P.W. Day16- Byrness to Kirk Yetholm 28 miles

  Today's walk was the ultimate test of the Pennine Way, the signpost to see if the last two weeks have changed you into a stronger and fitter hiker. Over the 11 to 14 hours of walking ahead of you you'll be climbing over a mile of ascent (1600 meters) with nothing in between Byrness and Kirk Yetholm as a rest bite or creature comfort. I'd told all my friends about this final stretch in a boastful and smug fashion, determined to do it in one or walked till I dropped. 

Looking down towards Byrness

  I was packed up my seven, batteries fully charged and ready. The path back into down is a gentle warm up allowing you're muscles to loosen up before the daily climb back out of the town's valley. Straight across the road you go straight into a heavily wooded area ending in a pretty dicey scramble up the rocky outcrop to Byrness Hill.  

  Instantly your in the middle of nowhere with vast hills and valleys stretching around you. Whats wonderful and daunting at the same time is that the hills seem to have no end yet you're expected to walk them in the next dozen hours. Your path wonders along the ridges, only dipping occationally but mainly following the flow of the landscape across rocky outcrops and peak after peak without a soul insight. A stunning final day was obviously awaiting me.

  Part of my enjoyment was that I knew how much further I had to walk and I wasn't counting down the miles or waiting for the end to come. The weather was spotless and the path easy to follow and without a bog in site. I found myself taking one panoramic photos after another trying to capture within them the sheer vastness around me.

  At one point, nearer the end of the day I spotted a wonderfully dressed gentleman in a twee suit strolling along as if he were the king of the manor. To top it all off he held a open riffle in the crook of his arm. We exchanged pleasantries and he corrected the way I pronounced Kirk Yetholm. Quite charming, in his fifties or sixties.  As we parted I noticed what I took to be an insane man running and hopping in the field on the other side of the fence. As he passed I realized he was actually filming, a massive camera lent on his shoulder.

View from Russell's Cairn

Kings Seat

     I reached the turn point to carry on to the Cheviot and paused unsure whether I was willing to miss the diversion, but not for long. My feet were already starting to cry and my legs felt like led. There were enough hills to climb ahead and the views had more than met with my expectations.

View down to the Red Cribs and the Shelter hut to the far left- the Pennine Way rides the visible ridge of the hills.

A few figures ahead climbing a constant series of hills.

  As I descended to the second shelter my legs were a little unsteady and my feet were already in serious pain. I'd promised myself a rest, a proper half hour, and something solid and wholesome to eat.

  The shelters are very basic things, a bar across the front door to prevent cattle from entering and benches around the edge for walkers to sleep in. Gratefully I dumped my bag and set up my stove to cook couscous and soup. I was a little worried about my water supply, but I'd eaten nothing but chocolate and cereal bars during the day. The book says 3 hours from this point, and the hut while wonderfully quirky and full of kind gifts from other hikes is just unfriendly enough to push me on. 

The Singing Donkey Hostel - Photographed in the morning

   The last three hours were a bit enveloped in the physical struggle which meant that a lot of the landscape's beauty was lost on me. I crawled up the slopes, and swore as my soles were pounded on the downwards paths. At every chance I took the easier route, becoming a little worried near the end in case I'd struggle to find anywhere to sleep. I was ready to fork out quite a bit for a bed and shower, but it was already approaching dusk and I might find everywhere closed up. 

  The last sharp climb to Kirk Yetholm was taken slowly, so slowly that a man in a van stopped to check whether I needed a lift or not. I told him I couldn't, not so close, it would disqualify the entire thing.

    True to my word I stopped at the first hostel I found, knocking on the door at about nine o'clock and waiting hopefully for someone to answer. A lady in her fifties answered the door, a look of concern as she saw my rucksack. I asked if she had any spear beds, shaking her head she said her family had just left and all the bedding was been washed. I tried to reassure her that if she had a patch of grass in the back that that would do me fine. Then to my amazement she said that for five pounds I could use my own sleeping bag and use the on-suit bedroom. She even bought me milk, sugar and biscuits, fresh towels and pillow cases. All in all I'd been given a gift from heaven. I had the longest shower and sipped my hot chocolate in the chair feeling like I'd conquered a country. My feet were still screaming, they felt like they've been squeezed in a vice but I swallowed in the sensation as a worrier would scars from a battle. 28 miles in one day, the equivalent of an hour in the car all accomplished by foot, by me. I nearly burst with pride as I lay back in bed and waited for my body to relax into the heavenly mattress.