For those of us who live near Newcastle, Fenwick’s window is as much a part of Christmas as board games and indigestion. But I have discovered a different window in a different Fenwick, and it’s not even Christmas yet.
As part of my continuing quest to walk the recommended 10,000 steps a day, I drove out to Fenwick, a little hamlet near Stamfordham, with the idea that I might wander up the lane and see where it took me.
As I got out of my car, I noticed a sign on the left which invited me to take the public footpath indicated. On closer inspection I noticed that it was pointing directly at a herd of cows, eyeing me menacingly from their motorbikes and carrying switchblades. At least, they could have been, so I decided not to take any chances and went straight up the lane instead.
I walked for about a mile and a half before arriving at South Fens. Ahead of me was the enticingly named North Fens, but even if it was promising hot food and a bed for the night I would’ve turned it down because at this point there was a path off to the right with something much more exciting on offer. A World War Two pillbox!
I confess to being a bit of a WW2 nerd, so I wasn’t going to miss the chance to have a look at this defence post. I’m pretty sure it would’ve been put there in 1940 or so as part of the protection around RAF Ouston, which was nearby. They must’ve expected hordes of Wehrmacht soldiers to come up the hill from the south, and two brave lads in the gun post would’ve been trusted to hold them back as long as they could.
Through the slit in the front of the structure they would have had a commanding view of the countryside around Fenwick, although their ability to stop a Panzer Division is very questionable. But they would’ve been in the first line and I’m sure they’d have given it a good go.
Past the pillbox, the track took me down through a field of barley and into a plantation. The views continued to be pretty spectacular even on a hazy day.
As I entered the wood, the whole atmosphere of the walk changed. Gone were the echoes of WW2, to be replaced by the sound of birdsong, and little else. There was no wind, and the trees were so tall that they blanketed any sounds of distant traffic or aircraft. The corridor between the trees was only about 500 yards or so but it transformed the atmosphere into something very different, and very tranquil.
And then I emerged into a field full of sheep. Try as I might, I didn’t want to panic them. But sheep being sheep, they insisted on it and scattered in a noisy crowd whenever I got within 100 yards of them. While cows were behaving like Hells Angel’s, sheep were more like the local Darby and Joan club, and ran away at every opportunity.
Avoiding the track that was allegedly in the middle of the field, I skirted the edges to try not to frighten the locals, and all went well until the footpath seemed to disappear just past Westernheugh. At this point it seemed initially that I had two choices. I could take my chances with the cows who were watching me from a distance, daring me to take the route that would lead me into their lair, or I could do a Steve McQueen on a motorbike and go over the barbed wire fence. But of course I didn’t have a motorbike, and Steve didn’t actually get over that fence.
It looked like my number was up, and I’d have to take my chances with the cows. But then I noticed a stile about 50 yards away from where I thought the path should’ve been. I clambered gratefully over, thumbing my nose at the disappointed bovines, and followed the track around the side of a field of barley. I like crops. They don’t attack you.
And then before I knew it I was back at Fenwick, feet aching slightly but thankfully unmolested by any farm animals. I felt like I’d been on an adventure.
I should get out more often.
Steve's Journal 