The Cheviots are a revelation: a complex grouping of lonely and exposed, rounded grassy ridges, offering sublime views all around. Wet and treacherous underfoot conditions predominate from the start. The very worst ground is spanned by duck boarding or stone trods, but much of what remains is horrendous: the Leeds chaps were not exaggerating. The Cheviots, certainly after rain, and I guess that that is most of the time, are very demanding. The abiding memory of the Cheviot crossing is the sound of sucking, clarty mud. One’s boot laboriously dragged and reluctantly released from the cloying ground at each successive step.
At least the weather had improved a shade: when attacked it was by infrequent, if heavy, showers.
The first highlight of the day is the crossing into Scotland: it is at an unremarkable stile over a wire stock fence, but it is a landmark moment of the walk. We had indeed walked to Scotland, albeit returning over the fence into England after a couple of hundred yards.
I’m sure the Chew Green Roman Camp is of interest to archaeologists: to the untutored eye it is merely a series of humps and bumps in the earth. It is an isolated spot. We had seen no one before arriving at Chew Green; we saw only one other walker during the entire day.
After the camp, the route climbs again to the border fence, here following the Roman Dere Street for a while. One of the fascinations of walking these tracks through the hills is their antiquity: literally walking in the footsteps of Roman and Reiver, Drover and Iron Age warrior. Simple paths can have poignancy more profound than many a grander monument.
Once the border fence is regained the route pretty well sticks with, or near it, over a succession of heights and dips. Everywhere is soggy, sometimes intimidating. It is impossible to distinguish deep peaty pools from innocuous shallow puddles; a careless, step will plunge the unwary loin deep in cold, glutinous goo. The views, into the Teviot valley and across to the shapely Eildon Hills and beyond, are striking and compensate for the pain. The highest land, though, is wild and empty; burns, knowles and laws decorate the map. It is spectacular.
Over the past days, we had seen the occasional paw print impressed into the mud. We’d lost a day because of accommodation difficulties at Tan Hill, and another day through indolence at the Wall. The visitors’ book in the Yearning Saddle shelter, a wooden refuge, was the first real indication that Graig, Annie and Jake were still on the trail: they had passed here two days before and would probably be heading home by now.
The only sighting of another human, since leaving Byrness, was on the summit of Windy Gyle. We’d clambered to the top of Russell’s Cairn when a lone walker appeared from along the Coquetdale path bearing towards the giant pile of stones. He evidently wanted to preserve his seclusion: he stopped short of the summit, ostensibly for a drink, and waited until we were descending to Clennell Street, another ancient upland track, before he climbed to the cairn. It could have been that Robert’s reputation had preceded him.
We were breaking the Cheviot crossing at Uswayford, a remote hill farm. We walked along Clennell Street for a short distance before entering a forest, there intending to follow a bridleway to the farm. A track diversion along a forest road confused the approach to the farm. Entering a steep pasture above the settlement we made a beeline for the house’s approach track, and then along the road to the dwelling. Almost at the building, we faced a ford across the swollen Uswayford Burn. Dry feet were not at this time an issue; across we waddled without further ado. Once across, fifty yards upstream, the footbridge came into view!
The Buglasses reckon that their home is the remotest dwelling in England: few would argue. After a bath and a brush up there was little else to do other than eat a simple but satisfying meal, enjoy a yarn or two and attempt to denude the drinks cupboard of its alcoholic contents. Despite being a dozen miles or more from the nearest Public House, Robert, in a fit of puritanical abstinence, did not imbibe.
“I only ever drink at the pub,” he insisted.
Adapt or die, I thought.
It was a very agreeable stay, just enjoying the simple gratifications of a plain existence. There cannot be many places in England where urban noise and light impinge not one iota!
Accommodation: Mrs Nancy Buglass, Uswayford Farm, Harbottle, Morpeth (01669 650237)
£36.00 including evening meal and drinks
Other than bivouacking, camping or complicated back-up arrangements, a stay at the farm is just about the only alternative to tackling the 26 mile Cheviot crossing in one day: possible, but surly not at all pleasurable. The cost might be a bit on the top side, but it must be an expensive spot to provision, and the price did include all food and drink. I enjoyed the stay.
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