Voltarol? I couldn’t even clamber over a croissant.

After the painful ride to Geo’s a restorative cup of tea and then on to TOO’s, which was equally painful (the ride, not the company).  Thinking that I had a day at WVM on Wednesday I slapped Voltarol on both knees, the left, being left, was unionised and believed in the old maxim of one out, all out and had started to ache as well.  Over breakfast on Monday Geo. had mentioned, as 09.00 approached, that he would be in TBS by that time tomorrow and TOO added that he would have been there for an hour and a half already; I don’t think that my observation on it getting towards reveille was that well received.

09.00 Tuesday was indeed reveille, but it was far from leap from bed with joy in my heart; it was an eventual crawl out of bed with curses on my lips and pain in my knees.  As luck would have it Ms. Ringing, the gaulieter of WVM, rang to say that there had been a mistake and I was not needed on the morrow and so my knees had an extra recovery day –  not that it did much good, I had to ring in hors de combat on Thursday.  The good news, for me at least, is that my left knee has given up the sympathy action and is now pain-free and working normally.  I hope the right follows a good example but somehow doubt it.

Whilst in Brecon SBD and I had discussed the fallacy of “shit happens” as one does not know when a negative experience will have a positive longer term effect.  Had I not had to cancel that trip to Deptford I would not have been taking a cup of brunch outside a cafe near base as Amy walked past.  She is another Crisis Drinkers’ (as was) Shelter person, in fact another in the ever growing list of green badgers therefrom.  Something that made the event more interesting is that she lives one station short of where I change from oxo to bus en route to Deptford but have never seen her in that vicinity.  My day was enriched, as I hope hers was.

My cancellation of WVM was the catalyst to seeing a doctor and was lucky to get in on someone else’s cancellation for Friday morning.  He was a spot on chappie – put a finger right on the most tender part; through gritted teeth I congratulated him (although to him it might have sounded like unseemly language).  Interestingly I had thought that I had re-opened the tears in my knee cartilages but the pain wasn’t quite as or where I remembered – which may account for the new damage being in a ligament as against the old cartilage problem.  Having spent the weekend railing against a certain party and his (to me) rather silly habit of taking selfies at the drop of a hat – and insisting on including everyone else in the group I did ponder about this one

but eventually thought that, purely in the name of medical science (ok, and an unrepentant and obvious attempt to gain sympathy) this one was justified.

The professional medical advice was ‘slap a load of Voltarol on it four times per diem’ – which , apart from the regularity, was exactly what I had been doing; I wonder if I was a doctor of medicine in a previous incarnation.  Interestingly, the doctor suggested as much exercise as I could manage to assist blood flow; I had thought that rest was meant to be good.

Having overcome my aversion to the lackeys to the Great Satans of the pharmaceutical industry I seem to be on an I love Doctors roll – Saturday was my date with the anti-flu campaign.  It is bad enough hobbling about with a walking stick, but joining the danse macabre of the death’s door brigade…  I even got to the surgery only just as the doors opened and the great grey wave surged forward.  A couple of frail old codgers went so far as to offer me a seat!  Just like TOMA, how the mighty are fallen.

The annual flu injection ritual is an allegedly necessary event which this year had an added, intriguing, twist.  I don’t know how the order of treatment is decided; despite not being first in the queue I was the first invited in – and was immediately on my guard.  The very pleasant Geordie sounding woman invited me to sit but acquiesced to my standing when I explained my mobility problem – and then she asked my age!  Apparently this year there are two different cocktails of chemicals – why, I asked?  Is this the dastardly Tory govt.’s last ditch attempt to make a sustainable NHS; cull the wrinklies?  If it wasn’t that Toryism is a dieing political philosophy, supported mainly by the aged angry I would have been severely worried but surely even their strategists wouldn’t deliberately kill off their few and diminishing private supporters….. would they?  Even the Geordie stabber seemed a little unsure of how to answer.

There being litle newsworthy and definitely nothing photogenic in the mitherings of an invalid, this will be a truncated broadcast.  Two words of advice: don’t damage ligaments, it a painful and futile exercise but do buy shares in Voltarol, I fear recovery is going to be a long and boring process.

 

 

When tongue-tied, Vince, send a cable.

Quite what Vince Cable meant by ‘erotic spasm’ – even if it hadn’t come out as exotic sprezzm or whatever – I don’t know but it may have been something similar to my emotions on Monday evening.  Oh the joy; oh the rapture; to be able to say to the day-by-day staff, “see you tomorrow.”  It made up for all the pain of setting an alarm clock for consecutive mornings.  Blessed are those of simple pleasures, for they shall be easily amused.

White Van Man is undergoing some changes and so the various routes being reformed, with some old member NGOs leaving and others joining the scheme, thus I can  no longer just whizz round as I used to but need recourse to an A-Z .  With a lovely vanboy, who is a cross between corporate volunteer and long term one, we had good conversation, fun and a quick run around inner east London, an area packed with history and an old stamping ground of mine at various stages in my different incarnations.

No Second Night Out is an NGO in which I believe ‘Bozo’ Johnson had a hand when mayor of London.  Much though I would like to I cannot apportion blame to him for the humorous situation of arriving at their site in Hackney and seeing that the delivery instructions were for another site – in Chelsea.  Unlike Pentwyn Farm (ibid) I was at the correct one this time!

Perhaps energised by my quick enough on the flat, failing sadly on even gentle inclines realisation, I walked from the depot to the station rather than catch a bus (they are quite heavy, after all).  With the treat of a need to visit Stanford’s book shop and after my post WVM trip to Covent Garden of a week past I de-trained at Westminster and walked through the, fortunately shorn of, tourist trap area.  The couple of bits needed for Snowdonia with a Grumpy Chums quorum were easily bought but escaping the lure of all those wonderful tavel books and guides was harder than an old sailorman evading the clutches of a shoal of beguiling mermaids.  Eventually, freeing myself from their clutches, I continued my better foot than public transport policy and trotted all the way to Euston Square.

Stanfords is a privately owned shop but has the current trend of bookshop cum cafe – and they even have a resident mouse.  The wee rodent came scouting his/her dinner and me having my NVQ level 2 Food Hygiene certificate reported my sighting to the cafe worker; she was not surprised when I mentioned furry face’s presence.  I hope that the shop uses non-lethal measures despite my previous less than outstanding success with humane traps.  On one occasion a mouse was back in situ before me after I had evicted it, the wee scunner.

My whingeing about the ludicrous waste of time, diesel and money driving around the inner ring road on a futile mission last week brought dividends and on Tuesday Deborah (who is nothing like a zeb-or-a despite Marc Bolan’s best efforts) and I were back at base respectably early.  I had enough time and inclination to walk instead of ride again; this is becoming habit-forming, as the novice monk said.  With all the prating about Theresa May in Salzburg and the Sound of Music lookalikes (well her father was a clergyman, apparently) I wonder if a subliminal message has crept in…

Another weekend, another hilly area; the Grumpy Chums seem to be learning sound sense – the weekend started on Thursday!  It was dreech and drear and I offered Geo the radio operator’s seat, so took a wee nap – which lasted for almost the first half of the journey.  Whilst Gwillam has retired son of Gwillam has not changed much; it was quite nostalgic – we were in the same bothy as for Geo’s stag weekend.  The new owners of the Bryn Tyrch have shown less good sense; what was once a nice, outdoor persons’ homely pub is now a gastropub.  At least the Tyn-Y-Coed has filled the breach and is within walking distance, albeit a tad further.

Friday dawned dreech and drear also, but apparently less so than in the south of England, so we decided on a dander up Moel Siabod.  Reaching the tarn at roughly half way and being well drenched Geo. suggested a tactical withdrawal to the Tyn-Y-Coed for coffee and back to the bothy for lunch, a move welcomed by TOO and myself.

It was only on turning about that we realised we had caught the Moel Siabod rush hour!  However, the change of direction did give us time to explore the tarn and its environs a bit more:

The mere just below the tarn has had the hand of man, with cement-filled sacks making the weir – and to the side megaliths (although in this case they were more miniliths than mega ones):

 

and Geo’s head just sticking up above the parapet, which would no doubt have earned him a ticking off in a previous existence.  On the way down I was just having a meditative moment and thinking of the rainbow by Pentwyn Farm when, low and behold, not a maiden singing in the valley below but another rainbow.  Try as I might (and much against my beliefs about mucking about with photos) I could not get the thing any brighter.

Post sarnies and coffee in unbridled luxury (at least by comparison with the other days and venues) we drove up the A5 to Cwm Ogwen and scouted the other two’s route for Saturday, it having been passed (almost) nem con that they would have a day without the old fogey and I would do my own thing.

As it turned out Saturday was not an unbridled success from my point of view.  Having dropped them off I went back to Betwys-Y-Coed and refuelled the car (and took advantage of the trip to buy The i for its assorted puzzles), then thought a quick shower would be a good idea – but couldn’t find where Geo. had hidden the key.  Instead I went back to Cwm Ogwen and toddled arounf the llyn but realised that I had no phone signal, so dropped back down to the cafe.

On Friday we had walked up this crack to get to the lake, On Saturday I went round the back and returned this way – but it looked like this:

Geo. likes leading, in much the same way that he likes scrambling; to him a walk in the hills is on par with a walk round a shopping centre if there isn’t at least one part where the path is within touching distance of one’s hands without stooping.  Thus our Friday recce took us above the lake and gave this view:

Having returned to the cafe I realised that I still had no signal and that the car was hidden from view re finding the spot on the road.  Thus I was stuck by the cafe, my situation being only slightly ameliorated by having the travel toys, until they returned from their frolics.  At least I completed all but two clues even though I got rather colder than I would have liked in the interim.

Our route for Sunday included a fairly long and steady climb to a water channel, then a stroll along beside it (and over several styles) until another long, steady gain in altitude.  With high and gusty winds forecast for the afternoon we headed down from a saddle and rejoined the steep road (after another bit of scrambling, naturally).

But not before we had some dramatic views across the valley, including the peaks of Tryfan swathed in clouds and one of a hail shower slowly making its way along the valley.  For once the hail left us alone but gave us a beautiful and dramatic view.

As we had previously explored and liked Cafi Moel Siabod we drove there, breakfasted and then headed south on Monday morning.  The tears to the cartilages in my right knee had reopened and so the drive down was less than comfortable but at least I managed to collect the camper from outside TOO’s house.  It was fortunate that TOO had suggested driving to the cafe before my pathetic, limping act required just that kindness; at least I didn’t feel such a lightweight.

 

Brecon bedfast, not a guest house in South Wales.

Geo. had kindly printed big, coloured copies of his maps of the Brecon Beacons, so our ‘planning meeting’ for Snowdonia served a double purpose.  To keep them smart and usable I wrapped them carefully in the Evening Standard… which I equally carefully put in a recycling bin at my terminal station.  A resultant flurry of e-mails ensued which ended with a facetious comment from me that would return, like the thief of Baghdad, and steal any shred of respectability I might have left in walking, map reading or IT circles.

Amongst other identifying details Geo. had included the post code of Pentwyn Farm, where The Grumpy Chums had stayed some time previously.  Pentwyn Farm in that area is as common as red and white scarves at The Emirates and old, I eschew these new-fangled fripparies, me had arranged an RV with SBD at the first services after the Severn Bridge.  She, sweet young thing that she is, uses her phone as I might use a guide dog.  Accordingly, when I finally arrived (some 90 minutes after her – POETS’ day traffic had conspired against me) and given her some details,  I followed her… to a Pentwyn Farm which bore no resemblance to the one I had visited previously.  The rat had been smelt en route but discretion had been the better part of valour.  Being in a mountainous (by UK standards) area the phone signal was not at all powerful so we adjourned to Brecon and had a bite to eat whilst checking our (my) error and sending a text to the farmer to say that we had been delayed.  To my vast enjoyment and entertainment, while we were eating I received several texts from the farmer ordering fish and chips, then additional mushy peas, then apologising for the wrong addressee, twice; technoprattery is contagious!

Purely by coincidence, my sarcastic comment about not needing the post code of the real Pentwyn Farm as I would not be writing was shown up for its cheapness and tawdry nature.  Once SBD had the post code she lead us there as unerringly as an exocet missle; by happenstance, of course…

When I finally spoke to the farmer in the morning I apologised for the cold chips and lack of mushy peas; he had the good grace to laugh.  SBD is currently studying a course in an area where I have studied before so we had a good long blether on Saturday morning.  My cunning forward projection proved its worth – the gas cylinder ran out before even the kettle had boiled but the wee boy scout in me had prepared for all eventualities (and refills are much cheaper in France); a twist of the wrist,a turn of a screw and the water was burbling on the hob – a bit like me beside it.  Eventually we headed for the hills – and she noticed that my giving me blisters boot had a hole in the uppers as well; it really is time for a major investment.  Fortunately, when WVMing with Deborah on Tuesday, I had driven through Covent Garden and noticed a gaggle of outdoorsy shops all in a row, so returned in the evening.  Whilst not finding anything suitable at a good price I did get my feet measured on one of those gauges that I only remember from my sons’ days. not from mine; at least I know what size to look for.

Perhaps due to my several stops ‘to look back and see the scenery’ in less than very far SBD suggested a different, lower level, route and we instead walked beside the River Usk (but I didn’t, I just accepted it as a given).  With the film Zulu being a British Bank Holiday institution I am aware of parts of the South Wales Borderers’ history and Brecon is obviously a military town.  The riverside walk has some connection with the Gurkha regiments attached to the British Army and was a pleasant stroll.  Returning to the town we also visited Brecon Cathedral, where lie the remains of the regimental colours from Islandwana and Rorke’s Drift.  The Michael Caine to the rescue ones are encased in pespex (but I am unsure how many people know that).

My old chum who walked for a day along Hadrian’s Wall with me had commented positively on my level of fitness; he has not seen be hacking and wheezing when a slight incline beckons, like Boxer after the pigs had wrecked him in Animal Farm.  I fear the Grumpy Chums’ quorum may be split when we go to Snowdonia and my altitude exploits, like the speed through Rieux, will remain in my personal record book.

After the ruins of one border region, so to another.  At least this was the castle, the cathedral here is still in working order (I am not sure whether the monks are as well).

and yet another similar big, imposing – and slightly daunting – house.  Was it a fashion, I wonder.

After two sessions of being by borders next weekend will be deep in foreign territory.  I suppose that when there are pesky varmints over them thar hills a degree of defence fashion is sensible.

With a sack of wood available from the farm and one of the farmer’s firepits we were all set for a delightful evening piquenique as the local owls made their presence known and evening fell gently about the campsite.  The cheerful family with three small and energetic children helped make it a lovely time.  That night blew a hooley fit to burst a fat boy’s britches and the now statutory nocturnal meander was through a gentle but persistent har.  The low cloud base and mist of Sunday morning turned into a drizzle that made for a dreech start to the day and so it started even more slowly than Saturday.  There is little more snuggly than a good, warm sleeping bag on a miserable day and there was still much coursework to discuss.  SBD’s tent was definitely an improvement over squeezing two into one in the camper, even if it added to Sunday morning’s out in the drizzle will only make you wet syndrome.

Just like Tate and Lyle’s motto about sweetness coming from strength, from the dreary start to the day came beauty:

Of all the rainbows in all the world it had to be this one; even Sam couldn’t compose a suitable tune.  It was so stunning I had to block the whole lane and take this photo, which wasn’t quite like blocking the M25 near Heathrow, not that that would make any noticable difference.

SBD having a court appointment on Monday had lead me to accept a request from WVM and so, despite the respondent changing his/her mind and thus the star witness not being needed, I had to return to TBS and so a weekend’s walking became far less energy-sapping but a pleasant trip around the coffee shops of Brecon.  As a training exercise for next weekend in Snowdonia I fear it was lacking a certain something; alhumdullalah.

The return journey was far less busy on the roads although the migrant workers returning from the townships did cause one or two bottle necks, despite which I had time to stop off to catch up with Jolly Jonny Jeff and was updated on his life and travails.  At least I was back in time to empt the camper of the damp kit and perishable foodstuff.

The lass of Richmond ‘ill? No, she was fine.

Apparently a pattern needs a minimum of three repetitioins to qualify, so my second visit to Richmond, North Yorkshire, has not become a tradition.  Ellen Eyewater, my little pirate queen, had thought an itinarary with a bit more than last time walking; on my first visit my boots had rendered me hors de marchons.  That had also been after a dander along Hadrian’s northern border, back in May, and left me hobbling with ricked – and wrecked – ankles and blistered feet.

Her very large and very ancient Alsation dog is not up to stomping, yomping or much beyond a gentle amble.  Hence Saturday was a gentle stroll around a derelict abbey and a defunct railway station with him in tow.  As we took part in a pub quiz on Sunday with her social group we would have got the, “what is the similarity between Henry The Eighth and Dr. Beeching?” answer; it was a shame the question wasn’t asked.

The abbey remains a relic from the past

but the station has been resurrected as a vibrant community centre.  Power to The Fat Controller!

Despite the proximity of Richmond to Catterick Garrison the town seems to have avoided the ‘wild west’ atmosphere of many such places (why did Aldershot spring to mind, I wonder, and I once spent a night akin to an anthropolgical field trip sleeping on a park bench in Plymouth, where the provost shore patrol seemed to think that they were Provos, attacking anyone who might have been connected to the British military machine.  But then, seeing how our matelots have been enriching USian cultural life just recently perhaps they have a point to make).  Considering how close Richmond is to the badlands of the border country it is quite genteel but the folly built to celebrate the last great English away win and called Culloden in honour of ‘Butcher’ Cumberland’s result and resultant excesses still stands:

as does the grand country house in whose grounds it was built:

After traipsing up hill and down dale following the wall it was such a pleasant change to traipse up hill and down dale following a non-wall path that we did it again on Sunday, but this time a bit further and a bit more energetic as the Venerable Woof did not accompany us.

As seems de rigeur when walking in these parts, we passed another decomissioned religious place, this time now used as an outdoor centre.

By far the most interesting object on the walk had to be this testament to the hardy people of the north east –

I am aware that Geordie people consider going outdoors in the depth of winter in anything warmer than a thin cotton shirt or dress is only for southern softies but this does seem to be taking au naturel a tad far.  The Northern ridiculing of Southern Softies was a misnomer at Leeds festival, where those objects of unbridled masculinity would arrive and make a dash for the Oxfam tent where they would buy second hand wedding dresses in which they would stroll about all weekend…  Masculinity, it would seem, is culturally specific – like so much else in life.

What with a long drive on Monday as well as starting out even earlier than silly o’clock I was happy enough to meet Geo. for a (very stupidly named) planning meeting but going on to RV with TOO and RtBoM would have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.  In older age comes greater wisdom (supposedly).

Ms. Ringing, of WVM, had requested my early attendance on Tuesday and I managed to comply.  My contention that time given to charity is easier accounted than money was born out.  With Deborah (I so nearly started singing the T. Rex song which rhymes her name with a zebra), a new regular volunteer, we fought through heavy traffic but still reached the penultimate delivery with 45 minutes before we could deliver the last consignment (a mere five minutes away).  Thus we rang both base and the venue for a collection to be told that we were needed to go there – from Islington to Paddington.  Rather than sit for 3/4 of an hour we shot across… to find that there was nothing to be collected.  And back, only half an hour after the earliest time; oh the joys of volunteering.  According to current thinking I may be driving that route for the next two Tuesdays; I am sure that improvements can (and will) be made…  Or I won’t be needing a megaphone for the whingeing to be heard far and wide.

Recently I was informed by a close friend that my slowing down over the last couple of years had become evident – when WVM fist moved to Deptford I would walk from station to depot, now I can always find an excuse to catch a bus but only infrequently think that walking is a good idea.  The long week of gallopping (even metaphorically) plus dashing about on first re-entry has taken its toll; letting sleeping logs lie has resulted in more untruths than the House of Commons over ‘Brexit.’

Of the jobs which have not been completed (or even started) was not clearing out the camper.  With ten days, many of which were spent using it as its name implies, and another weekend coming up a good clear out was becoming urgent.  At least my bike is now back where it lives and all of Mattie’s out-of-date beer has been relocated to await ‘disposal’.  SBD, my walking companion for this weekend, will be taking her tent but the cooking facilities in the camper could well be put to good use.  Just in case the weather turns I also managed to change tarpaulin over the stern deck; the old one was beginning to resemble a row of Buddhist prayer flags spreading requests for forgiveness across the four winds.

Mattie being an excellent sounding board for my sicker comments and views on the world I have taken advantage and asked him if being administered Novichok by men from Russian military intelligence was meeting a GRUsome end.  I await his reply with interest, being far too well brought up to even consider using such a line to any other audience.

The watershed is Passed; Pee Po Belly Bum Drawers!

That damned “P” word, why oh why did I even pretend that it has any value?  Phoebe developed a cold, was snuffly, had a disturbed night and was barely fit enough for school.  As it was, her early start became delayed and thus everything was slightly later than we had hoped. Sarah still managed to help me with the logistics and the van was safely stashed at Twice Brewed; a pub, a visitor centre and an hostel just near the end of the next section.

Barbara Castle – the Minister of Transport who initiated the breathalyser in Britain – would be turning in her grave if she was alive today and saw this paean to the driving classes.  Twice Brewed has been the site of a brewery since the days of slaves making the first military road and after a time the landlord watered down the ale but, when accosted by his customers, rebrewed it.  Just up the road is Once Brewed, a hostel which was opened by a titled woman who would only officiate it there was nothing strongert than tea.

Despite the forecast for rain and need to be prompt I bought us coffees at Twice Brewed and then we drove back to Birdoswald fort for my start – and to drink the coffee.  Oddly, the barman would sell me takeaways but not stayins as they were not yet open…  Weather forecasting is a dubious science at the best of time but is generally held to be more accurate as it gets closer to the present; not so on Thursday – the promised rain was only two or three showers despite an ever more glowering, threatening sky.

The method of forecasting at Twice Brewed appears to be a step up to the Meteorological Office with their computers and high specification technology.

At least it is accurate.

Prepared routes are prone to changes and this one is no exception.  The first major deviation after Birdoswald is currently at Gilsland, where a quick shimmy is required to follow the path.  At first I went left but it didn’t look good so I returned – and there, slightly beyond the turn was a sign saying path closed and a map taking me back further than I had at first gone.  Every silver lining has a cloud and the cloud was small but the lining sparkling silver:

Meg’s ha’ was, according to Sir Walter Scott, a hive of dubious activity and hang-out for those of less than unblemished character.  Now a community centre and cafe there are those who would aver that it had resumed it’s old mantle for the short while it took me to eat a very sticky bun and drink a dish of tea.

Towards the end of the detour I stopped to allow what appeared to be a shepherd training his dog to send his flock of sheep into the next field.  He had been in the cafe and we had a pleasant chat about all and sundry, although sun dry was not in the forecast.  Shortly after I met a fellow who, it transpired, was from Australia so another lengthy blether ensued – and still the rain held off.  Whilst I enjoy being able to set my own pace my walking style, akin to a dog out sniffing at every lamp post, may just inhibit my progress a teensy bit.

What with my dandering and the habit local farmers have of leaving skittish cows with their offspring in fields crossed by the path, while my trust was coloured by the previous day’s experience, I was falling a bit behind time.  Added to that was the dressing up in wetties each time it rained and the undressing as the rain ceased and the wearing became unpleasant; that time is a social construct was becoming ever more a philosophical discussion for another occasion.

Cock o’ the nor’ was less confrontational than the leary cows, which saved me a Gunfight At The O.K. Corral moment.  But it was a close run thing.

The highest point of the walk and the watershed are not necessarily synonymous but both occur on this section.  The BBC watershed for swearing, sex and violence being 21.00 I was happily in advance of that (but still, in true Sam Goldwyn style, didn’t let that ruin a good idea with the title).  Downhill from here was another philosophical debate for another occasion (despite Newcastle-On-Tyne being being my ultimate destination [albeit also for another occasion]).

The landscape shows why and how easy it was to lose oneself in the moment.

The scarp slope in itself would have been a fairly formidable obstacle but with soldiers and their defences atop must have made it an almost insurmountable barrier.  At least, that’s what military orthodoxy believed until Moshe Dayan had tractors push tanks up the Golan Heights – it’s a good job he wasn’t Moshe McDayan!

One wild camper had found a suitably discreet spot to pitch his (or her) camp!  The tent was only visible from a few small steps along the route.

As the weather fronts lazily drifted over I played put on the wetties, take off the wetties until I was bored and the evening light was starting to fade.  With only a short distance to go to the road before the next headland I was faced with a decision.

.

To go over it and possibly miss the kitchen closing at Twice Brewed or to head down to the road…

The footpath down split from the road and passed The Bogle Hole and, whilst not being too superstitious (touch wood) I seemed to have stirred up the mischievous sprite.  Once past his  (how do bogles, boggets and other negative spirits exist without females to faciliate procreation?) hole the idea went to hell in a hand cart.  A signpost pointed me through yet another field of over imaginative and fairly beefy young mums with their equally beeft babies.  I clambered over a barbed wire topped fence to an overgrown path betwixt wall and fence until the end – where a barbed wire topped fence lead to a gate between that field and the next.  Having limbo danced between dry stone wall and barbed wire, to the amazement of my not done it for a long time and now much less flexible body, I then had one more fence and a short, steep climb to the road.  I arrived in the bar at 7.40pm, long before the kitchen closed; fortunately.

Twice Brewed not only allows customers to park for a mere £5 per day bit gives a rebate (conditions apply)  on bar bills, so post a more than welcome dinner it was a trip to the khazi before heading off to find a suitable layby for the night – and this thought-provoking poster in the gents:

What with lorries and campers hogging many of the laybyes I had to drive back almost to my original hidey-hole but, eventually, on a quiet road far from human habitation…  Peace, tranquility, a can of Wife Beater and a good sleep.

 

 

 

 

Ditch the ditch, build a wall.

Stage three of Hadrian’s Wall Footpath commences by a bridge over the River Eden in Carlisle and continues for some 9.5 miles to a village called Newtown.  One of the more annoying aspects of the internet is the order of precedence given to things – there are more than one Newtowns and the one in Cumbria is not the main attraction.  Unless one is specific Newtown somewhere in Wales becomes the hub of the universe.

Dominic and Sarah had an appointment in Carlisle first thing and so I took the camper to the Newtown (Cumbria) end, left it there and was collected by a flounder and taken to our RVP.  Post their arrival and coffee and sticky buns Sarah dropped us at the start and we had a most pleasant dander.  Despite an urban start the route follows the river and goes through a memorial park to the Great War, thus all the way pursues a quite rural setting

The park being a tribute to the fallen it was no surprise for there to be a memorial.  Of the few memorable sights on this section was this folly:

despite its appearance it is actually octagonal; I don’t think I could manage that precision without really trying (which I didn’t).  It is so far inland I don’t think the missing light  will constitute a hazard to shipping.

Although much of the wall was eventually built of stone the western end was originally little more than ditch with earthworks made of the spoils – and precious litle of that remains:

Where Pictish hordes once defied the might of Imperial Rome, and then reivers plied their nefarious deeds now sheep and cattle coexist with the innumerable walkers, desperate to discern more than gentle undulations that were formerly defensive fortifications.  After three stages of little more than earthworks it was good to see proper fortifications.

Of all the remains along the whole route, this is the tallest

and this quite probably in contention for the smallest.

It is possible to have too much of a good thing.  I remember, some years ago on the Greek island of Cos, being amazed at all the old (obviously) bits of Doric-looking columns jut lying around in open areas.  It is a bit like that along Hadrian’s Wall.

Section four (Newtown to Birdoswald Roman Fort) is the first to really get amongst the ruins and remains and does so with a vengeance.  There are footings for towers and the mini-forts which punctuated the wall at frequent intervals.  Most were apparently gateways to allow the soldiers through to attack marauding heathens.

In a couple of places there were notices warning of cows with their offspring and how mothers will often protect their young,  On the first occasion, whilst cows and calves gave me a disdainful look I was slightly alarmed to notice a bull amongst them, slowly lumbering to his hooves.  My retreat was orderly but prompt.

Of greater cause for concern was another field with similar warning where the cows were separated from the heffers by a single strand of barbed wire – and the heffers were in the walkers corridor.  Two quite large cows took some exception and were getting mightily agitated; my retreat was less orderly and possibly slightly more prompt.  Approaching me were two women and a man who all transpired to be North American who, when appraised of the situation, accepted my offer of help to scramble to the safer side of the wall.  They even laughed when I suggested how ironic it would be for them to get trampled by cows whilst in the UK.  (Rawhide was shown on BBC TV during my formative years).

The Haymarket in London is at the end of Piccadilly and along the road there remains a construction that looks like a seat for stiltwalkers; it is, in fact, a resting place for porters carrying hay on their backs to the market.  Being aware of that artefact I was left wondering about this object:

too high for a seat, too low for a porter’s rest.  Perhaps Roman Legionnaires were built to different proportions.

As Sarah had offered to help with the logistics for the day we drove in convoy to Birdoswald to park up the camper.  A notice in the carpark said that it shut with the buildings – and time was pressing, so I checked but could find no locking-up facility.  We then drove back to Newtown for me to continue from where I had finished on Tuesday.  On the last two outings for my walking boots I have developed blisters on my right heel – an affliction from which I have been free with these boots.  In the morning I discovered a likely reason – inside that boot the lining has worn away at just the right (wrong!) height.  As luck would have it, as I went to look for a chemist’s I noticed a vets’ supplier and tried there – and hey presto!  A bandage for big animals, which appeared to be slightly tacky but when applied inside the boot lacked any stick.  No matter, it worked a treat.

Despite the new, improved footwear I dandered and I dawdled, took a few photos, blethered with a few people and enjoyed the warm autumnal sun… and returned to the carpark some forty-five minutes after last orders.  Although I had been offered another night at Dominic and Sarah’s I had visions of sleeping in the camper (metaphorically fags and crisps and beer were available as K rations, fortunately).  Sneaky English Heritage, it was an idle threat; as I approached I saw another car pulling out of the carpark.  I had been right, there was no way of securing it.

The forecast is for a return of the humidity (precipitation) on Thurday but the worst not until mid afternoon.  Hence we have hatched a cunning idea – another convoy straight after Sarah returns from the school run.  With any luck I will be able to dump the van at the finish,  get to the start and complete the walk before the weather arrives… Aye, right..  As my thoughts are to leave the van in the same place whilst walking another section on Friday and then returning for it I fear a damp van.

At 6s and 7s over 3 and 4.

Following the truncated sleep and mewling, puking infants I was glad to disembark and get through border controls quickly.  The Truffle-Major’s wife was awaiting his return and so I showed her my treasure trove of pro-EU stickers; she was far from amused.  He returned from wherever and I teased him; he was far from amused.  This damned issue seems to be dividing kith and kin and straining friendships more than a civil war.

Back at BSB I unloaded and chained the bike, as per usual, to a bridge stanchion – but having stripped off most biking kit was left with nowhere to put the keys (there are no pockets in my leather trousers), which eventually lead to yet another His Numptiness moment.  Pete and Uta’s disentanglement continues apace, to her satisfaction if not his – and there is definitely no if not to it.  She had found some bargain red wine in Tesco and it was their wedding anniversary; I was royally and liberally feasted – in part, I fear, to avoid the emotion of the day.  He is not taking the imminent separation very well at all.

Wednesday was a bimbling day with the supreme joy of meeting up with The Andres.  They had chosen a pub with a moderately common name but disaster was averted by me asking if they meant the one that I knew – which was not it!  By great fortune the one that they had chosen was in an area where I knew a few bits and pieces of less than enthralling interest…  It was also adjacent to the back door of Stanford’s, the bookshop of which dreams are made.  When we parted I found that I could not just ignore it but did manage to escape (some three hours later) without a purchase!  Salvation is indeed on way.

I had offered to do a depot day at White Van Man on Thursday re them having a full complement of drivers for the whole week , then Friday was load up and roar to meet M and N by Coniston Water for his to date longest ever open water swim.  Jason suggested I move the bike as he has been renovating the bridge and had just some stanchion painting left and thereby hung the rub – I couldn’t find the keys.  I had reported their absence in the chandlery when I decided just to check the squiggly connector which keeps them safely attached to my jacket.  Wee scunners that they are, they had managed to sneak back and attach themselves.  When I told Em of their recovery she asked where I had found them but I declined to answer.  I know that I rail against USian incursions but claiming the 5th. Amendment seemd valid in this instance.

N had wanted to not use up too much of her leave and M had decided to see SENGO on his way through, hence I had an RV with N at Crewe railway station c. 16.00.  After a couple of bank type admin jobs I trundled off to be hindered by heavy traffic sooner than I thought, then I turned off the M6 one junction too soon (the road number was correct, just not the junction number).  At least I could refuel at non-motorway prices.  Despite all we met more or less as arranged and continued to the campsite, where he had already arrived, booked in for his swim, and erected their tent.

Perhaps it was having done a day at WVM but I felt that this was a warning to all van drivers to check carefully before reversing:

Spectating at such events is a bit of a misnomer; 550 people in black neoprene babygrows with one of only a couple of different coloured hats (they denote in which group of the staggered start the wearer was allocated) in the water make individual identification somewhat difficult.  Hence N and I went to a pleasant cafe with internet to allow her to send some urgent emails; it was Saturday and I had bought The i, so had a brand new travel toy to alleviate potential boredom.  He outdid his expectations and was less than totally amused at hanging around in the carpark at the finish until we arrived.  Despite that we had a pleasant evening.

I know that the red labelled beer celebrates the town’s local summit but there did seem to be a certain symmetry.  With Coniston Water being the site of Donald Campell’s  demise good taste dictated no sick jokes about Campbell’s Soups and full-bodied ales; I have never been accused of having good taste.

Owing to that unfortunate attempt at the world water speed record the town is awash with memorabilia:

As projected, while N had a training swim on Sunday M and I wandered up the Old Man (the Swallows’ and Amazons’ Kanchenjunga).

To find an alpaca on an Indian mountain tested geography and migration but apparently the South American interchangable wooly thingies with long necks make excellent sheep protectors.  We have both been to the top on various occasions (but forgotten a pertinent detail) so after a thorough soaking – wetties/foullies as a far more accurate description than waterproofs) we abandoned a no-view summit and went for hot chocolate.

How clever are the townies, so much more quick witted than the bucolic locals…  Near the road is a car park which attracts a fee and then a steep climb… to another car park which is free and a third of the way up; only locals and the aware know that.  We had forgotten, damn it (see above).

As the proud custodian of Dominic’s boots, and being oop narth anyway I had decided to continue and walk further along Hadrian’s Wall path.  For some reason I had thought that M and N would be leaving on Monday, so had arranged to stay with Dominic et al on Monday night and walk section 3 with him on Tuesday.  Which is why I pitched up in a layby close to the village on Sunday evening where ends section 3, with a thought to walk section 4 before section 3; at sixes and sevens indeed.

Confounded weather forecast, in many senses, meant that the banned P word would have been damned again.  Monday was so soggy, so dreech that I had a leisurely breakfast, did a leisurely crossword and then found a dhobikhaha before going on to meet Dominic et al.  It being the last day of the school holidays Sarah was busy getting Phoebe geared up so Dominic and I took a wee stroll to his local – purely to be helpful by our absence of course.