August 18, 2015: Melrose to St Boswells 

On Monday, August 17, 2015, Gavan and I began our fourteenth overnight walking expedition, a tradition that goes all the way back to his senior year in high school –when he was part of a school group that I took on a walking expedition in France. (Gavan is now 43, a hospital chaplain in Bridgeport, Connecticut.) We had experienced some disasters in this walking partnership – an abortive trip on the Appalachian Trail, for instance, and last year’s fiasco (for me) on the Kerry Way, but far more successes, and so we hoped this year’s venture would turn out to be in the latter category – seven days on a route that features walking in the Scottish Borders and then in Northumberland as well, St Cuthbert’s Way.

Gavan, seeing that the trip north would pass close to Durham, left several hours before I did, planning to visit Durham University and Cathedral – and even the grave of the famous monk for whom our walk was named – and then meeting me at our rail terminus, Berwick-on-Tweed. I was scheduled to depart on the 11:00 from King’s Cross and I waited for my mini-cab to arrive at 10:00. And waited. When I called the cab company in some anxiety I was promised only a short wait but another ten minutes passed before I had to call a second time. When a driver did show up he explained that Maida Vale was a mystery to him. For that matter he didn’t know how to get to King’s Cross – nor how to get his navigation unit tuned in. I told him I knew the route, having taken it so many times, and we were at last off. From the back seat I dictated every turning and lane change and even offered advice on where I could be let off outside a side street adjacent to St. Pancras Station.

By this time I could tell that I would not miss my train and I even waited in a line to purchase a Diet Coke and a bag of popcorn. Overhead they were now announcing a boarding track and so I dragged my heavy case along the platform to car E and soon found my reserved seat. A chap behind me helped me hoist my case overhead – I could manage my stuffed backpack on my own – and I sat down, somewhat breathlessly. There are enough anxieties accompanying the start of any trip away from the comforts of home (and those provided by my new puppy, Otto) – I didn’t need those provided by the One2One cab company as well.

In the window seat a young woman spent every moment in furious activity. She had a movie going on her lap-held computer screen and in the fold-down tray she had what I can only describe as a coloring book for adults. She deployed a number of pens in varying hues and one was always rolling onto the floor – requiring her to bend over to retrieve the wayward object as if this were somehow my fault. In front of us a little girl was engaged in an endless video game, the object of which seemed to be the design and construction of a brick schoolhouse. I bought a tuna sandwich and sipped my Coke, saw the Angel of the North flash by, and, at 2:40, I lugged my case off at Berwick station.

Gavan was waiting for me on the platform and we used two lifts to reach street level. Here we planned to take a bus to the starting point for our walk, Melrose in the Scottish Borders, and while Gavan checked out some train details for the end of his trip, I went over to a bus queue and asked a chap there if this were the right place for the Melrose bus. He said I needed to be at the stop just in front of the station itself. There were only ten minutes to wait now but Gavan made these somewhat uncomfortable ones by charging off to see if he could find a cash machine on the high street. He could not.

When the bus pulled up he asked the driver if there was a senior citizen discount available (pointing at me) and when the driver asked if I had a pass I produced my City of Westminster Freedom Pass. He tapped this onto a machine and, to my great surprise (and not a little chagrin) received a receipt for an “elderly” passenger at no charge; Gavan paid £6.60. I had heard that my pass was good on rural routes anywhere in the country but this was the first time I had benefitted from this great concession.

There weren’t many passengers when the bus departed at 3:07, though one young girl did ask us to wake her up when we reached Chirnside. We had soon passed over the Scottish border and when Gavan and I both gave a cheer she beamed. I must say the hour and a half journey was a lovely one, with lots of farmland, open moors and interesting villages. We asked the driver to let us off as close as he could to Melrose Abbey and a 4:40 we began a search for our b&b on Buccleuch Street. Another chap on our bus was also doing St Cuthbert’s Way and he was staying where we were so he followed us along; the place we were looking for was opposite the Abbey car park so it wasn’t far.

Our host, Bryan, showed us to our room and we decided to do some sightseeing since it was a lovely, sunny late afternoon. The ruinous Abbey was already closed but much could be seen if you found the right venue and so we did. Under Gavan’s instructions I took the first photos with my new iPhone. I did this every day so I could easily send pictures to my friends – but I used my Nikon for most of the shots on this trip. Then we walked toward the river for a while and back into town in search of a pub. We selected the friendly confines of The Ship Inn, just up from the marketplace, and here we had the first drinks of the holiday. On this trip we were never short of the company of dogs and several came over to be greeted while we sat in armchairs. Gavan wanted to sit in the garden out back, so we did this too.

Our landlord had recommended Marmion’s Brasserie    just next door to the b&b and so at dinnertime we repaired here. There was an extensive continental menu but I made a conservative choice, haddock and chips. It was very pleasant having only a few steps to take in order to make it back to our b&b and now, with the light finally fading from the sky, we could have an early night.

Gavan wanted to know if there was enough blue sky to make a Scotsman’s trousers – when we arose for the first day of our walk on the Tuesday – but, in fact, it was gray and overcast outside. At breakfast I tended to stick to scrambled eggs on toast, orange juice and a little coffee, sometimes adding a pot of yogurt. Gavan often experimented with the local porridge. While we were eating we could see that the walker from our bus was making his departure. He was planning to complete the route in five days (two fewer than our total) so we knew we would never see him again. Our bags would be ferried for us, as arranged by Celtic Trails, but today we were going to return for a second night in Melrose – so this was not a matter of great concern. Gavan wore the only daypack we needed to use on the trail – leaving me with just my map case and walking stick. In this case I had folded the relevant OS Explorer map and my own version of the guidebook text by Ron Shaw– but I had re-typed his  comments to include only those sections on route-finding, leaving out all those historical and cultural digressions favored by guidebook authors but often superfluous to walkers on the ground.

We left our b&b at 9:00 precisely, walking back to the market place and heading up the Dingleton road under a bridge. The angle of ascent was very steep but this is not surprising since Melrose lies at the foot of a major geologic formation, one we could look back to for days, the Eildon Hills – which we were already climbing without leaving town. My lungs were soon screaming in protest. The path ducked into an alleyway between two houses, dropped to cross a stream, and then we faced a truly mighty set of steps – which climbed ever upward under tree cover. I was soon pausing to rest at every tenth step and once we had reached open ground on the hillside it was fence posts that served as target points for each stop. I have walked over thirty long distance footpaths in the UK and Ireland and I don’t know of any that begin with such a challenge as St Cuthbert’s Way.

Behind us, of course, we now had an increasingly dramatic view of Melrose and its surrounding countryside and ahead, as we took a half right, the heather-covered summits of two of the three Eildon hills. Our route should have taken us relentlessly to the saddle here but there had been damage to the path and we were required to take a lateral path for a while before resuming our steep upward trudge. At last we reached the summit (Gavan always in advance of yours truly) and, after a sip of water, Gavan took the day’s photo on my iPhone.

All around us we had the most spectacular views but now he had to turn our back on this scene and head downhill from the saddle. Soon we entered a gate into woodland – no “Walkers Welcome” sign, as promised, but at least we were asked to shut the gate with a “please.” No sooner had we reached these woods then a light rain began to fall and we had to pull our raingear out of the daypack. The earthen paths were soon wet and I was glad (remembering my discomfiture in Ireland last year) that my stick provided good leverage. We never saw any red squirrels, evidently resident here, but a gray version scampered across the path and up a tree just in front of me.

Of course I was breathing much more comfortably now but the rain did dampen spirits a bit, especially when we left the cover of the woods and dropped down to cross a small valley before climbing up to paths into the town of Bowden. A stocky chap was walking his overstuffed Jack Russell along the grassy trod as we reached the first village street. A bricked well and a war memorial stood on the highway and we even sat down briefly on a bench here. Then we turned first right, then left, then left again to head east (our dominant direction throughout this trip), following the margins of Bowden Burn. As usual, the rosebay willowherb offered a lovely magenta accent to the fairly level route. We were supposed to be heading for some place called Maxpoffle House but I never saw any building that might have counted in this category.

Eventually we left footpath behind us at Whitelee, where there seemed to be a lot of activity at the nearby stables, and continued forward of an agreeable stretch of tarmac. Our route took us under a large road viaduct and then the first buildings of Newton St Boswells appeared as well. I had proposed that we look for some place for refreshment here, and, as it was 12:40 now, Gavan turned left and we climbed up into the town’s main street, soon locating the Dryburgh Arms pub.

It was open but there was a problem since it was soon obvious that the pub was hosting a funeral party. Our hostess behind the bar indicated that we were nevertheless welcome but, as she was serving no food today, we could buy sandwiches next door and bring them in. This Gavan did, returning also with some crisps and we found a quiet corner away from the mourners. In fact the corner did not long remain quiet as some of the teenagers in the funeral party found the nearby billiards table and whacked away at the red and yellow balls for the next half hour.

The light rain persisted as we returned to our route, using paved roads and footpaths to continue in our easterly direction for another fifteen minutes or so. This brought us to another grand sight – the magnificent River Tweed. We soon discovered a long suspension bridge for pedestrians only and bounced over its surface to the other side. We were abandoning St Cuthbert’s Way for a while since we wanted to see the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey nearby. We climbed up a hill and past a beautiful ornamental gate in a wall surrounding a large field ­– a spot entirely spoiled by a van parked in front of its bars. Then we strolled down a tree-lined avenue and entered the Abbey’s gift shop, where Gavan bought us our tickets. (Gavan acted as treasurer on this trip.)

Dryburgh Abbey, even in the rain, was a fascinating place and we visited many a corner – including one containing the gravestone of Sir Walter Scott. The place was crawling with tourists ­– including a coachload of visitors from the Czech Republic. Searching for something cold in the gift shop refrigerator I came up with a can of ginger beer, which Gavan and I shared on a bench outside – delicious. Then we retraced our steps to the suspension bridge and, on the other side again, resumed our walk along the Tweed.

The riverside scene was wonderful, especially one sliver of an island with wildflowers blowing in the breeze and a solitary heron keeping vigil. But the route was not easy, winding up and down the riverside crags on an often narrow and rocky footpath, with lots of wire-covered steps and bridges. I was growing weary of this adventure, and the rain was even stronger, when, at last, the trail twisted away from the river, climbed upward and deposited us on a quiet street in St Boswells.

Gavan’s long distance vision, always superior to mine, could just make out the letters on a distant pub, the Buccleuch Arms on the A68, so we turned to the right and took to the pavements of a nearby park and we soon reached the highway. It took us a while to dodge the traffic and make it to the other side but at 3:35 we had reached the end of our eight-mile day.

Inside we had some liquid and Gavan phoned Neil’s Taxi’s – which Celtic Trails had pre-booked to take us back to Melrose. Our cabbie arrived in twenty minutes or so and we were soon returned to our b&b. I was tired and somewhat damp but this had been a very successful opening day.

Because of the occasional shower we decided to pop next door for dinner at Marmion’s Brasserie again – this time I had the salmon, and another ginger beer. After dinner, with skies a bit clearer, we dropped around the corner and made a visit for snacks at the nearby Co-op. Then, with the darkness prevailing, we climbed to our first floor room for another early night.

To continue with the next stage of our walk you need:

Day 2: St Boswells to Harestanes