We were invited to Northumberland, a place of hills and hare fields. Poppies bled crimson into the big cloud sky when we walked to the sea at the edges of hedges.

LindisfarneWe joined St. Cuthberts Way at the Cheviots and followed it over cotton grass moors in a muffled kind of warmth, though by evening the sky was clear and the sun syrup gold. By evening we were long past Wooler, in empty lanes that felt like Silent Spring never happened. Hares raced through fields, lapwings squeaked overhead like dog toy-bones and yellowhammers danced on the track. We ate pies by a gate and watched a roe deer swim through green wheat, her head just visible; she paused, looked around, she moved on unhurried and graceful.

We camped on bracken from where I saw an orange smoke dawn over Lindisfarne which we reached next day barefoot, wading through warm sea and following the wooden posts buried in the sand to guide walkers.

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