Heading South from Haltwhistle we cross the highway and immediately climb – up into the Pennines. In moments, it’s as if a brown knitted patchwork quilt has been thrown over the hills; no trees, no stone walls, just miles of heather cut into squares. The temperature plummets, lingering splotches of snow appear in the shadows; in road ditches, beside rocks and under the heather. There are snow poles along the roadside, and it looks like the stretch on the Kosciuszko Road just before you get to Sponors – except with sheep and grouse.
Later, we learn that gamekeepers cut the heather to promote new growth; cover and feed for grouse, to improve health and numbers for the hunting season. Bitter-sweet for the grouse we fear.
On one particularly narrow high pass road, before dropping into Stanhope, we’re amazed to see wheely bins out for collection. Some time later, we get to enjoy the collection service directly, climbing a steep winding rise behind a full garbage truck, trying to pass a cyclist. What is it with old blokes in lycra?
Arriving in Blanchland, we take our lunch before embarking on a short walk. The sun’s shining, but it’s bitter, and our cold meat and lettuce rolls are cold comfort in the chill air. We reflect that the majority of vegetables on pub menus are deep-fried, boiled-and-steaming or part of a hot sauce poured over half a roast beast, probably for good reason. There’s a certain fortitude that comes from consuming hot stick-to-the-ribs food; it girds the loins, braces one, for facing the cold – just like wilted lettuce doesn’t. We’ve purchased ourselves a proper thermos (not a hand warmer), so at least the coffee is hot.
Blanchland is a small, picturesque hamlet nestled in the Derwent Valley on the Derwent River. It’s built around the 1165 Premonstratensian abbey. The white (blanche) habits of the French priests gave the town its name. Wolfblood, Jude, Vera and numerous other period series have taken advantage of Blanchard’s authentic stone-cottage appeal. It’s pretty cool.
Fortified by our coffee, cold meat and lettuce, we commence our walk up the valley past an old lead mine (that incorporated a coal-fired, steam-powered, dewatering pump) until the wooded valley abruptly gives way to winter-brown heather and patches of snow. Grouse explode into the air, blissfully unaware of the impending hunting season.
The trail descends back down from the moors into sheep pasture again, past small stone cottages, to the River Derwent. An older gent is shovelling gravel, his gaunt jaw and gums chew as he talks like he has no teeth, and he tells us he’s converting the old stone place into a “Boffy”, a one-bedroom cottage. Di asks if she can photograph the cottage, “can’t see it’s doing anyone any harm”, he says, chewing his cud and shovelling more gravel.
Along the river, trees have begun to shoot in defiance of the cold, and a woodpecker heralds spring with its hollow-timber percussion.
A large fire at the Lord Crewe Inn warms our bones, and we succumb to tempura cauliflour and a couple of beverages before heading back across the moors to Haltwhistle. At the roundabout crossing the highway back to town, we take the wrong exit into an industrial estate and find ourselves shielding our eyes from a naked, fat truckie taking selfies. I think the Skoda reached max speed for our trip, first in reverse, then forward…and the hell out of there.
That was Thursday. Today, Friday, we loaded up the tractor and headed to Durham, or at least Shincliffe, adjacent to the old cathedral town. We stopped for a few hours at Hexham to enjoy the abbey and grab a coffee (after all, it was a full one-hour trip), and have recently had tea and settled down for the evening at the Seven Stars Inn, our home for a few nights before heading out to the coast. Tomorrow we walk into Durham.
