News from Nowhere

Once we were settled in our room at the Bird Observatory, we took the sketch map we'd been given (a version of this one), and headed towards the sea: we thought we might just make it to the broch before dinner time. The beach at the south of the island is a crescent of fine white sand, the sea was blue in the sun and the seals bobbed along, keeping pace with us. More seals were sunbathing on the rocks at the end of the bay, where we turned inland. Here we were stymied: the lane ahead was barred, and there were sheep in the meadow, for shearing; June, who was out feeding her alpacas, introduced us to some of her elderly rare breed sheep, and showed us where we could get down to the shore, past the ruined store house with its "window on North Ronaldsay" which had provided the title for a book about the island. From here we could have scrambled round the headland on the stony beach, but we were running out of tie, so we turned back outside the sea dyke past the baby fulmars.

The next day we walked the length of the island, along the road to the lighthouses. There are two, both Stevenson lights of different generations: the red-and-white striped New Light, which was being repainted, and the Old Beacon, Scotland's oldest intact lighthouse, first lit in 1789, which is scaffolded:



We were told that funding had been found for renovation, but that work had ground to a halt because of disagreements about how far the keepers' cottage should be restored: this is what the North Ronaldsay Trust has to say. It's a perfect emblem for the island: a lighthouse, with all that says about safety - of sorts - in stormy seas, its history, the beauty of the building (and even the scaffolding has a certain geometrical elegance), the paradoxical conflicts between the heritage industry and the desire to keep things as they are...

Yes, well. Some word pictures: on the road north, the drystone wall topped a bank. Looking up, I saw above the lush grass and the stone of the wall, white cloud, blue sky and four bonxies wheeling. We approached the Old Beacon through a maze of stone pens, littered with wisps of wool from the recent shearing. There's a café at the New Light, where the staff wear t-shirts with the slogan: "Have you seen the light?" As recommended, we both ordered the mutton pie:



It was delicious, with a filling of mutton, green peas, and - unexpectedly, though it shouldn't have been - mint jelly, adding a lightness and sweetness to the dark and savoury meat.

Back at the Observatory, we were invited to see what birds had been caught in the traps, and watched a linnet being ringed - and weighed, for which purpose it was popped into a film canister: what will they do when there are no more of these to be had?

The next day we walked past the standing stone - unusually, but not uniquely, it has a hole in it:



and peered over the dyke at the black guillemots. Here's the day's mystery object (not the only one of these we saw, but the most pleasingly placed):



We were heading for the old church, where there is an exhibition of material about the island's recent history. I was intrigued by the photograph of Tomima Tulloch, "the only island woman to have been recruited into the armed services (she may have volunteered) in WW1" and a project to photograph everyone on the island. Later, durham_rambler set off on a second attempt to reach the broch, while I lounged about and read my book, and then went out for a much less strenuous stroll = and ended up again on the beach, watching the dunlins scurrying back and forth along the tideline.

We left North Ronaldsay the next morning: there was just time for one last visit to the beach, to say goodbye to the seals - and the seals came to the beach to say goodbye to us. There were also a family of ducks, and a very clear view of the lighthouse on Sanday, and then it was time to leave.

Photos of North Ronaldsay.

The weather forecast for our week on Lindisfarne was for rain; I packed books, writing materials, letters to answer. As it turned out, we had sunshine every day except Friday, the solstice itself (of course) which was grey and slightly - but only slightly - showery. I confess here and now that the prospect of an early morning walk in probably rain to see the sun fail to rise from behind the clouds (allegedly the whole purpose of our stay) failed to lure me out of bed on Friday morning. But I spent much of the rest of the week walking about, from gentle strolls down to the beach to hear the seals singing (I'm sure they were more numerous than in previous years) to more ambitious expeditions.

On Tuesday morning I surveyed the island from two vantage points which hadn't been available on our last visit, the Lookout and Window on wild Lindisfarne (picture set on Flickr by the architects). the Window is a sort of glorified hide handily positioned by the stop for the Castle shuttle bus, very boxy and brutal in stone, but a surprisingle pleasant space to be inside. Here I learned that the old coastguard watchhouse had been opened as a viewpoint, and an agreeable blowy walk along the Heugh took me there. In the afternoon durham_rambler and I went into Berwick to shop: the bookshop, the Green Shop and a supermarket, with a short walk along the river and onto the town walls. Berwick grows on me.

Wednesday was the day for a real walk: we went to St Abb's Head, and walked around the headland: a steep climb up the cliffs, the village of St Abbs emerging from its shelter as we climbed higher, the view of the bays beyond becoming more extensive:



then down to the sea at a little rocky cove and up again to the lighthouse, past some cliffs screaming with birds, bristling with guillemots, and inland back to our starting point along Mire Loch.

A soup and sandwich lunch at the visitor centre - with a big jug of water - revived us enough to visit the Chainbridge Honey Farm, with its extensive collection of bee-related stuff (bee-related postage stamps! china honey pots! a wasps' nest!) and I was strong and did not buy beeswax candles in the shape of puffins (because after all, I could never burn them). A stroll down to the Chain Bridge finished us off.

Thursday's walk was less satisfactory. On a previous visit we had collected leaflets about the villages of Ford and Etal, and walks between them, and liked the sound of a walk along the river Till, returning by the light railway. In practice, too much of the walk was on roads to be truly enjoyable, and even where it followed the river it was less beside than parallel to it. We cut back through the fields and drove to Etal, which gave us time for lunch at the Black Bull before going down past the castle to see the last train of the day come in. Not a dead loss, but disappointing, since it had sounded so promising.

And Friday, of course, was all about wandering around the island wondering where the week had gone...

Sunday's walk was almost identical to this walk from October 2010: walk down past the Derwentcote Steel Furnace and consider the information that this quiet valley was once the centre of the British steel industry (in the early eighteenth century) to the river, then follow the river as far as Ebchester, where we scramble up the muddy valley side to the village and up and up to the railway walk, by which time we are ready for lunch at the Derwent Walk Inn - after which it's a gentle walk along the railway back down to our starting point.

Except that it's never quite the same walk twice. Last time we came this way there was autumn sunshine making the most of the turning foliage; yesterday was mild and dim, and the only flowers I saw were snowdrops, sometimes in great drifts, lovely but monochrome. The very muddy stretch to the first stream had been banked up, but the stile at the far end of it had gone (looked as if the whole fence had come down, and the farmer had replaced the fence but not bothered with the stile); further on, the stretch which had been tricky high above the river was now a good clear path - just as well, since where we had previously stepped over the wire into the garden to avoid falling, a solid fence now protected a large new shed. There are new houses on the skyline above the river at Blackhall Mill (durham_rambler points out that you can't expect County Durham's planning department to take into account their effect on the view, since it's the view from Gateshead).



If this were a painting instead of a photograph, there would be lapwings tumbling in that blank white sky; as it is, I could hear them but not see them. It is such perfect lapwing country, it made me think of ursulav's account of going out in search of a rarity with a serious birder friend, the rarity in question being the northern lapwing. Context is all. I was much more excited to see a dipper, just as we had last time we came this way.

Then the long - long - haul up, the arrival at the pub, lunch and the return along the railway, with its wide views across the valley, where the most difficult bit is dodging the groups of cyclists (and they weren't numerous to be a real problem).

This was all too easy. At the last minute durham_rambler played his joker, and instead of taking the signposted footpath back to the car park, opted for the next turning, signposted as access land, and persevered when the path immediately dissolvede into a tangle of ruts, mud and fallen trees. I should know better than to follow him into these labyrinths - once you lose your path in a forest, you never find it again. Any gap between two trees looks as if it might be a path, a clear track on the ground is probably a water course and a gap between two masses of trees is a firebreak. In this particular piece of woodland there were also low brambles to act as tripwires. Eventually durham_rambler left me communing with a tree, and went off to thrash about and find a path without me complaining in his wake - and eventually he did find, not a path but a way through to the road. and so brought us back to the car. It was a very fine tree, though.

Living up a hill on a street which is not officially a through road, it's easy to feel snowed in: but on Sunday we decided that we could not only get the car down the hill, we'd be able to get it back up again. So we went for a walk on the beach. It seems a waste, when we've had such thick and inviting snowfalls, not to go crunching through the blankets of untrodden snow - but I know my limitations, so we went to Roker. The row of stumps lined up along the edge of the pavement suggests that there had been a storm, but we had sunshine and a brisk wind, and even walked out to the end of the pier (though I wasn't tempted to linger there). A short walk there and back, with fish and chips for lunch at the midpoint, but a welcome outing.

Driving home, we crossed a distinct boundary, just where the sign marked the county border. In Sunderland we saw literally no snow: in County Durham the fields were still white, though green was showing through. The snow was thawing rapidly, and water streamed off the fields and across the road. A couple of times, at the bottom of a dip, we had to ford a substantial pool of water.

Back in the city, the river was high, still within its banks and with visible changes of level at the weirs, a swift moving torrent of iced coffee.

Inspired in part by one of Bob the Bolder's photos, we decided to walk along the Wear to Shincliffe, and to see if J. was free to come out to play. And when we phoned her, she said that actually she already had a lunch date with F., and why didn't we all meet somewhere?

It was a beautiful bright morning, and there were lots of walkers and cyclists along the riverbanks, but the sun was shining and the leaves were all sorts of interesting colours, and the river was sliding along peacefully. At Shincliffe durham_rambler was sure we had time to loop through the woods, and we didn't really, so the walk ended in a rush and a scramble, which always makes me bad-tempered - but lunch at the Seven Stars was agreeable, and the company delightful, so in the end all was well.

And J. gave us a lift home. So it was a very short walk, but a walk nonetheless.

A day walking mostly on beaches, a day of pretty little villages strung along the coast; with the help of the 95 bus we cut a day's walk short enough to have time to look round (which might mean a leisurely lunch in Pittenweem); and that brought us to Crail. durham_rambler was up for the walk into St Andrews (14 miles, described as the toughest part of the route), I really wasn't - but that's why we'd scheduled two nights in Crail. So I had a happy day wandering about in the sun, poking my nose down alleyways and visiting the gallery and bookshop, while the intrepid rambler rambled intrepidly.

Then the following morning - which was yesterday - we closed the gap in our line by walking back to Anstruther, a pleasant four miles in blowy weather. Which also gave us the opportunity to visit the Fisheries Museum (and not only for the soup, although that is recommended). And it was while we were there that the long threatened rain started, and carried on through our evening in St Andrews and overnight: our taxi to the station was driving through floods, and the driver told us she'd found the coast road impassable earlier this morning.

Now on a crowded southbound train through Northumberland, under clear skies but between very wet fields.

We took advantage of our early arrival in Edinburgh to meet in real life someone we'd previously only known online: and here he is! We didn't even leave Waverley Station, but we had a drink and a very interesting conversation about SEO (his speciality), Dorothy Dunnett (he runs her website), Slovenia (which he makes sound very appealing) and more. Then we caught a local train to North Queensferry, over the Forth Bridge, and dragged our suitcases to our hotel, which - like most of the town - is under the Forth Bridge.

We spent our time in North Queensferry wandering around the town, admiring the many views of both bridges, road and rail, taking photographs from interesting angles, dashing out after dinner to photograph the bridge which is floodlit at night. And the fun continued today, as the bridge has been visible for much of our walk, starting with the moment early on when we looked up at the rumbling above us to see the Royal Scotsman crossing onto the bridge (there's something irresistible about trains with names). *This is why durham_rambler thinks this post should be called 'A Wonderful Prospect of Bridges' (he hasn't read Iain Banks' The Bridge).

We've been walking along the Firth of Forth, a fractal line round bays and inlets (not to mention the scrapyards of Inverkeithing), the rail bridge appearing and disappearing, then the road bridge lining up behind it, then Inchcolm Island joined in the dance, and finally as the day brightened, the Edinburgh skyline became more and more distinct. At first we could just make out Arthur's Seat, and Leith beyond, then we thought that perhaps we could identify the castle, and eventually its silhouette was so sharp I wondered how we could ever have doubted it.

The walking is fairly urban: this was a deliberate choice, because it gives us easy walking and plenty of options if the weather is wet, as it still may be - buses and cafés are available. A lot of the paths are tarmaced, which is hard on the feet, and it's clear from the evidence that this is dog-walking territory. On the plus side, there are plenty of seats, and we lunched on one with a view across to Edinburgh and pleasantly shaded by trees, from which a robin emerged to share our sandwiches.

This was the shortest day; ten miles tomorrow!

All the photos of North Queensferry

We decided that our strategy for the Heritage Open Days this year would be to focus on seeing things which weren't normally available, and not to be put off by having to book. It didn't entirely work out that way.

Our strategy was also not to be talked into volunteering at Old Durham Gardens, but we failed completely on that one, and spent Friday afternoon there. We had a few visitors but weren't very busy, and there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than sitting in a walled garden with a good book (Kari Sperring's The Grass King's Concubine, since you ask, a very good book indeed), but I feel like a fraud. I don't know any more about the gardens than visitors can learn from the handout, and there were members of the Friends there gardening who could have kept an eye on things. Said Friends were very grateful to us for fielding visitors so that they could garden, and also prepare for Sunday afternoon when they were planning an ambitious programme of music and refreshments and generally being sociable. It sounded fun, and I was sorry that we'd be missing it (having already spent half a day at the gardens, and wanting to fit in other things which were only on at the weekend).

On Saturday we wanted to visit 7 Pimlico, a private house beautifully restored from medieval origins. This was restricted to three tours of 20 people each on Saturday and Sunday, with no advance booking, but if you turned up for a tour which was oversubscribed, you could book for a later one. We collected slips for the four o' clock tour and went to the old library on Palace Green (which is why we were on the riverbanks). I had hoped to see round the building, but to do this we would have had to book a tour, so we had a look at the exhibitions instead. These were free, for the Open Days, and at that price quite interesting. An exhibition about Bishop Cosin (Restoration bishop of Durham, builder of the library) passed beyond the naturally positive into the sycophantic, to which I inevitably respond by becoming hostile.Best thing in the exhibition, the register of books borrowed from the library in - I think - the 1770s, with crossings out when books were returned.

Back to Pimlico, and the visit was worth waiting for. A little crowded, as the proprietor was being kind and trying to fit in everyone who was waiting, and the house is on a domestic scale, though the present structure takes in what were original outbuildings, and you are at times inside the modern house looking at what was once an external wall, trying to identify the points at which a change in the stonework reveals different stages of building. Plus all the less elevated pleasures of being shown round someone else's house, of course.

Despite which, the high point of the weekend was our visit to the Gaunless Valley on Sunday. We had booked a guided walk on Cockfield Fell, starting from the Visitor Centre where there was an exhibition about Cockfield man Jeremiah Dixon (of Mason-Dixon fame). This, we anticipated, would occupy us for the morning, after which we would consult our list of open properties, find some lunch and visit somewhere else. It didn't happen that way, because what no-one thought to mention when we booked the morning walk was that most of that group were doing a day's tour in a vintage motor coach, and the walk would therefore not return them to the visitor centre, but take them to Cockfield village where they had lunch booked. So we had a longer - and better - walk than we had expected, but we wished we had brought sandwiches.

Cockfield Fell is a patch of open ground, about two miles across, between the village of Cockfield and the river Gaunless; alternatively, it is the largest heritage site in the North of England. Its rough grassland covers circular earthworks which may be iron age, hides the holes of medieval coal mines, conceals the traces of George Dixon (Jeremiah's brother)'s excavation of a canal to carry coal to the sea (he couldn't raise the finance, and then the railways came). We saw the skew bridge that carried the Haggerleazes railway over the Gaunless, and the remains of Thomas Bouch's viaduct which carried the Bishop Auckland and Barnard Castle Line high above them both.



From here it was a short walk over the tramway and past the pigeon sheds to the village. We parted from the group at the church, had a short refreshment break at the pub, and walked back along the river Gaunless (it's a Viking name meaning 'useless', whether because it didn't have the power to drive a mill, wasn't rich in fish or for some other reason) to our starting point.It wasn't a long walk, but there was so much to see that we felt we'd had a day's worth of adventures.

My pictures of Cockfield; There is this place (the Cockfield advertisement); The walk.

Yesterday we walked to Mevagissey along the coast path:



We weren't sure whether we would get all the way, because GirlBear is still recuperating from the thrombosis which had her in hospital before Christmas, and the air was soft and hazy and every now and then almost rainy. But we set off bravely up the path, with plenty of pauses to look back ("This must be the last view of Gorran Haven," and then, over the next ridge, "Oh, look, there's Gorran Haven again!") and to admire all the wild flowers, and occasionally just to catch our breath - and by the time we felt we were really ready for a break, it was lunchtime and we'd reached the Rising Sun in Portmellon.

By the time we'd lunched, and watched the tide rise over the beach, we were ready to walk a little further, so we carried on into Mevagissey, checked out the bookshop (where we bought a map and, I admit, a book or so), the ferry timetable and the coffee shop, where we planned a shorter return route: a long path along the flank of a meadow, then down to a footbridge and another long haul up to the road and back, with a couple of cross-field short cuts, to Gorran Haven. I think on the last downhill stretch I was in a worse state than GirlBear, but we made it home and collapsed for a well-deserved quiet evening of television (Vera, which really seems to have hit its stride: the two episodes I've seen of the second series were both well-paced and gripping).

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