OSGB GRID REF. NY838832. BELLINGHAM

YOUR EARLY MORNING CALL, SIR

MY HOTEL IN THE HILLS

MATT, ME AND JAMES SITTING OUT THE STORM

WATERLOGGED ON THE CHEVIOT

WHITLEY PIKE

PRETTY BELLINGHAM

Friday 14 August, and I was awoken from my slumber by the loud mooing of a curious herd of cattle who had surrounded my tent. I am getting used to this sort of thing, so we all minded our own businesses as I dismantled the tent and packed my rucksack. 

The Cheviot Hills are at the northern end of the Pennine Way trail, so by mid-morning I was steadily and laboriously climbing my way into them. The day was cooler and there was light rain. I knew that the weather was expected to deteriorate further, so I had donned my waterproofs right from the start. 

My initial destination was a 601 metre hill called The Schil. As I came over its summit the wind strengthened dramatically. Its severity was growing steadily, so when I arrived at Auchope Mountain Refuge Hut roughly a mile and a half south of The Schil, I decided to take shelter in it. Shortly after, three mountain bikers, Tony, John and Luke, joined me to get similar respite from the penetrating wind and repair Luke's bike. By then it was late afternoon. The bikers were destined for Kirk Yetholm and they still had ample time to fight their way through the buffeting gale to get there before the light failed, so they rode on. Walking south, however, I would need about 9 hours to get safely down from the exposed hills. This meant that I would inevitably become stranded at height in the dark - not a wise idea in a howling gale when erecting a tent on my own might prove impossible. The only sensible choice was to stay in the Refuge Hut overnight and proceed in the morning when, hopefully, the wind will have blown itself out. Fortunately I'd brought sufficient food for supper and breakfast, and Tony had given me an additional half litre of water before he cycled off. 

A young lady, a teacher, properly equipped for hill walking, also stopped briefly at the refuge before opting to proceed to Kirk Yetholm. Then, at around 7.30pm, Newcastle University post-graduates Matt and James turned up. They were in a similar situation to me, so all three of us ended up spending the night in the wind buffeted Refuge Hut. 

It was still raining next morning and the wind, though diminished, was still strong. However, the night spent protected in the Refuge Hut had restored my spirit. I now had over 12 hours of daylight ahead of me, so I dressed myself in all my warm and waterproof clothing and set forth with the intent of making Byrness by early evening. Along the way I made a detour to the 813 metre high Cheviot, the highest mountain in Northumberland, and found myself chatting to Pete. Similarly drenched, he had arrived at the summit at the same time but from a different direction. 

The weather improved throughout the day, making the walk all the more pleasant. Byrness is small, but I had been informed that I could get a meal at the local Youth Hostel. When I got there all the rooms were booked, but I was able to pitch my tent in the garden. As for the meal, I had bangers and mash and it was excellent. There was plenty to chat about with the other Hostel guests, who were mostly walkers. 

Next morning I made myself a good breakfast then headed off to Bellingham (pronounced Bellinjum). The weather was mixed and the going very, very boggy at times, but otherwise the day was relatively uneventful. The best views were nearest the end of the walk, but by then my aching feet had diminished my ability to appreciate them. I was due another rest day so I had booked two nights at the Lyndale Guest House in Bellingham just before leaving Byrness. I arrived at about 6.00pm to be greeted by friendly hosts Ken and Joy. Joy prepared a pot of coffee for me while I removed my boots. I think I'm going to like it here.

OSGB GRID REF. NT823281. KIRK YETHOLM

THE CHOIR MUST HAVE POWERFUL VOICES AT THIS STOW CHURCH

WINDMILLS OF YOUR MIND

WALTER SCOTT MEMORIAL ATOP HIGHEST OF EILDON HILLS

WATERLOO MONUMENT

KIND HOSTS STEPH AND MIKE

Leaving Stow, I headed southwest climbing the steep flanks of Torsonse Hill. There was a huge wind farm under construction near the Hareshawhead Plantation. I probably wouldn't get much support for this from the locals, but I actually find the windmills attractive, with their sleek towers and beautifully shaped blades, like sweeping scythes. I wondered if they condemned the windmills in Holland when they were first built? 

After about 8 miles I came down to Lowood, on the River Tweed between Galashiels and Melrose, and then followed the route of the Southern Upland Way into Melrose itself. This was where I had hoped to meet fellow end-to-enders John and Jane again following our earlier meeting in Fort William. Sadly, a family crisis had forced them to abandon their walk. I know that this will have been a great disappointment to them. 

I was a little ahead of schedule, so I lingered a while in this neat and historic town, but the overlooking Eildon Hills were an even bigger draw. I climbed into them following the St. Cuthbert's Way path, which passes over the saddle between the two largest of the three hills. I thought that I might climb one of these hills, but couldn't decide which. Eventually, I just dropped the rucksack at the saddle and climbed both - with no weight on my back I practically floated, so this took less than 30 minutes. 

Satisfied, I continued to follow the St. Cuthbert's Way path to Newtown St. Boswells and pitched my tent alongside the River Tweed. The location by a beautifully constructed suspension footbridge was idyllic - and there were no midges. 

My riverside walk continued for a few miles next morning. I bought some provisions in St. Boswells (a different place to Newtown St. Boswells), then left the river at Maxton to join Dere Street, the route of an old Roman Road. In the distance ahead I could see the tower of the Waterloo Monument, dedicated to Wellington's great achievement in battle. I later turned off Dere Street and climbed up to the Monument before descending the other side of the hill into Nisbet, where I had an invitation to stay the night. 

My connection to Mike and Steph, my hosts in Nisbet, was via mutual friends Pete and Rosemary Yeoman, the later being responsible for making my rucksack banner. Mike and Steph are a wonderful couple who I warmed to immediately. I felt pampered when Mike gave me crisps and a lager to enjoy while I bathed, and he later cooked supper. The subsequent provision of a Glenmorangie ensured I slept well. 

A full breakfast set me up for the following day, and I enjoyed a final cup of tea with Steph on their patio, with its magnificent countryside views, before bidding farewell to rejoin the St. Cuthbert's Way path. 

The weather was perfect for walking and I reached my next destination, Kirk Yetholm, by the early evening. I consumed an excellent beef casserole at the Border Hotel and chatted to some of the other customers, including Steve and Sue, who I had bumped into several times during the day. They were following the St. Cuthbert's Way to it's eventual destination at Lindisfarne. 

It was dark when I finally retreated to the river to pitch my tent. Tomorrow I start the Pennine Way, Britain's first National Trail, which will take me by a 268 mile route all the way to Edale, near Sheffield.

OSGB GRID REF. NT458446. STOW

JOGLE RUNNER JOE BEFORE HIS FRINGE ACT

EDINBURGH'S ROYAL MILE

I WASN'T THE ONLY ROAD USER

IDYLLIC STOW

FIONA WITH NEIL WITH CHILDREN AIDAN AND MAGGIE

On my way along Edinburgh's Royal Mile to meet Sarah on the Friday evening, I was approached by a chap called Joe Donnachie who had spotted the John o'Groats to Land's End banner on my rucksack. Joe had recently run between the two end points himself and was interested in comparing routes, etc. He was presenting his experiences the following day at a one-man Festival Fringe show entitled 'The Road to Endorphia' and gave me a flyer. 

Sarah lives just a couple of miles from the centre of Edinburgh so we walked in to enjoy Joe's show. The rest of the afternoon was spent watching various street performers and drinking in the lively Festival atmosphere.

On the Sunday we saw an act called 'Circa' at the Assembly Hall - a kind of mixture of gymnastics and contemporary dance. It was really engaging, right to the end. 

The easy-going weekend, coupled with daily baths and the regular application of anti-inflammatories had resulted in my leg feeling much less painful. Just as well as the walk resumed on Monday.

I said my grateful goodbyes to Sarah and was on my way at 9.00am. Leaving Edinburgh inevitably involved some road walking. After Gorebridge I had intended to follow a disused railway track, but wasn't convinced that it was walkable, so I ended up doing a bit of car dodging on the A7 instead. Happily, at Heriot, I was able to divert to an old road which ran parallel to the A7. The road was at a more elevated level than the A7 and undulated like a switchback over the hills, but gave me great views of Gala Water and the path of the old railway line below. I had seen several official notices stating that certain areas of land on the path of the old rail track were to be 'vested' by the local authority to enable a new railway service into Edinburgh to be constructed. Later, I noted that at least one house had been built on the old line, so I assume that this will be demolished. 

My route turned out to be a good choice for the relatively easy walking enabled me to cover about 23 miles, getting me all the way to Stow (pronounced as in 'How Now Brown Cow') by 8.00pm.

One of the attractions of Stow, or so I thought, was that it had a pub. My disappointment when I stood outside the closed premises was considerable. I chatted to couple Fiona and Neil living opposite, and they confirmed that there were no other pubs in the village. My heart sank. Such was Fiona's sympathy that she rushed inside and returned with 4 tins of cold beer. In an otherwise uneventful day, this was yet another example of how generously the people of Scotland treat visitors. I wild-camped by the river and enjoyed 2 of the beers with my al fresco beef and rice supper. The others I will enjoy tomorrow.

OSGB GRID REF. NT276730. ARTHUR'S SEAT, EDINBURGH

UPPER GLENDEVON RESERVOIR

PATH? WHAT PATH?

THE BEAUTIFUL OCHILS

SEWAGE WORKS CAMPSITE

A BRIDGE TO NOWHERE

WEST FIFE CYCLE WAY INTO DUNFERMLINE

TWO GREAT BRIDGES

SARAH AND FINGAL AT ARTHUR'S SEAT

I was exhausted when I reached the Blackford Hotel after my 'walk too far' from Muthill. After two pints of soda water and lime to rehydrate myself, I had a shower and went straight to bed. My sleep pattern was disturbed and I woke up every few hours, but finally arose at 7.00am feeling fine. A good breakfast made up for the omission of the previous night's supper. The hotel staff knew that I had really wanted a room with a bath in which to immerse my aching feet and legs. None had been available at the time, but they kindly cleaned the bathroom of a room vacated by another guest early in the morning and allowed me to have a good long soak.

Suitably recuperated and with diary writing duties completed, I hobbled off south across the Ochil Hills in the direction of Tillicoultry, taking care not to jar my right leg too much. A path was marked on the map and, amazingly, one existed on the ground, although sometimes so indistinct I wondered if you really needed Scottish blood in you to see it. There was even an occasional sign or style to reassure me I was on the right track. It was T-shirt weather and the walk can be counted amongst the most pleasurable to date. The views of Upper Glendevon Reservoir and the steep-sided Ochil mountains were breathtaking, so I was happy to take my time. When I reached the top of Skythorn Hill, I was simultaneously excited to see the Lowlands ahead and sad that I would now be leaving the last vestige of the dramatic Highlands behind me.

After the final descent into Tillicoultry, I found a pub for the obligatory 'end of walk' beer and, with the help of a local, identified a place to pitch the tent - right next to the local sewage works. The complete change of environment had been remarkably rapid.

My right shin was quite swollen, but this had largely subsided by morning. I thus prepared my maps, broke camp and headed off for Dunfermline. It was a beautiful sunny day. I had walked for little more than a few minutes before I came to a place called the Community Internet Cafe Society. I popped inside for a cup of tea and to check my webmail. Polly, working there, saw my rucksack banner and took some mini-posters so that she could do some promotion on my behalf. For the third time to date, I left without paying, but this time at Polly's insistence. I will put another £2 towards the charities anyway.

I continued my walk past Gartmorn Dam to join another disused railway track near Clackmannan. Given my earlier experience with a disused railway track, I was cynically expecting this one to be yet another impenetrable mass of foliage. Not so. This was a full-blown tarmac expressway for cyclists, renamed the West Fife Cycle Way, and leading all the way into Dunfermline. There were even signs at kilometre intervals informing me of the remaining distance. I was able to maintain one kilometre every 12 minutes, even with the shin-split injury. There were, however, two negative factors about this path. Firstly, it is straight, uniform, lined with head-high foliage and really boring. Secondly, almost all the other users were on two wheels and whizzed past with their eyes firmly focused ahead, generally too frightened of falling off to give even a wave. With this lack of either visual interest or social interaction, I just put the headphones on and listened to music from my portable stereo as I walked.

When I arrived, Dunfermline seemed like many other towns and I wasn't inclined to stay. It was getting late so I needed to get out of the centre anyway to find somewhere to pitch the tent. I walked right through the town to the other side and, as luck would have it, came to a 24-hour Tesco where I could resupply right next to a sports field where I could camp.

Next morning, I joined National Cycle Network route no. 1 which would take me into Edinburgh. I picked up some anti-inflammatories for my leg from a pharmacy in Inverkeithing and stopped for lunch at the viewing platform just south of the Forth, which gave me time to admire the two magnificent bridges crossing this huge river. The contrast between the massively over-engineered but incredibly strong cantilever railway bridge completed in 1890 and the more delicate looking suspension road bridge opened by the Queen in 1964 is remarkable.

The final walk into Edinburgh was uneventful. I arrived at a car park near Holyrood House to be met by Sarah and her cocker spaniel Fingal. Sarah had offered me accommodation in Edinburgh after hearing of my trek through a mutual friend. We walked up to Arthur's Seat together, which delighted Fingal. The weekend was the start of the Edinburgh Festival so I could not have timed my arrival better.

OSGB GRID REF. NN897089. BLACKFORD

BEN LAWERS SUMMIT

MATHIEU AT BRAVEHEART BACKPACKERS HOSTEL

FALLS OF DOCHART AT KILLIN

RAILWAY PATH - TRY LIMBOING UNDER THIS IN A RUCKSACK

WATCH ME WAGGLE MY EARS - DONKEY HUMOUR

Anticipation of the Ben Lawers climb and the coldness of the concrete-floored Visitor Centre got me out of my sleeping bag early. Breakfast comprised of some chocolate marshmallows I had bought in Bridge of Gaur, washed down with stream-water tea. I had brought a lightweight day sack with me and packed it with the usual hill-walking essentials: spare clothing, navigational aids, food and water, first aid kit, etc. With my main rucksack secreted behind a display stand at the Centre, I started the ascent.

It was 8.00am Sunday, and two couples had arrived in cars to undertake the climb themselves that day. Without the impediment of my usual weighty load I moved fast and was soon above them. My ascent was to be via the 3,619 foot summit of Beinn Ghlas, nearby. Once I had penetrated the cloud-base, visibility was greatly reduced, and it was eerily silent as I walked alone along the ridge that connected the two mountains. All this changed when, after a final steep climb, I reached the 3,983 foot summit of Ben Lawers. The bitterly cold wind was easily powerful enough to knock me onto my knees. After taking a photograph of the trig point and its companion cairn, I made my way back down via a more gentle path that contours around Beinn Ghlas. I was down by 11.00am so the whole event had taken just 3 hours, which included time spent chatting to other walkers.

The subsequent road walk to Killin was probably more hazardous, but I was courteous enough to wave to drivers who made obvious attempts to avoid me. In Killin I discovered the Braveheart Backpackers Hostel, supervised by Frenchman Mathieu, who was using the job as a means to improve his language skills.

My right leg was hurting again, this time at the front; probably a shin-splint. My right calf had also been suffering mild pain for few days, but I concluded that it was merely jealous of the attention the left one, now better, had received. Ignoring these injuries, I decided to continue walking the next day.

The fine weather of Sunday 2 did not continue into the Monday, so it was wet gear all the way. I started late because of diary-writing duties, and then made a navigational error that cost me an hour. As on Saturday last, I had to cross over a mountain between two path ends, but the mountain was lower, the distance was shorter and I was now more experienced. My navigation was spot-on, and I was on the outward path within an hour. It was starting to get late, so I tried to short-circuit a hairpin in the path only to discover that its purpose was to avoid a ridge, which I then felt compelled to climb down. My legs complained at this and, as it was nearly 9.00pm, I decided to camp at the southern end of Loch Lednock. It's no fun pitching a tent in the pouring rain.

It's even less fun packing it away in the pouring rain next morning, after having to put all yesterday's wet clothes back on again. My son, David, has joined the Territorial Army, so will have plenty of this to look forward to.

Initially, I headed for Comrie to buy some more food. I then attempted to find the path that follows the disused railway line which, I thought, would take me into Crieff. I quickly found out that the rules about footpaths I learned earlier still apply in a semi-urban environment. Just because a path is shown on the map, don't assume that you can follow it. Yes, the old railway line did exist, but parts of it were now private land and other parts were impassable because of foliage or because bridges over streams had gone. After bashing on for 3 hours, in which time I covered only 3 miles, I gave up and found myself a maintained path which enabled me to cover the next 3 miles in just 1 hour. This was in spite of my injured legs which, to an observer, would have probably made me look like a prime candidate for John Cleese's Ministry of Silly Walks, for those old enough to remember the sketch.

Crieff looked interesting, and I will put it on my list of places to visit in the future, but the walk from Comrie had taken longer than expected, so I continued on southwards to Muthill (pronounced Mooth-ill), which involved a walk alongside the A822. I thought that its straightness might make it safer, but car speeds were inevitably higher and drivers could now line me up in their sights earlier.

Since Crieff to Muthill had taken me one and a half hours, I thought that the similar distance from Muthill to Blackford would take similar time, getting me there by 8.00pm. Big mistake! The rule about paths and maps kicked in again. In fact, I found rather more paths than the map said which served to confuse even more. However, the state of most of the paths was dreadful, being overgrown, hard to recognise and with little signposting. One section took me though a field occupied by a large bull with huge, very sharp looking horns. He lifted his tail and started stomping his feet when he saw me, thinking perhaps that I was interested in his two attendant cows. I gave him a very wide berth, putting on an act of nonchalance as I walked briskly to the exit gate.

A new golf-course development had totally obliterated the final mile of footpaths into Blackford. My patience snapped at this point. I climbed over the gate and walked straight across it to arrive, completely shot-away, at the reception desk of the Blackford Hotel. It was 9.30pm, so at least I got a late booking discount. Shot-away later turned out to be quite an apt description of my physical state as the golf course developers apparently have a habit of shooting blanks above the heads of trespassers.