Paul and I left the soulless Byrness YHA at 6am after a hurried breakfast. I had reservations regarding combining the last two days into one but the odds were with us. We were both travelling light having posted our camping etc gear on elsewhere, the weather was good and there was no accommodation on the PW (apart from wild camping) unless transport had been prearranged. This option involved a 10km detour off the PW dropping 250m and uncertrain accommodation in he hamlet of Coquetdale or or lift to more certain accommodation elsewhere. Another so called 'escape route' was to the hamlet of Cocklawfoot (such lovely names).
Several times we crossed from England to Scotland and back again along abritrary fencelines and at times (I at least) didn't know which of the two countries we were actually in - they both appearing the same on either side of the sheep fence dividing the two.
The first highlight of the day was a Roman camp with the earthwork ramparts still well defined. Paul and I lingered for a while to enjoy in the tranquility and take in the spirit of the camps and to image the activities that must have taken place there almost 2000 years ago. I wondered at the existance of such a large Roman encampment so far north of Hadrians Wall and so far into the territory of the tribes against which Hadrian's Wall was intended to protect.
The tranquility was disturbed by clear voices and loud thumps: The Army was conducting artillery practice on the hillside opposite (how the voices carried) . It appears that 20% of the area (The Northunberland National Park) is MOD land.
One unique feature of this section of the PW is the lack of running surface water. Every other day it had been abundant (and raining) - today was hot and I'd only brought one litre with me, having used less than that every day. By mid afternoon I was starting to get very thirsty. The murkey water standing in the odd pools of peat was starting to look atractive.
By mid afternoon we were well on to Windy Gyle, (and Russells Cairn, with its murderous history) described as one of the atmospheric highlights of the PW, and most desolate.
As the long day wore on we agreed not to bothee to climb the great dome of 'The Cheviot,' the highest point on the Cheviots, but its whale shape offering poor views according to the guidebook.
As we approached a large cairn on a high ridge we encoutered two young fellows walking the Pennine Way North to South and determined to wild camp all the way and to complete it in under 12 days. It was their first day. We wishe them luck, though they seemed well prepared and loaded with supplies, including no doubt food.
A man on a mountain bike resting at the cairn greeted us before pedling off nothwards along a nearby bridle way. Another retiree with time on his hands. It was odd to see mountain bikes on the PW because (a) it it not good form (it's a path not a bridleway) and (b) most of the PW is liquid peat bog and not fit for mountain bikes.
Somehwere late in the day we arrived at a refuge hut and I took the opportunity to consume my last snacks, take off my boots, dry them and my feet and put on fresh dry socks. Today had been I think the first blister free and tendon pain free day.
Further along the way I spied what I took to be an archealogical dig on a hillside opposite ans owndered at its position and remoteness.
So much of the PW that traversed peat bog was provided with large stone paving slabs and at one section a raised timber walkway. I wondered at the enourmous effort that had been made and where such quantities of stone paving slabs had come from and hw they had been transported to such remote parts.
And so we finally approached the pretty village Kirk Yetholm. The sun was shining, I played my my MP3 player for the first time and jigged along to a few Irish and Scottish numbers.
We arrived at the Border Hotel in Kirk Yetholm in the lovely afternoon sun and immediately found an unoccupied outside table. Noting our filthy state the barman was quick to provide us with our free half pint and certificate for completing the PW.
Much to my relief the local YHA had plenty of spare beds. I was fascinated to discover the YHA relief Manager grew up in the street next to my Grammar School in London. He plied me with wine (definitely not the norm for YHA managers) and tales of my old school (including the claim it was his best friend who confessed to accidently burning it down.
The return south by bus the next was very sad. Such an anticlimax. I'd just got into the mood to continue to the West Highland Way and onto John O'Groats. At one bus interchange I met a man (who admitted to having a bad back) en route Kirk Yetholm to start the PW in reverse. He'd done it South to North the previous year and now had time on his hands being retired. He planned to wild camp all the way and carried a pack I could barely lift. I finally understood his form of madness.
