Hadrian's Wall Path - Day 3, part 1

Those poor Romans. What did even the height of summer have to offer them here, on these wild, craggy moors that collar the neck of Britain?


If the Wall crosses the neck of Britain, then the high ground between the valleys of the North Tyne and the Irthing is its throat. The land is scrubby and rough, broken by outcrops of limestone and the great rupturing ridges of volcanic rock that rise gently from the south and fall sharply to the north: a most suggestive natural defence whose potential must have made Hadrian’s engineers giddy with excitement.

Probably the giddiness wore off when the diggers of the north ditch reached Limestone Corner: at any rate, having made a frustrated attempt to smash their way through and clear the ditch of boulders, they threw down their tools and called it a day.

Screw this

These were the upland pastures where the farmers of the river valleys found summertime grazing for their stock. Every spring the hills were invaded by legions of goats and cattle, driven up paths well-worn since prehistory. Many of these paths and grazing lands must have been severed when the Romans built their wall, and doubtless the auxiliary troops garrisoned here had a busy time regulating the transit of flocks and herds at the beginning and end of summer. It gave them something to do, at least.

It was early morning, two days by foot from the conurbation of Newcastle, a day removed from the tourist hotspots of Housesteads and Vindolanda, and the weather was uninspiring: damp, cold, foggy. Outside Carrawborough – the old fort nothing but a fenced-off field of grassy tufts – the temple of Mithras squats beside a little boggy stream.


I had the place to myself. The temple was ankle-deep in rainwater, as quiet and still as a tomb. No doubt Mithras was below in his cave, wrapped up warm against the Northumbrian chill. The last time I was here, on a university field trip, a coachload of American tourists appeared and their leader ceremonially placed a rubber chicken on the high altar. Even this sacrilege had not been enough for the god to emerge in anger.


The next few miles were quiet except for a couple of determined hikers. There were times when the distant road was empty of traffic and the only sounds were the soft patter of rain and the bleating of far-off sheep, muted by the fog. Strangely absent were birds; only later, when the rain paused, did they emerge, seemingly from nowhere, and swarmed the air above me in a banquet of bugs.

Heading west to Housesteads

A mile or so before Housesteads, the public began to appear: daytrippers, Roman enthusiasts, families. This is the most famous and most dramatic part of the Wall, where it rises up and down the switchback-like convulsions of the Great Whin Sill. Housesteads is also one the best preserved forts, built at the top of a volcanic ramp, with a civilian settlement huddled below it.

Approaching Housesteads

The surrounding slopes are striped with cultivation terraces, for the soil here was richly suited for crops in Roman times, and this was not so much a lonely garrison outpost as a bustling community of troops, farmers, retired veterans and their families.

From a previous trip to Housesteads

I skipped the fort, since I had visited it twice already in the last year, and went down to the visitor centre, drawn by the prospect of tea and a dry place to sit. My backpack was heavy enough, but I couldn’t resist buying this book by Alistair Moffat – a little thematic reading to keep me entertained in the evenings.