Work, Work, Work

' Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on their accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.' - Mark Twain.

Yeah.

Berwick-Upon-Tweed
I rolled into Berwick-upon-Tweed (population 13,000) and, as usual when entering a town after days in the country, had to stop myself from talking to people.

Berwick has the strange geography of actually being further north in England than a substantial portion of Scotland, which is truly unusual. Almost as unusual as the guy who stopped for a chat on the 17th century bridge. He was a backpacking RAF helicopter pilot, attached to a search and rescue squadron, which incidentally is the same line of bullshit I used to run on girls to get in their pants when I was in my late teens. I don't recall it ever working, but I do remember scamming along with a mate playing the RAF pilot I'd 'rescued'. On our first go, while well beyond the opening salvo with a couple of attractive prospects down the pub, their friend returned from the bathroom and said "Hi Stef."

We'd both gone to school with her, so that was the end of that. The perils of trying to pull gash in the small town one grew up in.

So I initially regarded this fella with deep suspicion. However, his bay window accent credentialled his story, and he was setting off on a multi-day hike to Alnwick, which is just the kind of boring crap people with real accomplishments do.

Berwick is an interesting place. It changed hands between England and Scotland so many times when we fought over such things, it achieved a uniquely independent status, almost as a separate state, so much so official proclamations used to refer to 'England, Scotland, and Berwick-Upon-Tweed'. One such document was the declaration of war against Russia in 1853, and signed so by Queen Victoria. At the treaty of Paris in 1856, mention of Berwick was unfortunately overlooked, so the town remained at war with Russia for the next century. It wasn't until 1966 when the London correspondent of the Russian newspaper Pravda paid a visit to officially put an end to hostilities. The mayor of Berwick at the time, a playful wag named Robert Knox, told the Russian to 'Please tell the Russian people through your newspaper that they can sleep peacefully in their beds.'

Which is all kinds of awesome. This is the genial currency missing from current international politics. But then, real war does tend to sour the charm of political flippancy.

I had a look around the shops in the town centre, bought some meths for my stove from a decorating store, and found a central bench to sit on and people-watch for a bit. Dole enthusiasts and pensioners dominated the scene, as they typically do in the middle of a weekday when everyone else is at work. The former can be fun to watch, because the threat of violence typically simmers just below the surface. This is especially true of the tattooed womenfolk, who seem to think loitering behind a double-barreled pushchair while nursing a heady morning cocktail of smartphone, cigarette and their latest black eye the de rigueur accoutrements of social status.

Lowri?

I left Berwick by the way of Aldi's and Morrisons to get some food in (Morrisons was rapidly becoming my favourite supermarket in Britain. Best prices for quality nosh and they make lattice-topped pork pies with cheese and pickle baked in, which I'd quite merrily stab a dole baby for), and hit the border, one hilly section of the road actually being the border. I stopped to take a self-timed photograph by the WELCOME TO SCOTLAND sign, with the intent of making it look like I was urinating on it, but it didn't turn out well: I looked like I was fiddling with something way smaller than it actually is. Plus, it didn't say WELCOME TO SCOTLAND, it said WELCOME TO THE SCOTTISH BORDERS which disarms the irreverence dramatically. I resolved to do a better job when I found the proper sign, which I never did. (I was planning to do the same thing to any WELCOME TO signs I saw, so rest easy, Scottish folk.)

I hit my first mountain in Scotland, and it was a doozy. I didn't make it all the way up pedalling, but I took a healthy chunk out of the bastard and impressed myself with how fit I was getting. It took me two hours in total to get to the top, factoring in water breaks and occasional collapses of exhaustion. I later found it was only a 200 metre hill, around 650 feet, but I could've sworn it was bigger. I stopped at a cattle and sheep farm on the top where the farmer graciously refilled my water bottles. He was 70 years old, and had lived at the same farm since he was three, and told me the winters were often a bitch up here on his hill. I was forced to correct him with mountain.

I hurled myself at the descent and covered the two-and-a-half miles to Ayton in about seven minutes. Two hours up, seven minutes down. Now we're cooking. To celebrate my first major downhill I bought an eight pack of Carlsberg to wash down the ham salad sandwiches I made for dinner, but only drank three before passing out to the first episode of Fringe.

Day eighteen
I gave a good yank on a stubborn tent peg this morning and it flew out of the ground and off into the woods, never to be seen again. I also couldn't find my phone after packing. After much searching and retracing of steps it turned up as a lump in my sleeping bag compression sack. Little bastard.

I considered Fringe as I repacked, and wasn't sure if I liked it or not. Seems to be the X-Files with even more dubious science, and decided to be offended by the insult.

Eyemouth
I spent the day in the busy fishing port of Eyemouth after using their post office to send home a few redundant pieces of kit: a pair of shorts (it was getting cooler), a rugby shirt, my unused collapsible water carrier, my large laptop (the battery life is so short it may as well be a brick), and the mosquito head net now the midges had fucked off. An elderly South African couple owned the branch, after moving here to be nearer their daughter living in Edinburgh. 'Close, but not too close,' was how they put it, knowing full well their offspring's propensity for offloading grandchildren.

I invested in some treacle toffees from the proper sweet shop across the street, replete with jars of candy lining the shelves, measured loose into a paper bag by hand. Ah, nostalgia. Then I spent the rest of the day in the The Tavern attempting to work but largely staring out of the window at the scenic rocky bay. At one point a stray dog got trapped on some rocks as the tide came in, which was far more interesting than whatever it was I was supposed to be doing. It took a good while to realize there was no owner coming to the rescue, and everyone else around was well into their pension years. Shit, looks like I'm getting wet, I thought, and started packing up my computers to go rescue the daft bloody dog. Just as I'd got everything nicely logged off, closed down, cables rolled, packed up, and halfway out the door, he took the plunge himself and swam ashore. Cursing canines the world over, I went back inside to set up again.

I left in the late afternoon and climbed out of Eyemouth's coastal dip, battled a howling headwind along the tops until I found a sheltered spot to pitch my tent in the valley made by the scandalously misnamed River Ale. A couple of friendly coppers stopped by for a chat to make sure I wasn't a serial killer, and left clutching business cards, promising to read my blog. Ahh, the old Abrutat charm.

I camped for a day to rest up, then struck out for Dunbar, the birthplace of famous Scottish explorer and American busybody John Muir.

I'd never read any of Muir's stuff, indeed, I'd never heard of the fella, but as the token transatlantic diplomat that I am, I felt I should, and barrelled through his house/museum on the way to the pub. Interesting guy, this Muir.

My pub of choice was the Castle Hotel, where I had an affordable lunch of delicious homemade steak and ale pie with real chips and peas that'd shame the staff of the namesake Castle Inn in Bamburgh to slow and hopefully painful suicide. The friendly landlord's name was Gordon Collin, who used to own a pub in my home town of Scarborough, and we counted a few of the same people among our friends. Small world, indeed.

I left the pub at 6pm, confident I'd find somewhere amenable to camp boosted by half a dozen pints of lager, and didn't. The sun was well set by the time I discovered a quiet field corner by the bike track, threw down my tent in a huff at the delay and woke the next morning with the promise of Edinburgh.