Cheryl, who runs the peerless B&B at 3 North Side in Stamfordham, kindly gave me a lift back to the trail at Whittledene – saving me the 3-mile off-trail road tramp that I’d already done the other way on Thursday evening.
The next few miles to Heddon-on-the-Wall were benign enough, Thursday’s wild weather having passed over, but there was little of interest. That supremely energetic builder of military roads, General Wade, constructed what is now the B6318 in the 1750s and took full advantage of the convenient supply of cut stone that Hadrian had so thoughtfully left for him along most of the route. According to this interpretation panel at Rudchester (Vindobala), conservationists (or, at least, William Stukeley) were even then railing against this state-sponsored vandalism:
After coffee in Heddon-on-the-Wall the path dropped steeply to the Tyne near Wylam, notable for its early riverside Waggonway which the path then follows for many miles.
The trail now follows a well-used bridleway known as Hadrian’s Way. Before long there is evidence that tonight’s bed in Newcastle is within reach.
Tyneside then slowly begins to reveal herself, teasing like a coy but knowing courtesan. Little by little we penetrate her humdrum outer layers…
… and unmistakable but veiled hints of the riverside metropolis to come…
… before finally revealing a first glimpse of her central delights.
Some of the old glory is faded, like this former fish market now serving as shady music venue:
but she saves the best for last as the stunning Sage Centre at last comes into view under the iconic Tyne Bridge.
At this point I headed a few yards up into town to check in to my final overnight stop and take a breather before doing the very last stretch to Wallsend. I’ve already mentioned how my long rest stop messed-up Lynn and Rick’s delightful plans to welcome me at the end, and how I met them on the quayside just after setting out again. They had also met two charming American ladies, Joan and Marge, who were about to begin their own Wall walk. I met them near St Peter’s Marina and was given my second heartwarming morale boost of the evening.
Only two miles to go now, but each step was uncomfortable (did I mention the blisters?) and it took a while. At last, though, it was all over and I could take the tram back to my hotel with a clear conscience:
and change into clean clothes, and consume not just any old beer but Brewdog Punk IPA, a truly fitting end to an exhausting and memorable week.
