Distance : 27.54 Miles / 44.32 Kms
Elevation : 1580 ft / 482 m
Terrain : Trail = 15.34 Miles / 24.69 Kms ; Tarmac = 12.2 Miles / 19.63 Kms
Bike : MTB
Difficulty : Moderate
https://connect.garmin.com/modern/course/71338715
“St Cuthbert’s Cave’s Closed!” That was the post title I had wanted, but it would have been too cryptic. I made this declaration to an approaching pilgrim pair as we passed each other at a gate, only 100 metres from Northumberland’s mini Mecca, and you should have seen the look on their faces. I could only hold a straight face for a few seconds before telling them I was joking, but we all had a chuckle before chatting briefly and then wishing them well on their travels. I had been tempted to continue with “Yeah, Northumberland County Council had to brick it up as it was considered an eyesore…” but I just couldn’t hold it. It isn’t an eyesore, of course, but a pretty spot with a significant historic tale to tell…more on that later. This godly grotto was on our own devout journey in honour of the god of dust and dirt, as we sought another offering from the scenic trails of North Northumberland.
It was the trusty trio of Gavin, Andy and I, who set off from a convenient little layby just outside of the tiny village of Doddington in Northumberland. Many people wouldn’t have heard of the village had it not been for the Doddington Dairy that churns out (pun definitely intended) delicious flavours of ice cream at North Doddington Farm. They now produce a fantastic range of local cheese too, and if you are ever in the market town of Wooler, a couple of miles down the road, then you must try the milkshakes from the Doddington Milk Bar…they are a real treat! Anyway, before I start sounding like I’m on commission I’ll move onto the ride.
We were under blue skies as we left the car, but the threat of darker clouds from the West had us discussing Britain’s favourite topic. A couple on e-bikes warned us about a jungle of nettles up ahead on the narrow tarmac bridleway, and although it is that time of year when the vegetation is rampant and spilling across the trails, it was actually an avenue of cow parsley and goose grass which lay in wait. Certainly not as annoying as our stinging nemesis.
Looking across into the wetland to my right I caught a glimpse of a large dark shadow moving quickly through the reeds and rushes. Gavin and Andy had missed it. Could it have been a hare!? I’ve seen plenty of hares, but this looked to be the size of a large dog…I best get Sherlock onto the case of “The Wild Dog of Doddington”…which admittedly doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as “The Hound of the Baskervilles”. Anyway, it left as quickly as it arrived and I saw nothing more of it, and we were soon beyond the scene and heading for our first climb of the day. A young female farmer on a quad wished us “Good Morning” as she passed…obligatory balancing border collie riding pillion as they bumped along the rough track.
The climb from Doddington was long and steady…tarmac at first before giving way to a rocky track. A couple of level sections and even a short descent gave our legs a brief rest, as we left the Milfield Plain for the higher ground of Doddington Moor. Beyond, the fields rolled out East for a short distance before the landscape climbed the Kyloe Hills…hiding the North Sea from view.
We drew up alongside poppy fields on the Devil’s Causeway roman road, admiring the flowering white blooms spreading across the green like a dusting of snow. We didn’t quite understand why they were grown here in the UK, let alone Northumberland. It appears that a world-wide shortage of morphine since 2005 has prompted the commercial growth of opium poppies by British farmers. The seed pods are full of a milky latex which dries to an amber-coloured resin, rich in codeine, morphine and other substances which are sought by medicine producers. Pharmaceutical company, Macfarlan Smith, holds the sole licence for poppy production in the UK. They inform the Home Office about the location and size of UK crops, and the Home Office, in turn, writes to the various farmers to confirm the arrangement and invites them to let the local constabulary know what they are doing. The farmer only needs to prepare the land, drill the seeds and watch them grow. Once grown, the poppies are harvested and processed by Macfarlan Smith. It is an arrangement that works well for all parties it seems. I trust you understand I only have a passing and merely educational interest in this field!
Quiet country lanes guided us away from the opiate plantation and on towards the hamlet of Holburn, where we picked up a pleasant grassy bridleway, ascending onto Holburn Moss Nature Reserve. The reserve is an internationally recognised wetland with close links to Lindisfarne National Nature Reserve, as wildfowl regularly move between the two areas. The link is reinforced further by alleged stories of monks from Lindisfarne Priory travelling to Holburn Moss to harvest peat for fuel. This may well account for the square hollows across the site. Pink-footed goose, wigeon and grey plover can be seen here. A nice variety of grass track, forest fire road and woodland singletrack led us around the edge of the reserve.
On leaving the woodland we were presented with the familiar beauty of the Northumberland coastline. Lindisfarne Castle perched at the end of its sliver of island, looking East over the North Sea for Viking invaders who had long since stormed and pillaged this land, or in many cases, had simply integrated peacefully into our communities.
Our gravel track divided the pastureland into two and with it, the fortunes of two mighty bulls. To our left, a huge chunk of bovine muscle stood alone, looking over the fence to the field on the opposite side, blasting verbal protests at his rival d’amour. Without going into too much detail, the hefty heifer on our right was accompanied by a field of cows, and he was busy doing what he had been bought to do, ignoring the objections and disapproval from over yonder. We trundled furtively across the stage (and what a scenic backdrop for a bit of al fresco hijinx!) and exited in time to warn an oncoming troup of elderly female ramblers about their imminent lesson in animal husbandry in UK farming.
A right turn took us across fields of long grass, following St Cuthberts Way up onto Greensheen Hill. The views just got better, with the glistening coastline to the East mirrored in beauty by rolling fields of ripe golden wheat stretching out to the Cheviots in the West. Strips and patches of dark woodland lay scattered across the landscape, their green hues deepened by a thickening cloud cover.
To the North the sky had developed a threatening presence, like looking up from deep beneath the heavy breaking waves of an ocean storm. Showers were already soaking the earth only a few miles away, so it was time to head for shelter. Luckily, we had one in mind and a fast singletrack descent through heather and fern took us there.
The first drops of rain reached us just as we rode up to St Cuthbert’s Cave. We certainly weren’t alone as we shared the ample space beneath the sandstone outcrop with quietly conversing couples and a group of walkers in discussion over lunch. I examined the multifarious graffiti from days of yore, wondering who must have been first to leave their mark. Maybe it was the ancient monks of Lindisfarne, as it is rumoured to be they who brought St Cuthbert’s body here for safekeeping in AD875, in order to evade the Danes ravaging their Holy Island.
St Cuthbert was a famous monk of the 7th century and the patron saint of Northumbria. He ran the Lindisfarne Monastery and it is said that he developed the gift of spiritual healing. At the age of 40 he decided to become a hermit to fight the spiritual forces of evil in a life of solitude. Some believe that he spent a short period of solitude at St Cuthbert’s Cave, before moving to a more permanent location on the Inner Farne Island. After his death in AD687 he was laid to rest on Lindisfarne, however, his remains were later moved to avoid the clutches of the Vikings. Lindisfarne monastery and the island were abandoned in AD875, after years of threat from their invaders. The body of St Cuthbert, along with surviving relics and treasures, were transported to various sites over the next 200 years. Finally, St Cuthbert’s body was laid to rest within the newly built Norman cathedral at Durham in 1104. The grave is marked by a plain gravestone with the inscription “Cuthbertus”, and it is still the site of many pilgrimages today.
It wasn’t long before the rain passed…just enough time to eat an energy bar and snoop around a little, before we got back in the saddle. We departed to allow others to take our sheltered spot. I had hoped to leave in a quiet and gracious manner, but my brakes squealed a drawn out parting wail as I descended across the wet grass. I caught up with Gavin and Andy at a gate, when our aforementioned friends approached, en route to Saint Cuddy’s campsite cavern. I still laugh now when I think about their expressions. I have always been the one to laugh loudest at my own jokes though!
We were now riding dirt tracks along the fringes of the golden wheat fields that we had viewed from higher ground.
We simply can no longer pass a log stack without stopping to take a photo…it has become a “thing” I guess.
I admired the old farm buildings at Dick’s Oldwalls (wow, what a great name!). I think the buildings deserve better than to be used as a sheep shelter, but what do I know… I know it is a tranquil little spot at least.
A few miles further on down gravel road and woodland trail and we were coming into the ancient village of Belford. This old coaching town sits on the old Great North Road…a road which is now usually found sitting quietly alongside its noisy and beefier successor, the A1.
A quick stop at the Co-Op for scran resulted in the discovery of a new gastronomic sensation…. for me anyway. A chicken karahi naan wrap…it tasted so good. I don’t know who made it and from what but it hit the spot!
We left the village on the South Road, knowing that we would imminently be turning West and facing a long uphill struggle onto Belford Moor. I enjoyed the climb, however, as it was never too steep and with a steady rhythm I turned my way to the top.
The traverse of the moor required moments of patience and hazard management. Patience to study the best route across an area of bog, and then to plough on across it in the hope that man and bike would not become stranded without hope. Hazard management also involved the assessment and then circumnavigation of bovine threats, actual or merely perceived…it wasn’t left to chance.
Joining tarmac towards the summit of Lyham Hill, I knew we would soon be in for a long downhill towards home. I wasn’t wrong, as the road behind the crags of Bowden Doors took us down Dancing Green Hill on an asphalt journey to the pretty Hetton Hall. The same lane led us all the way back to the Devil’s Causeway and from here we retraced our steps to the car. The long energy sapping ascent from Doddington on the edge of the Milfield Plain became a long energy restoring descent.
I only wish we had had the time to call in at the Milk Bar in Wooler on the way home, but it was time I didn’t have. I was required post-haste to report for family duty. That reminds me, I was going to enquire about the availability of a small hermitage on the Inner Farne Island…
