We took the lower, alternative route, alongside Hareshaw Burn, but not out of consideration for the farmer’s stock. We wanted to circumvent an avoidable if modest climb. The Gods provoked, it was here the rains began. Memories of much of the rest of the day’s walk are ones of coarse grasses and mud, puddle and heath, trees and mist. In truth, it was a bit of a plod. I would like to walk over Whitley Pike and around Padon Hill again in fine weather, to gain a fairer impression of the countryside hereabouts.
Once in the shelter of the conifers the full force of the storm blunted a little. It’s fashionable to be disdainful of large commercial woodlands, but I liked the Kielder Forest: it is high and rolling with intermittent views over the trees to the hills. Sometimes woods can be claustrophobic, Kielder is not.
We met a group of about six young chaps from Leeds heading south. They’d started at Kirk Yetholm the day before, carrying full camping gear. The leader, a veteran of a previous south to north expedition, was as fresh as a bobbin; some of his companions were not. I’d wager that half would drop out before they reached the Wall. They talked glumly, graphically and at length about the peaty horrors of the Cheviot.
“They don’t know what they’ve got in front of them,” I ventured, after wishing them well.
“Do they know something we don’t?” Bob queried.
On the descent to Blakehopeburnhaugh we passed a little safari of a dozen or so off-road vehicles, lead by a Forest Enterprise Land Rover, lumbering uphill along the forest track. Although wet and footsore, I could not envy them their heated, air-conditioned adventure, hand held along the way by a forester on Sunday overtime.
We arrived in the rear lobby of the Byrness Hotel just as three lads from Newcastle were shedding layers of soaking army gear. We assumed they were squadies from the camp down the road at Otterburn. They were not, but they aspired to be and were happy enough to be mistaken for the real thing. The youths settled in the bar, waiting for a parental lift.
We didn’t get off to a good start with the hotel management: there was a mix up over room allocation, an unsuccessful attempt to displace Robert from his en-suite pad into an inferior room and a general sense of haughty proprietary disdain for their wet and mucky clientèle.
“This room is more expensive, you know, if you insist on staying you’ll have to pay the difference.”
“The pension should just about run to it, dear,” replied Bob.
“Basil and Sybil Fawlty are alive and well and living at Byrness,” I muttered.
Bob went down for an early evening meal. The wannabe squadies were by now a wee bit garrulous. An army half-track truck pulled into the car park, disgorging a party of Ramboesque warriors. The soldiers strode into the bar and ordered their fruit juices. Glancing first at our would-be fighters, then between themselves and again back at our trio, they fell into lively banter amongst themselves, giving the Geordies no further thought. Our lads froze, visibly shrinking in their seats, in total awe of their heroes.
“We got the gear in the Army Surplus store, it’s much cheaper than the outdoor shops,” they confided after the military had left.
I ate later and was horrified to see my walking pole mentor, with his spouse and friends, sat at an adjacent table. They’d had a rest day. Despite being naturally gregarious, I sat with my back to the group, huddled in a corner. I was near enough to monitor their conversation, though, dominated by my tutor’s observations on “the meaning of life, the universe and everything…”
The hotel was another Northumbrian real ale free zone, but again Guinness saved the evening. It was a good night in the end.
Accommodation: Mrs C Jackson, Byrness Hotel (01830 520231)
£25.00
The place is a bit quirky, but no worse for that. It does grow on you: the rooms are comfortable and the food is good.
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