Travellers

The Scottish National Trail starts in the wee village of Kirk Yetholm, two kilometres from the border with England. 

Kirk Yetholm was until the early 20th century, the 'capital' for the Roma people in Britain. It was where they crowned the "Gipsy" King or Queen, and the wee cottage where the Roma leader lived was called, with a nice sense of irony, "The Palace".

The Palace looks onto the village green and The Border pub (go there, it's really friendly). Camped on the green, exercising to the full his right to roam, was Jack, who is walking from John O'Groats to Lands End, four times the distance I will do in my Stroll. 

Jack travels light, with a tarpaulin supported by walking poles, and the minimum of kit. He wants to see life, escape from the claustrophobia of a planned existence and a career. He wants to learn how to do things, because he knows that there is a climate crisis coming and he does not want to be caught out. He is eloquent and an easy talker (he says it's because he worked in a bar, but I think it's natural).

In the hostel is Sue, who volunteers there. She's retired, but still runs at 1000Kw of energy, cycling, walking, scuba diving and travelling. She's firm with the hostel residents (she described one as 'gobby' after he objected to making his own bed) and travels to escape from rules and tedium. 

Sue and Jack have broken out of the conventions and borders that box us in, but have kept a strong sense of community and humanity. They are fitting people for a village where the Roma spirit lives on.

Stroll with Spring

I'm strolling up Scotland with the Spring.

Here in the Scottish Borders (I'm just South West of Galashiels, camped in a wee corner of woodland), Spring is the song of the skylarks who wake me each morning, it's the gravelly drone of the big bumble bee who inspects my tent for nectar, it's the egg-yolk flowering of acres of gorse, the delicate primroses, rich blue-mauve wild hyacinths, and wild garlic that line the forest paths, and of course here, in sheep country, it's the jumpy wee lambs, running to their ewe when a quadruped* human with his home on his back strolls past. 

 

 

Borders bluebells

 

It's Spring in the sky too, and in Scotland that means blue sky, immediately followed by a rain shower, a blast of icy wind, and then brilliant sunshine. Often in under 10 minutes. You end up putting on sun-screen and an anorak, just to be sure. Welcome to Scotland. 

*I'm using walking poles; what a great invention! 

I’m in a foreign country

I'm in a foreign country. It's called Newcastle.

I don't know the cultures, here. I can see tribes, flagged by the women and the alcohol (the men don't seem to differ much from tribe to tribe). The main station is where they gather. 

Passion Fruit

Tinned passion fruit martinis or mojitos from Marks and Spencer. Long prosthetic eyelashes and short skirts, tottery heels and dyed blonde hair, the natural brown growing out below. Their men, hard shaved and tattooed, scrubbed Sunday faces collapsing as the alcohol takes effect. In flocks of neon crop-tops and extended, arty nails, an impending riot of colour and curves. 

Doc Marten

Or the studious Durham intellectuals, bent over their laptops, their latest paper reflected in the sensible glasses perched on their noses. Brown coat, a short tear in the knees of their jeans and Doc Marten's to show that they are not conformist. No alcohol, but a refillable bottle of water, topped up at the station tap. 

Elderly Mute

The lumpy proletariat, waddling across the platform dragging an ancient trolley-bag, bent over with years of hard labour (and osteoporosis). Dressed down in grey, brown, maybe a muted red scarf, unnoticed except by the attentive station staff. These are the people who built the social stage on which the Passion Fruit now perform. Invisible ancestors of the nail-painters. 

Then there is a religious tribe, black hats and diminished women, and a sporty tribe, but I recognise these people. They are not strangers, even if I know nothing of their lives. 

This is Newcastle at four o'clock on a Bank Holiday Sunday.

My Fat Friend

 I have a fat friend.

He's an aquaintance, a new friend. Someone I'm going to have to get to know over the next two months.

He's seriously fat. On the scales he weighs only 20kg, but to me, he's like a tonne. Heavier when he's wet, of course, and he's going to get very wet.

He sits on my hip bones, and sways gently as I stroll along.

He's black. And yes, that's a purposefully lower-case b. Because he's only black on the outside. Inside, I'm trying to think of him as sky-blue, a blue as light as air, a blue that floats along with me, on the trail. It's the only way I can cope with his weight, to think of him like this.

Inside, he's soft and warm. Downy soft, and hot-tea warm. And he's protective, because he's the one who is bringing along the plasters and the first-aid kit, as well as the maps and the compass.

It's a complicated relationship, him and me. Yes, it's new, so we're both exploring the other's vicissitudes, and limits. I need him and he, frankly, needs me - otherwise he'd get nowhere - but mutual need is not a great basis for a friendship. That sort of relationship can be pretty brittle. I'm not sure where the relationship is going - although I can clearly say that it is heading north. It's possible we'll come to like each other, in time. But not before we've taken a good few knocks. 

He's called Vaude. Has his name tattoed on his back, just so you don't forget it (is this arrogance?) It's a German name, although it sounds better if I say it in a French accent. I quite like the name. It sounds a bit like baud, which (as you'll know) is a measurement of the speed of data transfer. I like that speedy connection, as though he and I could fly over Scotland at the speed of light.

 I'll let you know later how we get on, Vaude and I.

It's a beautiful day, in Scotland

A reminder that the weather in Scotland is wet.

Here is the forecast for the first few days of my Stroll up Scotland:

It's always sunny, in Scotland

 

I must be mad. Here in Catalonia it's 24ºC and blazing sunshine.

A fitting beginning

 I'm packing. 

And unpacking. 

And packing again, but this time rotating everything 90°.

But still it won't fit. 

I am trying, really trying, to travel light, simple and small. My tent weighs less than a kilo, my Primus stove is tiny, and I'm taking the bare minimum of clothes. 

But my trial pack this weekend was a disaster. A bulging, nearly bursting rucksack, a whole bagful of stuff I couldn't squeeze in, and a pile of things that, OK, I can live without (no, I really don't need a magnify glass, or that extra pair of trousers...) 

So tomorrow I'm going to have to buy a bigger rucksack, and start again. It's that, or do a Dervla Murphy  https://www.travelbooks.co.uk/dervla-murphy/ and take a donkey. 

In Praise of Walkhighlands

 I'm preparing for the big Stroll Up Scotland, and there is one source that I turn to again and again - Walkhighlands - https://www.walkhighlands.co.uk/

 

Founded by Helen and Paul Webster in 2006, the site contains the information that I need to make this walk work. There are extensive route commentaries, gear guides (I've taken advice on tents and cooking equipment so far) as well as links to Ordnance Survey maps. One user has posted video blogs of sections of the Scottish National Trail, which help me understand the terrain. The news section includes features on rewilding and land use - all of which help understand the context of the terrain I will be walking through.

 

The site is funded by donations from its users, and from the John Muir Trust and NESTA. So it is independent and objective, important in a site that touches on the health and safety of its readers.

Thank you, Helen and Paul!