After the rigours of Cross Fell, the walk to Knarsdale was an easy 10 miles. I dallied in Alston, the highest market town in England complete with cobbled streets, marvelling at the property prices and tracking down a couple of map postcards for Andy. In the obligatory outdoor shop, I bought a buff, a curious garment worn around the neck and head which, according to the promotion video, does everything except feed the cat.
The PW takes a convoluted and tediously confusing route from Alston to Knarsdale and my guidebook recommended following the South Tyne Trail instead. The STT follows the route of a former railway and would doubtless have been incorporated into the PW, had it not been a functioning line until the 1970s. It was a relief to walk along a level surface without worrying about checking the route, dancing round bogs or circumventing cattle. A narrow gauge service is now operated by the grandly named South Tynedale Railway for just three miles of the original twentyfive. The STT parallels the track and leaving Alston I eagerly anticipated the sight of a majestic steam train. Halfway along the route, I heard a promising sound in the distance and extracted my camera. Disappointingly, only a diesel loco, for all the world like an oversized lawnmower, trundled towards me pulling three dispirited carriages at not much more than walking pace. I reached Lintley Halt, the northern terminus, as the train was about to leave for the return journey, with as much fuss and preparation as if it were bound for Vladivostok.
My hosts at Knarsdale were retired sheep farmers. They had built the bungalow where I was staying and moved into it when their son took over the family farm, just like David and Ruth. Margaret explained apologetically that her husband would be getting up at 4am to help his son take lambs to the market. They kept sheep on Blenkinsopp Common which I was due to cross the following day and Margaret advised taking an alternative route as walkers had recently emerged from that section very muddy, the worst example being a Dutch couple who had sunk up to their knees in a bog. Instead she recommended continuing along the STT then following a minor road into Greenhead to join the PW. I consulted the guidebook and after reading that even Wainwright dismissed the section as "uninteresting" I resolved to follow her advice.
For the first couple of miles, the STT passed through woods then across a magnificent viaduct, a monument to mid-Victorian civil engineering. Leaving the STT, a dilapidated confection of turrets and castellations came into view. Featherstone Castle, pictured below, had no sign either inviting or prohibiting entry so I decided to investigate, with eyes peeled for a red-faced chap with a shotgun. While I was gazing at the building, a man carrying a knarled stick approached from a field which ran down to the river. He introduced himself as Fable and explained that the place had been rented for a week by forty members of the Edward Carpenter Community. The castle was reportedly haunted and periodically attracted amateur ghosthunters. Fable claimed to have seen an unexplained shadow that morning but admitted it could have been a man, which considering the number in residence did seem a likelier explanation. He gave me a tour of the interior which was labyrinthine and dusty, typical of grand houses which have been transformed over the centuries from fortifications to family seats to educational establishments and whose fortunes have now declined into retreats for impecunious or worthy groups. Fable showed me the timetable of planned activities ranging from led walks to storytelling workshops, hence his name, I realised. In the large communal kitchen, men were enthusiastically baking bread and preparing lunch. With its vaulted ceiling and high windows it seemed the perfect setting to find Swelter, the vindictive chef from Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast. Elsewhere men were participating in workshops or, in a couple of cases, just painting their nails. Everyone was friendly and it was easy to believe that, as their website claims, this is a community committed to personal growth and mutual support.
After a relaxed morning's walking searching for elusive otters along the South Tyne River I arrived at Greenhead with time to explore the newly expanded Roman Army Museum during the afternoon. An impressive 3D film dissolved images of reconstructions of Roman forts into their present day outlines and made a good prologue for my walk along part of Hadrian's Wall the following day. The Roman army comprised 500,000 men at its peak. These were divided into legionaries, who were Roman citizens, and auxiliaries who were men with valued skills, such as horsemanship, from conquered lands. After 25 years' service, auxiliaries were granted a pension and land rights in perpetuity. To avoid conflicts of loyalty, auxiliaries were not deployed in their home territory which must have demanded considerable efforts of administration. Thus it appears that in addition to roads and currency, the Romans bequeathed us the seeds of human resource management.
© David Thompson 2012
The PW takes a convoluted and tediously confusing route from Alston to Knarsdale and my guidebook recommended following the South Tyne Trail instead. The STT follows the route of a former railway and would doubtless have been incorporated into the PW, had it not been a functioning line until the 1970s. It was a relief to walk along a level surface without worrying about checking the route, dancing round bogs or circumventing cattle. A narrow gauge service is now operated by the grandly named South Tynedale Railway for just three miles of the original twentyfive. The STT parallels the track and leaving Alston I eagerly anticipated the sight of a majestic steam train. Halfway along the route, I heard a promising sound in the distance and extracted my camera. Disappointingly, only a diesel loco, for all the world like an oversized lawnmower, trundled towards me pulling three dispirited carriages at not much more than walking pace. I reached Lintley Halt, the northern terminus, as the train was about to leave for the return journey, with as much fuss and preparation as if it were bound for Vladivostok.
My hosts at Knarsdale were retired sheep farmers. They had built the bungalow where I was staying and moved into it when their son took over the family farm, just like David and Ruth. Margaret explained apologetically that her husband would be getting up at 4am to help his son take lambs to the market. They kept sheep on Blenkinsopp Common which I was due to cross the following day and Margaret advised taking an alternative route as walkers had recently emerged from that section very muddy, the worst example being a Dutch couple who had sunk up to their knees in a bog. Instead she recommended continuing along the STT then following a minor road into Greenhead to join the PW. I consulted the guidebook and after reading that even Wainwright dismissed the section as "uninteresting" I resolved to follow her advice.
For the first couple of miles, the STT passed through woods then across a magnificent viaduct, a monument to mid-Victorian civil engineering. Leaving the STT, a dilapidated confection of turrets and castellations came into view. Featherstone Castle, pictured below, had no sign either inviting or prohibiting entry so I decided to investigate, with eyes peeled for a red-faced chap with a shotgun. While I was gazing at the building, a man carrying a knarled stick approached from a field which ran down to the river. He introduced himself as Fable and explained that the place had been rented for a week by forty members of the Edward Carpenter Community. The castle was reportedly haunted and periodically attracted amateur ghosthunters. Fable claimed to have seen an unexplained shadow that morning but admitted it could have been a man, which considering the number in residence did seem a likelier explanation. He gave me a tour of the interior which was labyrinthine and dusty, typical of grand houses which have been transformed over the centuries from fortifications to family seats to educational establishments and whose fortunes have now declined into retreats for impecunious or worthy groups. Fable showed me the timetable of planned activities ranging from led walks to storytelling workshops, hence his name, I realised. In the large communal kitchen, men were enthusiastically baking bread and preparing lunch. With its vaulted ceiling and high windows it seemed the perfect setting to find Swelter, the vindictive chef from Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast. Elsewhere men were participating in workshops or, in a couple of cases, just painting their nails. Everyone was friendly and it was easy to believe that, as their website claims, this is a community committed to personal growth and mutual support.
After a relaxed morning's walking searching for elusive otters along the South Tyne River I arrived at Greenhead with time to explore the newly expanded Roman Army Museum during the afternoon. An impressive 3D film dissolved images of reconstructions of Roman forts into their present day outlines and made a good prologue for my walk along part of Hadrian's Wall the following day. The Roman army comprised 500,000 men at its peak. These were divided into legionaries, who were Roman citizens, and auxiliaries who were men with valued skills, such as horsemanship, from conquered lands. After 25 years' service, auxiliaries were granted a pension and land rights in perpetuity. To avoid conflicts of loyalty, auxiliaries were not deployed in their home territory which must have demanded considerable efforts of administration. Thus it appears that in addition to roads and currency, the Romans bequeathed us the seeds of human resource management.
© David Thompson 2012
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