August 7, 1979: Byrness to Usway Ford Farm
Somewhere in Upper Coquetdale
The stage was now set for one of the greatest adventures of my walking career. Unfortunately, the weather did not look promising on the morning of Tuesday, August 7 – tt had been raining, obviously. I went to the toilet at 6:00, just beating another bare-chested guest to it. Thereafter I couldn’t get back to sleep properly and at 7:30 I arose to begin my ritual preparations. I carried all my stuff down at 8:30 and had my breakfast. I was too nervous to enjoy it and left most of the fried mushrooms on my plate. I left promptly at 9:00 to begin a day that, under the best of circumstances, would have been a bit of an ordeal. I was not to have the best of circumstances.
By the time I got to the bottom of the steep forest ride it was already raining. I had to throw off all my gear and put on my rain pants and cape – without assistance the latter was always difficult to get on over my bulky pack. Then it was straight up a steep greasy path through the trees. I made slow but steady progress, with some views of Byrness below me and none ahead – for the ceiling was getting ever lower and rain melted the ETA marks I had inked into my Wainwright. I did manage to stay a few minutes ahead of schedule all day, but it was often difficult to tell where I was. Visibility was perhaps worse than I had ever experienced it to this moment. I could tell when I had reached Windy Crag, but I was surprised when I met up with the border fence for the first time – I had passed several intervening landmarks without seeing them.
Low visibility was only one of the negative factors. Along the “unofficial shortcut” the footing was quite sloppy, as it remained for most of the rest of the day. Furthermore there didn’t seem to be any other walkers. Most of the lads had been attempting to get through this twenty-seven mile Cheviot stretch in a single day and had left hours earlier. And it was far too early to encounter anyone coming the other way.
At Chew Green I lost my way altogether. The path seemed to disappear and I found myself on a car track leading too far to the south. The outline of the Roman earthwork, which might have been a guide, was, of course, unavailable in the mist. When I reached a large stream, which I took to be Chew Sike, I headed north on it, hoping to come across the PW as it crossed the burn. I knelt to drink a little from the swift but untested waters of the stream. This was a very low point for me and I considered the possibility that I would have to retrace my steps for some distance or return in failure to Byrness – but I persevered and, as I had hoped, spotted the PW coming in behind me. So I proceeded up Deer Street, very happy to see footpath signs reappear.
The next turnoff from the fence was well marked but it was always a comforting sight to see the barbed wire reappearing in the mist. To my surprise a wooden shelter had been erected where the PW crosses the Blindburn farm track and I now approached it. Hearing voices, I knocked and entered – to find it filled to the gills with scouts, trying to start up their stove. They were not on a PW expedition. I managed to get my rain cape and pack off in a darkened corner, to look briefly at my Wainwright, to have a swig from my canteen and to down a Mars bar, but there was no place to sit down. One of the scouts helped me get my rain cape back on and I left, after only a short stop, for the ascent of Lamb Hill.
At about this time there came up behind me two chaps (in their late twenties) who were the only other walkers I encountered going in my direction this entire day. Twice I asked them to reach my canteen for me while I walked with them or ahead of them for the next two hours. The summits did not seem to be as steep as I had anticipated: I could not see any of the tops in the distance and I was saved the psychological stress of realizing I still needed to get over that.
The Border Gate at Clenell Street
The fence was quite close now and this was just as well because I couldn’t keep my mind on any of the details in Wainwright. I would take a brief look, put the book back in the pocket of my blue sweatshirt, and have to look at the book again in two minutes. My two sometime companions had decided to camp on the top of Windy Gyle, which I reached an hour ahead of schedule. So I said goodbye to them and entered the home stretch down to the Border Gate. To add insult to injury, now that the worst was over, I started to notice improvement in the weather and, after the descent of Clenell Street began, the sun actually showed signs of coming out.
I had decided that because there was no way I could complete twenty-seven miles in one go I would have to book myself into an off-route farmhouse in Upper Coquetdale – down in a valley on my right. To abandon the route now required a true leap of faith however – for, in spite of the improving visibility, I could not see the farmhouse in question from the PW ridge and any retracing of false steps would have to be up a very steep incline indeed. Ambiguity about the best way to proceed from here down to the Usway Burn was alleviated somewhat by a sign on a wooden gate pointing out the correct path, a very steep and slithery one which led, after a mile or so, down to a small valley at the bottom of the ridge. Around the corner was Usway Ford Farm, in radiant golden sunshine – a most welcome sight. I approached it by a footbridge but I noticed that the water was so high that vehicles had to park on the opposite shore – not much of a ford today.
Usway Ford Farm
I arrived at 5:40 and was admitted by the only other guest, Simon Collier, a young music teacher who was spending a week here. Mrs.Wilkinson showed me to my room, where I took the larger of four beds, and I was soon de-taped and soaking in a hot tub, the V for victory sign held up to the mirror, and a can of Fanta Orange in my fist. Wetness had again washed away some of the tape from one heel and I had my first sore spot here; also the big toenail on my left foot was red – but otherwise I was in good shape and improving spirits.
These continued to climb with a good dinner and much chat with Simon, a gangly, youthful and sincere chap who insisted on telling me everywhere to visit in Northumberland. A PW veteran, he also agreed to be my guide for the first part of tomorrow’s expedition, though to compensate him for this favor I had to agree to take in Davison’s Lynn, up the burn, which he was particularly enthusiastic about. Simon played the piano at Mrs. W’s insistence – though his classical repertoire bored her some. She was suffering from a terrible cold and had been to the doctor for some pills (which the new doc had prescribed instead of the shots which the old doc favored). She had a TV and Gary Cooper could be seen in Return To Paradise in the background. She also had a real coal fire, which I used to dry my pants, sweatshirt (wet more from perspiration than rain, but soaked nevertheless) and boots. A piece of coal had fallen into one of the boots when Mrs. W. had filled the grate and we all laughed when I later picked it out and tried to figure out how I could have walked with it in there. Mr. Wilkinson was there too, on the phone about sheep business. The farm, “the loneliest inhabited place in Northumberland,” is sixteen miles long, and so remote that these people were snowed in from December to April. The sun provided some excellent views down the valley but it set at last. At 11:00 or so I went to bed.
To continue with the next stage of the walk you need: