The River Till isn’t well served by footpaths for much of its length, but this changes north of Etal. The path here leads by the river, past a ford over which the wide Till rushes. It is about freezing point, under an overcast sky with a strong northerly wind that chills when you are exposed to it, making it essential to keep moving to keep warm. Here is a wooden seat carved, elven-like, with leaves and scrolls, beside an information board with animal drawings by children at Ford First School. Nearby silver birches have outgrown their sapling status and burst out of their protective cardboard tubes, whilst piles of tree trunks lie smothered in bright green moss, between old, gnarled and scarred survivors. A heron soars skyward. Duddomill Burn enters from the right, its banks spattered with startlingly white snowdrops.

The path climbs, depositing you on the plateau, where the wind strikes you full in the face and, initially, whips your breath away and vacuum cleans your sinuses. Then the broad cinder track gives way to a modest path over grass and mud, which has frozen to a stony hardness. Snow begins to fall, quickening and thickening, dissolving the sun into a blurred, misty glow, and cloaking the hills, transforming them into muted silhouettes. The wind strengthens and drives the snow horizontally. The undergrowth on the left is thick and dark and seems rather inviting, providing potential respite from the icy blast, but you’d need to be hobbit-sized to wriggle into it.

Descending the river, you follow a flat terrace, where The Till sweeps grandly to the right, beneath a bank almost a hundred feet high. Past Black Bank the snow ceases and, rounding another right hand bend, Tiptoe comes into view, perched above its Wood. Two swans pass gracefully by, and a pair of deer with bright white buttocks bound up the far bank and disappear over the ridge. Soon the sky clears, revealing a deep blueness and illuminating the land. The sun shines almost blindingly on the river’s surface. Walking back, more snow falls, first in flurries like exhalations that gently caress your skin with a soft coolness, then more briskly. The icy surfaces of puddles pop as they are punctured by your walking stick.