The forecast said mostly good. Our friends had bought us tickets for a pick-your-own-pumpkin day at Brocksbushes Farm, near Corbridge, and we'd arranged to meet them there at noon.
Excellent. A proper autumn Saturday.
We decided to make a day of it. An early start, a little wander around Corbridge and Hexham, perhaps a coffee and a slice of cake, then off to the farm for pumpkins, photographs and all the things you're supposed to do in October.
In my mind, I could already see the little country shops. Tweed jackets, ladies' hats with feathers, checked shirts for people who own several Labradors and something called a gun room.
I don't know where I'd imagined we were going, but apparently it wasn't Corbridge.
A Little Less Country, a Little More Town
Corbridge is a pretty little place. There's no denying that.
Its history goes back almost two thousand years, when the Romans established a fort and later a substantial settlement called Coria, close to the important crossing of the River Tyne. It became a significant supply and trading centre on the northern frontier of Roman Britain.
Centuries later, Corbridge developed into a medieval market town, and much of that history still seems to linger in its narrow streets, handsome stone buildings and the lovely old parish church of St Andrew's, which incorporates stonework from the Roman settlement.
It's the sort of place that deserves a slow wander, preferably with someone who knows a little about its past.
Unfortunately, we'd arrived with a rather different picture in our heads.
We found somewhere for coffee. It was... alright.
We wandered a little, admired the buildings and tried to find that elusive something that makes you turn to each other and say, "Oh, I really like it here."
It didn't happen.
And that's not to say Corbridge isn't worth visiting. Clearly plenty of people love it, and I can understand why. But on this particular Saturday, for us, there was no wow factor.
We left feeling a little underwhelmed.
Never mind. Hexham was just up the road.
Hexham. Eventually.
Hexham is considerably bigger than Corbridge.
And on this Saturday, considerably busier.
We joined a queue of traffic negotiating what seemed like an endless collection of mini-roundabouts, pedestrian crossings and junctions, all apparently designed to deliver you to the next queue of traffic.
Eventually we reached the main shopping streets, where we were greeted by the now familiar collection of charity shops, Turkish barbers, vape shops and betting establishments.
Not quite the country shopping experience we'd imagined.
Parking appeared to operate on a system whereby you drove around indefinitely until somebody, entirely by chance, vacated a space directly in front of you.
I could probably still be there now.
But here's the thing.
From the car, Hexham actually looked rather lovely in places.
We caught glimpses of Hexham Abbey, the attractive market area and what appeared to be a beautiful park. There's a great deal of history here too, with the abbey's origins stretching back to the seventh century.
I'd genuinely like to come back and explore properly. The abbey, the market, the park, and perhaps a walk down towards the River Tyne.
Just not on a busy Saturday lunchtime.
My advice to our future selves would be to arrive before ten, or better still, come midweek.
It took almost as long to leave Hexham as it had to get in.
Lucy and I concluded that there are simply more cars on the roads these days.
Or perhaps we're just getting less patient.
Probably a bit of both.
Pumpkins, Babies and Horizontal Rain
By noon we'd reached Brocksbushes Farm, and things were looking up.
Our friends were there with their little one, ready for baby's first pumpkin-picking adventure.
A lovely family occasion. Proud mum and dad, little autumn outfits, dogs in tow and cameras at the ready.
Now, I should explain something.
I could have selected a perfectly acceptable pumpkin in approximately thirty seconds.
But apparently that's not how pumpkin picking works.
There are colours to consider. Shapes. Textures. Sizes. Whether the stalk is attractive. Whether the pumpkin photographs well beside a baby.
And then there are the outfits.
And that's just the dogs.
So off we went, walking up and down the pumpkin field, discussing the relative merits of various orange vegetables as though we were judging the produce tent at the county show.
It was actually rather nice.
For a while.
Then I looked up.
A huge black cloud had appeared over the fields, and before anyone could say "just one more photograph", the heavens opened.
Not ordinary rain.
Northumberland rain.
The sort that travels sideways and seems personally offended by your presence.
We sheltered behind a wall of hay bales while the pumpkin field rapidly transformed itself into something resembling a ploughed field in February.
At this point, my thoughts turned to the rather splendid-looking café we'd passed on the way in.
Coffee. Cake. Somewhere warm and dry.
Surely that would rescue the afternoon?
Unfortunately, several hundred other people appeared to have had exactly the same idea.
The café was absolutely packed.
No coffee. No cake. No cosy little corner.
Just wet coats, muddy boots and a growing suspicion that the day wasn't going entirely to plan.
Our friends were still happily photographing baby's first Halloween, which was lovely to see, but we decided to leave them to it and arrange a proper catch-up another time.
Besides, it was lunchtime.
And surely lunch couldn't go wrong.
Could it?
The Curious Incident of the Fish at Lunchtime
There's a little rule we have at Heather & Sand.
If we visit somewhere and genuinely enjoy it, we're delighted to tell you about it.
If we don't, we generally keep it to ourselves.
We're not interested in naming and shaming small businesses. Running a café, restaurant or country pub can't be easy, and everyone can have an off day.
But I think I can tell you what happened without telling you where it happened.
We called at a country pub we knew of through past connections.
The welcome was excellent.
Really lovely staff. Friendly, attentive, cheerful. Exactly what you hope for when you walk into somewhere unfamiliar.
We ordered drinks and settled down.
"Could we have the meat pie and mash, please?"
"Sorry, we've sold out."
No problem.
"We'll both have the fish and chips."
Five minutes later, our lovely waitress returned.
"I'm really sorry, but we've run out of peas. Would broccoli be alright?"
Now, at this point, a small alarm bell began ringing somewhere in the back of my head.
But we're British.
And the staff were so nice.
And we'd already ordered drinks.
So we smiled and said broccoli would be absolutely fine.
It wasn't.
Two small plates arrived carrying what I can only describe as children's portions of anaemic battered fish, approximately a dozen chips and a rather lonely sprig of undercooked broccoli.
I looked at Lucy.
Lucy looked at me.
Neither of us said anything.
I cut into my fish.
There was a small whoosh of escaping air as the pale batter collapsed in on itself, revealing what appeared to be a modest quantity of fish hiding somewhere inside.
I began to worry that the landlady's grandchildren might be rather upset when they discovered their goldfish had passed away over the weekend.
"Is everything alright with your meals?"
"Yes, lovely, thank you."
Of course we did.
And I know what you're thinking. We should have said something.
But I've never been particularly keen on sending food back to the kitchen for a bit of surgery. By that point, the moment has gone. I don't want a replacement meal, an argument or an awkward conversation.
I just want to finish and leave.
Which is what we did.
Forty-five pounds lighter.
Back in the car, Lucy and I discussed how difficult it must be for smaller country pubs to attract and retain good chefs, particularly when they don't have the regular footfall of somewhere in a busy town.
Without a strong reputation for food, fewer people come. With fewer customers, it's harder to justify investing in the kitchen. And without that investment, the food struggles to improve.
A difficult circle to break.
I genuinely hope this particular place finds its way out of it.
But we won't be returning.
And it won't be appearing in our Listed section.
A Little Redemption in Belsay
By now, our grand autumn Saturday had delivered two disappointing town visits, a soaking in a pumpkin field and a rather expensive encounter with a very small fish.
I felt I owed Lucy something.
Fortunately, I had one last idea.
The Blacksmiths Coffee Shop at Belsay.
Now this was more like it.
A lovely little place in an old blacksmith's building, with the sort of welcoming atmosphere we'd been looking for all day.
Clean, comfortable, friendly staff and, most importantly, excellent coffee.
And cheesecake.
Really, really good cheesecake.
We sat for a while, enjoying the warmth, the coffee and the simple pleasure of finally finding somewhere that felt just right.
It was busy, as you'd expect on a Saturday, so if you're planning a weekend visit, I'd suggest arriving before 10.30 in the morning or after three in the afternoon.
It's exactly the sort of place we like at Heather & Sand.
Nothing overly complicated. Just somewhere that does the simple things exceptionally well.
Good coffee. Good cake. Nice people.
Sometimes that's all you need.
The Long Way Home
By the time we left Belsay, the rain had gone and the sun was shining again.
The countryside was looking magnificent.
October had begun working its magic on the trees, with greens giving way to gold, copper and rusty reds. The low afternoon sun caught the leaves as we drove through the Northumberland countryside, turning ordinary stretches of road into something rather beautiful.
And we laughed about the day.
The imaginary country shops. The Hexham traffic. The pumpkin discussions. The rain. The fish.
Especially the fish.
It hadn't been the Saturday we'd planned.
But we'd seen our friends, shared in a little one's first Halloween adventure, discovered a couple of places we'd like to revisit under better circumstances, and finished with a truly excellent slice of cheesecake.
Not every day out has to be perfect.
Sometimes the wrong turns, the disappointments and the unexpected little victories make the best stories.
And as we drove home through the autumn sunshine, I decided that perhaps the day hadn't been such a disaster after all.
Although next time, I might just start with the cheesecake.
