The Clattering Causeway is a tough nut of a ride, but the rewards are as exponential as some of the climbs. It sits high on the saddle of the North Pennines, roughly approximate to the tiny conurbation of Whitfield, with views that reach in every direction for miles, and a nature that our upland farmers – mostly* – appear to work in harmony with, and which delights at every turn.

Our journey started just out of Brampton and finished in the Northumberland town of Hexham. We’d stayed over the night before at the Belted Will, a cosy inn in Hallbankgate. I would recommend this place over and over again for the warmest welcome we’ve had since our round of applause on arrival to the golf club bar in Macrihanish, having endured the West of Scotland’s Long and Winding Road in gale-force winds. The bike storage was secure, and nothing seemed an inconvenience to the attentive and affable staff. The main purpose of our trip was a 5:30am guided grouse lek tour at RSPB Geltsdale, so the proximity of the inn to the reserve – just a 20-minute walk – made the early start that bit more agreeable.

The purpose of the grouse lek is to identify the strongest cock in the flock to the onlooking brood of increasingly broody hens. A surge in testosterone triggered from early spring onwards leads to the hilarious spectacle, which is a great reminder of how ridiculous our interpersonal squabbles appear to those on the outside looking in. Five or six cocks stood around with their tail feathers exuberantly fanned out, squaring off against one another but showing impeccable manners by taking turns. With their wings spread wide they charged at each other for dominance, occasionally becoming violent and pecking feathers from their competitor. Our guide informed us that, by the end of the lekking season – which can be two months long – our alpha cocks may have expended so much energy on the aggression of the lek that they are near-exhausted and in poor shape to mate, and a female may skulk off with an inferior competitor instead (today the hens were conspicuously absent).

It brought to mind the scene we were sat amongst the night before on platform 5 of Carlisle train station, waiting for our train to Brampton. Two distinct groups of inebriated lads sat about drinking and being generally loud and burly but in a benign sort of way, save for the shortest amongst them: sporting a box-fresh haircut, he was bopping about like he’d been wound up a bit too tightly and then given his first can of Red Bull. After a bit of shadow-boxing and some headlocks that his pals tolerated with the grace of an ageing family pet who’s found himself sharing the house with a puppy, he moved over to pester some other lads, making moves to get his head kicked in. After a brief word from the British Transport Police he settled down enough to get on the train in one piece, but the train staff told us later that he was so out of it that he dropped all his cash on the floor and didn’t notice; later Hubs aborted a toilet trip on discovery of one of his pals taking a line of coke off that most unforgiveable of unclean surfaces, the top of the train toilet cistern (I’d bet my last Rolo that no hens will be breeding with them tonight).

After our 5am start, a wee nap and a hearty breakfast with herby vegetarian sausages and smoky faux-bacon, we headed out towards Hexham via the Clattering Causeway.

On the recommendation of our friendly breakfast chef we took a detour onto the South Tyne Trail (in a different direction to aforementioned in another North Pennines post) and discovered the Lambley Viaduct and riverside walk. What an oasis off the beaten track!

Instead of following the Trail to Haltwhistle, our next stop was Coanwood, and the start of the Clattering Causeway proper. A route truly deserving of the title of Roof of England. A route of enormous skies, and wildlife in abundance. The last time I took on this road was as Hubs’ sidekick on his Miles for Mossburn fundraising epic coast-to-coast ride. It was the height of summer and the pastures lay thick with families of basking curlew chicks. I thought at the time it seemed an awfully exposed place to raise a family on these upland plains but here they were again in early spring, scoping out the best nesting sites where fragrant pink-white blossoms adorned the wind-worn hedgerows, and even as day-hunting owls plunged into the long grass sending them screeching into the air in all directions on decoy flights. We kept quiet as we rolled past tiny lambs snoozing against fences by the roadside, trying not to spook them into running to mum for soothing bellyfuls of milk (although it is very cute to watch).

At Whitfield we took a detour to Allendale Town – it’s a steep descent and equally boisterous hill climb slog out of the river valley at Thornley Gate with a fairytale church spire peeking out of Bavarian-style forest at your back. You could skip this struggle, missing Allendale Town out entirely and remaining on the high road heading straight for Langley, but you would miss out on the Museum of Classic Sci-Fi (replete with garden Dalek) and some banging flapjack at The Forge café and gallery, so choose your own adventure.

A steady climb out of Allendale Town to Langley brought back memories of a well-spent weekend walking in mushroom-rich woodland and glamping at Langley Dam (you get a free upgrade if arriving on foot, by bicycle, or public transport) and once past the Stublick chimney, part of a Georgian lead smelt mill complex, it’s pretty much all downhill from there to Hexham – with grouse laughing at your back form amongst the heather if you’re lucky.

*If you discount the scores of mole corpses, hung out to dry in lines like medals from some depraved war on the barbs of farm fences in some kind of Hills Have Eyes motif. At what point did this become an acceptable corollary of feeding our nation?

Sunday 24 March, 2024