The Gorge

Half way up the other side of the gorge I started to question the whole enterprise. We weren't riding the bikes, you understand: we were carrying them, fully loaded with panniers, up the side of a cliff, with no certainty that there'd be a road the other side. An hour earlier we'd fallen in with a group of cyclists who had insisted that, no, the road wasn't a dead end, as the map suggested, but led on to a cycle path that crossed the river. However, when we got there there was nothing but an overgrown field, a rickety metal walk way, and a scrabble up the other side. Olivier had got a puncture and we'd been left behind by the other cyclists before we descended the gorge, and we were facing it alone, unsure if this was even the right route to take. Cursing, we took the plunge and crossed, as bare foot local children playing in the river below looked up at us with questioning eyes. On the other side of the gorge we had to navigate a rape field before finding the civilisation of tarmac again. Back on course we crossed the Tweed, into England, and stopped for tea at a honey farm. It had a café in an old Routemaster bus. The day was taking yet another surreal turn. Amazingly, one of the group of cyclists from earlier was there. 'Did you get over the bridge alright?' he asked, innocently. We weren't sure whether to laugh, or poke him in the eye, but in the end tea and cake were more important and we left him be. The day ended as it began, with rolling countryside, good roads and sunshine. Euan had been with up since Dunbar, and he'd steered us along by the stunning coast road. In the afternoon we'd hit the hills - and the gorges - and the final one before the hostel nearly killed us. But as we crested it Lindesfarne, Bamburgh and the coast were before us and there was a fast descent into Belford. All the hills, all the bad advice and all the gorge climbing bike carrying, all of it, was forgiven.