A SMALL PIECE OF MAGIC.
By Anthony Toole.
River Breamish
In the nearest field, rabbits nibbled the grass, nervously, ready to flee in bob-tailed panic at the first hint of danger. A cock pheasant perched on a gate. More pheasants strutted in the next field, while in the distance, curlews called across the hillside.
A large bird rose from somewhere beyond the pheasants. At first, I thought it was a heron, but as it flew closer, in a wide arc, it came low over the trees, and lower still as it cleared the forest edge. It transformed first into a bird-of-prey, then more specifically into a red kite. We continued watching it for several minutes. Sometimes it swooped nearly to the ground, and rose again to resume its unhurried circling. Then it moved off languidly toward the valley head, and we lost it.
I do not know where the kite came from, nor if it is still there. But its appearance was just one of those touches of magic I have come to expect in a valley that itself is a small piece of magic.
From a boggy point high on the Cheviot, little over a mile from the Scottish border, the River Breamish flows east, picking up tributaries on the way, draining water from the spongy peat of the hills. After about a dozen miles, it swings north, joining with other water courses to become the River Till, then the Tweed, finally reaching the sea at Berwick.
For the few miles from the watershed to the village of Ingram, the river passes through a valley of contrasts. Within the limits of its drainage, lie some of the most beautiful miniatures in Northumbria. Its small area captures something of the reality of the county, so that even the casual visitor leaves it with a feeling that he has shared its intimacy.
The hillsides appear devoid of human influence, yet are everywhere shaped by human activity. The valley has many visitors, but it seems to lose them around its corners. The river flows for one minute through a narrow gorge, then in the next it meanders across a broad alluvial flat.
Despite the mountain setting, the sea is not far away, and can be seen from only a short distance up the valley sides. Gulls fly in from the coast to share the fields with the pheasants and oystercatchers stilt along the river banks.
And the names that dot the valley reflect the lyricism of its beauty: Hedgehope Hill, Linhope Spout, Cushat Law, Bloodybush Edge.
In winter, when a cold, cutting wind blows across the moors, the hills can be bleak indeed. Yet in the warm, brown wind of summer, one can walk in shirtsleeves over the highest hills in Northumbria.
On a sunny June day, I drove up the valley to Hartside, which is as far as one can bring a car. I walked along a broad track downhill for half-a- mile, then across a wooden bridge over the river. The track led past some farm buildings and around the contours of Shill Moor. After a further mile, I abandoned it for the open hillside and continued to the summit. This was neither a long nor an arduous walk, yet the hill gave an impression of height and isolation.
Hedgehope
Hill from Shill Moor 
The trig point nestled beside a cairn amid a rubble of boulders that may once have been a windbreak. To the north, across the valley, stood Hedgehope Hill, second in altitude only to Cheviot. Southwards, the slopes fell away into the head of another valley. To the west, the two valleys were linked by a low, very boggy saddle.
I descended to the saddle, picked my way through the swamp, then continued up Cushat Law. This was higher than Shill Moor, and its ascent involved a long drag up a uniform grassy slope. The climb itself was uninteresting, but it led to a summit view that encompassed almost all of Northumbria, eastward to the coastal plains, then swinging south and over the Pennines, carrying on to the border and into Scotland.
To the west, clouds were beginning to pile up and take on an ominous shade of grey. I raced down to the edge of a conifer forest, then eastward to Hogdon Law, but was unable to outrun the storm. The first light drops hit me as I reached the top. In the distance, I could just pick out the car, still glinting in the sunshine. Then the heavy rain came, accompanied by thunder, that bounced around the summits I had crossed.
Cheviot from Hogdon Law
The rain continued to fall until I reached the valley floor. Then it cleared, and by the time I returned to the car, the whole scene had been handed back to the early evening sunshine.
Later in the year, I returned to the valley. This time it was November and mid-afternoon. I left the road near Hartside, but now headed north up the slopes of Dunmoor Hill. Again, the day was sunny, but the temperature was low and made to feel lower by a brisk wind that blew over the soggy turf and crackle-dry bracken.
I passed a few stone-built sheep pens and a quarry-like depression. Higher, a sheep stood on a rocky shoulder like an ibex on an Alpine ridge. The vapour trail of a plane scratched the cloudless sky, while simultaneously, a low-flying jet shrieked down the valley.
As I reached the top and looked up toward Hedgehope, the wind increased its strength. The sun began to dip low, catching Cushat Law and the hills of my June visit in profile. The sharp, slanting, early-evening light cast deep shadows across the hillside, enhancing the browns of autumn.
I turned into the wind and dropped down toward the shadows. After about twenty minutes, I came to the waterfall of Linhope Spout. The deep pool into which the water crashes is irresistible in summer, and gives a most refreshing swim after a day on the hills. This day, however, I just paused to admire it for a few moments, then continued back to the road.
Dusk had almost fallen when I reached the car. While I was removing my boots, one final piece of magic came to round off the day. This time it was a barn owl, that flew along the roadside like a silent, white ghost, glided over the car, then across the field, to disappear behind the trees.