Falkirk to Torrance

Nicest wild camping spot so far - as long as the horses don't try to eat my tent!

Saw the Falkirk Wheel today - pretty cool, would like to see it in action. Also remains of the Antonnine Wall - another Roman wall, built after the Hadrian Wall at the new northern border. Not much to really see at the wall and fort site, like most other Roman forts there is really just like terrain to give an idea of the shapes. What was previously excavated had been reburied to preserve it.

Edinburgh to Falkirk (2 days)

Getting started again has been a little rough - I thought the rest would do me good, and it surely did, but it also got me out of habit.

Two days out from Edinburgh now, walking along the beautiful Union canal. I was fortunate last night to follow a recommendation to try the Winchburgh bowls club for a rest and recharge (pub was closed for reno!), as it got me yet another characteristic evening of mad conversation with the locals. The accents were pretty strong here, but to be honest the subject matter was just as incomprehensible at times. One gentleman held me captive with assertions of historical inaccuracies and the definite truth of the Loch Ness monster, while his companions in The Monday Club rolled their eyes.

Last night I wild camped, and foolishly walked through thigh high nettles to reach a good spot. Thus far I had been scathing of the weak nothern hemisphere nettles, but en masse they managed to do their job. To get back through in the morning I simply wore my waterproof overtrou - why didn't I do that earlier!
Tonight I am much more comfortable, in a real campsite, having had a hot shower, and a hot meal, and relaxing on a comfy couch all evening.

Highlights today include crossing the Avon Aqueduct, Scotland's highest at 26m, and singing in a tunnel over 600m long, that canal and towpath passed through together.

Hawick and Turnbulls

Gosh I have been slacking!

Deepest apologies for missing days, I think have time off the walking makes me lazy in other areas as well.

I had originally planned to walk to Hawick from Kirk Yetholm, in time for the Common Riding, and some Turnbull clan activities. However, as you know I finished the Pennine Way far sooner than expected so instead pushed on to Edinburgh. I took a bus back to Hawick Thursday afternoon, and arrived in time to check into my B&B and then head out to check out the town. Many shops are closed for the common riding, but I did luck into arriving in the street just in time to see the Cornet climb to tie ribbons on the horse rider statue.

The Common Riding is a festival event in many Border towns, a ceremony of riding out to mark the boundaries of the 'common'. The Hawick festival also celebrates a minor victory over the English. Legend tells that after the 1513 battle at Flodden, the area was much depleted of its menfolk, and English marauders raided the border towns unhindered. However, in 1514 a group of young 'callants', untried in battle, rode out of Hawick and defeated a band of Englishmen, taking their flag back to the village.
A representation of this flag is carried by the Cornet (an elected young man, a great honour) to lead the riders in the Hawick Common Riding.

On Friday morning I got up early to see the riders depart the town (only one woman, and a few girls in over 200 riders - but that's another discussion). People cheered as the Cornet went by, for their favourite riders, or if they felt they hadn't cheered in a while. I turned to a lady nearby as the last horses passed, and asked where I needed to be to see the other main events of the day. I was immediately hustled over to a local woman that the lady I'd spoken to was acquainted with, and introduced as I solo traveller in need of assistance for the day. Thus I got myself adopted by the extended Armstrong family.

The main activity for most people, especially on the Friday of the Common Riding, is to head up to the moor/racecourse and await the return of the riders. The waiting is spent picnicking (and drinking) with family and friends, and checking out the few stalls and funfair rides. It wouldn't be much fun on your own, as there really isn't a lot to do, but I had been taken under wing, and so spent the morning assisting with putting up the gazebo and then relaxing and socializing, and of course playing music. Then we all stood on the racecourse edge to watch the riders gallop in, wave after wave thundering by, only a few a little lopsided from the infamous rum and milk. It was a truly impressive site (and made me wish to ride again/more/better)

The following day I planned to join some Turnbull clan members for a climb up to Fatlips Castle, once held by the Turnbull clan, and in arranging transport had got myself invited to join the tour group for the day, including lunch and a visit to Jedburgh.
I had been told to meet up with Teeq, who was also staying in my B&B, but had failed to catch her the day before and was desperately hoping I'd see her over breakfast. Fortunately she was easy to spot, and surprised me by being younger than myself! From Utah, but now in Atlanta, she is an actor and stagehand, and we very quickly found common ground for conversation and friendship.

Fatlips Castle is pressed on top of the Minto crags, and has a spectacular view over the surrounding territory. The castle itself is a basic tower, and while the restoration work has replaced the roof and repaired the damage of neglect, it has not restored the 2 floors between the first level up and the roof. Brackets from the wall show where beams would have supported the floors, also demarcated by fireplaces and window seating. A spiral staircase takes visitors past the empty levels and out onto the battlements, to feel like masters of the land.

Turnbull descendants - Tom, Teeq, and myself

Below are photos from Jedburgh Abbey, including a section of a Celtic Cross.

In Edinburgh

I've just spent a restful couple of days in Edinburgh, and am heading off for another couple of restful days in Hawick, Scottish Borders, hopefully connecting with some Turnbull clan distant rellies along the way.

It's been strange being back in a city, the last one was Derby over 3 weeks ago. There's an anonymity to a city. No one stops to talk to you simply because you have a backpack on, no one noticed when you walk into a bar because everyone's a stranger anyway, you're just another tourist. There's no other hikers to recognise, and commiserate over the progress and challenges of the day. I shouldn't feel so put out really, but it is a big shift from a only a few days ago. All the same I made some new friends at the hostel, and we went out to see the Tolkien movie just this morning.
Yesterday, despite spending the morning chatting, I made it out to Edinburgh Castle. When I got there it said tickets were cheaper online booked for a time slot - so through the wonders of modern technology I booked a ticket and then had an hour or so to spare. I wandered up and down the Royal Mile, and had a look around in St Giles Cathedral. It's beautiful but not so incredible as Westminster. I did enjoy the figures carved above the main door, two of whom are leaning rather nonchalantly against the arch itself.
As I started to exit the building I got caught in a human traffic jam and wondered what was the hold up. Fighting my way to the doors I found the cause - it had started raining. I rolled my eyes, stomped into the street and found d a shop with enough room for me to extract my coat from my bag. Honestly, you would think people had never been rained on before. To continue this small rant I must express my dislike of umbrellas used in dense pedestrian zones - they're going to take an eye out, just wear a jacket. A long one if you want to keep your trousers dry (unlike me later that day!)
Heading back towards the castle I stopped to admire a large owl and his handler - for a donation I was offered the opportunity to hold him. Thus I was introduced to Beethoven (2.5kg) and Guinivere (4kg) both European Eagle Owls, their small mustachioed friend whose name I've forgotten, and spent a good 20 minutes in conversation with Helen their handler. They all belong to Falconry Borders, an organization that maintains the medieval art of Falconry, and combines it with public education and rehabilitation of wild birds of prey.

Edinburgh Castle is another place steeped in long history, the oldest part of the building, St Margaret's Chapel, dating to 1100s. The rest has been built and rebuilt over the centuries, and appears to grow from the very rock it is built upon. Unfortunately I wasn't actually feeling very well that afternoon, with my foot and achilles beginning to ache, so wasn't in full history-absorption mode. However I can highly recommend visiting in the afternoon, and staying on until closing time. Suddenly the ramparts were empty of people, and the views of the city would be lovely in the evening glow. I didn't get evening glow, I got rain, but that seems to fit the castle better than sunshine anyway.

Looking out over Edinburgh I was struck with how similar it feels to Dunedin, as I suppose it should, being its parent city in a way. The harbour in the background and the gothic buildings, I confess made me somewhat homesick. Strange that bagpipes and kilts can make me miss a city on the other side of the world, from this, the place where such things were born.

Hume would likely be most put out by people rubbing his toe for luck - he didn't believe in superstition!

Reclining on St Giles Cathedral

Pulpit carving

Castle from the rock

Greyfriars Bobby - a famously good boy

Newtown St Boswells to Edinburgh (2 days)

2 June
All through the day walking before, I had been able to see a major borders landmark - the Eildon Hills. This triple peaked hill was once occupied by a Roman fort called Trimontium (inventive with their naming), but settlement on the hill is much older than that, with archeological remains dating to 1000BC, bronze age.
I had decided that it would negligent of me to pass by the hills without climbing them, in particular the highest peak, Eildon Mid Hill. I must admit that with only 3 hours of proper sleep, and a late start due to being dropped back from Kirk Yetholm, I was not feeling very up to the challenge. Regardless I pushed through, and getting some misleading directions from locals, and then misleading routes from the map, dragged myself up the summit of Eildon Hill North, struck by wind and panoramas. No wonder this has been such a point of powerful occupation, it commands views across the entire Borders region. I still had to summit the highest peak, but chose to leave my pack on the saddle between hills, where the path divides. On top of Eildon Mid Hill is a trig point, and a beautiful engraved plate showing the direction to other landmarks and their heights, such as The Cheviot.
St Cuthbert's Way took me down into Melrose and joined back up with the Borders Abbeys Way, passing the Melrose Abbey. I didn't pay to enter, but the building looked beautiful from the perimeter anyway. Like all the Borders Abbeys it has been ransacked by the English in the "rough wooing" but much more remains in Melrose than Kelso. Like many older buildings in this area it is made of a pinky red sandstone, which can be seen in exposed faces of the Eildon Hills, and along the banks of the River Tweed.
On reluctant feet I trapped out of Melrose, through Galashiels, and back into farmland. It was with some relief that I found walkers signposts on my planned cross-country routes - Scotland has "right to roam" laws, meaning that almost all land is open access. This should make cross country hiking simple, but unfortunately it also means that the common walking routes are not so clearly marked in the OS Maps app that I use for planning, so I can the certain where gates or stiles will be, and whether the walking will be easy. Because of this much of my walking will be along country roads on my way to Edinburgh.
I managed 22.6km in total that day, which once I would have thought impressive, but now is a little disappointing, and wild camped behind a stand of pine trees feeling mildly transgressive, though perfectly legal.

Eildon Hills - Wester and Mid, viewed from North hill

View towards the Cheviots from Eildon Mid Hill

Melrose Abbey

River Tweed in Melrose

3 June
Starting a little later than intended, I was only a few kilometres from Stow, a village that promised a cafe, where I hoped to charge my cellphone before continuing on my way. However along the road I stopped to chat to a woman and her overly enthusiastic 10 month old lab x retriever. When I mentioned charging up at the cafe she informed it wouldn't open til 10am, and immediately offered for me to come in to their farmhouse home, just along the road. In the meantime Joyce plied me with tea and cake and conversation, then had to go out with a friend, leaving me to finish recharging and let myself out when I was ready. Within 100m of leaving her house I stopped to admire a pink flowering hawthorn, and fell into conversation with a lovely older lady for another half hour!

Beautiful old farmhouse stove - useful for rousing weak lambs

The pink hawthorn

I was feeling like I had rather delayed a lot, and so pushed myself to cover some good distance before stopping to eat at Heriot around 2pm. I had been on back roads, paralleling the A7 all morning, but now cut across farmland, grass blessedly soft underfoot.
As I walked I thought about where I would stop that night, there was a campsite marked in the North end of Gorebridge, which I was expecting to reach around 4:30. The rest of the way to Edinburgh would be 17km along the A7 and likely not that interesting - I started thinking about the shower and bed to be had at the hostel. Why, I thought, should I ruin a whole other day with trudgery, when I could just walk there late this evening?
Determined that it was possible, I stopped into the first pub I came to in Gorebridge for a preparatory rest. All eyes turned to me as I came in and dropped my pack against the bar, a handful of locals, clearly the regular denizens.
Someone asks where I've come from - Stow today, but walked from London since Easter. Interested Scottish murmurs. Where are you heading? Inverness eventually, but thinking I'll push on to Edinburgh tonight. Incredulous looks. One man tells the bartender Allan that he'll pay for the drink I just ordered, soda water with a slice of lime, but apparently that was free anyway. I'm told I need a beer, and accept a half pint of Red MacGregor's, there is some dispute that I should have a pint, but since I plan to keep walking I remain firm.
I fell into conversation with another of the men, Matt, a lovely chap who has walked the West Highland Way 7 or 8 times, but no longer can due to blood clots in his legs. He gives me his card, which is apparently good for a free pint or two along the WHW, and tells me about his eldest grandson who manages the whisky bar in the Balmoral Hotel in Edinburgh.
I receive as gifts a piece of haggis wrapped in foil (to be sliced and fried), and a small jar of tiny pickled mussels. I am talked into having a wee dram of Black Bottle whisky at the insistence of the lovely Matt, the bartender shaking his head over the choice, but it went down smoother than I expected.
A lifetime and yet only 1 hour later I head out in a break in the weather, determined to beat those final kilometres into submission. I had to replan my route when the footpath disappeared, and the pain in my foot was getting steadily worse, but somehow I arrive at the hostel nearly an hour sooner than I expected.
17km, intermittent downpours, and I covered it in 3 hours 10 minutes, including a stop to buy food from the co-op. I have no idea how I achieved that pace, and yet it brings my day's total to over 41km, my longest day so far.
I'm not sure if I'm proud or incredibly stupid. Maybe just footsore.

Kirk Yetholm to Newtown St Boswells (and back again)

1 June

I took a rest day in Kirk Yetholm, which is hardly worth mentioning except that I spent the afternoon playing ukulele outside the pub. Suddenly a car pulled up and a man hopped out to ask if I'd be around the next night for the music session - I was a bit gutted to decline, but didn't really feel I could waste another day just sitting around. That evening however, I was chatting to an older gentleman about my plans to walk through Kelso tomorrow, and on hearing this the musician who'd approached me earlier offered to pick me up from wherever I got to, as he would be passing through Kelso anyway.

Plans sorted, phone numbers exchanged I set off the next morning. With no footpaths to Kelso I walked along the main road for a while (hardly any cars anyway) and then detoured through the back country lanes, making good time to Kelso. I had arranged to meet Ian, the older gentleman from the pub yesterday, at the Queen's Head hotel at noon, so had time to explore the site of the Kelso Abbey first. This beautiful ruin dates to 1100s and was once the major religious centre of the Borders, boasting coronations and political turbulence. Only the West Tower and transept remain of what was once a mighty building - plans found in the Vatican indicate it had a double cruciform design which was relatively rare.
I spent a pleasant hour with Ian and his friend, both are well travelled and had spent time in New Zealand. Both were rather amused that I only wanted to drink Coke, not beer (this is to become a recurring theme). I have found on this trip that if I drink in my lunch break, walking in the afternoon is horrible, and makes me feel a bit sick. Having been bought lunch as well I then headed out of Kelso, past the walls of Floors Castle, with hardly a glimpse of the building itself, and then along the River Tweed on the Borders Abbeys Way. In the end I put 34km underfoot that day, making it to Dryburgh an hour before my pickup, and so walked on to Newtown St Boswells.

I was picked up by Paz, the muso, and his friend Ian (a different Ian), and hopped into a car smelling of grass, motor oil, and... grass. Falling into the banter was easy, and by the time we reached Yetholm I'd been offered the spare room for the night. Paz let me drive his car down to the Border Hotel from his house, as I had mentioned I hadn't driven manual in a while. Turns out it's like riding a bike. We set up at a corner table, ordered drinks (on the house), and were soon joined by a few others. John plays banjo and guitar, and introduced me to the timing of a slip jig. Chris let me look at his bass ukulele - tuned like a standard bass, but looks like a large ukulele, with thick rubbery nylon strings - it needs an amp but has a beautiful soft sound. Paz has a guitar there but mostly does percussion, playing a handheld drum (bodhrán I think), egg shakers, or tambourine. Ron plays guitar beautifully and sings. Soon I am bold enough to throw out a few songs of my own, voice feeling tight with nerves and the need to project over the pub crowd. I pick up a tambourine and sing along when the others play. Two other women, one a traveller, one a new local, join us and add their own songs. The encouragement I get from these experienced musicians is heartening.
The crowd things out, my voice mellows into itself. With all the practice I've been doing it has become a lot smoother, and I sing a few songs acapalla - Amazing Grace, Touch the Sky (from Brave, but I doubt anytime knew that), a man asks me to sing again. Loch Lomond has the crowd all singing along, far after midnight. It's pure magic.

Byrness to Kirk Yetholm (2 days)

I honestly don't know how George completed this leg in one day, I was in bed by 8pm, completely done in!
Though the route from Byrness to the mountain bothy maps out as 29km, Adam's watch gps totalled our day at 31km, and 1200m ascent, there's no way I would have been happy trying to tack on the final 11km to that.
We started out from our campsite around 8:30 on the 29th, following the river to Byrness itself, and then straight up a steep 200m climb into the Cheviots. After this effort the trail winds over the hills, summit after summit but mostly rising and falling only 30-80m. Though my photo climbing the first hill shows clear skies, the weather front raced up behind us, with a vicious wind and sharp drizzle.We bypassed the route that goes past the Roman fort ruins, but could see them quite clearly from the hillside, merely ridges in the grass. From very early we could spot the distant outline of The Cheviot, a long hump of a hill, highest summit of the region at 815m. It was both daunting and encouraging the way it's features slowly came into focus as we progressed towards it.
The next major climb is 2 steep sections of trail separated by a smooth but sharp ridge, up to Windy Gyle. Whether it was living up to its name, or if the cold front finally caught us properly, "Windy" proved accurate. As we traversed the steep slope I could feel my bag being tugged sideways, and every breath was snatched away making the air seem thin. It was a pertinent reminder that though this terrain seems tame compared to New Zealand mountains, it can be every bit as treacherous if the weather is against you.
From Windy Gyle the trail drops down to follow a ridge towards the now very apparent Cheviot, followed by yet another steep 200m climb. This took us to a point where desicions had to be made - do we make the 4km round trip to summit The Cheviot? Adam had already been (in January no less!) and I think was hurting pretty bad at this point. No mistake, so was I, but I can't just walk past something like that, it feels incomplete. So we split, Adam to head to the hut, and I to drop my pack and make the steady climb to the trig. We made arrangements for contact times, in case something went wrong, and I finally pulled out my windproof overtrou (I'd walked all day in shorts!), threw on an extra layer, and hungrily downed a porridge bar.
I will be the first to admit that I'm not a runner, but the feeling of being packless, and flying along the pavers, was impossible to resist. I made the summit and back in 40 minutes, part walking part jogging. While that's only a 6km/hr average speed, I'll admit I'm pretty chuffed with that, after already hiking nearly 28km. The final descent to the mountain shelter where we were to stay was an absolute killer. Sheer downhill that made my knees tremble with exhaustion at every step. Arriving at the simple bothy was a total relief - even though it was nothing more than four sturdy walls, a concrete floor, and benches on 3 sides. Blessings upon those who have gone before! Inside we found tea and coffee supplies, including powdered milk, and instantly made ourselves a brew (we had our own tea but the milk was a real bonus). I must remember to return one day with additional supplies for future hikers. Dinner was a simple meal of beans and packet mash potatoes, with extra cheese, and we only had energy for a couple of games of cards crashing into our sleeping bags.
The final day dawned uncertainly, with clouds and wind whipping over our exposed ridgeline. However the route remained fairly easy to follow, as long as we checked the map when farm tracks crossed our path. There is one major hill called the Schill, which we hauled ourselves over, and then it is basically downhill most of the way to Kirk Yetholm, passing old settlements, and then farmhouses, and one last very unwelcome climb over a saddle and down into the village itself. Officially completing the Pennine Way - I cannot express the feeling.
Who should we see as we approach the green, but George! A day ahead of us, and looking all the better for his night in a proper hotel bed, the bastard. It was lovely to catch up with him before he caught his bus onwards, especially as he regaled us with tales of his 48km day, due to taking a wrong path early on.
I'm now continuing on my own way from now, Adam got picked up by a friend and hour after George disappeared. I have no words to explain how grateful I am to have met Adam on that first day, atop Kinder Scout. You don't ever expect to just meet someone who you can then walk with for 400km, 17 days, and part as new-found friends.
The Way challenged me, in ways the previous 400km from London did not, and there were times when I definitely needed the support of another person. The Way also awed me in places, and it was nice to be able to turn to someone to share that moment.
I am, without a doubt, unbelievably lucky.

Steeper than it looks

All praises to those who laid the path...

...Even if it's being swallowed by the land in places

Very windy on Windy Gyle

Yellow arrow -  approx. Cheviot summit. Red arrow - approx. bothy location. Taken from summit of Windy Gyle.

Our luxury accomodations

Can't resist playing the ukulele in unlikely locations

A man went on the Pennine Way
To prove that he was tough
But cos he didn't plan ahead
So here he slept it rough!

Good morning!

Next stop: Kirk Yetholm!