I woke at about 7am after another very hot night - thank goodness I can unzip my sleeping bag for ventilation from the bottom, as well as the top - and lay around snoozing until about 7.25am. I got up then and went for a wash, and then returned to the room and sat down on the bed, utterly knackered. My room mate had got up during my absence, and she and I chatted for a while. She was spending a couple of days walking along the wall, trying to persuade her husband, a sailor, that walking is actually loads of fun. Hmmm :-) I have to say that sailing sounds good to me.
I then packed up and went off to the kitchen to fill my flask, and was ready to leave just after 8.30am. There were almost 15 miles to walk that day, so Dave was long gone. I'd grown so used to dry and sunny weather over the previous few days that it hadn't occurred to me that I might encounter rain. Rain was what was happening outside the door, though, although it was only light at that stage, so I unpacked the top of my pack and got out my waterproof trousers again. I left, and before I got to the far side of the car park I had to stop again to put on my waterproof jacket and hat as well.
I walked quite quickly up to the point at which the route continued again, and had intended to take an extremely steep but short route up to the top of the hill that I'd seen a group of people taking as Dave and I descended the afternoon before. However, when I got to the point I couldn't find a way to open the gate, and so I was left wondering whether the people I'd seen had been ascending a part of the wall that isn't open to the public. I spent a minute or so inspecting the gate closely in case I'd missed something, and I did consider climbing over, but pretty quickly I concluded that discretion was the better part of valour here, and that I'd simply have to do the first part along the old Roman road to the side of the wall.
It was increasingly wet and cold, but in a way that was interesting because I was well wrapped up and warm, and I enjoyed speculating about how it must have been for the Roman armies transplanted from Mediterranean climes to serve on the wall, almost 2,000 years ago.
A couple of Ks along the wall met the Roman road, and I moved over to walk beside the wall itself again. After a couple more steep up and downs I came to the crest of the hill just after Hotbank Crags, and could see the Pennine Way snaking off to the west through the grass at the bottom of the dip. I took a photograph and prepared to move on.
This was another day when I found it difficult to get going properly. Certainly I was physically tired - this was my 16th consecutive day of sustained physical effort - but I also felt as though my heart was no longer in it. I felt a need to stop suddenly and look over my shoulder on a regular basis during the day, to check that Gordon wasn't still out there behind me, and I basically just wanted to go home. I might have felt better had the weather not been rainy, as on a long walk rain raises the depressing spectre of wet boots that won't dry out overnight, leading to discomfort, blisters, other undesirable outcomes and just general gloom and despondency. A sunny morning, on the other hand, immediately makes me want to smile. In any event, the miles had to be covered, and so I walked on.
Today was going to include my first Pennine Way encounter with pine forest, and within an hour of leaving the wall I was there.
I was struck upon entering it by how isolated the forest was, and in my uncharacteristically nervous frame of mind it was immediately obvious to me that there would be endless opportunities for someone bent on mischief to hide in the trees just off the path, waiting for others to pass. I've grown up with pine forests, and thought I knew them, but the ones I know are not the dark, silent, lifeless structures that I encountered now and a couple of days later in the walk.
On the other hand, the unusually high levels of moisture had produced some very interesting mosses and similar things...
and I enjoyed stopping to touch and inspect them along the way.
I'd planned to find a place to sit down for my breakfast before leaving the woods, but I hadn't realised what an unhospitable place it was going to be. When the trees began to fall away as some open ground approached I decided that I was going to sit down come what may, and so I pushed forward into the dense, low undergrowth at the fringe of the forest, took off my pack and sat down on a low, thickly padded green boulder, which felt to my bottom like a moss covered tree stump. It seemed a pity to disturb what must have taken many years to grow, but I had to sit somewhere.
I poured out a coffee, contemplated the rain and decided that I really didn't want to camp at Bellingham, so I fished around in the lid of my pack and dug out the Accommodation Guide. There was only intermittent signal on my phone, but I managed to ring a few places, including a local hotel. Unfortunately, as it seemed then, none of them had space, and so eventually I packed the Accommodation Guide away again, gathered up my things and moved on, sunk in even deeper gloom.
The second forest was even deader than the first, and in contrast with the lush verdancy of the earlier wood the trees seemed desiccated here.
The rain began to go off, though, and with that my spirits rose a little.
I emerged from the gloom at the edge of the second forest, where the heads of tall grasses stood out in stark illumination against the blackness of the forest behind them.
I trudged on and on, finally emerging from forests along a track which marked the boundary of the Northumberland National Park, and aiming for a small but beautiful waterfall, described in the text of the National Trail Guide. For once my navigation was up to scratch, and I found the little place.
A short time later I was passing through a field of cattle when I suddenly realised that less than 100m away was an absolutely enormous, Caramac coloured bull! The bull was surrounded by doting cows, but it was easy to spot since it was about twice the size of everything else, and covered with rippling, tan coloured muscles. I was scared, but tried to look inconspicuous as I crept on through the trees. The bull showed no interest in me, however, and I was able to escape from the field a few minutes later. Phew!...
Near Warks Burn I encountered the steepest and most slippery descent of the entire trip, and had to cling quakingly to bits of grass and stones for comfort as I inched my way down a muddy bank towards the water, afraid that the weight of my pack would cause me to slip and drag me down to the bottom in a heap of broken bones. I got down intact, though, and at the bottom I crossed the little footbridge and continued on my way, relieved.
The most interesting of the isolated little houses that I passed - possibly on the entire route - was Lowstead, where the Pennine Way passed unexpectedly through small but manicured gardens of such striking beauty that I had to stop to take a closer look.
Immediately after that I stopped for 10 minutes or so at the side of the road for a rest, with a coffee and some flapjack. By now I was within about 6K of Bellingham, and when I set off again I was keen to press on and find accommodation. My mood had improved with the weather, and I was now reconciled to the idea of camping but hoping that I could find a good site. Experience along the way had taught me that farmers' fields and the backs of pubs were generally to be avoided, if one was hoping for a shower and toilet facilities in less than stomach churning conditions, and it had struck me a week or so earlier that the best facilities seemed to be available on the sites which also took caravans. The Book suggested that there was such a site in Bellingham, and I was keen to find it.
I lost a bit of time shortly after Lowstead when I had a sudden map reading crisis and thought I was walking in the wrong direction, but the compass suggested that I was right, and a quick grid reference culled from the bowels of the GPS confirmed that all was well. I returned to the path, and according to the book I passed "spectacularly cord-rigged" pasture at the side of the road, described as a mosaic of field systems dating back to Roman times. I was keen to see them, but I wasn't able to make anything out, not even the alleged plot of "uneven ground in the field corner". Clearly I wasn't cut out to be an archeologist.
With about 4K to go I crossed another beck on the approach to the interestingly named Shitlington Hall, and then spent about 15 minutes wandering backwards and forward along the bank, and to and fro across another little bridge, attempting to find a way past a deep and apparently unforded part of the stream. It eventually turned out that I'd been walking backwards and forwards past a clearly marked gate, though, and so I opened it and continued.
The path led uphill then to the side of a radio mast. Rather to my surprise, I noticed again that I seemed less able to make haste up hills with a heavy pack at this stage than when I'd started out. I suppose the tiredness was simply catching up with me, though. I did eventually make it to the top, and failed to notice an advert for the campsite in the centre of town as I went past.
The path pushed on in the direction of an A road rushing towards Bellingham, passing through a fairly overgrown footpath along the way.
The National Trail Guide suggested that the prospect of walking into Bellingham along a road might be unwelcome, but I was just pleased to get down to the road and know that I was within a couple of Ks, now, of my destination. By now I was on autopilot again, and wondering whether I'd be in time to do a little food and bits and pieces shopping before the shops closed, as Bellingham seemed likely to offer the last opportunity to buy food and other supplies for the remaining 3 days of the walk. As I was plodding along, though, I suddenly came to a large and sophisticated looking camping and caravan site on the left of the road, at Brown Rigg. If I'd paid any attention to the last page of the map I'd have realised it was clearly marked, but I'd overlooked it.I immediately turned off and made my way to the reception to see whether they'd have room for a small tent. The proprietors were out, but a resident came over and gave me a pitch. I asked whether Dave had been through, but the man said not. I briefly considered whether I should press on, but I was pretty sure there wouldn't be another site with these sorts of facilities in town, and so I decided to stay and look out for Dave in Bellingham later.
I got the tent up quickly, and toyed with the idea of going straight into town to catch the shops before getting a shower and changing. It was only about 4.30pm, and it seemed much too early to be going in with a view to dinner. At the same time, though, the town centre was almost a mile away, and I didn't want to have to make the journey more times than absolutely necessary. The man who gave me the pitch told me that the Co-op would be open until 9pm, and in view of that I decided to get showered and changed, lay out my things within the tent properly and then go in to town. Bellingham's a relatively large place, so I hoped that a pub would be open and that I could sit there reading, after doing my shopping, until it was time for dinner.
The shower block was the most sophisticated that I saw at any stage throughout the walk, and I'd highly recommend Brown Rigg to any other walkers passing through. My pitch was £3.50, and as well as the warm, dry, clean and spacious washing and shower facilities I had access to a drying room - with washer and dryer - a little shop and a flat, well drained field for me to camp on. I met the proprietors the following morning when I stopped at reception to pay, and they were warm and friendly. Highly recommended!
After my shower I went back to the tent and inspected my blisters again. The one on the inside of my right foot was now gunkier than ever. I was facinated to see how much larger it seemed to have grown, and so I took a picture. Eek! (That's the blister, not a dressing... :-) The one on my left foot hadn't gone away entirely, but it was less gunky than the other. Unfortunately, a new blister had begun a couple of days earlier on the fourth toe of my right foot, and I was having difficulty holding the little Compeed dressing on.
After that I got my things together and at about 5.30pm I set off along the road to Bellingham. It's quite a busy road, and there isn't a footpath all the way along, so I experienced several anxious moments as small cars sped noisily towards me out of Bellingham, travelling like whining little bats out of hell.
Eventually I got there, though, and it didn't take me long to find the Co-op. There I bought 4 deep filled cheese and onion slices - Yum! - and two camera films. I needed to stock up with food for Tuesday and Wednesday, and possibly also something for breakfast on Thursday before the final trek down into Kirk Yetholm. I wanted something more but I wasn't sure what to get, so I decided to go and look for the other campsite and return later, when I'd had an opportunity to think further about supplies. The young girl serving in the Co-op was able to tell me where the campsite was - it was just around the corner next to the garage, which I thought sounded a rather strange place for a farm - and so I set off again.
I found the campsite next to the garage, and it was indeed a rather strange looking place for a farm. I met the farmer at the gate, and he told me that Dave was camping in a corner of the field. I went across, and found him lounging around in his tent with the door open, reading the paper. He'd decided against a shower - apparently the facilities were very basic - and so he gathered his things together and we set off back round the corner into town. (Note for backpackers: true to form, Dave's pitch on the field next to the garage with very basic facilities was more expensive than mine at Brown Rigg, with the most sophisticated facilities I found in the whole of the walk.)
Dave had spent some time earlier in the pub, which was atually the Cheviot Hotel, so he knew they'd be opening again for food at 7pm. There didn't seem to be anywhere else to eat, so that simplified the dinner situation. By now it was about 6.15pm, and I killed a little time in the chemist looking for zinc oxide tape, and then we stepped across the square to look at the war memorial, which had been erected in memory of those from Bellingham who took part in the Boer war. Adjacent to the war memorial was an interesting looking mounted gun called a 'gingall', apparently brought back to Bellingham from the Boxer rebellion in China. I'd have taken a picture, but I'd left my camera back at the tent.
For some reason, staring at the war memorial reminded me of the time I'd spent in the USA as a trip guide 20 years earlier, and that reminded me of the GORP we used to eat along the trail i.e. 'Good Old Raisins and Peanuts'. I made another visit to the Co-op and bought a large bag of raisins, 3 packets of dry roasted peanuts, 4 tubes of Smarties and a box of plastic bags, and I was then able to fill the time spent waiting for the pub to open by making two large bags of mixed raisins, peanuts and Smarties to keep me going during the last 2.5 days. Exciting! :-)
Dinner at the Cheviot Hotel was OK, when it finally arrived. Again I had deep fried Camembert with cranberry sauce, and mushroom stroghanoff. After eating - which took place upstairs in the restaurant - Dave and I went back downstairs to the pub for a while, but although the landlady was friendly it felt like the gloomiest and grubbiest building I'd encountered on the whole of the walk, and as soon as I'd finished my pint of local bitter I was quite relieved to get back into my waterproof jacket, don my headtorch and start walking the short mile back to Brown Rigg. Bellingham seemed a slightly peculiar place, and I wasn't keen to spend any longer there than need be.
I wasn't quite so relieved when, half way back to the campsite, I glanced to the side and it occurred to me that I was walking past a grave yard. The idea of me, on my own, in the middle of the night, in the dark in a strange and isolated place, walking past a grave yard, seemed inherently implausible, considering how scared I can get even at home making my way to the loo in the dark. Every ghost story I'd ever read came rushing back, and I had to take a few deep breaths and focus on the road ahead in order to be able to keep walking. For the umpteenth time on this trip, though, I was reminded that we don't get anywhere if we just stand still, and so I tried to think of less scary things and not too long afterwards I arrived back at the campsite.
All was well at the tent, and I soon settled down in my sleeping bag on the Thermarest. There were a few anxious moments about 30 minutes later when it sounded as though some late arrivals were about to drive straight over my tent, but a quick peep out of the tent door confirmed that it had been an auditory illusion, and they were actually driving round the side of the field. There were people laughing and having fun in the other tents, and I lay there for quite a while listening to them and waiting for sleep. At one stage I was suprised to hear what I think must have been cats speaking some sort of cat language right next to my ear but outside the tent, but eventually I managed to drop off.
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