August 5, 2011
Hexham to near Stanhope-upon-Weirdale.
I was most of the morning food shopping, buying a map and drinking coffee in Northumberland market town Hexham, which stretches up the steep hillside on the south side of the river Tyne. The road out of town continues on uphill, from the sheltered enclosed fields with trees and Hawthorn hedges, up and out upon open mountain plateau with nothing higher than wild grasses, Heather and dry stone walls which enclose the road. It could be described as windswept up here but today it was still and sunny with mountainous cumulus clouds which caress the bluish hills ahead in the distants, or fells as they're called here. I was in the Pennine mountains, sometimes referred to as, The Backbone of England, and shortly the stone wall-enclosed road went down the fell toward lush valley, marked as Allendale on my newly purchased map.
The river below on the right was enclosed by mature well rounded broad-leaf trees, Sycamore and Ash in full Summer leaf, which were also in hedgerows and as solitary trees in riverbank meadow and in yellow striped-round-baled hay fields rolling up to the road. I came down into Allendale village whose terrace of brown stone houses were all on the left, whereas the right of the village street had a low wall terrace making up the drop into the valley, along which were a few benches for pensioners to sit, like the oldies that have escaped their women-folk in the TV comedy "Last of the Summer Wine" to take in the view across the valley at the steep patchwork of fields and sparse hilltop opposite.
I stopped for lunch a little past the village and admired the view myself, sat up against a big stone wall in a gateway which sheltered me from a chilling wind which had latterly risen.
I rode on, all the time glancing to the right, down into the valley at scattered farmsteads on the riverbank and across at the bare hillside opposite, reaching Allenhead by three o'clock, another timeless village in stone. But looking closer, it was obvious that, recent renovations and gentrification has taken place; and what about all those Range Rovers and the like parked at the curb. It was clear that many of the houses are second homes for city folk not short of dosh.
Allenhead as the name implies is the end of the valley and so the road when up, though gently. I descended down the other side through another village and turned east cycling down Weirdale toward the North Sea.
In Stanhope which I reached at five, there is a ford across the river Weir. There is also a dry much longer though less adventurous route across via a bridge. On my previous visits to this steep hillside town, I enjoyed the excitement of riding down the concrete ramp, front wheel splashing into the river, then carving through the water and out up the ramp the other side. The last time I was here however, the bike slipped on the bottle-like green algae of the submerge concrete apron, the bike slipping under and I fell in to my waist. Soaked: including my camera which I wore in a pouch on my belt. That depressed me for the rest of the ride as there would be no more photos and I thought the camera was ruined. But afterwards, following advice in a camera-shop, I opened all the hatches and left it to dry which it did and the camera worked perfectly well for many years after that until it was stolen.
I most be getting old and less adventurous these days as I went round by the bridge this time. I also remember the long steep climb out of Weirdale going south. It wasn't any easier this time; but just beyond the crest, there is a dip down to a stream and an old stone quarry where its possible to camp if I hide myself away because of the NO CAMPING signs.
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