We should have been in France. We should have been playing in the Fontainebleau sandpit with baguettes sticking out of our rucksacks. Alas, fate was against us. I’d spent the preceding two weeks under house arrest with COVID-19. Don’t worry, I only spent about 3 days of that feeling rubbish. The other 11 days I felt pretty okay but was still redlining hard (i.e. still infectious), so I couldn’t go out. I mean sure self-isolation isn’t the law these days, but I have a PhD in virology and an honours degree in germophobia and I’m pretty sure you can get both those things ceremoniously revoked if you defy basic infection control measures like that, so house arrest it was. Believe me, the only fever here was CaBiN fEvEr.
My quarantining was so effective that Chris was a-okay and all set to go to France without me (at my behest), until the weather forecast showed non-stop heavy rain all week. So, France was a bust. By the time the next weekend rolled around I was desperate to be anywhere but my own house, and there was only one place in the whole country that wasn’t going to be as wet as a French forest: Northumberland.
In all honesty, Northumberland wasn’t somewhere we’d ever really thought of as a climbing destination, though I have fond memories of childhood holidays there, filled with castles, books and wet walks on chilly beaches. It seems so out of the way – but it was also out of the way of the rain. The MetOffice’s rain radar showed the Pennines splitting the weather front coming in from the west like Moses splitting the Red Sea. A glorious rain shadow luring us four hours up the M1 with the promise of touching dry rock for the first time in weeks, even if it was sandstone.
Caves, Weird Sisters and a Fifth Point of Contact
The first port of call was Back Bowden Doors, an outcrop of hard sandstone, tucked out of sight behind a gently sloping hill. A short walk-in, but the boggy ground crept up the waterproof edges of my boots and stretched out experimental tendrils of muddy water towards the more vulnerable tongue and laces. I hopped between tufty patches of grass, keen to not start four days of van life with the beginnings of trench foot. We spotted Rob, also up in the North East as a fellow Font refugee, and picked our way up the steep, sandy slope leading up to meet him at the Bat Cave. It turned out to be less of a cave and more of a very low roof peppered with thuggy, juggy problems, that ended with wild swings around the lip and onto the waved ridges of the headwall. Rob introduced us to the problems he’d been trying and I had my first taste of County Ethics – bold, hard sand(bag)stone.
Steep has never been my forte so I readied my excuses as I pulled off damp boots and hastily stuck my feet into climbing shoes and out of the chilly air.
“I’m just coming off the back of COVID, so I’m not firing on all cylinders yet, you know?”
“My hip was super tight and kinda sore this morning, I think I need to stretch it out.”
“Oh my god, my fingers are freezing, I forgot my electric handwarmers”
That should do it. How could anyone expect me to get up any boulders in these circumstances? Honestly, topping out anything would be a miracle, and an unexpected surprise. I was a hero for even showing up. Caveats in place I did actually manage to battle across the roof and heave around onto the headwall for one problem we were trying, and though another remained elusive I was content to move on to Chris and Rob’s greater ambitions, just happy to be out and about.
Unfortunately many of the earmarked problems had furnished themselves with enough winter seepage that putting pads below them would have been more akin to floating rafts on a lake than bouldering. We ended up down the far end of the crag, just at the edge of the forest plantation from which startled and indignant cries of pheasants alternated with the boom of shotguns that sounded perhaps a little too close for comfort. We all quietly checked to make sure we were wearing sufficiently bright clothing. Chris launched himself into a problem called Weird Sisters One, a combination of awkward toe hooks, shallow pockets that held only stacked fingers, and thick open-handed pinches. I made approximately two attempts that both ended in miserable dry-fires (the act of ripping off the rock while trying very hard, most likely leaving skin behind), considered the fact that I had several more days of sandpapering my fingers ahead of me and declared the problem too horrendous to bother.
After a good deal more attempts than me, Chris declared the same and we finished the day by wandering over to Bowden Doors, half a mile of incredibly varied features looking out over a valley of rolling fields studded with sheep. The rock here varies from billowing bulges to blocky, almost quarried square cut ledges. At one point, a curved roof hangs over the top of the rock, the features in it twisting as if one of those enormous portions of soft serve ice cream has been lain along the top of the crag.
We went for the classic Scooped Wall. So classic in fact, that all of the holds were disintegrating into little pools of sand, time and countless hands weathering crimps into rounded, gritty slopers that stained fingers and made chalking up pointless. The top out was equally rounded, and I was getting distinctly nervous about the amount of air between me and the single pad below. Without thinking, I simply flopped my chest forwards, using the underside of my chin as a fifth point of contact to steady myself while I groped around blindly for something that would allow me to swim my way onto the top. It worked, but the scab serves as a reminder not to make a habit of it.
Beaches, Birds and Brass
We awoke the next morning to a beautiful view of the beach below Bamburgh castle, watching the early bird surfers catching the waves while we ate breakfast wrapped up in big coats. You must have to be really into surfing to surf in the UK at all, nevermind in Northumberland in February. The surfers padded down the sand clad head to toe in thick, black wetsuits looking more like attendees at a fetish party than the archetypal surfer image of a Californian beach bum.
Giving our grated skin a break, we headed down the coast to walk the Annstead dunes, between the small coastal villages of Beadnell and the imaginatively named Seahouses. The dunes were lovely, even in their barren, late winter state, long yellowed grasses tramped down in places by the elusive semi-wild ponies that graze there.
We treated ourselves to lunch at the Ship Inn, in Seahouses, sharing a delicious smoked fish chowder by the fire while I wondered how long I would have to spend at sea before it would be acceptable to coat my own house in this level of maritime memorabilia and brassware. The walk back to Beadnell along the beach was maybe the highlight of my whole trip, the shoreline thronged with groups of oystercatchers, sanderlings, plovers and black-tailed godwits. I crouched delightedly on the wet beach, camera slung around my neck, watching the waders thrust long beaks into the sand searching for little aquatic insects. The chubby little sanderlings could have entertained me for hours, they boldy chased the wave as it sucked back to quickly dip for food in the exposed sand. Then, as the wave turned they would dash out of the path of it, moving back up the beach as a single mass, tiny legs pumping so quickly they blurred together like cartoon characters.
Into the Woods
We met Rob in the pub to plan for the following day. Rob showed us up by arriving in clean, non-climbing clothes, while Chris and I, having really only brought one set of clothes each were putting the ‘dirt’ in dirtbag. A heavy rain shower that evening was limiting the options – you never want to be the person responsible for wet sandstone breakages. We decided on Kyloe-in-the-woods, once a venue that would have been damp and seeping at this time of year, but now a viable winter crag since the 90mph winds of storm Arwen decimated the titular woods in 2021. It must have been a completely different atmosphere back then. From pictures, it looks fantastical and mysterious, dappled green light reflected through the trees and onto the rock. Now, it’s a sun trap, the curved rock basking in the unobstructed light, but the ground still marred by the scars of downed trees and ripped up roots. Still beautiful, but in a different way, and now with tree stump thrones.
We started by warming up on some 5+s and 6As, so in line with the hard County style, that had someone only told me the grades afterwards I would have laughed in their face. Bad Company was a particular favourite, with satisfying moves and a pocket drag that turned into a downwards push to make the reach to a chunky flake. Project problems were selected – I worked on the burly, techy, fantastic Jocks and Geordies, while Chris worked on the harder sit start and Rob repeatedly launched himself up a dyno that took a cumulative skin tax for every attempt.
I didn’t finish my problem, but I didn’t mind. The vibes were good, progress was made, and I could lie on the pads in the sun and photosynthesise, recharging my solar batteries after a long, grey winter. As the sun dipped behind the trees and the temperatures dropped, we left Kyloe-in to meet up with Chris’ friend Ben and have a quick explore of Kyloe Out, which ironically is now more tree covered than Kyloe-in. Kyloe Out is more trad than boulder, with huge roofs, enticing cracks and inspiring lines, a crag littered with a lot of geology I’d like to climb (GILC). I’d love to return in the summer, without a guidebook and just see what I can get up, just have a play, enjoy the rock.
To the Batcave!
One final morning waking up to the sea, I was feeling refreshed and more like myself again after my house arrest, if a little filthy and in need of a shower. Chris and I headed back to to Back Bowden, where we both has unfinished business – him a Weird Sister, me a Pipistrelle in the bat cave. We tackled the cave first, and I was elated to feel far stronger than I had on the first day. The wind was up though, and I had to time attempts between gusts, to avoid getting taken out by a boulder pad that had decided it was finally time to fulfil its dreams of becoming a kite. It was a pretty heroic problem, all twisted heelhooks, opposing toes and big swings on an almost horizontal roof, and I was delighted when incremental progress turned into a full send.
It had been a really satisfying trip for me, all in all. From feeling weak and still a little out of sorts on the Friday, just four days later I had not only completed a couple of pretty burly, steep problems, but, as a very nervous boulderer (more on that in a future post!) I had gone a little way to facing my fears in some fairly highball situations, and lived to tell the tale.
The Belford Co-Op may not be comparable to a French patisserie, but the change in venue turned out to be an unexpected boon. I have always loved Northumberland for its wild coastlines and deep sense of history, but now I love it too for its beautiful sandstone and enchanting countryside crags, a discovery I might never have otherwise made. My list of locations to check for weather when I’m searching for dry rock certainly has another permanent addition in the shape of The County.
So, thanks COVID, I guess?
Kate Harrison Writes 
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