There are quicker ways to get to Ingram. But sometimes taking the quicker road rather misses the point.
We crossed the A1 at North Charlton and almost immediately left the traffic behind, following a narrow farm road towards Middlemoor Wind Farm.
We'd deliberately chosen this route.
Those turbines have become strangely familiar to us. We see them from beaches, hilltops and roads all over this part of Northumberland — sometimes tiny white shapes on a distant horizon, sometimes appearing unexpectedly between the hills.
Apparently there are twenty eight of them, each around 125 metres tall.
Standing underneath them, I'd have sworn there were more.
I'm never entirely sure how I feel about wind turbines in a landscape like this. There's an argument that they spoil it, and another that they've simply become part of the modern countryside.
Perhaps we've just become accustomed to these particular ones.
Either way, seeing something you've spotted from miles away suddenly towering above you is quite an experience. They're enormous up close, yet strangely quiet and graceful from a distance.
And then we carried on towards the hills.
Heather... and almost Sand
The road climbed across the moor beneath a blue sky scattered with those little white clouds that make a landscape photograph look almost suspiciously perfect.
Up here you could see for miles.
There was heather around us and, away in the distance, the Northumberland coast was clearly visible.
Heather and almost Sand.
We decided that counted.
Sheep seemed to be everywhere.
Some watched us suspiciously from the roadside. Others appeared completely uninterested in moving, regardless of whether a camper van happened to be approaching.
Meg, meanwhile, had her head out of the window for most of the journey.
Five years of beaches, cafés and comfortable camper-van travel temporarily forgotten.
She was a sheepdog again.
At least in her own mind.
An early morning at Ingram
Dropping down from the moor brought us into Ingram Valley while the morning was still wonderfully quiet.
That was exactly why we'd come early.
In summer the valley can become very popular, particularly at weekends. Arrive before most people have finished breakfast, though, and it can feel like you've borrowed the place for a few hours.
On this morning, apart from the sheep, we pretty much had.
We parked at Bulby's Wood, where there's a small free car park, impressively clean public toilets with baby-changing facilities, and a grassy area beside the river that would make a lovely picnic spot.
From here you can tackle the Hillfort Trail, which climbs above the valley and rewards the effort with some wonderful views across Northumberland.
Not today.
Today we fancied something gentler.
We simply followed the valley road beside the River Breamish, occasionally leaving the tarmac where we could and wandering along with nowhere particularly urgent to be.
Only one car passed us during the walk.
Birdsong, running water and sheep provided most of the soundtrack.
Meg eventually found somewhere to cool her paws in the Breamish, which she considered an excellent improvement to proceedings.
There is one small seasonal consideration if you're bringing a dog here.
During warm spells in July and August there can be a lot of flies around the livestock. Meg absolutely hates them, so we're always mindful of the weather and time of year when we visit.
This morning, thankfully, the sheep were awake...
The flies weren't.
Perfect.
The house we nearly bought
Eventually breakfast began calling and we headed back through Ingram village.
And that's when we saw the sign.
For Sale.
Now, there are two sorts of people in this world.
Those who can drive past a beautiful old house with a For Sale sign outside without giving it another thought...
...and us.
The property was The Old Rectory.
Naturally, within minutes we'd found the particulars online.
Eight bedrooms. Cottages. Gardens. A wonderful old country house tucked away in Ingram Valley.
For the next part of the journey we had, without actually purchasing it or possessing the necessary funds, pretty much moved in.
We discussed rooms.
We discussed what we'd do with the cottages.
We discussed what life in the valley might be like.
It was all going extremely well.
There was just one problem.
Eventually one of us pointed out that we'd probably miss the sea.
And that was that.
Lovely as the heather is... we're happiest nearer the sand.
Breakfast at The Running Fox
Our imaginary property empire abandoned, we continued to Powburn and The Running Fox.
We've visited before for lunch and afternoon tea, but this was our first breakfast.
And goodness me.
It opens at 10am and we'd arrived early enough to have the place almost to ourselves.
From outside, and even when you first enter, it feels like an old-fashioned country pub. Keep going through the bar, though, and you reach a lovely dining area tucked away behind it.
We found a quiet table off to one side where Meg could settle beside us — dogs are welcome — ordered breakfast and immediately decided there was absolutely no reason to hurry anywhere.
Then the food arrived.
Two full English breakfasts made with locally sourced ingredients, everything beautifully cooked, accompanied by thick home-baked bread and a generous dish of butter.
Proper butter, too.
Not one of those tiny foil packets that requires the patience of a safecracker to open.
Tea. Coffee. A cold drink.
And time.
Nobody hovering. Nobody making you feel that the table was required back in 73 minutes.
Just friendly staff, lovely surroundings and a really, really good breakfast.
We eat quite a few breakfasts on our travels — purely for research purposes, obviously — and this was easily among the best we've had.
Our bill came to around £45 for two breakfasts, two hot drinks and a cold drink.
Not the cheapest breakfast we've had, but given the quality, portions and surroundings, we'd happily go back.
And we will.
A couple of things we'd know before going
The Running Fox can get busy, particularly later in the day, so we'd recommend booking if you're making a special journey.
You can book online, although we've previously found the website showing no availability when a quick telephone call revealed that tables were actually available. It's worth ringing if the online booking system says they're full.
There's good parking outside and dogs are welcome.
The only slightly disappointing part is the men's toilets, which are shared with the adjoining pub. Compared with the warm, comfortable dining room they're rather cold and basic.
A small gripe.
Certainly not enough to stand between me and another slice of that homemade bread.
Back towards the sand
Eventually we had to leave.
We climbed back into the camper and pointed ourselves east again, towards the coast.
But there was still one stop to make.
Preston Tower lay almost perfectly on our route home.
After a morning among wind turbines, moorland, sheep, river valleys and an imaginary eight-bedroom rectory, it seemed only right to finish beside a stone tower that's been watching over this corner of Northumberland for centuries.
But that's another story.
Some days out are carefully planned around a destination.
Others seem to collect little moments as they go.
A road we'd never driven.
Wind turbines we'd seen a hundred times but never stood beneath.
Meg remembering she was a sheepdog.
An empty valley.
Cold paws in the Breamish.
A house we owned for approximately twenty minutes.
And one of the best breakfasts we've had in Northumberland.
We started the morning looking for the heather.
By lunchtime, naturally, we were heading back towards the sand.
