June 2022 - St Cuthbert’s Way
Oh my... this was a walk that surpassed expectations! Not that expectations were low, but the sublime fortnight I had just enjoyed in the north of Scotland meant that I arrived in Jedburgh with spirits already in the stratosphere, buoyed by the days I had spent reaching distant Munros and seeing Scottish nature at its finest. All of that had been done solo, so it was appealing to have some company now. We were a quintet (combined age 299 years) for the walk through the Borders, beside the Tweed, over The Cheviot, and across the causeway to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne.
By the end of the week, I hadn't forgotten the delights of reaching tucked away summits, finding dotterel and even a lone red admiral at 3,500 feet up, nor the peace that comes from being 'away from it all' in the Highlands. But the sense of sharing a secular pilgrimage with some of my oldest friends meant I drove south from Northumbria with my restless mind stilled and enriched with tranquility. St Cuthbert's Way is the fifth long-distance trail in the British Isles that I've completed - Offa's Dyke and the Pembrokeshire Coast Path are 'works in progress' - and it's right up there with the best of them. I'd certainly say that none of those I've previously done compete with SCW for the thrill of its closing miles.
I can't imagine there's a better time to walk SCW than late May or early June. We were lucky to have days of 'peach' weather. It was also the time for peak bird and insect activity, as well as the high point of the year's floral pageant. One of the real treats of the week came on the first day, when I saw more martins (house and sand) than I have ever seen in Britain. Swarms of them were feeding over the loops of the Tweed, and their nest sites were abundant and visible too. That same day there was a Twitter chat going on about the scarcity of these (swallows and swifts as well) down in the south. That reality is heart-breaking, of course, telling us that the 'infrastructure' of migration routes is breaking down, but in Scotland at least the picture looks more healthy. I'd seen house martins aplenty further north earlier in my trip - and remember best that lone swift at 2500ft on Sgiath Chuil, fighting its way northward over the ridge.
The abbeys we visited on day one were wonderful, for all their ruined state: Melrose, Dryburgh and Jedburgh. It was in Jedburgh that we first picked up a rumour that the Archbishop of York was walking SCW in 'our' week. More of him later...
Heading further into the Border hills, we followed quite a stretch of the road built by the Romans, which has subsequently been called Dere Street. This made navigation straightforward for a while, needless to say. There was lingering evidence of squabbles and feuds, not least at the site of the Battle of Ancrum Moor, with this verse to the 'fair maiden' Liddiard: "Little was her stature, but great her fame, / On the English loons she laid many thumps, / And when her legs were off, she fought upon her stumps.' All very Monty Python, or possibly even the current Prime Minister after his Vote of Confidence wounding...
The third day saw a change in the character of the landscape. We started in rolling mixed farmland, before ending in the sheep country around Kirk Yetholm, in the true foothills of the Cheviots. Part-ruined Cessford Castle was a mighty landmark, suggesting that the ancestors of the Dukes of Roxburgh were merely meaner and harder than their competitors. Morebattle had cute pencil-shaped bollards outside the primary school, was infused with splendid road names such as Teapot Street and Thimble Row, and offered a friendly shop well stocked with cheerful volunteers... and a pub that was closed. And then over Wideopen Hill we headed, taking in the highest point of the walk (except for those heading to The Cheviot) as part of an undulating ridge that offered wonderful views under a true-blue sky. After that it was down to the Yetholms and an overnight in what felt like a mini-Appleby at horse fair time.
The group split for the next day, with the regular 'low-level' route to Wooler being quite sufficient for those not saddled with a macho competitive streak. I was in the trio who opted for the longer stretch over The Cheviot, a hill I'd looked at from afar so many times, but never walked across. This made it a day of 18 miles - a wonderful traverse except for the featureless top plateau. But even up there, above 750m, there were delights to be had in the form of many golden plovers, patrolling their nest sites, playing games with our ears with their plaintive piping. It must have been a tough place to navigate through in the days before the paving slabs were laid and whenever the mist came down. On our sunlit day it was peaceful and unvisited by humans. Soon enough we were back below peat hag level and hearing curlews and skylarks. Lower down on the approach to Wooler we saw a few slow worms and a field of lapwings. For all the joys of the high-level trek, I'd love to go back one day and walk the lower route over Yeavering Bell.
Getting to Wooler felt like we'd cracked the walk, even if we still had the excitement of the causeway crossing to come. The penultimate day offered a net height loss, which suggested an easy 13-14 miles. In reality, there was plenty of up and down, and any thoughts that this would be a relatively highlight-free day were soon dismissed. The moorland stretch after Wooler was delightful, with stonechats and small heath butterflies regular. Down in the valley of the River Till I enjoyed watching a family of treecreepers spiralling their way up a group of sycamores. Eventually 'St Cuthbert's Cave' was reached, not long after we'd walked through fields of giant lilac-coloured poppies. This was an atmospheric spot, exuding agelessness in contrast to the swathes of pines felled by Storm Arwen. I hadn't really appreciated the force of that northerly blast until we did this walk - just before reaching Fenwick at the end of this day we had fun lifting not-so-young limbs over the many trunks that blocked the path.
Still no sign of the Archbishop by the time we started the last day, but we met a different sort of big beast as we started the approach to the causeway. A local farmer, in what looked like an act of spite, had placed his big brown bull in an alleyway of a field through which the SCW route passed. With a bit of imagination we dodged our way around this pawing-the-ground bovine extravaganza, quickening our pace to ensure that it didn't get between us and the causeway. And so it was that shoes came off, trousers were rolled up, and we set of over the squidgy mud-sand under a sky of thin clouds and settled luminosity. What a wonderful way to get to the island, which for ages didn't seem to get any nearer, as time appeared to stand still. I had allowed myself to imagine all of that in advance, but what I wasn't at all prepared for was the eerily powerful singing of the vast seal colony that was hauled up on a sandbank not so very far from our route. With the wind blowing their song - I can't call it anything else - in our direction, we couldn't have had a better accompaniment to our crossing. With shoes back on, we mingled in with the car-borne day visitors to the island and strolled to the Lindisfarne Priory and the end of the walk. What better way to end than with a view down to Bamburgh's castle and over to the archipelago of the Farnes?
It was the following day before we caught up with the Archbishop - or rather he caught up with us. This was a neat coincidence for me: 45 years since one of his predecessors confirmed me, and 15 years since the current incumbent (when Bishop of Reading) confirmed our daughter. We went to the service he took in the parish church of Holy Island just after he'd walked across the sands, and I think he appreciated the links when I mentioned them to him afterwards. What I appreciated was the good sense of the Archbishop in his non-liturgical words. He reminded the (fairly sparse) congregation to travel light, in pilgrimage and in life, that life is a pilgrimage in itself and one in which the question 'what is enough?' should be asked frequently. Crucially, he said that pilgrimages aren't really about the destination but should be seen as a launching off point. We duly launched ourselves off Holy Island after two days of delicious rest - a retreat of sorts, I suppose - and felt much better resourced to give life a good shot. Thank you, St Cuthbert's Way. Thank you, Holy Island of Lindisfarne.
June 2022 - ‘A Word With You?’
‘Is it alright if someone has a word with you?’
I’m a somewhat private individual, sovereign of my own space, if you like. I could have shown my prickles. On some hill days, I keep myself out of sight and reach of fellow humans. I’ve even been known to hide behind rocks. June 3rd was one of those days. This meant that any words, certainly these words, came as a shock.
I was, after all, in a very lonely spot. Not just in the Scottish hills, but in a particularly quiet quarter of the northern Highlands, many miles from any road end. Separated from the nearest glen by a lofty ridge and two bulky Munros, I was on a thin and sketchy path which few tread. Who on earth had uttered that question? Why on earth was it directed at me?
She was wearing what I’d call ‘non-showy’ hill gear. Not this year’s range, not even this decade’s, no look-at-me colours that I can recall. About my age, at a guess. As if that matters. What did matter on that cloudless and almost sultry Saturday afternoon in early June was that the question shook me out of my trance, that mindful blend of concentration and vacancy into which hillwalking takes me. I was in a happy place, in all senses. Specifically, I was just over 2500ft up, on the north side of the Bealach Beag, and starting to feel the slope’s resistance as I headed towards the neat summit of Beinn Fhionnlaidh.
I’d wanted to be here for so long. Decades, in fact. On any round of the Munros this is one of the most cherished peaks to ‘bag’. It doesn’t give itself up easily: your choice is a long slog (avoidable, with an expensive hired boat trip) to the far end of Loch Mullardoch, or my route, which had taken me out of Affric and over Carn Eighe, the highest Munro north of the Great Glen. It’s not a gentle day out. That said, for all the miles covered and feet already climbed, I wasn’t (yet) feeling any weariness. The bright and calm day helped, all the time allowing me wide vistas across furled ranges of hills that I know well. Creatures and plants seen at close hand also lifted my spirits; I’d sent a trio of ptarmigans skittering from almost under my feet on the scree-covered descent from Carn Eighe.
Just as those almost perfectly camouflaged birds had skittered, so my perfectly composed thoughts now did the same, in the micro-moments I heard the words ‘Is it alright if someone has a word with you?’
I looked up, instinctively switching eye focus from the next tread spot to the source of the interruption. Yes, it was that woman I’ve already failed to describe in any detail. That woman whom I would not be able to pick out in an identity parade.
On the other hand, put the silver-bearded and lean man who was half-hidden behind her in any line-up, and I would recognise him without hesitation. I couldn’t believe my eyes… There he was, his loose-fitting blue top largely unzipped, a beige cap keeping his face in shadow, but not so heavily that I couldn’t detect the friendly grin I’d seen in many photos.
Nick Gardner. The Nick Gardner. Yes, the one and only Nick Gardner. One of few men or women whose example destroys my belief that you don’t need heroes to get along in life. There he was, right in front of me, in the here and now… What do you say when you meet a hero?
‘It’s OK. You don’t need to explain.’
It was all a bit of a blurt – ostensibly to the woman, but really to Nick.
‘I know you.’
I was only interested in talking to Nick.
I gazed at him in a way that, I fear, was a little fawning.
‘Nick, you are a total legend.’
I may have omitted an expletive.
‘What a place to meet you, Nick! I can’t believe it!! Here of all places…’
The conversation was one-way traffic. So not really a conversation.
‘How’s it going?’
‘It’s going well, thank you’, he replied, with a grin that simultaneously exuded gentleness, humility and wisdom. ‘How about you?’
To know why I found myself in blurt-mode, you’ll need to know a little about Nick Gardner. Where else to start than by telling you that Nick is now 82 years old? That’s more than two decades older than I am. And you have to appreciate that the 11 hours of walking I was doing that fine day was a challenge that 99% of my age group would not contemplate. Nick, you see, was doing just as many miles as I was, possibly a couple more. That in itself reveals the measure of the man. But it’s only the start of it.
I’m relatively fit for my age, and I have experience in the hills that gives me confidence that I’ll get to the end of a round of the Munros towards the end of 2023. The greatest barrier to that is living seven and more hours’ drive away from any of the 282 Scottish hills that make it over the 3000ft mark. Doable, but not straightforward. To contemplate doing a repeat round, starting only after I’ve reached my 80th birthday (and there’s no certainty of that…) is, frankly, beyond me. But that is exactly what Nick is a long way through accomplishing.
Why do we walk in any case? Why do we climb? Why do we go to remote places, often in sub-optimal weather? Why do we want to be a ‘compleater’ of the Munros? Each of us works out our own answer. For Nick there is a very specific reason. On the back of the hillwalking days that he enjoyed in his first eight decades, it was a reaction to his wife Janet’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis that spurred him to begin his octogenarian’s round. His story is well told elsewhere, and I would simply urge you to read his account, follow him on Instagram (@nicks.munro.challenge) and perhaps support him with your sponsorship at www.justgiving.com/team/nicks-munro-challenge ). All the money raised by sponsorship is divided equally between Alzheimer Scotland and the Royal Osteoporosis Society – worthy recipients for sure.
Nick’s reaction to one of life’s crisis points has been extraordinary. That’s why I call him a hero. His reaction to my excitement was calm, gracious and patient. He allowed me to blurt. I suspect he’s seen others do the same, as his exploits have become known among those who go to the hills. But he remains humble about what he is doing. We enjoyed perhaps 10 minutes of chatter at our crossing point, Nick about to face the long slog back up Carn Eighe, my next yards the relatively gentle 500 feet or so to Beinn Fhionnlaidh’s cairn. We talked about his plans for the final Munro – Cairngorm, one of the highest. He asked me if I knew Charles and Camilla. An unexpected question. I decided not to reveal that I’d chosen to be here on this date partly to avoid the Jubilee shenanigans. So, no, they are not ‘in my circle’.
We parted. I was elated by the thrill of an accidental meeting with someone who inspires me – and at an emotional point on my Munro journey. Hopefully Nick felt a little buoyed by my enthusiasm as he took his 82-year-old frame up the daunting incline. I didn’t look back to check on his progress – he had his group of helpers keeping an eye on him. Instead, I did what I haven’t done for a few years – jogged steadily, and genuinely without a pause, up the remaining half a mile and 500 feet to the top of my 213th Munro.
That left me 30 behind Nick. He will have them all done by mid-August. For me it will take a little longer. Each one of them will now be that much more pleasurable for having met Nick on my way round. Same hills, different days: shared joys.
I’ve met many good people on the hills. This meeting topped them all. It was always going to be a good day when I finally made it to Beinn Fhionnlaidh, but I never guessed it would be this good. It’s a love affair of sorts to spend time in the hills, as many writers have tried to describe. Nick’s love of life, for his fellow humans, and most of all for his wife, could not be more clearly expressed. If you are inspired by hearing about Nick’s story, I hope you will consider contributing to his sponsorship fund. And please raise a glass to him on Saturday August 13th, the day he aims to finish his round of the wonderful and magnetically appealing Munros.
