Stiles and Gates Along Hadrian's Wall

Tyana and I at the Wall

On my 84-mile walk across England stiles and gates are the dots that connect individual properties to each other and the real world to all the twists and turns in my guidebook. Before setting out on a path I follow it with my eyes, searching for a possible exit then I read the next few sentences which go something like this: “”A ladder stile to the left of the Errington Arms leads back into the fields and the walk heads off to follow the prominent earthworks of theVallum. The next stile takes you to the far side of the fence, away from the Vallum. This is a pleasant walk through the fields, which leads to a conifer plantation. Go through the gate and turn right, then left on the path running beside the wall next to the road.”

Sometimes I scribble a comment into the sidelines, or I nod; occasionally I laugh, straighten my back and express a soulful YES to the landscape around me. When I am confused, I put my finger on the line in question and try to follow the rights and lefts in my mind before I look again into the unknown territory ahead of me. When all else fails to convince me that I am going in the right direction, I give the teddy bear on my back a pat and tell him that we are not lost.

Before I read ‘Hadrian’s Wall Path’ I didn’t know that stiles are just steps or stairs. I had never heard of kissing gates. It was explained to me that they are gates swinging back and forth between two fence posts. This prevents them from flying wide open. A narrow triangular space allows the walker to squeeze between the posts while shifting the gate from one side to the other. Occasionally the squeeze space is invaded by stinging nettles and it takes rather inelegant twists and turns to dodge the infiltrators.

Most gates are well taken care of. I only see one in need of attention, a metal gate tied temporarily to a metal fence with rope, rusted and leaning in a not so straight line against a wooden fence post. Once I encounter a metal gate that stays closed by pulling a weight, attached to a chain, toward the ground. It isn’t until past Carlisle – way west – that I see my first metal kissing gate and I am thrilled to add its photograph to my collection.

While gates offer rather easy access to the beyond, stiles vary from field to field. The easiest ones are made of stone flags, leading to a hole in the wall. The majority of stiles resemble ladders that take me four or five steps into the air where I hesitate for an instance, shifting the weight of my backpack and occasionally I turn around, facing the ladder on my descend into the next field.

It is easy to see from one pasture to the next when only barbed wire separates them but when they were divided by dry stone walls I never know what to expect, especially when roughly hewn steps in the dirt lead to a tall stile. Sometimes all I can see is the sky. To my surprise one of my pictures shows a parked car very close to my picnic spot in the wind-sheltered corner of a five- step stile. I had no idea that I was so close to other humans at the time.

Another time it isn’t an unexpected human presence; it is a sheep that surprises me. It must be deaf or maybe she – assuming it is a she – ponders her own barrenness while being absorbed in the lively bleating all around her. She has settled next to a kissing gate and doesn’t move until I emerge right by her side.

Two gates boast stern warnings for the timid walker or maybe they are only meant for the ignorant. The first time I see the sign “Warning. Bull in Field,” I avoid the treacherous playing field of the non-castrated enemy. It is easy because I am next to a frequently traveled road. But the second time I have no choice but to cross into dangerous territory. What do bulls do when they see an old lady with a teddy bear on her back? How do I spot a bull? The difference between a steer and a bull? What to do if the bull attacks me? I have no idea. Nobody told me about the possibility of being confronted with one. And indeed, nobody expects to see one, as I am later told. The sign was probably posted by a disgruntled farmer whose patience with stampedes of walkers has grown thin. It is a fact that bulls are not allowed in any field, which includes a public path. It is also a fact that some walkers stray from the public path and hike diagonally through the field if the path is not the shortest line between two gates.

All gates and stiles are properly marked with the white on black acorn of the National Trail. Hadrian’s Wall Path is the thirteenth in the family of England’s national trails and its completion in 2003 allows walkers to follow for the first time since the fifth century the historic line of the Wall on a specified path. Every few miles I meet travelers: families, friends, couples, lone men – men in shorts – men of all ages marching in the shadow of history.

Every stile, every gate gives me a new perspective. A castle in front of me, a golf course I have to cross, a herd of raggedy cows that won’t move over, a mother sheep protecting her lambs. Once I am surprised by a mountain biker who peddles uphill. Another time a man in his seventies crosses my path – he is walking west to east – somewhere behind him his friend and doctor has hurt his ankle and spends the day recuperating in a hotel room. It doesn’t take long for me to learn the etiquette of the road. Most of us nod, smile, take inventory of the other’s well-being and then we pass. Occasionally, in the openness of a meadow, we ask each other about our home bases or we comment on the weather, spend a few minutes with pleasantries. Those who pass me, walking in the same direction, comment on my teddy bear companion. We laugh.

Once I enter the garden of an elderly woman and admire her poppies. I tell her I grew up in Germany, surrounded by poppy and rape fields. She asks if I have enough water for my journey to the next town. As I climb across the stile that leads out of her backyard I encounter a couple sitting in the sun against the stonewall; they are eating their bag lunch. The man says the words I hear most these days, “Walking the walk?”

“Yes,” I answer, “nice day isn’t it?” Then I pull the guidebook from my coat pocket and mark the map with a star. The private garden is something I want to write about in my journal tonight.