Some weekends are lovely while you're there. Others stay with you long after you've come home.
Our weekend in Blanchland was one of those.
Back in April, Tom surprised me with a birthday trip to The Lord Crewe Arms, a beautiful old country inn tucked away in the Northumberland countryside, almost on the border with County Durham.
Not to be confused with Bamburgh, by the way. We've heard stories of people arriving in Bamburgh announcing they've booked into The Lord Crewe, only to discover their hotel is rather inconveniently located at the opposite end of Northumberland.
An expensive little misunderstanding if you've already ordered a taxi.
This was one of our favourite weekends of the year, but because it happened before we started Heather & Sand, we never wrote about it.
So, six months later, here's how I remember it.
A Friday Afternoon in April
I knew Tom had arranged something for my birthday. What I didn't know was where we were going.
Mum had agreed to look after Flynn for the weekend, but Meg was coming with us.
Usually a fairly reliable indication that walking boots would be required.
We set off on Friday afternoon towards the end of April. It was 19 degrees as we drove through Corbridge, and people were already sitting outside The Angel Inn enjoying drinks in the sunshine.
You know those first really warm days of spring when everyone suddenly remembers how wonderful it is to be outside?
It was one of those.
And I was already excited.
As we left Corbridge behind, the roads became quieter and the countryside opened up around us.
There was something rather special about the light that afternoon.
I'm not sure I can explain it properly, but perhaps you'll know what I mean. Every so often, maybe just a handful of times each year, the light has a particular softness and clarity. Everything looks beautiful without really trying.
The fields, the stone walls, the trees just coming into leaf.
It was that kind of afternoon.
We were somewhere between Northumberland and County Durham, following increasingly narrow country roads, when suddenly we descended into another century.
A Village That Time Forgot
I don't think I've ever arrived anywhere quite like Blanchland.
One moment we were driving through open countryside, and the next we were in this tiny, impossibly beautiful village of old stone cottages, narrow lanes and a magnificent church.
And there, almost part of the church itself, stood The Lord Crewe Arms.
It honestly felt as though we'd travelled back 200 years.
As it turns out, we could have gone back rather further.
Blanchland began life as a medieval religious settlement in 1165, when an abbey was established here for an order of monks known as the White Canons. Their distinctive white robes are believed to have given the village its name.
The Lord Crewe Arms itself incorporates parts of the old abbey buildings, including the abbot's lodgings and guest accommodation.
After the dissolution of the monasteries, the buildings became a manor house, and later an inn. In the early eighteenth century the estate was acquired by Nathaniel Crewe, the Bishop of Durham, whose name the hotel still carries.
Much of the village you see today was rebuilt during the eighteenth century, using stone from the original abbey.
Which explains why everything seems to belong together so perfectly.
It's not a village trying to look historic.
It simply is.
And standing there in the late afternoon sunshine, looking at the church and those wonderful old buildings, I was already rather impressed with my husband.
A Room for Three
We checked in and were shown to our room.
Gorgeous.
Comfortable, beautifully furnished and entirely in keeping with the character of the building. Old-world charm without any of the old-world inconveniences.
But what really won me over was what they'd done for Meg.
A proper dog bed, treats, water bowls and even a towel.
It's a little thing, perhaps, but it makes such a difference when somewhere genuinely welcomes your dog rather than simply tolerating one.
Meg settled in immediately.
Clearly she approved of Tom's birthday arrangements too.
We unpacked quickly because neither of us wanted to waste what remained of that extraordinary afternoon.
Drinks by the Fire
We collected drinks from the bar and headed outside to the terrace.
And this might just have been my favourite part of the entire weekend.
The evening was still beautiful, but the temperature was beginning to fall as the sun disappeared behind the surrounding buildings.
Dotted around the terrace were five or six enormous fire pits, each throwing out enough warmth to keep everyone comfortable as the evening cooled.
There was that lovely mixture of fresh country air, woodsmoke and the gentle chatter of people enjoying themselves.
We found ourselves a spot, settled back with our drinks and watched the last of the daylight disappear.
No rushing home.
No wondering whether Flynn needed changing.
No plans beyond dinner.
Just the three of us, a glass in hand, and a little Northumberland village that seemed to have forgotten what century it was.
Absolutely magical.
Dinner in the Old Abbey
We made a little more effort than usual for dinner.
Our normal coastal outings tend to involve burgers, fish and chips, or whatever looks good after a long walk.
This was something rather different.
I wore something nice, and Tom appeared in a shirt and jacket.
Still wearing his hiking boots, obviously.
There are limits to what a woman can achieve.
The restaurant occupies two different areas of the old building. We ate downstairs, where dogs are welcome, surrounded by ancient stone walls and a magnificent fireplace.
It felt like dining in a castle.
Warm, atmospheric and just a little bit romantic.
I wish I'd made a note of exactly what we ordered, but I remember my main course involved beautifully cooked chicken, a wonderful sauce and some tiny wild mushrooms.
What I remember most clearly is how good it was.
Not fussy or overly complicated. Just delicious, satisfying food, prepared with obvious care.
We were enjoying our wine and a little romantic conversation when the puddings arrived.
Now, Tom and I both have something of a sweet tooth, so we'd agreed to order two different desserts and share them.
A very sensible arrangement, I think.
First came the Bakewell tart.
Not just any Bakewell tart.
Possibly the best Bakewell tart I've ever eaten.
Served with ice cream, it was one of those desserts where you take the first mouthful, look at each other, and immediately know you've made the right decision.
Then came Tom's choice.
Some sort of rhubarb fool creation.
He admitted afterwards that it wasn't quite what he'd imagined when ordering it.
But it was absolutely divine.
We seriously considered ordering another round of puddings.
Instead, we ordered another bottle of wine and settled in for the evening.
The conversation became increasingly romantic.
Tom might get lucky tonight.
A Frosty Morning in Blanchland
I slept like an angel.
The bed was wonderfully comfortable, the room peaceful, and I don't remember hearing a thing all night.
Tom, naturally, was up at some ridiculous hour.
He'd spotted the possibility of morning mist and disappeared with his camera while I enjoyed a rather more civilised start to the day.
It had been a clear, cold night, and despite the previous afternoon's warmth, there was frost on the ground.
By the time I was ready, the morning sunshine was beginning to work its magic.
We took Meg for a walk along the river.
The River Derwent marks the boundary between Northumberland and County Durham here, so as we wandered along the bank, the countryside on the other side was, rather wonderfully, another county.
The morning was beautiful.
Mist rising gently from the water, sunshine catching the tops of the trees, and rabbits everywhere.
Meg was fascinated.
There was something almost dreamlike about it all.
The village was still quiet, the air was fresh and cold, and the whole countryside seemed to be waking up around us.
I remember thinking that I could have stayed there all morning.
And perhaps that's what I loved most about Blanchland.
Nothing was asking us to hurry.
Breakfast with the Bishops
Eventually, breakfast called.
And after the previous evening's dinner, expectations were rather high.
We weren't disappointed.
Beautifully cooked food, fresh local ingredients, endless coffee, tea and toast, and even a little sausage for Meg.
She was having quite the weekend.
The young man looking after us was absolutely delightful. One of those lovely, wholesome country types who looked as though he'd be equally comfortable serving breakfast or rounding up sheep.
Very handsome too.
Better stay on your toes, Tom.
We also took turns going upstairs to explore the beautiful dining room, leaving the other downstairs with Meg.
The room was catching the morning sunshine perfectly, illuminating the old stonework and giving everything a wonderful golden glow.
I couldn't help thinking about all the people who must have sat in these rooms over the centuries.
Abbots, bishops, travellers, perhaps even the occasional king.
I imagined the bishops sitting over breakfast, discussing the affairs of the day and perhaps having a quiet word with the man upstairs.
I suspect their breakfasts were rather less impressive than ours.
Although possibly served with considerably more ceremony.
One Last Walk
After breakfast, we reluctantly returned to our room to pack.
Neither of us was particularly keen to leave.
We managed another little walk through the village, past the tiny stone cottages and the beautiful old church, before finding somewhere for one last coffee.
By now the morning had warmed up, and Blanchland looked every bit as lovely as it had when we'd arrived.
I think that's quite unusual.
Some places make a wonderful first impression but lose a little of their magic once you've had time to explore.
Blanchland seemed to become more beautiful the longer we stayed.
Eventually, we climbed back into the car and headed off towards Hadrian's Wall for another walk.
Only part of the Wall, obviously.
Even Tom has his limits.
Some Weekends Stay With You
We've enjoyed some wonderful days out this year, but our little birthday escape to Blanchland remains one of my favourites.
Perhaps it was the weather.
That extraordinary golden Friday evening, followed by a frosty morning filled with mist and sunshine.
Perhaps it was the hotel.
The beautiful room, the warm welcome, those enormous fire pits, and food that we're still talking about six months later.
Or perhaps it was simply the pleasure of having a little time to ourselves.
No schedules, no responsibilities for a couple of days, and nowhere we particularly needed to be.
Just a beautiful old village, our dog, some wonderful food, and the person I most wanted to share it all with.
I suppose that's what makes a weekend special.
Not necessarily what you do, but how you feel while you're doing it.
And I felt rather wonderful.
Well done, Tom.
Love, Lucy x