Romilly’s One Island Walk for Street Children: Tales from the Loch – Auchinoon to Dunfermline

Padlocked hearts, padlocks with names of couples engraved upon them, locked to the Forth Road Bridge with the Forth Rail Bridge in the background

Derek & Fiona, Maz & Adz, Caron & Alex, Connie and Sandy, Iain & Mary and Mr and Mrs McCulloch

It was like trying to move against the crowd in the rush hour. The wind tugged at my hood, and shoved and pushed my pack. And it was wet. The wind drove the stinging rain against my face. Cars sped past in a blur of atomised water and dirt. I was walking down the A 70 in the Central Lowlands of Scotland towards the turning onto a minor road north, and was hoping to cross the Forth Road Bridge later that day.

It was wet but I didn’t feel uncomfortable. My coat was holding up well. My boots were dry too. I passed stoic sheep and lambs sheltering where ever they could. I turned onto the small road and headed north. I passed forestry on my right. To my left pylons as grey as the sky, chased by the wind, leapt over wet fields to the west. In a lay-by two vans were parked, the drivers both women exchanged packages, wound up their windows, and drove off in opposite directions.

Traffic on the Forth Road Bridge motion blurred, sea below, girders

I thought that it would be nice to stop for a hot drink, or even an early lunch at Kirknewton. When I got there I could see the pub to my east, but it meant walking a couple of hundred yards out of my way,  so I carried on towards East Calder. My road did not enter this village either but crossed over the B 7015 and then followed a route roughly parallel but at some distance from the River Almond. The land was flat. I could see grey sheds in the distance. I was walking through that half world where fields no longer have a strictly agricultural value, but that harassed, abused, uncertain look of a city’s borderlands.

Before long my road crossed the Union Canal. I could have continued on it but decided to change and walked down to the tow path.  My head was now at the level of the ground in the field and I could see the crisp blades of barley grass coming out of the earth like the advertisements of the front of ‘Farmer’s Weekly’.  The canal drew close to a slip road of the M8 junction 2 and I slithered down a steep bank from the tow path, walked out on to the pavement of the slip road, through an underpass following the road into Newbridge where I had seen the enchanted letters ph marked upon the map.

Road Markings at Queensferry seen from the Forth Road Bridge

View from Forth Road Bridge at Queensferry

I can’t remember the name of the pub. I pushed in through the door. Even after the gloomy light of the wet day seemed dark. It was warm and dry. In the gloom I saw two figures at one end of the bar and two figures at the other end. Conversation stopped and four heads turned to look at me. There was moment’s silence and then the conversation recommenced. I un-shouldered my sack and dumped it by the bar. I saw a radiator on the far wall and walked over to take off my coat, and then sitting at a table, undid my  boots and took off my waterproof trousers, from time to time regarded by the men at the bar.

‘What can I do for ye?’, asked the barmaid. (I hope that any Scots will forgive me my poor transcription of the accent)

‘Please could I have a cup of tea?’ Even as I said it I had a feeling that it would seem like an odd request.

‘We don’t do tea’

‘Oh’

‘Ther’res no call for it’

‘Aye, ther’ res nay tea serfed behained this bar’, added one of the men to my left.

His companion nodded at me in affirmation.

‘I’ve got a tea bag if you could give me some hot water’

‘Aye, well if ye’ve got a tea bag. Nae problem’, said the barmaid. I found the bag of tea bags that the nice people, Dave and his sister, had given me on first day out of Gretna Green, in one of my trouser pockets.

The man at the end of the bar on my left asked me where I had come from and where I was going to. I explained the A70 and before that Gretna Green and that I was going to Inverness. “Aye, and I bet this gentleman’s not as young as he looks either’, he said. He was dressed in tweeds and and a tweed cap. He could have been a gamekeeper, which is almost exactly what he was, since he was a ghillie, and it also turned out that he was the same age as me….

‘Aye. I used to walk a fair bit,  and I know the rules of good health, but the drink has done fer me, done fer my liver, …done for it, ‘ he said, not gloomily, but with the grim satisfaction of a man who knows that, even though it was hard, he’s made a good job of it.

‘Aye, And what would the rules of good health be, Graham?’ asked his neighbour.

‘Weell, tak y’re veggetaples, eat in moderation, walk a wee bit……and have a woman from tame to tame…… I’ve had three wifes, all deevorced….and.. they all say it was all my fault.’

‘And your’re surpraised?’ asked Maggie, who had returned with my tea and a tin of biscuits, which I happily tucked into. Mmm, so sweet and crunchy… forbidden fruit. What a treat.

‘…and not wash in hot water’, continued Graham on the health theme, ‘I’ve no washt in hot water for three yeears now.’

We were joined by a third man, with a kindly face who was introduced to me as a heating engineer, ‘ A very rich man’, said Graham.

The conversation continued on the subject of what I would see and where I was going. ‘Aye well if you go up the Laraig Ghru, ye’ll see the Dark Man no doubt,…he’s been seen by many. Even the mountain rescue have seen him’.  From this the conversation turned to other strange phenomena. Graham claimed to have seen the Loch Ness Monster….

‘Weell I was out in the boat. I’d been out all day on the Loch, when suddenly the boat was rocked, violently, as if I it had been taken by a great sea wave. I feared for my life, I can tell you. I thought, ‘Graham…this is it’. The boat surged, forward then backward, in a terrible way. There was a rush of bubbles under it,  and around it…I’m not making this up…No, No though I had been hitting the hip flask all afternoon. I’ll give yer’re that.’

The time passing pleasantly to other unusual sights, Graham claimed to have seen the Duchess of Argyle without her knickers when she was having a pee. ‘It did me careeere no good at all, I can tell you.’

The kind man who was the heating engineer explained that a quicker and pleasanter way to get to the Bridge would be to walk down the abandoned railway.

I offered to pay for the tea but Maggie was having none of it. ‘And you bringing yer’re aine tea baag. Niver’  Considering how many of her biscuits I had eaten this was very kind of her. My time in her pub was definitely the best bit of my day, as good as or even better than crossing the bridge, and I am grateful for the welcome I received, and would happily have spent the rest it, there, with my new friends, eating biscuits and listening to tales of hill and loch.

Cargo ship seen from the Forth Road Bridge

By the time I left the pub the rain had stopped. I found the railway by the junction of the  A89 and the M8.  I walked down it happily, thinking of the conversation in the pub. The sky began to clear. There were flowers which I had not seen, their enchanting, modest little faces turned to the sky. From time to time large aeroplanes, their turbines overwhelming even the sound of the traffic, appeared in the strip of sky above the path, seemed to hang there for a moment before heaving themselves through gravity up and on.

At Kirkliston I crossed the Almond again and then turned left into the village. I was sure that it would be pleasanter to continue on the railway but it would have taken me the best part of two miles out of my way and I was keen to cross the bridge and finish my day. Here I misread my map and took a wrong turning. I was redirected by some nice people in a car, returned, took the correct road, passing new houses, through an underpass and then over the motorway.

Builders yard seen from above, scaffolding pipes in sunlight

View from The Forth Road Bridge, Queensferry

Before long I arrived at the The Forth Road Bridge. I could have walked on the west side, with the view of the work on the new bridge, the huge towers to support it, but that would have meant looking into the sun, and I chose the east side with a view of the sun on the rail bridge.Dark waters of the Firth of Forth around the break water at the foot of one of the piers of the Forth Road Bridge

Walking onto the bridge had something of flight about it:  even slower and far noisier than ascent by balloon, but with the same surprise at looking down on the familiar from so directly above, on gardens, roads and houses, and then the mighty firth, with miniature waves, burnt to silver in the evening sun, the occasional tiny gull gliding far below, yet far above the water. The foot path is separate from the road way. People jogged past me in enjoying the evening light while on the road the traffic passed in a cloud of noise and pulverised carbon, shaking the criss cross of girders high above the water, till they and the road bounced from the huge steel cable sweeping up into the sky.  I enjoyed the bridge. It’s long and took me longer.boat and bridge_DSF7214

On the other side I took the road I thought would lead to Dunfermline, but it did not. I walked past what I thought to have been an outlying part of the Rossyth naval base, now full of steelwork for the new bridge. The sun was setting. It was getting late and I was tired. Willfully I interpreted the new road layout in a way that meant I would be heading directly to Dunfermline. I passed a huge collection reinforced hexagonal concrete pillars, pushed together, standing vertically, like cells in the nest of some vast, but unseen insect. I passed   metal fences of fading green paintwork, neglected ‘MOD Property Keep Out’ signs and places where the metal fence stakes had been ripped leaving dark gaps like missing teeth.

Pink bridge, the Forth Rail Bridge, small houses of North Queensferry below, Blue sky, blue waters of the firth of Forth

I could delude myself no longer. I was walking into Rossyth not Dunfermline, and must have gone several miles out of my way. I consulted my map. A nice man walking his dog hailed me. ‘Ye look lost. Wher’re de ye want to go?’ I explained. ‘Aye, well ye can take a bus but I guess you’re walking.’  I continued in the direction he had pointed out but was rather disappointed, 5 minutes later,  to see the bus pass me.  I walked on up a wide avenue with grey houses either side until I arrived at the bridge above Rossyth Railway station. It was late, nearly 10.00 pm and I had nowhere to stay.

Fence post

All photographs © James Forshall

Many thanks to all those who have given so generously. If you would like to donate to help homeless children in Africa please do so at http://www.virginmoneygiving/team/RomillysOneIslandWalk

Advertisements

Romilly’s One Island Walk for street children. Stobo to Auchinoon: not lost, just not sure where I am.

Reflections of branches and sky in dark waterA path came down from the south crossed our path and continued up hill and north.  I looked at the map. The paths marked on the map didn’t seem to correspond with what I was seeing on the ground.  Hmm. I don’t call this being lost. I just wasn’t sure exactly where I was, which is not the same thing at all. I took a guess at where I thought we were and a bearing, more or less due north, which, in the general scheme of things couldn’t be far wrong. We set off up the path which crossed ours.

We had left Stobo earlier, walked through woods with ponds and lakes to the left, the sun lighting up the trunks of the pines through which we saw the blue water below, and now after the decision at the crossroads we were heading up hill and north. Soon the path petered out. A wave of nagging doubt entered my mind. Should I have taken the other path? This was hard work too, through tussocks of moor grass, and hummocky heather, of which the stiff stalks lay downhill. We were walking against the grain as well as gravity. We climbed the western side of what I thought must be Riding Hill, descended onto a saddle and climbed another hill, which if I was correct in my map work, guess work, was the eastern spur of Ladyurd Hill. From here could see the Southern part of the Lyne Water Valley to the east and felt vindicated. My plan was to cross the Tarth Water, just over a mile to the north and then join the track leading through Scotstoun Bank in the direction of West Linton.

Heather in foreground, grass scar over hillside, sky

We headed down hill but, just over the crest, were blocked by forestry. We followed its eastern edge north and at a corner took a track through it.

‘Chemical warfare.’ muttered my friend.

‘What?’

‘Chemical warfare. Nothing grows under those trees.’ We came out in the fields above Ladyurd, a farm settlement, following the edge of the forest again to the track which led to the farm, and down to the road which we crossed making for Tarth Water. This turned out to be much wider and deeper than it had looked on the map. My companion was all for crossing it but I was not, so we followed it north west to the bridge and then walked up the track to Scotstoun. This was quite a place. ‘You can almost see the money from Edinburgh flowing out into the Borders’, said my companion. We sat down to eat lunch, admiring the view of the house. Someone was shooting at clay pidgeons, intermittent bangs were carried to us over the fields on the wind.

‘What an idiotic occupation!’, said my companion.

‘I rather enjoy clay shooting.’ I said.

‘I was really talking about pheasant shooting…It’s hypocritical of me I know. God knows, I’ve had a lot of fun shooting. But driving huge numbers of birds over people paying huge sums of money to blast away at them…it’s crass and the people paying for it are often ghastly’, he said.

‘I guess it was the new breach loading shot guns and manufactured cartridges at the end of 19th century that made that kind of shooting possible,’ I said, ‘providing, had we chosen to see it,  a warning the of slaughter to come……

………..Who said, “I’ve always regarded the contest between a man with a gun and a rabbit as being dishonourable.”? ‘

The Tarth Water, stream, water, burn, beech branches and buds, green weed
Tarth Water not looking so deep or wide

We went up the main road, turned left onto a farm track which took us through a farmyard. ‘Funnily enough farmyards and golf courses are some of the very few places in Scotland where you cannot walk without permission’, my companion told me,  but no one objected and we continued on the farm road. Here and there were large tin chicken rearing sheds. A pretty young woman with a baby in a pram and a boy following on a bicyle stopped to talk to us. She was warm and friendly with an accent from somewhere in the North of England. We all agreed that it was a lovely day. The way we said it, repeating the phrases to each other was like saying grace. ‘I’m always surprised how the people who talk to you and greet you on a walk turn out to be English’, said my Scottish friend. After a mile and half we came out on a road, which took us into West Linton.

We stopped at the pub and ordered a cup of tea. People were sitting out in the sunshine on the pub’s terrace. I did not know if it was Sunday, a bank holiday or simply because it was sunny, but there was a feeling of celebration and relief, which you don’t get in countries where you can take sunshine for granted and where it is often too hot. West Linton had been my target for the day, but we were well ahead of schedule and I wondered if we could cover some of tomorrows walk to Livingston. If so we must hurry.

Track leads to gap in dark line of trees

We headed east out of West Linton and then took the road north to Baddinsgill. On our left children played among the cars parked beside a gold course. We walked up hill. After a while we came to a large blue container, like a cargo container, with a bright stainless steel pipe extending vertically from it. ‘It’s a biomass heater’, its owner explained, a tall capable looking man. ‘I know it’s a nonsense, heating firewood to dry it out, but we sell a lot of it’.  ‘What a great business’, muttered my companion as we left.Highland Cattle, grazing on heather

We continued up hill following the track of pink stone towards Cauldstane Slap, the saddle from which we would descend to the Harpering Reservoir and the A70, our second target for the day.A track of pink sand and rock through heather to a walker on the skyline

It was a gentle uphill walk and although I know that my companion was tired, and probably would have preferred to call it a day at West Linton, he never complained. The route is known as The Thieves Road from long ago, but from time to time we passed notices asking the public to report the theft of sheep to the police. The track ended and a path at times uncertain found its way to the Slap between two hills and here we could see the reservoir, a wind turbine and cars moving as if on sliders, on what must have been the A70, through the otherwise slow moving landscape. We walked downhill to the road.  It had been a good day and I must have done a good chunk of tomorrow’s walk.

I am walking a long way to raise money to help homeless children. If you have not already done so please donate. http://www.virginmoneygiving/team/RomillysOneIslandWalk

Romilly’s One Island Walk: Tibby Shiels to Stobo

View of Loch St Mary through leafless trees

I set off up the road from Tibby Shiels with Loch St Mary on my right. The sun bounced off the water. The cold, metallic light darkened the outline of the trees. There were no leaves to be seen. It could have been February rather than May.

After a mile or so I took the path which follows the Megget Water up to the dam. I was walking across moorland, at times the path was no more than a soggy, black carpet of peat. To my right were fields of grass enclosed in stone walls. A few sheep grazed. I heard the cry of curlews. Gradually the path neared the river and at the same time the road from the dam on the other side drew closer to the river too.

Rather than walk two sides of a triangle to cross at the dam I decided to cross just beyond a small island. It looked as if I might be able to step from stone to stone. I stepped out onto a stone and then, following the momentum already flowing, jumped to a large rock. I landed on its side, clung on, and with some difficulty scrambled up onto it. The stream was wider and the stones further apart than I had thought. I sat on top of the rock taking off boots and socks and rolling up my trousers.  The flow of water was vigorous. Its rush and noise hid the sounds of bird and sheep, enclosing me, drawing me down to the river’s world. It looked deeper and faster than I had thought. I stepped cautiously into the water. It was freezing. The stones were rounded and slippery. I hoped for my camera’s sake that I would not fall in, but gosh, it was cold. My feet and ankles felt as if they were being squeezed fiercely by something so cold that it burnt. I would have liked to have moved faster but the darkness of the water and the uncertainty of the stones slowed me down. I clambered out and sat in the sun drying myself and enjoying the tingling sensation in my legs.

I walked up the road and joined my friends at the dam. We set off west and then took a path where there was a public footpath sign. The path was marked on the map but straight away forked in a way that was not. The map path ran up hill parallel to the stream in the valley below, but did not seem to be as consequent as the diverging path which seemed to beckon and corresponded better with the authority of the footpath sign. We stuck with the smaller path and headed up hill past a plantation, keeping the stream or burn below us on our left. We were on the western edge of the map and would soon move on the eastern edge of the next map and had to look from one to another.

It did not seem quite right and at times I was not sure which valley I was in. I took a bearing from where I hoped that we were to the head of the Manor Valley.  The path disappeared and we found ourselves walking uphill through rough tussocky heather. It was hard work.  The burn below swung off to the west. It should have been a sign. I checked my compass and we continued. We went north west down hill to a gate in a fence which we went through and then sensing the empty space behind the rise in front of us walked to its top and found ourselves on a cliff of moorland grass falling steeply to the valley floor with the valley laid out before us. Bingo! It is a happy moment when one’s faith in the wobbly needle of the compass is fulfilled: a kind of magic, a trick played on oneself.

Looking North down the Manor valley, smooth hills and valley sides with occasional plantations, rough moorland grass in the foreground
Looking north from the head of the Manor Valley

We walked down the hill, traversing and re traversing its steep sides and then headed north down the valley.  High up on the valley side where the sky met the hill we could see the silhouette of a man on a quad moving jerkily.

sheep skull with moss

The path became a track. At the edge of a wood we stood back to let a farmer, his boy and dogs herd ewes and lambs up the valley. One of the lambs was left behind by its mother, who was cut out and driven back by the dog while the farmer scooped up the lamb letting it hang by its front legs from his meaty hand.  We walked through the farm yard and down the track. A young woman was hanging out washing. There were few trees and little garden but daffodils had been planted by the track.

Twisted Beech tree

We walked past a low hill to our left. On the map it was labeled in gothic print, ‘MacBeth’s Castle’. Later I emailed a friend called MacBeth, who lives in Glasgow, who replied saying that there were a lot of ‘MacBeth’s Castles’ but sadly none of them belonged to her.

Gate at Dead Wife's Grave with view of hills beyond

Just after that we took a wide path between stone walls which passed between fields to the left and forestry to the right. At the top  we entered a wood and continuing up hill came to a gate at the edge of the wood with a view of the next valley. The place is called Dead Wife’s Grave, a name which belies the beauty of the place and the tenderness of this simple memorial to someone loved.

Soon we could see Stobo.  We walked down cheerfully. We heard a clattering, panting and turned to see a young man, his arms held out hopefully like featherless wings, run past in an ecstasy of kinetic energy.

Beech tree trunk behind stone wall or dyke covered in lichen, sheep and meadow in background

At Dawyck Mill we crossed over the River Tweed. It had been a good day.

I am walking a long way to raise money to help homeless children. If you have not already done so, please donate at

http://www.virginmoneygiving/team/RomillysOneIslandWalk

From the Bhuddist Monastery to Tibby Shiels Inn

Colourful Bhuddist temple

No, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not in Tibet but the borderlands of Scotland.

I had arrived at the Bhuddist Monastery in the last gloomy shades of light the night before. In the distance I had seen something which looked like a large white chess piece, as high as a two story building. I wasn’t sure what it was but I knew it looked Bhuddist.

I was shown to my room by a woman monk in robes and with a shaved head on which I judged there to be two day’s growth.  ‘ This isn’t the reception. It’s the overseas operations.’ she said.  She kindly offered me a cup of coffee from the urn.

‘ You can imagine with Nepal, we need a lot of coffee. How far have you come today?’.

‘From Gretna Green.’

‘So, not so far?’

‘Well it seems quite far’. I was dog tired, but then the distance I had traveled was an infinitely small fraction of that which most souls travel to perfection, or so it must have seemed to her, or perhaps she had only ever gone to Gretna by car. ‘Is there any food for me?’ I enquired hopefully. Since supper was served at the early hour of six, Catherine had asked for something to be left out for me. No, there was nothing. I went to bed feeling mildly aggrieved and determined not to miss breakfast. I pondered how I might negotiate a reduction in the bill. Perhaps I should ask to speak to the manager.

At breakfast I found myself sitting next to a nice woman from the Isle of Man. ‘My son is on a football tour, so I thought that I would have a bit of piece and quiet.’  She was a spiritual healer. I asked her what had been served for supper the night before. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘the menu said, ‘Jacket Potatoes and Soup’ but when I asked where the jacket potatoes were I was told they had been the ones left over from lunch and that they were in the soup.’

As I left, I passed two lay sisters, not yet, nuns but aspiring to be. One was painstakingly brushing lichen of a stone wall, and on the other side of the drive another was picking inch high sycamore seedlings out of the ground. ‘I hate killing things,’ she said holding up a bunch of saplings in her hand, ‘but you see I’m transferring their conciousness to these two’. She gestured to two little saplings in a pot which had been saved from this massacre of innocents. ‘The rest will go on the compost heap’. ‘Well, that’s perfect,’ I said hoping to cheer her, ‘composting is reincarnation in action’. She smiled sweetly.

The road climbed up out of the valley and then descended through commercial forest. It was a small road but from time to time lorries hurtled past throwing up dust.   There had been a heavy frost when I awoke that morning, and although not strong, the north wind was very cold.

Commercial forest, moss, evergreen trees

I sheltered in the dark forest to have some lunch and pressed on. Before I arrived at Ettrick the ground became swampy. Willows grew by pools of water. A sign planted by one of these read, ‘Midgehope’ in fading paint.

I turned west down a lane towards the church, behind which the path would take me up to an old drovers road.  There was a beautiful avenue of beech trees leading up to the church, behind it some cottages, and beside it an elegant house I took to be the manse. I climbed up hill, from time to time looking back on this pretty scene.

road and stone wall lead past line of beach trees, funeral monuments in back ground

Common mistakes in fence crossing. Example 1.

Moorland walking, crossing fences

Startled sheep looked up with a jolt and skittered off, calling their lambs to follow. This one was so newly arrived that all it could do was sit and wonder how it had got to this bright, cold place.

New born lamb, grass, moorland, afterbirth

I took a bearing across the hill to join the Southern Upland Way. This is beautiful, a turf road, here following the contours of a valley. I left it, following a similar path downhill and then east above the southern shore of Loch Mary.  At Tibby Shiels Inn a tall man, well a man who is taller than me, asked, ‘Are you the man who is walking to John O’Groats. Come in and have a cup of tea’. His name is Alister Moody and he owns Tibby Shiels Inn. He’s a nice man and it’s a nice inn with music on many nights, and I was very grateful for the cup of tea he gave me.View of a typical Scottish borders valley near Ettrick

I’m walking a long way to raise money to help homeless children in Africa. If you have not done so, Please donate at http://www.virginmoneygiving/team/RomillysOneIslandWalk

Gretna to the Bhuddist Monastery

sign on gate by railway track reading 'come back safely your family need you'I was setting out on Romilly’s One Island Walk, from Land’s End to John O’Groats. I expected this part to be tough.

The day before I had traveled up from Exeter by train. I had lost my over sixty discount card. Rather to my disappointment none of the ticket inspectors asked me for it. My B and B was immaculate. If you ever need to stay in Gretna this is the place. It’s near the station and only a short walk from the famous forge where, presumably, you would be  getting married.

‘Marriage is real industry here, isn’t it?’

‘There’s not much else to do. We used to have the MOD and the nuclear nearby but they’re running down’.

After a delicious breakfast I had asked to borrow a pair of scissors to trim excess weight off my maps.  I ripped out the part of my book, which I had already read. My landlady looked shocked.  I did not do this to upset her: on the wall I had seen the the prize she had won for literature as a child, but ‘Tom Jones’ is quite a chunk to carry.

‘ You should get a Kindle. People used to leave books behind but now they’re all on the kindle’,  she said.

The wind was cold but spring was in the air. It was sunny and the lambs frisked in the fields,  like animated, tea towel sized fragments of the fluffy clouds above. The keen air was full of energy and hope. I felt happy.

After about an hour I came to a farmer feeding his sheep.  ‘We live in a peaceful place. When you wake up you’ve got to look forward to the day, haven’t you? People think we make money but it all goes back into land. You’re just keeping it for your children. I don’t know why dairy’s crashed but it has.’ He did not seem unduly worried though: a nice man. Car, man with white sack, sheepI followed his directions, walking through his farmyard, past that of his neighbour, through past more farm buildings, and crossed a stream. Stone wall with metal attachments In a wood I saw a strange concrete building, its roof covered in moss and grass, from which small saplings grew. Track, trees, blue sky Behind a barn I jumped down into a field.  Rather pleased with this athleticism, I walked down into a valley, crossed another stream and walked up hill to an abandoned stedding.  Here I had lunch in the sunshine,  with my back to the wall,  eating the tin of mackerel I had bought the night before. ruined buildings, large puddle grey skies A mile or so on and the track led through another farm yard. There was a small family in the road, a cow, a very young calf and a bull. The bull stepped forward and squared up to me. I walked back to a gate and round the farm, down to another stream which I jumped across and then back onto a track.  Decrepit machinery, was rusting in the fields. The house looked uninhabited. Someone had recently cut down an ash tree. The bright new wood shone, but elsewhere buildings and machinery showed years of neglect.Meat hanging in barn I crossed the B7088. My plan was to walk the five miles across the hills to join the road leading up to Eskdalemur. I followed a track due north towards the moor. At the last cottage I knocked on the door. No one seem to be around and I was just about to leave to see if I can find an outside tap when the door was opened by a woman on crutches.  She asked me in. We went into the kitchen and she ran the tap.

She asked me what I was doing.

‘….Not over the hills?…tonight? in this weather?….’

‘Yes, you don’t think it’s going to rain?’ I asked

‘Sure to.’ She had just had a hip operation ‘My brother’s helping me….. Dave, di ye hear that? Man’s walking to Inverness’.

Dave came in and lowered himself into her arthritis chair. ‘Nooer? And Samye Ling ternight? O’er hills?. Ternight? In this weather ?’  I looked out of the window. The sun was shining.

‘Does your wife like walking?’ , asked the woman. ‘ Umm, not like I do’. ‘ Well, they say a change is as good as a rest.’ She looked at me slyly.

I thanked them both. They were kind and good humoured. We had had a laugh. Outside it started to pour with lumps of frozen water. I walked up hill.  It was very cold. Luckily the rain stopped but I sheltered in a dip to put on more clothes. Dead fox by stone wall It was dark by the time I reached the monastery. I had been walking for 14 hours and had traveled about 23 miles. rain in distance above moorlandI am walking a long way to raise money to help home less children.  Please donate.

http://www.virginmoneygiving.com

photography © James Forshall