Continued
Reaching the Auchope refuge hut (wherein some thoughtful soul had provided a couple of rollmats for the comfort of visitors) I had a good nose round, read the guestbook then, after a brief breather, stomped on my way.
To be honest, on a clear day a map is really only needed as back-up. The Pennine Way is well-trodden and has finger-board signposts at most of its junctions and major turns. Besides, for much of this section it is handrailed by the fence that marks the border between England and Scotland. However, the walk offered a good opportunity to practice my nav skills on unfamiliar ground so I had my nose in the map (and a finger on each tick-off point) most of the way.
Map aside there was plenty to look at. Although neither as rugged nor grand as rockier mountains, the Cheviot Hills are very attractive, largely grass-covered and softly rounded. I strode on contentedly, England on my side of the fence and Scotland on the other. The PW passes near the summit of The Schill, its rocky outcrops just over the fence in Scotland, before descending into a col below Black Hag where it crosses the national border through a signposted gate. From here the PW divides, the high level route to the east going over the tops while the low level route rounds the shoulder of the hill before descending into the farmland of the Halterburn valley. I opted for the latter route.
The path dropped down the valley into pleasant sheep pasture. I passed ruined farm buildings, a stand of handsome trees and a circular drystone sheepfold (called a 'stell' locally, I believe) before reaching Burn Head Farm. Here a small diversion bypassed the farm before emerging onto the farm road to Kirk Yetholme. By now it was beginning to drizzle so on went the jacket but the valley walk was very pleasant.
Along the farm road I noticed a sign warning visitors that cows with calves can be protective and advising people to give the grazing cattle a wide berth. As most of the stock was the other side of the burn (and as I didn't have my dog with me) I felt unthreatened. But rounding a bend in the track I came across a solitary bovine grazing the verge. It looked rather bulky and, when it turned its back to me seeking out the tenderest grass, it was apparent that it was a well-endowed bull. There was no obvious way of circumventing the brute so I whistled and stamped my feet to warn it of my approach and marched apprehensively past. The bull didn't even bother to look up.
There was no sign yet of the village - and I soon found out why. The lane, by now tarmac surfaced, swung west and ran up onto a ridge. To be frank, finding a short steepish rise at this juncture felt like the sting in the PW's tail. I'd only come a dozen or so miles but I tried to imagine the inward groan at this last unexpected ascent at the end of a 250 mile excursion.
Over the ridge the lane dropped down into Kirk Yetholm, a pleasant unpretentious little place. I soon spotted my wife waiting in the car reading the road atlas. I glanced at the dashboard clock as I opened the passenger door and felt fleetingly smug - the walk had taken me six hours almost to the minute.
Apparently the official end of the Pennine Way is the Border Hotel on the village green. Official or not, it was the end of my PW walk; as the rain started in earnest we settled down in the public bar for refreshments and a spot of Wimbledon on the telly.
I reckon the whole walk was just over twelve miles and the cumulative ascent a bit under 3,000 feet. For me, that's about ideal for an afternoon's walking. I'd had a jolly nice day out on the border hills.
