July 2020 – The Pennine Way

CHEVIOT MOUNTAIN HUT TO KIRK YETHOLM

Day 12 Pennine Way
Distance: 23km
Cumulative distance: 403.5km

Cheviots fog — Al walking through the Cheviot clouds

BANG!

I woke with a start and spent a minute trying to work out exactly where I was. My mat had all but escaped from underneath me and I was sleeping on a cold, wooden bench top barely a foot wide. Then I heard Al mumble something under his breath and I was shocked back into reality. We were up in the Cheviots in a freezing cold mountain hut, on the verge of completing the Pennine Way. Al had rolled over amidst his slumber and managed to tumble the 18 inches down to the floor. It was bound to happen to one of us. I put off getting up myself as long as possible but finally swung my feet down onto the floor and readjusted my long deflated sleeping mat. I gave the valve a few puffs of air and resumed my cold broken sleep.

Al was awake earlier than me as usual, and it was long before seven when he began suggesting I pack up and we knock off the last 14 miles of this walk. We needed to be in Kirk Yetholm for about 2pm to meet Al’s dad and his brother for the ride home, and unbeknownst to us there were still a few decent climbs ahead of us before we could even dream of re-entering the normal world. It was still blowing a gale outside, and I noticed the fog had descended through the night as I stepped outside to relieve myself in the chilly air. Why the hell did we decide to do this thing in April, and not the middle of summer? We scrounged around through our packs and found a few hiker bars for breakfast, and then took off.

Cheviots endless — Yeah this went on for a while

I’d assumed we were roughly at the top of the Cheviots, but apparently this was not the case. We walked side by side for a few miles before Al surged on ahead and I was left cursing the uphill under my breath. These things seem to triple in size and inclination when you’re so close to the finish line, and this is exactly what was happening here. The flagstones were slippery, the ground boggy and visibility almost non-existent. I managed to avoid the detour to the top of the Cheviot which would have added considerable time and exertion, and then finally came to what must have been the top of these God forsaken hills. I’d caught back up to Al, and spied a hill up ahead off to the side. Cheekily I told him we had to walk up it, before telling him I was joking. I shouldn’t have bothered – that’s exactly where the path chose to take us and once again we found ourselves slogging up the side of another yellow hill with virtually no energy in the tank, and chronic pain coursing through our bodies.

Eventually it flattened out, and before too long the fog started lifting, the sun made an appearance and we were into the downhill on the other side. This is Al’s specialty so I let him go on ahead once more, as I tried nursing my knees through one final effort. Every step was slow and torturous, but the view was spectacular and distracting enough to help me through. I knew there was another mountain hut at the seven miles point, but no matter how closely I scanned the horizon I couldn’t see it. All that was ahead of me was a steep descent, and the opportunity to misstep and go for an unwanted tumble down the hill. Was that a wooden hut up in the distance? And was that someone wearing Al’s clothes waving his arms outside it? That must be it…but it seemed so far away, and there was still a steep downhill, and then another uphill to navigate before I got there. Geez, he’s really put a solid effort in to get that far ahead of me I thought.

Pennine Way Kirk Yetholm sign — ALMOST there

After 15 more minutes we reunited at the mountain hut, and polished off another couple of muesli bars for the last leg. We also allowed ourselves to fantasise about the forthcoming lunch menu and the free beer waiting for us on arrival. A quick check of the map confirmed what we were hoping…no more tough uphill climbs remained, the last seven miles would instead be a gentle stroll downhill to the Scottish border. Now we could reach out and touch it, and the pain started to disappear from our knees. We walked this last stretch together, navigating the usual conversational path of football trivia and so forth. Once we made it to the bottom of the Cheviots, we started to reflect on what we’d achieved over the last 12 days (or 11 and a half as Al kept reminding me).

It had been a huge effort, and every bit as tough as the LEJOG walk I did last year, just not quite as long. Each day had its unique challenges, and on most occasions at least one serious, murderous climb – Cross Fell, Pen Y Ghent and Kinder Scout spring immediately to mind. We’d lost Jimmy early on and that had been a big blow, to morale, enthusiasm and navigation. But we’d coped almost instantly and slogged on, just the two of us, through the north of England and finally up into Scotland. So much of the Pennine Way is bleak moorland, but it’s sufficiently interspersed with magnificent countryside like the Yorkshire Dales which motivates you to continue taking that next step. We became pretty good at cooking up a feast with limited supplies and resources, likewise setting up and taking down a tent at the end and break of day.

Weather wise we couldn’t have been luckier. There were a few drops of rain early on the morning of day two but otherwise we managed to stay almost completely dry. The wind was icy, and nights were freezing cold but it was manageable and we were just about adequately equipped to ensure comfort levels largely remained in our favour. And most of all, I was about to complete this with one of my closest mates, albeit a chap who lives halfway around the world. If I could have chosen anyone in the world who had the determination, tenacity, competitiveness and physical and mental tenacity to complete this daunting task, it would have been him.

End of Pennine Way sign — Ohh yeah, definitely the end

We crossed the border, and finally came into Kirk Yetholm. The trail took us straight to the front door of the border hotel and after all that, we were done. We accosted an elderly gentlemen en route to his car after lunch and asked him to take a picture of us. Iphone technology had moved a bit fast for the poor bloke and when he handed it back all we had were some poorly cropped portraits of the photographer. We switched the camera over and he took a few more snaps which just about captured Al and I, before setting off on his way. Then we went straight inside and were given our complimentary (half) pints, and a certificate outlining what we’d just achieved.

Start of Scottish National Trail — Next walk

Outside we had one last important job to do before we could relax. We had to call Jimmy. He was absolutely delighted for us, but gutted he’d had to pull out. It must have been hard for him, given the amount of time and energy he’d invested in organising this thing. Then we rang a few relatives and told them we were done before waiting for our lunch, and for Neil and Liam to ferry us back to Otley. What we just did in 12 days was about to be cancelled out by a three-hour car journey and we were both looking forward to piling into the back seat and watching the countryside whiz by.

James and Al finished — Well that was fun

DAY BY DAY

MAP

BELLINGHAM TO CHEVIOT MOUNTAIN HUT

Day 11 Pennine Way
Distance: 41km
Cumulative distance: 380.5km

What was the time? Surely we must be getting close to this mountain hut…

Pennine Way Cheviots vista — Soooooo uhh yeah, welcome to the Cheviots

I shoved my numb hand into the pocket of my walking pants and deperately tried to retrieve my phone. The wind was buffetting me from every angle, all I could see was bare yellow hills in every direction and Al had walked up over the horizon and long since escaped my field of vision. This wasn’t going to work, so I sat down instead, removed my backpack and fished out a muesli bar. My phone said it was about 6pm, and I figured there was probably no more than 90 minutes of daylight left. Since leaving Byrness we’d been slowly climbing up into the lifeless Cheviots, edging closer and closer to the Scottish border. Only scarce smatterings of flora and fauna thrived in these conditions, yellow grass clearly the dominant entity. I had no way of knowing how far there was left to go for the afternoon, but I calculated I must have done at least 20 miles by now. But this mountain hut wouldn’t come, and I had no way of contacting Al who I hadn’t seen in more than an hour. For once in my hiking life, I was actually concerned about the situation. We were less than 24 hours from the finish now, but it felt as if that would never materialise.

Pennine Way Archaeological sign — Only flying humans allowed

We’d slept in a bit last this morning in the comfort of our dorm room, and indulged in a morning coffee before heading out of Bellingham and towards the final bleak stretch of the Pennine Way. It was a later start than normal, but we made up time with Al setting a cracking tempo as always. Initially we trudged over heather, and then progressed into forestry land. The trail was wide and easy to follow, and we were in superb spirits by the time we stopped for lunch at a campsite near the A68. My stove wouldn’t spark, but Al’s lighter alleviated the problem and soon enough we were indulging in another tasty little cook-up.

Pennine Way sign — Waymarked til the end

Steve had mentioned there were a couple of mountain huts up in the Cheviots that we could use for lodging – one was about seven miles from the finish, and the other 14 miles. The latter was positioned perfectly for us, given we’d planned on busting out almost 25 miles today, to give ourselves a half day tomorrow. The plan was we’d arrive at Kirk Yetholm for lunch, then Al’s dad Neil and his brother Liam would come and collect us, and whisk us home to Otley merely three hours down the road by car. Before heading into the Cheviots, we planned to stop in Byrness for a beer at the only pub in town. That would leave us with about nine miles to finish off the day.

Spirits were high and with 24 hours left we both allowed ourselves to dream of the half pint waiting for us at the Border Hotel in Kirk Yetholm, the pub’s offering to weary Pennine Way finishers. But our luck started to turn pretty soon after lunch. We had to waltz about half a mile off track into Byrness, but figured it was worth the extra distance if it meant a soothing pint before tackling the terrifying topography of the Cheviots. We found the pub in the tiny town, but copped a pretty forthright rebuttal. Posted on the door was a note saying “Closed due to illness”. Well that was that, all we could do was haul our way back to the Pennine Way, cross the A68 and head up into the hills.

Byrness Pub — Guess we’re not getting that pint

The first hill was an absolute belter and left us both staggering around with wobbly knees as we thrust ourselves upwards into the Cheviots of the Northumberland National Park. This took me back to my little stretch on Scotland’s Southern Upland Way last year when I walked from Moffat to Wanlockhead – arguably my toughest day on the entire Land’s End to John O’Groats walk. The A68 was soon a distant memory, and all you could see in every direction was yellow hills. Al was traveling better than me and surged ahead. For about half an hour I could see the dot of his backpack lumbering through the hills, but he eventually disappeared. I was physically exhausted and caught in that horrible hiking limbo of not knowing how far there was left for the day.

I sat down for about 10 minutes, trying to muster the mental strength to tackle another monstrous looking yellow hill that loomed up ahead. I stood up, heaved the backpack back onto my shoulders, strapped myself in and strode headlong towards the hill. Surely, SURELY, the mountain hut must be just over its other side. Unfortunately it wasn’t, and from the top all I could see was more yellow. The path painfully wended down again, and I followed it forlornly starting to convince myself that I’d somehow missed the hut, where Al was probably curled up next to a fireplace cradling a hot chocolate. I was getting delusional. Al had suggested earlier today that we carry some firewood into the hut in case there was a fireplace, but I’d shot him down immediately telling him this thing would be equipped with absolutely no luxury at all. I no longer had the energy for optimism.

Cheviots Al in distance — Last sighting of Al

The path continued winding through the hills, at one stage threatening to take me all the way down to the bottom of a steep valley before it changed direction at the last moment. I saw a little farm building off in the distance and momentarily hope it was our salvation, but it wasn’t in the right direction. Burying myself into a podcast, all I could do was keep plugging away ignoring the appetite which had quickly starting roaring at me from the depths of my hollow stomach. Could I set up camp out here? I started looking for some flat ground but there was nothing, just more uneven yellow grass. Then the mountain hut appeared. And as I approached, so did Al, waving at me frantically to come in out of this relentless wind. It was absolutely tiny, but resembled a five star palatial suite from my vantage point.

Within minutes I was in and we were cooking up pasta. We recycled the excess water to make hot chocolates – not the sweetest we’d ever had but they warmed us up and provided the perfect accompaniment to the block of chocolate I produced for dessert. There was no fireplace, no discernible warmth and no beds, just three raised platforms boasting about 12 inches of width. No doubt someone would roll off onto the cold, hard floor during the night but we were both too exhausted to care. All that mattered was we were inside and protected from the elements. We just needed to survive one more night and we’d be done.

Mountain hut Al — Home sweet home for the night

DAY BY DAY

MAP

GREENHEAD TO BELLINGHAM

Hadrian's Wall ruin — The Wall of Hadrian

Day 10 Pennine Way
Distance: 35km
Cumulative distance: 339.5km

Last night was fairly standard…I woke up at 2am on the freezing ground with a jagged rock trying to burrow its way into the pelvic nerves. The only difference was a heightened chance of supernatural activity disturbing my early am pee, but thankfully the resting souls opted to not bother me. All told it was a decent night’s rest, and in something of an added bonus the pub was already open down the road when we were leaving. And just to add a bit of cream on top, the magnificent landlady dished us out free plunger coffee over a Game of Thrones discussion between her and Al, before sending us on our was towards Hadrian’s Wall.

Hadrian's Wall view — This wall idea might just catch on

We left the delightful little village, strolled up a hill, took a wrong turn and finally realigned passing a ruined castle which I suspect would capture Mike’s interest at some point today. Further still we climbed up and left the road, finally thrust upon the footpath which runs west to east across the north of England following the ancient Hadrian’s Wall. Parts of this thing is almost 2000 years old, although neither of us gave much thought to its age as we huffed and puffed up and down its endlessly sadistic terrain. These relentless hills reminded me of the South West Coast Path but instead of overlooking the Celtic Sea we were rewarded with expansive views out across the north of England and the south of Scotland. At long last we could see something resembling the end of this brutal hike, although this was no time to get complacent with 48 hours of slog still ahead of us.

Mossy bench Pennine Way — The moss is winning

As we approached another punishing climb, Al and I came across a group of about 15 people resting at the foot of a set of stone stairs. Among them was a huge wooden cross which must have made an absolute ton. Their leader told us they were a religious group, making a pilgrimage along Hadrian’s Wall between Carlisle and the River Tyne. Each member would take turns lugging the cross, and the aim was to be finished in time for Easter which was now less than a week away. We wished them well and pressed on, upping the tempo to appease our ravenous stomachs which were not to be fed until we were done with the wall. That moment came eventually, after about nine miles, and we rested on the northern side of the wall using some of its old stone foundations as a wind break. It was was still chilly up here, but the view was spectacular and our cook up was one of the best yet – noodles with corn and ration-pack meatballs. “The hardest bit must be behind us,” we suggested to each other having just about halved the trip to Bellingham, tonight’s destination.

More Hadrian's Wall — Another Hadrian’s wall shot if you can bear it

We knew the Cheviots were still to come tomorrow and the next day, but neither of us knew much about them other than they were Northumberland hills which connected the north of England to Scotland. Had we known what was to come, we probably wouldn’t have had such a spring in our step for the rest of this afternoon. We came down from the wall and the land flattened out into farming territory. Several horses greeted us as we strolled past their paddocks, and several much easier miles along we stopped to chat with a farmer who was quite keen to hear about our Pennine Way exploits. He wasn’t long back from a hiking trip to Mallorca, and just quietly that sounded like a fantastic holiday.

“I’ll be looking into that tonight,” I told Al after we bade the farmer goodbye and continued on our way. We had two more nights on this trail and we’d be done. Tonight we were headed for a campsite in Bellingham, and tomorrow we hoped a mountain hut deep in the Cheviots would serve us sufficiently. Al outpaced me for the last stretch over some gentle, hilly farmland until I looked up and saw him waving his hands madly at a fence. I made my way up the hill (not quite as rapidly as Al’s gesticulating suggested I should) and discovered a little lamb had its head stuck through some wiring. It appeared unconscious, but Al carefully maneuvered it to safety and it bounded away in a flash.

Pennine Way forest — Action shot of Al powering through a forest

He put a space on me again as we approached Bellingham along a lengthy road, and I took a wrong turn which took me down a river instead of into town. Almost immediately I had the feeling I wasn’t going the right way, and fortunately there was enough reception on my phone to let Google Maps save the day. I headed towards the first pub I saw and lo and behold there was Al getting stuck into a well-earned pint. I sat down and joined him, before Steve walked in and informed us the campsite was closed. Hmmmm, this could prove to be rather a large fly in the ointment. Al and I finished our pint, told Steve we’d meet him at the pub for dinner and went to investigate.

There was a campsite there, but there was absolutely no way into it. We considered jumping the fence and just pitching up then spotted a youth hostel across the road and decided to try our luck there instead. We knocked on the door at the house next door and a lady came out saying they weren’t taking campers at the moment because it was lambing season. There was a silver lining though…the youth hostel was practically empty, and it was pretty cheap to secure a bunk bed for the evening. That would mean a decent shower, and a warm sleep so we decided to splurge.

Pennine Way bridge — Geez that iPhone camera goes all right

Once we were all set up, Al and I hobbled back up to the pub for one last feed with Steve. He isn’t going as far as us tomorrow, but hopefully we’ll catch up with him in Kent one day. Geez he’s a good bloke. On the way home I ducked into the Co-op and grabbed myself some ice cream, and while Al went to bed I settled in the common room and tried catching up on the day’s news. Lo and behold, the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris was on fire. How many beers had I had? Surely this wasn’t happening. I flicked on the TV and that’s what they were talking about. Unbelievable. To finish off the night I checked my messages, and noticed my Scottish pal Erin had invited me along to her cousin’s wedding in Ireland as a plus-one next month. That sounded like a heap of fun! But before then, the Cheviots awaited and with that the toughest section yet of the Pennine Way.

DAY BY DAY

MAP

ALSTON TO GREENHEAD

Day 9 Pennine Way
Distance: 28ish km
Cumulative distance: 304.5km

Pennine Way ruined shack — Point and click

It was a slightly later start than usual – we’d afforded ourselves a little sleep in to take advantage of the beds, blankets, walls and roof we’d paid for at the hostel. I’d actually headed down to the pub after full-time last night where I met Steve and Mick for a pint while Al stayed in and tried catching up on some sleep. Mick mentioned to me there was a slight alternative at the start of today’s leg of the Pennine Way which involved following a railway lane, and which promised less hills. Unsurprisingly, Al was as keen as me to take the flatter route.

The sun was out on this quiet Sunday morning, but we didn’t pass too many folk as we strolled back through town to the railway line, and started to follow its delightfully flat progress through what I now believed to be the north-western corner of Cumbria. Our plan was simple enough…punch out the miles to Slaggyford and stop in for a hefty early lunch before pushing on ever north. Two male grouse were having a right go at each other as we entered town, but that appeared to be the only life stirring. Once again we’d assumed there’d be a place to grab food, and were wrong. Google Maps offered up Lake House as a possibility but that looked a fairly exclusive sort of place on the banks of the River South Tyne, and we decided to bypass it. The next suggestion was Knarsdale Hall another half mile or so up the road, so we trudged on only to find it was shut. A sign out front indicated it would open at midday, but we both had our doubts as we sought shelter to escape the rain which had decided to start falling.

Cumberland Northumberland border — Border crossing pre-COVID

Indeed, at about a minute past 12, a car pulled in and a slightly less than chipper bar manager emerged, walked into the door and told us over his shoulder that he’d be ready to open in about five minutes. Well this was progress, and soon enough we were inside the decorative establishment and sat at a table dreaming of a Sunday roast. There was already a regular perched up at the other end of the bar – I’m buggered if I know how he’d managed to sneak in. He was a good fella nonetheless, the food was excellent and after an hour or so we were on our way once more.

The rest of the day involved crossing farmland, and boggy moors. The highlight was probably when we crossed into Northumberland which would be the last English county to traverse before Scotland. I’d heard Northumberland was a fairly remote landscape, and I was about to find out just exactly what that meant. But before that we had a campsite to find. Our wayfinding had deteriorated quite a bit since Jimmy’s early departure, and so was the case again late in the afternoon as we found ourselves walking across another endless green pasture, adjacent to a golf course. This was right at that point in the day where just about every step provided a small dose of torture to knees and feet.

Al worked out that we’d come a bit too far…it turns out the Pennine Way doesn’t cross this field, but goes down the other side of the golf course. That meant back tracking, and let’s face it I’d rather launch myself into a pit of vipers than track back. But it was the only option. We made it back to the road, and then presented out the front of what was supposedly the only campsite in town. It resembled nothing more than a residential dwelling which may or may not have been inhabited, and there was certainly no sight of a campground. Slightly further down the road we were presented with Greenhead Tea Rooms on our right, and Greenhead Bunkhouse on the left. There were pints on offer in the former so we headed in there, and immediately saw Steve who had finished before us, and who was staying in a room upstairs. We asked the barkeep what the story was with the campground up the road.

“Oh it hasn’t been open for years,” we were reliably informed.

But then the lovely lady behind the bar offered us an immediate solution.

“You can camp next to the bunkhouse if you like,” she said.

“We own the bunkhouse but there are no facilities for campers so we can’t charge you anything but we don’t mind if you put your tents up. It’s next to an old church and a cemetery.”

Pennine Way railway bridge — Just a natural photo frame

I don’t think either of us even heard that last bit. We ordered a quick pint, thanked them profusely for their kindness, told them to expect us back in 10 minutes and rushed out to set up our tents. The ground was tough and cool again, and we both expected another freezing night but we’d gone from having nowhere to stay to jagging a freebie in the space of 10 minutes.

Our tents went up in record time, and just as we were heading back down to the pub, Mike walked past and decided to join us.

“My knees are in bits,” Steve told us as we clinked our glasses together and debriefed the day’s walk, as had become customary. It’s a funny thing long-distance hiking…you meet someone on the same trek as you and they become part of your family almost instantly. We’d known Steve a tick over 48 hours and already it felt as if we were best buddies.

“Do you mind if I run up and use your bathroom for a shower?” Al piped up, a little cheekily I must say.

Without a moment’s hesitation Steve tossed him the keys and told him to go for his life. Ten minutes later Al was back, and Steve insisted I go and do the same. I tried declining the offer for about 30 seconds and then gave in, deciding that perhaps it was prudent I go and relieve the others of my stench.

When I returned, we grabbed another round of drinks and sat down with our new pals. It turns out Mike is a semi-retired GP who now does locum work in remote parts of the country, including Scotland. Steve then told us part of his story too…he was a young father and became a Granddad at just 37 years of age. His son was a soldier in Iraq, but gave it away after being shot in the shoulder. He retrained as a gas fitter but was one day electrocuted on the job while working in a client’s roof. Somehow he survived the significant jolt, but lost two and a half fingers despite several operations trying to save his hand.

This was turning into a delightful evening, although Mike had to shoot off after two pints because he’d booked a place a further mile or so down the road. He told us he was doing a short day tomorrow, so he could take a closer look at Hadrian’s Wall. We wished him all the best for the rest of the journey, and watched him head on down the road in the fading light. Then we focused our attention on the television, much like the rest of the patrons inside the pub. Something amazing was unfolding, something I never thought I’d see again. Tiger Woods was on the verge of winning the US Masters.

Pennine Way shack — You can have this for just 150 pounds per month

We ordered tea, and another round, then the flirty bargirl took our dessert order. Somewhere in between my dessert arriving, and me consuming the thing, Tiger sunk the putt that won him his first golfing Major since 2008. Everyone in the pub was delighted with the result, and it prompted one last round of drinks before Al and I cautiously made our way back up the road trying not to disturb those who had been laid to rest just a few metres from where we had pitched. Tomorrow is meant to be hard.