain showers. This could go either way.

Halfway we dropped into the tiny sleepy village of Airton and continued down more country lanes, meeting the odd car – here motorists are very courteous, diving into any passing place to let other drivers pass, even reversing to do so, then a wave of a hand to thank each other and off they go. We drove through Hetton and Cracoe before arriving in Grassington and turning right into the Yorkshire Dales National Park car park , finding a suitable spot and letting The Dog out of the boot. The weather is looking promising.

We paid £5.00 to park for the day, knowing the parking fee goes back into the National Park and their work and with walking boots on, we wandered up to the High Street to find the start of our walk. Grassington is a tourist hot spot, the centre of town full of clothing shops, gift shops, cafes and various other outlets aimed at the wandering visitor. It is where the current TV series “All Creatures Great and Small” from the James Herriot books, has been filmed which has increased its popularity even more. There were a few people wandering around, but not heaving. I was pleased to note that the local Nisa mini supermarket had toned down its usual corporate signage and it complimented the surrounding stone buildings. But there didn’t seem to be a local butchers or bakery which seemed a bit sad, if this was true. Perhaps residents shopped online or went to Skipton for their weekly shop.

View looking back to Grassington

View towards the river Wharfe

We wandered further up the lane, following our map and found a little ginnel (alleyway) between two gardens and found the track leading out to the fields. It was a little muddy and there were few large puddles, but it was a pleasant pull up with the unfolding Wharfedale landscape opening up before us. We contoured along for a while before dropping into a small woodland and a SSSI (an Site of Special Scientific Interest). It was lovely.

The clouds were being kind and were allowing large chunks of blue sky to appear – we were walking across large flagstones which saved us slipping and sliding across the fields, which had been squelchy. We crossed through stiles, with gates on top, strong sprung hinges that threatened to thwack your legs as you went through. Our 15 year old dog leapt through these as if she was a young pup, her eye/paw coordination still there, even if the hearing isn’t. Occasionally the back legs failed to keep up and she scrambled through, but had a nonchalance of “I meant to do that” before impatiently setting off while we still struggled over. A farm track snaked across our field, a 4 x 4 vehicle working its way up to a remote farmhouse high on the hill – can you imagine arriving home and realising that you’ve forgotten the milk?

We dropped into the little village of Hebden, nestling in the valley bottom, dissected by the B6265 Grassington to Pateley Bridge road. We carried on down a side road and onto a footpath, which popped out onto a back road. The pedestrian suspension bridge over the river can be seen from the road here, before dropping down towards the River Wharfe. Crossing the bridge takes walkers to Burnsall, but we were going right back towards Grassington. Here we found two signs. The first declared that “canoes were strictly forbidden”. We wondered what would happened if you rocked up with a kayak? Further along, there was another sign informing any potential fisherman that they required a fishing permit or else – interestingly, the same message was repeated in 6 Eastern European languages underneath. It was an interesting sign.

The sun had now joined the blue sky and it felt warm and springlike. It made you smile and the world felt so much better. The footpath followed the river back towards Grassington – we decided not to cross the stepping stones across the river – and kept to the path until we reached the bridge at Linton and the weir. Squeezing through a gap in the wall – to the left was the wooden bridge by the weir, taking walkers to the village of Linton and to the right, the footpath climbed up the hill between two stone walls which burped us back into the car park.

We dropped our packs and muddy boots back into the car and headed back into Grassington looking for lunch. We looked at the menu of a fancy looking pub and recoiled at the prices. How much??? We wandered further up the road and found the Foresters Arms, a more traditional looking public house with a menu to match and we ventured inside. It seemed very quiet at first, but it had a roaring fire. The decor and furniture were rather dated, but it added to its charm and we fell into conversation with a lone walker and his dog. The landlord was attentive, but not intrusive and The Dog liked him as she got a treat out of him – she curled up and had a snooze. We ordered a steak and ale pie, a nutroast in a Yorkshire Pud (which got changed to veggie sausages which was a far better offering)and a sausage for The Dog. The food came up hot and plentiful – proper pub grub and we dived in. The Dog devoured her sausage – it barely touched the sides. The pub was filling up with people and it had a nice atmosphere – our kind of pub. Finishing our drinks, we thanked the landlord, said goodbye to the lone walker and headed outside. The clouds had decided that we had had enough sunshine for the day and closed in – the temperature had dropped too. We wandered around, peering into shops, visiting a fantastic hardware shop absolutely stuffed with everything you could think of (love those kind of shops) and a small independent outdoor clothing shop. Having exhausted Grassington, we meandered back to the car and decided to head home.

Typical of us, we took a convoluted route back home – starting with the back road to Coniston, remembering our days (before the kids) as Yorkshire Dales National Park volunteer wardens and this being our old stomping ground. It was mainly maintenance work or just patrolling and we did alternative weekends – our patch was wide ranging and we got to know the area extremely well. It was great fun and we have a lot of fond memories. We drove past Kilnsey Crag where climbers scale the cliff face, turning left into Littondale and through little hamlets of Arncliffe and Litton, traditional stone farms and houses dotted all over the valley. We headed up the dale where it becomes quite remote and passed behind Pen-y-ghent, one of the Three Peaks of Yorkshire (the other two being Ingleborough and Whernside – charity walkers usually walk all three in a day, a total of 25 miles). We dropped into Stainforth, north of Settle and then cut across country back to our home. It’s trying to rain again and it’s gone grey, but it had been a lovely day out to blow the cobwebs away.

While sitting outside last night, catching the sun’s rays and possibly the last of the summer (only joking I hope), Daughter and I commented that nobody else was doing the same. All our neighbours had holed themselves up in their caravans, some with doors shut tight! It’s so weird. That’s what camping is all about – being outside as much as you can, but everybody here had gone inside. Strange.

The next morning was our last day of the trip and also it seemed to be our immediate neighbours too, who were busy packing away as we rose. We watched them for a while before putting our bed away and having some breakfast. It was a beautiful sunny warm morning- typical, the last day of our break and it’s the best day. After demolishing the last of the crumpets and bagels, we packed up our final bits. We had a plan.

We had initially agreed on going to Raby Castle, a 20 minute drive up the road, but discovered that the House part was closed and only the deer park was open. We didn’t fancy driving or paying just to wander a deer park, so we knocked that on the head and decided to go to the Bowes Museum in Barnard Castle itself. We didn’t want to take The Van into town, so asked the campsite if we could leave it in their visitor car park as we had to vacate our pitch. They were happy with that, so with a final check of everything, we moved The Van some 100 yards, parked and set off down our track to the equestrian centre.

Boy, it was warm. There was still a breeze, but instead of moaning that it was chilly, we were delighted in its cooling effects. What a day makes. We patted a couple of the horses as we passed and finally dropped into the woodland, along the path til we reached the bridge over the River Tees. We trotted up to the High Street and turned left at the end, heading out of town. About 1/2 mile up the road, was the Bowes Museum.

https://thebowesmuseum.org.uk/

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

It’s set behind a magnificent set of gates and you expect some municipal square heap, but as we turned the corner we gasped. Set back across lawns, landscaped gardens and a pond, was a palatial building more suited in the middle of the countryside as a stately home. It was stunning. We wandered in through the box hedges and pond (alas shallow and no fish) to the gravel apron, admiring the architecture. Turning around the way we came, it actually overlooked countryside. We were impressed.

We went inside and paid our entrance fee. It was full of tall ceilings and wide staircases. Wow, this was some pad. We went upstairs to the first room where it’s history was explained. Our first thoughts was it was originally a stately home of some super wealthy coal mine owner that got passed down the generations until deep debt and huge bills made the last owner sell it to the council. The council then turned it into a Museum, but we were totally wrong. John Bowes, the illegitimate son of the titled landowner, though stripped of the title, inherited his dad’s wealth. In turn he married a French woman called Josephine and together, they purposed built the Bowes Museum as a museum for the people of Barnard Castle and spent years stuffing it with artefacts from all over the world. John and Josephine had designed the building along the lines of a French chateau which was now obvious – we couldn’t quite work it out when we first arrived. We wandered around each room – one was dedicated to fashion through the years, another full of silverware. Crockery, toys, three magnificent galleries of paintings, bedrooms and dining rooms set up for show. We came across The Swan, a beautiful creature made of silver that was one of the very first automatons ever made. Unfortunately, it wasn’t working after a recent overhaul – it’s delicate workings seemingly too fragile to continue moving. The experts were pondering what to do next with it. We watched a film about it instead. Considering it’s 250 years old, the mechanics were unbelievable- the neck moved, the swan swallows a fish and even the water moved (a series of glass rods rotated giving the impression of moving water). What a genius to even think that one up, let alone make it reality. We wouldn’t even create one like that today – the cost would be a major stumbling block!

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Bowes_(art_collector)

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=e0LMe5pi7ME

We carried on, investigating every nook and cranny before heading to the cafe for a well deserved coffee and scones, overlooking the gardens. We decided to have a walk around the grounds after our refreshments and popped out into the glorious sunshine again. The grounds were big, but not extensive, now hemmed in by modern buildings abutting the high wall. A sliver of woodland hugged the wall as we wandered the periphery, coming across a children’s play area, a bowling green and tennis courts. We found the memorials to the Queen Elizabeth, The Queen’s Mother who was a direct descendant of the Bowes and the local regiment. It also mentioned the graves of John and Josephine so we went to look for them. We searched the area of the grounds on the map, but only found small plaques against trees dedicated to other people until it dawned on us that over the wall was the Catholic Church. The path went past the back of the church here and conveniently there were railings so we could peer in. The back of the church was literally a small triangle of shingle and tufty grass and abutting the back of the church, a low granite tomb with John and Josephine’s names and dates. We looked at it with some disappointment for them both. It looked like there had been no room for them elsewhere in the graveyard and they had been unceremoniously put here as an afterthought, squashed between the hulking church and their garden wall. There was a faded inscription that gave the impression they had been moved here and on more reflection, perhaps they asked to be buried here, only a few feet from their beloved purpose built museum, the closest they could get to it. It all kind of made sense.

Feeling happier and on that note, we wandered back to the road and into town. Our adventure was nearing its end, but we weren’t quite finished. We found a takeaway cafe, bought paninis and crisps and wandered to the Castle where we ate them in the sunshine, enjoying the fine weather and people watching. Reluctantly we packed up after a while and strolled the 1.5 miles back to the campsite to pick up The Van. From here we meandered down to Richmond and along Wensleydale back to our home in the North West. It had been a brilliant few days away together and vowed that we would do it again.