Under leaden, rain filled clouds, we met at the Tesco car park in Worcester and loaded the kit bags of personal gear into the van we had rented from Evesham Self Drive. While the team travelled up in relative comfort the kit went on ahead so that a start could be made on the setting up of camp. Fortunately the rain had ceased and we were able to put the tents up dry. Highburn House Country Park is a delightful site, uncrowded and with excellent facilities. Rabbits freely bobbed around the site, showing little fear, except when Dodja, a wire-haired Jack Russell decided to give chase. The owner’s ducks regularly hovered around our tents offering more combative opportunities for Dodja. Even the Robins and blackbirds came into our mess tent to rummage for scraps, showing little fear. It was really beautiful.

During the night the rain returned and this was the start of a very wet week with little evidence of sunshine.

Starting in the centre of Melrose, we had a brief look at the abbey, and time for a quick coffee (or in Kevin’s case, time to knock Guy’s coffee out of his hand in an attempt to give me a playful hit). How he did not receive custody of Cuthbert Bear for 24 hours is a travesty of justice.

A ‘cleavage’ moment in the mist on the Eildon Hills

Climbing steeply out of Melrose, up the soggy slopes of the Eildon Hills, aiming for the cleavage between the twin peaks, we found ourselves shrouded in low cloud depositing light, but wetting, rain on us. For the group photo I asked them to shout “cleavage” rather than “cheese”, a shout that embarrassed a couple of walkers so much that they scuttled past without ever glancing at us.

Descending below the heavy blanket of cloud we headed for St Boswells and the River Tweed. Sadly flood damage prevented us from taking the riverbank route until much later. A shame as the Tweed is a particularly attractive river. At least by now the rain had ceased and we were eventually able to sit on the riverbank for lunch.

Woodland glade

Leaving the river we soon picked up the old Roman road, a dead straight gash of a path running parallel to the busy A68. This took us all the way to Harestones, not in time to catch the cafe open but Angela was waiting ready to take us back to camp in Wooler.

Tuesday started wet again for our longest walking day, approximately 17.5 miles. The route, once it had crossed a tributary of the River Teviot, on a wonderful wooden suspension bridge, tended to weave its way around field boundaries, following ridges and taking in some wonderful stretches of beech woods.

Beautiful beech woodland

At one point we stopped for a break in the hamlet of Cessford, not far from Cessford Castle, built during a period of Borders conflict. Adjacent to where we were resting was a telephone box. The phone rang, Gill answered and asked if anybody was interested in claiming their PPIs.

By now the constant rain had reduced to showers so our progress was delayed by the regular putting on and taking off of waterproofs. We reached Morebattle during such a shower and all crowded welcomely into the vestibule of the church, now a small cafe raising funds for the restoration of the church into a community centre and church. We were made most welcome by the volunteer on duty that afternoon, a Danish man by birth but having lived in Australia for forty years but now in Morebattle where his ailing wife hails from.

Morebattle sounds like a relic of the border clashes but, in fact, means dwelling place by the lake. It also seems more appropriate in Toy Town with street names like Teapot Street leading to Teapot Bank.

Wideopen Hill (368m) – half way

Refreshed, and pleased that the rain had stopped, we set off again, the group splitting so that a few walked the four miles to Kirk Yetholm along the road while the remainder, relishing the thought of no more road walking, followed the designated route over Wideopen and Crookedshaws Hills. Wideopen Hill marks the highest point of the trek (368m) and also the halfway point of St Cuthbert’s Way. This was a beautiful section of the route in improving weather conditions. The altitude, although not particularly high, gave us far-reaching views north, further into Scotland, while to the south the higher peaks of the Cheviots and north Pennines drifted in and out of cloud.

When we reached the Border Hotel in Kirk Yetholm there was no sign of the minibus or the five who had taken the shorter route. We learned from the publican that they had just left, returning the first tranche to camp. Brilliant! That gave us at least forty minutes of rehydration time. While we were relaxing a young Swiss walker arrived, having completed the 268mile Pennine Way in fourteen days. He deserved his free half pint, although when I did the walk back in the early 70s you got a free pint upon completion. Eventually, Angela returned with the minibus and we reluctantly dragged ourselves away from the pub and headed back to camp.

A touch of irony in the composure of this picture in the light of the referendum

Wednesday dawned dry and much brighter, with the promise of it staying dry. This was good news because Day 3 of this walk is by far the best. It largely steers clear of roads and maintains a higher altitude on open moorland for much of the day.

To begin with we shared the route with the Pennine Way, but not for long as the PW headed south we veered off to the east. Soon after the split we crossed the border, waving goodbye to Scotland. However, from our lofty position we could still see the Eildon Hills over thirty miles away near the start of our trek.

A rare moment of sunshine and rest

The day was superb. There was warmth in the sunshine, and because the distance was only twelve or so miles, we were able to enjoy it and not feel we had to rush to get to the end. All too soon Wooler came into view and the end of a glorious day’s walking was in sight. Then, so was the pub, so rather than rush back to camp, many of us went to the pub and ambled back to camp a little stiff legged.

That evening the rain returned and never really left us for the next forty-eight hours. As we walked through Wooler, nearly everybody we saw made comment about our walk in the rain. Old ladies smiled knowingly at us. Low cloud hung over the hills and when we walked over Weetwood Moor, a mere 150m above sea level, we were well shrouded in cloud. It was also cold with temperatures struggling to get into double figures. Is it really the middle of June?

Cuthbert in his cave

After the beauty of the route the day before, this was a huge disappointment. Long stretches of the route were either on metalled lanes or wide, dull farm tracks. The highlight was visiting St Cuthbert’s Cave, a dramatic sandstone overhang, where his bones were hidden from marauding Vikings.

Finishing at Fenwick couldn’t come soon enough and it was with some relief that Angela picked us up and took us back to camp.

The campsite, while it was well manicured and drained well, was beginning to look a little soggy. Everything was getting a little damp in the mess tent. We only had one more night after this and the dinner table conversation kept everybody’s spirits up.

Lindisfarne Castle

On Friday morning the rain still fell, heavier and more persistently. So we did not become marooned on Lindisfarne in the wet for several hours while the high tide turned it into an island, we chose to walk from east to west, crossing the causeway on to the mainland before the sea engulfed it. This gave us about an hour to wander around the ruins of the abbey, to look across at the castle on its rocky outcrop and perhaps enjoy a coffee. Mercifully, as we set off the rain stopped and the walk across the causeway was very pleasant. To the north we could see impressive breakers on the shore, expecting them to get closer quite quickly on the flat expanse of sand, but not realising that the water was actually making a sneaky approach from behind.

All that was left to do now was to walk the last two and a half miles back to Fenwick, a not particularly impressive walk but a necessary one, despite the fact that it had started to rain again.

Having finished we drove south taking a brief look at the imposing Bamburgh Castle, now private apartments, before spending a couple of hour in Alnwick.

In the evening we celebrated our walk with a tapas meal at No. 1 in Wooler – good food, good atmosphere, good drink and good company.

After a coordinated, sterling effort from everybody to strike camp on Saturday morning, which included me having a little altercation with an antique motor cycle and an angry biker, we began the journey south at 9.15.

How do I rate St Cuthbert’s Way? My opinion may be slightly influenced by the poor weather we experienced but that apart, it is a series of pleasant walks linked by stretches of quiet lanes. Sometimes those stretches were too long and too often. The best day was easily the third from Kirk Yetholm to Wooler. That day alone has inspired me to want to return to explore the Cheviot Hills more thoroughly, hopefully in sunshine.

Clun Castle

One of the effects of high pressure over the UK, something we have not seen for a long time during this dull, wet and warm winter, is a lot of hazy sunshine. That was certainly the case when, just a select, small group of us set out to walk the 11.5 mile circuit incorporating The Shropshire Way, Offa’s Dyke and The Jack Mytton Way. It seemed like a good opportunity for me to don a pair of shorts and expose my legs to a bit of vitamin D.

Having circumnavigated the castle guarding the valley, the walk follows a brook across fields before it begins to climb steadily up a long ridge, from the top of which the whole of the South Shropshire countryside opens out before you. There are no towns, factories, motorways or lines of pylons to blot the undulating 360 degree view. The high pressure haze meant that the view disappeared gradually with distance. Dropping briefly we then climbed around the northern edge of Hergan where we joined Offa’s Dyke, clearly showing on the ground. Now, the landscape was more undulating.

You might have expected the dyke to follow the uppermost line of the hills but this is not the case here. I suspect that being positioned half way up the westerly facing slope, at its steepest point, provided the best vantage point for those wanting to keep the Welsh out. If it had followed the hill tops there would have been the possibility of surprise, as they tended to round off and not provide the full view that any defenders would have felt comfortable with. It was from this vantage point that we enjoyed a long, lazy lunch, in the sunshine.

Offa’s Dyke half way point

Continuing south we descended steeply into the Clun Valley before climbing steadily up the other side. On reaching the top we left Offa’s Dyke and headed across fields of lambs and nursing ewes to pick up the Jack Mytton Way, named after an eccentric Shropshire squire of the late 18th/early 19th centuries. He was renowned for rebel rousing and for outlandish behaviour that privilege seemed to allow. His biography is a lot more interesting than this particular section of his trail, most of it being a quiet lane descending into Clun. Other sections are a lot more interesting and friendly on the feet.

As we walked into town we passed the church with its enormous tower, not in height but in girth. It was extremely impressive. The graveyard is dotted with headstones of long forgotten local people but there is one which belongs to playwright, John Osborne, who settled in the area, dying on Christmas Eve, 1994. He was joined by his fifth wife, helen Dawson, in 2004. Although he died penniless, he left an enormous legacy of outstanding plays that people of my generation grew up with.

Clun Bridge

In Clun, we were in time to visit the tea shop by the bridge for a Tardis-like pot of tea and the largest wedge of chocolate cake imaginable. It was a strange establishment that was part antique shop, part museum, as well as being a welcome tea stop. The warm weather had enticed hundreds of bluebottle flies out of the nooks and crannies in the crumbling fabric of the building and they lay dying on the shelf in the bay window. Get used to it, in a couple of weeks I will be picking flies out of my dal bhat in Nepal!

The Crickhowell Walking Festival has been running for nine years and is one of the most well organised festivals of it kind in the UK (if we are to believe what our customers say). I have been involved most years as a walk leader and enjoy walking with new people, although many of those walking with me come back year after year.

Reaching the summit of Corn Du, Brecon Beacons

This year I led the eastern section of the Beacons Way from west to east, a distance of 49 miles of mountainous country spread over four days. Last year I did it from east to west. It is always a gambol organising a festival such as this with the unpredictability of the Welsh weather but we have always been lucky with only the odd inclement day. This year has been no exception, although the days never turned out a badly as the forecasters predicted. I don’t know whether it is health and safety, the “Nanny State” or the haunting fear of not predicting the 1987 hurricane, but we are issued with so many weather warnings relating to heavy rain, freezing temperatures, snow, high pollen counts, rising UV levels, it is lucky that we dare venture out of our houses at all.

Standing firm in the strong winds on Crug Mawr

As a result, on my third day of walking I had seven people not show up because of what the forecasters had said. Yes, it was windy. Yes we did have some squally snow showers. Yes, it was cold if you stood still for long enough, but it was wonderful to feel the elements, the wind on you face, trying its best to knock you sideways off the path, the flakes of snow driven hard into your face like needles into a pin cushion. What is wrong with that? It is part of the rich tapestry of experiences that make life worth living. As I pointed out to my diminished group of walkers, any discomfort that we experience will only last a few hours, a discomfort that will turn into cherished experience as we sup a warming cup of tea or a refreshingly well-deserved beer at the end.

Glorious spring scenery in the Black Mountains

In the four days that I was walking you could not have asked for a more diverse range of conditions from one day to the next. The so-called “severe” day was bracketed with two days of sporadic Spring-like sunshine, warm enough to enjoy a relaxing lunch stop.

In addition to the 92 walks, which cater for all abilities with distances ranging from 2 – 19 miles, from flat valleys walks to multi ascents and descents, there are a number of events to help visitors appreciate the area more, to teach them how to take themselves off into the hills with confidence, and to entertain. The star attraction this year was Kenton Cool, eleven times summiteer of Everest, including the ‘Everest Three Peaks’ in one climb (Everest, Lhotse and Nuptse). Wow!

It really is an excellent festival that involves everybody in the town and brings in visitors at what would be a normally quiet time of year. Why not try it for yourself next year – February 26^th – March 5^th 2017!

In the morning the sun shone and the night time rain that had fallen sporadically throughout had coated the upper slopes of the Black Mountains with a dusting of snow.

Our original plan was to drive round to Cwmyoy and walk from there on to Offa’s Dyke and Hatterrall Hill, but with sunshine not guaranteed to last and the prospect of snow showers, we felt it better to walk from and return to the Old Chapel rather than change in an exposed car park.

There were just ten of us walking, others having other commitments or were still suffering the effects of yesterday’s wet and windy adventure. I knew there were ten as I did a head count as we were leaving. However, about half a mile into the walk, it became apparent that we were a man down! Peter Hardyman was missing! How can that happen? How can we lose somebody in such a short time? Simon ventured back down the track but there was no sign of Peter. Having waited for ten minutes we accepted our loss and carried on.

For the next hour we climbed continuously at a steady pace up to the ridge that leads north to Gadair Fawr and Waun Fach and south, eventually descending into Llanbedr. It was good to get some views after the restrictions of the day before and the colours were noticeably brighter than we would normally expect at this time of year; a sign of the exceptionally mild winter and the fact that the growing season has never really ended. There was even frog spawn carelessly clustered in some of the puddles in the rutted paths. A significant cold snap or an unseasonal drought will seriously reduce their chances of survival.

Crug Mawr

As we walked along the ridge squally showers of fine but very sharp snow swept across on the strengthening wind. During these occasions the mountains took on a moody appearance. Between showers the sun shone and the colours picked up. As the morning progressed into the afternoon the showers became more frequent. Fortunately, the sun shone while we were on the top of Crug Mawr.

Descending to Blaenau Isaf, we returned to the Old Chapel. Peter re-joined us fifteen minutes later. He had taken himself off when he, having popped back to the chapel for his ice axe(!), didn’t know where we were heading. To be fair he had managed to send me a text message to let me know where he was going. Sometimes I find children much easier to manage!

We had a great weekend with extremes of weather, super food, lots of alcohol, good conversation and many laughs, all the things you need to add spice to life. Thanks to all those who took part and made it a memorable weekend.

Nothing was going to stop us having a good weekend in the Brecon Beacons as we gathered on Friday evening at the Old Chapel. There were 15 of us all together, although there should have been more but a less than pleasant weather forecast seemed to have deterred some, not that they would admit that that was the reason.

During the evening the collection of empty bottles in the corner increased as the supplies of full ones dwindled! Tongues loosened and laughter echoed around the room as the heat from the wood burner condensed on the cold, stone walls.

As forecast, the rain started to fall heavily at about 4.00am and was set to last well into the next night. Those of us who were camping emerged from our tents on to an already soggy field.

Crossing the swollen Afon Tarell

Fortified with a full Welsh, we drove over to Storey Arms determined to fulfil our walking ambitions, if only to respond to the derisory remarks from ‘lounge lizard’ Crowcroft, safe and warm in his Northants home. It was wet. Very wet, and windy. Fortunately, as we set out, the wind was behind us, pushing us along the Taff Trail towards the youth hostel. The ground was absolutely sodden, muddy and very slippery and we found ourselves using a lot of energy trying not to slip.

Lunch!

Remarkably, it was somehow enjoyable. Our kit was being put to the test, and largely failing. It was also stunningly beautiful. Although the higher summits were hugged by dense, water laden clouds, the slopes were streaked with gashes of rushing streams tumbling erratically down, filling and flooding the larger tracts of water in the valley floors. Fortunately it was not particularly cold, even in the strengthening wind. The only time we began to cool down was when we stopped for a quick ten minutes to put some fuel into our bodies, just prior to the longest climb of the day.

The climb took us up the narrowing valley beneath the towering cliffs of Craig Cwm-du with many tumbling waterfalls cascading down them. The path was perilously close to the raging stream, so much so that we had to climb above it and cut across tussocky heather to Fan Frynych. On the top the wind cut loose and blasted us with needles of face peircing rain, forcing us to squint to protect our eyes.

Cutting across the open moorland that makes up Fan Frynych, we picked up the path that skirted along the edge of the impressive cliffs that make up the sweeping arc of Craig Cerrig-gleisiad. In places the path went worryingly close to the edge. This would not normally be a worry but in the strong wind an unexpected gust could easily catch you off guard. Eventually leaving the edge we again cut across the tussocky grass, crossing numerous swollen streams towards the car park, visible for a long time but slow to reach. By the time we did reach it at 3.30pm it was virtually empty, only the hardiest of walkers still out on the hills.

Having finished the walk we were keen to head back quickly to change before heading to the Red Lion in Llanbedr for the Scotland v England match – not pretty but the right result. It had been a while since I had visited the Red Lion but it was great to be made to feel so welcome by everybody, irrespective of which side of the bar they stood.

Peter Hardyman

In the evening, having feasted well and drunk considerably more, the conversation and laughter rang out. The most amusing among us was the usually reserved Peter Hardyman. Having only brought a pair of walking boots with him, he had nothing dry to wear on his feet. The stone floor of the chapel was cold, so he fashioned out a pair of slippers made from a discarded wine box and a discarded beer box. He really shouldn’t mix his boxes! The mop head wig and ice axe completed a very bizarre picture.

There will be headaches in the morning!