Day 19: From Uswayford to Kirk Yetholm - 13 miles

It was only after paying the bill and the realisation that drinks were not charged as an additional item that Bob might have had some regrets for having endured a dry night.

“That was a bit pricey. Don’t you think it would be fair if you reimbursed me for the price of the drinks I didn’t have,” Robert suggested hopefully.

“Bollocks,” I said, eloquently refuting his flawed logic.

We retraced our steps back to the border fence and paddled uphill towards the hump of The Cheviot. Where the path was unmade, it was again very boggy. At King’s Seat, miles from any obvious access point, a line of jogging squadies followed a PTI: a breed of men apart, unlike any mere mortal. The soldiers were hardly couch potatoes themselves; none had the common decency to puff, sweat or cough, all as fresh and bright as the buttons on their dress tunics would undoubtedly be.

“It’s pointless running, the bus just left,” Bob joked.

“Aye,” one answered with a grimace, mightily impressed with the originality of the quip.

At Cairn Hill, we considered the pros and cons of a two-mile detour to the summit of The Cheviot and back. We were having a short day. We were fresh. The weather was on the chilly side, but dry. The path to the summit is paved, and rises barely two hundred and fifty feet to the trig column. Time was not an issue; we would be there and back well within the hour.

We gave it a miss.

It must have been hellish crossing the mire en-route to Auchope Cairn before it was duck-boarded. I don’t understand how water consistently defies gravity and gathers to lay stagnant on a mountain top. The soldiers reappeared at the cairn and took an uncharacteristic rest. Heaven knows where they’d been, or where they went: we weren’t to see them again.

The wet and steep descent alongside the hanging valley of Hen Hole, to the refuge hut at the head of the College valley, required care. We paused to chat to a chap heading south on the first day of his trek to Edale: it seemed such a long way to walk. He was staying at Uswayford for the night. For the first time in days, the ground conditions improved to the point where it was merely wet.

We lunched at the hut before the slog to the last top of the walk. The Schill is a grand little mountain: abrupt and conical with a crown of rock on its narrow top. It is set a little aside from the main range of the Cheviot Hills, offering long views across the low-lying lands to the sea, along the western scarp of the hills and back to Auchope Cairn. It is an irresistible spot from which to just sit and quietly absorb the landscape.

“Hallo Kath, I’m on The Schill. Where are you? The view’s great, the weather’s dry,” Bob shouted into his mobile.

I had heard many variants of the same theme over the past days. Technology is wonderful.

Kath was driving up to meet us at Kirk Yetholm. They had booked the last room at the Border Hotel; I was staying at digs nearby. The conversation was a reminder that we were nearly done. We had made it, almost.

The route maintains its interest to the end. We had another decision to make after re-crossing the border fence into Scotland for the last time. It was to be either the official route, energetically clinging to the high ground to the last, or the gentler, wet weather alternative, down to the Halter Burn at Burnhead.

“If Burnhead was good enough for Wainwright, it’s good enough for us,” we agreed.

The walk reserves one last sting for the final yards. The two routes merge on a narrow surfaced lane less than a mile from home, there to ascend one hundred and fifty feet to the final ridge top. To compound our distress a party of roadmen, shovels skilfully parked to give maximum comfort and support to their inactive frames, expertly assessed our progress to the crest.

“The bastards are awarding points.”

“Technical merit, two; artistic interpretation, nil,” Bob speculated.

We arrived in the agreeable but unremarkable village of Kirk Yetholm just as the heavens opened for one last time. It was a fitting finale to the trek.

We headed for the shelter of our separate refuges without further deliberation. The village is a busy little place, catering as ever for the needs of walkers, but nowadays more occupied with the requirements of those walking the shorter, friendlier Saint Cuthbert’s Way from Melrose to Lindisfarne. A party of St Cuthbert Way walkers were to join me in the lounge at Valleydene.

"Walking?”

“Yes.”

“Far?”

“I started at Edale.”

“Oh, you’ve done The Pennine Way. Congratulations!”

Not such a bad accolade, in fact from another walker it was high recognition indeed. A non-walker simply would not have understood.

The Border Hotel belies all my prejudices against Scottish pubs. It is smart and comfortable, serves terrific food and has excellent Borders brewed real ale. The decisive factor is that the pub still honours Wainwright’s promise of a free drink at the end of the walk. The accompanying register confirmed that Graig and Annie had claimed their halves two days before.

We all enjoyed a good night at the Border Hotel.

Accommodation (1): Valleydene, Kirk Yetholm (01573 420314)

£18.00

This was yet another comfy and good value spot.

Accommodation (2): Border Hotel, Kirk Yetholm (01573

420237)

£40.00 pppn (2 Sharing)