Greenhead to Garrigill

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.