Matt Deaves

Been a bit quiet on the twitter front, sorry about that.

Everywhere I rang ahead, I got the same reply – ‘Sorry, we’re booked up’. I had prepared myself to join up a few of the stops into some more massive walks to make sure I kept a good pace along the trail, I didn’t think I’d be doing it to get a roof over my head. Even that way my only option would be hotels charging quite steep prices for a bed. YHA’s are shut or full of cyclists.

After chat and some help ringing around from the YHA I’d pleaded to get into, it turned out my best option was to get a bus to Newcastle and then another 3 back into the Pennines and arrive at Alston or Dufton. Pretty disappointed at this as I’d be missing out some of my favourite bits – waterfalls and High Cup Nick amongst others. The hotels in Alston where out of the town itself and asking for 40 to 60 quid a night. Sat at Newcastle bus station I was still pondering what to do. My legs felt fine, I could walk the rest of the way and I’d had such a great start hammering out the Cheviots in 1 day. The bus to Newcastle had shown me just how much of the walking I was missing out on during the hour and a half journey. I decided I’m in this walk for all or nothing. Having bussed this large section with an aim to skip 4 or 5 stops, I’d only have the nagging feeling that I needed to do the whole thing again next year, so that’s exactly what I’ve decided to do.

I had a look around Newcastle and then headed off to Sheffield to see my brother. He met me on the street outside the side entrance and wouldn’t come near me. I was wearing my hiking gear still and as he approached, his grimacing face explained why no one sat next to me on the bus. I stank. I stank really, really bad.

After harassing me up the stairs and forcing me to strip to my boxers in the quite public hallway outside his flat, he caught a whiff of my trousers while trying to stuff them into the washing machine and immediately hunched up and began to violently dry wretch. I haven’t laughed so hard in a while. He got his own back though, half way through my hot shower he burst in armed with spray bottles of bleach and doused me from head to toe shouting at me like Father Merrin.

I think Lauren must wonder what she was thinking getting involved in with our family sometimes.

So, anyone up for doing it next year or indeed just the Cheviots over a long weekend or something let me know. I know that route like the back of my hand now. You better be able to do it in a day though.

I arrived in Kirk Yetholm with the Sun still high in the sky and warm against my face. I thought it’d be darker at 6;30 but it looks like the days will hold out for me.

The journey up here was easier this time and I wasted no time finding bus stops or a pub to wait for my ride to the next town. With time to kill I bought a couple of steak pies from a local butcher and sat in a little pub off the high-street. After some glowing idyllic countryside on the bus journey, I repeated this in Kelso (minus pies) after taking a few shots of the town square. Stood at the same old bar, moving to the same seat as last time. Couldn’t have been easier really.

‘Closed until next year’ read the MS Word printout on the inside of the YHA front door. ‘hhhhmmm…’ I pondered, scratching my head.

I plodded off to the border hotel for a pint. As it goes they were fully booked too which in a way is a good thing as 60 odd quid a night would dent my finances quite severely at this early stage. After some ringing around the landlady found me a room at the Plough Hotel in Town Yetholm, about 300 meters down the road. Chatting with the locals I’m reminded yet again that the 24 mile walk (since arriving in Byrness I’m assured it’s 27) straight to Byrness is a tough one. I remind myself I’m travelling lighter this time, whilst stealthily fondling the packet of water purifying tablets I shoved into my pocket at the last minute this morning.

The plough is more if the locals local than the gastro-pub-hotel the Border Hotel is. I like it, the rooms are fine, the bed the same and the people proper local as in from across the road. I share a bench with a local’s dog and sit down to bang out these words over a pint of black sheep. The dog is ginger, lean and curious about what I’m doing. He has a great vantage point being stood on top of my table.

Having gone into the warm I ordered a wild mushroom risotto and another pint. The risotto was a bit vinegary and not easy on the eye but I ate it all anyway. Went to bed and watched Hotel Rwanda on my iPhone. Why did I bring that film with me?

I took some time over the weekend to reminisce and work on some of my favourite photos from scratch. Some of these didn’t even make the cut the first time round but I’m pretty happy with the results.

See the results.

I’ve been incredibly busy at Little Tree for the last few weeks so progress on processing these pictures has been slow. I can’t wait to get back up there and start it all over again.

View pictures of the Pennine Way.

With a few things that have gone on lately I’ve decided to spend some time with friends and family, particularly my brother right now and come off the Pennine Way. I’ll restart the walk again around next July from Kirk Yetholm armed with prior knowledge and maybe even with someone else to share the journey with. I am disappointed I didn’t get to Dufton but have decided that I will holiday there in the near future. I’ve mostly got what I wanted out of the Pennine Way and feel the time and general mood are right for this.

I hope you’ve enjoyed reading these posts.

Last nights sleep was quite rough.  I probably shouldn’t have started drinking quite so early in Greenhead but there was very little else to do once I’d had a few games of pool against myself in the YHA. My reflexes aren’t quick enough for single player table football.

“Would you care to start another card Sir?” Jeff the Barman asks, applying the final sticker to my Theakstons Stamp Card and handing me my Old Peculier Fudge. 

“Hit me Jeff, if I complete this one the fudge is yours.”.

Jeff doesn’t get his fudge, I leave my semi-complete second card somewhere on the bar and wander off into the dark night back to the hostel.  Slouched across an old blue sofa in the communal hall, I finish up a few words on the last blog post, read some of my book and crawl into the bottom bunk in room 6 – in Byrness three bunk steps were my undoing at 3am with seized up legs and a desperate need to a pee. Some little brat and his parents wander the hostel back and forth between the old church hall and upstairs, slamming all the doors for an hour or two.  Inconsiderate bastards, I’m going to whistle in the shower and leave no type of door in the building unslammed in the morning.

The faded blue curtains don’t fit the high window in the corner of the room and dim moonlight highlights the six or more empty bunk beds around me.  I can’t find my phone but know I’m awake far too early and my back is killing me.  I now spend forever trying to steal a few moments sleep between spasms of pain.  The matress has moulded to the awkward position I was sleeping in and no amount of rotating will change this.  I get up, zombie walk to the toilets naked (I’m way past caring about scaring the shit out of that kid and his parents), pee and squint in the bright movement activated lights of the wasroom like some prisoner and return to a different bunk in Room 6.

Delicate harp music gradually fills the room at 7:30.  I awake, my back feeling like a plank of pain and bump my way through the door, grabbing my towl from the nearby waiting room style low chairs.  Showering I notice my legs aren’t aching.  I didn’t take any pain killers during the night, I couldn’t be bothered to find them.  They have also changed shape quite dramatically.  Bernard Matthews would kill for these.  Donning my brown floral power shirt, my back pain eased with hot water, I practically skip over to the the Greenhead Hotel to collect the two bacon buns and tea Jeff convinced me to purchase last night.  The short seven mile walk yesterday must have been kind to my legs despite the constant peaks and troughs of Hadrian’s Wall.

Leaving the hotel it begins to rain quite heavily and I run to the church door to finish packing my gear.  My water pack and bottle filled to the brim, I head out, brolly in hand, back up the railway track path that bought me to Greenhead.

Making good progress through a golf course, I wave at lawnmower man as he drives a throwned mower worthy of Hank Hill slowly around the fairways.  I get nothing back. The rain falls with more force now and I have to refold my map so that it fits inside my now split plastic zip-up folder.

A series of sloping hills lead me into proper fields once more.  Feeling energetic I decide to test myself.  I run about 50 meters up the first hill and stop to see how I feel.  Suprisingly well.  A few more experiments and I realise I can now comfortably run 100 or so meters uphill at a good pace, reach the top and stroll on.  The Cheviots would really have been easier with this new found power, although I suppose they played their part in it’s development  I never saw this kind of gain when running around Birmingham.

Day Two of The Cheviots, I began to look for boot prints running in the opposite direction.  From Byrness to Bellingham I noticed flattened grass stumps, and the recent trails left by other walkers.  Through the marshy farmland towards Hadrian’s Wall I paused between eating flap jacks studying how sheep or cows have been chomping on a particular clump of plant, the wide green leaves or thin pipe like reeds recovering from a rough trimming.  No one is up here with a wooden set of sheers gardening.  I find it easier to spot my way between hidden Pennine Way markers by looking at the land – which is handy and reassuring as I stand swearing at yet another mountain goat in the pouring rain having blindly followed a rubble path too far.

I’ve travelled too far east, the Pennine Way is definatley signposted better for those walking South to North.  The goat refuses to crack and wanders off.  I’ve had this a lot today, the bleak, unchanging hilly landscape either hardening these animals to insults far cruder than I can conjure or pulping their brains and rendering them incapable of feeling.  Either way their minds are an impenetrable fortress.  I stumble between two radio towers allowing me to pin point my position on the map.

I’ve followed my own route now for around 30 minutes.  I will meet up with the Pennine Way in another mile or so having cut diagonly across rough, lumpy marsh to a fence line on the horizon.  I’m not the only one to take this route, sheep have been chomping away, enforcing the make shift path in areas, but I also discover the odd upright stick, foot flattened grass, partial foot mark and even a tin opener along the way.  I get back on track having skipped a big section of the route that curves quite un-necessarily away to the north-west. Sod Wainwright, he must have made a mistake at that bit.

It’s stil raining and the wind is now too strong for my umbrella.  Tucking it into my belt, the rain belts down even harder with enough force to hurt the top of my head despite wearing a hood.  ’This is not good’ I declare to a huge brown cow.  I don’t think she hears me though the rain.

Walking toward a wooden set of fence ladders in the middle of a foot deep pool of water, I notice the huge, sculpted siloette of a bull on the hill to my left.  As I move closer he approaches the fence.  I stop to eye him and he mirrors me, steam coming out of his nostrills.  We continue this dance as I get close enough to see a female cow and a calf nearby.  An expert on bulls I am not and being unwilling to test my wits by showing this one no fear, I approach the step over the fence cautiously.  A week or so earlier a friend kindly forwarded me a BBC news report about a woman getting trampled by cattle along the Pennine Way.  Ok, she was armed with dogs that scared the cattle into action but this bull seemed to be looking for trouble.  We matched each others paces toward the fence crossing, he paused and I took the opportunity to leg it across the field hurling my weight over the next gate.

Bog.  Bog. Bog. More bog.  Ankle deep bog.  Knee deep bog. Bog.  For miles. Rain, torrential rain is still falling.  For the first time I ask myself what I’m doing.  I’ve been walking for over 5 hours now and my progress is slow. The way is littered with large tufts of reed like grass.  As I wade through, it brushes against the entire length of my legs creating a feeling of wave after wave of water running down my legs.  For a second I think my boots are giving up the good fight.  This isnt quite the case, water has fought and won it’s way through my soaked trousers and into my socks.  My right foot already feels like it is inside a gold fish bowl.  My left quickly follows. I am miserable.

Another hour and the Pennine Way comes very close to a main road which eventually winds it’s way to Alston via a few small villages.  I choose the road at this point and walk three miles to Slaggyford.  Solid ground feels wierd beneath my feet, similar to that feeling when stepping off of a long ferry ride onto dry land. Every few minutes a line of vehicles speed past, huge amounts of spray blasting into the air. The road snakes wildly over the hills and as I reach a point high enough to see the roof tops of Slaggyford the rain eases off for a few minutes. I’ve reached an old stone bridge spanning a fierce, swelling brown river. I get some good photos for a few minutes and rest until the rain steps up a gear once more.

A green truck has reversed into a slip road ahead of me. Some 20 minutes ago it had driven past me but the driver cared enough to slow down and spared me a drenching. “Alston is it? Do you want a lift?” he shouts through the open window. This guy has an impressive mustache and looks like a rugged highland cowboy. “How far is it?” I asked having now made it to the truck.

“‘Bout 5 mile. I’m headed there myself.”

Looking down at my water logged feet I know I’ll regret answering “I can manage that. Thanks for the offer though.”

“Ha I know you youngens are keen, bit too keen I think, but it’s a good thing. You enjoy the walk now, there’s a train track you can follow into Alston, follow the road, you’ll see it, big bridge.”

Winding up the window he nods and drives off to Alston and of course the rain immediately gets worse.

After fiddling to tie the gate shut I slop through a field and down onto an abandoned train track. My feet are killing me and both boots are swelled up out of proportion. The track morphs between inches of mud and more rough gravel. A dog runs up and goes for my umbrella followed by his owners boot which lands quite firmly in it’s backside. “He thinks your umbrella is a stick” an old man in wellies and tweedy farm wear says. ‘Bit rough’ I think to myself and squelch on.

Sprouting from within some wild purple flowers and nettles an old railway sign reveals I have 3 more miles to Alston. A thinner than usual railway track now follows along side me, piles of sleepers lie around and I pass a few rusting cargo carts. The rain stops completely for the first time today and out comes the sun. I remove my coat and walk as fast as I can down the track. Reaching a bridge I take the opportunity to stop, make a few calls and eat, trying not to think about my feet and how the sign I saw earlier must have been placed by a lying git. Half way through one particular phone call after I’ve explained about walking down an abandoned train track I see a miniature train approach in the distance. ‘Shit! Sorry I have to go! There is a train coming up the track! I’ll call you back, I’ll call you back! Sorry, bye!’ I excitedly shout while ripping gear out of my bag to find my camera.

Half an hour later listening to the concerned voice on my answer machine, I realise I should have mentioned the miniature railway. My left leg begins to cramp up quite badly again now, I sat for too long before the train incident. I have to slow right down and after another half hour, I hobble into Alston, narrowly beating the miniature train. Coming out of the adorable station I pass a few old garages, oil drums piled up outside and some fantastic little cottages right out of postman pat. It all comes flooding back to me that I have been here before. Walking awkwardly up the steep main street I find everywhere is shut or has no vacancies. Continuing up the hill I clamber through the door off an Inn and meet an old bloke, a Chinese lady and her daughter sitting round a table chatting. I won’t attempt to impersonate this woman’s accent in written or spoken word, but will say it was incredible. The speed and almost clichéd twang of her native accent intermingled and wrestling madly with stark Geordie undertones left me unable to understand anything she said to me as I was led off down the road.

Steaming in the bath I finish the last of the two teas I lined up for myself, refill it with ice cold water from the tap and pour it over my head. Crazy, lovely Chinese lady has done good bringing me to her friends cottage and getting me checked into one of their small guest rooms. Refreshed I head off to the local pub and find they have Hoe Garden on tap which immediately makes the days walk worth it. Tucked away in a corner I tap away on my iPhone in between eating a steak and ale pie and occasionally thinking of the funeral the next day. As I can have a lie in tomorrow I sink a few more and head off to another old looking local pub and tuck into a few real ales. Looking at my watch it’s way after 11pm but people are still ordering pint after pint. Hearing the clunk of the front door being locked I grin fanatically knowing I’ve found the real ‘locals local’ and zig zag my way to the bar for another, ducking to avoid hitting my head on the low wooden beams of the ceiling.

A few people have emailed to ask about the frequency of map updates and where the photos are for each blog post. Since I left Byrness I’ve had a hard time getting a GPS signal, even with clear skies. I’m pretty sure I haven’t damaged my phone so it just not be that reliable. Picture wise I have resorted to using Twitter for (www.twitter.com/mndeaves) as the WordPress iPhone app is pretty poor and either crashes everynow and then or simply refuses to upload my images over data connections worse than Edge.

Going to get a few bacon rolls at the pub now before heading off.

Edit: this is another biggy, I’d get a tea or beer depending on when you read this.)

I’ve completed three more legs of the journey since I last signed in.  My parents decided to come up to meet me in Belingham giving me an opportunity to ditch some of my gear.  I didn’t ponder it long and ditched pretty much the entire contents of my rucksack into a bin liner the night before leaving Byrness.

Fully recovered after a days rest and two nights sleep, I had one final raid of the food cupboard buying loads of fruit flap jacks and left sometime after 8am.  

The night before I took a short walk with the camera to a nearby reservoir at dusk.  Depite being eaten alive by midges, I got some great shots of the evening light peircing the low points of forested hills and streaking the water with glistening yellow.  

Returning to the hostel I read a few chapters of The Quiet American, which up until then I had stuggled to get into.  Joyce and Colin keep a booze cupboard at the bottom of the stairs stocked to bursting point with wines, real ales and the like.  A single clink of glass bottles, the sound of a key in the door and I shot out of the living room like a dog to get more.  Speckled Hen, Spitfire, Bishops Finger, Old Peculier, you name it, they had it and I probably drank it over the two nights I stayed to recover.

The walk from Byrness to Bellingham was, for the most part, a good one weighing in at around 14.5 miles.  My new maps (kindly donated/swapped for beer by Derek and Alan shortly after my shaky arrival at the hostel) helped me navigate much more easily by having buildings, small paths and most usefully fence lines marked.  As I walk I wondered if I should have got 1:25 scale maps for the Cheviots, but reason I’m better off for the experience gained – it’s been a while since I’ve really had to dig deep and push myself.  Would definatley recommend.

After a mile or two passing camping sites and fields I was soon marching up the gray rubble of now familiar Forrestry Commission Road and into thick pine woods.  

Joyce explained the history of the millions of pine trees up here.  Shortly after Wolrd War One the country was brought to it knees and the brink of starvation due to a lack of wood.  Recession had hit hard and the government created the Forestry Commission to repair the hundreds of years worth of damage to Britain’s forests.  Byrness was created to house the peolple who would be responsible for planting, managing and some 20 years later, harvesting around 2 million trees.  A school and around 40 houses were built.  The great day came and over an enormous area of land, every other tree was cut down.  Pines have remarkably shallow roots and removing every other tree resulted in almost all of the remaining trees blowing over in the wind practically overnight.  ”You’d have thought the Forestry Commission would know that.” Joyce laughed.  This is why the mass expanse of forest I find myself in has large square sections of stumps.  

My backpack feeling wieghtless, I easily build up enough speed to create a cooling breeze through my hair.  The sun is beating down once again but I drink hardly any water compared to previous days.  My only annoyance is the course rubble flying beneath my feet, something about it’s texture and occasional looseness makes the easy climb require slightly more effort.  I soon swap this problem for another as reaching the highest point of the forrest, the Pennine Way leaves the Forrestry Commission path and turns sharply into the trees.  I loose my views of idylic hill sides and am faced with thick conifers either side of me and worse of all, ankle deep bog.  This goes on for a few miles and slowly, swearing my way through the path, I gain an eery sense of being watched.  My path is lit brightly by sunlight but the sheer thickness of the pines leaves a two foot, dark, twiggy tree trunk lined world either side of  me.  I ponder if I’m going soft but find it easy to imagine something leaping out of the lightless, dead underworld of the Forrest.  I nicked a few too many scary films from the video cupboard at home as a kid and have an active imagination.

I press on, the bog not being so bad apart from whole areas looking like mossy grass turning out to be half foot deep ponds.  I’m thankfull for my boots being so good, my feet stay bone dry no matter how deep they are forced into water.   Crossing a few fences, traveling in a straight line for maybe a mile or more, I reach a drop into a small valley and once more slip and slide down a steep muddy path.  At the top of particularly difficult sections of this boggy descent I find makeshift walking sticks stuck into the ground.  I use these to ease my way down, giving a silent nod to the kind soul that left them there.  I like to think of the poor sod making their way up this part doing the same for me as they find them at the bottom.  One of them I even clean up with a pen knife as it had too many sharp bits sticking into my hand for my liking.

The climb up to the other side of the valley is much easier, although just as steep.  The bogginess has gone and I get the feelig I’m going to hit solid moor at the top.  Almost right, I hit a good section of stone slabs marking my way through bog onto to moorland on the horizon.

A few hours later I pass through large areas of fire ruined moor.  It seems to be in almost perfect, massive squares, but not restricted to any fence lines – there aren’t any – so I can’t help but feel this has been done on purpose and managed for some reason.  The blackened, gnarled twigs make a most satisfying crunching beneath my feet.  An abundance of fresh shoots are bursting through the soil all around me and I begin to pass small patches of bright purple heather. With the shrubs and plantlife cut back to basics, I see a large variety of  bees both yellow and White, butterflies of many different species and many small birds skilled at hovering in the strong breeze coming from my right.  Checking my map I’m only 4 or five miles from Bellingham.  I plod on taking in more sun, moorland views to the horizon and matchbox cars chugging along roads in the distance.  My second day of the Cheviots took the entire back catalogue of Led Zepplin to get through.  This was a Van Morrison day.

Another hour, I get the phone call about Phil.  The scenery and silence adds weight to my thoughts as I sit on a rock.  

Eventually I get up and finish the walk to Bellingham.  A lovely old town.  I meet Helen and Graham, an old couple running Lynn View Bed and Breakfast and am immidiatley given a massive pot of tea with all the trimmings.  Lynn has kind eyes and a beaming smile and I quickly discover Grahams sharp, dry sense of humour as he fills me in on gossip regarding a local wedding.  I’ll get on with this pair.

With no phone signal, I decide the best way of meeting my parents is to walk down the small village main road to a bridge over the river that divides the town.  I’ve no sooner stepped out of the door when I see my mum waving at me.

I return to my room at Lynn View slightly drunk having spent an evening with my parents eating at the Battlesteads pub (Helen and Graham’s recommendation) and enjoying a couple more at the converted country mansion they are staying at.

Having gone to a Tesco in Hexam for supplies, I inspect my knee suppports and swig another mouthfull off Old Peculier. In my head I give the till lady at Tesco back home two fingers.  I prepare my maps and swig my beer by the dim light of the overhead lamp. The red of my bed sheets, red flowers in the wallpaper, the smell of old wooden furniture and a faint whiff of cigarettes remind me of staying at my grandparents as a child.  I sleep deeply.

Bellingham To Once Brewed

I eat a full English breakfast with yet another vat of tea whilst talking to the first lone guy I have met walking in the opposite way as me.  I tell him about the fun of the Cheviots. As I write this he should be only one day or so away and hopefully carryig more water than anything else.  I have groggy memories of suggesting he burnt his tent, carried lots of water, sugary foods and ‘went for it’, sleeping in the refuge hut between the Cheviot and the Schill if he needed a rough half way point.

Showered, I head off at about 8:40, leaving Helen and Graham waving me off from the front door.  I trot down some winding country roads in light rain until I pick up the Pennine Way leading off into grassy hills towards a big telecoms mast.  I’m carrying the tent and burner again now, the fear of being caught out with no such kit further down the line stuck in my mind.  I march on through moorland, fields and the odd farmstead.  The path isn’t particularly steep but the rain makes the journey a bit miserable.  I’ve arranged to meet my parents one final time at a town a few miles away.  An hour or so later I see a farm in the distance and recognise a black vectra and my parents, surrounded by dogs, my mum waving and taking pictures of me right up until I am a few feet away.  A few glasses of cranberry juice, re-ditching of the tent and burner (just do it mentality kicking in), a pat in the head for each sheep dog and we parts ways again.  The rain kicks in a little more now and I march on through wet fields for a good while, crossing the occasional stream.  I get a great shot of three sheep crossing a river over a knackered concrete bridge.

Height gained, it still raining in short bursts and my support wrapped left knee is holding up well, I walk up to a couple chatting to a woman over a dry stone walled garden.  I chat for ten minutes, decline the offer of tea inside the ancient stone cottage and attempt to move on – I’ve stopped for too long to adjust my bag or take photos so far and am aware of the need to get to Hadrian’s Wall quickly. I realise the couple don’t have the same idea even though every few minutes they say they are leaving, yet each time manage to gass on for another five minutes.  I get sucked into the converstion as a listener, too polite to just up and leave without a word, feeling every second drag on, listening to this very enthusiastic walking couple exchange nothing more than noise with the local woman.  I drift off and wonder if I’m now just too used to being alone, or if the conversation is just that air filling bollocks that people sometimes feel the need to voice.  

“This lady has walked across America” the enthusiastic walking lady wakes me.  

“I’m selling off a few bits of gear now we’ve done it.” the local explains. She seems quite sound but before I can reply, the other couple are off and onto the merits of camping rough, how £15 in a hotel or hostel is £15 more than they like to spend and is for softies.  I want to reply “But you sometimes have to remember you are on holiday.” but give up, abruptly make my excuses (lie) about meeting a friend in the next town and begin to walk off.

“Is he wearing army cammoflage gear?” lady walking enthusiast enquires after me.

‘You’re not dragging me back in.’ my inner cynic mutters.  ”No, he’s in yellow shorts.” I reply, toning down my sarcasm and walking off into the rain.

I pass through a series of small, tree filled ravines having to walk down into them someway to cross a bridge spannig each river.  The concrete slabs of each bridge are slippy but they provide the best view point to see the sheer, fern and tree root scattered rock faces the water has cut over the ages.  Coming out of the last of them, I can see thick pine forest on the horizon.

I’ve switched tops now, my white t shirst soaked with rainwater and sweat.  The wind is incredible on the open grassy moor and I take shelter in yet another boggy path lined by thick forrest.  These trees must be much, much older than others along the way, as the gap between dark, needle covered floor and plush green pine branhes is well over 10 foot.  Peering into this, my left leg sinks up to the knee joint into thick mud and I struggle for a few seconds to stop the rest of my body following with a loud shout.  My right knee clicks loudly under the pressure of pulling me and my pack out.  I’m not carrying a tent anymore but have replaced that weight with another two litres of water in Belingham.  Interestingly the coke bottle I took from my parents, enabled me to work out that my platipus water pack holds over 4.5 litres of water.  The first day of the Cheviots alone I must have drank over 12 litres of water without ever quenching my thirst.  I pull myself free and stand breathing heavily trying to find a route throughthis patch.  It cover the path entirely from left to right for a good 6 feet.  The dead pine undergrowth far too thick to walk through with my pack.  I’m forced to lay whatever loose branches I can collect over the sink hole and on top of the few thick branches alredy present.  I slowly step across these with my arms out and thinking very light thoughts.

Radiohead’s ‘Hunting Bears’ starts plying on my iPod as I clear another pine lined hill and gain bleak view of moor with dark gray clouds approaching.  Find and listen to that track, it suits bleak wilderness perfectly when on repeat.  I pick up speed and decide I wil have this track playing at my funeral, at night, on repeat, my body on some kind of massve burning pyre, the wind blowing something fierce, surrounded by people weeping their eyeballs out.  Deep.
 
Even with better maps I loose the path.  Knowing Hadrian’s Wall must be parallell to me over the next ridge I make my own way between two lakes, one of which I can see to my right, across more very boggy marsh.  I’m soaked as not only the rain but thick tall grasses and reeds lash my face.  I spot my first wild frog and a kind of gecko creature, both of which are too fast to get a photo of. Sinking suddenly again, I swear loudly at a black mountain goat.  He eyes me  with attitude, chewing his grass. Subconsciously, this forms the basis for nearly an entire days entertainment the next day.

I can now see Hadrians Wall.  It is even more spectacular than I remember.  Clambering up a dip in the hills leading up to it, I take several shots of the wall leading East and upward on the edge of a sheer rock face which roots itself firmly at the edge of the lake I couldn’t see earlier.

I have only a few miles along the wall now until I reach Once Brewed.  The ups and downs of walking the wall take their toll on my knees.  Until now the suport has held up remakably well, making my left as strong as my right.  It makes you realise how fit the guys that lugged and assemled the stone must have been.  This wall goes on for miles, at least four foot thick, no terrain too difficult to cross.  Breathless, I reach the top of another hill, a particluarly high one and am left stunned with a view of the wall sitting high over a huge lake below.  The camera comes out and clicking away I realise that with my brolly tucked into my rucksack belt across my stomach like a sword, there must be some roman builders somewhere turning in their ancient graves.  

I eventually hit the famous tree used in the Robin Hood film with Kevin Kostner.  It is such a wonderful spot for an old oak you wonder if it was planted on purpose.  It is perfect and fills the space between the two sloping, stone paved hills perfectly.

Hungry now, I press on along the wall coming and manage to scare a pair of old men a hundred or so metres ahead of me.  Lately I’ve taken to ringing up my brother and leaving crazed messages on his answering machine informing him of. My progress.  This particular afternoon I decided that several bouts of heavy breathing following by screaming “I’M COMING FOR YOU BOY ” before hanging up would be the perfect way of updating him.  The phone now by my side, the old boys at the top of the hill turn around, take one look at double their pace up the hill.

I arrive at the Twice Brewed Inn 40 minutes later having greeted and then legged it past a group of 10 or more Germans.  There’s no way I’m risking this place runnig out of rooms.  I leave them in my dust trail and by the time they arrive I am eating lamb masala and sipping real ale at the bar in my brown flowery shirt.

Twice Brewed Inn to Greenhead

This was only a short walk of 7 miles, with only my new game being of interest and so won’t be a long story.  After a below average scoring breakfast at the Twice Brewed Inn (the Full English made me thankful for the free self serve toast), I headed back up the road to continue along Hadrian’s Wall.  More good views ensue,  but it is not on par with the previous section.  

So, you are wondering about my new game?  Issuing abusive language to various sheep and cattle within earshot, studying their facial expressions and ad-libbing their response outloud has entertained me for far more hours today than you would think possible.  This becomes even more amusing to me when finding one sheep or goat that will not only look back chewing with attitude, but also strut up really close while others run away in fear.  Horses always give the same indifferent response and tend to walk off, giving me the feeling I don’t know offensive enough words to provoke an emotion, meaning I’m not the first to play this game.  I wonder whether I should write about this now for fear that I will be reported and a yellow (or whatever colour they use for mental as opposed to medical emergencies) helicopter will fly over and pick me up.
 
I eventually made it to Greenhead depsite increasing rain, checked into the YHA (a converted church this time), showered and shot off to the pub for a few beers, dinner and to write this.  I finished it slumped across a sofa in what used to be the main church hall which is now much better used as a games room with pool table.  Sweet.

At 3pm today I received news that one of my closest friends Phil Modric, died during the night.  I had arranged to meet Phil and others in Sheffield at the end of this walk.  Having met up with Phil and his fiancè Sarah only a few weeks ago, this news brought me to a complete standstill for a long time just a few miles from Belingham.  Having known Phil since my first day at Uni, I’ve not grown up with him,  but certainly matured alongside him, having laughed our way through the best and worst times student life can give you.  Looking back we had only the best of times together and I am filled with a deep sadness that we shall not be tucked away in a corner of some old pub drinking, talking and laughing when I arrive in Sheffield.

Tomorrow morning I walk toward the town of Once Brewed along Hadrians wall.  Bellingham is another gem of a town tucked away in the hills.    I’m unable to write much else today.

So I left off last time munching a steak in The Border Hotel in Kirk Yetholm.   I neglected to tell you of the Pensioners Youth Hostel Association I had earlier checked into.  Upon arrival the lady running it convinced me to sign up to The YHA (cheaper if you do so in Scotland) and informed me that one bed remained in a shared male room.  Excellent, I thought, a chance to meet someone who has finished the walk.  I can ask them all about it.

Then I realised something was wrong.  Was eveyone in this place was at least 30 years older than me?  Thinking the Pennine Way could not possibly be as bad to age you that severeley, I lugged my gear upstairs.  That’s when I met Mr Happy.  

After a cautionary knock on the door, I entered.  ”Hello, I’m Matt, have reception told you I’ll be sharing this room? “ 

“Yes.”

A few moments pass.  The look on this guys face tell me we are off to a bad start.  ”Well. I’ll leave you to it”, I say, gear now stowed tidily at the end of my bed, Mr Happy busying himself with his bags.

“Well I’m not staying in this room”, he mutters through clenched teeth.

I give up at this point an head off round the village, camera in hand to take some photos. I get my next taste of the Youth Hostel group now.  An old couple are walking ahead, the  husband loudly arguing with his wife, one of those arguments ending in something pointless like ‘the proper way to ask that question’.

I ignore this, get a few shots of the small church, make a few calls and realise I’m more in the mood for food and drink, so head off.

Shortly after the steak, ice cream, several pints, little rest and map checking session the pub is invaded by the ‘Youths.  A bunch of them have been in a back room for sometime, but I’ve been too engrossed to notice.  It’s not log before I am approached by some of their party.

“Are you staying at the Hostel?” An older lady with red orange hair smile at me.

“Yes, I’m sharing with a friend of yours I think.  He really didn’t seem happy about it.”

“Oh, he is not.” I’m informed, “Don’t worry about that though, he’s quite eccentric,  very quiet. Just dot wake him up or disturb him”

“No problem, I won’t wake him, I’d like to go to bed early and get a good early start tomorrow.” I reasure her.

“We won’t be up till 8 or 9. He sleeps with ear plugs and an eye mask though.”
 
I have several coversations along this of line with a few of the group, each one making me less and less attracted to returning to the YHA. A few more pints flow, probably too many given the next days task and I regretfully return to my room.

Arriving at reception I whisper hello to the lady I checked in with.  ”Mr Happy is asleep I think, so be quiet”

It dawns on me at this point that I am on holiday and don’t give a hoot about Mr Happy.  I make excuses about getting some night shots and wander back to the pub to continue chatting to the locals and staff, which so far has gone pretty well and gets even better with the arrival of a guy in full Scottish style hat, coat and general demeanor – I’m using one end of the urinal when he walks to the other end, lets out a rip roaring fart, looks at me and declares “Better oot than in eh?”

“I couldn’t agree more, in fact I could join you pal” I laugh as the wrankest smell of the day fills my nostrils.  ”Is that the true smell of Haggis?”

Anyway, I have a tab at the bar and ask for a final beer.  It’s getting close to 11pm and I am pondering what to do.  The YHA will lock it’s doors soon.

The staff are a friendly bunch though and the conversation flows.  I learn they all think the owners daughter looks a lot older than she is with long hair and interstingly that Mr Happy’s group don’t seem to be getting on with one another.  I mention Mr Happy at this point and discover there is a room at the hotel.  The talk at one point turns to the harmonica and I give them a blast of Low Rider.  These guys are great. I have another beer, we chat about uni, the validity of psycic mediums and a whole bunch of other stuff I can’t remember.

The hotel is closed for the night now and I’m still sat at the bar with the staff.  I take the room and head off to bed.

My alarm goes off at 7am.  Shit, did I really stay here?  Yes, yes I did and I’m going to have a long hot bath followed by a full Scottish breakfast as I remember.

Packed, recovered and quite full I head back downstairs with my gear and the Landlady fills up my water bag.  I head off, meet a couple of locals on the way and check my route.  Pretty soon I’m amongst beautiful, hilly scenery and I just make out what I assume to the start of St. Cuthberts Way.

I take the Higher Pennie Way route and within an hour I’m quite high up with fantastic views and the occasional jet flying low overhead.  I make good progress and head toward The Schill.  An hour or two later the path leads down to old mud track showing wear and tear from tractors or something with big wheels.  I ponder my route here, i’ve already lost some height and burned through more water than I’d like.  There is a slight trail leading directly up the hill to my right but it doesn’t look touched, not like the path I have been on.  After a few minutes leaning on the gate I decide to press on down the mud track.    I should have headed up the hill, something painfuly obvious to me now -don’t loose altitude.

I walk several miles through fantastic hilly vistas, small streams and get greeted by a variety of wildlife.  Having walked through a farm I get a major case of cramp in both my inner thighs and stop by a river at the top of a hill.  The small grouse like birds that previously leapt out of bushes away from me slowly stalk up to take a look.  They run like dinosaurs and pose for some good pictures.  Thankful of the stream as I an almost out of water, I fill up my water bag an drop in a couple of purifying tablets.  The water is crystal clear and pretty fast flowing and I think how strange it is that although originally meant for use in Thailand, it’s in the UK I’m using these tablets.  

The heat has really got to me and I wonder about the weight of my pack.  It still feels ok when I’m strapped into it, but it seems heavier to pick now.  I take a big swig of lef over stream water from my food tin and immidiatley realise you really do only need 1 tablet per 25 litres.  At least they work.

I’ve walked on now for an hour or so more, an I’m worried.  I’m too low in comparison to my surroundings and I try to fid my bearings.  I need a 1:25 scale map.  Mine is missing things like farms and fences that would enable me to work out exactly where I am.  As it is, I can only conclude the Pennine Way is too far off to the East.  Way too far.

I retrace most of my route an this time round it’s all uphil.  I meet a passing truck of the way and ask re driver for directions.  I’m only a few miles away from The Schill and he suggests following a nearbye fence to get bak on track.  He warns me of how steep it will be but assures me it is the most direct route and there is a refuge hut at the top between the Schill and The Cheviot, so I head off.  

About an hour along the fence I really start to feel tired and my legs cramp up terribly every ten or so minutes.  I’m running low on water again but press on.  Another 40 odd minutes I reach the junction in the fence the guy told me about and I know I’m back on the trail.  To my left is The Schill, to my right a mile or so away is the refuge hut under the looming mass of the climb up to the Cheviot.  The wind is really something up here and I’m struggling to walk in a straight line.  The cramp has eased off a little though.  Reaching the refuge hut I make a few more calls to let people know I’m alright, worried they may have seen how far I came off the trail on my website map.  I knew it was u likely but I’m depressed to find no water in the hut.  A gas burner and some food packs is all that’s in there.

Looking at the steepness of the walk up the Cheviot, I think about sleeping in the refuge hut.  I can’t face that hill in the morning.  I’m not far enough ahead after the detour.  If I can just get up to the top, tomorrow I can head off with a little easier start.  I press on.

It’s still only about 5pm now but I’ve been walking for almost 9 hours. Half way up the steep hill I realise I’m less than a third up to what I think is the top.  The refuge hut is way behind me, barely visible through the cloud that I find myself in.  If I go back I’ll run out of water repeating this climb.  I’ve been sat staring at the floor in silence without realising for a good while now.  I’m switching off.  After eating a few small blackberries nearbye I continue slowly up the hill.  Another half hour passes and I’m now taking four or five steps and having to stop.  I can’t camp here, the ground is too steep and uneven, so I carry on.  I catch myself doing the stopping and staring thing a lot now.

Finally I reach a section that flattens out a little, above me I can make out two piles of rocks that have to be Auchope Cairn (wrong spelling I’m sure).  I drop my bag and have a sip of water.  Despite knowing the importance of getting the tent up quickly now As the wind has picked up even more and I’m cold, I can’t move until about ten minutes later.  I have a difficult time getting the tent up but manage it fairly quickly.  Inside, surrounded by my gear I lie flat on my back for a while.  Eventually I setup the umbrella and cook, a little more sheltered from the wind.  I don’t have enough water to cook the risotto properly so it’s crunchy but I figure drinking tomorrow is more important.  It’s about 8:30 now and I hit the sack.

6am and I’m taking a few shots, still covered in cloud but feeling a lot better.  Packing up the tent I make my way up the rest of the hill.  I manage it better now and realise just how close I was to a section of much flatter ground. After another steep section the trail switches to old wooden walkways leading off across a bog into the myst.  It’s flat though and for the next 5 or so hours my journey is remarkably easier as I’m mostly going down hill.  At about 11:30 I’m completely out of water.  I’ve me no-one so far but decide if I did, to ask them for water isn’t on.  At about 1pm I reach some big piles of rock at the top of a hill.  With my bag off I get some shots of the view and have a look around in te hope someone has left something drinkable lying around.  There’s nothing but I do find a large walking stick someone has left.  I settle for this hoping it will take some of the weight off my legs.  I have the brainwave to drink the small sachets of UHT milk I have.  They taste horribly creamy and I only have about ten.  I set myself a limit of one per hour and get moving.  

Although I’m incredibly thirsty, I don’t feel too hungry yet.  Worried that the milk isn’t doing enough for me, I purify  tin full of brown peaty water, purposefully overdoing it with the tablets. It burns a bit to drink it, but I feel much better for it.  I see a guy on the horizon head off further in the same direction as me.  Eventually he reappears Nd we head towards each other.  He asks me about he way i’ve come and tell him about the incredible views and roughly how far he has to go, pointing out The Schill.  He is on his last day and heading to Kirk Yetholm.

Heading off up another hill I trapse along a slabbed path through more bog.  This goes on for an hour or two, the slabs realy pounding my feet.  For large sections the slabs have sunk about 8 inches underwater and my weight sinks them even further.  The boots hold up well though.

Eventually I find Lamb Hill refuge hut.  Shattered I sit down wishing I had filled my water sack with that brown water.  I hadn’t wanted to risk drinking too much but I didn’t care now. I drink my last milk sachet.  It tastes horrible as I know I could be in trouble if I don’t reach Byrness.

At the top of another large hill the fence I’ve been following takes a sharp right hand turn.  The paths Apperas to follow but I’m cautious of making another mistke.  I see a guy running in roughly my direction, got to be army.  I move as quickly as I can down the hill and manage to do a quick map check with him.  I have to head back up the hill again and follow the track which slowly curves along the top of about 4 miles of hills.  I have about 15 miles to get to Byrness.  This is heart breaking news and as the army guy trots off up the hill, I start listenig to Led Zepplin on my iPod.

Another two or more hours have passed now and I’ve completed the curving path and have bog in all dirctions as far as I can see.  In front of me on the very edge of the horizon are some steep looking hills.

More hours pass as I make my way over the slabs.  Eventually I reach a valley which I have to follow along the left side until I reach the edge of a forest.  It’s few more miles to the trees and not so steep.  I stop off at a small brook and fill up a tin full of very brown water.  Chucking in some tablets I down the lot.  I sit for a while looking up the valley, at the trees on the far right side leading up a steep hill that I’d have to climb.

The hill broke me and again went on at a gradient as I followed the tree line.  I  had turned to eating sachets of brown sugar now as I felt so weak.  I wished i cooked with the last batch if brown water i found.  It was coming up to about 20 hours since I had last eaten.  I promised myself i’d cook with whatever water I found next.

The end was in sight now, I had another six, seven or eight miles to go.  The only problem was it again involved crossing the tops of a string of hills with no sign of a stream.  I’d reached a point where I walked 20 or 30 metres and had to stop.  This was made more torturous as for the whole section I could see a fantastic reservoir glistening to my left.  I couldn’t bear to look at it.

I hit the forest after another 40 odd minutes and had to cut through the forest going straight over forestry commission roads.  There was about a mile of this and I fell a few times landing squarley on my backside in the mud.  I could hear a  road now off inthe distance and pressed on through thick conifers, slipping and sliding along in the rain that had now started.

This tale is already long enough, so I’ll wrap it up.  I spent about 20 minutes on a steep rock face at one point in the forest stuffing blackberries into my mouth.  I must have eaten hundreds of them, my hands stained purple and red.

When I finally hit the road I crawled up to Byrness and was met by a massive Labrador.  He was being shouted at by an old woman to get back inside the house.  Hobbling to the YHA the owner came out and pretty quickly took my ruck sack off me and hurried off to get some water.  Witnessing him struggle with the pack drilled home that maybe I have a tad too much weight.  After a few pints of water I’ll tell than what I’ve been up to.  They keep the water coming and I sit slumped and shaking like a leaf in their lovely back garden.  After a shower an more water I’m eating a chicken curry with all the sides like a rabid dog, almost breathing my food.  I manage a whole sticky toffee pudding and a pack of double chocolate Maryland cookies too.

So, I’m rested now, although my legs ache like nothing I have felt before.  My calves have have almost doubled in size and I can feel my now slowed heart pound blood through my body like an industrial pump.  It’s remarkable what a bit of walking can do for you.  

I’m taking in Jedburgh now having got a lift into town.  I’ve a few hours to kill before my lift back from Joyce the landlady.  Some lovely ruins here to see but I’m quite content to sit on my bench here and just look at them.  So, a pretty tough two days.  Worth it though, especiialy for the image of Heavily Bearded Deaves struggling through the wilderness foaming at the mouth with brown sugar.   I’ve developed an appreciation of just how much water you should drink each day and how just one mouthfull can bring you back from total exhaustion.

Think I’ll have a cake and tea now.