A long first day

My Mam was a Geordie, though you wouldn’t know it if you met her as an adult. Like many of her generation, she emigrated to the Big Smoke as soon as she decently could, looking for escape and opportunity. And as quickly as she could she lost the Geordie accent.

So heading for Newcastle upon Tyne, 60 miles away from home, I’m thinking about her young days, before I knew her, of course. That might just be an excuse – doesn’t every grown-up male think about his mother when he’s not quite sure if he can do what he’s set out to do?

The wind is strongly against me, when I set off early. I set off early to escape the heat of the day, but the heat never came, and now I’m seriously cold, A lot slower than normal up Hartside, but I did meet Mickey, coming out of one of his fields with two dogs on an old quad bike. I consider that a good omen – Mickey has often cheered me up this hill.

Down to Alston, across familiar barren moorland, where the unusually dense cotton grass is going crazy in the wind. Then onto the real barren and windy moors of Northumberland. There’s not a soul here – just curlews, lapwings, and the occasional grouse.

The three main climbs out of the way, and I can enjoy the view. The hawthorn is stupendous, in the purest and holiest white you can imagine. The lambs already have unfeasibly large – and very delicious-looking – legs. Pheasants amble across the road, and then squawk off in a panic when they see a bicycle.

There’s very little water in the Tyne. The limestone looks surprised to be exposed to the air.

Lunch at the Bridge End Inn in Ovingham. It seems such a quintessentially English pub – so it’s a surprise to find out it’s been derelict for ten years until Javod re-opened it five weeks ago. Javod, helped by his sister Shahnaz behind the bar, is Iranian of Zoroastrian heritage, and 25 years ago he lived in Shiraz.

So we talked at length about Shiraz, about Persepolis, and Bam, and the likely future for a country full of young people but ruled by a vicious gerontocracy.

The lunch is as good as the conversation, but there is still a way to go, along National Cycle Route 72, mostly beside the Tyne, and into the centre of Newcastle.

The GPS told me this morning to expect 3215ft of climbing, which is enough for one day. But it has recorded 4603ft. We’re going to fall out if this continues.

I silently tell my dear departed mother she needed have worried so much – here I am safely in Newcastle, and ready for the first performance of Pilgrim Cello tomorrow.