A Tale from the Hexham Hobblers

If you’ve been reading this blog over the last few weeks you will know that I often go for a walk in an attempt to keep my athletic frame in the peak condition that you see today. It doesn’t just happen by accident, as you can imagine.

Usually, I walk on my own, with only a podcast for company (I can recommend “We Have Ways of Making You Talk” by James Holland and Al Murray, or one of the ones where Louis Theroux interviews a minor celebrity). The problem with that is the conversation tends to be one-sided. So when I had an invitation to tag along on a jolly walk in the countryside with four of my mates from the Stage Society, I jumped at the opportunity. I imagined, as we all met through our love of musical theatre, that we’d sing as we went along, frightening the wildlife and impressing the locals. That didn’t happen, but by the time we neared the end of the walk I would’ve been happy just to be able to talk, let alone sing.

Neil leads the way. Isla goes for Silver

The five and a half of us set off from Hexham and headed east along the River Tyne Trail. There was Mike and Robin (tenors), Anthony, Neil and me (baritones) and Isla (dog. All walking groups should have one). We were on the south side of the river, using the pathway through a pine forest until it emerged on a hill overlooking Corbridge, where we posed for a socially-distanced photograph.

Looking towards Corbridge. I told you the view was decent

Then on to Dilston, across a railway line, where I resisted the urge to take a photograph from the middle of the track, even though there was no train in sight, and soon we ended up strolling along the raised path by the Tyne and up the hill into the old Roman town of Corbridge.

The trail into Corbridge. Although this is looking east

The sun had been beating down on our collective middle-aged heads, and although no one said as much I’m pretty sure there was a silent consensus that it was a shame the pubs were shut. It was probably a good thing on reflection, as at least I remained motivated to carry on and go back to Hexham using my feet rather than ringing a family member for a lift home.

Sadly it was at this point that one of our baritones, Anthony, was unable to continue as he had an injury. He might be out for next week’s game, which will disappoint the fans, but we keep our fingers crossed for a speedy recovery. As he went off to meet his lift home, I for one gazed jealously at his retreating figure. Not for him the coming climb up into Sandhoe and Target Wood.

As a parting gesture, Anthony bought everyone an ice cream from one of the few shops that were open in the town. I declined his kind offer, then instantly regretted it when I realised that the ice creams were quite spectacularly good. I watched them enjoy the quickly melting ices, accompanied by Isla the dog. We exchanged sideways glances and I’m sure at one point she shrugged her shoulders as if to say “it’s your own fault. You should’ve accepted. They didn’t even offer me one.”

Anthony, Robin, Mike, and Neil. And Isla, looking longingly at the ice creams

So we left Corbridge and went North West up, up up towards Sandhoe. It was still blisteringly hot, and I mean Mediterranean. Have you ever seen “Ice Cold in Alex?” Then you’ll get the picture. I was beginning to feel the heat but my determination to complete the course was solid. The other lads are fitter than me, and it didn’t help that I was stopping every ten yards “to take a photo,” which was the poor excuse I used to take a breather, but I was slow. They were kind enough to go at my pace and offer encouragement at every opportunity without resorting to violence or other shows of frustration, bless ’em.

At one point we passed a rather grand gateway, which bore the sign “Sandhoe Hall”, as well as a reminder that the place was Private. I’d love a neb round there one day but plebs can’t neb, as the saying goes. You know, the saying I just invented.

Sandhoe Hall, 25000 feet above sea level. I think.

Within twenty minutes we were at Oakwood, a place that Louis Theroux and I had passed through just a few days before, so at least now I knew where I was. Down into Target Wood, with it’s little carved wooden animals and shady woodland, and back across the A69 into Hexham.

There was a real shock to the system waiting for our weary travellers using this path. After miles and miles of beautiful countryside, and just the sound of the birds, the occasional baritone and the wind in the trees, we suddenly emerged onto the A6079 road out of Hexham and its constant stream of traffic. Added to this, as we turned the corner, a woman in a little red car beeped at us as she passed. Nobody knew who it was, but I confessed that it was my wife who was going somewhere in relation to her work. Well, someone has to keep the food on the table while I’m galavanting.

The road was hot and dusty and the last mile back to the starting point – Neil’s house – was the hardest one of all the twelve that we did in the afternoon. Mike collected his car from the Wentworth Car park, and the remaining three and a half of us waddled the final few hundred metres to Neil’s lovely garden where there were seats for us all set out around his flower beds. Our genial host cheerfully doled out beers – both alcoholic and ginger – to his tired and thirsty guests.

Anthony joined us ten minutes later, and it looks like his injury won’t keep him out of next week’s game.

I normally walk about four or five miles, so this one was much longer than I had anticipated. It was also much longer than the group which I have since discovered are called the Hexham Hobblers, normally travel. I was exhausted by the time we got back to Hexham. But I had a great time, despite – or maybe because of – the effort that it took, and I look forward to the next one.

No, really, I do.