Over the Wire Without the Aid of a Motorcycle

Day 17

I went to bed early, far too early to be able to sleep, it wasn’t as though I’d had a hard day to tire me out. There was also the racket of people trying to be quiet outside my door with dogs prowling around until quite late. On several occasions I’d be nicely dropping off to be started awake by a loud woof followed by an even louder shhh. I determined to make as much noise as I could in the morning to get my own back so at 5.45 I crept down the stairs as quiet as a mouse, the floorboards squeaking at me sarcastically, for the pre-prepared breakfast that had been left for me. As well as cereal this turned out to be three thin- sliced slices of pasty white bread in cling film with the miniature packs of butter and the cartons with enough jam in them to put on one side of a knife. I suppose this at least was better than that Danish bread which is more air than bread but a few thick wedges of wholemeal or multi-grained would have been more suited to my energy needs

Sat there in the quiet dim light from the standard lamp sipping my tea and nibbling my bread I felt quite daunted by the prospect of the day ahead. I’d walked over 20 miles often enough before but never as far as 26 and over something like the rollercoaster Cheviots. I use the term rollercoaster because even though, tracing the route on the map, there are not many tightly bunched contours there are a lot of named peaks on the way. There was also the point that once I got on them I wouldn’t be able to get off until the end. This was the real difference to other long days, there’s usually an alternative place to get to if you change your mind but with Uswayford closed there was nowhere else to go. The reports I’d read on how tough it was going to be didn’t help any either. Ignorance would have been bliss. Susceptible to all the propaganda, although logically I knew I would do it, there wasn’t an alternative anyway, it’s just that I had a horrible feeling I somehow wouldn’t be able to manage it.

Switching off the light I squeaked back up the stairs to my room. I filled everything I could with water as apparently there’s no stream, spring, brook, gill, beck, burn or even wadi to replenish from; then packed my gear. This exercise had become something of a futile ritual every morning. I would always make a real effort to remember every item I stuffed into my rucksack so I wouldn’t have the usual problem at the ohbuggeriveforgottentopack point. This is just before the Imusthaveleftthebloodythingintheroom mark which always comes well before the bollockstoitillbuyanotherone line which is situated between two and five miles from where I’ve been staying, depending on the value of the item I haven’t forgotten. Next would come half a mile of,

‘Of course I must have packed it.’

‘Well you’d better check.’

‘I don’t need to check.’

‘Well it’s up to you but you’re getting further away all the time if you do have to go back.’

I would give in at last and take the pack off. Even feeling around at the bottom didn’t do any good, the only way to find whatever it was was to take half the contents out the bag first.

After an optimistic smear of sun cream on my face I was out the door at six thirty. I mean by that I was out of the door to my room, it took me a bit longer to escape from the hotel.

The entrance and exit to the hotel was at the back through two doors separated by a short corridor. The inside door with a yale latch and the outside with a mortise. Passing through the first door it clicked shut behind me. I turned the key in the second then the handle but nothing budged. After a few seconds I saw a bolt I hadn’t noticed but after undoing that the door still wouldn’t open. Puzzled, I went to go back into the hotel but of course that door was locked. Wonderful! I thought to myself. I had visions of being trapped in the corridor for hours with bloodied hands from banging on the door while those inside were snoring happily through their Sunday morning lie in. The dogs were probably all dead to the world now as well, after being up most of the night keeping me awake. I couldn’t even phone the hotel to wake anyone as the number was among the superfluous bits and pieces I’d cleaned out of my bag the previous evening. I went back to trying to work out the riddle of the outer door and after several minutes messing about discovered a strange little catch under the handle which allowed me to open the door. I wasn’t so much relieved to get out as pissed off with the owner for another thing he hadn’t thought important enough to tell me about.

The MODs attempt at humour, to send you off with a smile

The road outside was much busier than I expected at that time on a Sunday morning but the path soon leaves it so you can start the day with another sweaty hill. I’d set off wearing my fleece but that was off and in the bag after three steps up the hill. Not once on the way up did I get the feeling I’d left something behind, I stopped half way because I remembered I hadn’t taken my aspirin. I have developed an erratic heart beat fairly recently, it now has a rhythm more in the manner of free form jazz than easy listening. Cool you might say, but it means I need to take a blood thinner to reduce the risk of a stroke. This means either the rat poison warfarin or aspirin. My wife said I shouldn’t risk the warfarin. Anyway, it was off with the rucksack again for a rummage for the medicine bag. You’ll never guess where it was.

After a bit of a scramble just before the top I was up. After over half an hour I was 500 yards from the hotel, for a crow. At least now I could get a bit of a move on. So, after stopping for a snack, taking a few photos, looking at the view through my binoculars, checking for signs of rain, studying the map, cleaning my glasses and scratching my arse, I was on my way.

The going was good to firm and I made reasonable progress. It just felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere. I was beginning to suspect I was in another of those zones where Ordnance Survey have made the scale meaningless, it certainly seemed to take an age to reach the Roman camp site at Chew Green. An odd place to come for your holidays I thought. I took the advice I’d read in Justin Turner’s Pennine Way account and took the path upwards on the left which isn’t on the map. I used the excuse that you get a much better idea of these archaeological remains from height and at a distance than close up.

The path I was on went round Brownhart Law above where I ought to have been on Dere Street. Looking up towards the crest, about a hundred yards away, were a couple of hairy, horned monsters wandering through the grass. I’d read of the Cheviot goats but I’d completely forgotten about them and it took a couple of minutes before it clicked what they were. By the time I’d got my camera out they’d wandered off and though there were two more down the hill none of them wanted to pose properly.

The first refuge hut (towards the right hand side)

It was soon after this that I saw a sign which read 2½ miles to Lamb hill. I thought at last a marker to gauge my speed by, but this wasn’t a good idea. My average cruising speed on a long walk is 2 miles an hour but I felt I was moving quicker than that and expected to do the distance in an hour. When it took me an hour and a half I tried to convince myself that the sign was wrong. Of course I’d used up some time popping into the refuge hut to have a look but not long. I didn’t like the huts at all. I’m sure they’re a life saver and a handy place to eat your sandwiches in the wet but they are simply large sheds and I found them claustrophobic, which may have been caused by the contrast to the outside. You can’t really get much more outside than the Cheviots. Large rough looking rolling bumps in an exposed, featureless terrain with no sign of habitation, barn or stone wall to give it the post card prettiness of the Dales. If I hadn’t had to walk so far over them I’m sure I would have quite liked them.

Ken, the forecaster, had said the previous evening that the rain wasn’t due in the Borders until afternoon, indeed, the map behind him had been timed at 15.00 when it turned from the dark brown of cloud to the blue of rain. However the first warning spots fell just after Lamb hill at 11 o’ clock and the rain proper an hour later, on the way up Windy Gyle. I wasn’t too far away from being in the one in a million club of those Pennine Way walkers who’ve gone the whole length without being rained on but I got to properly use my new waterproof at last.

For hours of the walk I didn't need to look at the map and didn't know where I was. The nearest I can get is between Lamb Hill and Windy Gyle

At the top of Windy Gyle, in thick cloud I found an assortment of stiles to choose from. The map indicates that the path is on the other side of the fence so I climbed over one of them and hoped I was heading for the trig point. There was hardly any path all of a sudden and I couldn’t see five yards in any direction so felt a bit daunted again but the trig point soon appeared and I was able to let out the breath I was holding. There was only one path down the other side so I didn’t have a wrong one to pick. Visibility improved a bit, down from the summit, and I began to wonder what I was doing on my side of the fence. I could see, on the other side, a much better path than the thin scraggy one I was on, it had duck boards and everything. Another walker, coming up, appeared on it out of the fog so I checked with him to make sure it was the one I wanted and didn’t veer off somewhere down below before I clambering over to the correct side. He was a local man and told me that Windy Gyle was the half way point which cheered me up somewhat. After that it was Sunday rush hour. I met a couple ten minutes later who were looking forward to getting back to their car, out of the rain, then a bloke on his own half an hour after that. There had also been a mixed group of five or six teenagers near Lamb Hill attempting something or other for the Duke of Edinburgh, bag one of the goats perhaps. These were the sum of my encounters with other people over a 26 mile stretch on a Sunday in the middle of June. This, of course, is not counting John and Gary.

I saw them perhaps a mile behind me when I was starting up the slope which ends in the Cheviot himself, if you go that far. It didn’t surprise me in the least that they were catching me up, I can’t walk fast, even when I’m trying and I was starting to fade quite badly by this time. I could have done with the sandwich I should have bought in the café last night so as to get the carbohydrates I needed to keep me going. Instead I was snacking on chocolate and biscuits which only gave off a very short lived spark. They past me a little way before the corner and the boardwalk to Auchope Cairn. None of us fancied the idea of heading up into the clouds for the Cheviot summit. By all accounts the views are not that great anyway and on a day like this it would have been totally pointless. They stopped at the Cairn and I caught them up. When I arrived John was looking at the map page in his book trying to persuade his son that over the cliff into Hen Hole was the way to go and that he should go first, which would have been one way to solve the problem of inheritance tax.

From Auchope Cairn. The second hut is the light coloured dot, in the middle distance, just above the line of the fence

It was a bit blustery and the low cloud didn’t make for a great scenic shot but it had temporarily stopped raining so we got the cameras out before trooping down to the second refuge together. The weather in fact wasn’t particularly bad. It had rained fairly heavily but only for a couple of hours. It was pretty windy but then we were high up and exposed and it didn’t knock you over. It was also warm enough to only need a shirt under the waterproof. For the rest of the day it was mainly dry with the odd squally shower.

John was a firm believer in the more trekking poles you have the easier the walk

We sat in the hut eating our various snacks listening to one of the squally showers rattling away outside. I was claustrophobic again and thinking that in a really high wind it must feel as thought the shed could be picked up and blown over the hill. I’d saved the muffin for this time of the day when I thought I might well need the boost however, the Cadbury’s chocolate muffin was not a good substitute for my usual type and I wasn’t any less knackered than I had been before I’d scoffed the bits that hadn’t merely crumbled to nothing through my fingers.

John and Gary suggested we walk together the rest of the way but I knew I’d only slow them down so I sat on my own for a while occasionally noting their steady progress up the Schil, John with his heavy maps and Gary with his huge rucksack. It was another hill to get up, but it was the last one.

The Schil sounds German to me, but where I can understand the Welsh PenyGhent appearing in Yorkshire as a left-over from the Celts I’ve no idea why a small German alp has been placed in the Cheviots. For whatever reason it certainly had vays of making me beg for mercy. I was very nearly kaputt.

I was ok to start with, for about the first five yards, then I had to stop. Staring up at the steepness of the slope in despair it looked down its nose on me and said arrogantly ‘For you Tommy zer valk is over.’ I considered the prospect of walking round it rather than over it, but set off upwards again. After stopping every few yards I decided to use the tactic of fixing on a point about 20 yards away and forcing myself to walk that far before resting again. These distances got harder and harder and shorter and shorter as I slowly ascended. I don’t think anyone was watching but it must have been a pathetic sight. The relief, at last, when I neared the top and the incline gradually lessened was wonderful, then it was total delight when it flattened off and I could walk about freely.

The Hen Hole from the hut

From this point on it was plain sailing. I put two fingers up to the Black Hag as the path skirts round her to the left and said ‘Not today, thank you very much’ to a sign which offered me the prospect of more hills on an alternative high level route and started the descent down into bonny Scotland. From the heights I could see a good distance and there was no sign of John and Gary. I imagined they’d be sat at the bar on their second pint by now with John saying ‘You know, I would have helped you with that rucksack if only you’d asked, Gary.’

I found the walk down very pleasant, though once on the road it was rather boring and there seemed an inordinate number of horses about. Perhaps there’s a haggis factory nearby. I’d heard about a so called “sting in the tail” hill just before you reach Kirk Yetholm but I didn’t think it was much of a problem, which was a little strange after the battle I’d had with Der Schil. Immediately after it’s down, past a few houses to the green and there it is.

I’d seen a lot of photos of the Border Hotel on the net, although most of them had been of people standing triumphantly beneath the sign, and now there half of it was. I’d heard they’d had a fire and had to close while in Keld and then Tom in Bellingham had told me they’d reopened but not for accommodation. My intention had been to stay there if I ever made it but now I’d have to think about finding somewhere else. I crossed the threshold/ finishing line at seven thirty so thirteen hours to do 25 or 26 miles sounded about right for me.

John and Gary were still only on their first pint when I entered so they hadn’t been that far ahead of me. We were the only three customers. I was offered the free half by the barman and stunned myself rather by refusing. I did it without thinking. As the free drink is a promotion by the brewery you can’t have a free anything else so instead of having a free half I paid for a J2O which goes to prove being brought up in Yorkshire is not enough, you have to be born there to be a real Yorkshireman. I accepted my free certificate though which told me I’d only walked 250 miles. I know I missed a bit but I thought that was a bit harsh. I also signed the book and for a comment put “What do I do now” which was very much how I felt. I’d walked for two and a half weeks and now I’d stopped. I hadn’t any more walking to do. All I had to do was find somewhere to stay, something to eat then in the morning find out how to get home.

The b & b where John and Gary were staying (they were splashing out in celebration) was full so I got out my list and the first one I tried, the Valleydene, had a room. The Border’s kitchens were still out of use so there was no food but the barman told me of the pub in Town Yetholm, half a mile up the road, and also that it stopped serving at eight thirty, I needed to get moving. After hasty goodbyes I went to dump my stuff at the b & b.

There were a lot of animals in the house and ponies in a field at the back, which was just as well for me. The only reason the room was available was because the couple who’d booked it had walked out in a huff saying they didn’t want to stay in a menagerie. I don’t know what they were moaning about, the giraffe was perfectly well behaved. The room was a nice spacious twin my only complaint was that the biscuits were from Tescos.

As I’d walked in the front door I’d looked into the kitchen which was through a door immediately on the right. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw, sat at the table, two people I recognized. Unfortunately I wasn’t struck dumb in amazement. As I’ve mentioned before, I had gone through other people’s accounts of their experiences on the net in the weeks leading up to my trip. While doing this I’d come across the site of a couple, lets call them Bert and Becky, who were planning to do the Way while being sponsored for charity, at about the same time as me, just doing it. What caught my attention, apart from the amount of preparation they were devoting to the expedition, was the sheer volume of stuff they were taking with them. From what I can remember this included a tent, for emergencies, possibly an emergency nap, two of those silver blanket thingies to prevent hypothermia, 10 hankies and 2 gps contraptions, in case one broke down. When they mentioned that they would be carrying a day sack each and the other three bags would be taken by a baggage carrying company I felt there was something, I couldn’t quite put my finger on, a bit odd for a walking holiday. I must admit to telling a few people I’d met on my travels about this couple and having the odd guffaw at their expense.

They’d set off exactly a week before I did and Becky kept up a running computer commentary every night which I thought very admirable. It takes a lot of effort to sit and type something readable after a hard day on the hills. These were two of the last people I would have expected to meet, I thought they’d have finished and gone home long ago, but here they were, I recognized them from their pictures. The first thing I did, of course, was think aloud with both feet in my mouth saying “What took you so long?” Which wasn’t actually meant to be a put down, it just sounded like one, but I really couldn’t believe they had taken the length of time they had. Being in a hurry to go for my meal I had a good excuse to get out of the kitchen fast.

I got to the Plough in Town Yetholm at twenty past but if they’d had any specials on I was too late so the menu was a bit limited. The steak and chips was excessively boring but I badly needed something to eat and it did the job. The bar only had a few locals in; they were quite friendly when they found out I didn’t like football and did not have a St.George’s flag attached to any vehicle. I was a little pissed off with those flags at the time, the only good thing about them was that they really pissed off the Scots and the Welsh.

The leaves are not an attempt at artistic framing of the shot, it was raining again and I was sheltering under the tree.

Breakfast in the morning was rather frosty with Bert though his misses was friendly enough. I walked up to Town Yetholm to catch the Kelso bus so I could buy a paper. I also had a chat with a local who stopped me to tell me he’d done the walk as well. It was another hot sunny day but I’d got no hill to work up a good sweat. While I was waiting at the bus shelter a girl, who I assumed must be on her way to college in Kelso, started up a conversation. The whole community really were extremely friendly. I nearly told her she shouldn’t be talking to strange men. It turned out she had a couple of kids and was going shopping. There was soon quite a gaggle of gossiping women waiting for the bus which turned up on time just to spite them. They’d all assured me it was always late on a Monday.

At Kelso there was an hour to wait for the next bus to Berwick so after a quick look at the town I decided on a taxi. I eventually found the taxi company in the pet shop. A cab was a bit extravagant but because of connecting trains it saved a lot of travelling time. At Berwick station I found John and Gary so of course chatted to them for the twenty minutes before my train. They were going the same way but had pre-booked some time ago and had to wait another hour.

After a few hours of being bored, locked in with lots of others, without the wind, sunshine or rain on my face and no aching muscles or stinging sweat in my eyes I arrived home at five to an empty house. A note in my wife’s handwriting was on the kitchen table. She’d left me

a pile of dishes to do.

The Hounds of the Byrness Hotel

Day 16

I’d gone to bed early and after a good night’s sleep woke up early, at six. I’d an urgent job to do which was difficult without having a table in my room. I went downstairs to use the one in the living room where I sat and scrawled a few illegible lines on the postcards I’d bought in Hawes, getting them ready to be sent off before my trip was actually over. After savouring for a while the satisfaction of a task completed I’d nothing else to do so I went back to my room to retry the Telegraph puzzles.

I must admit to having problems, about this time, with the various puzzles I buy the paper for. I quite enjoy the cryptic crossword, though I don’t like to be greedy and hardly ever finish a full one, but I’d been doing less and less of it over the two weeks I’d been walking. I was even having a few problems with the sodoffus, or whatever they’re called. There was no doubt my brain was atrophying more each day, definitely a case of losing it ‘cos I wasn’t using it. The conversations I was having with myself, which I thought had been going quite well, were obviously not stimulating enough.

Breakfast had been arranged for the three of us at eight o’clock but I went back downstairs at 7.30 after hearing Jan moving about. She’d guessed that I wouldn’t want to eat with the other two and had already started cooking my sausages. Tony and Cleo didn’t in fact come down until well after eight and I was out of their way packing to leave by then.

Once you reach Bellingham the only option for the next day is the fourteen miles to Byrness, unless of course you’ve got a tent or fancy sleeping rough on the Cheviots. There is a café/shop attached to the petrol station there but every report I’d read about it stressed how tiny it was and how little it has to offer. All the books advise that if you need to do any shopping do it in Bellingham, so that’s what I did. Thinking that I might take two days over the last 26 mile day I needed enough to last me 3 days.

The so call ‘well stocked’ small supermarket didn’t really have anything I wanted. I was out of emergency ration shortbread fingers which I find just the thing for a quick energy ingestion when flagging halfway up a hill. The shop didn’t have any so I had to make do with digestive biscuits, which are a poor substitute. I find muffins quite good for a more sustained power boost while on the hoof. These are the blueberry or cherry ones which are often sold in newsagents and village shops. Again I was out of luck and had to settle for a Cadbury chocolate muffin which seemed to have as much packaging as cake. There was a sandwich shop nearby for a ham roll and also a newsagent for chocolates as well as the right scale of map for the Cheviots. I didn’t buy a paper with it being a Saturday and I didn’t have a wheelbarrow with me.

So, heavily weighted down with junk food I started sweating up another hill at the start of the day, well at ten thirty anyway. It was yet another hot one but cloudy again and this time with several threats of rain. All the way up the hill I was thinking what I was going to do the next day and at the top, just past the farmyard I lost my nerve and rang Uswayford, the only place to stay within walking distance of the Way. I didn’t ring to book it, I just wanted the reassurance that they had availability so I’d have the option. As it turned out they were going on holiday so I didn’t have that option. I knew there was a b & b in Kirk Yetholm that would pick you up but it involved a two and half mile detour down from the hills and I didn’t want to do that. It was also the idea of getting to Kirk Yetholm by car then coming back to complete the walk which didn’t somehow appeal. I adopting the optimism of Mr McCawber, sure that something would turn up as I continued on my way.

I normally like the wide open spaces of moorland but thought the area around Lough and Lord’s Shaw rather too featureless to be enjoyable. I think the local wildlife were of the same opinion. There were virtually no birds to be seen or heard. The only noise was the occasional flat whoomp of an artillery piece being fired on the distant ranges.

About a quarter of a mile before the road, which crosses the path before it heads up Padon Hill, I saw another walker. He was following the road towards the forest to the left. Noting from the map that the path rejoins the road further on I was tempted to go the same way but feeling perfectly fit and not needing to catch up any time I stuck to the official Pennine Way and carried on up the hill. It wasn’t too long before I was wishing I hadn’t.

From Padon Hill the path goes down into a small valley then, squashed between the firs of a plantation and a broken wall it runs up the other side onto Brownrigg Head. This was, without doubt, the nastiest little stretch of the whole walk. Even though it hadn’t rained in weeks it was a stinking swamp. I tried to walk on the wall as much as possible but the branches kept getting in the way. The torrents of sweat pouring from me added to the quagmire with every ooze squelching step and I was continually nipped at by a plague of midges while another plague, of greenfly, attached themselves to my hair, face, hands and clothing. Every time I gulped some air I got a mouthful of them.

According to Wainwright, whose book I of course read after I’d done the walk, the original Pemnnine Way was along the road and was only switched to go by way of the swamp thanks to the Rambler Assoc. ( Northern S & M Division).

Where the path used to enter the forest it didn’t anymore. All the trees to the right of the track had been cut down. This had improved the vista dramatically and allowed wildlife to return. There were several varieties of flowers which I didn’t know the name of and lots of birds, particularly finches to make the walk along the stony track much more pleasant than it otherwise would have been.

Beware of deer setting light to their farts

Just before Byrness are two settlements which overcompensate for their lack of size by having ridiculously long names. The first is Blakehopeburnhaugh which, as far as I could see is a farm, a shack, a car park and a toilet, and Cottonshopeburnfoot which is mainly a caravan and camp site. The Way here meanders next to the river Rede, the sort of place you could go for a stroll in your posh shoes before or after a substantial Sunday roast. It was here that I had my only fall of the walk somehow slipping and finding myself with a very close-up view of the grass. I thought to myself that it was just as well I hadn’t been so clumsy over the previous 240 miles, I’d have been a hell of a mess by now.

During the time I’d been upright on my journey from Bellingham I’d been pondering what to do with tomorrow. I’d finally come up with idea that, as long as the weather was fine, I’d have a leisurely start in the morning and trundle over the Cheviots at my own pace. I could walk late into the evening and spend the few hours of darkness in the second refuge hut, wandering down to KirkYetholm in the morning.

By way of explanation: the route between Byrness and Kirk Yetholm is 25 or 26 miles long, depending on whose book you read, with a 3 mile optional side trip up and down The Cheviot itself. Everyone emphasises how difficult it is which tends to put the fear of God into gullible readers like myself. Along the way are two refuge huts, one 9 miles from Byrness the other about 5 miles from the end.

I reached the small shop at the filling station shortly before it closed. It turned out to be a proper café and shop, well stocked with everything I could have wanted but I didn’t want to add to the junk I had in my bag. Tom had told me the hotel no longer had a bar so I bought a couple of fizzy drinks. I thought about buying a sandwich for tomorrow but as I was planning a late start I left it to buy one fresh in the morning.

The road to Blakehopeburnhaugh. Tomorrow's walk begins up the hill in the middle then off along the ridge to the right

The owner of the hotel, who showed me to my room, didn’t seem unfriendly but was very quiet. I think he was a dour Scot, but didn’t say enough for me to determine an accent. None of the rooms there are en suite and you expect to be told where the bathroom is, I had to ask. The room rate only included half a toilet roll apparently but luckily I was the only guest and it did include dinner. On the way downstairs at the allotted time I was thinking he might have volunteered the information as to which room the dining room was, or perhaps put a sign on the door, then I wouldn’t have let the dogs out. I heard some noise behind one door so opened it and was immediately knocked to the side by a herd of large barking animals immediately afterwards being obliged to dodge a gang of children who ran after them. I could hear the barks and shouts, up and down the stairs and round and about the hotel for quite some time afterwards from the safety of the room behind the next door I tried, which turned out to be the right one.

It was more like a family dining room having only one table. There were two others already there waiting for dinner and at first I thought they must be fellow guests but no, I didn’t have to share my half toilet roll with them, they were camping at Cottonshopeburnfoot and had just come for dinner. They were a father and son team also doing the Way. The father, John was in his mid fifties the son, Gary, in his twenties and were both very good company. After half an hour talking to them it struck me who they were. These were the two the Londoners had told me about: the pair that had walked twenty five miles then cleaned the café in Keld out of everything edible at nine in the evening.

John was a great organiser and had sorted out the division of responsibilities in a very equitable fashion. Gary, being much younger and fitter was carrying their one rucksack with all their clothes and camping gear. John, being the more experienced walker, had the more important job of carrying the heavy maps and doing the navigating. In spite of John’s expertise they’d still managed to get lost a few times. How they laughed about it, well John did anyway. The first time they’d gone astray was at the same spot as me on Bleaklow, although they’d gone a lot further and lost a lot of height before realising their mistake, then trudging a long way back up hill. John was quite amused when I told him that they could have just carried on to the cycle track at the bottom and walked back along that and that some people purposely go that way to avoid the heights of Torside Clough. Gary was amused too.

After the meal, which was good homemade grub we said our goodbyes with a

‘See you tomorrow.’

‘Break a leg.’

They went back to their tent and I to my room. It was an quite a pleasant room though the view was only the yard at the back and the telly reminded me of my hippy commune days. I wanted to catch the weather forecast so I could be a bit more prepared for tomorrow than not being prepared at all. My paper was two days old so I didn’t know the tv schedule and of course it’s different on a weekend. I rang my wife to ask her to keep an eye out for the weather and told her which part of the map to look at. She could get more stations than me. There seemed to be a football match on every one of the three working buttons I pressed, though, come to think about it, they might all have been tuned to the same channel, the amount I know about the game.

Soon after my call I received a text saying it was going to be fine till Thursday. Great I thought until not long after the BBC news and weather came on the telly. It was the bloke who reminds me of Ken Dodd. He looked out of the screen at me in that manic bulge eyed way that dares you to keep a straight face.

‘It will be cloudy but dry in the morning over Scotland and northern England’, he said, ‘but LOOK AT THAT! That big lump of cloud in the Atlantic will sweep down over the borders bringing with it lumps and lumps of wind and rain from early afternoon onwards… Missis!’ He waved his hands around in such a way that if he’d had flags or tickling sticks attached to them he could have also given his message in semaphore.

That scuppered my plan for a leisurely start and a stroll in the sunshine. I’d start early and get some miles under my feet before the rain.

The forecast for the Manchester area, by the way, was fine till Thursday.

The Byrness Hotel with tomorrow's hill behind, looking much steeper from this angle

Full of Beans in Bellingham

Day 15

Posing with illegal immigrants near Hadrian's Wall

After quite a good breakfast I left at 9.30. I don’t know why I left it so late, I’d been up since seven. There were only two possible options for the day: the seven miles along Hadrian’s Wall or continue to Bellingham, another fifteen miles further on. There is nowhere to stay easy to get to in between. My ideal was Bellingham but a room in a small town on a Friday night might be difficult and it was a long way. My heels were still hurting and the National Trails pamphlet advises that the Hadrian’s wall section is quite tough going. There isn’t a lot of accommodation on the Wall either so I thought if I stayed in the area I might have to end up in Haltwistle or even have to use the train to get somewhere. A line runs parallel to the Wall from Carlisle to Newcastle. After much deliberation I decided on my usual tactic of leaving the decision for later and seeing how things went.

Hadrian’s Wall is one of the man made wonders of Britain. A truly awe-inspiring sight marching up and down the line of the escarpment for mile after bloody mile. When you’re trying to walk 22 miles with a rucksack on your back it becomes more of an assault course than a sight to wonder at. Though I did get to wondering, I wondered what the Romans could possibly have done for me: built the bloody thing on the flat bit for a start.

The pamphlet is right, it is hard going. There are just so many hills, all of them small but all of them steep and very tiring. The sheer numbers of people about were rather astonishing as well. It made Malham and High Force seem like havens of peace and isolation. As soon as I hit the wall there was a scattered group about twenty strong as well as a few twos and threes in sight. Then, coming across the visitors centre there were coach parties, school parties family groups and individuals acting as unpaid guides to foreign friends, trying to remember what they’d learned about Roman Britain in primary school thirty years before. There were quite a few Romans and Celts knocking about as well for the edification of the children. It wasn’t quite all the fun of the fair but there might well have been chariot racing and gladiatorial contest in the afternoon rounded off with an orgy after nine in the evening

I saw the reverend and his wife there as well. They were only going as far as either Once or Twice Brewed, I can’t remember now which it was, so were taking it easy. They passed me half way up the next hill.

Of course near the car parks it was exceptional busy but there were also an incredible number obviously walking a fair few miles, if not the whole way; though I didn’t see one other person carrying a full sized rucksack. If you’ve read any of the other instalments of this walk you’ll know the weather was hot. The various farms along the Wall could have added a decent supplement to their livelihoods by selling drinks and snacks but none of them bothered.

When I finally got view of the two lakes which the Pennine Way runs between when heading north from the Wall I decided to definitely try for Bellingham. I was heartily sick of the Hadrian’s Wall area by that time and didn’t want to stay there a moment longer, even if I could have got a room nearby. I started on my list. The first few I rang were full but a women with a friendly voice at Crofters End said she had a room and when I told her I might be late she said she’d do me beans on toast if I arrived too late to get a meal in a pub. That sounded a pretty good offer so I was all set, as long as I could stagger my way there before she retired for the night.

Shortly before saying goodbye to the Wall, at 2.15, I past Vic and his missus, who were resting simply to fill up their day. They were rather bemused that I still had such a long way to travel in the middle of the afternoon. They’d probably have been nearly there by now.

I still had miles to go before I slept and I’d virtually no water left but I felt a huge feeling of relief as I wandered away from the crowds and climbs of probably the longest seven miles of the walk.

Looking at the huge conifer plantation on the map and in front of me I knew I’d need to find water before I started through the dead zone. A few hundred yards before the front rank of trees I came across a muddy stream. There were quite a few hoof prints next to it but none of the other usual signs that cattle leave of their passing, at least not in the part where I took my water from, so that would have been alright then.

There is something sinister and alien about the uniform ranks of fir trees pressing in on either side as you walk through along the track. The lack of individuality is mind numbing and the suffocating cushion of dead pine needles spread beneath them selfishly excludes the possibility of any other life.

About half a mile into the trees I met, coming the other way, the only other walker I was to see for the rest of the day. From very few words I gleaned that he wasn’t just walking the Pennine Way but continuing all the way to his home in Somerset having started from John o’ Groats. I would have thought rather than do John o’ Groats to Somerset he might as well have gone the whole way, if only to stop people asking him in future why he didn’t. He’d been on his own for so long I think he was forgetting how to talk. He reminded me of Ben Gunn in Treasure Island but sadly I’d no cheese to give him. Even being only nearly an end to ender he has my respect, though I’m also a bit wary of such people. I suspect that they can’t only be a little bit whacky to attempt such an undertaking and if they weren’t when they started out they would be by the time they’d finished.

I took the photo which is Haughton Common, a breath of air between two stifling coverings of trees, because I’d been at this point ten years before. My wife and I had left the children with my mother over an Easter bank holiday and stayed at the pub in Wark for a couple of nights. I’d gone for a Sunday stroll from Stonehaugh and found myself at this point. I hadn’t done much walking then, I’d have been on my first or second pair of boots but I very much remember standing at this spot wondering what it would be like to have walked all the way from Edale. I took the photo of the sign as it depicts more accurately than I can express in words how I was feeling after walking all the way from Edale.

I had to fill up with water again at the stream near Shitlington (I put two tablets into the water) before climbing up Shitlington Crags. Shitlington is a very small place but has a lot to put up with because of its name. I’m glad to say that now I’m past the half way point in my life I have matured enough to no longer feel the need to make schoolboy jokes about a name like Shitlington. I know very little about Shitlington anyway, though I believe it is twinned with Lower Peover in Cheshire but they haven’t put it on the signs yet.

From the top of the crags it’s a gentle walk down the fields to the road then quite a noisy one to Bellingham. The locals seem to have set themselves a speed limit of 70 along this stretch of road. Going less than seventy miles per hour is perhaps regarded as sissy. I arrived at Crofters End, which is a little way before you reach Bellingham proper, at eight fifteen or thereabouts.

The accommodation at Crofters End is not en-suite and I’ve seen more up to date rooms in museums as an exhibit of how we used to live but it was a real pleasure to stay there. Their speciality was the lady of the house: Jan. She is a lovely person and the perfect landlady having an easy going natural friendliness that immediately makes you feel at home.

I suppose I could have just about made it to a pub in time for a meal but it wouldn’t have been pleasant sat eating alone among the Friday night drinkers. I was quite relieved when the offer of beans on toast was repeated and extremely happy to find it waiting for me after my shower. It was a very generous helping with added tomatoes, cakes and biscuits to follow plus a pot of tea. It was a real life saver.

The husband, Tom came in and the three of us nattered about this and that. He was a very nice chap but a bit quiet. He’d been a farmer for thirty odd years but I bet he never shouted “Get Off My Land” at anyone, at least not without adding “Please”. Now he was semi-retired, keeping himself busy by carting the baggage of hikers between Greenhead and Byrness.

They told me that I’d nearly been the only guest that night but earlier in the evening they’d been sent a couple from a nearby country house hotel. They were a rather odd pair and after I’d met them it made me wonder if the hotel had really been full. To protect their anonymity and because I can’t remember her name I’ll call them Tony and Cleo. He was a Scottish bachelor in his late fifties, she an English grandmother a few years his junior. He looked as though he might well have been a Scottish virgin until his encounter with the granny who was slim and blond (perhaps) and probably hadn’t been round the block just the once. She had the airs and graces of stuck- on refinement that you only see in working class women.

Tom and Jan had been quite tickled by an incident when they’d arrived. Tony had wanted to park his car at the back of the house and this involved going through two gates. The woman apparently remained serenely in the passenger seat like Lady Muck while her intended stopped at the first gate, got out of the car and opened the gate. After driving through he stopped, got out of the car to close the first gate and open the second. After driving through the second gate he got out of the car, closed the second then opened the car door for her ladyship to alight. While we were still giggling they arrived back from their meal and exactly the same thing happened. We watched them with sideways glances through the window and a great deal of only partly suppressed amusement. Proof if were needed that chivalry is not dead and neither is being a lazy cow.

They came to join us in the living room or, I should say, she did because he had to pop out again.

‘Oh, I left my make-up bag in the car. Go and get it for me would you Tony.’ She had a smile like an over-ripe lemon.

When her be-plighted trother had scampered off she began to tell us about how lucky she was to have had a lovely meal for a change.

‘I have to be so careful with what I eat you know. Some things, like onions just go straight through me. I often hardly have anything at all when I eat out.’

We sat there grateful for having been told.

Jan deftly kept the conversation going about their plans for the wedding which was going to be in Bellingham. Neither had any connection with the place but it was where, somehow, they’d met. It was also somewhere that no-one knew them.

Tony came back in after quarter of an hour.

‘Are you sure you left it in the car?’

‘Yes dear, quite sure.’

‘You didn’t leave it in the room.’

‘No I’m positive.’

Tony left the room and five minutes later came back with a triumphant smile as well as the bag.

‘It was in the room all the time my darling.’ He admonished.

‘Hee hee hee silly me.’ She giggled.

Tony sat down, arms spread on the arms of the chair in a manner which indicated he thought he’d won.

We sat there for a while trying to have a conversation but really listening to how every topic that was brought up effected Cleo. It was quite astounding how self centred she was. Jan bravely tried to get the subject matter on to someone else in the room time and time again without success. Tony was a keen fisherman, for example. She thought it cruel and anyway the bones always got stuck in her throat. The rest of the fish went straight through presumably. I’d walked over twenty miles that day she was told but you wouldn’t find her walking over the fields in muddy boots, she’d look silly. I tried to get a separate conversation going with Tom but she soon managed to put a stop to that.

It was amusing to begin with but soon became very boring and when she started telling us about her digestive problems again I made my excuses.




The first thing anyone from Bellingham will tell you is how to pronounce the name of their town. You musn't forget the hidden e after the g so the ing is not how you'd pronounce it in sing but like the inge in hinge. The E.U. are considering when to make this illegal.