Northumberland : the quiet county

Living in or near the Peak district which I understand is the second most visited national park in the world (the first being Mount Fuji in Japan), one of the first things that strikes you as a visitor to 'the County' is the lack of other people. Even at Bowden doors and Kylog in the log, the most well known and therefore popular of crags - there's just noone there. Awesome! noone to witness my/our floundering.

The plan went well and was executed smoothly. Dylog and I drove from Sheffield to my work (near the depot in pudsey) and met Folog there, continuing on in his car. Not driving, and not being late on friday night meant it didn't feel as far (in my head) as it is, although that drive does seem to get longer each time. We make Belford by 1400, and check in to our lodgings. We have elected to stay at the bluebell farm caravan site where there is a bunkbarn. The last time I went, we stayed here also, and our companions in the bunkbarn included a fat gay french man and his malnourished Geordie lover. They really liked us and talked almost constantly. Later we were joined by a surfing couple and their dog who all hated us (because I had dysentary and was up and down all night). Anyway, that was then, and this time the Bunkbarn was full. So we stayed in 'the Ark'. Picture two sheets of wood propped against each other so as to make a wooden tent, inside a raised platform is covered with suspicious wipe clean bedding. This was our home. It appeared that the birds (of which there are many) had also at some point made it their home too. Basically we were staying in an aviary with a load of turkeys.

All the way there we had vowed to be disciplined, we would walk to Kylog and chill our boots until the temps dropped (as it still said 22 in the car). However, when we arrived, we ran to the rocks, rammed our swollen red feet into down turned too tight shoes and headed for the sharpest holds in the direct sun. Nice one. Kylog (and the county in general) has some beautiful shapes and rock features, and some implausibly thin but apparently robust flakes to pull on. The rock is just amazing. Having exfoliated the first few layers of dermis I decide its time for heavy weight crush action. Cubby's lip. Girls have done this I think - lets have it! Strong girls with thin fingers and talent it turns out. In the words of Liam Copley - "i'll cut it straight, we didnt do owt". More accurately - not even a move. My fingers felt big and fat and didnt fit in the holes, when I forced them, it hurt, and my left hamstring was alarmed by the efforts to make it relieve the pressure on my hands. Given that the last time I was here, I zipped to the end three or four times, only to fall from the 'easy' match (must've had feet in wrong place), this was disappointing. But, it was hot and I am not fit or strong at the moment.

We move to the Yorkshireman, which has bigger holds. But is more physical. But brilliant. Both James and I were taking the undercut and slipping back down it, and Dylog couldn't get it at all. Once again, punterdom beckoned, so we moved further right still - HitchHikers. Fiend has done this I thought... So we all flashed it in our trainers. Ok, so thats not quite how it happened. Perhaps a thousand goes, maybe more, some more layers of skin shed but both Dylog and I manage to shake our way to the top. Thank god.

We drive back to Belford and go to the chippy for tea. The chippy smells bad - of excess grease. I dont have a good feeling about it, and a man in the queue reckons the pub (any pub) would be better. We end up in the Salmon, where we are amused to see that 'traditianal grill garnishes' and 'Chicken Beast' are on the menu. In a fit of stupidity, we order burgers instead of Chicken beast, and that was the writing on the wall for this trip. There were no beasts anywhere in our vicinity.

We get drunk, head home, fall asleep. Its really hot in the bird house and we all wake up feeling rotten. I drop my arse and the wooden hell hole is filled with the sort of sulphorous gas you can only imagine coming from a toxic dump. We scramble for air and whilst the fug clears, go for a quite repugnant breakfast in the Purdy lodge (a service station on the a1). Which sets us up for Bowden doors. My good friend Dan Constant Variable is disgusted that we should go there, but as noone has been more than once before, we want to. We are more rubbish than the day before. Our hands hurt, our muscles dont work and we feel sick. A man called Martin with translucent skin and massive guns meets us. We expect to be burnt off, but noone is climbing well. A few hours pass in the roof just right of sprung and between us we manage to look like some sort of adult improvers class. One with a crap teacher.

And so that was it to be honest. It drizzled a bit, we set off home at about 1400 and I am tired now. Three is a good number for a mini trip. Theres not so many people that the banter is never ending, and you can all fit in one car. Noone climbed well, so noone felt too bad that they didnt. Its worse if one of you is on it and everyone else is crap. I remembered just how much I love Northumberland. It is so beautiful, and so quiet. Folog and I are talking about a week there in November, so if that happens then we will be sure to explore other areas. Culinary wise it is something of a deadzone. Or so I have found thus far.