When I Walk, I Bounce: Walking From Land’s End to John o’Groats

Copyright © Mark Moxon 2024

All rights reserved

This version was compiled on 30 March 2024

This work has been released under the Creative Commons licence Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0). This means you are free to distribute this work to others as long as you retain this copyright notice, do not use the work for commercial purposes and do not alter, transform or build upon this work. For more details please read the full licence.

Front cover: The pavement to Black Hill, Crowden to Standedge, Northern England

See www.landsendjohnogroats.info for more information

Preface

This is the story of a walk that an increasing number of people tackle each year. When I stepped out from Land’s End in 2003, I had no idea what to expect, because apart from one guidebook and a single web page, I’d been hard pushed to find any useful sources of information on the walk. The last three years have seen a big increase in the number of websites devoted to walking across Britain (including my own at www.landsendjohnogroats.info) and I hope this book encourages others to give it a go.

Thanks are due to the two sources of information mentioned above. Andrew McCloy’s book The Land’s End to John o’Groats Walk proved invaluable in the planning stages, and Andrew Walker’s one-page website about his own walk helped inspire me to do it in the first place. Thanks also to the other long-distance walkers I met on the way, whose company I invariably enjoyed; and in particular, thanks must go to the indomitable Barry Smith, with whom I shared some of the most enjoyable days of my trek, and without whom the last stretch to John o’Groats might have been too much to bear.

But my biggest debt of gratitude is to my partner Peta, without whom I wouldn’t even have managed to get out of Cornwall. She hunted down B&Bs for me in the middle of nowhere, she arranged map deliveries to distant hamlets, she kept my spirits up when the going got tough, and despite being in London for most of the summer, she was with me every step of the way. I dedicate this book to her with all my love, of which there seems to be a quite bottomless supply.

Mark Moxon

June 2014

Southwest England

Land’s End to Penzance

7 May 2003

I never intended to get caught up in something as blatantly uncomfortable as walking across Britain, but back on the sandy beaches of Ghana it had seemed like an excellent idea. That’s absolutely the last time I make a life-changing decision when I’ve enjoyed one too many cold beers in the sun.

Personally I blame West Africa. In October last year I flew out to Senegal for what was supposed to be a year-long trip across Africa, but after three months things were going downhill rapidly; the malaria pills were frying my brain, the travelling was really hard going, I kept getting distressingly ill, I missed my partner Peta terribly, and beneath the brave face I kept putting on, I just knew I had to go home. I’d spent four years planning that trip and giving up wasn’t easy, but inspiration struck on the beach. ‘I know,’ I thought. ‘Instead of travelling across Africa, why don’t I walk from one end of Britain to the other?’

So I returned to England in January and spent the next three months accumulating too much gear and not enough practice. This morning I set out from Land’s End, and finally all those weeks of planning have turned into something real, something that’s more tangible than vague itineraries, weather predictions and anecdotes from the irritatingly chipper veterans who populate trekking literature. Today’s walk might have been a relatively easy 11 miles over gently undulating terrain, but at last I’ve wandered into the cliché that a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

Talking of clichés, I made sure I got my photograph taken by the cheesy mileage signpost at Land’s End, and I’m glad I did. The booth by the signpost is peppered with photos of sleek Lycra fetishists posing with bicycles and bearded ramblers groaning under heavy backpacks, but tacked onto the front of the booth in prime position is a picture of Andrew Rivett, who arrived in Land’s End last year (2002) on 13 May. He looks knackered in the photo, and it’s no surprise considering he’d just jogged from John o’Groats to Land’s End in an amazing 9 days, 2 hours and 26 minutes. That means he ran an average of 95 miles per day, taking between 18 and 22 hours each day and covering the 875-mile journey in a time that has yet to be beaten[1].

In comparison I’m planning to take three months to cover a slightly longer route of 1111 miles. Incredibly, this makes me the sane one...

-oOo-

Today I floated along, which is no mean feat when you’re carrying a 17kg pack on your back. I still can’t believe that I’ve actually set out on this ridiculous walk, and instead of concentrating on the lush countryside of west Cornwall, I spent most of the day thinking about something that I read on a website a few days ago. ‘Take an empty pint bottle,’ it said, ‘and add one-and-a-half teaspoons of water to the bottle each day; when the bottle is full, then that’s how long it takes to walk from Land’s End to John o’Groats.’ I don’t know if I’m going to have the patience, but if it’s all as pleasant as today’s 11-mile hop, I’m in for a treat.

There are two routes from Land’s End to Penzance, and I chose the easy one. The hard one follows the Southwest Coastal Path along the wiggly coastline between Land’s End and Penzance, but the last thing I fancied for my first day was a strenuous up-and-down struggle along the coast, so I decided to walk to Penzance in a relatively straight line. It turned out to be a good idea; I just sat down with my Ordnance Survey map and chose the most pleasant route I could find.

Not much happened today, for which I should be grateful. I saw one wrecked ship, the RMS Mülheim, being battered by the sea; I climbed to the top of Chapel Carn Brea, which at 198m above sea-level is the westernmost hill in England; I fell in love with the prehistoric remains of Carn Euny, an ancient village where you can walk through a fougou, a 20m-long underground tunnel that would have been trodden by British natives in the years before Christ; and I bumped into my first friendly local in Sancreed, a small village a mile or so from Carn Euny. I’d taken the opportunity to collapse onto an inviting bench outside the village church, and as I peeled off my socks and gasped with pleasure as the cold air hit my toes, an old man popped up out of nowhere, smiling with his eyes.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you enjoying your rest?’

‘I most certainly am,’ I replied. ‘It’s a lovely spot here.’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘Are you walking far?’

‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘It’s the first day of my walk from Land’s End to John o’Groats.’

‘Ooh,’ he said, with a look that spoke volumes. ‘I’ve driven it a number of times, but you wouldn’t catch me walking it. It’s a hell of a long way.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘How come you’ve driven it so much, then?’

‘I used to be a long-distance lorry driver,’ he said. ‘It was back in the fifties, before all these motorways came along. I used to do it in three stages: 11 hours to Tewkesbury, then another 11 hours to Carlisle, and then the final day to Glasgow, where we’d arrive about dinnertime. It’s a bit quicker now, though.’

‘Not by foot,’ I said. ‘So did you sleep in your cab?’

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘We didn’t sleep in the lorries, we slept in digs. We’d ring up ahead to make sure we got a bed and some food – that’s the most important thing.’

‘That hasn’t changed,’ I said. ‘Thank goodness for mobile phones and the great British bed and breakfast, eh?’

‘Yeah,’ he chuckled, and shook my hand. ‘Best of luck, and give my regards to Scotland.’

‘I will,’ I said. ‘At least, I hope I will.’

And with that he disappeared back into the churchyard, leaving me to negotiate the final few fields to Penzance Youth Hostel. It’s been a quiet and decidedly uneventful start; that’s 11 miles done, 1100 to go.

[1] For more details see the Guinness World Records site. Meanwhile, the fastest woman to run from Land’s End to John o’Groats is Marina Anderson, who ran it in 12 days, 15 hours and 46 minutes in July 2008 (which you can also see on the Guinness World Records site).

Helston

8 May 2003

It was when the B&B owner laughed down the phone at me that I felt my carefully crafted plans fall apart like a chocolate teapot.

‘A bed for tomorrow night?’ he giggled. ‘In Helston? I’m afraid there’s no chance of that at all. Tomorrow’s the Furry Dance.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I said, still a little dazed after finishing my first day’s walk a couple of hours earlier.

‘The Furry Dance,’ he repeated slowly, curling his vowels with such studied artistry that I could practically hear his sideburns. ‘Everything within a five-mile radius of Helston will be totally booked up.’

‘Ah,’ I said.

‘Yep, that’s the Furry Dance for you,’ he said and hung up with a sigh that sounded like it was accompanied by a finger tap on the side of the head and a knowing roll of the eyes.

Meanwhile I had a problem; after just one day of walking my itinerary had gone straight out of the window, and worse still, I had absolutely no idea what the man was talking about.

-oOo-

It’s now consigned to the Top of the Pops 2 bin, but back in 1978 Terry Wogan reached number 28 in the UK charts with his interpretation of ‘The Floral Dance.’ There have been other versions, but Terry’s is the one that sticks in my mind because I was only eight at the time and had yet to develop anything resembling critical skills. ‘The Floral Dance’ is one of those instantly grating tunes that welds its way into your synapses simply because it’s not welcome there, and it’s this tune that defines the very fabric of the Helston Furry Dance.

Held every year on or around 8 May, the festival, which some people call Flora Day and others the Faddy, is said to be one of the oldest in the country; it’s so ancient that nobody knows when it started, and although there are plenty of theories as to its origins, they are little more than conjecture. To be honest, this is a godsend; if the Furry Dance was a modern invention it would be bizarre in the extreme, but because it’s an ancient rite whose origins are forgotten even by the hoary old men propping up the darkest corners of Helston’s many pubs, it’s acceptable for the revellers to push the boundaries of sanity, because it’s all in the name of keeping English tradition alive.

As I evidently wasn’t going to be able to stay in Helston on the day of the festival, I decided to shelve my walk for the day and take a trip to Helston to find out why the Furry Dance is Cornwall’s most famous annual event. I arrived at eleven o’clock in the morning to find a busy town centre stuffed with people meandering around aimlessly, but unlike them, I had a mission; first I wanted to find out what the Furry Dance was all about, and second I wanted to track down the festival’s very own ale, Spingo, which I’d been told was partly responsible for the Furry Dance’s insanity.

It took me just five minutes to bump into the children’s dance, which whisked me off into the depths of the village. Helston is a classically beautiful Cornish town with narrow, winding lanes, old stone buildings and even a stream running down the main street, and through this maze of back alleys and gardens spun a line of children, dancing in pairs in spotless white costumes. Walking among the children at intervals were men carrying loudspeakers, and not for the last time I was whisked back to 1978 without being asked whether I actually wanted to go there. ‘Ba-da-dah, Bom, Ba-da-da Ba-dam, Pom, Pom!’ went the chirpy brass instruments of the town band, just as they would do for the rest of the day, and to this mindless tune the children waltzed away while the crowd clapped in time with the tubas.

Thankfully the dance eventually took me past the Blue Anchor pub, and I bolted for the door along with a large crowd of thirsty-looking locals.

-oOo-

The Blue Anchor is the only pub in Cornwall that sells Spingo ale, a local beer that’s brewed right there on the high street, bang next door to – wait for it – the Keith Richards Gents Hairdressers. The pub’s sign proudly announces that the Blue Anchor is the site of the oldest functioning brewery in Cornwall, which might have had something to do with the crowds of people pouring through the front door, the haunted look of jaunty choruses in their eyes. Luckily the landlord had opened up the doors to his above-ground cellar to churn out pints of beer as quickly as possible, so none of us had to wait too long.

‘Hello,’ I said to the long-haired man on the other side of the cellar trapdoor. ‘Have you got Spingo here?’

‘I ain’t got nothin’ else,’ he smiled, and pulled a full pint out from behind him. ‘’Ere you go, that’s two quid. Enjoy.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ I said, and toasting Terry, I took a deep swig. The beer was good; hoppy with a slightly nutty aftertaste, I could feel it doing battle with Wogan’s jingle and winning. Each sip brought further relief, and looking around the crowded pub I realised I wasn’t the only one looking for salvation in the bottom of a Spingo. Apart from two pints of lager, a bottle of Bud and one glass of white wine, the whole pub was supping on pints of festival brew.

It quite put me in the mood for the principal dance of the day, which had set off at 12 noon while I was still getting acquainted with my first Spingo. There was nothing for it; if I wanted to feel the full effect of the Helston Town Band’s pom-pom-poms and ra-ta-tahs I was going to have to track down the dance. I spent the next half an hour heading for the sound of the band’s drums and catching nothing but tantalising glimpses of grey top hats disappearing into the crowd at the other end of yet another winding street. It was like playing bash the mole; every time I looked, the dance disappeared. In an attempt to be clever I tried to head it off in one of Helston’s beautifully crafted parks, but all I saw were the backs of lots of heads and a middle-aged couple walking in the opposite direction, laughing to themselves.

‘I tell you what,’ said the man. ‘An awful lot of them women are overweight.’

‘Nice dresses, though,’ said his wife.

‘Ah,’ nodded the man, and I just knew I had to catch the act. Voluptuous Cornish women dancing along to Terry’s tune just had to be worth the scrum, so I set off again, listening for the distant sound of tubas.

I finally caught up with the dance in the gardens of Penhellis, a lovely house with a garden to die for. The main dance is the same as the children’s dance except it’s longer (at about one hour and 45 minutes), the dress code is different, it weaves in and out of various shops and houses, and two brass bands play the tune instead of loudspeakers. The men wear full morning dress and the women – who, it turned out, weren’t at all fat – wear what the festival’s souvenir guidebook calls ‘their most charming dresses.’ This equates to wedding attire complete with large, pastel-coloured hats, giving the whole parade an unavoidable aura of – you guessed it – wedding. It’s like witnessing the ultimate reception party conga, complete with brass band and floral theme.

People love it, they really do. The adults in the dance keep their upper lips nice and stiff, and even though some of them look like they’re suffering from the exercise, the dance must go on, and go on it does... and on... and on... and on, until finally the second brass band passes and the second conga bobbles its way through, and the crowds converge to shuffle their way back to the Spingo.

Back in the Blue Anchor the people of Helston were settling in for a long session. My second pint of Spingo wasn’t going down as well as the first one, possibly because I’d stopped to grab a burger and chips from a van that smelled of vomit, and as I sat on a wall nursing my ale, I sniffed the air and suddenly all the Furry Dancing and general weirdness started making sense. The group of chatty people from Falmouth to my left had just sparked up a joint of the greenest-smelling marijuana you could hope for and were giggling into their pints; spurred on by this, the couple sitting on my right took one drag on the atmosphere, glanced at each other, and whipped out their own stash of grass; and then another bloke walked through, introduced himself to the group on my left as a visitor from Luton, and asked if he could borrow some papers, as he’d got some grass but had run out of skins. This was all getting a bit much; I don’t know much about the road to John o’Groats, but it sure isn’t paved with king-size Rizlas, so leaving the dregs of my Spingo for the glass cleaner, I upped sticks and got ready to go.

My final stop on the way out was the toilet, where I found myself sandwiched between two large blokes having a conversation over the top of my head.

‘All right mate?’ said one.

‘Yeah, good,’ said the other.

‘Do you want some grass?’ said the first.

‘Nah, you’re all right,’ said the second. ‘I’m sticking to the Spingo.’

‘Are you sure?’ said the first. ‘I’m just off to the herb garden, and I can get you some if you like.’

‘No, really, you’re OK,’ said the second. ‘Thanks though.’

‘No problem,’ said the first as another bloke came in to the cosy cubicle. ‘Eh, Dave, how you doing? Do you want some grass? I’m just off to the herb garden for a refill.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Dave, and I made a swift exit and caught the bus back to Penzance before the true spirit of Helston sucked me in and dashed my walking plans forever. You have to be careful in places where being a hippy is a statement of cultural conformity... at least, you do if you want to get anywhere.

Penzance to Pengoon Farm

9 May 2003

Today I had my first proper day’s walk. My 11-mile jaunt from Land’s End to Penzance was really just a warm-up, for today’s leg was 17 miles, the average daily distance I need to cover if I’m to reach John o’Groats in a reasonable time.

Starting from Penzance under a cloud-speckled sky this morning, I prayed to the weather gods not to be unkind. One of the myriad weirdoes at the Youth Hostel had warned me that the weather was about to turn nasty, but I should have known better than to trust someone with such a casual approach to halitosis; the weather turned out to be perfect for hopping along the Cornish coast, which means that somewhere in the not too distant future lies my first drubbing at the hands of Cornwall’s famously temperamental weather... just not today.

The most logical way to head towards John o’Groats from Penzance is to head east along the Southwest Coastal Path. This path, the biggest long-distance path in Britain, curls right round the toe of the country, and from Penzance it heads east along the curved shores of Mount’s Bay, a beautiful crescent beach that stretches towards Marazion. The walk looks pretty boring on the map, but the map doesn’t show the view in front of you; as I stomped away from Penzance I couldn’t get enough of St Michael’s Mount standing silhouetted in the distance.

St Michael’s Mount is one of those ancient architectural wonders that make even the most committed modernists go weak at the knees. Picture a mythical mediaeval castle perched on top of a perfectly proportioned island and you’ve got a genetically photogenic sight that combines history, landscape, myth and a special atmosphere of utter Englishness. That’s probably why there’s the mother of all car parks right opposite the Mount, providing the perfect opportunity for busloads of trigger-happy tourists to whizz in, click their shutters, take a swift stroll along the promenade and hop back to the hotel in time for yet another cream tea. But who can blame them? It’s such a satisfying sight, and as the island is connected to the mainland via a causeway that’s only useable at low tide, tourism is unlikely to spoil St Michael’s Mount itself; thankfully it can only gawp from a distance while its ice cream cone melts onto the tarmac car park.

-oOo-

The pretty village of Marazion, which has the good fortune to look over St Michael’s Mount, is a lovely place, though it must be hell in the height of the summer tourist invasion. In May it’s still waking up from hibernation and the sloping streets with their thin pavements are pleasantly tranquil, but I didn’t have time to dilly-dally and take in the view over a cream tea because this was where my route stopped following paved promenades and started exploring the real coast.

The Cornish coast is one long story of sweeping bays, rocky coves, ancient stone houses and settlements that cling to the cliff-tops like limpets, and the coastal path takes you through the best of them. Most people walk the coastal path in the other direction, heading west towards Penzance, and this is probably why the best views were over my shoulder, but I still couldn’t get enough of it as I headed for the curved beach of Sydney Cove.

On the way into the cove I came across a superb woolly hat, stuck onto the gorse bushes right next to the path, and ten minutes later I came across a pure cotton sweatshirt, followed by a woman’s cotton top just round the next headland. I idly wondered if the wind had played a mean trick on a couple making mad passionate cliff-top love... but just as my thoughts were getting interesting, Sydney Cove came into view and it struck me that this would be the last time I’d be walking alongside the sea until far distant Inverness. I dipped my walking sticks in the foam and let the sea lap my boots, just for the symbolism. I wonder if I’ll be able to dip my boots into the sea off John o’Groats; it’s still a very long way off.

Not far after Sydney Cove I cut inland and finally waved goodbye to the sea. By this stage I was starting to dream of a nice pint or two in a local pub, so I decided to take a shortcut along a right of way that cut through three farms. The first two were fine; the third had teeth.

I understand why farmers keep dogs, especially those that live far away from the local police station, but dogs simply don’t like me; they can smell the fear, and this makes every farmhouse a gamble that generally ends up with me coming off worst. As I approached the last farm on my shortcut I heard the ominous sound of rabid dog on the air, and sure enough two black-and-white hounds appeared at the end of the field, barking away.

‘Never mind,’ I thought. ‘I’ll just be the boss, and they’ll respect that.’

Unfortunately Cornish dogs are never going to respect sweaty trekkers who turn up unannounced, even those who turn up unannounced on public rights of way, and these were no exception. They slavered, they growled and they ran at me, totally refusing to be intimidated by my calls of ‘Hello dog, yes I know you don’t want me here, but I just want to follow this right of way, so don’t worry... shiiit! Don’t jump at me like that you bastard!’

This was no time for taking complicated bearings from the hill over here and the church spire over there; I hastily picked a fence, leapt over it, and hoped my sense of direction was enough to pull me through.

Of course, it wasn’t, and it took me ages to find my way back to the road. Shortcut, my arse...

-oOo-

Luckily the rest of the walk was uneventful and beautiful. After my experience with the farmer’s dogs I stuck to the roads, which took me through some lovely Cornish villages with names like Breage and Culeen, places where harsh realities like Middle Eastern war and killer viruses are not only distant, they’re practically mythology. Finally I reached Pengoon Farm, a couple of miles north of Helston, where I gratefully put up my tent, grabbed a shower and tracked down the local pub.

The Crown was just what I needed. Perhaps the list of available beers, chalked up on a blackboard just inside the door, sums it up best; on offer were Betty Stogs (4.0%), Drecky (4.8%), Tipsy Trotter (5.1%), Sozzled Swine (5.5%), Porker’s Blend (3.9%), Farmer Dray (5.5%) and Terry’s Ale (5.0%).

With a bubbling background murmur and a bloody good line in pub food, I settled into the Crown like an overworked tightrope walker into a pair of felt slippers. Tomorrow I’ll have to do it all again, but for now all I can think about is just how lovely it is to be walking in Cornwall.

Or to put it another way, things can only get worse...

Pengoon Farm to Truro

10 May 2003

The most remarkable thing about today’s walk is how lacerated it has made my feet. Whenever I’ve walked I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession with blisters, and at last that obsession has something to work on; I’m the proud owner of a small patch of raw skin on my left Achilles tendon and two blisters on the underside of my right foot that are so deep below the skin that they’re thankfully unbroken. They are, however, bloody painful to walk on, and when I walk – or, to be more accurate, hobble – it feels like I’m standing on a couple of drawing pins.

It could have something to do with today’s route, which took me from just north of Helston to the centre of Truro, and therefore to the centre of Cornwall; all except about a mile of today’s 17-mile hike was on tarmac, and tarmac is really hard on the feet. Or it could have something to do with the fact that I walked 17 miles yesterday as well, which would have softened up my soles, ready for another pounding today. Then again, it could also have something to do with the awful night’s sleep I had last night; I think my money’s on the latter.

-oOo-

Pengoon Farm was a great spot; the old couple who ran the place were utterly charming, the local pub was a delight, and the walk back to my tent was lit by a combination of moonlight and the dull glow of the long-departed sun. Looking forward to a good long sleep, I tucked up into my new sleeping bag, lay down on my new inflatable sleeping mat, plonked my head on my new travel pillow and whispered goodnight to my new tent as the chirpy silence of the countryside muffled around my ears. It was bliss.

And then all hell broke loose as the guy in the caravan at the other end of the field slapped in a CD, cranked up the volume to disintegration point and pumped the field full of the kind of bass that you normally only hear coming out of night-clubs, rock festivals and drug dealers’ cars. The ground literally shook; it was like someone punching me in the small of the back in time to the funky dance beat of Primal Scream’s ‘Loaded’, and for about ten minutes I lay there in that awful no man’s land between praying for a power cut and pulling on the jeans to go out there and ask him to turn it down. It wasn’t a slightly irritating noise; it was a declaration of war.

The problem was that the racket was coming from one of those caravans that you steer well clear of if you want a long and fruitful life. The grass had grown over the wheels, there was a collection of rusty junk outside that would one day prove fatal to a wandering child, and the stains up the side of the caravan spoke volumes. In America they talk of trailer park trash, but this guy suited the Australian term far more; this was definitely the home of a feral.

Luckily for me, someone else in the caravan park reached the end of his tether before I did – possibly because he had a wife in tow who insisted that her husband go and sort out that terrible noise – and because the music was so incredibly loud, I could hear every word of the shouted conversation that followed.

Man: Can you turn that music down?

Feral: What?

Man: Turn that music down! You can hear it in all the other caravans. It’s ridiculously loud!

Feral: Hey, don’t fucking shout at me!

Man: I’ve got to shout because your music is so damn loud!

Feral: I said don’t you shout at me!

Man: Turn this music off now!

Feral: I said don’t... shout... at... me! Ask me to turn it off politely and I’ll think about it.

Man: [through gritted teeth] Turn off your music. Please.

Feral: Hey listen, I’m a human being, don’t yell at me. What’s your name?

Man: What?

Feral: My name’s Alan. What’s your name? Treat me like a human being and I’ll be nice, shout at me and you can forget it.

Man: Uh?

Feral: Here, shake my hand. Treat me like a human being. Come on.

Man: Listen, will you just turn off your damn music? It’s ridiculous playing music this loud in a caravan park at night.

Feral: Shake my hand.

Man: [sighs] I don’t believe it. [shakes hand]

Feral: There, that wasn’t hard, was it? [turns music down] Goodnight, then.

Man: Um. Yes. Goodnight.

As I lay there, I couldn’t help admire the feral, even though he was quite blatantly a nutter. After all, he had managed to control the conversation from the start, despite the fact that he was the one shattering the delicate peace of the caravan park; I wonder if that was the agenda behind his sonic invasion.

-oOo-

As I drifted off to sleep it started to rain, the wind started to howl, and it started to get uncomfortably humid in my tent, but worst of all I started winding myself up about today’s walk. The thought of 17 miles struggling through grim Cornish weather filled me with a deep foreboding, and although the tent held up and the rain drowned out the sound of the feral’s incessant but quieter music selection, I slept badly. At 6.45am I eventually gave up trying and got up before my alarm went off.

Luckily the rain had stopped, though breakfast consisted of a solitary muesli bar and the exciting job of packing away a soaking tent into my backpack. Everything I owned was damp from the inevitable condensation that comes from sleeping in a rain-pounded tent, and as I trudged off into the early morning mist, I couldn’t help noticing that just over the hill it was still pouring down. ‘This is going to be a long day,’ I thought.

I was right, but it wasn’t because of the rain; in fact the weather cleared up, blue skies poked through the clouds, and by lunchtime it was another perfect Cornish day. The day felt long because of the type of walking: today’s entire journey was along Cornish lanes. Cornish lanes are famous for their extremely high and fascinating hedgerows, making them difficult to drive down but beautiful to behold, and at this time of year the hedgerows are dotted with blue, white and purple flowers that no doubt get botanists all excited. They’re a lovely sight, and what can be more wonderful than walking down miles of Cornish lanes in the sun?

That’s what I initially thought, but after a while it gets more than a little wearing. The Cornish countryside is gorgeous, but when most of the hedgerows are taller than you are, you simply can’t see anything outside the road. You catch tantalising glimpses of rolling fields and picture-perfect tin mine ruins, but most of the sights of Cornwall remain resolutely hidden behind the hedges. It’s like wearing blinkers.

But despite the blisters and the invisible countryside, this was yet another lovely day in the heart of Cornwall. The villages I passed through were wonderful; the fish and chip shop that I walked past at noon was like manna from heaven; and the cathedral in Truro, where I finally dropped my pack and felt the blood flow painfully back into my feet, blew my mind.

And hey, I hummed Primal Scream all the way round, which was no bad thing after suffering at the hands of Terry Wogan. Perhaps that feral did me a favour, after all...

Truro to Tregolls Farm

11 May 2003

If I end up aborting this trip early, then this is the day I’ll blame. Today I completely screwed up my route planning, but I didn’t realise until too late and now it’s created my first major hurdle. I have serious blisters, and they mean business.

This stage was supposed to be one of the easiest on the whole walk, a 13.5-mile jaunt from Truro, through a wood, along the A30 and to the industrial town of Indian Queens, home to Cornwall’s china clay mines. A flat 13.5-mile walk should take just a few hours, especially in today’s perfect walking weather, and I slept like a log last night in my Truro B&B. The spring in my step as I walked past Truro Cathedral early this morning was for once unaffected by my heavy backpack; at last I felt I’d found my stride.

My only problem was finding somewhere to stay in Indian Queens. Even with my partner Peta’s help back in London I couldn’t track down any B&Bs or campsites in town, but luckily she found a B&B a little further on that was fully booked, but which had a caravan I could use if I was interested. I was, I booked it, and I set off on day four.

-oOo-

The walk started beautifully, meandering north out of Truro under the arches of a huge viaduct and up towards the outskirts of Idless Wood, a pretty forest that’s run by the Forestry Commission. I follow a strict timetable when I walk – I rest every hour for between five and ten minutes – and my first rest of the day coincided with a leafy ridge on the eastern edge of the wood, where I gladly dumped my pack, shuffled out of my shoes, peeled off my socks and inflicted my feet on Mother Nature. The feeling of cold air hitting hot, sweaty feet is one of the unsung delights of long-distance walking, and as I sat there I fell into a kind of trance in which I could actually feel the effort of my walking evaporating off my toes. And into this trance roared the Hound of the Baskervilles, heading straight for me with slathering jaws, its one good eye pinning me to the spot.

My heart didn’t miss a beat; instead it crammed a whole day’s pounding into the two seconds it took for the monster to cover the distance to my spongy woodland seat. I was frozen in mid-meditation, my mind unable to tell my body what to do because it was too busy yelling, ‘Run! No, actually, don’t run! It’ll sense your fear! Don’t show any fear! No, don’t show any fear! It’ll smell it... Oh my God, it’s too late, we’re all going to die!’

Of course, the dog turned out to be far more interested in dribbling spit into my walking boots than ripping my arms out of their sockets, and I was so grateful to still be alive that I even tried a tentative pat on his head. This cheered the dog up so much that he playfully farted into my backpack and licked my knee, leaving a layer of drool on my tracksuit bottoms that would attract flies for the rest of the day. Just as it appeared that we were getting along fine, the owners appeared.

Most people are disarmingly friendly when you meet them in isolated places like woods or country paths, but the two women who strode round the corner seemed to have forgotten that this was Cornwall, where everyone is happy to see everyone else and the sun always shines. Instead they totally ignored me, striding along the path and oozing the kind of aura that simply doesn’t believe that there are people on this earth who don’t like dogs, horses and dungarees. The dog, encouraged by the arrival of its masters, leapt around a bit, jumped back towards me, stuck its tongue into my left boot and barked twice in my face. I stared at the owners with the pleading look of someone who’d very much like them to call their bloody dog off the scent, but they completely ignored me and I just had to wait until the dog lost interest and ran back to join them.

‘I thought he might have stolen one of your socks,’ said the shorter of the two in a voice all the more impressive for her lack of an Adam’s apple.

‘Um, yeah,’ I said, resisting the urge to add anything in case they discovered I was a dog-hating infidel.

‘Hard to tell who that would have been more unpleasant for,’ rumbled the tall one, and as they disappeared round the corner, laughing like Isaac Hayes and Barry White, I thought about what she said and decided that yes, she was being rude.

‘Bloody dogs,’ I muttered to myself, purposely using the plural, and with a sigh I pulled on my clammy socks, wafted the musty smell of canine out of my backpack and hit the forest trail once again.

-oOo-

After the delights of Idless Wood the route turned east to follow the lanes just south of the busy A30, the main road through central Cornwall. On the horizon I could just make out the strange lunar landscape of the clay mines near Indian Queens, and seeing as I had the day’s destination in my sights, I decided to pop into the next pub I saw for lunch. A few minutes later, in the little village of Summercourt, I spotted the London Inn and ducked through the low door into the sound of clinking glasses and Sunday lunchtime conversation.

‘Hello there,’ said the barman. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Are you doing food?’ I asked.

‘Yep,’ he said, ‘but we’re only doing Sunday roasts, and all we’ve got left is roast beef and Yorkshire pud. Is that OK?’

I could have picked him up and kissed him; Sunday lunch was just what I needed.

‘And a pint of Coke,’ I added, resisting the call of the colourful hand-pump labels dotted along the bar. ‘I’ll be over here.’

Trying not to knock back my drink in one go I retired to a quiet corner of the pub, from where I had a good view of proceedings. The London Inn turned out to be a great little boozer, the kind that Cornwall does so well, and just as I was settling into the comfortable anonymity that’s so welcome when you’re travelling alone, I heard a familiar conversation. Just behind me a grumpy old man was having a go at his wife.

I say ‘familiar’ because this is the third time on this walk that I’ve heard a grumpy old Cornishman being horrible to his wife in public, and I’ve only been here for five days. The first time I just squirmed a little and wished they’d take it home, and the second time was on the bus back from Helston when I put it down to a little too much Spingo on the part of the husband. But hearing the same old story for a third time was tiresome; it’s one thing having a minor disagreement, even though you shouldn’t do it in public and certainly not in a pub, but in each of these cases the man was simply being spiteful. Of course, I know nothing of the background to these public arguments, but one thing was obvious from all three: I couldn’t believe that they even liked each other, let alone lived with each other in holy matrimony.

To get away from the miserable old goat behind me, I occupied myself with a good old nose around the pub. Regulars propped up the bar in the traditional Sunday stance and the roast dinners were doing a roaring trade, but far more interesting was the collection of books I discovered right by my head. Books in pubs are pretty common, but more often than not breweries buy them by the foot, filling the shelves with out-of-date law texts, ancient school books, failed novels and hilariously biased histories of the world. This collection, however, was different; in fact, it was fascinating.

The section I sat next to consisted purely of children’s books from a bygone era. Sandwiched between classics like 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Treasure Island and Just William were books that have long since disappeared into out-of-print obscurity. Scanning the shelf I spotted such seminal titles as Mission to Mars, The Bobbsey Twins at the Circus, Cop Shooter, Jet: Sled Dog of the North, The Bobbsey Twins on a Houseb-

Hang on a minute! Did you say Cop Shooter? In the children’s section? Oh, I’ve just got to take a look at that one...

Let’s see... Cop Shooter by Kit Higson. Well, it’s the story of young Simon Shooter, who discovers a half-drowned puppy in a dustbin and rescues him. Simon names the puppy Cop, hence Cop Shooter. They become inseparable friends, a bully boy from school takes an instant dislike to the pair of them, adventures ensue, the dog helps to win the day... and everyone lives happily ever after. And according to the sleeve notes this book ‘will delight all those who know what a friend to man a dog can be.’

Ah, well that probably counts me out then, which is a shame, because Cop Shooter looks like the kind of book that I might have enjoyed as a nipper, even if it isn’t the gangsta rap exposé its title might imply. Cop Shooter might have no swearing, no homeboys, no crack cocaine and no gold jewellery, but you still wouldn’t come across a children’s book with such a contentious title these days. Then again, looking at the list of other books available in the same series – the Oxford Children’s Library, no less – I was glad to see Howard Spring’s Darkie and Co. keeping Cop Shooter company in the wilderness of political incorrectness. I wonder what that one’s about...

-oOo-

The beef was perfect, the Coke helped prevent post-roast lethargy, and I made a friend in the urinal (as you do in the country), but I had a trail to walk, so I set off again with my spirits high and my sights set on a pleasant afternoon stroll. Unfortunately I hadn’t yet learned the lesson that you shouldn’t measure distances by looking at a map and going ‘it’s about... this far... so that’s about... yeah, ooh, a couple of hours.’ I now know that if you do this, you will be wrong.

Yesterday, when I tracked down the caravan at Tregolls Farm, I took a quick look at the map and estimated that it was only a few miles beyond Indian Queens. I was right, in a sense, but those ‘few miles’ turned out to be 7.5 miles on top of the 13.5 miles to Indian Queens, and they went right over the top of a bloody great hill, through some desolate fields, and then along winding country lanes that went up and down more times than a lift attendant. It turned today’s trek from a happy little jaunt through the Cornish countryside into a test of character that I really didn’t need, and it was all my fault, which made it even more irritating.

Things didn’t go wrong for a while, though. I merrily wandered through Indian Queens, discovering in the process that there is indeed a campsite there; it’s called ‘Gnome World’, and it’s a strange place that manages to combine roadside camping with an insanely large collection of garden gnomes. I didn’t dawdle, and headed on past a dilapidated house whose caged garden was home to three huge and carnivorous Alsatians who acted as if they hadn’t eaten in a month. It’s funny how the houses with the biggest and nastiest dogs are the ones that blatantly have nothing worth stealing, and I wasted no time in rushing past the wonderfully named Screech Owl Sanctuary and on towards the ancient iron age fort of Castle-an-Dinas. It was there, at the bottom of the hill, that my walk suddenly turned nasty.

I’ve mentioned my blisters before; I know this because I remember the therapeutic effect of writing about them, particularly the one on the underside of my right heel that’s buried deep below layers of skin hardened by judicious use of surgical spirit over the past month. I thought it would hurt a bit and then go away, but today I stood on a stone and all hell broke loose.

Imagine, if you will, a sandwich made of two slices of bread and generously filled with egg mayonnaise. Now imagine sitting on this sandwich, and picture the effect on the mayonnaise. Does it burst through the bread? Nope, it shoots out of the sides of the sandwich, staining your trousers in a way that’s hard to explain to your friends. Now imagine that my subcutaneous blister is this sandwich, and I’ve just placed my heel on a stone and put the entire weight of my body and my 17kg pack on top of the whole lot. I felt a sharp pain as the mayonnaise shot out of my sandwich and I assumed I’d popped it, but on closer inspection I found that my blister had expanded sideways, tearing apart layers of skin so the bubble could turn the corner of my heel and start making its way up the outside of my foot, still under the surface. If it hadn’t hurt so much I’d have been fascinated; as it was, I had a hill to climb and miles left to walk. It hurt.

The rest of the day was an exercise in pain control, but luckily every hiker has a friend, and that friend is the hiker’s high, where walking meets the art of the hot curry. Curries get some people quite stoned; I should know, as I’m one of them. Give me a really fiery curry, especially a jalfrezi with those evil little green chillies in it, and I’ll lose the plot for about ten minutes as the chilli grabs hold of my frontal lobes and whisks them off to Madras. It’s rather pleasant and I’m not alone; curries are addictive for this very reason.

The hiker’s high is a very similar feeling to the chilli buzz, and occurs after a reasonably long period of regular plodding. It could be something to do with the meditative qualities of putting one foot in front of the other, mile after mile, but there’s definitely some body chemistry in there somewhere, because once the hiker’s high has kicked in, minor blisters cease to trouble you. Indeed, the high appears to start in the feet and work its way up the body, with the pleasant result that after about 50 paces you can’t feel your blisters. OK, this doesn’t work for patches of raw skin, but for blisters that aren’t debilitating the hiker’s high provides a solution to the pain.

Then again, those first anaesthetic-free steps are utter agony. The secret is to push yourself through the pain barrier and into the high, and you have to get used to doing this because every time you stop for a rest – and I stop every hour – the blood rushes back into your feet and all hell breaks loose. That’s when you remember where each and every one of your blisters is located, and you also get the thrill of discovering where the newest ones have set up shop. It’s like blister bingo, but with no prizes for a full card.

The hiker’s high got me over Castle-an-Dinas (home to great views, amazingly strong wind, ancient iron age earthworks and, strangely, a Land Rover and a herd of sheep), across some desolate fields that looked like they’d lost out in the lottery of life, through a beautifully picturesque village called Tregonetha and along the endlessly winding lanes to Tregolls Farm. And to round off the day, the lovely hostess at Tregolls fed me up with – wait for it – roast beef and Yorkshire pud.

It tasted just as good second time round, even though I could hardly walk.

Tregolls Farm to St Breward

12 May 2003

What a lovely day’s walk this should have been, and once I’ve managed to filter out all the pain from the memories, I’ll look back on it with fondness. From Tregolls Farm I weaved a short distance along the lanes before joining the Camel Trail at Boscarne, which took me to within a mile or so of my destination, St Breward. 11.5 miles is just the right length for an easy day’s walk, but not with the blisters I got from yesterday’s idiocy. I should have been delighted to set off on the easy walk to St Breward; unfortunately I wasn’t.

Even the hiker’s high didn’t help this time, as the blisters were too sore. Perhaps I should have taken a rest day, but Tregolls is a farm and nothing else, where at least St Breward has a pub. So throwing caution to the wind I winced my way down the lanes and onto the Camel Trail.

The Camel Trail is a great track. Stretching from Padstow in the east, the route goes through Wadebridge and Bodmin to end up in the middle of nowhere at a place called Poley’s Bridge, and for the entire length of the walk there’s hardly a slope in sight. This is because the trail follows the route of an old railway line, and now that the rails have been pulled up it provides a wonderful cycle and walking trail through the heart of north Cornwall.

It must have been a great train ride. The section I walked along was one of the first railways in the world, opening way back in 1834; parts of it were still in use until 1984, after a whopping 150 years of service. It connected Padstow to the national rail network back in the days when rail travel was a metaphor for everything that was great about being British (rather than the other way round), and the section I walked ran through woodland, hugging the River Camel through some utterly unspoilt scenery; most railway lines pass through the unpleasant guts of cities, but not this one.

All that remains of the steam train era are a few sections of track welded into the roads that cross the trail every now and then. Sometimes the tracks have been removed and only the tarmac scars are visible, but every now and then you can see a piece of the old railway going over the road at what would once have been a level crossing, and this sense of history makes a pleasant change from following lanes, coastline or field boundaries. It’s also impossible to get lost, as it’s blindingly obvious where the train used to go; it’s along that great big flat bit that doesn’t have any sharp corners, steep inclines or barking farm dogs.

It would have been bliss if I hadn’t spent most of the day obsessing over the state of my feet. Luckily I’ve managed to find a typical Cornish village in which to grab a rest day so I can let my blisters heal before putting them through hell again. St Breward, perched on a ridge on the edge of Bodmin Moor, proudly boasts having the highest inn in Cornwall, the Old Inn, which manages to combine a cosy country pub atmosphere with a fancy restaurant, various pub food awards, and the sort of location next to the village church that makes you want to up sticks and move to the country.

St Breward itself is as enticing as its pub, and according to the leaflet in my B&B, it’s one of a handful of places that can boast a village trail designed by the Heritage Coast and Countryside Service (other such lucky places include Launceston, Padstow, Boscastle, Bude, Bodmin and Port Isaac). Combining some pretty little spots with attractions like the village’s Victorian post box, an old AA road sign and a granite stile, it’s not a bad little trail, though I’ve only explored the section that gets me to the pub and back. The trail leaflet says it all, really:

Too often the gentle evolution of our special villages and their lifestyles, the very heart of the British countryside, have turned into a current of modern mediocrity bringing with it a flash flood of incongruous change and expansion. The true unique nature of these settlements must be really appreciated if they are to survive, not as living, bucolic museums but as dynamic entities, able to grow at a pace which enhances and does not dilute or hide their real character.

It might sound like the ruminations of a retired marketing executive, but under the flowery prose there’s a valid point. St Breward really is a gorgeous place; I’m going to enjoy taking a rest day here.

St Breward to Trecollas Farm

14 May 2003

Bodmin Moor has an image problem. There aren’t many places ending in ‘Moor’ that keep the cockles warm, but Bodmin Moor is one of those whose very name conjures up images of beasts, ancient legends and desolate inns in the middle of nowhere. In the sunshine, though, Bodmin Moor is a pussy cat, and luckily I had sunshine all day today. True, there was a savage north wind that whistled through the rock stacks and made my ears throb, but given the unpredictability of Bodmin’s weather, I got off lightly.

The moor is split in half by the thundering A30 as it cuts from the northeast corner of the moor to the southwest, and when it comes to tourist attractions the northern half most definitely pulls the short straw. The southern half boasts the most impressive rock stacks (the Cheesewring and Stowe’s Hill); the best legends (Dozmary Pool is the lake where the Lady of the Arthurian Lake reputedly handed over Excalibur); the best folk story (the Hurlers, a rock formation near the village of Minions, is apparently all that remains of a team of men who were frozen in granite for the heinous crime of playing sport on a Sunday); the best hermit story (Daniel Gumb, a self-taught mathematical hermit, lived in the Cheesewring, where he carved his name and Euclid’s 47th theorem into the granite); and the best religious story (in the 1930s the lonely and obviously loopy Reverend Densham of Warleggan Church preached to a congregation that was made out of cardboard).

But the northern half is home to both the highest point in Cornwall and the most ridiculous name for such a landmark, and this more than makes up for playing second fiddle in the tourism stakes. Creating titters among trekkers and tourists alike, Cornwall’s highest point is a gently sloping 421m-high hill called Brown Willy, and as the most logical route for the End-to-End walker is through the moor’s northern half, I just had to tackle the summit.

My blisters healed slightly overnight, and after a fruitful session with lots of surgical tape, blister plasters and painkillers, walking into Bodmin Moor proved relatively pain-free. The springy grass of the moor helped considerably, and although the climb to the summit of Brown Willy was quite a struggle, the views were worth it. The mid-morning sun caught me at the top, gazing over Cornwall from the sea in the north to the bright reflections in Colliford Lake to the south. The wind might have been howling from the neighbouring hill of Roughtor (where the ‘rough’ part is pronounced to rhyme with ‘plough’) but it’s moments like this that are worth all the painful walking in the world.

Besides, I’m now able to say with my hand on my heart and a perfectly straight face that I’ve not only enjoyed the company of Cornwall’s Indian Queens, I’ve also sat on top of Brown Willy and thoroughly enjoyed the experience, despite all the sweat and the pain. And that’s quite enough double entendres for one day; this isn’t supposed to be Carry on Cornwall.

-oOo-

Brown Willy might not be a tourist trap, but the next place I came to most definitely is. From the summit of Cornwall I headed south along field boundaries until I bumped into the A30, and for the next hour I was lucky enough to experience exactly what happens when great stories and great locations get bastardised by the tourist industry. The End-to-End route is littered with utterly isolated and unknown gems, but every now and then it wanders past a tourist Mecca, and the Jamaica Inn is one of the crappiest.

I guess it’s not the Jamaica Inn’s fault. Bolventor, the little village in which the Jamaica Inn struts its stuff, is right next to the A30, which is inevitable considering that the whole point of the inn is that it was the main coach stop on the way across lonely Bodmin Moor. The downside is that the place has effectively morphed from an atmospheric and legendary inn into a motorway service station. Made famous by Daphne du Maurier in her novel Jamaica Inn, the inn is a good example of why marketing executives should never be allowed to play around with history.

I was rather looking forward to supping a pint in an atmospheric smugglers’ inn, but instead I wandered into a disaster of modern catering. From the heavy South African accent behind the bar to the self-service cafeteria-style food system, the Jamaica Inn felt like a theme restaurant, with the theme being that of a moor-side literary inn. It didn’t feel genuine; it felt like a parody of itself.

But I needed to eat, so I queued beside the glass-fronted food warmers and bought a pasty and chips, wolfing it down with little ceremony and even less enjoyment. I didn’t hang around to soak up the lack of atmosphere, and on the way out I paused only briefly to admire the Daphne du Maurier Museum and the entrance to Mr Potter’s Museum of Curiosity, which was apparently founded in 1861 at Bramber and perhaps should have stayed there. For £2.50 I could visit either attraction, and if I really wanted to push the boat out I could get a combined ticket for a bargain £4, but I declined and instead slapped on my pack and tried not to wince as I walked past the Union Jack, the Stars and Stripes, and the Skull and Crossbones that fluttered atop the inn’s flagpoles.

As it says above the door to the cafeteria, ‘Through these premises passed smugglers, wreckers, villains and murderers. But rest easy... ’Twas many years ago.’

Unfortunately, ’twas.

-oOo-

Dispirited by the Jamaica Inn I bounced back north across the moor, padding over the springy moorland grass in the general direction of Launceston, my destination at the end of tomorrow’s walk. As I prepared to slip into a long bout of walking meditation I saw another walker coming towards me, and there in his hand was a familiar sight; distinctive with its red and blue banded cover was The Land’s End to John o’Groats Walk by Andrew McCloy, the same guidebook that I’ve been consulting every day for the last week. At last I’d found another End-to-End walker, and he evidently recognised the same in me.

‘Are you doing the End-to-End walk too?’ he asked, and I gleefully nodded.

‘Bloody hard work, isn’t it?’ he said, and introduced himself as Howard. It turns out that Howard is walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats in aid of a cancer charity, and like an incredibly sensible man he’s got a friend and a camper van carrying all his gear while he enjoys pleasant day walks with a small daypack and far fewer blisters than me. None, in fact.

‘I haven’t had one blister yet,’ he confided. ‘I did a bit of training for this walk – well, one 12-mile hike – and I got two awful blisters on the side of my feet, but they healed and I’ve been right as rain since. Then again, I’m not carrying a pack like yours – I’m a bit old for that.’

‘Yeah, the pack’s a sod,’ I agreed.

‘I’ve been there before, though,’ said Howard. ‘A couple of years ago I walked about 500 miles through the Scottish highlands with a full pack, but I couldn’t do it now. Still, you’re a young chap, eh! You’ll be fine.’

‘I hope so,’ I said, meaning it. I’ve never walked this sort of distance with a pack this heavy before; when the blisters bite, I wonder if I ever will.

-oOo-

The guidebook’s suggested route packs a whopping 22.5 miles into the walk over Bodmin Moor, finishing a long way east in Launceston, but with my blisters there was no way I was going to attempt that. Instead Peta helped me track down a farmhouse B&B just past the edge of the moor.

It was bliss, then, to finally slip off the edge of the moor and into the more traditional lanes and flowery hedgerows of Cornwall, and not just because it meant I was close to the end; after hours on the moor, normal Cornwall feels like paradise. Moorland walking is an exercise in high winds, desolation and a constant worry that if the weather comes down and things get nasty, then you could be in real trouble; Cornish lanes, however, are safe, sheltered and practically impossible to get lost in, and going from one environment to the other is like kicking off the walking boots and putting on the slippers.

I enjoyed the moor, but I enjoyed the short walk to the farm even more. Sometimes the best part of a walk is looking back on it from the warmth of a local pub, and even in the finest weather, the conquering of Brown Willy and Bodmin Moor is something to be savoured, but not necessarily repeated.

Trecollas Farm to Launceston

15 May 2003

Today should have been a great day, because my arrival in Launceston, Cornwall’s easternmost town, brings the total distance I’ve walked to just over 100 miles. OK, this is a relatively inaccurate map-based estimate measured with bits of paper and a hefty amount of guesswork, but it’s a psychological barrier, and it means I’ve only got around 1000 miles to go.

In the event, today stank like a pair of walking shorts after 100 miles...

-oOo-

I’ve been incredibly lucky with the weather so far; the only rain that affected me was the overnight downpour just north of Helston, and the little bit of spitting the following morning. I haven’t been drenched yet, but at least I’ve got a taster of walking in the rain, because for the entire stretch from Trecollas Farm to Launceston it drizzled in an irritatingly persistent way.

Drizzle doesn’t sound like much of a problem, and compared to driving rain in high winds it’s not, but it still manages to worm its way into your clothing, down your back and into your eyes. I donned my Gore-Tex like a dutiful son of modern technology, and as per usual it managed to heat me up to the point where I was just as wet inside the Gore-Tex as outside, but although the rain was irritating, it wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was, as always, my feet.

I’m going to have to stop writing about the state of my feet, because I’m beginning to run out of things to say about them, but even though the stretch to Launceston was an easy and short walk along yet more country lanes, it seemed to take far longer than the 3.5 hours it actually took. The problem this time wasn’t on my heels, which have started to heal up nicely into more hardened versions of their namby-pamby office incarnations. Nope, this time the most painful blister turned up on the front ball of my right foot, and to add to the thrill both my little toes decided to blister up in spectacular fashion. The hiker’s high didn’t help; the painkillers probably made a dent, but it was pretty impossible to spot; and I had no choice but to grimace my way through an utterly miserable walk to Launceston.

The walk itself wasn’t much to write home about, but that’s because I’ve already walked along more Cornish lanes than I care to remember. Luckily the monotony was broken halfway at a tiny village called Gospenheale, where I walked past a farm looking so bedraggled and pathetic that the farmer, who’d just driven up in his tractor after passing me at the previous bend, invited me in for a cup of tea. I took one look at the sky and gratefully nodded a thank you.

What lovely people the farmer and his wife were. They’d just spotted Howard’s van parked in the village with its cancer charity banner down the side, and they’d assumed it was my van; when they discovered that I was a different End-to-End walker, they were amazed that there were two of us about. Then again, I pointed out, most people walking from Land’s End use the same guidebook and Gospenheale is mentioned in it by name.

‘Keep an eye on the road outside your gate and you’ll probably see a lot more nutters like me,’ I said, thanking them for the tea and the delicious cake the farmer’s wife had insisted I eat to keep my strength up. And buoyed by this touching act of human kinship – an act that, by the farmer’s own admission, is less common these days because ‘there are some funny sorts out there’ – I hit the trail again, gritting my teeth until I finally fell into Launceston an hour later.

-oOo-

From the moment I hauled myself up the incredibly steep hill on which Launceston lounges, I felt a bit ill at ease. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something weird about Launceston, and closer inspection didn’t do anything to dispel my sense of disquiet.

It’s possible that it was down to the bed and breakfast I ended up in. So far in the lottery of B&Bs I’ve been incredibly lucky; they’ve all been good, and some of them have been excellent. I really loved Tarny B&B in St Breward, Tregolls Farm was delightful even though I was only in the caravan, and last night’s stay at Trecollas Farm on the edge of Bodmin Moor was great; but the Baker’s Arms in Launceston is not one of life’s great B&Bs, even though at £19.50 a night it’s in the same price bracket as the idyllic country cottages I’ve been getting used to.

First up, the pub that hosts the B&B is not one of the most pleasant pubs on the planet; worryingly, this is obvious from the outside, which makes you wonder why on earth I even considered it as an option. Second, the shower was so grotty that the discovery of a cigarette butt swimming between my toes didn’t surprise me one bit. And third, I found that the wardrobe in my room was held up only by the wall, on which it leaned at a worrying angle; I didn’t really mind until I realised that it was only a matter of time before it collapsed and fell directly onto the bed. I only hoped it wouldn’t give up the ghost that night.

Worryingly, this sorry state of affairs was reflected in Launceston itself. I tried two pubs and both of them turned out to be depressing linoleum-floored affairs with mediocre beer and about as much appeal as a bingo hall, but at least one of them was livened up by the continued reappearance of a man who’d been barred from the pub and who wouldn’t take no for an answer. From my window seat I looked out into the rain and watched the man, a wiry, dark-haired figure with a prominent bald patch on the top of his head, as he walked up the street, took a seat in a niche in the pavement and whipped out a can of super-strong lager and a large container wrapped in a white plastic bag. He sucked on the can, coughed, and stuck his lips to the top of the plastic bag, inhaling deeply while his left hand twitched once, twice, three times in the rain.

I hadn’t been expecting to see a glue sniffer on the main street of Launceston, and fortified by his hit he wobbled his way back to the pub, walked in, and had exactly the same conversation with the lady behind the bar as he’d had five times already today. Yet again she didn’t care what his excuse was, he was barred and that was that, so he slurred his words, tied himself in knots, and got precisely nowhere before giving up and moving back to his niche for another session with the plastic bag.

‘He’ll be off to the next pub now,’ said the barmaid. ‘He’s barred from all of them, mind, so he’ll probably end up back here again.’

‘Screws with your head, that glue sniffing,’ said one of the men propping up the bar.

‘A bit like the pubs in Launceston,’ I thought as I sipped my pint of distinctly average Courage Best and looked out at the rain.

-oOo-

There was one wonderful experience waiting for me in Launceston, though. Having given up on the B&B, the pubs and the local population, I decided that the only solution was to go for a walk, blisters or no blisters, and after a few minutes of random wandering, I spotted something well worth visiting: Launceston Castle.

As I discovered on the way in, Launceston is built around a seriously steep hill, and crowning the top of this hill are the remains of a Norman castle that are simply spectacular. They’re not large and they’re certainly not in good condition – they’re most definitely ruins – but the location is second to none, so I happily paid the £2.10 entrance fee and climbed the hill to the tumbledown remains.

I loved it. The hours of agonising walking fell away, the misery of my B&B fell into perspective as just one bad apple in a whole bag, and the twitching of the glue sniffer’s hand seemed like another world; Launceston Castle is the sort of place that makes all the grief worthwhile, and in the rain I had the entire place to myself. It was easy to imagine the days when the castle was home to the most powerful men in the region, and from the top the misty views over Launceston and the surrounding countryside were stunning, even in the driving rain.

Because of the castle I found it easy to forgive Launceston for its weirdness. Sometimes you just have to know how to look at a place to see beyond the grot, the glue and the linoleum, and in Launceston it’s by looking at its past. As for its present and future, I think I’ll leave that to someone else...

Launceston to Bridestowe

16 May 2003

This should have been a terrible day, not because of the walk itself, but because I woke up to miserable, driving rain, and apart from a short break in mid-afternoon, it never really went away. How bizarre, then, that I ended up rather enjoying myself.

A lot of this was down to the incredible healing that afflicted my right foot overnight. Perhaps my blisters were as keen to leave Launceston as I was, but when I woke up in my freezing bed – freezing because the window didn’t shut properly, which meant not only a cold night but a noisy one, as my room looked over the main street – my right foot was practically back to normal. My left foot was still suffering, particularly on the front ball and the little toe, but having half my body working was a considerable improvement, and it made a big difference.

I was also delighted to be leaving Launceston. I hadn’t spotted it the day before, but when I staggered out of the front door of the Baker’s Arms and into the morning drizzle, I noticed that the building opposite was boarded up and held together by scaffolding, with a sign stuck to the front declaring that just ten days before the building had been the victim of the local arsonist, and could anyone with any information please contact the police.

Trying hard to feign surprise, I left as quickly as my not-quite perfect feet could carry me.

-oOo-

For the entire 17 miles from Launceston to Bridestowe I followed a local track called the Two Castles Trail. Yesterday I bumped into Howard again as I hobbled into Launceston, and he proudly showed me the trail pack he’d picked up from the tourist office; I wasted no time in following suit, so today I ended up taking this winding, scenic route east rather than the normal procession of hedgerows, villages and A-roads. It was a good move.

Unfortunately I can remember little of the Two Castles Trail because most of it was expertly shrouded in misty rain by the unpleasant weather that rolled over the entire country yesterday. I remember some things, though, and here they are.

I remember crossing the border from Cornwall into Devon, simply because it’s the first county border my walk has crossed. The border at this point is the River Tamar, which runs broadly north-south, and the border crossing is a fairly nondescript bridge that carries more traffic than symbolism. Still, I’m in county number two, and despite the humdrum nature of the boundary, it means a lot to be moving into Devon.

I remember being delighted that my fancy new gaiters kept my feet utterly dry, a luxury that can’t be underestimated (especially as wet feet blister amazingly quickly). They’re made of Gore-Tex and fit exactly over the soles of my Berghaus Storm boots, and apart from the odd bit of condensation inside, they’ve proved their worth. Even drizzle can soak your feet if you’ve got the wrong footwear, especially when you’re wading through luscious foot-high grass that’s glistening with water; happily gaiters, Gore-Tex boots and plastic over-trousers combine to make a pretty good remedy, and once you know your legs are going to stay dry, constant downpours don’t worry you half as much as they normally would.

I remember thinking that following directions in a trail leaflet is both more relaxing and more irritating. It’s good to know that you’re on a way-marked route that’s been trodden by plenty of walkers before you, and it’s good to know that the route is theoretically going to take you through the most scenic and interesting places, rather than taking the most direct path. But when those directions start to make no sense, or you just can’t find a trail marker when you’re expecting one, it’s far more annoying than getting lost with just an Ordnance Survey map to hand; with the latter you have to pay attention all the time, but when you’re following directions in English, it’s easy to drift off a bit, and suddenly you have no idea where you are, or which direction is which. I got lost on more than one occasion; I guess that’ll teach me to be complacent when following directions.

-oOo-

I remember passing through Lewtrenchard and marvelling at the isolation and beauty of the Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould’s home. The Reverend was not only the squire of this area, but he was also the parson, and he enlarged the local manor house, Lew House, into a much larger affair, designing some parts himself without the aid of an architect, and using nothing but local skills to achieve what is now the Lewtrenchard Manor Hotel. He also moved a holy well from the copse above the manor into the grounds of the manor itself; he compiled an authoritative and exhaustive list of Devon folk songs and stories; he wrote many books on Devon; and to cap it all, it was he who composed the hymn ‘Onward Christian Soldiers.’ It’s an impressive list of achievements for one man, even one motivated by faith.

Finally I remember crossing Galford Down and smiling as the sun tried to poke its head through the clouds (unfortunately it soon popped back in, but it was good of it to try). With perfect timing the skies cleared enough for me to witness the gorgeous view from the downs: to the west, distinctive with his humpbacked ridge on the distant horizon, was good old Brown Willy, with Roughtor clearly visible next to him; and on the opposite side, wreathed in misty misery, was my first sight of the rolling hills of Dartmoor, which I’ll be skirting for the next day or so.

While admiring the view, I pulled out the trail guide and noticed that I was standing on an ancient battleground. On Galford Down in 825 AD, the Saxons sent the Celts packing and effectively killed off any Celtic influence to the east of the River Tamar, but this isn’t the interesting part. Historians think that the Celts were inspired to fight by King Bearnwulf of Mercia, a hardcore axe-wielder if his name is anything to go by, but they were beaten by – wait for it – King Egbert and his Saxon army. Egbert? Yeah, I’d have put my money on Bearnwulf too; how bad must the Celts have felt to lose to a guy called Egbert?

Unfortunately, just as soon as I’d managed to grab this glimpse of the distant past, the sun disappeared, the clouds came down, and I again started praising the name of the great god of Gore-Tex as the trail turned into a muddy lake in front of my very eyes. Again.

-oOo-

Amazingly I arrived at Bridestowe with aching feet but no new blisters – yep, I counted ’em twice – and after booking into a campsite and popping up my tent, I wandered down towards Dartmoor and into the most wonderful pub. This is what makes it worth all the effort; those pints of Devon Gold and the wonderful gourmet meal I guzzled didn’t even touch the sides.

You see, I love pubs, but I really love pubs with real fires, great real ale, cosy seats, real stonework, excellent food and subtle lighting. In short, I loved the Bearslake Inn from the minute I wandered round the corner from the campsite and saw the ancient stonework huddled by the side of the A386. Some days are meant to be difficult so the end can be just that bit sweeter; this day was indeed one of those.

Bridestowe to South Zeal

17 May 2003

When it rains, it pours, and this short stage from Bridestowe to South Zeal might turn out to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Until today things have been going well, even though the blisters have been agony; generally I’ve been enjoying myself, even in the rain, and I’ve felt myself getting fitter and fitter, ready for the challenges that I know are ahead. But today everything that could go wrong went wrong, and making me feel even more helpless is the fact that I don’t think I could have done anything to prevent it.

I’d assumed this would be an easy day. This assumption was partly down to the short distance involved – 12 miles is not a long way when you’re used to days of 17 miles – but also to the irritatingly upbeat attitude of Andrew McCloy, author of the blue and red End-to-End guidebook that I’ve been following. ‘If you arrive early,’ he writes about today’s stage, ‘why not drop your pack at the campsite and stretch your legs – Cosdon Hill is only the small matter of 1800ft/550m above, and enjoys fine views over northern Dartmoor.’

I’ll tell you why not, Andrew. When I arrived, I could hardly bloody walk. And then things got even worse...

-oOo-

I had been going to follow Mr McCloy’s suggested route for the entire day, but when I checked in at the wonderfully friendly Glebe Caravan and Camping Park in Bridestowe, the proprietor handed me a leaflet, saying, ‘If you’re heading to Okehampton you’ll be doing the Granite Way; here are the details.’ I accepted the leaflet out of politeness, but on closer inspection I realised he was talking sense.

McCloy’s route continues along the Two Castles Way to Okehampton, and it weaves up and down the northern slopes of Dartmoor in a way that would be great in the summer, but not in the rain. The Granite Way, however, is another of these dismantled railway tracks that’s been turned into a cycle path, and it goes all the way from Bridestowe to Okehampton. ‘Hmm, let me see,’ I thought. ‘Do I want to walk up and down the slopes of a desolately muddy moor in the pouring rain, or do I want to wander along a flat, gravel path that takes me in a straight line to Okehampton, from where it’s an easy hop to the campsite at South Zeal?’ It wasn’t exactly a difficult decision; the Granite Way won hands down.

Of course, it pissed down overnight, so once again I awoke to a soaking tent that over the course of the day dripped rainwater into the bottom of my backpack, soaking my only smart pair of trousers in a highly embarrassing way. It was still raining when I set out for the Granite Way, and it would continue to bluster and blow until the sun managed to poke its head through the clouds at about 3.30pm. But I had a long, long way to go before then, even though I didn’t know it at the time.

On a beautiful day the Granite Way must be stunning. Some sections are fairly boring – the parts that go through cuttings don’t have any views, and they are quite a long way by foot – but overall it’s a great track, and I knew I’d made the right decision compared to the higher path on Dartmoor; I could see where the other path went, but only some of the time, as it was mostly shrouded in the sort of close cloud that makes the warm hearth of the local pub seem like a distant haven. Luckily the lower altitudes of the Granite Way managed to stay free of mist, though the regular showers were starting to get on my nerves as they wormed their way through my Gore-Tex. Still, I enjoyed great weather in west Cornwall, so I couldn’t really complain... yet.

Besides, some sections of the Way don’t need good weather to be impressive, particularly the huge viaducts that span some of the valleys coming off Dartmoor. Dartmoor is essentially an area of raised ground that’s covered in rough grass, bog and gorse, and the Way skirts the northern border of the moor. It’s amazing; you can actually see the boundary of the national park, not because of any man-made feature, but because Dartmoor consists of high ground, and the edges of the moor are steep slopes that go from luscious farmland at the bottom to desolate moor at the top. Dartmoor is farmed, so it’s not as if the distinction is down to a lack of agriculture within the national park, but I’d never appreciated that moors are moors because they’re at a higher altitude, and that encourages wet weather and high wind, which gives them different vegetation and a totally different colour. You can tell which bits are Dartmoor because they’re brown and bleak; if anything, Dartmoor in the rain looks like a monumental cow-pat in the middle of the rolling green field that is Devon.

Obviously any high, wet moor like Dartmoor is going to have a lot of rivers pouring off the sides, and the flanks of the moor are scarred with deep river valleys that the railway had no choice but to span. The viaducts that carry the now rail-free railway are huge; Lake Viaduct arches into the sky with perfect curves made from local stone, and Meldon Viaduct’s steel girders span a huge 165m-wide valley, with a view that would be quite something in the sun, but which is just as impressive in the howling wind. The cycle way is enclosed on either side by formidable steel barriers, and beyond the barriers on each side there’s another couple of metres of pathway followed by more barriers; I couldn’t understand why the architects of the cycle path had decided to use only the centre of the bridge, but when I ventured out into the open, the wind slammed into me and I had to claw my way east, hand on hat. Suddenly I understood their caution; on a bicycle you wouldn’t stand a chance against the whistling winds of Dartmoor.

-oOo-

From Meldon Viaduct the Granite Way follows the Dartmoor Railways line to Okehampton, the line that carries aggregate out of nearby Meldon Quarry and passengers to and from the viaduct. As a walk it’s not exactly thrilling, but Okehampton proved a destination well worth reaching, mainly due to the great little café I discovered in the middle of town.

With the rain pounding down outside, the warm and friendly interior of the Coffee Pot was exactly what I needed, and the food was excellent. I wolfed down a big plate of lasagne and chips as if there was a famine in town, and obviously impressed by my eating ability, the other customers assured me that this was indeed the best place in town. I had to agree; with my feet aching and the steam rising from my T-shirt, I fantasised about jacking in this stupid walk and running a nice little café like this. How hard could it be? And how relaxing? As if I’d have any idea... but imperceptibly the strain of the walk was starting to affect my thinking, to the point where I was beginning to fancy running a café in deepest Devon. And yet I still didn’t spot the signs...

From Okehampton I struck south along the Tarka Trail, a track that celebrates the travels of Tarka the Otter, the character from Henry Williamson’s book of the same name. Otters like water, and so does the Tarka Trail, and because of that it’s beautiful. Or, more accurately, it’s no doubt beautiful in the sun, but in the rain, moss and slate become a lethal combination, especially with a heavy pack; I’ve never been so glad to have trekking sticks, and even though they make me look like a lost Austrian skier, I wouldn’t trek watery Devon without them.

I must read the book, because then I’ll know whether to blame Tarka or the local council for the section of the trail that strikes out into Dartmoor, but whoever thought up such a miserable stretch of moorland walking deserves a medal, because from the moment the trail shot upwards from the East Okemont River, my spirits sank. The wind howled, the rain stung, and I started wondering why the bloody hell I was doing this, because it quite obviously wasn’t for pleasure. To add insult to what would soon become injury, I got hopelessly lost on the moor after the little village of Belston, and after sinking up to my knees in bog and sliding my way down to Sticklepath, I was yet again thankful for my Gore-Tex gear; my feet were miraculously dry, but something hurt, and it wasn’t a blister. It was internal.

I didn’t do anything specific to screw my right foot up – I didn’t slip over, twist my ankle or anything obvious – but as I wandered through Sticklepath and turned the corner for South Zeal, I felt a sharp pain hit the outside of my right ankle. I couldn’t believe it; this was the exact same spot where my foot gave way when I attempted the Pennine Way a few years ago, and back then I had to go home early. With a sinking feeling, I realised that this was serious.

-oOo-

I eventually managed to hobble into the campsite at South Zeal, and immediately started setting up my tent in the unusual lull in the rain that heralded my arrival. I could hardly walk with the pain, but my first priority was to get my tent up before the rain came back and soaked all my possessions, and it was in this state of mind that I slid my carbon-fibre tent pole into its slot and watched amazed as it cleanly snapped in two. I couldn’t believe it; I paid just under £300 for this tent, and on the third time I tried to put it up, it broke.

I sat there in the grass, my foot throbbing and my soaking tent lying useless around me, but luckily I’d read the instructions that came with my tent, and I knew there were two metal sheaths included that were designed to fix just such a break. No problem; all I had to do was pull out this end bit, undo this knot in the elastic... with my teeth, evidently... slide on the sheath, tie up the end again, slot the end back on, and it should fit just about... Shit. It didn’t fit at all. The break was exactly where the carbon pole fitted into a metal corner bit, and the sheath didn’t bloody fit.

Luckily the instructions had another solution: use a tent peg as a splint. However, after 15 minutes of tying pegs to broken poles, I can safely say that the person who wrote the ‘fix it’ instructions for my tent has clearly never tried to do it themselves. However hard I tied the tent peg to the pole, it still bent like a broken coat-hanger; whether I liked it or not, my tent was dead.

I couldn’t help it, but I just sat there and cried, the combination of tiredness, weather, frustration and panic all taking over. For once I found myself wishing for rain, because at least the other campers wouldn’t have known that I’d gone from on top of the world to the bottom of the barrel in the space of just one day.

Thankfully Peta was at the other end of the phone, and she found me a bed and breakfast back in Okehampton (there being none in South Zeal). Now, after ordering a taxi and hopping up the stairs to my room for the night, I’m thanking my lucky stars that at least I’ve managed to escape the weather that’s pounding down outside. Just down the hill from the B&B is the Plymouth, a CAMRA-recommended real ale pub with excellent food, and despite the fact that my foot might mean the end of my walk for a while, those pints of ale are helping.

Right now, though, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to go on, because I can hardly walk without shooting pains in my foot, and I no longer have a tent. Both these problems are surmountable, but unfortunately they’re rather important setbacks.

We’ll see. After all, I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t like a challenge...

Okehampton

19 May 2003

With my right foot showing signs of imminent failure and my tent a useless pile of sodden super-light fabric, I needed to concentrate on keeping my mind happy. When your body and your gear give up the ghost within an hour of each other, there’s little else you can do except pander yourself.

Luckily, Okehampton turned out to be a great place in which to break down. Peta’s search for a nearby bed came up with the lovely Penare B&B, where everything that is good about British Bed and Breakfast helped soothe the emotional roller-coaster I’d become. Mike and Viv, the couple who host the B&B at Penare, were utterly charming, and from the minute I staggered through the door, looking like something the cat didn’t even bother to drag in, I felt right at home. The room was comfortable, the breakfasts would prove to be just what the doctor ordered, and the centre of the metropolis of Okehampton was just downhill from the B&B, an important consideration given the shooting pains in my foot.

‘You see the lady who just left?’ said Viv, pointing to a woman who was leaving just as I wandered up the drive. ‘Well, she was doing the Southwest Coastal Path with a really heavy pack, and she had to give up through injury. She damaged the muscle at the top of her leg, and it’s still giving her problems, a month later.’

I sighed with sympathy and felt a great big surge of relief. An hour before I’d been sitting in a campsite, feeling totally alone with my damaged foot and my broken tent pole, and now I was back in civilisation with people who not only understood what I was going through, but some of them had been through it themselves. I can’t tell you how much better that made me feel.

-oOo-

My first priority was to get some food inside me and enjoy a decent night’s sleep, and the Plymouth managed to rustle up a perfect meal for me. The pork medallions in mustard and honey sauce lasted about as long as the sautéed potatoes, broccoli and carrots, and to wash it down I sampled a couple of the real ales on offer from the kegs sitting behind the bar. You know you’re onto a winner when the beer is served from barrels that have nothing more fancy than a tap on the front, and it seems that CAMRA agrees, as the Plymouth was voted the North Devon CAMRA Pub of the Year for 2002.

The ale, Skinner’s Cornish Knocker, helped not only to dull the pain of my aching foot, but also to dull my senses, which were more than a little fraught after the day’s setback. A few hours ago I’d still been on track, mentally making plans for the next few stages and looking forward to an eventual improvement in the weather as summer approached with the dwindling mileage to Scotland. Suddenly things were very different: sure, my tent could be fixed, but more pressingly, could I carry it any further? I knew that something would have to change, but for the moment I left the decision until after the Cornish Knocker had done its work. Not surprisingly, I slept like a dead man.

-oOo-

Sunday morning awoke to me phoning people for advice. I called Sarah, a physio friend who’d very kindly offered to help me out over the phone should I need advice, and after I’d explained what the problem was and how it had happened, she said it sounded like an inflamed tendon that was being irritated by my boots. The best approach would be threefold: first, get some ice on it to reduce the swelling, because it’s the swelling that causes the pain; second, get hold of some chiropody felt and stick it around the affected area, to keep pressure off the tendon; and third, shed as much weight as possible from my backpack, because the lighter the load, the less the chance of irritation. It all made perfect sense, though she was also keen to point out that if it continued to hurt, the only real solution would be to see a professional, in the flesh.

Still, I had enough options to make a plan, and next on the phone was Peta, to whom I whinged and moaned before concluding that I should go through my pack, discard as much as possible (including my tent) and post it back to her in London. She offered to help me find B&Bs for the rest of my trip, and pointed out that even if things still went wrong and I couldn’t walk, then at least I’d have tried a different approach. She also reminded me that I’m supposed to be doing this for fun, and if walking with the current pack isn’t an option, perhaps walking without it is. It’s a good point.

And finally I rang my Mum, because that always helps. And, sure enough, it did.

-oOo-

In sorting out my new backpack regime, I was ruthless. I adopted the kind of Buddhist minimalism that I apply to travelling in the Third World – nobody notices if you smell over there, so you can get away with hardly any clothes – and I managed to reduce my weight by about half. The box I put together to send to Peta weighed 7kg, and I managed to dump another 1.5kg by carrying less water and by chucking out some of the more paranoid medicines and toiletries that I figure I can live without (such as athlete’s foot cream, hydrocortisone cream, deodorant and so on). My pack, therefore, has now dropped from 17kg to 8.5kg, which is about as light as you can go if you still carry all the wet weather gear you need, the relevant maps and route guides, a computer, minimal water, food and two sets of clothes (one for walking and one for civilisation).

The losses include my defunct tent; my sleeping bag and my inflatable sleeping mat; the maps I’ve already used; an accommodation guide to B&Bs and hostels; my sandals, some extraneous clothes, and my hand towel; and two of the four 500ml water bottles I’ve been using as water carriers (with less to carry, there’s less sweating going on, I figure). OK, so I can’t camp where I like, I’m restricted to one pair of shoes and I don’t have the flexibility of having all those dry clothes in case of a good soaking, but because I know I’ll be spending every night under a roof, I don’t need these luxuries.

After all, I don’t actually have a choice if I want to keep walking.

-oOo-

Determined not to let my unscheduled visit to Okehampton turn into the self-pitying wallow that it could easily have become, I decided to keep myself busy. Apart from tackling the planner’s wet dream of reorganising my pack for the new challenge ahead, I decided to explore Okehampton properly, as I’d only briefly shot through at lunchtime the day before.

Unfortunately the weather had other ideas, and just to make sure I didn’t forget who was the boss, it blustered and blew all day. The odd sunny struggle peppered the downpours, and foolishly falling for Mother Nature’s trickery, I left the B&B for Okehampton Castle just in time to get hit by a massive squall as I approached the ancient battlements.

The lady at the English Heritage counter was utterly amazed to see me knocking on the window and asking for a ticket in the torrential rain. Apparently it hadn’t been busy – no surprises there – but she cheerily took £2.60 off me and wished me a pleasant visit to the castle, and huddled inside my Gore-Tex jacket, I started up the path to the castle.

Okehampton Castle is quite different to Launceston Castle, and both castles are well worth a visit (especially if you’ve been walking the Two Castles Trail, which links the two together). Where Launceston’s castle consists of a cylindrical keep on top of a perfect cone that dominates the town, Okehampton Castle is built on top of a man-made hill in the middle of a valley some way away from the town centre, and as such it has lovely views up and down the valley, with the town tucked away neatly at one end. But the big difference is in the keep; Okehampton’s keep is a rectangular building that has been utterly devastated by the elements, and where Launceston’s profile is wonderfully neat and tidy, Okehampton’s is almost comically ruined.

From the bottom of the hill, the silhouette of Okehampton’s keep is like something out of an enchanted forest, a pile of precariously balanced and tortured stone piles that look like twisted old crones frozen in rock. The scene is dominated by what initially appears to be a fireplace with a meandering chimney sticking up to the sky, the surrounding stonework having worn away long ago; on closer inspection the fireplace turns out to be the main entrance to the keep, and the chimney is just the wall section that happens to be above the entrance, but from below the whole thing looks eerily like a bent witch’s finger, quite unlike Launceston’s neat and symmetrical beauty.

There are also a lot more ruined buildings around the bottom of Okehampton Castle, and the information boards are good at showing you exactly how things would have looked back in the days of the Normans, when the castle was an important strategic outpost. Unfortunately I spent most of my visit huddling under the roofless shelter of the craggy castle walls, but as with my visit to Launceston Castle, it only added to the atmosphere. Soon enough the rain lessened slightly and other tourists started appearing from the stonework, grim determination etched into their faces as the wind whistled down the valley, but I’d already seen enough, and I could hear the call of the Plymouth from the other side of town.

-oOo-

When I travel, my portable computer is a great way to break the ice, especially in places where technology is a complete stranger. Not many people in the developing world have seen a fold-out keyboard and a tiny palmtop computer, so whenever I’d pull it out and start typing, I’d get an audience of people who couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing. Amazingly, I got pretty much the same reaction in the Plymouth as I settled in for a Sunday afternoon with the Cornish Knocker crowd.

I sat in the corner, minding my own business and trying to ignore the steam that slowly rose from my hair, but gradually the locals plucked up enough interest to wander over for a look at the amazing fold-up computer. Of course, I oblige whenever this happens; the look on people’s faces is priceless when they see a full-size keyboard disappear into a tiny case the size of a hand, and once someone has seen it, they go back to their mates and say, ‘Hey, that guy over there’s got a computer that folds up into nothing. Go on, go over and have a look.’ And sure enough, over they come, politeness personified, and I play them my keyboard concertina to rapturous applause.

Two of the regulars, a couple of young blokes called Adam and AJ, came over to see my keyboard and settled down for a chat. I instantly warmed to them; they were real Okey boys (as the locals call the town), Adam born and bred here, and AJ a Cornishman who’d crossed the border. We pottered through pub conversation and I span them tales of heavy backpacks, inflamed tendons and Cornish Knockers while they told me all about life in Okey. And then, by some bizarre twist of conversation, AJ casually mentioned that he was a collector of swords, daggers and knives.

‘Um, swords?’ I gulped, even though AJ didn’t look like the kind of man who would take a samurai sword to a meeting with his local Member of Parliament (as someone recently did).

‘Don’t worry, I’m a collector,’ he said. ‘I don’t actually use them.’

And like all collectors who’ve managed to stray onto the subject that’s closest to their hearts, AJ started talking about his collection with obvious passion. He explained about the way blades are beaten into shape, with the metal being hammered into incredibly thin sheets before being folded up and hammered out again and again and again; he described how he bought his swords, sometimes from catalogues and sometimes over the Internet; he talked about his latest acquisition, the Sword of the Valkyries, which had set him back £400, and how he’d been going to spend £700 on the sword from the Lord of the Rings, but they’d sold out.

I was genuinely interested; I muddled my way through the terminology and wondered what the appeal of collecting swords might be, so when AJ offered to show me his collection I jumped at the chance. He only lived a few doors down from the pub, so off we went, and it was only later that it struck me that I’d just agreed to disappear off with two complete strangers I’d met in a pub to go see a collection of lethal weapons. It’s not something I’d do in London...

I needn’t have worried; AJ was most definitely a collector rather than a weapons nutter, and his swords were indeed impressive. By law any blade over a certain length cannot be sharpened (otherwise you can be arrested for possession of a lethal weapon), but apart from the dullness of the blades, these swords were real. They were heavy, they were made by craftsmen, and they were clearly lethal even without sharp blades; hell, AJ’s wooden practice sword could have done considerable damage, but then again, so can an electric iron in the wrong hands.

‘And where did you get this one from?’ I asked, pointing towards a short dagger in a decorated sheath.

‘Oh, my mum brought that one back for me from Turkey,’ he said, and my eyes boggled.

‘Is that legal?’ I asked.

‘Yep, it’s fine,’ said AJ. ‘As long as it’s not in your hand luggage and is locked in your suitcase, it’s no problem.’

‘Oh,’ I said, amazed.

‘Or you can post it back home,’ he continued, ‘though that’s a right hassle. I’m off to Crete next week, and I’m going to bring back a knife with a handle made of shark skin; it’s really rough, and grips your palm like glue. You can’t twist the knife when you’re holding on to it, it’s that rough. Lovely piece of work.’

‘Wow,’ I said, sticking to the monosyllabic responses of a man confronted with a whole new world of weirdness.

‘Yeah,’ echoed AJ, pulling on his roll-up and gazing at his swords with pride. ‘Look at this one,’ he said, picking a sheathed samurai sword. ‘Lovely sword, but my bloody ex broke it. Look.’

And he pulled off the sheath to reveal a curved sword that was cleanly snapped off at the hilt.

‘Bloody hell, how did she do that?’ asked Adam.

‘With a lot of effort,’ said AJ, daggers in his eyes, and with that we went back to the pub for a few more Cornish Knockers and deep and meaningful conversation about AJ’s ex-girlfriend, the joys of living in Okehampton, and the Torquay club scene. It was a bizarre end to a good day, and as I headed back to the B&B, I couldn’t help thinking that in small towns like this, still waters run fascinatingly deep.

South Zeal to Crediton

20 May 2003

Despite meandering around the northern borders of Dartmoor and occasionally straying into the moorland on the Tarka Trail, the End-to-End route steers clear of the national park, instead veering east-northeast to Crediton. I was thankful for the lack of a moor-exploring detour; moors can be pleasant in good weather, but in foul weather they’re utterly, utterly dismal, as I discovered a few days ago. Dartmoor is famous for being a nasty place when the mists come down, which only adds to the misery.

I didn’t realise it until after I flirted with the moor’s northern slopes, but Dartmoor was the setting for Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles. This classic Sherlock Holmes story combines a number of my pet hates – boggy moor, inclement weather and slavering canines – and the discovery that Dartmoor’s Fox Tor Mire was the inspiration for the book’s Grimpen Mire was enough to convince me that in this weather, skirting the edges of Dartmoor is more than enough. I’d like to see Dartmoor on a beautiful, wind-free sunny summer’s day, but for now I’ll settle for having it at my back.

-oOo-

I decided to take two rest days in Okehampton, not just because resting is a good idea for any injury, but because I had to wait until Monday for the Post Office to open, so I could mail my 7kg package of discarded trekking gear back to Peta in London. That done, I spent Monday avoiding the continuing rain by holing up inside the B&B and writing. But Tuesday soon came, and I had to tear myself away from Mike and Viv’s convivial little place and hit the trail once more.

It might have been the after-effects of the whisky that my hosts had offered me the night before, or it might have been a natural psychological response to my plans derailing, but when I jumped out of the taxi that took me back to the trail in South Zeal, I felt miserable. I could feel the mood swings buffeting me around in the amazingly strong winds that hit Devon that morning, and I couldn’t work out what the problem was. After all, it wasn’t raining, the walk consisted of an easy stroll along country lanes to Crediton without once brushing past a moor, and I was back on the road again, eating away at the miles to John o’Groats.

But miserable I was, so I tackled my uncooperative psyche by strapping up my tendon with chiropody felt and getting on with the walking. The wind blew me sideways as the miles unfurled, and still my mind wallowed in the bottom of some strange self-pitying mire. I didn’t even notice the landscape I was walking through – though, to be fair, there wasn’t much to see from the high-hedged lanes – and instead, in time-honoured fashion, I obsessed about my blisters.

You see, like all good addicts, I have found a new twist to enliven my obsession. While I was walking round Okehampton, easing my tendon back into walking mode, I spotted an outdoor shop and thought I’d pop in to ask their advice about blister prevention; after all, I’ve tried surgical spirit, I’ve tried wearing two pairs of socks, I’ve tried wearing one pair of socks, I’ve tried wearing my boots in before walking, and I’ve tried everything from normal plasters to Compeed blister plasters to micropore to surgical tape... and I still get blisters. Their advice, though, was so amusing I just had to try it; they suggested I buy a pair of 1000-mile socks that guarantee that your foot will remain blister-free, or your money back.

‘Bring it on,’ I thought, and took a second look at the packet; yes, there it was, a promise to refund my money in full if the socks either wear out within 1000 miles of purchase, or give me blisters. I didn’t bother to read the small print; this just had to be worth the gamble, if only for amusement value.

So instead of admiring the Devon countryside or laughing as the wind blew me across the road and into the path of incoming traffic, I concentrated on my feet. Was that twinge a blister in the making, or would that rubbing sensation turn into another wincing pain that I’d need to smother in bandages? I tried to analyse the theory behind the socks; they have a thin inner lining sewn inside the main woolly sock that is supposed to cling to your foot, while the outer part of the sock flops around in the normal way. This is supposed to reduce the friction on your feet to nothing, so blisters can’t form; it’s the same theory as wearing a thin sock under a thicker one, but in one combined package.

But the ball of my right foot soon started hurting, and the heel of my left foot was definitely rubbing, and within a couple of hours of take-off I had blisters forming – not big ones, but definite blisters. There are two reasons why I’m not claiming my money back, though. First, the small print, which I ignored in my gormless surprise at the audacity of a 100% guarantee, insists that I return the socks with the receipt, but I realised halfway to Crediton that the man in the shop didn’t actually give me a receipt; and second, there’s a slight possibility that these blisters were already half-formed before I tried the socks, and it’s unfair to blame the socks for aggravating problems that were already there, if that is what’s actually been happening.

So the experiment goes on, and I hope it works. But I’m going to be obsessing about new blisters like never before, because now it’s between me and the marketing droids who came up with the name ‘100% blister-free socks, guaranteed.’ Somehow, I think it might turn out to be nothing but a slick slogan.

-oOo-

I might have started today under a cloud, but the worries about my tendon proved to be unfounded; it didn’t hurt once. As the walk unfolded I started cheering up, and I realised the incredible difference that a lighter pack makes. I had been coping fine with the heavy pack in terms of muscle stamina and doing the distance, but when you shed half the weight of your burden, it’s amazing how much more pleasant it is to walk.

I know today was an easy stage, but I didn’t find myself sweating or straining once, whereas the slightest slope with a heavy pack is noticeable. I was so pleased at my progress that I even broke my normal rule of avoiding beer during the walking day, promising myself a pint at the Mare and Foal pub, about an hour before the end of the walk at Crediton. Unfortunately the pub was closed due to a family bereavement, so I had to eat my lunch alone in the beer garden, hammered by the fiercely freezing wind that had been bothering me since I set off, but it didn’t dent my good cheer.

Luckily the lack of a pint meant I was awake enough to notice that the landscape is different here in Devon. Things change slowly when you’re travelling on foot, which is one of the reasons I’m walking this journey rather than taking the bus; as you walk things gradually take on a new aspect, but this is the first time I’ve actually noticed it. It’s hard to be specific about what’s different, as walking on foot also means you’re not confronted by rapid and obvious change, but one thing I spotted as soon as I walked on from the Mare and Foal was the difference in the colour of the farms.

Generally, Cornwall is green. Whenever I managed to grab a glimpse of the Cornish countryside through a gap in the hedgerows, it would be full of rolling green meadows and dark brown fields, or a combination of the two, with green potatoes sprouting from the brown soil. In this part of Devon, though, the colours are much more vibrant; as I headed towards Crediton, I passed through a valley whose fields ranged from the distinctive yellow of rape and the light green of grassy meadows, to the deep red-brown of ploughed clay and the darker green of a field of crops rippling in the wind like a strangely botanical lake.

Unfortunately I’m no farmer and don’t know enough to make informed comments about crop rotation and soil types, so my observations have to stop at the pretty colours. I have a real problem with getting my head around how farmers do what they do, though I’m incredibly grateful that someone else does it and fills the supermarket shelves with grub. As I plod through cow shit and dog kennels, I look around and know that I couldn’t do this. For a start, I’d fail the first three exams at Agricultural College – Paper A: Enjoying the Company of Your Dog, Paper B: Getting Up at the Crack of Dawn, and Paper C: Living a Happy Life Surrounded by Mess and Chaos. I’d also have a real problem finding the obligatory caravan or JCB digger and leaving it in the yard long enough for everything to rust, for the tyres to burst and for the grass to become so entwined in the chassis that it’s hard to tell where manufacturing stops and Mother Nature starts. But worst of all, I’d have a problem with the boredom factor; I’ve always marvelled at how teachers manage to go through the same syllabus every year, though presumably the different pupils in each year provide enough variety to stop terminal tedium from setting in. But the thought of going through the same rigmarole with a bunch of plodding cows or mindblowingly stupid sheep... it fills me with the same admiration I store up for sewer maintenance men, landfill-levellers and people who stamp holes in widgets, day in, day out. We’d be completely stuffed without them.

But no, I can’t imagine anything worse than being forced to work on a farm with a namby-pamby outlook on life like mine. It wouldn’t matter how colourful my fields were, to be honest; I’d be plain old hopeless.

-oOo-

Yet again Peta’s advice on B&Bs turned up a lovely place to stay. Great Park Farm, to the south of Crediton in the fields beyond the town centre, was a wonderfully quiet spot that guaranteed a good night’s sleep, but the real killer was the en suite bathroom. I decided to push the boat out by coughing up an extra £2 for my own bathroom, and I couldn’t believe what a result it was, because I had... a bath!

Why the exclamation mark? Because Cornwall, surprisingly, doesn’t appear to go in for baths. In the entire walk so far I have encountered just three baths: the first was in Truro, where the lady running the B&B kindly asked me if I wouldn’t use the bathtub, as it shared a room with the only toilet in the whole building, and would I please use the rather uninspiring shower along the landing instead; the second was in Okehampton, but as I was resting there rather than walking, I never felt inclined to wallow in hot water; and here was number three, all to myself, and at the end of a day’s walking too. Oh yes, I loved it.

Crediton itself, though, is a pretty uninspiring place, strung out along a high street that’s notable for the amount of dust that clings to the insides of the windows. Empty shops pepper the high street, and even in the sun the colour scheme is drab and frayed around the edges; Crediton is one of the few towns that would actually benefit from a Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen makeover, which is really saying something.

But people still enjoy bubbling about in the evening, possibly due to the fact that the local Wetherspoon pub, the General Sir Redvers Buller (named after Crediton’s ‘most famous son’, the British commander-in-chief in the Second Boer War), sells pints of very pleasant real ale at 99p a pop. Funnily enough, by the end of the evening I didn’t mind the slightly faded feel of Crediton one little bit; sometimes, the lived-in look can grow on you, particularly at that price.

Crediton to Tiverton

21 May 2003

The weather is seriously starting to get on my tits. I picked May as a sensible month in which to start this walk because towards the end of May the weather is supposed to get more summery, and from there to early August, when I’m scheduled to finish in northern Scotland, it’s supposed to be a pretty reasonable climate for walking. Unfortunately the country is currently experiencing unseasonable misery, and for the first time in my life I’m in danger of understanding what sufferers of Seasonal Affective Disorder go through.

Checking back through my weather notes, I can see that the last sunny day I had was on 14 May, a week ago. Since then there’s only been one dry day, yesterday, but the wind was so ferocious I had to wear my wet weather gear to stop my brains being blown out of my right ear. Today’s weather played such an irritating game of cat and mouse with me that I’m even thinking of revising my generally positive attitude towards precipitation.

You see, I quite like rain, or to be more specific, I like rain when I’m inside, toasting my toes in front of a real fire with a bottle of fine ale to hand and a soft sofa to lounge on. Nothing beats the warm glow of being inside your very own home while all hell breaks loose outside, and because of this I’ve always rather enjoyed rain. It helps that in a normal career-based lifestyle, rain only gets to hit you when you have to dash for the train, pop out to the supermarket or get down the pub before someone steals the comfy seat by the fire. I’m not a farmer and I don’t have to put up with rain in anything other than short bursts; instead, I can sit there behind my double-glazing and listen to the wind howling and the rain hammering down, thankful that it’s doing it, and even more thankful that it’s doing it outside.

Long-distance walking rather screws with this logic, and after spending a week trudging through rain (and with more on the way, according to the persistently smiling TV weatherman) I’m getting a bit worn down by the weather’s antics. But today’s blustery showers took things to a new level, a level I didn’t know the weather was capable of, for today the weather gods were quite clearly toying with my mind.

If I have to walk in rain, then I’d rather it be relatively steady, because then at least I can don my Gore-Tex jacket, pull on my weatherproof trousers and jam my gaiters over my boots. Sure, I’m going to sweat away as the cats and dogs pour down, and I’m going to end up just as wet inside my jacket as outside, but at least the status quo is set for the duration of the walk and I can get on with my splashing in peace.

But today the weather gods weren’t in the mood for a steady day-long downpour; that would have been far too boring. Instead they sent over the kind of drizzle that isn’t torrential rain, but is heavy enough to soak you to the skin if you’re stupid enough to be out in it for more than half an hour. So there I am, suiting up, pulling everything on to avoid getting wet... and look! It’s stopped! And it’s getting warm! Jeez, suddenly it’s getting sweaty inside this gear, so it’s off with the jacket, roll it up and stuff it into the pack.

‘Aha!’ think the weather gods. ‘Mark’s put his jacket away again. Send over another shower – this should be good!’

So I hold out for as long as I can, hopeful that this shower will prove to be nice and short and I can get on with my walking, but no, it’s starting to soak through my T-shirt, so it’s stop, drop the pack, pull out the Gore-Tex, slide it on, pull up the pack, tighten the straps, and head off again... just in time to see the heavens clear, the rain stop, and the temperature slide up into high humidity once again.

This routine went on until lunchtime, when the gods decided to put away their toys and instead sent a torrential and constant downpour that churned up the mud and kept me company all the way to Tiverton. Bizarrely, I was thankful.

-oOo-

The weather aside, today was a pleasant if plodding walk, following lanes from Crediton east to Thorverton, before turning north to follow the Exe Valley Way all the way to Tiverton.

Things are changing. Thatched cottages are springing up everywhere – on the way through Shobrooke I saw my first thatcher hard at work replacing the roof on a lovely village cottage – and the hedgerows are getting lower, which makes a pleasant change after the blinker effect of Cornwall’s beautiful but restrictive roadsides. The fields continue to flash past in colourful greens, browns and yellows, even through the misty haze of this weather pattern, but for the first half of this walk I just plodded on, stopping at the occasional road junction to check my bearings before moving on again, mile by mile.

This meditative state was handy, for I have things to contemplate. Unbelievably, and rather pleasantly, my new socks seem to be reducing the number of new blisters appearing (either that or my feet are hardening up, which is a distinct probability). I definitely gained one completely new blister on the front ball of my left foot, so the 100% guarantee is baloney, but I’m not wincing as much, and that’s handy for encouraging the meditation that comes with the hiker’s high.

However, my thoughts today were mostly taken up with the realisation that I’m in danger of turning into a weirdo. I know I’m not that strange, but last night’s pint or two in Crediton’s Wetherspoon pub made me realise that I’ve adopted some key characteristics of the complete train spotter.

First up, I have a beard. This is purely down to laziness – I hate mornings and having a beard saves precious minutes that would otherwise be spent shaving – but it still means, not surprisingly, that I have a beard.

Second, I’m a rambler. Like it or not, I’m rambling, and although I think of this walk as a combination of challenge, research, travelling and a way to get fit, I’m following the same tracks as ramblers, I’m carrying the same gear as ramblers, and I’m reading the same guidebooks as ramblers. And it’s not as if this is a one-off; I’ve been rambling in Australia, New Zealand, Indonesia, Malaysia and Nepal, so there’s no excuse. I am a rambler, even if I have yet to stoop to singing ‘Val-de-ree! Val-de-rah!’ as I trot through the bogs.

Third, I like real ale. This trip is a great chance for me to sample local brews, and with all this exercise it’s arguable that the carbohydrates and muscle-relaxants in ale are a genuinely positive thing after a long day’s walk. Sure, I like a nice cold pint of lager on a really hot day, but real ale’s my tipple, no doubt about it; hell, I’ve been to the Great British Beer Festival and enjoyed it, which is even more worrying.

Finally, I like folk music. People don’t seem to notice that my record collection is as much Foo Fighters as it is Fairport Convention, but there’s no denying that I enjoy a good fiddle.

So, to summarise, I’m a bearded, rambling, real-ale-drinking folkie. How the hell did my life come to that? Am I going to end up being an active member of my local resident’s committee? Am I going to develop uncontrollable halitosis? Am I going to start collecting beer mats from around the globe? Am I going to nurture a fascination with railway memorabilia? Am I going to buy trousers with lots of pockets, because they’re ‘really practical’? Or, worst of all, am I going to become the kind of person who actually enjoys staying in Youth Hostels?

I don’t think so, but at least it gave me something to think about while splashing through the rain to Tiverton.

-oOo-

Mention should be made of the Exe Valley Way, which must be a lovely little walk in good weather. It goes all the way from the River Exe’s source at Hawkridge on Exmoor to the mouth of the river just south of Exeter, and although I only followed eight miles of the Way from Thorverton to Tiverton, it was delightful.

The first surprise was Bickleigh Castle, an obviously ancient stone house right by the lane that shadows the River Exe. It’s now a stately home and it wasn’t open when I walked past, but the view of the house from the road is excellent, so I snapped a few misty photos and moved on.

Then just up the road I stumbled over Dart Bridge (which crosses a stream right next to a picture-perfect thatched cottage) and Bickleigh Bridge (which crosses the much larger Exe). This latter bridge was reportedly the inspiration for Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’, but these days it’s more of a bridge under troubled traffic, a situation hardly improved by the addition of a walker who’s wet, in his rhythm, and not remotely bothered that he’s holding up the traffic on a five-arched bridge that was built before people realised that roads work better if they’re wide enough for two.

Finally the Exe Valley Way drops alongside the river itself, where the track decides to bury itself in the red clay I’ve recently been admiring in the farms. It might make for colourful views but it makes for awful walking, as the clay sticks to your feet like a nasty case of elephantiasis; still, I managed to haul my suddenly huge feet along the river valley, and the next thing I knew I’d reached Tiverton, home to shelter, food, and another Wetherspoon pub in which I could stroke my beard, examine my maps and hone my real ale appreciation skills.

And they had some interesting beer mats, too.

Tiverton to Taunton

22 May 2003

Towards the end of every long day’s walk your mind starts to focus on the carrot at the end of the stick. No matter how fit you are, your feet start feeling tired, your energy levels start to droop, and the one thing that keeps you going through the last few miles is the thought of that gorgeous pint of beer that’s already standing on the bar, your name clearly visible in the condensation down the side. Or perhaps the beer can wait, and the thing that really motivates you to keep trudging through the mud is the 16oz pepper steak and chips that you can practically smell wafting over from a nice, warm restaurant. Or it could be the thought of a long, hot bath, the bubbles soaking into your worn-out feet, massaging your muscles back to life while all the mud and sweat swims off down the plug hole, leaving you baby soft and as pink as a baboon’s bottom, ready to plunge under the goose-down duvet for a seriously long sleep.

Normally I think of all these things, one after the other, and sometimes I even fantasise about washing my pepper steak and chips down with a pint of ale while soaking in the bath. But towards the end of my 24-mile marathon from Tiverton to Taunton, what I wanted more than anything else on the planet was a big, fat jar of Vaseline.

I’ll tell you why later...

-oOo-

The walk from Tiverton to Taunton is a long one. According to my measurements, there are only two days on my planned route that are this kind of distance, and both are in Scotland: Kilsyth to Drymen is 23.5 miles and Inverness to Alness is 25 miles, and right now they’re so distant that I’m not exactly worried. Days this long are generally an indication that the going is easy, and the Tiverton-Taunton stretch is no exception.

The reason for the ease of this section is that it follows a canal pretty much all the way. It’s no ordinary canal, either; it’s a canal with just one lock – or, to be more accurate, a lift – which means that for the entire journey, you stay at exactly the same level. There are no hills, no valleys and no irritating undulations, so you can pretty much put yourself into gear and go out there and stomp all the way.

Well, that’s the theory, but the Grand Western Canal that links Tiverton and Taunton is more what you would call an ex-canal. From Tiverton the canal runs for about 11.5 miles... and then it stops, dead. The last 13 miles of the walk trace the route of what used to be the canal, and for a lot of the time you’d be hard pressed to see there’d been a canal there in the first place. This makes it a fascinating trip, taking you from the polished brass of tourist canal trips to the overgrown mire of an old, dried-up canal bed. If I was the philosophical type I’d be going on about how this walk mirrors the journey through life, but thankfully for those who’ve sat next to me on the bus, I’m not.

The Grand Western Canal was built to carry limestone from Taunton to Tiverton, where it was fed into lime kilns and burned. I couldn’t have told you why our ancestors bothered to dig up rock just to burn it, but luckily the first stretch of the canal is lined with informative signs, so I now know that when you dump burned limestone on acidic soil like the red clay around these parts, it neutralises the acid so plants can grow. The canal was meant to be part of a grand plan to connect Plymouth to the national canal network, but things didn’t work out that way and the Grand Western was only completed between Taunton and Tiverton, where it carried quarried stone to be processed in Tiverton’s lime kilns.

These days, though, the canal is a nature reserve (well, the first 11.5 miles are), and apart from the odd tourist-carrying horse-drawn narrow boat there’s precious little activity. Indeed, from the start of the canal to the end of the navigable section I only saw a handful of craft, and none of them were moving. I love canal walking, but one of the reasons is the traffic; I like looking into people’s parked canal boats or checking out the crew as another pristine narrow boat chugs past, because the contrasts are amazing. Some boats have lace doilies in the windows, while some have mould; some have beautiful potted plants on the roof, while some have grass growing through the cracks; some are decorated with the most ornate brass fittings, while some are decorated with the most ornate rust patterns; and some are populated by happy-clappy couples who are proud to wear Arran sweaters, while some are populated by people whose hair looks like a sheep’s coat.

So the Grand Western doesn’t provide many people-watching opportunities, but it more than makes up for it in terms of wildlife. Because the canal is rarely used – and then only along the few miles at the Tiverton end – it’s full of wildlife, from swans with their downy chicks to strange green growths that thrive in the clear waters of this undisturbed waterway. It’s a nature-lovers’ paradise.

Typically, the only wildlife that I managed to examine at close range was a dog. There I was, minding my own business, when a golden Labrador appeared from nowhere, snuffling in the undergrowth and cocking his leg every few feet to leave a spurt of scent behind. I assumed his owner would soon appear from round the corner, but no; this dog appeared to be exploring on his own, and spotting that I was perfectly happy walking along on my own, he decided to join me.

‘Shoo!’ I said, while he dribbled in front of me on the towpath. ‘I don’t want to walk with you.’

He looked at me, snorted and ran off to snuffle in the greenery, before taking another piss and shooting straight back to me.

‘Listen, go away,’ I tried. ‘You’re getting in the way.’

A mile later he was still with me, rushing ahead, cocking his leg and dropping behind, only to repeat the procedure again and again. I was getting irritated; my hourly rest was overdue and I didn’t fancy a dog licking my sandwiches while I let the blood flow back into my feet, but I had no choice, so at the next bench I dropped my pack, pulled off my shoes and looked on in horror as the Labrador jumped straight into the canal in front of me.

‘Oh no you don’t!’ I yelled as he pawed his way back onto the towpath and gave me that look that meant he was about to shake himself off. ‘Don’t you dare!’ I screamed, and picking up my trekking sticks, I pointed them at him like a matador pointing his swords at the bull, making it pretty clear that I wasn’t interested in taking a dog-flavoured shower.

He didn’t care. He still shook and sprayed, and with a sullen look he turned around and headed back to wherever it was he’d come from.

I was one bite into my sandwich when a local woman walked past, dragging two fur-balls of her own along the path.

‘Is that your Lab?’ she asked.

‘Um, no, that’s not my, er, Lab,’ I ventured, wondering what on earth she was talking about and hoping that this was the right answer.

‘Must be Joyce’s then,’ she said. ‘I saw you walking together and I thought: “Ah, that man’s having fun with his dog.” Never mind. Cheerio, then!’

Oh, honestly...

-oOo-

After 11.5 miles and some beautiful little canalside villages, the Grand Western stops, abruptly. One minute it’s there and the next it’s not, cut off by a road that also cuts off the water. From here the route meanders through all sorts of terrain, from farmers’ fields to copses, but apart from a short detour along country lanes after Nynehead, it’s never too far from the remains of the canal.

It threw me at first, though. I’d been happily wandering along the towpath, ploughing through the miles and thoroughly enjoying myself in the perfect walking conditions – cloudy but no rain – but suddenly I had to stop and use the map. ‘Does it go through this field?’ I found myself asking. ‘Or are we over here, by this hedge? And where’s that stream – oh shit, I’m in it.’

What wasn’t marked on my map was the herd of cows who made the first field a complete nightmare. Cows are normally no problem; when you first squeak your way through the gates they look up, chew the cud and go back to staring at the ground. Sometimes they’ll shift out of the way if you’re walking directly towards them, but cows are mellow creatures; they normally wouldn’t hurt a fly. These cows, though, were supercharged, and as I wandered through the field, with hedge to my right and open field to my left, the herd rampaged around me. They’d run in front of me at full pelt, then turn around and run back towards me, swerving at the last minute to wheel over to the other side of the field, where they’d stand and stare. And then they’d run towards me again, threatening to crush me against the hedge, but never quite making contact.

I was thoroughly spooked; these cows had attitude. Maybe it was something in the feed, but by the time I got to the opposite side of the field, they were just a few feet behind me, snorting and practically growling, something I’ve never heard a cow do. I felt like a human caught in the gaze of the Midwich cuckoos, and when I was six feet from the gate I heard them make their move.

I didn’t need any encouragement; I ran like hell, opening the gate with the clinical precision of the utterly terrified. Only later, when I consulted the map, did I realise that I’d just left Devon while screaming for my life.

It didn’t get any better in Somerset. The next herd cornered me as I tried to work out where the path had gone; my map reading skills had obviously decided to make a run for it too, and I found myself fenced in by an entire herd of cows at the top of a steep sloping field with no stiles to be seen. Their eyes weren’t the normal placid pools of most cows; the poor sods were genuinely scared of me and were trying to drive me away. Making soothing noises didn’t work and clapping my hands only put them more on edge, and as I tiptoed down the hill they bolted once more, running towards me and veering off only at the last minute. This was getting unnerving; luckily I found the gate again and got the hell out of there.

It was only while having my lunch that I figured out what was going on. I’d picked a nice little spot under a tree in a field by Elworthy Farm, and my sandwiches were tasting good, so good in fact that I didn’t spot the herd pattering over from the corner, where they’d been lying unseen under a tree. I sat, and they stood and stared. I sat some more, and they stood and stared some more. And then, just as I was starting my second ham, cheese and pickle extravaganza, one of the cows reared up and tried to bugger one of the others.

‘Cows?’ I thought. ‘They’re bloody bulls! Look, there are no udders! And that one’s definitely got... ah, yes. Whoops.’

There’s no mistaking a bloke when you see one, and that’s when I realised where I’d gone wrong; back in London, I bought a backpack cover to keep out the rain, and thinking that it would be sensible to be visible in case of an accident, I picked a nice, bright colour. I’d also picked a nice, bright colour for my Gore-Tex jacket. And so I’d been wandering through fields full of bulls, wearing a bright red jacket and carrying a bright red backpack.

Ah. Now it all makes more sense...

-oOo-

Soon after taking a shortcut along the pleasantly named Bughole Lane, I met two blokes on the side of the road. It turned out they were doing the Two Counties Way, the proper name for the Taunton-Tiverton walk, but in the opposite direction to me. We chatted idly, we swapped tips, they mistook me for an Australian, and they handed me a vital piece of information. In five miles, in the village of Bradford-on-Tone, was a lovely little pub. Mmm, that sounded good.

‘It keeps odd hours, mind,’ said one of them. ‘What is it, quarter to two? Probably shuts at three. It’s about five miles – you could make it if you push it, but it’d be close.’

It was close, so close that I missed it by five minutes. Panting and aching, I fell into the pub and asked the lady if the bar was still open. She looked at the clock, which said five past three, and said, ‘I’m sorry, my love, you’ve just missed it. We shut at three. I’m so sorry.’

Damn, I’d been looking forward to that pint for five miles, but closing time is closing time, so I hitched up my belt, sucked on my water bottle and started back down the road.

‘Here, over here,’ I heard someone whisper behind me. ‘Shh, over here!’

A man in a white shirt. In the pub doorway. Beckoning me over. Could it be..?

‘I’m not kicking out the locals for another 15 minutes, so come on in,’ said the manager, pointing me through a door marked ‘Local’s Bar.’ And there, for the next 15 minutes, was a pint with my name on it, some wonderfully entertaining local drinkers, and a brief respite from the plod, plod, plod of the open trail.

It tasted good.

-oOo-

Because I’d already drunk the pint with my name on, I had to obsess about something else on the way to Taunton, and my body, being the kind soul it is, didn’t just give me one thing to obsess about, it gave me two.

The first one was a killer. At the base of the back of most backpacks lurks a soft pad that cushions the pressure of the pack’s weight as it presses onto the base of your spine. This is a good thing. The problem is that sometimes this pad can rub at your skin – particularly if your T-shirt is wet – and this can create a sore patch that’s in exactly the wrong place. Wriggling your back does nothing, adjusting the pack doesn’t achieve much, but luckily the pain tends to go away the more you walk, as the pressure of the pack’s weight drives the blood away. The problem is that because you can’t see the small of your back without the aid of a mirror or a flip-top head, you keep thinking of the worst thing that can happen; as my back grew more and more sore I could picture the skin being ripped apart into a bloody mess, even though in the end all I had was a small red patch that stung for a day or so. Of course, I didn’t know that until I’d got to Taunton, but the worry kept me going for a while.

The small of my back was the least of my problems, though. I don’t really want to talk about the other problem, but suffice to say my pain was due to the friction between my cheeks, and I’m not talking about the ones on my face; 24 miles of constant striding leaves its mark on the whole body, and what’s the best solution? Vaseline, of course.

And this is why I spent the last few miles of my walk into Taunton fantasising about Vaseline, and about how wonderful it would be to scoop up a big fingerful and apply it to a place I’d rather not talk about in polite company. Believe me, this is the only time in my life I’ve ever fantasised about that.

-oOo-

Yet again I managed to pick a good B&B in Taunton, and after a quick visit to the chemist, some huge sighs of relief and a lesson learned, I hit the pub.

Wetherspoon pubs seem to have a hold on the southwest, and like McDonald’s abroad, they have a kind of safe appeal to travellers like me. You know what you’re getting and it’s not bad; the food is OK, if not ground-breaking, the beer is great for real ale buffs like me, and above all Wetherspoon pubs are cheap. So, like an unadventurous but tired man in search of food and beer, I strayed into the Perkin Warleck, my third Wetherspoon pub in as many nights, and settled in with my imaginary pipe and slippers.

This time, though, I came across the Wetherspoon magazine, which is rather excitingly called Wetherspoon. It’s not a bad magazine if you’re on your own in a pub and trying to kill time, but what really marks it out is the letters page. It’s stunning reading.

In the issue I picked up absolutely every letter was a letter of complaint. True, they all started off by saying how much they loved their local Wetherspoon pub, but they managed to whinge about pretty much everything else. There were two (yes, two) letters complaining about the lack of pint pots with handles in Wetherspoon pubs; another one called for a ban on mobile phones on Wetherspoon premises; another one complained about hot food being served on cold plates; there was one customer who was annoyed at having to stir their Wetherspoon coffee with a wooden spatula; one annoyed punter thought the lack of guest ciders was unfair; and finally another had a problem with dogs not being allowed in Wetherspoon pubs.

But my favourite letter ranted on about banning swearing in pubs. I loved it not because I have an opinion about pub language, but because the letter was obviously written by someone who believes everything the Daily Mail stands for, and that always makes me chuckle. It went something like this:

My wife and I are both great Wetherspoon enthusiasts, but feel compelled to draw your attention to one aspect which is becoming increasingly difficult for us to ignore.

Never trust people who use far more words than they need; they’re building up to something scary.

I am referring to...

Go on! The tension’s unbearable.

...swearing and general bad language...

Marvellous. Here we go...

...which is particularly embarrassing to us when taking friends and visitors, who are quite often being introduced to the Wetherspoon establishments for the first time.

Do tell us more...

Unfortunately it is not confined to the ‘non-dining’ areas or regrettably even the male gender!

Good heavens! You mean there are women swearing? The fairer sex? Surely there must be some mistake.

We are not prudes...

Never trust anyone who starts a sentence with ‘I’m no racist...’ or ‘We are not prudes...’ because somewhere along the line there’s going to be a ‘but’ which flies in the face of this claim.

...and are quite used to ‘working men’s language’...

Never trust anyone who uses too many quotation marks either, particularly if they accompany it with finger gestures.

...but...

Uh-huh...

...suggest a gentle reminder, perhaps incorporated into your tabletop promotional material, might ‘prick a few consciences.’

Funny, I was going to use that word too.

I suspect that the situation becomes worse towards closing time, but we visit pubs mostly at lunchtime or early evening. An alternative might be to create a ‘non-swearing’ or ‘please moderate your language’ zone, or even a ‘swearing allowed’ area!

Ye gods, this man is serious!

I think that it is worth a try... In any case, it is only a matter of time before a new European law is passed (without our being consulted, probably) regarding this issue!

What a letter! It’s hard to know how to improve it; it has sexism, class bigotry, Euro-scepticism and exceptional over-use of exclamation and quotation marks, all rolled into one patronising mass. It quite made my evening, and I sat there soaking up every single word of that letters page and trying not to laugh out loud.

‘Well,’ I thought when I’d finished, ‘at least I’m not the only bleeding arsehole round here.’

And with that, I ordered another pint of Godiva’s Gold and flicked to the chairman’s report, just for a laugh.

Taunton to Street

23 May 2003

Normally I try to have a rest between two long walking days, but with the bank holiday approaching and Peta coming to visit for a couple of days, I figured I might as well press on to Street and recuperate over the weekend. Not surprisingly, doing a 22-mile day straight after a 24-mile one proved to be a bit of an effort, but yet again there were no hills, at least until the very end, and this helped.

As with the walk from Tiverton to Taunton, today started off along a canal, this time the Bridgwater and Taunton Canal (no prizes for guessing which two towns this canal connects). One thing struck me immediately; whereas Tiverton is a relatively small place and people are friendly when you pass them in the street, Taunton is a pretty hefty town, and for the first time since leaving Land’s End I came across the city and town dwellers’ code of etiquette.

It wasn’t the fault of the people of Taunton, but as I wandered along the streets towards the canal, bouncing along in my pack and bush hat, I nodded hellos and got absolutely zilch in return. Some people avoided my eye and some people simply stared at my clothes, unaware how guppy-like they looked, but none of them returned my smile. It’s an urban thing, and it’s certainly not restricted to Taunton, but what was noticeable was how miserable this municipal attitude seemed to make people. Taunton presumably doesn’t have a larger share of genetically ugly people than the rest of the country, but when you steal people’s smiles and replace them with the pasty, sullen look of those on the treadmill, it doesn’t half make them look repugnant. I live in a big city, and I normally don’t spot this kind of thing – hell, I know that I adopt the same sallow look – but coming from a lengthy spell in the countryside into a big town, you can’t help noticing how pre-occupied people are, and how miserable that makes them look. It doesn’t make me want to leave London for farmland, but it’s an interesting observation; it’s like being able to smell people’s perfumes after a long wilderness trip, or being able to smell land after a long voyage on the sea. Sometimes you have to look out to look in, I guess.

-oOo-

It didn’t take long before people started saying hello; a mile along the towpath out of Taunton, and people were jauntily waving ‘good morning’ as their dogs dribbled happily on my feet. Despite passing through the eastern suburbs of Taunton, which are full of industrial parks, factories and concrete, it didn’t take long for the fields to take over, creating a pleasant if unremarkable environment in which to tick off the miles.

Luckily, given yesterday’s canal theme, the route only follows the Bridgwater and Taunton for about four miles, opting instead to switch to the River Tone, the river that runs through Taunton. The difference is subtle; apart from the odd gentle corner, the Tone is a completely straight river, and feels as man-made as any canal. This is because it pretty much is man-made; east of Taunton the Tone runs through a huge area of wetland that is watered by perfectly straight irrigation channels feeding off the river, itself constrained by banks that man has constructed. In the old days this area was liable to serious flooding whenever the Tone burst its banks, but now that it’s hemmed in and the irrigation channels are controlled by sluice gates, flooding is theoretically a thing of the past.

This has good and bad consequences. The good consequences are, of course, that the farmers who depend on this area for their income are less at risk, and people can live in the area without having to build their houses on stilts. However, man’s control over the floodwaters is playing havoc with some species, who depend on periodic flooding to survive, and as wetlands are increasingly rare due to man’s expansion, it’s a cause for concern.

For the walker too, irrigated wetlands have good and bad sides. The good side is the abundance of nature; as you walk along the river, entire flocks of 30 to 40 swans swim past, and when they spot you approaching, they panic and take off, an entire squadron of huffing and puffing flying machines running along the river, their wings swishing through the air and beating the water as they take off, away from danger. Ducks are everywhere, and as you walk along the bank they too panic, shooting out of the undergrowth and into the sky, quicker but less graceful than the swans; and because the wetlands aren’t really suitable for mass housing, you can spend hours walking in a straight line without bumping into anything larger than a hamlet.

It can be hard going, though. Because of the nature of the irrigation channels, which branch off the main river at right angles every 100 metres or so, you can’t get into your stride; sometimes you have to cross the channels through a gate, and sometimes over a stile, but it’s impossible to get into a good rhythm. On top of this, some sections of the wetland are covered in luscious, deep grass, which looks lovely from a distance, but which slows you down massively. In the latter half of the day’s walk, when I was already pretty worn down, a 1.5-mile stretch along King’s Sedgemoor Drain nearly did me in; the grass was up to knee height, dragging at my legs like treacle, and at one point it reached my shoulders, by which stage it was figuratively and literally getting on my tits...

-oOo-

Luckily there were two lovely little highlights in the long slog across the wetlands: Burrowbridge and Middlezoy.

Burrowbridge is a tiny village at the northern end of Stanmoor Bank; the latter is a good example of man’s hemming in of the river that dates back to the 13th century, but which was rebuilt after a massive flood in the 1920s took out the houses lining the river. Burrowbridge is a pretty little place that’s marred only by the A361 thundering through the middle of town, but it’s not the A-road that attracts your attention, but Burrow Mump.

Burrow Mump is lovely. It’s a conical hill that rises straight up out of the flat wetlands, and on the top of this presumably man-made hump is a ruined church. There are no helpful signs explaining the origins of this church, but the great thing about it is that the church is gloriously ruined. There’s a square tower at one end and an arched stained-glass window at the other, but the glass has long gone and all that’s left is a shell that’s open to the sky; from the plains below you can see straight through the church, and because it’s visible for miles around, you get to see this atmospheric silhouette from different angles as you walk past.

It’s a handy place to visit for a leisurely lunch, despite the incredible wind at the top, and as I munched on my sandwiches I stared at my route, laid out below me; in the distance I could see Glastonbury Tor, and behind me, the River Tone. My timing was impeccable, for as I loped downhill and started walking again, a moody cloud front swept over the plains and dumped an impressive amount of water directly on my head, only to be followed by the biggest surprise of the day, a bout of hot sunshine.

This combination of ancient monuments and strange weather weakened my resolve as I passed the pub in Middlezoy... or, to be more accurate, as I didn’t pass the pub in Middlezoy. I’d been fine as I entered the village from the west, but the Post Office freaked me out; out front was a billboard advertising the latest issue of the local rag, the Bridgwater Mercury, and what was the headline? ‘DOG IN HORROR ATTACK’ it yelled, and it was all I could do to stop running to the pub for a reassuringly refreshing pint of Yellowhammer Ale. I tell you, it’s only a matter of time before me and the dogs have our day of reckoning; I just hope the headline doesn’t read: ‘CITY MAN CHASED BY BULL, MAULED BY DOG, AND WITH ONLY HIMSELF TO BLAME, MIND.’

-oOo-

The rest of the walk was long, boring and painful. I’ve already mentioned the tiring grass of King’s Sedgemoor Drain, but I also had to contend with a busy mile walking along the edge of the A361, two miles along a completely straight stretch of track called Butleigh Drove that seemed to stretch on forever, and a hike uphill to Walton Hill, which has fantastic views over the wetlands on one side and Glastonbury on the other, but which is a hell of an effort to climb at the end of two long days on the road.

Luckily, I spotted a sign that was so encouraging it got me the last mile to Street Youth Hostel without a break. Street is effectively Glastonbury’s twin town – one day they will no doubt merge into one glutinous mass – and Glastonbury is of course famous for ley lines, druids, Arthurian legends and hippies. And there, pinned to the gate on the top of Walton Hill, was the following:

Community Healing Day

Saturday 24th May 2003

Edington Village Hall

On the Day:

Silent Auction, Complementary Therapies, Healing,

Demonstrations, Psychics, Tarot, Stalls and Much More

10.30am to 5pm

I’m intrigued by the thought of psychics running a silent auction, and I dread to think what ‘much more’ entailed, but not only was the whole event for charity, it fitted the groovy vibe of the local scene so perfectly. How could I complain about aching feet when the earth below me was pulsing with such resonant vitality? All I needed to do was to tune my psychic antennae into the local energy lines, and I’d be there in no time... so I did, and I was.

Which just goes to show how deluded you can get when you’ve just plodded for 46 miles in two days.

Street to Midsomer Norton

27 May 2003

Perhaps it was down to the ‘morning after the party’ feeling that hovered over me following the bank holiday weekend, but this day never really got going. The walk was inoffensive but pretty uninspiring; my destination, Midsomer Norton, was disappointingly awful; and by far the most exciting thing to happen to me all day was being shat on from a great height by a bird (interestingly, the second bird to shit on me in as many days).

Still, this travelogue wouldn’t be much use if I simply wrote ‘BORING DAY’ whenever things stop happening, so even though I don’t know what to say, I’ll take the advice of 1980s Scandinavian popsters A-ha, and I’ll say it anyway.

-oOo-

My stay at the Youth Hostel in Street was considerably enlivened by the arrival of a man called Barry, who also happens to be doing the End-to-End walk. He’d just had an awful day’s walk from Taunton, and it only took a few seconds to work out that he’d been fine until King’s Sedgemoor Drain, when the long grass and the endless boredom of Butleigh Drove had ground down his nerves in exactly the way they had mine.

The difference, though, is that Barry is not only carrying the kind of leaden pack that I’d originally set off with, but he is doing it at the ripe old age of 69. ‘I always said I’d do the End-to-End when I got to 70,’ he said. ‘But my wife said now would be as good a time as any, so here I am.’

Apparently Barry has spent the last couple of weeks being told about another End-to-End walker a few days ahead of him, and now he’s met me in the flesh. Barry set off a week after me, and took precisely no rest days between Land’s End and Street, thus catching me up convincingly. He’s a nice bloke, our Barry; I hope I bump into him again, though the chances are he’ll reach John o’Groats before I’ve even reached Scotland.

-oOo-

Street is apparently famous for being the place where Clarks have been churning out shoes since 1825, and on my way along the high street I walked right past the Clarks factory and visitor centre. I’ve never really understood how Clarks have managed to keep going in the face of the far more sassy competition – perhaps they have the school shoe market sewn up, or something – but Street and Clarks certainly suit each other. For me, Clarks shoes conjure up images of Enid Blyton, terrible knitwear, and those greeting cards that take photographs from yesteryear and add captions such as ‘Clive’s happiest memories were of his days with Raphael and those little red pills’ and ‘Marjorie always got a cheeky little thrill from wearing no knickers to her bridge nights.’ Street is in a similar time warp; it’s a pleasant little place but it feels strangely isolated, not unlike Clarks.

Street’s northern neighbour, Glastonbury, is similar except the theme isn’t the 1950s, but the 1960s. It’s a bit of a cliché that Glastonbury is a hippy colony, but judging by the shops on the high street, this really is where the beat generation settled down, had children, and tried valiantly to avoid reality. As I wandered through the site of ancient Avalon and past the ruined abbey where King Arthur is purportedly buried, I marvelled at the shop names; The Psychic Piglet and The Speaking Tree rub shoulders with Gothic Image, while Yin-Yang Health stands just down the road from Natural Earthling. I loved it, even if the pleasant town centre soon morphs into a standard suburbia that is only enlivened by the atmospheric silhouette of Glastonbury Tor looming in the distance.

I adore Glastonbury Tor, and like all good landmarks it follows you around town. It peeps through gaps in the buildings and peers at you through the trees, but the best views are from a distance as you’re entering or leaving Glastonbury. The perfect cone of the Tor topped with its ruined church is a magnetic sight, and I’ve been attracted by its atmospherics ever since those ill-informed student days when I thought I looked good in long hair.

Unfortunately the church on the top of the Tor is currently being renovated, and instead of the lone finger pointing into the air that graces the compliment slips of so many local businesses, the Tor is currently topped with something that looks like a 1970s communication satellite, the sort with a groovy glam-rock name like Telsat or Commstar. Amazingly this doesn’t spoil things half as much as you would think, which just goes to show how impressive the Tor is in the first place.

Or, as the graffiti said on the wooden bench where I took my first break of the day, ‘Pain is Love. Ja Rule.’ Uh-huh...

-oOo-

After the thrill of finding the hippy generation alive and well in Glastonbury, the day’s walk deteriorated into a pretty mundane plod through the Somerset countryside. There was nothing wrong with the walk itself, or indeed the countryside, but I found it more an exercise in steady plodding than a walk to remember. Perhaps it was just me bouncing back down to earth after the thrill of having Peta visit me over the weekend, or perhaps it was just a boring walk; I didn’t really care, just as long as I got to Midsomer Norton in reasonable time.

Long Drove didn’t help matters. Essentially a perfectly straight two-mile road through the wetlands, it was a repeat performance of the mundane walk into Street, except this time it was even longer. The only excitement was after a few hundred metres, where I witnessed a group of farmers separating two cows from a herd of bulls, presumably because the bulls had done their work and the cows now needed to do theirs. I noted that the farmers got as much grief from the bulls as I had, except they knew how to react; the men stood their ground, yelling and cajoling the bulls back into the paddock, and they waved me through, saying, ‘Walk on through, slowly and steadily, and keep to one side.’ I obeyed to the letter as the bulls bounced around, yet again trying to bugger each other in the excitement, and I emerged unscathed but still deeply uneasy with the thought of walking through herds of horny beefcakes.

The next highlight (or rather the next thing I can remember, as there weren’t really any highlights in this section) was Maesbury Castle. Despite the evocative name, Maesbury Castle is simply a hill with some ancient earthworks on top, and if you didn’t know it had a history, you’d think it was nothing but a normal hill. The views to the west are wonderful, though, especially for the End-to-End walker, as you can see exactly where you’ve come from. The ever-present Glastonbury Tor sits towards the horizon, wreathed in the mists of distance, and beyond that I could make out High Ham, which I skirted on the way from Taunton to Street. To the right is Wells with its distinctive cathedral, and beyond it the Mendip Hills rise to the horizon. These sweeping vistas seem to be more common in Somerset than in Devon or Cornwall, though this could be a simple consequence of the amount of high hedgerow walking I did in the first two counties; I’m thankful for them, anyway, as they’re the only things that get me up those damn hills...

The only other points of note on the way to Midsomer Norton were the dark satanic mills of the Gurney Slade quarry works, which clanked and spat and gurgled and crunched away behind their closed doors and security fences; and in complete contrast, the lovely strung-out houses of Chilcompton, where I not only started seeing houses that wouldn’t be out of place in the Cotswolds, with their light-brown stone façades and beautifully tended gardens, but I also came across one of the few signs in the country that warns motorists to give way to ducks crossing.

And then, after walking through seemingly endless bland suburbs, I finally arrived in Midsomer Norton.

-oOo-

It’s a lovely name, Midsomer Norton. It conjures up images of pleasant rural cottages, a village green, babbling brooks and ducks in the town centre, and as I walked into town, I thought I’d struck gold. A swan bathed itself in a lovely weir right next to a pretty little tea room, and just beyond I found the B&B I’d booked from Street, the Greyhound Hotel.

The Greyhound turned out to be an ultra-modern sports bar, boasting Sky Sports, a pool table and absolutely no real ales. Moderately loud INXS greeted me as I bounced through the door, Michael Hutchence singing ‘Suicide Blonde’ without a trace of irony, but my room turned out to be tidy, comfortable, and just down the corridor from a bath with an endless supply of very hot water. I was happy enough.

I was less happy after I’d gone out to explore Midsomer Norton in search of a nice relaxing pub in which to write up the day’s lack of events. The high street could be delightful – hell, it has a river running along it, which is a great start – but the main drag in Midsomer Norton is a spectacularly awful place, particularly on the Tuesday evening after a bank holiday weekend. The pubs on the high street are uniformly appalling and serve nothing but sterilised beer and alcopops; the restaurants consist of takeaway pizza, takeaway Chinese, takeaway Indian and takeaway fish and chips; and apart from the odd betting shop and a swathe of closed retail outlets, that’s the high street.

I couldn’t quite believe it, so I walked further afield, popping into a couple of pubs in search of a comfortable watering hole, but all they had was more chrome, more Stella and more TV screens. It took about half an hour for it to sink in that I was going to have to get a takeaway and eat it in the street, so I picked fish and chips as the healthiest option and settled down in the deserted high street for my evening meal, wondering where the decent pubs were hiding[1].

It was by far the worst fish and chips I’ve had since starting this walk, with over-fried chips and batter that boasted an intriguing collection of unidentifiable black bits trapped in its greasy bubbles. Gripped by the realisation that this was as good as it would get, I held my nose and ate most of it up, praying that I wouldn’t regret it later. And just in case I started wondering whether I’d caught Midsomer Norton on a bad day and that perhaps it wasn’t such a dive after all, three birds flew directly overhead, one of them judging his aim so perfectly that the shit spattered all along my thighs, into my almost empty fish and chip paper, and all the way up my right arm.

Meanwhile cars rumbled past booming the kind of bass that loosens window panes from their putty, and the youth of Midsomer Norton shuffled along in their baggy flares and Beckham haircuts, sucking on cigarettes and kicking empty Coke cans into the river. As I wiped the bird shit off my jacket and threw away the remains of my meal, I realised that if you need an answer to the question ‘Why do young people turn to drugs?’ then you need look no further than Midsomer Norton.

Thankfully I realised that not only could I leave when I wanted to, but that’s exactly what I would be doing the very next day. There’s nothing quite like a Midsomer Norton or a Launceston to motivate you to get back on the trail...

[1] In fact, there are at least two decent pubs in Midsomer Norton, but you have to know where to look. The Wunder Bar has a dedicated following, and the White Hart has a CAMRA silver-star rating, but you’d never guess it from the pubs on the high street...

Midsomer Norton to Bath

28 May 2003

Sometimes you wake up in the morning and the last thing you want to do is go to work; indeed, for some lucky people this is the exception rather than the rule, but it happens to everybody at some point. Even people who love their jobs get that sinking feeling every now and then, and there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s natural.

So it had to happen to me eventually, and this morning, for the first time, I woke up and really didn’t feel like walking. It wasn’t that I felt tired or had terrible blisters, it was just that I couldn’t be bothered to don the gear, hoist the pack and hit the trail.

I still did it, though. You don’t get from Land’s End to John o’Groats by giving up that easily.

-oOo-

Despite the lack of palatable life in Midsomer Norton, the Greyhound proved a good place to sleep – I was out like a light at 10.30pm – and the breakfast was top notch. The weather also decided to sort itself out, and as I set off through the town centre, the sun peeped out from behind the clouds and bits of blue sky floated past, rubbing their eyes from their recent hibernation. Everything was set for a lovely 16-mile walk through rolling countryside to the beautiful city of Bath, but still I didn’t want to know. Instead, I sulked.

I knew that it was just my mind playing tricks on me, but even though it was obvious that my mood would eventually pass, I felt miserable. When you’re walking and you’re happy, it’s great; there’s loads of time to think happy thoughts, and it’s rare that anything comes along to spoil your day. Even rain is hardly a reason to get all miserable, because when you’re in a good mood, rain is guaranteed to make that pint on arrival taste even better.

But when you’re under a metaphorical cloud and the day stretches ahead of you, your mind fills the time by worrying. I worried about whether I was getting bored of walking, because if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s getting bored; I worried about the blister on my right heel, because it’s important to be consistent in your concerns; and I worried that I was worrying when I hadn’t worried before.

The Limestone Link didn’t help. A few miles north of Midsomer Norton I tried to pick up the Link as it wound east through Radford, but within the space of half an hour I’d got myself lost three times. The first time, in Durcott, I ended up wandering round someone’s garden, and despite some friendly help from a neighbour who was obviously used to lost walkers wandering around the area, I soon gave up trying to work out what was going on and retraced my steps back to the road. The second time, in Camerton, I followed a ‘Public Footpath’ sign in the general direction of where I thought I was going, but because my OS map looked like an accident involving a piece of paper, a pot of green ink and an army of ants, I only found I’d picked the wrong green line when I hit a stream that shouldn’t have been there. And the third time, a little further on, the path started going uphill at a rate that didn’t tally with my map one little bit, so I finally gave up on the Limestone Link and hit the B-road.

I didn’t give up for long, though, because round the next corner a way-marker with the Limestone Link’s ammonite logo confronted me. ‘Go on,’ it said. ‘You don’t want to walk along boring old roads when you can experience the wonderful Somerset countryside with me. You’re supposed to be doing this for pleasure, remember, and road walking is no fun at all. And this time I promise not to lose you. Scout’s honour.’

I was so surprised by bumping into a talking way-marker sign that I jumped to attention and set off once more along the Limestone Link, and true to its word, it didn’t lose me once, all the way to Bath.

-oOo-

I tried everything to shake my mood as the Limestone Link guided me northeast towards Bath. I kicked nettles, safe inside my Gore-Tex gaiters, and that helped a little; I thwacked the heads off dandelion clocks with my trekking sticks, sending the seeds into the balmy sunshine, and that helped too; and whenever a dog barked at me, I stuck my fingers up in a salute that even terminally stupid canines can understand, and that really helped. But the breakthrough came in Monkton Combe, a small village just a couple of miles from Bath city centre, where I discovered one of those wonderful country pubs that make living worthwhile.

The pint of Brakspear I ordered tasted like nectar, and I managed to assuage my guilt at succumbing to a lunchtime drink by ringing up the Ordnance Survey and ordering the maps I need to get to Glasgow; I figured that spending a fortune on maps would force the owner of the credit card – me – to make a reasonable amount of commitment to this walk, and finally that did the trick. When you know you’ve got a long journey ahead and you’ve just bought 16 more maps to get you there, one day in the doldrums seems to make more sense. If man was the kind of animal who woke up every morning, raring to go, then there wouldn’t be a challenge in walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats in the first place; but he isn’t and there is, and that’s what makes the goal worth achieving.

To celebrate, I even took the long route into town, following the Kennet and Avon Canal right the way round the city, before struggling up Bathwick Hill to the city’s Youth Hostel, where I pulled off my shoes, scrubbed myself clean and sat down with my maps. I might be only one-fifth through this walk, and I might have the biggest challenges ahead, but at least I’m getting there, moody or not.

The Midlands

Bath to Old Sodbury

29 May 2003

Today is a momentous day, because at last I’ve reached the Midlands. I was born in the Midlands, brought up in the Midlands, educated in the Midlands and, like all good middle-class Midlands boys, I left for London at the first opportunity. But here I am at last, able to explore the Midlands properly for the first time in my life.

I’ve always quite enjoyed the way the Midlands doggedly clings to its own identity in the face of utter apathy from the rest of the country. People in the Midlands don’t regard themselves as Northerners or Southerners, because they are quite obviously neither; they’re from the middle of the country, and that’s good enough for them. If only the rest of the country saw it the same way: to people in Newcastle, Midlanders are Southerners; to people in Watford, Midlanders are Northerners; and to people in London, Midlanders belong to just one of the millions of ethnic groups that make up our multicultural capital city. But the sense of identity within the Midlands is pretty strong, even if Birmingham struggles to project its self-worth to the rest of the country; indeed, it’s probably because of the lack of an identity as strong as Manchester, Liverpool or Newcastle that the Midlands gets forgotten by the rest of the country.

But for me, being in the Midlands is a distinctly pleasant feeling, and for the first time on this walk I feel as if I’m in an area in which I’m welcome. Of course, Cornwall, Devon and Somerset have all been wonderfully friendly, but it’s the little things that make the difference. I recognise quite a few local place names, not because I’ve been here before, but because these names cropped up in the local news from my youth; talking of news, the local bulletin after the main BBC news has now changed to ‘Midlands Today’, which is the same bulletin that my parents get at home in Staffordshire; and as if to rub it in, I woke up this morning to see the breakfast news being presented by Kay Alexander, whose name will mean nothing to those from outside the Midlands, but it does to a Staffs boy like me.

All of a sudden I’ve moved from the West Country into the Midlands, and it feels like I’ve come home.

-oOo-

Unfortunately coming home hasn’t helped solve my problems. I expected the walk from Land’s End to John o’Groats to be physically demanding and I thought the sheer length of it would be a mental challenge, but I never thought it would swing me through so many emotions in one day. Today I woke up grumpy, forced myself to cheer up, wore myself down to self-pity and ended the day hopping mad. I’m still hopping mad, even after a long, hot bath and a pint of Bob (the local Gloucestershire ale here in Old Sodbury). I’ll try to explain why.

As with yesterday, I woke up in an inexplicable grump and didn’t really want to walk, despite the glorious sunshine and the fact that I’ve now turned the corner and am at last walking north towards John o’Groats. It’s strange, this dark mood, but at least walking gives you plenty of time to analyse what’s going on, and as I walked I found four possible reasons for my misery.

First up is the sun. I hate heat and the last couple of days have seen a noticeable leap in temperatures, not to mention humidity. Perhaps this is enough to put me in a mood? It’s certainly possible.

Second, I’m worried that I might be getting bored. I’m walking through some wonderful countryside, but I’m hardly paying attention; I’ve been surrounded by English countryside every day for three weeks, and I’ve got such a low boredom threshold I think I’m in real danger of losing interest in my own country. It’s weird.

Third, I don’t seem to be getting used to this walk. I’ve got no problem with putting in enough physical effort – I have yet to reach the point where I’m absolutely knackered, though I know it’s coming, probably in the Pennines – but I do have a serious problem with the physical battering my feet are taking. I assumed that by week four, which I’ve just started, my feet would have hardened up, my shoes would be broken in and I’d be enjoying pain-free wanderings through the delights of Middle England. But this morning I woke up to find that overnight the gremlins had attacked the backs of my feet with sandpaper again, which means that every ascent is agony, and on the Cotswold Way – which I joined today and which is renowned for going up and down a lot as it flows north along the Cotswold Edge – that’s the last thing you need. Climbing along the Edge might mean the views west are lovely, but it also means that anyone with blisters on their heels is in big trouble.

Finally, it hit me this morning that I’m not enjoying myself, which is missing the whole point of this walk. At this stage I don’t really mind if I get to John o’Groats or not, but I do care about having a good time, and if I’m not, then I have to sort that out.

As I plodded along, my lower lip stuck out in the permanent pout of the spoilt child, I couldn’t work out which of the four was annoying me the most: heat, boredom, pain or the fact that they were annoying me in the first place. I stewed, I slipped into self-pity, I philosophised about the pain and I eventually realised that I was winding myself up.

There was nothing else for it. I stopped in my tracks, took a deep breath and screamed at myself. ‘Stop being so miserable!’ I yelled. ‘You’re terrible company and you’ve absolutely no reason to be unhappy. The weather is gorgeous, the countryside is spectacular, the pain is bearable and the only person that’s annoying you is you. Now stop it!’

This seemed to do the trick, at least for a while. I stopped looking inwardly and started looking at the scenery around me, and even I couldn’t deny that the Cotswolds are a wonderful part of the world, a deserved area of outstanding natural beauty. My pep talk seemed to work until lunchtime, when I took a rest stop at the little hamlet of Pennsylvania and the blood ran back into my feet. This time I didn’t scream at myself; this time I screamed at the sky.

-oOo-

From that minute on, things took a downhill dive. My attempts to cheer myself up took a back seat to the searing pain in my heels, and the walk changed from a moody jaunt through the countryside into the kind of physical ordeal that I’m all too familiar with after 250 miles of it. However, there was one positive outcome; my self-pity turned to anger.

I’m really furious, which is a good thing after the wallowing of the last couple of days. I’m incensed that every long-distance walk I do turns into a struggle through the blister pain barrier, and I’m even angrier that I’m still going through the pain after 250 miles. What do I have to do? I’ve tried every single remedy, from double socks to 100% guarantees, and still my feet explode every time I walk further than ten miles. I am the proud owner of a wonderful collection of pictures of my feet from around the world, and the one thing they have in common is blisters. It appears that I have friction sensitivity down to an art form, even with worn-in feet.

It didn’t help that my lunchtime stop highlighted another problem. Today is the first day I’ve walked without tracksuit bottoms and I’ve discovered that my lower legs are allergic to the countryside. When you’re wearing trousers, brushing through the grass is a breeze and nettles have no sting. But with my hairy lower legs exposed it’s another matter, and by lunchtime they were itching like fury. I’ve been really careful to avoid nettles, which is saying something given the way they’ve claimed these islands as their own, but still my legs have blotched up nicely. There’s no way of avoiding it; my legs have hay fever.

By the time I realised what the problem was, the anger was about the only thing driving me on, so it was only with the greatest restraint that I held a civil conversation with a couple who interrupted my afternoon wallow. Seeing my backpack the man sparked up a chat, and it soon turned to walking.

‘So, which walk are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Land’s End to John o’Groats,’ I said. ‘But don’t tell my blisters that. They’re killing me.’

‘Ooh, don’t tell us about blisters,’ he said, pointing to his wife.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I’ve had awful blisters. But wearing two pairs of socks does the trick.’

‘Unfortunately I’ve tried that,’ I said. ‘Still no joy.’

‘Hers were so bad she couldn’t walk,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen anyone with such awful blisters – she had one on each heel. You should try walking with that sort of pain!’

‘Indeed,’ I started. ‘Actually I –’

‘I see you’re using those OS Explorer maps,’ he interrupted. ‘Any good?’

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘They show every hedge, every stream – they’re great.’

‘Of course, we’ve done loads of walking in places where there weren’t any maps,’ he said. ‘All we had was a piece of paper saying “Istanbul this way”, that sort of thing. It’s easy when you’ve got maps like yours; you should try some real map reading.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘When I was in –’

‘That pack looks heavy,’ he cut in. ‘What’s the weight?’

‘About 10kg,’ I said. ‘Still, it’s much lighter than the pack I set off with; that was 17kg and was a real struggle, but I had to get rid of it.’

‘We’ve carried heavier packs than 17kg,’ he said. ‘You get used to it, you know. You just have to keep going.’

‘If you say so,’ I said, realising that everything I did, he was going to do better. ‘So, have you ever walked from Land’s End to John o’Groats?’

‘Oh no,’ he said, with a face that said only insane people would consider doing such a stupid thing. ‘But we’ve done some incredibly long walks.’

‘Uh,’ I offered, and clammed up. This guy was always going to be stronger than me, bigger than me, faster than me and more adventurous than me, and given my refusal to take the bait, they eventually left, probably to climb the Matterhorn backwards or something equally challenging.

But this episode proved useful as I set off again. Instead of wallowing, I concentrated my irritation into anger, and the anger kept me walking. I particularly enjoyed the idea of taking my frustrations out on the planners of the Cotswold Way; back in Street, young Barry had been scathing about the walk, saying that it had been designed by committee and felt like it. ‘I think they ended up with an 80-mile walk,’ he said, ‘and decided that there simply wasn’t enough waffle, so they added another 25 miles of stupid diversions and pointless loops. It’s a bloody irritating walk.’

He’s right, too. The path wanders around like a drunk, seemingly intent on taking in every hillock and village while completely ignoring the more direct route. This, of course, is the point, as the Cotswold Way is very much a scenic walk, but when you’re walking to John o’Groats and your feet hurt like buggery, it’s a pain. Luckily, I took great therapeutic comfort picturing which particular part of their anatomy the committee could stick their Way up.

Sometimes it’s only cheery thoughts like this that get you through the day.

-oOo-

So I had a bad day, but what about the walk itself? Ah hell, I wasn’t paying much attention, what with my itching legs, searing heels and short temper, but it was mostly gorgeous English countryside, with great but hazy views over the plains to the west and some classic Cotswold villages with their distinctive oolite limestone buildings and picture-perfect settings. It was exactly what I was expecting the Cotswold Way to be like, and I can’t complain.

That isn’t stopping me, though, and even after a second pint of Bob, I’m still seething. Luckily, anger can be turned to one’s advantage, and I’m determined to crack this section of the walk, as it’s obviously the part where things start to get on my nerves. This walk has just changed from a pleasant little jaunt with heaps of novelty value to a bloody long trek with pain, monotony and boredom as constant companions. If I play my cards right, I’ll get angry enough to get through this bit, and somewhere along the line I’ll start enjoying myself again.

I hope so, anyway. That is, after all, the whole point of this walk.

Old Sodbury to Cam

30 May 2003

I don’t know if pints of Bob have magical healing powers, or whether the lovely bed and breakfast cottage at the Dog Inn scared the walking gremlins away, but I woke up this morning in a totally different mood to yesterday’s self-pitying grump. I spent last night writing furiously in a cosy corner of the pub, hoping that it would have the usual cathartic effect, and this morning the sun shone, the breakfast tasted great, and for the first time since I started out from Bath, walking the Cotswold Way seemed like a good idea.

There was one surprise that nearly spoiled things, especially as it was obvious it was going to be a hot day. During the night I’d been irritated by the allergic reaction the countryside had brought on in my lower legs – at one point I was woken up by a rather too-vivid dream involving nettles, thistles and heat-seeking bird shit – but when I woke up and took a closer look at the state of my calves, I realised I’d got it wrong. Sure, there were a few nettle stings and the odd bramble scratch, but it seems my legs aren’t actually allergic to the countryside; instead, they’re allergic to the sun.

When you’re walking north and the sun is merrily shining in the southern half of the sky, then it’s your back that gets hit by the sun. The back of my neck is protected by my bush hat and my arms are already quite brown, but nobody warned the backs of my legs about the effects of ultraviolet, and below the knees my legs are the colour of lightly poached lobster. The knees themselves are covered by supports and my shorts cover most of the top half of my legs, but I now have sunburnt calves and the only solution is to wear long trousers until they’re better.

So the only remotely negative thought I had as I left Old Sodbury was that I’d probably get really hot in my tracksuit trousers, which compared to the previous few days was hardly a negative thought at all. Happily, when you’re in a good mood and the weather is co-operating, the Cotswold escarpment is a glorious place. As I’ve mentioned before, the Cotswold Way skirts the western edge of the Cotswolds, so the views to the west are impressive, even when they’re shrouded in the kind of hazy humidity that I’m currently enjoying. My photos of the area look pretty uninspiring – they’re like snapshots of postcards hidden behind net curtains – but walking through the fields, stirring up the lazy air in clouds of pollen, is an extremely pleasant way to spend the day.

With a huge sigh of relief I noticed my blisters were a little better, though they were still irritating, and it struck me early on that my brain has not only stopped brooding, it’s most definitely chilling out. Tonight I’m meeting Peta, who’s coming over from London for the weekend, and of course that might have had something to do with my much-improved mood today, but I think it goes deeper than that. I think I’ve just managed to ride out a storm, and I’m in that precious lull when the anger has boiled off, the bile has been flushed out, and even though the energy levels are still depleted, the bad bit’s over. Today I chilled out on the Cotswold Way, and it felt good.

-oOo-

Today’s walk was typical of the Cotswold Way in that it combined hills, forests, fields, villages and some extremely steep sections. Those expecting the Cotswold Way to be a sleepy afternoon stroll through village greens and country pubs are in for a shock (and I have to admit I was one of them); the Cotswold Way isn’t a walk through the Cotswolds, it’s a walk along the escarpment, and as such it seeks the high ground for the best views... and that means you have to climb up and down a considerable amount. It’s not for the faint-hearted.

The rewards are there, though, as the Way has been designed to take in all the views and all the sights along the way. It makes a point of walking past National Trust properties – today’s example was Horton Court, of which only a lovely church tower and some extravagant-looking Cotswold architecture is visible from the Way – and it also weaves past any monuments it can find. The first on today’s leg was the Somerset Monument, which dates from 1846 and looks like a cross between Cleopatra’s Needle and a mediaeval lighthouse. It sits in the middle of nowhere on the top of a high hill, silently commemorating General Lord Somerset, who served under Wellington at Waterloo and who no doubt would have preferred a monument where people might get to see it... but it’s there, it’s tall and it’s a hugely useful navigational aid for walkers.

It helped me find my way across the fields and through countless piles of huge black bin-liner bags, stuffed with slowly fermenting silage and looking for all the world like droppings from a nuclear hamster. It’s a strange thing, the countryside, and it’s amazing how little I really know about it, but I’m getting quite involved now. Some farmers are starting to gather the hay and I’m slowly piecing together the different stages, from mowing the grass and raking it up, to baling and, if it’s for silage, wrapping it in black plastic.

My knowledge of the countryside is still appalling, though; I naively assumed that apart from the odd stench at muck-spreading time, the countryside would smell gorgeous. Well, it doesn’t, and for most of my trip through Somerset and Gloucestershire I’ve been dogged by the smell of cheese and onion crisps. I’ve been told that this smell is down to wood garlic, which grows in woods and on shady banks, but I haven’t managed to identify the specific plant that smells, because it’s so strong it seems to come from everywhere at once; whatever the truth, an awful lot of the countryside at this time of year smells like bad breath. Sometimes the smell is less like an E-number and more like organic Cheddar cheese and freshly chopped chive-flavoured kettle potato chips, but even fancy marketing can’t hide the fact that on a hot day in May, the countryside has halitosis. The one good side effect is that it makes me feel far less guilty for smelling like a sumo wrestler’s jockstrap, but when I finally work out which plant it is that stinks so bad, it’s going to be showtime.

-oOo-

Yes, it’s a lovely thing, walking through the countryside in the sun, wandering through the fields and forests, enjoying the views and rural beauty of the Cotswold escarpment... but the next thing you know the path decides to head straight up that evil-looking hill ahead, and you can’t quite believe it. This is where a knowledge of contour lines comes in handy; reading a map is one thing, but knowing what those little brown squiggles actually mean is essential, and the Cotswold Way sure likes to cram them in.

It’s at times like this that I wonder at the wisdom of creating a long-distance walk that weaves around so much. In its quest to conquer practically every single hump and bump between Bath and Chipping Camden, the Cotswold Way zigzags around like a graph of the stock market, and at times it’s just as depressing. The way into Wotton-under-Edge is particularly strange; it approaches the village from the south, jumps east, doubles back on itself and finally winds down towards the high street along the steepest climb I’ve seen in a long time. What looks on the map like a pleasant jaunt into town turns into a knee-shattering struggle against gravity, and even with trekking sticks my legs complained and my muscles strained against the escarpment. It hurt, and I found myself wondering whether walking along the Cotswold Way is such a great idea, given that I’m trying to get to John o’Groats in one piece. I promised myself I’d look at the maps when I got to my destination and sat down for a sandwich and some shade in the middle of Wotton.

Of course, I got lost in Wotton, which didn’t put me in a very good mood to climb up the equally steep section out of town to Wotton Hill. By this time I’d got the hang of things, and I knew that from the top I’d have a lovely view of hazy fields, some distant and unidentifiable towns and the escarpment heading north and south... and I wasn’t disappointed. Except I was; the huge effort in dragging me and my pack up these near-vertical paths was getting to me in the heat, and I genuinely felt that in this haze, if I’ve seen one view I’ve seen them all. The Cotswold Way must be incredible in ultra-clear weather, but in the foggy skies of a humid May afternoon the views are only interesting the first couple of times.

Still, the escarpment holds plenty of surprises, not least that the local council thought it would be sensible to paint way-markers on the trees in Westridge Wood, a good decision were it not for the fact that trees grow and the arrows get distorted into amorphous blobs that don’t actually point anywhere. I survived this unexpected diversion by following my compass rather than the blobs, but by the time I got to Nibley Knoll I was almost too exasperated to enjoy the second monument of the day. The Tyndale Monument looks uncannily like the Somerset Monument, but despite being erected in 1866, 20 years after Lord Somerset’s memorial, it commemorates a very different man. William Tyndale was the first man to translate the New Testament into English (the venerable Bede had already translated some of the Old Testament) and for his pains he was burned at the stake in Flanders on 6 October 1536, only a few years before Henry VIII would commission the first official English Bible (and which itself would be heavily based on Tyndale’s work). The reason for the monument? Tyndale was born in North Nibley, the small village at the bottom of the hill on which his memorial now stands.

Did I say ‘hill’? I sure did, and from Tyndale’s monument the steps head straight down to the village, a pleasant spot that I couldn’t help but shoot through with all the momentum I’d built up on the descent. Luckily this momentum got me halfway up Stinchcombe Hill before things started hurting, and it was at this point that I decided that the Cotswold Way, which I’d been following faithfully since Bath, could take a running jump.

Imagine putting your palm flat down on a table with your fingers spread out evenly, and you’ve got the shape of Stinchcombe Hill to a tee. The Cotswold Way approaches the hill from the west (the left side of your wrist) and it then weaves clockwise round the outside of the hill until it finally reaches a point just a few hundred metres from where it started (so it follows the outside of your fingers until it reaches the right side of your wrist). Apparently this is so you can take in the wonderful views from the hill, but by this stage I really couldn’t be bothered with another hazy landscape, and after a swift shortcut across the wrist and over the fairways of the hill’s beautifully located golf course, I arrived in Cam, the suburb to the north of Dursley where Peta had booked a great little bed and breakfast for the weekend.

-oOo-

There was only one more thing left to do. As I’ve been doing this walk I’ve been getting a form stamped at each of my destinations to prove I’ve been there; it might be a Youth Hostel stamp, a receipt from a B&B or a Post Office stamp, but as long as it’s something to prove I’ve arrived, it’s enough. Luckily Cam has its own little Post Office, so I wandered in, unshouldered my pack into the corner, whipped out my form and joined the queue, steam rising gently from my shoulders.

I love doing this at Post Offices. Hostels and B&Bs are fairly used to people doing long walks, but most Post Office employees are totally spun out by my story. The conversation always goes the same way.

‘Hello,’ I smile. ‘I hope you can help me. I’m walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats and I’ve got this form that I’m getting stamped as I go, and I wondered if you could stamp it for me.’

‘Gosh, Land’s End to John o’Groats?’ says the woman behind the counter. ‘Let’s have a look.’

‘All you need to do is stamp in the next box,’ I prod helpfully.

Nothing happens.

‘Is that OK?’ I ask.

‘Oh yes, sorry, I was miles away,’ she says. ‘I was just seeing where else you’ve been. Here, Vera, this gentleman’s walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats.’

‘Oh really?’ says Vera. ‘Good for you – you’ve come a long way.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Still a long way to go, though.’

‘Well, good luck,’ says the first woman as she stamps the form. ‘And well done!’

Ah yes, I love Post Offices. They make me feel as if I’ve made their day with my grotty little form and my stinking T-shirt, and at the end of a hard day’s slog up and down the bloody escarpment, that’s a real tonic.

Cam to Painswick

1 June 2003

All walking days should be as stress-free and enjoyable as today’s walk from Cam to Painswick, and here are just a few reasons why.

- Weather: Although the sun was there, it politely hid behind clouds until I was safely cowering under an umbrella in the pub. For someone with sunburnt legs, this is more important than you’d think.

- Distance: At around 12 miles, the walk from Cam to Painswick is pretty easy, especially when you break it halfway at a lovely countryside pub (more of which later). A slow plod comes in at around 3 miles per hour, so we’re only talking about four hours of walking here, two before lunch and two after. That’s really rather luxurious when the average distance on this trip is around 16 miles per day, and it changes the day’s walk from a mission into a meander.

- No More Climbing: Today I decided that this would be my last day on the Cotswold Way, even though the accepted End-to-End route follows it for a further day and a half. I’ve enjoyed my flirtation with the Way for the three days I’ve walked it, but I’m jacking it in early and tomorrow I’m heading north, straight to Gloucester.

The main reason is that the hazy weather is getting in the way of the escarpment views, and after three days of what appears to be pretty much the same scene, I’m a bit bored. This wouldn’t normally be a problem, but as the Way insists on climbing straight up all those vertical staircases to enjoy said views, I’ve decided to give it a miss. In beautiful weather it would be worth the climb, but in the kind of humid oven that Gloucestershire has suddenly become, it’s not a lot of fun.

The result is that today’s walk was my Cotswold Way swan song, and as such it was hard to get irritated by the climbs and descents, because I know that from tomorrow I’ll be kissing it all goodbye.

- No More Committee Walking: Peta and I spent my rest day on Saturday exploring the area around Painswick, wandering up hills like Cam Long Down and reeling in the tropical heat, so when I resumed my slow plod north, I was able to miss out the parts of the Way that we’d already seen together. The result was that today’s walk was a much shorter and snappier affair that avoided most of the climbs, most of the descents, and most of the committee’s not-so-clever decisions.

This was good because I’ve had enough of all the dithering around that the Way does. Barry was right; the Cotswold Way was designed by a committee, and it feels like it. Yet again today saw a stupid hand-shaped detour, this time around Haresfield Hill, and yet again I managed to avoid it with a judicious ten-minute road diversion. The Cotswold Way is a walk for people with time to spare, but I’m enjoying the feeling of heading north and making progress to distant John o’Groats, so that’s another reason to wave goodbye to the Way.

- Pub Lunch: So instead of all the climbing and meandering, I walked for a couple of hours north to Randwick, a little village north of Stroud, where I met Peta in a pub and sat out the hot part of the day in the company of a roast dinner and a couple of pints of IPA. The difference this made to the day’s walking was tremendous; in the morning it drove me on, giving me a reason to walk, and in the afternoon it ensured that the trail slipped by in a happy haze of hops.

Drinking and walking is an interesting combination, though it can play havoc with your navigational skills. Luckily it was only about three or four miles from the pub to my B&B in Painswick, and I took it slowly, enjoying the pleasant feeling of loping along with a couple of pints and a roast dinner inside. Not surprisingly the day shot past, and the next thing I knew I was sitting in another pub in Painswick, tucking into my third big meal of the day and testing the local brew, just to make sure it hadn’t changed too much in the 12 miles since Cam. It hadn’t.

- Company: I mentioned meeting Peta for lunch, and it transformed the day. I can only imagine what it’s like to have your partner along on a walk like this, but the thought of sharing this walk really appeals to me. I’m not talking about the actual walking so much, as that depends on the compatibility of walking styles and stamina, but I’ve met a couple of people who go off walking while their partners take the car and meet them in the pub at lunchtime and in the B&B at the end of the day. This sounds like bliss to me; you get company when you’re not concentrating on the walk, someone to sort out the accommodation, someone to carry all the maps and things, and someone to lean on when the going gets tough. But best of all you get to have your girlfriend along; for me, that would be enough to transform it from a super-long challenge walk into a holiday.

All these happy coincidences conspired to make a very pleasant day’s walking indeed; OK, the End-to-End is a roller-coaster and no doubt things will hit rock bottom again soon, but when you’re riding at the top of the curve and things are back on track, it feels good.

As an added bonus Painswick is a lovely place, a typical Cotswold village that has a church with a monstrous spire, 99 beautifully crafted yew trees in the churchyard, and at least one lovely pub in shape of the Falcon (I didn’t manage to visit the other pub in Painswick, though it also came highly recommended). The only fly in the ointment was the Falcon’s music system, which got itself stuck on just one song that it played again and again, around and around, all night.

I will no doubt be humming the Corrs’ irritating ‘Only When I Sleep’ for the next week or so, but at least it won’t be on the Cotswold Way...

Painswick to Gloucester

2 June 2003

If you look at the recommended route for the End-to-End, it does something quite illogical after Bath. Until that point it behaves sensibly enough, wandering in a relatively straight line through the middle of Cornwall and Devon before entering Somerset and turning left towards Bath, but after Bath it seems to lose the plot until seeing sense again in Tewkesbury. The culprit is the Cotswold Way, which staggers all over the place as it heads north-northeast from Bath, but instead of cutting its losses and striking out north from Painswick, the End-to-End route sticks with the Way for another day and a half, creating two long days of 17.5 and 22.5 miles and a large and unnecessary bulge in the walk.

But my main aim is to get to John o’Groats before I retire, so I’ve decided to ignore the book’s suggested route and strike out on my own. The resulting route consists of two very short days instead of two very long ones, with very flat walking instead of hill climbing, and instead of curving east and then back west again, I’m simply heading north straight to Gloucester, and then along the River Severn to Tewkesbury. It makes much more sense that way.

-oOo-

Today, then, was a stunningly easy day, and I checked into my B&B in Gloucester at lunchtime. The walk itself was short and sweet, and was considerably more enjoyable because I didn’t have to keep an eagle-eyed lookout for Cotswold Way markers. The freedom was liberating after the way-marked trails of the last few days; I just sat down with the Ordnance Survey map and made it up as I went along.

For example, one path I’d planned to take turned out to be overgrown and sodden from overnight rain, so instead I walked a little further along the road and took a bridleway that went pretty much where I wanted to go, but in a slightly more roundabout way. Being a bridleway it was wider and flatter than the footpath – horses tend to stamp out nettles pretty effectively – and I couldn’t have been happier as I waltzed along on the springy turf, the sunlight shining green beams onto the path.

Given the incessant climbing of the Cotswold Way, I surprised myself by deciding to include a hill climb on my route. Robinswood Hill is a country park that overlooks Gloucester from the south, and I figured it would make an interesting approach to the city. What I hadn’t expected was the hugely confusing golf course on the eastern flanks of the hill, where a complete lack of footpath markers saw me wandering up and down the fairways, trying to guess in which direction the right of way might lie. Golfers are probably the last people to understand your average long-distance walker – they wear pressed trousers while I’ve been wearing the same T-shirt for hundreds of miles – and I got some pretty strange looks as I plodded past the greens and tees, trying to find the summit. At one point I thought something had fallen out of a tree behind me, but no, it was just a golf ball hitting the turf about ten feet away; incredibly, it later turned out that I’d managed to follow the path exactly and hadn’t strayed once, which makes you wonder whether many walkers get hit on the way up Robinswood Hill.

The view of Gloucester is well worth the risk, though, and it enabled me to pick out exactly where I was heading. It only took a handful of hours, but I’ve managed to avoid the illogical loop of the recommended route and the sun has come out to celebrate; I can’t wait to strike out on my own again.

-oOo-

Gloucester is a slightly strange place, though it’s perfectly pleasant. I say it’s strange because one minute you’re walking past the wonderful cathedral or through the modern and amazingly bustling shopping centre, and the next thing you’re surrounded by terraced housing and the sort of suburbia you wouldn’t expect to see this near to a city centre. Perhaps it’s the city’s size, but in Gloucester the city centre and the suburbs rub shoulders in a way that you don’t see too often.

Perhaps this is why Gloucester feels very much like a place where people live, rather than a place where they just work and shop. I found Taunton to be almost all shopping centre and pubs, with housing pushed a long way away and hidden out of sight, but a short stroll from the main drag in Gloucester are terraced houses that are quite obviously people’s homes.

There’s also a completely different multicultural mix here compared to the countryside, where blacks and Asians are relatively rare; I didn’t come across an Indian restaurant until Launceston, on the border of Cornwall and Devon, and throughout rural Devon and Somerset, the people I saw were almost exclusively white. Gloucester, however, has a very strong racial mix, and it was pleasantly refreshing to hear all the different languages and see all the different clothes of modern England once again.

The tourist attractions of Gloucester are particularly traditional, though, and I spent a very pleasant afternoon wandering round the compact city centre, threading through the strangely crowded streets (strange because it is, after all, a Monday, and although it’s the 50th anniversary of the Queen’s coronation, I don’t think that means people are entitled to a day off work). Gloucester Cathedral is huge and stunning, and the inside is worth a quick tour; and just around the corner from the cathedral is St Michael’s Gate, next to which is the house in which Beatrix Potter set her tale The Tailor of Gloucester (and which now houses a Beatrix Potter shop, naturally).

But for me Gloucester was the place where I managed to pick up something that I’ve been meaning to buy for some time. Until now I’ve been relying on the distances given in McCloy’s book to plan my walks, but whenever I’ve strayed from the recommended route, I’ve ended up measuring distances with bits of paper, and believe me, this isn’t a very accurate method at all (though it’s more accurate than guessing, as I found out in Cornwall). But now I’m the proud owner of one of those funky map measuring devices, the kind that looks like a pen with a wheel at one end and a measuring dial at the other, so now I can measure my distances accurately and plan accordingly. The only drawback is that it only tells me the distance in kilometres, not miles, and according to my map that means I have to divide the figure by 1.6093 to get what I’m after.

But who cares? It’s a gadget, it’s light and I’m a bloke, so I’m happy. In fact, I’m off to find a Wetherspoon pub where I’m going to buy a pint of real ale, spread my maps out on the table, and wheel away until I can wheel no more. For me, this is actually an exciting prospect.

How the mighty have fallen...

Gloucester to Tewkesbury

3 June 2003

Walking is such a varied occupation that different types of walking attract different types of people. For some, mountain walking is the thing, with views that stretch for miles; for others the best walking is through gently undulating fields, with picturesque villages tucked away in pretty valleys; some prefer coastal walking, with the sea crashing against the cliffs and the sound of seagulls on the wind; and there are plenty of people whose favourite walks involve short distances, utterly flat terrain and copious pubs.

One of my favourite types of walking is along rivers and canals. I’ve mentioned the delights of canals before, but today is the first time I’ve followed a single river for an entire day, and it’s just the start, for I’m going to be walking along the Severn Way for the next few days. I finally leave it at Upper Arley, just west of Kidderminster, but until then the path follows every bend and curve of the River Severn, hugging the river as it winds into the heart of the country.

I’m not sure why river walking appeals to me so much, as on the surface it sounds pretty boring. The views are rarely anything to write home about, unless the river cuts through a particularly steep valley, and because it’s a flat walk, the distance you can walk in a day is big, which means lots of plodding. But I think the main thing that grabs me about river walking is how timeless it all is; man can build houses, put up fences, plough fields and chop down forests, but there’s not a lot he can do about rivers except for diverting them or damming them, and all that does is change their direction. The earth can be shaped by man without too much hassle; rivers, though, do their own thing.

It’s a constant part of river walking, this feeling of independence and inevitability. The water flows, sometimes slowly and sometimes fast, but it flows, it has always flowed, and unless something very bizarre happens, it will continue to flow until it doesn’t need to flow any more. In that body of brown water lie countless raindrops that have fallen within the grasp of the river’s catchment area, and here they all are, drifting gently to the sea, where they’ll mix with all the waters of the earth before evaporating and turning into clouds, to repeat the whole performance in a different river.

It doesn’t take a theological genius to work out why rivers are such an inspiration for the religious, because rivers form a perfect analogy of life. A river plays a pivotal role in Hermann Hesse’s wonderful Siddhartha, and just like Hesse’s book, walking along a large river like the Severn is a delightful exercise in philosophy, poetry and gentle progress.

-oOo-

It’s not just the rivers that attract me to river walking. The environment along the riverbanks can be just as fascinating, varying from flood plain and farmland to overgrown swamp. The early stretches of the Way from Gloucester might be smothered in too much vegetation – a welcome change after the well-mown pavement of the Cotswold Way, to be honest – but the long grass and forests of cow parsley hold a wonderful surprise. As I walked through the damp undergrowth, with my feet automatically following the well-trodden path underneath the greenery, scores of day-glo blue damsel flies fluttered up from the grass, their wings precious and dainty and their bodies no thicker than pencil leads, so all I could see were clouds of two-inch-long neon flashes hovering inquisitively around my hat. I felt like I was walking through a Disney film, and it wasn’t just a one-off; the damsel flies were there in every long-grassed field from Gloucester to Tewkesbury.

All this other-worldly walking only helped to send me into a happy walking trance, the damsel flies flitting past as I wandered across fields, past stagnant swamps, over stiles and through gates. At various points on the path the walking was made even easier by a series of man-made embankments, set maybe 30m back from the river and gently rising a few metres from the floodplain. These embankments were obviously put in to try to prevent flooding, a big problem with a river this size, but they had the added bonus of being perfect for walking on; indeed, after lunch I couldn’t quite believe my eyes when I saw a car with an L-plate doing a three-point turn bang in the middle of one of these embankments, the drivers cheerily oblivious to my jaw dragging along the embankment behind me. I guess it beats practising in an industrial estate, though I’m not sure I’d be confident enough to drive a crappy one-litre Renault through a floodplain, even with my licence.

Learner drivers excepted, I was in the zone, wandering along in a distracted haze, my thoughts peppered with river meditations, regular plodding and happy tunes. It seemed perfectly logical to start talking to the river; in fact, it seemed to be the only polite thing to do.

‘Hello river,’ I said.

‘Hello Mark,’ the river replied.

‘Nice day for a walk,’ I said. ‘How are things with you?’

‘Mustn’t grumble,’ said the Severn. ‘A few boats roughing up the water, some fishermen tackling the trout upstream, a pretty gentle day really. You should try it.’

‘Try what?’ I asked.

‘Being a river,’ said the river. ‘Just follow the natural flow... go where it takes you... leave it all to gravity. You’ll like it.’

‘I might just do that,’ I said, and it was in that peculiar state of flowing gently along the embankments that a jogger powered past my right shoulder and scared three shades of shit out of me.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he said as he saw me jump out my skin. ‘Didn’t mean to surprise you, but it’s easy to get distracted along here.’

‘Uh?’ I said, still reeling from the surprise of having a jogger overtake me in this totally deserted part of the world. ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. Hi, anyway.’

‘Hi,’ he said as he jogged past. ‘It happens to me too, you know.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Drifting off,’ he said. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ And off he bobbed through a cloud of neon damsel flies while the river flowed nonchalantly alongside, tempting me back to the land of nod.

‘Ah, happy daze,’ I thought as I gently slipped back into the zone, my right foot following my left foot without troubling those parts of my brain that had once again started pondering the meaning of life, my place in the world, and the slow, steady progress of the river.

-oOo-

There were some ebbs in the flow as I wandered along the Severn Way, all of them pleasant. As the sun passed over the yardarm and I reached the halfway point of my walk, I happened to wander past the Red Lion at Wainlode Hill, and its wonderful wooden tables by the river called me over, pointing out that it would be criminal not to enjoy a pint in such lovely surroundings. I figured that taking advice from a bunch of tables was pretty sane after talking to a river in a cloud of neon blue pencil leads, so I ordered a pint of Coopers from the disinterested barman and sat down for a break and some sandwiches.

What a great spot the riverside is for a gentle drink. It doesn’t matter whether you’re in the country or the city, there’s something divine about drinking near water; it seems to aid digestion in some strange way, and the Red Lion fitted the bill perfectly. The beer tasted good and the view was enjoyable, and it set me up nicely for the English Heritage sign on the map, further along the river.

English Heritage signs indicate ancient buildings that are almost always worth a visit, and Odda’s Chapel is a worthy two-minute detour from the Severn Way near Deerhurst, though it’s more worthwhile for what it conjures up in your imagination than for the site itself. According to the sign it’s a small late Saxon chapel with lots of characteristics associated with Anglo-Saxon construction, including ‘long-and-short’ quoins (corner stones), double-splayed windows and tall proportions; in all honesty, though, it still looks like the barn it was turned into before someone discovered that it was actually an ancient chapel, built by Odda, a kinsman of King Edward the Confessor, in memory of his brother Aelfric.

Still, anything that dates from 1056 is going to be atmospheric enough to fire the imagination, especially after a pint by the river.

-oOo-

Tewkesbury is such a step up from Gloucester that it’s scary. Don’t think I’m knocking Gloucester, because I thoroughly enjoyed its take on suburban sprawling, but after a night exploring its pubs, I get the feeling that Gloucester is the sort of place that readers of the Daily Mail wouldn’t really like.

For example, two minutes after stepping out of my Gloucester B&B I was yelled at by a phenomenally pissed Scotsman as he slouched on the monument at the corner of the city park, caressing a black 1.5-litre Tango bottle that certainly didn’t contain Tango. It took him three attempts before I realised that he was asking me for a cigarette, and when I politely pointed out that I didn’t smoke, he asked me if I had any change, before being distracted by a passing car at which he barked until I’d safely disappeared round the corner.

Round the corner was just as weird. On the opposite side of the terraced street a pasty woman with a black mohican growled at a lanky man with long hair, who yelled back, ‘Don’t ask me! I couldn’t give a fucking shit!’ as he grabbed one of the plastic bottles of strong cider that the couple were drinking on the steps of their basement flat, his voice barely audible above the rap music distorting out of the basement. Opposite them a woman with an amusingly savage mullet slouched on the wall, dangling a fag into the pavement while she argued with what looked like her daughter, and down the road an old timer stood in his doorway, peering out into the crusty carnival that his street had become with the confused look of someone who hadn’t quite expected retirement to be like this.

Even in the Wetherspoon pub, a pleasantly converted cinema called the Regal, a man at the bar was having a one-sided conversation with the barman, who had just informed him that he’d obviously had enough, so no, he couldn’t have another pint. Gloucester, it seems, is a great place for hard drinking, tattoos and familial dysfunction; I thought it was a fascinating city.

Tewkesbury, though, is all tea rooms and olde worlde pubs, and although the hard end of urban life is great fun, there’s something irresistible about places that wear their historical atmosphere on their sleeve rather than smothering it under yet another concrete shopping complex. The different flavour of Tewkesbury is evident from the moment you reach the outskirts; on the way into town from the Severn, the path goes right past the huge hangars of the Cheltenham College Boat Club, and as I stomped along the tarmac towards town three buses hummed past me, packed to the gills with young college kids on their way to cheer their compatriots to victory. Gloucester this was not; I very much doubt there was one tattoo, mohican or mullet in the entire convoy.

The most obvious landmark in Tewkesbury is the abbey, which is big enough to be a cathedral but is actually a plain old parish church. At about 900 years old, the church is unusual in that it managed to survive Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries because the townsfolk clubbed together and bought it for the princely sum of £453; without this foresight the huge tower and sizeable main building would probably have fallen into disrepair, and it demonstrates that in Tewkesbury the people are willing to pay to save their heritage.

I presume this is still the case, even if they now pay via local taxes, for Tewkesbury is a lovely town. All along the high street are buildings with mediaeval timber frames peeping out from under the plaster, and even though all the global brands are there, from banks and supermarkets to shoe shops, it feels pleasantly undamaged by progress. I wasted no time at all in finding my B&B, dumping my bags, washing the damsel flies out of my hair and tracking down a pub that served real ale.

Sometimes the post-walk bit is the best part, irrespective of whether you’ve been climbing mountains, jumping through fields, hopping along the coast or meditating beside a river. The name ‘Ye Olde Black Bear’ might sound a little too twee to be true, but as Tewkesbury’s oldest pub it manages to get away with the silly spelling, and with its riverside position by the River Avon (which flows into the Severn just west of town) it did the trick for me.

Somehow beer tastes so much better out of a glass than out of a Tango bottle...

Tewkesbury to Worcester

4 June 2003

Today I again followed the River Severn for the whole day as it wound gently north from the picture-postcard beauty of Tewkesbury to the slightly more urban but no less rewarding city of Worcester. I crossed the border into Worcestershire almost as soon as the day started, and from that moment I realised that walking into the heart of the Midlands is going to be fun. The weather held out while, according to the weatherman, it poured in Cornwall and London, and as ever the path was easy to follow and sublimely relaxing as it snaked beside the river.

Nothing particularly notable happened today, which is sometimes the best way. After a few miles I passed through Upton-upon-Severn, an attractive place that boasts a whole row of riverside pubs that cropped up just slightly too early in the day to tempt me in. Annoyingly, Upton is also home to one of the worst modern bridges I’ve seen on this walk, and it blunders through the middle of town in a horribly insensitive way. The clash of boring, modern, puke-green steel offends not so much because of its ugliness, but because it doesn’t have an ounce of flair in its entire structure; nearby, peeping through the trees, is the Pepperpot, an eccentrically English tower that is all that remains of a church that was destroyed in the Civil War, and it has more soul in a single brick than the bridge has in its entire collection of girders and rivets.

Upton’s pubs might not have been able to pull me in – I walked past at 11.30am, which is a little too early for a pint if you want to achieve anything later in the day – but a few miles and a couple of hours down the line I decided to miss out a pointless switchback in the Severn Way’s route, and instead took a shortcut through the tiny village of Severn Stoke. This turned out to be a good move, because the Rose and Crown has a huge beer garden, a nice line in Batemans beer, and the kind of wobbly roof and neighbouring church view that it would be rude to ignore. Indeed, I had been promising myself that I wouldn’t have a beer until Worcester, because the skies were clouding over and it looked like rain might be on the cards, but I just couldn’t help it. When this walk is over it’s unlikely I’ll remember showers by the Severn or arriving half an hour earlier in Worcester, but I’ll sure remember some of the riverside pubs I’ve stumbled on. They’re world class.

-oOo-

Of course, after my pint in the sun the route suddenly seemed to become a lot more complicated. Up to that point it had stuck to the river, detouring only to go round the obviously very wealthy estate of Severn Bank, but soon after Severn Stoke the Way decided to cut across a load of fields, and suddenly I found myself disorientated and unable to find any markers. I swear it had nothing to do with the pint at lunchtime, but I ended up stomping through an unexpected farm or two, just heading north and hoping for the best. A farm worker in a white van waved at me as I passed him, so I presume I wasn’t trespassing into fields of genetically modified corn or a particularly hush-hush cash crop, but I still don’t really know whether I eventually found the river or whether it found me. I have a sneaking suspicion it was the latter...

From there to Worcester the only interesting sights (and I use the word advisedly) were the caravan parks by the river in which whole families of static caravans have put down roots. I can just about understand the appeal of caravans, even though I’ve seen enough rusting caravan hulks in the last few counties to house half of Africa, and to me the appeal of a caravan is in the way it attaches to your car. This means you can drive to a pretty location, drop anchor, enjoy the sunset, sleep, and head off to pastures new in the morning. But what on earth are static caravans all about? What is the point?

Well, the point for me is that they’re fascinating to look at. Static caravan parks are heavenly if you like the world of twitching net curtains, and I never get bored of turning the tables on them and gawping at them from the outside. I love watching suburbia and imagining what the stories are behind the houses, but a static caravan park is to suburbia what tomato purée is to tomatoes: it’s concentrated, no-frills, suburban weirdness.

Some static caravans have beautifully tended gardens, complete with some kind of ineffective but legally binding boundary marker; some have grass growing wildly through the floor, hiding the accumulated mechanical detritus so beloved of the caravan posse. Some static caravans have wooden trellises around the underside, hiding the gas bottles and ablution pipes behind what can only be described as a caravan skirt; some celebrate their underbellies by leaving them not only for Mother Nature to reclaim, but for her to use as an experimental laboratory for creating new life forms. Some static caravans have china displays behind polished windows; some have mould sticking the curtains to the plastic. In short, some static caravans should be in Homes and Gardens, while some don’t bother with the distinction.

What interests me is that the two types are often within a stone’s throw of each other, just like different houses in the streets of suburbia. It must irritate the hell out of the lace-windowed statics to have the smelliest, dirtiest family living next door, and it must annoy the man who keeps every car spare he can ever find that the neighbours obviously disapprove of his hobby. And what can’t these people do with their fancy caravans? They can’t hook up the car and drive away from their neighbours, which to me is the biggest irony of all.

It kept me chuckling all the way to Worcester, there were that many caravan parks...

Worcester to Bewdley

5 June 2003

I think it’s fair to say that my mind is a little too organised for its own good. A walk of this stature requires a fair amount of planning, and for me this means being at least two days ahead of the game; I like to know what I’m doing for the next 48 hours, I like to have my accommodation booked, I like to have the maps to hand, and I like to know the weather forecast. After those two days are up I don’t mind so much – a vague itinerary is good enough – but I don’t like the idea of walking into a place only to find there are no places to stay, no pubs and no sympathetic faces.

A lot of this comes from travelling abroad; in the UK you’re never really stuck for a place to stay – the worst that can happen is a night in a field, or if you’re really stuck, a roadside travel lodge – but in places like Africa or India sleeping rough is a little more serious, and while it’s a nightmare to book ahead in the Third World, you can at least prepare yourself with guidebooks and maps. When I’m walking I like to keep a similarly tidy house, and for me this means booking ahead.

Unfortunately it’s not always easy to book ahead, because sometimes you walk through rural areas where B&Bs are rare, pubs lock their doors just when you need them, and even taxi firms shut down, whatever you’re willing to pay. So as I set off from Worcester this morning, I wasn’t talking to my old friend the Severn and I wasn’t enjoying the riverbed scenery. Instead I was winding myself up about tomorrow night’s accommodation.

The thing is, I want to get to Penkridge the day after tomorrow, because I’ve arranged to be picked up by my parents, with whom I’m hoping to spend a relaxing weekend before being dropped back in Penkridge a few days later. It’s possible to get to Penkridge in time, but only if I can break the journey somewhere around the villages of Seisdon or Pattingham, the logical halfway points between Bewdley and Penkridge. Unfortunately all the places that I tried to ring last night were fully booked, so this morning I set out from Worcester and instantly started worrying myself stupid about tomorrow night. Is this logical? Not at all, but that’s how bloody organised I like to be.

Luckily Peta sent me a new bunch of numbers and by 11am I’d managed to book into a place in Pattingham, so at last I could stop obsessing about my accommodation. Instead I checked that the maps I’d ordered from Ordnance Survey had arrived at my parents, got Peta to mail up my Pennine Way guidebooks and checked the details of the weekend with Mum and Dad. And only when I’d done all that could I start enjoying the walk.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve actually managed to leave the office behind, or whether there’s a part of my brain that will be forever working...

-oOo-

From Worcester the path slips along the banks of the River Severn in the manner to which I have become comfortably accustomed. Again the river kept me company as the miles ticked by, and I found the change in the riverside walk fascinating.

I’m not talking about the river itself, which remained its calm, brown self throughout the day. I’m talking about the curse of the caravan, which I first noticed yesterday, but which completely takes over the river north of Worcester. It feels as if there’s a caravan park every few hundred metres, and the Severn Way is privileged to wander straight through the front gardens of these weird enclaves of Englishness, no doubt annoying the hell out of the holidaymakers sunning themselves outside their homes. Signs make no bones about the status of the parks; walkers are instructed not to stray from the path, to make sure they keep their dogs on leads and not to fish anywhere along the bank. Then again, the latter would be pretty difficult, as most of these parks also have moorings along the river for a motley collection of boats, some of which gleam, and some of which are practically fish food.

Between the caravan parks lives another strange beast, and one I’ve never seen in England before. If I was on the continent I’d use the word ‘chalet’ to describe the strange hybrids of cottage and static caravan that populate the banks of the Severn, but this is middle England and there’s not a beach or a ski slope in sight. These buildings bear an uncanny resemblance to large garden sheds, and one of them I saw in Stourport even had a brick chimney at one end, a permanence that most of these strange buildings don’t share. They’re about the same size as static caravans and they live along the river, but unlike the caravans they don’t look like they were ever meant to move; on the other hand, they don’t quite manage to look like houses either.

I nicknamed them the ‘Severn Dwarfs’ and walked on by, wondering whether there’s anywhere else in England where the houses look they’ve been smoking since the age of 12.

-oOo-

Today all the pubs seemed to be on the wrong side of the river, and it nearly drove me to drink. The Severn isn’t exactly overrun with bridges; indeed, between Worcester and Bewdley there are only two bridges, one at Stourport-on-Severn and the other at Holt (the latter, the Holt Fleet Bridge, was built by Thomas Telford and is effortlessly beautiful, something the architects at Upton clearly failed to learn from). I can’t remember how many pubs I counted on the west bank of the river, but I remember exactly how many I counted on the east: there was just one, in Stourport, and by that stage I was so close to Bewdley I figured I might as well enjoy a pint there instead.

The lack of bridges didn’t seem to discourage the couple I met in a field about halfway through my walk. Along this stretch of the river the fields flow right down to the banks, and the path picks its way over numerous stiles as it skirts fields of cows and sheep. I was enjoying watching the reactions of the different animals to my sudden appearance – cows generally sit and stare while sheep run like hell – when a couple in their mid-forties appeared, wearily pushing a couple of mountain bikes through the grass.

Sometimes it’s obvious when someone is an expert, and in the world of cycling the telltale signs are Lycra body stockings, maps on the handlebars, wrap-around gold-plated shades and the leg muscles of a frog; this sort of person either knows which end of their bike is which or has a serious fashion problem. But the couple who were panting their way towards me had Lycra-free T-shirts, baggy shorts, absolutely no gear and a look in their eyes that told me they were not quite Tour de France material. So, as one does in the country, I cheerily said ‘hello’ as they hauled their bikes past.

‘Um,’ started the man, aware that he was talking to someone with a map around his neck. ‘Um, d’you know where the pub is?’

‘Ah,’ I thought, and realised that these guys had absolutely no idea where they were. Stiles and bikes don’t go together and where I’d just come from the grass was overgrown enough to annoy a walker with heavy boots; but for someone in shorts and light trainers it would be even worse, especially with a bike in tow.

‘Um, I don’t think there’s a pub for a very long time,’ I said, ‘at least not on this side. It’d be a few miles to the nearest pub from here, I reckon.’

‘Oh,’ he said, a bit crestfallen. ‘Still, it can’t be too far to the next bridge, eh?’

‘Well, it’s a long walk that way to anywhere,’ I said, ‘especially with a bike. There are loads of stiles and it’s pretty overgrown. It’s only marked as a footpath on my map, not a bridleway or byway; I don’t think it’s that suitable for bikes, you know.’

‘Never mind,’ he said, his eyes glazing over as he decided this wasn’t what he wanted to hear. ‘We’ll be fine. Thanks anyway.’

And with that they pushed onwards, into what I knew would soon become an argument containing the words ‘I told you so.’

-oOo-

After a pleasant day’s walking along the river, with only one diversion to take in the lovely little village of Holt, I arrived in Stourport-on-Severn, a small town just south of Bewdley. It was here that for the first time in days I came across heavy industry, and it was quite a shock.

Lining the river on the way into Stourport is a small collection of industrial units, none of which have windows. This is perfectly normal for industrial units, but as I walked past a particularly large monster in the hot afternoon air, it was pretty obvious that behind the thin sheet of the unit’s metal walls lurked a world that bore absolutely no resemblance to mine. Amplified Radio Two blurted out the mechanical plink-plonks of Kraftwerk’s ‘The Model’ while the unit shook and rang to the screech of metal grinders, and although I couldn’t see anyone inside as I walked past the end of the factory, I could hear men yelling above the din of satanic mills in full swing. On one side was the peaceful, Buddhist Severn flowing its gentle course to the sea, and on the other were the bowels of hell being entertained by Steve Wright. The contrast was heady.

Luckily the riverside soon turned into an utterly delightful park, with some lovely locks and a pleasant promenade past pubs and ice cream vans, and Stourport saved itself from the industrial hole it had initially appeared to be. By the far side of town I’d fallen for the place, and it helped set me up for the stroll to Bewdley, a few miles upstream.

I didn’t quite get there on time. The reason? There I was walking along the path, eyes fixed on Bewdley, and who should I find relaxing on the bank but Barry, whom I’d last seen in Street.

‘Mark!’ he said as I charged round the corner. ‘Eh, take a pew, there’s no charge.’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ I said, and from that moment until our parting the next morning Barry kept me entertained in top fashion. I’d found him lively company back in Street, and if anything he was on even better form after a few more miles. In need of a B&B, he joined me in the one I’d booked, and after dumping our packs and freshening up, we hit the Pack Horse in Bewdley.

What an excellent pub, and what excellent company. We ended up enjoying three pints and an amazing pie called a Desperate Dan; it had pastry horns sticking out the top and half of Sainsbury’s stuffed inside, and the Greene King IPA tasted so pleasant that it bore absolutely no relation to the insipid rubbish that gets served under that name in London. Barry waxed lyrical about the various walks he’d done in his time, from the beautiful mountains in northern Wales to his favourite walk, the Cleveland Way, and I just sat there and soaked up the stories along with more IPA. It was a lovely end to another great day along the Severn, and to cap it all Barry confessed to something that made me realise I wasn’t the only one losing the plot.

‘Eh, Mark,’ he said. ‘Do you remember that part of the Severn Way after Gloucester, with the long grass?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I thought it was going to be like that bloody King’s Sedgemoor, but it turned out OK in the end.’

‘Well, did you see them damsel flies?’ he asked.

‘Ooh, yes,’ I said. ‘Weren’t they lovely?’

‘I’ll say,’ said Barry. ‘I tell you, these damsel flies were flying up, all blue and lovely, and I just had to stop there and say: “Eee, damsel fly, you are gorgeous.” Lovely things. Magical.’

You see. I might talk to rivers and hold conversations with pub benches, but I’m not alone.

Bewdley to Pattingham

6 June 2003

If there’s one thing you don’t expect from a publication like McCloy’s guidebook, it’s the kind of fundamental error I spotted the other night. Don’t get me wrong – overall it’s a great book, and without it this walk would be a hell of a lot harder – but between Bewdley and Penkridge it comes off the rails totally.

This time it doesn’t have anything to do with the author’s taste, which is what I presume is behind his overzealous route through the Cotswolds. This time the problem is a simple measuring mistake, but it’s serious enough to make the book totally useless for a couple of days.

McCloy suggests heading east from Bewdley to join the Staffordshire Way at Kinver – a sensible enough suggestion – but that’s where things go wrong. He’s managed to measure the next leg, from Kinver to Seisdon, at a whopping 20.5 miles, but even a cursory glance at the map makes it pretty obvious that it’s nowhere near that. It’s actually around 11 miles, and this makes a considerable difference when you’re planning your route, especially as his suggested stop-over point, Seisdon, has no accommodation options at all, not even a B&B. It’s even more bizarre when you consider that he’s got it wrong on the Staffordshire Way, a way-marked trail for which guidebooks are available. You wonder if he actually walked this part of the route while researching his book; if he did, then the poor soul must have got horribly lost.

Luckily I’d already decided to ignore McCloy because I want to visit my parents at the weekend, and given a bit of judicious planning along the B-roads of Staffordshire, I figured I could easily make it to Pattingham in one day, and then move on from there to Penkridge, not a million miles from home. Thank goodness I didn’t base my plans around McCloy’s guidebook; individual taste is one thing, but failing to check the basics is another.

-oOo-

This morning I spent the first couple of hours wandering along the Severn again, dodging drops of rain that soaked the grass but brought the temperature down to a perfect walking level. I finally waved goodbye to the river at Upper Arley, just after the impressive Victoria Bridge, the largest iron bridge of its day; it was quite a sad event saying goodbye to my travelling companion of the last few days, but we both took it on the chin, him with his usual calmness and me with the Zen-like quality of someone who’s been happily meditating for the last few days.

Ahead, though, were roads and bridleways. I like this way of travelling, not following anyone else’s path but mine. Given the overnight rain, I decided to avoid footpaths where possible, as off the well-walked tracks they tend to get a bit overgrown and after rain it’s a bit like walking through a waterfall; bridleways, on the other hand, are designed for horses, and although some of them get pretty unloved and forested, most of them are more like small roads than muddy paths. It turned out to be a great decision; the only bit that was slightly overgrown was the footpath I took through a wood called Square Coppice, and that was so charming I didn’t feel moved to clock one single dandelion.

The only setback came when I entered Staffordshire and jumped for joy at reaching the county where I was born and bred. ‘Isn’t it pretty,’ I thought, ‘and doesn’t it feel great to be home,’ and as the rolling countryside panned out before me, it struck me that I’d just managed to walk from Land’s End to my birthplace, which felt good. I still felt good five miles later, when I spotted a piece of paper stapled to a post by the start of another bridleway, announcing that the path had been reopened following the foot and mouth epidemic. ‘By order of Shropshire County Council’ it said, and it took me a while to work out that, no, Shropshire Country Council wasn’t in the habit of sticking its nose into Staffordshire business, and that I’d actually been in Shropshire all the time. I felt a right pillock; I’d been heaping praise on my home county, and I’d got the wrong one.

The problem is that Ordnance Survey maps assume a reasonable amount of intelligence on the part of their users, and although county names can be found somewhere round the outer rim of each map, they’re cleverly hidden among all the names of unitary authorities, parishes, constituencies, European electoral regions and so on. On top of this, county borders are shown by dashed and dotted grey lines, but there are so many other grey lines denoting administrative boundaries that it’s almost impossible to spot when you’re changing county, let alone which county you’re walking into.

Still, at least I can say I’ve walked through a bit of Shropshire now, and a very pleasant place it is too.

-oOo-

After stopping in the pretty Shropshire village of Claverley for a lunchtime pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, a refreshingly bitter brew that quite knocked me for six after the long hike along the roads of Shropshire, I finally reached the genuine Staffordshire border. This time I knew I’d got the right place, for a big blue sign by the roadside proclaimed that, at last, I really am home. I was also intrigued to see the Staffordshire coat of arms on the sign; I couldn’t quite work out what the animals were, although they seemed happy enough doing whatever it is that heraldic animals do, but at least I understood the motto. ‘The knot unites,’ it said underneath the flowery design, and although I thought for a minute it was leading up to a tasteless joke about dyslexia, it was, of course, referring to the Staffordshire knot. To Staffs people the knot is up there with pottery kilns and Robbie Williams as symbols of county pride, and I entered Staffordshire happy in the knowledge that this time I’d got the right place.

The rest of the walk followed a long, straight road, for which I was thankful after my blast of Landlord; I was less thankful when I reached Pattingham only to be rudely shaken out of my plodding reverie by two huge black dogs who shot out into the road and barked menacingly at my approach. The owner wasn’t impressed and yelled at the dogs to get back inside, but this just set the rest of Pattingham’s dogs off on a howling spree that followed me all the way to the Post Office, waking up the elderly population and forcing them to glare out of their bungalows in the way that only horribly wizened old goats can. I smiled back cheerily, getting no response except a darkening of the brow, and with that I arrived in Pattingham.

I didn’t realise it at the time, but Pattingham would turn out to be one of the friendliest places on my trip so far, and I’m glad I ignored McCloy’s suggested route and came this way instead. Terry and Sue, the couple who ran the farmhouse B&B where I stayed, were wonderful hosts, and even though I was only there for one night, I warmed to them hugely. Terry even drove me down to the Pigot Arms and bought me a couple of pints, a sure-fire way of getting in my good books, and I counted myself lucky to have found them.

The Pigot turned out to be much more than just a pleasant place to while away an evening meal and a few beers. After a hearty steak and chips I pulled out my computer and started typing away, oblivious to the Friday buzz around me. It wasn’t to be, though, because a few minutes after I’d started hacking away, a young guy wandered over and pointed at my keyboard.

‘Is that a computer?’ he asked, so I showed him the folding keyboard and launched into the usual spiel about me walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats and writing about it on the way.

‘No way!’ he cried, and insisted that I come outside for a drink with him and his mates. It turned out to be a great move; outside was a big group of Pattingham’s finest party animals, their cars pulled up to the pub and pumping out the guitar riffs of the Wildhearts at a healthy volume, while everyone got themselves geared up for what was obviously going to be a long night.

‘Here, this guy’s walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats!’ said the man from inside the pub, and from that moment I was welcomed into the group with open arms. They couldn’t quite believe what I was doing, and they insisted that I come to the party they were about to go to; I was so very tempted – they were obviously the kind of people who threw legendary parties – but despite the promises of endless beer, a curry at 2am and even ‘a dirty girl from Sedgley’, I stuck to my guns and insisted that I had to go walking in the morning, something I clearly wouldn’t manage after a night on the town with this lot. Instead I promised to send them a postcard from John o’Groats and waved them goodbye as they screeched off to a night of drunken debauchery with a Sedgley twist.

Without a doubt, Pattingham is the friendliest place I’ve been since Okehampton. It’s always the least likely places that surprise you...

-oOo-

On the other hand, when I woke up in the morning and went down to breakfast, Terry told me a story.

‘You know when you came back from the pub last night?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said, remembering the long walk back to the isolated farmhouse where Terry and Sue have their home. I’d said goodnight to Terry and gone to bed, leaving him watching TV.

‘Well, I stayed up to watch a bit more of that film,’ he said, ‘and while I was sitting here, a couple of cars came down the drive and parked in the yard out back. They left their headlights on, and one of them was driving up and down, shining his headlights on the barn. So I stood here for a bit, watching from the kitchen, and after a while I thought, “This is weird,” and went outside to see what was going on. It turned out to be the farmer, so I asked him what he was doing. “Well, we’ve had these reports,” he said. “One of our neighbours was coming down the drive, and they said they saw this unshaven bloke walking along the drive with a bag on his back, and we’re just checking the buildings to see if he’s set up shop in our barn. Don’t suppose you’ve seen him, have you Terry?”

‘”Oh yeah,” says I. “He’s upstairs in my top bedroom.”

‘I had to laugh. Everyone round here knows everyone else, you see, and they didn’t know about you staying here.’

‘Well, it’s good to see your neighbourhood watch scheme works,’ I said, and scratched my beard, wondering what would have happened if Terry hadn’t wandered outside. I’d have probably featured in the local paper, complete with a blunt axe, long hair, dirty fingernails and a wild, evil glint in my eyes, under the caption ‘MAD AXEMAN SAVAGES LOCAL DOG POPULATION.’

I doubt they’d have been so fussy in Sedgley...

Pattingham to Penkridge

7 June 2003

Staffordshire might be my home county, but that doesn’t mean I have to rave about its walking potential; today’s walk was pleasant and inoffensive, but ultimately rather boring.

This is certainly no criticism of the Staffordshire countryside, because the farms I walked through today were not unattractive. It’s just that after a month of walking through fields and rolling English farmland, it takes something special to prevent the day from slipping by unnoticed. I enjoyed the plodding, I was delighted to be in Staffordshire, and practically nothing stuck in my mind.

It could have been a lot worse.

-oOo-

All except for the first mile of today’s walk was along the Staffordshire Way, a long-distance path that stretches from one end of the county to the other, taking in the most scenic parts and avoiding the major conurbations. If I had stuck to McCloy’s suggested route then I would have joined the Way at Kinver Edge a couple of days ago, but instead today was my first taste of the county’s major route. I can only assume that Kinver Edge is a lovely place, with its sandstone escarpment and views of Shropshire and the West Midlands, and that today’s walk is a temporary lull before I reach the attractions of Cannock Chase tomorrow (an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, no less). I hope so, anyway, because if it’s all like today, I won’t be spending much longer on the Staffs Way.

My walk today took me past the obviously expensive but slightly over-manicured mock Tudor houses of outer Pattingham, past a well-hidden country estate called Wrottesley Hall and into the nearby golf course, through the pleasant but instantly forgettable town of Codsall, over the M54, past the distant but grand building of Chillington Hall, and into Brewood. Brewood, pronounced ‘Brood’ by the locals, was today’s first highlight, and it’s a pretty spot, with a lovely church and the sort of Police Station that you’d only find in a small village; it looked for all the world like a corner shop, with blue ‘Police’ signs hanging outside instead of adverts for Coca-Cola, and that set the tone for the village square, where small shops rubbed shoulders with pretty pubs as the sun broke through the clouds and started warming things up.

From Brewood I joined the towpath of the Shropshire Union Canal, which was busily interesting with a large collection of narrow boats, and I settled in for a pleasant stroll along the banks, pausing only to admire the section where the canal crosses over Watling Street. Here a Thomas Telford aqueduct from 1832 carries the canal over what is now a hurtling A-road, and I enjoyed the combination of the ruler-straight Roman road and this simple but well-executed piece of 19th-century engineering; it made a good spot for lunch, despite the thundering noise of traffic from below.

Soon after turning off the canal I ducked through a farm, where a gargantuan farm dog surprised the hell out of me by pattering up and saying hello without so much as a grumble. I even patted his head and in a state of shocked awe stumbled off towards the pretty village of Lapley, where a convenient pub served up a welcome pint of Marston’s Bitter that helped me come to terms with my first positive farm dog experience of the whole walk.

To finish off the day, the Staffordshire Way wandered around the outside of yet more farmers’ fields, through a nature reserve called Bickford Meadows and along the road towards the distinctive viaduct of Penkridge; and so ended one of those days that every long walk has, a filler. Filler days are instantly forgettable, but they do have a purpose. Not only do they get you further along the road – today, for example, I completed the first third of my journey from Land’s End to John o’Groats – but they provide you with little pools of calm to look back on in the future. When the rain is lashing down in the mountains or you’re up to your knees in bog, these easy little filler days seem like gifts from above. If this walk was a game of cricket then today would be the tea break, and where would cricket be without tea?

Penkridge to Abbots Bromley

10 June 2003

Today was packed with nostalgia, and if there’s one thing I like, it’s nostalgia. South Staffordshire held no memories for me, despite the excitement of finally arriving in the county where I was born, but soon after leaving Penkridge this morning I started bumping into places that rang bells.

The first nostalgic stop on today’s walk was Cannock Chase, a beautiful area of woodland and heath that’s deservedly been designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. After the farm fields of the previous few days (and, indeed, a pretty forgettable walk out of Penkridge), Cannock Chase finally gave me the chance to enjoy some wilderness walking. The wind howled and the skies flashed between clear and cloudy like a solitary light in a school disco, but the Chase is such a pretty place it hardly mattered.

As I wandered downhill to follow the Staffordshire Way along the Sherbrook Valley, something clicked. All around me were ferns, heather and springy turf, and suddenly I had visions of school trips to this very place, where we were left to run relatively free, armed only with a packed lunch, a drink, an apple and a deadline to return to the car park and the sweaty anarchy of the coach ride back to school. I couldn’t remember anything specific, but something about the smell of the ferns hit a synapse, and instead of a walk through a strange new world, the path through Cannock Chase turned into a welcome wander through memories of my childhood.

-oOo-

After the rugged beauty of the Chase, the Staffordshire Way keeps up the momentum and wanders straight past the front door of Shugborough Hall. Now a National Trust property, Shugborough is the residence of Patrick Lichfield and it’s a grand old place. For me, though, it reminds me of my sister Julie’s wedding, for it was in one of Shugborough’s classically ornate rooms that she got married back in 1999.

I love people getting married in stately homes. I don’t mind people getting married in churches, but being a confirmed agnostic bordering on atheist – I pray every now and then, but only through social conditioning – I can’t get my head round all those hymns and prayers that drag on through most church wedding services. Prior to my sister’s wedding the only tradition-busting moment I could remember was when a couple of flower children played a love song at a friend’s wedding, the acoustic guitar and drippy, hippy lyrics moving the audience to polite silence; I thoroughly enjoyed it, not because of the song, but because it was exactly the sort of thing you don’t expect in a church, and there’s nothing quite as entertaining as infecting the establishment with reverberations of the sixties.

Julie’s wedding was the second I’d been to that enjoyed the freedom of a stately home service, and as with the first, I couldn’t believe that it was over so quickly. It took half an hour, it didn’t mention any religions at all, and it pleased me no end that someone had finally had the sense to take the clinical legality of the registry office and the formality of the church wedding, and to create something new out of the best bits of both. Shugborough might be another symbol of the outdated lifestyle of the aristocracy, but to me it’s a reminder of the happy collision of stately pomp and conjugal circumstance.

-oOo-

From Shugborough the Staffordshire Way takes a short wander along the towpath of the Trent and Mersey Canal, the same canal that flows right past my parent’s house. I might have lived next to the Trent and Mersey since the age of four, but I’ve never really explored it; thankfully the barge holidays I’ve been on have been a long way from home – they rarely encourage the responsible side of one’s character, so it’s probably a good thing – and the Trent and Mersey remains a canal of which I know a small part very well and the rest not at all.

From Shugborough the canal is lovely, and for most of this section the River Trent flows along the side of the canal at a slightly lower level. I’ve always associated the Trent with home, as it has a flood plain not far from my parents’ house, and to see the river and the canal side by side, separated only by an embankment, made me feel like a walker with two close friends for company.

It was probably this companionship that put me in the mood for a pint; the last friendly body of water I walked alongside was the River Severn, and his pubs were of the highest quality, so I scanned the map for little blue pub symbols and came up trumps in the little of Colton, about four miles short of my target for the day, Abbots Bromley. At that stage of a walk a pint is not only acceptable, it’s almost sensible, as it helps to dull the pain of the blisters; and so I stomped on to Colton.

It was only two o’clock, but both pubs in Colton were so firmly shut they looked like victims of some strangely localised prohibition order, so stopping only to ask a local if he could fill up my water bottle – which he did with glee – I headed for Abbots Bromley and the five pubs that line the village’s high street.

Of course, they were all shut too, including the one where I’d booked a bed, and they remained steadfastly shut for a good couple of hours after I arrived. So much for a medicinal pint, then...

-oOo-

I didn’t mind too much as I wanted to explore Abbots Bromley anyway, and I figured I could still explore with my backpack in tow, just as long as nowhere insisted on a dress code. Luckily, Abbots Bromley turned out to be a really friendly place.

My first stop was the Post Office, where I launched into my mantra.

‘Hello,’ I said to the man behind the counter. ‘I’m walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats and I’m getting this form stamped at Post Offices along the way. Can you help?’

‘Of course,’ he said as he filled out the form and handed it back. ‘How would you like a cup of tea?’

‘A cup of tea?’ I said. ‘Well, that would be lovely. Thanks.’

‘No problem,’ he said, turning to the back of the shop. ‘Sue, can you make this man a cup of tea? He’s doing a big walk.’

‘How many of you are there?’ she asked.

‘Just the one,’ I said.

‘No problem,’ said Sue, and a few minutes later she brought out not a cup of tea, but a tray containing a teapot, a cup, a jug of milk and a pot of sugar.

‘Gosh, thanks,’ I said, and with a smile she disappeared to serve the customers who had just come in.

The tea was lovely and the company was great; once the queues had disappeared, I was entertained and interrogated and thoroughly touched by the kindness of strangers, and half an hour later I’d met half the village and told most of my life story.

This included the story of my first two girlfriends. I’ve been looking forward to my visit to Abbots Bromley for a while, because back in the 1980s I went to school down the road in Derbyshire and we did a lot of joint functions with the girls at Abbots Bromley, particularly choral performances and the like. More importantly, this liaison brought me my first two proper girlfriends.

I say ‘brought me’ because I had precious little to do with the process that finally graduated me from the shy single guy to the shy single guy who had at least stuck his tongue down someone’s throat. Both Abi and Kate were far more sussed than I was, and although I fell completely in love with the idea of being in love, they both ended up dumping me unceremoniously after short, whirlwind romances that were mainly conducted by letter. But Abbots Bromley helped me get on the first rung of a very long and mysterious ladder, and I have fond memories of it.

What I don’t have are any memories of the place itself, as I discovered when I started exploring. I can remember my first girlfriend, Abi, making the first move by grabbing me and clamping her mouth over mine as the taxi arrived to take me back to my school, but search as I might I couldn’t track down the doorstep on which this seminal event took place; and I might have blagged myself onto the team that produced the sound for a joint production of Carmina Burana simply so I could visit my second girlfriend, Kate, but I couldn’t find the roof where I sat with her and smoked roll-ups for an entire afternoon of anarchistic bonding. No, Abbots Bromley village rang absolutely no bells, which was a shame.

I’ve still got the memories, though, and they’re not going anywhere.

-oOo-

Even without happy, pubescent memories, Abbots Bromley is a pleasant place. The fact that the village has five pubs is just one positive aspect – ‘It used to have thirteen,’ said Sue, proudly – and the village is studded with interesting historical spots, as befits a place that’s mentioned in the Domesday Book.

Bang in the middle of the village is the Buttercross, a wooden shelter that’s shaped like a ground-level bandstand and which saved me from a soaking when a freak shower hit. Dating from 1339, when Abbots Bromley was a busy market town, it’s a good place to start a tour of the town. Just down the road is pretty Church House, a black and white timber-framed Elizabethan town house that was built in 1619 and which is now used as a church meeting room and caretaker’s house; and framing the view of the house from the street is St Nicholas Church with its weird gargoyles, impressive stained glass windows and a history going back to 1002.

Back along the high street is the Goats Head pub, which boasts a Dick Turpin room where the highwayman was supposed to have stayed after he stole Black Bess from Bugeley Horse Fair. Further on, down a side road, you can find the Manor House, which once belonged to the monks of Burton Abbey and in which Mary Queen of Scots stayed for one night in 1583, while on her way from Tutbury Castle to Chartley Castle to be executed. Apparently, and rather delightfully, she inscribed a message on one of the windows with her diamond ring, and the window can now be found in the Salt Library in Stafford.

Further down the road is the school of St Mary and St Anne, where I failed to find any reminders of past liaisons. I did, however, manage to get the odd flirtatious look from the senior girls wandering down the street, showing that even weird, unkempt, bearded crusties like me are fair game when your bloodstream is overloaded with pubescent hormones.

-oOo-

The buildings, great though they are, aren’t the most famous thing about Abbots Bromley. Instead, when you mention the village to people in the know, they always say, ‘That’s the place with the Horn Dance, isn’t it?’ It sure is.

The Horn Dance sounds a bit like the Helston Furry Dance but without the flowers. Every year on Wakes Monday – Wakes Monday being the Monday after the first Sunday after the fourth of September, of course – the Horn Dancers, who consist of six Deer-Men, a Fool, a Hobby Horse, a Bowman and Maid Marion, collect a set of 11th-century reindeer horns from the church, strap them on and perform a special dance to the sound of a melodeon player and a boy with a triangle; this dance is done in various parts of the village and its surrounding farms, houses and pubs, following a ten-mile route around town. At the end of the day the horns are returned to the church, where they remain until Wakes Monday the following year, and much merriment ensues.

This strange ritual was apparently first performed at Barthelamy Fair in August 1226, and according to the sign outside the Goats Head the dance ‘offers a fascinating day out, attracting visitors from as far afield as Indonesia, America and Europe.’ My memories of Abbots Bromley might be of a different kind of horn dance, but whatever your angle, it’s a great place to spend the night after a long day’s walk.

Abbots Bromley to Air Cottage

11 June 2003

Oh my god, what an awful, awful day. I’m sure someone put something in my coffee this morning that made each hour last a week; I walked 21 miles today, and my mind is so worried about conserving my sanity that it’s already started erasing the memories. I’d better write them down quickly...

The problem with today wasn’t just the long distance; I’ve done long days before, and they’ve been fine. The problem was the walk itself, which spectacularly failed to fire my imagination. I left Abbots Bromley under perfect blue skies with a chilly wind blowing at my back that prevented the heat of the sun from wearing me down, but even in these perfect walking conditions the utter banality of the Staffordshire Way ground me down.

I really wanted to like the Staffordshire Way and I really wanted to like walking through Staffordshire. It’s true that yesterday I enjoyed myself, but that was mainly because of the happy nostalgia of walking through Cannock Chase, Shugborough Hall and Abbots Bromley. The previous day, though, I got pretty bored of walking through farmland, and today the Staffs Way did nothing else, yet again. There’s a lot to be said for creating a walking trail that goes from one end of your county to the other, but surely it’s sensible to check whether it’s actually worth walking first?

For hours the farm fields relentlessly plodded on; the long grass slowed me down and the detours round the edges of yet more acres of barley started gnawing at my stamina. An hour, two hours, three hours... and still it was nothing but fields, sheep, cows, farms and bloody stiles. I promised myself that the town of Uttoxeter would be a pleasant break from all this banality, but when the time came the Staffs Way avoided the town centre completely, instead opting to pass through the most amazingly dull red-brick suburbia I’ve seen in a long time. And after suburbia? Well bugger me, it was time to get stuck into another endless conveyor belt of fields, sheep, cows, farms and bloody stiles.

At least there was one exciting interlude in all this mediocrity. When I came to cross the A50 Uttoxeter bypass, I got utterly confused. I won’t say ‘lost’, because I knew exactly where I was all the time, but I couldn’t for the life of me work out how to get across the A50’s hurtling dual carriageway. The way-markers pointed east along the A-road, but following them took me miles from the crossing point on my map; barriers prevented me from jumping across the carriageway, though it would have been a dangerous manoeuvre anyway; and when I snuck under the road along the River Dove, heading for an old bridge that I knew was on the route, I got totally lost in the undergrowth and couldn’t move for brambles. I was stumped.

After half an hour of wandering down the carriageway, hacking through the brambles and wondering what the hell the way-markers were talking about, I realised the only thing for it was to go under the A-road, go back onto the carriageway, jump the barrier and smash my way through the undergrowth to the old bridge. Amazingly this worked, though I still have no idea which route I was supposed to take. Frankly, after half an hour of wandering around next to the mechanical chaos of the A50, I’d have smashed through anything.

-oOo-

After Uttoxeter the Staffs Way ducks into Derbyshire for a time. I hoped that this would signal a change of scenery and perhaps a break from the monotony of farmland, because for a few miles the Way runs along the edge of the River Dove’s floodplain. Given my happy experience with the River Severn, I had high hopes.

But high hopes are there to be dashed, and until Rocester (which excitingly rhymes with ‘toaster’) the path trudges along old tracks and through fields, and does little more than link a bunch of farms in the by-now-familiar manner. One farm, Eaton Hall, broke the monotony by hosting a clay pigeon shoot, which left me to enjoy the peace of the River Dove with the regular crack-crack! of shotguns going off nine to the dozen; by the time I reached Rocester, some five or six miles on, I was beginning to have vivid fantasies involving me, the designers of the Staffs Way and a few shotguns of my own.

Luckily I said goodbye to the Staffs Way in Rocester and instead leapt onto the Limestone Way, which I hoped might take in the odd view or pass the odd interesting sight. Initially, though, all the Limestone Way did was take me past more fields, sheep, cows, farms and bloody stiles, but this time on slopes. I couldn’t have been more irritable; not only was I still bored out of my skull, but I was having to work hard to get there.

It didn’t help that I got lost, this time properly. The Limestone Way is unloved by way-markers and for long stretches there are no handy hints to point the walker in the right direction; this is clearly not a walk to be done without a map. The Staffs Way might be boring, but at least the way-markers are clear, from the new yellow Staffordshire Knot markers to the older wooden signposts that bravely point out the route despite the obvious onset of wood rot. The Limestone Way leaves a lot more to the imagination, and for me that means straying from the path.

I wouldn’t have minded, but I managed to go wrong in the worst possible way. I was only out by a hundred metres or so, but when I looked at the map I knew I shouldn’t be walking bang into the middle of a farmyard. ‘Ah well,’ I thought, ‘this is a farmyard, so there must be a way out to that road there, and if I can get onto that, then it’s an easy hop back to the Limestone Way.’

Unfortunately I managed to pick the only farm on the planet that farms shit. It looked so easy, crossing the farmyard, but what I’d thought was a healthy dose of good old farmers’ mud turned out to be cow shit, and it stretched across the entire yard, all the way to the gate. I’ve never walked so carefully in my life; it was like an ice rink covered in an inch of liquid dung, it smelled like concentrated evil, and my boots decided to pick this moment to lose all grip on the situation.

How I managed to remain upright is anyone’s guess, but after the kind of performance that would earn at least 5.8, 5.9, 5.8, 6.0, 5.9, 5.9, 6.0, 5.8, I slid into the gate at the other end, jumped over it and ran for solid ground. After that, the fields didn’t seem quite so awful...

-oOo-

In the few miles preceding my stellar performance in the shit rink, the landscape gradually changed. Sure, there were still plenty of fields, sheep, cows, farms and bloody stiles, but it’s around here that the flat, tedious farmland of Staffordshire starts turning grittier and more rugged. The reason is simple; just round the corner is the Peak District National Park.

The change hit me quite suddenly after a swift crossing of the A52, just a mile short of the border of the National Park. Minutes earlier I’d been slogging through grassy fields, watching the farmers harvest the grass into black silage bags, but from the A52 I took a single-track lane over Marten Hill, and after a short stroll round a corner, there, spread out ahead, was the glorious sight of Dovedale.

This, at last, was the point of all that bloody hacking through the tedium. Grassy slopes soared up at impossible angles, with the red buildings of Ashbourne behind and the promise of interesting walking ahead. Slowly the tiny village of Ilam appeared over the hill, nestling at the foot of the knifepoint of Bunster Point, and my mouth started watering. Air Cottage, my B&B for the night, was a mile and a half beyond Ilam at the top of a steep climb to the very top of Dovedale, and to prepare for the uphill struggle I promised myself a pint of iced water and a pint of real ale, in that order, and in the first pub I came across in Ilam; pints like that are earned and they taste that much better for it.

Ilam is a picture-perfect village. Beautiful cottages with stunning gardens line the main road, and up the lane the primary school sits next to a wonderful black-and-white Elizabethan house that takes the breath away. On the right is Ilam Hall, part of which is home to a Youth Hostel that gets irritatingly full with school groups at this time of year (as I found out when I tried to book a bed there), and when you add in the lovely bridge that spans the river into town and the stone-carved memorial that greets you on arrival, you’ve got the most amazing location for a classic country pub.

I loved Ilam, right up to the point when I realised that this picture-postcard village doesn’t actually have a pub. I was so flabbergasted that I stopped someone and asked them what had happened to the pub, but they couldn’t help. Stunned, I realised I was going to have to climb the 150m up to Air Cottage without the aid of Timothy Taylor, Mr Marston, Betty Stoggs or any of the other good folk who’ve been entertaining me on this walk.

But I made it, the B&B was delightful, and the lady running it gave me a lift down to the Watts Russell Arms in Hopedale for a huge steak and a couple of gorgeous pints of Landlord. And not only did I meet some lovely people in the pub and stuff down a huge steak, I also discovered an amazing fact.

‘Pint of Landlord please,’ I asked the landlord.

‘Certainly,’ he said.

‘Lovely,’ I said as he pulled on the hand pump. ‘I’m really in the mood for a pint of proper beer.’

‘Well, it’s got the ultimate accolade now, has Landlord,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘What’s that?’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Apparently it’s Madonna’s favourite beer.’

Which was the perfect excuse for me to drink a good couple of pints, just to make sure the Queen of Pop was right.

She was.

Air Cottage to Waterloo Inn

12 June 2003

It’s amazing how quickly things change in England. Yesterday I couldn’t believe how boring the walking was, but today’s walk started out with some incredible views over Dovedale, continued into one of the most wonderfully English river scenes you can imagine, and managed to stay beautiful right up to the end. My feet might have ached like hell from yesterday’s long hike and my blisters might have been their usual irritating selves, but when the countryside is this good you quickly forget the pain; at last, the walking is getting more rewarding.

It’s getting harder though. Air Cottage is in an incredible location, right on the very top of Dovedale with breathtaking views down into the valley, and yesterday’s climb was long and hard. Dovedale is a long, steep-sided valley that the River Dove has carved into the limestone plateau of the Peak District, and last night I spent a pleasant hour sitting outside the cottage, watching the sun dip slowly behind me as Dovedale gradually filled up with shadows. This morning the same scene played out in reverse, and as I pulled back my curtains at 7am to see the grassy slopes of the dale lit up by the sun in a cloudless blue sky, I could see exactly why this part of the world is a National Park. I couldn’t wait to get going.

The trail down the side of the dale to the river was steep and slippery, but if anything the view from inside the dale is more impressive than from above. At this time in the morning Dovedale is all but deserted and the path that winds along the eastern bank of the river is peaceful. It’s a world away from the tourist trap it becomes in the summer, for Dovedale has been understandably tamed by this high quality path, and quite right too, as it’s a stunning place to walk through and deserves to be enjoyed by everyone. The sides of the valley start off almost sheer at the southern end of the dale, and as I walked north I couldn’t help staring up at the cliffs and getting totally disorientated by the height; it was a good job it was deserted or I’d have been bumping into people left, right and centre.

The odd walker aside, my only companions along the track were the surprisingly tame sheep, who ignored me in a most un-sheep-like manner, and the ducks, who squabbled and quacked on the banks like naughty schoolchildren. Apart from a short road section through the hamlet of Milldale, the track sticks to the river all the way to the northern end of the dale, where it bursts out into rolling countryside and crowds of schoolchildren and ramblers heading into the dale for the day. I was lucky enough to experience Dovedale without the distractions of the crowds; I can’t recommend that experience enough.

-oOo-

The walk along Dovedale is a classic and it’s no surprise to find that Hartington, the small village at the northern end of the dale, is sensibly cashing in on the resulting tourist trade. The tea rooms and shops selling potted plants are squarely aimed at the mature tourists who pack the coaches that block up the village centre, and it was pleasant for a change not to be the only person hobbling and using walking sticks.

What is less pleasant is the way the local personalities seem to have switched off their charm. Back in Staffordshire I was amazed by just how friendly complete strangers were, and everyone from farmers to pub drinkers reacted to my inane smiles with smiles of their own. Hartington, though, freaked me out, because people seemed not only to ignore my smiles, but in doing so they managed to make me feel utterly unwelcome. I tried smiling at the old people who shuffled around town and they looked right through me; I smiled at the woman selling potted plants next to the grocers and she met my gaze but steadfastly refused to smile back; I even smiled at people as they rushed through town in their cars, but I didn’t receive one smile back.

Perhaps it’s a different way of doing things – who knows, it’s possible that up here a grimace means the same as a smile down south – but instead of feeling as if I was sharing the companionship of God’s own country, I felt dismissed. I sincerely hope that Hartington is a one-off; I suppose the hordes of tourists who turn up in the summer may have hardened up the locals to some extent, but if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s people who don’t return a smile. Not only does it make me feel bad for smiling in the first place, but it makes people look miserable, rude and downright ugly.

It won’t stop me smiling, but it might stop me coming back.

-oOo-

Permit me to quote something from my guidebook, Andrew McCloy’s The Land’s End to John o’Groats Walk. Just after talking about Hartington he says:

It’s worth taking a five-minute detour down the Youlgreave turning to visit Arbor Low, a Neolithic stone circle possibly as much as 5000 years old. Sometimes referred to as ‘the Stonehenge of the North’, the huge, surrounding grassy banks enclose around 50 fallen stones, but the original purpose of the enigmatic hilltop site remains a mystery.

Sounds good, eh? Who wouldn’t take a five-minute detour to take in the Stonehenge of the North, especially on a walk this long? And so I turned off the Youlgreave road and prepared to be taken back in time.

Arbor Low is one of those fascinating places where so little is known that you’re forced to use your imagination. Building work started between 3000 and 2500 BC, and although we don’t know what it was used for, we do know it was very important to the local people and that it was constructed using only the simplest of tools, such as antler picks or animals’ shoulder blades. Back in Neolithic times a circular earth mound surrounded a stone circle of upright stones made from locally quarried limestone, so the strange rituals that were performed inside the circle would have been invisible from the outside. The chances are that Arbor Low was used as a meeting point for celebrations and for gatherings of tribespeople, but the great thing is that nobody really knows. All we’re left with is the evidence in stone: the Stonehenge of the North.

I love places like this, and even though on the map it looked a bit further than five minutes from the road, I was thoroughly looking forward to seeing the Stonehenge I’d read so much about. Five minutes down the road, I was excited. Ten minutes down the road I was still excited, but wondering what had happened to the five-minute detour. After 15 minutes I wondered if I’d missed the turning, but the map confirmed I still had a while to go. 20 minutes later I arrived at the farm whose land you need to cross to access the henge, and I dutifully put the 50p fee into the honesty box. And finally, after enjoying 25 minutes of this ‘five-minute detour’, I heaved my pack over the earth mound and there was Arbor Low, laid out in front of me.

Unfortunately, Arbor Low turned out to be rather less impressive than the name ‘Stonehenge of the North’ might imply. Stonehenge is an incredible place that palpably resounds with druidic mystery and ancient history, but Arbor Low is, to the untrained eye, little more than a few lumps of worn limestone in a circle. OK, it’s still a genuine Neolithic site that will thrill ancient historians and those for whom stone circles are a lifestyle choice, but for the layman popping in for a quick visit, I’m not sure it’s worth a 25-minute detour, a 50p fee and a 25-minute return journey... which is a pity, really.

Meanwhile, I have learned an important lesson. Andrew McCloy’s book might be invaluable, but like most guidebooks it’s not to be trusted blindly. I’ve now found one serious measurement error and one serious time dilation, and although this might not sound like a big deal, it’s absolutely essential to get this sort of thing right when you’re writing for walkers. I doubt the author genuinely has seven-league boots and a time machine, but sometimes it feels like he has.

-oOo-

From Arbor Low I hit the trail through the pretty village of Monyash (where I didn’t stop at the Old Smithy Café, mainly because the book said to make sure I did) and joined the Limestone Way all the way to the Waterloo Inn, my stop for the night; yet again I tried to book into the hostel recommended in the route and yet again it was full of schoolchildren, but the Waterloo Inn was a handy alternative.

By the latter stages of the day my feet were killing me. Last night my heel blisters managed to pop and dry out, and today I gained two new blisters inside the dead skin of the previous ones; such is life when you have feet like mine. On top of this my Achilles tendons have started aching like hell, no doubt suffering from yesterday’s long haul, and despite the constantly engaging views over the White Peak (named after the local limestone), by the end of the day I couldn’t wait for a bath, a pint and a good feed.

Sometimes – in fact, a lot of the time – I look forward to the end of the day more than the day itself. Dovedale might have been delightful, but there’s little to beat looking back on the day from the comfort of a long, hot bath. It’s possible that this is the reason I walk in the first place; recently I’ve been thinking more and more about reaching John o’Groats and throwing my walking boots into the bin, and as for that Scottish pint at the end of the trail... ooh, don’t get me started.

Waterloo Inn to Edale

13 June 2003

Today was a pretty easy day’s walk, but it’s definitely the calm before the storm because tomorrow I start the Pennine Way, which I’m planning to follow all the way to Scotland.

The Pennine Way, Britain’s first official long-distance trail, is regarded by many people as the finest in the country. It opened way back in 1965, not long after the Peak National Park – also the first of its kind – opened in 1951. It was this sense of history and general approval among walkers that persuaded me to spend two weeks in 2000 walking the northern half of the Way.

I hated it. I have never been so miserable in my life and I didn’t even manage to complete the section I’d planned; instead of walking from Horton-in-Ribblesdale in Yorkshire to the end of the Way just over the Scottish border in Kirk Yetholm, I gave up at Hadrian’s Wall, took a bus to Newcastle and gladly paid £75 to get back to London as quickly as possible. Ever since then I’ve had a major hang-up about the Pennine Way and the prospect of starting it tomorrow fills me with utter dread.

But before I get it all off my chest, let me describe today’s walk.

-oOo-

Today I got up later than usual, strolled gently and took my time, and it helped. I needed help because this morning I woke up in a totally miserable state, the loneliness of the long-distance walker hitting me in the pit of the stomach. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, being alone on this long haul gets to me, and this morning I felt utterly down.

Perhaps it was the effect of the Waterloo Inn’s isolation. It sits on the busy A6, a mile west of Taddington, and on a Thursday night it’s not exactly the busiest of places. The other drinkers in the pub last night were strangely introverted, huddling together in their couples and groups and hardly whispering a word to each other, while a solitary tape played around and around, gently pumping irritating boy bands and soft ballads through the pub’s sound system. I now know the words to a Ronan Keating song by heart and I’m not happy about it; by the time I went to bed I was itching to get out of there.

So although I felt unloved and alone as the Limestone Way wound north from the Waterloo, I knew it would pass as a temporary trick of the brain, and sure enough the hours chipped away at my sulk and instead turned it into dread. For looming ahead of me is the area they call the Dark Peak, and it’s an accurate name, as the limestone of the White Peak changes into the darker gritstone of the Pennine Way.

First, though, the Limestone Way dips down to Castleton, and what a lovely place it is. The path cuts through a steep-sided valley called Cave Dale with the remains of the Norman-built Peveril Castle looming over the entrance, and after passing through a notch in the limestone, the centre of Castleton suddenly opens up before you. It’s a bit of a shock after the wilderness of the dale.

This shock mainly comes from the large number of tourists who clutter up the village. As I rounded the corner, the noisy babble of schoolchildren hit me full in the face, and before I could adjust two pug-faced kids accosted me and politely asked if I could help them with a survey.

‘Um, a survey?’ I said, totally wrong-footed. ‘Uh, yeah, OK.’

‘Cool,’ said the kid with the close-cropped blonde hair as he stared down at his clipboard. ‘Er, which place and which country do you come from?’

‘London,’ I said as the other boy, a lanky, mop-haired scruff, scribbled down my answers.

‘Why have you come to Castleton today?’ asked the blonde.

‘I’m walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats and it’s on the way,’ I said.

‘Cor,’ said the second boy, and scribbled ‘Very Big Walk’ in his pad.

‘So how did you get here today?’ asked the blonde.

‘Um, I walked,’ I said. ‘From Land’s End.’

‘Cor,’ said the second boy again, and this time he wrote down ‘Walked from Land’s End!!!!’

‘And what are you going to do while you’re here?’ asked the blonde.

‘I’m after a sandwich and a drink,’ I said. ‘Oh, and I’m going to look for maps too.’

‘And what do you think of Castleton?’ said the first boy.

‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to see yet, but judging by the number of school kids kicking around with clipboards, I think it’s going to be quite a fun place.’

‘Thank you very much for your time and for helping us with our questionnaire,’ said the boy in the stuttered tones of someone who’s been told to read out exactly what’s on the card, and with that I was free to explore the village.

Even with the millions of kids and groups of other walkers, I liked the place. All of a sudden I didn’t feel so lonely and that was a big relief, even if most of my newfound friends were 12.

-oOo-

From Castleton it’s not far to Edale, but there’s a big hurdle to cross in the form of Mam Tor, a long, high ridge that separates Castleton from the Vale of Edale. This is an area of amazing limestone caves – Blue John, Speedwell, Treak Cliff and Peak Caverns are all within spitting distance of the path – and the landscape is pretty impressive on the surface too. As a taster of things to come, the steady uphill climb to Hollins Cross over into Edale is a good reminder that from here things get harder and the views get ever more impressive.

From the viewpoint at Hollins Cross the Vale of Edale is laid out like a planner’s model and it’s the work of a few minutes with a map to pick out the start of the Pennine Way at the Old Nag’s Head in Edale. The moment I tracked down Edale I felt the familiar tingling of utter terror creeping up my back; the Pennine Way and me don’t get on, and here’s why.

When I tried the Pennine Way back in 2000, I got a lot of things wrong. I set off in September and the weather was completely miserable, especially on the longest and toughest day of the whole walk, over the top of Cross Fell from Dufton to Alston; when I tackled that section the visibility was no more than 20m for the entire day, and it’s a testament to the quality of Ordnance Survey maps that I managed to get to Alston in one piece. My boots turned out to be almost completely un-waterproof and spent most of the ten or so days on the Way soaking up water like two heavy sponges. I got horrendous blisters, one covering my entire heel, which my wet socks only irritated further. I stupidly decided to take far too much stuff but forgot to pack a waterproof cover for my backpack, so not only was my pack too heavy to start with, it got heavier in the rain, of which there was an awful lot. And to cap it all, I didn’t build one single rest day into my itinerary and reckoned I could make it from Horton to Kirk Yetholm in two weeks without any prior training except for a few days in the gym.

Quite clearly I was mad, and I’ve learned from my mistakes. The weather can turn nasty in June and July (though it’s far less likely than in the latter half of September) and on this walk I’ve got Gore-Tex on my side; my boots this time round are far superior and I’m packing gaiters; I’m a blister expert and can at least dress them properly, even if they still make my life hell; my pack is a lot lighter and the contents are all essential; and finally I’m taking plenty of rest days en route. Yes, this time I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be, but there are still two flies in the ointment.

The first is that I’m seriously wondering whether my boots are going to last the distance. I bought them new for this trip and apart from about 50 miles in London, when I broke them in, they’ve done nothing else apart from this walk. But they’re already in a sorry state; I first noticed the tread wearing away in Cornwall – Cornwall! – and now, after nearly 440 miles, the tread is all but gone on the front of both soles. My gaiters, which slot cleverly into a gap in the tread, are starting to wear out because the gap is no longer there, and given the amount of wear that’s already happened and the fact that I’m only about 40% of the way through this walk, I’m convinced that the soles won’t make it to John o’Groats.

As if this isn’t enough, when I arrived in Edale after a relatively relaxing 11-mile walk, I noticed that the second eyelet from the front of my right boot has popped out of its hole. As with most modern boots the lace doesn’t pass through a hole, but feeds instead through a metal cleat that’s attached to the boot; it’s this cleat that’s pulled off and as the metal fitting itself has snapped, it can’t be repaired without proper equipment. In the short term it doesn’t affect things too much – I’ve just threaded the lace through the next eyelet along – but with the tread disappearing and the cleats popping off, I’m starting to wonder what’s going on.

But the biggest fly in the Pennine Way’s ointment is a feeling that I can’t shake no matter how hard I try. If you ignore my bad preparation from last time and the terrible weather, and you cast aside all concerns about equipment and rest days, then you end up with the simple fact that I genuinely didn’t like it up North. I felt like a fish out of water, I didn’t like the landscape, I felt horrified and depressed by the bog and the bleakness of it all, and I came away from the walk with one simple feeling. I felt that, basically, it was grim up North, and however stupid and ill-informed that sounds, deep down I still feel it. I’m hoping that this walk will help dispel that feeling; after all, it’s a summer jaunt along the Pennine Way, and a jaunt that’s part of a longer walk through the rest of the country, so it should make me feel differently. But there’s a definite challenge there, because those two weeks in 2000 affected me so badly I’ve developed what can only be described as a phobia about the North, an irrational fear that’s not based on anything logical, but which is most definitely still there.

I don’t want to have a phobia about the North. I want to like the place and I don’t want to associate places like the Pennines and Hadrian’s Wall with miserable landscape, endless bog, continuous drizzle, unwelcoming villages and my failure to complete the Way. When I ran back to London in 2000, the official reason was that I had injured my foot on the steep descents and could no longer walk (scarily, this was the same injury that flared up in South Zeal a month ago and which made me reconsider the weight of my pack). But even though my physical injury meant I had no choice but to give up and go home, I’m not sure I would have finished the walk anyway. In my mind I already wanted to come home, because I was dismally unhappy and hated the Pennine Way.

So tomorrow isn’t about the start of the best-known long-distance track in Britain and it isn’t about Land’s End to John o’Groats. It’s about exorcising my demons, conquering a phobia by confronting it, and seeing if I can develop a happier relationship with the North. And on another level, a level that will no doubt help me get up those hills and through the difficult days ahead, it’s about revenge. The bastard might have won the first battle, but I’m not only going to beat it second time round, I’m going to do it as part of a far greater walk. If that doesn’t humiliate the Pennine Way into submission, I might as well throw away my boots.

That is, if they don’t throw themselves away first.

Northern England

Edale to Crowden

14 June 2003

It can’t actually be the case, but the Pennine Way seems to have a profound effect on the local time field. After this long on the road I’d normally think of 17.5 miles as a pleasant day’s walk, but the first day of the Pennine Way is no jaunt. It’s a hell of a slog.

Luckily I’m pretty fit after about 450 miles of walking, so for me this was a tough walk over tough terrain but I survived surprisingly intact. I was surprised to have managed the walk without too much ill effect; the weather might have been perfect for walking and I might have been a lot more worried about this day’s walk than would normally be the case, but I thought the legendary first day of the Pennine Way would damage me more than it has. To quote the official Pennine Way route guide, ‘Most people who fail to complete the Pennine Way give up after the first or second day.’ I can see why, but happily I’m still here, slogging away.

-oOo-

A lot of the credit for my survival today must go to David, who joined me for today’s walk. I met David in Edale Youth Hostel last night while waiting for my friend Angus and his girlfriend Kate to drive over from Sheffield; Angus had promised to take me out for pie and ale when I reached Edale, and true to his word he did exactly that, treating me to a huge meal and a few pints of Tetley’s in the lovely Castle pub in Castleton. It was bliss, and when I returned to the hostel, David and I decided to team up for the first two days of the Pennine Way, after which I would be taking a rest day and he’d be moving on.

Perhaps it was the effect of the Tetley’s, but I spent an annoyingly restless night worrying about the walk. The Pennine Way’s first day over the bleak moorland of Kinder Scout is famous for being a harrowing experience, and all night my phobia sat there, taunting me with horror stories. I saw myself going up to my waist in bog, I cowered from the battering rain as it drove through my Gore-Tex, and I felt my knees give way and my right foot crack on the long descent. And I hadn’t even started walking, which of course was half the problem; phobias only go away when you confront them.

So this morning David and I struck out for the start of the Pennine Way, a mile and a half beyond the hostel, and it was soon apparent that our teaming up would be mutually beneficial. David, who hails from Plymouth, has been dreaming of doing the Pennine Way for years and finally he’s managed to get the time off to tackle it; however, this is the first really long walk he’s tried and he’s set himself a tough challenge. His plan is to walk the whole Way in two weeks with no rest days, a schedule that I wouldn’t like to take on, even now. It’s possible, but it’s difficult.

So our two-man team boils down to me, with the Land’s End to Edale walk under my belt and at least some experience of the northern stretches of the Pennine Way, and David, the Pennine Way rookie with the big challenge ahead. The benefits are clear: David gets someone to help ease him into the daily routine of long-distance walking and I get company while I tackle my phobia.

In the event, the first day turned out to be a lot easier than either of us had imagined. The horror stories you hear about the Pennine Way usually stem from a combination of bad weather and rough walking terrain, but not only did we have perfect walking weather all day – cloudy but with no threat of rain, with a gentle, cooling breeze blowing across the moors – we also discovered the delights of stone slabs. The Pennine Way might still have a fearsome reputation but it’s most definitely had its teeth pulled.

The stone slabs come from the need to conserve the peat bogs through which the Pennine Way runs. Over the years thousands and thousands of walkers’ boots have churned up the delicate peat and moss environment, turning the first day of the Pennine Way into one long river of thick, oozing brown muck with the consistency of lumpy gravy, and it’s these nightmare bogs that have provided Pennine walkers over the years with legendary stories and, in a lot of cases, a strong incentive to go home early. In the last few years, though, the National Park authority has realised the need to conserve the peat bog environment, and although you still spend most of the first day wandering across bog, you need never actually step on it; instead, the trail follows a long and very solid pavement of stone slabs that takes you across the moors and makes the walk a doddle.

Some purists argue that this has tamed the wilderness and that the Pennine Way just isn’t what it used to be. This is true, but I for one don’t really want to go on a walk where I’m having to hop from grassy clod to grassy clod, praying that I don’t pick the wrong one and go up to my knees in molasses. I’ve done walks like that and the novelty wears off after a while – or, more accurately, after you lose sight of your knees for the first time – and I think they’re awful. I much prefer the new-look Pennine Way, and if people hanker after the old one then I suggest they carry a fridge across the Sahara, swim backwards across the Atlantic, walk from New York to Los Angeles on their hands, or do something else as masochistic as crossing the Peak District’s peat bogs without the aid of stone slabs.

-oOo-

But I’ve got ahead of myself here, because the bogs don’t kick in until after a considerable amount of effort, and if there’s one thing the Pennine Way still requires, it’s effort. The first few miles are delightful as you skirt along the Vale of Edale to the Old Nag’s Head pub, which is where the Pennine Way officially starts. From there the going is easy for a while, and as we strode through fields and hopped over stiles, I could feel both our spirits picking up; later I asked David how he’d felt before getting a few miles of pleasant weather under his belt, and he said, ‘Really apprehensive.’ As the miles ticked away, I could see his confidence building; just like me, he was confronting his fears.

The first real challenge of the day comes in the form of Jacob’s Ladder, a steep climb from the Vale of Edale up to the bleak moorland of Kinder Scout that looms to the north. Jacob’s Ladder is effectively a stone staircase and although the ascent is hard going, I didn’t find it frustrating or difficult; with climbs like this – 150m straight up a steep stony path – you just put your head down and concentrate, and it’s amazing how quickly you get noticeably high up. Edale soon lay below us, the sun almost poked through the clouds and our confidence grew further.

You still have to be careful, though. At the top of the ascent, near a rocky outcrop called Swine’s Back, we bumped into a guy called Trevor, whom I’d briefly met the day before on the walk into Castleton. Weighed down by a heavy pack full of camping gear, Trevor told us how he’d got up at 4.30am, hit the trail at 6am, and had then spent two hours wandering along the top of Kinder Scout in totally the wrong direction. When we met him he’d just found the Way again and he looked pretty shattered; later we’d meet a couple of walkers who’d also enjoyed an unintentional two-hour diversion on their first day, and all this happened in excellent visibility. Even with stone staircases and slab pavements everywhere, the Pennine Way isn’t necessarily an easy walk to follow.

On a day like today, though, there are loads of walkers on the hills, and once you’re on the more obvious sections of the walk, you don’t need to consult the map: you just follow the queue. The meandering path along the western edge of Kinder Scout is a popular place for day walkers, and with beautiful views west over Greater Manchester, it’s easy to see why. In bad weather Kinder is utterly dismal – apparently the winds blow up the V-shaped streambeds that run off the moor and drive the rain right into the faces of any walkers unlucky enough to be out and about – but today it was dreamy. But then, after a steep descent and a right-hand turn, you hit the bog.

As I’ve already mentioned, the bog has been tamed by stone slabs, but where the challenge used to be getting through the quagmire in one piece, these days the challenge is putting up with the endless plod-plod-plod of crossing a bleak, featureless and downright depressing moor on a winding and monotonous pavement. Boggy moors have their legions of fans, but I’m not one of them; the only bit I enjoyed was looking at the oozing slime on either side of the pavement, safe in the knowledge that these days you don’t have to go anywhere near it.

-oOo-

After somewhere between one and two hours of following the pavement – I forget the exact time, it was so boring – we reached the A57 at Snake Pass and that’s when things started to get interesting. Walking over the top of peat bogs is one thing, but walking right through the middle of them is another experience altogether.

From the A57 the path strikes out to the northeast and up the cheerily named Devil’s Dike. This ‘grough’ (a channel that cuts through the peat) starts out as a relatively normal looking riverbed, but after a mile or so it enters the bog around Bleaklow and this is where the really scary part of the first day kicks in. There are no stone slabs here, as you’re following rocky riverbeds through the moor, but there are precious few markers either and it’s stunningly easy to get horribly lost. The groughs criss-cross the bog like a net, creating steep islands of peat called ‘hags’, and it’s into this claustrophobic collection of oversized molehills that the Pennine Way dives headfirst.

It’s interesting, as you can clearly see the different layers that make up the peat; the top layer, for example, is darker than the rest, due to the increase in pollution over the last 200 years, and the bottom layers were first laid down at the end of the Ice Age, which is quite a thought. Peat bogs consist of layers of vegetation that don’t get broken down by bacteria (as bacteria can’t work properly in waterlogged conditions) and these layers compress to form peat, forming at the rate of one inch every 100 years.

But even this intriguing botanical story can’t shake off the eerie feeling of walking through the groughs and hags, and even in perfect weather this place is unnerving. In rain or mist it would be as close to hell as you’d ever want to be, and coming out onto the flat summit of the accurately named Bleaklow is a relief, until you realise that Bleaklow itself is yet another desolate hole that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. It’s flat, featureless and grey, and apart from the odd straggly sheep squatting forlornly among the cotton grass, it’s thoroughly lonely. Indeed, Bleaklow is the largest area in England not to be crossed by a road, and it feels like it. The happy lanes of Cornwall and the pleasant riverside pubs of the Severn are a long, long way from the Peak District moors, and I know where I’d rather walk.

-oOo-

At least Bleaklow signals the end of the last ascent of the day, and from there to the Youth Hostel at Crowden it’s downhill all the way. By this stage David was starting to flag, which is hardly surprising when you look at the length of the first day’s walk; it might only be 17.5 miles from Edale Youth Hostel to Crowden but it’s a bloody long 17.5 miles through nasty terrain, and as the first day of a very long walk, it’s not kind. Full marks to my companion, though; he might have been getting tired and his blisters might have been hurting like hell, but he kept smiling as we stomped down the edge of Torside Clough.

Pausing only to say hello to a walker who was on his way from John o’Groats to Land’s End – an older guy who was as hard as nails and in quite another league to me – we finally made it to the Youth Hostel after a long and boring traipse round the banks of Torside Reservoir. During the descent David had been showing all the classic signs of fatigue, and at one point he slipped on the rocky surface and landed on his elbow, which promptly split open and started dripping dark red blood. Luckily he couldn’t see the wound – you can’t get a good look at the corners of your elbows, no matter how hard you twist and turn – but I could, and I insisted he at least let me wash it out with water.

When you can see gristle inside a cut, you know it’s deep, and I couldn’t help feeling for the guy. The way his shoulders drooped, the way his smile faded and became forced, the way he wanted to keep on going because resting would only make it harder to get going again... I looked at him and I saw myself struggling along the bloody Pennine Way in 2000 or hobbling through the pain barrier in southwest England a few short weeks ago. I’ve never stood by before and watched someone else go through the pain that I go through while walking long distances; normally I’m suffering too much myself to be observant, but it’s a sorry sight. Unfortunately it’s all part of the process; after the long, first day of the Pennine Way I was still springing along, smiling and marvelling at my own blisters, who’d chosen this opportunity to pipe down and keep strangely quiet. I was on top of the world, but looking at David I could see why; I’ve been going through the pain barrier for weeks and as a result I’m as fit as a fiddle.

It’s been a bloody long road getting there, mind.

-oOo-

The Youth Hostel at Crowden, while being a great little hostel with a good line in evening meals, is a long way from the pub, and after a huge hike over Kinder Scout and Bleaklow, the last thing you want is a four-mile walk to the nearest pint. But as David and I tucked into our evening meal and relived the rigours of the day with Jan and Pejo, a Dutch couple who had also started the Way that day, the peace was shattered by a group of people who burst into the hostel, headed straight for David and hugged him like a returning war hero.

It turned out that David’s brother’s wife’s daughters – got that? – live in Sheffield, so they’d driven over to the hostel with their husbands to take Step-Uncle David out for a drink; as luck would have it, they came in a people carrier with eight seats, a perfect fit for two couples and four thirsty hikers. It also turned that it was Jan’s 50th birthday, which practically made it our duty to drive down to the Old Bull at Tintwhistle and drink it dry of Landlord.

Perhaps that’s the appeal of the first day of the Pennine Way, because it doesn’t half make beer taste good...

Crowden to Standedge

15 June 2003

The official Pennine Way guidebook says this is an ‘easier and shorter day’ than the journey from Edale to Crowden, but it doesn’t take blisters into consideration. Surprisingly, for once I’m not talking about me, for it took poor David quite a while in the morning to dress his battered feet and bandage up the nasty gash in his elbow. I really felt for him; getting sore spots towards the end of the first day is bad enough, but walking on the blisters for days two, three and four is nothing short of pure, stretched out agony.

Because of this I didn’t try to walk at David’s pace today, or I’d have done myself damage. One of the golden rules of walking is to walk at the pace that suits you; if you go too fast then you’ll tire yourself out, but the same is true if you have to slow yourself down to someone else’s pace, as you’re no longer firing along at your optimum speed. After this much time on the road I’ve found my rhythm, and yesterday David kept up fine; today, though, he sensibly stuck to a slower speed and I forged ahead, waiting for him every quarter of an hour to check he was doing OK. Tomorrow he sets off on his own while I take a rest day, and I figured it would be good if he found his own pace without trying to rush along with the energy of a Land’s End to John o’Groats nutter.

-oOo-

If anything, today’s walk has a worse reputation than the hoof over Kinder Scout. The main obstacle of the day is Black Hill, and back in the days when men were men and only pansies drank lager, Black Hill was a terrible place. These days, thanks once more to the miracle of stone slabs, it’s another easy but long pavement walk over the most desolate and unwelcoming landscape you could possibly dream up.

Yet again I find myself trying to understand the appeal of boggy moors. A lot of people really love them; they absolutely adore the wilderness, the peaty streams that cascade down the hills, the grey-greens of the hills and the ruggedness of the whole thing. I appreciate these things, but even after two days of walking on the moors in the most perfectly sunny weather, they still leave me cold; given the choice between a day on the moors and a day pub-hopping along a river, I’d go for the river every time. Perhaps by the end of the Pennines I’ll be a convert, but in the meantime I’m happy enough to trudge through the peat, though I’m not terribly inspired by it.

There’s something fascinating about how awful the place is, though. Black Hill – which we reached via a long, slow ascent along a river and then a long, slow slog along a bog-hopping pavement – is, like Bleaklow, more interesting for what it could be than for what it is. On a sunny day in June the summit is home to a cairn, the pavement of the Pennine Way, crowds of day walkers who come up from the nearby A635, and flat, springy peat that looks and feels like chocolate sponge; but on a rainy October day with the wind lashing across the moor and the rain driving through the mist, Black Hill must be one of the most miserable places on the planet. I can’t imagine what it must have been like before the paving slabs came along; if engineering has a champion, surely it’s here.

Engineering is also evident in the huge television transmitter pole that sits nearby at Holme Moss. At a height of 750 feet, this was the world’s most powerful TV transmitter when it was built in 1951, and it pivots on a hinge at its base so it can sway in the winds that batter the area. It’s a lonely beacon in the midst of all this desolation, and for me all it did was conjure up pictures of cosy couches in front of the telly with the windows firmly shut; next time I’m watching TV with the wind howling in the guttering, I’ll think of Holme Moss and just how glad I am that I’m a long, long away from it all.

-oOo-

At the top of Black Hill I asked one of the other walkers if he knew which county we were in. This isn’t as ignorant a question as it might sound, for the trig point at Black Hill lies on a county border and as usual the Ordnance Survey map is little help when it comes to deciphering which border it actually is. I was pretty sure I’d just left Derbyshire and walked into West Yorkshire, but it turned out that he didn’t have a clue either.

‘Um, aren’t we in Cheshire?’ he said. ‘Or was that Cheshire, and are we now in Greater Manchester?’

‘I thought that was Derbyshire,’ I said, pointing back the way we came. ‘Isn’t this Yorkshire we’re going into?’

‘Search me,’ he said pointing into the bog. ‘I’m just heading that way, that’s all I know.’

This kind of confusion is understandable. Black Hill used to be the highest point in Cheshire, but then the county boundary moved and it became just another hill on the border of Derbyshire and Yorkshire. This sort of thing is happening all over the country; in 1997 the people of Rutland finally managed to get their old county back – albeit in the guise of a unitary authority – after campaigning against its 1974 merger with neighbouring Leicestershire; Bath used to be in Somerset, but now it’s in the Bath and Northeast Somerset unitary authority, which despite the name isn’t actually in Somerset; add in the creation of the West Midlands, Tyneside and Greater Manchester, and the dismissal of Middlesex in the face of Greater London, and it’s little wonder visitors like me don’t know which county we’re in. It’s an odd feeling, knowing where you are to within a few metres and being able to reel off names of local landmarks and villages while not having the foggiest which district you belong to.

Not only is it confusing, but it’s also a little sad that we’re losing our county identities. Today’s destination, Standedge, is a good case in point; Standedge is in Saddleworth, which perches on the historical border between Yorkshire and Lancashire, and until recently Saddleworth was part of the West Riding of Yorkshire, which meant that natives of Saddleworth were eligible to play for Yorkshire County Cricket Club in the days when to get a boundary for Yorkshire you needed to be born within the Yorkshire boundary (these days the club accepts non-Yorkshiremen to keep up with other county sides). The celebrated local man Ammon Wrigley – writer, poet, archaeologist, historian, textile worker, artist, huntsman and, according to the local museum, lover of ale – described Saddleworth as ‘a Lancashire population in a Yorkshire parish’, but these days Saddleworth is part of the unitary authority of Oldham, a far less inspiring identity. I guess if someone as revered as the late Ammon Wrigley is no longer right, I shouldn’t feel too bad about not really knowing where I am.

Then again, I’m a bit scared to ask. There’s only so much you can get away with under the guise of Ignorant Southerner, especially when they find out you’re actually from Staffordshire and really should know better.

-oOo-

After the peat of Black Hill, the Pennine Way takes a breather and plunges downhill to beautiful views over Holmfirth, home to that inexplicably popular TV irritation, Last of the Summer Wine. From here it’s another slog across the A635, where a canny businesswoman sells fried egg sandwiches to hungry walkers from a van on the side of the road, and then the Way dives into reservoir country.

This part of the country is home to a number of man-made lakes that provide water for the large cities on either side of the Pennines. After the monotony of the bleak moorland, the ruffled reflections of these serene ponds make a pleasant change and the walking is easy and almost pretty. There are still long stretches of bog pavement and you wouldn’t catch me up here in the rain, but at least Standedge has a great B&B and a pub within walking distance; we ended the day with a group of us heading over to the Great Western pub, where we drank them dry of Black Sheep Ale, ate them out of home-made fish pies and swapped stories about the second day of the Pennine Way. And while we drank I thought again of Ammon Wrigley, the author of classics like The Wind Among the Heather and Old Lancashire Words and Folk Sayings, for it was he who wrote these immortal words about his favourite beer, Friezland Ale, and they say a lot more about the post-walk pint than I ever could:

Whene’er I drink of Friezland Ale

Drawn from the old brown bottle

I feel as if a summer morn

Was running down my throttle

Aye, I’ll drink to that.

Standedge to Hebden Bridge

17 June 2003

Ye gods, what a boring walk. I’m desperate to say something good about this stretch, but the walk from Standedge to Hebden Bridge really is tedious. If it weren’t part of the Pennine Way I’m sure nobody would bother to hoof the 15 monotonous miles I’ve just had to endure, but a travelogue must report the highs and the lows, so here goes.

Without wasting too much effort on the details, the Pennine Way goes north from Standedge over grey moorland until it crosses the A640 and the A672, both of which were 18th-century turnpike roads where a toll would be charged for traffic, and both of which are now unremarkable tarmac A-roads. After passing a bacon butty van, the Way crosses the M62 – arguably the most interesting part of the whole day – and then plods over more moor, goes down a short section of Roman road, crosses the A58, wanders past the White House pub, and then enters an area that manages to eclipse even the moors in terms of monotony.

I’m talking about the reservoirs that were built to provide water for the Rochdale Canal, which opened back in 1804. The Pennine Way slogs past the western shores of Blackstone, White Holme, Light Hazzles and Warland Reservoirs, and even though I’m writing this on a table outside a lovely pub in Hebden Bridge with a pint of Black Sheep ale on the table and the sun beaming down on the pretty town centre, I still can’t think of a good thing to say about the reservoirs of West Yorkshire. OK, perhaps I should be complimentary about the paths, which were flat and easy to walk along, and I should probably point out that the weather was neither too hot nor too cold... but apart from track quality and weather, I can’t think of anything else to write about. It really is that uninspiring.

I did meet Trevor in the reservoir section, though, and he provided me with some thoughts to chew over during the next part of the walk. Most notably he reminded me that Saddleworth Moor, which David and I had crossed on day two of the Pennine Way, was where Myra Hindley and Ian Brady buried the children they murdered, and some of the bodies have yet to be found; this really helped endear me to the area, particularly as I’m already so fond of bogs and moors. He also told me he’d had a conversation with the man running the bacon butty van on the A627, and apparently the man’s father had opened that van in 1961, before the M62 and the Pennine Way had come along. This wasn’t the interesting bit, even though the mind boggles at the dedication required to run a bacon butty van for 42 years in an area as bleak as Junction 22 of the M62; the interesting bit was that so far this year, the bacon butty man has met 18 Land’s End to John o’Groats walkers, a much larger number than he’s met in any previous year. I didn’t pop in for a lard burger so this count doesn’t include me, and if you add in Barry, who’s taking a different route through the Pennines, that’s at least 20 people walking the End-to-End this year. I’m surprised it’s that many; obviously masochism is catching on.

Anyway, back to the track, about which there is precious little more to say apart from a quick word about the Stoodley Pike monument that sits high up on a ridge between Todmorden and Hebden Bridge. This 125ft-tall stone tower is the kind of monument you’d expect round here; there’s no namby-pamby artistic subtlety in the robust tapered stone tower that points into the sky like an extended middle digit, and given its history, its sturdy design makes sense. The pike was built as a monument to peace after the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815, but in 1854, just as the Russian ambassador was being expelled from London at the start of the Crimean War, it fell down, only to be rebuilt when peace was again restored in 1856. No doubt they worried that another collapse would trigger off another war, hence the no-nonsense construction of the second version.

Even more interesting than the story of the monument are the visible effects of pollution on the tower. The west side of the tower is the light grey colour of the local stone, but the east side is totally black, the stones smothered in a layer of pollution from the mills that pumped out huge amounts of smoke during the industrial revolution; presumably this east-west split is caused by the prevailing wind blowing from the west, thus preventing the soot from settling on that side. The valleys below Stoodley Pike saw the birth of the industrial revolution and here you can still see the effects, caked on this distant monument to peace.

-oOo-

A mile after Stoodley I left the Pennine Way and dropped down into Hebden Bridge, a very pleasant little town that sits in the steep-sided Calder Valley. In the early 20th century this place would have been smothered in the same thick blanket of industrial pollution that blackened Stoodley Pike, but these days the mills no longer weave cotton cloth and the town centre is a delightfully pretty Yorkshire postcard, with tourist-friendly terraced houses perched on the sides of the valley, lots of twee tea shops and boutiques, and a thriving artistic community.

I stumbled across the latter as I stomped down the steep path into Hebden. Just off the footpath I could see a large dome tent, but not a modern day-glo affair, more an ancient, lived-in grotto that bore an uncanny resemblance to the turtle-esque Tuareg tents of the Sahara. Standing by the tent and admiring the garden was a half-naked couple, cuddling and laughing and more than happy to say hello to a wandering walker. Just down the path I dropped into a small copse and there was another couple, gathering wood and sheepishly smiling at me through their long hair and tie-dyed clothes. I’d evidently just walked through a tiny colony of hippies and the theme continued in town; far from being a gritty northern industrial town, Hebden Bridge is a laid-back delight.

This only made my B&B all the more intriguing. I liked the Angeldale Guesthouse, so don’t think I’m complaining about the warm welcome or my delightful room which overlooked Hebden’s fascinating terraces, enabling me to spy on a world where washing is still hung out to dry across the middle of the street. No, the thing that really amazed me was my hosts’ obsession with little yellow notices.

Most B&Bs have the odd sign about the place. The majority of bathrooms have a polite reminder to put the shower curtain inside the shower before turning on the water, some ask ladies to dispose of their hygiene products in the bags provided, and almost all places of a reasonable size have information on the door about what to do in the event of a fire. But the Angeldale was in a class of its own; there were little yellow laminated notices absolutely everywhere, and it was quite unnerving.

Without a doubt the main theme was the guesthouse’s No Smoking policy, which cropped up at every single opportunity. In my room I counted five signs pointing out that I wasn’t allowed to smoke, and that was without even daring to open the guest’s information file, which mentioned it more times that I could be bothered to count. Stuck to the inside of my door were five other notices, including a note detailing the fire policy, a notice listing breakfast times and two scary notices pointing out my duties as a resident (no smoking, payment on registration, no visitors, and the fact that I had entered into a legal contract with the guesthouse in booking a bed in the first place). But the best notice was an incredible 350-word explanation of why the guesthouse had a No Smoking policy in the first place, which started with this telling admission:

We make people aware of the fact that we have a No Smoking policy through our literature, website, advertising and informing the local information staff.

In case the message hadn’t got through, they’d stuck another notice to the wall opposite the door, right in my line of sight as I entered my room. It said:

WARNING!

By smoking you risk setting off our fire alarm system.

If we smell smoke (day or night) you also risk being asked to leave, without a refund.

There will also be additional charges billed to you.

(See our No Smoking policy and terms and conditions.)

You never know, I might not have spotted this sign despite the large print size, so I was glad to see another notice tacked to the television:

Please remember we request guests NOT to smoke on the premises. Thank you!

And in case I thought I could have a crafty fag out of the window, a little yellow laminated notice on the sash pointed out the following:

No smoking means no smoking!

DON’T RISK SETTING OFF THE FIRE ALARM

(Smoking by an open window still makes the curtains and room smell for which you will be billed.)

Oh, and don’t forget the No Smoking signs in the toilet and the bathroom, and the sign by the front door that said:

Thank you!

For not smoking in our house. It really is much appreciated.

I hadn’t even thought about smoking when I walked into Hebden Bridge, but I spent most of the night hankering for a crafty fag, purely because I wasn’t allowed one...

-oOo-

Luckily the charm of Hebden Bridge was more powerful than the curse of the little yellow notices and I spent a happy afternoon wandering round town. As the sun broke through the clouds and turned it from an overcast sauna into a perfect summer’s day, I realised just how beautiful Yorkshire can be.

I’m not alone, as Hebden Bridge has successfully turned itself from an industrial black spot into a tourist heaven. The old mill in the centre of town has been refurbished and beneath the ivy-clad shadow of the scrubbed factory chimney lurks Il Mulino, an Italian restaurant and pizzeria; this conversion of the town’s industrial centrepiece into a continental eating spot sums up modern Hebden Bridge rather well, and in the sunshine it feels like a modern, cosmopolitan place.

The town square is a lively place to watch the activity. I sat and soaked up a slice of Yorkshire life as kids shot past on their skateboards, heading for the market where they showed off their latest tricks; old ladies strolled past, looking in the shop windows and soaking up the sun; a drunk sat on one of the town benches, sucking on a bottle and gently wetting himself into a puddle on the pavement; tattooed men walked their bulging dogs, keeping them under control with nothing more than whistles; nattering mothers stood on the corner and swapped the day’s news; and in the middle of it all sat little old me, happy just to drink in the atmosphere.

What a lovely place. I’m surprised the Pennine Way bypasses Hebden Bridge, choosing instead to stay a mile and a half to the west, a long way from the refurbished mills and the pleasant town square. After such a tedious day’s walk, I think it’s the Pennine Way that misses out; more fool the route planners, then.

Hebden Bridge to Lothersdale

18 June 2003

Ugh, what a horrible day. This time I can’t blame the scenery because I could hardly see it; after the glorious weather of the last few days the Pennine Way suddenly switched to the cold, rainy disaster zone I remember so well from 2000, and along with the rain, memories flooded back of why I hated the bloody thing so much back then.

Then again, I’m not sure that brilliant weather would have transformed things that much, because for the vast majority of the day I was back on the moors, slogging across bleak and featureless bog and trying to fight the growing feeling that up here, the landscape is all too often monotonous, boring and depressing. I’m determined to resist the negative effects of the moors for as long as possible – I’d much rather enjoy them than avoid them – but after a day like today, it’s hard to feel good about the high ground of West Yorkshire.

-oOo-

Luckily the moors aren’t made up entirely of bleak high ground, because where there’s lots of water there’s lots of rivers, and rivers make valleys. Most of these valleys are home to beautiful villages, pretty little copses or modern reservoirs, and walking off a rain-driven moor down into a picturesque dale is one of the more pleasant aspects of trekking through this part of the world. Unfortunately, in inclement weather it’s pretty much the only pleasant aspect.

This morning I woke up to rain and it didn’t stop until a couple of miles from the end of my walk. Coupled with the fiercely cold wind that blew all morning, today was more like a miserable day in October than three days shy of the longest day of the year. By the time I slumped into Lothersdale and out of the rain, even my gaiters had given up the ghost; for the first time on this entire walk I got wet feet and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

I didn’t join the Pennine Way immediately; the Way itself steers clear of Hebden Bridge and in doing so misses out on one of the loveliest towns in the area. It also misses out on the valley that leads northwest out of Hebden, which is home to the National Trust’s Hardcastle Crags, a delightful woodland dale that must be a real treat on a summer’s day. Unfortunately, in the rain it’s full of lethal wet stone paths and huge droplets falling from the trees and right down your neck, but it’s still easy to see why people come here. Babbling Hebden Water runs through a pretty little wood and right past Gibson Mill, an old cotton mill that dates from 1800 but which closed down towards the end of the 19th century and re-opened as a tea room, dance hall and roller-skating rink. Currently it’s derelict and is being refurbished by the National Trust and when it opens in 2005 it’ll clearly be a great spot; as the distinctive mill chimney reflects in the surface of the still mill pond, it creates a beautiful composition of industrial revolution and Mother Nature, the perfect setting for a summer cuppa.

In the rain, though, it’s not yet a place to hang around – it’s still boarded up – so I kept plodding along the main road through the Crags and reluctantly headed back up towards the moors.

-oOo-

The difference between blindly following something like the Pennine Way and making up your own route boils down to making good judgement calls. As I climbed out of Hardcastle Crags, I came across such a call; I had to choose between a direct route over the top of a lonely moor, or a more roundabout, low-level track that went round the moor and remained at the same height. I looked at the options and I had no idea which to choose; sometimes you just have to gamble.

In the end I went for the direct route, which crossed the private Savile Estate to meet the Pennine Way at Walshaw Dean Reservoir. I didn’t know if I’d be squelching through bog or yomping along a dry track – maps rarely give much of a clue – but luckily the track held out and took me through some prime grouse moor. Dotted along the side of the track were numbered concrete holes known as grouse butts; in season this is where members of shooting parties stand, ready to blow away the grouse, but in the driving rain this isn’t the kind of place you’d visit for fun. In the rain it’s eerie, bleak, cold and lonely, and I couldn’t wait to get down the other side.

Unfortunately the grouse moors of Savile set the tone for the rest of the day and I spent hours trudging through the most desolate and depressing landscape I could have wished for. Not far from the reservoir I stumbled across Top Withens, a ruined farmhouse that appears to have been pieced back together with concrete and which looks decidedly unwelcoming in the mist. According to a plaque on the wall, Top Withens may or may not have inspired Emily Brontë when she wrote Wuthering Heights, but this uncertainty hasn’t stopped the myth spreading far and wide. The plaque is at least honest enough to say the following:

The buildings, even when complete, bore no resemblance to the house she described, but the situation may have been in her mind when she wrote of the moorland setting of the Heights.

Like all good myths, the facts don’t have to stand up to close scrutiny, and not only does the Pennine Way take in this lonely concrete farmhouse, but so does the Brontë Way, whose way-marker signs are tellingly in both English and Japanese.

The real story for me isn’t Wuthering Heights but the tale of the Brontës themselves. Hailing from Haworth, a few miles east of the Pennine Way, the six siblings were brought up in the local parsonage by an austere aunt after their mother died when they were young. The two oldest sisters died from tuberculosis, contracted while away at school, so Charlotte and Emily, who were attending the same school, returned home to live with their brother Branwell and younger sister Anne.

To escape from this difficult life the sisters retreated into writing, publishing a collection of poems at their own expense; this sold a whopping two copies. However, in 1847 each of the sisters published a romantic novel: Charlotte wrote Jane Eyre, Emily wrote Wuthering Heights, and Anne wrote the less well-known Agnes Grey.

But although these books brought their rewards, success was short-lived. Within two years Branwell, Anne and Emily had also succumbed to tuberculosis, leaving Charlotte on her own, where she continued to enjoy literary success in the unhappy solitude of lonely Haworth. In 1854 she married a curate but a few months later she died in childbirth, just seven years after helping to invent chick-lit.

Wandering over these miserable moors in the horizontal rain is a good way to appreciate just how impressive the Brontës’ achievements are. The Jacksons might have rocked and the Bee Gees might have had staying power, but the Brontës were the original purveyors of sibling talent. What a pity it all ended so abruptly.

-oOo-

Walking in lashing rain is one thing, but having to climb steep-sided valleys in lashing rain is another. From Top Withens the Pennine Way embarks on a series of steep descents and arduous climbs that aren’t difficult in themselves, but which are a right bloody palaver in shitty weather. By the time I descended to Ponden Reservoir and climbed back up the other side, I was hardly in the mood for yet more miles of desolate heather and cotton grass, but that’s what was on offer. Thankfully the Pennine pavement crew have also been busy on this section, and if you ignore the danger of slipping on the wet limestone paving stones then it’s easy going... or it is if you can ignore the cold, wet, windy and thoroughly miserable weather.

I really want to like the moors, if only because there are still an awful lot of them to get through. The problem is I genuinely fail to see the appeal; the first four days of the Way have crossed large swathes of moor and even in great weather they’re pretty mundane. If I was an ornithologist or a botanist, I’d have endless fun checking out the rare types of heather and the flocks of chirping birds circling overhead, but I’m not and I don’t. I remember once going for a day walk in the rainforest near Cairns in Australia where I bumped into a guy who was so enthusiastic about discovering a particular type of dung beetle on the rainforest floor that he called me over, a total stranger, and proudly showed it to me. I was fascinated, but not by the dung beetle; instead I was mesmerised by the complete awe with which my newfound friend was transfixed, and all because of a beetle. I remember feeling a little jealous; it must be wonderful to be that passionate about nature, but instead of hanging around admiring this diminutive marvel of the natural world, I hoofed up the nearest summit and took in the view, which did the trick for me.

The problem with the moors is that the views are pretty boring. Fans go on about the different greens and greys and how beautiful they are, but all I see is more of the same and as often as not the weather rolls in and destroys the visibility anyway. Underfoot the walking is wet and boggy and the miles seem to crawl past. It isn’t amazing walking and after four days of moor I’m bored, and because I’ve already done parts of the northern Way, I know there’s more to come.

Perhaps the penny will drop later on and I’ll fall for the Pennine Way after all; I really hope it does.

-oOo-

Thankfully the people round here are so wonderful that I’m managing to kick my phobia of the North into touch. I might think the moors suck, but the villages and the inhabitants are great and to me that’s the most important thing. For example, as I wound down into Ickornshaw, one valley over from my destination of Lothersdale, a bloke who was packing his car by the side of the road looked at me and launched into a conversation, just like that.

‘Can’t believe today after yesterday,’ he said sympathetically, looking at the sky.

‘Well, you’ve got to take the rough with the smooth,’ I said.

‘Should be better tomorrow,’ he said.

‘Hope so,’ I said, and that was that. It might have been a short snippet, but when you’ve just rolled down from a soaking plod through undulating grey misery, a friendly nod and a few sympathetic words can really put the spring back in your step.

The same happened up the next hill, where I chatted to a farmer for a few minutes and swapped tales of walking and weather, and fortified by his promise that after the next field it was downhill all the way – a not-quite accurate summary of the rest of the walk, but close enough – I soon flopped into Lothersdale for a pint of Adnams, a slap-up meal and a very friendly B&B. And that’s where I am now, steaming myself dry in the corner of the pub, listening to the gentle babble of conversation down the bar and looking forward to a rest day tomorrow. I might have accidentally picked a village with houses, a pub and absolutely nothing else (not even a shop or a Post Office) but after that slog through the moors, I don’t care. All I need to do for the next day and a half is sit down, and that has a certain appeal.

I should also count myself lucky. Yesterday a local man discovered a tent pitched just outside the village, along with a backpack and a guidebook open at the page on Lothersdale... but he couldn’t find a hiker. A few hours later the occupant still hadn’t arrived so he called the police, and since then the local panda car has been driving up and down the roads, trying to find the missing person. It sounds like the plot from a book; I certainly wouldn’t want to be out in weather like this.

Good job I’m in the pub, then.

Lothersdale to Kirkby Malham

20 June 2003

To be honest, I really don’t know what to think. One minute I’m effing and blinding about the bloody Pennine Way, screaming at the weather, the bleak landscape and the relentless effort of it all, and the next I’m enjoying a pleasant pint in another beautiful Yorkshire village and wondering why on earth I keep getting so stressed. My mind is an optimist and only wants to remember the good parts, so as I sit down to type this outside the Victoria Inn in Kirkby Malham, with a pint of Black Sheep ale and the bells of St Michael the Archangel for company, I can’t quite understand why this morning’s walk got me so worked up. But it did, and I’d better get it down on paper before the filtering effect of nostalgia turns it all too rosy.

The main problem with this morning was the weather. This is June and tomorrow is the longest day of the year, yet there’s a freezing wind smashing into the Pennines from the west. From here in the pub garden all I can feel is the odd chilly gust, and although the clouds above are racing past, it’s not unpleasant; this morning, though, it was a different story. I started out in my trusty T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms combo, but by the time I’d started the climb up Pinhaw Beacon, just outside Lothersdale, I’d already lost the feeling in my ears.

This wind meant business, and for only the second time in my entire walk I had to delve right to the bottom of my pack to pull out my woolly hat; the last time was on Bodmin Moor back in mid-May. Unfortunately I wasn’t quick enough to prevent a sharp attack of earache, and I had to resort to pulling on my Gore-Tex jacket and jamming the hood down over the top of my hat. But not only was the wind bitterly cold, it was bloody strong too, and with the wind blowing from west to east and the Pennine Way going from east to west, I felt like an Alaskan skydiver with inadequate equipment (inasmuch as I could feel anything at all).

This turned the start of the Pennine Way’s middle third into a rather less memorable experience than it should have been, for on the top of Pinhaw Beacon the Yorkshire Dales open out in front of you and it’s a sight to behold. Gone (for the moment) are the bleak moors and instead there’s a short day of farmers’ fields, river walking and almost no climbing. I should have loved it, but I was too busy wondering whether I should shave off my beard to make me that little bit more slipstreamed.

-oOo-

It was a pity the weather didn’t want to play ball, because I’d probably have enjoyed this day a whole lot more in pleasant weather. Instead of depressing moors and endless climbs, this easy Pennine stroll is more like an average day in Devon, and after four days of bog, heather and grouse, I was definitely in the mood for a change. If you ignore the short climb up Pinhaw, today consisted of an easy farmland stroll through Thornton-in-Craven and East Marton to Gargrave, before joining the River Aire just shy of Airton for some easy riverbank strolling to Kirkby Malham. Most people continue to Malham, a mile and a half further north, but I couldn’t find anywhere with vacancies in Malham, so instead I stopped early, a good move given the quality of the Victoria Inn’s Black Sheep ale.

On top of this, the most amazing treat awaited me in East Marton, about halfway through the day’s walk. After an uphill walk through fairly nondescript farmland towards the edge of my map, the Pennine Way suddenly decides to pull on its black leather trousers and figure-hugging white T-shirt and mince its way along for the next half a mile. Gone are the hardcore moors and uphill struggles of the last few days and there, looking a bit sheepish, is a stretch of canal. Yes, canal! But this is the Pennine Way! They don’t do canals round here! This is a walk where you’re supposed to keep smiling while you sink up to your knees in bog! Canal? Ha!

I couldn’t care less about the Pennine Way’s bravado, though, because I love canals. I go to gay clubs, I sleep with teddy bears and I cry in soppy movies (though I’m damn good at hiding it) and I like canal walking. Canals are flat and interesting, and after the hairy-backed testosterone of the moors they’re a great relief, so I set out along the Leeds and Liverpool Canal at a brisk pace. I even minced for a few metres – until the narrow boats came into view, anyway – and it felt good.

I needed to flip over to the next Ordnance Survey map, though, so I hurried round the nearby corner, dropped my pack and fished out the new map, only to find out that the Pennine Way leaves the canal at that very point, after just half a mile of towpath. I spent the next few miles in a girlie strop, unhappy that yet again I was going to have to tackle the countryside rather than float along with it; it’s good to be in touch with your feminine side, but on a walk like this, it never lasts long.

-oOo-

As with the whole of the Pennine Way so far, I found the walking today to be less than inspiring but the destination utterly charming. Kirkby Malham is a very small village with a church, a pub and precious little else except houses, but even in the chilly wind I found enough to keep me occupied for hours.

I wandered round the village centre, exploring every nook and cranny, which took all of a quarter of an hour. I creaked my way through the cemetery gates and stood for ages reading the inscriptions on the ancient gravestones. I poked my head through the welcoming doors of the church of St Michael the Archangel and enjoyed a peaceful few minutes admiring the stained glass windows and some intriguing box pews. And just as I was returning to the pub for a pint and a chance to write up the day’s events, I chanced upon the community notice board.

I love community notice boards for the same reason I love local newspapers. They rarely carry anything of genuine importance, but they’re a fascinating insight into the local community and the one in Kirkby Malham is no exception. There were notices that the local parish’s accounts were now available for inspection; there was an invitation to view a bunch of nearby gardens that would be open to the public for one day only; and there were details of recent local election results. But the most interesting notice sent my imagination sprawling. It said:

Friends of Kirkby Malham School

Invite you

“Back to School”

At Bolton Abbey Village Hall

Saturday 5th July 2003

7.30pm – 12.00

A strictly ADULTS ONLY disco!!

School Uniform to be Worn

A night of Fantastic Music

Fabulous Food

Frivolous Fun

Licensed Bar

NO RAFFLE

Tickets £12.50

As I stood there lamenting the fact that school disco, like karaoke, seems to have infected the entire country, a couple of kids wandered past, kicking a football.

‘Is that your car?’ asked the little girl, pointing to a green car by the road.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t need a car, I’m walking.’

‘Oh,’ said the little boy.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’ve walked 500 miles to get here, so I don’t need a car. I’ve walked all the way from Land’s End, at the bottom end of the country.’

‘500 miles?’ said the little girl.

‘Yep, and I’m walking all the way to Scotland too,’ I said.

‘You know what I think?’ said the little girl after a moment’s pause.

‘No, what?’ I said.

‘I think you’re a bit silly in the head,’ she said, tapping her ear with her finger.

‘That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all day,’ I said, and left them to their ball game as the sun went down on Kirkby Malham.

Kirkby Malham to Horton

21 June 2003

At last! This is where the Pennine Way stops being a bloody miserable plod through bogs and moors and turns into a much more enjoyable walk. I’m glad; I was getting close to thinking it was nothing but a walk for masochistic idiots.

There are three main attractions on the walk from Malham to Horton-in-Ribblesdale, namely Malham Cove, Malham Tarn and Pen-y-Ghent. The first is a semicircular 80m-high limestone cliff that was once home to a monstrous waterfall but which is now a dry and attractive interlude just north of Malham; the second is a large lake – a rarity in porous limestone country – that boasts a stately home on its shores; and the third is a huge limestone hill that towers over Horton-in-Ribblesdale and gives great views of the Yorkshire Dales National Park. Even the most cynical walker has to enjoy a day like today, especially when that cynical walker is planning to meet his girlfriend at the end of the walk for a romantic weekend in the dales.

The day started off with a big breakfast in the pub at Kirkby Malham, an event that was considerably enlivened by me catching one of the staff unawares behind the bar as she poured herself a very large Bacardi. All I wanted was to pay my bill, but instead I got the memorable sight of a middle-aged woman wrapped up in her dressing gown, guiltily twirling round from the Bacardi optic as I asked if I could settle my account. Mumbling that the landlord would be back soon and that he dealt with the bills, she shoved the glass under the counter, sloshing the sizeable measure of spirits up the sides and totally failing to hide the fact that she was hitting the sauce at 8am.

I didn’t join her.

-oOo-

On the way from Kirkby Malham to Malham I ended up hacking round a field for ages, trying to work out where the trail had gone cold. I couldn’t understand it; there was Malham, just a few hundred metres away, but could I find the path? Could I hell, and I spent a good half an hour trying to work out where I was supposed to go before I gave up, jumped a couple of locked gates and came into town from the opposite direction. I wondered whether I’d accidentally been given the staff breakfast instead of mine, but Malham Cove soon blew the cobwebs from my head.

Limestone country often produces interesting rock formations and Malham Cove is a good example. You could be forgiven for thinking that it’s all that remains of an ancient quarry that’s been overrun with pretty greenery and a gently flowing river, but actually it’s totally natural and is all the more beautiful for it. It looks as if a huge spoon has taken a scoop out of the side of a hill, leaving a curved white cliff that you can walk into and admire from the dizzying depths of the cove’s floor, through which Malham Beck gently flows on its way south to Malham.

Even stranger than the cove are the limestone pavements at the top of what would have once been the waterfall (these days Malham Beck flows through the limestone and simply appears at the bottom of the cove, avoiding all that inconvenient leaping over the edge). These pavements contain long grooves that provide a sheltered home for collections of tiny plants, and after the long climb up the west side of the cove they’re quite a sight.

A better sight would have been the odd signpost indicating where the Pennine Way went, but I’m rapidly discovering that the Pennine Way is one of the worst marked tracks in the country. I’ve walked along countless local and national routes on this trip, and even the littlest local ways have been liberally sprinkled with way-markers; sure, the Limestone Link back in Somerset gave me a few problems but it got better pretty quickly, and the Limestone Way in Derbyshire was appallingly marked, but both of these were still better than the Pennine Way.

It’s strange, but the only markers on the Pennine Way seem to be ancient wooden signposts that are cleverly designed to be the same colour as the countryside. This prevents unsightly scars on the landscape but it also means the signs blend perfectly into the background, making them invisible until you stub your toes on them. Meanwhile signs are conspicuously absent from a number of key places and it’s incredibly easy to get lost. I’ve now ditched the route guides I’ve been lugging around and I’m just using my maps and compass; this doesn’t help me stick to the Pennine Way but it does enable me to pick my own route along what may or may not be the Way. This seems to be the best approach, especially as the Way is constantly shifting around to minimise damage to the environment from the action of thousands of walkers’ boots. You’d think good signposts would be a sensible way to stop walkers from straying off the route and into sensitive areas, but it just doesn’t seem to work like that round here.

-oOo-

I finally reached Malham Tarn after a happy combination of ignoring the little green line on the map and following my compass. It’s very unusual to find lakes in limestone country as limestone is porous and can’t hold water, but Malham Tarn is above an ancient layer of impervious rock so it sits on top of the local limestone like a saucer of water sitting on a sponge.

It’s a lot more beautiful than that rather unglamorous analogy would suggest. As you approach the tarn from the south it opens up in front of you to reveal the kind of setting that you’d pay good money to have in your back garden. This is no coincidence because this whole area is the product of the late 18th century, when Lord Ribblesdale expanded the tarn with some judicious dams and built a hunting lodge on the northern shore of his newly expanded lake. Of course, this hunting lodge is hardly a wooden shack; instead it’s a grand country house that looks over the tarn from the middle of a dark green wood, with open lawns that roll down from the large windows in a way that screams ‘old money.’ These days the lodge is a field study centre run by the National Trust, and even though the Pennine Way goes round the eastern shore of the tarn and right past the lodge itself, there are signs everywhere making it pretty plain that members of the public are not allowed to explore the grounds. I didn’t hang around; if you’re not welcome, you’re not welcome, and there’s always something more interesting round the next corner.

It took a while to get there, though. Before reaching Pen-y-Ghent the Way makes a long, slow climb over Fountains Fell, a nondescript area of shake holes, old mine workings and hidden shafts where you’re instructed to stay on the path to avoid a painful death. The ascent was made considerably harder by the weather, which I couldn’t work out at all. When the clouds let it shine the sun was scorching, beaming down the kind of searing heat that burns your skin before you’ve even had a chance to feel the warmth; but coupled with this summer sun was the coldest wind I’ve felt in a long time. As I climbed up Fountains Fell the wind got stronger and gustier and halfway up I had to stop to put on my woolly hat and my Gore-Tex jacket, just like at the start of yesterday’s walk. And so the climb turned into a continuous switch from exposed parts of the path, where the cold westerly wind rattled the teeth in my head and made my eardrums ache, to sheltered dips where the sun beat down and drenched my T-shirt with sweat. It wasn’t pleasant, but then I reached the top and understood what the fuss was all about, for there was Pen-y-Ghent.

-oOo-

This area of the world is famous for its three peaks. Pen-y-Ghent, Ingleborough and Whernside dominate the landscape, their distinctive humpback shapes being the result of weathering on their limestone and sandstone layers. Every year there’s a charity event where people ‘do the Three Peaks’, a 26-mile walk that takes in each of the three summits. The Pennine Way isn’t quite that insane but it does go right over the top of Pen-y-Ghent, the nearest peak to Horton-in-Ribblesdale.

From the top of Fountains Fell there’s still a considerable walk to the base of Pen-y-Ghent, but the view is constantly engaging as you head towards the beached whale ahead of you. The ascent looks impossibly steep, but on a clear day it’s easy to pick out the little coloured flashes of other climbers as they scramble up the 200m climb to the top. At times it’s more like rock climbing than walking, especially when the path crosses the limestone shelf that juts out halfway up the ascent, but it’s worth it for the views from the 694m summit. Broad valleys lie on either side, one scored by the Pennine Way that you’ve just walked along and the other home to Horton-in-Ribblesdale, the small village that lies at the foot of Horton Quarry. This is without a doubt the most impressive landscape I’ve yet walked through; the peak of Pen-y-Ghent is the highest I’ve been so far, but even without that distinction this area would win hands down. Southwest England is for the most part flat, but up here it most definitely isn’t and it makes for good hiking.

But it’s tiring, scaling these peaks, and from the top of Pen-y-Ghent I could practically smell the pub. Peta had booked us a room in the Golden Lion Hotel in Horton, and as I scrunched my way down the rocky path towards my reward of hot bath and cold ale, my brain played its usual trick on me. Every time I walk into a new place where I’ve booked a bed, my brain taunts me with the thought that something might have gone wrong with the booking. Perhaps I got the wrong date when I booked? Or the wrong hotel? And I’ll walk in and say, ‘I’ve got a reservation,’ and they’ll look at the book, suck air through their teeth and say, ‘I’m sorry, but you haven’t, and I’m afraid we don’t have any vacancies and nor does anyone else in town. Sorry.’

Of course, it never happens; I’m always in the book and five minutes later I’m in my room, listening to the steamy sound of the bath filling up and dreaming of how many steaks I’m going to eat tonight. I was a little surprised, then, when the landlady behind the counter at the Golden Lion said, ‘I can’t find you in the book, and we’re totally full.’

‘Are you sure?’ I asked, rather stumped.

‘She’s right,’ said a guy next to me at the bar. ‘I’ve block-booked the whole place and there are no rooms left – it’s the Three Peaks race today and the whole town is full up.’

‘Um,’ I said. ‘Ah. Shit.’

‘You’ll probably find somewhere in Settle,’ said another guy at the bar. ‘It’s only five miles away.’

‘Yeah, but my girlfriend’s on the way up from London, and she’s going to be arriving at Horton station at seven,’ I said.

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Settle’s the stop before Horton, so she could get off there. I’ll give you a lift if you like; I’m going there in 15 minutes.’

So things suddenly turned around due to the kindness of strangers. My phone didn’t have a signal in Horton but the guy with the car offered me his phone to ring Peta and reschedule, and his friend even rang the Golden Lion in Settle so I could find out whether she had accidentally booked there instead; she hadn’t, but they had one double room left so I reserved it on the spot and gratefully took the man up on his offer of a lift.

Settle turned out to be a good move. Bigger than Horton by a long way, it provided Peta and I not only with a lovely room in a good hotel, but it also gave us scope for eating and drinking in a way that Horton couldn’t match. So we settled down for a rest day that would involve wandering along the river, sitting under trees and absolutely no peaks. What a pleasant change...

Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Hawes

23 June 2003

I set off this morning on an emotional roller-coaster. Having my girlfriend visit me as I chip away the miles is wonderful and it recharges the batteries in top fashion, but it comes at a price: I hate goodbyes.

In fact today my emotions were on a double roller-coaster, because Horton-in-Ribblesdale is where I set off on my abortive Pennine Way walk back in 2000. I wondered how much I would remember from the last time I tackled the Way – after all, it’s nearly three years ago – and the answer surprised me. I remembered almost everything, from the long ascent out of Horton and the Roman road across Cam Fell, to the path along the western edge of the Snaizeholme Valley and the descent into Wensleydale. It was uncanny.

And on top of the loneliness of waving goodbye and the wistful longings of nostalgia for three years ago, I had a hangover. Don’t I ever learn?

-oOo-

The walk from Horton to Hawes is another lovely day in the Yorkshire Dales. At least that’s the story my photos will tell, because the sun came out and the landscape dutifully sat up and glowed. I’m still celebrating the end of the moors and the limestone scenery of the dales is a huge improvement, but what the pictures won’t show is the incredible wind that slammed itself into my face for the entire day.

It’s amazing what difference the wind can make. For the first couple of hours it was a mere inconvenience that made my rest stops less pleasant than they should have been, but when the route turned north to skirt Snaizeholme Valley, it started getting silly. Here the Way follows the east flank of a deep, broad valley, and when the wind blows from the west it shoots into this valley and gets funnelled up the side, right into the Pennine Way. With the valley sloping down to my left and Dodd Fell Hill rising up to my right, I tried to walk along the Way and failed. Instead I clawed my way along, inch by hard-fought inch.

It was amazing, and after a while I realised it was impossible to fight a wind this strong, so I might as well roll with it. The wind howled from my left, so I tried leaning into it... and I tried leaning a bit further... and further... until I managed to lean my entire body weight into the wind without even denting the air flow. I pulled on my woolly hat and hugged my jacket round me, bouncing from left to right as the wind blew me around like an unlucky lottery ball. I tried to take some photos but the camera shook so much in the icy blasts that it couldn’t focus. This wind meant business.

Thankfully the Horton-Hawes track is easy to follow and pleasantly devoid of any serious climbs or descents, so apart from the wind slamming me against the side of the track, this was an unremarkable day with good views into Ribblesdale and Wensleydale. From my last visit to this area I remembered places like Ling Gill, a snatch of forest in a steep-sided cleft that’s fenced off because it’s one of a handful of places where the original vegetation of the area has survived; I recognised Ling Gill Bridge, just up from Ling Gill, where I bathed my feet back in 2000 because the blisters were already starting to form; and the long, straight Roman road across Cam Fell was as long and straight as ever.

But this time I found the walk to be much easier. I left later than normal because I had to take the train from Settle to Horton and retrace my steps to the turning where I’d walked in on Saturday, but I still made excellent time. Back in 2000 I’d been pretty tired by the end of this, my first day on the Way, and I already had embryonic blisters that would expand over the coming days to cover both of my heels; after today I’m still raring to go, because for a few days at least the Pennine Way is going to be rather good. Perhaps I’ll be able to play out some memories as I trace my old route. I hope so; I like nostalgia.

-oOo-

I also like Hawes, and who can blame me? It’s a classic Yorkshire Dales village, with a peaty brown river running through the middle of the old town and winding stone cobbled streets packed with little shops and countless picture postcard moments. As if that wasn’t enough, Hawes is the main production centre for Wensleydale cheese – the favourite cheese of Wallace and Gromit, of course – and the entire package sits in the middle of the cheese’s namesake, a gorgeous Yorkshire dale that pops into view as the Pennine Way winds round the edge of Dodd Fell.

Unfortunately I didn’t have time to visit the Wensleydale Experience, which is a pity because the name alone is worth travelling to Hawes for; however my B&B rather excitingly overlooked the Experience from across the road, so from the moment I dropped my pack and sighed with relief at finally getting out of the wind, I felt the happy Wensleydale vibe of Hawes wash over me.

Despite the continuing gale, Hawes was a perfect place to buy fish and chips and sit in the high street, eating with my fingers and watching the world amble by. Its moniker as the capital of Wensleydale is well earned, and compared to places like Standedge and Crowden it’s a metropolis; indeed, there are three pubs on the high street, all right next to each other, which practically makes it a city. Unfortunately three pints is a bit much after a walk, especially on top of a hangover from the weekend, but I bravely convinced myself that I should try two out of the three, as I was here. So I picked the first two I came across, the Board and the Crown Hotel, and eagerly bought a pint in each.

The beer was good: Black Sheep ale is a stalwart round these parts and the pint in the Board was lovely, and similarly the Theakstons XB in the Crown really hit the spot. But each pub was a criminal waste of potential and neither was good enough to grace the high street of such an attractive village as Hawes; one of them even had Formica tables – which I couldn’t believe – and fruit machines and dark, unloved interior decorations were the order of the day.

First prize for awfulness must go to the Crown, though. I’m pretty forgiving of pubs as long as they serve a good pint, but one thing I can’t forgive is appalling music and the Crown really pulled all the stops out. At first I thought they were playing ABBA’s Greatest Hits, which I could have lived with even though I’ve heard ‘Dancing Queen’ far too many times to enjoy it any more; but after a minute or two I realised that this wasn’t ABBA playing ‘Super Trouper’ and ‘Take a Chance on Me’, but a cover band. A cover band! Worse, they weren’t trying to interpret the music, they were trying to sound like ABBA... and failing miserably.

Perhaps I’m just a musical snob, because it seemed that nobody else in the pub was remotely bothered. One couple, who turned out to be Dutch, were even subconsciously bopping along when the chorus to ‘Chiquitita’ kicked in, but my ears felt like they were bleeding. I knew I should have gone into the third pub...

Maybe next time, which I’m sure won’t be far off.

Hawes to Keld

24 June 2003

I remember this section clearly from my abortive attempt to do the Pennine Way in 2000, because this leg was where things started to go wrong. The first day of that fateful walk – from Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Hawes – went fine, though in retrospect I sunk into the hot bath in my B&B in Hawes with a little too much ooh-ing and ahh-ing for someone who was supposed to be taking the Pennines in his stride. Day two, though, was where the Pennine Way started sinking its teeth in, and that was when the pain began in real earnest.

Interestingly, David had the same problem at the start of his walk; his first day was fine until the last few miles, but day two turned out to be much harder, because by then his body hurt and the blisters were already in place. I had exactly the same experience in 2000 and the long, hard descent up the slopes of Great Shunner Fell a few miles out of Hawes nearly did me in. I can still remember the sinking feeling as I had to climb out of Thwaite towards Keld; my legs hurt, my pack was heavy and I was beginning to wonder if this was going to be such a fun walk after all.

But today I found the same walk to be utterly delightful, relatively easy and genuinely enjoyable. Yesterday’s wind died down overnight and instead the sun came out and a gentle breeze took over, giving perfect weather for a great day’s walk. I highly recommend doing the Pennine Way after walking from Land’s End to Edale first; it’s the only way to get fit enough to be able to enjoy the bloody thing.

-oOo-

The ascent up Great Shunner Fell was pretty watery, and luckily the paving slabs saved me from actually having to do anything nasty like touch the natural environment, but for once I didn’t mind. OK, there are moors round here, but the miserable buggers of the Dark Peak are long gone and instead I’m in the land of dale and fell. I’m much happier; this is the pleasant part of the Pennine Way, and even though the peat bog of Great Shunner Fell would have been a grim walk before the coming of the limestone pavement, it now feels a long, long way from Bleaklow.

I’m also pretty sure I spotted Cross Fell from the 716m-high summit of Great Shunner Fell. Cross Fell is the highest part of the Pennine Way, and unless I go completely mad and decide to conquer a few Munros up in Scotland – which I won’t – it will be the highest point of my entire walk. Far away in the distant north-northwest I spotted a looming mountain, but more importantly there was a smaller hill next door with a tiny white speck on top. I’d put my money on this being Great Dun Fell, which has one of those mysterious golf ball radar installations on top.

How do I know so much about Great Dun Fell? Well, the Pennine Way goes right past this particular golf ball radar, and the guidebook points out that you can’t miss the track because all you have to do is head for the golf ball. The problem was that when I last climbed Cross Fell the visibility was about 20m, so even when I was against the chain mail fence and just a few metres from the golf ball, I could see nothing. So if that white speck was indeed Great Dun Fell, I’ve at last clapped eyes on the blessed thing; it feels good to look your nemesis in the eye and to know the day of reckoning is drawing near.

-oOo-

The descent from Great Shunner Fell into Swaledale and the tiny village of Thwaite is another lovely trudge into a flat-bottomed glacial valley that opens up before you as you stomp along the track. The sounds of sheep reflect off the fells, the sun picks out the pretty browns and greens of the dales, and life is good. The last time I sloped into Thwaite I was already tired; this time I couldn’t believe that I was already two-thirds of the way through the day’s walk and still felt fine. But even more importantly I couldn’t believe that I’ve finally reached the halfway point between Land’s End and John o’Groats. In reaching Thwaite I’ve walked something like 555 miles, give or take a few wildly inaccurate guesses, and I’ve estimated this walk to be about 1111 miles long, which makes Thwaite my halfway point... so from here on it’s downhill all the way to John o’Groats.

To celebrate I thought I’d stop for a quiet lunch in the centre of town, but just as I sat down a huge coach pulled up and disgorged a whole harem of old ladies into the local tea shop, a group of walkers trudged past nodding their hellos, and an entire fleet of tractors grunted through the village; but worse than any of these busy distractions were the chickens of Thwaite. I know Thwaite sounds like it ought to be a rough, rustic place in the middle of nowhere – you just know it’s pronounced ‘Th-wear-te’ and not ‘Th-way-te’ – but to have the countryside jump on the bench beside you and try to make off with your sandwiches is simply not on. The chickens of Thwaite are hooligans and even the threat of my trekking sticks didn’t bother them; I had to hide my lunch in my pack and only the arrival of the local dog finally saw them off.

I did make one friend in Thwaite though, an amenable chap called Matt who is also doing the Way and was trying to have a peaceful lunch amidst the tourists, tractors and poultry. We got talking and decided to team up to Keld, our destination for the day; company’s always pleasant, especially when you’ve already broken the back of the day’s walk.

As for Keld itself, it’s a one-horse town that boasts a campsite, a Youth Hostel, some houses and precious little else; indeed, there’s precious little else to say about today either, which ended up being a glorious walk through some lovely countryside without major mishap or anything approaching a struggle. In fact the only injury I sustained was a bruised knee when I caught it on one of those irritating stiles that’s little more than a thin gap in a thick stone wall with a spring-loaded wooden gate over the front. I hate those damn things because it’s hard enough getting a human body through, let alone a human with a bloody great pack on his back, and on the approach to Keld I accidentally smashed my left knee on a stone that the builders had thoughtfully left sticking out of the gap at precisely the wrong height.

So even on a lovely day like this, I’m still very much aware that the Pennine Way has teeth. This walk reminds me of photographs of evil dictators; they always look so benign and caring on the surface, but beneath those carefully manicured publicity shots of Stalin and Mao Zedong lurk the minds of complete madmen who might flip out at any moment and sentence you to ten years in Siberia. That glimpse of the golf ball on Great Dun Fell is probably the Pennine Way’s idea of a joke; the next time I see it, the chances are it’ll be swathed in fog again.

After all, it doesn’t have a very good sense of humour, the Pennine Way...

Keld to Baldersdale

25 June 2003

What a perfect day. Last night the wispy cirrus view from the large windows of Keld Youth Hostel hinted that today might be pleasant, and it most certainly was; the sun shone all day, the clouds were few and far between and the wind never rose above a gentle breeze. As far as English summer days go, today was the business.

But beautiful weather isn’t always what you want. If you’re stuck in an office with no air conditioning then hot weather is a nightmare, and it’s the same for walking; perfect walking weather is slightly overcast with a gentle breeze and clear views, and sunny weather is far from ideal. There’s a serious risk of sunburn, you have to carry a large amount of water with you, and the heat makes climbing those hills just that little bit more exhausting. Beautiful summer days might be fantastic for lazing by the river and having picnics, but they’re not that great for long hauls across the moors.

Then again, good weather beats rain every time, so don’t think I’m complaining that much...

-oOo-

If my memory serves me correctly, the Pennine Way gets interesting for a little while after Middleton-in-Teesdale, but Middleton is still a couple of days away and the price to pay is a pretty boring passage from Swaledale to Teesdale. Last time I did this section in one day and it was too much of a strain to be any fun, so today I walked from Keld to the Youth Hostel at Baldersdale and tomorrow I’ve got a short hop to Middleton, a village which I remember being worth exploring.

I hated this section when I tackled it in 2000, and although I didn’t hate it this time, it didn’t exactly light my fire. After the really stunning scenery that started back in Malham, the trek out of Keld is disappointing. Why? Well, it’s another tedious and long walk through moor, moor and more moor, and I’ve already had enough moor to last me a lifetime. Thankfully in weather like this, semidry moor is relatively easy to cross, though it still taxes the soul.

Last time it was very wet indeed, and I remember setting out from Tan Hill in a murky mist that sent shivers down my spine. Tan Hill is a great little pub about four miles from Keld that sports a huge wood fire and the kind of double-glazing that makes you glad it’s raining on the other side of the glass. Tan Hill boasts that at 526m above sea level it is the highest pub in Great Britain, but the price it pays for this statistic is one of the most miserable settings I’ve ever seen in a rural pub. Sleightholme Moor stretches out to the east, a featureless and godforsaken stretch of unloved land that, of course, carries the Pennine Way away from the cosy lights of the pub, and the approach to the pub from the south crosses Black Moor and Stonesdale Moor, which are as exciting and comforting as they sound. To the north is High Greygrits, another accurately named dirge, and to the west are Wygill Rigg and Kaber Fell, more places where you’re unlikely to find sane people. Tan Hill might be the highest pub in Britain, but it’s also one of the loneliest.

-oOo-

These moors are a disaster area in wet weather but in late June they’re much easier to cross. There’s an alternative ‘bad weather’ Pennine Way route that avoids Sleightholme Moor and follows a road, and I took it back in the rainy mists of 2000. Today I stuck to the Way proper and had a hoot, because for miles on end I felt as if I was walking on a sea of sponge.

It was quite relaxing, despite the large numbers of low-flying jets shooting overhead, practising their manoeuvres among the hills of what is now County Durham (Tan Hill lies just on the Yorkshire side of the county border while Sleightholme Moor is in Durham). Noisy warplanes are a fact of life round here and they’ve been shooting overhead for the last few days; all I can say is that if I was a pilot and something went wrong, I’d fly my plane straight into Sleightholme Moor. I’m sure it would bounce.

Sometimes, though, there’s a price to pay for miles of bouncy-castle entertainment. The moor is springy and spongy because it’s still got an awful lot of moisture in there, and every now and then you come across a quagmire to test your nerves. Is that clod of mossy green grass going to hold the weight of a man with a backpack? And is that damp-looking soil actually a pit of molasses, just waiting to suck your boot off? In the lottery of the moors nothing is guaranteed, but that’s where trekking sticks have transformed my bog-trotting technique. Not only are they a godsend for my weak knees when trudging uphill and careering down again – not to mention a useful way of shooing chickens away from your sandwiches – but they’re perfect for poking swampy bits of marsh to see what they’re made of. Sometimes the sticks come out dripping with black ooze and sometimes they don’t go in at all, and on top of this early warning system you can use the sticks as jumping aids, holding them like crutches to hop over inconveniently wide rivers of boggy grot. I highly recommend them; I now think of mine as close friends.

-oOo-

Just for variety, the rest of the journey to Baldersdale crosses plenty more heathery grouse moor. After dithering around Sleightholme Beck for a while the Way crosses the River Greta at God’s Bridge, a natural stone bridge that’s far more impressive when there’s more than a dribble in the riverbed, which is all there is in this dry summer we’re having; and after God’s Bridge the Way dives under the A66 before heading into North Moor and Cotherstone Moor. By this time of year the ground has hardened up and it’s back to dreary, endless heather as far as the eye can see.

Not only that, but the path keeps climbing over hills and dipping into valleys before climbing over more hills and dipping into more valleys. The four miles from the A66 to Baldersdale are long and tedious and it’s a huge relief to come over the top of Cotherstone Moor into Baldersdale, which is home to two large reservoirs, a smattering of buildings and some refreshingly pleasant grassland.

So I spent the afternoon relaxing in the sun at Baldersdale Youth Hostel, safe in the knowledge that the only way I’ll ever return to Sleightholme and Cotherstone Moors is if I get lost during my escape from the asylum. What a relaxing thought.

Baldersdale to Middleton

26 June 2003

There aren’t too many opportunities for short walking days when you’re trying to cross an entire country, but today and tomorrow are both tiny walks. I didn’t plan it this way; I’d actually hoped to have a rest day around this time, in preparation for the long days over the Pennines that are looming in the near distance, but a combination of fully booked hostels and a dearth of B&B vacancies has forced me to walk for two short days instead of one long one, and it’s turned out to be a masterstroke. I’ve just had a great day.

This had nothing to do with today’s walk, though; the hop from Baldersdale to Middleton-in-Teesdale is a most forgettable walk, a continuation of yesterday’s tedium that winds through farmland, past yet more reservoirs, over a number of hills and down into Teesdale, when the view finally opens up into something worth writing about. Luckily I didn’t really care about the walk because I had company; soon after climbing out of Baldersdale I spotted Matt ahead on the trail, and he had a tale to tell that made this boring walk feel almost welcoming.

-oOo-

I last saw Matt two days ago, when we met among the chickens in Thwaite and walked to Keld together. The next morning Matt left before breakfast and headed off to a hotel on the A66 to which he’d mailed a box containing food, new socks and the guidebook for the northern part of the Pennine Way; when I met him this morning he’d just come from there and he looked thoroughly miserable.

‘How was the hotel?’ I asked him when I caught up. ‘Did you get there all right?’

‘Awful,’ said Matt and launched into his story. He’d needed a place to send his gear that was near the Pennine Way’s halfway point, but he hadn’t been able to find anywhere in Bowes, the nearest town, so instead he’d done a search on the Internet for a handy spot, and this hotel had come up, along with a map showing the Pennine Way practically running past the front door.

‘So I booked it,’ said Matt, ‘and asked them if I could send some stuff there, and they said that would be fine. “Great,” I thought, “that’s all sorted.” And I thought nothing more of it.’

‘But?’ I said, because I knew that was the next word.

‘Well,’ said Matt, ‘to start with, you know where the Pennine Way goes under the A66, just after God’s Bridge? I had to walk nearly two miles along the edge of the A66 to get to the hotel, with huge trucks shooting past and kicking up stones and blowing me about. There were loads of dead animals on the verges and it was a nightmare, but eventually I got there and checked in.’

‘And?’ I asked.

‘It was terrible,’ he said. ‘My room had a crap shower and peeling wallpaper, and when I got there, which must have been about half twelve or one o’clock, there was a drunk Geordie propping up the bar and the landlord had one of those half pints of lager that mysteriously never ran out, if you know what I mean.’

‘Ooh, that’s a bad sign,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ Matt continued. ‘Anyway, I got chatting to them and found out that the landlord had moved up from Croydon to take over this hotel, which was in the middle of absolutely nowhere, surrounded by moor and with the A66 right outside the front door. So I asked him why he’d moved from Croydon, which isn’t a million miles from where I live, and do you know what he said?’

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘Well,’ said Matt, ‘he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t really know.” Strange bloke, and his wife wasn’t all there either.’

‘And you ate there?’ I asked.

‘I had to,’ said Matt. ‘There was nowhere else, but it was a crap meal and I swear it was just microwave food. And the landlord told me this story, which I could have done without. Before this guy took over the hotel, the chef had been a gay bloke – not an in-your-face gay bloke, but gay – and one of the locals hadn’t been too keen on that. So one night he apparently took the chef outside, blew his head off with a shotgun, scooped out his brains and put them in the hotel’s freezer, before burying the body in the bog.’

‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘Did he get caught?’

‘Yeah,’ said Matt. ‘I think he did. It put me off ordering the mince, though.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ I said. ‘And how about breakfast? Was that any good?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘They said they only served it between 8.30 and 9, and when I asked if I could have it a bit earlier, they said I couldn’t, so I just left without bothering.’

‘Sounds great,’ I said. ‘Still, it must have been cheap, eh?’

‘That’s the killer,’ said Matt. ‘It cost me £53 for one night. That was including dinner, but still, I’ve had a terrible time.’

‘You poor sod,’ I said, and we fell into step. It also turned out that his hip was starting to ache ominously, especially when going downhill, and by the time Middleton-in-Teesdale homed into view after a fairly forgettable trudge, Matt had decided to consider his options over a pint. Like most Pennine Way walkers, he’d reached the point where he had to decide whether to go on or go home. It really is that kind of walk, and once I’d dropped my pack at a B&B in town, I joined him to talk about it.

-oOo-

The Pennine Way grinds you down physically and mentally, and when you’re walking it on your own, it can get to you; I’ve already been through the misery of injury and early retirement from the Way, and it’s not much fun. But when you’re feeling down, sitting down in the pub with the maps, a pint and someone else is a good solution, and after a while Matt realised that a bit of rescheduling might just save the day. I’m only planning to walk a really short 6.5 miles tomorrow, so we’ve decided to team up for that section too, which will enable him to see if his hip is really problematic, or whether it’s just a glitch.

It also helped that I’d already made a plan for this afternoon. The lady running the Baldersdale hostel suggested I take the bus from Middleton to Barnard Castle for an afternoon jaunt, and as I’ve already explored Middleton once, back in 2000, her advice sounded very sensible; besides, Barnard Castle is named after the ruined castle in its centre and castles are my weakness, so after a burger in the pub we hatched a plan.

First, Matt needed somewhere to stay. I’d ended up in a B&B where they only had double and twin rooms, and as a result I was paying a premium for single occupancy of a twin room; it therefore made sense that Matt should take the other bed, meaning I’d pay less, the B&B would make more money and Matt would have somewhere to stay in a village where the number of ‘No vacancies’ signs was unnerving. That sorted, we hopped on the number 96 bus to Barnard Castle and prepared to enjoy an afternoon of perfect blue skies, bus rides through pretty villages and historic monuments.

The namesake of Barnard Castle is a great place, and not only is it great, but it’s really old as well. Its origins date from the late 11th century and it had its heyday between the 12th and 14th centuries, but soon enough the castle got stuck in the middle of the tricky politics of the Tudors and these days the castle is little more than a delightful ruin. I’d love to be able to tell you a bit more about the castle’s history, but the £2.60 entrance fee entitles you to a free audio tour and I’m afraid it melted my brain. I should have stuck to the information boards that English Heritage helpfully provides at key points around the site, but when something’s free, you feel obliged to make the most of it. I wish I hadn’t.

You see, I’m a child of MTV. I have the attention span of a gnat, and in this consumerist age I make up my mind pretty quickly about whether I’m going to commit to something. When people surf the Web they give up on your website if a page takes more than a few seconds to load, and this is how life is in the new millennium. Although it might make older generations throw their hands up in horror, I think this bitesize attention span of the modern generation has its good points.

The main one is that for something to work, it has to work quickly. This is a fundamental rule of journalism and it’s something I learned early on in my career; if you haven’t managed to grab the audience’s attention by the end of the first paragraph, then you’ve failed. The same goes for presentations, websites, speeches, articles and all sorts of other media; it also goes for audio tours.

To be honest, I drowned in the sea of facts that English Heritage threw at me on my tour of Barnard Castle. The audio tour went on for what seemed like ages, but it amounted to little more than a highly polished production of a turgid history book. Occasionally a sound effect or an attempt at drama caught my attention, but most of the tour was background noise, because by this time I’d discovered that it’s far more fun watching other people taking an audio tour than it is to actually take one yourself.

Because the tour is free, everyone takes up the offer, and the offer comes in the form of a handheld audio device. It looks a bit like a mobile phone that’s been horribly tortured in a rack, and to listen to a particular section of the tour you key in a number, press ‘Play’ and stand there looking like a complete gherkin for five minutes while the tour guide drones on and on in your right ear. Luckily everyone else is doing the same, so as you wander round the castle, listening to the dry commentary as it goes in one ear and flows out the other, it feels as if you’re a member of a strange, modernist dance troupe whose latest ballet consists of slow, synchronised shuffles from information post to information post.

It doesn’t take long for things to degenerate, though. Some people get bored of the seemingly endless factual barrage and skip on to the next part of the tour, while others give up totally and start wandering round the ruins, their handsets dangling from their wrist cords, barking into thin air. Others get confused and key in the wrong numbers, and well after you’ve ground to the end of your own tour, they’re still pointing at various parts of the castle saying things like, ‘Do you think we should be standing over there, Dennis? Or perhaps they’re talking about that turret?’

But by far the most entertaining aspect of this audio group psychosis is the look that gradually creeps over the participants. At first people are happy to listen to the story of how the first wooden castle was built here as part of William the Conqueror’s campaign against the north of England, and how it grew to be the impressive family seat of the Balliol family, founders of the Oxford college of the same name. But as the tour plods through every single event that ever happened to the castle, people’s eyes glaze over, they shuffle about more and more, and they start looking at the ruins without paying a blind bit of notice to the tour until it tells them to move on... but still they refuse to press ‘Stop’, because they feel that now they’re committed, they should listen through to the bitter end. I did exactly the same thing, finding it far more interesting to drift off than listening to the endless dirge being played into my right ear.

I do remember one thing from the tour, though. Apparently, back in the 1300s, there was a terrible famine and the peasants were reduced to eating bird droppings and in some cases their own children. I have no idea what this has to do with Barnard Castle – precious little, directly – but it’s a great image. What a pity I had to wade through so much waffle to get there.

Oh, the castle? Good point, I almost forgot, but it’s excellent. It’s very ruined now and most of the walls have fallen down, but the central round tower is still reasonably intact (you can climb to the top and down into the basement) and the view through the stone latticework of the main window is stunning. Built on top of a cliff overlooking the River Tees, it’s an atmospheric spot where it’s easy to imagine archery contests in the gardens, hand-to-hand combat on the battlements, sumptuous feasts in the dining hall and pretty princesses looking out of the windows onto the people below. I highly recommend a visit to Barnard Castle, but do it on your own; it’s much more interesting without the freebie.

-oOo-

The town of Barnard Castle is adequate but not as delightful as it should be – apart from the lovely park round the castle it’s mainly a high street with some pretty tawdry shops – so Matt and I decided to head back to Middleton for an evening meal in the pub and an early night. It turned out to be a disappointing move.

My previous memories of Middleton were clouded by the fact that last time I met a great bunch of walkers and spent a highly entertaining evening with them in the town’s hotel, drinking and making merry. The hotel bar was a bit weird – it was more the realm of old ladies and silver tea services than a bunch of hairy trekkers – but we made the most of it and drank until the wee hours. This time we didn’t really fancy the hotel, so instead we decided to walk round the pubs of Middleton and pick the best one.

The first, the Kings Head, was firmly closed and didn’t appear to have any hand pumps at the bar, an ominous sign even if it had been open. The second, the Bridge Inn, was where we’d had our lunchtime beer and burger and it hadn’t exactly been inspiring. And the third... hang on, there wasn’t a third pub. That was the lot, so reluctantly we went back to the Bridge Inn to make the best of a bad job.

I don’t know what it is about pubs along the Pennine Way, but I’ve come across more crap ones here than on the whole of this walk so far. I loved the pubs in the southwest (apart from some dubious ones in Launceston and Midsomer Norton, as I recall) and the drinking holes along the Severn and throughout the Midlands were top notch. Derbyshire did well for pubs, and southern Yorkshire was good... but lately the standard has dropped, and with the Formica tables of Hawes and the miserable waste of potential that is the Bridge Inn, I’m in danger of losing my faith in northern rural drinking holes.

Things started off badly at the Bridge. At lunchtime the signs on the two hand pumps had been turned around to indicate no beer and the lady behind the bar had said that they were ‘just doing the barrels’; unfortunately whoever was doing those barrels hadn’t done them by the time we came back from Barnard Castle and the real ale was still off. They also didn’t have any Newcastle Brown Ale (though they checked the cellar, so they presumably used to have it) and despite the tantalising bottles on display above the bar – which included Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, Nessie’s Monster Mash, Arran Blonde, Arran Dark, Arran Light, Marston’s Owd Roger, Honkey Donkey and Wychwood Hobgoblin – the only ale-related drink on offer was smoothflow Theakstons.

‘Ah, no,’ said the barman, dashing that particular hope. ‘I’m afraid the valve’s blown on the Theakstons. We’ve got Kronenbourg, Foster’s, Miller, John Smith’s Extra Smooth, Woodpecker, Scrumpy Jack, Guinness or Guinness Extra Cold. Which one will it be?’

‘Um,’ I said, stumped by the awful choice of McBeers on offer and wondering whether I was really in the mood for a Guinness, the only half-decent brew in the whole pub. ‘Tell you what, serve this guy first while I make up my mind.’

‘Cheers,’ said the other man at the bar, burping loudly at the barman. ‘Pardon me. Smooth, please.’ He turned to me. ‘We all drink Smooth round here,’ he said, collapsing into an awful smoker’s cough and choking on whatever else he’d been about to say.

‘That’s nice,’ I said, wondering how on earth anyone could drink such an insipid pint and still end up sounding like a chain-smoking whisky drinker. ‘I think I’ll have a Guinness please. Are you doing food?’

‘We sure are,’ said the barman. ‘There’s our menu on the board and next to it’s the burger menu. Best burgers I’ve ever had,’ he added proudly, flying in the face of the evidence we’d been served at lunch.

‘OK,’ I said, looking at the menu, which was strangely small given that the room next door was set up as a restaurant, with tablecloths on every table and an expectant look that indicated that at some point in its history this pub had once been busy. On offer were snacks (baguettes, light bites, jacket potatoes, toasties), burgers, roast chicken, scampi, chilli con carne, gammon, mixed grill, steak and kidney pie, lasagne, minted lamb hotpot, three cheese pasta bake, chicken tikka, brunch and shepherd’s pie, all of which came with chips. I didn’t quite know what to choose; it all sounded so utterly banal.

‘Can I have a steak and kidney pie?’ asked Matt.

‘Sorry,’ said the barman. ‘We don’t do that any more.’

‘How about lasagne?’ asked Matt.

‘I think we’ve got one left,’ said the barman. ‘And for you?’

‘Um,’ I said, instantly fancying the dishes that I couldn’t have. ‘Minted lamb hotpot?’

‘Yes, we can do that,’ he said, and as I reflected that at least I hadn’t had to settle for another burger, the jukebox kicked in, playing irritating 1980s soul music in an attempt to persuade the two other punters in the bar to put money in it to shut it up.

Luckily we rounded off the evening not with another pint but with a wander down to the riverbed of the Tees. There we threw stones into the river, soaking up the gurgle of the water while clouds of midges floated menacingly above the riverbank. The clear sky slowly dimmed, the sounds of the countryside flitted through the sky and in the end the evening came good.

Phew.

Middleton to Langdon Beck

27 June 2003

The Pennine Way’s a funny beast. It’s as if the designing committee – and surely it was a committee – took a handful of really good day walks and mixed them together with a much larger helping of pointless drivel, simply to create a long-distance path along the backbone of Britain. But does the whole end up being greater than the sum of parts? I don’t think so and I won’t be darkening the Pennine Way’s door again, but it’s fair to say that the gems are truly wonderful and are well worth remembering.

The short walk up the River Tees from Middleton to Langdon Beck is one of these gems, especially after the dirge from Keld to Middleton. For the first few miles you can’t really see the river, but from the moment the Way reaches the banks, it’s great. OK, so I have a serious soft spot for river walking, and as the Pennine Way seems to avoid waterways like the plague, the novelty of walking along a proper river for more than a few steps is no doubt an influence; but the Tees is a genuinely picturesque river, especially this part of it, and even the most cynical walker has to fall for its charms.

For a start, the water is the colour of Newcastle Brown from all the peat the water passes through (the source, Teeshead, is on the eastern flank of my nemesis, Cross Fell, and on the other side of plenty of boggy moor). The riverbed is very rocky, with large chunks of dolerite and shale choking the flow, and this adds an effervescence that’s as close to Coca-Cola on ice as you can get in the natural world. As if this isn’t enough, there are loads of waterfalls along the way, with the highlight being High Force; here the river pounds over 21m-high rock shelves, foaming into a dark pool at the foot of the waterfall and filling the air with the constant pounding of the power of nature. It’s a humbling sight and the view of the waterfall from the Pennine Way is exquisite.

The river isn’t the only beautiful part of this walk, though. Just before High Force the Way passes through a juniper forest, the stumpy bushes twisted into tortured shapes underneath the cover of their prickly green spikes, and all along the banks tributaries tumble off the surrounding fells into little streams of peaty ale. It’s like wandering into Willy Wonka’s Beer Factory, the thought of which appeals to me more than I can possibly describe.

Unfortunately – and there’s always an unfortunately on the Pennine Way – the weather wasn’t kind to us, so instead of hanging around the river, feeding the midges and lapping up the sun, Matt and I kept on walking. The forecast for the afternoon was rain and the clouds had already arrived in force, hiding the tops of the hills in murky grey and promising a miserable afternoon for anyone caught out in the coming downpour; but even under overcast skies Teesdale is a great spot, and although today’s walk was short, it was most definitely sweet.

-oOo-

The only flies in the ointment came in clouds. From the moment I climbed Jacob’s Ladder at the start of the Pennine Way I’ve had to contend with midges, and as I get further north they’re growing in number and appetite. The midges of Scotland are legendary and I’m fully expecting to be bitten to hell when I get there, but the fact that midges are already inspiring column inches is more than a little worrying.

It’s the first thing people say when they discover you’re going walking in Scotland in the summer. ‘Watch out for the midges,’ they say, sucking in their breath. ‘Little buggers they are.’ And they’re right; midges are awful. Little more than a couple of millimetres from head to toe, your average midge looks like a microscopic house fly, but there’s one key difference: where flies eat shit, midges eat humans.

Having now bumped into quite a few midge clouds, I think it’s safe to say that they’re far more irritating than mosquitoes. Mosquitoes are generally solitary creatures, and not only are they big enough to catch your eye as they aim for your jugular, they make a distinctive, high-pitched squeal as they buzz round your head, so you can have a reasonable stab at squashing them. Although their bites itch like hell, you generally only get one or two at a time, and by far the biggest problem with mosquitoes is the chance of getting malaria, dengue fever, Ross River fever or any of the other fun-loving diseases that make travelling in the tropics such a health risk. Currently the UK is still free of malaria so mosquitoes in this country are simply an irritation, and they’re also quite good at avoiding anyone who’s bothered to spray themselves with a repellent containing DEET. Basically the mosquitoes in England are a pain, but compared to their cousins in Africa they’re amateurs.

This is probably because the midge has grabbed the top spot and it doesn’t look like it’s going to let go. Midges don’t carry any diseases either, but what they lack in infection they make up for in numbers, for midges hang out in huge gangs and when they pounce, they pounce in style. My first experience of a midge attack was back on day one of the Way, on the long haul across the moors to Snake Pass, where I casually looked at my left arm and discovered it was covered in tiny black flies. There must have been about 50 on my right arm alone and a quick glance at David showed that he was smothered in the little buggers too. None of them was biting and I assumed they were just bog flies and brushed them off, but now I know they were in fact midges.

I know this because since then I’ve been bumping into midges more and more regularly, particularly in wet parts of the walk such as bog or riverbank, and apart from that strange first meeting on Snake Pass, they’ve bitten me whenever we’ve met. The problem is that they come in such big numbers that by the time you notice them, you’ll already have plenty of bites that will keep on itching for the next few days. Individually midges are no problem, but in clouds they’re a nightmare.

I do have a remedy, though. When I was out in Western Australia, a bushman told me of a special potion that he used to ward off mosquitoes and sandflies, and once I tried it I never looked back. He told me to take a bottle of baby oil, to pour one-third of it away and to fill up the rest with Dettol. Initially it separates out into two layers like some evil-looking cocktail, but if you shake it up it mixes into a creamy emulsion not unlike vinaigrette, and then it’s easy to squirt on your skin.

His reasoning sounded a bit dodgy at first, but basically he said that the Dettol would repel the mosquitoes, and the sandflies would get stuck to the baby oil and die a horrible death among the fumes of disinfectant. I didn’t believe him, but when I went to New Zealand and came across clouds of flesh-eating sandflies who laughed in the face of DEET, I decided to try his mixture and it worked. It wasn’t perfect, but the sandflies would fly in, land on my skin, get stuck, try to get off and then would spend a painful few minutes twisting themselves into a ball of mush while the Dettol rotted their brains.

But what about midges? Are they the same beasts as sandflies? Well they’re both flies, they both feast on tourists and they both hunt in clouds, so I’m now the proud owner of a bottle of baby oil that’s one-third Dettol, and today I tried it out for the first time, down by the River Tees. The success rate wasn’t 100%, but judging by the number of midges squirming in the sticky prison on my forearms, it seemed to work. Sure, it has the unfortunate side-effect of repelling humans too, but my walking clothes seem to do that anyway, and if anything the Dettol makes me smell like I’ve at least made an effort at personal hygiene, albeit a misguided one. So from now on, whenever I’m heading into midge territory, I’m going to apply a bit of the bushman’s secret recipe; even if it doesn’t prevent every single bite, being a human Venus Fly Trap is entertainment in itself.

If that fails, I’ll just whinge at Matt. His hip is improving so we’re going to stick together for a little longer; if crowding together is good enough for the midges, then it’s good enough for us, too.

Langdon Beck to Dufton

28 June 2003

The biggest problem with walking a track for the second time is the lack of punchlines. The last time I walked from Langdon Beck to Dufton the wind howled straight into my face all day, and I remember it being wet underfoot, freezing cold and one of those days where I was too tired to be happy when I reached the end; instead, I remember falling into the Stag Inn at Dufton in a state of exhaustion that even a couple of pints of Bass failed to cure. But ignoring the physical demands of the day, I remember the River Tees being beautiful, I remember the climb up past Cauldron Snout being interesting, and I remember the sight of High Cup Nick being incredible. Unfortunately, because I remember them all so clearly, it rather took the thrill out of today’s walk, because although the sights were as good as I remember them, they just weren’t as interesting second time round.

This is what I don’t understand about serial walkers. On my fateful attempt at the Pennine Way in 2000 I met a group of lads who were doing the Pennine Way for something like the fifth time, and back in the B&B in Lothersdale I had breakfast with a man who was doing the Pennine Way for the eleventh time. I’m sure that your appreciation of a walk like this changes the more you do it and no doubt you start to notice things that you wouldn’t spot on your first few trips, but with all the wonderful walks available in this country and abroad I fail to understand why anyone would keep on doing the same old track, time after time.

So for me today wasn’t particularly thrilling. The novelty of nostalgia has worn off and I’m starting to get to the point where I’ve had enough of the Pennine Way; instead I’m looking forward to Scotland, a part of the world that I’ve never explored before. With my attention span deficit and low boredom threshold, even two trips along the Pennine Way is one too many.

-oOo-

It’s at Middleton-in-Teesdale that the Pennine Way takes a sharp turn west; this is where the Way crosses the Pennines to Dufton before switching back the following day to go northeast over the highest point of the Pennine chain, Cross Fell, and then to the little town of Alston. As far as heading from Land’s End to John o’Groats is concerned this is a detour that adds an unnecessary day to the schedule – a more sensible approach would be to head straight from Langdon Beck to Alston in a day, cutting out the switchback – but this is the section of the Pennine Way that broke me last time and I want to conquer it before moving north.

Unfortunately the walk west to Dufton isn’t the most thrilling journey on the planet. It starts by picking up the River Tees again and following it along an incredibly rocky riverside track to the junction with Maize Beck, at the foot of Cauldron Snout. This pretty, gushing waterfall is a pleasant spot – though it’s no big thrill after High Force – and the Way climbs up the rocks to the right of the waterfall, eventually passing in front of the concrete walls of the Cow Green Reservoir dam.

Here the Way leaves the Tees and heads west into Cumbria, across one of those monotonous, boring and depressing stretches of moor that the Pennine Way seems to actively seek out. I suppose it was inoffensive enough when we crossed it, and despite a stiff breeze and the odd spot of rain, the weather co-operated and conditions were good. But moors are moors and this one has an added twist to make you feel at home, for the Way skirts along the northern edge of a massive military firing range whose ‘Keep Out’ signs only add to the happy, welcoming feel that totally fails to pervade the area.

Still, it doesn’t last forever – just a couple of hours or so – and then suddenly, wham! The moor ends and the world stretches out in front of you as you reach High Cup Nick.

-oOo-

The first time you see it, High Cup Nick is astounding, and even second time round it’s impressive, even though there’s no sense of surprise as you gingerly walk up to the edge. It’s hard to describe what you can see as the Way gently rises over High Cup Plain and approaches High Cup Nick, but this is what I thought I saw, anyway...

Imagine, if you will, a 200m-high bathtub, and in your mind’s eye slice off the end that holds the taps. Now add wheels like those on a shopping trolley and picture an irresponsible minor deity wheeling this trolley through the landscape of Ice Age Britain, pushing it wildly from the end that used to hold the taps, the sloping front end of the bath bumping into trees and scaring herds of woolly mammoths into stampedes. Next, picture this shopping trolley suddenly developing a mind of its own and ramming itself head-on into the western flanks of the Pennines, showering the area with rock and slamming the bath right into the mountains. Finally, leave the bathtub to become covered in the green-grey growth of post-glacial England, and you now have what modern man calls High Cup Nick.

The Pennine Way approaches the top edge of the bathtub from across the moor, eventually arriving at the point where your head would be resting if you were a mile-high giant enjoying a long soak. The whole thing is completely invisible as you approach, until suddenly the ground seems to give out beneath you and there it is, a massive scoop out of the hillside leading to the flat plains of Eden Valley beyond. The wiggly line of High Cupgill Beck winds along the bottom like the bath’s plug chain, and it’s practically compulsory to spend ages sitting on the top lip of the Nick, drinking in the view.

This is what I did last time, after a miserably wet crossing of the military moor. This time I was more interested in seeing Matt’s face as High Cup Nick hit him for the first time, and by the time I’d looked round and reminded myself of how beautiful things can be once you’re off the moor, it struck me that, at last, I might get a mobile phone signal on this high perch.

Most ramblers would be horrified if I told them I sat there for ten minutes, sending text messages instead of enjoying the views of High Cup Nick, and that’s just one reason why I don’t talk to ramblers much. ‘What about enjoying the scenery?’ they’d say. ‘What about communing with nature? Or pondering the power and beauty of the natural world? Are you mad?’ Well, today I broke through the 600-mile barrier, and when you’ve walked that far in one go and on your own, sometimes you’re more interested in maintaining your contact with the human race than soaking up the solitude of the Pennines.

There’s something stimulating about human interaction that walking just can’t compete with. If there’s one thing I’ve learned after seven-and-a-half weeks on the go, it’s that walking might be physically demanding and mentally challenging, but it’s not mentally stimulating. There’s only so much brain power required to put your left foot in front of your right foot, and on a track like the Pennine Way you quite often don’t even need to read the map, you just follow the footprints. That’s one of the reasons I make myself write every day – it’s one way of stopping my brain from slumping into the lethargy of unemployment – and it also means that those little text message conversations take on a whole new significance. Back home among the bright lights and technobabble of the city, text messaging is a laugh; out here, it’s a psychological lifeline.

So those text messages made me just as happy as the beautiful view did, and after a long downhill stomp into Dufton, those two pints of Bass and the massive shanks of lamb that Matt and I devoured at the Stag Inn were just the icing on the cake.

Dufton to Alston

29 June 2003

I think this is the point where I conclude that I simply don’t get the Pennine Way. The journey from Dufton to Alston goes over the highest point of the Pennines – at 893m above sea level, Cross Fell is also the highest point of my planned route from Land’s End to John o’Groats – and for most people this part of the walk is a highlight... but I’m afraid it just leaves me cold. It can’t be down to the lack of punchlines because last time I walked over Cross Fell the visibility was so terrible I couldn’t see my feet, let alone what I was walking across; no, I’m afraid it’s just another section of the Pennine Way that fails to light my fire.

From Dufton it’s a long, long climb back up into the Pennines. Dufton lies at 180m above sea level and the first peak of the day at the top of Green Fell is over 600m higher up a steep mountainside path, but throughout the climb the view over the Eden Valley to the west gets more and more impressive, with the distant peaks of the Lake District slowly homing into view on the horizon. I was more obsessed by the dark clouds lurking over the peaks we were heading for, but I kept my fingers crossed for good weather; Cross Fell is no place to be caught in the wind and rain, something I know from bitter experience.

Luckily there is one thing on the top of the Pennines that’s enough to keep an imaginative sort like me occupied for ages. In its journey to the top of Cross Fell, the Pennine Way goes over two neighbouring hills; 790m-high Green Hill is the first summit of the day and is home to a large cairn and precious little else, and Great Dun Fell, the second summit, is slightly higher at 848m. But Great Dun Fell isn’t interesting for being just a few metres short of its neighbour, Cross Fell; instead it’s interesting because of the golf ball on its summit.

I’ve mentioned the golf ball before; I could see it from Great Shunner Fell between Hawes and Thwaite, and it was conspicuous by its absence on my first ascent over this part of the Pennines in 2000. Back then the pea-soup cloud that swirled round the peaks blotted out absolutely any sign of the golf ball, and the only reason I knew it was there was because the guidebook recommended I use it as a direction finder, pointing out that it’s always visible ‘except in white-out conditions.’ Today I could see what the author meant; you can’t miss it, especially when the sun lights up the hilltop.

The official Pennine Way guidebook is scathing about the negative aspects of the golf ball, even though it’s used for commercial rather than military aviation, but I found it beautiful. I’ve always enjoyed the clash of mankind and Mother Nature, and I particularly like it when the combination is intriguing. The sight of a perfect white globe glowing on the top of a desolate Pennine mountain is bizarre, but it’s bizarre in the same way as a glass pyramid outside the Louvre or a huge Ferris wheel opposite the Houses of Parliament. As Matt and I padded uphill, slowly getting closer to the radar station, more and more details of the surrounding buildings swam into view, and every few steps it looked like something new. The vertical antennae posts on either side made it look like the Taj Mahal interpreted by a 1970s architect; next it was a massive insect egg, the fine lines between the jigsaw sections looking from a distance like veins; then it reminded me of the bouncing white balls from The Prisoner; and eventually, as I came over the brow of Dunfell Hush, it turned into a full-blooded radar station sitting on top of the Pennines.

The amazing thing was how I managed to miss it the last time I was here. The Way goes right past the wire fence that surrounds the golf ball, and it’s huge; when I stood here last time, nose pressed to the barbed wire, I couldn’t make out a thing except for the hazy outline of a building somewhere beyond the barrier. It turns out that this was the building on which the golf ball sits, and yet I still couldn’t see anything. It must have been astoundingly cloudy the last time I was here, but this time the golf ball was not only visible, but the ever-changing floorshow kept me going all the way to Cross Fell, the next peak in the chain.

-oOo-

As summits go, Cross Fell is disappointing. The top is large and flat, and the summit itself is only obvious because it’s home to a large stone wind shelter in the shape of an X, built to shelter walkers from the high winds that lash the area for most of the year. The views to the west are impressive, though, especially on a clear day like today; the peaks of the Lake District are visible in the distance and they look stunning, but even with such a pretty view the top of Cross Fell is not a pleasant place to be. It’s easy to see why people used to call it Fiend’s Fell, believing that evil spirits lived here; it’s desolate, featureless, unremitting and utterly barren, and even behind the stone walls of the wind shelter it’s hardly a relaxing place, so even though our arrival at 12.30 was comfortably ahead of schedule, we hurried through lunch and didn’t hang about for too long.

Unfortunately the descent crosses yet another featureless moor that seems to go on forever. The view from the golf ball over Milburn Forest to the east is one of rugged landscape; round here the word ‘forest’ doesn’t have anything to do with trees, but refers to an area of land that was once set aside for hunting by the gentry. In other words ‘forest’ normally means ‘moor’, and from Cross Fell the Pennine Way heads east to skirt the northern flanks of Milburn Forest. It’s a forbidding prospect. Again.

I think this is where fans of the Pennine Way and I must beg to differ. They adore these swathes of moorland and harp on about the beautiful birds and landscapes, but I don’t get it; I’ve had lapwings tootling around my head, I’ve seen curlews peeping through the bush and I’ve scared plenty of grouse and pheasants into noisy flight from the heather, but I still don’t like the moors. I’ve trudged through the rain, I’ve sweltered through searing sunshine and I’ve walked under overcast skies, but I still don’t like the moors. I’ve tried the murky brown moors of Bodmin, the shrouded flanks of Dartmoor, the black moorland of the Derbyshire Dark Peak, the Brontë-inspiring moorland of Yorkshire and the high moorland of the Pennine summits, and I still don’t like the moors. I think I’m entitled to say that I’ve gone in there, done a lot of walking and had time to make an informed opinion: I don’t like moors.

The problem is that the Pennine Way does insist on going right through the middle of any moor within spitting distance. So far there have been some lovely sections – the Yorkshire Dales from Malham to Keld are great, Teesdale is gorgeous and High Cup Nick would make an excellent day walk – but the majority of the Pennine Way is turgid and I can’t help feeling that the Way is little more than a long walk for the sake of being a long walk. It would make such a brilliant collection of day walks; why spoil it by filling up the gaps with rubbish like the walk from Cross Fell to Garrigill?

Perhaps this difference in outlook is best summed up by the sheep. I’m sure fans of the moorland don’t have much of an opinion when it comes to sheep bleating away on the fells; if they do, they probably enjoy it as another wonderful sound of Mother Nature’s backyard. But to me the sheep on the flanks of Cross Fell didn’t sound like the happy chatterers of the lowlands, where the sheep are like old people gossiping in the Post Office queue on pension day; no, to me the sheep on Cross Fell sounded as if they were calling out to their children, their voices trembling on the edge of panic. Perhaps it was the effect of the desolate landscape, but all I could picture was a little lost lamb huddling behind a heather bush and calling out for its mother, alone in the middle of this harsh, demanding landscape. To me this place isn’t beautiful, it’s a place where even the sheep have a terrible time, where little lambs get lost and where the fiends of Fiend’s Fell are still very much alive.

Like I said, I don’t like moors.

-oOo-

It takes hours to walk down the stony track that starts just below the summit of Cross Fell and winds for miles through the moors. It’s an awful walking surface, with rocks everywhere and a heather verge that’s too thin to walk along, but at least I already knew what to expect, so I just got on with it and walked. Luckily I’d warned Matt about how this part seemed to go on forever, and having company along the way helped immeasurably; indeed, although it took a long, long time to reach the village of Garrigill it wasn’t as hard as either of us had expected.

Incredibly the George and Dragon pub on the pretty village green was still serving as we walked in at 3.15 – last orders were at 4pm, which isn’t bad for a Sunday – so Matt tucked into a pint of Guinness while I sampled the 4.2% delights of a pint of Hop Back Crop Circle. I can’t tell you how enjoyable it was to be tucking into a pint of refreshingly light ale on a sun-drenched village green, especially after the Mordor we’d just crossed; indeed, that pint was easily the highlight of the day, which says a lot about Cross Fell.

Luckily the next couple of miles along the River South Tyne were equally wonderful, with the river babbling along its stony bed in a conversational manner that contrasted pleasantly with the more forceful Tees of two days ago; at this stage the South Tyne has beautifully clear waters, and after days of peaty rivers and brown moors, walking along the banks was as refreshing as the Crop Circle I’d just quaffed. Sure, the last few miles into Alston dragged on a bit, mainly because the Way leaves the river and decides to trudge through an endless succession of boring farmers’ fields, but I didn’t care. I’ve conquered Cross Fell, I haven’t injured my knees and I’ve finally looked the Pennine Way in the eye and decided that after all these miles, I can take it or leave it. From now on I’ll use the Pennine Way when it’s convenient, but as far as I’m concerned I’m once again concentrating on walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats, and that’s the important thing.

Alston to Haltwhistle

1 July 2003

The section of the Pennine Way from Alston to Greenhead is generally accepted to be a complete and utter waste of time. Even fans of the Way don’t think much of the zigzagging track that plods across farmland and boggy commons; I know this because Barry, my fellow End-to-End walker from Street and Bewdley, turned up at Alston Youth Hostel last night and he doesn’t have one good thing to say about the Alston-Greenhead walk. When I did it back in 2000 I hated it; my knees hurt from the descent of Cross Fell and when I walked I compensated so much for the pain that I ended up damaging the tendon in my right foot. I didn’t know it as I slogged through the bog into Greenhead, but that was to be my last day on the Way; I woke up the next morning unable to walk and I had to give up and return to London. I wasn’t sad, as by this time I’d had quite enough of the idiocy of the bloody Pennines, but it left a deep impression, an impression that when the Pennine Way wants to suck, it sucks hard.

That’s why I didn’t touch the Pennine Way with a barge-pole today, and the sense of relief is palpable. The skies opened yesterday as I enjoyed a rest day in Alston, and they stayed open all day today as well; rain turned into showers and then downpours before a steamy respite, but I didn’t mind too much because the track I took, the South Tyne Trail, turned out to be a motorway.

The South Tyne Trail is a new kid on the block and some sections were still being built as I set off from Land’s End, so although it was a bit of a gamble as to whether it would be any use to a walker like me, the gamble paid off. The trail follows an old railway line for the entire distance from Alston to Haltwhistle, which means there are no steep gradients and, as with the Camel Trail down in Devon, large sections of it have been designed for bicycles, making the surface flat, easy to walk on and free of such delights as bog, flagstones or rocks. OK, it doesn’t end up in the same place as the Pennine Way so it’s only partially useful for those looking for a shortcut to Greenhead (which is a few miles west-northwest of Haltwhistle), but I’m not walking the Pennine Way, I’m walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats, and I can flirt with any trails I like. And the South Tyne Trail, I like.

Sure, the first few miles are a bit of a drama, because from Alston to just beyond the border with Northumberland the railway is still very much present and correct; indeed, the sign at Alston boasts that this is Britain’s highest narrow gauge railway, which is no doubt quite a thrill to those who care about track widths. The path is there too, to the side of the rails, but the section to the county border is so choked with grass that in this rain it’s like swimming through a sea of kelp. Luckily the Northumberland authorities seem to have possession of the area’s only strimmer, because north of the border the path is exemplary – and mostly rail-free – all the way to Haltwhistle. But even the kelp on the Cumbrian side doesn’t spoil things; after all, whenever the rain kicks in or the grass drags against your feet, you can console yourself that at least you’re not on the bloody Pennine Way.

-oOo-

The walk was uneventful, flat, easy and over before lunch. There are some great spots, especially the old train stations which stand there with their empty platforms, presiding over station houses that have long since turned into highly desirable private residences. One station, at Lambley Viaduct, is closed off to the public and the South Tyne Trail takes a short detour around the old building, but apart from that the trail faithfully follows the route of the old track, and with the stations, viaducts and bridges still very much recognisable as their former selves, walking the trail is a bit like being an incredibly slow, ponderous train.

I arrived in Haltwhistle early enough to stand in the middle of town with my mouth hanging open, because according to the display in the middle of the town square, Haltwhistle is at the centre of Britain; this means I’ve walked from one of the most extreme points of mainland Britain to the centre, which is really something. I’m going to conveniently ignore the fact that nobody seems able to agree on where the centre of Britain really is; Haltwhistle claims that it’s at the centre, but then again so does Dunsop Bridge in Lancashire, not to mention the spot a mile southeast of Coton-in-the-Elms in Derbyshire. The problem is that there are so many different ways to calculate the centre of a country that you end up with loads of contenders, but Haltwhistle is the only one with a big board in the middle of the town that describes exactly why they think they’re in the middle, and when you consider that Haltwhistle is home to the Centre of Britain Hotel, the Centre of Britain Restaurant, the Centre of Britain Gallery and – wait for it – the Centre of Britain Launderette, it’s probably fair to say that Haltwhistle deserves a special award for effort.

Haltwhistle to Bellingham

2 July 2003

Back in 122 AD when the Emperor Hadrian built his eponymous wall, Haltwhistle was at the very edge of the Roman Empire. The tribes in the north had driven the invading Romans south to this point, and the wall was a way of consolidating the northern border of the empire and stopping any further incursions. However, one can’t help wondering whether your average Mediterranean soldier actually wanted to go any further north anyway, for in the rain that so often strikes the north of England, Hadrian’s Wall is a truly dismal place.

It’s not fair of me to criticise Northumberland when all I’ve seen of it is mist, midges and mud, but today I couldn’t shake off a strange feeling of foreboding. The last time I was at Hadrian’s Wall it also rained, and I sat in the pub at Once Brewed and drowned my sorrows at being beaten by the Pennine Way while the wind lashed the windows and made me only too happy to leave. This time things are different – I’m still able to walk, for a start – but the rain’s still here, the skies are still grey and the outlook is still dreary. It’s a shame; it’d be great to see Hadrian’s Wall in sunshine for once.

Then again, it’s not as if I’ve actually been on Hadrian’s Wall today. As with most defensive walls, the builders didn’t care whether it was easy for the soldiers to walk along the top of the thing; they were far more interested in stopping the screaming hordes from invading. The result is a wall that takes in all the highest and most defensible parts of the landscape, and if the soldiers found that it was hard work walking from turret to turret, then I guess that was just tough.

For those walking the Pennine Way, the path east along the top of what was once the wall is a killer and I wanted absolutely no part of it. Life is too short to kill yourself for the sake of sticking to a trail that you don’t like much in the first place, so from Haltwhistle I headed east along minor roads, byways, footpaths and bridleways, and I enjoyed looking at Hadrian’s Wall from a distance and thinking how glad I was not to be going up and down, up and down, up and down, and up and down some more, weighed down by a heavy pack like a poor conscript in the Roman army. Things are hard enough round here without being a masochist, and besides, I’ve already seen Hadrian’s Wall once. It’s a wall, it rains a lot there, and it’s best seen from within the comfort of a holiday that includes a car, somewhere warm and dry to sleep, and the kind of schedule that can duck into the pub for the afternoon when it’s raining too much. Given that, I’m sure the Wall experience would be sublime rather than ridiculous.

-oOo-

Unfortunately I had to rejoin the Pennine Way at some stage because it’s still the most logical way to head north from Hadrian’s Wall. I enjoyed the few miles of field-hopping to the south of the wall, but after skirting the ancient ruins of Vindolanda, an old Roman fort, I turned north towards Turret 37A, where a Pennine Way sign points towards the unedifying sight of wet fields and the pine trees of Wark Forest in the near distance. A few days ago one of the nutters on his umpteenth Pennine Way had been warbling on about his favourite parts of the walk, and I asked him what he thought about the section after Hadrian’s Wall. ‘It’s forest, farm and fuck all else,’ he replied, and looking north from the wall, I could see his point. I felt like I was on the edge of the known world and it felt bloody lonely. This might be because Matt’s no longer with me; I’ve walked with Matt on and off since Keld and he was excellent company, but his walk ends today at the eastern end of Hadrian’s Wall, so we said goodbye this morning and went our separate ways. I like walking alone, but the parting of good company always brings on a strangely empty feeling.

Mother Nature obviously took pity on me, because at that moment she sent me a friend. And did she conjure up another walker to keep my mind off the lonely miles ahead? Did she hell. She sent me a bloody dog, and one with absolutely no idea what ‘no’ means. Out of the reedy grass on Turret 37A bounced this little bundle of fun, and even though I know precious little about dogs, even I could tell that (a) she was a bitch, (b) she was black and (c) she was far too young to be wandering around Hadrian’s Wall on her own. Her owners didn’t seem to be around and she didn’t have a collar, and as with all the strays I’ve bumped into on this walk, she decided to make me her special friend, despite my complete lack of interest.

I didn’t want a dog as a walking companion; I didn’t want a dog, full stop. So I tried ignoring her, and she bounced along by my feet. I tried very loud profanities and hand gestures that even the most retarded dog should have understood, and she thought it was a really fun game. I tried throwing stones at her, aiming to miss but trying to make the point that I was a really nasty human and she shouldn’t hang around for fear of getting a stone between the eyes, and she thought I was playing a game of catch. I tried thwacking her arse with my trekking sticks – not hard, but firm enough to make the point – and even though she seemed to realise this wasn’t a friendly gesture, she refused to move. Like it or not, it looked like I had a friend for life.

But I really don’t like the company of dogs, not so much because of the dogs themselves, but because of the effect they have on the wildlife around me. Sheep aren’t much of a problem – they just run away when puppies bounce through the fields after me – but cows don’t like dogs, and they don’t like them enough to get violent. Earlier this year a woman was mown down and killed by cows when she walked her dog through their field; even though she’d walked her dog through the same field many times, the cows took exception to it one day – almost certainly because they had calves with them at the time – and trampled her to death. Apparently they went for the dog and she scooped it up in her arms to protect it, inadvertently becoming the unwitting target of the cows’ stampede herself.

The effect of my unwanted friend on the next field of cows was incredible. Cows are normally pretty docile, but as soon as I came round the corner they started yelling and screaming and running towards me. This wasn’t the inquisitiveness of bullocks or me stumbling on a herd of cows marching off to be milked, this was the natural instinct of the herd to defend itself. They were going for the dog and the dog was hiding behind me, scared out of her wits at the sudden commotion.

I had no choice but to scream at the dog to run away, and luckily it took the hint and ran off round the field, only to meet me at the gate. There the poor beast screamed to a halt in front of a group of elderly walkers who were looking at me with the kind of sage look that those who know better tend to aim at young whippersnappers like me.

‘Don’t forget your dog,’ one of them said, shooing the dog through the gate and letting his disapproving tone do the talking for him.

‘She’s not my bloody dog,’ I said. ‘She’s been following me, and nearly got me mown down by those cows. I can’t get rid of her, no matter what I try; God knows where she came from.’

‘Ah,’ another said, and suddenly I wasn’t necessarily such a stupid bugger after all. ‘She must be lost, then. Maybe she’ll come with us; we’re heading back to the wall.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, and with that I gratefully left the dog with the walking group and struck off for Wark Forest, happy to be alone once again.

-oOo-

Wark Forest is a dismal place. It’s a man-made pine plantation, and although the Pennine Way spends quite a lot of time wandering through it, it’s no walker’s paradise. The midges are so bad that when you stop for lunch you inadvertently become it, and underfoot the paths are either sodden and marshy, or stony and hard. The closely packed pine trees shut out all light, so the view on either side is murky and downright scary; the only respite is when you walk through areas that have recently been logged, which look like the aftermath of a nuclear blast. I suppose it could be a lot worse – there are precious few hills and no steep climbs – but it’s a bit like being stuck in Hades with your punishment being to walk through endlessly muddy and midge-infested pine forests until hell freezes over.

Even the breaks between the sections of forest are depressing. One part, Haughton Common, was even marshier than the forest, but at least there were fewer midges so I sat down to have lunch on an old shepherd’s shelter that consisted of some dilapidated stone walls surrounding four trees that had taken on the weather and lost. The only highlight was when a Dutch couple walked the other way and nodded hello, and when we fell into conversation and I mentioned I was heading for John o’Groats, they said, ‘Ah! Are you Mr Mark?’ I have no idea how they knew my name, but in a place as strange as Wark Forest, you don’t ask too many questions...

-oOo-

Soon enough the forest ends and the rest of the walk passes through – you guessed it – farmland. This farmland, though, is different; it feels utterly unloved and isolated. Buildings are few and far between and I even found myself hankering for farmhouses with over-friendly dogs; at least that would be a sign of life in this sparse, lonely countryside. One highlight was a field in which all the cows obviously had the horn; the one bull in the field was busy trying to shag his sweetheart right by the stile I had to climb, and all around bullocks tried it on with other bullocks and even with their mothers in a field-wide show of hormones that gave new meaning to the term ‘meat market.’ I even saw a cow trying to hump the bull with her udders, though without much success; out here, there’s precious little else to do, I guess.

The farms seem to go on forever. Military planes shoot overhead, flying noisily low, and deep booms echo through the treetops, presumably coming from the Military Danger Area to the north of Bellingham. To the east of the path lies the Northumberland National Park, which looks as lonely as the rest of the countryside, and the day settled into long walking sessions punctuated by short breaks in the wet grass. On one of these breaks I idly looked over the map, and a quick scan of the names sums the whole place up. There’s Shitlington Crags, Black Bog, Willowbog, Naked Man, the Lumps, Horneystead Crags, Windy Edge, Goatstones, Bleaklaw and a whole thesaurus of equally friendly names, but top of the pile has to be a spot just north of the Way. There, in the middle of the forest, is Lousy Bog; I presume the Ordnance Survey missed out the preceding expletive on grounds of decency.

Finally after endless miles of marshy farmland I arrived in Bellingham (pronounced ‘Bell-in-jum’), where at least they had a pub amongst all the midges and the laugh-a-minute place names.

And then it started to rain. Again.

Bellingham to Byrness

3 July 2003

If this section was sold to people as a self-contained day walk, then I’m pretty convinced that nobody would bother to do it; the only reason I can imagine why anyone would drag themselves out of bed to walk from Bellingham to Byrness is because it’s part of the Pennine Way, and once you’ve come this far north, you might as well finish the bugger. The journey is completely without merit and it’s just one more reason why I’m delighted to be leaving the Pennine Way tomorrow; I’ve really had it with this bloody track.

It’s not the physical difficulty of the Way that’s got to me; I’m able to cover 15 miles a day reasonably easily, and even with the uphill climbs and swampy bog, a day this long is now pretty routine. The thing that gets to me is the sheer stupidity of walking through this kind of terrain in the first place; today started with more depressing moorland and it finished with a long and very tedious walk along forestry roads, through the soulless man-made pine forests of Kielder.

I suppose I should be grateful that it didn’t rain, and I should also be pleased that my gaiters kept my feet perfectly dry despite quite a few miles of utterly waterlogged marsh; but all I care about is that I’ve now completed the Bellingham-Byrness section of the Pennine Way and that I’ll never, ever bother to do it again.

-oOo-

This is where I normally get all lyrical and manage to squeeze 1000 words out of even the most insipid day. I’ve long subscribed to the theory that you’re only a writer once you can write 1000 words about a fridge and maintain the reader’s interest, but even I’m not going to waste 1000 words on this northern stretch of the Pennine Way.

Then again, there is something I need to get off my chest. I’ve already harped on about what I think about the Way, but before I leave it tomorrow and head off into Scotland, I’d like to take this opportunity to slag off the publishers of the Pennine Way’s official leaflet, because it’s rare that one gets the opportunity to read such a load of ill-informed rubbish in one handy, compact leaflet.

First up, under a heading ‘The Pennine Way for Everyone’, the leaflet kicks off with these wise words:

Today many walkers, in search of an adventure, take up the challenge of completing the Trail in one continuous walk over a couple of weeks.

I’m amazed that this is how they introduce the Pennine Way. Doing the Way in a couple of weeks is pushing it even for the strongest walkers – I wouldn’t like to try it, even now – and statistically speaking, most people who pick up this leaflet are unlikely to be at that level of walking.

To me, the Pennine Way is definitely a three-week walk for everyone except the insane, and to mislead people at the very start of a glossy official leaflet is nothing short of irresponsible. Have you ever wondered why so many people give up after only a few days on the trail? Blame the Countryside Agency, I say, who wrote not only the introduction above, but also this hilarious piece of claptrap:

The Trail is well signed and looked after to high standards to ensure one of the best walking experiences in Britain.

Um, are we talking about the same Pennine Way here? ‘Well signed?’ That’s nothing short of a lie, and coupled with the main photo, showing a young girl sitting by High Force in pop-socks, shorts and a T-shirt that obviously hasn’t been struggling under a pack for the last few days, I can’t help wondering whether this leaflet was written by a team of marketing executives who’ve never even been to the Pennines.

Still, they did get one thing right: their marketing catchphrase for the Pennine Way is ‘Once in a Lifetime.’ I’m sure that’s exactly how most people feel after finishing or, more likely, giving up. Roll on tomorrow...

Southern Scotland

Byrness to Jedburgh

4 July 2003

It’s fitting that on Independence Day I should leave the shackles of the Pennine Way behind, after what feels like months of following the bloody thing (it’s actually been just under three weeks). I got up early this morning and struggled up the steep valley that’s home to Byrness – or, to be more accurate, home to a pub, a filling-station-cum-café, a hostel, some houses and a church – and after trudging through the marsh on the top of the southern Cheviot Hills, I finally reached the signpost where the Pennine Way heads off in a northeasterly direction and Dere Street, an old Roman road, heads northwest. I went northwest, safe in the knowledge that I’ll never bother to darken the Pennine Way’s doorstep again.

I instantly felt better; it was the same elation you get when you quit your job and realise that you’ll never again have to put up with the idiot whims of your employer. Away into the bleak Cheviots rolled the boggy Way, but ahead of me stretched the grassy path of Dere Street and the border with Scotland. ‘At last!’ I thought, and pushed my way through the gate and off the Pennine Way.

And with that, I finished walking across England.

-oOo-

The sun glowed in a beautiful morning sky as I left Byrness this morning, but by the time I reached Chew Green, home to an old Roman camp that’s now nothing but ridges and bumps, the sky had clouded over and I stopped to put the waterproof cover on my backpack in preparation for the rain that I thought was coming. But as soon as I stepped into Scotland the clouds evaporated and the most glorious summer’s day appeared; it was like something out of a cheesy Biblical movie and it made my descent into Scotland even more symbolic. My spirits lifted as I stepped down from the Cheviots into the gentle rolling hills of the Borders region; I haven’t felt like this for ages.

From the moment I left the Way, I followed Dere Street almost all the way to Jedburgh. This Roman road was built around 80 AD to provide a supply route for the Roman army as it slowly extended its control over northern England and Caledonia, and at its completion it stretched from York all the way to the Firth of Forth, just west of Edinburgh. However, around 100 AD the army was withdrawn from Caledonia – we don’t know why, but it could have been because the Caledonians were kicking back against the invaders – and in 122 AD the Emperor Hadrian visited Britain and decided to construct the wall that bears his name. Dere Street then became the main supply road from York to the wall while the northern section of the road withered away in enemy territory.

The part of the street that leads to Jedburgh is a pretty mixed affair, then; in some parts it disappears altogether, churned up by streams and hikers’ boots into a boggy reminder of the Pennine Way, but in others it’s an obvious route that’s evidently been used for centuries. Apart from the odd marshy patch, I loved walking along Dere Street; it’s dead straight, which is a delight after the meandering climbs of the Pennine Way, and once the initial hills are out of the way it’s almost totally flat, making for easy walking.

But for me the most amazing aspect of Dere Street wasn’t the road itself, but the countryside through which it passes. The Pennine Way makes a virtue of seeking out the most remote and unpopulated countryside, but suddenly I’m back in civilisation, and I love it. Today I walked through acres of farmers’ fields where the tractors busily made hay while the sun shone, and I even followed a few minor roads, built on the foundations of ancient Dere Street. The sudden appearance of traffic was a shock, but the views were of beautiful rolling hills on all sides; despite the fact that the scenery was most definitely Scottish – hills, pine plantations, a specific feel to the landscape – I could easily kid myself that I was walking through Devon again. This I liked; I enjoyed the southwest, and on the worst parts of the Pennine Way I often found myself hankering after the quiet lanes of the West Country or the idyllic paths along the River Severn. How odd that Scotland should remind me of the opposite end of the country; I doubt it will for long.

There isn’t much more to say because I simply put my foot down and motored on to Jedburgh. Walking along Roman roads is proof that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and it didn’t take long to polish off the 21.5 miles to my B&B. What a relief after the last few weeks; the change is tangible and suddenly my spirits have lifted. Good for Scotland.

Jedburgh to Melrose

6 July 2003

I thought I’d celebrate the end of my stormy flirt with the Pennine Way with a rest day, and where better to spend it than Jedburgh, my first Scottish destination and the first place in a while that didn’t feel as if it had fallen off the map? Unfortunately the weather gods – no doubt tired out by the sunny fanfare they arranged for my triumphant arrival in the Borders Region – gave up trying to keep the clouds away and I awoke to a steady, unswerving rain that drizzled down at the optimum rate for maximum irritation.

Luckily, in the case of Jedburgh this only added to the atmosphere. Jedburgh Abbey, which dominates the centre of town, must be one of the most amazing sights this side of the border, so I happily paid my £3.50 entrance fee and stepped into my first experience of Historic Scotland (the Scottish equivalent of English Heritage). The abbey is stunning; picture a huge cathedral dating from the 12th century, and now imagine it with all the stained glass removed, the roof pulled off, the inside gutted and the stonework eroded by the forces of nature. It’s like a huge, religious skeleton and from a distance it looks like a delicate filigree construction, the light shining through the empty windows and creating a beautiful silhouette against the cloudy sky.

The abbey was founded by King David I, who chose this site for a new abbey back in 1138. He specifically chose a position that was close to the border with England to demonstrate not only his piety but also the strength of his kingdom. Building started on or around the equinox, 25 March, when at sunrise two sticks were placed in line with the sun to ensure that the high altar would be correctly positioned at the east end. By 1150 the original church was complete and over the following years they built the living quarters and impressive nave, with cloisters positioned on the south side of the church to let in maximum light. The abbey was finished by about 1230, an incredible achievement by anyone’s standards.

The abbey was extended in the mid-15th century after a number of English attacks destroyed various parts of it, and another serious attack in 1523 saw the Earl of Surrey’s men burn the place down. The English took the whole town in 1547, then the French took possession the following year, and from then on the abbey slowly started to decay. The reformation in 1560 saw the dissolution of the abbey and although it soon fell into ruin, the locals still used it as a place of worship until 1875. In 1913 it passed into the care of the state and now it’s a stunning tourist attraction.

The imposing architecture is atmospheric, especially when the rain pours straight through the non-existent roof, and in weather like this it’s easy to imagine the austere life of the monks who lived here. The abbey was settled by Augustinian canons, probably from St Quenain near Beauvais in northern France, and one of the vows that these monks took was a vow of silence; the canons here couldn’t talk except in a special room called the Parlour, or if they had to read from the Bible, say prayers or conduct official business.

On top of that, their routine makes a boring day at work look positively stimulating. Each day the canons would attend eight services, eat just one vegetarian meal and have to get up at 2.30am, even in the middle of winter. As I set off on the trail again this morning, I found that thought comforting; walking these distances might have its downside, but it’s nothing compared to the challenge of being a mediaeval monk.

-oOo-

Again, if I hadn’t known I was in Scotland today, I’d have sworn I was in Devon or Somerset. After the bleakness of the Pennines, the Borders Region of Scotland is a rural paradise, and with this morning’s sunshine and a pleasant lack of rain all day, I feel as good as I did when walking along the Severn.

The differences with Devon are numerous, though, even if the landscape is eerily similar. As soon as I crossed over the Cheviots and descended into Jedburgh, people started speaking with Scottish accents; this instant change would be strange if it weren’t for the great range of hills that separates England and Scotland at this point, providing a physical barrier around which it’s easy to see how two totally different accents could develop.

Not only has the accent changed, but the money looks different too. Instead of the Bank of England notes I’m used to, I’m having not only to get my head round the different colours and designs of the Scottish notes, but also the fact that they come in three different flavours: the Bank of Scotland, the Royal Bank of Scotland and the Clydesdale Bank all produce notes. I rather like them, if only because the Queen has been replaced by people like Sir Walter Scott – a fair swap – and one of the £10 notes has a picture of a whisky distillery on the back, which is handy if you get so incapacitated by drink that you can’t speak; the note comes complete with a pre-written order for the barman on the back.

The food is different too; for example, the fish and chip shop in Jedburgh sells haggis, something you don’t find south of the border. The beer’s strange as well; I’m now sampling brews like 70 Shillings and Tartan Pale Ale, though so far they’ve all been relatively sterile. Indeed, the latter managed the incredible task of tasting as if it had been served straight from a can, a clever trick for a draught beer.

But the most impressive change is the sudden upsurge in national identity once you’re over the border. Ask an Englishman to write his nationality on an official form, and he’s just as likely to write ‘British’ as ‘English’; ask a Scotsman to do the same, and he’ll definitely write ‘Scottish.’ I’ve only been in Scotland for a couple of days, but I’ve already come across a number of reminders of the sometimes rocky relationship between the English and Scottish, and I think it’s great.

For example, when I was in Jedburgh yesterday, I chanced across the ‘Ride In’, in which about a hundred horses galloped back into town after a day’s riding round the boundaries. This annual event originates from the days when the locals had to defend their territory against invasion by those pesky English and would patrol the edges of their land, watching out for invaders. The modern celebration ends with all the riders massing in the town square and singing a song that makes it quite clear that the English are not going to get their hands on anything. Luckily it’s sung in such a strong accent that visiting dignitaries like me can’t take offence because we can’t understand it, but the essence of the song is clear enough. We used to be at war, after all.

I found another example on today’s walk. Five or six miles north of Jedburgh there’s an old monument by the side of Dere Street called Lady Lilliard’s Stone, and it bears an inscription that echoes the same sort of sentiment as the riders’ song:

Fair maiden Lilliard

Lies under this stane

Little was her stature

But muckle was her fame

Upon the English loons

She laid monie thumps

An when her legs were cuttit off

She fought upon her stumps

AD 1544

Something tells me that even though Scottish dwarfs are no longer thumping English loons, history still reverberates loudly round these parts.

-oOo-

For most of today I followed St Cuthbert’s Way, a long-distance path that stretches 62 miles from Melrose to Holy Island. St Cuthbert was a 7th-century saint who started his monastic life in Melrose and passed away on Holy Island, having risen to the rank of Bishop of Lindisfarne. I thoroughly enjoyed following in his saintly footsteps, because between Jedburgh and Melrose, St Cuthbert’s Way is a cracker.

For a start, the way-markers on the St Cuthbert’s Way are exemplary; the Pennine Way planners could learn a thing or two from the Cuthbert committee. It’s also pretty easy going and combines idyllic forest walking (around Monteviot House), Roman road (Dere Street again), two winding riverside paths (along the Teviot and the Tweed), pretty villages (Maxton, St Boswells and Bowden) and, to finish, a climb with great views (up the Eildon Hills). It’s a very pleasant day.

As a destination, Melrose is the icing on the cake, with a number of pubs, a handy hostel and another amazing ruined abbey that might not dominate the town in the way that Jedburgh Abbey does, but which is arguably more impressive close up. Dating from 1136, two years before the foundation of Jedburgh Abbey, Melrose Abbey was founded by King David for the Cistercian Order, a bunch of monks who were dedicated to poverty but who still managed to amass unprecedented wealth. Although the original building was relatively simple, the English burned it down in retaliation for the Scottish raids of 1385, and the 15th-century replacement reflected the Cistercians’ bulging bank balance. The ruin is an ornate skeleton with elegant stonework and soaring arched windows, and as if this wasn’t enough, the abbey is reputedly the burial place of Robert the Bruce’s heart, which was discovered buried in a lead casket beneath the Chapter House floor.

I think I’m going to like Scotland; it has history, landscape and attitude, and somewhere out there might even be a decent pint...

Melrose to Peebles

7 July 2003

I like the way Barry thinks, which is a good job because our paths keep on crossing. After initially meeting in Street and bumping into each other on the banks of the Severn near Bewdley, we didn’t meet up again until Alston, when we happened to stay at the hostel at the same time. The following night we met up again, this time in the hostel in Greenhead, and a few days later we joined forces for a pint or two in Jedburgh, followed by another few beers last night in Melrose. Our paths have finally diverged, as from Edinburgh he’s heading straight for Inverness while I turn west to catch the West Highland Way, but in the last couple of weeks he’s not only been excellent evening company, he’s been a mine of information.

It was Barry who first inspired me to take official trails and guidebooks with a large pinch of salt. Back in Street I’d been looking forward to sampling the delights of the Cotswold Way, but he’d warned me that it didn’t half make a meal of all those hills and he was right; as a result I ditched it earlier than planned, cut across to Gloucester and never looked back. He also told me about a shortcut on the Pennine Way that would miss out Cross Fell, though having a score to settle I conquered the bugger anyway; but by the time we met up again in Alston I was getting a bit tired of the Pennine Way, and it was Barry’s idea to cut the corner at Hadrian’s Wall and to walk from Alston to Haltwhistle instead of Greenhead. Without him I’d have probably killed myself struggling along the wall with a full pack; instead it was his suggestion that enabled me to avoid the Emperor Hadrian altogether.

His final piece of advice was another beauty. Because finding accommodation is one of the hardest aspects of walking across the country, we’ve been swapping B&B details and helping each other out where possible, and when Barry had a half-day’s rest near Hadrian’s Wall, he used his time to find a solution to a problem we both had. There have recently been some pretty serious storms in the area between Melrose and Peebles, and one of the results was a landslide that cut off the water supply to Broadmeadows Youth Hostel, forcing the SYHA to close it until further notice. Both Barry and I were planning to use Broadmeadows to break up the 24-mile trek from Melrose to Peebles and its closure rather scuppered our plans, especially as Broadmeadows is in the middle of absolutely nowhere and there’s nothing else for miles around.

Barry’s solution was simple and effective. Instead of trying to book accommodation halfway along the walk, he worked out that I could walk a few miles further to a town called Innerleithen and catch the bus back to Melrose; then the next day I could catch the bus back to Innerleithen, from where it’s a relatively easy six-mile walk along minor roads to Peebles. And the beauty of it all? Seeing as I’d be staying in Melrose for two nights, I could leave my pack at the hostel and do the Melrose-Innerleithen section with just a day pack. Genius!

-oOo-

As I said, I like the way Barry thinks, and I had cause to thank Barry on many an occasion today, because it would have been a completely miserable day with a full pack; in the event it was still a completely miserable day, but it didn’t last half as long. The problem, as always, was the weather. Scattered heavy showers are never very much fun when you’re outside, but guess what I had to cross today. Did you guess ‘moor’? Then you guessed right.

I could save a lot of effort here and simply refer you back to one of my many whinges about crossing moors in shitty weather, but I need the cathartic effect of telling you all about it and besides, the moor doesn’t crop up until later in today’s walk. First I’ve got to tell you about the Southern Upland Way, so hold those moorland thoughts for a while and I’ll come back to them in a minute.

Scotland doesn’t have too many national trails, but I’m following most of them. I’ve already mentioned St Cuthbert’s Way and later on I’ll be joining the West Highland Way and the Great Glen Way. Apart from the Speyside Way, which I don’t go anywhere near, the only other long-distance trail of note is the Southern Upland Way, which stretches for 213 miles from the west coast of Scotland to the North Sea. Today I sampled just one day of it, and in this weather that was enough.

In sunshine the Southern Upland Way must be a lovely walk. It meanders through some of Scotland’s most unsung beauty spots, taking in the historical towns and lonely hill walks of the Borders Region, and even though today was cloudy and the views were shrouded in mist, it wasn’t hard to see the appeal of walking through the region’s hills. But the section from Melrose through the neighbouring town of Galashiels is an incredible waste of effort, and before I even reached the countryside the Southern Upland Way was getting on my nerves.

I think it’s been designed by committee, because instead of heading west from Melrose and getting up into them there hills, the Way dithers around for miles, cutting through parks, beside rivers and along tarmac paths in a way that left me thankful for the exemplary way-markers that guided me through every single twist and turn. Indeed, if the way-markers hadn’t been there to reassure me, I’d have assumed I’d gone wrong somewhere, because no long-distance walker would intentionally meander around so much. It’s a guaranteed way of tiring you out before you’ve got into the meat of the walk, and it took me a good two hours to weave through the suburbs of Galashiels and up onto the moors.

I did enjoy one bit, though. As the Way plodded through an industrial estate in the no man’s land where Melrose and Galashiels merge, I glanced into a huge open-plan office where bleary-eyed workers sucked on polystyrene coffee cups and stared at Monday morning’s workload piled up on their desks. I had to stop and stare, not because there was anything strange about this office, but because it was so utterly normal. ‘I’m going back to that in a few weeks,’ I thought, and it struck me that slipping back into office life might be more of a challenge than walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats in the first place. My walk will have lasted three months; the rat race lasts a lifetime.

-oOo-

Ooh, here come the moors! All I have to do is tell you that the Way passes through some farmland and into Yair Forest, and then we’re out into the heather for more of my favourite walking. Mmm, let’s get stuck in.

Minch Moor. It doesn’t sound too bad, does it? It’s not like it’s called Miserable Git or Boggy Bastard, and there’s a good reason, for Minch Moor isn’t miserable or boggy. Actually, it’s a delight underfoot; the Southern Upland Way is a stunningly well-crafted path and I didn’t once reach for my gaiters. Instead Minch Moor’s attraction is that it is horribly exposed, and today the wind battered my eardrums until my brain ached and my head rattled.

It also decided to rain, coming down in short downpours that managed to soak straight through my Gore-Tex jacket, leaving me at the mercy of the savage westerly winds that slammed through my layers of clothing. I half-noticed the views through the mist, thinking how lovely they would be under a cloudless sky, but for most of the walk over Minch Moor I was bent double, fighting through the gales and hardly stopping at all.

Luckily the pine trees of the Elibank and Traquair Forest cover the summit of the moor and for once I was happy to walk into a man-made forest. Midges don’t even get out of bed in weather like this, so instead of stepping into a torrent of neck slapping and feverish itching, I gratefully fell into the eerie silence of a pine tree wind break. The industrial strength gales stopped dead in their tracks, leaving only the background hiss of rippling pine needles as evidence of the howling winds outside, and I collapsed on a bed of dry undergrowth, my head pounding.

From there it got easier; the track headed downhill and back off the moor, and as I stepped out of the forest the sun came out and dried off my clothes in no time. By half past two I had reached Traquair, where I was due to turn off to Innerleithen and the bus back to Melrose, and I couldn’t believe it; I had oodles of time to spare, probably because I’d practically jogged across Minch Moor, thanks to the weather and the lack of weight on my back.

So I decided to walk all the way to Peebles and to catch the bus back from there, enabling me to take a full rest day tomorrow; sure, the six miles along the B7062 seemed to drag on for a long time, and by the time I reached Peebles I was exhausted, but I did manage to find a delicatessen in town that sold Traquair ale and this pretty much made up for it. Traquair House is apparently Scotland’s oldest inhabited house and was a place much frequented by royalty over the centuries, and in an inspired move one of the wings of the house has been converted into a micro-brewery. I bought a bottle of Bear Ale, a treacle-flavoured 5 per cent brew that set me up nicely and quite put me in the mood for a couple of pints of McEwan’s 80 Shilling with Barry back in Melrose.

And why not? I’ve well and truly earned tomorrow’s rest day, and I did it the hard way, on the moors.

Peebles to West Linton

9 July 2003

Unfortunately even a relaxing rest day couldn’t cushion the shock I received in Peebles. Everything had been going so well; I enjoyed my morning visit to Melrose Abbey, the bus ride to Peebles was quick and easy, and as my B&B wasn’t open until 3pm I spent the afternoon sitting by the River Tweed, soaking up the pleasantly chilled-out atmosphere of this delightful border town. It was idyllic, but when it came to check-in time it all went a bit wrong.

‘Would you like a cooked breakfast?’ my kindly B&B host asked in customary fashion.

‘Mmm, yes please,’ I said, with the sort of enthusiasm that comes from a vivid imagination and a love of fried bacon.

‘You know we’re vegetarian?’ she asked, and it took a few seconds before I realised she wasn’t just making polite conversation. ‘Tomorrow we’re having fried nut cakes and porridge. Is that all right?’

I’m proud to say I managed to keep the shock from my face as my visions of sizzling bacon and bubbling sausages evaporated in a cloud of nuts and lentils. ‘Mmm, that would be fine,’ I lied, and made plans to head out as soon as possible to stock up on meat.

The problem is that I’m used to a full, cooked, meat-based breakfast, and if I don’t get one I really notice the effect on my stamina. I know it’s possible to do this much exercise on vegetables alone because I’ve been bumping into a lovely vegetarian couple recently called Phil and Wendy, and they’re walking the ‘four corners’, which involves visiting the northernmost, southernmost, easternmost and westernmost points of Britain by foot. They’re surviving fine without meat, so my fixation with a proper cooked breakfast isn’t entirely justified by my exercise regime, but beans for breakfast just doesn’t cut the mustard; I’m desperately hungry by 10 o’clock if I don’t get my morning pig out.

Luckily Peebles came to the rescue and I found a pub that served a 16oz T-bone steak with all the trimmings, which I washed down with a couple of pints of Tennent’s Velvet, a reasonable smoothflow brew that is vastly improved by the fact that it’s served deathly cold. Of course, this being a pub, I ended up getting a well-done steak despite ordering it rare – pubs that serve properly cooked steaks are as rare as vegetarian B&Bs – but at least it prepared me for whatever awaited me in the morning.

-oOo-

Of course it turned out to be a fine breakfast and I happily wolfed it down despite my blinkered meat fixation. The porridge was excellent and contained plenty of slow-burning carbohydrates, and although I wouldn’t go out of my way to eat fried nut cakes for brekkie, I can think of far worse ways to start the day. But whatever the qualities of the breakfast, my hosts more than made up for it by being chatty, friendly and not remotely inclined towards tree hugging. I felt a little ashamed at my assumption that the world owed me a meat breakfast every morning, no questions asked; at least they hadn’t plastered their B&B with signs telling me that ‘No meat means no meat’, for which I was thankful.

In fact my breakfast set me up for a cracking day’s walk, and not only because the weather was great and the walking easy. Today was the first day for a very long time in which I followed nothing except my own directions; looking back in my schedule, the last day that I struck out cross-country and didn’t follow a Way, a Trail or a Link was on 2 June, when I decided to leave the Cotswold Way at Painswick and head west to Gloucester. That’s over five weeks ago; since then I’ve spent most of the time following way-markers and other people’s footprints, but I miss striking off on my own and I’m going to keep on missing it, because from Edinburgh to Glasgow I’ll be walking along canals, and from Glasgow to Inverness I’ll be on the West Highland Way and the Great Glen Way. After Inverness I’ll be on my own again, but unfortunately a fair chunk of that walk seems to be along the coastal A-road, which is hardly going to tax my map reading skills.

This kind of walking is made even more interesting by the difference between English and Scottish law. In England and Wales it is the duty of the highway agencies to maintain up-to-date maps of rights of way and to ensure that they are usable and signposted. These rights of way are then shown in green on Ordnance Survey maps and this all conspires to make navigation relatively straightforward; you stick to the green lines and keep an eye open for signposts and way-markers. In Scotland the law is different and there is no legally recognised catalogue of rights of way; this doesn’t mean that there aren’t any, it’s just that they aren’t collated by an official body, and instead non-governmental organisations like the Scottish Rights of Way and Access Society end up documenting them, putting up signs, defending access rights and so on. It also means that Ordnance Survey maps for Scotland don’t show rights of way, which is a bit of a shock when you first cross the border.

On top of this Scotland has a tradition of allowing the public free access to most of the country, a system that the Land Reform (Scotland) Act of 2003 puts into a legal framework. The upshot is that when you walk through Scotland, you don’t have to stick to rights of way as religiously as you do in England and Wales. It’s not true to say that you can go anywhere and do anything in Scotland, but as long as you don’t damage anything or ignore restrictions imposed during the grouse shooting and deer stalking seasons, a lot of Scotland is there to be explored.

This makes Scottish off-trail walking much more interesting, because you really have to read the map. In England the highland authorities are legally obliged to maintain rights of way, but this isn’t the case in Scotland. All the paths I’ve been on have been kept clear, so somehow the system still ensures quality paths, but where a green dashed line on an English map theoretically means there will be a clear path there, a black dotted line on a Scottish map means that there was a path there when the area was surveyed, but nothing more. It adds a certain sense of mystery to the whole thing; it’s quite possible that some of these tracks are never used, and I like that idea.

So today and tomorrow are days to savour; they’re days when it’s just me, my maps, my compass and a bit of good old-fashioned orienteering. Sure, today’s walk wasn’t that astounding, but after the last few weeks of steep climbs and hard terrain, I’m thoroughly enjoying the friendly environment of the Borders. From Peebles I stomped around a hill and into the village of Eddleston, from where the path wound north through another man-made forest on top of the Cloich Hills before descending to West Linton, where I tracked down my B&B, found nobody home and retired to the Linton Hotel for a pint of Tennent’s 60 Shilling.

The journey wasn’t mind-blowing, but so what? I enjoyed myself, I saw a deer in the forest, I lost count of the number of rabbits hopping across the roads, I smiled at drivers and farmers and got hellos and waves back, and I covered the 14 miles without any hitches whatsoever. If that’s the effect of having fried nut cakes for breakfast then I might have to rethink my attitude towards black pudding.

-oOo-

I wouldn’t have found the Gordon Arms until tomorrow if I hadn’t decided to go for a quick recce before eating. Tomorrow I’m taking a Roman road north into the Pentland Hills and I thought I might as well check out where it starts, just so I don’t end up wandering aimlessly around the village in the morning, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with the weight of a full backpack sitting uncomfortably on top of my breakfast. I soon discovered that up by the start of the Roman road sits the Gordon Arms, the first Scottish pub that I’ve felt compelled to write glowing prose about.

For a start, the Gordon has hand-pulled beer. You might not think this is a big deal, but despite considerable research in Jedburgh, Melrose and Peebles, I failed to find one pub with proper hand pumps. Lager is huge in Scotland, just as it is in England, but the only other option in most pubs is ‘heavy’, which comes in the form of 60 Shilling, 70 Shilling or 80 Shilling, the name coming from the amount of tax that used to be levied on a barrel of said beer (the higher the number of shillings, the higher the alcohol content). Normally these beers are pressurised out of the keg and are served from on-off taps in the same way as lager, and I don’t rate heavy that much; it’s acceptable, but it has a strange malty element to it that doesn’t quite do it for me. Thankfully it’s served cold, which helps to dull the taste, but I’ll only drink keg-based heavy when there’s no other option.

But there are some great Scottish real ales, and when you find them, they’re a treat. While browsing London’s off-licences and supermarkets I’ve often come across Caledonian’s Deuchars IPA, mainly because it was voted Champion Beer of Britain for 2002 and 2003 and is therefore easy to find; so when I saw a hand pump with Deuchars IPA on the bar of the Gordon Arms, I knew I’d found my spot for the evening. And what did I have from the menu to accompany the best pint in Scotland so far? To start, I scoffed deep fried black pudding, and I followed it up with a big, fat cheeseburger with all the trimmings.

I think I’ve made up for the fried nut cakes now. You have to watch your calorie intake carefully in this game...

West Linton to Edinburgh

10 July 2003

Today never really got going, mainly because the schizophrenic Scottish weather decided to rain on my parade. If there’s one thing that I’m tiring of, it’s trying to cross exposed places like the Pentland Hills when the rain is driving, the wind is howling and the summer months feel a long, long way away.

In weather like this, I can’t help thinking of a website I stumbled across back in the planning stages of this walk. It was a short but very useful collection of tips by a guy who’d walked the End-to-End some years ago, and one of the things I remember him saying was that there are times when you really, really have to want to get to John o’Groats. If you don’t have a genuine desire to finish the walk, then you’ll never get there. Just wanting to walk isn’t enough; you have to be driven.

I totally agree. On days like today finishing this damn walk is all I can think about, and if a wee Scottish faerie popped up out of the bog and granted me a wish, the words ‘take me home’ would be hard to resist. But I somehow manage to find the strength to keep on plodding, because it’s too late in the day to give up now, and with the end in sight it’s a lot easier to keep on walking than it was back in Cornwall. But when the skies are dark and the sound of squelching is my only companion, I think of that website and I wonder why it didn’t put me off in the first place.

-oOo-

Today I headed north from West Linton, passing the Gordon Arms on the way to the Roman road to Carlops, from where a good quality path leads over the top of the Pentland Hills. Of course, the weather gods waited for me to reach the very top of the Pentlands before chucking buckets of cold water onto my head, and even though I’ve been through this plenty of times, for some reason I still fell for the oldest trick in the book. One thing you can’t assume with rain is that it will simply go away, and telling yourself that it’ll be all right and that you don’t really need to bother with proper wet weather gear is a stupid thing to do.

I don’t know why I didn’t put on my waterproof trousers until my tracksuit bottoms were already drenched, and I have no idea why I waited until the insides of my boots were wet before donning my gaiters, but that’s precisely what I did and by the time I hit the bitumen in Balerno I was soaked through. The one good thing to come out of the whole sodden episode was that I now know not to trust my boots, as the Gore-Tex lining in the left sole has obviously worn out; interestingly, my left boot has no grip on the front half either, and it’s only a matter of time before I’m forced to buy a new pair. I’m hanging on for as long as I can, though; the thought of having to break in another pair of boots makes my feet ache in anticipation.

So apart from learning that sheltering under a tree is a bad idea – the midges have already thought of that one, I’m afraid – I did little except look at the ground, turn over the map at the right place, wince at the streams of water dribbling down my neck and stick to the path over the hills, through Balerno and onto the Water of Leith cycle route. And then, after 18.5 miles of trying not to think about warm fluffy towels and steaming log fires, I finally arrived in Edinburgh.

-oOo-

Despite booking myself into a hostel the size of a small planet, I’m sure I’m the only English-speaking person in the entire place; either that, or everyone else from round these parts is equally stunned into silence by the amazing clash of Spanish, Japanese, Dutch and German that graces the corridors. I like this kind of cosmopolitanism – it’s something you hardly ever find outside of large cities – but after two months of meeting mainly local people, it’s freaking me out a bit.

But Edinburgh has freaked me out anyway. Since I arrived I’ve been surrounded by 24-hour shops, homeless people, theatres, junk food, black cabs, cinemas, traffic, Thai restaurants, ATMs, crowds, foreign languages, green and red men, tourist shops, junkies, office blocks and all the other delicious trappings of city life. I can’t believe how stylish everyone looks, if you don’t count the worryingly large number of tourists sporting ill-advised shorts and chunky camcorders; the countryside might throw up the odd skateboarding dude in baggy jeans, and I’ve even spotted a couple of goths slouching through the streets of rural England, but it’s in the cities that people’s fashion sense gets fed and watered properly, and all of a sudden I’m surrounded by designer labels, smoky sunglasses, little backpacks, chiselled flares and the kind of petite summer tops that would make even an Augustinian monk ogle. Even though I’ve just washed and dried my entire portable wardrobe, I feel extremely aware that I’m living out of a backpack, and I haven’t felt that once on this trip. Perhaps that’s because I haven’t walked into another city of this size; Bath, Gloucester, Worcester, Taunton and Penzance aren’t really in the same league as Edinburgh.

Even if you ignore the cosmopolitan attractions of Edinburgh’s streets, the historical home of Scotland’s kings is the most incredible place. I’ve never been here before – at least, if I have, I was too young to remember – and the moment I arrived at the hostel the skies cleared and the sun came out. So it was under perfect blue skies that I discovered Edinburgh Castle.

Wow. From West Princes Street Gardens the city looks like the lid of a shortbread tin, and the castle perches there on its dominating massif, a picture postcard of a building that stands proud like a chiselled hybrid of castle and stately home. I arrived too late to go inside, but I didn’t need to; I only had a few hours to explore the city and it more than made up for the irritations of the day’s walk, sitting there in the park, gazing up at the turreted walls and the sheer bulk of the mountain on which it stands. I’d been in two minds about whether to head into the city centre in the first place – the more logical walking route would have been to stay outside the western city limits, ready for tomorrow’s walk west along the Union Canal – but the city skyline was easily worth the extra miles.

I must come back here; a few hours at the end of a long day’s squelching simply isn’t enough for a city like Edinburgh.

Edinburgh to Linlithgow

11 July 2003

I’ve been looking forward to this part of the walk for ages, and do you know why? Because for the whole of today and tomorrow I’m following canals without any deviations whatsoever, and after the ups and downs of the last few weeks, these canals have assumed a mythical significance for me.

Today I followed the Union Canal from the centre of Edinburgh all the way to Linlithgow; tomorrow I continue along the Union to Falkirk, where I switch to the Forth and Clyde Canal all the way to Kilsyth. It’s all canal towpaths, it’s all easy, and there are two reasons why today should have been one of the easiest walks of the whole trip.

First up, the Union Canal has no locks in its entire 31.5 miles, opting instead to stick rigidly to the 73m contour all the way from Edinburgh to Falkirk; indeed, it was nicknamed the Mathematical River because not only is it at the same height from start to finish, it’s also pretty much the same width and the same depth too. OK, so this means it has to do a fair amount of winding about to stay at the same height and at one point you almost double back on yourself to follow the contour, but it does mean that the entire walk is guaranteed to be flat.

The second reason is that both canals have recently undergone a multi-million-pound facelift as part of the millennium celebrations, resulting in a long-distance cycle path called the Millennium Link that connects Glasgow and Edinburgh. Prior to this cash injection both canals were slipping into the kind of overgrown obscurity that throttled the eastern half of Somerset’s Grand Western Canal, but now the canals are up and running again, they’re being maintained, there are visitor centres, people can go on canal trips, and more importantly for walkers, you no longer have to hack through thick undergrowth to get along the canal. All you need to do is walk; it’s that simple.

Well, it is on the map, anyway.

-oOo-

Somewhere around the 11-mile mark out of Edinburgh the M8 passes over the Union Canal, and in the gloomy shelter of the underpass I nodded hello to a man propping up his bike and rolling a joint. A few minutes later he caught me up as I huddled in the paltry shelter of a small bridge, trying to hide from a blustery shower that had just started dumping large amounts of water on my head. He joined me; we talked about the weather.

‘Shit, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Sure is,’ I said. ‘The worst part is it blows right into your face.’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘It always blows this way, the weather. It goes from west to east round here, all the time.’

‘Must be a bit of a pain on a bike,’ I said.

‘Ah, you get used to it,’ he said. ‘I ride this way every day, and it’s fine coming into work; I zoom along. But coming back, ah, it’s another story.’

‘Is it always this windy?’ I asked as the rain shot horizontally underneath the bridge, turning the placid canal into a ruffled torrent.

‘Aye, pretty much,’ he said. ‘You might get no wind maybe, ooh, six days a year. It’s just how it is. D’you smoke?’ he continued, offering me a drag on his joint.

‘Nah, thanks mate,’ I said.

‘I always stop under that bridge to roll one up,’ he said. ‘Helps me cope with the bloody wind.’

‘Yeah, good idea,’ I said, looking at the sky. ‘Might be clearing up a bit.’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Best be off. See you then.’

‘Yeah, see you,’ I said. ‘Safe journey.’

And with that he pedalled off, wobbling into the gale as it gusted into my face, making my temples ache and my brain rattle inside my head. A nice flat, wiggly line on the map is one thing; following it head-on into the prevailing winds of Scotland is another thing altogether.

-oOo-

It also didn’t help that last night I found myself stuck in a hostel dorm with six two-bed bunks; I’d wondered why the reception sold earplugs, and as the night wore on I found out why. Luckily I never travel anywhere without my own pair, but even earplugs can’t conquer the curse of the bunk bed. Youth hostel bunks are rarely built to withstand the kind of treatment they get, and I was lucky enough to get the bed above the only man in the dorm who twitched instead of snoring. He didn’t roll over gently and slobber into his pillow like the rest of my fellow insomniacs; instead, every now and then he’d jump like a jack rabbit, spasming into a new sleeping position while shaking the foundations like King Kong. Did I sleep? Did I hell. Sometimes in hostels you get an entire room to yourself and it’s like Christmas; sometimes you get what you pay for, and that’s when the money you save isn’t worth a penny.

But even without the wind and the lack of sleep, this wouldn’t have been a great walk. Canals are only as interesting as the stuff they carry and the Union has yet to develop any real traffic. It doesn’t help that until very recently it was full of rubbish and completely unnavigable, but at least there are some signs that the canal is coming back to life.

In places like Ratho and Linlithgow the canal is a focus for tourism, with canal trips, canal museums and even floating restaurants on offer, but apart from these two spots – one about eight miles from Edinburgh and the other at the end of today’s walk – the Union Canal is utterly lifeless. The odd family of swans breaks the monotony and for the most part the setting is tree-lined, rural and inoffensive, but as far as interesting canals go, the Union isn’t there yet. I like canals for the boats, the canalside pubs and the entertainment of watching complete klutzes operating lock mechanisms in front of amused crowds, but I only saw a tiny handful of moored boats and there’s just one canalside pub on the whole walk, which was firmly shut when I walked past. There are no locks, there are no holidaymakers and for the most part the canal is hemmed in on both sides by trees, giving the whole thing a slightly gloomy feel, especially under showery skies.

But some bits are fascinating, and none so much as the section through Broxburn. The halfway point in today’s walk, Broxburn is hardly a desirable residence – well, it isn’t from the towpath, anyway – and the endless greys of the pebbledash council houses are far from inviting. This is not where tourists come to hang out, and as you reach the edge of town after a fairly forgettable walking experience, the reason is not only obvious, it’s totally unavoidable. For there, to the north of town, is the largest tip you’re likely to see from a canal.

But – and here’s the killer – it’s actually rather beautiful. On this section of the canal you pass four tips – one in Broxburn, one in Winchburgh and the others on the way to Philpstoun – and there’s no denying that they are huge scars on the landscape. The one north of Broxburn, though, is no longer in use[1] and it’s slowly being reclaimed by nature, as is the one in Winchburgh. When I caught sight of the first tip, I couldn’t work out what it was; there were no contours on the map showing a massive, steep-sided monolith in the middle of West Lothian, but bang in front of me, glowing under a break in the clouds, was Ayers Rock. It shone red, its steep sides shimmering as clouds raced over the face of the sun, and even though I knew it was basically a pile of rubbish, I thought it looked great.

The second tip was similar, and I had to rub my eyes twice when I spotted the golf course hugging the bottom of its red and green slopes. Give it a few more years and a bit more vegetation, which in this weather shouldn’t take long, and the tips of Broxburn will be reclamation success stories. ‘All this is actually made up of industrial waste,’ the tourist brochures will say. ‘But now it’s host to a popular canal, top-class golf courses, conference centres, bike trails and absolutely no pebbledash council houses.’

I think today I witnessed the early stages of rejuvenation of this part of the world. Good luck to ’em, I say; anyone who can make tips like these attractive deserves all the success they can get.

-oOo-

Linlithgow itself is a pretty little place and I just had time to rush round the gardens of another exquisite Historic Scotland property, Linlithgow Palace, the birthplace of Mary, Queen of Scots. But I couldn’t face wandering around town too long, even though the excellent Four Marys pub serves a mean pint of Kelburn Goldihops and has more real ales on offer than the entire Scottish Borders region. I’m afraid my feet are throbbing after 22.5 miles of pounding towpath, and they need a rest.

They could be throbbing for a reason, and that reason is the state of my boots. Today was the day they finally crossed the line and I’m now on the lookout for a decent footwear shop that’s open when I’m in town. I might be in for a long wait, but I’m afraid my boots have had it.

More specifically, the left boot has had it and the right one is following suit quickly. I haven’t had any tread on the front half of my left boot for a couple of weeks now, but today I noticed that it’s actually worn through to the next layer, so it’s only a matter of time before it wears through to the Gore-Tex and I have to replace them. Re-soling them is not an option because I simply don’t have the time, so I’m looking at the horrible prospect of having to buy a new pair of boots and break them in as part of a long-distance walk. I don’t relish the thought after going through this particular pain barrier once already, but although these boots will make it to 800 miles (which I reach tomorrow) they won’t make it much beyond.

I’m not impressed, seeing as they were new for this trip, but at least it’s the shoes that are wearing out and not my feet.

[1] My thanks to Demon Drawer, who left a message in my Guestbook explaining more about the tips of Lothian. ‘May I just give you the local lingo for the tips you witnessed at Winchburgh and Broxburn,’ he writes. ‘These are called Bings, and as you quite correctly point out they are tipping piles, in this case for the soil from which shale was extracted for one of the major local industries of the region (i.e. shale oil production). The flatness of the tops was because at some point in the last 20 years, for public safety reasons, the tops were flattened off.’ Thanks for the information, DD – much appreciated.

Linlithgow to Kilsyth

12 July 2003

Today was a long day’s walk, especially after yesterday’s marathon; then again, I’ve got an even longer day tomorrow, so I’d better just ignore the painful blister on the bottom of my right heel and concentrate on the good bits.

Today there were three highlights that shone out from the endless miles of silently weaving canal, all of them impressive feats of engineering that held me enthralled. Apart from these three sparks of genius today’s walk was by and large a repeat performance of yesterday, with the first half continuing along the Union Canal and the second half along the Forth and Clyde Canal.

This latter canal is an equally uninhabited zone that differs from the Union only in that it has 40 locks along its 35-mile length, but it’s still an inoffensively boring canal to stroll along, with no pubs, no boats and no pulse. Indeed, the most exciting thing about walking along both canals is the need to keep a lookout for dog shit, which is generously placed at regular intervals to keep both walkers and cyclists on their toes; faeces aside, the Union and the Forth and Clyde aren’t yet worth more than a slightly raised eyebrow.

But the three highlights shine out brightly, and with good reason. The first one is impossible to appreciate fully from the towpath, but with a little imagination it’s hard not to be impressed with the aqueduct that crosses the River Avon. It’s the second largest aqueduct in the UK, the winner being a Thomas Telford construction in Wales, and its 12 arches stretch for 273m over Muiravonside Country Park, providing a pleasant if unspectacular view from the top.

From the imposing heights of the aqueduct, the canal meanders about for a few miles before plunging into the second highlight, a huge tunnel that bores straight through a hill at the end of the Callendar House estate. Apparently the owner of Callendar House refused to allow the canal to be visible from his estate, so the builders had to drill for one-third of a mile through solid rock, creating a long, straight tunnel that’s an eerie experience on foot. The towpath might be hemmed in by a sturdy metal banister, but even with this protection it’s a slippery and unnerving journey that feels more like potholing than walking.

Lights shine on the tunnel ceiling at regular intervals and the glow at each end is enough to prevent claustrophobia, but I wasn’t expecting to see so much water pouring down from above. Rust-coloured stalactites hang down from the roof halfway along the tunnel, and it’s little wonder that they do, because water seeps through the brickwork, dripping down the necks of unwary walkers and forming slippery pools of mud on the walkway. Towards the northern end of the tunnel is a hole two inches across that pours water into the canal like a hose pipe on full power; it’s accompanied by the dull throb of an engine, so it’s quite possible that this hole drains whatever it is that feeds the seepage, but it’s a big relief to reach the other side without getting washed into the pitch black canal beside you.

-oOo-

The third and best highlight is saved until last, assuming you’re walking the Millennium Link from east to west. Just beyond the tunnel lies Falkirk, whose introduction to the Link is a housing estate called Hallglen that makes what follows only more surreal. Hallglen is a collection of pebbledash houses that sits alone, cut off from Falkirk by Callendar Wood, and the view of it from the canal is incredible, not because of what you see, but because of what you don’t see. Row after row of bland housing sits sandwiched between the wood and a field containing black and white cows, and it looks like a watercolour that’s missing most of its colours. The wood is green, just as it should be, and the cows in the field are black and white, just as they should be, but the houses are a washed-out, dull grey that makes them look as if they’re made of newsprint papier maché. It’s awful; it’s everything that is wrong with modern architecture, crammed into one poor, sodden housing estate.

But walk along the canal for three miles, passing the large conurbation of Falkirk on your right, and you come to the most amazing antidote to Hallglen. The Union Canal sticks to the 73m contour right to the very end, but it then meets the Forth and Clyde Canal, which at this point flows along at 39m above sea level. In the grand old days of these canals, 11 locks joined the two together, dropping canal boats down through 34m in a slow, plodding manner. These locks disappeared as Falkirk grew and the canals mouldered under piles of rubbish (the Forth and Clyde opened in 1790, but fell into disrepair after being closed in 1963). However the millennium regeneration of this area meant a new system had to be built to link the two canals again, and instead of rebuilding the 11 original locks, modern engineering came up with an inspired solution. That solution is the Falkirk Wheel.

It’s hard to describe, but basically the Falkirk Wheel is a rotating boat lift that carries one boat up at the same time as it carries another boat down. Imagine a big wheel at a fair and remove all the seats except two, at opposite ends of the wheel. Now imagine that these seats are full of water and that the wheel is initially set so that one watery seat is right at the top and the other is right at the bottom. Now, as the wheel turns through 180°, one boat rises up from the bottom to the top and the other drops from the top to the bottom. That, basically, is how the Wheel works.

But the Falkirk Wheel is a damn sight more impressive than this description makes it sound. For a start, the seats have to be wide enough to fit a boat in lengthways, so take our big wheel above and stretch it so the seats turn into long, thin gondolas full of water. Next, strip off all the extraneous rubbish, because the Wheel isn’t so much a wheel as a groovy, S-shaped thing of beauty, and this means removing most of the spokes and rim of our original big wheel. Finally, the Union Canal doesn’t drop off a cliff into the handily waiting Wheel; instead it gets fed along a space-age aqueduct into the top of the Wheel, itself a sexy-looking piece of ultra-modern design that manages to make the canal look like a futuristic monorail.

If you still can’t work out what I’m on about, forget about the way it looks and consider the design. You’d think that it would take an awful lot of power to raise and drop two boats and two huge tanks of water; after all, the combined weight of the boats and water is 600 tonnes, or about the same as 100 African elephants, according to the informative leaflet I picked up from the visitor centre. But get this: one half rotation of the Wheel uses up just 7kW of power, which might sound like a lot until you realise that’s the same as eight toasters. And how does it do it? Apparently it’s all down to Archimedes.

The physics goes like this. Each gondola contains a boat and a load of water, but whatever the weight of the boat in each gondola, the designers have made sure that the total weight of boat and water in each gondola is identical; this then makes the Wheel easy to turn because it’s always perfectly balanced, and perfectly balanced wheels are much easier to turn that unbalanced ones.

So the amount of water in each gondola varies depending on the weight of the boat it’s carrying, but this isn’t achieved through clever computer systems, it’s achieved through the simple fact that floating objects displace the same amount of water as their weight. This is what made Archimedes jump out of the bath and run down the street shouting ‘Eureka!’, and it means that if you take a bucket that’s full to the brim and put a floating object in there, then the amount of water that spills out is equal to the weight of that object. This also means that the bucket will always weigh the same, whatever the weight of the floating object that’s added, and this is how the Wheel designers ensure that each of the Wheel’s gondolas always weighs exactly the same amount.

This is really clever thinking, but whatever the theory behind the Wheel, it’s great to watch. It’s slow, smooth, seamless and totally effective, and even if you ignore the function, the form is stunning. If only the Wheel designers had been asked to design Falkirk’s outer suburbs, life would look a whole lot rosier for everyone.

-oOo-

The canal miles plodded by and eventually I turned north for Kilsyth, my weary destination for the day and home to yet another surprise. But before I tell you what I think about Kilsyth, it’s only fair that I try to pick out the positive side of this little town, because everywhere has its good points and being balanced in one’s criticism is a laudable journalistic value. Ready? Here goes.

My bed and breakfast in Kilsyth was superb. Tucked out on the northern edge of town, Allanfauld Farm had a wonderfully warm welcome, a luxurious bath, a soft double bed, great decor and an atmosphere that was as good as any B&B I’ve visited on my trip. I loved it and I’d recommend it to anyone. Similarly, Kilsyth has a lovely old part of town that’s clustered round a well-crafted park, with a couple of little streams babbling past the houses with their manicured gardens and pretty architecture. And on the northern edge of town, just before you get to Allanfauld, the houses are large, discreetly hidden behind hedges and trees, and are very pleasant places indeed. Kilsyth has much going for it.

But I can only assume that back in the 1960s one of the big cheeses on the council estate planning committee had just gone through a nasty divorce and his wife had taken the kids, sold the house and moved in with her parents in Kilsyth. Nothing else can explain why this idyllic little village centre is surrounded by the ugliest, most insensitive developmental insult that you’re ever likely to see. Beyond the borders of the old part of Kilsyth are streets and streets of pebbledash houses that are well past their sell-by date, their grey ugliness seemingly washing off in the rain and forming rivulets of mould down the sides of the buildings. The high street is full of boarded-up shops, the only survivors being a mediocre supermarket, a Post Office, the odd hair salon, a couple of bakers, and a tattoo and piercing emporium; I wandered into town at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, expecting the high street to be buzzing with happy locals, but those shops that hadn’t yet gone out of business were firmly shut and locked up behind impressive steel cages, and the only signs of life shuffled past with the sallow, disaffected complexions of those who do little but worship at the altar of PlayStation.

People couldn’t believe what they saw when I wandered into town. They didn’t smile, they just stared; despite being within a stone’s throw of the new Millennium Link, the locals were evidently quite unnerved by the sight of a long-distance walker in their midst. I felt totally alien; I also felt completely unwelcome.

Even the pubs were disastrous. I ordered a pint at the Scarecrow just as the jukebox kicked in with ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’, and when I asked if they were doing food, I could hardly hear the bar girl’s reply above the impromptu karaoke that the group at the end of the bar decided to inflict on the otherwise empty pub. ‘Sorry, kitchen’s closed,’ she repeated, so I collected my pint and drank it swiftly in the corner. The second pub looked even worse – I didn’t even bother to go inside, because it looked like a motorway café but without the character – and instead I resorted to buying fish and chips off the sullen girls in the local fish bar and sat in the old part of town, trying to pretend that the concrete disaster beyond the park gates didn’t really exist.

Still, my B&B was great. I did mention that, didn’t I?

Kilsyth to Drymen

13 July 2003

Over the last few days the weathermen and women have been glowing with the news of the hottest heatwave to hit the country in years. Their charts have been beaming with pretty yellow sun symbols and the temperatures have been soaring above 30°C, setting new records for the time of year and giving the forecasters the happy task of predicting clear skies and wall-to-wall sunshine for the next few days. It’s a happy time.

But poor old Scotland seems to be the odd one out. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful day,’ says the weatherman. ‘Oh... except in Scotland, where it’s going to rain. But who cares? I’m in London and it’s a gorgeous day here, and that’s all that matters, right?’

Not if you’re here, it doesn’t, and the last few days have been cloudy, windy and totally devoid of the cloudless sun afflicting the rest of the country. But all good things come to those who wait and today, finally, the heatwave hit Scotland. Well, except for the Outer Hebrides, but who cares? I’m heading towards Glasgow and it’s a gorgeous day here, and as far as I’m concerned, that is all that matters.

-oOo-

Annoyingly I have just bitten off more than I can chew, and it hurts. Although the longest individual day of this walk remains the 24 miles from Tiverton to Taunton – matched only by the 24 miles from Melrose to Peebles, though that was done with a lighter pack – the last few days have collectively been the longest haul of the trip. Since my bonus rest day in Peebles, itself following on from the long Melrose-Peebles leg, I’ve covered 14, 18.5, 22 and 21.5 miles per day, and today was another long slog at 23.5 miles. That’s 99.5 miles in five days straight, and it’s a been a long trek.

I think I have found my limit, for this morning I woke up with a niggling pain in the front ball of my right foot that slowly grew into pure unadulterated agony. It wasn’t a sharp pain – it felt more like walking on a nasty bruise – but just a few miles after rejoining the Forth and Clyde, I was thinking seriously about whether I could carry on. Blisters are one thing, but I haven’t had a pain this intense since my tendon injury back in Dartmoor and it’s worrying.

I eventually made it to Drymen by removing one of the socks from my right foot and necking a couple of painkillers. This seemed to help, though a nasty side effect was that the small blister on my right heel, which I’d hidden under a blister plaster, rubbed itself into a frenzy of activity that has come to rival any of the blisters I had in Cornwall. Luckily I didn’t discover this until I reached Drymen and peeled off my sock to reveal the extent of the damage; on the walk itself I was far too preoccupied with the ominous feelings on the inside of my foot.

Pain really does ruin things. Today was a lovely day for walking and I should have been enjoying the lack of wind in my face as I finally reached the kind of stunning scenery for which Scotland is famous. From the grey misery of Kilsyth I walked along the canal to Kirkintilloch, from where I took a path along a disused railway line that ploughed through Milton of Campsie and Strathblane and all the way to the West Highland Way, which then took me to Drymen. And Drymen, at the southern end of Loch Lomond, is where the highlands of Scotland really kick in, creating picture-postcard views everywhere you look.

It wasn’t a long, lonely slog either. There were plenty of people out enjoying the Sunday sunshine and they were happy, friendly people who were as full of the joys of the heatwave as I should have been. On the way into Kirkintilloch I beamed at my fellow towpath walkers and they beamed back, some of them even managing to breathe life into an old classic. Back in Kilsyth a man on crutches had looked at me and said, ‘Where are your bloody skis, eh?’ in a tone of voice that indicated he wasn’t laughing with me, but at me; I ignored him and kept my eyes low. On the towpath, though, an old man beamed at me as I poled past his defecating dog and he happily quipped, ‘I see you’ve lost your skis then!’ I dutifully smiled; I’ve heard this joke a hundred times before on this walk, but when people say it with a smile, it’s always a pleasure to laugh along with them.

The views were as pleasant as the people and the Campsie Fells to my right provided a lovely backdrop to the walk. Milton of Campsie and Strathblane are pretty places and even though I got lost in the former trying to follow a diversion round an unsafe bridge, I was happy to explore because the towns along the dismantled railway are a long, long way from the pebbledash misery of Kilsyth.

But despite my relief at discovering that Kilsyth is not the norm, I just couldn’t concentrate. When walking is a constant exercise in pain control, you can’t avoid the awful gnawing feeling at the back of your mind that maybe, just maybe the pain indicates a serious injury and that this could be the end of everything. After over 800 miles of walking, the thought of failure is enough to bring me right down; I’ve come far enough to be cautiously optimistic about finishing this walk, but I can’t let myself get too carried away. It only takes one twisted ankle to spoil the party... or even one swollen and slightly throbbing right foot that at times is just too painful to walk on.

-oOo-

I didn’t do anything except keep on walking, but slowly the pain subsided from an intense and unavoidable jolt to a dull ache. It wasn’t comfortable but I figured I could cope with it, and it was in this state that I reached Strathblane, the point in the walk when I decided to test my shortcut theory.

McCloy’s guidebook takes another heavy hit from the Stupid Stick at this point and sends you off on a wild goose chase around a country park, adding quite a few miles to an already long day for no reason that I can fathom. I decided early on that I was going to ignore his advice and make up my own route, so I sat down with the map and instantly spotted two possible alternatives. One option was to walk along a minor road from Strathblane directly to the West Highland Way and then to follow the way-markers all the way to Drymen, but in the manner of all scenic routes the Way itself doesn’t half dither around, taking in some pretty little climbs that are fine for those starting from Glasgow but far less interesting to those of us who’ve already walked a long way to get here.

The other option was more attractive, but I couldn’t work out from the map whether it was actually possible. I wanted to stick to the dismantled railway, but the path appeared to stop in Strathblane, and stop it did; I came to a B-road and the path simply disappeared. Still, you don’t get anywhere if you’re not willing to take a few chances, so I hopped over a farm fence, navigated round a field full of horses, ducked through a gap in the woods and found myself on a track that shadowed the embankment where the railway used to be. A little further on a left-hand turn took me back to the line of the railway, and as if by magic, I found the path again. It took me all the way to the West Highland Way, and in a straight line; I don’t know if I was supposed to be there and I’m damn sure I wasn’t supposed to be sneaking past the gardens of Duntreath Castle that lay on the other side of the old track, but nobody complained and there were plenty of footprints to follow, so I stuck with it.

Hell, I didn’t care. My foot hurt, my legs ached and I wanted to get to Drymen, for waiting there, relaxing on the village green with the latest Harry Potter, was Peta, who’s flown up to join me for a few days. Today might have been an awful walk and my body might be at breaking point, but tomorrow’s a rest day, I’ve finally reached real Scottish scenery and for the next few days I don’t have to stew over how much I miss my girlfriend because she’s here. The outlook here in Scotland is extremely rosy; oh, and the sun is shining too.

Drymen to Rowardennan

15 July 2003

I really didn’t want to go to work today. I never thought I’d end up classing a day’s walk as a day’s work, but after two months of getting up early, strapping on the boots and hitting the trail – which then, more often than not, traipses through endless bog and moor – this walk has most definitely graduated from a holiday into a full-time job. The novelty has worn off; in fact it wore off miles ago. Now, although it’s a job with a large number of excellent perks, it still feels too much like hard work for an annoyingly large proportion of the time.

It’s especially difficult when you have to go back to work after a holiday, and yesterday’s rest day was most definitely one of those. Peta has booked all the accommodation in this area and Ardoch Cottage, the bed and breakfast in which we’ve just spent two nights, is one of the best I’ve ever stayed in. Tucked away in the small village of Gartocharn, a couple of miles west of Drymen and right at the southern end of Loch Lomond, it provided the perfect setting for the rest day my right foot needed.

We spent yesterday loafing around on top of Duncryne Hill, a small bump of a hill that’s easy to climb and just a stone’s throw from the main street in Gartocharn; it’s also home to what must be one of the best views in the country, that of Loch Lomond. The loch, the biggest expanse of fresh water in Britain, is hemmed in by steep slopes at the northern end of its 27 square miles, but to the south, where the glacial ice of the distant past ground the mountains down, the loch widens into a much bigger vista. Perched on Duncryne Hill, bang in the middle of this southern plain, you can look right up the length of the loch and the effect is magical.

Loch Lomond has 38 islands that peer over the top of the loch’s waters and most of them are crowded into the wide southern half. From Duncryne Hill their tree-covered slopes take on all sorts of shapes, from the one that looks like a man who’s fallen face down into a shallow puddle, to the one that looks exactly like a motorboat, complete with a wake when the wind picks up. Peta and I popped into Drymen to pick up some lunch, drove back to Gartocharn, walked up Duncryne Hill and didn’t come down all day. Few views are this captivating or this vast; from the top of the hill you don’t so much get a view as a panorama, and with perfect weather, soft grass to sit on and a whole bag of food to munch on, the day passed by like a dream.

As if that wasn’t enough, we chose to eat in our B&B last night, as Gartocharn’s only eatery, an expensive and slightly tacky establishment called the Hungry Monk, was most definitely only worth visiting once. It turned out to be an excellent move; Mabel and Paul, our hosts for the night, put on an incredible spread, and Mabel’s cooking deserves more analytical praise than a culinary philistine like me can hack out. I did jot down the menu, though, which might give you an idea of how much Peta and I enjoyed our romantic dinner for two at the edge of Loch Lomond. If this is Scottish cooking, then I’m happy to be called a convert:

Soup of butternut squash with vanilla, orange, apple, parsley and a swirl of cream

Venison fillets with a whisky and cream sauce

Yellow peppers stuffed with mushrooms and spring onions

Dauphinois potatoes

Syllabub with forest berries in raspberry coulis

Nottage Hill Cabernet Sauvingon Shiraz

Coffee and mints

Is it any wonder that I didn’t want to get up when the alarm started yelling at 7.30 this morning? See, I told you this walk was work.

-oOo-

I’ve been looking forward to the West Highland Way for a long time. I’ve heard only good things about the track, which takes in some of Scotland’s best landscape in its 95-mile route from Glasgow to Fort William. The first day from Glasgow to Drymen is a pretty standard walk, though after the ridiculous initiation ceremony of the Pennine Way, an easy first day gets my vote. However, the second stage from Drymen to Rowardennan is another story; it really is special.

This section of the Way starts off with a hike up Conic Hill, from where the views of Loch Lomond are apparently lovely. I can’t confirm this, though, as I decided to save wear and tear on my foot by walking along the main road from Drymen to Balmaha, cutting out a few miles and the steady climb of the official route. After yesterday’s cinematic extravaganza on Duncryne I felt I could safely omit the first hurdle of the day, especially as the heat was stifling. Besides, I didn’t want to be at work in the first place, and the shorter the walk, the shorter the office hours.

But the West Highland Way really isn’t like work; I’d still rather spend time with my girlfriend than on the seemingly endless mileage of Land’s End to John o’Groats, but if the rest of the Way is as pleasant and easy going as the walk from Balmaha to Rowardennan, I’m in for a treat. The path follows the eastern shore of Loch Lomond, sometimes coinciding with the main shore road and sometimes ducking into forest, and it’s this aspect of the walk that makes the views, when you glimpse them, that much more intriguing. Every now and then the Way climbs above the trees, suddenly running into small clearings that force you to stop in your tracks and stare at the loch. Under the deep blue skies of this surprise heatwave the loch is a picture, and because the Way flirts with you, showing you tiny snippets of the loch through the trees, it’s all the more impressive when the views jump out from behind a rock and startle you into dumb silence. They’re beautiful and they more than make up for the long sections of relatively uninteresting forest.

However, my favourite bits aren’t the views, but the beaches. When the Way isn’t plodding through trees or hugging the main road, it’s weaving its way along the stony shore. Paths lead off the Way to tiny snippets of shoreline, framed by trees and more often than not looking out over one of the loch’s many islands. Every now and then the path winds along the back of a beach that’s accessible by road, and on a day like this these public beaches are happily buzzing with splashing kids and lightly poached adults, providing an interesting shock to the system after the relative tranquillity of the lochside forest. Walking is a lovely way of exploring these edges of the loch; there might be some stiff climbs and some stifling forest sections, but compared to the monotony of canal towpaths, the dirge of man-made pine forests and the depression of the Dark Peak’s peat hags, this is walking that only the most miserable bugger would think of as work.

Still, that’s how I thought of it, like it or not. I loved the walk, I soaked up the views and I sweated more than I thought possible, but I got the whole thing out of the way as quickly as I could. I pushed myself hard to make sure I got to Rowardennan as soon as possible and I was happy I did, for as soon as I’d arrived Peta whisked me off to tonight’s holiday destination, the Village Inn in Arrochar on the shores of Loch Long. Overlooking the loch, whose name comes from the Gaelic loch luing or ‘lake of the boats’, the Village Inn has excellent food on offer and serves great real ales; as I write this I’m thoroughly enjoying the dark bitterness of Orkney Brewery’s Dark Isle and the hoppy, golden taste of Brydge Bitter. Suddenly I feel as if I’m back on holiday again; it feels good, which probably means I need it. You really can have too much work, even if working is walking.

Rowardennan to Inverarnan

16 July 2003

What a nice surprise! Today the weatherman is gravely handing out weather warnings for torrential thundery downpours and the risk of local flooding, but is this the forecast for Scotland? Nope; it appears that Scotland is going to enjoy the heatwave for a little longer, but Devon and Cornwall are currently experiencing major rain and the south is sweltering in severe humidity and uncomfortably high temperatures. For once it’s a good thing that Scottish weather is a law unto itself; today there’s not a cloud in the sky.

I still didn’t want to get up and go to work this morning, though. Yet again I’d much rather spend the day with Peta, wandering around at a leisurely pace, visiting pubs, eating well and generally doing the kinds of thing that happy couples do on their holidays. I’m obviously suffering from too much walking and not enough leisure time, but despite my reservations, today again turned out to be a lovely walk along the shores of Loch Lomond.

-oOo-

It didn’t start off well, though. The West Highland Way is a popular track and because it’s relatively easy (at least compared to walks like the Pennine Way) it’s a great track for those looking for a week-long holiday walk. A whole industry has sprung up around the Way and it has become one of the most popular walking destinations in the country for visitors from abroad. The resulting commercialisation of the Way might make purists wince, but it’s good for business; perhaps the best example is the official accommodation guide for the Way, which contains a section at the back selling an amazing array of merchandise. You can buy West Highland Way mouse mats, glass tankards, car stickers, neck pens, baseball caps, coffee mugs, sewing kits, clothing, belt bags, paperweights, posters, cutlery sets, wallets, golfing umbrellas and badges, all emblazoned with the Way’s logo; hell, you can even buy a miniature bottle of whisky called the ‘West Highland Way Dram’ that comes complete with its own etched dram glass. If there’s one walking track in Britain that knows how to pull in the tourists, then it’s the West Highland Way; funnily enough you don’t see Pennine Way merchandise for sale, even though there’s a definite market for a T-shirt that says, ‘My Boyfriend Waded Through Hundreds of Miles of Boggy Shit on the Pennine Way and All I Got Was This Lousy and Surprisingly Stinky T-shirt.’

The impact of tourism on the Way might be the reason behind the ignorant racism I stumbled into within a few minutes of leaving Rowardennan. It wasn’t particularly evil and compared to the kind of racism you get in the inner cities it was pretty tame, but the fact that I was standing by the side of Loch Lomond and minding my own business made it all the more irritating.

I’d decided to take a photo of the loch from the dirt track that leads from the car park at Rowardennan, but my digital camera was having a really tough time focusing on the loch’s glittering water; I kept having to point the camera at a piece of land, focus, move the camera and click the shutter. Presumably one of the fat bastards on the stone beach thought I was taking a video of the loch, because in the spirit of global togetherness that so often afflicts the British, he decided it would be hilarious to jump up in front of me, jumping up and down yelling ‘G’day Skippy’ in one of the most inaccurate Australian accents this side of Sydney. His mates thought this was a quality comedy moment and collapsed into laughter, and while I idly wondered who he was yelling at, it suddenly struck me that I was wearing my Aussie bush hat. He was taking the piss out of me, an Englishman in Scotland, because he thought I was an Australian.

This incensed me, especially when I walked past the two women who were unlucky enough to be the better halves of these two apologies for manhood. One turned to the other and whispered, ‘Watch out, here he comes,’ and they both dissolved into laughter as I approached, trying not to meet my eye. So there I was, starting out along the next section of the West Highland Way with a bunch of xenophobic wankers laughing at me because they thought I was a foreigner and therefore fair game. How rude is that?

Although I did the right thing and simply blanked them out, I couldn’t help stewing over it as I stomped off up the track. I wished I’d come up with some witty retort that would have shut them up, but ignoring pillocks like this is the only real option because it’s a reaction they’re after in the first place. The fact that their racism was laughably ill-informed only added to my irritation; how sad it all was.

So I started today with grinding teeth. Ignorance tends to have that effect on me.

-oOo-

Probably because I was so wound up, I missed the turning to the loch shore. This section of the Way has two accepted routes, a high road and a low road, and I’d wanted to take the low road after yesterday’s wonderful shore hopping. But I never saw the turning and it took me a mile or two to realise I was stuck on the stony road that cuts through the forest, avoiding the shoreline and climbing the sides of the loch at a steady but easy gradient. I wasn’t too bothered because the high road is the easier route, but it’s also less interesting, so I ended up stomping as fast as I could, passing the poor souls who were struggling with their full packs in the utterly unforgiving sun.

Luckily the Way still manages to shine, even on the high road. Sure, most of the walk is relatively mundane, plodding through forests under the hot, dry sun, but every now and then the trees clear and the view is as stunning as it is beautiful. Loch Lomond really is a special place, and for the few miles to Inversnaid I was happy enough with just a few glimpses of the loch.

I was also pleased with the new elephant tape that Peta brought with her. My left boot has been wearing through steadily and it’s now reached the point where I can feel the contour of the next layer just under the toes. It’s only a matter of days before the outer seal goes and I’ve worn through to the inside of the boot, but the next rest day I have is in Fort William and if I’m going to buy a new pair of boots that won’t lacerate my feet, I need to take my time over buying them. Back in Linlithgow I decided the best thing to do would be to strap up the end of my boot with tape, so the tape would wear out and not the boot, but Elastoplast really isn’t designed for this sort of treatment; luckily Peta managed to track down some super-tough elephant tape in London and yesterday I stuck five layers over the front of my left boot to see what would happen. This morning they were still there, holding up pretty well considering the tough treatment they got, and at this rate I might actually make it to Fort William without having to walk barefoot.

So the grassy patch in front of the Inversnaid Hotel found me checking the state of my boots as the other walkers on the Way slumped on the lawn, soaking up the sun while day trippers stared at the view up and down the loch. Groups of fellow walkers laughed and joked all around me, and I found myself feeling unpleasantly alone; for most of this trip I’ve been the only walker for miles around and I like it like that, because the locals are always interested in finding out why someone is trudging through their part of the country with a backpack slung on his back. But here walkers are two-a-penny and most of the people on the West Highland Way appear to be in groups or couples, which means that for a lone walker like me, it’s like being at a cocktail party where you don’t know anyone and haven’t yet drunk enough to lose your inhibitions. I’m finding the social aspect of the Way a difficult one to crack; people are friendly, but they’re also self-contained. It’s almost as if it needs a nightmare section to break down the barriers; after a few days on the Pennine Way there’s a sense of bonding that comes from the collective survival of such awful terrain. Here it feels more like the Glastonbury Festival than a long-distance walk, and when you’re alone in a crowd like this, you really feel it.

-oOo-

According to the literature, the section of the West Highland Way from Inversnaid to Inverarnan is the most challenging section of the whole walk. I can see why; if it had been raining this afternoon when I walked it, it would have been a nightmare because this is real lochside walking. If it’s not the tree roots it’s the boulders, if it’s not the constant up and down it’s the slippery mud, and if it’s not the rain it’s the motley collection of streams that dribble across your path. But the sun has been shining for days and, more importantly, I did today’s walk without a heavy pack on my back, so I waltzed along the Way like a mountain goat.

Others weren’t so lucky, especially those with heavy packs, and as I zoomed north I passed plenty of people taking it easy in the hundreds of tiny stone beaches that line the loch along the Way. Jumping into a freezing freshwater loch has to be one of the best ways to cool off, and the sun was so fierce that even the midges gave up and decided to stay undercover. But I didn’t want to hang around, despite the pretty views; the loch might be as pretty as a picture, but the lure of an afternoon with Peta was far stronger than yet another gorgeous walk in the Great British Outdoors, so I kept pushing on, sweating buckets as the path reached the northern end of the loch, climbed over Cnap Mor and led me to the Drovers Inn at Inverarnan.

I wonder whether I’ll get back into this walk once Peta leaves tomorrow. Frankly, at the moment, I have better things to do than walk...

Inverarnan to Tyndrum

17 July 2003

I am a prat, and if it weren’t for the shooting pains in my shin, I’d be kicking myself. You’d think that I’d have learned some lessons from the last few days, but it seems that yet again I’ve pushed myself too far and too fast and yet again I’m paying the price. Today should have been an easy stroll through the remains of the heatwave; instead it’s been another awful day of pain and misery and I’m left here tonight worrying myself sick about whether my body is going to let me get to John o’Groats.

Yesterday I got too cocky. The lack of a heavy pack and the beautiful weather lulled me into a false sense of security, and in retrospect I pushed myself too fast. Peta was there, waiting for me at the end of the walk, and despite the amazing scenery of north Loch Lomond, I didn’t really want to be walking. I’ve been walking most days for over two months, but spending time with my girlfriend is something I haven’t been able to do, and if walking fast means more time with her, then I’m going to walk fast.

So it was entirely my decision to push myself on the latter stages of yesterday’s walk, and towards the end I felt a slight tug in my left shin. I didn’t think anything of it, though by the end of the walk it had graduated into a stiff pain that made it uncomfortable to walk. ‘Never mind,’ I thought, ‘a nice hot bath will soon sort that out,’ and after a couple of pints of Piper’s Gold, a large meal and a relaxing midge-feeding session on the hotel veranda, it felt fine.

It most certainly didn’t feel fine after a few miles today. This morning Peta dropped me back at the Drovers Inn, and after another painful goodbye – I won’t see her again until I go back home – I sobbed my way back into today’s walk. But my body didn’t let me feel miserable for long; soon enough the shooting pains returned to my left shin, and with every step melting into pain, that was all I could think about.

I seem to remember this happening the other day, too. What is going on? Doesn’t 850 miles of training make your body fit enough to handle the odd brisk walk along the shoreline of a loch? Evidently it doesn’t and I think I’ve finally learned this the hard way; today was agony and tonight the pain most definitely hasn’t gone away.

-oOo-

Luckily the West Highland Way has just moved into motorway mode and from here to Fort William the path is reportedly excellent. Gone are the tree roots and slippery boulders of yesterday and instead the path is wide, sprinkled with light gravel and easy to follow. Today’s 12 miles would normally have been excellent, with easy walking, good weather and some pleasant views, and there was even a light breeze that cooled the effect of the sun and blew away the midges. Today should have been perfect.

But as with the limp into Drymen, I couldn’t concentrate on the walk because every time I put my left foot down, my shin exploded with pain. I took some painkillers but they didn’t make much difference; I rested every few hundred metres and this helped for the next few steps before the pain kicked in again; I slowed right down, forcing myself to take it easy, and this improved things slightly while making the walk last for a very long time; but mainly my shin just hurt and I wondered if I’d ever get through the distance.

I don’t remember much about the walk. I do remember thinking that the walkers round here are different to those on the Pennine Way; some are chatty and most are friendly, but there are quite a few walkers on the West Highland Way who are downright bizarre. As I’ve already mentioned, the Pennine Way is so utterly unforgiving that there’s an instant camaraderie between those who have survived the first few days; sure, there are plenty of weirdoes doing it for the umpteenth time who actually seem to enjoy the bloody thing, but at least everyone is friendly. Basically, people say hello on the Pennine Way; on the West Highland Way, though, that’s not always the case.

A perfect example happened earlier today. I decided to sit down for lunch in a small grassy clearing overlooking Crianlarich; it was a pleasant place, and being a brief respite from the pain I remember it as the highlight of the day. But some highlights are short-lived, for ten minutes into my sandwich along came a man with two boys in tow, all of them carrying packs and no doubt tackling the West Highland Way as part of a family bonding exercise. I’d said hello to them as I’d passed them earlier, something I insist on doing to everyone; it’s only polite to be polite, after all, even if it falls on deaf ears, which is precisely what happened. This time the three of them sat down right next to me without even acknowledging my existence, spilling their packs onto the ground and arguing about who got which rolls and how much food there was for lunch. I didn’t mind too much – walks this busy are there to be shared – but despite trying to catch the man’s eye to nod a greeting, I was soundly ignored. None of them took any notice of me at all; it was as if I wasn’t there, and I couldn’t believe it. My peaceful lunch break in splendid isolation had just been invaded by the rudest family on the planet.

I kept looking over, hoping for some recognition. When you’ve just said goodbye to your girlfriend and your leg is burning with pain, a friendly hello or a swapped anecdote is like manna from heaven, and I was stunned to be so completely overlooked. They just rolled around in their own juices, arguing over food in their gentle Scottish accents; I’d have understood if they’d been from overseas, as language can be a terrifying barrier, but these were locals and here they were, blatantly ignoring someone just ten feet away from them. Even when I got up, packed my bag and shuffled off past them, they continued to avoid the fact that I was there. It deflated me completely; I felt thoroughly unloved.

Despite the continuing agony in my shin I eventually reached Tyndrum and fell into a shared hut that provided a basic but acceptable home to six bunk beds, a shower and a kitchen. My timing couldn’t have been better, for as soon as I’d dumped my bag, popped into the village for my customary ice-cold Irn-Bru and returned to write up the day, the heavens opened in the most almighty downpour. Thunder shook my wooden hut, the power went dead and the rain fell in rods, soaking the poor man outside who’d only managed to erect the inside of his tent before the freak shower hit.

It lasted for ten minutes and then the skies cleared, the power flicked back on and the sun came out. So today could have been worse; I could have been totally drenched too, though if tomorrow is as painful as today, that will be scant comfort.

I also noticed that the man with the drenched tent was the same man who had steadfastly refused to acknowledge my existence back in Crianlarich. Perhaps that was the highlight of my day after all...

Tyndrum to Kings House

18 July 2003

Lady Luck must be smiling on me, because today I managed to avoid two of the most miserable things to afflict a walker. First, my leg held up throughout the day, and second, I didn’t get rained on once. I should be ecstatic; behind the façade of a man who’s rapidly losing interest in this walk, I probably am.

Today’s walk was a long one, mainly because I forced myself to take it easy. Last night I woke up in the middle of the night with my left shin cramping and my mind whirling, and for the first time in ages I lay there wondering how I would cope with failure. Back in Okehampton I figured that retiring early because of an unavoidable tendon injury would be depressing but acceptable, and before I tackled the Pennine Way I knew that if it broke me for a second time, at least I’d have given it a good go. But now that I’m nearly four-fifths of the way through this walk and with the hardest walking behind me, failure would be a seriously bitter pill to swallow.

In the middle of the night, in a humid hut that’s swarming with midges, the prospect of failure looms especially large. My left shin throbbed and I could hardly move my foot; if things didn’t improve in the next few hours, I would have to seriously consider taking time out to get over it. I couldn’t believe it; it’s my own stupid fault that things have taken this turn, and at 4am the world sat on my shoulders and pushed me right down into the mattress.

Daylight brought logic, though, and I figured that I might as well give it a go. I made it to Tyndrum’s Little Chef for breakfast, and from there I forced myself to walk at about two-thirds of my normal speed, which helped. The twinge was still there, but I figured I could handle it; I couldn’t believe my luck.

-oOo-

Predictably I found it hard to concentrate on the walk itself. If my mind wasn’t obsessing over every single pain and twinge in my body it was obsessing over the weather, because at last the heatwave has broken. Last night’s thunderstorm heralded a change in the weather and the clouds rolled in and smothered the mountains overnight, leaving the atmosphere incredibly humid and on the brink of rain. With the state of my boots and the awkward condition of my leg, torrential rain was all I needed, and I stared at the clouds like a man possessed.

Luckily the weather held up as well as my leg, and apart from some spitting, I was safe. The conditions underfoot were never in doubt anyway; today I might have crossed the infamous Rannoch Moor, but I crossed it on one of the most amazing walking surfaces this side of the canal network, a road built by none other than Mr Telford.

From Tyndrum to Inveroran the Way follows the same military road that it takes from the northern reaches of Loch Lomond, a road that dates from the 18th century and the time when General Wade and Major Caulfield were tasked with sorting out the military transport network around Scotland. But from Inveroran, across Rannoch Moor, a drovers’ road takes over, a road that would have been used to herd cattle to market. In 1803 Thomas Telford was commissioned by the government to rebuild a number of these roads to make it easier to drive cattle, and the road across Rannoch Moor is one of his.

It’s a good road, if a little stony these days, and it makes crossing the moor simplicity itself. Sure, it’s a long 9.5-mile trudge from Inveroran to Kings House, but it’s a darn sight more pleasant than crossing the moors of northern England. Ink-black clouds loomed in the near distance, constantly threatening rain, and the surrounding peaks were hidden by long, grey swathes of mist, but in the end the real problem with Rannoch Moor wasn’t the weather, it wasn’t the path and it wasn’t my shin; I’ve now entered the realm of the horsefly and I don’t like it one little bit.

Horseflies, or ‘clegs’ as they’re called round here, are terrible things. Slightly bigger than house flies and looking like lumps of furry green mould with wings, they can sense an attractive-smelling human from miles away by homing in on carbon dioxide emissions in the same way that midges do. Once they’ve tracked you down, they fly round and round your head, buzzing into your ears and having a good old sniff around, looking for a nice juicy patch of exposed skin to attack. They might join their friends on the back of your pack, sunning themselves until your guard is down, but whatever their tactics they eventually get stuck in, and that’s when you really notice they’re there.

The clegs of Rannoch Moor are particularly fond of the soft underside of my forearms, just where the veins meet the elbow. When walking with sticks in humid weather, this is where the sweat collects and drips off, so the odd tickling sensation under the elbow is no surprise; the surprise is when it turns out to be a cleg, because when these buggers bite, it hurts. They really sink their teeth in, and unlike midges and mosquitoes, they don’t like to let go; I’ve brushed many a cleg off my arm only to find that it’s still happily attached and drinking my blood. Quite literally, clegs suck.

This makes them surprisingly easy to kill, though. Clegs are obviously used to biting animals whose aim is only as accurate as a flicked tail or a shaken rump, and as a result they’ve developed a rather cocky attitude to meal times, ignoring any attempts to yank them out of your veins. When you’re walking it’s hard to take aim properly, but I spent many a happy minute resting on Rannoch Moor, slapping clegs into early graves and doing my bit to control the population. I couldn’t spend too long swatting flies for fear of the midges, who aren’t too proud to take sloppy seconds from the clegs, but at least it made me feel better about the itchy welts covering my arms.

-oOo-

Crossing Rannoch Moor to reach the lonely Kings House Hotel is, according to my guidebook, the highlight of most people’s West Highland Way. If so, then I’m thoroughly past my sell-by date; I’m reaching the point when I’ve just about had enough of this bloody walk, and I’m not talking about the West Highland Way, I’m talking about Land’s End to John o’Groats.

Basically I’m bored and I want to go home. Every few minutes I’m having to repeat the mantra I picked up before I set off on this walk, ‘I have to want to finish, I have to want to finish.’ But stopping isn’t an option anyway, because I’d never consider giving up this close to the end; I’m 80 per cent of the way through this walk and the only thing that’s going to spoil the party is injury. This is a distinct possibility, as it feels as if my body is giving way beneath me, but mentally I know I can do this, just as long as I can stay interested.

I didn’t think this would happen, to be honest. I thought Scotland would wake me up out of the slumber that the latter stages of the Pennine Way induced, and I certainly enjoyed the Scottish Borders region, with its beautiful abbeys and easy walking. But the canals wore me down and I’m just not energetic enough to care about the West Highland Way, and still the walk continues. Frankly I want it all to end, and the only thing that’s stopping me is the sure knowledge that I’d seriously regret giving up.

Perhaps this is what they mean by having to want to finish. I’m sitting in the bar in the Kings House Hotel, my feet are feeling reasonable, I’ve only got a 9-mile walk tomorrow, I’m enjoying the draught Caledonian 80 Shilling more than usual and I’ve even got a phone signal... but I’m deflated. It’s odd, but at least it makes me want to get to the end even more.

Yeah, bring on the rest of the walk, if only so I can get it out of the way...

Kings House to Kinlochleven

19 July 2003

Blimey, I wasn’t expecting today to turn out like this. Sure, I didn’t roll out of bed this morning expecting everything to be fantastic – the weather is still overcast and rainy, which makes this part of the world particularly miserable – but I didn’t think I was going to spend the afternoon throwing up. It’s totally scuppered my plans.

I’ve got food poisoning – yes, food poisoning! – which is a fine way to conclude this week of physical misery. Seven days ago I walked so far along the central canal belt that I got a nasty blister on my right heel, and the next day the same foot swelled up into a painful mess that turned the walk to Drymen into a serious struggle. A few days later I rushed along the shoreline of Loch Lomond so fast that I strained my left shin, and the following day’s walk to Tyndrum was agony all the way. Today I managed to get a blister on my left middle toe – something I haven’t had for weeks – but bigger and better than any of these injuries is the awful bout of vomiting that hit me this afternoon.

I’m pretty sure I can blame the sandwich I ate at lunchtime today, thankfully after I’d finished the short walk from Kings House to Kinlochleven. I thought it tasted a bit funny, but it wasn’t past its sell-by date and you never think these things are going to happen to you; but within a couple of hours of eating it I started feeling queasy and over the next three hours I threw up three times. The third bout was particularly interesting and I kneeled there amazed as ever-louder heaves brought up practically everything I’ve eaten in the last month. My stomach muscles haven’t had such a thorough workout since I lightened my pack in Okehampton.

So now I’m lying in bed, alternately shivering beneath the duvet and throwing back the covers in cold sweats, and tomorrow’s 14-mile hike to Fort William looks increasingly like a very bad idea. I’ll decide in the morning whether to stay or go, but one thing’s for certain: instead of enjoying my last couple of hundred miles through Scotland, I’m rapidly reaching the end of my physical tether. None of the problems have been bad enough to send me home early – I presume I’ll get over this food poisoning, assuming that’s what it is – but the final lap is proving to be one of the biggest challenges of all and it’s got nothing to do with the walking. My mind might be fighting on, but my body’s showing worrying signs of giving up.

-oOo-

The weather really does make or break this part of the world. Scotland is glorious in the sunshine, especially if there’s a reasonable breeze to keep the insects away; those walks along Loch Lomond were idyllic, for example, and I have fond memories of crossing the border to reach Jedburgh. But since I left Peta and the loch behind the weather has slowly disintegrated, and now it’s reached the depressing level of cloudy, patchy showers that obscure the views and encourage the insects. I don’t like it one bit.

In this weather I just can’t love this part of Scotland. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m going to finish this damn walk come hell or high water, I’d be chucking in my walking boots and staying inside, because today was everything I don’t like about this part of the world, rolled up and stuffed into one tedious walk (and this was before I even touched that damn sandwich). Yesterday’s low clouds hadn’t moved by breakfast and they sat there all day, obscuring the mountains that the guidebooks rave about; the clegs were still there, hitching a ride on my backpack and trying to eat me when I wasn’t looking; and around the Kings House Hotel the midges made an unwelcome return, clouding round the campsite and devouring the poor souls who’d already spent a long night fighting them inside their tents. I was lucky as I only got lacerated once I started walking, but by the time I’d dropped my pack, pulled out the baby-oil-and-Dettol mixture and smothered it on my arms and neck, I was already an itchy, blotchy mess.

So was the walking worth the effort? I’m afraid it wasn’t, purely because the weather refused to let me see what was going on. I’m sure that in clear weather this place is the poetic beauty spot the writers all harp on about, but in low cloud it’s a dismal place, full of dark shadows and ghostly silhouettes. I desperately wanted to enjoy myself, because this is one of the most celebrated walking spots in Scotland, but I didn’t. Instead I walked the 9 miles to Kinlochleven as quickly as I could, before the clouds decided to get it together and turn into rain.

I suppose I did see the bottoms of some presumably huge mountains, and I did climb the Devil’s Staircase, a switchback of a military road from which the views back towards the Kings House are probably great in the sun. But most of the walk was a weary exercise in plodding along the old military road, warily eyeing up the murky clouds while midges attacked me and clegs took chunks out of my legs.

The highlight of the day was when I finally arrived in Kinlochleven and ducked into the hostel, because that’s when the lightly spitting rain tuned into a torrential downpour. I sat inside, warm in the happy glow of someone who’s just avoided a drenching, and to celebrate I fished a ham salad sandwich out of my pack and munched my way through it, ignoring the slightly piquant flavour of the lettuce and the gentle effervescence of the ham.

And that’s where today’s story should have ended...

Kinlochleven to Fort William

20 July 2003

OK, so having just tried it, I really wouldn’t advise walking 14 miles while suffering from the aftermath of food poisoning. I might have managed to get pretty much everything (and I mean everything) out of my system last night, but there’s a debilitating dizziness that comes along with the nausea of food poisoning, and that takes a lot longer to shift. It’s not exactly the best hiking companion I’ve ever had, particularly as Scotland hasn’t turned out to be the easiest walking environment in the first place.

I dithered about leaving at all this morning; it’s not terribly sensible to head off into the hills when you’ve thrown up your last two meals and your energy levels are low. I figured I’d wait to see what happened to my breakfast before deciding what to do, and although I felt pretty queasy and didn’t exactly relish the climb over to Fort William, something in me wanted to try. I’ve walked through miserable weather and through the pain of blisters, and I’ve put up with inflamed tendons and strained muscles, but I’ve never walked this sort of distance with food poisoning. Besides, the thought of an extra day in Kinlochleven didn’t exactly fire my synapses; pleasant though it is, it’s hardly a metropolis.

In the end it was certainly an experience, and experiencing things is half the point of a walk like this. At least, that’s what I’ll tell my shrink...

-oOo-

I sweated more today than at any other time on this walk, even on my sun-beaten stomps along the shores of Loch Lomond. From Kinlochleven the Way heads steeply uphill before turning west into a long valley, and during this ascent of about 250m I swam in sweat. I kept having to wipe my eyes from the rivulets pouring down my forehead, and beneath my Gore-Tex jacket I slowly soaked my T-shirt until it felt as if someone had poured a pint of water down my neck. To add to the hassle the weather consisted of blustery showers one minute and hot sun the next, so I thought it best to leave my jacket on, as wearing a soaked T-shirt in cold rain is not the best way to conserve energy when you’re already running on empty.

The dizziness was the worst handicap, though. While a hiker’s high is a pleasant, dreamy state in which to walk through the hills, the nauseous aftermath of food poisoning is another matter altogether. I’m used to the miles passing by quite quickly as I get into a regular step, but today it took forever to claw my way through the map. I didn’t really take in the scenery, though seeing as it was generally dull green hills under dull grey skies, I’m not sure my lack of appreciation was entirely down to my physical state. Whatever, I dutifully followed the Way as it looped towards Glen Nevis, the valley below Britain’s highest mountain, Ben Nevis.

Ben Nevis isn’t one of the most impressive mountains in the world, but then it’s not exactly towering. According to my map it’s 1343m high, or around 4400 ft, which is pretty paltry when you think of mountain ranges like the Alps, but even if the Ben isn’t one of the highest peaks on the planet, it’s still a bulky bugger and it’s hard to miss as you make your way through Nevis Forest towards the southern face of the mountain. I thought the most intriguing aspect of the mountain was the clearly visible path that zigzags up the southern slopes; from the Way the entire ascent can be seen and it’s easy to see why it’s a popular and relatively straightforward day’s walk to the top of the highest peak in the country. But that still doesn’t explain my End-to-End guidebook’s exuberance over Ben Nevis. Get this:

Since you’re connecting the two most extreme ends of the country on foot why shouldn’t you bag the highest point while you’re at it? It almost seems churlish to ignore the opportunity! ... It’s a steady climb, but not particularly difficult, and although the actual summit gives very little impression of the mountain’s sheer height and size (especially its rugged north face) the chance to add yet another noteworthy highlight to the trip is surely irresistible?

Churlish? Well, that’s me then. Why make life harder for yourself than you have to? Then again, this is the guy who also suggests that it’s quite possible to go from Kings House to Fort William in one go, a hilly romp of 23 miles. As he says:

If you don’t feel fit by now, 950 miles on from Land’s End, then perhaps you never will!

Thanks Andrew. That makes me feel a whole lot better, as I sit here all churlish and unfit. Perhaps it’s because I’ve only done 900 miles to get this far, rather than 950 – that’s what you get for being slack, eh.

Northern Scotland

Fort William to South Laggan

22 July 2003

Today I left Fort William in what felt like spanking new gear, at least compared to my sweat-soaked and highly unpleasant journey from Kinlochleven. Fort William is a good place to stock up on bits and bobs for the trail, and as well as doing all the usual jobs yesterday like getting my form stamped at the Post Office and visiting the supermarket to drool over the aisles of luxury items, I also treated myself to a heavy-duty laundry session and – long overdue – a completely new pair of walking boots.

Normally laundry wouldn’t be worth mentioning, but in Fort William it’s an issue. When I asked the lady at my guest house whether she could help me with some washing, she said that she was completely snowed under, having just come back from Inverness, and there was no chance of her doing any more. This was a bit of a pain, as my clothes smelled as if I’d been sweating bile, but she was adamant and I didn’t press the issue.

‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Is there a laundrette in town?’

‘Um, I dunno,’ she said. ‘I think there might be one in Claggan, but I’m not sure if it’s still there. You could always check.’

So I set off yesterday morning for the neighbouring suburb, where I totally failed to find anything at all: no shops, no high street, nothing but a lonely bypass. So I asked the man in the local tyre garage if there was a laundrette in town.

‘Yeah, I think so,’ he said. ‘Try up these steps, in front of the houses, turn right at the fork, go up the hill, and it should be somewhere round there.’

‘Thanks very much,’ I said and proceeded to get totally lost at an unexpected junction. Luckily there was an old man walking through the houses, so I asked him the same question.

‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t need a laundrette myself. But I think there might be one in the industrial estate over there; you go down here, turn right, and keep on going. Try asking in the car dealer round the corner.’

‘Thanks very much,’ I said and tracked down the industrial estate, where I couldn’t for the life of me find anything resembling a cleaners. So I asked a burly man who was walking in the opposite direction and he shrugged his shoulders.

‘I think there’s one in here somewhere,’ he said. ‘But I live here and I can never find my way round this damn place either. Hang on, there’s a list of companies over there; let’s have a look.’

And there they were, in unit number seven, around a couple more corners and past the hamburger van. It was a huge, industrial cleaning factory that looked nothing like the tiny Laundromat I’d been expecting; I looked at my little bag of washing and wondered if I was going to be worth their while.

‘Hello,’ I said to the lady behind the counter. ‘I don’t know if you can help me, but I’ve got a nuclear bag of walking gear that I need washing, if that’s possible.’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But our minimum charge for a load is seven pounds, I’m afraid.’

‘Seven pounds?’ I said. ‘That’s a bit steep. Um, do you mind me asking if you’re the only laundry service in town?’

‘Aye, we are,’ she said. ‘People even come from Oban and Inverness to use us.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Then I guess I haven’t got much choice then, because these really need cleaning.’

‘Hang on,’ she said, smiling kindly at my plastic bag. ‘I’ll go get the boss, she might be able to help.’ So the boss wandered over and explained how their machines were all pretty large and how the water rates meant they had to charge a minimum price... but she could do it for £5, because I’d walked so far. I jumped at it and left my radioactive bag with the lady, which meant that this morning I was able to head out onto the trail without being arrested for vagrancy.

-oOo-

My second mission yesterday was to buy some new walking boots. My Berghaus boots finally gave up the ghost about 100 miles ago, and they only got this far because I’ve been taping up the front of each boot, trying to stop the seams from splitting. By the time I arrived in Fort William the dent in the front had finally become a hole, and as much as it pained me, I had to concede that they simply wouldn’t last for another 200 miles as the insides were starting to show through the toes. Sad though it was, I just had to retire them.

Luckily Fort William is geared up for outdoor sports and the large outdoors store I visited had an excellent range of footwear, so I bought the shoes with the hardest tread and the softest body I could find. They’re made by a Swiss manufacturer called Raichle and come highly recommended by the enthusiastic man in the shop, and today I road-tested them for the first time, packing my knackered old boots as well for when the blisters got too bad.

It took five minutes for me to start worrying. I could have sworn there hadn’t been a strange lump under the front ball of my right foot when I tried them on in the shop, but there it was, instantly irritating the very part of my foot that made hobbling along the Forth and Clyde Canal such an ordeal. I also bought a new pair of socks back in Fort William – I’m always up for trying another blister-free claim and this time I’m trying out something called Smartwool, because you never know when one of these crazy schemes might work – but they didn’t feel right either and I swore I could already feel the blisters starting to form.

I started to panic and wondered how I was going to manage 22.5 miles along canal towpaths and cycle tracks with the blisters already on their way. £100 is a lot to spend on shoes that start rubbing before you’ve even left the suburbs, but I figured that I might as well try to prevent a complete disaster and peeled off my socks to stick a blister plaster underneath the front of each foot. And so I warily walked on, wincing at every hint of a rub and re-tying my shoelaces every few hundred metres to try to find the least uncomfortable fit.

Well, blow me if I forgot about the whole thing after another 15 minutes and walked the entire day’s walk without giving blisters another thought. I can’t believe it; these boots have turned out to be the most comfortable I’ve ever worn, and they must have taken less than two miles to break in. Compare that to my Berghaus monsters, which were still lacerating my feet regularly after a few hundred miles, and I think we may have a winner. I assumed I was going to have to carry my old boots for a week or so while the new ones loosened up, but when I got to Loch Lochy Youth Hostel this afternoon I took their photograph for old time’s sake and dumped them in the bin. It was an emotional goodbye after 900 miles of togetherness; I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

-oOo-

I might have achieved a lot in Fort William, but I still did it through the haze of nausea. Food poisoning might be easy to get out of the stomach but it’s a darn sight harder to get out of the system, and although I woke up this morning feeling a whole lot better, I still haven’t got my appetite back. That always takes a couple of days longer.

But at least I didn’t wake up to dizzying weakness and cold sweats, and by the time I reached the Caledonian Canal, a couple of miles into today’s walk, I felt something strange tugging at the sides of my forehead. I thought I’d walked into a spider’s web, but I couldn’t wipe it off and it took me another minute or two to realise what it was. By then my first smile in five days had spread down through my shoulders, into my arms and legs and down into my feet, and suddenly my bounce came back.

I don’t notice it because I rarely watch myself walking, but when I walk, I bounce; this could explain why my boots tend to give up the ghost rather more quickly than they should, but another side effect is that when I’m run down, I start walking like normal people, with my head staying at the same level. This morning I felt my bounce return, so I know that even though I’m still a little queasy, at least I’m slowly returning to form, which may come as a relief to those of you who’ve just ploughed through the last few days of miserable, self-pitying waffle.

Not only is my bounce back, but so is the good walking. I’m now following the Great Glen Way, a 73-mile national trail that links up with the West Highland Way in Fort William and goes all the way along the Great Glen to Inverness, taking in Loch Lochy, Loch Oich and Loch Ness. The trail was only opened in 2002 and as such it hasn’t had time to become the kind of tourist trap that the West Highland Way seems to be, which is a relief. Now that I’ve finished the West Highland Way I can look back, safe in the knowledge that I really didn’t enjoy it that much. A lot of this was down to the poor weather that hit the highland stretch, the injury I sustained while jogging along Loch Lomond and the bacterial surprise that hit me in Kinlochleven, but even if you strip these away, I still wasn’t that impressed. I loved Loch Lomond, but the part I enjoyed best was the southern section, and most of that is easily accessible by car, so it’s hardly an experience that’s unique to long-distance walkers; however the mountains and moors were miserable in the low cloud, and with the midges and clegs making every pit-stop an irritation, I’m happy to be out of there.

I also found most other walkers on the track pretty mundane, which surprised me. Either they didn’t speak a great deal of English, in which case they nodded a quick hello and moved on; or they were in couples, and stayed that way; or they were socially inadequate, like the rude family who blanked me at lunch; or they were interesting, funny, outgoing and the life and soul of the party, in which case they ducked out of the door as soon as they saw me coming and hid convincingly for the entire trip. No, the West Highland Way didn’t do it for me, but even though I’ve only done just under one-third of the Great Glen Way, I already love it. It’s everything that the West Highland Way isn’t; it’s quiet, it’s friendly, it’s beautiful, it’s out of the way and it’s good walking (so far, anyway). Hurrah.

-oOo-

For most of the first day the Way follows the Great Glen cycle route, which means that the going is easy and the track quality is excellent, but for me the best aspect of the whole day was the proximity to water. After getting out of Fort William as quickly as possible the Way joins the Caledonian Canal for about six or seven miles, and then long, thin Loch Lochy takes over for the rest of the day to South Laggan. It’s dreamy.

Even the canal part of the Way is interesting, a welcome relief after the mundane canals of the central region. More like a river than a canal, the Caledonian was built to take seafaring vessels from one coast to the other, removing the need for the treacherous journey around the top of the British Isles. It was built by Thomas Telford over an 18-year period in the early 19th century and went hugely over-budget, but it’s an impressive sight. At the western end the canal starts with a huge line of consecutive locks called Neptune’s Staircase; I tried to count them as I walked past, but I lost count halfway, there were so many. According to the Ordnance Survey there are eight locks in the Staircase, each of them sharing its top gate with the bottom gate of the next lock, but that isn’t the impressive thing. The impressive thing is the sheer size of this canal.

Gone are the narrow boats of the canals of southern England; instead the Caledonian is full of seafaring yachts, massive motorboats and fishing trawlers, the kinds of vessel you normally only see on the coast. I saw pretty sloops, a couple of yawls, a luxury cruiser and a whole flotilla of two-deck motorboats, and that was what made the Caledonian so impressive. It links Fort William and Inverness by connecting the long, thin lochs of the Great Glen, but it does it on the scale of Suez. This isn’t a canal with pretty little pubs and locks you can hop across; here the lock gates are motorised and carry eight or ten boats at a time. It’s another world.

And so is Loch Lochy. Where Loch Lomond is beautiful for its steep sides and pretty little beaches, Loch Lochy is beautiful for its sweeping vistas. At one stage the Way ducks off the cycle route and down to the loch shore, and instead of the winding, sheltered passage of the West Highland Way, the path wanders along open stone beaches with the loch visible beside you in all its glory. Despite being overrun with hungry midges, the 12-mile walk along its shore is a picture; Loch Lochy is a lovely lake, even if that might be hard to say after a few beers.

-oOo-

I don’t normally bother to write about what I eat unless it’s particularly good, but I have to tell you about the incredible meal I had in Loch Lochy Youth Hostel. Back in Greenhead, when I last saw Matt, I bought a bunch of emergency rations off him, as I figured at some point I would probably end up off the beaten track with no shops, no pubs and no pizza delivery. I was right; South Laggan is such a place.

Luckily I’d been warned about the hostel’s isolation, so I decided I might as well tuck into my emergency rations so I wouldn’t have to carry them any further. From hereon the walking is hardly dangerous – the Great Glen Way goes to Inverness and then it’s a week of hugging the coast along roads and paths – and tucking into my rations seemed a good way to kill two birds with one stone. Matt had proudly told me that these were the best mountaineering rations that he’d ever tasted, and as I watched him make himself one of them back in Alston, I figured it would be interesting to try one. It was.

Actually, I’m seriously impressed with Matt’s rations. They’re freeze-dried and vacuum-packed into packets that weigh about 150g, and all you do to reconstitute the meal is rip off the top of the packet, add boiling water to the fill line, give it a good old stir, seal the packet along its pinch-seal and leave it for five minutes. And that’s it.

I expected them to taste like most freeze-dried meals – a cross between sawdust and a poor man’s Pot Noodle – but these rations, produced in Norway by a company called Drytech, are actually rather good. Check out the ingredients for the chicken curry I ate tonight; it contained rice, chicken meatloaf, onion, wheat flour, red paprika, vegetable oil, bouillon, curry, salt, seasoning and an anti-oxidant (ascorbic acid). The only E-number in that lot is the last one, which is a step up from most instant meals, and a 150g packet reconstitutes to 500g of curry, which contains a respectable 665 calories of energy.

I wouldn’t want to live on them, but then I wouldn’t want to walk endlessly for the rest of my life; as a light trekking foodstuff, though, these rations are great. Clever buggers, those Norwegians.

South Laggan to Alltsigh

23 July 2003

Today wasn’t such a great day in terms of scenery, not because it wasn’t there, but because most of the time it was cleverly hidden behind the pine trees of the Forestry Commission forests that line the Great Glen. Still, I can’t complain; the rain that the weatherman predicted for Scotland turned out to be nothing more than a little bit of spitting around lunchtime, and I managed to walk another colossal distance with only one blister to show for it. There were no muscular traumas, no bacterial problems, no sodden bogs, no low clouds and no unpleasant surprises, but then there was no escape from the midges either.

There’s very little to say about the route, which threads along the Great Glen, switching banks every now and then just to add to the variety. From South Laggan the Caledonian Canal runs for a mile before an old military road on the east bank of Loch Oich takes over. Loch Oich is a pretty little loch – aren’t they all? – and being only 3.5 miles long and a few hundred metres wide, its size is a refreshing change after the wide vistas of Loch Lochy.

So it’s not long before the Caledonian Canal takes over again, complete with yachts and motorboats chugging along the six flat miles to Fort Augustus, where all of a sudden the tourist circus kicks in. Fort Augustus is a picturesque village centred around a staircase of five locks, and as the southern gateway to Loch Ness it’s a popular stopover on the tourist circuit. I wandered into the centre and tried to dodge the colourful crowds as they stared at the water traffic slowly shuffling through the locks, and for a minute I wondered where on earth everyone had come from, because on the map Fort Augustus is not a large place. But round the corner I discovered a whole flotilla of coaches, hidden in a car park that was almost as large as the village itself; engines purred as drivers sat reading their papers, waiting for their cargo to return from their allotted 15 minutes of lock watching. After hours of silent walking along the lochs and towpaths the onslaught of mass tourism was a bit of a shock to the system; I loved it.

I should have hung around in Fort Augustus to have my lunch because watching the watchers was better than television, but I thought I’d better put another couple of miles on the clock before stopping for a bite to eat. This turned out to be a bad move, because the whole of the rest of the walk plods through pine forest, and if there’s one thing that pine forests have in buckets, it’s midges. I got lacerated, again, and for the umpteenth time I marvelled at how the locals manage to put up with it. Hats off to them; I can’t handle the little bastards, even with the power of Dettol and baby oil, and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I couldn’t live in any part of Scotland that’s home to midges...

-oOo-

But hey, I’ve just arrived at Loch Ness! This is quite an event, if only because Loch Ness is one of the few places on this whole walk that absolutely everyone has heard of. Of course there’s the myth of the Loch Ness monster, not to mention the beauty of the loch itself, but to me the most impressive thing about Loch Ness is its sheer size. It’s by far the biggest body of fresh water in Britain – Loch Lomond has the biggest surface area, but Loch Ness has a much higher volume – and its deepest point is so far down that you could drop the Empire State Building into the loch and it would sink out of sight. That might be impressive, but it’s not my favourite fact about Loch Ness. This one, however, is: if you took all the lakes and reservoirs in England and Wales and tipped them into an empty Loch Ness, then they wouldn’t fill it up. Loch Ness is an awfully big lake.

Unfortunately you don’t get to see much of it from the Great Glen Way, because the trail follows forest tracks, and forest tracks, by their nature, tend to be surrounded by trees. Every now and then you get a break in the growth and the loch swims into view, an impressive expanse of deep blue water with the prevailing westerly winds chopping up the surface into ripples that break as gentle waves on the shore; it’s a pretty place, and the opposite shore of the loch, to the east, is totally devoid of roads, houses and other signs of humanity. OK, so a lot of the forests are man-made and are criss-crossed by fire breaks that wouldn’t naturally be there, but it’s great to look over the loch and see nothing but water, wilderness and the odd yacht gliding silently along the surface.

Sadly these tantalising views are all too few and far between, so the walk soon turns into a plod, which turns into a slog, which turns into a bit of a bore. I met some nice people, I stopped whenever there was the hint of a view and I didn’t find the walking too taxing, but by the time I reached Invermoriston I was more than a little jaded with the thought of yet more pine forest walking.

The problem is that instead of finding a place in Invermoriston, I’m staying at Loch Ness Youth Hostel, three miles further along the loch shore in a tiny hamlet called Alltsigh. I know why I decided to stay here instead of Invermoriston; it’s because it meant I had to make one less phone call when sorting out my accommodation, and as I have a pathological fear of using the phone, the Scottish Youth Hostel Association’s central reservation service seemed like a good way of keeping the number of phone calls down. But when I arrived in Invermoriston I realised that I still had a further three miles of steep hill walking go to the hostel, and to add to the thrill Loch Ness Youth Hostel is in the middle of nowhere, with only a couple of houses and a very big loch to look at. There is most definitely no pub, unlike in Invermoriston.

‘Mark, I’ve been waiting for you!’ cried the Glenmoriston Arms as I walked round the corner and into the glare of its happy pub sign. I pretended not to hear it.

‘Hey, come in old friend,’ it purred. ‘You know you want a nice pint of hoppy, fruity real ale. It’ll set you up for the last few miles, and you could do with taking the weight off your feet.’

‘Go away,’ I said. ‘If I have a beer, I’ll fall asleep.’

‘Nonsense,’ said the pub. ‘Think of all the calories it’ll give you – it’ll sort you out good and proper. And it’ll help dull the pain of that nasty blister you’ve got on your right foot. I know you’re being brave about it, but it must really hurt. Go on, have a pint. Just one. You know it makes sense.’

‘Ah, stop it!’ I yelled and looked at the map, which clearly showed a super-steep climb just after the village centre, followed by three miles of plodding along rocky, tree-lined forestry tracks. ‘I can’t, I just can’t.’

‘Oh, come on,’ he continued. ‘It never stopped you back in the Midlands. Remember the Severn? Don’t you want a nice cool pint like you did back then? I might even have Fraoch Heather Ale in here – remember Heather Ale, Mark?’

‘Oh, that’s below the belt!’ I screamed, remembering the last time I’d had Heather Ale. A few years ago Peta and I had booked ourselves into a perfectly romantic spot that combined excellent food, a cosy real fire, a luxurious room with a massive bathtub and a view from the bedroom window of the Isle of Skye, and while the rain poured down outside and the fire crackled right beside us, we drank the joint dry of bottled Heather Ale. It’s a delightful beer, made from heather instead of hops, and I’ve been on the lookout for it ever since I entered Scotland. The thought of finding it here...

‘No, I can’t have a beer,’ I told the pub, and ran for the sign that said ‘Tea Room’ instead. And there, in the fridge of the tea room, were plenty of bottles of Heather Ale, so I sat with my back to them and ordered a pot of tea and a slice of cake, trying not to listen to the voices of Invermoriston, calling me to the pub.

God, the Youth Hostel was boring, but at least I got there without giving in. I’m rather proud of myself, even if I can still hear the Glenmoriston Arms on the breeze...

Alltsigh to Drumnadrochit

24 July 2003

Apart from some stunning viewpoints over Loch Ness towards the start of the day, the walk from Loch Ness Youth Hostel to Drumnadrochit is pretty forgettable. Luckily those views more than make up for the rest of it; Loch Ness is best appreciated from high up, and up high is exactly where the Great Glen Way goes from Alltsigh.

Thank goodness man-made forests get cut down every now and then, because without the timber wastelands that the chainsaws leave behind, walkers through Forestry Commission land would never see anything. Looking along Loch Ness from 300m above the level of the loch is worth any amount of climbing, and it’s especially intriguing when the weather is doing strange things. ‘Do you know the forecast for today?’ I asked the warden at the Youth Hostel, and she sniffed the air and declared that there would be heavy rain. She was right, but only in part, for marching down the loch was a little, self-contained storm that completely entranced me.

I could see it being blown from the west, right along the wind tunnel that’s formed by the Great Glen. From the high vantage point of the Great Glen Way I watched the storm as it approached; the sun shone and wispy cirrus clouds sat immobile above, but there in the distance the loch looked strangely out of focus as a cloud gently blew along the loch, trailing misty tentacles like an ethereal Portuguese man o’ war. I only just cottoned on in time, because when it hit the rain kicked in so quickly I was soaked within half a minute; I barely managed to pull on my Gore-Tex when the cloud disappeared, leaving a steaming wake as the sun came out and started beating down again, just as it had been two minutes earlier. It’s as if a witch has cast a spell on some poor bugger who’s doomed to be followed round the world by his own personal rain cloud, and he chose this morning to drive along the Great Glen.

It only added to the sense of scale. When you’re looking along a loch as impressively huge as Loch Ness, then it seems to make sense when complete weather systems just pass you by. No wonder people think there’s a monster in there; it’s such a big lake that it’s a law unto itself.

-oOo-

It didn’t take long to walk into Drumnadrochit; most of this stage of the Way is along enclosed forest tracks and boring minor roads, and it doesn’t exactly encourage exploration. Drumnadrochit itself is a pretty village, centred round a village green with the busy A82 slicing through it, but although it proved a pleasant spot for lunch, I’d set my sights on a point two miles from town, back on the loch shore. Perched on the edge of Loch Ness and conveniently close to the thundering main road sits Urquhart Castle, and it has to be one of the most wonderful ruined castles in Scotland.

First, though, you have to get on the right wavelength. From Drumnadrochit the castle is an easy two-mile walk alongside the A-road, but despite the lorries, motorhomes and superbikes throttling along the tarmac, nothing prepares you for the onslaught of Urquhart. It’s not the castle that slaps you in the face, but the tourism; Urquhart is one of the most photographed castles in Scotland and it feels like it.

It took me a little while to filter out the screaming kids, the jabbering busloads of tourists and the sheer influx of humanity (a task made slightly harder by my lack of exposure to this kind of thing over the last couple of months). This is the peak tourist season and I’ve already brushed against it on the West Highland Way, but for the most part I’ve been walking through the more obscure parts of the country and I’ve been a world away from the kind of holiday that involves screams of ‘Dad, are we there yet?’ But Urquhart Castle is a magnet for tourists driving along the Great Glen, and a quick glance at Scotland’s road network shows that it’s impossible to avoid the A82 if you want to do a round trip of northern Scotland. The result is a tourist magnet that has serious pull.

Luckily it’s been designed well. The visitor centre is sensitively sculptured into the sloping loch shore and it copes well with the numbers, but it is a bit of a change from the twee and often fascinating museums you get at smaller Historic Scotland sites. When you walk down the stairs there’s a well-executed but minimal museum that describes the people who would have lived in the castle, but the rest of the centre is given over to an over-priced café and a shop selling Scottish tourist junk. Oh, and there’s a cinema too, showing a film about the castle; obviously the designers figured that visitors would rather blob out in front of a video screen or buy bottles of Scottish whisky than spend time in a museum, and I guess they’re right. It’s a shame, because I often find the museums fascinating, but then I’m not used to tourist machines like Urquhart.

Happily the castle is well worth the £5.50 entrance fee, even if it’s considerably more than the £3.50 fee for the likes of Melrose and Jedburgh Abbeys. The visitor centre might represent the brave new world of consumerism, but the castle is a beautiful reminder of days gone by. It can hardly fail to inspire, with its ruins sitting right on the edge of the loch, reeking of history. Perched on a peninsula that’s surrounded on three sides by the deep waters of Loch Ness, Urquhart Castle was built not only as an easily defendable house for the owner, but to make the point that the local lord was a force to be reckoned with. Much of the castle is ruined now, but the atmosphere is still there, not least because the undulating ground on which it is built provides an endlessly varied series of vantage points from which to view the fortifications. Basically Urquhart Castle is worth the hype. It’s one of those castles that appear on biscuit tins, and there’s a reason for that; it’s beautiful.

On top of that it has a history of bloody wars and sieges stretching from the 13th to the 17th century, during which it changed hands a number of times. But to me the history wasn’t that interesting, because the real essence of Urquhart is of an impeccably romantic castle in an impeccably romantic setting, and once you manage to screen out the hive of tourist activity bubbling round the ruins, that’s the key. Tourists come and tourists go, but Urquhart is stunning, whatever its story.

-oOo-

Back in Drumnadrochit I couldn’t believe my luck when I spotted a sign for the Benleva Hotel, which was apparently voted CAMRA’s Highland Pub of the Year for 2003. And did I go there for a few pints of the Cairngorm Brewery’s Trade Winds and a fantastic meal? Oh, did I ever. Getting over food poisoning has never felt so good, and I’m happy to report that I’m back on fighting form after the sullen reporting of the last week or so.

There is one concern though, and that’s the state of my feet. Breaking in my new boots hasn’t brought on a huge rash of blisters – I have a couple, but they’re nothing compared to the mayonnaise sandwiches of Cornwall – but after three days of plodding along the Way, I’m hobbling when I get into town. The problem is inside both my feet, towards the front; the balls of both feet hurt like hell, and although I’m not concerned about my ability to keep walking, it’s like falling on a bruise every time I step.

Hopefully it’ll clear and I’ll be able to enjoy the last stint to John o’Groats. I hope so; it’d be good to end on a high note, with some enjoyable walking. It’s been a long time since I could walk a full day without some kind of pain...

Drumnadrochit to Inverness

25 July 2003

Oh, how disappointing the end of the Great Glen Way turns out to be. For the last few days I’ve been happily following forest tracks and quiet canals, and after my lack of enthusiasm for the West Highland Way it’s been such a relief to find that the first three days of the Great Glen Way make a lovely little walk. But I’m afraid the last day from Drumnadrochit to Inverness is a turgid, pathetic affair that only exists so the organising committee can say that the Way links Fort William with Inverness. They should have ended the Way at Drumnadrochit because the last 18 miles are a complete waste of time.

Let’s get the one positive point out of the way nice and early. After about two miles of following the busy A82 out of Drumnadrochit the Way turns uphill and into yet another man-made pine forest, but for one sublime moment just before the pines kick in there’s a stunning view back along the loch to Urquhart Castle. Sure, the castle is distant and it’s an easy detail to miss if you haven’t been studying the map, but it’s another of those rare views that make the Great Glen Way more than just another plod through reams of man-made forest.

But I’m afraid that’s it. From there to Inverness the walking is absolutely awful, and it’s obvious from the weary faces you meet along the way that nobody likes this part of the walk. It’s a sad way to mark the end of a long-distance walk that starts off with such great promise.

-oOo-

It’s quite possible that people who haven’t walked all the way from Northumberland may well appreciate a few days of plodding along forestry tracks with the views obscured by rows and rows of dingy pine trees, but I’ve had it up to here with bloody Forestry Commission land. As the Way weaves into the pines and joins a huge dirt road through the middle of yet another anonymous forest, it scarcely matters that the route is veering away from Loch Ness, because even when the Way sticks to the shoreline, the views are few and far between. Today, though, it was excruciating because my feet have had enough.

I’ve already mentioned the aches in my feet and I’m sure my new boots are the problem. The boots themselves are fine, but I’ve got used to walking on tread that’s totally worn down on the outside and still intact on the inside, which means I’m used to walking with my feet slightly tilted. Imagine the way you’d tilt your feet if you were walking along a pole, and that’s the way I’ve been walking for hundreds of miles. To suddenly twist those feet back into a straight, flat gait is asking for trouble, and trouble I have.

The blisters are minor but they’re indicative of the problem. I have one blister on each foot, each of them just behind the middle toe, on the underside of the front ball of the foot. This is where the boots are pressing and although the blisters are annoying, the real pain is inside. My feet feel as if they are bruised and every step feels as if I’m kicking a concrete bollard.

Pain isn’t normally a problem when there’s something to look at, because my mind has the short attention span of the average Coke-drinking, MTV-watching metal-head. My feet might be in serious trouble, but stick a pretty view in front of me or give me some challenging map reading to do and it’s amazing how I can forget that my entire lower leg feels like it’s in the meat grinder. Pain is a pretty constant companion for a walker like me – if it weren’t, I’d probably think it was churlish not to leap to the top of every mountain between here and John o’Groats – but you learn to cope with it. The human mind can’t remember pain – if it did, I doubt anybody would have more than one child – and it’s very good at conning you into putting up with yet more blisters, strains, bites and bleeding arseholes.

But on a walk like the final day of the Great Glen Way there’s nothing to distract the pain-riddled walker. Long, boring forest roads turn into long, boring B-roads that turn into long, boring forest tracks, and by the time Inverness slides into view, the damage is done. My feet hurt and my mind dwelled on it, which made matters considerably worse.

Thankfully I was lucky enough to bump into three distractions at the end of one particularly agonising four-mile stretch of hard tarmac road. I’d only managed to get through the pain barrier by promising myself that I’d drop my pack and have lunch the second I left the tarmac, and mile by mile, minute by minute, step by step it slowly passed, until I finally reached the end of the road and collapsed on the grass. Already sitting there were Bart and Stefanie, a Dutch couple whom I’d met a couple of times along the Way, and just behind me was Heather, a Scottish lass with whom I’d also been sharing the Way for the last few days. Suddenly I wasn’t alone.

That little lunch stop helped enormously. Everyone was hurting in some way, from knee problems and foot problems to general exhaustion, and after a good old communal whinge about pain, blisters and how crap this part of the Great Glen Way was turning out to be, I felt a lot better. My feet still felt as if they’d been run over by a lawnmower, but I wasn’t the only one and that made it seem a lot more bearable than when it had been just me, my feet and my obsessing mind. Even better, I fell into step with Bart and Stefanie all the way to Inverness, and we nattered our way through the last few miles of this disappointing and uninspiring end to the Way before sharing a couple of very welcome beers at the end of the trail.

-oOo-

The healing process didn’t stop there, for who should be in town but the inimitable Barry. I last saw Barry at the Youth Hostel in Melrose, from where he’d decided on a more direct route north, heading from Edinburgh to Perth before joining a new cycle route to Inverness. Barry isn’t the sort of bloke to dither about with diversions, especially diversions like the West Highland Way that he’s already walked once, so it was a pleasant surprise to find that he’d taken his time threading past the Cairngorms and therefore happened to be in Inverness at the same time as me. Of course, we just had to meet up for a few beers and a good old feed.

This turned out to be a bit harder than expected. The first pub we tried had stopped serving food an hour earlier, despite the sign outside enticing hungry punters to come on in, but the first words Barry had uttered to the barman had been ‘Two pints of Velvet, please,’ so I had to follow up the two pints I’d had with Bart and Stefanie with another one, all on a post-walk empty stomach. This helped change the pain in my feet from an intrusive throbbing to an interesting feeling that I could appreciate from more of a distance, which was lucky because we then spent ages wandering around town, trying to find somewhere to eat.

It didn’t look like much from the outside, but we eventually tracked down a pub that appeared to be serving food; however, inside it was heaving and it didn’t look as if there was going to be any room to sit. Hunger is a great motivator, though, and we managed to persuade a couple of ladies who were perched on the end of a four-seat table to let us squeeze on the end, which they kindly did.

Oh, the food was good and so were the couple of pints we washed it down with, and by this stage we’d started chatting to our friendly neighbours. I don’t know the details, but it turned out that the two girls knew someone who had once worked with Barry – the world of local council finances is a small one, it seems – and given this strange coincidence and our bizarre excuse for being in Inverness in the first place, we made friends.

And then the covers band took the stage and our plans for a quiet night resting our feet and getting ready for tomorrow’s walk fell apart at the seams, because not only did the whisky start flowing along with the loud riffs and pony-tailed testosterone of the band, but the entire pub exploded. The dance floor was rammed from the minute the guitars kicked in and after a few songs our neighbours kicked back their chairs and joined in. It seemed rude not to follow suit, which just goes to show that alcohol is a genuinely effective anaesthetic.

It also goes to show that I’ve been away from home too long, because I needed a good bop. The pints helped and the atmosphere was conducive, but I haven’t let myself go for this entire walk because I’ve been alone for most of it and solo hedonism isn’t my style. But Inverness demonstrated that not only does my brain need to kick back every now and then, but it’s probably getting a bit tired of the working routine. After a long week in the office of the Great Glen Way, I clearly needed a weekend, whatever the consequences for the morning.

Inverness to Dingwall

26 July 2003

There is now a much better walking route from Inverness to John o’Groats that avoids the A9 and A99, so if you’re planning your own LEJOG, you might want to check out the John o’Groats Trail. I haven’t tried it, but it’s got to be better than playing chicken with the traffic...

I don’t know whether it was the effects of last night’s alcohol or the hostel that did my head in the most, but at 7am this morning I gave up trying to get a proper night’s sleep and got ready for the off. Inverness Youth Hostel might be one of only two hostels in Scotland to receive a five-star rating from the Scottish Tourist Board, but that doesn’t mean their beds are any better than normal. To say that the bunks creak in Inverness is an understatement; once again I can’t believe how thankful I am for earplugs, and how inconvenient it is that I’m a light sleeper.

Still, it did get me up nice and early, and after wolfing down some pain au chocolat in the main square in the company of the local drunks I bade a fond farewell to Inverness and headed for the Kessock Bridge, an impressive suspension bridge over Beauly Firth, the pretty inlet into which the River Ness flows. I was pleased I’d made an early start because straight away I knew that this day was going to be a long one. Yet again my feet ached like industrial accidents and every step felt like it was on broken glass.

So I was in a bit of a sorry state when I reached the caravan site on the north shore of the Beauly Firth. As I plodded along, looking towards the water and admiring the view over the firth, I spotted a familiar sight on the other side of the road. There, sitting at a firth-side table and waiting for a pot of tea, was Barry.

Barry must drink more tea than China. Every walking story he tells involves at least one pot of tea, possibly with a bit of cake tucked in there too, and now I understand exactly why. I’m the kind of walker who keeps on trucking, rarely stopping until I’ve broken the back of the walk; this is probably why my feet are in such a state, but that’s how I like to walk and at least it’s got me this far. But by the time I passed Barry after a couple of miles of painful plodding, I figured I could do with a rest, so I joined him.

‘Tea for two is it?’ asked the proprietor when he saw I’d joined Barry, and I figured I’d go with the flow. Meanwhile Barry listened to my foot complaints with oohs and ahhs and then pulled out some pills marked ‘co-proxamol’ and a tube of gel bearing the legend ‘ketoprofen, 2.5%.’

‘Here, rub some of this in and take a couple of these,’ he said, and willing to try anything by this stage, I did exactly as I was told. It would prove to be a bloody good idea. I’m not sure I’d actively recommend taking painkillers when you have sore feet, but at this stage of Land’s End to John o’Groats I’m hardly going to give up just because my feet feel as if they’ve been crushed by a jackhammer; hell, I’d never have made it through Devon and Cornwall if I’d have given up at the pain barrier. Besides, Barry’s pills and gel worked wonders and they enabled me to walk properly without compensating my gait because of the pain. They genuinely helped.

As did Barry’s company. Apart from a very short section along the Severn into Bewdley, Barry and I have never actually walked together, but today we fell into step and stuck together and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. When you’re feeling a little low and the road seems longer than usual, good company is a tonic, and under the spell of conversation and painkillers I practically floated along the road. I’ve found the last couple of weeks to be physically difficult and it’s made it much harder to enjoy things; somehow, when you have someone else along, life’s never quite as hard as it is when you’re alone.

-oOo-

The walk went well except for a tiny section in the middle, which was the only part of the whole day that wasn’t on tarmac. On the map it looked so innocent, just a little black dotted line that indicated a half-mile path along the side of a forest, linking two roads in a particularly innocent way. It looked trivial and we decided we’d have lunch when we reached the road on the other side.

Half a mile is a long, long way when the path turns out to be an overgrown disaster zone. There had obviously been a path there a very long time ago and there was evidence that some other misguided fools had tried to bash their way through the same overgrowth – probably all the other poor bastards who’ve been following McCloy’s route – but this was no bridleway. This was a minefield of gorse, nettles and thick brush, and while I set to chopping my way through the tangle with my trekking sticks, Barry headed off to the left in search of an easier route. We both eventually made it into the field we’d been aiming for, our legs cut to shreds and stung to buggery, only to find four more fields between us and the road, each of them separated by the kind of stile that makes you consider taking your chances with the barbed wire. Add in the herd of bullocks who tried to charge us off their land – and who received a right old yelling from both of us, pissed off as we were at the gorse nightmare we’d just left behind – and that little black dotted line turned out to be one of the most impregnable parts of the entire walk from Land’s End.

We couldn’t believe it, and we sat there munching on our sandwiches, comparing stories about other parts of the End-to-End walk that had given us grief. And then it struck me as I bit into my BLT that I hadn’t thought about my feet once since we’d hit the gorse. I’d been way too distracted.

-oOo-

It took a long few hours of road walking to reach Dingwall, punctuated only by a pint of shandy in a featureless village called Conon Bridge, so by the time I finally rolled up at my B&B it was 6.15pm, a respectable time to check in. I was therefore more than a little surprised to find that nobody was in; this happens a lot in the middle of the afternoon, which is only to be expected, but not during the early evening. A mobile number was tucked into the door, so I rang it.

‘Oh hello,’ I said when a man answered. ‘I’m standing outside your B&B, which I’m booked into, and I was wondering when someone might be along to let me in.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’m in Inverness.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, when will you be in Dingwall?’

‘Well, I’m going to be at least an hour,’ he said.

‘An hour?’ I said, trying not to sound too stunned. ‘What, a whole hour?’

‘I’m in Inverness,’ he said again, as if that explained everything.

‘And I’m in Dingwall,’ I sighed, partly to myself. ‘OK, I’ll meet you here in an hour then.’

‘OK,’ he said, and hung up.

An hour might not sound like a long time, but when was the last time you sat on a bench in the middle of a small town, reeking of sweat with your hole-ridden tracksuit bottoms covered in thorns and little green seeds while your black T-shirt looks as if it’s had a fight with the bleach bottle and lost in the messiest way possible? My hair was matted to my head, as you would be if you’d been shoved under a sweaty leather bush hat for the whole day, and my beard looked like the kind of thing you pull out of a plug-hole. The only things missing were the dog on a string and the can of Tennent’s Super, and even though everyone was too polite to say anything, I felt their stares.

Half an hour later it started to rain. The whole day had passed under the most glorious of sunny skies, but the second I arrived at my B&B the skies had started to bruise and now it decided to chuck it down. It wasn’t a dribble, it was proper rain, and I had to run for the shelter of an archway off the main street, where I huddled from the suddenly cold evening air, trying desperately to look like a respectable walker whose B&B just happened to be shut. I failed dismally.

Meanwhile Barry rang to say he’d had to give up on his B&B because it had turned out to be miles outside Dingwall, even though he’d specifically been told it wasn’t far from the centre. He’d ended up booking into the National Hotel in the centre of town because a wedding party had apparently taken up all the B&Bs in town, and he was now ringing from his en suite, TV-blaring double room, complete with view over the high street. I looked at my watch, hungry for a shower. This was starting to get on my nerves.

Eventually 7.15 arrived and I tried the door again, but there was no answer, so I tried ringing the mobile phone and it was turned off. I even tried ringing the B&B itself, just in case the doorbell was broken, but nobody was there. I tried the same routine again at 7.20, 7.25, 7.30, 7.35, 7.40 and 7.45, at which point I rang directory enquiries, got the number of the National Hotel, booked myself into one of their rooms and gave up on my B&B as a bad job.

Luckily the hotel was fine and Barry and I celebrated our salvation from the B&Bs of Dingwall by tackling the hotel’s beer and whisky selection. And if you sense a theme occurring whenever Barry and I get together, then you’re damn right; after months of sitting alone in pubs, respectfully sipping solitary pints, the gloves are well and truly off.

Dingwall to Alness

27 July 2003

There is now a much better walking route from Inverness to John o’Groats that avoids the A9 and A99, so if you’re planning your own LEJOG, you might want to check out the John o’Groats Trail. I haven’t tried it, but it’s got to be better than playing chicken with the traffic...

Today turned out to be a very pleasant and enjoyable wander, and I don’t think it’s entirely down to the effects of the co-proxamol (though my feet are bothering me a lot less now than they were before Barry came to the rescue, so there’s got to be something in it). OK, so 9 miles is a short stroll compared to the average day and the weather is continuing to be very kind, especially given the miserable rain that’s smothering the rest of the country, but even so, today was a return to the happier walking that I remember from the Borders region.

Yet again the credit must go to Barry, with whom I shared the day. Now that I’ve spent a good couple of days in his company and half of the previous day walking with Bart and Stefanie, I’ve realised that I’ve been under a lot of stress recently. The physical deterioration of my body is the main culprit, but there’s a lot going on in my mind too. For example, why haven’t I taken a few rest days to sort out the physical side? To be honest I don’t know because I really should have done, but something is driving me on. Every morning I think I can handle the day’s walk and that my body will be fine, and every day I manage to get through it even though the pain ruins the walking. It makes no sense, but I think that at this stage of the walk momentum is the only thing keeping me going. I’m pretty sure I’m going to make it; I just want to get there as quickly as possible.

Barry put it well today. ‘I’ve already started looking at the weather forecast maps,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘every time the weather forecast comes up on the telly, I look at the map of Britain and I think to myself, bloody hell Barry, you’ve nearly walked across that thing. It’ll happen to you too, you know; for the rest of your life, every time you see the weather map, your eyes will go to Land’s End, then up to John o’Groats, and you’ll think to yourself, “I walked that, and I did it all by myself on my own little legs.” You won’t listen to the weather forecast, mind, but it’ll make you feel good.’

He’s right, is Barry. I just watched the forecast for tomorrow and I can’t remember anything about the weather, but I can remember a warm feeling of accomplishment tinged with the caveat that it’s not yet in the bag. Perhaps that’s what keeps me chipping away at those miles, despite the aches and pains in my tired body. I want to be in the position where I have done this walk; I want to be able to look back on it and to appreciate it from the comfort of my armchair. That’s got to be worth a bit of anaesthetised hobbling.

-oOo-

We took it easy today, Barry and I. My feet are improving all the time – short days walked slowly are a considerable help – and today’s walk was worth savouring. For all except the last couple of miles we wandered along the B817, a minor road that runs above the busier A9, parallel to the northern shore of the Cromarty Firth. To the south, across the firth, lies the Black Isle – which incidentally is neither black (it’s green) nor an island (it’s a peninsula) – and the views along the firth were nothing short of wonderful.

The sun shone, the water glittered, the slow, gentle slopes of the B-road were easy meat, and a few miles after leaving Dingwall I realised just how long this walk has really been. Today, somewhere between leaving the hotel and arriving in the pretty village of Evanton, I passed the 1000-mile mark; we celebrated with a pot of tea for two in the village hotel.

We continued celebrating with a couple of pints when we reached Alness, and happily my B&B was not only open, it was delightful. If my feet keep on improving and the weather keeps on smiling, I might even end up rolling into John o’Groats without a limp. Fingers crossed...

Alness to Dornoch

28 July 2003

There is now a much better walking route from Inverness to John o’Groats that avoids the A9 and A99, so if you’re planning your own LEJOG, you might want to check out the John o’Groats Trail. I haven’t tried it, but it’s got to be better than playing chicken with the traffic...

It’s taken me three days to realise it, but I’m actually enjoying myself again. The central canals, the West Highland Way and the Great Glen Way managed to grind my body down and take most of the fun out of the walking, but since leaving Inverness I’ve been gradually recovering and finally I think I’m back to normal. Today’s walk might have been a long 20-mile hike along minor and major roads, but I loved every minute of it and have come away with some wonderfully warm memories of the northeast of Scotland.

Again, walking with Barry helped enormously. Last night we ate in the Railway Hotel in Alness and shared a few beers before the Sunday evening karaoke kicked in and obliterated the conversation, and today we teamed up once more, not least because Barry doesn’t have a map for this part of the walk (he was originally going to buy them en route for this section, but it makes more sense to share mine). Having someone to natter with as the miles and miles of tarmac slowly glide past is a treat, especially after spending most of the last 1000 miles by myself.

Another reason I’m enjoying walking again is the environment. It’s never even crossed my mind to think what the far north of Scotland is like, but today I finally walked into the northeastern highlands and it’s a delightful part of the world. Yesterday, while leaving Dingwall, I was amazed to see a road sign pointing along the coastal road to ‘The North’ – I normally associate this kind of sign with the M1 around Watford Gap – but the North it is, and it’s a big change from the mountains and midges of the western highlands. Hell, I like it, so it must be different...

-oOo-

Today’s route stuck completely to the tarmac, following a succession of minor roads northeast to Tain before joining the A9 over the Dornoch Firth Bridge and turning east along a minor road for the little town of Dornoch. On the map the walk didn’t look that interesting, but for me it was a throwback to the lane-hopping in Cornwall and Devon, and with the sun beating down and the sky throwing up the most beautiful cloud displays, the miles rolled past.

It was a million miles from the harsh gloominess of the West Highland Way as seagulls squawked over our heads and the warm smell of the sea drifted in on the breeze. It’s not unlike western Cornwall up here in the northeastern corner of the country, the major difference being the light; the sun is much lower in the sky, and it manages to combine the friendly glow of the summer sun with the shadowy contrast of a winter’s day. But apart from the light, the coastal farms and rolling sea views are hauntingly similar to the opposite end of the country.

There are also no midges here, at least none to speak of. I can’t tell you how pleasant it is to be able to stop for a bite to eat, only to find that you can stay in the same place for more than a few minutes without being eaten. Perhaps this goes part of the way to explaining why this area is dotted with wonderful houses, most of them with manicured gardens to match. Settlements might be few and far between but there are individual houses scattered all over the place, and they’re modern too; I don’t know where the money’s coming from, but it seems that the northeastern highlands are quietly turning into a very desirable area.

It’s possible that the oil rigs sitting off-shore might have something to do with it. I saw my first rig yesterday, sitting proudly in the middle of the Cromarty Firth, and this morning it looked as if it had spawned a whole family overnight. Oil rigs are hardly pretty things, with their big, clumsy legs and spindly central towers, but when they’re clumped together in groups there’s something sinisterly alive about them, as if they’re squatting there, plotting. The Cromarty Firth is a nesting ground for rigs; they’re built and repaired over in Nigg, at the eastern end of the firth, before being floated out into the firth, where they drop anchor and wait to be called up for active duty. It’s then that they’re pulled out into the North Sea, where they lower their legs down to the sea bed, drill into the sea bed and suck the wells dry. Meanwhile the view from the road is of golden barley fields with oil rigs sticking up out of them, the glittering waters of the firth hidden behind the gently rippling ears of Scotland’s favourite grain. It’s a great view.

So there we have it: 20 miles of walking and precious little to say except the views were great, the walking easy and the weather kind. Oh, and I should also mention that the towns of Tain and Dornoch are very attractive and the people friendly, and that my feet are feeling much better (or, perhaps more accurately, the drugs are still working). I can’t really say anything else about today, and after the cathartic whinges of the last few hundred miles, that’s a very pleasant feeling.

-oOo-

I should, however, mention the wonderful cultural exchange we experienced in the St Duthus Hotel in Tain, the pub we completely failed to wander past after our sandwich break down the road. After Tain the route follows the A9 for four miles, sticking to the grassy verge but within spitting distance of some extremely heavy and fast-moving lorries, and although it doesn’t look too bad on the map, a pint of anaesthetic before hitting the tarmac was far too attractive to pass up. So we dropped our packs outside the pub and Barry went inside to retrieve a couple of pints of Velvet.

Suddenly a huge and amazingly ugly dog leapt out from under a nearby table, lunging at me with the kind of deep bark that signifies a Very Big Canine. Luckily a stout chain yanked him back with a start, just as one of the women at the table yelled, ‘Go on Soldier, fookin’ kill ’em!’

I looked up at the woman barking at me from the table, her pasty skin and faded tattoos making her look much older than she actually was. ‘Take yer ’at off mister,’ she continued, pointing at my hat, ‘he don’t like people with ’ats.’ So I took it off, smiling nervously at her scraggly friends and thanking my lucky stars that these particular crusties didn’t keep their mutt on a piece of string.

Meanwhile the other woman on the table started yelling at the tattooed vision opposite her, blaming her for making the dog all excited and telling it to attack us. Once she’d calmed down she upheld hundreds of years of dog-owning tradition by telling me that, despite extraordinary evidence to the contrary, the slavering bag of strained muscle and drooling fangs at her feet was actually a big softie and wouldn’t hurt a fly. I smiled even more nervously and politely made small talk until Barry reappeared with the beer, when luckily the two men drinking with our neighbours – who had remained ominously quiet throughout the whole episode – distracted their attention away from us by picking a fight with a man innocently walking across the car park.

The thing that struck me most about the people on the next table wasn’t the fact that they obviously hated the world and wanted to piss everyone off; there’s nothing original about being a disaffected punk now that we’ve celebrated the silver jubilee of ‘God Save the Queen’, but it doesn’t stop people trying. No, the thing I noticed was the way they spoke. Two of them were English, one was Irish and one was Scottish, but they all spoke the same dialect, and it’s the same dialect you hear whenever the terminally stupid collect together. In a sense it’s a clever dialect, because it uses the rules of grammar to good effect, but the result is always the same; it’s the sound of a school career spent anywhere but school.

Consider this phrase, which was one of the more intelligible parts of the conversation Barry and I overheard in the St Duthus:

I’ve got to go to the cash point because I’ve got no money and I can’t spend the rest of the day without any cash.

You might hear anyone say this; it’s nothing special. But in the dialect of the terminally thick, you have to follow a special rule – one rule only – that turns this normal piece of communication into something rather special. The rule is to insert one particular word into the sentence as many times as you can, just as long as you follow the rules of normal grammar. Here’s what Barry and I actually heard, after the human mutt next to us had mangled it through her own personal dialect:

I’ve fookin’ got to fookin’ go to the fookin’ cash point because I’ve got no fookin’ money and I fookin’ can’t spend the fookin’ rest of the fookin’ day without any fookin’ cash.

Ta-da! Instant anti-establishment anarchy, at the touch of a button! You too can play this game, at home or in public, but make sure you turn the volume levels up nice and high, because then everyone can join in. It’s a useful game, too, because if you’re particularly dim and have problems thinking of which word comes next in your chosen sentence, then adding in the word ‘fookin’’ at every opportunity can double the length of your sentences, giving you twice as much time to worry about which word you should be picking from your vocabulary of 100 useful words.

Who needs school when you’ve got a dog on a chain, faded tattoos and a dialect like this? Quite obviously not the fookin’ morons who sat next to Barry and me in the St Duthus. You wouldn’t hear this sort of language in a Wetherspoon pub, you know...

Dornoch to Brora

29 July 2003

There is now a much better walking route from Inverness to John o’Groats that avoids the A9 and A99, so if you’re planning your own LEJOG, you might want to check out the John o’Groats Trail. I haven’t tried it, but it’s got to be better than playing chicken with the traffic...

The closer I get to John o’Groats, the closer the walking gets to being a hard slog. The reason isn’t tiredness or a keenness to finish this walk, though they’re certainly contributory factors; no, the reason is the A9.

The A9 and its friend the A99 are my faithful companions until the end of this walk, and as I get closer to the furthest tip of Britain there’s less and less I can do about it. The A-road hugs the coast of northeast Scotland, sharing the edges of the country with parts of the Wick-Inverness railway line and the few scattered settlements that punctuate the shore, and as the villages get smaller and the rest of the world gets more distant, the available walking options are whittled down to just one, the A-road itself.

I’ve managed to avoid walking on A-roads for most of this trip. Until yesterday I could count the number of A-road miles I’ve walked on one hand, and although we had to follow the A9 for four miles across the Dornoch Firth yesterday, it wasn’t too bad because the road was pretty wide and there was a reasonable grassy verge for most of the way. But from today the amount of road walking is highly significant and in a couple of days’ time this walk turns from a pleasant tramp through the scenic parts of the country to a roadside haul along a busy, unforgiving main road. I’m under no illusion that this last section is going to be pleasant underfoot, but I’m hoping that the scenery will make up for it; today, it certainly did.

-oOo-

It’s easy to see how golf originated in Scotland because behind the beaches of the northeast are areas of rough that are essentially natural golf courses. Sure, man has mown the fairways and flattened the greens, but when walking through what are now the Dornoch links it’s easy to see how nature determined the shape of the modern golf course. Inland courses might be a bit heavy on the landscaping but links courses are based on reality, a reality that occurs naturally behind the sweeping beaches of the Scottish coast.

Dornoch’s course is world-famous and since its creation in 1914 it has regularly featured in the top 20 golf courses in the world. It’s all the more delightful, then, to know that anyone can wander bang through the middle of the course and all the way along the coastal path without any of the snotty idiocies that make so many golf courses socially repugnant. The Dornoch links are on common land so everyone and his dog has access, and even though the course attracts an awful lot of the trousered gentry, I felt quite at ease plodding across the fairways in my stinking T-shirt and tousled hair. It’s a superb place to walk, especially after such a long time spent inland; the last time I touched sand and sea on this trip was back in Sydney Cove on my second walking day, and when the wind is benign and the sun poking out from behind a speckled cloud layer, walking the links is at least as enjoyable as playing an expensive round of golf.

Even though the golf course dies out after a couple of miles, the natural links continue on for miles, and from the little village of Embo, where static caravans congregate around the Grannies Heilan Hame pub, the path follows an old railway line into the most beautiful setting of all, Loch Fleet. This estuary of the River Fleet is awash with bird life and is particularly well stocked with oystercatchers, with their flashing black-and-white wings and red bills; I wouldn’t have known which birds were which if it hadn’t been for Barry waxing lyrical about them – he knows a lot about a lot, does Barry – and we sat on a bench by the loch’s mouth for a good long rest, taking in the sweeping scenery and the peaceful beauty of the loch.

This was the good part of the walk because to cross the river we had to join the A9, and the A9 just isn’t the same as quiet links or gentle back roads. Worse, this section of the A9 is where the grassy verge of yesterday disappears totally, leaving us to walk along the very edge of the road. Four miles never felt so long and the streetlights and pavements of the halfway town of Golspie couldn’t come quickly enough.

-oOo-

From the pleasant seafront of Golspie things improved, with the path leaving the A-road to meander along the sea shore for three or four miles, passing right in front of Dunrobin Castle, the ancestral home of the Duke of Sutherland. Although there’s been a house here since the 14th century, the current fairy-tale monstrosity was remodelled in 1841 by Sir Charles Barry, the architect of the Houses of Parliament, and if you want to know where Walt Disney got his inspiration for the Disneyland castle, you need look no further. Large conical spires shoot into the sky and the sheer size of the place can’t fail to impress as it towers over its gardens and the beaches below. It’s decidedly showy and slightly tacky, but it’s great to walk past, even if it made me aware that I’m quite literally one of the great unwashed.

Just beyond Dunrobin the path meanders past a broch, a strange type of fortified dwelling place that’s unique to the far north of Scotland. There are 510 surviving brochs in the area and 100 of these are within a 50-mile radius of Helmsdale, my destination for tomorrow. Mainly built by the coast, brochs date from between 100 BC and 100 AD and nobody really knows that much about them except they were built to withstand attack. Your average broch was shaped like a stone cooling tower with walls up to 14ft thick at the base and just one narrow entrance at the bottom. Inside there would be at least two storeys of wooden flooring and in times of attack the entrance could be sealed and the people could live inside until the danger passed. It’s not clear what the danger was – marauding Romans is one suggestion – but whatever the reason, brochs are thought of as precursors to modern castles and their ruined remains litter the coasts of northern Scotland.

The pleasant shoreline path didn’t last for long after the broch and for the final two miles into Brora it was back onto the A9, where the heavens opened and made our arrival in town a pretty miserable affair. To make things worse, I’d managed to book into a B&B that was a good mile and a half out of town – it’s not an exact science, booking B&Bs from afar – but it turned out to be a lovely place that did great food, so I couldn’t complain. And at least it was away from the A9, which was a blessing...

Brora to Helmsdale

30 July 2003

There is now a much better walking route from Inverness to John o’Groats that avoids the A9 and A99, so if you’re planning your own LEJOG, you might want to check out the John o’Groats Trail. I haven’t tried it, but it’s got to be better than playing chicken with the traffic...

Blimey, was today really only 11 miles long? It felt like a much longer walk, not because of the weather or the difficulty of the walking, but because of the path (or rather the lack of it). Apart from a couple of miles of pleasant walking through Brora’s links course, today was entirely on the A9[1] and already I hate the bastard. The only problem is there’s no alternative; if I want to walk to John o’Groats without dithering about with much longer and more indirect routes, I have to follow the A9 and then the A99 all the way to the end. The last few days of this walk are in danger of turning into an almighty drag.

It’s awful, walking along the side of a busy A-road. Long gone are the sections with wide, grassy verges and an extra strip of tarmac along the side for cyclists; here the road is squeezed between the inland hills and the beach, with the railway line on one side and the untamed hills of the flows on the other (‘flow’ being the local term for ‘moor’, the thought of which is even less appealing than the A-road).

There are certain things you have to do if you’re to survive a walk along an A-road like this. The most important one is to stick to the outside of the white line along the edge; in theory nothing is going to cross that white line, and although it’s fine to wander on the road if there’s no traffic, it’s easier to get into a walking trance if you stick outside the traffic zone. This means you get four inches of walking space, no more and no less; the other side of the line is simply not meant for walkers.

On top of the usual dangers of walking amongst traffic, it seems that the A9 has its own unique set of rules, the first of which is to be in a vehicle rather than on foot. Others include:

- When the sign says there’s a speed limit of 60 mph, it’s talking about the minimum speed.

- Tailgating is the polite thing to do.

- Don’t be smiling at walkers, even if they smile at you.

- Overtaking should be fun; we recommend using blind corners for maximum excitement.

- The middle pedal is for wimps.

- Sunglasses are mandatory.

- You get extra points for forcing walkers and cyclists over the cliffs.

No, the verge is not the best place to be, unless you’re particularly interested in the detritus of modern life. King of the verge is the plastic drinks bottle, especially Lucozade, which is no doubt the discerning choice of the long-distance lorry driver who’s desperately trying to stay awake for the last few miles to Wick; other contenders are the local stalwart Irn-Bru, the global brands of Coca-Cola and Pepsi, and quite a few Tango bottles, but most of them are so bleached and crushed that it’s difficult to see what they used to be.

The next most popular piece of rubbish along the A9 is the soggy cigarette box, the blue box of Mayfair being the favourite; I didn’t see one Marlboro box, which is interesting as that’s one of the most popular brands in southern England. Scattered between the bits of rubbish are the matted remains of countless furry animals, most of them unrecognisable after being plied into the tarmac; the most common piece of road kill is the rabbit, which is no surprise when you see the crowds of bunnies who leap into the ground as you walk the coastal paths. Top of the list of strange discoveries by the roadside must go to the pair of ladies’ knickers that blew past my trekking poles on the approach to Helmsdale; the fact that this was one of the most exciting things to happen to me all day says a lot more about road walking that I ever can.

But some people must like it because a lot of End-to-End walkers do the whole thing exclusively on main roads. Today Barry and I met a man who was walking south along the carriageway, and it turned out he’s just set off to do John o’Groats to Land’s End in around a month. He’s sticking to A-roads for most of his walk and he’s planning to do about 25 miles a day, which sounds like an awful way to waste a month of one’s life.

‘Ooh, we’ve been avoiding roads,’ said Barry when the man told us his plans. ‘We’ve been using tracks for our walk.’

‘Tracks?’ said the man in obvious horror. ‘Ooh no, I’m sticking to the roads. Not my scene, walking tracks.’

I guess we’re all different; to me, travelling on A-roads is madness, unless you’re a car, a cyclist or an underwear fetishist.

-oOo-

All the way along the A-road I worried about tomorrow’s rest day, in case the village of Helmsdale – the location for my last rest day of all – turned out to be a dead duck. Luckily it was worth the walk, which was a relief as Barry spent most of this morning telling me just how awful he’d found Brora. It seems my accidental decision to stay out of town was a good one as Barry had a terrible time finding anywhere decent to eat; he concluded that Brora was one of the most depressing and pointless spots on his entire walk. Helmsdale, though, is another story; it’s charming.

There isn’t much here, but what is here is good. The Bridge Hotel is a wonderfully atmospheric spot for a drink, with its flagstone floor and cosy seating; the Heritage Centre contains an excellent museum that explains the history of the area; the harbour is a very pleasant place to wander round; there’s a picturesque bridge spanning the River Helmsdale that was built by the one and only Thomas Telford; the Youth Hostel is central, even if it shuts its doors during the day and kicks everyone out until 5pm; and there are two fascinatingly awful restaurants in town that compete over the tackiest way to entice punters in for their admittedly scrumptious seafood. One restaurant used to be the haunt of Dame Barbara Cartland, who was a regular visitor to these parts and who took a lot of inspiration from the lovelorn landscapes; and the other boasts signed photographs from the likes of George Cole, Bob Hoskins and Phil Collins, which is apparently supposed to make you want to eat there. It’s all very surreal.

The only downside about taking a rest day in Helmsdale was having to say goodbye to Barry as he set off alone for the next leg. I’m not sure why I planned a rest day at Helmsdale – I suppose I thought I might need one, which is pretty much spot on – but Barry didn’t plan to stop here, so now I’m back on my own for the last few days to John o’Groats. It’s a shame; when you’re plodding along the side of an A-road, company really helps, and there’s something therapeutic about flicking a communal V-sign at speeding traffic. Somehow it’s just not as much fun on your own, although I should bump into Barry one more time, in John o’Groats itself. That’s as good a reason to get there as any.

[1] Thanks to John Thompson, who posted to my Guestbook with the following advice: ‘When I did the route in 2006 I camped at Dalchalm just north of Brora. I was looking at all ways of keeping off the A9 and only walking it when there was no alternative. I left the campsite and walked north on the path till it crossed the railway line at 916067. Checking the map and looking at the way ahead I thought it feasible to drop down on to the beach and use that and the cliff edge to head further north via the coast. By doing this I was able to walk as far as a mile south of Helmsdale crossing the railway line back on to the A9 at around 019143. There was even a proper crossing point here. I have to say it turned out to be one of the best days of the trip, no other soul on the beach and only the seals for company. So it is possible to cut the road miles down a bit. Can I just add, don’t be tempted to try and stick to the cliff top north of Helmsdale. There is the start of a cliff top path, but it peters out at a field edge about a mile north of the village, and the cliffs are a lot higher here than south of Helmsdale. There’s no real alternative but the A9 and the Ord of Caithness.’ Thanks, John – your route sounds a lot more pleasant than the long slog along the A9.

Helmsdale to Dunbeath

1 August 2003

There is now a much better walking route from Inverness to John o’Groats that avoids the A9 and A99, so if you’re planning your own LEJOG, you might want to check out the John o’Groats Trail. I haven’t tried it, but it’s got to be better than playing chicken with the traffic...

When you’re this close to the end of a 1111-mile walk you start looking very carefully at potential pitfalls. Back in the wetlands of Somerset and the bogs of Derbyshire the challenges came and went, but I never lost my sense of perspective; back then, each difficult walk or long slog was just one of many. Now that I’ve only got a handful of walking days left, each difficult bit takes on a new dimension. To fail at this stage doesn’t bear thinking about, but I can’t help thinking about it all the same.

I might regret saying this over the next couple of days, but it appears from the map that today was the last proper challenge of the End-to-End walk. After Dunbeath it’s a long, flat slog via Wick along the A9 and the A99, but even though the unexpected can always creep up and ruin things, there’s no reason to think I won’t finish. It’s just a case of strapping on the boots and doing the miles, but today had at least some bite to it.

I’d been well primed by those I’d spoken to. From Helmsdale the road hugs the side of the coastal hills, crossing the river valleys that spill off the flows by following the contours inland, creating hairpin bends with steep approaches that only add to the excitement of the already perilous A9. This is the Ord of Caithness, a lonely, windswept part of the world that has a fearsome reputation among cyclists, walkers and drivers of cars with lawnmower engines, and about halfway to Dunbeath the breakneck descent into Berriedale is the daddy of them all. A large number of old car enthusiasts refuse to attend rallies that tour the far northeast, simply because they are worried that they won’t be able to get out of Berriedale once they’ve driven in. People take this place seriously.

It didn’t help that I came across an unnerving story in the Helmsdale Heritage Centre about this very area. Ancient legend says that anyone walking over the Ord who sees a ghostly stagecoach trundling along the road should beware, for this is a terrible omen of impending doom. It’s the ghost of a stagecoach that ran off the road and over the steep cliffs of the Ord, and to see it is extremely bad luck. Though, to be honest, the chance of being able to pick out a stagecoach through the roar of lorries and speeding cars is pretty low...

-oOo-

It was also extremely bad luck to get the birthday presents I received this morning. Today is my 33rd birthday, a fact I’m celebrating by walking through some of the most sparsely populated terrain in the country, and this morning I woke up not only to find that I’ve got a full-blown cold, complete with streaming nose and convulsive sneezing, but I also woke up with diarrhoea, which at least explains the gurgling stomach cramps I enjoyed last night. Perhaps my body wasn’t impressed with the challenges of the Ord and fancied upping the stakes; it’s probably taking revenge for all the grief I’ve been putting it through.

None of this was enough to stop me throwing back a quick breakfast before hitting the road, and after just a couple of hours I’d crossed the Ord without really noticing it. I didn’t see any stagecoaches and I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about; sure, Berriedale was yet to come, but this was easy walking, especially under the sunny skies of August. Happy to be making good time, I turned off the main road to visit the tourist attraction of Badbea and the fearsome reputation of the Ord suddenly started making more sense.

Badbea is a little ruined village at the end of a short, five-minute path just off the A9, a couple of miles short of Berriedale. There’s precious little to see except for some barren, heather-clad flows tumbling down to steep cliffs, and that’s the point, for this is the lonely spot where 12 families decided to create a new home way back in 1840. This was in the days of the Highland Clearances, when the Countess of Sutherland, who owned huge amounts of land round here, decided to start farming sheep on her estate, and arranged to move the local crofters off her land and to stick sheep there instead. The clearances form the inspiration for many a story of class-based cruelty, though modern academics view events as rather more subtle than the traditional myth of a rich landowner heartlessly kicking the poor out of their homes. But whatever the truth, some crofters moved south to look for work, some emigrated to New Zealand, Australia and Canada, and some found solace in the scraps of land outside the estate’s boundaries. Badbea was one such settlement.

There’s nothing in Badbea at all, and ending up on this desolate, windswept cliff-top with almost no possessions must have been a monumental challenge. But the families who arrived achieved a considerable amount: they built cottages out of the local stone to house over 80 people; they dug and planted small patches of oats and potatoes without the use of a plough; they farmed cattle and hens, sharing their cottages with them; they dug peat and burned it indoors, where the lack of a chimney meant the smoke had to filter out through the roof; and they scraped together some extra money by doing the odd bit of work for the estate at the rate of one shilling per day. As if that wasn’t enough, the winds round here were so strong they had to tether the cattle, hens and even small children to prevent them from being blown over the cliffs. It makes the mind boggle.

A lot of the credit for their survival must go to John Sutherland, popularly known as John Badbea, who was their leader, their preacher, their doctor and the owner of the only watch in town. But it couldn’t last and by 1903 all the cottages lay empty, the winds of Caithness slowly beating them into rubble. Now there’s little remaining but a few piles of stones, some green patches among the heather where the crops were planted, and a memorial built in 1911 from the remains of John Badbea’s cottage. The inhabitants of Badbea went their various ways and apparently their memories of life on the cliffs were extremely positive, but the story of Badbea hints at why this part of the world has such a fearsome reputation. It’s the weather.

For me, though, the weather was perfect, and I sat on the steps of the Badbea memorial, sunning myself under a perfect blue sky and squinting at the bright reflections off the choppy sea. There was a stiff breeze, sure enough, but it was actually rather pleasant, and I looked out over the distant oil rigs and practising jet fighters that call this part of the world home and tried to picture the place with a wind strong enough to blow children into the North Sea. I didn’t entirely succeed.

Oh, and the Countess’s experiment with sheep farming was an expensive failure, which no doubt caused a few long sighs on the windy cliff-tops...

-oOo-

Berriedale turned out to be far less scary than people would have me believe. Sure, there’s a long descent into the river valley but it’s hardly difficult, and the climb back out is steep but consists of just one switchback, so the last challenge of the End-to-End walk passed by without incident. To celebrate I stopped at the Berriedale Café and bought two cans of Irn-Bru to go with my sandwiches, because I like Irn-Bru, yes I do.

I’m not alone. Irn-Bru is probably the best-loved drink in Scotland after whisky, and because it’s made in Scotland (by Barr, who also make Tizer) it’s become the soft drink of choice for those who love their nation. The Scottish consumption of fizzy drinks is as obsessive as it is elsewhere in the world; according to the government report Health in Scotland 2002, 65.8% of 11 to 15-year-olds consume sugary fizzy drinks on a daily basis, and while the English guzzle Coke by the bucketload, in Scotland it’s Irn-Bru who’s the daddy of them all. It’s used as a mixer in pubs, it’s purported to be the best hangover cure in the world, and it tastes great. It’s hard to explain the Scottish love affair with Irn-Bru, but it’s easy to experience it; where English cafés and newsagents might be smothered in the red branding of Coca-Cola or the blue branding of Pepsi, Scottish establishments sport the bright orange strip of Irn-Bru. For example, the Falkirk Wheel is alive with orange table umbrellas and an entire children’s playground done out in the colours of the Bru. You can’t miss it; it’s a nationalist statement that England can’t match, at least not until dandelion and burdock or ginger beer hit the big time.

So I treated myself to a double dose of Bru as a special treat for turning 33 without becoming obese, and I happily thought back to an article I read in yesterday’s Daily Record, Scotland’s premier tabloid newspaper. It sums up all that is great and all that is bizarre about Scotland’s obsession with Irn-Bru; judge for yourself, because here it is in all its one-sentence-per-paragraph glory:

Irn-Bru Boy Unhurt in Car Smash

A teenager carrying a can of Irn-Bru escaped unhurt when a car struck him.

The unidentified boy, aged about 15, walked straight into the path of a car in Stornoway, Lewis.

The 18-year-old driver, shop assistant Ann Marie Stewart, swerved and braked but was unable to avoid him.

He smashed into the bonnet, shattered the windscreen, rolled off the car – then walked away apparently completely uninjured.

Police are appealing for the youth to come forward to confirm that he is unharmed.

Ann Marie, whose car needs bodywork repairs, said, ‘I got a big fright. I offered a few times to take him to the hospital, but he said he was fine. He was holding his can of Irn-Bru and now it’s all over the car.’

Isn’t it magical? It’s almost as if the Irn-Bru spillage is more important that the accident, but at least the main message is clear: drink Irn-Bru and you’ll be able to survive a car smash. Pass me another can!

-oOo-

My destination for the day, Dunbeath, is famous for being the birthplace of the author Neil M Gunn, one of Scotland’s most important 20th-century fiction writers. I know this not because I’m a big fan of Mr Gunn, but because the A9 is home to a couple of massive signs that try to persuade speeding tourists to turn off for a visit. ‘Welcome to Dunbeath,’ they say, ‘birthplace of Neil M Gunn,’ as cars accelerate across the modern bridge, passing straight through Dunbeath without so much as a touch on the brakes.

It’s a pretty little place, though, even if it contains precious little except a cluster of houses, a Spar, a Post Office, a hotel that was soundly asleep when I walked past, a harbour, and a pub that looks like a failed experiment in prefab petrol station architecture (but which, I’m delighted to report, is really pleasant inside). Dunbeath Castle sits on a cliff to the south, overlooking the beach, and even if it feels like the only thing missing is the tumbleweed, it’s not a bad spot.

By the time I swung into Dunbeath the wind had picked up a bit, thankfully blowing from behind me and giving me a little extra push down into the village centre. I decided to head straight for my B&B on the far side of the village before the legendary winds of Caithness kicked in, but before I reached it I had to stop and stare at the Inver Guest House by the side of the A9, because it sums up this whole area rather well. The average wind speed in Caithness is twice that in London and apparently it’s not only residents of Badbea who feel the effects, for the Inver Guest House has seen better days and one of its letters has fallen off. It’s now, of course, the Inver Gust House. How apt.

Dunbeath to Wick

2 August 2003

There is now a much better walking route from Inverness to John o’Groats that avoids the A9 and A99, so if you’re planning your own LEJOG, you might want to check out the John o’Groats Trail. I haven’t tried it, but it’s got to be better than playing chicken with the traffic...

Oh dear, what a let-down. I’ve nothing to say about today except it went on and on and on, and I just put my head down and walked fast. It’s the only way to treat the coastal A-road, I’ve discovered; I shan’t miss it.

Unlike yesterday the scenery didn’t make up for today’s long tarmac stretch. Once the hills of Sutherland are out of the way, Caithness takes over and it’s pretty much flat farmland all the way to Wick, with nothing but grassy fields to tempt the eye. I had the sea to my right for most of the day, but without the hills of the Ord or the gradients of Berriedale the view was utterly unspectacular.

Not only was the view insipid, but so were the sights (or, to be more accurate, there weren’t any). Most of the settlements I passed through were little more than farms by the side of the road, and those with more than a handful of houses had nothing going for them except interesting names; Latheron, Lybster and Thrumster just didn’t manage to distract me as I kept on plodding in the direction of Wick.

So I made good time, despite getting a nasty blister exactly where the big toe joins my right foot (try dressing that!). The end of this walk can’t come quickly enough; walking along A-roads through tedious landscape is not my idea of fun.

-oOo-

Wick is a surprise, if only because it’s a lot bigger than you might expect. During the 19th century Wick was the largest fishing port in Europe, with a fleet of around 1000 herring boats using the harbour, and although modern Wick is a rather dull, grey place, it hasn’t shrunk much. The fishing fleet might not be as large as it used to be, but the town centre is still big enough to boast a pedestrianised high street, an airport and a Post Office that stays open until 5.30pm on a Saturday (quite a rarity outside major cities). But probably the biggest indicator of Wick’s size is that it is home to the northernmost Wetherspoon pub in the world.

The reason I know this is because back in the Midlands I read an article in the Wetherspoon magazine that talked about Wick getting a new Wetherspoon pub. I remember the article because it made me realise my obsession with blisters is relatively normal, for it describes a man whose hobby – yes, his hobby – is visiting Wetherspoon pubs via train. Check out this excerpt:

There’s no denying that Tim Davis is a fan of all things Wetherspoon. For the 47-year-old electronics tester has covered tens of thousands of miles visiting the company’s pubs during the past six years. To date Tim, of Stone, Staffordshire, has visited 618 Wetherspoon pubs and Lloyds No.1 Bars, including all of those in Wales, all but one in Scotland and the vast majority in England. His aim is to visit the remaining 24, which include all nine Wetherspoon pubs in Northern Ireland.

That ‘one in Scotland’ is the Alexander Bain, the newly opened Wetherspoon pub in Wick, so I felt duty bound to sound it out in tribute to the dedication shown by this fellow native of Staffordshire. Just as I expected, it’s exactly the same as every other Wetherspoon pub I’ve ever been into, but there is one subtle difference apart from the emphasis on Scottish beers. Forget the accents, forget the different approaches to beer, forget the football leagues and for Christ’s sake forget Braveheart; the real proof that England and Scotland are two distinct nations is in the Wetherspoon menu, because there, proud as mustard and at the knockdown price of £3.20, you can get a plate of Haggis, Neeps and Tatties. Along with the availability of Irn-Bru as a soft drink in McDonald’s, I think we can chalk that up as a definite victory for Scottish nationalism. Hurrah!

Wick to John o’Groats

3 August 2003

There is now a much better walking route from Inverness to John o’Groats that avoids the A9 and A99, so if you’re planning your own LEJOG, you might want to check out the John o’Groats Trail. I haven’t tried it, but it’s got to be better than playing chicken with the traffic...

A walk of 1000 miles might start with one step, but it ends with three corking blisters. It’s the tarmac; the A99 goes all the way to John o’Groats and it takes its toll. If today hadn’t been today, it would have been bloody awful.

There’s not much to say about the final slog into John o’Groats. This is not a pretty part of the world, and apart from the odd notable piece of coastal scenery and a ruined castle or two, it’s completely unremarkable. It’s flat, it’s dull, it’s full of midges and most visitors put their right foot down and wonder what all the fuss is about. For once I found myself looking at the cars and wishing I was in them.

This is probably quite a good journey to do by bicycle, because the lack of serious hills and the long, straight road are well suited to pedal power. There are quite a few cyclists tootling up and down the A99 and it helps to break the monotony, especially as a fair proportion of them are either starting or finishing their own End-to-End trips. There’s an instant kinship along the final stretches of the A-road and people wave, shout ‘well done’ and give the thumbs up, which is a tonic for the soul. Anyone heading towards John o’Groats with a backpack is either finishing the End-to-End or they’re lost, and anyone pedalling past in a sleek, Lycra-clad fashion statement is about to finish crossing the country in their own peculiar way.

But it’s still a drab finish to the walk, and after 17 miles of uneventful and completely forgettable stomping along the tarmac, John o’Groats comes into view over the crest of Warth Hill. From that distance it looks like a collection of houses, fields and precious little else, and unfortunately these first impressions last. If it weren’t for the Orkney Islands peppering the horizon, arriving in John o’Groats would be one of the biggest let-downs of the whole walk; luckily, after a week of the coastal A-road, anything is better than more walking.

It helped that my phone rang as I rounded the corner into what laughably turned out to be the main drag. ‘All right Mark,’ said Barry into my right ear. ‘How you doing? Here, did you know there’s a pavement on the other side of the road you can use?’

‘Eh?’ I said. ‘Can you see me? Where are you?’ And there, waving from the car park in front of the Seaview Hotel was Barry, and all of a sudden John o’Groats didn’t seem so pointless after all.

-oOo-

I finally arrived at the John o’Groats Hotel at five to two and limped across the finishing line that’s painted on the tarmac outside the bar. The hotel itself has closed and looks rather drab and unloved, but the bar still manages to pump out standard Scottish beer and there’s a guestbook to sign while they stamp your form to show you’ve completed the walk. Outside there’s the twin of the signpost at Land’s End – they’re owned and operated by the same company – so Barry and I did the honourable thing and had our pictures taken for posterity.

However, John o’Groats isn’t actually the furthest point from Land’s End, so to complete the full End-to-End walk you have to trek a further two miles to Duncansby Head. John o’Groats itself is little more than the harbour from where the Orkney passenger ferry departs; indeed, the name is a corruption of Jan de Groot, the name of one of three Dutch brothers who arrived in the area in 1496 with a commission from King James IV to operate the ferry between the mainland and Orkney. The price of the ferry was one groat and this spawned a name that’s far more memorable than ‘Duncansby Head.’ But Duncansby Head is the real end of this walk, so Barry and I hit the tarmac one last time to reach the lighthouse at the opposite end of the country to Land’s End.

At last this is where the real attraction of this area hits you in the face. From Duncansby Head you can ignore the run-down hotels and novelty shops of the metropolis because it’s here, tucked away from the main drag, that the proper scenery of the Scottish coast kicks in. The cliffs around Duncansby are sheer, soaring and as beautiful as anything at Land’s End, and sea birds perch on the steep rocks, squawking, screeching and adding distinctive grey stains to the sea stacks that dominate the view south. After endless miles of boring tarmac and flat, grey flows, John o’Groats doesn’t really cut the mustard; Duncansby Head, however, most certainly does. Thankfully, the real end to the End-to-End walk is well worth the effort.

-oOo-

It still hasn’t sunk in that I’ve finished this walk. I’ve walked 1111 miles in 89 days, walking for 70 of those days at an average of 15.9 miles per day; I’ve completely worn out one pair of brand new trekking boots and broken in another pair; I’ve used over 50 blister plasters and got through six different pairs of socks; I’ve taken 1129 photographs and two video clips; I’ve navigated my way across 54 Ordnance Survey Explorer maps at a scale of 1:25,000; I’ve walked with food poisoning, sprained leg muscles, inflamed tendons, multiple blisters, whisky hangovers and suspicious friction burns; I’ve met four other End-to-End walkers, two going my way and two going the other; and at this stage it really doesn’t feel like it’s over.

I suppose it’ll take a few days for the memories to sort themselves out properly. When I think of northern Scotland I think of blisters and aching feet, but when I think of Cornwall I think of lovely coastal scenery and delightful, winding lanes. If my brain now views the first section through rose-tinted spectacles, given time it’ll probably do the same for the whole walk, and that’s when I’ll be able to look back on it all with a sense of satisfaction. As for now, my brain hasn’t yet cottoned on to the fact that I won’t be hitting the trail tomorrow, because there is no more trail.

It’ll no doubt hit me later. If I concentrate and try not to think about my feet, I can already feel the sides of my mouth tugging. It’s a good sign...

Postscript

In hindsight it seems obvious, but it’s surprised me just how much my perspective of my home country has changed since I walked from one end of it to the other. Before I set off from Land’s End, I could wax lyrical for hours about the spirituality of India, the harshness of life in the Sahara, the remote beauty of the Pacific islands, and plenty of other tales from my travels over the years... but I couldn’t tell you where the Great Glen was, or – rather embarrassingly – whether Cumbria was on the east coast or the west. Walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats may not have improved my appalling sense of geography much – well, apart from a 20m-wide strip along the length of the country, that is – but it has transformed how I feel about Britain.

It doesn’t show itself in the big things, but in the little ones. The TV weather map reminds me of my walk every single evening; news reports of events in distant counties bring back all sorts of memories; when I take the train to the north or drive across the country, I know that at some point in the journey I’m going to cross the route I took back in 2003; and when I look at a globe of the Earth, it still amazes me to think that I’ve walked across that island just off the coast of Europe. I’ve even managed to forget just how painful it was to cross the country on foot, and every now and then I catch myself looking longingly at Ordnance Survey maps, wondering just how many days it would take to walk from here to there...

In short, walking from Land’s End to John o’Groats has given me a memory that is constantly pleasant to remember. In fact, I’m enjoying the walk more now than when I was actually walking it – so that’s three months of physical effort for a lifetime of smiles. I think you could say it was worth it.

Further Reading

If you’re interested in reading more about my walk, or you’ve got itchy feet and fancy having a go yourself, then you could do a lot worse than check out my Land’s End to John o’Groats website at www.landsendjohnogroats.info. It contains over 900 photographs to accompany this book, detailed maps of my route in two and three dimensions, and a comprehensive section of hints and tips for anyone contemplating their own walking epic. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed researching it.

If you enjoyed this book, you might like to know that there’s a whole series of free books like this available from the same source, covering walks in six countries and three continents:

- Annapurna Circuit, Nepal

- Bada Valley, Indonesia

- The Capital Ring, United Kingdom

- Fraser Island, Australia

- Gunung Rinjani, Indonesia

- Hinchinbrook Island, Australia

- Hollyford-Pyke Route, New Zealand

- Kepler Track, New Zealand

- Land’s End to John o’Groats, United Kingdom

- The London Loop, United Kingdom

- Mt Cook, New Zealand

- Pilbara Bushwalk, Australia

- Routeburn-Greenstone Track, New Zealand

- Taman Negara, Malaysia

- Taranaki Circuit, New Zealand

- Tongariro Northern Circuit, New Zealand

If you know someone who might like any of my books, please pass them on; I make no money from this, but I do enjoy the thought of people reading my books and recommending them to their friends. If you’ve enjoyed reading my writing (or even if you haven’t) I’d be delighted if you could sign my Guestbook at www.landsendjohnogroats.info/guestbook – after all, it’s the feedback that makes it all worthwhile. Happy walking!

THE END

Table of Contents

Map

Preface

Land’s End to Penzance

Helston

Penzance to Pengoon Farm

Pengoon Farm to Truro

Truro to Tregolls Farm

Tregolls Farm to St Breward

St Breward to Trecollas Farm

Trecollas Farm to Launceston

Launceston to Bridestowe

Bridestowe to South Zeal

Okehampton

South Zeal to Crediton

Crediton to Tiverton

Tiverton to Taunton

Taunton to Street

Street to Midsomer Norton

Midsomer Norton to Bath

Bath to Old Sodbury

Old Sodbury to Cam

Cam to Painswick

Painswick to Gloucester

Gloucester to Tewkesbury

Tewkesbury to Worcester

Worcester to Bewdley

Bewdley to Pattingham

Pattingham to Penkridge

Penkridge to Abbots Bromley

Abbots Bromley to Air Cottage

Air Cottage to Waterloo Inn

Waterloo Inn to Edale

Edale to Crowden

Crowden to Standedge

Standedge to Hebden Bridge

Hebden Bridge to Lothersdale

Lothersdale to Kirkby Malham

Kirkby Malham to Horton

Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Hawes

Hawes to Keld

Keld to Baldersdale

Baldersdale to Middleton

Middleton to Langdon Beck

Langdon Beck to Dufton

Dufton to Alston

Alston to Haltwhistle

Haltwhistle to Bellingham

Bellingham to Byrness

Byrness to Jedburgh

Jedburgh to Melrose

Melrose to Peebles

Peebles to West Linton

West Linton to Edinburgh

Edinburgh to Linlithgow

Linlithgow to Kilsyth

Kilsyth to Drymen

Drymen to Rowardennan

Rowardennan to Inverarnan

Inverarnan to Tyndrum

Tyndrum to Kings House

Kings House to Kinlochleven

Kinlochleven to Fort William

Fort William to South Laggan

South Laggan to Alltsigh

Alltsigh to Drumnadrochit

Drumnadrochit to Inverness

Inverness to Dingwall

Dingwall to Alness

Alness to Dornoch

Dornoch to Brora

Brora to Helmsdale

Helmsdale to Dunbeath

Dunbeath to Wick

Wick to John o’Groats

Postscript

Further Reading

Table of Contents

Map

Preface

Land’s End to Penzance

Helston

Penzance to Pengoon Farm

Pengoon Farm to Truro

Truro to Tregolls Farm

Tregolls Farm to St Breward

St Breward to Trecollas Farm

Trecollas Farm to Launceston

Launceston to Bridestowe

Bridestowe to South Zeal

Okehampton

South Zeal to Crediton

Crediton to Tiverton

Tiverton to Taunton

Taunton to Street

Street to Midsomer Norton

Midsomer Norton to Bath

Bath to Old Sodbury

Old Sodbury to Cam

Cam to Painswick

Painswick to Gloucester

Gloucester to Tewkesbury

Tewkesbury to Worcester

Worcester to Bewdley

Bewdley to Pattingham

Pattingham to Penkridge

Penkridge to Abbots Bromley

Abbots Bromley to Air Cottage

Air Cottage to Waterloo Inn

Waterloo Inn to Edale

Edale to Crowden

Crowden to Standedge

Standedge to Hebden Bridge

Hebden Bridge to Lothersdale

Lothersdale to Kirkby Malham

Kirkby Malham to Horton

Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Hawes

Hawes to Keld

Keld to Baldersdale

Baldersdale to Middleton

Middleton to Langdon Beck

Langdon Beck to Dufton

Dufton to Alston

Alston to Haltwhistle

Haltwhistle to Bellingham

Bellingham to Byrness

Byrness to Jedburgh

Jedburgh to Melrose

Melrose to Peebles

Peebles to West Linton

West Linton to Edinburgh

Edinburgh to Linlithgow

Linlithgow to Kilsyth

Kilsyth to Drymen

Drymen to Rowardennan

Rowardennan to Inverarnan

Inverarnan to Tyndrum

Tyndrum to Kings House

Kings House to Kinlochleven

Kinlochleven to Fort William

Fort William to South Laggan

South Laggan to Alltsigh

Alltsigh to Drumnadrochit

Drumnadrochit to Inverness

Inverness to Dingwall

Dingwall to Alness

Alness to Dornoch

Dornoch to Brora

Brora to Helmsdale

Helmsdale to Dunbeath

Dunbeath to Wick

Wick to John o’Groats

Postscript

Further Reading