From Northumbria

A postcard ballad.

Saint Cuthbert's Way

(12th to 17th of December, 2024)

We took the bus down to Melrose;
There to begin a walk. 
The wind was in the west that day; 
It raged too loud for talk.

So up and up, through sheets of rain,
We took the whistling pass;
Then down through sludge and mud to town,
And to our bed at last.

Onward on the second morn;
Along the river strode
We past the muses and a kirk;
Then joined a Roman road.

Straight on, straight on, for hours on end
With ne'er a change of plane;
With shoes soaked through by mud and mulch,
And just a little rain.

And when, at 3:30, the sun
Went suddenly to rest,
We were still walking, hours from end,
Unsure which way was best ...

To find a bus to take us on?
To raise a thumb in hope?
To walk on through the hours of dark?
We soon began to mope.

For soaking shoes make blistered feet,
And dim head-torches suck.
At length we stopped beside a house
And thought to try our luck.

Before we even knocked, a man
Came out to meet us there
And asked if we might want a lift;
Seldom heard are words so fair.

So passed another welcome rest,
In Jedburgh, which lay
Among the border abbeys; then
Back to Saint Cuthbert's Way.

Now this day was another trial.
The way went eastwards through
A realm of woods and farmland mixed;
A castle was there too.

And in the afternoon, we climbed
Past quads and cattle there,
Up as the sun went down with joy,
And we enjoyed its flare.

Now, legs aflame from rugged climb,
We started down with dusk;
Uneven twilight was our guide
As we descended, brusque.

And cutting back and forth, our feet
Grew sore within our boots,
And darkness overtook us ere
We reached the mountain's roots.

So yet again, we walked in gloom;
Our feet were sorer still,
And yet again, through providence,
A lift was offered to fill

The final hours of our walk,
And dropped us at the inn.
A bath, sublime, awaited us,
And then a schnitzel grin.

Alas, by this point, injury
To foot and knee took hold,
And on the morrow, with our groans,
We did decide to fold.

And so we walked to a bus stop,
And took some rest from there;
Then leaving bus at Lindisfarne,
Our packs again to bear.

We spent the afternoon crossing
The causeway to the place
Where long ago the monks made home
Before they Vikings faced.

There at last on Holy Island,
We rose the next day, slow,
To wander out into what beauty
Those faithful fields might show.

Eggs Benedict beside the ruins
Of Benedictine priory;
A quiet peace was there with us,
And so I end this story.

Miscellanea from the walk.

PS. York, Briefly, Afterwards

(1st of January, 2025)

It was in York that Constantine was crowned,
Some years before he did his city found.

It was to York that many Northmen came;
For centuries to this place they laid claim.

It was the fair and defensible York,
Where awesome English kings did also walk.