Signs of spring
Mar. 1st, 2009 08:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shewhomustThe weather has been milder this last week, and we seriously considered taking sandwiches with us on today's walk; but in the end we decided we would walk to the Traveller's Rest at Witton Gilbert, and have lunch there. A particularly satisfying feature of this walk is that it starts with me walking out of our back door, and ends, nine miles later (hey, how did that happen? it was an eight-mile walk when I agreed to it, but there it is on the map, clear as clear, nine miles) with me walking back in through the front door.
Out of the city through Flass Vale, the wedge of woodland that comes down into the centre of Durham, then out into farm land past Beaurepaire, the ruins of the bishop's summer retreat. We could have carried on to the Browney and followed the river, but instead turned across the lane, past the little pond and uphill, and uphill. Then across the road, and uphill again, to the trig point. There's a rickety bench at the top, and we sat there to catch our breath, and noticed how freshly ploughed the field at the top was looking. And as we set off again, there seemed to be an awful lot of tractors about - yes, we had wandered into the middle of the Young Farmers' Ploughing Competition.
When we had extracted all the enjoyment we could from a field of tractors, some of them quite old, many of them unexpectedly brightly coloured, and one of them huge, modern and filled with balloons (guess the weight of the tractor; guess how many balloons...) we carried on down the hill into Witton Gilbert. I was ready for lunch, and even more ready to sit down for a bit, and sample the guest ales and see which one I preferred (the Pride of Pendle). The pub was busy, but not packed, bustling and not quite coping - but as a stop where we needed one, it was fine.
After lunch we made the wrong choice of route out of Witton Gilbert, and spent longer walking along the bypass than we should have, then across a field full of horses, over the Browney - while we were on the bridge, a bird zipped underneath it: swallow sized, swallow blue, swallow speedy, but surely not yet? Up onto the railway walk, following the other side of the valley and looking back to the route we had followed on the way out. We left the railway, walked through the farm, along the Browney through Baxter Wood, across the main road and home.
Out of the city through Flass Vale, the wedge of woodland that comes down into the centre of Durham, then out into farm land past Beaurepaire, the ruins of the bishop's summer retreat. We could have carried on to the Browney and followed the river, but instead turned across the lane, past the little pond and uphill, and uphill. Then across the road, and uphill again, to the trig point. There's a rickety bench at the top, and we sat there to catch our breath, and noticed how freshly ploughed the field at the top was looking. And as we set off again, there seemed to be an awful lot of tractors about - yes, we had wandered into the middle of the Young Farmers' Ploughing Competition.
When we had extracted all the enjoyment we could from a field of tractors, some of them quite old, many of them unexpectedly brightly coloured, and one of them huge, modern and filled with balloons (guess the weight of the tractor; guess how many balloons...) we carried on down the hill into Witton Gilbert. I was ready for lunch, and even more ready to sit down for a bit, and sample the guest ales and see which one I preferred (the Pride of Pendle). The pub was busy, but not packed, bustling and not quite coping - but as a stop where we needed one, it was fine.
After lunch we made the wrong choice of route out of Witton Gilbert, and spent longer walking along the bypass than we should have, then across a field full of horses, over the Browney - while we were on the bridge, a bird zipped underneath it: swallow sized, swallow blue, swallow speedy, but surely not yet? Up onto the railway walk, following the other side of the valley and looking back to the route we had followed on the way out. We left the railway, walked through the farm, along the Browney through Baxter Wood, across the main road and home.
