The Pennines themselves peter out at Greenhead and the last two days of the walk, where the PW nibbles at Scotland, belong to the Cheviots. If the moors which form the backdrop to most of the PW are reminiscent of a rumpled tablecloth (and hardly more interesting) the Cheviots resemble toothsome meringues. In a disorderly range they create gorgeous vistas and lush valleys which beg to be explored. I was looking forward to paying tribute to their seduction but, after the atrocious conditions of the previous day, also apprehensive. However after a steep ascent and a few comparatively tame bogs, large parts of the path were slabbed, for which I was grateful. So much so, in fact, that I amused myself by composing the following limerick:
There once was a Way called Pennine
Whose surface was far from benign
They thought they might slab it
Then made that a habit
Now those sections are perfectly fine.
Wayfinding was not a challenge either. The Scottish border is delineated by a wire fence, rather a pathetic boundary compared to Hadrian's Wall, but useful for defining the route of the PW. Following it, I was reminded of the film Rabbit-Proof Fence which describes the remarkable journey undertaken by a group of Aboriginal girls who were moved thousands of miles into settlements by the Australian government and used the fence to navigate their way home.
A few hardy types yomp the final 27 miles in one go as there's no overnight accommodation midway. Like the majority, I had decided to forgo the bragging rights associated with such a marathon and instead arranged to be collected halfway and transported to my overnight billet. The drawback with splitting the final section is that there is no convenient collection point since the PW abjures proximity to roads. I had been instructed to phone the people meeting me as soon as I departed from the PW; that would enable them to reach the collection point at about the same time as me. In theory this is a splendid idea but it failed to take into account the lack of mobile phone reception in the middle of the Cheviots. The walk to the collection point was nearly three miles, and although I had cheerfully tramped over two hundred and fifty miles in the preceding three weeks, I found myself resenting this uncalled for bonus, especially as it entailed descending a steep hill which I would be obliged to climb the following morning to regain my position on the trail. Periodically I checked my phone. Occasionally it teased me with a weak signal but nothing which would sustain a call or even a text. I was starting to panic and make mental preparations for a night on the hills when salvation appeared in the guise of a group of bullocks. Unlike sheep which roam the hills freely, cattle can't stray far from the farm so civilisation had to be at hand. The track descended sharply and I suspected it wanted to dive below sea level and deep into the earth's crust to ensure I had the benefit of a really stiff climb in the morning but it had to content itself with depositing me on the floor of the valley. I spied a farmhouse, attended by the usual retinue of barking dogs which in due course attracted the attention of the farmer. She kindly allowed me to use her landline, but not before expressing astonishment at my naivete in assuming that a mobile phone might work in such remote parts.
On the morning of the last day, the sun shone as I was dropped off. I was in a good mood and looking forward to the walk, or at least the end of it. As I marched up the track which had annoyed me so much the day before, the ridge ahead was gradually obliterated by mist. By the time I reached the PW, visibility was poor and a blustery headwind hindered progress. After a few miles, a mountain refuge hut provided welcome shelter and when I emerged after signing the visitors' book the mist was clearing and the wind had changed direction and assisted me up the remaining hills. My final picnic lunch was enjoyed in brilliant sunshine, contemplating the Cheviots and the plains beyond and feeling a tinge of sadness as the walk was drawing to a close.
As I loped down the path towards the Border Hotel, the traditional end of the PW, I reflected that my identity had changed. No longer could I define myself to strangers as someone "doing the Pennine Way". From now on, I was simply one of the many thousands who had completed it.
© David Thompson 2012
There once was a Way called Pennine
Whose surface was far from benign
They thought they might slab it
Then made that a habit
Now those sections are perfectly fine.
Wayfinding was not a challenge either. The Scottish border is delineated by a wire fence, rather a pathetic boundary compared to Hadrian's Wall, but useful for defining the route of the PW. Following it, I was reminded of the film Rabbit-Proof Fence which describes the remarkable journey undertaken by a group of Aboriginal girls who were moved thousands of miles into settlements by the Australian government and used the fence to navigate their way home.
A few hardy types yomp the final 27 miles in one go as there's no overnight accommodation midway. Like the majority, I had decided to forgo the bragging rights associated with such a marathon and instead arranged to be collected halfway and transported to my overnight billet. The drawback with splitting the final section is that there is no convenient collection point since the PW abjures proximity to roads. I had been instructed to phone the people meeting me as soon as I departed from the PW; that would enable them to reach the collection point at about the same time as me. In theory this is a splendid idea but it failed to take into account the lack of mobile phone reception in the middle of the Cheviots. The walk to the collection point was nearly three miles, and although I had cheerfully tramped over two hundred and fifty miles in the preceding three weeks, I found myself resenting this uncalled for bonus, especially as it entailed descending a steep hill which I would be obliged to climb the following morning to regain my position on the trail. Periodically I checked my phone. Occasionally it teased me with a weak signal but nothing which would sustain a call or even a text. I was starting to panic and make mental preparations for a night on the hills when salvation appeared in the guise of a group of bullocks. Unlike sheep which roam the hills freely, cattle can't stray far from the farm so civilisation had to be at hand. The track descended sharply and I suspected it wanted to dive below sea level and deep into the earth's crust to ensure I had the benefit of a really stiff climb in the morning but it had to content itself with depositing me on the floor of the valley. I spied a farmhouse, attended by the usual retinue of barking dogs which in due course attracted the attention of the farmer. She kindly allowed me to use her landline, but not before expressing astonishment at my naivete in assuming that a mobile phone might work in such remote parts.
On the morning of the last day, the sun shone as I was dropped off. I was in a good mood and looking forward to the walk, or at least the end of it. As I marched up the track which had annoyed me so much the day before, the ridge ahead was gradually obliterated by mist. By the time I reached the PW, visibility was poor and a blustery headwind hindered progress. After a few miles, a mountain refuge hut provided welcome shelter and when I emerged after signing the visitors' book the mist was clearing and the wind had changed direction and assisted me up the remaining hills. My final picnic lunch was enjoyed in brilliant sunshine, contemplating the Cheviots and the plains beyond and feeling a tinge of sadness as the walk was drawing to a close.
As I loped down the path towards the Border Hotel, the traditional end of the PW, I reflected that my identity had changed. No longer could I define myself to strangers as someone "doing the Pennine Way". From now on, I was simply one of the many thousands who had completed it.
© David Thompson 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment