Last night we looked at the map and balked. Not only did the distance ahead of us seem huge - it spanned three pages of the road atlas - but we had the terrible choice of either climbing to the moors, or fighting our way through the confusion of the Tyneside conurbation. Worse still, the weather on the TV seemed to suggest that the North of England was the only part of the UK that was guaranteed rain. We went to bed filled with trepedation.
But in the morning things looked better. The sun was breaking through the low cloud, and we decided to turn away from the moor and hug the coast. The wind was at our back, and the Northumberland Coast was empty and beautiful. Through the morning we navigated the complex of villages and suburbs to the north of Newcastle, and by lunchtime we were sitting by the riverside, in the shadow of theTyne Bridge. Things weren't so bad after all.
Coming out of the city, the cherry blossom blew down from the trees that lined the road, gathering in the gutter and eddying as cars rumbled by. It was like riding through confetti. And then, through this swirl of spring celebration, the Angel of the North rose on the hill above us. It was so unexpected but welcome, familiar but grand. We stopped and stood beneath it, like all the others there, sucking their ice creams and craning their necks. No one was sure what they should do, what their response should be, but all of us gathered at the feet of the Angel were happy just to be there, in the spring sunshine, with this towering, other worldly being. Somehow it felt like it had been watching over us, and had provided this good day, against the odds.
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