Today, we said goodbye to Donna and Paul and their wonderful B&B. We were picked up at nine o’clock by a young man, Andrew, who drove us back to the market place in Belford. Again, we could pick out scenes from the previous day’s walk, but this time accompanied by blue skies, sunshine and shadow.
And Belford looked bright-eyed. It’s a town which rapidly gives way to open country, and we soon found ourselves following the Belford Burn upstream before climbing fairly steeply over meadows, skirting thickets and woodland towards Swinhoe Farm.
It was sunny but very quiet; even the farm seemed deserted. The track from here started to gradually climb once again through woodland with glimpses of water – not the sea this time but bashful lakes. Emerging from the woods, we were on an exposed moorland with no hope of shelter from the rowdy south westerly. This was a complete contrast to the coastal sands and dunes, the sleepy pastures and the vast fields of stubble. This was wild Northumberland – craggy Fawcett Hill to our right, and the moors to our left stretching towards the Cheviot Hills and Scotland. A way marker announced that we had been joined by another long distance path: St. Cuthbert’s Way.
We had promised ourselves a detour at this juncture to digress along St. Cuthbert’s Way across the moor and directly into the south-westerly blasts, slaloming around stoic cows, climbing the Kyloe Hills. On the ridge there was a host of pine trees amidst which was an area fenced off by the National Trust. A stile had a red notice pinned to it: no words, just the image of an open palm, its meaning unequivocal: STOP! There had been some storm damage, I was told, with some trees tumbling. But the stile was unimpeded, and we had made a kilometre detour. I climbed over the stile to St. Cuthbert’s Cave. More of a shelter than a cave; a sandstone prominence held up by a natural pillar. There’s little or no evidence that Cuthbert lived here as a hermit, or that his bones were brought here from Lindisfarne to protect them from pillaging Vikings. But there is a sense of peace, a stillness out of the wind’s reach.
Back at the way marker there was a bench, the first one we had seen all morning. And on it were sat the first two humans we had seen since Andrew the taxi driver! We marvelled at our ability to conjure resentment out of nothing. Our next humans were not long in declaring themselves – as we entered woodland, we met a group of six men whose camaraderie made me think of Lincoln green. They were a little younger than us, hailed from Morpeth, and were out on a circular walk. They seemed glad of the opportunity to talk and indeed there was a great deal of talking at once! From this we distilled that our ultimate goal, Berwick on Tweed, was a magical town full of interest and curiosity.
We were entering serious forest with a canopy just beginning to show its autumn colours through which slivers of sunlight broke. And all around us – tree trunks – mesmerising. The map showed a myriad of paths coursing through a good 2-3 square miles of woodland and we sensed we were only a step or two from getting lost. But hey! We were not only on the Northumberland Coastal Path, we were on the Ways of St. Oswald and St. Cuthbert – a hikers’ super highway! And to be fair, the way marking was excellent; we didn’t even resort to the compass.
On emerging from the woods, it was a short stroll down a lane to Fenwick, our planned end to the day’s walk after a measly 6.3 miles (not including our loop to the cave). The village didn’t look like it could support a pub or eatery. But lo and behold, a coffee shop was open! The Guru had opened in the old village hall. And besides a brew, it offered a tasty snack and an opportunity to get our feet under a table. It was busy – not surprising given the fare and friendly ambience. We were due to stay in Lowick, a village 2 – 3 miles inland from Fenwick, for two nights; the following day was earmarked for a visit to Holy Island. The arrangement was to ‘phone our accommodation when we reached Fenwick and they would come to pick us up. Two days hence would be our final push to Berwick, but the weather forecasters warned of the arrival of Storm Agnes some time after noon on that day. We reasoned that if we could put in a couple of extra miles today whilst the weather was good, and we had been replenished by The Guru, it would improve our prospects of beating Agnes to Berwick on the Wednesday.
No problem. The pick up was arranged – the causeway to Holy Island, only a couple of miles down the Way. It was still sunny as we crossed the A1, climbed up Willow Bank, and descended to the east coast railway line (again using a yellow ‘phone to connect to the local signal box to confirm that we could cross). We were back with the sea! Or rather with mud and sand. At the causeway a handful of walkers keen to reach Holy Island via the sands, a way marked by a straight line of posts, were peering intently to gauge when the tide had receded sufficiently to make a start.
We were picked up by Geordie who whisked us back down the A1 to Fenwick and on to The White Swan at Lowick. Our room was bright and cheerful with windows on opposite walls. Geordie had been keen to let us know that the bar would be opening at 4.30, so we felt obliged to check it out. That evening, we ate at the pub; the dining area seemed somewhat sparse in decor, but was warm and friendly. Suitably replete, we dozed through University Challenge, and although there was no walking on the timetable for the morrow, we were in bed well before ten.
