St Cuthbert's Way – Lost and Found

Walking a long distance path requires discipline. One should bring neither too much nor too little - reaching the shops before they shut can be tricky. Reaching any shops at all can be tricky.

Staying in a different hotel/B&B each night means one never unpacking fully - something could be left behind. We utilise packing pouches to make it easy to find what we want in our cases.

So when we arrived on Holy Island for three nights at the Lindisfarne Hotel it was delightful to unpack our clothing into drawers and tuck our cases away. 

In fact, in the chilled island atmosphere I relaxed a little too much. In the morning Nigel said 'Where's the big water bottle?'

And I said 'Where's my hand bag?'

I had left the bottle under a bench overlooking the sea where we had been watching grey seals fishing and eider duck and mergansers bobbing past, and I had left my handbag in the pub where we had dinner. 

Somebody had public-spiritedly disposed of the plastic water bottle, but the handbag was there waiting for me.

It was a luxury to be on Holy Island where people kept my handbag safe for me and even more of a luxury to be staying in one place, meaning we could actually go back to retrieve it.

Below is something I FOUND. On our wall at home is a photo signed by Fenwick Lawson - it shows his extraordinary sculpture (carved from a diseased elm) of St Cuthbert.  We bought the picture early in our married life, when we were both working for Durham University, and fell in love with Lawson's carving. Although it has hung in every home we have had, I had stopped seeing it really. But there, in the grounds of Lindisfarne Priory, was that much loved face again. My heart leapt when I saw the full size cast of Fenwick Lawson's sculpture, conveying as it had done all those years ago in Durham, the presence and gentleness of the saint. Home at last - journey's end for both ourselves and Cuthbert.

We attended services each day at ancient St Mary's or the more modern and Celtic St Cuthbert Centre. All were beautifully led by the hard-working chaplain, Kay, who was also covering for the vicar who was on holiday.

We explored not only the priory, but also the castle, with its Lutyens make-over and Gertrude Jekyll garden.

We saw amazing wildlife - marsh heleborine orchids and dark green fritillary butterflies were common in the dunes, not to mention the ubiquitous bunnies!

We saw fabulous birds including dunlin and ringed plover, and stood for several minutes while a swallow, only two metres away, serenaded us from a fence.

But one thing eluded me - it was the singing of the seals.

I had heard it once, a few years before - I'd been sketching and the rest of the family had gone off to swim on the other side of the island.  I'd heard an eerie wailing sound and followed it, walked across rocks to a tidal island surmounted by the remains of a little chapel, marked with a cross.  From there I could see sandbanks where dozens of seals were resting together and singing to one another 'OOOOOOOOooooooooooo.'

On the current trip we had already seen perhaps hundreds of grey seals but had not experienced the 'singing'. I had begun to wonder if I had dreamt it. Then on our very last morning, on our very last walk, there they were - once more on the same sandbank beyond chapel island, and the uncanny noise was carried to us faintly on the sea breeze. 

How lucky am I to hear seal song not once, but twice.

St Cuthbert's Way – The Pilgrims'Way

It was our last day of walking. Our final destination was Holy Island and it was now within sight. All we had to do was sprint across the A1, dash over the main Edinburgh-London rail line at an unmanned level crossing, then walk three or so miles along a causeway to Holy Island before the tide came in. 

Simples.

Opportunely, low tide was to occur in the morning, giving us plenty of time to get across. 

Nigel and I had both assumed there was only one causeway and that it was the one the cars used. 

But the guidebook indicated an alternative route. We could walk the three miles from shore to Island across a wilderness of sand and mud along a route marked out by poles, with the occasional refuge tower on stilts for those who get caught out by a rising tide. Enough water would remain that we would need to take our shoes and socks off. 

This was called the Pilgrims' Way.

I announced that I would like to go this way.

Nigel however spotted that the car causeway cleared sooner so we could set off half an hour earlier. The footing was firmer and we could stride on with no need to unboot.

We discussed it, and by the end of breakfast, as is not unusual with us, we had exchanged sides. For me, The Pilgrims' Way definitely looked more romantic, but I have a dodgy foot, so walking several miles barefoot was not an option. We should use the car causeway.

We set off down the road which formed the shared start to both routes and were overwhelmed by the press of nose-to-tail traffic on the narrow road. It seems the Holy Island of Lindisfarne has been featured in various TV shows and is now overly popular. It would be no pleasure to walk alongside so much traffic. We would take the Pilgrims' Way but keep our boots on as far as possible.

We followed the course set out by the poles and found ourselves walking on the bed of the sea, in a dreamy flatland of silt and sand. The grass at our feet was sea grass, and the mud was studded with cockle shells (a pilgrim emblem) and ornamented with the celtic interlace of ragworm casts. 

A woman coming in the opposite direction advised using our walking poles to test the depth of the water. In one place it had come up to her calves.

We had gone most of the way before we hit a chnnel deeper than our boots. In a way it was a relief to take them off and finish the walk like a proper pilgrim. Even more of a relief when Nigel kindly carried them for me. 

And finally, there we were on Holy Island, proud to have a little mud between our toes as we strolled on towards the priory where St Cuthbert had been Prior nearly 1,400 years ago. 

Journey's end - Lindisfarne Priory with Amanda and Mary, USA friends we made on the journey.

The end of St Cuthbert's Way was marked by a map on the wall and a set of wheelie bins, just in case we were getting above ourselves.

St Cuthbert's Way –Time machine

Today our walk was to carry us not just through space but through time. Highlights were to include a mysterious cup-and-ring marked stone from the Neolithic or Bronze Age, and St Cuthbert's Cave where, in the ninth century, the monks of Lindisfarne brought St Cuthbert's body to shelter it from Viking raids.

We delayed setting off from Wooler as we were not supposed to check in at our B&B in Fenwick before 4pm. We explored the town and suddenly the view of the low hill beyond brought back to mind  a magical holiday when our children had been much younger. 

Although it was at Easter, snow had fallen deeply and we had trekked out into the hills admiring the way the wind had sculpted the snow, and had made a gigantic anowball which it took all of us to roll along. In the afternoon we had returned to the house and I had painted a watercolour of the low hillside opposite. It was this view that had reawakened the vivid memory.

Before leaving Wooler, we visited the stately Anglican church once more.

 Simultaneously two memories gripped us. I recalled coming here for the Easter service that snowy holiday. Nigel remembered even further back, when his secondary school choir would come each Christmas to sing carols here. 

Before we had ever set off, we had already made our own personal journey through time.

St Cuthbert's Way –The Toughest Day

According to our guidebook and other walkers, the fourth day, between Yetholm and Wooler was the toughest, marching many miles through the hunched hills of the Cheviots. It was also forecast to get warm and sunny later, making walking more tiring.

Motivated to finish before the heat got to us, Nigel and I set off at 8.30 am and absolutely scooted along, barely stopping to check birdsong on Merlin, nor google-lens unfamiliar plants. 

On the two occasions when we found ourselves in a field with a very large  cow with only one udder and a ring through its nose, I moved even faster.

As a result, we were in Wooler by 2.30 pm - an earlier arrival than on any other day. My joints were aching, and we were both tired, but basically, we felt very pleased with ourselves. We had made light of the toughest day.

Until, that is, we sat down in the hotel and switched our phones on. Then we saw that, Nick, our friend of many years had died from the brain tumour which had laid him low. 

In Wooler church, we lit a candle for him. It really had been the toughest day after all.

St Cuthbert's Way - A Perfect Village

As we walked into Morebattle, the well-tended verges were dotted with picturesque flower beds. But by contrast, overhead, a thunderous roar announced the passing of a typhoon jet. 

We were hoping for lunch at the community-owned pub and set off down the main street. 

At once, a woman of similar age to us crossed the road to speak to us: 'Welcome to Morebattle. The women's loos are there. The men's are round there. Are you heading for the community pub? I'm afraid it's shut because it's a Monday. But you can get a lovely cup of coffee at the village shop, and they have a gazebo!'

'The village shop it is, then.'

We passed more flower beds and the quaintly named Teapot Street and Thimble Row, bought a vegan magnum each and consumed them amid the field geraniums and nasturtiums of the community shop's sunny back garden. 

And all would have been perfect if the war plane had not circled back and cleft the sky with thunder once more. Even the most peaceful and friendly village is touched by these troubled times.

St Cuthbert's Way - Swing that bridge

I had thought it a delight to have Pascoe with us on the first two days of our walk, until, that is we came to a plank bridge, high above a river. 

Pascoe was unable to resist causing turbulence. And I was unable to stop myself snapping 'At least wait until I'm off the bridge.'

Luckily there was a second, even longer and higher plank bridge, so when he began rocking it, I had a second chance to show that I am really a good sport after all. It's a shame then that I heard myself growling, 'Just stop it.!'

However, soon Pascoe will return to Edinburgh, and I will miss his boisterous sense of fun. You will be able to spot me lingering midway over a fragile bridge above a raging torrent, looking wistful.

St Cuthbert's Way - Setting out

We've set off on another long distance footpath. In my sixties, with various arthritic joints, I never know if I'll make it. And actually, last time, there's a gap in our walk of the Pembrokeshire coast while my legs took a couple of days to recover. 

So this time I voted for a shorter path - St Cuthbert's Way. It follows the life journey of the gentle and nature loving man who wanted to be a hermit, but was singled out by the depth of his faith and the breadth of his ability to become a prior. What I had failed to take account of was that the route lay through the mighty Cheviot Hills.

Pascoe joined us for the start and we explored the red sandstone ruins of Melrose Abbey with its ornate window tracery. We admired the sculpture of the bagpipe playing pig, and the inscription to the redoubtable mason, John Morrow. We were silent a moment at the spot where Robert the Bruce's heart was buried.

But then it was time to start. And what a start. The map contours were jostling eachother as we made the steep ascent to a saddle between two high hills. My hip was creaking and my mouth was whingeing. But after that harsh climb and descent it got gentler, often tracing the windings of the great river Tweed, accompanied by herons, sand martins and black-headed gulls. 

Like Cuthbert himself, we took time to admire the nature around us, and we saw orchids, bell flowers, butter bur and sneezewort amongst others, and foraged wild cherries raspberries, whitecurrants, bilberries and sweet cicely. 

But all that appreciation slowed us down so in the end we had to dash for the bus (which was to take us from the path to our B&B) and my creaky old hip proved it could do it, today at least.

A Little Diaspora

I haven’t blogged for a couple of months, but in that time, big changes have been afoot. 

I started this blog when I was faced with my children all leaving for university more or less simultaneously. (Pascoe had been at university comparatively nearby but was to travel much further for his PhD).

Right now we are growing accustomed to the fact that Pascoe has made his life in lovely Edinburgh, Perran has been living and working in Brussels for over a year and Carenza has recently departed on prolonged travels across the continent of Africa.

However, knowing we were all about to part for a while, we got together for a week in Cornwall, and met up with my brother and father too.

I believe that the weather was very mixed, but all I can remember is sunshine, spring flowers, taking long walks on the cliffs, and watching the younger generation surfing.

Each time I look back, the distilled memories become more idyllic – something to sustain me until we are together again.

SICILY: Scary animals

Nigel and I were walking in the mountains of the Madonie Park and had several contretemps with farm dogs – I’m not good with big dogs that bark and snarl at me. And that description covered the third set of dogs we met. 

They were not close to a farmyard and

there was no owner about so we ended up pushing our way through thorny brush to get round them.

We also saw half a dozen small black pigs rootling in the under brush. I wasn’t sure

whether or these were wild boar so I googled. No, these were Sicilian black pigs and generally ran away from people.

However, apparently the area was also loaded with wild boar, up to 1.8 metres long which usually ran away, but sometimes turned aggressive.

Advice: ‘Slowly back away.’

‘It’s hard to back away,’ I said to Nigel, ‘When you’ve already fainted from terror.’

Through all my animal panics, Nigel was phlegmatic, tolerant with only a hint of

impatience.

As we neared the car, my mood improved, and in a pathetic fallacy (look it up) the sun came out too.

With the sun came a large number of massive grasshoppers, about 10cm long (Egyptian grasshoppers). If one got close, they launched suddenly into mid-air and rattled their four stiff wings.

‘Look, Nigel, look!’ But he just didn’t seem interested. Unless…

‘Nigel, you’re not scared of them are you?’

‘Let’s just say they can stay over there and I’ll stay over here, and then we will both be

happy.’

Obviously, when I was scared of farm dogs and wild pigs, Nigel was supportive and

helpful, so now that I had discovered his own Achilles’ heel, there was only one way to behave.

That’s exactly right – I taunted him mercilessly.

Well, well, well

Sometimes we are so busy rushing off on tourism expeditions in other places that we fail to explore our own stamping ground.

For eighteen years, I have walked up and down Holywell Hill in St Albans without showing the proper curiosity.

Last weekend, following a Ver Valley Walk leaflet with Trisha and Duncan, I was gobsmacked to discover that the eponymous holy well still exists.

In the incongruous depths of a housing estate, there it was. Now all neatly block paved, first appearances were disappointing. But peering into its depths, there was a magical glimpse of worn brick clothed in harts-tongue fern and emerald moss. Yes, this was old.

At least three legends are associated with the well.

St Alban, Britain’s first Christian martyr in the 3^rd century AD may have gasped for a drink there on his way to be executed higher up the hill. God miraculously brought the well into being to answer Alban’s prayers.

Or it may be that following his execution, his severed head rolled down the hill and came to rest here, and the spring flowed miraculously from the ground in response.

Later, King Uther Pendragon, (father of King Arthur) had a great battle with the Saxons in the ruins of the Roman city of Verulamium and healed his wounds here by bathing them in water from this well.

Or, as the Ver Valley leaflet pointed out, maybe the well was just a feature of an eighteenth century garden which once covered this spot.

Pah! I choose to believe the myths and miracles.

And I resolve to keep an eye open for what else I have missed while living in this historic city for eighteen years.

Try a new thing

At this time of year, part of me wants to stay in and hibernate, but part of me is ready to greet the new year with new adventures, and that is what happened last weekend.

On Friday, walking near local lakes with Carol and Diane I suggested we take a path that was new to us. We did. We gained views of a sunlit lake and got really close up to watch a goldcrest and redpolls foraging among the alders.  However, the end of the path was so flooded it looked more like a river than the nearby river did, and we had to retreat and go round the long way.

Saturday with Nigel, and again we diverted from our usual route, this time to explore an Iron Age settlement surrounded by a massive earthwork known picturesquely as The Devil's Dyke. We marvelled at the scale of the earthen banks, and read aged (and probably erroneous) signs declaring that Julius Caesar had fought there. Then Nigel managed to create a new circular walk from the settlement.  It ended up being a couple of miles longer than the amble we'd planned and we were both a bit weary and hungry by the time we regained our car.

So there are two alternative learnings I could glean from last weekend:-

• Don't try anything new - it'll cause you inconvenience.
• OR Take a chance on a new adventure and see where you end up.

I would say our experiences support both equally, but what I will say is - it felt GREAT to be trying something new.

Cosy Crime Debacle

 

It was very January today, when I went out for my morning walk - grey and spitting with drizzle.

UNTIL I saw on the pavement a short trail of Scrabble tiles.  

Perhaps I had stumbled into the pages of a cosy crime novel - somebody had left me a clue!

If I were to turn them all rightside up, and anagram them mercilessly, they would tell me what my next move should be.  Or perhaps the name of the murderer. 

This grey day was about to become much more exciting.

I stood looking at them.

On the other hand, lying there on the sludgy grey pavement, the grubby tiles were pretty unappealing.

And did I really want to get my hands dirty?

I sighed and started walking again.

Only another two weeks of January left to go.

Photo at top by Clarissa Watson on Unsplash

Second photo by Clare

insufficiently cutthroat

I've been collecting feedback and reviewing Christmas with a view to improving my festive performance for next year.

 There were many strong points but also some areas for improvement. 

I cleverly arranged for none of the family to have flu or Covid over the Christmas. I booked great weather, so our habitual muddy walks were bathed in sunlight. I managed to display just the right degree of fatigue so that everybody helped with the cooking and produced feasts which were not only low in carbon footprint but also delicious. 

On the other hand, I failed to be sufficiently cutthroat. I dopily omitted to secure a supermarket shopping delivery, meaning that Nigel had to trudge to Morrisons.

I left it too late to buy the Christmas Radio Times, forcing family members to scour a variety of newsagents.

Perhaps at least my failing has a use. It will supply my New Year's resolution. 'Be more cutthroat!' This seems a fitting end to the festive season.

A Sliding Doors Moment

 

On Friday, I was out walking with two friends.  It was a five mile country ramble which we know well.

Being women of a certain age, we have noted the most discreet place to visit the bushes should the need arise. On this particular walk, there’s only really one opportunity - where the footpath skirts a wood, there’s a gap in the hedge, and a private path into the wood.  This has provided us with a useful convenience many times in the past. 

On Friday, as we approached the wood, however, there was already something there.  Parked just in front of our gap was a tractor.  Behind the tractor was a substantial trailer. Sitting on hay bales in the trailer were the children of a nursery school, accompanied by an almost equal number of adults.

As we watched, the farmer let down the flap at the back of the trailer and the people climbed down and made their way into the wood, by the very path we would normally take. 

‘They must be doing a nature trail!’

‘Just think though, what if it had happened in the other order?’

‘You mean if we’d got there first?’

‘…and were having a wee when an entire class of children arrived?’

‘Can you imagine? – “Mummy, what’s that lady doing???”’

We concluded that it would have still been an educational experience for them, just in a very different way.

 

 

 

Chuffed

Finally we reached Broadhaven where we were to stop our walk and return home. 

We had to admit that our hike had a couple of gaps in it, but one thing that made our happiness complete was the wildlife.

The Pembrokeshire coast didn't disappoint. The flowers were lush, the insects extraordinary and we even saw on the path (at different times ) a fox cub and an adder.  A very fond memory will be standing on the clifftop watching a seal colony including several playful pups. 

However, my favourite is always the birdlife. There was a nesting colony of guillemots, some fulmar, ravens and kestrels, and a peregrine which glided and then stooped on its prey. All around were stone chats, linnets, larks. 

Best of all, we lost count of the number of choughs. We have come to characterise them as 'fun' birds because of their cocky call 'keeaw' and their playful way of flying.  They are generally out and about in pairs and busily probe the short turf on the cliffs with their long red bills. 

All in all, despite my failure to walk the complete path, we were chuffed.

Chough drawn by me

Wet, wet, wet

On a coast path, you are very exposed to the weather. Even worse, you can see it coming from a long way off, the cliffs whiting out as the rain storm approaches.

And Wales can certainly be damp.

On our Pembrokeshire trip, we had been so lucky with the weather.

But on our penultimate day, our luck ran out. 

The forecast said the vigorous rain would clear in the afternoon. It didn't.

It was like walking thirteen miles beneath a power shower. 

My boots were sloshing and Nigel, walking just behind me reports seeing froth coming out each time I took a step. I maintain that it was caused by the fabric conditioner in my socks. 

When we arrived at the Cambrian inn at Solva the concierge was very nice about mopping up the puddle we left in reception and gave us an industrial roll of blue tissue paper so we could sort ourselves out in our room. 

When we walked on the next day, our gear was still decidedly damp, but it didn't matter - there was only one day left of walking and the sun was shining again.

A not-so-well-deserved break

Last year, when Nigel and I walked the South Downs Way, we met another couple who were undertaking the same walk. They said something which stopped us in our tracks:

'We're not walking tomorrow.  It's our rest day.'

So one could take a rest day. It simply had not occurred to us. 

'We're going to have one of those next time.' 

So this year on the Pembrokeshire coast path, the plan had been to walk for five days, then take a break when we hit St David's. But thanks to my dodgy knees, when we reached St David's we had been walking for only three of those days - did we even deserve a rest day?

However, there was no way I was going to miss out on exploring this legendary tiny city.

The cathedral turned out to be a jewel, built improbably in a hidden hollow. Inside, the splendid ancient architecture was enhanced by thought-provoking contemporary art and poetry, adding to the spirituality of the place. 

It got even better when we explored the massive ruins of the bishop's palace. There weren't too many visitors so Stephen, one of the custodians, gave us a tour. He had supplemented his historical knowledge with a detailed study of the building and showed us details we'd never have spotted, like 'the disappointing staircase' which led only to a cramped garderobe.

After that, in generous sunshine, we walked out to St Non's head and perched on the ruins of a Celtic Chapel. While Nigel read, I painted a watercolour of the sea and a linnet sang to us from a nearby fence post.

So no, maybe we didn't deserve a rest day, but we certainly enjoyed it.

Back on the road

I thought the coastpath walk was over for me. My poor old knees were very painful after 16 miles of distance and 1240 metres of ascent. 

We would do tourism instead.

There are amazing things to see in Pembrokeshire - the wildlife and archaeology are right up my street. Yet all was dimmed for me by a pall of failure -  but for my knees we should have been striding along vertiginous cliffs, looking out for gannets and seals.

We visited Henllys Iron Age reconstructed village and Cilgerran Castle. There was a bit of scrambling about in ruins.

The next day we took a boat trip along the coast of Skomer Island, home to thousands of puffins, guillemots and razorbills. Afterwards, we went for a five-mile hike around a nearby rocky promontory.

That night I said to Nigel, 'Funny thing, but the last two days my knees have been perfectly fine.'

So next morning there we were, back on the coast path again, knees very firmly strapped. 

Because we had already booked our lodgings the logic of the trip meant we carried on not from where we stopped before, but from where we should have been. Meaning that one day we may feel compelled to return and fill in a two day gap near Fishguard. 

But as it is, I'm just happy we got back on the path.

Fun puffins

When my knees let me down and we abandoned our coastal walk, I said to Nigel, 'I remember you telling me about labrador dogs who train to be guide dogs for the blind. Some of them prove unsuitable and appear to live with a sense of failure ever after. Having dropped out of our walk I feel like one of those dogs.'

Nigel scratched his head to think what would cheer me up. 

He booked a boat trip to see the puffins nesting on Skomer Island.

There is nothing more cheering than a puffin. 

Like clockwork bath toys they bobbed in the waves with their clown beaks. Even better was when they flew, each flight so lacking in competence that it looked like it must be the first, their bright red feet stuck out at an ungainly angle, as if longing to land. 

So yes, the puffins made me smile, but even more cheering was the fact that they were part of a healthy colony.

The colony at Skomer is very successful as it is sited in a small no-catch zone where fishing is banned, as advocated by David Attenborough in his recent film, Ocean, and there is plenty for them to eat.

If we had more zones like that, my smile would run from ear to ear! 

With thanks to Graeme for his puffin photo. 

Pembrokeshire Coast Path with knees!

In 2022 we walked Hadrian's Wall. Beforehand I was apprehensive - my various arthritic joints wouldn't hold up. But despite ominous twinges, they did. Same story with the South Downs Way last year. 

So when Nigel planned a large section of the North Pembrokeshire coast path, I grumbled again - the Cassandra of the achey knees.

However, he'd soon booked it, all planned in meticulous detail. We were going, and my knees were coming with us. 

Unfortunately, the first day was going to be the hardest with what the guidebook said would be 14 miles of distance, but turned out more like 16. And moreover was 1240 metres of ascent, and then the same of descent - almost as much as Ben Nevis. 

It was the descent which really did it, and despite knee straps and walking poles and Nigel carrying the day sack, I was limping badly for the last four miles. 

However, once I recover, I'll try again!

Oh dear, we shall just have to be tourists for a couple of days. In scenic Pembrokeshire. What a burden.