Our Greek adventure begins in the middle of the night, as we traveled via red eye from OPO via LIS to ATH, before arriving in Mykonos at 8:15am. This was exhausting, and in retrospect that going direct from OPO to ATH would have been much better. Nonetheless, there were no issues and we made it to our hotel, had breakfast, and . . . took a nap.

Yes, even Lisa who (famously) Does Not Nap.

(Don’t tell anyone, but she actually took several naps on this trip.)

Knowing we’d be tired and not up for any adventures, we’d asked the hotel to book us a couple of massages. Unfortunately, our requests were not received and the onsite spa was not available. It turns out that between when Lisa had booked the Rocabella Mykonos and our arrival, they had changed loyalty programs and were now members of the Marriot Bonvoy ecosystem. So her communications had been going to a defunct address that didn’t inform the originator of the error. Frustrating, as we’d relied on several of our plans to have been taken care of by the hotel. We are clear that this ins NO WAY reflects on the property or its employees, but on corporate’s poor-thinking IT and Marketing group.

The Rocabella is our first experience (that we are aware of) with a European resort and it was eye-opening. Resorts, more than other types of hospitality are designed to keep guests onsite, and internally spending. They are the places that have golf courses, multiple restaurants, and likely offer wine or spirit tastings or mixology “classes” and other encouragements to stay there, not to take your money elsewhere. Sure enough, we saw many guests who would park themselves poolside after breakfast and not leave until after dark, where they presumably went clubbing (Mykonos is famous for its party-hard nightlife). In general, we were not thrilled. Not putting the Rocabella down, just overall underwhelmed. Breakfast (included in room cost) was very basic European continental with added Greek yogurt and pastries. Nothing hot, except make your own toast. They did have a good selection of whole fruit. (Lisa ate a lot of carrots, cucumber, and sesame-coated bread sticks.) One reason for selecting the property was they had advertised transfers throughout points on the island, making it unnecessary to rent a car. Turns out the transfer were available, for 35-75eu per trip. We were glad to not rent a car, but would have planned to be more central to places we wanted to visit. (That is, we wouldn’t have stayed at the Rocabella.)

Lunch at the onsite ReeZA was simple: mussels with a curry-laced herb wine sauce and grilled meatballs with tahini labneh. Perfect portions and delicious flavor. A real hit!

Dinner our first night was a celebration at the “Greek fine dining,” “haute cuisine” Efsia, located at a Relais & Châteaux hotel. We were offered a lovely amuse bouche of marinated sea bream with a tiny dollop of fish roe that was excellent. Sweet, vinegary, a great kiss to open the appetite. Our starter was Fried Zucchini Balls, served with a truly excellent tzatziki and they were light and full of flavor, although a tad heavy on dill for Lisa’s taste. Although Lisa was tempted by the Filet Mignon, she instead chose the Sea Bass Fillet with Citrus Crust (with celery root purée, Bok Choy, and lemon beurre blanc), while John chose the Baked Gnocchi (with fresh tomato sauce, garlic and burrata). The beurre blanc was weirdly sweet as was the citrus crust on the fish; the bok choy barely cooked enough to eat (sawing vegetables with a fish knife is just plain wrong), and although the celery root puree was smooth, it tasted odd with the strongly, strangely, sweet other elements. The gnocchi was served piping hot in a small casserole, under an inch of melted burrata. Easily enough to serve four people, it was rich, but took forever to cool enough to not burn the tongue. We both left most of our dishes to be taken away. Interestingly (and unusually) this provoked no question of “did we like the food?” We asked for the check, and were served a pistachio profiterole — pistachio-chocolate “butter” inside a green chocolate crust. I like nuts, but this combination did neither flavor justice.

We don’t often say this, but Efsia is not recommended.

The next day just had to be better . . . right?

I’m three-quarters done with the Hadrian’s Wall Path at this point in the story; of the total 84 miles, I’ve knocked down about 60. I have finished with the portions of the path that actually includes visible sections of the Wall. To get that far, I spent months raising my step goal by 1,000 per week, topping out around 27,000 steps a day. I started walking up to Bom Jesus and Sameiro to get some practice with gaining elevation. All of this was in service to a random whim I was struck by 14 years ago. It does lead me to wonder, and maybe you as well, just what the point of all this was?

The last few days of “prime” trail walking looked like this.

To the extent that any of this had a point to it, this was it. All I was doing was waking up, walking for a few hours in gorgeous and unique terrain, and then powering down into low-think afternoon/evenings of writing a little bit, reading a little bit, maybe playing games a little bit, and then going back to bed. I never consciously thought of it as some kind of meditation retreat, and gods know I wasn’t chanting a mantra as I walked along, but I still think there was something about resetting my brain down to the core operating system that did me some good. And, doing that while walking amidst the perfect-for-me mixture of green rolling hills + ancient historical ruins just made the whole experience a pleasure.

Anyway, the last two points of interest were Carlisle and then the end. Carlisle is a modest city in northwest England. It’s a nice town and relevant to this story because of its cricket club where, thanks to heavy flooding several years ago that prompted some serious renovations of the pitch, they basically tripped over a Roman palace. Baby palace, apparently, but the emperor was coming for a visit to inspect the wall and nothing less would do. Because the site of interest is smack dab in the middle of the city they are only able to do any excavation work for two or three week periods a couple of times a year, and each time they cover everything back up when they’re done because modern life marches ever onward.

This was another Birdoswald event where I had no idea what I was stumbling into. I had at least heard tell of doings at the Carlisle Cricket Club but nobody was ever very specific, I guess because they had only ever visited when things were all covered up. Ole better-lucky-than-good John happened to arrive on the last day of a dig period before they started covering everything up, so I got many eyes full. Carlisle just gets added to the list of stuff I’d love to see completed some day but will probably continue well past my own lifetime; a mixture of humbling and irritating.

After Carlisle the terrain smoothed out almost entirely. There weren’t much more in the way of bits of wall sticking out, and I strolled through pleasant-enough scenery – with more livestock than I had ever anticipated before setting out – as I approached the end. For as big a deal as this was to me, and anybody else who hikes this path in either direction there is surprisingly little fuss made out of it. I hit the last little town, Bowness-on-Solway, at midday and had to hunt through a couple of alleys and back yards to find the official trail marker. I kid you not; you can see the rubbish bins behind me in my “official” end of trail picture. The final indignity was that the little path to stamp the passport thingy, the one that I had given up on days and days before, was missing its stamp. If I had been trying to keep up with it I would have been screwed. As it was it merited a tired eye roll.

So that’s it. I spent the last night in a let’s-call-it-modest accommodation before making my way back to Carlisle by bus (a 30 minute drive that took me most of three days going the other way, I couldn’t help but notice), to catch a train to Edinburgh, and thence by plane back to dear old home. Not transformed into a new man or anything so grand, but at least knowing I could accomplish something beyond anything I’d ever done. Who knows what that will lead to next.

Let’s just get this out of the way. I was dropped off in the Housesteads car park around 9AM, ready to strike out for the day. Before departing, however, I just needed to get that passport stamp thingy stamped. I tromped up the hill, through the sheep, and arrived at the gift shop… which opens at 10AM. I pondered for a very brief moment and decided “to hell with it” and hit the trail. I’d already had to backtrack once for a stamp and, while I haven’t mentioned it before I was actually stamping them in the wrong order and at this point hoping the powers that be wouldn’t notice. On top of all that, one of the stamp sites was some place I’d never heard of and didn’t know where it was. Heck with it, I’ll know I did this walk with or without a badge. I didn’t even poke around in Housesteads proper, since the gate would be down until 10 as well. You can circumvent it but the last thing I needed was to be arrested for trespassing. Well phooey. On we go.

I can actually press “fast forward” on the next couple of days. It was lovely and panoramic but there were no landmarks worth spending a lot of time talking about. Part of the reason for that is that the most famous landmark along the entirety of Hadrian’s Wall was Sycamore Gap. Nestled in a saddle between hills along the Wall, a sycamore tree had been growing for more than 100 years, becoming an impressive specimen. Combined with the wall remnants up at the tops of the neighboring hills it made for a picture-perfect scene and, in fact, was the subject of thousands of amateur and professional photos over the years. And then, in late September of 2023, two dingleberries cut the tree down for no reason other than, to quote Michael Caine, to watch the world burn. They were sentenced to prison (one is still there, the other is home on an early release scheme with ankle bracelet monitoring). The small bit of good news is that green shoots have been observed on the stump that remains; fingers crossed for future generations. All this is to say that I actually trod through the Gap without even knowing it; another hiker mentioned it in passing and I realized what had happened. Not worth going back for, alas.

A couple of days down the line I had set out on a gray-ish morning thinking that the agenda was just a straight-ahead walk for five or six hours. About 30 minutes on the trail, though, I see the familiar English Heritage sign, here announcing “Birdoswald Roman Fort.” Interesting. Well, embarrassing and interesting. I’ve never claimed to have done “the most” research for this trip, but to be caught completely flat-footed by a whole fort was just… well anyway. Since I had no idea it existed I certainly didn’t know what to expect. I poked around in their gift shop while I pondered buying a ticket, then saw a sign announcing that the daily 10 AM tour was about to start. Kismet! Fate! Redemption, whatever. I hung out in the courtyard and waited to discover what, exactly, this place is.

Birdoswald, it turns out, is one of the best-preserved Roman forts in England. It wasn’t a specialty operation, it was your “typical” expression of imperial, occupational force. It maintained the presence of the Romans in land they claimed. We don’t have the luxury of Vindolanda’s trove of records so much must be inferred, but it looks like the fort was abandoned by the mid-fourth century. So while we don’t have the narrative treasure of places like Vindolanda, what we do have is the aforementioned well preserved remains.

It was a lovely bit of bonus history, and the last serious “stuff” aside from your typical wall remnants. In another day or so I started leaving behind the meaty historical center of the route and moved into the final stage of the trip. Still, there were a few days to go and as this day proved I didn’t necessarily know what I was in for. I had my trail well marked on my navigation tools but, as they say, the map is not the territory.

To the astonishment of absolutely no one, I planned for one of my extra tourism days to coincide at the spot where I first conceived this goofy plan: Housesteads and Vindolanda. They were amazing enough that when we visited Scotland with friends a decade or so after our first visit we made sure to bring them so they could see what I’d been waxing rhapsodic about for so many years. Housesteads probably hadn’t changed much – as far as I know it is no longer an active dig site, just a preservation/heritage one – but Vindolanda has multiple work parties ever year where passionate amateurs get to supplement the work of archaeologists to dig out more and more of the site. (These places always fascinate us when we visit; it’s impressive whenever we see evidence of people working on things that cannot possibly be finished in their lifetime.) Point being, on top of being interesting enough to absorb multiple visits in any situation, there’s every possibility of seeing something new each time you go.

So, go I did.

Given the distances I’m walking these days, technically I was within walking distance of Vindolanda from my lodging. That said, I was (perhaps overly-) protective of the mileage I was putting on my feet, so I arranged a ride from the same people that took me from the trail to the lodging the day before. 20 minutes later I was there. The overall vibe of this part of the country is “bucolic” and it’s no different as you approach the site. One thing that is a bit unusual about Vindolanda is that it is part of neither the National Trust nor English Heritage; it was found by a Reverend Anthony Headley in the 1830s, got serious work done in the 1930s, and then went into its own trust in 1970. Is this a problem? Not really; my biggest disappointment was that their refrigerator magnets weren’t formatted the same as ones I’d been buying at other Trust/Heritage sites. Alas.

As we have documented extensively, the entrance is unassuming. The treeline, whether on purpose or by design, blocks any interesting views of what’s to come. You pay your money in a teeny tiny ticket office, walk through one of those “through the years” photo montages and explanatory illustrations and then step through the facility and out into the site proper.

Gosh I love this place. There’s just something about the out-of-placeness of it all, and the sheer scope of it rivals anywhere we’ve been short of, like, Pompeii. The purpose of Vindolanda was reinforcement of Hadrian’s Wall as well as the usual, defensive hard-point in occupied territory kind thing. It was fortified for a couple hundred years, and they’ve found remnants of multiple versions of the fortifications as they’ve excavated. Serious changed were made to the layout of the place over time.

Two other historical tidbits combine to make Vindolanda particularly interesting. First, because it was a permanent location it may have been a military installation but it was also a town; plenty of civilian industry going on to support he fort and also just, you know, maintain life and sanity for the people living there. This means that all sorts of interesting stuff would have happened there, if only we could know what… Second, when Vindolanda was finally abandoned in approximately 370 AD, the order was given to gather up any documents and burn them… after which the officers promptly rode off, safe in the knowledge that their orders would be followed. Yeah, problem is that those Roman soldiers had been living in Northern England for who knows how long and wanted to get moving south. So, since how could it possibly make a difference, they dug a hole, buried everything that they were supposed to burn, said “opus perfectum est” (basically “job done”) and left. 1700 years later, thanks to the anaerobic nature of the peaty soil of the region, we have the greatest collection of Roman writings found anywhere outside of Italy, and damn few sites within Italy are any better. You can see the collection here.

It was a lovely day and a nice bit of refreshment to not have to think too much about keeping pace or reaching particular destinations. Tomorrow will be a ride back to Housesteads for a quick passport-stamping stop and then back on the trail.

No cute preamble this time, ladies and germs. I got up from an adequate night at The George Hotel (which, honestly, the hotel was lovely, on a river with a lovely outdoor sitting area, but there was some kind of weird staffing issue going on in the restaurant and it was the only place to eat for miles around so it was a grin-and-bear-it situation twice, sooooo meh) and hit the trail. I tightened up the straps on my pack, fixed my hat firmly on my pate, and girded my choice bits for the long trek ahead. 15 minutes later, I arrived at Chesters Roman Fort, and enjoyed a nice bit of antiquities-based tourism.

Arriving at the Fort a half hour before they opened, I circled the property and pondered a question that crops up every time I/we travel to England to see the historic sights, namely: is it worth it to join the English Heritage? There are 400(ish) sites under the protective umbrella of English Heritage, most with ticketed entry. So if you think you’re going to pop into a goodly number of them in a given year, the £84 for a solo (or £149 for a couples’ membership) could very well pay for itself. There is a catch, however, which is that along with English Heritage there is also the National Trust, which has a similar but distinct mandate. It’s been our experience that even on a history-intensive trip like the ones we like to take, our plans include sites from both groups, meaning we’d need two separate memberships and at that point the math never works out. Broadly speaking, “[i]f you like ruins, remains, very old sites, burial grounds, burnt out monasteries etc = English Heritage. If you prefer your houses with roofs and full of antiques + formal gardens and the odd nature reserve = National Trust.” (hat tip to user “AF_II” on reddit.) We tell ourselves that some day we’ll join one of these organizations for a year and plan trips specifically to take advantage, but that day was not this day and so, when the facility opened up, I bought my day ticket and entered through the gift shop.

Chesters is the remains of a Roman cavalry fort and is in really good condition; even without the explanatory signage you can get a nice feel for the place, and like most English Heritage sites it is in fact very well signed. For what it’s worth these sites often include tailored experiences for children so if you’re traveling with tykes you’re usually in good hands. The grounds are well-maintained and not too uneven so it’s an easy stroll to boot. In typical Victorian fashion there is also an old house that has been converted into a “museum”, by which I mean “what your garage would look like if you lived in the same place for 200 years and were only interested in rocks.” It wasn’t uninteresting, but it was borderline inscrutable. Still, having been as starved as I had been, to date, for some meat on the historical bone this was a great way to start the day.

Leaving the grounds was an adventure in itself, thanks to a woman sitting at a little outdoor table next to the cafe who had my dog, Sasha, sitting next to her. I mean, obviously not, but also … yeah. A spitting image of our black Labrador retriever. Even “better”, it turns out this woman had just adopted this little girl from a breeder of this very sort of black lab. I was 5 feet from someone who could give me contact information for a reputable breeder of these dogs. I goosed myself into motion and hit the trail before I made any hasty decisions.

That one sunny break in the morning aside, it was another cold, windy, and overcast day, but it was also a day where I was finally trailing along actual remnants of Hadrian’s Wall. I think I explained this before, but just in case: giant stacks of pre-cut masoned stone were never going to be left alone in any place where humans actually wanted to build anything. Houses, walls, whatever – if there was human activity the wall was going to come down. So, where does it actually still remain? In the most godawful, uninhabitable terrain of course! And so it is that as we get out into some hilly, obnoxious land that nobody would want to live on, the Wall abides.

I actually passed another fort and didn’t even get pictures, because when I got there the wind was nasty enough that I was just in head-down-keep-moving mode. That said, while Brocolitia Roman Fort is mostly still unearthed, there’s a car park so you can poke around, and they have excavated a temple to Mithras. (Note that the naming conventions of these places is a little… haphazard? So links take you to places with different names sometimes. I promise I sent you to the right place. Probably.)

I ended the day at the place where this all began: Housesteads Roman Fort. That said, I was pretty pooped, so I made contact with my driver who would shuttle me to my lodging for the next couple days. Housesteads is actually stop #3 on the Hadrian’s Wall passport thingy but I was pooped, there was a decent crowd in the gift shop, and I figured I’d just get the stamp when I came back to resume my hike. Foreshadowing(tm)(c). In any event, the ride to my digs was uneventful and I had a good night’s rest. This was another of my tourism down days, as I was currently within spitting distance of one of our all-time favorite destinations: Vindolanda.

The first two days of walking, physically, weren’t so bad; the preparation I had done for the past few months did enough to get me ready. Mentally, it had me a little off-kilter. I was in a city for most of it, only getting a little suburban towards the end. I never got far enough away from traffic not to hear road noise. I did have some nice interactions in the beginning with trail walkers going the opposite direction; I could encourage them with news that they were only a few hours from the end, depending on when I bumped into them. I didn’t see too many people, though. Conventional wisdom says you should a) start later than this, to hedge your bets against the weather, and b) go west-to-east so you walk with the wind instead of into it. I had reasons for going the other way, which I’ll get to. In any case, after a good night’s sleep and navigating English breakfast – I’m a cereal guy, and all the beans and tomatoes just don’t do it for me – I walked back through the industrial park (where I met a lovely couple of women who were a little lost and were trying to find the trail, albeit going the opposite way), crossed the river again, and headed out for Day 3.

Almost immediately after starting back on the trail, it began to change. First of all, I finally started going up. Northern England is characterized by its weather and its hilly terrain. Walking along the river had spared me the second, but now I was moving away from the Tyne. So, in addition to moving east I was climbing hills. Not big ones but it was consistent for a few hours; it added up to about 300 meters of elevation. On the other hand, while I was leaving suburban housing developments behind, what I transitioned into was an honest-to-gods golf course. You know, reeeeeeaally getting back to nature. (Although as always the British/English commitment to walking is fascinating. Fancy golf course, carts, manicured greens etc… and yet very clearly marked out was the route for the Path, and nobody said boo about my scruffy self trudging through. Nice.) I walked through two or three holes and edged along the driving range.

Eventually I was past the golf course and in to some proper rural areas, although not deserted by a long shot. Now it was farms and other homes of people who just prefer to be out in the countryside. I went through a little village called Heddon-On-the-Wall, even had lunch there in the inn, but if there was a section of actual wall I couldn’t find it. I talked to some folks and apparently there’s a teensy bit of “probably Hadrian’s Wall” a way off the path; I never saw it. I ended the day at the Robin Hood Inn. Before you ask, I have no idea how Robin Hood figures into things up there, I imagine the innkeeper just likes the stories. The Inn is actually stop #2 on the Hadrian’s Wall Passport trail. I popped in, had a pint at the bar (I mean, 0% cider, but a pint’s a pint) and asked about the stamp. A nice lady dug the stamp and ink pad out of a drawer, which wasn’t really an auspicious sign, but hey I got it. Two down. This was also the first time I hooked up with my transfer, which was a cab company that shuttled me from the parking lot of the inn to the Angel (Inn) of Corbridge, in (wait for it) Corbridge, and then came and took me back the next morning. It’s really an odd thing. Like, I knew I was never going to be roughing it, but something about getting in a car and driving three times the distance that I had walked that day in about 10 minutes, to do it all again in reverse the next morning so that I could continue with my oh-so-precise trail along the site of Hadrian’s Wall… it was odd. I have to admit there were numerous times when I would see a sign along a road I was hugging, indicating that a bus traveling to my destination for the day would be along any minute, and I’d pause, but I never actually did it. Because if I do that, why did I even bother packing a bag and getting on a plane in the first place?

Anyway, the Angel was a lovely place, which is good because this was the first of a few extra nights I had plugged into the itinerary to be an actual tourist on this trip. Corbridge actually derives its name from, or at least can trace the origin back to, Coria Roman fort, which was long thought to just be an ancestral memory but, as these things go, turned out to have left quite a footprint that you just need to dig for. Not a part of the Wall proper, Coria was about 2 and a half miles south of it, instead protecting the intersection of the River Tyne and a Roman road. Still, old stuff is cool and honestly it was by far the closest thing to my raison de marcher. Poke at it I did, and enjoyed it; not just for itself but also as a refresher after three days of not-much. (No offense, England, you were beautiful, but that wasn’t the point this trip.) Aside from Coria, Corbridge is a lovely village with, as far as I could tell, one small high street that nonetheless had a proper bakery on it; delish. I took the time to rinse some laundry and generally get myself sorted straight for the next day. A day of tourism and mood stabilizing later, I returned to the Robin Hood Inn and tallyed ho.

A bit about the weather. All the advice I got, read, was sent, or otherwise received cautioned that the weather in mid-May could swing wildly from sunny and warm(ish, like 70s) to hail or rain and darned-near freezing temps. Egad. In preparation for this I had stocked up at Decathlon. (Note to my North American readers, this is a sporting goods chain.) I had a serious poncho, gaiters, rain pants, a couple different grades of warmth layers for my torso, and then sun screen, hat, and short sleeve/shorts stuff for the warmer sunnier days. Each day I’d start dressed for what the weather currently was, and had some change-ups in my backpack. Well. As Lisa and I like to say, “I packed my umbrella”, which is short for “if you want to guarantee no rain, just bring your umbrella to the picnic.” Sure enough, I could have left most of that stuff at home or, even better, on the shelf at Decathlon. For the entire two+ weeks I basically had Seattle late-Spring weather only with no rain. Seriously, I got drizzled on a little bit on the last day. Otherwise, the whole trip was just overcast and mildly chilly; the one difference is that once I got up in the hills there was quiiiite a bit of wind.

I’m an audiobook guy, so during the trek started I had queued up “The Wall” by Alistair Moffat for some mood listening. By day 4 I’m in a part of the book that describes some of the mule-headed practices of Roman construction; for example, milecastles were placed exactly 1 (Roman) mile apart from one another, even if that meant constructing a fort on an impracticably-steep slope. They could have moved a castle 50 feet to the left but, no, that wouldn’t be a mile. Ye gods. Anyway, he’s at a part where he’s describing the infrastructure needed to move so much construction material into odd places, and he’s describing a bridge that was built in a place where, if the road hadn’t needed to be straight, they could have curved around a bit and just forded the small river in the area. But, no, hilltop to hilltop they were going, and so a bridge was built. Now known as Chesters Bridge, undoubtedly because some dude named Chester found the remnants, namely the abutments that stabilized the construction. You can still visit overlooks that sight the abutments – you could visit them until 2016 or so, when flood damage made that unsafe. As I’m listening to that section of the book, I reach my accommodation for the night at The George Hotel in Chollerford… which is about 50 feet from the abutments. It was kismet I tell ya. The narrator is going through the description of the terrain and I’m looking around thinking “that sounds suspiciously familiar…” Yep yep, suspicion confirmed. In any case, another day of elevation climb of 215 or so meters plus the 16km of distance was enough for me to plop into the hotel, grab a meal, and settle in for the evening. There still had been precious little in the way of, you know, the Wall; that was going to change soon.

[I should begin with a little clarification from last week’s post. I’m not actually writing this all in real time, this trip took place in May of 2026 and we’re posting these in September. I took some notes while I was traveling and I didn’t file the serial numbers off (so to speak), but Lisa rightly pointed out that I should edit the text to make that clear. “Nah, why bother?” thought I… several well-wishing comments later (“Good luck!”, “stay safe!” etc…) just shows that my bride is a clever clever girl. Long story short: this trip is over, done, finito. So even though I’m writing in the first person, this took place months ago.]

Alright, so I have trained myself quite a bit, considering I’m a slightly dumpy 50+ year old. Not not selling myself short; there was real effort involved. I have geared myself for every possible weather condition because May in Northern England, it’s just prudent. They get sleet, they get heat, and everything in between. Fun! What I did not do is plan the whole thing myself. Oh no, I contracted with Contours Walking Holidays, a one-stop outfit that maps out your route based on how many days you want to spend on the trail and makes all the arrangements for lodging and transfers for your luggage. All that was left for me to do was the actual walking, and so… I began!

Specifically, I began at Newcastle upon Tyne; even more specifically I started off at a bed and breakfast just off of Long Sands Beach, literally on the east coast of England. Contours takes you seriously if you say you want to walk the whole of the Wall. in point of fact there was actually a section of Wall on either side that went along the coast to protect from naval incursions, but eventually even the Romans decided that was going too far, and so have I. The “main” Wall is more than enough. Me being me, I almost immediately deviated from the proscribed path I was given.

See, the thing about the historical true path of Hadrian’s Wall is that almost 2000 years have past since it was built. Anywhere along the path that humans would have found attractive to settle in, they did. Not only did they settle, they availed themselves of all the lovely, quarried, and pre-cut stones and bricks that the Romans left behind. Point being, there’s no wall to see in Newcastle. My official trail was going to have me traipsing through middle class neighborhoods and high streets to my first destination, and I figured the whole point of this walk was to take in the scenery, so I hugged the coastline to the mouth of the River Tyne and then turned inland. It was still plenty residential and light industrial but at least there was a water view on one side and several parks along the way. Don’t let this sound too adventurous, it only added +/- two hours to the day, which was slated to go 4 or so.

The first official stop along the way is Segedunum Roman Fort, in a place literally called “Wallsend”; that’s even the name on the light rail stop (ahem). There is a UNESCO Heritage site there, with a little museum and a large tract of land with the buildings of the former fort marked out and signed with nice explanations of what was there. I’m a little unclear but I think there’s actual ruins of those buildings under the ground that they’re leaving buried for preservation; in any case, there’s no actual Wall bits to see here. Still, it’s the official beginning of the National Trail so I stopped in, snapped a photo, and bought my souvenir passport. This is a program where you stop at 7 points along the Wall and get your booklet stamped, and if you get all 7 you can turn it in for a commemorative pin thingy. Why am I not showing you the pin or the passport… “Spoilers,” as the Doctor would say.

A word about the pace I took: Contours offered some basic guidelines for beginning, intermediate, expert, and hardcore hikers (or words to that effect). As a complete noob, I chose a beginners pace… actually, I lie. I chose an intermediate pace, but my darling bride pointed out that I was letting my ego get the best of me, and wasn’t it true that I’d never done this before and if I blew out an ankle or something the trip would be a wash? My bride is wise, and I took the beginners pace. That meant that I was going to walk for approximately 15 days. I met people that did it in 3-4; good for them. Anyways, the thing about this pace is that, at the end of the first day, I was literally in the middle of downtown Newcastle. Hardly dripping with ancient history. I had dinner at a Taco Bell for pete’s sake. This would change for the better in short order, but still.

At the beginning of day 2, I realized that I hadn’t actually stamped my souvenir passport, which meant I wouldn’t get my fancy pin at the end. So, I went to the nearest light rail station, rode back to Wallsend, got my passport stamped, and rode back to the station I started at. Yes, I was there to walk, and I can put my hand on any holy object you’d like and swear that I didn’t short cut any of the route. But, I also wasn’t going to add a whole half-day of walking for a clerical error. I got off the train, walked back to the spot on the trail where I left off, and continued on. This day’s walking still only got me to the suburbs/bedroom communities of Newcastle. I started on the river walk, finally crossed a highway on to a trail that looked a lot like the Green River trail (for all my Seattle friends), and ended by crossing back across the river and through an industrial park to reach my inn. This day’s detour for lodging was easily the longest of the trip as far as walking was concerned; Contours actually arranged for taxis/shuttles to take you to your lodging and back to your end-of-day point if they place they arranged for you was too far from the trail. I don’t now what the criteria were for considering a place “too far”, but I have some disagreement on that point.

The village I was staying in, Newburn, was apparently famous for a song that involves a car race in the early 20th century. They are so famous, they seem to believe, that the numerous signs I saw – including a true monument, in brick, with a plaque and everything – never actually explained what they were talking about. I had to look up the song and the story behind it. The Blaydon Races, it turns out, were horse races that were revived in (wait for it) Blaydon, England in the 1860s after a couple decades lapse due to *checks notes* a train track interrupting the original course. Apparently it was a point A-to-B affair, not a gallop around the track. In any case, in 1862 the song “Blaydon Races” was conceived and performed, and it has risen to the level of local anthem: they sing it at rugby, football, and even cricket matches for the local squads. (You can spend about four minutes listening to it, here, if you’d like to scratch an itch.) That constitutes the rowdiest cricket fans I’ve ever heard of, although now that I think about it there have probably been some tense India-Pakistan matches. But I digress… (once again, the spiritual subtitle of this blog.)

So, two days down, and the closest I’ve got to the wall so far was the gift shop at Wallsend. I have to admit, even having seen a map of my trail it wasn’t what I had envisioned when I conceived of this plan. Still, nothing for it but to press on. I took a bus into the village, threw a dart at a local Italian restaurant that turned to be really good, and then settled back in at the B&B for a good night’s sleep.

In a few days (as of this writing) I’ll be leaving my lovely home in Portugal and making my way to the wilds of northern England, not-so-coincidentally along the border of Scotland, to begin a two-week walk along Hadrian’s Wall. I’ll be starting in Newcastle upon Tyne, hugging the eastern coast of England along the North Sea. I basically put my feet in the sand, turn west, and start walking. Thing is, I’ve never done anything like this in my life. I don’t do religious pilgrimages, I don’t even participate in charity 5k run/walks. This in no way fits the “John” profile. So just what the #*@(! am I doing?

Good question.

I don’t know when I first heard of it, but I know I first saw Hadrian’s Wall in early May of 2012. It was a sight-seeing stop in the early days of our honeymoon – we were married about a week at the time – and I just loved everything about it. We went to Houseteads, which is probably the best-preserved bit of the entire Wall at this point, and really enjoyed poking around for awhile. And while we were poking around, we noticed that people were approaching the fort from a direction other than that parking area. In fact, they were coming out of what we thought was the wilderness on the other side of the fort! And this is when we heard about the Hadrian’s Wall Path for the first time.

What that is, is a “National Trail” maintained by Great Britain, one of many such trails maintained by the State for the benefit of everyone. I didn’t know much about it at the time beyond the fact of its existence, but something about the hills and the ambiance and… just the romance of the honeymoon maybe?… anyway I said, out loud to my blushing bride, “I’m going to come back here and walk this when I’m 50.”

WHAT??

See, I turned 40 a little more than a week after the wedding. In other words, I would be turning 40 the day after this visit, and I think the whole sense of time passing, life changing etc… just stirred something in me. At the time, it just made sense; set a goal for my 50th year that would require me to maintain some amount of fitness and discipline, plus it would be an adventure worth an iconic anniversary. That being said, the romance of the notion papered over ideas like “I’ve never been particularly fit,” “I’ve never done the least bit of hiking”, and “I have no clue what this would actually encompass.” “I’ve never even walked a 5k.” PHAW, those would be problems for another day. Besides, anybody who knows me knows that I say stupid/whimsical shit all the time! This was no big deal.

The weird thing was, though, that this stuck. Year after year went by, and I would still occasionally think “I’ll be getting ready for the walk in few years.” “I should probably start losing weight if I’m going to make it across England.” That sort of thing. The montage of calendar pages flew past, and I never quite dropped the idea of it. That said, in my 49th year we decided to up and move to Portugal, so spending any energy on the idea of another big project was just ridiculous. There was also this big trip we planned for shortly after we arrived in Portugal as sort of a reward/incentive to ourselves for COVID got in the way of doing this in my actual 50th year, and there was a false start the year after that, but schedules conspired this year so that Lisa and I would be separated at the end of May anyway, so it seemed like the opportunity to do something on my own had presented itself.

And so, a few months ago, I set my pedometer thingy to 10,000 steps. Then, a week later, I set it to 11,000. And every week after that if I succeeded in hitting the goal at least 5 out of 7 days, I added another thousand. Just before we left for Marrakech my benchmark was 24,000 steps a day, which – according to a combination of napkin-backs and the internet – seems to be the median distance I’ll be walking on my chosen route. I’ve done a reasonable amount of research on how to be prepared and have equipped myself appropriately. In a bittersweet turn, my recently deceased father-in-law gifted me a nice set of walking poles many years back when he heard about my hiking goal; an incredibly thoughtful gift, showing that he was paying attention when we spoke. I’ve used them a little on my practice walks and I expect to get good use out of them very soon.

As I finish writing this blog post I am on a train taking me from Leeds (where my flight from Porto landed) to Newcastle, where the beginning of the Hadrian’s Wall path is. Tomorrow morning I’m setting off, to discover if hiking is my new passion or, just possibly, I hate it. Fingers crossed!

Welcome Pickups is a car-sharing service that focuses on meeting travelers at transportation points (airports, train stations, ferries, etc.) and taking them to their first destination. They proudly claim that all their drivers speak English well and will follow your itinerary and make appropriate adjustments if there is a delay. They also claim to be the same price as a regular taxi only better.

We have used Welcome Pickups with good result several times. In Crete (2019) for a mid-night pickup and ride to our hotel an hour away from the port. In Seville for two rides to and from the train station, then airport to our lodging in the heart of the Triana area.

On this trip things did not go well at all.

We entered the Arrival Hall at 1:25 and stayed there or walked around outside until 1:45. We saw no one with a sign with either my name or Welcome Pickups. I had sent the most updated WhatsApp number before we began traveling so the driver had access to us. Otherwise, we had no access to the driver, partially because the driver I had last seen assigned to us was not the one making the pickup at the actual time. We received no emails, no messages at that contact.

When I was able to access the internet again (at my hotel), I saw the change of driver, and that he was reporting he’d been to the airport and terminated the ride because we were a no show. We also received a message from the driver at 2:20am “I’m here. Where are you?”

When I contacted Welcome Pickups the next day, they used “geolocation data” and said that the driver had been there. Therefore we would receive no refund.

Note that although “Welcome Pickups” sent me an SMS and email, they were to a number I couldn’t access. They were also generic “your driver has arrived!” auto-generated. The driver himself did not send an email or WhatsApp until an HOUR after his arrival. And since the driver had changed from what I’d seen (that day, before traveling) my only contact info was for a person who was not our driver. It was the middle of the night. There were 20+ men standing around, many holding signs for tour companies, hotels, and Riads. Occasionally there was a specific name. Many were unauthorized cars, hustling unwary travelers. This was stressful, all the more so because of the late hour. We walked the gamut several times over the 20+ minutes we waited for our driver to appear.

And my name is distinctive in this part of the world.

Our return trip was booked for a pickup at the riad we were staying in. Knowing that the car would not be able to drive up, we had our (very helpful) riad contact the driver and work out what needed to happen. He chose a taxi stand across from the Koutoubia Mosque and called when he was a few minutes out. Someone from the riad walked us out to the meeting point and then stayed with us, which was great because our driver didn’t arrive for another 10 minutes. Then, after putting our bags in the trunk, grabbed some change and (we guess) ran into a local coffee shop and had a drink. No explanation, just a hurried, “stay here.” Unsettling. I am sure that if we hadn’t had a local staying with us, we would have been lost and unsettled by the long wait on a very busy street.

As we said previously, we’ve used Welcome Pickups with good result several times. Yet, we’ve had last minute changes in drivers several times (once in Seville, and several times in Marrakesh). I suppose this is no problem if the traveler downloads and uses their app, but I prefer not to do so. These last minute changes mean that even when the driver gives you their WhatsApp, you can be left without contact. (And I do mean last minute in that you have a contact before you get on the plane and its different when you deplane a few hours later.) Not are the changes always made on the website. We had a lovely woman driver in Seville, but the website persists in telling us it was Miguel who picked us up . . . and even asked for feedback abut him. I never received a response to my reply that it hadn’t been him who met us, but I would happily review the woman who did. They have not asked us to review our driver in Marrakech.

When they arrive, the drivers are friendly, skilled, and the vehicles are clean and a correct size for our needs. In Crete, we were met (correctly) at the airport where we were told we would be met. In Seville, we were met in the train station where we were told to be and were picked up exactly on time (5am) to go to the airport. Marrakesh airport was a spectacular failure and the pickup was stressful albeit not a failure.

Five encounters:
1 no show
3 name switches
2 went as promised
2 went fine, if confusing

We can’t leave Marrakesh without talking about the food. Morocco stands in the very crossroads of Africa and Europe, a diversity that is reflected in its culture, architecture, and food. Typical Moroccan dishes combine spicy and sweet, sour and salty. Sweet fruits (quince, dates, prunes) are often added to meat dishes along with local spices, seasonings, and aromatic herbs give the traditional dishes its distinctive flavor.

The food in Marrakesh is a delicious, delightful, tagine of influences from Berber, Arabic, Jewish, Andalusian, African, and Maghrebi cultures. Walking through markets you will find a huge array of colorful spices, herbs, street food stalls and aromas, flavoring for its wonderful food.

Most people know Moroccan food for its heavy reliance on delicious spices such as saffron, turmeric, cumin, cayenne pepper, nutmeg, paprika, ginger and fennel just to name a few. There are also striking similarities with the Mediterranean diet in terms of the meats, fish, fruits and vegetables used in cooking. It consistently ranks with French and Italian cuisines around the world.

We ate at Dar Marjana which “combines authentic history, refined gastronomy, and a warm Moroccan atmosphere to offer an immersive and unforgettable culinary experience.” (from their website.) They are what we would call a dinner and entertainment experience — midway through dinner, a pair of Berbers joined us and began to sing, play drum, and a stringed instrument. Later, a pair of belly dancers moved through the tables, doing their thing. We found the music to be the best, as the dancing felt a bit contrived (Lisa wasn’t sure it was authentic, it may have been the LED-lighted “fairy wings” that led to the doubt.)

As was so often the case in Marrakech, the exterior is unassuming, even a bit daunting. Once through the front door, you move through a dark passage to another door. During opening hours the entrance is manned by a guard who respectfully escorts you down the now candlelit passage through the front door into a huge open courtyard with a low fountain, palms, banana trees, and all manner of foliage backlit by subtle lighting.

They serve one of four set menus, and alcohol is available. The largest menu, Marjana, includes several small plates of salads, three mains, and a dessert; it is accompanied by a (non-alcoholic cocktail, water, wine, digestif, and mint tea). The Discovery menu is only two mains, and no digestif. The smallest is the “Light” menu, which had a choice of two starters, one main, and no drinks included. It was the only one that offered Briwates (briouates). The choices for mains included Pigeon Triad (a specialty of the house), Chicken or Vegetable Bastilla, Pickled Lemon Farm Chicken, Lamb/or Veal Tajine with prunes and apricots or Seasonal Vegetables, Makfoul Tajine (specialty of Marrakech), Vegetable Tajine, or Royal Couscous. Desserts were a choice of Almond Pastilla, Orange and Cinnamon Salad, or
Moroccan Pastries (cookies).

It was lovely, tasty, and although we wouldn’t go again on our own, we would gladly join friends to enjoy the experience. To be clear, the food was great, although nothing particularly stands out.

Le Trou au Mur is described as chic, laid-back, and intimate, and that was not at all our experience. Perhaps because we were there at lunch rather than dinner, it was simply a nice meal on an outdoor terrace. It’s menu is far more Mediterranean, than Moroccan, and everything was delicious.

We shared a chicken and spinach filo pastry cigar, a salad made of carrots, cabbage, almonds and beetroot served with a fresh ginger and tomato sauce, and al-dente green beans with garlic, almonds and preserved lemon. It was a delicious lunch with fresh flavors and bright textures, perfectly done.

Most of our other meals were at the hotel, in their Pavillion restaurant (terrace, pool side) and at TFAYA Brasserie. TFAYA was a fascinating experience but not in the “ooo such exotic food in a new and mysterious land!” kind of way (although there was some of that); no, it was more in the “first diners on the first night of a whole new restaurant concept” kind. Apparently they had literally put the finishing touches on a new menu, by their new chef, for their flagship restaurant, and as is typical for Americans (or at least us) dining outside of the US, we were the first reservation of the evening. Because of this, service that was probably solicitous on a normal night was amped up to desperate-for-mom’s-approval level. We were checked in on after every dish by at least our server; several times it was the restaurant manager and at least once it was the chef. It wasn’t every 3 minutes and it never got annoying, but it definitely made for an unusual experience.

There were many small plates, and we didn’t exactly take notes, so to the best of our memory, we had: briouates (shrimp, cheese, and spinach with cheese), crispy prawns with a smoked bell pepper hummus, seafood pastilla with an aioli sauce, lamb shoulder cooked 8 hours Hargma-style with white bean hummus, and Doukkali couscous with lamb and vegetables. Our dessert was “Orange”: madeleine-style cookie, orange jelly (a kind of gummy-like candy dipped in sugar), and carrot cardamom sorbet. We were offered coffee and, when we declined, given a plate of “Moroccan Pastries” (cookies). It was a lot.

Everything was delicious, but the lamb shoulder (which they were very proud of) was very fatty and had an unpleasant mouthfeel as a result. The dessert was very pretty, but too much sweet after such a large meal. So what did they tell them when they asked? Mostly that our meal was amazing, although there were a couple of oddities.

Pavillion’s menu was a riotous blend of Mediterranean, Peruvian (!), and familiar. Stand out dishes included the Confit Lamb Shoulder With Shiitake Chimichurri Sauce And Truffled Cauliflower Steak, Creamy burrata, confit tomatoes, crunchy Greek vegetables, Spider crab meat, charred avocado, yuzu and ginger vinaigrette, Prawn Ha kao, vegetable gyozas. We also enjoyed their Omakase nigiri, which included Tuna with a ponzu salsa, salmon with a anticuchera salsa, and tiger prawns with a abura sauce and their Selection Pavillon, which was lobster with limeño sauce and saffron aioli, wagyu Beef with chimichurri sauce and caviar, and a flambéed sardine with lemon confit dashi mayo. Literally nothing was bad, it all was good or great.

Now seems like a good time to explain what some of these dishes are.

Tagine
When people think of Moroccan cuisine, tagine is usually one of the first dishes they think of. Tagine is a slow cooked stew of meat, with a variety of fresh fruity ingredients such as apples, apricots, pears, raisins, quinces, olives, dates and prunes as well as vegetables. Typical spices include ginger, turmeric, cinnamon, saffron, cumin and paprika, and additional flavors such as honey and nuts are also typically added. The tagine is the clay pot this dish is cooked in.

Briwat (briouat)
Briwat are scrumptiously sweet, stuffed, triangle-shaped pastry turnovers that have been deep-fried. Stuffed with meat and cheese with some simple seasonings (we most often got them in trios of meat, cheese, and vegetables), locals usually dip them in warm honey before eating.

Bastilla (B’stila)
Bastilla is a savory-sweet meat pie with a mix of sweet and salty flavors in a multi-layered phyllo dough. Traditionally, the filling consisted of pigeon meat and cinnamon-toasted almonds, seasoned with various spices such as saffron, cinnamon, and fresh coriander. Today it’s more often chicken.

Couscous
Couscous is a versatile side dish made from semolina and water, a bit like rice but consists of thousands of tiny, steamed balls of wheat. It’s a staple ingredient in much of Northern Africa and is typically served in a stew with vegetables and spices. It can be served as a side dish or a main couscous dish is also quite common.

Pastilla (Pastella)
Pastilla is a meat or seafood pie in Maghrebi cuisine made with warqa dough, which is similar to phyllo. Once baked, the pie is topped with a decorative lattice design made with cinnamon and caster sugar. Warqa sheets are made by daubing a wad of dough against a hot, flat pan called a tobsil, which leaves a paper-thin layer of dried dough on the surface of the pan. The pastilla stuffing, which can be prepared in advance, is arranged in layers. The first layer is made of pieces of shredded poultry meat that have been sautéed with herbs and spices, the second layer is an egg mixture, and the third and final layer consists of ground toasted almonds mixed with caster sugar and ground cinnamon. The individual pastry leaves and the assembled pastilla are brushed with clarified butter, while the powdered sugar and cinnamon top design can be enhanced with the addition of almond paste.