JOGLE

General Tips

2008-11-13T12:49:00.000Z

Don't worry about failure or focus too much on the destination. It is the journey that is important, no matter how long or where it eventually ends. If your challenge is going to be a life changing experience (and it may not be) then it will be in the months you spend on the trail that this will happen, not just the final seconds. Enjoy it and don't wish you were already at the finish line.

Try not to pay too much attention to injuries. More often than not there will be some muscle, joint or patch of skin that is having a good moan, but if you keep on going it is likely to sort itself out. If you are still maintaining a good pace, then it isn't serious. Of course when you do finally repair yourself, and are looking forward to some trouble free miles, something else will always pipe up. Keeping positive and motivated when all this is going on is one of the toughest parts of the experience. Many people who end up completing the walk will have worried that some injury was a show stopper. Don't expect rest days to clear everything up either, it's not enough time.

A short day is almost as good as a rest, with the advantage that you're still making progress and things aren't seizing up through lack of use. Long days are satisfying but are best as an unplanned response to good weather and fitness rather than big scary monsters looming on the horizon.

Initially have plenty of easy or rest days to build fitness. No matter how much training you have done, your muscles and joints will need time to strengthen during the first few weeks. If these rest days are in special places or with special people they can provide useful targets as you learn to motivate yourself to walk long distances.

Try not to fix your accommodation too far in advance. If you can be flexible, you can vary your mileage to respond to the weather and your own fitness. Plus there are always more accommodation options than the Internet knows about.

Don't neglect the mental side of the challenge, which is as important as the physical. Forcing yourself to train in bad weather or when tired or hungover is good preparation. It is also helpful to think through your motivations for taking on the challenge. They need to be strong enough to get you through the hard times, which is not the same as worthy or morally correct. For some bragging rights will be enough, others may need a higher purpose.

There are a number of other blogs online that give a good insight the experience, and are especially useful for mental preparation.

http://imsodave.blogspot.com/
Dave obviously has a talent for writing and his highly entertaining blog captures some of the mental challenges and paradoxes of the walk perfectly. His average mileage is very impressive, especially considering it was a winter attempt.

http://mylongwalk.com/
A really entertaining blog with injuries a speciality. If you get a bit of jip from your leg on the trail remember that Daryl didn't let a decent sized hernia affect his journey. The unconventional route is worth a look if you want to keep to the lanes and away from the bogs. He then came back this year to walk the other way.

http://www.alansloman.blogspot.com/
There are some great insights into a whole range of issues (not just related to LEJOG) in this well written blog. Alan's route was huge at 1687 miles but includes some lovely walking and hopefully will entice some people away from the usual West Highland Way/Great Glen Way option. The blog is also a good starting point for more reading as it links to a number of other really good blogs.

http://gayleybird.blogspot.com/
Prolific and full of insights into this year LEJOG and a number of expeditions since. Comprehensive and useful gear reviews complete this extremely well written blog. Essential reading.

http://www.roarm.blogspot.com/
A work in progress, Chris is writing up his journey after its sucessful conclusion. Very entertaining, so worth checking regularly for new installments.

Blogger blogs (like this one) produce a web page for each entry, so a nicer way to read them is to select the earliest post and then use the newer post links. This way the story unfolds in the correct order, without the flow interrupted by having to jump up the page after each day.

A new season begins . . .

2008-03-31T13:02:00.004+01:00

Chris Berry
Gayle and Mick
Philip and Frank

Will they all make it? Follow their blogs as the story unfolds and maybe give a few pounds to the charities they are supporting at the same time.

Actual Route

2008-02-15T21:17:00.001Z

St Ives to Land's End

2008-01-30T21:32:00.010Z

It was dark and frosty as I walked the empty streets of St Ives; an early start due to warnings about the toughness of the final section as well as having no cooked breakfast to hang around for. The path traverses along the sloping cliffs, a carpet of deep green and light brown grasses dotted by boulders. Rocky headlands restrict the view and at each crest a completely new coastline emerges, making the walking constantly engaging. Foaming white reefs lie offshore while waves rush into narrow inlets and break in sandy coves beneath me. Many miles and hours passed by in this way, conquering each newly discovered peninsula underfoot until the final one is reached, crowned by a white walled compound with tall lighthouse and elegant fog horn.

The coast path now spends a bit more time on top of the cliffs and I found a route through the confusing tracks, slime tanks, shafts, slag heaps and winch houses of a well preserved tin mine. After this, the line of cliffs was broken by a sheltered, green and pleasant valley, a little steam bubbling past an old mill. The usual steep climb was required to regain the cliff tops where I looked out over Cape Cornwall, jutting out further than any of the nearby headlands and looking like the end of the world. Not quite though, so after another valley the national trail continued onto the open sands of Sennen Cove. Many people were wandering along the little path and some even wanted to shake my hand when they heard where I had come from, although they might not have been so keen if they had known that my gloves had recently been used to deal with a runny nose.

After the sand dunes and the streets of the village I knew the end was approaching, the isolated collection of buildings ahead was my final destination. It was late afternoon when I arrived and everything was closed, with some shops boarded up for the winter. Signs creaked in the breeze and there was nobody to be seen. It was a slightly surreal ending, but a fitting finale for a lonely and deeply personal journey. I checked into the hotel and looked back over the last two and a half months while enjoying a lovely hot bath.

Relief is my main emotion, not that the walking is over but that the outcome is no longer in doubt. I have made it from one end of the country to the other and that will never change. After the perfect days on the coast path, any memories of being soaking wet and cold, or suffering from any number of aches and pains are fading fast. I have experienced a lot over this journey and those wide open spaces in Sutherland, or that high pass through the mighty snow capped Cairngorms, or those crisp days on the Pennine Way are now distant memories.

I find it hard to believe that I am in any way special, and feel that this challenge is something that almost anyone can achieve, whether it's doing it in small sections at weekends or struggling a few miles a day before retiring to a motor home on the roadside. There will be people who will stoke my ego with praise, and will claim that they would love to do similar but it is beyond them. I'd be happier if they just got out there and experienced it for themselves.

Porthtowan to St Ives

2008-01-29T21:31:00.005Z

Another day following the intricate north coast of Cornwall, with the simple daily routine of breakfast, bit of walking, a break for lunch, bit more walking, find somewhere to stay, get some supplies, fall asleep and repeat. It may seem like a bit of a grind, but on the good days, like any day this week, it is a fantastic way of life.

A steep climb out of Porthtowan returned me to the blasted grassy cliff tops, where the path was contained within a narrow strip of land between the crumbling edge and an ugly military fence. All the usual coastal features were present, such as the sandy cove of Sally's Bottom or isolated stacks thrown out by rocky headlands. It was an easy walk to Portreath, a little town that ticks all the tourism boxes with a sandy beach sheltered by tall cliffs, lighthouse, long curving pier, harbour and rows of white terraced cottages. After a few steep ascents and descents the cliffs level out again and lead onto the unspoilt gorse headland of Knavocks, looked after by a team of roaming Shetland ponies.

The most noticeable feature for the next couple of miles was a gleaming white lighthouse on a rocky island just offshore, alone but defiant. As this has some kind of literary significance, the path was quite popular, and when I saw an opportunity for a short cut and some solitude I took it. I scrambled down some rocks to cross a sandy bay but was stopped by a quick flowing stream running along the beach. Unable to find anywhere to cross I was forced to climb back up, which wasn't very elegant in big boots and a destabilising rucksack.

I soon found myself lost in a vast maze of sand dunes. Paths led all over the place with some having prickly gorse dead ends. Quickly confused, I slid down a sand chute to emerge on the beach and was soon making better progress, returning to the path when I reached the thin neck of the estuary. Although the opposite bank was in spitting distance, I had no choice but to use roads and bridges to get me there. Busy roads and industrial estates made this a little unpleasant but before long I was following hidden paths through steep vegetation and looking back at my morning's work.

Leaving the coast path to head to Tesco, I did one last big shop to keep me going to the finish line. The main road led into St Ives and I found a little B&B amongst the old fishing cottages and steep narrow streets. A little over twenty miles left, achievable in a single day, although the fact that I might just finish this thing hasn't sunk in yet.

Trenance to Porthtowan

2008-01-28T21:31:00.006Z

In the fresh sunshine of the morning I wandered into Newquay, past the long sweeping sands of Watergate Bay and Jamie Oliver's restaurant. As the sprawling town approaches, the coastline becomes more interesting with long thin golden coves and rocky headlands. Watching the waves roll in, I tried to work out what the tides were doing as my next obstacle, after endless roads where every house is a bed and breakfast, is the Gannel. There are a number of options for crossing the estuary, but the closer it is to high water, the further you have to walk (or maybe the wetter you'll get). Confident that I was looking at a low tide, I picked the easiest route that doesn't involve a ferry or private bridge, successfully crossing the seaweed coated structure and making fresh footsteps across the rippled sand.

Crossing the neck of the headland, the grassland and sandy soil led to huge dunes covered in prickly bushes. The path then loops around the military installations at Penhale Camp, above impressive caves, blowholes and foaming white water that I could watch for hours. I emerged at one end of an endless expanse of sand and followed it all the way to the town of Perranporth. It seemed to take forever to get anywhere, with no real landmarks on the huge canvas of sands, dunes, sky and sea.

The last part of the day had a slightly industrial feel with old tin mine workings littering the cliffs. I skirted around an airfield and ambled along a nice little path that contoured around the cliffs at about half height instead of the usual stroll along the top. Old stone chimneys, engine and winch houses made interesting diversions, as well as the few stream lined valleys. It's been another good day, although I am having disturbing daydreams about failing close to the finish line, maybe being run over on the road into Land's End. Although this has been a wonderful experience, the thought of starting all over again is worrying.

Tintagel to Trenance

2008-01-27T21:30:00.008Z

One of the things I'll have to give up when this journey is over is enjoying a full greasy English breakfast every day, or I'll end up unable to walk anywhere ever again. After another superb example this morning I set off into warm sunshine and blue skies.

The first stretch was described as one of the most challenging of the coast path by the guidebook, with seven deep and narrow valleys to cross, the last four in such quick succession that there is no chance to get your breath back. It ends up being a little disorientating as you jump between admiring the rock architecture of the cliffs while waves crash beside you, and wandering along the tops while looking down on the sandy bays far below. It is, however, pretty spectacular stuff, with sights such as the steep rock faces of 'The Mountain', isolated by landslips, and culminating in the first glimpses of the attractive twin fishing villages of Port Isaac and Port Gaverne.

After that, it was time to leave the coast path for a while, as it heads onwards to Rock to catch the ferry to Padstow. I managed to resist the temptations of the short cut offered by the boat, mainly because it wasn't running today. Rarely travelled paths across rolling fields took me southwards, and it was interesting to be once again struggling with hedges, fences, muddy streams and not always knowing where to go after the helpful wooden signposts of the national trail. Eventually Wadebridge was reached, which as the name suggests, allowed me to cross the estuary and get onto another handy disused railway bed.

Although this was busy with people taking advantage of the unseasonal weather, and despite managing a good pace, it seemed to take a long time to reach features I could see in the distance, cuttings through the rock, elegant thin metal bridges, the dark rich muds of the creeks as they joined the estuary and the sprawling houses of the town of Padstow. A couple of little footpaths provided short cuts across the forked headland and led to sand dunes and a return to the coast path. Easy walking along grassy cliff tops led past numerous little rocky coves and inlets, the landscape becoming wilder as you get further away from civilisation.

The sun was setting as I reached the famous Bedruthan Steps; the tall dark stacks had an imposing presence in the fading light. It was time to call it a day, and I asked about accommodation in the next pub I came across. I was directed up a steep hill and struggled to find the little hotel in the gloom. Today I've walked at least thirty three miles, a total that would have been daunting if I'd known this morning. With a pleasant ache in my legs and my ego massaged by the reactions of the other guests, I'm glad I did.

Widemouth Bay to Tintagel

2008-01-26T21:28:00.005Z

As the new day dawned, my journey along the coast path continued, and today everything ramped up a notch; the cliffs are higher, the coves more dramatic, the sandy bays more remote and enclosed and the sun shone with more intensity, setting later in a blaze of red sky. I wandered along happily, soaking it all up, no longer under any pressure to reach a particular destination. Even though a lot of the tourist infrastructure is closed at this time of winter, I know I will be able to find somewhere to sleep when the day has come its natural conclusion.

Steep gorges cut grooves in the impressive cliffs, ending in waterfalls that ran down the folded strata of the rock with seams of gleaming white quartz. The white houses of Cornish villages gathered next to narrow secluded bays, while the more isolated coves made you feel privileged to be enjoying this ever changing landscape. Approaching Boscastle, rounded slopes sit atop short steep cliffs. As I traversed the delicate greens and browns of the grassland on a thin path I could hear the seething waves pounding the rock invisibly beneath my feet. The natural harbour here is well protected by the curving jagged headland, white water roars high into the air on these rocks while the turquoise waters of the bay stay calm and pleasant.

The final delight before I decided to end the day was Rocky Valley, almost a Dove Dale in miniature with tiny crags and scarred by little gullies. The wooden footbridge at the bottom of this lush dale was a moment of peace before mingling with the tourists in Tintagel. I can't help but feel that these fantastic final days are going to make hanging up my boots difficult when the end of the country is reached.

Hartland Quay to Widemouth Bay

2008-01-25T21:27:00.006Z

Another perfect day on the coast path, taking me into the final county of the journey. The scenery was even more impressive than yesterday; skirting the rounded hill of St Catherine's Point, I watched waterfalls being blown upwards at Speke's Mill Mouth. There were high cliffs with extensive views down the coastline and steep secluded valleys that the path zigzagged into and back out of. Sometimes these zigzags lead out onto thin rocky peninsulas, where the waves gurgled and crashed beneath. Streams flowed out of hanging gorges and plunged down to rocks and foaming seas below. The landscape was constantly engaging, with something wonderful waiting over each hill. Time flew by.

The only blemishes were the huge satellite dishes of Cleave Camp, which would be elegant if they weren't surrounded by tall fences and warning notices, and the holiday parks and decaying hotels of Bude. The regular obstacles of the narrow valleys mean that I've climbed and descended more height than any other day so far, over five thousand feet. The trick seems to be to rest on the way down, then tackle the uphill in one push, since although steep, the cliffs are no more than five hundred or so feet high. If you give in to your aching calves and stop for a rest, it then turns into a bit of a struggle to finish the hill off.

The ever changing sea was a constant companion, and I never tired of looking out into the vast emptiness. It feels like you are approaching the very tip of the country as the coastline becomes more striking and scarred by weather and waves. This landscape is perfect for contemplation and in these final days (hopefully) I'm looking back and savouring what has gone before, while beginning to think about how I will readjust to normal life.

Bideford to Hartland Quay

2008-01-24T21:26:00.006Z

Fully rested and with good weather on the way I was eager to get going, just as soon as I'd tackled the momentous breakfast served up by the hotel. I picked a road heading out of town and kept going past the hospital, colleges, bunched up rows of terraced houses and finally the sprawling estates of detached properties before I was out amongst the rolling Devon countryside. Passing the Big Sheep, I wondered just how desperate tourists are to find something to do on a wet day, since obese livestock is enough is pack them in.

Country lanes took me back to the coast, completing the short cut I'd been taking across the headland. I turned left and followed the well made path through some of the most spectacular scenery I've encountered so far. Endlessly climbing and descending, I followed the edges of huge cliffs that look over rocky platforms and pools, past sandy bays, descended into gorges lined with rows of white houses and wandered across steep slopes covered in trees until I reached the little gem of Clovelly. This is a perfect Devon coastal village, clinging to the cliffs in the groove of a small brook. The cobbled high street is too steep for vehicles, and I watched the residents taking their shopping back home on wooden sledges.

It was time to cut across another headland. My focus is still on Land's End, so I won't be indulging in all the twists and turns of the coast path. This short cut took me into a peaceful wooded valley, through the small town of Hartland for supplies and then along a lane that varied between open fields and wooded dells beside streams. I felt the setting sun on my face I approached a hotel perched on huge boulders beneath the cliffs. As I look out the window to see waves crashing over the car park, it feels like I'm on holiday again.

Bratton Fleming to Bideford

2008-01-22T21:16:00.003Z

One of the many rivers with the name Yeo rises as a series of springs just north of Bratton Fleming, and I followed it all the way to where it enters the Taw estuary near Barnstaple. A sunken lane, shaded by trees, lead down into the little dale. After crossing the shallow waters, I entered the solitude of a wood, moving softly along a flat shelf cut into the steep slope and enclosed by the trees.

As the river grew in strength beneath me, paths through young plantations and rolling grass fields led back to roads and into Chelfham. The wooded dale is becoming more defined here and is dominated by the eight white arches of the largest narrow gauge viaduct in the country. Bridleways marked on the map climb completely out of the valley and then back down again, so a cheeky short cut along forestry tracks let me continue on my riverside walk.

The river began to slow and meander in a widening flood plain, while pleasant ambling took me through various sizes and shapes of woodland, down muddy tracks and eventually into the suburbs of Barnstaple. Here I met the South West Coast Path and followed it alongside the estuary on a disused railway bed. Once again, the loss of the railway network is a blessing for the long distance walker. The miles went quickly past as I stared out across the mudflats to the rolling farmland on the opposite coastline.

My destination seems to be full of workmen who have booked out the cheaper accommodation, so my rest day will be spent gathering strength for the final push while soaking up the luxury of the Royal Bideford. I will be on the coast path most of the way to Land's End, so all that remains is to keep the sea on the right and put one foot in front of the other.

Exford to Bratton Fleming

2008-01-21T21:14:00.001Z

Yesterday's hopes were quickly dashed. After following hoof-churned bridleways along the slopes of a small valley, I found myself getting wet while taking an arrow straight road back to the high moorland. I did my best to follow the vague grassy tracks while being blasted by shards of rain, swept along on a ferocious wind. It become almost impossible to see where I was going as my face and eyes were stung repeatedly by the vicious raindrops. The steep bracken filled valley of the River Exe provided a damp oasis for a while, before I returned to the exposed moors and another onslaught began.

The weather is beginning to grind me down, although some deranged shouting over the howling wind was useful for regaining motivation after each big gust. I was alone in the clouds, adrift in a remote and harsh landscape. There was a section along road before a thin footpath led to Exe Head, the source of the river. On a nicer day, I would probably be enjoying views of the north coast across the rolling heather, but this river heads in the other direction for fifty miles to meet the sea. A river after my own heart, doing things the hard way.

It wasn't raining quite as hard when I reached Pinkery Pond, but the cold wind and my sodden clothing had chilled me to the bone. Attempting to pinkle meant a lot of fumbling with frozen fingers and zips. Time to leave the high ground. My escape followed walls and lines of trees before little lanes took over. A planned shortcut and break from the tarmac was obstructed by biosecurity measures, but for the final miles I was in a completely single minded mode, focused only on the destination. It has been an exhausting day, and I have promised myself a day off when I reach the thousand mile mark.

Roadwater to Exford

2008-01-20T08:37:00.007Z

Leaving Roadwater on a lane nestling alongside the River Washford was the only time I would be dry all day. The rain started as I used a forestry track to climb steeply out of the dale, with the usual soft mat of pine needles to cushion my feet. The trees sheltered me from the worst of the precipitation, although not from getting sweaty. Exposed to the elements when I emerged from the woods, the wind spat raindrops at me as I continued uphill, through grassy fields and then awkwardly alongside a flooded track.

I gained some respite in the form of a pleasant muddy path that followed a stream through woods, before I resumed upward progress and crossed the rounded summit plateau of Lype Hill. After I passed through the last remaining line of trees, the rain blasting past coated me in sheets of cold water; droplets ran down my face and soaked me from the inside out. There was no escape and I became increasing frustrated by the drenching. By the time I had battled the wind to reach the trig point I was shouting obscenities at the sky. After almost a thousand miles on the trail, I'm perhaps not the most mentally balanced person anymore.

Things improved slightly as I crossed a road and headed downhill, but it was still unpleasant to be cold and wet with plenty of miles still to go. As I reached Wheddon Cross I had to choose between a busy road or a path that takes in the highest point on Exmoor. I decided on the path, at least the scenery would be more interesting.

I followed the River Anvil though a wooded valley, crossing the few swollen tributaries easily thanks to my already sodden feet. A steep climb took me into the clouds and onwards to Dunkery Beacon at 519m. I followed tracks across the high moorland, meeting only school children forced outside on this wet and windy day by the Duke of Edinburgh. I was getting used to being damp as I descended into Exford, and my occasional bouts of shouting were peppered with phrases like "come on then", as well as the usual abuse. The weather gods had failed to defeat me today. Eventually finding my accommodation after a quick phone call, they luckily also had a stable so were used to filthy creatures who had been stomping around the moors all day. Hope the weather improves soon.

Bridgwater to Roadwater

2008-01-19T08:47:00.009Z

Through persistent drizzle I've walked all day to end up further north than where I started. Although this might sound like a step backwards on a John O'Groats to Land's End journey, west is the new south.

I left Bridgwater on tarmac; tightly packed council houses slowly decaying into a country lane as I wandered past. After getting very confused in a farmyard where four paths meet, I eventually managed to cross a few soggy fields to rejoin the roads and pass through some lovely little villages. It required a long climb to enter the Quantock Hills, an area of outstanding natural beauty, but it was worth it to return to a landscape of grassy slopes, tumbling brooks, open heathland and large pine woods after the flatlands that have been dampening my spirits over the last few days.

Fine misty rain was being blown in on a fresh breeze as I escaped onto footpaths, my natural habitat. The miles flew by; dropping into a muddy farmyard, descending a small valley to cross a tiny stream, climbing steep fields to ever greater heights, ambling along tracks through woodland and finally emerging onto open moorland on the main ridge. Up there visibility was a matter of metres, although what I could see seemed suitably wild and there were plenty of people following the crest to the highest part of this range of hills. Far too soon, it was time to stop heading towards the Bristol Channel and tumble down a bracken filled gully.

The rest of the day mainly followed roads, but there were some little shortcuts, such as the delightful path along a babbling brook at Crowcombe Bridge or the old lane being reclaimed by prickly vegetation. The route linked a number of wonderfully named villages nestled in the low hills; the Roald Dahl-esque Stogumber, the potential treasure trove of Monksilver and finally Roadwater.

I have now entered Exmoor national park and it feels like the final straight. Only fantastic walking, across high moorland and along dramatic cliffs, remains.

Cheddar to Bridgwater

2008-01-18T21:21:00.007Z

Setting off into the Somerset Levels, past the huge round bowl of Cheddar Reservoir, my world consisted of drainage channels, pumping stations and incredible quantities of mud; the land often only a handful of metres above sea level.

After crossing the river Axe, I found a rare hill, rising to the majestic height of 58m. There were wide views of the wetlands, under a big and complex sky, but soon the little used paths became very difficult to follow. Without stiles and therefore my usual way of finding the right route, I passed through fields until I lost any sense of where I was. I gave up trying to match the walls and fences to the lines on the map and wandered along in roughly the right direction, crossing streams and clambering through lines of trees.

I slowly lost height to reach a track, then back onto the Levels proper, with endless long straight lanes to numb the mind and make the soles (or souls) of my feet tingle. Desperate for some variation, I took to the fields when they weren't flooded as well as some muddy tracks, but soon faced another stretch along roads. A short cut across fields followed by an exciting scramble down an embankment lead to a tiny section of dismantled railway. More hard tarmac followed and a crossing of the huge King's Sedgemoor Drain, which just manages to be beautiful due to its size and directness. I refused to be tempted by invisible paths indicated by wooden signposts, and ended up on a pavement next to a main road and a long march into the centre of Bridgwater. An unmemorable day but another bite taken out of the remaining miles.

Yatton to Cheddar

2008-01-17T20:05:00.002Z

The aching of my muscles made me feel like a rest, and a little wander along an old railway line and over the low hills of the Mendips fitted the bill perfectly.

The railway in question was the old Strawberry Line; now a gently curving path with views across the plains to the towns of Yatton and Congresbury. Before long, I had covered half the distance to Cheddar, and after passing through a cider orchard I decided to leave the fast track and chose a longer route through the hills.

With no time pressures, I picked paths at random from the myriad wandering around the limestone ramparts of the hill fort on grassy Dolebury Warren. Dropping off the ridge, the number of paths meant I only had a vague idea of where I really was. Thinking I had helped a map-less runner find her way home, I soon realised the path we had both chosen wasn't going where I expected and hoped I wouldn't see her coming back towards me. I couldn't face her realising I wasn't the proficient walker I seemed to be.

It was a long and enjoyable climb, through heather and thin yellow grasses, to the summit of Black Down, with the views you'd expect from a hill surrounded by so many flatlands. This was followed by a leisurely, although sometimes muddy, descent into Cheddar. It was far too early to get into my room for the night and settle into a hot bath, but the next best thing was to sit in the pub as the rain began to fall outside, especially as I hadn't felt a drop all day.

So it was almost a perfect day, although it does make me wonder whether people who take this trek at a more leisurely pace might have the right idea.

Severn View to Yatton

2008-01-16T19:56:00.010Z

Today I spent approximately nine and a half hours moving my legs about, mostly with the added bonus of wet feet on the end of them. The heavy mileage was largely due to a lack of bed and breakfasts, but also because I wanted to escape the tentacles of Bristol, the council estates and commuter villages that radiate from the city.

With this in mind, it was very early when I tucked into the continental breakfast that had been deposited outside my room. The world felt peaceful as I strolled through the pretty village of Aust and along grassy tracks in the dim early morning light. Pathless fields followed, proving that even if people have been given the legal right to walk across wet fields near a motorway, it doesn't mean anyone actually does. After passing through a farmyard, provoking the usual vicious barking (from the dogs, not the farmer) I emerged onto a small lane. Then things went belly-up, and I'm not referring to setting off in the wrong direction, although that did happen.

Suddenly there was water as far as I could see, filling the shallow depression of the lane and forming a neat lake between the hedgerows. I made little progress trying to cling onto the prickly vegetation and decided to stride confidently through it, causing a line of waves to roll across the calm surface of the newly formed pond. Liberated from trying to keep my feet dry, I could splash through the floods for the rest of the day.

Crossing the motorway, small roads took me into Easter Compton and then a climb up onto a muddy hill with reasonable views across the flatlands. Another motorway to cross and then into suburban Bristol, not the long distance walker's natural habitat. Luckily Andy Robinson's End to End book offers hope in a green corridor that follows a small ridge; much nicer despite being covered in slow moving dog walkers. After another section of housing estate, it was time to join a footpath that shares the motorway bridge across the River Avon. Noisy and unpleasant, the only views were of a muddy estuary and huge industrial estate.

After slowly working my way through Easton-in-Gordano I followed a complicated series of paths, which were often muddy and sometimes almost impossible to find. I made sure I was careful when navigating across the playing fields of an isolated school, especially since I was wearing the modern equivalent of a macintosh. The visual highlight came when I gained enough height to see the whole of the Bristol Channel laid out before me.

Time was moving on, so I abandoned the footpaths for an exclusive road plastered with warnings of security cameras, protecting the huge houses hidden in the woods. Appearing out of the trees at the hill fort of Cadbury Camp, I looked down over a vast flat plain, criss crossed with straight drainage channels and shallow pools of water that had formed on the grassy fields. I descended to follow these drainage channels, the banks of which at least rose above the flooding, but there was a lot of crossing other drainage ditches involved.

Lastly, a very straight and boring road took me through the setting of the sun and well into the evening before I reached the north end of Yatton, the much anticipated destination. Bristol was the last urban challenge of my route, just beautiful countryside to come.

Bigsweir to Severn View

2008-01-15T19:54:00.002Z

While I tucked into another full English breakfast this morning, a week's worth of rain was falling. Putting off leaving my warm and dry accommodation for as long as possible, I ventured onto the Hotel's exclusive path, which led back to the main trail. Luckily, after slogging along the dark wet road last night, it would be a relatively relaxed day.

After clambering out of the valley on steep slippery zigzags through the trees, I was soon following thin lanes and heading down small enclosed paths. Rainwater tumbled down these alleyways as they wound their way between dozens of small fields. There was no alternative but to splash along these streams and get wet.

A steep climb followed, due to crossing a small tributary, and then everything improved as I entered a large ditch. Archaeological experts (or people who can read labels on the map) will tell you these are the remains of King Offa's Dyke. Despite this ancient boundary lending its name to the long distance trail I have been following, the ditch had been absent since my first day on the path.

The rain began to clear as the Dyke took a commanding position at the top of the heavily wooded slopes of the Wye. Through the trees, there were expansive views along this steep valley that holds the ever widening and now tidal river. The striking jagged ruins of Tintern Abbey slowly emerged from the mists in a beautiful and mysterious way. Every now and again there were glimpses of the tall limestone cliffs beneath me. The path sensibly cut across the neck of a huge meander and then wandered behind people's back gardens, as the surroundings became increasingly urban into Chepstow.

A large Tesco was a good excuse to stock up on cakes, before a long walk through an endless estate to reach the motorway and the old Severn Bridge. Compared with my memories of the Forth Road Bridge, it seemed like a poor and rusty imitation, but both represent significant milestones. This is the end of the Welsh adventure, five memorable days of both real challenge and captivating beauty. It feels like a lifetime. I have reached the south west peninsula, the beginning of the final chapter of the walk.

Pandy to Bigsweir

2008-01-14T20:10:00.004Z

Last night, the girl behind the bar had warned me about this next stretch of Offa's Dyke. Apparently, someone had counted sixty-three stiles between Pandy and Monmouth and my destination lay even further away.

Rain was falling as I tucked into my breakfast, but as soon as it cleared I got down to work finding my way across the endless fields. Most of the time was spent scrutinising the map for little navigational clues, the thin blue squiggles of streams or the solid black lines of hedges or fences, then hauling my awkward pack over each newly discovered stile. I can't pretend I'll remember much of the scenery, but the green hills were pleasant enough.

At the well preserved White Castle, the path loops around the ruins and water filled moat so the traveller can appreciate them from every angle. I must be getting fond of the Offa's Dyke Path as I followed it all the way round instead of cutting across. As I continued down narrow lanes and alongside rivers of various sizes, the defining feature of the day was what was under my feet. The ground was completely saturated, resulting in huge quantities of mud where animals had roamed or large shallow lakes on any flat ground. Wet feet were inevitable.

Eventually I took a lovely path over a wooded hill and then residential roads into Monmouth. It felt like a natural place to end the day but I wanted to break out of the traditional itinerary and make sure I had time to cross the Bristol Channel tomorrow. Crossing my old companion the Wye once again, the climb out of the town was steep, long and sweaty. I rested a moment at the Kymin naval temple, looking across the landscape I had spent hours stuggling across. It was then an easy stroll downhill, on sheltered paths, to return to the riverside.

With darkness falling, and with my accommodation off the main path, I decided to follow the A road for the rest of the way. It turned out to be many more miles, while rain began to fall in greater quantities and cars forced me into the verge. The river was an angry brown, full of debris and spilling out onto the fields. The riverside route is no longer an option for tomorrow, but hopefully the flooding won't cause me any more serious problems than that.

Hay-on-Wye to Pandy

2008-01-13T08:25:00.002Z

Described on a map, today's stretch of Offa's Dyke looks almost perfect. The path takes the crest of a long ridge which rises to just over 2300ft, with the promise of magnificent views and after the initial ascent, rapid progress southwards. Hay Bluff forms the rounded end of the ridge and looks down benevolently on the little town of Hay-on-Wye. Yesterday it was clearly iced with snow, but this morning I only had memories as cloud shrouded its current state in mystery.

Following a well travelled path and soon gaining height, the blustery gusts I had noticed in town grew to form a constant and strong wind. After climbing steeply through a wood, I emerged on a grassy plateau that spread out from the base of the bluff. The wind swept down these treeless slopes and blasted me with incredible force. I could hear nothing but roaring as it rushed past and struggled to make upward progress. I began to consider alternatives to the exposed ridge, which seemed a bit daft.

For some reason I kept going, ignoring a path into the valley that runs alongside. After rounding the nose of the hill, the wind began to ease slightly and I took the opportunity to rest a little before I headed up onto the ridge and all hell broke loose. Reaching the crest, it was more like a boggy plateau and I could follow the flagstones in the disorientating clouds. The wind knocked me about constantly, many times off the path which I then had to fight my way back onto, but I was able to walk roughly where I wanted to go. In this world of drifting whiteness and occasional stinging showers, the presence of such a powerful, noisy and invisible force was unnerving.

Although the flagstones disappeared in places and I had to pick my way through the bog, I found my way to the summit cairn. It was all downhill from here. After some time I dipped down under the clouds and got a taste of the views that make this part of the world so special. On the Welsh side, peaty ridges rose to impressive heights and hid narrow green valleys, while the English side is a blanket of fields and trees that stretches into the distance. After many hours with the wind as a constant companion, I was becoming more comfortable with the situation and was glad I hadn't chickened out earlier.

The ridge went on for many more miles, and I used the trig points and cross paths to judge my progress. It also became much narrower, with one particular section being a little bit exciting as I couldn't let the wind deposit me too far to the side. The more I descended, the more the wind began to ease, until I dropped off the ridge itself to wander through the remains of a hill fort. Lanes led down to the valley, before I followed a main road through the very strung out village of Pandy to find an inn.

Settling down to a pint, I slowly adjusted to the lack of noise, although it'll take a while for the ruddy glow to leave my wind scoured cheeks. As the landlord said, “that should have blown out a few cobwebs”.

Kington to Hay-on-Wye

2008-01-12T19:16:00.006Z

The storm moved away overnight and I woke to a peaceful and frosty world. After putting on my reasonably dry clothes, I took a small lane out of town and headed for the old racecourse that encircles the summit of Hergest Ridge. As I climbed, far reaching views revealed themselves; green valleys and snowy hills illuminated by the pure winter sun and in the distance the dark mass of the Black Mountains.

I couldn't help but feel my mood lifting as I followed the signposts and acorn symbols across hills covered in fields and bare open ridges. Yesterday's nightmare is a distant memory now. I guess the sunshine finds a way into your soul (never expected to be thinking soppy things like that). Small lanes lead to the magical wooded dell of Bettws Dingle, where I found a soft path through the trees and looked down over a tumbling brook. Emerging at the bottom, a wide river dominates the landscape. It was a simple matter to follow it upstream into the tourist filled town of Hay-on-Wye.

It was only early afternoon and I had the unusual luxury of a bit of time to look around this pleasant town. After a grand day out in the hills, I'm refreshed and ready for whatever the Dyke is going to throw at me next.

Leintwardine to Kington

2008-01-11T21:07:00.003Z

Two days of relaxation. Lazy days that were not merely guilty pleasures, but necessary in order to gather strength and continue this journey (or maybe just a good excuse to spend more time in bed). After this, setting off again was a brutal reawakening to just how hard walking the length of the country in winter can be.

It started innocently enough, finding a route across the waterlogged grassy fields that form the floodplain of the River Teme. I worked my way across more green fields, took tracks across steep wooded slopes and followed lanes through villages as I headed for the Welsh border. Drizzle grew to heavy rain, blown in on a strong wind, and the wetness began to overwhelm my waterproof clothing. This continued for several hours through the pleasantly lush and gently undulating landscape until I entered the third country of this walk and the town of Knighton.

Here I joined the Offa's Dyke Path, which I found climbing steeply out of the town in a small wood, and followed as it skirted a golf course to reach the crest of the hill. As I gained height the rain turned into soggy snowflakes, which coated fences and began to slowly colour the fields in white, a broad brush stroke starting from the lee side. Leaving the shelter of the trees, the wind was bitterly cold. Many stiles lay ahead, each marked with the acorn symbol, but eventually I emerged on a road. Fighting to keep warm, I ducked into a bus shelter for a few moments of relief. Eating a few muffins, each movement reminded me of my damp clothing. I wrung out my hat and gloves, casting my mind forward to the end of the day and away from this unpleasantness.

It was time to move on, although I doubted whether I was being particularly rational at that moment, the past forty two days of effort compelling me to keep going. The snow covered the fields in increasing depths and camouflaged the trees to the white of the rest of the landscape. Visibility dropped, the usual landmarks and the footsteps of previous travellers disappeared and the blizzard blew flakes into my eyes. The shallow ditch of the Dyke took the crest of the hill and offered no shelter. Eventually I descended to a tiny hamlet and a green valley.

The path was easy to follow over the hills and I began to grow in confidence, no longer intimidated by the aggression of the weather. As darkness fell I struggled to find the way through a farm and wondered how long it would take me to navigate over the tricky final hill. So I returned to the road and followed a small lane. Here I got into a rhythm and detuned my mind from the red rashes my wet trousers were rubbing into my thighs, something I hadn't had to deal with since Scotland.

Finally I took to the verges of a busy road, and trudged in the rain as cars illuminated my dishevelled form. I found a room in the first inn I came across and slowly began to dry out. It's tempting to think that after the wilds of the north, and with large proportion of the distance already walked, I faced only an easy romp in increasing daylight to Lands End but this journey still holds some tough challenges.

Upper Affcot to Leintwardine

2008-01-08T20:56:00.002Z

After a series of tough days and with an increasingly broken body, it was comforting to know I was only a short distance away from a cosy cottage in a peaceful village where I could sit by the fire and put my feet up. Ambling along, and when I wasn't getting wet, I had a bit more time to take in my surroundings and appreciate some of those little details I tend to miss when I'm pushing hard to reach some far off destination.

I followed a small river through soft pastures and between trees to reach Craven Arms where I could stock up on vital supplies (such as deep heat, which I'm rubbing into my legs in excessive quantities at the moment). After passing under the railway line, I crossed a field to a copse where I clumsily negotiated a newly fallen tree, before steep grassy fields climbed up to a wood covered cone that formed the top of the hill. Rain was driven in on a forceful wind to add drama as I skirted the forest of swaying branches and reached the top of View Edge.

Crossing a patchwork of fields my boots occasionally gained a thick layer of mud as some were either waterlogged or freshly ploughed. Under roaming angry clouds, the scenery was varied and kept my interest. A woman doing a crime survey became the only person I would meet in the hills today, while an overgrown hedge on a rarely used path became the only real physical challenge.

Soon I could look down on the village of Leintwardine, a cluster of houses in the valley below. My path joined lanes that lead to the little cottage, where I gathered wood for the coming rest days.

Ironbridge to Upper Affcot

2008-01-07T15:44:00.004Z

The limestone escarpment of Wenlock Edge flows like a wave across woods and open fields. Its distinctive shape graces the water bottles back in the office I spend my working days in; a life I can barely remember. Today it provides an obvious route for approaching the Welsh border.

With all the potential accommodation options along the Edge closed for the winter, I set out knowing that I would have to tackle the whole thing in one go, despite continuing leg pains and the strong winds that were forecast. At breakfast I tried to avoid the various colds in the room as the news talked about the winter vomiting bug that was taking hold of the country. Avoiding these viruses is essential if I am to complete the walk and return in time to resume my job in that faraway office.

Crossing the wide iron span of the famous bridge, a faint rumbling became louder as I headed upstream. Through the trees I began to make out the tall concrete expanses of cooling towers. Torrents of water were falling into troughs at the base of these majestic structures; an impressive sight.

A number of paths up the hill looked reasonable; I followed the buzzard shaped waymarks since they seemed to know where they were going. This took me to the pleasant little town of Much Wenlock, where I got lost. Soon realising I wasn't on the Edge, I cut back to the ridge and was soon strolling in light drizzle past a large quarry with a bright blue lake.

I then chose to follow an old railway line that runs along the bottom of the woods, which offered the promise of easier miles. Returning to the top when this was no longer practical, I became aware of another wooded wave rearing up behind the one I was riding the crest of. After the flatlands, the dramatic scenery was inspiring and certainly took my mind off the rain showers, the trees protecting me from the worst of the wind.

Following the Edge was now fairly simple, as I slowly got damper from the rain and from negotiating the huge pools of mud horses had churned up. It was also a lot further that I thought and I was relieved to drop off the edge down a huge sunken mud slide and cross grassy fields in the fading light to a roadside inn. A deep bath was a luxurious surprise as I relaxed in anticipation of easier days to come.

Penkridge to Ironbridge

2008-01-06T17:34:00.002Z

It was a day of big skies and endless flat countryside, observed from many miles of roadside verges, an incredibly muddy track and a few little used paths across fields. As expected, yesterday's injury meant my legs ached constantly. The muscles would seize up during breaks and I would set off again using a complicated and awkward gait as I tried to remember the least painful sequence to make progress. A bystander wouldn't have expected me to make across the next field. Slowly, as my pace picked up, I would get into a rhythm and start to ignore these problems, at least until the next time I fancied a rest.

So, you might expect that today was a day to be endured rather than enjoyed, but actually I was pretty happy throughout. This may have been because, with the sun on my face, it felt pleasantly warm for a change, or because miles are more easily won on the road and I could feel progress being made, or maybe just because I was leaving the unpleasant farmland of Staffordshire behind and could almost see the hills of Wales on the far horizon.

In the cool breeze of the morning, I took a small lane out of Penkridge to follow paths along fields boundaries. These unexpectedly took me to the small hidden nature reserve at Bickford, where duckboards conveyed me smoothly across the tranquil wetlands. I left the Staffordshire Way at a bridge over the Shropshire Union Canal, taking minor paths to a reasonably busy road. Some miles later I was able transfer to the Monarch's Way, which used a track running parallel to the road about a field's length away. This was lovely and peaceful in places and an inescapable mud flow in others. The extra effort was a price worth paying to avoid the road for a couple of miles, particularly as the tarmac became more unavoidable later on.

The afternoon featured the noise of a motocross event, many more lanes and a small bit of wandering across fields. Approaching Telford, the road cut through the grounds of a grand house and outside a walled garden was a large flat tree stump, which I gladly parked myself on. This was a moment to be savoured. Full of endorphins from hours of effort and with the sun shining, I had almost reached my destination and I allowed myself to just rest and take it all in. Eventually I headed down into the steep valley of the River Severn and followed a cycle track until I could cross the famous Ironbridge. Picking the first B&B I could see, I relaxed and said goodbye to a tough but gratifying day.

Uttoxeter to Penkridge

2008-01-05T21:53:00.006Z

The main crop of Staffordshire is mud, with acres and acres of fields producing the stuff. The Staffordshire Way takes in as much of the sludge farming as possible, while making sharp turns every few hundred metres to obliterate any sense of direction, giving the impression of being lost in a sea of oozing muck. Stiles and a handful of waymarks make it reasonably easy to follow, apart from the odd occasion where I reached a blank corner in a field before realising I was supposed to pop through a tiny gap in the hedgerow half way along.

Some respite from all this was found in a section of open parkland surrounded by forest, as well as when passing through the pleasant town of Abbots Bromley and the linear village of Colton. Blithfield Reservoir initially looked like it might add some interest to the landscape, but the wide expanse of water soon disappeared as I passed beneath the long low dam. My general frustration was not improved by the wide loop required in order to avoid a small section of track that is forbidden to walkers because it passes a boat house.

After what seemed like a hundred more fields, I joined the towing path of the Trent and Mersey Canal. The smell of wood smoke from the stoves of the canal boats took me back to the bothies of the north, and I felt envious of their tranquil lifestyle. A long bridge took me away from shallow waters to the heather and bracken covered lumps of Channock Chase. Following the wide paths that criss cross this beauty spot I looked completely out of place with my heavy pack and sticks, being surrounded by families on afternoon strolls, although I was possibly more prepared for the hail showers that spoilt an otherwise peaceful day.

The Staffordshire Way returned to farmland and led to the Staffordshire and Worcestershire Canal. Initially overhung by trees and passing under old stone bridges, this turns from quaint to industrial when it is forced under the M5 in a wide low concrete tunnel. On these final miles, the usual aches and pains were a bit more vocal than usual and I began to hobble. It may have been a mistake to attempt these long days straight after the Christmas break and I'll admit to feeling nervous about tomorrow's mileage.

Milldale to Uttoxeter

2008-01-04T16:56:00.007Z

The reward for yesterday's effort was to wander down the southern end of Dovedale before breakfast, the tranquility undisturbed by the usual crowds. Here, the wide river slows and grows deeper, passing though woods before being enclosed by steep grassy banks marked by isolated trees and streaked by chutes of stones. Tall spires of limestone and huge caverns dominate the absorbing scenery. After crossing the stepping stones, I passed the distinctive peak of Thorpe Cloud and followed the river as it left the valley for fertile farmland.

Muddy paths led to a large stone bridge, whose impressive arches used to carry an important coach route but now only see farm traffic. A steep climb took me away from the River Dove and into a maze of small fields. This was slow going as I tried to judge where to find each rotting stile in the hedgerows, navigating mainly by the shape of each field and thereby working out which piece of the jigsaw I was standing on. After Swinscoe, the number of paths multiplied and I had the additional problem of finding the correct stiles.

I followed a barely used path into a wooded dale, branches tearing at my face and catching on my backpack as I fought to stop myself sliding down the steep mud bank. After negotiating my way past some steep drops over the babbling brook, I was relieved to be back in open fields. The next section alongside that same brook followed a track leading into more woodland. This was much more pleasant, despite degenerating into a muddy morass in places and requiring careful stone and branch hopping.

Here my route joined the Limestone Way, although I took to the road through Ellastone for a bit of respite from the mud. This took me back alongside the River Dove before more tricky fields to Rocester. Approaching the town, the huge flat mass of the JCB factory was almost too much to take in, a industrial mirage shimmering on the shores of a lake.

I transferred to the Staffordshire Way, which sticks to the edge of the wide flood plain while the river disappears and reappears on tight meanders. I was beginning to struggle to see the paths in the fading light and a muddy field crossing where huge clods of earth stuck to my boots, making every step hard work, did not improve my mood. I crossed under a dual carriageway in an underpass made for dwarves and escaped the jaws of an angry dog at The Willows with a quick leap over a stile. An industrial estate followed, and as I had no desire for more muddy and torturous footpaths I took to the roads as it began to rain. It didn't take long before I was happy to pack it in for the day and got the van to park up at the next suitable spot just outside Uttoxeter. After a lovely start, most of the day was something to forget (probably shouldn't have written about it then).

Sheffield to Milldale

2008-01-03T19:10:00.008Z

After problems finding accommodation for last night and with a vague hope of saving money by upping the daily mileages, today has found itself a day later than planned (if that's not too confusing). Reversing the route of many days ago to the mud waves of Totley Moss, it was nice to find it frozen and covered with a thin coating of snow. This made my escape from the city a little bit easier.

Like many other days on the trek this was a day of two halves, although this time I'm referring to the geology rather than the fact I had lunch in the middle of it. The first half consisted of the rough gritstone edges of the Dark Peak, a couple of which provided obvious routes southwards. I strode along the top of these outcrops of huge rounded boulders as they looked over misty field lined valleys, before descending to the well kept grounds of Chatsworth House. Passing strolling families I then headed up and over the hill to the famous town of Bakewell. Growing up in Sheffield, I had often thought of wandering out here to buy an authentic pudding, but there were always more accessible treats.

After climbing steeply out of the town using cut-throughs between rows of houses, I entered the second half of the day, the limestone plains and deep valleys known as the White Peak. Shallow grooves in the grass led through fields bounded by white dry stone walls to the pleasant wooded dale of the River Bradford. All too soon it was time to climb back out again and take a quiet lane for several miles to the busy A515. My aim was to join the Tissington Trail, another old railway line that has become a popular long distance cycle route, but there were no obvious paths marked on the map and walking alongside the main road would be unpleasant. Luckily, while planning this trek, I had trained satellites to spy on an obvious track that went exactly where I wanted. It was still a relief not to encounter any gates or irate farmers and reach legal ground again.

Darkness was falling as I followed the frustrating loops of the snaking railway and after spotting the lights of the small village of Biggin, I headed down the embankment and clumsily made my way across fields into the village. Although it was now night time, I wanted to make the most of my well rested muscles and decided to head down into Dovedale. After all it should be impossible to get lost in a narrow steep sided valley, even with the gloom.

Following a grassy filled empty valley down to the river, and spending some time being trapped the wrong side of a wall, I don't think I had realised how far it was going to be before I reached the village of Milldale. Time ticked by and while I could sense the steep limestone crags and slopes that surrounded me, my world was the beam of my head torch. The loneliness was interrupted by a couple of dog walkers, illuminated collars seeming to glide randomly around the valley bottom, hovering a couple of feet above the ground.

Eventually a road was reached and then a painfully steep lane to a car park and a night in the van. Not including breaks I walked for around ten and a half hours and covered the biggest daily mileage so far. Although I am completely and utterly knackered, there is something quite satisfying about this.

Ladybower to Sheffield

2007-12-24T21:48:00.001Z

“I'm walking home for Christmas
Oh, I cant wait to see those faces
I'm walking home for Christmas, yeah
Well I'm moving down that path
And it's been so long
But I will be there
I sing this song
To pass the time away
Trudging in the mud
Walking home for Christmas”

Crossing the mighty Ladybower dam, which holds back the waters of what was once the largest reservoir in the country, took me to the Derwent Valley Heritage Way. This initially runs along an old railway line before taking to the banks of the River Derwent itself; the thin strip of land marked out for the path worryingly disappearing into the water at times. This is rambling country, and the network of paths that criss-cross the area were heavy with traffic, making finding the necessary solitude to empty my bladder particularly difficult.

After solving this problem, I abandoned the line of purple waymarks to find a way through to Grindleford, where my dad would shortly be arriving on the train. We would then tackle the last few miles into Sheffield together. The brutal climb out of the valley up onto Totley Moss was a tough warm up, but crossing the moor on tracks gorged by army vehicles and trail bikes was even more difficult, requiring negotiating steep waves of mud and deep dirty pools of water. The only features are the huge earth submarines that hide ventilation shafts for the railway tunnel deep underneath. After this introduction, I doubt my dad will want to join me on any more of the trek.

Lanes and suburban streets quickly and surprisingly emerge from the bleak moorland to lead back to my old home. Now I have a good chunk of time to get into the festive spirit, to eat enough cakes to return to my pre John O' Groats weight, to reproof my gear and let my body do some repairs. My focus for the last few weeks has been on getting here in time for the festivities, but when I hit the trail again I will have Land's End in my sights. With over half the distance already walked, it actually looks like it might be possible.

Holmfirth to Ladybower

2007-12-23T10:21:00.008Z

As I left Holmfirth by the steep lanes that wind their way uphill between cosy stone cottages, the townspeople enjoyed a traditional Sunday lie-in. A frosty and peaceful morning. To avoid walking along a main road, I followed further narrow lanes as they strenuously climbed the ridge between the rivers Ribble and Holme, then dropped into the Ribble valley and climbed out the other side. A few hundred meters of overgrown paths offered some respite from the tarmac before the lanes led on to Winscar reservoir.

The dam itself is impressively steep, high and hopefully no longer leaky. I had planned to follow a zig-zagging path that the map hinted might offer a short cut but found myself wandering along Broad Hill Bank with nothing obvious to take me to the bottom. Knowing how damaged my ego would be if I retraced my steps, I headed straight down the bank, luckily staying on my feet, and quickly nipped through someone's driveway to end up at Dunford Bridge.

This village is at one end of the lengthy Woodhead tunnels, the railway line having gone under the popular transformation of becoming a cycle route. While strolling along this I started to see people out enjoying the last Sunday before Christmas and there were plenty of people about for the rest of the day. I cut across fields to the forests around Langsett Reservoir and then up onto high and remote moorland. Now it was mainly fell runners that were passing by, making me feel unfit as I hauled myself up. The path is cut out of the peat, offering a unique lower view of the moor (the perspective of a grouse maybe).

I followed a small stream that dropped steeply to meet the northern tip of the Derwent reservoirs, famous for being the training ground of the dambusters. I was back in a familiar environment, as many of my childhood days were spent biking around these shores. The track alongside the water is easy, long and popular. Finishing the walking before the light ran out was a nice surprise but something that might become more common as the days lengthen and I head even further south.

White House to Holmfirth

2007-12-21T15:36:00.004Z

Today I passed through the now familiar southern Pennine landscapes of peat moors, gritstone edges and small reservoirs. I would describe the views, described as extensive and inspiring, but the mist hadn't shifted and I spent most of the day enveloped in my own little white bubble.

The first task was to find my way to the Aiggin Stone, a 600 year old guidepost that, as I found out, is still a useful waymark. From there I followed Blackstone Edge where the waves of eroded black peat kept me on the wide grit pavement. Various rounded and unusual rock formations drifted in and out of my dream-like sphere of vision, as well as the majestic white trig point.

I picked what looked like the most used path, which led to a bridge that soars over the M62, luckily exactly where I wanted to be. The elegant arch faded to white in front of me and I could just make out the lights of the traffic below. After a busy layby filled with truckers buying their breakfast from a greasy van, I tackled a section of even-more-featureless-than-usual moorland. I doubt I will remember anything from this stretch. My only concerns were keeping track of the path and avoiding tackling the bog directly .

After crossing another arterial road, linking northern industrial towns, I enjoyed more moor and another edge which provided an occasional rock buttress for interest. Then I was back amongst a series of small reservoirs, whose lack of presence at one point meant I noticed today's navigational slip-up (there's usually at least one) and didn't end up several miles out of the way in Marsden. This was followed by a steep descent into a lush green valley to cross a river and a lovely slow climb back out that looked over the Wassenden Reservoirs. On reaching the top road, the mist evaporated and I was bathed in sunshine, the world floating on a fluffy sea under a clear blue sky. Must be a sign that I'm back in Yorkshire.

It was time to part with the Pennine Way, a companion of the last couple of hundred miles and provider of acommodation for long distance walkers (i.e. filthy frugal types), signposts to take away the faff of navigating and some fantastic scenery. I think I'll miss it. So, instead of making the ascent up Black Hill, I was heading down into Holmfirth, initially on pleasant tracks by Digley reservoir and then on tarmac and pavements into the town centre. Christmas is in full swing here; panoramas of stars hang over the brightly lit shops. I'll be spending tomorrow here to try and get into the festive spirit, by which I mean eating a lot of very nice but not very healthy food.

Cowling to White House

2007-12-20T21:05:00.004Z

Another dawn start, although these days this doesn’t mean getting up early. After gaining height in grassy fields I headed straight up onto the moors. The Pennine Way skirts the moor, passing a number of wooden shacks that would have been very tempting if I had passed by last night. A ruined stone barn points to a thin path that strikes out across the moor. I had faith that this would deliver me to the other side and not into the depths of some remote peat grough. Occasionally disorientated by the lack of features amongst the bilberry, heather and long grass, it was reassuring to find lines of Pennine mill flagstones improving the boggier sections.

Eventually a wall joins alongside and a steep and direct descent to the shores of Pondon reservoir is required. After a small climb to join a track looking over the water, the signposts begin to get Japanese translations. This is Brontë country. After revisiting the shoreline, the Way heads quickly uphill to visit the ruins of Top Withens, famous for bearing no resemblance to Wuthering Heights. From here the day repeated the theme of crossing moors and strolling along the shores of reservoirs. On Heptonstall moor the sheer number of paths was confusing and I’ll admit to losing the proper line of the Way.

The afternoon provided a chance to stretch my tiring limbs with a couple of steep valleys. The first is merely a warm up, descending to use a small bridge across a stream, while industrial Calderdale is impressive in its scale. After picking a way down to the valley floor among little stone cottages clinging to the hillside, it is then hard work all the way up to Stoodley Pike Monument. By now mist was forming around me and it was a bit of a surprise when this 120ft tower popped into existence. Having said that, it is perhaps nicer than spotting something a long way off and then spending hours actually reaching it.

With darkness approaching and the mist thickening, I needed to get across the last bit of moor and onto the tracks that run alongside three more reservoirs as soon as possible. After correctly choosing the right moment to leave the steep rocky edge I was following away from the monument, I could relax a little.

The rest of the day had a slightly surreal feel to it. I was walking on a straight track with the reservoir wall on one side, the only sound being the water lapping up against it. On the other side was a steep grass bank that quickly faded into mist. The dim light blurred these repetitive features and I was moving through a dream world. I could walk as much as I wanted, but I never got anywhere and nothing ever changed. It was quite beautiful.

Malham to Cowling

2007-12-19T15:55:00.004Z

The River Aire bubbles down a shallow valley surrounded by gently undulating hills, the lush green grass carved into squares by crumbling limestone walls. I followed alongside, sometimes a little too closely since its low profile prevented me from spotting the loops of slow meanders, occasionally passing though small hamlets of traditional stone houses. After the short day yesterday, I was refreshed and enjoyed wandering among this pleasant landscape.

This all changed when the Pennine Way left the riverside meadows and dumped me in a field of freshly flung muck. Now I was consulting the map every two minutes to guess at how I would be leaving each field, looking for overgrown stiles or rotting signposts, getting confused by a number of other rights of way, sinking in mud around well used gates and trying to forget about what was coating my boots and encrusting the bottom of my trousers. After being rescued by a lane leading into the nice town of Gargrave, I was soon out in the fields again, this time confused by new wire fences across what I thought was the path (but may well not have been).

I was pretty frustrated by the time I was back on tarmac at East Marton, but allowed myself to be soothed by a stroll along a tow-path and the much photographed double arched bridge. This easy section was over too quickly and the fields beckoned again. Luckily the landscape was getting lumpier and this provided a few more clues I could use to navigate.

Ahead lay a good chunk of high moorland and a chance to make some progress. There was only the farmyard of Brown House to cross before a steep climb onto open country. This was another farm whose main winter crops are faeces and mud and I followed the track that dipped down into the morass like a slipway. I knew that the concrete had ended when I started sinking. The most successful technique I found was to feel for stones under the dark sludge and use them to reach the safety of the pastures.

The moor felt surprisingly bleak after a day amongst farmland, tall masts being the only feature in a sea of windswept heather. I quickly covered ground and headed down into the thin valley of Lothersdale. Days are incredibly short now, and doing tricky navigation at night is far worse than in the daytime. Never one to hang around in people's driveways or back gardens too long while staring at a map, this led to a small mistake near Surgill Beck which cost me the last rays of the dying sun. Luckily there was a path to follow into Cowling, but it was clear I wasn't going much further today. Overall I can't help feeling annoyed by the lack of progress, and slightly apprehensive about doing it all over again in Staffordshire or the South-West. What I need is a day of roaming across desolate moors. Brontë country awaits.

Horton in Ribblesdale to Malham

2007-12-18T20:58:00.002Z

After a night plagued with guilt after chickening out of Great Shunner Fell yesterday (well, mildly bothered maybe), I decided to make up for it by following the Pennine Way religiously as it loops back north to take in Pen-y-Ghent, one of the Yorkshire Three Peaks.

It was a well worn and occasionally steep climb that took me out of Horton, up the flanks of the hill and onto the wind swept summit plateau. This featured a fantastic little round shelter in which I watched the clouds rush past and collected myself before heading off directly into the jet stream.

After descending to a remote lane, I was faced with the other hill of the day, Fountains Fell. It was another steep ascent and I found the kids from yesterday resting about half way up. They had obviously been doing something productive while I had been stuffing myself with a full cooked breakfast (this is rapidly becoming one of my favourite parts of the walking day). They accused me of stalking them, so I had no option but to crack on with the ascent and put some distance between us. I was out of breath by the time I rounded the shoulder of the hill and headed down the grassy path which winds its way between piles of rocks and old mine workings.

Eventually this reaches Malham Tarn, unusual for being a natural lake in a limestone landscape. Without much more walking to do today, I strolled around the shores of the lake before heading over to admire the tourists as they admired the classic spectacle of Malham Cove. With accommodation easy to find in the village, it was time to finish this short but scenically captivating day.

Keld to Horton in Ribblesdale

2007-12-17T14:36:00.007Z

Leaving the village, the sun rose over the typical Dales scenery of Swaledale. A shallow river nonchalantly winds its way along the flat bottom of a steep sided valley. Small fields, grey dry stone walls, remote barns and isolated clumps of trees break out of the fertile ground and encroach some way up the hillside. After the final limestone walls lies untamed moorland in various rich shades of brown and green and mottled by the occasional dark boulder.

The rocky path stays high and surveys this tranquil beauty before rounding the hill and dropping down to the small village of Thwaite. Here the Pennine Way takes on Great Shunner Fell, a great drifting whale of peat amongst the dales. Completely unrelated to this, I made the decision to leave the Way and take to the road, today's excuse being that Ribblesdale is a long way away and shaving off a couple of miles may mean I avoid stumbling around in the dark (of course, that may happen anyway). It didn't feel like an easy or boring shortcut as I climbed quickly to 1725ft alongside the steep rocky gorge of Cliff Beck. Dodging cars was made more difficult by steep verges and walls, and the main attraction was the deep limestone chasms of Butter Tubs, where water trickles down dark holes into unfathomable depths.

Road signs pointed me to the town of Hawes and the most people I'd seen in one place since Scotland. The steep climb out of town was interrupted by some confusion over how exactly to get out of a field but I eventually found my way back into the land of the snow. Cloud obscured the views but what I could see of the sheer slopes and the occasional glimpses of the far off valley bottoms gave an impressive sense of scale. The many miles that followed were mainly on soft tracks that came over the hills and dropped into the Ribblesdale past limestone slabs and pot holes. I kept myself occupied by slowly catching up with and overtaking a group of kids heavily laden with the weight of their teachers responsibility. These are my stomping grounds, used for the little training I managed before setting out and the familiarity is somehow comforting.

Middleton-in-Teesdale to Keld

2007-12-16T14:21:00.002Z

The owner of last night’s B&B insisted on providing a particularly early breakfast, remembering how long other weary Pennine Way followers had taken for today’s stretch. This was a nice change from the usual haggling required in order to spend my walking hours in daylight. So morning had barely broken when I left the empty streets of a mist shrouded town and headed back onto the moors.

After spending some time navigating through a maze of small and odd shaped fields enclosed by crumbling stone walls, I found myself crossing Grassholme Reservoir and passing between Blackton and Balderdale Reservoirs. These are small bodies of water in a gently rolling patchwork of fields, and while pleasant could not compete with the dramatic scenery of past days. I kept on walking.

High moorland beckoned and soon I was striding along a thin path across a brown landscape. With few features or landmarks, I was happy to trust this path, even through it could be leading me almost anywhere. In the end it took me to the A66, the halfway point for those doing the Pennine Way properly. A fell runner jogged by, possibly the only fellow human I met today, since none of the day's miles passed through villages or towns.

I dropped down to the handy limestone slab of God's Bridge, and then picked a way down the impressive grassy slopes of Sleightholme Beck to cross a more modern wooden footbridge. At the end of a long track was a section with a reputation for being a boggy morass, Wainwright describing it as a 'penance for sins'. But with the cold and dry weather it turned out to be a pleasant stroll along a slowly disappearing bubbling stream. Winter appears to be a great time to tackle the Way.

At Tan Hill I found I was making good time and could take it easy on the slopes of Stonesdale as I gently lost height to reach the small village of Keld. Finally returning home to Yorkshire, I found a warm welcome over a foaming pint and some much needed company after a lonely day.

Garrigill to Middleton-in-Teesdale

2007-12-15T13:30:00.005Z

Looking at the route of the Pennine Way, you might assume that today I enjoyed strikingly bleak moorland and the highest point of the Way while tomorrow's highlight will be the classic rock rimmed bowl of High Cup Nick, described as one of the country's most astonishing scenic revelations. And as someone who might claim to love being out in the hills, surely I wouldn't be missing out on these delights in order to take a short cut down an A-road and save a mere day's effort? Of course I am, not just because I'm fundamentally lazy, but also because it increases my chances of reaching Sheffield in time for a traditional family Christmas.

A good early start means the first few miles are covered in a blissful half awake state where distances are easily covered while the sleepy mind contemplates the beauty of the dawn. Tracks took me through a few remote farms and out onto the moorland, turning from stone to grass and then coated with snow. I followed the deep channel of a small stream uphill, passing old mine workings. Emerging onto the main road, I found it almost free of traffic at this time of the morning. Wandering along verges and skating across icy lay-bys, white flecked empty moorland stretched out to distant rounded domes of snow. I crossed into the land of the prince bishops before turning a corner to a breathtaking view of a mist shrouded Teesdale. Breathing in the cold clear air, hearing the crunch of hard snow under my feet and looking down into a fading valley was heavenly.

Another grassy track took me back down into the real world and onto a endless lane. Then rarely used paths headed down to the river and I chased the rush of water heading downstream, rapidly gathering strength (the river that is, I was tiring as usual). I rejoined the Way and together we experienced some majestic scenery. There were steep slopes enclosing shallow meanders, grassy meadows and small woods, quarry workings and rock faces, the thundering of High Force and the tumbling of Low Force. Unusually I was not alone, with more people about than any other day so far. Strolling alongside the rest of the tourists, my destination was the traditional stone buildings of Middleton. Not bad for a short cut.

Greenhead to Garrigill

2007-12-14T19:50:00.006Z

Another cold and frosty morning. Another day of Pennine moors and green valleys. Another day of weak sunshine from just above the horizon. Another day making decent progress southwards. Still hard work though.

My cunning plan to take a short cut back to the Way got lost in a mass of tall grass and reeds. It seems that other people with the same idea had probably abandoned it when faced with a manic dash across a busy A road. I was forced to guess roughly where to go, hoping to match small groups of trees and wire fences with the map. This technique became a bit of a theme for the day.

Back on the Way and using an occasional pointer from an ageing wooden signpost plus a lot more guesswork I found my way up onto grouse moorland. Progress was made by repeatedly gaining and losing faint paths in the heather as I aimed towards the road on the other side. The complex navigation continued through green fields, descending and then climbing out of the secluded flat bottomed valley of Hartley Burn. Then, as the route entered the wide valley of the River South Tyne, a Roman road lead back up onto the moors again. Covering ground quickly, this arrow straight boggy track climbs the side of the valley, a balcony providing fantastic views of the peaceful landscape. After dipping down to cross a stream scoured notch, it soars once again before losing height for the more significant Thinhope Burn.

It was here that I had to make a decision between remaining on the Pennine Way or taking the South Tyne Trail along the old railway line. On paper, the choice looks obvious. Either negotiate fields, farms and roads on a route that sticks close to the railway, even crossing underneath a number of times, or take the direct line of the railway itself.

Nevertheless the railway felt like hard work, the scenery moving slowly past while the view ahead is a rarely changing strip of dark grey. With nothing to occupy my mind, I kept up a relentless pace and willed the signposts to count the distance down. Eventually what remains of the railway, run as a steam tourist attraction, takes centre stage and I was relegated to poor paths alongside. I was beginning to tire by the time I reached Alston, and made the slog uphill into the highest market town in the country to resupply.

Following the river more closely, the path was now well trodden and easy to follow in the fading daylight. Steep grassy fields, small woods and streams, farmyards and quite a lot of mud. Night fell approaching Garrigill but I managed to negotiate the riverbank with the minimum of stumbling. Passing the peaceful scene of a tall Christmas tree lighting up the village green, I cleared the tiny post office of yoghurt and cakes and took the tiny dead end lane uphill. Tonight I would be using a van for accommodation and a suitably remote spot needed to be found.

Just one vehicle passed by on this lonely lane, but then came back for a second and third glance at this strange heavily laden figure that seemed to be heading off into the hills with a bag of yoghurt and Mr Kipling, under a sky ablaze with stars. I guess they decided I looked like I knew what I was doing as no words were exchanged. Either that or I was a bit too strange to approach safely.

Bellingham to Greenhead

2007-12-13T12:09:00.007Z

Crossing the sandstone bridge across a mist swathed Tyne, I strode out of Bellingham following forestry commission workers on their daily commute. The route that followed was a patchwork of fields, small woods, driveways and farmyards, little jaunts along lanes before once again hopping back over a stile into enclosed moorland or searching for footbridges to cross tiny streams. I’ll happily admit to not really knowing where I was as I followed wooden signposts through this maze of slightly scrappy walking. Shitlington Crags were, as the name might suggest, a bit rubbish while Brownsleazes was also aptly named. Progress was slow and I was glad to finally reach more open country.

After a pleasant bit of forestry, a distinct ridge formed the horizon ahead, a likely candidate for Hadrian’s Wall. I forged ahead across a grassy plain that held a shallow lake and headed up for my first glimpse of this piece of history. Disappointingly the wall on top was distinctly modern, but after crossing a track I could see a more impressive ridge across the next plain and regained my enthusiasm. It was a cruel trick to be rewarded by another rough track and I continued to the next ridge, again a more obvious choice than the last. On it was a wide wall of similar sized square stones that represents another significant milestone on this journey.

It is the almost continuous ridge that really makes this a natural border and the walking is fantastic with views across the aforementioned parallel ridges to the vast Northumbrian forests that I was leaving behind. Steep crags unfolded underneath, and well preserved remains of milecastles and forts added constant interest. As the guidebooks warn, in sticking to the ridge the wall spends most of its time heading up or downhill. But although I was spending a lot of time gaining and losing height, the ups were never big enough to require a proper rest and miles began to swiftly pass under my feet. With much ground to cover, the sun set slowly as I followed this ancient structure.

At the ending of the wall I struggled to follow a ditch in the darkness and stumbled around trying to find the correct way into Greenhead from Thirlwall Castle. Finding a sign that promised a cycle track to my destination I approached the lit streets in the distance. Just before the village, the track headed underwater at a ford. As it was the end of the day, I completed plunging in, but luckily caught the glint of a footbridge with my torch just in time.

Being the only person booked into the youth hostel that night (why does no-one do the Pennine Way in December?), I was put up in the hotel to save on heating it for no extra cost to me. With a good distance covered and some unexpected luxury, the blog may be getting a bit boring but the journey is really beginning to flow.

Spithope Bothy to Bellingham

2007-12-12T17:08:00.005Z

There is a simplicity to bothy life that is hard to leave behind; chopping wood, heading down to the bubbling stream to collect water or cooking on the roaring stove. Luckily for me the complications of modern life rarely feature on the trail either, finding food, water and shelter are my main concerns.

On the path down to the road, I was joined by a companion who had stayed with me in the bothy, and we made our way through the pines. As last night's frost began to melt, water dripped from the wet needles and the ground underfoot no longer made that delicious crunching sound. Then I was back on my own again.

I followed the Pennine Way alongside an attractive river in the valley of slightly excessive place names. After the farms at Cottonshopeburnfoot and Blakehopeburnhaugh it was time to return into the trees. Endless forestry tracks led uphill, although recent felling reduced the usual claustrophobia with views of distant forests and moorlands. Wherever the way leaves the track, the signposts point hopefully across a maze of stumps, discarded branches and pools of dark water. This ground is hard going compared to the soft pine covered path through the trees that once must have been, but these moments of respite from the sandy tracks are worth the effort.

When enough height had been gained, the route moved out onto open moorland and a more authentic pennine experience. The way is obvious and boggy, often with a thin crust of dirty ice where there is more water than mud. Trusting this to support my weight was sometimes useful and sometimes disastrous.

It was getting late in the day as I covered the ground over the bleak moorland and skirted Hareshaw House. Here the signposts showed me a choice of routes, and I reckon I chose the least popular way since I was soon without a path to follow and forced to navigate by the many craggy edges. This mistake cost me any chance of arriving in Bellingham in the daylight (the guidebooks claim it is pronounced Bellingjum, but you never really believe it until you hear the locals say it). I sneaked through farmyards in the darkness, hoping I didn't look suspicious enough to set the dogs on.

After my first full day on the Pennine Way I feel I am in safe hands. No more worrying about whether the predicted paths and bridges will exist on the ground, whether the route will overgrown or forbidden by shooting or stalking. Walker friendly accommodation is spread out only the route, meaning daily mileages can be adjusted to mood and weather conditions. All I have to do is keep walking . . .

Jedburgh to Spithope Bothy

2007-12-10T20:16:00.002Z

It was a bit of a struggle to regain Dere Street; an unhappy combination of tarmac and an uphill gradient. Couldn't grumble too much though as visiting Jedburgh had allowed a vital resupply for the coming nights away from civilisation. The route of the ancient road started off down muddy tracks through small clumps of trees, but all too soon I was on a paved road again. This lonely lane continued the uphill theme; the empty beauty of the surrounding landscape becoming more apparent. Tall trees and rounded hills cast long shadows with the distinctive Eildons still visible as proud humps on the horizon. It was clear and chilly with a sky of pure blue; I had been dreaming of days like these when I had decided to do this trek in winter, but they are disappointing rare.

At a small summit I managed to escape onto a well used path. In the distance, the white dome of a snow capped Cheviot commanded my gaze. Some trickery was required to negotiate the mud and cows but overall this was good honest walking and I met no-one else enjoying it all day. Solitary walking in weather like this makes you feel special, in the rain it makes you feel utterly alone.

Another small lane led to Towford, which lived up to its name. The water was deep, clear and fast flowing but a wooden footbridge offered hope. Unfortunately it claimed to be closed and the planks nailed across both ends emphasised this point. I couldn't really entertain the idea of taking an alternative route since retreat is a frustrating experience. So with visions of sailing downstream on the remains of the bridge I negotiated the flooded road surface to reach it.

The bridge held the weight of both me and my pack and I was soon climbing up grassy hillsides towards the broad mass of the Cheviot range. Magnificent views broke out once again, a patchwork of small deep green conifer woods, brown bracken and the light yellows and greens of grassland. The summit was gained and I followed a fence across a boggy plateau, before crossing into England for the first time. Swapping countries a few more times, I reached the embankments of the Chew Green camp and fortlet. Roman camps, forts, signal stations and earthworks had been appearing regulary on the map, but this was the first time any real traces could be seen on the ground.

The light was fading fast, and I had no time to stop and take it all in. I followed a small stream towards a distant forest, with the sounds of small arms fire rattling around the valley. This would be a little unnerving, but warning signs revealed the presence of nearby army ranges. When I first crossed the border I had joined the famous Pennine Way and on reaching the edge of the forest I left it again to negotiate tussocks of grass between the trees and border fence. When I finally managed to gain entry it was too dark to follow the planned path accurately and I took to the forestry tracks. Following the smell of wood smoke I found the small bothy, complete with roaring stove and a kettle on the go. It was time to put my feet up and enjoy the cosy hut as frost formed on the branches outside. With an entire country now successfully crossed, a rest day is a fitting reward (any excuse).

Melrose to Jedburgh

2007-12-09T14:21:00.009Z

Fair maiden Lilliard lies under this stane
Little was her stature, but muckle was her fame;
Upon the English loons she laid mony thumps
And when her legs were cuttit off, she fought upon her stumps.
AD 1544

Steep steps led upwards out of town, followed by a sweaty climb up the grassy slopes of the Eildons. Sharing the wide col between these shapely hills with dawn dog walkers, we gazed out over the misty plains to distant faded uplands. Since I had mentally prepared to be soaked by now, this moment of serenity felt pretty special.

The Southern Upland Way had turned north, but not wanting to leave the simple pleasures of a long distance trail I had turned onto St Cuthbert's Way. After tackling the aforementioned isolated peaks of the Eildons this took me on a winding path through small woods, fields, quaint villages and muddy ravines until I was once again alongside the mighty Tweed. Wooden steps led up and down the steep wooded riverbank and slippery bridges crossed small tributaries. All good walking until I emerged into town at St Boswells.

I chickened out of following the waymarked route around the next huge meander in the river, and took to the road for a more direct approach. I soon tired of the featureless tarmac and tall hedges but was eventually rescued by the ancient Roman road known as Dere Street. The first break of the day was taken on a small plank of a bridge, over a muddy stream mainly fed by runoff from the nearby main road. It was not a particulary special spot, but these moments of stillness within the pressure to make progress are close to elysium (thinking like a legionary).

Following Dere Street in the direction of York, it alternates between a muddy track or a path weaving between spiky bushes in a thin strip of grassland between fields. History is everywhere, from the grave of Lady Lilliard who would probably want to thump this English loon with one of her bloody stumps to stone monuments on neighbouring hills like the octogonal form of Baron's Folly or the dome of Monteath's Mausoleum.

The straight line of the Roman road was interrupted by Monteviot House, and I followed the complicated diversion to the impressive suspension bridge. Although modern, a lot of wood has been used in the wide span, providing plenty of enjoyable creaking and wobbling. From here I strolled along the river bank back to the course of the ancient road.

Not long after, it was time to leave Dere Street to seek shelter in the border town of Jedburgh. After a bit of a slog, I found myself wandering down the high street, which was decked out in lights and decorations. Ahead is a fortnight of Christmas dinners, mince pies and Christmas pudding, but as long as I keep walking I won't end up with a belly like Santa's, lovely stuff.

Minch Moor Bothy to Melrose

2007-12-08T20:26:00.006Z

It was hard to swap my cosy sleeping bag for a bout of shivering in the cold air of the wooden bothy, but with strong winds and snow forecast for later on, I had no choice. I left before dawn and was instantly rewarded for my effort with a clear and frosty morning, the long grass of the clearings coated in delicate white shards that crunched deliciously as I moved slowly up the dark mass of Minch Moor.

As the sun rose it turned the sky red and added depth and vibrancy to the uplands surrounding me. It's been many days since I've been at this kind of altitude, and it felt good to be up among the hills again. In addition, the Southern Upland Way is one of the best maintained paths my feet have had the pleasure of treading. It follows a rough undulating ridge, either cutting through the regimented lines of the forests or riding the crests of the rounded moorland summits. Although this is a long and wild section, with many miles to cover before you reach the old stone bridge at Yair, there is plenty of interest away the way. There are sculptures, such as the huge ovals cut out of the heather that change shape as you slowly move past, and ancient shrines such as the cheese well, where liquid cheddar bubbles to the surface (only kidding, this is where you leave gifts for the spirits before attempting to cross the moor).

For several hours I enjoyed the beautiful walking, until just after the huge cairns known as the Three Brethen, where I headed down through another forest to cross the Tweed. With the high moors conquered, I could be a bit more relaxed about the impending weather disaster and settled down to eat some of yesterday's sandwiches. As might be expected I have gathered a reasonable collection of aches and pains; particular grumbling today came from the soles of my feet and left thigh. After lunch, things had begun to seize up and when I stumbled off again I had an awkward limp and uncomfortable expression on my face. Anyone driving past wouldn't have expected me to do another mile, let alone another country, but my pace gradually increased and I was soon tackling the steep grassy hill ahead.

This provided good views of sprawling Galashiels and its tower blocks and I decided to skirt Gala Hill instead of following the official way through the town. I'm not sure about the legality of the route but I made it to the other side and down into an industrial estate. Following the paved cycle path in the rain was hard going but soon I was on grassy meadows by the river which eventually led me into the charming town of Melrose. Later, as I stared out of the window at the rain pouring down outside, it felt like it had been a good day.

Eddleston to Minch Moor Bothy

2007-12-07T20:54:00.000Z

After probably the most elaborate breakfast I've ever eaten, I lazily strolled back into the usual routine, one foot followed by the other. I almost didn't notice the lack of rain and pleasant weather until a friendly dog walker remarked on it later.

Following a lane winding its way up the hillside, I was rewarded by ever increasing views over the shallow green valley and nearby slender wind turbines. A farm track led to the smooth grassy flanks of Hamilton Hill and a steep descent into the attractive town of Peebles, where I could stock up on valuable supplies.

I was also able to cross the wide and powerful River Tweed, and meet the minor road that would be my companion for most of the rest of the day. After a few miles my plan had been to cut through the gardens at Kailzie using the tracks marked on the map, and therefore reduce the monotony of following the B7062. Near the main house my luck ran out and I found my way blocked. Although it was tempting to try and sneak through, I decided that returning to the road was the easier option. I found this far more frustrating than expected, given how little extra I was forced to walk, and angrily tackled the tarmac again.

Around lunchtime I reached the large forestry commission car park at Cardrona, and stopped to munch on my sandwiches. It was a unexpected luxury to find the toilets were heated and had hot running water. I seriously contemplated spending the night here, like the wandering tramp I was slowly becoming, as my thoughts turned to the cold log cabin I was aiming towards. However, it would have meant a lot of hanging around waiting for people to go home and I decided I needed to get over the high hills of the Southern Uplands before the forecast blizzards arrive late tomorrow. Back to the road then.

After admiring a number of isolated grand buildings, on their own in the flat emptiness of the flood plain, I spotted a small sign indicating a footpath to a place called Howford. The map suggested this was on route. Although these green arrows could just be taking me into the forest and then abandoning me, I was getting tired of the tarmac. The path appeared to be an forgotten forestry track that has been reclaimed by lush vegetation. It didn't look like many people had passed this way, but it was pleasant to take this soft highway through the dense dimness of the forest.

The path turned into rough track and climbed steeply in places; hard work after the easy road walking. I was returned safely to the road and easily covered the last few miles, invigorated by the surprise respite. I arrived at the the small hamlet near the stately home of Traquair, with its legendary closed gates. It felt strange to be heading into the hills this late in the day, I'm usually heading into town to find shelter. I climbed slowly to the Scandinavian-looking bothy. The views over the gently rolling forested hills as the sun sank behind the trees were simply wonderful. After darkness fell I read the visitors book to pass the time, surprised by the number of entries from fellow end to enders.

West Rigg to Eddleston

2007-12-06T22:47:00.002Z

The days are getting shorter now, and I need to use each hour of daylight wisely. Walking and navigating in the darkness is frustrating and the memories of the miles I trudged on a dark and wet night to reach Kiltearn are still fresh in my mind. So this morning I was up and off in the dim dawn light, aiming to stop for breakfast after some progress had been made.

The Pentlands provide a welcome oasis to the paved central belt, and the well made paths and gentle gradients led to some relaxed walking as I crossed this narrow ridge of hills. An initially boggy section alongside a strip of trees to an isolated farmstead was followed by a track heading up into the moors. Unusually, the hollows in this sandy track have been repaired with rows of logs, which appears more sympathetic to the landscape than fresh stone or bricks. Although after skating around on their slippery surface for a while without getting anywhere, I decided the bog was a safer option.

I reached an attractive col next to a isolated clump of trees and followed the valley of a small stream downhill. The empty landscape has a modest beauty, and the small reservoir nestling at the end of the path was no exception. I crossed grassy fields to reach a paved road, which lead slowly down into Carlops and a long awaited big bowl of porridge.

The next part of the day was spent on country lanes. Largely free of traffic, they offered grass verges when my heavy tramping along the tarmac became painful. Unlike my usual boredom when road walking, I found plenty to look at, from disused railways and small quarries to what appeared to be the ancient remains of kilns.

By now the wind and rain had strengthened. I decided to gamble that it would be possible to take the track marked on the map through the forest, in the hope that the trees would protect me from the flying drops of wetness. The track turned out to be a right of way but the patchy nature of the forest, and the exposed nature of the hill meant I still got pretty damp.

With the light fading and the unpleasant weather I decided not to attempt to reach Peebles but treated myself to a night in a posh restaurant with rooms, the only accommodation in nearby Eddleston. A pleasant path headed down through the well maintained grounds of Barony Castle. After a lovely meal, I returned to a fluffy bed warmed by a hot water bottle. Luxury.

Dunfermline to West Rigg

2007-12-05T22:20:00.008Z

The central belt is a wasteland of council estates and identikit suburbs, dockyards and endless industrial units, arterial roads with their verges covered in discarded packaging and stony faced residents coping with the daily grind. The thin towers and sweeping structures of the Forth Road Bridge smile approvingly at this progress and are a major milestone on this journey.

As soon as I found the correct escape route from Dunfermline, the roadside pavements disappeared and I was forced into the road by tall hedges. In the early morning gloom and driving rain, as commuters dashed over blind summits, I hugged the greenery and hoped for salvation. This came in the vast council estates of Rosyth, although I felt a little out of place with my backpack and walking boots. As I crossed the A90 I could see the orange glow of high wind warnings and speed restrictions above the traffic heading for the bridge.

Luckily the footpath had not been closed and after finding a safe way through roundabouts and slip roads I was fighting a vicious cross wind high above the firth. Two steps forwards, one step sideways. The bridge is a magnitude of scale larger than any other bridge I've tried to walk across and progress seemed interminably slow. I lost a race with a navy ship and as the southern shoreline approached I was able to spy on tiny people and their vehicles doing the rounds far below.

By now I had been walking for several hours without the usual privacy afforded by the countryside, and the pressure on my bladder was beginning to take over my thoughts. After weeks of being able to go when and where I wanted, this was an unexpected problem. The toll services marked on the map seemed to be an obvious solution but I found only new construction and became enclosed by houses. I found another old railway line now cycle path and tried to put myself far enough away from the various dog walkers to avoid attention.

The railways cuttings took me though the towns and industry without showing me much of it. Even the oil depot was hidden behind a wall of earth. Sheltered from the elements, it was almost pleasant. When this ended, the patchwork of motorways and industrial estates continued to a pleasant village on a canal. During lunch, I watched pensioners struggle against the wind to get into the pub.

I was forced onto busy roads to skirt around a country club before entering the small town of Balerno. Soon I was lost in the maze of a modern housing, choosing the gennels that appeared to go in the right direction. After this slow progress, it was rapidly going dark when I found the lonely lane into the hills. It has been a long but necessary day, the good walking through the Southern Uplands and Pennines is my reward.

(Wikipedia Image)

Glendevon to Dunfermline

2007-12-03T21:25:00.004Z

Enclosed within the deep glen that splits the gently undulating Ochils lies a hotel that uses the proximity of the famous golf course at Gleneagles to justify some hefty prices. However, as the alternative was several more muddy miles in the darkness last night, they probably could have taken far more off this particular weary wanderer. This morning, I was rewarded with an elegant breakfast. There was a small tower of black pudding stacked on haggis topped by tomato; diagonally sliced sausages sitting next to an egg perfectly placed on a tattie scone. Five minutes later, it looked the same as every other breakfast I've enjoyed.

After my night of luxury, it was annoying to discover that a group of ramblers had managed to take my poles by mistake, leaving me with two previously occupied dangling limbs that I didn't really know what to do with for the rest of the day.

The landscape here is pleasant without being awe inspiring, with empty grass and heather hillsides slowly being reclaimed by forest. Well worn and water logged paths slowed my progress as I made my way towards the deep ravine of Dollar Glen. Here the wonderfully named burns of Care and Sorrow run either side of the ruins of Castle Gloom. Luckily it is just as beautiful as it sounds.

After finding an unexpected footpath across fields that avoided a small section along a busy road, I was once again tramping along small lanes through flat farmland. I passed through the pretty village of Saline and the former mining village of Oakley to reach a cycle track running along an old railway line. Initially littered by broken bottles and multicoloured graffiti, this provided a direct route into the heart of Dunfermline. Railway cuttings hid all traces of the landscape and I relied on the regular mileage markers for motivation. None of this mattered however, since the former Scottish capital is a major milestone, a quarter of the distance has now been walked. I was beginning to entertain the possibility that I might get to the end of this thing and it felt good.

Every route that links the two ends of Britain must pass through the densely populated and heavily industrialised central belt, and it will take another long day for me to reach the freedom of the hills again. However, it is chance to resupply and wash some now deeply unpleasant clothing (yes, another rest day!).

Foulford Inn to Glendevon

2007-12-02T13:11:00.003Z

Today was like a tasteless sandwich, the two slices of bread being much nicer than the unpleasant filling. I also knew it was going to be a pretty big sandwich, so instead of the usual cooked breakfast I had some cereal in my room and sneaked out into a clear and frosty morning. As I followed a snaking track over the rolling heather covered moorland, it felt good to be striding through the hills in the first rays of sunlight while the rest of the world were enjoying their lazy Sunday mornings. On reaching the solitary standing stone that is all that remains of an ancient stone circle, the sandwich filling was spread out before me. Flat plains covered by a patchwork of fields and small woods stretched out to the distant and hazy hills I knew I had to reach by the end of the day. Although the wide landscape was a beautiful sight, seeing all the required footsteps was dispiriting.

I dropped steeply down onto the plain and started to follow a series of lanes as they endlessly but rarely directly made their way towards my far off goal. The scenery grew boring, isolated buildings the only variation. Mileage signs slowly counted down the distances as the repetitive movement lulled my mind into an easy trance, my only thoughts were of the next rest I would allow myself to take. The wide stones of the Kinkell Bridge over the River Earn were suitably confortable for lunch. A road junction later a middle aged couple tucked in behind me and I increased my pace to gain a bit of privacy, my current gait having more to do with minimising my aches than any ideas of elegance. They easily kept pace, their trainers more suited to the road surface and their shoulders unburdened by the accessories of the long distance walker. I pushed harder, trying to give myself enough time to make navigational decisions at the upcoming road junctions. By the time we marched into Auchterarder I was visibly suffering from my pride, which couldn't stand the thought of being overtaken. Although the competition had nicely taken some of the boredom out of the last few miles.

Crossing the dual carriageways of the A9 I took a lane up into the hills. The lane turned into a track then a path as it climbed steeply to a pass, which got the blood pumping through my tired body. From the highest point I could see down to a green track clinging to the side of deep glen, a historic cadgers route. The grass on the hillside is kept short by the free range sheep, and I started to relax and enjoy the pleasant surroundings, knowing I had almost finished the sandwich. There will be many more days that contain uninspiring walking between increasingly precious areas of beauty, but I was just glad to have finished this one.

Aberfeldy to Foulford Inn

2007-12-01T21:31:00.009Z

Lord, grant that Marshal Wade
May, by thy mighty aid,
Victory bring.
May he sedition hush
And, like a torrent, rush
Rebellious Scots to crush.
God save the King.

General Wade built over 250 miles of road and 40 bridges in an effort to control the clans of the highlands and ward off future Jacobite rebellions. Plenty of my route so far has relied on these military foundations, but today almost all of my footsteps fell on his roads; whether just shallow depressions in the heather, wide channels though forestry or buried under the tarmac of the A822.

It started badly, after passing the hospital I was forced to sneak through someones driveway to get onto the hills. I was quickly enclosed within a maze of fields, clambering over fences to stay on what I hoped was the correct line. At one point the modern road was just the other side of a grassy field; the temptation was too much, and I was soon making easy progress on the tarmac.

The next off tarmac section went a little better, although I was once again returned to the road early by a huge boundary fence around the old gatehouse. This also put paid to finding the start of the next section through the forestry and I couldn't find any trace of the forestry tracks near the small enclosed loch. It was beginning to look like I would be spending all day on an A road and was feeling pretty sorry from myself when I spotted a tall slim stile leading into the forest.

Freed from the monotony of the A822 I was soon struggling with a vicious bog, escape routes blocked by massive deer fences and dense forestry. Tall reeds hid streams. Deep pools forced frustrating detours. I could see white clouds and open moorland in the distance, but they weren't getting any closer. Dark bog water found weaknesses in my boots as the rain worked on the rest.

Salvation came in another stile that lead onto the moorland. A subtle route led easily to ancient burial cairns. There is a certain knack to recognising the line of the now long abandoned road. After many miles of mistakes, I was beginning to think like the roadbuilders and could predict how they would deal with the many natural obstacles, then look for the faint traces of their presence.

The rest of the day was spent following the old road as it wandered off around the glen, always returning to the new modern road later on. There was a lovely section in heather next to a burbling stream. A section that climbed over the shoulder of a ridge, providing expansive views of the empty glen. The lonely hamlet of Amulree. A section over grouse moorland, ending with a simple stone bridge camouflaged by soft turf.

At Newton Bridge, the small stream is joined by the waters of the River Almond and the route enters the jaws of Sma' Glen. The road and river are squeezed into the narrow strip of flat ground at the bottom of the valley, overshadowed by rocky crags and scree. More ancient cairns and the grave of the legendary hero Ossian. Another climb to ford a burn and suddenly everything changes. The fading light of the day light up a landscape of rolling hills and wide open spaces. I have reached the lowlands, home of big skies and distant horizons.

The inn stands alone, a fitting end to a day spent away from villages and towns. I arrived in time for high tea and settled down to devour the rack of cakes in front of me.

Garry Bridge to Aberfeldy

2007-11-30T17:48:00.011Z

I eased myself gently into the day, a relaxed start being the perfect reaction to the excitement of crossing the high mountains. Unlike the previous few hundred miles, I was blessed with a companion for the initial easy ground to Pitlochry. We chose to follow the simple beauty of the wide river meanders instead of the planned direct roadside route.

Walking is a lighter experience with a friendly face by your side. I strolled instead of my usual variations on purposeful striding or dejected tramping. Conversation occupied my normally restless mind, preventing my thoughts from rattling around my head until they became detached from reality. The result is a much saner me.

Despite this, walking the length of the country with someone else would add another level of difficulty. Imagine days when you're feeling strong, the forecast is for more cloud than rain and you want to make tangible progress southwards. Then give yourself a partner who has more aching muscles than happy ones or who needs supplies to fix broken gear. Imagine you're that partner. Not a lot of fun. With these short winter days, I like to crack on and do about half the planned mileage quickly without resting; only when this has been achieved can I relax, safe in the knowledge that the back of the day is broken. Stopping to take on water or sugar coated fuel would be sensible, but I might not be thinking that when someone else wants to break my stride. Hopefully this justifies my decision to be antisocial and spend over a thousand miles alone. Having said that, I don't reckon my chances of convincing anyone to quit their jobs and walk in the cold and wet for two months were particularly good. Who wants to be sane anyway?

On my own again, I turned away from the large concrete hydroelectric dam to head uphill and enclose myself in the tall pines of the forest. Drizzle filled the air and water coated every branch and needle. The path was everything that makes a forest trail so special, from the thin perspective and soft pine covered ground to the rare mirage-like glimpses of other hillsides and far off valleys. As I rounded the summit of the hill, the trees abruptly ended and a faint path in the long grass led downhill into Strath Tay. Clouds drifted along the bottom, softly rolling waves of white fluff.

Now all the remained was a pleasant amble along a quiet lane. Opposing the powerful flow of the Tay, the largest river in Britain, I headed upstream. I imagined walking on the pleasant paths along the riverbank, sadly reserved for the distinguished anglers that find good sport here. I reached Aberfeldy as darkness fell; as the angular arches of the golf course's suspension bridge tore holes in the low clouds. This river requires substantial engineering in its crossing, and this is also true of the much older Wade's bridge (yes, another one to thank the General for). Just wide enough for a single car, I darted between alcoves to avoid traffic coming over the blind hump.

I found my B&B and headed down to the Black Watch for a special St Andrews day menu. A laid back day of walking is as revitalising as a day off, with the added advantage that I've seen some wonderful views and made more progress south. I'm ready for the hard miles to come, right after I tackle these cloutie dumplings.

Tarf Hotel to Garry Bridge

2007-11-29T18:21:00.006Z

During the night the sky cleared and the temperature fell sharply. Cocooned in my sleeping bag I had no desire to get up and protect my food from the permanent residents of the bothy. Rather predictably then, this morning I found teeth marks in my cheese.

With no reason to hang around, I got up as soon as the window turned a lighter shade of blue. Putting on the cold and wet clothes from the day before was deeply unpleasant and I was soon ready to go. Crossing a small plank bridge that had been hidden under the foaming waters yesterday, I was glad to feel the weak sun on my face and take in the stunning vista of empty hills in the early morning light.

I had learnt the lessons of the previous day and stayed close to the river on my way back to the rough track. Over the watershed and down into Glen Tilt I trudged, following its arrow straight course downstream. The track stretched onwards to the narrow horizon as the scenery moved slowly past. I watched the wide river flow powerfully under steep grassy hillsides marked only by the precarious tracks of sheep. Stopping regularly to try and get messages, I stayed cut off from outside world and managed only to rest my weary feet.

Hours passed and eventually I left the paved road and took a pleasant track through a wood to reach a public road. Finally found out that instead of drowning my friend had sensibly decided not to cross Geldie Burn. Feeling a bit stupid for letting my imagination run wild, I no longer felt guilty for enjoying the walking. The Cairngorms had been conquered and I was ready to return to the comfortable trappings of civilisation. More tiring miles on hard surfaces led to Killiecrankie. Unfortunately the planned route along the river Garry was on private land so I took a small road up the side of the valley and was rewarded with superb views of concrete road and rail infrastructure squeezed into the narrow pass, overlooked by the snow covered dome of Ben Vrackie. By the time I reached the historic river crossing at Garry Bridge I was completely worn out. Having also run out of daylight the van can called on to provide accommodation in the car park. Luckily it came with sausage and chips, fantastic.

Corrour Bothy to Tarf Hotel

2007-11-28T18:30:00.003Z

As the sun slowly began to add colour to the wilderness, the day ahead seemed full of promise. A group of teenagers had arrived late last night after a long trek over a snowy Ben Macdui, filling every nook and canny in the small bothy. With all these heat sources, it had been a warm and comfortable night. At breakfast I was kindly given a bowl of porridge and when I eventually set off I had a belly full of fuel. I had arranged to meet someone in an old hunting lodge at the end of the day, so was looking forward to some friendly banter after a relatively short stroll.

The path took me slowly down alongside the river Dee, surrounded by the now familiar Cairngorm scenery of thin ribbons of water meandering in the bottom of wide heather lined glens and steep hillsides with fields of boulders and rocky crags. It started raining near the impressive waterfalls above the White Bridge, water being the dominant theme today. Leaving the Dee behind to head up into another historic mountain pass it was not long before the easy walking of the last few miles was forgotten.

There were no bridges to provide safe and dry crossings of the many burns and rivers, growing larger with the relentless rain. First up was Geldie Burn; too wide to bother searching for a possible boulder hopping route, fording it filled my boots with pure highland water. Bynack Burn and Allt an t-Seilich quickly followed and wading in was an easy decision since I was already soaked. I changed my socks in the poor shelter provided by the ruins of Bynack Lodge which gave a few minutes of dry respite for the feet until water sneaked between the fibres of the wool.

With the rain affecting my mood, I slogged over the open moorland of the watershed and started heading down the straight, narrow gorge which forms the beginning of Glen Tilt. Roaring far below me were waterfalls and white water. I felt privileged to be in this awe inspiring landscape. Clinging to that thought, I trudged on through sheets of precipitation. I was unable to find any trace of the path marked on the map that runs alongside Tarf Water, and rather than take to the steep boggy hillside, I decided to head further down the valley. Once I saw the sheer quantity of black water pouring over the Falls of Tarf, I was grateful for the victorian memorial suspension bridge. Looking down into the dark swirling waters of the plunge pool the memorial needed no explanation and I felt lucky not to be fording it higher up, as was the original plan.

It was a steep climb to get out of the glen and head for the bothy and I was beginning to tire as I reached the end of the track. The last miles of the day seemed endless as I picked a route between rough boggy heather and saturated meadows beside a river now heavily in spate. Weary, soaked to the skin, feet complaining about their damp working conditions, making slow progress and occasionally sinking deep into the peat; had there been a nearby helicopter I would have taken the easy option. Despite all the fantastic scenery I've seen, the best view of the day was the first glimpse of the bothy. One more raging stream stood behind me and the door and I quickly entered the water. Although this was just a small burn, the force of the water pushed me off balance and I bent a pole as I struggled to stay upright. I made a desperate leap for the opposite bank and the excitement was over.

The Tarf Hotel is an impressive size with large rooms and open fireplaces. I used the fuel I had been carrying to start a fire and changed into dry clothes. The only sound was the roar of the burn outside as night quickly fell. I put a candle in the window to help my friend find the bothy in the dark, but its small flame seemed pathetic as it shone out into the thick gloom. I huddled around the fire, trying to coax some wet coal to burn. There has been no mobile phone reception since leaving Aviemore or no-one around apart from those in the bothy last night. I was sitting in a poorly light room, elements battling outside, and my head began to fill with images of my friend being swept away by streams still growing in size and ferocity. Perhaps he had made it to just outside the building but hadn't been so lucky when the torrent tugged at his legs. Staring at the flickering flame in the window, I don't think I have ever been so completely alone.

Aviemore to Corrour Bothy

2007-11-27T21:14:00.005Z

Yesterday I convinced myself to take yet another rest day by thinking up a number of plausible reasons. For the next three days of walking I would be crossing the Cairngorms, the largest area of arctic mountain landscape in Great Britain and largely free of people and their associated infrastructure. Therefore the first reason I came up with was that it was raining hard, and I didn't want to get soaked and stay wet for three days . Also I needed to find food and fuel supplies. My final excuse was that I hadn't done much training before setting out from John O'Groats so my body probably needed a bit of time to repair and build muscle. Between you and me though, a rest day on a long walk is an invitation to guzzle cakes and chocolate without the usual increase in radius.

My pack strained to contain all the food needed for the coming days and the fuel for heating the bothies, which are far above the tree line. And as I began the slow climb through the vast forest of the Rothiemurchus estate, the weight on my back was more noticeable than in previous days. The mountain pass known as the Lairig Ghru is reasonably popular and the track was both well worn and easy to follow. After much effort, the trees began to thin to isolated clumps of pines and the outline of the narrow gap between white capped peaks became more defined. Following ridges of heather between deep scars I was soon enclosed between steep walls of black rock streaked by ice falls; fields of boulders at their feet. Strong winds blew light snow showers through the valley as I approached the highest point. At 835m this beats most of Britain's hills and you could say that it's now all downhill to Land's End (just don't try to tell me that as I struggle up some steep pennine slope in a few weeks).

Patches of snow obscured the path, but it's hard to get lost around here and the gentle descent began near the springs of the Pools of Dee. A burn developed beside me and was soon a lively companion. The views were expansive and everything was on a massive scale. It is these landscapes that allow you to glimpse at your own insignificance in the universe while leaving you at peace with the world around you. I couldn't help but feel revived by it.

Further on the burn began to slow and meander and was joined by the similar stream from a wide valley to the west to form a wide river I could now see the small stone building that was my shelter for the night but it was a long time until I crossed the small bridge and walked through the door. Inside were two guys who had trekked in with coal, logs, whisky and huge quantities of food the night before. Because of the weight of their packs, the journey had taken many hours more than usual and falling over caused problems recognizable by tortoises on their backs. After seeing nobody else all day, it was nice to have more company than just the deer and as I surveyed the provisions I could tell it was going to be a very comfortable night.

Tomatin to Aviemore

2007-11-25T21:17:00.003Z

I started the day with a shortcut through the respected Tomatin distillery. Although it would have been friendly to pop in for a dram on the way, I had been pampered by the easy walking yesterday and decided hard spirits would not be required for the upcoming moors and snow flecked mountains. In order to cross over the triple arches of another of Wade's elegant stone bridges, I passed through the village and dropped into the wide, deep and flat bottomed Findhorn valley. The view is dominated by the impressive structures of the Victorian railway viaduct and the modern concrete road bridge. The steel lattice of the viaduct glides effortlessly overhead in a curved path, supported by tall slim stone pillars.

I had planned to follow Wade's road all the way to Slochd but was soon confused by gates, field boundaries and fresh muddy tracks. Luckily the radio masts provided obvious landmarks and I took a wandering line through the heather to the pass. According to myth this was the site of the killing of the last wolf in Scotland. For lonely wanderers of the uplands like myself, this could be classed as either a good or not so good event, depending on which experts you listen to. The experts tend to agree it was a bad thing for the wolf.

The pass is a narrow notch through the hills and I followed a cycle path that uses the remains of the old road. This is hemmed in between the rumble of lorries on the modern A9 and the mostly silent railway line. When things opened out again and the old road moved away to the other side of a spacious river valley and it is easy to see what a fantastic resource this is for the long distance cyclist. I was inspired to start thinking about repeating this journey on two wheels, although this will have to wait until I am finally allowed time off work again.

Wade's road now crossed over the railway and struck out southwards, first alongside and then deep into a large band of forestry. Once again these forestry tracks, covered by a thick matting of soft pine needles, are a joy for my weary feet. After thanking Wade for providing yet another bridge at Insharn, it was now time to leave his legacy behind for higher mountain passes. I will not be returning to his highway until the Cairngorms have been successfully negotiated.

The scenery moved slowly past as I followed a track though heather and grassy meadows. A wide and shallow river called Dulnain was my constant companion. Low cloud clothed the landscape in a white mist. The isolated trees and occasional abandoned buildings appeared gradually, initially no more than light grey shadows which gained both colour and definition as I approached. Eventually a wooden bridge allowed the river to be crossed and the Burma road to be gained.

This track was supposedly built by WWII prisoners of war and provides a direct route through the hills behind Aviemore. As I comfortably gained height, soft snowflakes began to fall and the track became a single white thread in a scene filled by light grey skies and dark grey heather. It was an otherworldly experience to move through such a beautiful and tranquil scene. Mountain bikes glided past on their way downhill, momentarily breaking the silence and leaving tracks in the blank canvas the snow provides. It was my first contact with people outside of villages and towns since leaving ten days ago.

After a memorial to a gamekeeper marked the summit of the pass, the other side swapped the straight path across a wide open hillside for sweeping curves as it clung to the side of a steep river valley. I floated along the last few miles on a reasonably busy roads after what was a very special day.

Inverness to Tomatin

2007-11-24T20:58:00.004Z

Yesterday, after wasting some time wandering around Inverness's many shopping opportunities, I ended up competing with the locals to look as depressed as possible in the Morrisons' cafe. Looking out into a carpark capped by a beautiful deep blue sky, it was the lack of progress towards my destination that helped me give a commanding performance.

So early this morning, after fighting hundreds of school children for space in the kitchen, it was a relief to leave the youth hostel behind and get on the road again.

Inverness is the fastest growing city in Europe so it was no surprise that it took some time to sneak through the housing estates, some too new for my map, as they enjoyed a lazy Saturday morning. Today General Wade's road was to take me to the distillery village of Tomatin, and it was a pleasant surprise to find a decent signed path through the forest as I left the urban maze behind. In the hundreds of years between the roman and Wade's road building programmes, the road builders learnt the value of following contours instead of the many up and downs of the direct route. My knees were grateful for this.

The route is seeped in history, from the elegant arch of the stone bridge at Faillie to the cairn memorial to the rout of Moy. All of this unseen by the masses speeding through the area on the busy A9. After miles of forestry tracks and a missing footbridge, I climbed up to the location of the rout as the sky darkened and hills grew in stature. I could easily imagine how the local knowledge of a blacksmith and four others and the poor weather conditions of that night in 1746 spooked a detachment of 1500 into panicked retreat.

After a bit of searching I soon learnt the knack of following the old road, now just a depression in the heather. The heavens finally opened as I passed under the railway at Moy and I ducked into a bus shelter for lunch. I left as the band of rain started to move away, feeling suitably smug about my timing. After a short period on a cycle track, I arrived at the B&B too early to check in and the smugness faded as I sat outside and watched the rain sweep down the valley.

Kiltearn to Inverness

2007-11-22T17:03:00.002Z

Today was a tale of two bridges, and the island in between. Last night, my rest was interrupted by fiery agony from the red raw skin on my thighs. I was forced to adopt the gait of a man who has experienced an unfortunate accident for the rest of the day.

I had been able to escape the clutches of the A9 so far, but the shortcut provided by the bridge over the Cromarty Firth is just too tempting to avoid. Trundling lorries and speeding cars passed me on my comfortable but narrowing grassy verge. After days in the wilderness or on single track roads, it was a brutal reassertion of civilisation. A fat grey snake was lying across the dark water ahead, the concrete stained and chipped by the climate. I walked in a kind of limbo of frozen scenery, the repeating sections of the bridge endlessly stretching into the distance. The end never came closer, the beginning never moved further away. I passed the time thinking about what would happen if something encroached on my thin strip of tarmac and I was knocked over the low barrier into the cold waves. Didn’t happen though.

Small lanes led through the forested hill of the Black Isle, under the dual carriageways of the A9 and along the shores of the Beauly Firth. The slender beauty of the North Kessock bridge loomed ahead. Views from the sweeping arch of distant hills and the water far below made having to share it with the traffic tolerable. By the time I crossed the bridge my feet were on fire, the dampness and distances of the previous days had taken its toll. Toddling through the streets of Inverness, I was being overtaken by elderly women with disintegrating hips. Time for another day off.

Bonar Bridge to Kiltearn

2007-11-21T19:46:00.011Z

It was the particular arrangement of lines and symbols on the map that presented an obvious dilemma as I refueled myself greedily at breakfast. I wandered along the main road in the early morning light, the rest of the world rushing about like any other wednesday, and was still weighing up my options when I reached Fearn Lodge. The choice was to either take a track up onto the hillside and hope the thin black line on the map translates to at least a thin footpath, or the shorter road alternative. Covered in pine needles, the track looked soft and inviting and I had grown tired of grinding out monotonous miles on the road; it was time to pull my socks up (literally) and be a bit more adventurous.

I was soon walking above a deep gorge, looking across to a steep heather covered hillside topped by the deep greens of forestry. The constant regular roar of a waterfall sneaks up on you, slowly increasing in volume until suddenly you realise that the silence has been replaced. When that moment came I discovered an awesome sight, jets of water dropping from a wide and shallow burn running beside the track to the very bottom of the gorge. Despite the need to maintain a good pace I could not help soaking up the atmosphere.

The track started to fade near the beautifully romantic scene at Garvary, an isolated white cottage on the opposite bank of the burn reached only by an elegant suspension footbridge. The drizzle started as I struggled to follow an indistinct footpath across the hillside. Losing the path a few times I was guided by the old bothy at Garbhairidh, which also provided a sheltered spot for lunch. Dates scratched into wooden panels told of the bothy's past glories and it was a shame to see it without windows or fireplace. Over a pint a couple of days ago I had been told the story of how a group of German scouts had caught and eaten a sheep while staying in a remote bothy some years ago and how the furious landowner had then decided to let it fall into disrepair.

A faint quad bike track lead away from the bothy in the right direction, and I followed it as it climbed into the clouds. It then abandoned me, leaving me alone in the white damp stillness. It was not till I caught the first glimpses of forestry that I had an inkling of where I was, after taking an wandering line through the miles of moorland hillside. As the drizzle started to find its way through my clothing, the ground also become more waterlogged. I was able to make reasonable progress by jumping between solid looking tufts of grass or reeds, until in a moment of pure slapstick, one gave way instantly and I found myself waist deep in clear cold water.

Once I entered the forestry there was an obvious track of flattened grass to follow, each step creating a pool of water as if the ground was merely floating on a huge underground lake. After fording a burn, I was able to enjoy some peaceful walking on dry pine covered ground before reaching the road snaking down Strath Rusdale. At Inchlumpie the plan was to cross a footbridge to avoid a main road and steep gorge later on. I should have started to doubt the map when I was forced to hack through the forestry, sharp branches weaving around my feet to trip me up and clawing at my clothes and face. The bridge was nowhere to be found, the river was wide and deep and I was wasting time as the light was beginning to fade. I gave up and treated myself to a dry pair of socks, which were wondeful until they soaked up all the water in my boots.

By the time I reached the main road it was dark, raining harder and my feet were complaining that they didn't like being wet or pounding the tarmac and why couldn't I just stay at home and watch TV like a normal person. I put on my headtorch and hoped that the speeding cars and lorries would notice the thin beam in time. Several seemed annoyed by my presence and flashed their lights or beeped their horns at me, causing me to shout back that I didn't really want to be here either. I retreated into myself, a mental state that I was beginning to call survival mode. The destination was the only thing on my mind and the few metres in front of my feet the limits of my tunnel vision. Pain was irrelevant. I don't have a lot of memories of the two or three hours that followed, which is probably a good thing.

Arriving in Evanton, I found no trace of the B&B I had booked and was forced to ring for directions. They promised to come and pick me up, an offer I reluctantly declined, stubbornly clinging to my principles. The B&B turned out to be some way outside the village in a lovely location on the shores of the Cromarty Firth. Eleven hours after I had set out from Bonar Bridge I had finally reached my destination. As I got changed I noticed my inner thighs were red raw, the fiction of the skin against my wet trousers had removed hair and broken through the skin in places. The B&B was absolute luxury and the hosts welcoming as I relaxed with a fresh pot of coffee and slowly emerged from survival mode.

Crask Inn to Bonar Bridge

2007-11-20T20:04:00.002Z

An early breakfast of salted porridge was the fuel for the toughest day so far. Leaving as the sky slowly began to lighten, I started off down the road as the innkeeper set off to find his extremely free range sheep. Yesterday I had assured him that they had not yet crossed the soggy bealach. Later, as I started to doubt exactly where I seen the hardy woolly folk, I thought of him roaming the hills and cursing me under his breath.

The small amount of traffic that passed me on the long road to Lairg was mainly lorries taking Christmas trees down south. Patches of forestry appeared at the side of the road, but despite name boards and walkers welcome signs the map gave no clue as to whether I'd ever be able to find my way back to the road again. The gently descending road allowed a good pace and my mind was numbed into a kind of peace by the rhythm of the repetitive motion and slowly passing scenery.

As the rough landscape softened to pasture and the river Tirry joined the wide expanse of Loch Shin, it was time to leave the wilderness behind for the town of Lairg. The range of delicious (but unhealthy) food in the first shop I came to was overwhelming and I had to stop myself from buying more food than I could fit in my pack.

My footsteps fell heavily along a small road following the river before the long forestry tracks through Shin Forest came to the rescue of my tingling soles. The muddy track climbed quickly up the side of a steep wooded valley providing impressive views to small white buildings clinging to the opposite hillside.

I was deposited back on the road near the elegant white brick arches of the old Shin bridge and followed it south as it ducked under an impressive railway viaduct. A new footbridge clung to its side like a vine snaking along a mighty industrial tree. Soon after, I was able to escape into the Balblair and Maikle woods. As the light faded the blue tinted clouds and pink sky were reflected in the still waters of the Kyle of Sutherland. In my fatigued state this was a euphoria inducing sight and I floated all the way to the hotel.

Badanloch to Crask Inn

2007-11-18T21:20:00.020Z

Last night, knowing that my tired muscles would have sent me to bed early but nevertheless was desperate to learn the result of the football, a helpful local informed me that Scotland had unfortunately failed to qualify for Euro 2008 in a simple but effective manner - by shouting "you english b*stards" at the van. Nice.

The morning broke to more drizzle and a long slog along an estate road which skirted low hills and looked over empty heatherlands to lochs and far off forests. It was lunchtime when Loch Choire Lodge was reached, by which time it had started to rain. I didn't really notice this as, a good six days into the challenge, I had finally reached a footpath that was both marked on the map and also appeared on the ground. Unfortunately the rough surface did nothing for my slowly developing aches and pains.

Following the long and narrow lochs with wooded hills on one side and the steep flanks of Klibreck on the other, it was obvious I was leaving the flow country behind. On the shores of Loch a' Bhealaich the path disappeared underneath a torrent of water pouring off the hillside. I searched upstream for a reasonably safe place to cross, chickening out many times when face to face with foaming fury. Eventually I came across a huge boulder which provided sufficient height to allow a desperate leap across. Retreat would now be interesting.

The path now ran into many more similar streams, all transformed by the continual rain into formidable obstacles. Cascades of foaming white scarred the flanks of the mountain, replacing the silence with a gentle roar. As I became less fussy about finding a perfect crossing I was surprised by the power of the water even when just reaching my knees. Heading up to the Bealach Easach (appropriately pass of the waterfalls) was the first real climb of the walk and it was good to get the blood pumping. By the time I headed down the other side, after a small detour following some quad bike tracks, I was half man half liquid. A good excuse to take a direct approach to bogs ahead. My entire attention was focused on getting to the small white building in the distance and I didn't even hesitate to wade into Shirink Burn when it appeared. Luckily being a good distance from the steep hillside this burn was slow and wide and there are worst things than wet feet near the end of the day.

Once my clothes were hung up above the fire in the inn and I had a pint of ale to sip, all this dampness was quickly forgotten. The Crask Inn stands alone many miles from their nearest neighbours and is almost entirely self sufficient, resulting in some fantastic food. It is the kind of place that I could happily spend the rest of my life, so a rest day here was a easy decision to make.

Forsinard to Badanloch

2007-11-17T21:02:00.006Z

With the drizzle slowly soaking into my clothes I was able to convince myself that the short distance I was covering today was acceptable. Not that I really had a choice; there are no roads or shelter between today's destination of Badanloch and the Crask Inn, a full days walk further on.

Today started with the usual single track road, light on traffic but beginning to take its toll on my knees. Although there were no paths or tracks marked on the map, the wide and open flat bottomed valley called me away from the safety of the highway with promises of skipping through soft grass and meadows. Using a bridge over a stream to cross under the railway I was pleased to find no fences or other human obstacles to limit my freedom. The obvious route was to use Bannock Burn (the less famous one) to get to Kinbrace, with the result that I followed looping meanders to reach points feet away from where I'd passed by, the flatness of the landscape making me blind to this trickery.

Approaching Kinbrace, I stealthily circled the village looking for a way in that didn't involve leaving muddy tracks across someone's back garden before giving up and meeting the road just outside at the cemetery. A few miles along this lonesome strip of tarmac I allowed myself to escape the damp and rest up for the challenges of tomorrow.

Loch Gaineimh to Forsinard

2007-11-16T21:42:00.005Z

On paper the trek to Forsinain through a network of forestry tracks looks like an endless slog; but so does walking across this crowded island I suppose. Luckily I found wide open spaces instead of the anticipated gloomy track sandwiched between claustrophobic lines of pines. A mixture of lochans and dubh lochans (dark pools) scattered across the vast sea of peat. A landscape almost untouched by humans. Also a landscape, that if touched by this human, would probably swallow me whole for the amusement of future archaeologists. According to the notices the RSPB have been felling forestry and blocking hill drains, thereby letting the bog regain control. And how did I repay their effort? By forcing them to look at an extreme close up of my ear canal as I sauntered past.

I passed the remote Altnabreac station, which most days does not see a single passenger, and wandered up to Sletill hill in the sunshine. The remaining isolated woods provided the only sense of perspective. As a modest amount of height was gained the horizon exploded and the emptiness of flow country was laid out in all its glory. The distant hazy hills of future days.

Normally you can rely on a decent stretch of tarmac to batter the feet and dull the soul but a wide grassy verge and more stunning scenery eased the miles past. I finished the day in good spirits as darkness fell. I'm now beginning to adjust to the simple rythym of the journey; the problems of the life I've left behind retreating behind the basic needs of food, water and shelter.

Halsary Memorial to Loch Gaineimh

2007-11-15T17:31:00.008Z

The effortless movement of the wind turbines looked majestic as the sun rose over the vast moorland and warm light began to flood the landscape. The first challenge was to get over the innocently named Little River; narrow, deep and with no intermediate rocks to hop across. A long and frustrating detour was required to find a farmer's bridge, hopes dashed with the rounding of each loop of the water. The river conquered, I then faced a long stretch of bog trotting to reach some flooded quarries, these scoops out of the peatland being almost impossible to see until you notice an unpleasant dampness. A track led through more recent quarrying to the mighty River Thurso.

Following the river upstream, a hidden gem emerges from what appears to be flat and featureless as the river winds through a narrow and steep gorge. Next to an arrow-shaped walled graveyard are the dark swirling waters of the Devil's Pool and an isolated tower of white rock that was the site of Dirlot Castle. There are trees as well, isolated in small clumps that cling to the cliffs, a soft contrast to the regimented lines of pine in the commercial forestry I've passed through. After miles of big skies and monochromatic scenery, the roar of the water and the sheer beauty of this narrow scar in the earth is inspiring.

Further on as the gorge opened out, the river began to slow and meander, a wide ribbon of deep blue placed gently on the earth. Wandering alongside, your horizons are limited to the steep earth banks that mark the edges of the flood plain. My pace slackened as I enjoyed this private paradise of soft meadows, calm air and smooth flowing water. At last I was able to let go of the scaffolding of reasoning I'd built up around this journey; the struts of justification and expectation. I enjoyed the moment for what it was: simple, uncomplicated and untarnished by my thoughts. The last miles of the day were spent on well made forestry tracks of hard orange sand. With the kind permission of Fountains Forestry, the overnight stop for the van was far from the beaten track on the shores of an isolated loch. There must be hard days to come, but right now life is good.

Brabster to Halsary Memorial

2007-11-14T02:48:00.000Z

"We shall remember those who flew - Beyond the storms, into the sunset."
Engraved on the memorial for the crew of a B17 Fortress which came down in Feb 1945 during a snowstorm.

Caithness, on the whole, hasn’t gone mad for footpaths. There being no legal record of rights of way in Scotland, you won’t find any comforting green or red lines on the OS maps. Also missing (or hidden from sassenachs) are way marks, footbridges and stiles over obstacles; with no chance of finding the usual thin strip of eroded ground to follow. Stepping off the road or track will require a reasonable amount of faith. If there was a path on the ground when the area was surveyed the OS may have marked a black line on the map, although away from the popular walking areas this often only brings false hope. Luckily the easily led won’t find many black lines on the map in Caithness either. With much of the county being flat expanses of blanket peat bog up to 3m deep or flow country (wetlands), why this should be is a complete mystery.

With that in mind it was time to take to the road. First up was a long, straight single track with expansive views of the surrounding heather moorland and isolated patches of forestry. Tarmac is hard on the soles of the feet and at times I hopped up onto the soft verges for relief, returning to the road when frustrated by the slow progress. Eventually the roads became wider and busier and it was back up on the verges for safety. At Watten is a loch of reasonable size barely contained by the low hills surrounding it, taking on the appearance of a large puddle. I watched a small train wind its way slowly along the shore and took the weight off my feet.

With the roads no longer going the way I wanted and longing for soft tufts underfoot, some more adventurous walking was needed. Early encouragement came from a small shortcut along the river, having only one fence to clamber over. Following the lonely road through Acharole, the remote and dark farmhouses spread out and the sense of isolation increased. The last farm stood alone, miles from the nearest neighbours in the secluded valley; the kind of place a solitary walker like me would love to live. Needing to use a handy stone bridge I sneaked through the farmyard, well aware of what type of social misfit was lurking inside.

Now I had an opportunity to get to grips with the bog that I had admired from the road and followed a lazy burn to the edge of a large tract of forestry. After a muddy series of attempts I threw myself over a good sized fence and gained entrance. With the light fading, it was an easy walk along a soft track to the memorial where I could relax and look back on the first tough day of the trek.

John O'Groats to Brabster

2007-11-13T19:16:00.014Z

After two days of driving just to get to the starting line, I almost managed to talk myself out of getting off the blocks. The last few weeks have been a bit hectic; building up my hours at work, planning the route, printing and laminating maps and buying kit. Every little twinge or ache has played on my mind. If that muscle hurt before I'd even started, how was it going to manage 1100+ miles? I decided I would be happy even if I only made it to Inverness, or maybe just far enough to tackle the high and remote mountain passes of the Cairngorms.

Therefore it's a good job I'm not taking the traditional A99 and A9 route, a brutal section of tarmac with traffic increasing as you head southwards. At the very least I would be off the beaten track and explore a wild and unfamiliar area of this island.

Reaching the almost empty John O'Groats complex in the morning, I decided to set off in the wrong direction with the easy wander up to Duncansby Head. Compared to the soft moorland around the car park and tourist shops, the headland is more like the steep and windswept cliffs most people would imagine at the north-eastern extremity of Britain, complete with lonely lighthouse.

Then it was time to head back to the theme park, which had become a little more lively, even if the shop workers outnumbered the tourists. Signing the log book in the first and last house, I suspect words came less easily to me than the happy folk for whom this place was the culmination of an epic journey. I managed a bit of drivel about the weather before immediately regretting it and walking off before the woman in the shop decided to see what I'd put. Time for a rest and some toasted teacakes in the cafe with the guy whose van would be providing accommodation in (or at least nearby) the remote blanket peat bogs of Caithness and Sutherland.

Hitting the road again, literally, I meandered past a number of interesting derelict buildings, a large graveyard, isolated houses, sandy bays and rocks, briefly being woken up by a refreshing rain shower. Entering the long sweep of Gills Bay with its ugly concrete and rusting metal ferry terminal I passed a road sign informing me that gills were better than groats. I checked I still had my groats and decided that they were actually going to be more useful on this journey.

Turning inland to find a overnight parking spot for the van, I was pleased that my body appeared to be holding up despite the weight on my back. Sixty more days of this would be wonderful, but then it wouldn't be a challenge would it?

Gallery

2006-02-15T20:57:00.002Z