Postscript

The Pennine Way is not a life changing experience, but it is certainly a life enhancing one. It is accessible to anyone who is moderately fit; it is not the exclusive reserve of the athlete.

Sometimes remote and challenging, it is not a wilderness walk; each night provides the opportunity of a bed, most nights the prospect of a beer. The walk is not England’s longest continuous path, but it is the oldest and remains the best known.

It is not everywhere beautiful; many miles are over soggy, featureless, dreary moors and many a tedious hill is there to be climbed, seemingly just for the torment of the ascent. But it does traverse much of England’s best landscapes and throughout crosses ground that echoes to the songs of the ages.

At Kirk Yetholm, I was asked if I would ever wish to walk the route again. My response then was unequivocally negative, “Not in its entirety, no, never again.”

Now, less than a year after the walk’s conclusion, I would not be so adamant. It haunts the memory so.

Day 19: From Uswayford to Kirk Yetholm - 13 miles

It was only after paying the bill and the realisation that drinks were not charged as an additional item that Bob might have had some regrets for having endured a dry night.

“That was a bit pricey. Don’t you think it would be fair if you reimbursed me for the price of the drinks I didn’t have,” Robert suggested hopefully.

“Bollocks,” I said, eloquently refuting his flawed logic.

We retraced our steps back to the border fence and paddled uphill towards the hump of The Cheviot. Where the path was unmade, it was again very boggy. At King’s Seat, miles from any obvious access point, a line of jogging squadies followed a PTI: a breed of men apart, unlike any mere mortal. The soldiers were hardly couch potatoes themselves; none had the common decency to puff, sweat or cough, all as fresh and bright as the buttons on their dress tunics would undoubtedly be.

“It’s pointless running, the bus just left,” Bob joked.

“Aye,” one answered with a grimace, mightily impressed with the originality of the quip.

At Cairn Hill, we considered the pros and cons of a two-mile detour to the summit of The Cheviot and back. We were having a short day. We were fresh. The weather was on the chilly side, but dry. The path to the summit is paved, and rises barely two hundred and fifty feet to the trig column. Time was not an issue; we would be there and back well within the hour.

We gave it a miss.

It must have been hellish crossing the mire en-route to Auchope Cairn before it was duck-boarded. I don’t understand how water consistently defies gravity and gathers to lay stagnant on a mountain top. The soldiers reappeared at the cairn and took an uncharacteristic rest. Heaven knows where they’d been, or where they went: we weren’t to see them again.

The wet and steep descent alongside the hanging valley of Hen Hole, to the refuge hut at the head of the College valley, required care. We paused to chat to a chap heading south on the first day of his trek to Edale: it seemed such a long way to walk. He was staying at Uswayford for the night. For the first time in days, the ground conditions improved to the point where it was merely wet.

We lunched at the hut before the slog to the last top of the walk. The Schill is a grand little mountain: abrupt and conical with a crown of rock on its narrow top. It is set a little aside from the main range of the Cheviot Hills, offering long views across the low-lying lands to the sea, along the western scarp of the hills and back to Auchope Cairn. It is an irresistible spot from which to just sit and quietly absorb the landscape.

“Hallo Kath, I’m on The Schill. Where are you? The view’s great, the weather’s dry,” Bob shouted into his mobile.

I had heard many variants of the same theme over the past days. Technology is wonderful.

Kath was driving up to meet us at Kirk Yetholm. They had booked the last room at the Border Hotel; I was staying at digs nearby. The conversation was a reminder that we were nearly done. We had made it, almost.

The route maintains its interest to the end. We had another decision to make after re-crossing the border fence into Scotland for the last time. It was to be either the official route, energetically clinging to the high ground to the last, or the gentler, wet weather alternative, down to the Halter Burn at Burnhead.

“If Burnhead was good enough for Wainwright, it’s good enough for us,” we agreed.

The walk reserves one last sting for the final yards. The two routes merge on a narrow surfaced lane less than a mile from home, there to ascend one hundred and fifty feet to the final ridge top. To compound our distress a party of roadmen, shovels skilfully parked to give maximum comfort and support to their inactive frames, expertly assessed our progress to the crest.

“The bastards are awarding points.”

“Technical merit, two; artistic interpretation, nil,” Bob speculated.

We arrived in the agreeable but unremarkable village of Kirk Yetholm just as the heavens opened for one last time. It was a fitting finale to the trek.

We headed for the shelter of our separate refuges without further deliberation. The village is a busy little place, catering as ever for the needs of walkers, but nowadays more occupied with the requirements of those walking the shorter, friendlier Saint Cuthbert’s Way from Melrose to Lindisfarne. A party of St Cuthbert Way walkers were to join me in the lounge at Valleydene.

"Walking?”

“Yes.”

“Far?”

“I started at Edale.”

“Oh, you’ve done The Pennine Way. Congratulations!”

Not such a bad accolade, in fact from another walker it was high recognition indeed. A non-walker simply would not have understood.

The Border Hotel belies all my prejudices against Scottish pubs. It is smart and comfortable, serves terrific food and has excellent Borders brewed real ale. The decisive factor is that the pub still honours Wainwright’s promise of a free drink at the end of the walk. The accompanying register confirmed that Graig and Annie had claimed their halves two days before.

We all enjoyed a good night at the Border Hotel.

Accommodation (1): Valleydene, Kirk Yetholm (01573 420314)

£18.00

This was yet another comfy and good value spot.

Accommodation (2): Border Hotel, Kirk Yetholm (01573

420237)

£40.00 pppn (2 Sharing)

Day 18: From Byrness to Uswayford (Clennell Street) - 16 miles

The day started with my first sighting of a Siskin, a bonny little bird: unfortunately it was dead, a casualty of the A68. There followed a steep, long, muddy climb through a forest ride, followed by a short, easy scramble onto the ridge. The great thing is that, by the time you’re in Byrness, fitness levels have increased to the point where climbing is hardly an effort.

The Cheviots are a revelation: a complex grouping of lonely and exposed, rounded grassy ridges, offering sublime views all around. Wet and treacherous underfoot conditions predominate from the start. The very worst ground is spanned by duck boarding or stone trods, but much of what remains is horrendous: the Leeds chaps were not exaggerating. The Cheviots, certainly after rain, and I guess that that is most of the time, are very demanding. The abiding memory of the Cheviot crossing is the sound of sucking, clarty mud. One’s boot laboriously dragged and reluctantly released from the cloying ground at each successive step.

At least the weather had improved a shade: when attacked it was by infrequent, if heavy, showers.

The first highlight of the day is the crossing into Scotland: it is at an unremarkable stile over a wire stock fence, but it is a landmark moment of the walk. We had indeed walked to Scotland, albeit returning over the fence into England after a couple of hundred yards.

I’m sure the Chew Green Roman Camp is of interest to archaeologists: to the untutored eye it is merely a series of humps and bumps in the earth. It is an isolated spot. We had seen no one before arriving at Chew Green; we saw only one other walker during the entire day.

After the camp, the route climbs again to the border fence, here following the Roman Dere Street for a while. One of the fascinations of walking these tracks through the hills is their antiquity: literally walking in the footsteps of Roman and Reiver, Drover and Iron Age warrior. Simple paths can have poignancy more profound than many a grander monument.

Once the border fence is regained the route pretty well sticks with, or near it, over a succession of heights and dips. Everywhere is soggy, sometimes intimidating. It is impossible to distinguish deep peaty pools from innocuous shallow puddles; a careless, step will plunge the unwary loin deep in cold, glutinous goo. The views, into the Teviot valley and across to the shapely Eildon Hills and beyond, are striking and compensate for the pain. The highest land, though, is wild and empty; burns, knowles and laws decorate the map. It is spectacular.

Over the past days, we had seen the occasional paw print impressed into the mud. We’d lost a day because of accommodation difficulties at Tan Hill, and another day through indolence at the Wall. The visitors’ book in the Yearning Saddle shelter, a wooden refuge, was the first real indication that Graig, Annie and Jake were still on the trail: they had passed here two days before and would probably be heading home by now.

The only sighting of another human, since leaving Byrness, was on the summit of Windy Gyle. We’d clambered to the top of Russell’s Cairn when a lone walker appeared from along the Coquetdale path bearing towards the giant pile of stones. He evidently wanted to preserve his seclusion: he stopped short of the summit, ostensibly for a drink, and waited until we were descending to Clennell Street, another ancient upland track, before he climbed to the cairn. It could have been that Robert’s reputation had preceded him.

We were breaking the Cheviot crossing at Uswayford, a remote hill farm. We walked along Clennell Street for a short distance before entering a forest, there intending to follow a bridleway to the farm. A track diversion along a forest road confused the approach to the farm. Entering a steep pasture above the settlement we made a beeline for the house’s approach track, and then along the road to the dwelling. Almost at the building, we faced a ford across the swollen Uswayford Burn. Dry feet were not at this time an issue; across we waddled without further ado. Once across, fifty yards upstream, the footbridge came into view!

The Buglasses reckon that their home is the remotest dwelling in England: few would argue. After a bath and a brush up there was little else to do other than eat a simple but satisfying meal, enjoy a yarn or two and attempt to denude the drinks cupboard of its alcoholic contents. Despite being a dozen miles or more from the nearest Public House, Robert, in a fit of puritanical abstinence, did not imbibe.

“I only ever drink at the pub,” he insisted.

Adapt or die, I thought.

It was a very agreeable stay, just enjoying the simple gratifications of a plain existence. There cannot be many places in England where urban noise and light impinge not one iota!

Accommodation: Mrs Nancy Buglass, Uswayford Farm, Harbottle, Morpeth (01669 650237)

£36.00 including evening meal and drinks

Other than bivouacking, camping or complicated back-up arrangements, a stay at the farm is just about the only alternative to tackling the 26 mile Cheviot crossing in one day: possible, but surly not at all pleasurable. The cost might be a bit on the top side, but it must be an expensive spot to provision, and the price did include all food and drink. I enjoyed the stay.

Day 17: From Bellingham to Byrness - 15 miles

In many respects, the walk over to Byrness is a repeat of the walk to Bellingham: a similar distance, a comparable, though higher, topography of mainly moor and forest and an overwhelming sense of loneliness and isolation. The additional, special feature was the weather, by far the worst of the entire journey. Not ordinary rain; it was an endless torrent of teeming water which probed expensive, modern outdoor clothing, effortlessly overwhelming weaknesses in materials or flaws in design. Water lay in sheets over already sodden ground; deep bog indistinguishable from shallow mere. It was not a good day.

We took the lower, alternative route, alongside Hareshaw Burn, but not out of consideration for the farmer’s stock. We wanted to circumvent an avoidable if modest climb. The Gods provoked, it was here the rains began. Memories of much of the rest of the day’s walk are ones of coarse grasses and mud, puddle and heath, trees and mist. In truth, it was a bit of a plod. I would like to walk over Whitley Pike and around Padon Hill again in fine weather, to gain a fairer impression of the countryside hereabouts.

Once in the shelter of the conifers the full force of the storm blunted a little. It’s fashionable to be disdainful of large commercial woodlands, but I liked the Kielder Forest: it is high and rolling with intermittent views over the trees to the hills. Sometimes woods can be claustrophobic, Kielder is not.

We met a group of about six young chaps from Leeds heading south. They’d started at Kirk Yetholm the day before, carrying full camping gear. The leader, a veteran of a previous south to north expedition, was as fresh as a bobbin; some of his companions were not. I’d wager that half would drop out before they reached the Wall. They talked glumly, graphically and at length about the peaty horrors of the Cheviot.

“They don’t know what they’ve got in front of them,” I ventured, after wishing them well.

“Do they know something we don’t?” Bob queried.

On the descent to Blakehopeburnhaugh we passed a little safari of a dozen or so off-road vehicles, lead by a Forest Enterprise Land Rover, lumbering uphill along the forest track. Although wet and footsore, I could not envy them their heated, air-conditioned adventure, hand held along the way by a forester on Sunday overtime.

We arrived in the rear lobby of the Byrness Hotel just as three lads from Newcastle were shedding layers of soaking army gear. We assumed they were squadies from the camp down the road at Otterburn. They were not, but they aspired to be and were happy enough to be mistaken for the real thing. The youths settled in the bar, waiting for a parental lift.

We didn’t get off to a good start with the hotel management: there was a mix up over room allocation, an unsuccessful attempt to displace Robert from his en-suite pad into an inferior room and a general sense of haughty proprietary disdain for their wet and mucky clientèle.

“This room is more expensive, you know, if you insist on staying you’ll have to pay the difference.”

“The pension should just about run to it, dear,” replied Bob.

“Basil and Sybil Fawlty are alive and well and living at Byrness,” I muttered.

Bob went down for an early evening meal. The wannabe squadies were by now a wee bit garrulous. An army half-track truck pulled into the car park, disgorging a party of Ramboesque warriors. The soldiers strode into the bar and ordered their fruit juices. Glancing first at our would-be fighters, then between themselves and again back at our trio, they fell into lively banter amongst themselves, giving the Geordies no further thought. Our lads froze, visibly shrinking in their seats, in total awe of their heroes.

“We got the gear in the Army Surplus store, it’s much cheaper than the outdoor shops,” they confided after the military had left.

I ate later and was horrified to see my walking pole mentor, with his spouse and friends, sat at an adjacent table. They’d had a rest day. Despite being naturally gregarious, I sat with my back to the group, huddled in a corner. I was near enough to monitor their conversation, though, dominated by my tutor’s observations on “the meaning of life, the universe and everything…”

The hotel was another Northumbrian real ale free zone, but again Guinness saved the evening. It was a good night in the end.

Accommodation: Mrs C Jackson, Byrness Hotel (01830 520231)

£25.00

The place is a bit quirky, but no worse for that. It does grow on you: the rooms are comfortable and the food is good.

Day 16: From Twice Brewed to Bellingham - 15 miles

The remains of the Wall strung along the ridge between Steel Rigg and Rapishaw Gap, are even more impressive than those further west. The weather remained just as miserable, though, with a worryingly thick mist enveloping the landscape. Resuming our progress along the monument, the long and impressive views remained masked, other than a glimpse down the rock face into Crag Lough far below. Nevertheless, it was with some regret that we left the Wall’s protection, to strike north into the empty wilderness of bog and forest.

This section of the walk left few profound impressions; it was hard going with very muddy conditions underfoot; the mist and occasional rain showers truncated the views. Care with route finding across the moors, rough pastures and through coniferous forests was needed. It was very lonely, particularly over the first, higher sections of the way. We had left the hoards a long way behind.

Along this stretch of the walk, after days of immersion in mucky bog and sludge, my boots gave up the will to live. Despite repeated treatments, the saturated leather had been worn deeply along the crease lines and had eventually cracked and been breached by the water. I wouldn’t enjoy dry feet for the remainder of the trip. The Scarpa boots are now enjoying a well-deserved semi-retirement, playing host to a pair of geraniums in my back garden.

At Warks Burn, we caught up with two couples taking a rest after having walked the two miles from Willowbog Farm. They had been walking the Pennine Way in sections over the last twelve years, and were hoping to finish in three or four days time, or perhaps later in the season.

“You will be starting the Appalachian Trail next year then?” I asked sweetly.

My wit unacknowledged, the leader seized my walking pole. He displayed all the attributes of a true pedant: a wide-eyed off-focus fixed stare, a tilted head and a manic grin.

“You’re not holding it properly, hold it like this,” he instructed.

Carefully teaching us dullards, he gave a slow motion and complex demonstration of the correct way to weave and thread one’s hand and wrist into, through and around the strap. He repeated the action several times.

“There, that’s how you hold it; did you see how it was done? Through, over and around, like so,” he added helpfully.

I retrieved my pole and we bade them goodbye.

“I was tempted to display the correct procedure for recovering the tungsten tip from his intestines.”

“What a prat,” Bob noted.

Bellingham is a grand little spot and the last place of any size along the route. I’d stayed there a few years before with Rita and was looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with the town. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have an outdoor shop stocking decent boots.

We were yet again fortunate to find very comfortable and welcoming accommodation, and they were happy to do our laundry for a nominal fee. Another chap joined us at the digs: a quiet and thoughtful Canadian who was walking from Kirk Yetholm to the Wall, to link up with sections of the walk he’d tackled on earlier visits.

Together we set out to sample the fleshpots. It is noticeable when visiting Northumbrian pubs that there is a sorry lack of houses serving proper beers: the norm for Scotland, but a sad state of affairs south of the border. After calling at the second pub, we realised that Bellingham’s licensed premises were not to be exceptions: it was to be another Guinness night. The pub was otherwise fine, the stout good and the company great fun.

Somehow, the conversation touched on native British tree species. Now, as a lad Bob was given an “I spy book of British Trees” and has considered himself an expert on all things arboreal ever since. It is also true that he has never been the one to call a Digitalis a Foxglove.

“Of course the Sycamore is a genus native to Britain,” Bob asserted.

“Sycamores belong to the maple family, a big group of northern temperate trees, of the genus acer. It is native to central and southern Europe. It’s a naturalised species here,” said the Canadian.

“I’m talking about the Great Sycamore; my sources suggest that it’s native.”

“You probably mean the North American Sycamore. That’s a plane tree; completely unrelated and, obviously, an introduction here.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” Bob asserted more forcefully.

“No, I’m positive. The European trees’ classification is Acer pseudoplatanus, the Platanus occidentalis is the North American sycamore,” Our man added authoritatively.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s my job. I’m a Professor of Botany.”

The conversation moved on to safer ground. I bet Robert checked his “I spy” book when he got home though.

Accommodation: Mrs Gaskin, Lyndale Guest House, Bellingham (01434 220361)

£26.00 +£1 laundry

Good value digs, which I’d be happy to recommend.

Day 15: From Longbyre (Greenhead) to Twice Brewed - 7 miles

Today’s walk would either be a half-day amble along the wall, or a twenty-mile plus hike through lonely moors and forests, to the valley of the North Tyne at Bellingham. The weather forecast was not good and yesterday’s hike had taken a toll on our energy levels; the saunter won the contest: we decided on a semi rest day.

It might only be a morning’s hike, but it was one of unerring quality and a surprisingly energetic one too. The climb to the wall passes beneath Thirwall Castle, itself built of stones recycled from Hadrian’s Wall and ripe with memories of the centuries-long border wars with the Scots. The Wall is unique. Despite the remains being at best fragmentary, they retain the capacity to evoke the power of ancient Rome. Even the weakest and most enfeebled imagination must stir to the ambiance of the stones: even Bob was quite impressed… probably.

The mist stayed down, denying long views along, and from, the Wall and drenching all it touched. Whatever was lost in scenic qualities was more than compensated for by the Wall's sheer atmosphere in the gloom. The weather deterred many other visitors to the monument; only occasional figures loomed out of the mist like legionnaires patrolling the lonely ramparts. Often these figures were hikers walking the length of Hadrian’s Wall along the new National Trail.

The map fails to properly communicate the sheer energy needed to walk along the Wall’s many and steep undulations. It is hard work.

We had intended to stay at the Once Brewed Youth Hostel, but with the day’s walk finished early, we couldn’t resist a lazy afternoon and a discounted price at the neighbouring Twice Brewed Inn.

When we arrived, the pub was having a busy lunchtime session, with most of the clientèle noisily concentrated at one end of the bar around a TV: the England versus Argentina World Cup football tie was on live from South Korea. Not being a soccer fan, I ate my snack at the opposite end of the long and narrow room, my only nearby company being a reserved Scottish couple. Whilst pleading indifference to the tournament and a disinterest in football, they professed an (unconvincing) wish for a home country victory.

I swear they flinched when England scored just before half time.

Accommodation: Twice Brewed Inn (01434 344534)

£18.00

The pub has seen better days, but the rooms were adequate and the food and beer were OK.

Day 14: From Garrigill to Longbyre (Greenhead) - 21.5 miles

Today’s was a long walk, with a sense that perhaps we had seen the best of the Pennines: ahead lay the Tyne gap, the Roman Wall and the Cheviots. The day was dry, though, and the walk along banks and pastures of the River South Tyne was just as fine as any valley saunter to be had anywhere. We did not visit Alston, but pressed on along the path, passing a group of travellers who were en-route to Appleby, with traditional horse drawn caravans.

Leaving the river at Slaggyford, we begged fresh water from the Hull born occupants of a converted old chapel, and paused for a natter: Bob, happily recalling his Humber birthright, joined in a reminiscence of the glories of Hull past and present. Not a fan of the city, I said nothing; I had spent a career avoiding a transfer to its insalubrious shores.

From Slaggyford we stayed with the bed of the old South Tyne Railway, now a walking and cycling track, to Lambley. The diversion from the official route saves nothing in time or distance. It is, however, a pleasant interlude of easy route finding and good conditions underfoot, with the prospect of inspecting Lambley’s graceful old Victorian railway viaduct. Whilst pausing for a snack we met another old veteran of the Way, breaking a long car journey with a breath of fresh air. Once achieved, it seems impossible to get the walk wholly out of one’s system.

I can add nothing to Tony Hopkins’s Trail Guide description of the bleak crossing from the South Tyne valley to the Tyne Gap:

“This is Hartleyburn Common, leading to the even more daunting expanse of Blenkinsopp Common. A wet desert of hair-moss and course grasses drifts away in all directions; sheep have a hungry look, birds are few and silent.”

This was another opportunity to hone compass skills; at first, there was no path, then just an intermittent trod in sodden, juicy ground. We met another walker heading for Lambley.

“Just keep heading for the trig pillar,” we were informed. “Good practice for the Cheviot, do you know? Much worse up there,” he added helpfully.

Wainwright’s pedantic view that the Pennine Way ought to have finished, with the Pennine range itself, at the Wall, began to take on a new, disquieting resonance. I reasoned, however, that the judgement of anyone who actually chooses an outing to Blenkinsopp Common for an afternoon’s hike must be somewhat suspect.

We arrived late and tired at our digs at Longbyre, just a couple of hundred yards up the road from Thirwall Castle. Whilst within sight of the day’s destination we had wandered off route into a wrong pasture: it was only a five-minute diversion, but annoying at the end of what was already the longest day of the trip.

The choice of Four Wynds for the night was another inspired accident: comfy, homely and welcoming, with laundry service thrown in, together with the bonus of a lift to a pub at Gilsland. The pub was refreshing too: nicely off the route, not at all touristy and busy with locals.

Accommodation:

Ross and George Bonnar, Four Wynds, Longbyre (016977 47330)

£25.00 (including laundry)

This is another recommended establishment.