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…

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.