10
‘You look tired. Are you tired?’
Lucy can sound just like my mother.
‘No, I’m not tired.’ I said. ‘I’m just not wearing any make-up.’
One of the joys of radio is that you don’t have to wander about with layers of cake on your face. You don’t have to dress up, you don’t have to put on a costume or pretend to be someone louder, brighter and more colourful. Radio listeners don’t want an act or what you think is an improved version of yourself. They like genuine people, warts ’n’ all. They want you to share the real you, and on radio you can do that, in a way that television doesn’t allow.
I worked recently with a well-known and talented broadcaster who told me, ‘There is no amount of money they could offer me for a daily TV show that would make up for the complete loss of my life. I would much rather do radio – you get all the fun and none of the hassle.’
I love being able to do both but, if forced to choose, radio would win every time.
Anyway, Lucy clearly thought I looked dreadful. Annoyingly, I’d forgotten that a lovely man called Michael Harrison, who often recorded with us, was bringing a camera to film a ‘behind the scenes’ piece for the Radio 4 website. Lucy wasn’t going to be the only one judging my appearance.
‘Here,’ she said, handing me her bag. ‘I’ve got some powder and some lipstick. Do what you can.’
Lucy and I had come up with a rather different notion in 2009 for series thirteen of Ramblings. For the first time in ten years, we would walk a long-distance path. She had given me the choice of the Coast to Coast (unoriginal), the South-west Coast Path (very long), the West Highland Way (cold), the Pennine Way (exposed) or St Oswald’s Way in Northumberland.
‘Northumberland, please,’ I quickly said.
‘I knew you’d say that,’ she replied. ‘So I’ve started booking the guests and looking at places we can stay.’
In this instance, I didn’t mind being predictable. Growing up, I had barely been to Northumberland, as it only had one racecourse, at Hexham. But the one time I had walked along the coast I adored it. There is so much space in Northumberland and, as it’s not as popular a tourist destination as Cornwall or the Lake District, it never seems crowded. The historian G. M. Trevelyan called Northumberland ‘the land of the far horizons’, and I fancied a bit of that limitless space.
Trevelyan also believed that the French Revolution would never have happened if the French had played cricket. It sounds ridiculous, but his argument was that cricket in villages around England mixed the aristocracy and the rural workers, while in France the noblesse kept a distance from the ‘peasants’. When the people rose up, these ‘peasants’ had no compunction about killing arrogant, aloof nobles they neither knew nor cared about.
Trevelyan was the first president of the Youth Hostels Association and worked throughout his life on behalf of the National Trust to preserve houses and landscapes. He proudly avoided medical attention, saying, ‘I have two doctors: my left leg and my right’: he was a firm believer in the restorative powers of walking. Trevelyan died at the age of eighty-six in 1962, just missing out on the start of a new era for walkers.
The first long-distance path was opened in the UK in 1965, thirty years after the journalist Tom Stephenson had first mooted the idea in a Daily Herald article entitled ‘Wanted: A Long Green Trail’. Protracted wrangling with farmers and landowners over access delayed matters for decades until, finally, agreement was reached for a path that stretches 268 miles from Edale in Derbyshire along the spine of England to Kirk Yetholm in the Scottish Borders. The Pennine Way is one of fifteen National Trails in England and Wales, with more in Scotland (there known as the Great Trails) and one in Northern Ireland (the Ulster Way).
Things have come a long way since the mass trespass on Kinder Scout in 1932, where walkers protested about lack of access to areas of open country, and it’s always worth remembering the struggle to gain access to our green and pleasant land – and not to abuse that right. It’s up to us not to desecrate the land by dropping litter, behaving irresponsibly, leaving gates open or allowing dogs to chase livestock. We have more varied and beautiful footpaths than any country in the world and, just as much as it’s the responsibility of farmers, landowners and the National Trail Association, it’s up to those of us who walk them to protect them for future use.
I was excited about the challenge of the long-distance walk. This would be a journey of slow and luxurious discovery – physically demanding, but spiritually rewarding. There are few ways in which we can feel truly connected with the ancient world, but this is one of them. We walk in exactly the same way as our forefathers did and, although our footwear may have improved, our stride length and rhythm of walking is exactly the same.
A long-distance path can be as hard or as easy as you want to make it. You can do twenty-five miles a day or ten, camp out or stay in comfort. I know that some people feel that it’s not a real experience unless you’re sleeping under the stars, but I have never been a fan of camping. I’m too keen on sleeping on a mattress, having running water and a flushing loo. Lucy felt the same and had already booked the hotels.
So, we chose St Oswald’s Way for our long-distance-path debut, or perhaps it chose us. It is England’s newest long-distance route and runs for ninety-seven miles in total from Holy Island along the Northumberland coast, turning inland at Warkworth and finishing at Heavenfield, near Hexham. It starts with the best coastal walking you can find – cliffs, castles, fishing villages and beaches – and combines it with farmland, moorland, hill walking and, finally, a stretch of Hadrian’s Wall. Lucy and I had six days to walk different sections of the route, with the option of shortening or extending our walks according to time and weather.
The start and end point are both hugely significant to the memory of St Oswald, who brought the Irish monk and missionary Aidan from Iona. St Aidan (as he became) was the first Bishop of Lindisfarne and, without him, there would have been no Holy Island, because he was the one who picked it as a place to establish a monastery for himself and his Ionian monks, to follow the Celtic school of Christianity. Heavenfield, where the walk ends, is where Oswald won the battle that made him King of Northumbria in the year 634 (or thereabouts).
The Venerable Bede described St Aidan as a ‘man beloved of God’ because he brought Christianity to the North-east and did his best to protect it.
Oswald was eventually killed in battle – as they all tended to be – fighting the tribal kings of Mercia and Gwynedd. His body was dismembered, with his head and arms fixed to stakes in Shropshire, where they were fighting. The following year, his brother rescued what was left of Oswald and took his remains to his headquarters at Bamburgh. His head was given to the monks at Lindisfarne. They did give some funny Christmas presents in those days.
It seemed to make sense for us to start at Lindisfarne Priory, in the middle of Holy Island, because of its link with St Aidan and St Oswald. Holy Island is a tidal island with a permanent population of about 160 but an influx of approximately 65,000 visitors a year. Quite often drivers get the tide times wrong and are left stranded on the island or, worse, halfway across the causeway.
There are no big shopping chains on Holy Island, no Costa Coffee or McDonald’s. That’s not to say it isn’t commercial, but it takes your money with style. It has independent shops, dog-friendly pubs and small cafés, a gift shop and galleries: everything the tourist might need or want. The huge bonus for its permanent residents is that it also has a cut-off point every day when the visitors have to leave before the tide comes in. The island can breathe a sigh of relief and go back to being itself.
Lucy and I had divided St Oswald’s Way into six chunks, which we would walk with different people. We started with the man who came up with the idea of the path as a millennium project – the Revd Michael Mountney. He wanted to design a sort of pilgrimage to link the various parishes of the North-east. It turned into something rather bigger and more wonderful, a
nd he seemed genuinely surprised by its success. He struck me as a man who was perhaps more used to fighting the good fight and coping bravely with disappointment than bathing in the glory of a hit.
Michael did not look like a vicar. I know they come in all shapes and sizes and there is not a shop that dispenses identikit ‘Vicars’, but there is usually a giveaway expression or tone. So much did Michael not look like a vicar that I walked past him twice and, even when I was introduced to him, I still wasn’t sure. He was wearing shorts, a grey T-shirt and a bright yellow plastic mac. He had short-cropped greying hair and was carrying a red-and-yellow flag, waving it like a child.
‘It’s the flag of Northumberland,’ he explained, sweeping it from side to side. The red and yellow alternate in offset vertical stripes, creating a row of red ‘u’s at the top and red ‘n’s at the bottom. It was apparently adapted from a purple-and-gold banner that hung over St Oswald’s coffin after he was killed. Michael, Lucy and I were joined by Jenny Walters, who is a long-distance-walking expert and who I was hoping would make sure we didn’t suffer too much over the coming days.
Michael explained the genesis of St Oswald’s Way as we removed our boots and socks and I zipped off the bottom of my trousers. I congratulated myself on wearing them, as it was one of the few times they were genuinely useful, rather than just looking like a pair of trousers with an ugly zip around the knee.
‘There’s a spiritual and a historical core to it,’ he told me.
I should clarify that stripping off to the knee was not a holy ritual but a practical necessity: the first section would be three miles across the mudflats to the mainland. It was the perfect way to lose the madding crowd on the island, and also a symbolic start: we were casting off baggage, unloading ourselves of unnecessary extras, getting closer to the elements – and saving our boots from seawater rotting.
Michael Harrison watched us leave with the video camera and then, thankfully, returned to his car. I say this not because I don’t like him but because as soon as you introduce a camera into the scenario you lose the intimacy of the walk. I don’t want anyone to be distracted by what we look like, nor do I want to be judged for wearing a scruffy T-shirt and a pair of ill-fitting, zip-off trousers.
We followed the line of ten-foot-tall posts that show walkers the most direct route and mark the Pilgrim’s Path. It was hard to imagine that in a few hours, when the tide came in, they would barely poke out above the water and that the whole road would be covered. I guess it’s precisely because it’s hard to imagine that so many people get stranded.
Halfway across, I turned to look back at Holy Island, the silhouette of Lindisfarne Castle rising out of the volcanic rocky outcrop on the south-east of the island, the buzz of the tourists now a distant murmur.
We squelched on through the mud, hopping over the wider rivulets of water and gazing into the distance at the beginnings of low hills, trees and the darker lumps on the horizon that are the Cheviot Hills. I was looking at the opening paragraph to the giant tome that is Northumberland, and it was seriously impressive. As we stood, we realized that the eerie sound in the air was not the wind, but seals howling. They make a noise like cows, and it carries over the water and the rocks, floating around us like ghosts.
As we reached the shore, I could see grassed-over sand dunes to the right with mad, wavy hair blowing in the breeze. Streams of cars were driving towards Holy Island, but we, on our feet, were alone. We were special. We smelt special too, the combination of seaweed, saltwater and mud not being a favourite for lovers of Jo Malone.
Walking three miles in mud is quite hard work, let me tell you, and, for all the symbolic hoo-ha, it was a relief to be on dry land. I washed my feet off and dried them on some grass as I hummed ‘These Boots were Made for Walking’ and considered the challenge ahead. If you are going to undertake a long-distance walk, the advice is to build up over a few weeks, walking six or seven miles a day and then further at weekends, to make sure that you can cope. Of course, I hadn’t done any of this and neither had Lucy.
It was a major step forward that I was carrying a rucksack with food and a change of clothes. Lucy had the first-aid kit and the recording equipment. We figured we would get fit as we went along and, if the worst came to the worst, we could always take a bus or a taxi. Yes, I realize that would be cheating, but I mean if I broke a leg or something. Thinking of the taxi, I said, ‘Have you got money?’ I wondered why I hadn’t asked this before we left the island, when we might still have been able to do something about it.
‘Yes,’ she said wearily. ‘Of course I’ve got money.’
I have a bad habit of forgetting to take cash with me when I go walking. Alice says I think I’m the Queen and that I don’t need money. I don’t, by the way, I just forget. I usually have a credit card, but that’s not much good when you’re in the middle of nowhere and want to buy an ice cream. That’s why Alice and Lucy always carry cash, which is good news for me.
We headed south, down the coast for a short stretch, looking out at the Farne Islands surging up out of the sea like surfacing submarines. Their big black volcanic rock, the Whin Sill, is a haven for puffins, guillemots, shags, kittiwakes, Arctic tern, eider ducks and grey seals.
We followed the signs with a black raven emblem, turning further inland, crossing the A1 and walking through the village of Fenwick. Michael wanted to take me a mile off the route so I could see St Cuthbert’s Cave.
Michael was so proud of the walk and the fact that people had clearly been using it. He pointed out each signpost enthusiastically and was wonderfully excited about showing us the first section.
‘What thrills me is that people are discovering St Oswald’s Way and being introduced to Northumberland,’ he said. ‘They can learn about his history and know about the religious connection, or just walk it and enjoy the county.’
It started to rain as we got to St Cuthbert’s Cave, and the drips echoed off its stone walls. It’s a weirdly moving place: an overhanging slab of sandstone rock, perched precariously, giving a wide-mouthed opening to a damp, cold, dark cave. There were the remains of a fire and signs that campers had stayed the night. Rather them than me.
St Cuthbert (of the cave) was renowned for his patience and sensitivity. He died in solitude on the Farne Islands in AD 687 and was buried at Lindisfarne, where he had been bishop. A cult of St Cuthbert grew up after he died and he had to be moved to protect him from the invading Vikings. When the monks raised his coffin, they didn’t find a skeleton but a body that looked as if it was sleeping, still fully flexible, with hair, flesh and skin. This was seen as a sign of the bishop’s great purity and holiness, and the monks vowed to take him to safety. So they began a trek across northern England, carrying his coffin, and this cave was said to be one of the places they spent the night.
Legend has it that St Cuthbert himself chose his final resting place when the monks couldn’t lift his coffin at a bend in the river in Durham. They pushed and pulled and tried to shift it, but it wasn’t going anywhere. This was where it wanted to stay. St Cuthbert’s shrine was therefore created at the place where Durham Cathedral now stands.
It became a popular pilgrimage point through the Middle Ages and, in 1104, more than four hundred years after his death, nine monks decided to have a look for themselves to see if the myth of his uncorrupt body was true. They took his coffin into the newly built cathedral to examine it. You can imagine the trepidation with which they opened the creaking lid and their amazement when they saw that there was Cuthbert, lying on his side as if he was asleep, complete still with hair, skin and flesh.
His body was examined again during the Dissolution of the Monasteries and, again, it was found to be whole and undecayed, which must have freaked out Henry VIII’s men. They were busy smashing up everything, but didn’t know what to do with the body so decided to leave it to the King, a delay that gave Benedictine monks a chance to hide his body. There is strong evidence to suggest that St Cuthbert was returned to Durham Ca
thedral, where he still lies, although a nineteenth-century examination found only bones and glorious robes in the coffin.
So the body either eventually disintegrated or it was a substitute and the real thing still lies in a top-secret hiding place known only to a handful of Benedictine monks. Whatever the truth, St Cuthbert is everywhere in Durham – his cross is on the flag of the county and the coat of arms of Durham University, while the modern sculpture chosen for Millennium Place in 2008 is of six hooded monks carrying his coffin as they try to find a safe place to take him.
Having taken our diversion to St Cuthbert’s Cave, Lucy and I left Michael and headed off to Bamburgh, where we were staying in a bed and breakfast. Anyone who travels a lot for work will tell you that there is a huge difference between cheap hotels and equally cheap B&Bs. One will have plastic undersheets, plastic glasses (often bizarrely encased in a plastic bag), little plastic UHT milk containers, and small soaps (of course) covered in plastic. The other won’t have any plastic. It will have lovely sheets and pillows, proper tea and real milk, a bathroom that doesn’t smell and curtains that shut. If you’re lucky you will have biscuits in your room, and I’ve even had a piece of home-made cake left for me because the owner was worried I’d be hungry.
B&Bs are sometimes fractionally more expensive than certain chains that build their hotels next to motorways and dual carriageways, but they are way better value, because you can actually sleep and you get breakfast.
They also tend to be in the place where you want to stay, not twenty miles away. I was doing a series a few years ago called Britain by Bike, which followed the routes detailed in a series of books by a cycling journalist called Harold Briercliffe. The idea was that I would cycle the routes on Harold’s own bicycle, a 1957 Dawes Galaxy. Brilliant idea. Except that bike had a crossbar so high that I couldn’t climb into the saddle and only three gears, with a gear shift so stiff it was impossible to switch between them. I learned to hate that ruddy bike.
Walking Home Page 17