Rising north out of Allendale, the stony track is fringed by tall, windblown grasses and the occasional scruffy, red-berried rowan. Pipits lift from the walls of this old drover’s road to fly in erratic patterns across the moorland. I look back over the valley to where two lead-mining chimneys punctuate the distant skyline. This route to Hexham is the slow way, the old way, to get from one valley to the other.
Out on the open moor, the waving path is a dark line sunk in knee-high heather. Grouse scatter, calling and chuckling, and a solitary raven cronks as it drifts past. A few muted patches of heather are still in flower. The way drops down to a dilapidated bridge across Anchey Sike – one of several tiny streams that thread the moors – and climbs to a high point looking over the Tyne Valley. From up here I can see Deadwater Fell, the great curved back of the Cheviot, and the wind turbines on the Wanneys.
