Heading For the Wall

On the Trail

Wednesday, July 7, 2004 - Hong Kong
Finally, after a year's planning, we are going to actually hike along Hadrian's Wall.  We being Tom Duff, an old friend from Mattel, who is now renting our condo in Redondo, Larry Landesman, another Mattel buddy, who was a consulting client but mostly a friend, and Dave somebody, a dentist friend of Tom's.  Larry and Tom both say they are ready to go. Rumor has it Dave is a real hiking machine.  I wish I felt the same.

Unfortunately, I had ruptured my Achilles tendon in February while celebrating on a friend's new junk houseboat.  (junk as in Chinese type vessel not as in run-down condition)  The combination of an excellent white wine and no lights to see where I was going resulted in an ignominious fall off an unseen stair and the subsequent tendon tear.  It has not recovered as fast as I had hoped.  It's still painful and I have been unable to do any real conditioning.  Well, I'm going to do what I can do and still have a very good time.

I'm off to Chek Lap Kok at 10:00 P.M. on the Airport Express to catch my 12:45 A.M. Cathay Pacific flight to London.  I decide, enroute, to spend some of my hard earned award miles on an upgrade to business class.  My last flight to London in economy class resulted in a sore knee I could hardly walk on for weeks and eventually, an operation to repair a torn meniscus.  I sure don't want to risk that now. 

Business Class is available and I spend my 35,000 award miles in exchange for a good night's sleep.  At the gate, as I surrender my boarding pass, I am told my seat assignment has been changed.  I immediately demand to know if the new seat is an aisle seat.  The gate agent looks at me funny and says, "No problem."   

Heading down the ramp, I look at my boarding pass and note it is seat 2A.  My God, I've been upgraded to First Class.  Am I going to sleep tonight or what?  Was that a stupid question I just asked the gate agent or what?

First Class on Cathay Pacific conjures up images of the old Pan-Am Clippers where the flight attendants would make up your bed and you could sleep for hours droning your way across the night skies.  The seats here open up a full 180 degrees and flight attendants come around with pajamas and blankets.  The entertainment system is on demand so you can watch movies when you feel like it not on a schedule.  Plus you can fast forward through the mushy parts. 

I drink.  I eat.  I sleep.  I watch one bad movie, "Starsky and Hutch" and one good movie, "Secret Window" with Johnny Depp.  He's the greatest.  Voila!  We are descending to Heathrow Airport and the 12 hour flight is over.  It's 7:30 A.M. in London and the sun is shining.  This must be either a mistake or a good portent.

Thursday, July 8, 2004 - London and York.

I've never seen the outside of Heathrow airport and this morning is no exception.   After Immigration and baggage claim, I head for the Tube and the Piccadilly Line, the shortest and by far the cheapest way to get to King's Cross Station.  It always seems so weird to be riding the train on holiday, after an all-night flight, with people on their way to work.  It's as if I've come from a different planet and am among members of a different species.

I've got to determine when the next train for York leaves, get my BritRail pass validated, but most of all I need to urinate.

At 9:00 A.M., people are scurrying all over King's Cross Station and I am encumbered with a 70 pound wheeled duffel bag and a 20 pound backpack.

I had packed my bags with necessities for a seven week trip that will include at least two temperature zones, a hike, and lots of time for reading.  Therefore, the duffel, while it does contain some clothes and other necessities, is mostly weighed down with guide books and paperback novels.

The WC, as it is identified all over Europe, is, as in most locations, down a flight of stairs, a long flight of stairs.  As I begin to struggle down with the duffel and the backpack, I am rescued by a young man who grabs one end of my bag and helps me get it down the stairs.

Fortunately, due to a couple near disasters on previous trips, I know that most railroad station WCs require a fee to enter so I have my handful of change ready for whatever the entry requirement might be, in this case 20 pence.

As I am relieving myself, I mentally pat myself on the back for having practiced superb foresight by being ready with the correct change.  Then I remember that I am going to have to somehow get all my luggage back up those long, steep stairs - so much for being prepared. 

I surprise myself and a number of other gentlemen, who pass me on the way, by getting my duffel up the stairs with appropriate but not superhuman effort.  I know this is counter-intuitive but I find, over the next seven weeks, that going up the stairs with the duffel, in spite of it's wheeled nature, is actually more convenient than going down.  I think it has to do with some kind of physical law I don't understand.  I also find that my strength improves over the seven weeks as I haul my duffel bag around Europe.   

After checking the schedule and validating my pass, I board the train for the two hour or so ride to York.  Since, I don't have a reservation; I must find an unreserved seat.  With the help of a smart-assed British gentleman who points out, after I ask, that if the train were to go in the direction I am seated, that we would encounter a great deal of cement, I am able to find an open seat facing the same direction train is headed.

On the way to York, we encounter about a 30 minute delay that is explained as a signaling problem.  While we sit there, trains go whipping by in both directions, either without any signaling problems or showing they just don’t care.  We finally get to York about 45 minutes late and I became a little more understanding of the British frustration with their rail system.

York Minster Cathedral

I've wanted to visit York ever since Pam, my wife, and I met an Orthodox priest from there on a train from Edinburgh to London, two years ago.

The train station, for starters, is magnificent.  At one time, York was the railroad capitol of England.  They have a Railroad Museum I never got to but the old yet serviceable station is a superb example of terminals in the "Age of Railroads."

A most helpful woman at the Tourist Information Center ((TI) directs me to my hotel, the Ramada-Jarvis Abbey Park.  How's that for a name to try and remember?  It is only a short distance away.  A short distance, that is, unless it's raining and you are hauling a 70 pound duffel bag and carrying a 20 pound backpack.  I have a wait to check in but the staff seems to realize how tired and grumpy I am because they really hustle. They are very nice.  When I unlock the door, I realize that the room could have been smaller but then I wouldn't have been able to get my duffel bag in.  However, the price is right and I am excited about joining a free afternoon walking tour of York.

Since the tour doesn't start until 2:15 P.M., I stop at a pub for lunch.  For reasons, which even now I can't figure out, I order a chili stuffed potato.  It is horrible.  Quite frankly, it's the worst pub food I have my whole time in England.  The beer is good, though.   Never again, until my last night in England seven weeks hence, do I order American type food while I am in Europe. 

I join the tour group waiting in Exhibition Square.  Our enthusiastic volunteer guide is named David Ransom.  He explains things in great detail and is very honest when he doesn't know the answer to a question.  The highlights of the tour include walking along the Roman wall and standing on the towers, seeing a Roman cemetery, visiting the Yorkshire Gardens and seeing a medieval abbey whose unsupported walls are still standing, ascending the Monk Bar (medieval tower) where Richard III once stayed and exploring Holy Trinity Church with its box pews and thousand year old foundation.  I am sorry when the tour ends even though by this time I am exhausted.

After the tour, I stop at a couple pubs on my walk back home.  My tendon is hurting terribly and I decide a few pints of good English ale will help assuage the pain.  The cure doesn't work but so what?  The ale tastes good.  I am so tired, though, that I actually fall asleep in one of the pubs.  I decide enough for one day and head back to the hotel where I grab a quite good toasted sandwich, head for my room, swallow a couple Celebrex and crash out about 7:30 or 8:00.  I would have fallen asleep sooner but the pain keeps me awake.  Not a good omen for the Hadrian's Wall walk.

Monk Bar

Friday, July 9, 2004 - York and Manchester 

As you can see, the above photo is of the Monk Bar, which contains a Richard III Museum and also an operating portcullis.  All of this right in the center of town.  This juxtaposition of the old and the new is what makes York so fascinating.  The city operates in and around these well-preserved ruins and buildings.  I could not even begin to visit everything I wanted to.  I must come back someday.

I sleep for over 10 hours.  Thank you, Celebrex.  I go down for breakfast.  When this hotel says "proper English breakfast," they mean it.  I saw one young man with a plate full enough to feed a small village for a week.  I restrain myself but not much.  I want to be in good shape to explore York Minster, the famous cathedral. 

I head out into a driving drizzle so I decide to stop part way at a Burger King Internet Cafe to access my e-mail.  Yes, it's true, a Burger King Cyber Cafe.  It takes me 40 minutes just to purge the spam that made it through the Mail Guard filter.   What a waste of time and energy.  I'm afraid spam is going to be the death of the Internet. 

I am brought up short at the smell of cigarette smoke.  I realize I am shocked.  I can't remember the last time I saw a smoker in a fast food restaurant.  I worry that I'm becoming another "politically correct" anti-smoker person, me a three pack a day smoker until I quit 17 years, three months and 13 days ago.   I also worry that, if I am bothered by second hand smoke, I'm going to have problems later when I get to Continental Europe, especially since I'll be traveling with a smoker for three weeks. 

The drizzle lets up so I continue on to the cathedral.  Wow!  It is an awesome structure inside and out.  I take some photos you can access on my York Minster and Castle Museum photo album site.  Access the York Minster link to learn more about it.  I can only say that, if York Minster was the only site I had visited, the trip to York would have been worthwhile.

But there's more.  I must make a decision as to where to go next.  I consult my travel guru, Rick Steves' recommendations and decide on the York Castle Museum.  I am not disappointed.  I pass on the more famous Jorvik, the Viking experience or as Tom Duff describes it "Pirates of the North Sea."  (Disneyland veterans will recognize the allusion.) 

The York Castle Museum covers 600 years of British history with a focus on everyday life.  Pictures of the exhibits are in the previously mentioned York Minster and Castle Museum album.  The castle exterior itself is awesome plus, right outside the exit is Clifford's Tower , an imposing sight on its own. 

So much to see and do and so little time.  I head back to the hotel to get my bags.  I'll be going to Manchester where I'm meeting my hiking companions.  I plan to return to York someday.  I could spend a week here and still have things left to do.

I slog to the train station only to discover, to my horror, that the train I thought I would take to Manchester is not on the departure board.  In a somewhat panicky state, I check with the railroad information desk and find that there is a Manchester train leaving five minutes earlier.  Later, I realize that the schedule I have requires a change of trains which is why my planned train isn't listed as going to Manchester - because it isn't.  I guess the schedule I printed from the internet isn't totally accurate.  I learn a lesson which I will unfortunately forget in Venice later on the trip but that's another story.

The train ride to Manchester is uneventful.  I should be looking at the scenery but I'm hooked into "The DaVinci Code" by Dan Brown.  I arrive at Piccadilly Station and after about a half mile walk find the front of the station.  

One consideration in traveling by train in England and the rest of Europe is large cities having multiple train stations.  In the U.S. only New York and Chicago have more than one station but London has six major stations as does Paris.  If you are changing trains, it can become quite a hassle.  Also if you want to book a hotel near your station, you've got to do a lot more planning.

While I am on the train, I am once again reminded of the basic friendliness and courtesy of the average Brit.  I have to leave my bag at the end of the car and I am afraid it will topple onto the young couple sitting in the front seat of the car. They assure me they aren't worried and furthermore tell me not to worry about the bag as they will watch it until we arrive in Manchester.  These kinds of incidents give lie to the stereotype of the English as aloof and uncommunicative. 

I get directions to my hotel at the TI booth and head out.  After a few blocks, I lose confidence in the directions I’ve received and consult a city map posted next to a bus stop.  After five to ten minutes of reassuring myself, I start out again.  I always act this way in a new city.  I guess it's because I've gotten lost so many times or in some cases just got bad information.  It's not that I'm map challenged; it's that as soon as I fold up the map, I start questioning my own memory of what I just saw.

Sure enough, as I draw close to the hotel, I get confused as to what direction to turn when an unexpectedly friendly hot dog vendor says, "Looking for the Britannia Sachas?" and points it out down the street. 

On my way to the hotel, I notice how tacky this area is.  My opinion of Manchester is reflected in the fact that I take no pictures.  I'm sure there are interesting things to do in and around the city.  Below, you can see a poster of Old Trafford Stadium where the world famous Manchester United Football Club plays.  In this neighborhood, however, discos and slot machines are the major attractions to say nothing of the ladies of the evening who are out in the bright sun of a Saturday afternoon.

The hotel is old but serviceable.  At one time it was a warehouse, which is verified by the fact that I have to spend an extra £10.00 to get a room with a window. 

As I'm checking in, Tom greets me and we agree to meet in the bar.  I say hello to Larry and finally meet Dave who does have a family name, Vierhus.  The usual insulting banter that males engage in ensues as we finish off a couple glasses of stout.  I feel a little sorry for Dave as Tom, Larry and I immediately begin telling "Mattel" stories, of which there is an unlimited supply.  

We have dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant, walk to the train station to buy tickets for tomorrow, and upon arriving back at the hotel all agree it's beddy-bye time.   I try to finish off "The DaVinci Code" but fall asleep before I can.

Old Trafford, Home of Manchester United

Saturday, July 10, 2004 - Manchester, Wylam and Heddon-on-the-wall

First thing in the morning, not realizing I was entitled to a complimentary breakfast, I head for the nearest Starbuck's for my morning fix.  Eating my coffee and muffin breakfast, I finish "The DaVinci Code."   I am now happy for two reasons.  I know how it all came out and I have one less book to carry as I will give it away or leave it.    

Outside Starbuck's, a farmers' market has been set up.  I am immediately turned on by the smell of sizzling bangers.  I can't resist so I have a sausage sandwich.  Sausage in hand and mouth, I wander, tasting different samples as I go.  I am particularly fascinated by Damson Gin, which as you can guess, is flavored with plums.  The purveyor alleges that the gin is made from the plums but I argue that if he distilled plum juice, he'd end up with brandy.  Perhaps the samples are making me argumentative so I move on but not before swallowing another sample.

I return to the hotel and check out.  While at the desk, I ask the clerk if she has heard of "The DaVinci Code" and would she like to read it.  She says, "No thanks" but the bellman comes running over to say that he has heard it is an incredible story.  I give him the book and walk away in the glow of not only having made someone happy but also reducing by one, the number of books I'm carrying.

We walk to the station through the debris, human and otherwise, of the previous Saturday night.  At the station, we become confused as to which train to board and where the first class car is.  In typical male fashion we discuss the issue at great length before someone finally says maybe we could ask one of the railroad people.  This solves the problem.

We run into a similar problem when we get to Newcastle. We are confused as to where to go for our connection to Wylam.  We finally figure it out only to miss our train by about 30 seconds.  It pulls out as we pull up.  Now we must wait for an hour.

I'm still trying to understand why the four of us were having more trouble with the trains than any one of us did on our own.  Is it "Too many cooks" or what?  Maybe it's a case of all of us questioning each other's judgment. 

Whatever the reason, we now have an hour wait, which we fill by eating cookies and other goodies.  When the going gets tough, the tough fill up on junk food.    We also begin to assume the roles we will fill during the rest of the trip.  I become known as "The Voice" because I can be heard when others are muted. The problem is people sometimes overhear what I am saying whether I want them to or not.  It gets embarrassing at times.  Dave becomes "The Interrogator" because he can, in a few minutes, ask more questions of someone, especially a stranger, than the rest of us might ask in an hour.  This is strange since he's a dentist not a diagnostician.  Larry is known by the phrase, "There goes Larry, again."  Being an engineer, he rarely leaves well enough alone and is constantly looking for a better solution even when there's no problem.  Tom is affectionately referred to as "Tommy Terrific."  This is because he takes care of all the details and is known to have rarely ever made a mistake or at least admitted to one. 

While we are waiting for the train to Wylam, I call ahead for a taxi to meet us and take us to our first night's destination Heddon-on-the-wall, more specifically the Ironsign Country Restaurant and Guesthouse.  Actually, I call more than once because we get confused again about what time the train departs and arrives at Wylam.  Each time, a different person answers the phone.  My confidence that a taxi will be waiting, when we arrive, is ebbing.

I am not disappointed.  On arrival, we see no one.  Having learned our lesson, we ask someone about the taxi situation and they assure us we have nothing to worry about.  That they have just left a nearby pub does not reinforce our confidence level.  I call again; speak to another new person who assures me the taxi is on its way.  It starts to rain or as the British would characterize it, drizzle - still no taxi.  I call again, speak to yet another person and point out it is raining only to be told, "What did you expect?  You're in Northern England." 

Finally a van-like taxi arrives.  The driver is cheerful and not at all apologetic.  Dave gets all the information we need to make a decision about dinner tonight.   We finally arrive at Ironsign and haul our bags up to our rooms. 

Tonight and for the rest of the trip, Larry and I will be rooming together.  I make appropriate apologetic noises about my snoring.  Larry indicates it's no problem because he has a white noise machine.  "A what?" I ask.   He explains that on a trip to Paris, where air conditioning is not standard in even the better hotels, the traffic noise kept him and his wife, Sue, awake all night.  He then bought a white noise machine that he now uses all the time even at home.  I ask him to plug it in and I am immediately transported back to my youth when I would try to listen to an AM radio station during a thunder storm.  All I could hear then was static.  All I can hear now is static.  I ask Larry if he is serious.  He assures me he is.  I plan to double my ale consumption at that night's pub because I am not at all confident I'll be able to sleep with the static machine on.

After settling in and unpacking, we decide to check out the Hadrian's Wall Trail so we don't waste time in the morning.  We find the trail but not any sign of a wall.  We won't actually see any piece of the wall until the day after tomorrow.  Truth is there isn't much of a wall to see along the trail.  It has been rebuilt in places to a height of maybe two or three feet but it served as a stone quarry for inhabitants for hundreds of years so there is little left of the 15 meter high edifice now.  Admittedly, the wall was not our primary motivation for this journey but it would have been nice for there to have been a little bit more wall than there was.

Reconstructed fence West of Portgate

Our host, Mr. Owen Little, seems a little perturbed that we don't want to sample his cooking but prefer to dine at a nearby pub, the taxi driver recommended.  In addition, Larry appears to create a problem by refusing to leave the dining room so he can get a better look at all his maps.

After a few beers to tease our palates, we head to Horsley and the Lamb and Lion Pub.  We have a great meal, accompanied by pints of the local ale and followed by a delicious dessert.  During this entire trip, we decide to eat only in pubs.  We never regret the decision.  In this part of England, pubs are truly "Public Houses" and serve as community centers where the whole family can have a nice meal and a good time. 

English cuisine, which some people think is an oxymoron, has improved to the point that we constantly marvel at the quality of the meals.  However, anyone with a cholesterol problem might want to be cautious when ordering.  "Low fat" is not an operative term in the pubs we visit.

It is during the meal that I decide I am not physically ready to hike 10 miles of a rolling and rocky path.  I am surprised to get neither resistance nor male type kidding when I announce this.  With six weeks of European travel scheduled for after the Hadrian's Wall adventure, I just don't want to risk further injury and my companions agree.

We return to the Ironsign and crash quickly and heavily.    Surprisingly, I am not bothered by the static machine and I sleep quite well.  I think everyone does.  It's been a busy day and tomorrow will bring the first test of my friends' conditioning; mine too come to think of it.  I'm planning to explore the Roman Fort at Corbridge.

Walking the Wall

Foundation of a Roman Warehouse, Corbridge

Sunday, July 11, 2004 - Heddon-on-the-wall and Corbridge

After an excellent breakfast, except for the black pudding, which I could never develop a taste for, the hikers set out on their 10 mile adventure while I have a second cup of coffee.  I feel some remorse, missing the male bonding and all that, but later in the day I will realize my decision was correct.

Mr. Little agrees to drive me to the bus stop.  After he is gone, I realize I am at the wrong stop.  The bus I want plies the, appropriately named, AD122 route.  I am at a bus stop that appears to be for week day busses.  It's Sunday.  I'm flummoxed.  I try calling the Ironsign but no luck.  I am very upset with Little but, as I recap the communication in my mind, I realize I did not tell him, specifically, that I wanted the AD122 bus and so he drove me to the nearest bus stop. 

In retrospect, I realize I was lazy with my request because we all speak English – a mistake.  As George Bernard Shaw pointed out, just because it's England doesn't mean we speak the same language,   I should have specified exactly where I wanted to go.  You would think that, after 12 years of living overseas, I would have done better.

What to do?  What to do?  I half-heartedly try to hitch-hike with no luck.  I read the schedule attached to the bus stop sign a half dozen times.  I think that, maybe, a bus is due in an hour or so but I'm not sure.  I guess, I'm going to have to pay a fortune for a taxi, but I left the taxi numbers in my duffel bag which is being transported in a van to our next destination.  I am just about to knock on the door of a nearby house to ask if they have a number for the taxi when I hear a diesel engine.  A bus miraculously appears.  I frantically wave it down, ask if it is going to Corbridge and step on board.  I am greeted by the driver, a gnome-like man who looks to be in his 70's and who doesn't even know the fare.  One of the passengers supplies the fare information and I hand him the correct change, to which he replies, "Lovely!"

I never get used to how the British respond to me or others as a substitute for thank you.  The three most common phrases are the aforementioned "lovely," "brilliant" and "perfect."  I guess these phrases correspond to "groovy," "far out" and "terrific" in American English.  I am still surprised, though, when somebody that looks like a 75 year old gnome responds with "lovely" when I give him bus fare.

As soon as the bus drops me off, I head for the site of the Roman fort and town just West of Corbridge.  It's a relatively long walk, about 1.5 miles, but the weather is cool and, of course, damp so I'm comfortable except for my healing tendon.

The site is very well kept up and features a quite good museum as well as the ruins of the Roman Fort.  You can access pictures of the ruins in the Corbridge Fort and Town Album.  I spend about an hour and a half wandering around when the weather turns downright nasty, cold and rainy. 

I decide to head back to town when unfortunately my leg starts to really hurt.  I'm 1.5 miles from my destination with neither an umbrella nor my supply of Celebrex: another testament to my superb preparation skills.

Secret Garden

I’m ready to sit in the rain to rest my tendon, when I see a sign announcing the Gresham House Garden Tea Room.   I head for the place.  It is delightful.  It has a small garden in the rear named, not surprisingly, Secret Garden.  More in line with my needs, it has a large selection of baked goods.  I order a fresh scone with clotted cream and strawberry preserves accompanied by strong black tea.  A strikingly beautiful young lady serves the order.  I'm saved!

As I savor the best tasting scone I've ever eaten, I look around at the rest of the guests. I feel like I've dropped into the middle of a movie set.  Everyone looks so stereotypically “British.”  I visit the garden, take pictures, and browse through the adjoining art gallery - all in all a most delightful interlude.

I head for the B & B we are supposed to be staying at but am diverted by a beautiful little church,  St. Andrew's, the Corbridge Parish church.  I must go in.  It does not disappoint.  The church tower was built in AD674.  The church itself is charming and unpretentious.  The outside graveyard is fascinating. 

I walk through town trying to locate someone who can direct me to our B & B, Fellscroft.  I’m almost ready to give up and just wander until I find it when someone is able to send me in, at least, the right direction.  I cross the Tyne River on a bridge that provides some great views of the river.  You can see the photos I shot of the tea room, the church and the river on the Corbridge Fort and Town photo site.

I locate Fellscroft B & B and, after ringing the bell a few times, am greeted by the mistress of the house who is right out of central casting as the motherly Bed and Breakfast owner.  After telling me her name is Tovi, she goes to great lengths to make me feel comfortable.  Her husband has gone to pick up my companions so I shouldn’t have long to wait.  I tell her my sad story of painful tendons and she insists that I must promise to take care of myself the rest of the week.  Her genuine concern touches me.  She and I gossip about Hadrian’s Wall tour companies and she refuses to say anything bad about any of them, though it’s obvious she values one company in particular - not the one we chose, by the way.  I’ll have more to say about tour companies later.

My friends arrive and we have to sort out who is going to stay where since we will be split between Fellscroft and a place down the street called Dyvel’s Hotel.  Larry and I end up at Dyvel’s because the luggage transporter left our bags there.  I am disappointed.  I wanted to stay at Tovi’s and wallow in her sympathy.  Dyvel’s is a one star hotel with a bar and restaurant on the ground floor and rooms on the upper floors.  Charming, it is not.  After a short nap, Larry and I stop at Fellscroft and pick up Tom and Dave to walk to our pub of the night, The Black Bull.

We have another fine meal accompanied by pints of fine beer followed by another fine dessert.  We have decided to try the desserts every night.  This makes sense for my friends who are doing some tough walking everyday but I’m not so sure that I won’t balloon out eating as they do.  Since tomorrow’s schedule calls for a five-mile hike.  I figure I can handle that and then I won’t have to feel guilty eating dessert.  I must also admit I’m envious as I listen to stories of the day’s walk.

We have a nice stroll back to our place and decide to have a nightcap beer at Dyvel’s to wash down the dessert.  After this last pint of the day, sleep comes easily even with Larry's static machine going full blast.

Monday, July 12, 2004 - Port Gate, Wall, Chollerford, Hexham and Anick

Our Dyvel’s breakfast is O.K. but I’m imagining that Tovi’s would be better.  We meet at Fellscroft so I can collect a few more strokes from Tovi and coincidentally pick up our ride to Eddington Pub near  Portgate.  This is where today’s tramp will begin.

The hike itself is pleasurable for the first 3 or 4 miles.  We hike through beautiful wooded copses, up and down gently sloping hills and climb over a lot of walls and through a lot of fences.  The vistas are incredible.  The trail is very well set up.  We have a map, of course, and we have Dave who heads out and explores in front saving the rest of us the embarrassment of going in the wrong direction.  There are strategically placed signs although not always where one might expect or want them.

Roommate Larry and Vista

The walls and fences have these cleverly designed step and turnstile contraptions that allow the hikers through but keep the animals from leaving their fields.   We also finally see a section of rebuilt wall.  According to my friends, this is the first of the wall they have seen.  Pictures are on my photo site in the Wall Walk album.

I haven’t mentioned that Tom, who is in the movie business, is making a video of this adventure.  We stop periodically so Tom can get our reactions, to what we are experiencing, on camera.  I take a lot of pictures also.

I start to weaken towards the end of the day’s hike.  Both my knee and my tendon start hurting.  I struggle over the last mile or so.   I am also very happy I have a walking stick.  I recommend acquiring one if you plan to do any cross-country hiking.  We also discover that reaching the end of the day’s hike is not the end of the day’s hiking.  We are at least a kilometer from our digs for the evening, The Hadrian Hotel.   This situation repeats itself almost every day: that is a long walk from the trail to the B & B or hotel.   It doesn’t affect me as much as my partners since I’m limiting my hiking but it is discouraging for my friends to realize that a planned 10 mile walk can actually be up to 11 or 12 miles long.

Thinking about this brings up the tour company we used, Contours Walking Holidays.  We chose them because they had by far the most professional looking web site.  I really have nothing to compare them with but it seemed that unless things went absolutely according to plan, Contours had a difficult time responding.  They also seemed to have little or no flexibility on arrangements.  I personally found they didn’t respond to e-mails only to phone calls.  It appears they do not personally check out the places they put people in.  Other companies, most notably Walking Hadrian's Wall re-evaluate their booking recommendations every spring.  I can’t speak for my partners but I felt the Contours people were not really familiar with the trail and the situations we ran up against.  Perhaps this is because they are booking walking tours all over England so it is impossible for them to be intimately familiar with them all.  In retrospect we are glad we used a tour.  I doubt if we could have done it all ourselves.  I think now, though, were we to hike another British National Trail, we could book the whole trip ourselves by using an official trail guide and the Internet.

Entering the Village of Wall

After a late lunch in the hotel pub, we check in.  Larry and I are put in a room with one huge four-poster double bed and are promised a “Zed” bed.  We have no idea what a Zed bed is but we are sure it is preferable to the two of us sleeping together in a double bed.  When the Zed bed arrives, we realize that "Zed” is the brand name and does not describe a “Z” shaped cot.  It is only six inches off the floor when opened up.  I immediately begin complaining about my sore back and stiff muscles.  Larry graciously offers to sleep on the Zed bed and I quickly and not so graciously accept.

After settling our sleeping arrangements, Larry, Tom and I decide to visit Chesters Roman Fort and Museum near Chollerford.  Dave decides to visit Hexham.  This may be the only chance my friends have to visit a fort because the walks are all at least 9 miles long from here on.  The museum is not as well done as others along the Hadrian’s Wall route but the ruins themselves are among the best: well laid out and labeled.  You can see pictures in the Chesters Roman Fort Album.  I realize how much more enjoyable it is to visit these types of sites with friends.  Discussing what we are seeing fixes things in my mind.

After having had a great lunch, we are disappointed with our dinner at the Hadrian.  We are very excited, though, because we’ve discovered a quiz night at a nearby pub, The Rat Inn, in Anick, near Hexham.  We get there late so they put us in a back room.  The only other customers back here are a group of middle-aged women having dinner.   We name our team, “The Ugly Americans,” the same name we’ve used for quiz nights in Hong Kong.

Tom and Larry at Chesters Bath House

As the quiz proceeds, we are doing quite well but struggling with the “British” questions.  As the women having dinner finish dessert and order after-dinner drinks, they get involved in helping us with the answers.  They get so involved that at some point one of them phones her husband for some of the answers.  We change the team name to “Four Ugly Americans and Seven Beautiful Brits.”  It turns out they are a group of ex-schoolmates that get together once a month for a night out. 

We score 67 out of a possible 73 and are sure we’re in the money.  The scores are announced and one team achieves a perfect 73 points.  We come in fourth.  Wow, these Brits take this quiz night stuff seriously.  Then the quizmaster confesses that he was too lazy to find fresh questions so he used the same questions he had used three or four weeks ago.  Since some of the teams had played then, all they had to do was remember stuff they heard three or four weeks ago.  Even I can do that.   We had a great time, though, and once again exploded the myth that the English are stuffy and unapproachable.