Keïteï Ventures

Two trains and three buses later I step out into the Scottish town of Kirk Yetholm. The official end of the Pennine Way but in my case, the start of my 265 mile journey. I was as ready as I was ever going to be. I’d managed to get a new backpack as my old faithful pack – one which I’d had ten years and had seen my through the Pacific Crest Trail, living in Japan, hitchhiking around New Zealand and motorbiking up Vietnam had finally given up. I’d been wild camping a few nights previously and the bottom zip which kept everything contain had failed. After arriving in York yesterday, I’d sped through rush hour traffic to park illegally and run into the city centre to buy a new one. The one I’d ordered online wasn’t due to arrive until tomorrow and by then I would be long gone.

It was 1pm when I set off up the hill, leaving the village and starting the first section of the trail. It was extremely muggy, sunny and I was feeling sleepy after my various buses and trains had lulled me into a peaceful state. The peaks of the Cheviots were starting to loom ahead and might offer a bit of respite from the heat. I crossed a stream and began to ascend not knowing that that trickle of water would be the last I would see of it for 40 miles. I was aware that this part was dry, due to the elevation and would look forward to the next stream I would cross.

Up I climb and it’s hot, not a dry heat but an oppressive one which lays over the land and halts any breeze that attempts to stir it. I begin to sweat and try to avoid constantly checking how far away the peak is via my maps. I snack on the bilberries, using them as a distraction as I go, the Cheviots living up to their name. A few hikers pass me, nodding as they go and look pleased to be going down hill.

I reach the mountain rescue hut and pop inside, it’s way too early to be thinking of setting up camp so I sign the guest book and begin my final ascent. Upon summit-ting, I flop down and marvel at how still it is. I record a video and don’t have to use a microphone as it’s so still. I enjoy being able to rest, until the midges find me. Swearing, I force my feet back into socks and shoes, sling my pack back on and tear off down the trail. It had been nice while it lasted.

Reaching the bottom I meet flagstones and appreciate the level surface enabling me to devour miles. It is amazingly dry, even the boggy patches have cracks running through them. The late afternoon fades away into the evening and I turn off trail to pitch. Being in Scotland, I can legally camp anywhere and I do so. There is no one else around for miles and I pitch my small one person tent and wait for my cous cous to rehydrate. I’m pitched near a cairn and a geocache peers out from it. I gleefully sign my name, inhale a few chocolate digestives and close the door to my tent. It’s not meant to rain but low clouds are visible on the horizon meaning I’ll most likely wake to a wet tent anyway.