Globalisation

My father travelled regularly to Chicago in the 1960s and I was the only boy in my class, possibly the whole school, to have been to America, as we used to call the US. Freddie Laker, let alone his aviation spoor, had yet to bring us the mixed blessings of low cost flights.  In those days, it was de rigueur to take a small gift when visiting friends or colleagues overseas and nothing would enchant English expats as much as a pot of marmalade. Globalisation has made it almost impossible to find meaningful gifts or souvenirs now that high streets are identical and most merchandise is available through Amazon in any case.  
Staunchly middle class villages and urban enclaves fight stoutly against creeping domination by the chain store. Think Totness in Devon and Stoke Newington in London. Maybe it's ironic that some of their most embattled establishments, coffee shops, wouldn't even exist if it were not for the popularisation of the genre by the success of Starbucks and its ilk. And it's interestingly to contrast the acclaim heaped on these doughty middle class nimbies by the liberal press with the scorn they pour on countries which try to preserve their most cherished cultural bastions. The obvious example is France, which starts with the inherent disadvantage that it is, well, France. The Institut Francais has long railed against encroaching anglicisation of French which they view as cultural imperialism. The ridicule reserved for attempts to control the use of language is partly due to its futility.  In a global world, tilting at that windmill is as doomed to failure as any other laudable campaign from nuclear non-proliferation to getting teenagers to squeeze the toothpaste tube from the bottom. Perhaps France has got it wrong though and has been too timid about conservation. Instead of limiting it to the lingo, how about expanding the ambition to banish homogenisation of the high street. No more McDonald's elbowing aside neighbourhood bistros. United in their stand with Totness and Stokey, that would be globalisation we could all support.

© David Thompson 2012

Tourism

As an industry, tourism generates more ironies than most. The most trenchant paradox is that as international travel become more accessible it accelerates cultural convergence and becomes nugatory.
Business travel must shoulder even more of the blame. I know from experience how, arriving in an unknown city late at night in a different time zone with a client meeting a few hours away, one craves the simplicity of familiarity. Multinational hotel chains recognise this and pander to our weakness. At every Marriott, JW smiles down paternally from a huge Ruddigorian portrait while you check in, a talisman promising that the bed will be as soft here as it was in Frankfurt and the towels as fluffy as they were in Melbourne. But the balance between the anodyne and cod-local is carefully calibrated: business travellers relish unique touches, provided they don't interrupt the smooth flow of commerce. Local cuisine alternatives at the breakfast buffet are acceptable, provided the international standards, embodied by Kellogg's, are there too. Recounting the peculiar breakfast tastes of the natives makes good travellers' tales back in the office.  
Leisure travel is a different matter. An acquaintance from my PwC days who travelled regularly on business and whose life was consequently spent in a haze of identikit hotels, booked a holiday with some colleagues in a log cabin, eager to experience the traditional way of life.  There was a mixup and the tour company explained that their primitive accommodation was double booked. Don't worry, they said, we're giving you a free upgrade to a 4 star hotel. Most of their customers would undoubtedly have been delighted but my colleague explained to the baffled company rep why this was not satisfactory. Given no alternative, they accepted the offer, but being a lawyer, he also negotiated a full refund.

© David Thompson 2012

On the way

Oldsters might recall Brian Redhead, doyen of the Today programme in the 1980s until his untimely death. A regular commuter between Manchester and London, he would occasionally murmur a reference to the mysterious Friends of the M6. An unlovely motorway, it needed all the friends it could muster. Among motorway afficionados, a select group admittedly, the M11 probably garners more votes. Its destinations are more alluring and the scenery, once past the suburban penumbra encircling London, more rural. So having elected to drive rather than train it to Stansted, speeding away from the dogdays of the Olympics along an empty motorway induced pleasant pre-holiday spirits. Airports have even fewer admirers than motorways but it's generally agreed that Stansted is the least objectionable of the southeastern gateways and enjoying a latte in the sunshine it seems scarcely worth bothering going anyway else.
To pass the time during my obsessionally early arrival, we played the country game. You get one point for each country you've visited which the other person hasn't. If there are high stakes, it can be refined: five points for a continent and so on. Competent geopolitical bluffing is the key to winning. I managed to argue that Jersey counted as a separate country, but failed with the Isle of Dogs, despite a learned account of the 1970s attempt at UDI. I was outclassed anyway; streaking ahead on the Nordics, it was clear I'd be thrashed once we got to Asia.
Indolence had prevented me from finding out much about Tallinn before departure but I was determined not to believe the stereotype that it was simply the new stag party capital, cheap flights having penetrated ever deeper into Europe passing the mantle from Dublin to Prague and no doubt others. So I was mildly offended when the opening remark of the friendly Estonian seated next to me on the plane was to enquire whether I was going to Tallinn to drink. Denying this, and enquiring what he'd been doing in London elicited a one word answer. "Drinking."

© David Thompson 2012

Preparing for Tallinn

Canny entrepreneurs are continually devising ingenious new ways of encouraging us to travel more. Yet their methods sometimes produce anomalies.  
Read any account of long distance walks and the protagonists will allude to the peculiar physics whereby one gram of luggage in the backpack mysteriously weighs one kilogram after walking a few miles.  So when packing for a walking holiday, one naturally pares luggage down to the minimum.  But on my recent Pennine Way trek, I engaged the services of a baggage carrier, a kind of rural white van man, who turned up every day and hefted a suitcase the size of a steamer trunk into the truck and deposited it at my next stop while I sauntered out with a day pack.  How reassuring it was, when arriving at the next stop and greeted by a quizzical landlady wondering who this dishevelled bloke could be, to see the suitcase standing sentinel in the hall behind her, my guarantee of entry however unappealing a guest I might appear.  And how refreshing it was to change into clean clothes, chosen from a vast array of outdoor gear covering all eventualities from sand storms to blizzards.  No counting the grams for me!
One of the pleasures of a weekend city break is doing what you please: a bit of gentle sightseeing, a morning in bed, dinner at a fancy restaurant.  So naturally, a few different outfits, even for the most curmudgeonly fashion-resistant amongst us, is desirable.  So how come I'm trying to fit all my gear into a suitcase half the size of my Pennine Way day pack?  Yes, it's the curse of the low cost airline which will blithely charge more to transport a weekend's worth of clothes in the hold than they require for a ticket to fly you a thousand miles.


© David Thompson 2012

Epilogue

I sit on the East Coast mainline train from Berwick-on-Tweed to London, a journey which will take less than four hours to exceed the distance I walked in three weeks, and think about the PW.  
To recycle a platitude, a project like walking the PW is a microcosm of life: it is contained, unique and unrepeatable. But projects can be reviewed and analysed after they are completed; life can't, at least not by its central protagonist.  
Back in February, I planned to walk the PW because I wanted to leave London during the expected turmoil of the Olympics which apparently passed off with minimal disruption to normal life.
But there was another, more romantic, reason for my fascination with the PW. The first house I bought had been occupied by an elderly couple and needed extensive renovation. Partly for financial reasons, I decided to rewire it myself. I read a couple of books, faked some tradesman's stationery to obtain access to a builders' suppliers and started lifting floorboards. It was hard work but the only significant challenge was the bathroom light. When I peered into the tiny loft space, I could see there would be no room to turn around, let alone stand up. Claustrophobia gripped me and I decided we'd have to manage with candles in the bathroom. Then it occurred to me that one day the child with whom my wife was pregnant would be sure to ask why ours was the only house in the street where you had to pee in the dark. The prospect of that future shame was too much; I took a deep breath and swarmed over the rafters to fix the light. The result of my week's labour, crawling under floors and over ceilings, was a strong sense of connectedness with the building, unmatched by any subsequent home when I engaged professionals to undertake repairs. I had a notion that walking halfway along England might generate a comparable bond with the country I call home, similar to the way in which the Aboriginal songlines described by Bruce Chatwin link them to their land and families and need to be periodically rewalked.
Inching northwards towards the border, the red line on my GPS lengthened daily and I visualised the PW as a thread which I was drawing across the country, pinning it to the ground at each overnight stop. Although it would rank as mediocre needlework, with lots of dropped stitches where I missed the way, this looping trace formed the record of my journey. Fellow walkers comprised another set of links, a human chain of individuals motivated by a single purpose, with whom I felt a strong kinship. Lee with his enormous pack, Davinder who shared with me his special technique for washing and drying socks, the youths carrying the Olympic torch and many others. All were a constant presence as I trudged the trail. Even those I'd heard about but didn't meet, like the Norwegian women who stayed at Grange Fell the night before me and the Dutch couple who'd fallen in a bog, formed part of the tribe I sensed moving synchronously across the countryside as part of a larger caravan of PW walkers.    
My PW expedition was planned as a solo event. Many factors contributed to that decision. Self-sufficiency as an ideal has assailed me from various directions and I believed that tackling the PW by myself would yield the most rewarding experience. The fellowship I derived from walking with others was an unexpected and pleasurable counterpoint and mirrors the enjoyment of walking holidays with friends, such as a recent one along part of the South West Coast Path. So while I shall still relish lone walking, my future long distance walks will be planned differently and include company. The finding that I need to balance time alone and time with others, while not perhaps a great revelation, will help in planning many aspects of my life, and worth enduring three weeks on the PW to discover.

© David Thompson 2012

Byrness to Kirk Yetholm

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

Bellingham to Byrness

I've mentioned before the dilapidated state of many properties in the countryside. At Gilsland, I noticed a particularly sad example: a fine house with a large part of the roof missing which I therefore assumed was empty. However my host informed me that the owner still lived there but refused to undertake any repairs despite the coaxing and cajoling of the local community which in desperation had even offered to buy it.  In other places, it's not unusual to see substantial farmhouses with relatively minor depredations completely abandoned as farms have been amalgamated and people have moved away from agriculture. Demolition is, I suppose, expensive and unnecessary while conversion to holiday accommodation requires available capital and some guarantee of a market, so many places are just left to decay. Passing them, I can't help wondering about the lives of those who lived and died there and how they would feel about their cherished homes being left to the elements.
The walk from Bellingham to Byrness was one of the least inspiring so far. Almost half the distance comprised boggy ground interspersed with tussocky grass and heather. Avoiding the mire is awkward and timeconsuming while treading on the spongy ground in between saps the energy, like walking on a sandy beach. The tussocks are hard and uneven so it's difficult to get a firm footing and I would have fallen or twisted an ankle on several occasions had it not been for my pole.  The remainder of the route followed forestry commission tracks which were better underfoot but afforded views only of uninspiring coniferous monoculture so I was pleased when I finally reached Byrness.  
On most days, I've encountered very few other walkers. Except for the sponsored group on Hadrian's Wall, the daily tally has rarely exceeded ten and normally it has been far fewer. I'd been wondering whether there would be a day when I saw no one else at all and I was beginning to think this was it. Then in the last mile I caught up with a woman who had started the PW a couple of days after me but had not taken any rest days. When we arrived in Byrness, she went to the youth hostel and I headed for my B&B, and that made me think about the different modes of travel on the trail.
PW walkers fall into three groups who can usually be identified by the size of their backpacks.  Some, like myself, choose the most luxurious mode of travel, short of a helicopter, which is staying in B&Bs and having baggage transported. This means that it is only necessary to carry a daypack while walking, but does limit one's flexibility as overnight stops are planned and booked in advance. So far as I can tell from the limited number of PW walkers I've met, the largest proportion stay in youth hostels. Of course they have to carry all the clothes and other accoutrements required for the entire expedition, but it's cheaper than B&Bs. Youth hostels are sparse, so that option affords limited flexibility and as several hostels along the PW have closed, perhaps reflecting the decline in popularity of the route, this group is sometimes forced into B&Bs. A surprisingly sizeable minority camp along the PW which minimises cost and maximises opportunities for impulsive variations. Lee, who I met way back in the Peak District, was one example and I've encountered several since. At Byrness, my accommodation also provided camping facilities which was being used by a man with two children.  He had completed the PW by himself some years ago and obviously thought it would be selfish to deprive his children of the experience. They were going north to south and had needed a rest day after an overambitious start. They joined me for dinner in the guest house and were clearly reluctant to leave the cosy log fire for chilly tents. As I was setting off in the morning they were packing up. The children were auditioning for the "most sullen teenagers" competition and I didn't envy their father the next two weeks.

© David Thompson 2012