St. Cuthbert's Way, Day Four, Kirk Yetholm to Wooler, 13 miles.
After a hearty breakfast at The Farmhouse at Kirk Yetholm, which I can't recommend enough, I set off along the road to the village green and had a look at The Singing Donkeys Hostel where old boots come to live out their retirement years. There's a nice interview with the lady who runs the hostel in Cameron McNeish's Scotland End to End book. In fact the B&B had a signed copy of it which I was reading at dinner (being the only bod there at the time) and took it back to the room as it was such a good read. Long distance walks are highly personal things I think. You can only get a hint of what they're like from reading accounts but now and again you get a book that strikes a chord and you recognise traits, habits and such that you can identify with. The End to End book was one such account as I chuckled at the description of the borders sections and the author's occasional like for luxury. Yes. Ten years ago I would have camped the whole way, bivvied even but these days a nice B&B goes down a treat. Also, there's an interesting section in the book about The Gypsy Palace in Kirk Yetholm which I walked past next. Where the gypsy king and queen used to live. It's a famous place and a lovely wee cottage.
Wildflowers, hedges and an amusingly sited enormous dunghill (just behind a bench!) made the short road tramp to the Halter Burn bearable where I struck off up the path across Green Humbleton and up to the border with England. I knew it was up here somewhere but it took me by surprise as I was so engrossed in the wide Cheviots vista and so I said to myself 'that's a weird gate' before spotting the Scotland/England signs! Now you might not believe this or perhaps you think it's hyperbole but literally, as soon as I 'crossed the border' the sun came out and a skylark piped me into England. I dared not repeat the crossing in the other direction for fear of a piper appearing from the wind blasted heather and the rain returning! But the sunshine was brief, the wind whipped up and I was blown down the other side grinning from ear to ear at the fantastic views.
I mused on the possible future for the border after the Scottish independence vote in September 2014. Would it have barbed wire and a sentry box with a wee man in a big hat saying "passports, puleeze!"?. Would I need a passport to get across it in a couple of years' time? Depends which way the vote goes I suppose but going by the euphoria engendered by Andy Murray winning Wimbledon in 2013, Alex Salmond will be wishing for a repeat performance next July. That would tie in nicely with his plans for a Yes vote. Look what the Scots can accomplish! I must say I had to laugh though. I got back from the walk the day before Wimbledon so settled down with a beer to watch it and the wily Alex didn't miss a trick. After Andy had very deservedly taken the title, 'wee Eck' was filmed waving a Scottish saltire directly behind Prime Minister David Cameron! 'It was in the wife's bag" he pleaded, with that sly look on his canny political face.
The route then headed past Eccles Cairn and down to the forest at Tuppie's Silke, silke being the local word for a stream. The wind was roaring in the trees but inside the wood, all was dead, as is the norm in these close planted wastelands called pine forests. The only sound inside was the tired creaking of leaning trees, some rubbing against each other, trying to persuade the other to stay upright and not give up the ghost in this desolate dump. No birds sang as no birds could live there. Thankfully it was short lived and I soon met grass, bracken and real trees with real birds singing before popping out the other side onto a fantastic meadow that took me down to the road. The entire world was heading my way. The wind was swooshing past me blowing light and shade across the long grass, down to the burn and up the rounded green hills on the other side. There must have been a wind convention in Hethpool as all the elements seemed to be headed that way and in a great hurry too. As I romped through the meadow, alive with the elements, I was so happy I almost cried!
Past the house at the road end and down the valley, I stopped for a picture as a lamb stood in the middle of the road, staring at me. Not moving, just staring. Curious, I thought. I hadn't spotted it when I took the picture but back home, looking at it again I could see four legs sticking up from the rushes at the side of the road. A 'cowpit yow'! As I drew near to the lamb it moved off a short distance and it was then I noticed the thrashing from the edge of the road and her mother upside down with her legs flailing. I didn't think she'd been 'cowpit' long as she wasn't bloated but she was starting to make choking sounds. At one point I thought she'd made it up but she just couldn't manage it. All the while her lamb looked on, not sure what to do. There was nothing for it. I got down next to her, hands under her back and rolled her over and shoved her up. She weighed an absolute ton but she came up just fine and without any outgassing so perhaps she really hadn't been down long. If they're down too long they just bloat up and end up suffocating or dying of heat exhaustion as they can't eat and therefore can't get their liquid intake. But she was fine now and she watched me all the way down the valley. I assumed maybe one of the big gusts had caught her unawares and toppled her.
I passed some ramblers heading up the valley and the farmer was making a right racket with some horrible machine thing that seemed to be ripping the gorse from the hillside. Didn't look good at all. Down at Hethpool I waited while another farmer on a quad bike chased his sheep off up the road with some help from a collie and after they'd gone, with a very cheery wave from him, I walked through the chemical fug left behind.
I stopped to admire the beautiful views of the College Valley before following the diversion. They were clear felling on the route so they'd closed it and rerouted it along grassy paths across the meadows and woods to a secluded bridge before climbing back up to the route beyond the felling. Just before the bridge I walked between a couple of very large horses which was quite exciting but they didn't take much interest in me. A beautiful climb up to Torleehouse where I rested and had shoes and socks off for an airing. Spits of rain came and went and the wild rolling hills were scoured by far off grey showers. They say Kirk Yetholm to Wooler is the toughest section, presumably as you have a double climb. First up to the border then from Hethpool up to the moors above Wooler but it wasn't overly strenous.
From Torleehouse in its fantastic location I wandered up the path past Yeavering Bell to the moors around Tom Tallan's Crag where I stopped for a bite to eat just as a 'Cheviot' shower blew in. Short and sharp. Waterproofs on I huddled down and munched contentedly. I wasn't complaining as all the muddy stretches were bone dry so far and the weather had been invigorating. Perfect for walking. Not too hot and not too cold. Just right.
The route from Tom Tallan's Crag felt like the remotest part of the whole route. In the distance the Cheviot hunkered under a blanket of cold grey cloud and showers swept in on a strong cold wind. Everywhere was heathery brown ochre apart from patches of dense bog cotton which danced in the wind and looked for all the world like strings of fairy lights, so bright were they against the dark of the heather. The path wound on and on over the endless moors, round an intriguing depression at Gains Law before stretching over to Coldberry Hill and down to the car park below Browns Law. It was a bleak and remote section with most of the views obscured by low cloud and rain. Open and exposed it felt like a more serious proposition if you had to stop out here for any reason. Beautifully stark on the day but on a warm sunny day I could imagine a sky full of skylarks although it was traversed by 'twat boards'. Those awful vertical wooden walls behind which twats crouch in anticipation of killing grouse. All along that part of the route there were grouse feeders. Two sided compartments full of what looked like gravel. A stone held one side shut while the other was open to the elements and I wondered why they didn't just blast them while they ate. That's what they do to pheasants isn't it?
From the car park, deserted apart from an old man reading his paper in his car, I headed off up into the woods on lovely grassy paths that wound incessantly this way and that and I found it quite difficult in places to follow the route. I did in fact head off in the wrong direction at one point but a quick glance at the GPS (shame!, fraudster!) and I saw where I'd gone wrong on the map (hoorah! not a fraudster!) and got back on track. One thing that got my hackles up was a path into another wood with a dirty great 'no pedestrian access' sign next to it! I mean, no pedestrian access? Who the hell do these people think they are? Well this is England though and you have to slot in as best you can. There was plenty of access land which I'd crossed and was marked as such on the ground via handy 'Access Land' signs but this was taking the piss. A path into a forest that no-one was allowed to walk? Apart from the dictator who put the sign up no doubt. I mused on carrying a mountain bike up here just so I could say, when collared by the long arm of the landed law, 'Unhand me you forelock tugging fool. I'm not a pedestrian!'.
Anyway, deep breath, calm down, continue on down the grassy path. Nothing to see here, moving along now sir.
I popped out of the confusing path system near Wooler next to the lovely wee cottage and headed off down the rough road towards the town until I heard a kerfuffle in the hedgerow. At this point the adjacent field was a few feet above the level of the road and I found myself staring eyeball to eyeball with a black face lamb, its head stuck in the rylock fencing. It stared back at me and made a feeble attempt to back away, caught fast in that bloody awful fencing. I made to dump the sack and get up and sort it (don't worry, I've freed many a sheep from rylock) but before I could get to it, it went completely mental and through violent contortions managed to free itself and run off into the field. I learned early on not to try to free them from behind as they can push surprisingly far through a small rylock square. I've seen a fully formed sheep squeeze half way through. Wool bunched up alarmingly on one side while the other was almost pencil thin! I hate that fencing. It usually kills them as they try to feed on grass on the other side, get their heads caught such that they have to stand up and eventually when they tire, they slump and are strangled. But well, that's what farmers use. And to be honest, what can you do with these creatures? Use rylock and they garott themselves, use that other kind, with the parallel strands and no verticals and it eventually becomes so loose they just walk through it. Near the end of the walk I watched as three or four sheep came and went through just such a fence.
Having notched two sheep saves I arrived at the top end of Wooler and plodded down the grass at the side of the road into town where I installed myself at the cafe on the right, opposite the church and ordered a nice latte, cheesy scone and a four pint jug of water, which I drained. I then made for my next B&B, Cheviot View which was very nice indeed. I met the owner and Barney the cat, who we both agreed was the real owner and who ran the place, as well, Barney is a cat after all.
I spent the evening wandering around the lovely town of Wooler, munching on a pretty rank fish and chips but the church grounds were really nice. The town seemed to be composed of a high level housing scheme which stretched up the hill, a main road and more modern housing at the bottom with a nice, traditional main street sandwiched between. A real main street. With real, independent shops and a not bad co-op. There was even an outdoor shop opposite the B&B but not for me as it was 'Gear for Girls'. It was great to see so many nice, real, proper shops.
