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.