August 6, 1979: Bellingham to Byrness
The North Tyne Valley, north of Bellingham
When I awoke, well before 7:00 on the morning of Monday, August 6, I first checked the weather. Was it raining? Had it been raining? Would it rain? In fact, although it was grey again, there were no signs of any moisture. I shaved and taped, the latter a laborious process, and packed all my gear so that everything would be downstairs and ready for an early departure. Mrs. Wright served breakfast precisely at 8:30 and I finished it quickly. Then I paid her and left Roseneath at twelve minutes before the hour.
I walked slowly up the hill and past the youth hostel, where some of the Pennine lads were slowly getting their gear together. There were good views of Bellingham below, though it was impossible to outguess the weather – dark clouds and bright patches were both in evidence. I reached Blakelow farm, where I was overtaken by Joe and Harry, who had spotted a Pennine Way marker on the hill before I had – and had thus cut a more precise angle up a field dotted with large cows. These senior walkers were grumbling about having to pay 50p for the privilege of taking a bath at their b&b last night. They were on the second of two “rest” days, only sixteen miles a day, before the final dash to Kirk Yetholm – which they planned to do in one go. Known collectively as the “Yellow Packs,” they made good targets to follow much of the morning, usually five minutes or so ahead of me. I caught up with them a second time at Hareshaw Cottage, where they were having a rest and I had two near misses with barbed wire. The weather continued to be cool and grey, with good visibility – ideal walking conditions.
I struck off first along the wagon way to the B6320, where the Yellow Packs passed me again. I had now reached a stretch that was apparently the only source of anxiety for the day – three trackless miles over Lough Shaw, Deer Play, and Lord’s Shaw on a featureless moorland that would have been very difficult in a mist. My worries were quite groundless this time. There was no mist, walkers since Wainwright had worn a very solid path, and the Yellow Packs were frequently in sight ahead of me. Between Deer Play and Lord’s Shaw they stopped for a rest and Joe took my picture for me while I signed his Wainwright.
The “Yellow Packs” near Lough Shaw
We then proceeded to the Gib Shiel Road, crossing some marshy patches without major difficulty. One again I was making excellent time. At the road Harry stopped to talk to some other walkers and here he asked me to sign his Wainwright – since the author of our Bible had provided some blank pages for this purpose under the title, “The Brotherhood of the Pennine Way.” A large number of the lads were now trailing up to the road and we must have looked like a Ramblers Association convention to the driver of a huge furniture van which rumbled by us, a strange sight for both parties in all this desolation. One of the walkers had brought a radio with him (not a habit I approve of) and was attempting to get the start of the day’s Test Match between England and India.
None of the walkers seemed interested in taking an eastern detour to the Padon Monument, a pepperbox shaped pile of stones celebrating the Scottish Covenanter, Alexander Padon, but quite a few of them stopped for a rest at the bottom of the nearby hill. I ate my Mars bar and listened to a little of the cricket. The ascent of juicy Brownrigg Head was more strenuous than I had anticipated. Once I had to walk along the top of a stone wall in search of firm footing. It was at this point that two girl walkers came up behind me. “Yes,” I said, “we’ve reached one of those places.” Well we all got through somehow and soon I was marching alone over heather and grass to the Rookengate entrance to the Redesdale Forest. This seemed to me to be a particularly tedious stretch, with water underfoot and wind howling in the trees to the right. I had a brief rest, a pee, and a drink of water at the head of the forest road. Some walkers were again nestled under the roadside trees and I waved to them as I started the three and a half mile march to the River Rede.
The forest was a little less oppressive than the Wark Forests and I was usually able to tell where I was from the side roads that crossed the wide track I was using. Tractors and other forestry vehicles rattled by. There was more up and down than I had anticipated and the sun came out and it began to get warm, with flies surrounding me as well. I rested once on a rotten stump and had some more water, but I didn’t want to linger long. I was well ahead of all the ETA figures I had scrawled into my Wainwright.
Approaching Blakehopeburnhaugh
At Blakehopeburnhaugh the Rede was reached at last. I had a rest at a nice picnic ground, just being vacated by the Yellow Packs. Day-trippers abounded and a boy was playing with his Alsatian in the water. The next mile was a little hard to follow – a poor path through the grass, muck underfoot, flies in abundance. When I reached Cottonhopeburn Joe and Harry had just re-crossed the Rede and plunged into the forest once again on a gravel track. After a final drink of water I followed the Yellow Packs, pushing myself to set some personal records for speed, distance, and early arrival. After spotting Byrness and my hotel on the hill opposite, I again crossed the Rede on a footbridge, finishing a roll of film as I proceeded. I arrived at the Byrness Hotel at 3:43, surely my earliest arrival for a day of this length, sixteen miles at 26 minutes to the mile – my fastest pace ever over such a distance.
I stopped to pet a small cat sitting in the kitchen window of the hotel and this attracted the attention of a young blonde hotel worker who waited somewhat impatiently for me to untie my boots before she would show me to my room. I un-taped (still no blisters) and had a nice hot bath while I drank a can of Fanta lemon – having carried three cans with me in case I needed extra liquid while on route. It was a lovely afternoon, with a breeze and much blue sky. I sat in a deck chair on the lawn and used my stepfather’s Swiss Army knife to clean the muck off my boots. Then I wrote some post cards and took a stroll down the hill, phoning Dorothy from the petrol station and checking out the beginning of the route for the next day.
There was a huge mob of hikers waiting for the pub to open and they were not pleased when I told them they might have to wait till 7:00, which is what Blondie had told me. She was a little more encouraging to them – “If you wait a minute” – when they asked her the same question. I returned to my room, which was perched above the bar in question, and could easily tell it had opened for business when hysterical commentary on some TV motorcycle competition burst from below. I spoke to the waitress in the dining room and found out that I could eat in the pub, which I knew I would prefer to the loneliness of the more formal setting of the hotel’s dining room.
In the pub the Yellow Packs were fortifying themselves for tomorrow’s marathon twenty-seven mile sprint to Kirk Yetholm, worrying about extra water and reports of mushy footing and wondering when they’d be able to phone their wives, who were going to ferry their packs for them to the end of the route.
I had a mixed grill and chips while sitting with these guys and, since there was no lager on offer, I drank a pint of Drybrough’s Heavy, which was a bit too sweet for me. Joe and Harry teasingly blamed the decline of British pub life on America (juke boxes, pool tables instead of dartboards, carbonation in the beer). The Border Bar was crowded with tourists, including two Canadians who got into our conversation as well. After two pints and two scotches Joe (who had taken a six-month conditioning course to get ready for the Pennine Way) gave up. Harry had a few more for the road. When he left I went upstairs and went to bed, my early sleep disturbed by the sound of the jukebox below.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: