Plan B

Just after midnight on November 14, 2016, the landscape of North Canterbury changed forever. The 7.8 magnitude earthquake took lives, destroyed homes and businesses and forced the massive rebuild of SH1 and the main trunk rail connection between Christchurch and Picton.

Yarn-bombing: rebuilding
Kaikõura one row
at a time!

Like many others, we were keen to travel the new highway south as far as Kaikõura township, to see for ourselves what engineering feats the NCTIR (North Canterbury Transport Infrastructure Recovery) team had achieved.  

Bill handled the trip beautifully. Meanwhile, his people were kept busy responding to the army of stop-go sign wielders who grinned and waved at us all the way down the coastline. One now knows how the Queen must feel when out and about.

Kaikõura itself was bustling with an eclectic mix of independent travellers, bus tourists and construction workers. And nosy parkers like us, of course. The pub where we ate our gourmet burgers asked that patrons leave their hi vis gear and work boots in their vehicles. So we did.


After some tootling around town looking for the best spot for the night, we settled on a park next to the beach at South Bay. Cue sunset pic:

The plan for the following day (Plan A, shall we say?) was to fill in some hours as best we could until Coffee o'Clock then to head off into the hills above the town to visit friends.

There's nothing like a good bike ride to take the mind off things. The roads of South Bay and the new cycle path that ran alongside the highway south of the town provided the necessary diversion until the hunt for the elusive flat white and long black. Regular, single shot. Cheers.

Back on the road, Bill and his caffeinated cargo left the main highway north of Kaikõura after crossing the Hapuku River. We'd been told to expect a 40 minute drive; the word "hairy" may also have been bandied about. Google Earth had already led Bruce to expect the tarseal to last approximately half a minute. And so it came to pass.

But things were going swimmingly. We squeezed past vehicles leaving the DOC camp. We negotiated hairpin bends and massive slips. (No NCTIR crews here to repair earthquake damage.) We crossed fords. And then we didn't.

A ford too far

The final ford was too deep and rocky. It could almost be described as a raging wee torrent, if one were feeling poetical. (At the time, one wasn't.)

 The alternative was a rickety bridge designed for vehicles slimmer than Bill.

Time for Plan B.

Lunch was transferred to a chilly bag, the bikes were downloaded and Bill was left behind, with time on his hands (tyres?) to reflect on the consequences of being overweight. And over-wide.

With some 10km of uphill riding to reach our destination, the wheat quickly sorted itself from the chaff. Bruce powered off into the distance. I did what any self-respecting chaff would do. Phone A Friend. Or, more accurately, message a friend in the hope that intermittent cell coverage would work in my favour.

Five dusty kilometres later, our rescue vehicle met us. Mike and Sue, old friends from the North Island, were staying with their son and his family in this remote yet stunningly beautiful spot. To help with the logistics of bikes + babies in the car, Bruce once again powered off into the distance (No, he's not on an e-bike. Yes, he likes going uphill. Yes, we're possibly mismatched but it's taken me 40 years to realise this), leaving me and my bike to hitch a ride to the homestead at road's end.

What could possibly go wrong?

The gearbox, that's what. Situation status report follows: Stationary car takes up most of the narrow road.  Gearbox refuses to leave Park. No phone reception. Two hungry babies on board. It's an hour to the nearest mechanic.

Kiwi kindness and ingenuity saved the day. The passing stranger delivering a trailer load of fenceposts managed to turn back (more than a 3-point turn needed!) and deliver a message to someone who got a message to... well, you can imagine how it unfolded. While we mentally totted up the huge cost of having the dead gearbox replaced, the car's owner (and babies' daddy) arrived and tinkered underneath the car.

We were on our way in minutes.

I began this blog with the vague idea of saying something about the impact of the November 2016 earthquake on more than just the high-profile coastal corridor. And that's certainly the case. The slopes surrounding us were scarred by slips; DOC huts had been swept away; high in the hills above us, a tourism venture was in ruins. The condemned hunting lodge, at the end of a now impassable access road, used to greet its guests at the helicopter pad.

But wait, there's more. This wee jaunt took us to a part of New Zealand that seemed a million miles away from the reconstructed state highway. The sheer scale of high country farming is enough to inspire awe in this townie. The Seaward Kaikõura mountains, clothed in mist that day, towered over the farm, their majesty felt if not seen. Faraway ridge lines marked its boundaries.

We are very fortunate to be able to travel the byways as well as the main highways. It was such a treat to experience this spectacular landscape - just on the other side of the ford too far.

Tree-hugging on the Timber Trail

Tree-hugging was pretty cool in the 1970s.

Just too tempting...

It wasn't necessary to LITERALLY hug said tree, mind you, but to be branded a tree-hugger, a derogatory term for environment activists, was probably a badge of honour amongst greenies of that generation.

A badge of honour because, as Kermit the Frog knew so well, It's not easy being green.

Today,  Pureora Forest Park, to the west of Lake Taupo, is home to majestic 1000 year old trees, remnants of the native podocarp forests that blanketed the central North Island.

Thousands of trampers, cyclists and campers enjoy what the DOC brochure describes poetically as "a hidden wonderland of tall trees, clear rivers and rare wildlife ". (The English teacher in me revels in the alliteration, assonance and triple construction therein.)

Scroll back 40 years though to 1978, a far less enlightened era. Those greenies who risked their lives perching on treetop platforms to bring native logging to a halt provided the impetus for creating today's forest park of some 78,000 hectares.

Carving a path from Pureora village to Ongarue, the 84 km Timber Trail is a most excellent two-day bike ride through the forest, following a network of bush tramways built when logging began in 1946. Signboards are dotted throughout the trail, documenting not only the logistics of the forestry operations but also the daily lives of the families who endured this harsh and often bitterly cold environment.

To start this adventure earlier this month, Bill the motorhome took us on a long and winding road from SH 4, via Ongarue. Long and winding, and dusty, I should add, with the final 15km on gravel. We left Bill to his own devices at the Piropiro DOC campsite (basic but free) and decamped to the new Timber Trail Lodge just up the road.

Later that evening, the young ones arrived to share this adventure with us. They kept Bill company overnight while joining us for meals in the lodge.

The young ones in action

This place is a gem. It offers dorm and en suite accommodation, hearty home-cooked meals, as well as packed lunches and shuttle transport (if you opt for the package deal).  And loads of TLC. Wet and muddy after our first day on the track, we arrived mid-afternoon to be greeted with freshly made pizza and banana cake.  The team behind the lodge have created something special.



And though less than a year old, it's already hugely popular. Local bike shuttle businesses are also stretched to keep up with the numbers of middle-aged men and women in lycra (Mamils and Mawils?) keen to ride this trail.

It was with a great sense of satisfaction, along with a good coating of mud, that we rolled into the Bennett Road car park near Ongarue at the end of our second day. And there was Bill, ready with cold beers, cups of tea and a shower on board. What a legend!

Golden Bay...good as!

Undulating is a lovely word. Say it slowly. Savour it. Un...du...la...ting. Ahhh.

I often think of this word when on my bike. With gritted teeth. What may seem like a delightful drive through rural New Zealand becomes a hard grind on two wheels, generally into a head wind. Every joyous minute spent freewheeling downhill is tempered by the expectation of the uphill slog around the corner.

Yesterday's short bike ride turned into such a series of upward and downward swoops.

Nowhere...with a café in its midst

We set off from Puponga mid-afternoon, leaving Bill to snooze under a tree, intent on reaching the top of the West Coast at Wharariki Beach. Despite the inevitable undulations and a ferocious full-face wind, we reached the trailhead for the walk to the beach. Temptation lay in our path, however. Earlier that day we had driven past the only two cafés known to exist west of Takaka. According to Google Maps, that is, and who am I to doubt its infinite wisdom? Both of these potentially delightful establishments were shut.

So you can imagine our joy, nay excitement, when we trundled up to The Archway Café, officially in the middle of nowhere (see map). But it has a Facebook page, of course, attesting to the vision of its owner. Coffee ensued.

The café offers "spiritful trees" and a "hamac" for napping in

On the return journey, we took a detour to the Pillar Point lighthouse, an upward trek that rewarded us with spectacular views of Farewell Spit and the top of the West Coast. The DOC sign promised an EASY mountain bike trail. Yeah, right. We eventually ditched the bikes in favour of walking unimpeded up the boulder-strewn track.

Pillar Point lighthouse itself was certainly no majestic sentinel of the seas.  The charmless rectangular box with an aluminium ladder bolted to its side looked more like a home handyman project on a $50 budget. Its outlook was worth a million dollars though (or 10 million if, heaven forbid, we were in Auckland).

Farewell Spit snakes away in the distance

Feeling virtuous, and with a tail wind for the return journey, we were ready to move on. My motorhome app pointed us in the direction of the Pupu Hydro Power Station near Takaka, where we could stay overnight in the carpark - for free. (We Grey Nomads LOVE that word 'free'.) Just up the valley from the better known and, in fact, world renowned, Waikoropupu Springs, this spot is a hidden gem. Literally, hidden.

This morning, we clambered up a steep zig zag track to the water race, followed this along a narrow boardwalk to the intake weir and then returned by a meandering access road to ground level. All up, it was a 90 minute loop, climbing and descending through spectacular native bush and alongside incredibly clear water.

The story of the restoration of this defunct little power station is testament to the commitment of a bunch of volunteers who took it over after it had been abandoned by the local power board in the 1980s. Thousands of borrowed dollars and man-hours later, it now contributes to the national grid. Here's the Wikipedia link, if you're interested.

The impetus to take a trip to Golden Bay was basically in response to feeling sorry for Bill, who had been sulking in his car park all winter. It didn't take long to load him up on Sunday morning and drive across the top of the South Island, so we were comfortably parked up at Totaranui, in the Abel Tasman national park, that evening. (And, yes, it's perfectly normal to anthropomorphise things with internal combustion engines. I miss you too, Larry.)

Totaranui from the headland walk

Not only is this one of the most beautiful beaches in New Zealand, but it must be one of the largest DOC campsites, with capacity for nearly 900 people. It's fully booked in peak season but felt like our own private estate this week.

The drive to Totaranui involves crossing the notorious Takaka hill and then an unsealed, steep and winding road into the bay. Undulating it is not. Our first stay here, in the 1990s, was memorable for the persistence of the weka population - and for our being under-prepared for a week without power or hot water. We all survived, though the access road was a challenge for one son, and it took only a couple of strong blokes to push-start our station wagon at the end of the week.

This time, we were entertained by cheeky pukeko, the drunken antics of kererū and the daily meanderings of a family of native Paradise shelducks. A fortnight earlier, a motorhome blogger that I follow reported that Mum and Dad were caring for four chicks. By this week, they were down to one baby, the others having fallen prey to weka and pukeko.

Precious only child!

Such are the harsh realities of life, even in Paradise.

Pupu Hydro walkway

On the Abel Tasman track to Awaroa

The day the big shiny thing came to town

The America's Cup win was a Big Thing for Picton.

Born and bred local sporting hero Joseph Sullivan was a cyclor/grinder on board ETNZ in Bermuda. After rising through secondary school rowing ranks to Maadi Cup, Joseph won gold at the London Olympics five years ago. He now has a street named after him in Picton. And the local sailing club, the Queen Charlotte Yacht Club, has a proud tradition of junior sailing successes. It's the little club that could. And still does.

So it was no great surprise that a campaign sprang up months ago to get the cup here. Bring on social media.  Numerous Facebook likes and insta hashtags later, the Auld Mug made its way to Picton on the Interislander ferry this week.

We joined the flotilla of small boats waiting just out of the harbour to help bring the cup to town. There was a choice. Two local boat companies were offering spaces on board for the occasion. One involved a glass of wine, the other didn't. I had a 50% chance of getting it right. Oh well.

To clarify, we were two 60-something women with a 5 year old and a 7 year old. I had warned his sister that Bruce would rather stand on melting tar than be involved in a flag-waving event celebrating the exploits of the rich and famous. And so it proved. We were just doing it for the kids, of course. And, yes, I may have had a silver fern flag in my hand...

As the ferry hove into view (I've always wanted to use that word in a sentence), it was impossible to miss the massively tall and shiny thing sitting casually on the handrail at the bow.

Whoever was steering the Kaitaki that night did a sterling job bringing her into the berth while avoiding the dozens of yachts, fizz boats, water taxis and launches alongside her, hooters blaring. Meanwhile, we disembarked and found ourselves a spot to wait for the street parade.

This was the best bit. Forget the fancy floats, blazered dignitaries and ticker tape. That's for big city folk. We got a pipe band,  marching girls, ranging from midgets to, er, masters in age, trucks and fire engines and a monster of a machine that had something to do with harvesting grapes. Then, after a longish wait, some blokes in Team NZ uniforms hove into view. Oops, sauntered around the corner.

How they did it elsewhere

And there was the America's Cup,  carried casually on foot along the length of High Street and into London Quay. Apparently, at the last minute, the plan to drive the Cup on the back of a ute was ditched in favour of walking with it. This took longer because, of course, people wanted to take photos of it, touch it even. Full disclosure, yes, I Touched The America's Cup. I've also kissed the Blarney Stone and stroked the standing stones of Stonehenge. I'm a tactile person, OK?

Joseph with the silverware. Photo credit: Marlborough Express

Sometimes, small towns get things just right. The night the America's Cup came to Picton was one of those times. This was a Kiwi celebration without glitz or hype. But with a proper sausage sizzle on the beach afterwards.  Thanks, #ETNZ, we loved every minute of it.

And who knows what local amenity will be renamed to mark the occasion? The Joseph Sullivan Town Square has a nice ring to it...

You've gotta love Picton on a fine day😎

Last post: Lenzerheide

There is a soothing sense of order about the Swiss countryside. It is a colourfully picturesque world tidily populated by small herds of cows and larger herds of humans. Things seem to run like, well, clockwork.

I mulled over this while people-watching (a traveller's prerogative, especially one using Peeps as a moniker) at a mountain restaurant, Acla Grischuna, above Lenzerheide. There may have been a plate of Swiss comfort food involved. Bratwurst and rösti, to be precise.

Note correctly hung bikes at our lunch spot

On a sunny weekday morning, a good number of cyclists, walkers and family groups were emerging from the chairlift station to embark on an alpine outing. We were about to join them, having ridden the lift with our bikes from Lenzerheide (1500m) to lunch (1747m). This, of course, gave us a well-deserved downward run home on our last full day in the Alps.

There seems to be a dress code for mountain walking. Windproof jackets, long pants, sturdy shoes, bulging backpacks, the inevitable walking poles. We are the only ones wearing shorts. Spot the Kiwis. 

There is always an approved place to lean, hang or ride your bike, as we have been told more than once on this trip. An orderly society is dependent on members enforcing its rules. We stand corrected, offering humble apologies in halting German.

And there are greetings to be given to those we meet on the trail. Always. So we've mastered grüezi, the Swiss-German variant of gidday.

Our time in Lenzerheide, the final leg of the trip, has exceeded expectations. On reflection, the idea of me mountain biking anywhere in Switzerland is laughable. Where are the flat bits? Oh, there aren't any.

There were clues. The comprehensive map of riding trails in the area provides a key clearly showing difficulty and fitness levels, along with gradient profiles. Some are even helpfully marked as suitable for families. Well, Swiss families are clearly a different kettle of fish to ours. I can't imagine taking Kiwi kids on a ride that involved a climb of some 500 metres.

We've done our best this week to ride as many of those neatly mapped trails as possible, given my technical limitations. And a not unnatural fear of hurting myself. Each day, Tour Leader has planned our route, incorporating a sensible lunch and siesta break back at home base. Some days, we've travelled huge distances in gondolas then cycled those same metres down again. It's been challenging but great fun.

The upside of all this up-ness, of course, is being surrounded by spectacular landscape. Even if it has meant pushing my bike uphill for 30 minutes. There's nothing sweeter than that final downhill homeward run with views such as this:

We treated ourselves to e-bikes for a day, proper mtb ones with the bells and whistles. (Translation: disc brakes, dropper posts and full suspension.) And did I mention the motor? If you haven't tried one, don't assume it's like riding a moped. It's definitely not. Pedalling uphill is still an effort. But, for me, the difference was that I could stay on the bike on the more challenging sections. More pedalling, less walking equals a happy Robyn. E-bikes are the future of transport. You heard it here first.

This brings the blog to an end. ('Last post', geddit?) We cycle back to Zurich over the next two days, then repack the bikes into their bags for the flight home.

I enjoy writing these reflections. It's my way of processing all that we've seen and done on this trip. A glorified travel diary, really, that I will one day re-read in my rest home armchair while waiting for 5 o'clock dinner.

And, if I'm to be honest, I love writing for an actual audience. So, thank you, Dear Readers, for your likes and comments. They have been gratefully received.

Au revoir!

Peeps

Lenzerheide lovelies

Yep, that high!

Culture vultures

Paris and I go way back. Our first visit, in the mid-80s, was quirky enough that it has assumed almost mythical status in my memory.

In 1984, we spent an April fortnight touring France and the Netherlands with ex-flatmate friends. They had bought an old Mercedes sedan in Germany and we ferried over from London to meet them. By the time we left Calais for Paris, the Merc had lost its rear number plate. No big deal, you might think. But in pre-EU times when borders were still a thing, this WAS a big deal.

I will never forget the afternoon we spent in a French police station after being escorted from a hypermarché car park. We saw guns. We experienced teargas (thanks to a fumbling flic fiddling with the canister). We broke the conversational ice by emphasising our status as New Zealanders and our close connection with the All Blacks. This actually worked. Or perhaps Interpol gave us the all-clear. Who knows? Passports were returned. Warm farewells were exchanged and we hightailed it outta there.

Musée d'Orsay

So to Paris. We had a trusty guidebook, Europe on $10 a Day. (Remember, dear reader, this was last century.  No one had got around to inventing the internet, so a good guidebook was invaluable.) The accommodation section, sub-category dirt-cheap, suggested a modest hotel where, early each morning, Madame would bang on the door and ask, "Vous partez ou vous restez?" Too good to resist!

We eventually found the hotel. Modest was a generous overstatement. Sitting on the floor, we ate chewy French bread and brewed coffee on a kerosene burner. We slept in grimy nylon sheets. We shared a no less grimy bathroom. And yes, each morning, early, Madame banged on the door asking if we were staying or going. Ah, memories...

Each visit since, the accommodation has improved incrementally. This time, our quite roomy apartment was in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower and, in fact, only a short walk from the NZ Embassy (something we needed to know in order to vote).

Chez Richards 2017

But the weather was refusing to play its part in revisiting the romance of our youth. So we ditched any thought of picnics in the Jardin des Tuileries and headed indoors. The Musée d'Orsay is an old favourite because that's where the best Van Goghs hang out. But there's so much more to see in this wonderful building (converted from its previous life as a railway station). A new find was the Musée des Arts et Métiers.  Despite its name, this was more a repository of things technological and scientific, with enough historical gizmos and gadgets to make the Professor a very happy man. Foucault's pendulum and Lavoisier's laboratory really floated his boat.

We also managed a showery stroll around the gardens of Musée Rodin, renewing our acquaintance with this reflective chap.

It's not difficult to find concerts to attend in Paris. Something to do, I'm sure, with the combination of talented young musicians looking for summer income, ancient churches with excellent acoustics and tourists looking for Authentic Experiences. So, on our last evening, we sat in the medieval l'église Saint-Ephrem and bathed in a programme of Chopin pieces. The pianist was, of course, a former prize winner of the National Conservatory of Music of Paris. I was in heaven.

Our cultural cavalcade then moved on to Vienna, another city from our ancient past. This time, we had tickets to a Diana Krall concert, something that one would obviously fly across Europe to attend. Obviously. Bruce's turn to be in heaven. Obviously.

Vienna is a grandiose city, with more magnificent buildings than you could shake an old guidebook at. I can't imagine living there (as I could Zurich or Paris) but it was great fun to cycle around. Bike lanes were plentiful and were well separated from cars, buses and trams. 

Just as in Zurich and in countless other cities around the world, it is so easy to see the benefits of city planning that treats Viennese cyclists as valid road users.

Whatever its outcome, I do hope this election campaign has helped to raise the profile of transport options other than motorways to keep New Zealand's cities moving. 

Our two-wheeled travels around Vienna,
according to Strava

Wallwalkers

This was character-building stuff. No, not the intermittent drizzle, nor the ankle-deep mud. Not even the persistent stinging nettle. On day two of my Walk Across England, it was the lack of a ... convenience that was proving to be inconvenient. I sensed a conspiracy between B&B owners and local councils. Fill these intrepid walkers up with a full English breakfast ("Another pot of tea, sir?") then set us loose on the public paths of northern England. Bingo!

Eventually, we staggered into The Reading Room, a cute-as cafe in an old schoolroom belonging to a tiny village five hours down the track from Carlisle. Enough said.

We have met many, many sheep and cattle on our
path. Or is it their path?

It's too easy to dwell on the niggles when you are walking long distances. As the journey has gone on, these annoyances tend to be centred on feet and legs and their various aches and pains. However, I am determined to remain relentlessly positive. (Come on legs, let's do this!)

Long-distance walking has proved to be too much for Bruce's body, though, so he has used public transport to complete each leg since day two. (There's an excellent summer bus service designed to carry tourists between major Wall sites. I puzzled over its service number for a few days. AD122 seemed weirdly random...) Tour Leader has morphed seamlessly into Support Crew, bless him.

Our days and evenings have been enriched by the people we meet on this walk. On Day 1, leaving the western shores of the Solway, a massive tidal waterway dividing England from Scotland, we walked quickly (because we still could back then!) past a man in a shed. Our mistake. Roger called us back, found out where we came from, consulted his dog-eared exercise book and in no time was assembling the 'Picton 11,484 miles' fingerboard for photographic posterity.

All smiles at the start

In the next few minutes we learned that he was 75, had survived prostate cancer (gory details gratis), loved riding motorbikes and travelling the world, preferred using iPhone cameras, and was manning the signpost (which he also built) to raise funds for cancer research. It would've taken a hard heart to resist Roger's call.

The following evening found us at Abbey Bridge B&B. This has been the highlight of our stayovers so far. The owners, Sue and Tim, have created a haven for wall walkers. Boots and wet clothing were dried overnight for us. Tea and coffee-making facilities included the rarity of real milk (thoughtfully delivered in a thermos flask by the owner's two year old granddaughter). USB charging points on either side of the bed meant we could do away with clumsy plugs-on-plugs for the night. Small details, big impact.

Fortunately, walkers were
allowed across the bridge

The best part was that four couples sat down to dinner that evening. We were a cosmopolitan lot. The Finnish school teachers. The young Swiss/German veterinarians. The sprightly British octogenarians, both also retired teachers. And the Kiwis. Education was on the agenda, though only briefly. Mr Finn shook his head dolefully when we raised the Finnish education model. No, he said, there have been cutbacks. Buildings in poor condition have taken their toll on his health. Things are not what they were. Anyway, enough of education. This rambling anecdote is meant to be about the elderly English couple.

He was a miner's son from up north who became a history teacher. She oozed class, was dressed formally for dinner and spoke with that beautifully articulated manner of bygone times. They were on their way to Keswick in their little Ford Ka (avoiding motorways, I hoped) to revisit their Lake District honeymoon six decades ago. Sigh...

Front or back?

Defying her conventional background, Mrs EE trained to become a primary teacher after she was married. There were other hints of unconventionality too. She had been to an Oktoberfest in her youth, she told us. Mr EE hinted at dancing on tables. She blushed but neither confirmed nor denied.

The next morning at breakfast, Mrs EE apologised profusely for eating kippers in our presence, assuming other nationalities would find this frightfully quaint. None of us dared to disagree. She was delightfully taken aback to discover we all preferred to drink tea at breakfast. I can only assume that she had appropriated tea-drinking as a purely British institution. We farewelled them the next morning as they headed off in their wee car to revisit their romantic past. Bless.

Update: Support Crew has found himself a bike,
 spending the last two days of our epic adventure back
in the saddle. He is a much happier man for it.

Speaking of the past, time to address the reason for this walk: to follow the line of the wall built for the Emperor Hadrian, started in AD122 and completed in just six years. Now a UNESCO World Heritage Site (more here), Hadrian's Wall stretches from Bowness-on-Solway in the west to Wallsend, a suburb of Newcastle in the east.

For much of the walk, trekkers must rely on the guidebook to point out hints to the Wall's presence, perhaps a raised mound in a field, or an inconspicuous pile of stones nearby. But once we reached the high country, the Wall rose in all of its magnificence to meet us. Not only the three metre wide structure itself but the earthworks needed to create the vellum or deep ditch running alongside it. The sheer scale of the enterprise was breathtaking. Slave labour helped, of course.

Sycamore Gap.  I need to revisit Prince of Thieves.

The most striking section of the Wall traversed a series of crags with a sheer northern face that would have helped keep the ravaging hordes at bay. From a distance, the Wall snakes along and up and down the likes of Hotbanks and Sewingshields crags, the warm stone contrasting nicely with the rich green pasture, punctuated by colourful clumps of  livestock. So very picturesque.

The end. Wallsend, that is.
147km across England. Well done, feet!

The Wall served its purpose for the three centuries that remained of Roman rule in Britain. It was planned and constructed with ingenuity and precision, as we would expect of the Romans.

If any modern-day leader were to consider building himself a wall, he would do well to learn from the past. Oh wait, that's not going to happen, is it?

Millennium Bridge, Newcastle