22km
Lordenshaws – Simonside – Hepple Whitefield – Hepple – Holystone – Dove Crag
Today
was to be the longest day and I discussed the plan with Jill. We decided that, given the toughness of the
walk on the previous day and the extra length of time it took me, cutting a bit
off the beginning would be a good plan.
So instead of starting from Rothbury, we drove up to Lordenshaws for a
common start point. It was also going to
be Jill’s toughest day, so I set off up the path to let her make her way in her
own time.
There
was a little drizzle falling as I started up the well-constructed stone path up
the steep hillside. It led through the heather and a number of wind-carved
sandstone outcrops up to a point called Old Stell Crag. This point unlocked the first poem of the
day, The Proposal Stone. I put my hood
up, turned my back to the wind and listened.
It began, ‘The south-west wind scours the ridge,’ and immediately I
smiled. Again it described the position,
high on the hill with the plains spread out below, finishing with, ‘All England
on its bended knee, hoping you’ll say “yes”.’
I listened again, standing by the Proposal Stone itself, a flat-topped
rock amongst the bilberry and heather, carved with the message, ‘K, Will you
marry me, J.’
I
carried on over the top of Simonside, to be greeted with even better views, out
to the coast and up to the Cheviots. The
path wound narrowly through more heather and I startled numbers of grouse. The odd pair of sheep hopped and skipped
across the moor. On top of Tosson Hill
(bagging the trig point), I stopped for a banana and was joined by an
inquisitive bee. I wondered if it was
interested in the fruit, so I sat still, holding the empty peel in my hand. The bee buzzed around then settled on my palm. It took a couple of cautious steps before
performing a little dance with its backside before taking off again. This was the first time I can remember having
seen a bee do a ‘waggledance’ and felt rather privileged.
As
I reached some grassland soon after, inevitably the path vanished in a bog, but
I picked it up again by an unlocked shooting cabin. Inside, out of the wind, it was very
warm. Storm lamps hung on the wall and a
large, Gothic candle dangled in the middle of the room. The path led gently down to farmland and the climate
changed. The clouds had gone, the wind
had dropped and I could get rid of the coat at last.
Entering
the farmyard at Hepple Whitefield, a dog trotted across from the barn. After my surprise the previous day I was a
little wary, but this one was quiet and friendly, happily accepting a pat on
the head. As I continued it jogged along
in front of me. Perhaps it’s escorting
me off the premises, I thought, as it waited by the gate. But no, when I turned down the road it came
along with me. ‘Go home,’ I told
it. Then tried in north-eastern, ‘Gan
yem.’ Neither worked.
Somewhat
further along I climbed over a stile to cut across a field. The dog, having been occupied by sniffing in
the verge, came over to the stile and looked plaintively through the fence at
my retreating figure. Nice try, but I
was glad not to have it following me.
Not for long. As I regained the
road, there it was running round the corner having worked out my shortcut. Now we were on a busier road and the animal
insisted on wandering blithely up the middle.
Cars kept having to slow down while it got out of the way, no doubt
cursing the idiot who couldn’t keep his dog on a lead.
It
followed me all the way up to the village of Hepple and up the track
north. At a farm gate I tossed a stone
to distract it before sneaking through.
The dog paused a moment then skipped through the bars. On we went.
After another gate I sat on big rock to have my lunch (a delicious ham
and pease pudding sandwich from the Greenwell Bakery in Rothbury). Doggy danced around a bit then sat behind me,
its head almost on my shoulder, as a somewhat elderly couple approached from
the other direction. It jumped down to
meet them and they patted and fussed around it.
Quickly I had to explain that it wasn’t mine and that it wouldn’t stop
following me. They said they were from
the next village, Thropton, and didn’t recognise the animal. To my relief and to their surprise, when they
moved off towards Hepple, the dog went after them, clearly deciding that they were
a better option for pats and possibly food.
It was a good 2.5km from where it had joined me. I wonder whether it ever found its way home.
After
Low Farnham, I turned towards the footpath sign but found the gate tied up with
string. Heedless of the ‘Beware of the
bull’ sign, I climbed over. The field
was actually full of bullocks. They were
curious, nervous creatures, flitting up to me then backing off as I growled
warnings. After a couple of advances,
they finally decided I was of no interest, and dashed off to the far side of
the field.
Across
the Coquet again and into Holystone, I had a long trek along roads, slowly
climbing up to Harbottle Common. A bloke
coming the other way had a wreath of bracken wrapped around his head. On greeting him, he lifted his eyes up to his
improvised headgear and just said, ‘Flies.’
He was right, they were back again and buzzing around annoyingly.
My
car was in the car park as hoped and I turned into the plantation. A male family group were wandering down, half
of them wearing camouflage gear. We
weren’t very far from a huge MoD artillery range and the sound of distant
ordnance could be heard from the path.
At
exactly the point I needed to turn further into the wood, there was a sign
saying the path was closed for ‘Forestry Operations’. I tried further up and found the same sign,
then further again to be told there was no way through. That was it for my possible alternatives, so
I turned back, ignored the sign and took the original route. I was later than planned, thanks to the
futile diversion, but I found Jill still there, sitting on a tree stump. She had ignored the sign too.
Having
been there a while, Jill had scouted out where we needed to be, which was off
the path we were on. Instead it took
some scrambling up and down muddy banks, tripping over roots and ducking under
branches to find ourselves suddenly in a clearing with a big sandstone cliff
and a small waterfall in front of us.
The poem captured the tricky journey precisely and began, ‘Step out of
the known world.’ It spoke about the
‘tropical ferns’, the moss, the crags, the trees and the lanky grass. Of the waterfall, it described the pool as an
‘illicit still’ where ‘thoughts drip into the mind’s cask’.
Walking
back, it made sense for me to stay with Jill and return to the car. We still continued to the Rose and Thistle at
Alwinton, as had been my original plan, before heading back to Rothbury. In the evening we went up to the Old Turk’s
Head, which was very busy, before ending the night in the Narrow Nick micropub.
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