Easter in the Lake District, and a happy few days staying at a favourite vegetarian B&B between Hawkshead and Tarn Hows. A short drive away is a place I’ve been meaning to visit for years, Wray Castle on Windermere. In the care of the National Trust since 1929 this high Victorian romance of a building was at the centre of a mock baronial estate enjoying extensive lakeside frontage with large boathouses, while inland a farm, church, vicarage were built. The farmland and ancient woodlands also included Blelham Tarn. We set out on foot to link all these places up over some 3.5 miles.

Wray Castle and its estate was built between 1840 and 1860 by a wealthy Liverpool surgeon James Dawson and his heiress wife Margaret as their Lake District retreat. The interior’s grand rooms are now bare but would have once been lavishly decorated and furnished. After the Dawsons had both died the castle was occupied by various owners. In the summer of 1882 the wealthy Potter family from Kensington booked it for the summer, their first visit to the Lake District. The Reverend Hardwicke Rawnsley, the Vicar of Crosthwaite nr. Keswick who also held the living of St Margaret in the estate grounds, befriended the two children, Beatrix and Bertram. Rawnsley encouraged Beatrix to publish her first book, The Tale of Peter Rabbit, in 1902. A key influence on her, and the epitome of ‘muscular Christianity’ the energetic and charismatic Rawnsley was a leading Lakeland conservation campaigner who would go on to be one of the founder members of the National Trust in 1895. The money Beatrix Potter earned from stellar book sales during her lifetime enabled her to buy scores of farms and other property in the Lake district. Left on her death in 1943 to the National Trust, this extraordinary endowment became the core of the organisation’s extensive holdings in the region.

Setting out on the road that got us here we’re glad to leave it and take the dedicated walking/cycle track running parallel in the field. We pause to admire an old metal field, typical of a grand Victorian landed estate like Wray Castle.

We circumvent the tarn, only bordering its shores a little way, wending through open woods with some ancient oaks, past a slew of slates where a wall has been recently broached, before heading uphill on a well worn stony track. Not clear whether the winter’s storms had brought a tree down to smash the wall but, as elsewhere around the country, the land is littered with tree trunks and here, if not blocking paths or roads, are left to lie and decay for nature’s sake.

An iron age sword, a rare discovery in Cumbria, has been unearthed near here. The weapon had been deliberately broken in half, prompting speculation it was part of a burial rite or a ceremony by a chieftain to claim an area of land. Looking back on the mirrored waters we see a scientific measuring station floating on it, maintained by the Institute of Freshwater Ecology whose HQ lies on nearby Windermere at Far Sawrey. (It was previously housed in Wray Castle).

A traditional slate barn, dark and dominant, tops the hill we climb. By the hedge in a field we pass a new born lamb takes its first hesitant steps whilst the mother, trailing after birth, carries on grazing. We pass the curious ghostly remnant of a tree, fissured and blanched bark splayed like an animal hide.

We passed round a farm complex and cottages, walking downhill through pastures by a little stream and woods, where the National Trust’s estate husbandry was clear to see. Hedges thick set, high and well fenced, on a three year cutting regime (not annual) with a healthy mix of ash, hazel, blackthorn, hawthorn, holly etc. These hedges fulfill their primary function as stock boundaries while providing high conservation value as linear woodlands, a haven for a multitude of wildlife.  It also acts as a retentive barrier against flooding and preserves the stream’s banks.

Large slabs of slate used as gateposts or hedges are traditional sights in a classic Lake District landscape. Delighted then to pass through a slate and wood style more turnstyle in appearance than step over style, complete with slide door for dogs.

Elsewhere there are giveaway signs that the oldest field gateposts are the ones with holes for sliding wooden crossbars that, in pre-mechanised times, were the norm in these parts.

The last stage of out ramble took us down a stony lane through mixed woodlands and pastureland to the Windermere shore line below the castle where we merged with lots of folk out for the day enjoying the Easter sun and the green open spaces on the long lake shore. The core purpose of the National Trust exemplified in opening to one and all what was once only available to the fortunate wealthy few.

The estate built vicarage is now a private home and a very smart one at that. Unlike the Victorian church of St Margaret just up the lane. Still owned by the Church of England and not the Trust it is now redundant, closed to the public on safety grounds. It stands forlorn and without purpose, though the cawing rooks nesting in the silent tower where bells no longer toll, call it home. I’m sure the Reverend Rawnsley would be saddened by the demise of his old seat but at least the spirit of the man lives on in his outstanding work to better the lot of humanity and making access to the countryside possible for countless generations to come. A legacy this delightful route through parkland and pasture bears witness to.

Footnote: Back in the late 1980’s I played Canon Rawnsley in an interactive site specific educational project for junior schools around Townend Farmhouse, Troutbeck. The Young National Trust Theatre Company I was part of at the time devised and performed these projects nationally – blending drama, music, roleplay and performance – for the National Trust in its properties nationally, sponsored by major blue chip companies and the Esmee Fairbairn Trust. Playing Beatrix Potter in this particular project was Roberta Kerr, my old friend and colleague from Theatre-in-Education days.

I walked the length of the Elmes, and with great pleasure saw some gallant ladies and people come with their bottles, and basket, and chairs, and form,to sup under the trees, by the water-side, which was mighty pleasant. Saumel Pepys, 26 May 1667

Kim & I took the train to London a month ago, for a long delayed catch up with family. So wrapped up have I been since returning home, mainly due to getting the latest project together and out on the road, that I’ve only got round to recording these notes now.

I remember seeing a BBC Springwatch programme a few years ago, strands of which were set at the London Wetlands Centre, where foxes were filmed swimming across to raid the nests of wading birds on islands. What a fascinating place I thought, a preserve of nature rich countryside at the heart of the capital. Really must go there sometime. With a daughter and family living in Richmond and a brown & white heritage sign at the end of the street pointing towards the LWC…What were we waiting for? The suggestion to visit with the grandchildren (aged 6 and 4) was excitedly taken up by them and our adventure started when we boarded the little red bus to speed away eastwards down river to Barnes.

A medieval manor and estate occupied the Barnes peninsula, formed by a tight turn of the Thames, which belonged for centuries to St Paul’s Cathedral. Post reformation, Barn Elms was gifted to spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham by Elizabeth I for services rendered to her royal security. In the 17th & 18th centuries the peninsula drew increasing numbers of wealthy leisure seekers looking to escape the capital on boat outings. In the 1820’s one of my historical heroes William Cobbett farmed experimentally on the site and wrote much of Rural Rides, his celebrated polemical essays, there. The whole nature of the place changed when the Victorians expanded housing and drowned more land to provide the reserves of water that a rapidly expanding metropolis and its soaring population demanded.

The resulting rectangle of waterworks, subdivided in four, was designated a Site of Scientific or Special Interest (SSSI) due to its importance as a feeding ground, sustaining overwintering flocks of ducks and geese. The four interconnected reservoirs were eventually made redundant in the 1990’s when a new ringway main was built, bypassing them. In a bold and controversial move Sir Peter Scott, founder of Wildfowl and Wetland Trust, struck a multi-million pound deal with Thames Water and Berkeley Homes that saw some of the site become luxury housing and the rest  designated a national nature reserve. The resulting intensive rewilding process – part structural, part natural – has proved spectacular and has been the model for projects elsewhere in urban areas.

The LWC’s 105 acres is still managed by the WWT, with a half a dozen public hides, interpretation, education and reception HUBS. It is home to hundreds of species of birds and animals, both residents and seasonal visitors. It was pretty nippy and overcast the day of our visit and their takeaway café dispensing hot drinks was particularly appreciated. The children loved it and their running around and exploration of the myriad of paths, copses, banks, bridges and hedges on site kept them warm enough. A highlight was the lunchtime feeding by one of the staff of the reserve’s resident pair of Asian otters in their large enclosure. Everyone suitably entranced by the lithe movements and playful antics of the pair when seen at close range.

We’d no binoculars unfortunately but still managed to see lots of birds. Many ducks and divers, geese and swans, cormorants, cranes and herons inhabiting shallows, shingle banks or the various kinds of artificial islands created in the former reservoir basins. Much of the concrete was broken up and used as hard core for car parks, paths and reefs. The exposed clay was then molded and planted to form thirty various habitats for animals and birds. Some sections, fitted with sluice gates, are seasonally flooded to simulate wild conditions for some bird species. More than 20 years after opening the remaining man made structures are softened almost beyond recognition with all manner of vegetation, while repurposed banks and bunds were starting to bloom as spring advanced.

Hawthorn, birch, alder and elm much in evidence in the marshy carr section, with fingers of shallow creeks meandering through. The reserve is accessed by flat gravelled paths cleverly make the best of the topography to give an enhanced feeling of space. I particularly liked the contrast of pretty blackthorn blossom and dried stands of reed beds. The reserve is particularly proud to be home to rare and endangered birds like bitterns and water rails – shy species more likely to be heard than seen – but for us the white heads of coots or the red caps of moorhens were the commonest sights in this part of the site.  

The children loved the flurries of mandarin ducks on one of the ponds we encountered while the ring necked parakeets flitting through the trees were more fascinating to me with their flashes of colour and squaking cries.

The latter as an alien species are now a common sight in Greater London and beyond but not one have we come across in the Scottish Borderlands. (At least, not yet) The most acceptable theory is that these tenacious and highly adaptable marauders came through UK ports as mariners’ pets, which then escaped, bred and spread outwards across the interconnected green spaces of suburbia.

We had our picnic lunches in the warmth and comfort of the reserve’s  lofty observation tower whose plate glass windows gave great views over bird world on the water. Its green high banked boundaries give way to blocks of flats, lines of houses, retail and office towers, aerials and chimneys and – somewhere the unseen Thames, fulfilling its curving course – all framing the sweeping vista. We slipped back into the hustle and bustle of the traffic clogged high street as the light faded. What a refreshing and insightful way to experience the joys of nature in the city. Tomorrow’s world today for even more people to discover if we have the will to make such places an integral part of our larger urban landscapes.

There is a host of exhibitions and events taking place in our region this year to mark the 1900 years since Hadrian’s Wall was built – the fortified northern frontier of Rome’s mighty empire. Men of the Roman elite, especially military officers like the ones stationed here, were devotees of the eastern God Mithras, and there are remains of some 100 temples dedicated to this deity, mostly situated near major military sites. Mithraic temples, or Mithraeums, were buildings without windows and the secret rites and rituals inspired by legends of Mithras slaying a bull in a dark cave that were performed there are, by their very nature, largely unknown, leaving much to the imagination. 

If travelling the C18th Military Road (B6318) that runs the course of much of Hadrian’s Wall take time out to park or get off the bus at Brocilitia and stroll down the shallow valley there. The unusually dry hot summer of 1949 exposed the outline of foundations below the former wall fort at Carrawburgh and further digging revealed it to be a mithraeum, operational from around 200-330 AD. Replica concrete altars now replace the originals, housed at the Great North Museum in Newcastle.

Long before Hadrian had his wall built Londinium had rapidly grown rapidly from its foundation to become the principal port and trading centre of the province of Britannia, constantly being rebuilt and extended. Around 240AD a particularly large Mithraeum was erected on the banks of the Walbrook in the heart of what is today the City of London. Due to intensive German bombing a third of buildings in the square mile were destroyed between 1940-45. The remains of the ancient temple were thus unexpectedly exposed and subsequently excavated in the immediate post war period, at the same time as its smaller contemporary counterpart in rural Northumberland was being unearthed. The metropolitan discovery evoked huge public interest amongst war weary Britons and thousands queued to view the remains. Further rich discoveries of artefacts from four hundred years of Roman occupation in the city were made, including a marble frieze (pictured above) and head of Mithras, which proved conclusive evidence for the existence of the temple on that site. (Both now on display in the nearby Museum of London and there are facsimiles in the Bloomberg Mithraeum waiting room).

The Walbrook stream was an open inlet then, a tributary of the Thames, and not culverted, as it is has been since the Georgian era. The Bloomberg development has made possible an interesting water sculpture, commissioned to reflect the hidden London river beneath. I can testify it’s a pleasant spot to sit and ruminate amid the passing noise and bustle of the country’s financial hub

When Bloomberg cleared the immediate post war buildings to set up its  European HQ here a decade ago the US data giant went to great lengths to honour its history. The 3.2 acre site, designed by Lord Norman Foster to sustainably house their 4,000 London based employees, was split in two with a central arcade restoring public access on the line of the old Roman highway of Watling Street, which had originally linked Londinium to Hadrian’s Wall. The fragile remains of the recovered temple were painstakingly reassembled on a site very close to its original location, and at the same depth – some 23 feet – below current ground level.

Access is free, although booking is advisable as numbers are strictly limited. There is a selection of recovered Roman artefacts displayed in the ground floor art gallery, which also has changing exhibitions by international artists inspired by the archaeological remains. https://www.londonmithraeum.com/

Loved my morning here a few weeks ago, on my last trip to London visiting family. Bloomberg’s wealth and cultural reverence has brought this significant building back to life through dramatic use of sight and sound; cleverly evoking one’s imagination and creative abilities to carry the story on, when known facts have registered but can take you no further. And that is quite an achievement. I won’t be able to revisit the Brocolitia site without recalling the Bloomberg Mithraeum experience and I’m grateful for it. The God of both places – with a bit of help from mere mortals – transfers spirit, each to each.

I’ve brought some snowdrops; only just a few/But quite enough to prove the world awake /Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew/ And for the pale sun’s sake. (From:’The Months – A Pageant’ by Christina Rossetti)

Recent triple whammy storm events meant we had to call off a weekend trip to the Derbyshire Dales to visit family and friends. In between those mighty gales a calm sunny Saturday gave us compensation by way of a cross county drive to Howick Hall gardens and its neighbouring stretch of coast.

Howick is a horticultural treat at any time of the year. The Grey family have been in residence since the early 16^th century and the present house dates from 1782. The dynasty were not great art collectors or connoisseurs; the line’s great legacy, shared all year round with the visiting public, are the many acres of gardens and woodlands that surround and shelter their late C18th Palladian mansion.

Earl Grey tea is named for the second earl, (1764-1845) leader of the Whigs who oversaw the passing of the Great Reform Act of 1832 and whose memorial statue atop a pillar famously dominates the centre of Newcastle. What more fitting drink to round off our afternoon visit than that particular beverage, part of a cream tea, enjoyed in the faded elegance of the spacious tearooms overlooking the extensive flower borders. Formerly the grand ballroom this part of the west wing later became a hospital for wounded soldiers during World War One.

The Victorian church of St Michael & All Angels in the grounds houses the impressive marble tomb of the famous statesman. More unusually, as we discovered, works of art hang here too. Not paintings or drawings but a collection of 92 embroidered kneelers stitched by local craftspeople, inspired by images reflecting aspects of life and history on the estate, from family portraits and dramatic events to natural history, farming and horticulture. All skillfully rendered, with a tender touch, evoking the unique spirit of place and continuity.

The extensive grounds rotate their star attractions with each season. The family tradition of gardening and tree planting has resulted in a fine arboretum and impressive woodland garden. The informal and natural style promoted by the 5^th earl, his wife Mabel and daughter Mary from the early to mid 20^th century is still maintained today and it’s a delightful legacy to explore. Great bulb enthusiasts, the drifts of snowdrops they planted have happily spread and hybridised and this was the draw for today’s visit. The little flower loves damp soil in broadleaved woods and everyone appreciates it, seen en masse, as a welcome harbinger of Spring. I love the fact that US soldiers stationed in the British countryside in WW2 were nicknamed ‘Snowdrops’ for their green uniforms and white caps or helmets.

Snowdrop (Galanthus Nivalis) is a bulbous perennial that owes its official name to the Greeks, meaning milkflower, and was also known to them as ‘white violet’. First referenced in England in the late C16th as a garden ornamental it’s not until the late C18th that it’s recorded as growing wild – having escaped its confines in the formal garden and finding the perfect conditions of our climate to its liking.  Early pollinators, like bees, love snowdrops but its main way to spread is by bulb division. The bulbs themselves are poisonous when eaten but have long been used medicinally to treat headaches and nervous system injuries. In our own age a compound extracted from the bulb, galantamine, is used to treat dementia.

Sightings of yellow winter aconite and hellebores in amongst  the swathes of whiteness cheered the eye while the many types of trees imported from all round the world, soaring above us, were a graceful addition to the scene. Bare forms appreciated for their structure, with buds and emerging foliage in places hinting at glories to come. My favourite tree was a multi stemmed yew poised on crutch like branches above the steep slopes of the Howick burn, where yet more leggy snowdrops stretched skywards between dense ground cover of fern, bramble and bushes.

We drove on to the coast, an easy mile away through flat arable fields. Normally one can follow the burn through its wooded dene (valley) curving eastwards to meet the sea but the storms had brought down trees and that path has been temporarily closed. We followed the hard surfaced official English coast path instead, to eventually meet the stream where it debouches into the North sea, under an arched bridge carrying our path. Attention held by the rapid grey-green water of the burn below merging and losing identity within the brown choppy sea water, present here at high tide. Pressed on up the slope to look down towards Sugar Sands at sun set. Need to return another day to visit properly.

Our walk took us past photographers silhouetted on grassy headlands with serious looking kit, a variety of joggers and a clutch of well insulated fishermen by their tripods of resting rods and gear. Struck by stranded strata of eroding low cliffs, isolated from the main. We left the path to return higher up on a rutted field track, pausing as the light faded to take in the playful antics of a trio of hares over bare ploughed land by a low bank from whose cover they emerged and eventually disappeared back into. Another welcome sign of spring, which – we all agree – can’t come soon enough.

Took a short stroll between weekend storms in a near deserted countryside down the dale from our home. Simonburn is an ancient settlement whose parish, up until 1814, claimed to be the largest in England, stretching some 33 miles from the Roman wall right up to the Scottish border.

A glimpse of the grand former rectory off the delightful village green underlines that former status. It was the rows of humble estate cottages that helped single it out in more recent times as a perfect location for a TV mini-series dramatizing the novels of Catherine Cookson. Simonburn has also featured in an episode of ITV’s police drama series, ‘Vera’. The dignified 13^th century church of St Mungo overlooks the Crook burn, whose course we followed for much of our three mile ramble, mainly on single track lanes servicing scattered farms and hamlets.

I was amused by this accidental artwork at an elbow of lane where valley woodland had given way to open high pastureland. Hopefully it really does function well as a reflector in the mist or at night.

We pause to admire a gang of impressive rams with prominent ‘Roman’ noses. These are Bluefaced Leicesters and Kim knows the family who farm here. Their flock produces many fine exemplars of the breed and she was commissioned back in 1984 to record the distinctive profiles of a pair of their prize tups.

Blue faced Leicesters (BFL) originated in the 18^th century near Dishley in Leicestershire, bred by agricultural innovator Robert Bakewell from traditional Leicester Longwool stock. So enthusiastically was this new ‘improved’ breed taken up in Northumberland they quickly became known as Hexham Blueface. Today, when interbred with hardy hill sheep, their prodigy are known as Mules, and remain a common sight on sheep farms across the north.  Although principally kept for meat the wool of BFLs is much sought after by hand spinners who value its curly, fine, soft and lustrous wool clip.

We leave the lane to continuing its way up to Hadrian’s wall at farm road’s end and follow the yellow public footpath signs through its yard, by barns and sheds. As the gate was already open we’d no need to meet the farmer’s challenge!

It proved much more challenging, on leaving that yard, not to tumble down the field’s precipitous slopes, with lateral sheep trods more obvious than the public footpath. This sort of landform is typical hereabouts with fast streams cutting through sandstone gorges where dense woodland survives on land too steep for sheep or cattle to graze. A valley topography with a mix of native broadleaf that’s infilled or supplemented with commercially grown conifer.

A wooden footbridge spans the Crook burn and we ascend the other side past great beeches, oaks and ash marking an ancient banked narrow track just below the delineated footpath we are following. Moss coated and grassed over, it would once have had packhorses and carts passing slowly along its gradient.

Back on the level, we take in fine views across the main river valley as we pass between a cluster of rather fine old farm buildings. Simple elegant farmhouse, old granary with exterior steps, cobbled yard with arched housing for carts etc. Glad to note too a low cut but exceptional wide field hedge, alive with small birds dashing back and forth, A spring runs off here as a rivulet run alongside the pleasant farm lane we follow back to the metalled single lane. A clutch of mature ash trees have been felled here in recent times, sad trunks remaining waist high in the roadside bank. Victims of die-back perhaps? Our little lane drops us back down to the start. We cross the Crook burn once again by a recently repointed stone bridge and banking. It’s solidly built to withstand and channel the most testing of floodwaters, both underneath the high arch as well as draining the steep roadway that descends and rises either side.

Our last few walks have explored the north Tyne at its source and nearby where it enters Kielder Water. Last weekend we travelled some 30+ miles downstream to where the north Tyne meets the South Tyne, just outside Hexham, below Warden. There’s been a hill fort or lookout point on the great hill here for as long as warfare or armed incursion have been part of everyday life; from the Iron Age, if not before, up to the 17^th Century. The name Warden comes from the old English ‘Weard-dun’ meaning watch hill and this broad rural peninsula between the two rivers, roughly triangulated on the north side by the Roman wall and road (Stanegate) is one steeped in history. Our 3.5 mile walk followed well trod paths and clearly marked bridleways. The latter is also part of the Sandstone Way – a long distance cross county cycle route between Berwick & Hexham.

We started and finished at The Boatside Inn. The name a reminder that a ferry once plied its way across the South Tyne here, a half mile before its confluence with the north Tyne. The ferry was eventually superseded by a bridge in 1826, with the current road bridge dating from 1903.

A narrow, fence lined path parallels the railway before joining a broad bridleway that crosses it by former railway workers cottages. With room to breathe again we made the first steep ascent of Warden hill, through stone walled pastureland and alongside mature woodland. The Newcastle-Carlisle was one of the first intercity lines built in England and revolutionised the economy hereabouts. The view up the broad south Tyne valley gives few hints of it today, but from the mid 19^th to mid 20th century quarries and coal mines linked to the (now closed) Fourstones station and sidings would have dominated the scene.

The only major industrial activity remaining today is one that predates the railway, by whose riverside embankment and level crossing it lies. The Fourstones Paper Mill Company, established as the Warden Paper Mill in 1763 by bookseller William Charnley, supplied handmade paper for the burgeoning Newcastle book trade. The old mill was not mechanised as such until the 1860’s and today produces a range of paper products from till rolls and toilet rolls to disposable pads and heavy duty wipes. I love the fact that during the Napoleonic wars the business was commissioned by HM government to produce counterfeit banknotes that would be used to undermine the French economy.

The view absorbed, we switch backed on upwards through the woodland. Being on the south side of the great hill and relatively sheltered the many scots pines here have remained unscathed by Storm Arwen. By contrast, we later witnessed on the northern flank of the hill extensive storm damage to mature beech, oak and pine.  

Did not divert to the summit on this occasion but instead continued with the gently descending track leading into the valley of the north Tyne, through the Warden estate and home farm with its outbuildings, paddocks, tied cottages, walled gardens and parkland. Lots of fallen trees in evidence and later, joining the valley road, saw more felled timber awaiting collection. A small yellow bulldozer and forwarder (trunk carrier) were parked in the ploughed up verges and field tracks. Later research revealed that, out of sight a few hundred yards up the steep slope, is the site of a motte and bailey castle. Just one of many ‘pop-up’ wooden forts built by colonising Normans in the late 11th Century. Like so many others it would eventually be abandoned, but the fact that it maintained the ‘watch hill’ function, here above the meeting of the waters, is significant in itself.

A welcome diversion, when back in the valley bottom, was a visit to the parish church. It has an unadorned interior lifted by fine Victorian leaded glass windows. An ancient holding of nearby Hexham Abbey, St. Michael’s was rebuilt in the mid 18^th century on its original Saxon foundations. The building retains a distinctive late Saxon tower, the remains of a 7^th century cross outside, while in side the porch are housed Roman stonework reused as Christian burial slabs.

An imposing stone and timber neo-gothic lych-gate from 1903, commands the entrance to the churchyard but the features that struck me most were the three graves next to it that still had their metal ‘mortsafes’ intact. In the 18^th & 19^th centuries exhuming freshly buried corpses for medical dissection was not uncommon. To prevent such illegal activity families could take extra precautions like this – usually as a rental from the sexton until the bodies were decomposed – to ensure their late kin really did rest in peace.

You can’t begin a walk from a pub without paying a visit at the end. As we were with friends and their dog we sat with our drinks and food in the big tepee the Boatside had had erected in the garden during lockdown. Another wonderful walk in good company and looking forward to more rambling discoveries.

The new year brings every kind of winter weather. A new circular walk for us in a different part of the forest, on gravelled access roads through dense plantations of mature sitka spruce with clearings fringed by willow, birch, alder & oak. The tracks following the shallow vales of two sikes (streams) both on the way up and on the way back round.

Damage caused by Storm Arwen very marked in places where the lie of the land caused funnelling of those fierce northerly winds. Pole straight conifers felled like skittles taking others down in their wake with some snapped like twigs. With bridleways blocked we’d no option but to stick to the roads.

Attention caught one afternoon by the dot dash flitting passage of a flock of birds filtering through ash and aspen. Their silhouettes pronounce them to be long tailed tits. We rarely see them so close to the house, and if so only briefly in winter as they quarter trees in the garden copses for insects and grubs secreted away by buds, bark and joins. The following afternoon, late, they returned for another forage. I happened to be standing under one of the birch trees so froze as the flight came in to land just over my head, systematically working their tiny needle beaks over the lattice of branches communicating with high whistle calls I’d never normally hear. This glorious brief immersion made a dull day shine. Meanwhile…At the bird feeder a newly hung column of seeds attracts a charm of goldfinches, flashing dabs of yellow and red, to lord it over the rest of the avian gang. Eventually the regular tits, chaffinches and sparrows adjourn to a replenished column of fat balls set up on a nearby tree, and harmony is restored. 

Just over a week into the new year we wake to a snow covered landscape. Southridge loads hay with ring feeder into the front field for their pregnant ewes. An early morning welcome tanker drop with oil for the Aga secures another 1000 + litres in the garden tank. A late afternoon walk in our field and Southridge’s adjoining pasture reveals a trail of a fox in the snow, who has easily scaled stone walls on the way up from the wood in the valley of the burn below. Also the long and short imprints of hare on the crags. The valley wood’s oaks drip where their trunks and branches reach over the field. Returning homeward on the road, the setting sun illumines snow as a sublime beautiful shade of pink.

That time of year again. Seville oranges for marmalade making with a lemon and grapefruit thrown in for good measure. The glittering fall of white sugar added to the boiling mix. A big dollop of treacle changes the colour and adds to the taste. Thankfully setting point arrives early. Final bottling and labelling of the batch.

Always enjoy making bread at home. I favour a 50/50 very strong white, wholemeal mix with black treacle stirred into the yeast, sometimes also adding beer to the tepid water in which it rises.

A clear dry windless day so we get to work pruning two of the hardest to get to apple trees out front. Kim more ruthless than I at this game while I’m left to do the highest branches using the stepladder. Beautiful apple wood cut branches will be used for plant support with lesser cuts fed to the chipper in due course.

A walk in windy weather round a nearby reservoir reveals it at near full capacity; the exact opposite state we found it in on our last visit at the end of summer. To get there and back we pass through a field, poached by a placid herd of handsome black cows. Take in the sweet warm smell of silage drifting over the chill air from their ring feeder.

Dismayed to see the grand old crab apple tree snapped, its forlorn trunk drapped over the woodland fence and a handful of green apples on the bare bough. We’d picked a big basketful of fruit there on that last visit.

The effects of Storm Arwen are still being felt elsewhere too. The Montane Spine Race, now in its tenth year and billed as Britain’s toughest ultra marathon race, passes alongside our garden and field. This gruelling competition takes place over a week and attracts athletes from all over the world to run and walk 268 miles of the Pennine Way National Trail, by day and night, from Edale in the Derbyshire Dales to the Scottish Borders.

As we sit by the firepit on our deck chatting with friends white lights flicker through the undergrowth and another runner passes, headlight seeking out the well trod muddy path leading away into the enveloping night. Earlier, chatting to race marshals parked in the nearest layby I was told that the Forestry Commission had stopped competitors passing through the Kielder Forest leg of the race, due to the danger posed by fallen and unsafe trees. Instead participants were being bused 15 miles from the rest point at Bellingham up to Byrness where they could resume their solo expeditions into the high Cheviots and beyond, to the finish at Kirk Yetholm.. 

Our latest walk took us back to Kielder village, where old friends who know the area well led a short walk full of variety, picking up on the themes of rail and river that dominated my last country diary entry.

The deliciously named Bakethin nature reserve was our start and finish point. Its immediate environs have taken a bit of a battering, post Storm Arwen, with lots of conifers down, blocking some public walks and rides. Perhaps the deciduous trees that have colonised the steep flanks of the former railway embankment here are more wind resistant and better anchored to avoid being dislodged. An avenue of them, their stark lengthy limbs encased with moss, flank the ruler straight old trackbed now reserved for pedestrians and cyclists.

The magnificent structure it leads to is the Kielder viaduct, that carried the former Border Counties Railway (completed 1862) over the north Tyne. By this point, some five miles from its source, the river has attained a wide girth as it merges seamlessly with its vast flooded valley, created in the 1970’s to become the country’s largest man made lake. The viaduct is stone built and graced with a battlemented top and arrow slits to match the architecture of nearby Kielder castle, a contemporary neo-gothic hunting lodge built for the duke of Northumberland which now serves as a visitor centre and café during the tourist season.

Because it crosses the river at an angle the viaduct was erected as a screw arch, which elevates its architectural status even more. Hard to think now that following the closure of the line in 1958 the Forestry Commission wanted to demolish it. A conservation battle ensued and the viaduct was eventually acquired by the Northumberland and Newcastle Society who repaired and renovated it. In recent times illustrative metal panels, inspired by wildlife and designed by local schoolchildren, have been fitted between the battlements, which in turn renders it more secure in the modern age for families to cross.

The way passes on through waterside pastureland. For the last fifteen years or so the commission have been utilising Exmoor ponies, those champion conservation grazers, to naturally manage their non-forested land hereabouts. The current two tenants of the field, out of curiosity or hunger, made their way up to us at the fence. With distinctive mealy coloured snouts and rugged chestnut coats these tenacious, well adapted animals live outdoors all year round in the most testing of conditions and can survive without supplementary feeding. That said, they are clearly used to garnishing titbits from passing pedestrians!

Binoculars reveal the nature reserve’s public bird hide half hidden in the trees on the opposite bank.

Further south are the concrete fixings of the massive movable weir that separates and regulates water flows between Bakethin reservoir and larger Kielder water beyond.

We’ve now reached the point where the descending trackbed slides gradually out of sight under the water’s surface. Like the river it parallels, the old line will not appear again for another ten miles or so, emerging in the shadow of the great dam down at Yarrowmoor. Drowned farms, cottages and the station at Plashetts lie somewhere out there under that grey expressionless expanse of water.

The return leg of our perambulation is made on a stretch of the round lake 26 mile long track constructed by the Forestry Commission in more recent times to give greater leisure options, from cycling to walking and running – the Kielder marathon being one of the most popular in the country. This rain bound hard core track has generous drainage ditches with numerous conduits and bridges to cope with the area’s high rainfall and subsequent run off – a quietly impressive modern day engineering achievement.

A short diversion on returning to our parking place was made to a nearby nature pond complete with wooden jetty and raised, touch friendly, metal markers that introduce visitors to the insect life living below. Children, bring your own dipping nets…who knows what you might discover here!

A short but revealing circular walk, mainly on level ground, with gradual inclines, perfect for families and just right for a dull January afternoon. Made us want to revisit another time, to witness seasonal contrasts. Hopefully those forest tracks will be cleared by then, to make a stroll to the reserve’s bird hide possible.

So walk with me, Aye and talk with me / Be a friend of mine/ And we’ll walk together hand in hand,/ By the banks of the bonny north Tyne [Chorus to ‘The Banks of the Bonny North Tyne’ by David McCracken]

Our new year’s day walk combined my love and interest in two things; railways and rivers. In search of this happy union we took a leisurely drive alongside the nation’s largest man made lake and forest at Kielder, feeling we might well be in north America or Canada, not the north of England.

We park beyond Kielder village, in a finger of forest between hills, relatively mature and open structured.  Strolled past resting machinery and harvested tree trunks waiting collection on what was turning out to be a busier than expected C road. We eventually broke free of the confine of conifers to take in views over bleakly beautiful fellside under skies weighed with scattered dark clouds.

A handsome cluster of grey stone farm buildings embedded in the shoulder of hillside to our right turned out to be Deadwater Farm. The monument marking the source of the north Tyne river lies on its land, and we need to walk a little further to the actual border with Scotland to pick up the permissive path that leads us to it, some 300 yards uphill.

Thanks to regional charity ‘Daft as a Brush’, founded by keen walkers to provide transport logistical support for cancer patients, the respective courses of south and north branches of the Tyne from source to sea are way marked as a long distance path…A total length of 135 miles.  

Sculptor Gilbert Ward’s work of 2013 is a simple modern menhir, fourteen solid feet of sandstone, donated by a local quarry and which had to be lifted in place by helicopter. Our river’s spring source could not get any nearer to being in Scotland, securing its emergence in England by a whisker. Unlike the mighty River Tweed which demarcates the border at the other end of Northumberland, this barely perceptible trickle would escape notice entirely by anybody driving over the culvert that marks the first of its many crossings.

I take an amused delight in straddling the rivulet as it emerges to gurgle down the gentle slope to the flat valley bottom. There we temporarily lose sight of it in the bog and tussocks either side the raised trackbed of a disused railway.

The 42 mile long Border Counties Railway opened in late 1850’s and closed a century later, pre-Beeching report. It had branched from the Newcastle/Carlisle line outside Hexham to weave its way through the whole length of the north Tyne valley before crossing both border and watershed at this point to join the former Waverley line, connecting Carlisle with Edinburgh, at Riccarton Junction, via Saughtree.

We passed Deadwater station, a single storey stone cottage on its lone platform; now a private house. There’s space for sidings and the lost spurs to two nearby former limestone quarries, the greened over spoil heaps of one obvious in the nearby hillside. No sign though of the well house for restorative bathing that once stood hereabouts in the 1820’s. How such an establishment could sustain itself in this remote and hard to reach setting, pre-railway, is a mystery.

The cinder dark trackbed, now a shared cycle & walk way, leads us straight as an arrow between forest and reed filled mires back towards Kielder. From here our peat coloured stream finally breaks cover, when conjoined with a first proper tributary, to assert its presence. At this point I begin to feel this other stream, the Deadwater Burn, might have a greater claim, by virtue of length and volume alone, to be the real source of the north Tyne. I also can’t help musing if ‘Deadwater’ had picked up a capital D and dropped an H at some point in its etymological history.

My eyes are drawn to a prominent monument as informative as the one marking the river’s origins – the military radar installation atop Deadwater Fell some 2,000 ft. up, from whence the burn of the same name springs. We are after all in Reiver country, the lawless borderlands of medieval and Tudor times crossed and re-crossed by clans of marauding cattle raiders and feuding national armies. The slow transition from hand to hand conflict into automated forms of national defence in our age – whether utilising installations like this or thousands of acres around nearby Otterburn for troop training – all evolve from a long history of accommodating armed engagement within the boundaries of these wild uplands.

As darkness began to fall, smoke was rising from the odd inhabited dwellings, including a pair of former railway workers cottages by a level crossing where we re-joined the road. We crossed to the opposite bank by the river’s first proper road bridge, a handsome stone arched structure spanning an enlarged and widening river after its confluence with the Bells Burn and other rivulets. Another piece of the geographical jigsaw in place, happily tired and suitably exercised, we drive contentedly back down the valley, thinking where the next outing alongside the home river might be….

FATHER CHRISTMAS: Fill your hearts with Christmas cheer, /And all your quarrels cease./Lay down your swords, take up a glass/And let the toast go free: /May all men now as brothers stand/And drink health to the Company. (From a traditional mummers play script)

Delighted that two of our youngest grandchildren were able to get to their local theatre (in this case, The Orange Tree at Richmond) before the impending lockdown, to be entertained by a new version of ‘Pinocchio’ with puppets. I love it that they’re as enthralled by the setting up as much as they soon will be by the action!

Now winter is truly upon us I begin feeding the garden birds with sunflower hearts and peanuts. Love the way the smallest of the avian crew, the coal tits, flit in and fly off immediately with a single seed or nut to pick apart with their needle bills on a nearby branch. The chaffinches and sparrows by contrast spill the contents out and about as they feast, which it turn gives easy pick ups on the ground for dunnock, robin and blackbird.

In the wake of Storm Arwen the sound of the chainsaw is heard all over the land. Our good neighbour at Oldstead has completed clearing the section of the long distance path that skirts their lovely garden and orrchard. Being mature elder these limbs and logs will not be burnt indoors. Superstition forbids it. Rationality knows the wood gives off little heat and, most importantly, emits cyanide gas when burnt.

Always a pleasure in the run up to the holidays to deck our hall with boughs of holly… along with pine and fir and any other cheerful greenery the garden offers up. Recent windfalls and clearances from the field meanwhile get piled up in a dumpy bag in the yard for recycling.

The small electric driven shredder I use to digest surplus branches for chippings has distinct tastes. It can’t take anything over 35 mm in diameter and the straighter the offering the better. Willow wands slip down its throat like oysters while knotty twisted tough-as-old-boots hawthorn, that most resilient of upland trees, generates loud grating groans of severe mechanical indigestion.

The coalman calls and catches me by surprise with our order of smokeless ovoids. I’m suddenly put in mind by the sight of his striking figure of the traditional English mummer plays. (Mummer comes from the Greek for ‘mask’) The rustic entertainment’s sturdy plots are realised with relish by a cast of outlandish stock characters. These amateur troupes of (usually) all male ‘guisers’ (disguisers) act out ancient rituals of death and rebirth, with panache and broad humour. The short plays are usually performed outdoors (static or promenade) to see the old year out and the new year in, or occasionally at Easter to mark Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection.

The coal merchant’s appearance – skin engrained with coal dust and sporting the traditional leather jerkin and flat cap – has not changed since I was a lad. Slight of build but strong as an ox, our man cheerfully carries on his back hundred weight sacks from the open sided flat bed lorry (How do they get them stay put?) to tip into the battered old zinc bunker next where logs are slowly air drying.

Our urban born and bred grandchildren have not seen, and will most likely never now see, the coalman ply his trade down their respective streets. The Mumming tradition, like coal merchants, live on in many country areas, the former often revived and reworked to reflect the age they’re playing in. With two long established firms delivering coal products in our neck of the woods, trade must be holding up with a customer base still reliant on solid fuel.

Eggs is eggs. Our supply comes from just up the road, at Bastle farm, where our friends keep a flock of Rhode Island Reds, rescued from bondage in the battery, that range their yard and garden. We leave money in a bag hanging on our five bar gate, and recycle empty boxes. The eggs arrive in all sizes and are usually speckled, naturally enough, with farmyard muck and sometimes a straw or feather graces the line up. Years back I researched and wrote scripts for a friend whose business was making videos for corporate clients, including one of the UK’s biggest suppliers of battery chickens and eggs. They added a little feather to every box of uniformly sized and cleaned up eggs that left the plant to create that ‘fresh from the farm’ illusion.

Our much loved home made advent calendar (made by Kim’s mother in Montreal, early 1980’s, for daughter Sara) is softly opening its daily windows to decorate the tree as we approach Christmas Day.

A very happy Yuletide to you and yours!