St Oswald’s Slutchy Plodge From Warkworth to Somewhere Else

For those peeps unfamiliar with North-Eastern parlance, a plodge is a watery and/or muddy paddle in the clarts. And clarts are muddy places. Lancastrians will recognise the word “slutch” whilst others will just have to make do with “mud”.

Soooo, me and Lucky and Dawn headed up to Warkworth for a plodge in the slutch towards Rothbury along Saint Oswald’s Way. Basically, we would see how far we got then turn around and paddle back through the clarts to where we started from.

It had been a night of stair-rods and, in fact was still quite drizzly up on the Pennines, but here in Warkworth it was warm and cloudy – in fact the knipemobile temperature indicator (i.e. thermometer, for those of a scientifical bent) was showing 17C when we left. I meantersay, 17C. We should have gone to the beach with a picnic. It was cooler in June.

So, I followed Lucky who followed Dawn who had a map. We walked for five and a bit miles until we came to a flooded beck, just outside Felton and this prevented further progress. Or at least it should have done, but Dawn found a bridge. But it was too late. I had eaten my cheese butty and witnessed a large rabbit being attacked by a small stoat. The rabbit survived because Lucky barked and the stoat ran off. It was probably a temporary salvation anyway.

And then we walked back again. Lucky was off the lead for some considerable distance and, despite the freedom, walked to heal very sensibly. This was probably because we saw no more rabbits or, indeed, any more pheasants of which there’d been many early on. Lucky has a very strong hunting instinct.

Anyway, we did eleven and a half miles and determined to have a go at the whole route in the new year, judging that a winter walk might be better for discreet wild camping.

And now, I’m all packed up for a little jaunt along the Norfolk Coastal Path. My pack is small due to the fact that I’m doing it the wimpy way and staying in hotels and B&B’s. More of this later. I’ve been hoping for some wildish weather and, it looks like I won’t be disappointed.

Gibraltar in Sunshine then in Rain

This was a new (for me) County Durham guided walk which I thought was a really good idea when I submitted it to the Council last July…

Me and Dawn and Lucky The Dog did the reccy last week in warmish sunshine, there being a bit of a temperature inversion on at the time. The reccy also had the best of the autumn woodland colours; the trees being substantially stripped during windy nights a week later.

Gibraltar farm, now mainly derelict but still holding some furniture was abandoned in 1965 after the occupant – a single lady, died by the Beldon Burn whilst, apparently, on her way to the shops. There is no road to the building.


We did get lost – that is to say, I got lost and Dawn followed me up hills and back down again, resulting in the nine mile walk turning into eleven.


I was also a bit concerned about a steep and slippery descent to Beldon Burn which was..er…steep and slippery, but with plenty of trees to hang on to. On the day, Jo and Diane (I think it was) had been this way before – inevitably somebody’s been there before – and located the path a bit to the side. This turned out to be steep and slippery too, but with less stuff to hang on to.






On the reccy we managed to do the full route – as per the map below – without too much difficulty, and it was very nice too. The sun shone, the suckler cows more or less ignored us, the keepers were out in some force by the chimneys, but were friendly and, apparently, mere yoofs with guns.


On the day, 23 people and 2 dogs turned up to a rain-slashed car park at Blanchland and, although the rain stopped for a bit, at lunchtime, it came back again and appeared to have settled in for the duration. The stiles were slippery, the dogs were wet, and there was an element of whingeing from some of the troops, so I called an end to the misery and took a more sheltered, if muddy route back to Blanchland through Deborah Wood.
This wasn’t much shorter than the advertised route, which was nine miles, but probably ten, really. And so we did about eight.
But its a good route, I think. I’ll put it in again for next summer, I expect.

Fight Club Hikers Swim Langdale

The lass at the National Trust campsite gave me one of her digestive biscuits, explained that the long-term forecast was for another 20 days of rain and advised me to camp on a “high bit”.

Later, after struggling to get any pegs in the ground, me and Lucky were tucked into our tent and cruising into snooze-mode with the help of a light libation or two when noises were detected above the sound of the rain slashing on the flysheet, which indicated that Peter, Gill and Paddy had arrived and were erecting their tabernacles on some stony ground nearby – judging by all the hammering noises.

I wandered over to greet whilst Lucky refused to leave his sleeping bag and stayed put.

A bit later, in the bar of the Old Dungeon Gill, Masey and Pepper the collie turned up – Masey having got himself a bed in the hotel. You would think that this was a wise move, and it would have been had they not locked him out that night and forced him to spend the night in his car, being unable to rouse anybody to let him in. (This has certain safety concerns if you think about it for a bit – I meantersay, what if you wanted to inform the management that their roof was on fire… or something….?)

It rained most of the night, forming a serious puddle in the entrance to my tent and in other places around the site. Paddy determined to go and scoff goulash in Keswick. Masey was up for a walk though, despite the weather, so we saddled up the pooches and headed off up Lingmoor Fell.

Lingmoor Fell has three baggable tops and I’d only done two of them – Side Pike and the summit and I’d never been to Oakhowe Crag, a  little outlying top just next to Lingmoor Tarn. Lucky, Pepper and Masey hadn’t been to any of these places.

As we climbed the fell the weather brightened up and we were soon at the top of Side Pike. A steep descent was achieved by the other three, but the slippery rock scared my slick boots (must get some new boots) and I had to climb back up and use the proper path. This was followed by a short Fat Man’s Agony or squeeze through a thin gap between a big boulder and the rockface and this is where it started chucking it down again.

Lunch was taken in the shelter of a wall and my group shelter and Masey provided hot chocolate from his jetboil, which was nice. The driving rain put me right off going for Oakhowe Crag and we just headed for the summit where it was stupidly wet and windy.

We returned to the ODG via the path beside Blea Water and dripped all over their nice floor whilst allowing them to sell us some beer.

Paddy, Gill and Peter had had a nice and relatively dry time in Keswick and a second ODG session was enjoyed. And then it rained all night again.

Most of my stuff is very wet and Lucky is suspicious when I get his lead that he’s going to be forced to get cold and wet again. He’s not realised yet that he’s bagged another Wainwright – that’s 15 altogether. It’s a start, though, innit?

Not too many pics cos it was raining, see?

Global Warming Finally Strikes Weardale

I had to visit Tow Law today to get a new tyre for the knipemobile and set off on this short journey in dense and chilly fog. A little way up the hill out of Crook, however, I broke through the fluffy but clammy blanket into a different world of blue skies and sunshine.

So, I determined to add some variety to the dog’s daily trundle and decided to head up Weardale where it was nice and sunny.

We randomly turned up at Park Head and marched off up the old railway track towrds Rookhope, turning downhill even more randomly to enter the upper parts of Stanhope Dene where we could follow the beck downstream as far as the salmon pool. This is the pool where spawning salmon gather in early November (about now, actually) before heading off upstream.

Its a bit of a suntrap and the car thermometer had been reading 17.5 degrees above Stanhope (only 10C at knipetowers in the fog) and I couldn’t resist a little November dip. I meantersay, its not often you get to have a proper dip in darkest, dreich November. A fish jumped. Which made me jump, actually. Lucky was more interested in the hillside full of waskally wabbits just above the pool. And the water temperature was, more or less, “doable”, although I’ve had a lot of practise recently and your body does get acclimatised to proper water. I had three dips altogether and it was, you might say, “refreshing”.

I’m currently reading Andrew Fusek Peter’s book “Dip” – wild swims from the borderlands in which he details 12 months of wild swims and dips. Peters claimks that a dip in cold water has a very positive effect on the immune system and, more particularly, on an individual’s mood. It certainly affect tired muscles and, I think he’s right about the mood.  I certainly get a bit euphoric after a dip and its starting to get a little addictive. I’m not sure I could do 12 months, though…

After getting wet, we finished the circle by heading up the Crawleyside incline back to the car. It was only four miles.

Note that the feet do belong to me – I haven’t yet had the nail polish removed. The fingernails took some doing, and they’re still a bit pink. If I have an accident, I have an explanation already rehearsed for the paramedics and the nurses in A&E.  if its a fatal accident, please note that I want the nail polish left on for the funeral. I meantersay, you have to go with just a smidgeon of style, innit?

Lets Do The Timewarp Again

Warning: The Content of this blog post may be disturbing to some readers. Viewer discretion is advised.  Just sayin’

Prancing about like a tart ranks alongside the North East Skinny Dip in terms of potential for embarrassment by getting involved in something which really gets les butterflies fluttering and a bit of adrenalin flowing. For some reason, not specially clear to me at all, tomorrow night I’m attending a halloween do at St Catherine’s Community Centre in Crook attired in fancy dress.

The original thought was to go as Franknfurter – that is to say, in a black waspie, pants, fishnet stockings, curly wig, arm sleevy things (sparkly for the use of…) and high heels and pearls. I ordered said uniform from that interweb thing and discovered, once they’d arrived, that the knickers were more than indecent, caused by the fixed suspenders pulling them down at the front (I don’t want to go into any more detail about this)  and that the outfit was generally pretty cheap and nasty  although I did quite like fishnet stockings (I have very nice legs as it happens) (never mock my legs by the way)

Happily, Dawn has come to the rescue. I asked her if she knew where I could get some size 10 high heels and not only did she source those, but also a very nice red and black basque……  you can see where this is going by now, I expect. Anyway, much gratitude goes to Dawn for help with the kit.

So, I’m not going to be Franknfurter, but Franknfurter’s transvestite Transylvanian brother. (Not thought up a name as yet)

Mrs Pieman has sourced some decent pants from Asda, had back-up suspenders in reserve and provided honest opinions once she stopped laughing.  And I am the proud owner of a garter. Mrs Pieman is also helping with the false nails and eyelashes and in return, I’m cooking the spicy lentil and tomato soup (a Pieman specialty not involving any pork-based products at all.) I’ve painted  my own toenails too, in antici……….pation.

I’ve also been practising by teetering about knipetowers in the high heels – and have been complimented by the postman on my neat ankles. The extra height has also given me a new outlook on life and I can now see the top of Mrs Pieman’s head, even when she’s standing up. I’ve also had to practise putting on the basque and developing a some new dressing techniques involving stockings and suspenders – the ones round the back are specially difficult and a nightmare for anyone with a stiff back.  And I’ve had to check my appearance in the hallway mirror to make sure it’s all in the right places.  The neighbours, however, are giving me some odd, knowing looks, but not actually saying anything.

The prospect of appearing like this scares the willy off me, which may well be No Bad Thing. But I appear to be committed (ought to be committed!) I have a little bottle of moral strengthener, as it were, to take beforehand.

Wish me luck.

I’m not sure how I got myself into this.

If you’ve been affected by any of the issues highlighted in this blog post, then call our helpline……

Somebody kidnap me before tomorrow….please…