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.

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..?

Border Walk Day 6 Beaumont Valley to Town Yetholm

Today’s word is “Mizzly”
At about six in the morning, I awoke to the unmistakeable sizzle of drizzle on the flysheet. A brief peek out revealed a grey world of drifting fine rain. I snuggled down.
By half seven the mist had lifted up the hillside a bit, but the rain was still driving across the fells, and across the flysheet. I really didn't fancy the Border ridge in this clag, and I was wet enough already in the sock supply department. The solution was clear. I was at the head of the Beaumont Valley – which, if followed northwards, would deliver me in a reasonably dry state to Town Yetholm, which has a campsite and a pub, and, possibly a shop where Toblerones can be bought. And – and this is important – I could have a lie in because it wasn't too far and it was, basically, downhill.
So thats what I did.
A lazy breakfast of tea, porridge and prunes later and I packed up the soaking akto and pushed my way up through the Juncus to the col which holds Clennel Street.

The downhill bit to Cocklaw Head is a delight to walk on. And – for those interested in such things, it passes a fortified settlement or two on the way. The Cheviots are full of these things – almost one on every hilltop. They are, in the main, just a ring of earthworks circling a hilltop, big enough to hold a family or two and their cattle and horses. They’re also very close together, so they must have been some kind of tactical support arrangements. Anyway, they’re nothing to do with the Treaty of York borderline – they’re iron age and were generally occupied by the Votadini, a British tribe with a positive attitude to the Romans, who, despite the Wall being far to the South, had a significant presence around here.
This is Goddodin – Hen Ogledd. These peeps founded Edinburgh as a place for shopping and slightly surreal street plays. Read all about the Votadini here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Votadini

Anyway, there’s not much to say about the Beaumont Valley. I expect its quite pretty, but the hillfog was well down and the drizzle drizzled continuously, so nothing much cpuld be seen.
Town Yetholm was much better. The campsite is good and cost just a fiver, the shop has pies and bread rolls and merlot and chocolate….   and the pub, where it was going to be Caribbean Night, come in a loud shirt, was friendly and I chatted to a couple of camper-van campers from the campsite (where else?) over several pints of Guinness
I had a night in with the merlot, corned beef and rolls and the last of the shop’s supply of Sly Cake (Fruit slice to you) and The Scotsman newspaper. It drizzled continuously most of the night.
Today was just ten miles and 400 feet of uphill. A purist and idiot would have done the Pennine Way, which would have been much further and wetter and there would have been a fine view of exactly bugger all.

Border Walk Day 5 Pennine Way to Clennel Street

Early in the morning, as I sat and scoffed my egg butty, the rain was bouncing down outside Forest View in a specially vicious and thundery kind of way. As I left though, it stopped. Then it started again. I sheltered whilst it passed. This was the pattern for the morning – nasty but brief showers.

But the walking was much easier. This was The Pennine Way. It has a few boggy bits to start with then its a highway of duckboards and sandstone slabs which make for fast and easy progress. No navigation is done. Well, not much anyway.

I got to the ten mile hut, so called because its eight miles from Byrness. there’s a twenty mile hut, similarly not twenty miles from Byrness. I lunched inside the hut and read the hut log. Somebody had recently donated maps of the Howgill fells and some boxer shorts, diahorrhea medicine and various other weight-saving accoutrements and potions.

Somewhere around lamb Hill the mist descended and another walker passed the other way – the only other soul I would see till tomorrow. It began to drizzle and the wind picked up to form that lovely Northern driving drizzle that makes sitting beside a roaring fire with a warm barmaid on your knee and a copy of a Charles Dickens novel so desirable.
It was the best of times.

At Windy Gyle, I decided I’d done enough. I would seek out a camping spot out of the wind and with some nice water and I would resume the Pennine Way bit in the morning. I was wet enough again. The feet were suffering again and they needed a rest. they were no worse, though. Maybe they were finally getting used to the idea. The left foot had brought a note from it’s mum, but I could tell it had written it itself. It had misspelled “diphtheria”.
The Scottish side of the Border fence provides the best camping spots, in my experience, so I followed Clennel Street northwards. Clennel Street, I should explain is an ancient cross-border route which is now just a track, green in places and rough surfaced in others. I understand that there were meetings of the “authorities” of both countries at the Russell’s cairn where the road crosses the border. there were hangings and shootings and fatal incidents there on occasions. You’d think twice about camping there on a wild and drizzly night like wot this was turning out to be.

The strong wind from the East determined a camp down the hill on the west side. I found a spot. Put up the akto and retired inside for my dehydrated spag bol and the 25cls of cheapo scotch I’d saved for just such an occasion.
The drizzle drizzled on the tent all night. At some point the mist enveloped everything.
I quite like nights like that.
Today’s was 14 Miles and 2700 feet.

Border Walk Day 4 Kielder to Byrness

There’s phrase for today is “A walk on Northumberland County Council’s Comedy Bridleway”
I started well again – in the correct direction (albeit after some urgent replanning) and with happier feet than last night.
I’d originally intended to follow the Border ridge over Peel Fell and Carlin Tooth to Carter Bar and then on to Hungry Law. Reality stepped in somewhere and I realised that, for me, this would be a two day walk, or at least one and a half…

Anybody else determined to walk the Border should really go this way and allow the appropriate amount of time. As it was, I wasn’t up to it, I had a bed booked at Byrness and a ticket at Berwick, so I could only take an extra day by forfeiting these things. Look, I’m a Yorkshireman, don’t be so daft.
So a direct bridleway going almost all the way the Byrness in fairly short order looked to be an easy option. How wrong could I be?
The Toll road at the A68 from Kielder leads the innocent innocuously into the inhospitable interior (thats enough of that now…)  At East Kielder the bridleway starts over rough pastures with cows and sheep and a vague air of neglect.

At Kielderhead bothy, there’s a beck to be paddled, some deep nettles and a barricaded gate all of which would effectively prevent a person on horseback progressing any further. The bothy is locked and bolted and closed due to Neds and their boozy parties and random vandalism and general arseholiness. It adds to the atmosphere but shows that the Forestry Commission can spend money on blocking up this building but bugger-all on the right of way.

I entered tussock land. The tussocks here are deep and green and lush and big. The line of the path is less than obvious.
As it progresses eastwards, it gets no better. Sometimes there’s a thin trod which appears to be more of a sheep trod. Sometimes there is deep and ravenous bracken, well over head height. Within the bracken there are holes for the ankles.

Eventually, after many an hour of struggle, it gets worse. It started raining very heavily at this point, just to add to the delight, and having just put my foot into a two foot deep hole full of cold, black methane-water, I was rejoicing at being out, I can tell you.
I heaved my way up throught he dep heather and ever deeper bracken to Girdle Fell, using GPS to hit the boundary at just over 520 metres. Here, there was a bit of a path and a noticeboard describing the walk to the waterfall and picnic place. Its a good job I didn;t try to go there. Both the path and the pickernick area are pure figment of Tilshill Forestry’s fevered imagination. maybe they get a grant or something.

Just as things were getting better (it stopped raining) – it got a lot worse. The bridleway plunges very steeply through seven foot deep bracken down a forest ride. Lower down the ride is competely blocked by large fallen trees. The local black flies add to the sheer fckn enjoyment of this place.
Eventually, I was on the verge of giving up altogether when I noticed, on the opposite side of the beck, a forest road. The bridleway itself was nowhere to be seen More bracken and trees seemed to be in the way. I plunged through the last of the jungle and crossed the beck. The forest ride, which incidentally was supposed to have the picnic area lead easily through a locked gate (how are you supposed to get to the non-existent picnic area?) – through a beef field, of which I was in no mood to have any nonsense from – so they allran away – down to Catcleugh reservoir where it started chucking it down again.

I eventually arrived, somewhat bedraggled, or at least , more bedraggled than usual at the Forest view Hostel at Byrness where I was gently deprived of my soaking waterproof, boots and nasty socks and had hot tea and cold beer and a bit of sympathy from Colin and Joyce.  Joyce and Colin must be well rehearsed in tending to the needs of the fragged off the Pennine Way and, despite the return of the pain in the foot, it was a good end to a duff day.
About the bridleway – Something Must Be Done. This is an important route. Its not Government Cuts, Northumberland County Council, its years and years of neglect. A few strong words with those foresters would be a start, and maybe a few wooden stakes will yellow paint on the top would help to establish a path that can be followed. You know , the sort of thing they have everywhere else…….
In theory at least, I covered 13 Miles  with 1500 feet of ascent. It felt like a week in the Burmese jungle.
On the plus side, I got the socks washed and the the tent dried and I got fed, showered, watered, beered and cheered up. I will be in contact with Northumberland CC about this.
More of which later…

A Light Touch on the Border

November always seems like the end of the walking year to me. So, each November, I try to plan out whatever it is I might do the next year. In the past, this has inevitably had a four (ish) day backpacking trip in April as a pre-TGO shakedown; May is for the TGO and October is a fortnight in Wales. June, July and August each will have a week Hewitt bagging or whatever….  Last year I walked a high level route across Cumbria , for instance.
So this year, I decided that in August I will walk the English/Scottish Border and this has now crept up on me and slapped my head asking if I’m ever going to start planning for it.
And the answer is “No”. I’ve decided not to. I’m just going to buy a train ticket to Carlisle and walk till I get to Berwick.

I start on 9 August (according to  my diary) and, roughly speaking, the walk goes like this:
9/8/10 Carlisle to Longtown
10/8/10 Longtown to Newcastleton
11/8/10 Newcastleton to Kielder
12/8/10 Kielder to Byrness
13/8/10 Byreness to somewhere else
14/8/10 Wherever I was the night before to Kirk Yetholm
15/8/10 Kirk Yetholm to Coldstream (ish)
16/8/10 Coldstream(ish) to Berwick on Tweed.
And that’s it. Planned.
Lets see what happens if you just set off….
Will I make it?

Bizzle Burn and The Cheviot

Saturday 6 February 2010.

Following a light breakfast, rustled up by a team of OTHC members, there seemed to be various plans afoot to bag this or that marilyn, or even both this and that Marilyn, to he Schil or The Cheviot and, being the grumpy old bugerigar that I am, I decided that as I’d never been up The Cheviot by the Bizzle Burn route, that’s what I’d do today.

And that’s what I did. The morning could best be described as “driech” and hill fog seemed to be at a fairly low level.

I wandered down the valley and turned up a side dale to Dunsdale, an isolated farmstead which now provides income to the estate as a holiday home.

At Dunsdale I began the long climb up by Bizzle Burn, a deep vee-shaped craggy gash, mainly hidden in the dense fog.

As I climbed, I started coming across a dusting of fresh snow, and this became a general cover after a while. There were also steep banks of hard snow which needed a step or two kicked here and there, and, ever higher, there was a deep, hard snow covered by about half a foot of fresh stuff. This made for heavy work and the fog and the snow made for a blank white and grey world with hardly any reference points.

Then I saw the sun – just emerging through the mist. I worked out that if I headed just a bit to the left of the sun, I should be pretty much on target for the summit trig point, provided I did it fairly quickly (bearing in mind that the sun doesn’t stay very still….)

So this is what I did. The mist remained thick with just this little yellow beacon shining through. I came to the fence that runs over the top. The fence had just the top inch of each fencepost sticking out of the snow. I guessed the direction of the trig and found it half a minute later. So that worked well. I heard voices.

Then, suddenly, there was no mist and instead, there was warm sunshine and people, a couple, appeared. We enthused about the conditions for a bit and they were replaced by another couple and a dog.

I started on the return trip – following the first couple’s footprints as far as Cairn Hill, where they were lunching, then I followed some more footprints along the Pennine Way to West Cairn Hill, where I met a large party of Over the Hill Clubbers coming the other way. We exchanged friendly greetings and I followed their tracks down to Auchope Cairn and a little way down the steep hill below it.

A short hop down the head of the Colledge Valley, past the bottom of the Hen Hole gorge – which seemed to have a bit of avalanche debris in it – back to Mounthooley for hot tea, a warm by the fire and a snooze.

Various posses of OTHC members cooked and served dinner and yet more damage was done to supplies of loopy juice, although several members were seen to be dozing off. There were early nights. A very few got to bed around 3:00 am. There was, apparently, less snoring. I suspect this may be that the culprit wasn’t in bed for very long.

The walk was 9 miles and 2500 feet of uphill and, it has to be said, probably much easier in the deep, hard snow than it’s normal outrageously boggy state.