Emily goes for another walk

I have reached the Central Belt, and am now in the most populated latitude of Scotland, being misled by weather and wondering how many miles are possible over the next couple of days. 62 days of walking in, I am now able to visualise most of the way to come.  The weather has mostly been hot, almost oppressively so, although I am reluctant to complain about it, as it is better than snow and hail. Friday morning dawned misty though on the St Cuthbert's Way, as I crossed Ancrum Moor back to the path. This is where a bloody battle took place after Henry VIIIth ordered the massacre of men, women and children, as a result of the Scots not agreeing to marry off their infant Queen Mary to an English prince. My retaining of history is sketchy, but all is quiet there now, with the remembrance of the troubled times marked only by an information board. Lilliard, of Lilliardsedge, is a disputed possibly mythical figure, coming some two hundred years after the Battle, but is said to have defeate...

In the edgelands, the boundaries which are fixed blur the sense of identity, and the location of place, in relation to where you think it is in relation to how far north or south you feel. I have moved through the northernmost parts of England and am now in the southernmost parts of Scotland. Life in the edgelands is sparse, strange, sometimes harsh, always quietly welcoming.  I left Bellingham in bright sunshine via the very early-opening post office to send my precious folder of music and my penny whistle and recorder home. I had put a lot of suncream on and my legs were licked by a very small dog in the queue. Up and out of the little town suddenly it feels huge and empty. After a high farmyard the moor opens out, seemingly endlessly, with dense dry heather and narrow paths. Here the sparsely placed signposts are held up by a pile of stones, in the middle of the peat, silhouetted for miles on the brown horizon. It was warm and hazy so the views weren't clear but ahead lay an alm...

This piece comes with apologies - it is not about walking, but a few thoughts on the past few days off the path.  I was asked a while ago if I would like to take part in a recording of new, and older unpublished music from the Iona Community, with a few other appropriate pieces thrown in. Of course I said yes - I would make the time and I wasn't far off the Scottish border by the weekend of recording. So we gathered - singers, instrumentalists, all with some kind of association to the community, from all over the UK. It was a highly focussed, tiring, but wonderful couple of days with very talented, extraordinary, and beautiful people. It always fills me with a bit more hope when I do this kind of thing with these people. And even though it's hard work there is something very relaxing about just fitting in to the music, not having to bash every note, and not being in charge. It feels natural and alive.  And I have a wonderful and generous friend in Glasgow who always gives me a...

I am coming to realise that the amount of writing is inversely proportionate to the time spent walking. I'm now two days from the border fence and it feels like I might be getting somewhere. But the days have been long, sometimes hard, often stunning, with patience and perseverance needed, but rounded off with surprising friendship and tired but wonderful conversation and characters.  I left Hawes after resting a day, in the lovely YHA that hasn't really changed in twenty or so years, and visiting the Wensleydale Creamery for tea and cheese with Wallace and Gromit. The weather was different - cold, clear air after a couple of drizzly days, and windy. My previous PW companion had gone on ahead and I wondered how he was. Great Shunner Fell lay ahead, looking Great, and with a shunning black aspect of cloud moving towards it. Beginning the ascent I passed a man with the same look of quiet determination about him as I felt. He then passed me, and after I caught up with him we both ...

I'm seven days in to the Pennine Way and already every day has been different. I've met people with big rucksacks, and the walking has most definitely stepped up a gear. And  I've  attempted to write for three nights running but kept falling asleep, so this title grows every day.  The Edale morning last Wednesday dawned wet, very wet. The rain lashed at the tent and the group of four over the field from me were already bravely packing up to set out. The ancient toilet block was full of teenage girls (DofE) all with the same idea as me - taking their rucksacks under cover and bracing themselves to pack away the tent. They were about as enthusiastic, and quiet, as me at this point. They were not, however, joining the Pennine Way, fortunately. It may have put them off fell-walking for life. I set out, past the sign saying 268 miles to Kirk Yetholm, past lambs sheltering behind metal feeders, cuckoos calling in the valley. The tops were shrouded in mist, occasionally a little...

There is a song that I should have sung at the 500 mile point, but I have been less concerned about looking at my itinerary this time. I think this might be because the mileage at the beginning wasn't completely accurate. Well, I reached 500 miles somewhere between Elvaston and Whatstandwell, three days ago. It has been a reflective few days, navigation easy, with a lot of time to think. It feels at the moment like one day at a time, the end being almost unimaginable. This is not necessarily a negative thing - just, I think, part of the process of walking a very long way.  One of the consequences of having reached the hills of Derbyshire is that there are a lot of people dressed like me. This is now the place and the time where everybody is out to walk. And it's sort of normal.  I left Whitstandwell on Sunday morning rejoining the Cromford canal, the water still and the bluebells perfectly reflected, framed by gnarled trees and tangles of undergrowth. People were out and about...