Haltwhistle to Corbridge, 26 miles

First off this morning the wonderfully evocative name of Vindolanda. It was, until March 1973, just another fort – nicely enough preserved, and in a wonderful sheltered valley behind the wall – indeed behind the line of what is now known as Stanegate – the road that formed the lime (temporary border) before the wall was built. But it was then that the first of the writing tablets that have provided wonderful insight into wall life were found. (I’ve written before about the “birthday” invitation one that is usually on display in the British Museum.)

I won’t chart them in detail – this site does a wonderful job – except to note that they were found near these wooden markers for one of the gates of the early wooden fort (left) from which they date). But I will rave about many of the recently discovered objects on display in the museum. (No photos allowed unfortunately.)

The sodden, anaerobic conditions allow the most remarkable things to survive – not just leather (“more than 1,000 items of footwear”) and a horse’s ceremonial leather headdress (chamefron), but even more remarkable are wigs/hairpieces made from local “hair-moss”. They look to me more like furry hats, but they are anyway astonishingly well preserved.

In 2001 they also found a helmet-crest made out of the same material – the only one known. They may have been decoration, unit identification or rank identification. Centurions wore them transverse across the skull, ordinary soldiers’ ran up from the line of their nose down to the back of their necks.

A narrow and finely proportioned horse skull – which fitted the chamefron perfectly – suggests Arab blood had been introduced into the Roman stock here.
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Carlisle to Haltwhistle, 26 miles. The tour company says there are “a few hills”. I’d call that two killer hills, c. 200m straight up.

First, the sign of the day – I worried for my bicycle, but luckily the cows weren’t in residence, only a small mob of sheep, who were keeping well away from an Irish wolfhound accompanying one visitor.

But that’s getting ahead of myself. The day started with Carlisle Castle, a child’s storybook idea of a fortress, with its visible structure dating back to Norman times. (Although it goes back even further, for this is Roman Luguvalium, recently widely excavated for the construction of the new museum. And it was the promise of an exhibition from that excavation that made me decide to spend the morning at the castle. It didn’t disappoint.

In the “stop press” section was a report on this unimpressive-looking sherd that in fact tells quite a tale. For miraculously surviving on these clay labels are the ink labels:

Fish relish
from Tangiers
old
excellent
quality

Missing are the labels indicating when it was made and the quantity it contained. It was found outside the commanding officer’s house from around 100AD, where it was probably thrown when empty. It would have been far too expensive for anyone else in the fort.
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Silloth to Carlisle – 36 miles, luckily very flat, miles

Health not great after yesterday’s strike of the rhinovirus, but set out with the avowed intention of going very slowly, which I accomplished. And of walking up the slopes. Ditto.

The first historical highlight of the day was the neat and attractive St John’s Church Newton Arlosh (“New Town on the Marsh”), an old pele-tower (pronounced peel, I learnt from the friendly vicar) church built as a fortress and watchtower in the 14th century, with enormously thick walls (31 inches at the door, so the guide says). The internal staircase is narrow and steep, so even if the door was forced, the upper floors could still be defended.

It was a monastery church, and fell into ruin after the Reformation, but it seems an amateur sculptor from the local gentry, Miss Sara Losh, who ran a school of carving at nearby Wreay, was responsible for its restoration. The rams are probably hers.

Around the Solway peninsula, you disappear into another, very quiet world. Road hazards, as left, were mostly of varying animal origins, like this very bossy bantam cockrel rounding up his harem. (The cows had also definitely left their marks.) Overshadowing it all is an enormous radio array dating back to WWII. Presumably these are still military, although there’s little sign of security. The gun emplacements around the peninsula have been converted into cowsheds and haybarns (a nice variation on the old ploughshares…)
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Whitehaven to Silloth: theoretically 28 miles…

That was the theory. Unfortunately, I woke about 2am with a raging sore throat, and by morning had a nasty cold. I entirely blame Richard Branson. I’d been thinking on the Virgin train that it seemed airless and dry, in a very airplane-ish way, and several people around me were sniffling…

I considered giving up, which would probably have been the sensible thing to do, but … also seemed a bit lame. Then the organiser of the trip, who was coming anyway to pick up my bags, offered to take me on to Silloth, so I collapsed into his mother’s Nissan Micra, bike stuffed in the back, and tried to pretend it was a Roman legion’s pack mule and I was an ill soldier offered a ride for a day to recover…
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