I'm walking across the narrowest part of England, following the course of Hadrian's (Roman) Wall. Construction of the wall started in the year 122, and some sections remain to this day.
The walk is 84 miles, which I'm comfortably spreading over 7 days. On the 8th day I fly home to Minneapolis.
I walked to the one pub in the village, The King's Arms.
The cook was chatty. She told me she had walked the Hadrian's Wall trail from end-to-end. Her father, the owner of the pub, had suggested she should do that to better connect with the customers.
Next morning I fuelled up with a full English breakfast, settled up with the owners, then made my way to the nearby trailhead.
The trail went through a shelter. At least I would be protected from the slight drizzle for the first few feet of the hike.
I made my way out of the village and across lowlands that flood if there is an unusually high tide.
About a mile along the trail, an old guy was setting up a sign that informed me I had walked one mile and had 83 more before I would see Wallsend.
"Where are you from?" he asked. "How far away is that?"
I stabbed at 3,900 miles.
He then assembled the sign you can see at the top of this post.
He didn't ask for compensation but I dropped a few "quid" into a collection box.
We chatted a bit, then shook hands as I excused myself to walk the remaining fifteen miles that would take me to Carlisle for the night.
I learned I was the only hiker in the village who would be starting the trail the next day. I didn't need to ask her how she knew, because it was obvious: I was the only customer in the only dining establishment in the village.
She served the Cumberland sausage I had ordered. She had warned me it was gluten-free: "If you don't like it, I'll cook something else for you."
She served the Cumberland sausage I had ordered. She had warned me it was gluten-free: "If you don't like it, I'll cook something else for you."
Back at my bed and breakfast I looked out from my bedroom at the Solway Firth in the fading light. Across the Firth I could see Scotland.
I made my way out of the village and across lowlands that flood if there is an unusually high tide.
"Where are you from?" he asked. "How far away is that?"
I stabbed at 3,900 miles.
He then assembled the sign you can see at the top of this post.
We chatted a bit, then shook hands as I excused myself to walk the remaining fifteen miles that would take me to Carlisle for the night.
Priceless photo. 83 should be a piece of cake
ReplyDeleteYup, cake is fuelling my journey to Wallsend. Today I learned cake does not always travel well. It was a hot day, and a piece of "rich man's shortbread" at the top of my backpack was becoming molten, at least the chocolate and caramel parts. I managed to enjoy it, with minimal wastage.
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