Fourstones to Corbridge
A hot day’s walking, needing only a T-shirt and shorts.
We swim in the river at Fourstones to be baptised for the day ahead, tiny fish nibbling at our feet. A couple of white egrets flying off upstream remind me of the South African story of the Great White Bird of Truth. The mallards are already in their eclipse plumage, drakes and ducks becoming similar. A time of transience – the energy of spring/summer beginning to hint at something else. The exploding bubbles over the rocks, the light feathered seed drifting over and eventually being trapped by the water. A single willow warbler calls, a beak full of insects to feed a hidden late brood.
Farther along, a desire line takes us to the river’s edge again, where a bend creates an appealing pool and stony beach. Signs proclaim ‘Private land’, No public access, No swimming. A lost racing pigeon stands stock still in the path looking at us imploringly, then follows us a little way.
A riot of flowers: St John’s Wort, Marsh Woundwort, Harebells, Black Knapweed, Scabious, Cranesbill, Nipplewort, Dog’s Mercury, Hogweed, Angelica, Meadowsweet, Willowherb/Fireweed – a feast of names each telling their own story. All held within the ever-present scent of Himalayan Balsam. The other side of the fence a field of barley, ears tufted.
People are drawn to the beach at Watersmeet, to look out over the current of speeding water, where the two rivers meet. A man with a Brompton bike sits on a bench under the shade of a tree, a couple appear from the trees with a spaniel dog. Teenage Anthony talks of camping here, catching trout with his hands, and offers us river clay. Pied and grey wagtails bob on the sandy coloured rocks. All actors in a play, connected by the turbulence of the waters.
As we approach Hexham, more people hugging the river bank, old couples, gangs of young in their expressive garb. We talk to some – none particularly conscious of the river but nonetheless drawn here; by their dogs, by the birds, by who knows what.
The path becomes harder, less yielding on the feet. After a period of silence between us – perhaps coming to terms with something – we share thoughts on the subtle change of feeling we have approaching the town. ‘A feeling of flattening’, ‘a feeling of constriction’, and suddenly we are among cars and busyness, not ‘being’ but ‘going’. It is easy to feel impatient here. We have a spiky exchange about where to get a cup of tea. It feels scattered and we realise that the word, in contrast, with what the river offers is coherence – sticking together. The river holds its complexity as a whole, which enables an easy breath. Around each meander a surprise, a delight, a desire to linger that is a part of the flow – directionality.
The café offers refuge and comfy armchairs by the window and its own coherence.
It’s a slog on the hard tarmac of roads up into the woods and from here there are views down to the Tyne Valley, Eggar pumping out fumes, the tower of the Abbey, Beaufont Castle nestling amongst trees. More and more stories. The passage of pilgrims, the place of privilege, paper from trees.
Devil’s Water meets the Tyne and we walk the meander into Corbridge in the fading light as youngsters scream jumping into its waters.
In the car park an older man, once of the waterboard curses privatisation.