Yet another lovely day dawned and we woke to farmyard sounds. Once
packed up, we thought it time to check out the on-site Hadrian Wall, something
we should have done at the beginning of our stay. The little red gate opposite
the camp entrance, marked “Private – no entry!” is actually special access to
the Hadrian walkway from the camp, because after all, tenting walkers are
invited to pause and spend the night here; the licence for five caravans, is
exactly that, for caravans.
We skirted around the large group of farm buildings, and across the
fields to the kissing gates on the trail. Here at Bleatarn, the wall is little
more than a raised earth mound, and the lumpy hollows adjacent are the remains
of quarries from which the Romans extracted their building blocks. We wandered
along the trail a little, enjoying the distant views beyond the hedges, then on
our return, encountered a couple of Australian women who were walking the last
leg of the Wall. It turned out they came from very near where Chris had lived
in Melbourne in one of his previous lives. They have left their husbands and
dogs back in Australia and are having a wonderful time in England, having some
wonderful adventures, not the first in their travelling lives and surely not
the last.
As we pulled out of the camp, our hosts, limping Andrew, his mother and
father and a helping hand all came to farewell us. They are fabulously warm and
welcoming folk and we would be delighted to return next year if our route takes
us this way again. |
| Morning Views of Bleatarn Farm |
Lunch over, we proceeded on to our camp, overshooting the entrance and
having to ring the hostess for personal marshalling. The camp is excellent, set
on a small field behind her house, once a plant nursery and now a work in
progress for an even grander camp. It is adults-only, for advance bookings but
still dog friendly. Surprise, surprise!
The laundry problem had become rather desperate, the number of weeks
since linen last washed far too many to confess. We headed to Georgie’s Laundry
found tucked in a row of terrace houses in a place called Hetton-le-Hole, and
parked opposite. Entering the tiny little room, jammed full of washing machines
and driers, we found Georgie busy folding and sorting, and surrounded in a
dozen bags of laundry, many overflowing, at various stage of progress.
Self-service was no longer available but she was happy to do our washing for
us, depending when we wanted to collect it. We both imagined our own laundry disappearing
into the chaos, so declined the offer. Perhaps the strange village name
should have alerted us?
Our second option was a laundry in Durham, the city of the
famous cathedral, actually only seven and a half miles distant. We set off guided
by the Tomtom and the directions on my cellphone, this latter aid something I
rarely think to use. This laundry was found in the old Crescent Cinema at
Gilesgate on the north east edge of Durham. Parking turned out easier than
expected and we found the laundry pristine and very acceptable. The place is
decorated with retro-chic to reflect the times during which last screened a
movie; January 1958. After our near-experience in Hetton-le-Hole, we were
delighted with this at Gilesgate.
So home we came with bags of wet washing, then hung it all in the
sunshine, and left it to dry in the east coast breeze. While nature was doing
its thing, we pulled out all our guide books and maps and prepared a to-do whilst-near-Newcastle-and-Durham-list.
It would appear at this point in time, that one week will not be
sufficient. But surely I have said this before?
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