Escape …

… down forestry roads, deep into Wark Forest.  I am no off-road hero but, some loose gravel I can cope with at sensible speeds.  The attraction is that it takes you places you would never otherwise go and mostly, you are completely alone.  This route starts at Whygate, a place already far from anywhere, at which point narrow tarmac with passing places turns to unmade forestry roads.  Three miles in a sign advises that the already rough track is unsuitable for motorised vehicles.  I have a sneaking suspicion that this is designed to deter through traffic – apart from a ford, Google Earth seems to show a cycle route which at worst has grass growing down the middle.  I was suitably deterred but intend going back to attack it from the southern end.  With echoes of the Northwest Passage I have a burning ambition to break through from Once Brewed on the Military Road to complete a fabulous circular route.

As it was, I turned back and headed over Shitlington Common (I kid you not) to Bellingham, down the North Tyne Valley to Wark and then along the eastern side of the Tyne to Barrasford, Chollerton and home.

It was wonderful to be out and I make no pretence about it being an ‘essential journey’ other than for the sake of my sanity.

The off-road section in Wark Forest

Almost a selfie

Beyond Whygate

End of the road at Grindon Green – or is it?

Turning around

One of two fords at Whygate

Shitlington Common

…and again.

Werner Kissling

Sunday, April 17th 2016, we travelled from South Uist to Eriskay across the causeway, opened by the Earl and Countess of Wessex on the 11th September 2002. This one mile crossing is the last in a series linking the islands of Berneray, North Uist, Benbecula, South Uist and Eriskay. A sixty mile string of roads and bridges which has added much to the convenience of local life but taken some of the romance from travelling these Outer Hebridean islands. We briefly toured the island by car, stopped at the Barra Ferry, took a quick look at Am Politician and were gone, heading south by ferry to Skye.

The ferry to Barra from Eriskay (in my pre-RAW days, the X100S quality now seems a little disappointing)

In 1934, Werner Kissling arrived by sea and stayed on Eriskay for the summer.  A career diplomat for the Weimar Republic, his postings took him to Spain, Hungary, Switzerland and finally, the UK as Second Secretary in the German embassy, London.  Alarmed at the rise of the Nazi movement, he resigned when they came to power in 1933.  Personally harangued by Hitler, he borrowed the yacht, Elspeth, and headed north to escape the attentions of the German secret police.

This great escape undoubtedly suited him immensely.  For reasons not entirely clear, he had, from an early age, developed a passion for the Scottish Islands and its people.  During his time on Eriskay, he filmed the islanders as they went about their daily lives –  collecting peat with their ponies, sheep farming, fishing and tweed making. The resulting film, A Poem of Remote Lives, is an astonishing record of a Gaelic community and a way of life that had not changed in hundreds of years:

 

A Feeling for Snow

New Year’s Day was dull and grey.  The next we awoke to a world changed.  Overnight snow is the joy of winter.  By some standards, it was a modest covering but sufficient to raise me from my lockdown position in front of several PC screens.  If we must have winter, if I am unable to ride a motorcycle, if I cannot swing a golf club, then let’s at least have it pretty.

It is around this time of year I get itchy feet and plot escapes north, always by rail – Inverness, Wick, Kyle of Lochalsh and Bodø/Lofoten have been my destinations over successive years, although only the latter yielded the white stuff.  This year, inevitably, I am going nowhere – locked up, locked down, call it what you will, I am told we are in Tier 4.  News channels can speculate, offer opinions, call in experts, exhort, criticise and alarm – just don’t assume I am listening.  I am out of reach and much the happier:

Crossing the Birkey Burn

Between Beaufront and Acomb

Hexham and Egger from Salmons Well Farm

Egger from north of Oakwood

The sheep get up and make their many tracks
And bear a load of snow upon their backs
John Clare – Sheep in Winter

The Victorian postbox at Sandhoe

Today I walked down the street I use to wander
Yeah, shook my head and made myself a bet
There was all these things that I don’t think I remember
Hey, how lucky can one man get.

Northumberland Skies

The field next to our home is filled with sheep.  The red dye on their backsides confirms they have been seen to by the tup (ram) – he has been a busy boy. It is disappointing that, around the time the fruits of his endeavours begin to show, the flock is moved to the lower nursery slopes.

The ram has been rushed off his feet.

Looking exhausted

After a while you begin to notice how your neighbours behave.  On really cold, still nights, they gather beneath the trees to avoid the ground frost.  Generally timid, they will disperse as we leave the front door but, rattle a plastic bag that might contain ewe nuts and they will come running.  Lie down for any length of time and a significant number will limp away, appearing to suffer from dead legs.

I share their pain – a golf induced knee injury, rotten weather, salty slippery roads and various tiers of lockdown have all served to constrain the usual activities – travel, golf and motorcycles.  Nevertheless, there is always much to see, just look to the skies:

The sun going down in late November

… And sunrise

Christmas is coming – 23rd December

Christmas morning

Post Christmas steely blue skies – 29th December

And then modest snow arrived on Christmas Eve and hung around for the next day – a White Christmas for Hexham:

Fern Hill

Towards Fawcett Hill

So, to sign off for 2020, I wish my modest band of followers, all the best for a much-improved 2021.  Before I go, some 2020 milestones:

a.  In late 2020 I approached maximum disc space on wordpress.com after eight years – I am now subscribed with an annual fee which at least demonstrates commitment and should ensure my readers are not subjected to peculiar adverts;

b.  Despite lockdowns, I still managed to clock 7165 miles on the motorbikes – several hundred more than in lockdown free 2019;

c.  We still managed to get away – to Saughtree in the Borders, twice to Mallaig and once to north Northumberland.  A return to the latter was abandoned due to the second lockdown;

d.  The text for the Golf in the Wild sequel is now complete and due for publication in September.  Possibly the only golf success in a year when playing was much curtailed.

Finally, as parting shots, a couple of images of the ‘Bad Company‘ I kept on some of the most memorable days in 2020:

On the trip to Hawes

At the top of Rosedale Chimney Bank.

Kielder Viaduct

An information plaque on one of the viaduct columns provides a brief overview of its history: In 1969, after being in use for 100 years, this railway viaduct was preserved for the public by the Northumberland and Newcastle Society through the generosity of many donors. The viaduct was constructed in 1862 to carry the North Tyne Railway and is a notable example of Victorian engineering. It is a rare and the finest surviving example of the skew arch form of construction. This required that each stone in the arches should be individually shaped in accordance with the method evolved by Peter Nicholson of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, a pioneer geometrician in this field.

The viaduct is decorated with crenelated ramparts and arrow slits to appease the Duke of Northumberland.  The line passed in front of his hunting lodge at Kielder Castle and he insisted that its design should be consistent with the castle’s Gothic style.

Later known as the Border Counties Railway (BCR), it ran from Riccarton just over the Scottish Border all the way down the North Tyne Valley to Hexham.  Opening in stages between 1858 and 1862, commercial traffic was limited from the outset and the thinly populated Borders meant that passenger numbers were always small. The line closed to passengers in 1956 and the tracks lifted in 1963.

From the banks of the North Tyne

The view from atop the viaduct

Keep walking south for just under a mile, following the route of the abandoned line and you are confronted with open water.  This is where the BCR is submerged beneath Kielder Water, not reappearing until Falstone, some six miles south and beyond Kielder Dam.  Much else lies beneath – Plashetts Colliery, the station, parts of the old village, various farms and HMS Standard.  Sadly, a prolonged drought will not reveal ghost villages as the buildings were destroyed before the valley was flooded.  Nor will the superstructure of some long lost battleship emerge – HMS Standard was a shore based  assessment and rehabilitation centre for naval personnel diagnosed with personality disorders.  Whatever inspired the reservoir’s civil engineers, it wasn’t the lost city of Atlantis.

The end of the line

Beneath the viaduct there is a neat little device called a blackbox-av.  Wind the handle to provide a charge and you can listen to the Viaduct Voices – short stories told by locals about the railway, the wildlife and a time before the coming of the reservoir.  The voices are appropriately faint and distant – much like Hendersen’s Bridge on Raasay.

Viaduct Voices

The Third Policeman

So much for New Year resolutions.  I had planned to post on WordPress every week, no great ambition considering I post on Blipfoto every day.  What got in the way – ‘events, dear boy, events’ as Harold MacMillan allegedly once said.  It’s a disappointment, not a capital crime; one for the thought police rather than the boys in blue but, it does feed a guilty conscience.  This, and a fear of authority were instilled from an early age and they persist.

In the early 1950s, the family home was still wired with pre-war round pin plugs – differently rated plugs were different sizes.  A 5 amp plug was physically different to a 15 amp plug, and they required different sockets.  The Electrolux ZA30 vacuum cleaner was fitted with a bakelite 15 amp plug conforming to BS 546. Like many family homes, the house was not converted to square pin, BS 1363, until the early 1960s, even though the British Standard was first published in 1947.

There were a number of safety features associated with BS 1363, not least the shuttered socket which prevents a child pushing a nail into one of the holes and making a live connection.  I remember no inclination to do so.  The round pins were unsafe in other ways, not directly associated with BS 546 – their bakelite construction was prone to break, revealing deadly live wires.

One innocent summer’s morning I was accused – ‘You have broken the vacuum cleaner plug Robin! – half is missing – where is it – you could have electrocuted me!’  Mother was in full exaggerated flow.  ‘Where is it, just tell me! ‘ My denials went unheeded and then, as if by magic, the broken part appeared on the staircase.  More accusations, more threats – just admit it or I am calling the police!  I was young enough to believe this a possibility.  The imagined policeman arriving at the door was not a man in blue but plain clothes CID in a brown mac.  Neither Sergeant Pluck nor Policeman MacCruiskeen, this third policeman was cobbled in my head from TV characters, none of them sympathetic. ‘Just admit it and nothing more will be done’. And so, I did.  A stinging smack, I was sent to bed for the day, no TV and only toast for tea.

This was a valuable lesson.  I learned that the truth will not always save you.  I learned that under duress, anyone can be persuaded to say anything.  I learned that grown-ups were fallible, not always to be trusted.

I was completely innocent – so innocent, I never made the obvious accusation – my sister did it!  Big sister kept quiet throughout and who could blame her given the onslaught I received.  The magical appearance on the staircase was probably an attempt to pacify except it only made things worse.

In the many days pre-school, time eased along with the tortoise whereas now, it runs with the hare. This was the longest day. It was a pattern repeated and repeated down the years.

Hell goes round and round. In shape it is circular, and by nature it is interminable, repetitive, and nearly unbearable.  Flann O’Brien

At sea – back row left to right – Aunt Bet and Mum. Front row – me, big sister and cousin Brian.

Two more …

… recent rides out on the BMW GS.  In the first, a brief journey to Derwent Reservoir in County Durham where, like most places at the moment, the place was teeming with visitors. This included one very adventurous young boy who was running along the dam edge in pursuit of his friend on a bike.  He survived …

Everyone agreed, it was a miracle indeed that the boy survived …

Gone fishin’

Open Water

A few days later I headed west to Anthorn, the home of the Pips:

The airfield was built in February 1918 as a Fleet Air Arm (FAA) airfield. It was abandoned after World War I ended, however the RAF reinstated the airfield at the beginning of World War II as an emergency landing ground for nearby RAF Silloth.

The site was taken over by the Royal Navy in December 1942, and renamed as RNAS Anthorn. It was commissioned in September 1944 as ‘HMS Nuthatch’. The airfield served as No.1 ARDU (Aircraft Receipt and Dispatch Unit), a unit that accepts aircraft from their manufacturers and prepares them for operational use. The last official flight took off from the airfield in November 1957. It was then put on Care and Maintenance, before it closed down in March 1958.

In 1961 the site was chosen to become a NATO VLF transmitting site for communicating with submarines. One of its main functions is to transmit Greenwich Mean Time to the rest of the world. This time signal is heard as ‘pips’ on the radio and is used by everything from train companies to speed cameras. The aerial masts can be seen from miles around, especially at night with their distinctive red lights.

Text from the Solway Military Trail website.

Anthorn – home of the Pips

I dream of wires

The result of all these two-wheeled miles is that I am now just 4 miles short of achieving the 2020 #ride5000miles target. There was a time, earlier in the year, when this seemed a very unlikely objective.

The North East coast …

… is usually quiet, but not this year.  COVID-19 and the resulting staycations has resulted in a once quiet coastline being overwhelmed.  This is all good news for the local economy I guess but not what I have come to expect of Bamburgh and Lindisfarne.  Once the school holidays are over, I assume things will quieten down again, always assuming the little darlings can be persuaded to return to education.  The couple of Bamburgh images are from last week and the Holy Island images from today – 12th August:

Bamburgh Castle and an unusually busy beach in light and shade …

… and how I got there.

Holy Island Causeway

… and how I got there.

The alternative route

‘Pilgrims’ heading for Holy Island

Silloth

Silloth seems distant and out-of-the-way but was once a popular destination for Victorian holidaymakers travelling by train from Carlisle and Scotland.  The Carlisle and Silloth Bay Railway provided a connection from the east while trains from the north arrived by the Solway Junction Railway, a journey which involved crossing the Firth on the remarkable Solway Viaduct.  According to Visit Cumbria: The one mile 176 yard long iron girder viaduct across the water was damaged by an ice build-up in 1875 and again in 1881. It was repaired and continued in use until 1914 for passengers, and until 1921 for freight, and was finally demolished in 1934.  Apparently, part of the reason was that Scots, who then had no access to alcohol on Sundays, used to walk across to the more liberal English side, and returning in a less than sober state occasionally fell into the Solway, and were lost.

The well-tended, wide-open park, the grand hotels, the prom, all speak of a bygone prosperity.  It was all new to me but the Good Wife holidayed here as a child, staying at her aunt and uncle’s house adjacent to the RAF aerodrome which closed in 1960.  We went in search of her memories.

The house is still there and a happy-looking older chap was raking his lawn.  This was John, tending his front garden, as he has done these last fifty years.  Turns out, he not only remembered Pam’s uncle and his family, having both worked at the aerodrome but, his wife, Irene, went to school with Pam’s cousin. In his day, John was an aero-engineer working on the de Havilland Vampires and Hawker Hunters that chased across the skies of Silloth throughout the post-war years.  As he remarked at the end of the conversation, it’s a small world.

John in his front garden

Cote Lighthouse

The beach, towards Skinburness

Cote Lighthouse

The amusement hall

The Green

Harbour entrance

Silloth Station 1951 – By Walter Dendy, deceased

Empty Chairs

It is Christmas 1961 and I am, as ever, behind the camera.  This was the year I was given a flash unit to fit the family Kodak Brownie Cresta.  A sizeable attachment with a large reflector, it fired off one-time flash bulbs. Filled with fine magnesium wire and oxygen, a small current was sufficient to instigate the flash – all very satisfying to a boy who liked playing with fire..

You can tell I am responsible – it is taken from a low angle and the subjects tend to occupy centre stage.  I had not yet learned the rule of thirds  In the first image, dad is seated far left smoking one of the many Kensitas that would eventually take him.  He is at the beginning of his forties while mum, sat next to him, is still in her thirties.  My sister is too busy eating to take notice of younger brother’s antics but boyfriend Ricky is smiling keenly at the camera, also with cigarette in hand, possibly one of dad’s.  A too well-presented eighteen year old, I knew big sister could do better.

Cigarettes were socially acceptable at home but there was little or no drink. My teenage smoking habit went undetected until I tried Blue Book, a brand for “the discerning smoker”.  Each packet contained Turkish, Russian Egyptian and Havana blends.  An afternoon smoking these with an equally discerning friend and the house smelled like a souk.

It is the end of Christmas dinner and house-proud mother has already cleared most of the table.  The posh sideboard, table and chairs from Kendal Milne, Manchester;  the Regency striped wallpaper; the Wedgwood dinner service; the Peter Scott print; the understated decorations – all in the best possible taste.

Ricky took his time to leave – another three years before he abandoned my sister and her life took flight.  Now everyone has gone – empty clothes that drape and fall on empty chairs.

The ‘posh’ dining room

The living room – always coal fires burning

Big sister and boyfriend, Ricky – driving gloves and a too smart coat