A quick check on the pedometer and kilometremeter from the night before revealed thirty one thousand steps stepped, twenty six thousand metres walked and one hundred and nine flights of stairs climbed.
All things considered, besides a few hotspots on our feet and dehydrated calves, we were both in fine shape for another bimble, knowing the stats would likely pale into insignificance when compared to the day before (and they did).
Our plan was to hit the third English Heritage site hard and take a walk around the small village of Chollerford, following the River Tyne downstream, both officially walled out from the day befores efforts.
We filled up our water packs once again and headed off to Heddon-On-The-Wall for a spot of breakfast in The Three Tuns public house, a full English breakfast (veggie option for me) setting out our stall for the days calorie burn.
Sadly, once again the establishment along with all others we could find in the area were all closed, again due to the Covid opening hour restrictions, so feeling a little despondent we headed back to Chollerford, parked the car at Chester’s Fort and walked back to the village for an early morning brew at The Riverside tea room before we took in all that the site had to offer.
With strong black coffee quoffed and caffeine surging through the bloodstream, we took the short walk back to the fort, stopping off briefly to pet a bouncing golden retriever, so full of life and energy, easily enough to raise our spirits of the breakfast that never was.
As if by some divine influence, we soon passed a copse of blackberries bushes and took a hand full, munching the sweet fruits in time to the sound of our own footsteps.
Once inside the fort, it was apparent from the outset that this site (for me at least) was the better one of the three. The exposed brickwork foundations still very much in tact which gave more clarity as to what each building’s function was.
By far the most impressive of constructs were the drainage systems, central heating systems and especially the almost intact bath house.
Some think that central heating systems are a relatively new concept, but in the days before gas fired boilers and radiators, the Romans would heat up stones and place them in cavities under the floors to heat the rooms. Genius.
To think they had highly effective baths, saunas and steam rooms over two thousand years ago is almost unfathomable, almost as unfathomable as to where ancient civilisations obtained such knowledge in the first place.
So much has happened on Earth in such a small time period (since the last ice age which ended 12,000 years ago in Britain according to wiki), it’s not wholly unreasonable to conclude that some of the more “out there” theories of panpsychism or the esoteric akashic records (eternally existing streams of consciousness and information) may hold they key to our historical advancement as a species.
Sadly, the bridge that spanned the River Tyne at Chester’s Fort is no more, but the ruins of the towers that sat strongly either side still remains to this day. As we peered across the river, we saw a fisherman, arcing his fly line beautifully into the crisp morning air, nestling sweetly on the surface of the fast flowing water, catching what was most likely a trout. Nothing quite like fresh fish for Sunday lunch, from riverbank to plate in less than two hours.
I came across a small shard of loose stone which was cut squarely so to form the shape of a wonky pyramid. I’d like to think it was cut by the hand of a Roman soldier two millennia ago so popped it in my pocket as a free keepsake (something I’ve regularly done over the years from mountains I’ve hiked or climbed).
After our tour of the site was complete, we headed back into Chollerford to take our river ramble on the opposite side to the fort, and stopped a while to talk to some friendly locals out walking their dog, who told us to keep an eye out for Biggus Dickus.
No it wasn’t the grave of Graham Chapman (as mentioned in Part 1), but a rather large Roman phallus carved into the stone for all eternity.
As we sat and rested, the deviant in me unpacked the drone and took it for a flight across the wall and inside the ruined bridge tower, followed by a swift flight over the river and around the fort, albeit from a significant height. Technically there were no signs on display that one could not fly a drone over the site, but I took the executive decision anyway to do it regardless, feeling the thrill of a would-be archaeologist as the aerial shot revealed the full extent of site in all of its glory.
The strong wind alert started to alarm so the flight was ended more quickly than I would have liked, but nonetheless the final output was worth the risk.
Feeling happy that we had done the area justice, we headed back to base camp for our Sunday roast at the Twice Brewed public house (vegetable nut roast for me), which was washed down with two planks of their finest draft ales.
With three third of a pint glasses on each plank, we tasted all six ales on offer, ranking them from best to worst as one does, the last glass staying full to the brim after we both agreed that it tasted like the waste water from a vase.
All that remained was the two hundred mile drive back home, which was thankfully both swift and uneventful.
We are already thinking of the full seventy three mile walk for next year, when hopefully tea rooms and public houses resume normal service and pre-booking can be resigned to the annals of history. The good folks of Northumbria are fabulously warm and welcoming people, very friendly with a dry wit and humour not too dissimilar from that of my birth city of Liverpool.
A great trip full of fond memories already, and with it a gentle reminder to all that beyond the wall of chaos, there is a calm out there, you just need to disconnect and look for it.