Day 16: From Twice Brewed to Bellingham - 15 miles

The remains of the Wall strung along the ridge between Steel Rigg and Rapishaw Gap, are even more impressive than those further west. The weather remained just as miserable, though, with a worryingly thick mist enveloping the landscape. Resuming our progress along the monument, the long and impressive views remained masked, other than a glimpse down the rock face into Crag Lough far below. Nevertheless, it was with some regret that we left the Wall’s protection, to strike north into the empty wilderness of bog and forest.

This section of the walk left few profound impressions; it was hard going with very muddy conditions underfoot; the mist and occasional rain showers truncated the views. Care with route finding across the moors, rough pastures and through coniferous forests was needed. It was very lonely, particularly over the first, higher sections of the way. We had left the hoards a long way behind.

Along this stretch of the walk, after days of immersion in mucky bog and sludge, my boots gave up the will to live. Despite repeated treatments, the saturated leather had been worn deeply along the crease lines and had eventually cracked and been breached by the water. I wouldn’t enjoy dry feet for the remainder of the trip. The Scarpa boots are now enjoying a well-deserved semi-retirement, playing host to a pair of geraniums in my back garden.

At Warks Burn, we caught up with two couples taking a rest after having walked the two miles from Willowbog Farm. They had been walking the Pennine Way in sections over the last twelve years, and were hoping to finish in three or four days time, or perhaps later in the season.

“You will be starting the Appalachian Trail next year then?” I asked sweetly.

My wit unacknowledged, the leader seized my walking pole. He displayed all the attributes of a true pedant: a wide-eyed off-focus fixed stare, a tilted head and a manic grin.

“You’re not holding it properly, hold it like this,” he instructed.

Carefully teaching us dullards, he gave a slow motion and complex demonstration of the correct way to weave and thread one’s hand and wrist into, through and around the strap. He repeated the action several times.

“There, that’s how you hold it; did you see how it was done? Through, over and around, like so,” he added helpfully.

I retrieved my pole and we bade them goodbye.

“I was tempted to display the correct procedure for recovering the tungsten tip from his intestines.”

“What a prat,” Bob noted.

Bellingham is a grand little spot and the last place of any size along the route. I’d stayed there a few years before with Rita and was looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with the town. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have an outdoor shop stocking decent boots.

We were yet again fortunate to find very comfortable and welcoming accommodation, and they were happy to do our laundry for a nominal fee. Another chap joined us at the digs: a quiet and thoughtful Canadian who was walking from Kirk Yetholm to the Wall, to link up with sections of the walk he’d tackled on earlier visits.

Together we set out to sample the fleshpots. It is noticeable when visiting Northumbrian pubs that there is a sorry lack of houses serving proper beers: the norm for Scotland, but a sad state of affairs south of the border. After calling at the second pub, we realised that Bellingham’s licensed premises were not to be exceptions: it was to be another Guinness night. The pub was otherwise fine, the stout good and the company great fun.

Somehow, the conversation touched on native British tree species. Now, as a lad Bob was given an “I spy book of British Trees” and has considered himself an expert on all things arboreal ever since. It is also true that he has never been the one to call a Digitalis a Foxglove.

“Of course the Sycamore is a genus native to Britain,” Bob asserted.

“Sycamores belong to the maple family, a big group of northern temperate trees, of the genus acer. It is native to central and southern Europe. It’s a naturalised species here,” said the Canadian.

“I’m talking about the Great Sycamore; my sources suggest that it’s native.”

“You probably mean the North American Sycamore. That’s a plane tree; completely unrelated and, obviously, an introduction here.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” Bob asserted more forcefully.

“No, I’m positive. The European trees’ classification is Acer pseudoplatanus, the Platanus occidentalis is the North American sycamore,” Our man added authoritatively.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s my job. I’m a Professor of Botany.”

The conversation moved on to safer ground. I bet Robert checked his “I spy” book when he got home though.

Accommodation: Mrs Gaskin, Lyndale Guest House, Bellingham (01434 220361)

£26.00 +£1 laundry

Good value digs, which I’d be happy to recommend.