Going with the flow, led by a small cow through sweet scented hillsides, and the Slap in the haar

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 defeated the English in a similarly bloody conflict, even with half of her legs chopped off. On her memorial stone is the poem:

'Fair maiden Lilliard 

lies under this stane.

Little was her stature

but muckle was her fame. 

Upon the English loons

she laid monie thumps 

and when her legs were cuttit off

she fought upon her stumps'. 

I felt a little guilt as I only had to carry a rucksack to Melrose and was feeling tired already. And I had complete legs. The mist cleared quickly revealing a very warm morning. Just after Newtown St Boswells I met a couple out doing the SCW in stages. Rachel and John were celebrating their 50th anniversary this year, and embracing life, faith, charity and their camper van. We had a long and lovely conversation in the road and Rachel asked me all sorts of questions about how I was looking after myself. So I gave them my blog address, uninvited. I am carrying lots of little pieces of paper with it and the fundraising page on and I really should be giving them away now or I will still have lots left over at Dunnet Head. 

The path turned under the Eildon Hills, three lumps prominent for miles, and then rose over the saddle between Mid Hill and Hill North, bright yellow with gorse in full flower. The sun was heating the scent, almost pumping it into the air, making a heady coconutty fragrance under the deep blue sky. I rested the other side of the saddle, above Melrose, able to trace the line of at least three days of the Southern Upland Way (walked three years ago) in the view, from the Minch Moor hills all the way to the Lammermuirs. The ruined Abbey below was visible in the little busy town, and as I found a cool pub garden, I heard the sounds of many languages in the crowd of tourists. 

There is something about walking through The Borders which I discovered last time that kills the enthusiasm. And it's not fair on The Borders as it is very beautiful and welcoming. Maybe it's a come down after crossing the border mixed with the slightly anxious anticipation of the wild far north. It's also where tiredness sets in, when, elated with the border milestone, you realise that there's still a bloody long way to go. In Melrose I woke later than I have done since starting the walk, and, panicked by the passing of time, the dad in the family camping next to me advised me to just go with the flow. This was surprisingly helpful. I must have needed to sleep, but there was still 13 hours of daylight to walk in. I didn't take the Southern Upland Way route between Melrose and Innerleithen, which itself is truly lovely and was what made me walk the whole of the otherwise awful walk three years ago. I've now done that bit twice before, so instead I walked 17 miles along the river Tweed in the valley all day, following herons and oyster catchers, watching a small girl negotiate rapids very well in a canoe slalom competition, and dodging cyclists. At Walkerburn I stopped to look at the map to see if there was a riverside path that could take me off the cycle route. A very large group of men in Lycra on mountain bikes came past and I heard one of them remark 'she's lost'. I cannot describe sufficiently how angry this made me feel. A large group of men witnessing a woman looking at a map immediately mysogynistically assumes lostness. If they had been going any slower I might have laid on them many thumps, whilst politely explaining that I had managed to successfully not get lost for over 800 miles, using maps, on my own. 

Anyway, I passed a far gentler human eating crisps with his large sheep and his chatty goat, and crossed the river into Innerleithen, stopping by a pub, where, inside, two slightly down in the mouth Southern Upland Way walkers were propping up the bar. Even in good weather it's not that great a walk. We got chatting and they told me of a man walking the SUW with a rucksack twice the size of mine, covered in solar panels, like a strange creature from Doctor Who. There are some very odd walkers out there.... 

This part of the way, from Melrose to Peebles and beyond, was full of mountain bikers, out for the bank holiday, and everywhere there was an air of activity. 

The section between Peebles and West Linton takes the Cross Borders Drove Road, marked by a little determined cow on every signpost. This was the hottest day yet, but a walk to lift any dampened spirit, up onto gorse lined hillside with a vast view behind of the huge hills above Peebles, shrugging off their morning mist. Two elderly hares loped slowly across my path before I ascended into dark cool forest, only to emerge into even brighter sun at a clearing with a remote boarded up house in the centre. The path rounded the steep shoulder of a green hill to join a narrow valley. I was surprised at how wild it felt, the old drove road winding between these quiet lumpy green hills. Ascending over the last saddle, West Linton came into view, with the line of Pentland hills stretching away towards the central belt. 

In lovely, historical, refined, West Linton I had coffee and water in the shady garden of a village green cafe. It was so hot the ladies of West Linton were standing talking on the street in their cotton tops, remarking at how exposed they felt without a jacket. There was bunting out all around the village for the Whipman Play, starting next Friday. I passed the public toilets which stated clearly on the sign above them that they were 'single occupancy'. Later on outside the pub in the cool evening I had a long drawn out, deep, funny and incoherent conversation with a Glaswegian who works at the outdoor education centre and had been enjoying the bank holiday weekend excessively. Eventually he had to go and buy mince and beans before the co op closed. 

And what a difference a day makes. The following morning in West Linton dawned misty and cold, everyone a little bit in shock at the disappearance of the sun. The haar had crept far inland and was clinging to the tops of the houses. The path followed the little cow again, up and into the Pentlands high moorland, marking the crossing into the central belt. The haar began to lift a little, enough for a short view. It was the first time in days I had walked in a fleece and felt cold. As the path ascended into the high moor the mist enveloped everything, white waves of it like smoke scudding over the heather. Nothing was visible apart from a few metres of heather ahead. I had seen sheep and hares earlier but the wildlife seemed to disappear. I was very relieved to find the fence marking the Cauldstane Slap, complete with old metal signs and the familiar little cow. I rested and it really was completely silent up there. The kind of misty silence that makes you feel a little on the edge. The Cauldstane Slap is the saddle or bealach the path reaches before it descends again. This path was a popular recreational walk amongst energetic Victorians, and the old green sign still remains. It's also named 'the thieves road' as in earlier centuries shepherds and drovers were at the mercy of robbers and reivers taking their livestock in the high moor where any assistance was too far away. Dotted about the map are Covenanters' Graves, and this route was also an escape route for those who were not practicing the established religion. Such a busy history made little difference to how lonely it felt yesterday. The weather forecast was for the haar to lift, but it didn't all day. I descended into a different landscape - a long line of little towns, some wealthy, some very much not so, but all in this sort of in between land, where I will spend the next couple of days. 

There is less than a month left to walk. That might be inspiration to anyone who has not donated to the fundraising yet but is thinking of doing so ... just as an afterthought!