Edgelands, the crossing, and the power of mist

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 almost visible misty line of cheviots. I passed an American lady walking the PW, and then saw no one else for hours. And it was all strangely quiet with only a skylark or two and the odd stray sheep, miles from the flock. Curlews and plover of the earlier moor were not here. The path rises to a hill with a remote monument and suddenly the vast Kielder Forest is ahead, again, the dark trees almost black in the otherwise bright light. There is a drop down and a steep rise up the edge of the trees, which has always remained in memory but I can't place why. Then it takes an edge through a mile of consistently wet moss, whatever the weather, and into the dense forest. Although this time, unlike four years ago, the forest was not dense - this patch had been harvested. This leaves a harsh scar on the land which you know will take a long time to heal. The path as a consequence was strewn with forestry debris, and fallen trees that hadn't quite made the cut, their roots and the ground they had taken with them standing high and black, exposed to the light. I reached the stone forestry track as another walker was coming up, presumably from the road direction, which I wished I had taken. The track then takes the walker two miles down a long straight stretch, through dense tall trees, into Blakehopeburnhaugh. Many of the place names here are unashamedly bundled together, in an almost German way. I rested at a picnic table, the first intentional resting place all day in spite of the endless scar of human existence, knowing I had not taken enough water. The land felt dry and empty and I did too. The last two miles to Byrness though were almost idyllic, along lightly wooded path with birdsong echoing between the speeding vehicles on the A68 above. I stopped into Byrness church - a small, pretty, and fascinating place. It has the famous Catcleugh window, depicting the workers constructing the reservoir which lies just up the road, at the end of the nineteenth century. The figures include adults and children. And beside it a plaque listing nearly a hundred names - those who died in the construction, again including adults and children. I wondered whether, included in the order to construct this reservoir to serve the city of Newcastle, was the acceptance that some poor people might die. Collateral. It felt very poignant and unjust. Also, the war memorial plaques include not just those who were killed in action but everyone from the parish who served, including female nurses. I don't think I have seen this before. 

The village of Byrness is very quiet, if you ignore the A68. It consists of just two long terraces of houses, much like the forest village of Stonehaugh. In the middle of one of these is the Forest View Inn (as that is all you can see), the bunkhouse it runs and, and a couple of cats mooching about. I shared a room with a woman called Jane, a PhD student from Cambridge, walking the PW, and also saw the hiker from the forest who had taken the road route. He is walking Lands End to John O'Groats in about 10 weeks overall. In defence of my relative slowness he isn't carrying any camping gear, and going a more direct route, including the A9 after Inverness. And he has less time than me. Over a mug of tea, we talked of routes and weather and parts of our bodies now failing. I remarked to the man in the inn that I don't often see End to Enders, which he was surprised about as he sees them all the time. I didn't want to point out the bleeding obvious about people going in the same direction rarely crossing paths. The couple running the Forest View Inn are two of the most generous people, beyond retirement age, running the inn, the accommodation, the bunkhouse and the camping facilities all themselves with no help. And they are tired. It's so far from anywhere that it's difficult to find anyone who could come and work there. I sat in their garden with  a pint of the 'Thirsty Walker' brewed especially for them, and was given another on the house to wish me well for the onward journey. 

The final section of the PW is the thing that often puts people off doing it. It's a 27 mile long high crossing of the Cheviots with only a bunkhouse two miles off the path more than halfway on, or refuge huts at two different points. The inn in Byrness also offers a halfway pick up service and drop off the next morning, at a cost, and I couldn't work out where that happens as any road is a considerable drop down off the path. Colin, Peter and Jane all planned to walk it in one go. I decided to aim for the second refuge. 

The morning in Byrness was dull and cloudy, the tops hidden in cloud. The weather forecast was promising though, so I made the first very steep climb out of the little edgeland village, through forest, past a 'be prepared for remote country, and look out for the feral goats' sign, and up onto the ridge. Suddenly it was cold and windy with a fine rain mist in the air. I put all the layers back on, and my waterproof. Catcleugh reservoir was just visible in the valley below, and the forest beyond faded into mist. The way ahead ascended into invisibility. I began ascending Ravens Knowe, mist swirling around me, the rain mist turning to cloud mist, which is pre-rain, and wet. The long ridge is a series of hills with names such as Lamb Hill, Beefstand Hill, Mozie Law, with gaps named Foul Step, Plea Knowe, and Split the Dell. I reached the first refuge hut and decided to put on all the waterproofs, whilst sheltering for a while. Inside hung a Scottish flag and an English flag, with three cans of fruity Carling cider and a variety of instant noodles on the shelf, presumably left by demob happy Pennine Way walkers who needed them no longer. I thought about taking a can for later but decided they were best left for those who might arrive there late at night. 

After the hut there are no navigational issues whatever the weather as the path sticks to the border fence, apart from a little jaunt over the Roman settlement of Chew Green which would be more interesting if you could see it. It also skirts the edge of the Otterburn military firing range, with warning signs of exploding military debris. The strange loud low thumps over the misty ridge suggested they were at practice. The path takes the walker in and out of Scotland three times, the mist and moss the same either side. Still ascending the fog became impenetrable, and was going nowhere, despite the strong wind. I passed along a ridge aptly named Windy Gyle, and rested briefly somewhere at a crossroads of paths. I looked at my watch and realised I had been walking for seven and a half hours. I had had no concept of time. Bright white mist does this. With no point of reference of light or place you could be anywhere at any time. I was cold and wet and aiming for the next shelter, which was past the highest point with a very untempting invitation to detour up to the summit of The Cheviot. There was a very brief small cloud gap which revealed a huge snowfield to the left of the path. My pulse rising with a little fear as well as a steep invisible climb, I then turned the corner to a steep descent with a sudden gully on the right, and the strongest wind blowing up out of it. I had to get to the hut. I passed a figure taking too long about it, bid him a mildly panicked hello, and after a worry that I had missed it, saw the hut appear. I have rarely been so relieved. I went inside. And there I stayed. The figure arrived five minutes later. He sat down and breathed a huge sigh of relief. He ate some chocolate and then was gone again, down to the bunkhouse, through a gully, two miles off the path. I wished him well and truly meant it. 

I put five layers of dry clothes on, and made some tea. Just as I was thinking I might be alone up there for the night, the door burst open and four wet walkers appeared. I ushered them in and made space. They were going no further either. The hut is very small, lined on three edges with a narrow bench, with a small dirty window. It has a bench outside for times when there is a view to enjoy. So, me, Becci and Nathan, and Hazel and Mark, two couples who had met and walked together the past three days, made our home for the night. We gradually put more clothes on, and got into our sleeping bags, and played a version of Family Fortunes until the light faded. We eked out the water sparingly. There was a path marked on the map to a stream below the bothy, but it would go down the gully that the wind was howling up, and, not being able to see, we all decided that avoiding falling down a foggy gully was preferable and made the water last. Mark and Nathan had had the same idea as me though and followed it through, taking a can each of the strange fruity cider from the previous hut, which we shared out. When the light faded we made a sleeping arrangement adequate enough to maintain some dignity. I fell off my bench in the early morning though, thankfully not injuring Becci who was below. 

The mist was just as thick when we all arose, although the wind had almost stopped. A curious group of sheep and lambs had gathered on the Scotland side of the fence, but disappeared when I spoke to them. We all packed up, putting back on the damp clothes, and left together, up the steep invisible Schill and descending to the final crossing, leaving England behind. Due to demand from only one distant friend I made a crossing video, starring the bothy mates. We took the low level option and slowly descended out of the mist and into the valley, seeing a lone deer caught between the first of many deer fences. A hawk swept up the valley into the mist as cows watched us stumble into the clear. I stopped for a few minutes, letting my companions go on ahead, to reflect on this significant milestone. Approximately 770 miles of England walked and sort of still in one piece. Now the maps become black and white, almost every bit of land free to pass through and camp on. This is a mixed blessing. We arrived in Kirk Yetholm at about 12.30, and I felt the sense of achievement with my companions. They had made it, and were relieved and happy. We went into the Border Inn on the lovely village green as the sun was coming out, and were given free half pints. The bar attendant took our names and she brought certificates for each of us. As this is the only certificate I will get on this walk, I will keep it. We ordered lunch and enjoyed each other's company, took pictures of each other under the 'end of the Pennine Way' sign, and then they headed out to take the bus out of the village to start their journeys home. And I found the delightful little hostel where I washed clothes, and sat outside in the bright evening sun with the clothes on the line. 

Today I have walked about 20 miles on the St Cuthbert's Way, meeting a different set of walkers, all going the other way to me. The local accents have suddenly changed from Northumbrian to a distinctive lowland Scots, the Cheviots a border of sound as well as place. I met a wandering Australian in sandals with a small guitar hanging off his rucksack, at the remains of Cessford Castle. He is walking to Spain, without maps, and taking the train occasionally. I wanted to like him, but found myself suspicious of his faux troubadour personage, as he took his smart phone out of the pocket of his expensive fleece, asking me about how it felt to walk in boots, to stay at campsites and to be confined to using maps. I said I'd never got lost, which he seemed to be doing all the time. I felt bad when he left the castle as I stayed to rest, but I couldn't really stand being grilled and patronised. The day, after a misty start, was warm and sunny and quiet, mostly on the line of the Roman Dere Street, through wooded glades, past coconut scented gorse in full flower, crossing rivers and streams. I'm now at a large but quiet holiday park, my tent alone in a freshly mowed field. I have met my first two tics, catching them as they crawled on my leg before they had a chance to burrow. The whole of Scotland lies ahead. Maybe I will make it.