Border walk Carter Fell to Hungry Law

Dawn was a long time coming and the tent was frozen stiff when it did eventually arrived (apparently, it slept in becasue somebody had altered all the clocks…) so I was well motivated to get moving.

I followed the fence for a bit and guessed that a green flush running up through the heather was a bridleway/path which crosses the Border just a bit West of Carter Fell. Amazingly, this turned out to be correct and, where the path crosses the ridge there was a cairn and a boundary stone.

The boundary stones are the key to the next part. They’re not very big, though, but they have “N” on the English side (for the Duke of Northumberland’s estate) and a backwards “D” on the Scottish side for the Douglas estates. I have no idea why it’s backwards. It has been suggested that the stonemason was illiterate. It may be he was from Northumberland, though. Some of the stones have fallen over, but, often there’s a rotting stake to show where it is, and, if you look very very closely, there’s a lighter strip of grass running along the line of the Border and this contains a thin trod, just enough to make the walking relatively easy.

I climbed up onto Carter Fell in sunshine and met a fence. The fence shown on the map doesn’t follow the Border very accurately, but there’s a new one that does – so there are two fences. Either will take the Border rambler to the trig on Carter Fell. From around here, the vegetation is grassy rather than heathery and is much easier to walk on. It’s still a bit squishy, though.

The tea van at Carter Bar wasn’t there, which is a shame because I was prepared to be exploited to the tune of a bacon roll and a mug of hot steaming – but it wasn’t to be.

A few motorists were shivering and having a quick fag at the Border crossing. There are Scottish flags there, but no English ones.

Miffed at the lack of grilled pig, I headed eastwards(ish) along the Border and nicked down into a little valley near leap Hill for a brew. There was a little spring of clean water, so I replaced the brown stuff in my platypus, removed the little shrimp thing that was swimming around and had coffee, squirty cheese and oatcakes and a Boost bar.

Leap Hill came and went, but the best top of the day was Hungry law – with a railway sleeper for a seat and a fine view of the Cheviot Hills to the East.

The bridleway down to Redesdale is another one of Northumberland’s Comedy Rights of Way. The path has mainly been planted over, some of it quite recently, and the gate into the forest has a heavy chain and a padlock on it. It’s supposed to be a bridleway. The challenge, I suppose , is to get your horse over the gate somehow. Further down, the bridleway is completely non-existent and traffic has to use the forestry road. Neither the Forestry Commission nor Northumbria County Council seem to have any interest in properly maintaining their paths. They’re really good if you have a mountain bike, but not for anybody else. They need sorting out, really, before the forest gets sold off.

I turned up at Forest View hostel at Byreness a couple of hours early. Colin and Joyce did their usual welcoming job and I was watered (tea and beer) and fed (chicken curry) and had a warm bed whilst the rain lashed down outside.

Today was 12 Miles and only about 1200 feet of uphill.  The going was reasonably easy, and improves with Eastwards progress.

Halloween on Carlin Tooth

So, it’s getting quite late. I’ve had me tea and I’ve had a couple of brews and some scotch and put the MP3 player on loud, which always sends me to sleep. And I’m warm in the sleeping bag and I hear the noise of a horse. It’s probably one of those things that happens when you’re mainly asleep. So, I’m awake now, all tucked in and cosy, like , and I hear a kind of jingling noise, away in the distance somewhere, somewhere behind the sound of the little stream I’m camped next to and between that and the wind rusting the tent and, maybe, some faraway traffic.

I do hear something like footsteps and sort of jingling noise somewhere and , there……., I heard a horse giving a little snort somewhere. That can’t be right.  Mr Bladder says that all of those cups of tea and the soup and the scotch need to come out. I stir. I struggle with the zip of the sleeping bag, cursing a bit. I fight my way into my wet boots, cold on my warm feet and tumble out onto frosty grass under a deep black starry sky. The ridge above me is even blacker. Half of my horizon is blacker than black and the other is, well, somehow a bit lighter now. There is no moon. I find a spot and,.. then a horse snorts and a voice whispers “wisht”.  Wisht?  Did I hear “wisht”? On the ridge, in silhouette, something moves. It grows  and sways slowly into a tall shape. I watch and don’t resist the temptation to try to hide a bit.. Its about, maybe , two hundred metres away, and up the hill, on the hilltop. It stops in silhouette. There’s a glint and a jingle and a soft , horsey sigh. I can hear leather creaking. Its a horse rider. Unmistakeable.  In the dark. How dangerous is that? Another rider joins the first, then a third. They seem to have weapons. They seem to have lances and there’s a glint of a steel helmet. I have completely forgotten my mission.

A fourth pony arrives, and a fifth, but there are no riders on these, just an odd shape. They move towards me, directly, and disappear into the blackness of the shadow of the hill. I crouch down a bit more. I can hear them now, but they’re invisible to me. But I know they’re getting closer with every second.

They’re very near now. I can hear the tread of the hooves moving slowly, the breathing of ponies, the creak of leather and the jingle of steel. And I can smell sweat and horse and, something foul. I recognise the smell from my early NHS days. Its the distinctive smell of a busy mortuary. It gives me images that I don’t like to see.

I crouch a bit lower. I am behind some rushes, in the rushes. I can hear my heart beating a bit quicker than it should. I try not to breath, it’s not just the noise, it’s the breath steaming in the cold.

A pony appears close by in the dark and passes by. I see boots with spurs. I can see the rider’s pale face and his sharp little beard. He does have a lance, and a sword and, maybe , a pistol. The second is the same, but a short little man with fair hair around the edge of his steel bonnet. And the third has a wild beard and a creased and wounded face – I’m not sure in the dark. They pass above me, quietly, not looking down, but gazing intently ahead into the dark. The third pulls a rope which tows the fourth pony, There’s something on the saddle, somebody on the saddle, legs sticking stiffly out. Boots and spurs and a foul smell of death and, so it is with the fifth. Something drips off the heel of the boot as it passes within feet of my face. Three riders, five ponies and two cadavers. The smell sticks as they saw off down the hill towards Liddesdale.

Its only now that I remember why I’m out here.

The smell sticks all night. I fact, I can smell it even now.

There’s a lot of darkness at this time of the year.

Border walk Peel Fell and Carlin Tooth

This is day 1 of a three day walk along the Scottish/English Border – the bit that I missed out on another occasion.
Some silly bugger had been playing with all the clocks, so I set off an hour late, or dead on time Greenwich Meantime. It was still dark, but I arrived in a deserted Kielder somewhere around dawn and abandoned the knipemobile.

Forest tracks and a derelict road took me up to Deadwater Fell, upon the summit of which there are “things”. I’ve not much clue as to what they are, but they have CCTV cameras and notices about navigation aids. There’s also an architect-designed too-far-up-his-own arsehole-for-his-own-good shelter which lets the wind in and, through which, if you look through the cracks, you can imagine it’s just like looking through the gaps in the trees. Look, matey boy, architect person, this is Kielder Forest. It has hundreds of millions of trees. You don’t need to imagine what it’s like artistically. cos the real thing is , well, just everywhere.

Deadwater fell is the only English top that sound’s like it’s been named by Cisco Kid by the way.  Eee-har, throw another injun on the fire, Jake….
A boggy path leads to The Riever’s Cross – an ancient cairn with a shelter fashioned in the middle and a small cross. More bogginess takes the already soggy rambler fairly easily to Peel Fell where there’s a little cairn.


Just before the top , there’s the “Kielder Stane Spur”. This is a boggy path (I’m sure you’re getting the picture by now) which leads downhill to the Kielder Stone. The Kielder Stone is a point on the Border which, in less lawful times, people could rush up, leave a message and bugger off before anybody saw – and somebody else would do likewise form the other side and pick it up. So, it’s a significant point.

However (and this is a big however girls and guys) the ground around the Stone is probably the roughest anywhere for about a kilometre in any direction. Any movement is slow and ponderous and teeters between deep heather, badly spaced tussocks and sphagnum bogs. My advice , for those intent on the ridge, is to give it a miss. the walking higher up is much, much easier. The only problem, of course, is for the purist Border follower because the Border doesn’t follow the ridge at this point but ducks down to the Kielder stone and then messes about trying to find an excuse not to go back up to the ridge.

A determined effort and some blasphemy brought me back to the ridge, and what a fine bit of walking this is. On the “Scottish” side of the fence, the grass is short and the views into Scotland are specially fine. There’s a few gritstone outcrops and a trig inside a shelter. This is Carlin Tooth, a fine hill which needs to be transferred to England. A carlin by the way could be a “pea” but it’s more likely to be a wife who has special “powers”, one of which may well be to turn herself into a hare or a crow. A tooth is a tooth is a tooth.

As the sun was yawning, winding up the clock, putting the cat out and getting ready for cocoa and bed, I thought I’d better put the tent up at this point. I found a heathery. sloping spot near to a very small stream of tea-coloured water. And there , I spent the next fifteen hours. You get a lot of rest, backpacking at this time of year. Except that it was halloween, of course and I’m on the witches hill. And it’s dark…. oooer…. its very dark……

10 miles and 2000 feet up uphill……
Cripes…
Another two days of this shortly. What was that  noise?outside..?

Peebles-Moffat Second Full day

Camp Sheepgrapes was a miserable place at 6:30 am on Monday morning. The wind was a bit windy and the drizzle was a bit drizzly. Nothing dramatic, except for the fact that there was no visibility.
We left at about 8:30, I think and we crossed the beck (burn) and slogged the enormous slog up onto Molls Cleuch Dodd. We were handrailing again, which is extremely effective and quick in this kind of clag.

After Molls Cleuch Dodd, the walking is incredibly easy for a long way and so we easily took in Firthybrig Head and Firthhope Rig and then down to Rotten Bottom for a bit of shelter. It was here, I’m afraid to say, that the very last of Humphrey’s pies was furtively scoffed whilst the others tended to their brews and chatted about the relative weights of various rucksack designs.
Rotten Bottom was interesting in a Pennine kind of way, but it’s reputation is exaggerated when compared with most North Pennine mosses.  Its a bit boggy for a few yards.

We contoured out most of Cape Law and fought bravely to get the team up on to Hart Fell where it was even foggier.
Falcon Craig and Swatte fell were quickly swatted, disappointingly without any view at all, for this is a very fine place in the hills.

We descended tiredly over Blue cairn and on to Greygill  Head where there was a decision to be made. two alternatives were available – the first consisting of a very steep plunge through deep bracken to the track – a route taken by me, the other Mike and Piglet, or a crossing of a barbed wire fence for an easier descent in a sheep pasture. It was this fence that did for Alan’s hand.

It was, apparently, very nasty indeed and I’m really quite pleased that I was sitting beside the track scoffing an energy bar  and playing with Piglet when it happened.
Shirley (Peewiglet) did a particularly fine job in bandaging up the gory mess and Martin, John and Tony rushed off to organise some transport, Martin jogging/running into Moffat to  bring back John’s car.

And so, Alan, Shirley and Andrew were whisked off to Carlisle for urgent treatment to Alan’s poorly digits whilst the remainder finished the walk.
Ian Shiel met us in Moffat and we had a brief and ever so slightly boozy session in the Black Bull.
Tony and Christine left for a lay by in Ribblesdale and Ian took me, Mike and Martin back to Peebles in his campervan after breakfast the next morning, having postponed the Moffat-Peebles leg due to a duff weather forecast and general battle weariness.
Today was about 14 miles and another 3000 feet of up.


But what of Peebles-Moffat. this is a really cracking 35 (or so) mile walk. Its not a pushover by any means, though and deserves a bit of respect. You really have to keep plugging away. But its fab, no mistake.
And what of the team?
I think we had fun (Others may confirm or deny this) but I thought it was a jolly jape. And this was a great team. At some points there was real concern for the progress and welfare of each other. Several people had low points and the team was patient and supportive. 
Alan’s unfortunate accident brought out the best in people and its heartening to know that if my stent had failed or something, that, before scoffing my precious pies, they would have all Done Their Best. (Note the capitals, Alan)
At the moment Alan is festering in the RVI in Newcastle with his poorly fingers. We all hope that there will be a full recovery and that once again, Sloman will recapture the well-deserved position of  Cambridgeshire’s nose-picking champion.
Fuller and more gory details of Alan’s specially nasty injury appear on Peewiglet’s Plog, with links on this very blog.

Peebles-Moffat First Full Day

After a cold and frosty but beautiful moonlit night, Camp Alpha awoke slowly, brewed and cooked and all that kinda stuff and stumbled off up through the heather to a little col just South of Dun Rig.
The party waited whilst Martin and Jungle bagged Dun Rig. There was, for a while, bog and heather and tussocky stuff, but gradually the underfootings improved.

After bagging Black law, we lunched in slightly brightening weather at Foulbrig Head. Some trail riders, expecting me to open the gate for them were disappointed and had to dismount. I expect there was bad language and sulking inside those helmets and face disguises.
At this point, John J decided to establish The Jocys Alternative – specially for those with dodgy knees. This consists of the track South to Megget Reservoir and a hop up the road to the Megget Stone. John would establish the site of Camp Sheepgrapes.

The remainder had a bit more tussock bashing to do before a track took us more easily up on to the main Manor Hills ridge. Martin dashed off to bag Dollar Law whilst the less energised took a shortcut onto the ridge and headed off for Cramalt Craig.

Broad Law, which is very broad and has a radio station thingy and an alien spaceship on the top, was our first Corbett and the high point of the walk. It was apparent at this point that many members of the team were getting a bit fragged, so it was heartening to spot John J’s akto pitched beside the beck in the valley bottom. A short and steep descent was enjoyed by some. Piglet enjoyed searching for a mountain hare that had rushed off in another direction.

Camp  was established on short sheep shit and piles of grass. A small cache of medicinal supplies was produced and this was used to wash down Peewiglet’s cheese and sausage. I am afraid that at least two of the pies intended for this party had been used to counteract a couple of episodes of Handrailers Lassitude. As I pointed out, it is important that the navigator retains full access to all of his intellectual faculties and one good way of ensuring this is a constant supply of finely slaughtered pigs in pastry.
Handrailing was used as a navigational strategy all day. For those puzzled by the expression, it means following something. In this case, there seems to be a fence pretty much all the way from Peebles to Moffat.
There was a short but well focussed boozing and chatting session before it got too cold and the beer and wine supplies dried up.
Another moonlit night followed before a mid night arrival of some cloud and drizzle.
We’d done about 14 miles with 3100 feet of uphill – so, a good, beefy kind of hillwalking day. And it was becoming apparent that this little group was quite good at supporting and encouraging it’s members in their various periods of despondency and that spirits were high – a very good sign indeed.

day two part one showing variations

day two part two. Loops at the top by Martin Banfield, Southern Loop is the Jocys variation. Squiggly line is what the rest of us did (Piglet did a lot more…)

Peebles-Moffat Round Two Day 0.5

After a brief foregathering in the drinking dens and pizza bars of Moffat the night before a bunch of nine Moffateers gathered once again on Saturday morning in Moffat high Street. Two cars were sufficient to take the hopefuls to Peebles where a short rest was called in the Bridge Inn.
Revd Albon and Big Jugs Monthly Bossman and Pie provider Humphrey Weightman joined the mildly excited throng for a pint. Humphrey donated some quality pies to the team’s resources. I regret to admit that I did, in fact, eat all the pies……   I am, of course, distraught and so is my cardiac nurse.

And then, after a brief press call in the car park during which Mr Sloman tempted fate by miming his fence climbing skills, nine of us plus Dave Albon invaded Glen Sax. Dave had to leave us after a mile or two as he had work to do. 

We’d taken the lower route this time to ensure that we actually got somewhere before it went dark.
This seemed to work and ultimately, as the walls of Upper Glen sax closed in, we spotted the ideal site for Camp Alpha, on a little  possibly natural grassy shelf amongst all the heather.

The night was moonlit (to such an extent that I thought it was dawn at about half one) and frosty.
Spirits were vaguely optimistic if a bit nervous. There were  early nights and snoring.

Today’s walkers were me, Alan Sloman and Shirley (Peewiglet) Worral plus Piglet the Doglet, Mike (no not that Mike, the other Mike) Pope and his dad Martin (Phreerunner) Banfield, Tony (Pennine Ranger) Bennet and  his handler Christine, Andrew (I can’t decide which decision to decide on) Walker and his miraculous underpants and and John (I wish I had Mike Harding’s Money) Jocys. I think that was it.
Anyway, I think we did six and a half miles and 1400 feet of uphill.
We were still OK.  But much more excitements later…..

Peebles to Moffat the Counter-Attack

We may well have been sent homewards tae think again from our ill-fated expedition up the Moffat and Manor hills last April.
And having been home for a while, and having thought again, and remembering that we vowed to have another crack at this, I am confirming the dates for Round 2.
This will begin on Saturday 25 September 2010 in the Bridge Inn in Peebles and continue to Moffat, or at least towards Moffat.
A return journey from Moffat to Peebles will be made beginning on Tuesday 28 September 2010 and this will veer sharply towards Tibbie Shiels Inn, not because they treated us so well last time (which they did) but purely because it is there.

Invites by email went out some time ago and many replies received. One or two people’s intentions still remain mysterious, but there has been a certain amount of fresh email chatter and some snatched car park conversations which confirm that there’s likely to be a bunch at least.
Note that if your old man is a dustman, we’re still not sure if you’re coming.
I will be sending a soothing confirmation email out shortly with meeting times and places and a proposed timetable.
If this doesn’t turn into a farce, I might well organise it again in September 2011.

Border Walk Day 3 Newcastleton to Kielder

The word for today was “Trees”.   Lots and lots of trees.
Today was almost all in commercial forest - Newcastleton Forest on the Scpttish side and Kielder Forest on the English side. They both look the same, though.
By way of a change, and after visiting the village Costcutter, I set off in the correct direction in ordinary kit, that is to say, not full waterproofs. Any dripping was from the forehead, ears, eyes, neck……
I marched up the road to Dykecrofts, a centre for mountain bikers. There were lots of signs, including one which said “Cross Border Route”, pointing towards the Isle of Man. I assumed this would turn into the correct direction so I followed it uphill. And it did!  Ecky thump, as they say in parts of Preston (still) – onwards to – a dead end. I found a steep track zig-zagging downhill to another forestry road with a sign saying “Cross Border Route” pointing towards the Isle of Man. If I followed this, I would surely complete a circle. Who knows what disasters may befall should the circle be ever-decreasing. I turned towards Moscow and gradually we (that is, me, I usually see double without my specs on) – slowly we (me) made our way towards the old drovers road (auld droverrrrrs rrrrrooad) that leads to England.

I (we) plodded uphill to an auld rrrrradio station where, according to the map, a few hundred metres or so South would lie a good path to the summit of Larriston Fell. It was a lie. I knew it was a lie, I’d been here before, some years ago. I sort of half-hoped that a path might have formed. No. Not on your nelly it hasn’t. The heather is knee deep. In between the lethal bogs its knee deep anyway. I struggled and huffed and altered direction in a fruitless and pathetic search for a sheep track. Or anything. No chance pal. I eventually struggled up to the trig point, did a GPS thingy on the route through a forest break which would be the shortest route to another forestry road and which had this notional path running down it. It was going to be rough. It was rough. Gwan – ask me how rough it was.

Eventually, after a couple of nervous breakdowns and a Mars bar, I arrived, according to the GPS. A fence over to the West looked like it might have a gate. It didn’t but below the forest had been clear-felled to brash and through the middle of the havoc and destruction, a clear, yellow path squiggled and squirmed towards Kielder. I hade for it, bashing through the twigs and logs and bits of foresters arms and legs and stuff, so distinctive of apprentice chain saw operators and eventually got to the path. It was just two feet wide. I followed it. It arrived, after a while at three mountain bikers and a foresty road. They told me the path was a new mountain bike path to Bloody Bush. Well fit me with a false identity. Course it was. I knew that.
I headed North east on good forest tracks that shadowed the Border. There was a crossing into England, and another into Scotland, then back into England. These are the Debateable Lands.

Soon, I was on the campsite with warnings about midgies. I camped for a bit then limped off badly to the Anglers Arms, luckily not too far away. I seem to have acquired some kind of non-blister-like lump on my foot. If I stop walking it swells up and I can;t start again.
Dinner, at the Anglers Arms, though, is good scoff and good value and I allow myself to be exploited to the tune of a chicken pie and several pints of Spitfire and I watched the first half of an England footy match. But soon home to bed with my poorly foot.
Today was 15 Miles and 1900 feet and it only rained for about an hour. That’s good innit?

Border Walk Day 2 Longtown to Newcastleton

 
The word for today was WET.
The other word was COCKUP
It started well with a very nice double English walkers breakfast. You have to sign a disclaimer to receive this and they alert the local first responders just in case the arteries pack in half way through the sausage.
Three ladies on another breakfast table were discussing erections. I trust they were engineers of some sort.
I left Longtown well, albeit in the wrong direction, having decided that the path by the River Esk looked very attractive.

I climbed over a small fence and down some derelict stone steps to the bridge footings and followed a vague path along the riverbank. This soon disappeared and some sheep took refuge on an island. I checked the map. I wasn’t on the path whioch was further over there….<------   Bugger. I persevered and the path joined my general line near a tea van on the A7. More persevering brought me to a bastle house, an unusual church and a wobbly suspension bridge which even in 1906, according to a warning notice, was limited to one person at a time. I wobbled across and checked the map again.

This was all wrong. This way lead into the grounds of Lord and Lady Wekillwalkers, barely civilised but very posh with a long line of cattle stealing, murder, kidnap and double parking.

I rewobbled across the bridge and, braving some timid but frisky beef, I joined the A7. Luckily, membership of the A7 is free. I hobbled into Scotland in a rain storm.

I hobbled through Canonbie as the rain pelted down in damn great hairy Borders lumps to the tune of the 1812 Overture with just the cannon and a bit of flashing.
As I hobbled through the deserted street of Rowanburn, the rain was merely heavy and only became torrential as I crossed back into England over the Liddel Water.
Bugger.
Later, it rained some more as I finally left the roadwalking to join a bridleway and entered no maps land. No maps land is the two or three kilometre space where my improvised “route” (and I use the word sarcastically) fell off the end of the Carlisle map before entering the Hawick and Eskdale map. Thus, the Haltwhistle and Stevenage map or whatever it was, was at home snuggling up to all my other maps. Nice and warm and dry.
I did the only thing could do in such circumstances. I got lost.
This was resolved by sneaking through somebody’s garden and scuttering up by a plantation and through an extremely wet hayfield. I regained a position on a map which I had in my possession and plodded on towards Newcastleton, crossing back into Scotland on the way.

At some point the sun came out and, as I stood there gently steaming, a car pulled up and an old chap with a Londonesque accent said “What are you doing. You’re too fucking old to be doing that.” “I’m walking to Berwick,” I evaporated.
“You silly bugger” said the man. “You won’t get there today”
“Yes I know”
“Well, as long as you’re all right” he said and roared off.
Eventually, I arrived in Newcastleton and found the caravan site which let me camp for ten quid. The scoff at the Liddesdale Hotel was Rack of lamb and it were actually quite fab. I stayed for a while then went back to the tent for a bit of a sleep. The landlord insited on calling me “Young man”. they do a nice line in irony in the Borders

I quite like Newcastleton. Its real name is Copsawholme and the locals just call it “Holme”. I expect this casues no end of jollity in the Borders Police force. “Where do you live, sonny?”
“Holme” Ossifer.   “Tha’ll do laddie, now where do you live?”
I did 19 miles 1400 feet of upness and my feet were sore. If you ever walk the Border, there’s better ways than this one.