SILENCE OF THE LAMBS              (In Times New Roman)

A roam man march along a section of the 84 mile long, 2,000 year old, Hadrian’s Woe

Thursday 22nd April to Sunday 25th MMIV (2004)

Organised by fellow centurian Keithius Septicus ‘I’m on for it’ Rectus  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Centurians:

Group1            Keithus I’m on for itus Rectus, Keithus Jackonus and Johnus Twitcherus

Group2            Yupus, Stubbus, and Beardieus

Group3            Joseph Tuohyus, Steveus Machinus and Kennus Humanitarius Spencerus.

Advanced arrangements were eventually made and put together by Keithus.  At one point an army of around 17 were expected to descend on the Woe.  However, the Roaman army reduced to 9 as the trip neared which was more than enough to subsequently drink the village of Haltwhistle dry of its Irish whiskey.

Thursday

Advanced parties, group 1 and 2 went all out for the full 4 days with group 3 arriving as ‘reinforcements’ on the Friday morning.  Battle commenced as groups 1 and 2 made their way up the M6 in 2 chariots, keeping a full 2 chevrons apart of course.  Beardieus failed to appreciate the soothing battle songs of Christie Moore or the monologues from Bernard Wrigley, a local bullfrog from Bolton, so we slipped into the site of a motorway services area at Junction 38.  The site was positioned alongside a lake and immediately Beardieus moved into pole position, literally, and all memories of those haunting melodies (don’t forget your shovel if you want to go to work; digging; and ordinary man), melted into the distant past. 

Group 2 arrived at the Heart of Britain Hotel at Haltwhistle, 2 minutes behind group 1 who were being shown around the rooms.  Just a 3½ hour trip including a break, not bad.  Beardieus claimed the cottage with the Jacuzzi above the laundrette.   

A quick search around the town exposed its lack of hostelries and clubs, although a sign in a shop window displayed the opening date of a lap dance club in May.  Every move was being watched through CCTV cameras and the local plods sitting in their mariahs.  All we could find was an Indian takeaway, a chippie, a working- men’s club and a pub closed for refurbishment works.  One pub stood out though, the Black Bull, with real ale and excellent food, oh and Jackie, the landlady.  A delightful railway station sat at the bottom end of the town, complete with a curved signal box and fancy bridge.

 

After a quick gander at the timetable, we decided to give Hexham a whirl, just 20 mins away, on trains that proved to arrive bang on time. 

Hexham is a delightful market town with an abundance of Indians, thankfully, and other restaurants and pubs, oh and a few nice buildings such as the Abbey and castle on the hilltop, neither of which Wetherspoons had yet managed to get hold of.  Just around the corner though, they had succeeded in converting an old cinema, so we slipped in for the matinee, a flesh parade, definitely not for children’s viewing before dining at the recommended ‘Diwan e am’ tandoori restaurant. The choice was overwhelming but we survived.  (Approx cost £18 including a couple of kingfishers.) 

The last train back gave us just enough time to pop into the Black Bull for a nightcap, before finding our digs.  Surprise, surprise, a wine box emerged back at our digs.   

Friday

A few hours kip and the bin men woke Beardieus up bright and early.  The remaining centurions arrived just after we had slouched away from the breakfast room in the main house.  A ‘feck… good breakfast’ it was too.  The march soon began, up dale and down dale, all at 1 in 1 gradients.  Based on Walk no 19 of 22, the walk was estimated to be around 12 miles.  These walks are available through Jackonus who purchased them at the Black Bull at a bargain price of £2.50 complete with a plastic wallet.  The distances shown must have been roman miles, cus we later found that it was nearer 15-16 proper miles.   The wall was way eye pet when we got to it.  Beardieus’s knee length boots, previously worn by a roman terminator, were unforgiving, so he dropped down a gear to ‘twice brewed’ for a rest and a cup of tea and waited for our subsequent arrival.

 

The walk took us along the wall from ‘Shield on the wall’ to Housesteads roman fort, south to Crindledykes, past a tandoori oven,

 

from which the romans must have produced the biggest nan breads ever, and on past Vindolanda, a fort and civilian settlement named after one of their hot leaders, obviously.  Who said they evolved from Birmingham?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The pub at ‘Twice Brewed’, next to ‘Once Brewed’ surprisingly, was most welcoming.  Beardieus had dropped into a coma after squeezing every last drop of energy from his aching body but just had enough strength left to slump into a soft chair.  A poster displayed a competition to name a beer after the wall.  Hadrian’s Jock Strap and Hadrian’s smooth were amongst many that were suggested.    

Fully fortified, we set off for the final leg across fields and fields of sheep and little lambs. In one field a dead sheep and 2 lambs crouched within a few yards of it attracted our humane attention.  Kennus Humanitarius Spencerus took pity on the lambs and without much ado retraced his steps back across a couple of fields to a farmhouse to alert the farmer.  A horse in one of the fields took a shine to him until he whispered in its ears ‘F off’.  .

No-one in at the farm so he scratched a message, just like in the old roman days, telling the farmer where he could find the lambs and left his phone number as a contact.  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the farmers wife’s washing, hanging on the line.  A couple of sniffs unfortunately revealed it was clean, so he began his trudge back again.

The horse pestered him again as he returned until he whispered in its ears ‘F off’. 

 

Joe pointed out the sheep dip as Ken returned (small black dot in the distance) from the farmhouse.

Steve checked out the dead sheep’s body, approaching it from all angles, until eventually feeling comfortable coming from behind, talking sweet nothings into its ears and handling it with the skill of a ventriloquists dummies master.  He confirmed it was dead.

With tears rolling down our faces, we collapsed as the lambs’ real mother appeared and led the 2 lambs away; the dead sheep obviously was a decoy and had been planted for Steveus Machinus’ pleasure only.  

Ewe phanisms rang out along with a few tunes; Ewe were made for me, Only ewe, It’s not un ewe sual to be loved by anyone, He’ll never find another ewe. 

Kennus Humanitarius Spencerus slinked off attempting a lambada shimmy, muttering ‘you can f… this humanitarian lark from now on’.  For the rest of the walk he was as quiet as a lamb.

A dead cat lay abandoned on a shed roof and Kennus Humanitarius Spencerus ignored it. 

Ahead of us, a field of bulls, cows, whatever, stood their ground with the biggest horns ever seen.  Beardieus admitted he was a townie lad and had never been in a field before. He was a country virgin.  Horny would never seem the same to him again

A quick shower for most, a horny jacuzzi for Beardieus, and we descended to the Black Bull to avoid the 7.00pm crush.  An early start had been recommended to ensure we’d get a table.  Kennus Humanitarius Spencerus turned up late looking a little sheepish.

The blackboard was chokka with a full menu from rabbit pie to chilli and fish.  No one had the lamb chops.  There were so many jugs of gravy and dishes of vegetables that we didn’t know where to put them.  

Prince Bishop and Watchtower were amongst the ales on offer.  Beardieus initially had the smoothflow but succumbed to the real taste of real ale as the night wore on.  As the evening wore on even more, there were signs of one or two tired warriors cracking.  Joseph Tuohyus, his trousers bulging!, began recounting memories of his recent irish trips and began singing the first line of the wild rover, over and over again, followed by attempts of  the Fields of Athon Rye.  After a bold attempt, but failing miserably, he suggested jammysons all round, which seemed to have a positive wakening effect on the rest of us.  One round though and we’d drunk the bottle dry.  Luckily for us, Jackie, the landlady, produced a bottle of Bushmills, which she said we could either buy for £54, or replace with another bottle the following day.  No problem there!  A bagful of ice was duly provided and Stubbus after untying the knot in double quick time, offered the ice around while performing a strange Fagin type act.  You know you want it, come on boys, you know…..      Jackie’s husband appeared none too happy with this arrangement and a few angry glances were noted.  As security, and to chear him up, we left a £30 deposit which appeared to quell his fears.  The bottle re emerged from under jackus’s seat from time to time until we finally emptied it.  Some of us went back to the digs to drink wine, some went to find a room, some to find a bed and some to find the toilet door. 

Saturday

Steveus Machinus, Kennus Humanitarius Spencerus, Keithus I’m on for itus Rectus and Johnus Twitcherus set off for the second days full 9 roman mile walk, travelling anticlockwise through Haltwhistle Burn to the woe, and heading west to meet the rest of us on the wall near Alloa Lea, who had taken the easy route in the car up to Greenhead.  Here the woe stops suddenly at the edge of a modern quarry, which is now a country park.  We took the easy tarmac pathway up to the woe but went the wrong way.  Who needs a compass?

Thirlwall castle beckoned us as we returned to Greenhead, except Beardie, who bypassed the ruin and sat waiting for us to finish our inspection.  A pink or green tailed woodpecker could be heard tapping nearby. 

Talking of tails, Kennus Humanitarius Spencerus, still feeling for yesterdays lambs, fancied trying out the role of a surrogate mother.  So, having found a woolly tail he slipped it under the back end of his cap.  It was so realistic complete with dried up doings on the end.

Lunch was served by Mr Surly at the Greenhead Hotel.  Johnus Twitcherus immediately set to task in true boy scout/blue peter fashion, constructing a bench in the sun using a plank and supports of ridge tiles in the sun. 

The car group returned to the tandoori oven for another recky, via the offie to purchase the replacement Bushmills, while the rest walked back to the hotel.  Mr Surly’s brother, Mr Grumpy, kicked us out of the entrance building at Vindaloo saying it was not a free museum like a tourist information office and that we had to pay.  Stuff that for a game of soldiers.   

Before the 3 wise men returned home, Joseph Tuohyus sat in the sun with his eyes closed sunning himself.  Johnus Twitcherus remarked that he looked nice and relaxed, to which Kennus Humanitarius Spencerus quipped, ‘he was relaxed last night,  as relaxed as a newt.’ 

Just a short time later the remaining group returned to Hexham again.  Wetherspoons lured us into its stalls yet again, the cheapest seats in the house, yet with the best technicolour views possible. 

Beginning to feel hungry, we found an Italian in one of the quaint back streets.  A little quiet at first, but it soon began buzzing as the wine flowed and the waitress divulged that she was only 18 years old to Keithus Jackonus.  His attention turned then to complementing the builder on how well he had reproduced an Italian style restaurant.  Final verdict: Great ambience, mediocre food and nice ceiling. 

Nature called as we followed the town walls, and bushes, back to the station and returned to Haltwhistle and our final visit to the Black Bull.  Beardieus got pole position again and pulled the landlady’s mother in law.  Time to go, way aye man, pet.  Beardieus felt an arse as he said his good byes to Jackie.  Keithus I’m on for itus Rectus had to retrieve his chewing gum from her throat and Johnus Twitcherus was tongued.  Bye bye Hadrian, for now, you old brick. 

For further info visit www.hadrianswallcountry.org and www.centre-of-britain.org.uk