A Day in the Hills
By: Richard J. Goodrich
Tags: Scotland, Christianity, Travel, Hiking, History

The next town on our route is Morebattle. I am hoping to find a cash machine here, as it is the largest town we will pass through until we reach Wooler. Although there aren’t many shopping opportunities along St Cuthbert’s Way, I find that I did not bring enough currency with me. Much to my surprise, our evening lodgings do not accept credit cards. It is a cash-based society here in the Borders. That impression is reinforced in Morebattle, where I fail to find a cash machine. Not much else, either. The town’s solitary grocery store closes its doors at 1:00 on Saturday afternoons, denying me a chance to swipe my debit card and pick up some currency. I am finally able to get a twenty pound advance on my card from a nice lady in a pub.

Sensible people rest before tackling Wideopen Hill, Scotland. Author photograph.

The sensible people we have encountered on the trail are stopping in Morebattle for the evening, but we take pride in our lack of common sense. While those good folk are unlacing their boots and putting their feet up, David and I plod out of town. The map reveals a six mile gap between our current position and the evening’s goal. That’s six miles on the horizontal axis; the trail planners have saved another bit of whimsy for us: Wide Open Hill, the highest point on St Cuthbert’s Way. 1,150 feet of muscle-straining, hope-draining, climb.

Near the top of Wideopen Hill, Scotland. Author photograph.

This is almost too much to believe. Who would put such an obstacle at the end of a day’s hike? Why didn’t we stop in Morebattle? With tears in my eyes, I plod up the green slopes of Wide Open Hill. David, fueled no doubt by his spot of Earl Gray, hops up the path like a sprightly elf. As the trail steepens and the air thins from the increasing altitude, I find myself slowing and stopping often to admire the scenery. I am undoubtedly suffering from hypoxia — high altitude sickness. It certainly be the case that too many years piloting a desk have robbed me of vital stamina.

I can see why climbers of Mount Everest employ Sherpas. I could use someone to lift my pack from shoulders, to free me from the weight that is making this end-of-day ascent so unpleasant.

The trail was breathtaking, in more than one way, but as our day’s mileage count moved past twenty, I found myself less-diverted than I might have been under different circumstances. The hill would have been difficult when fresh in the morning; coming at the end of the day it proved a struggle. The temperature falls as we ascend. A freshening Scottish gale provides a stimulating wind chill. Fortunately the wind is striking our rear, left quarter. Hiking into the rising wind might have sent me wailing back to Morebattle.

A Lonely Sheep Farm: Another Vista from Wideopen Hill. Author photograph.

I crab about having to climb a hill, I crab about the the trip down the other side. As difficult as it is to pull yourself up a steep slope, descents can be every bit as taxing. By that time, your tired legs and joints struggle to brake a gravity-accelerated load. I can feel every plunging stride in my knees and lower back. There’s no pleasing a pilgrim. Well, that’s not true: as we near our evening stop, Town Yetholm rises from the sheep-shorn Scottish vales. I dream about a table, a hot meal, and a bottomless glass of wine. The pain of the day suggests that the pleasure of stopping will be overwhelming.

As, indeed, it is. There is nothing quite so satisfying as pulling hiking boots off one’s feet at the end of a long march.

After hot showers, we stroll across the parking lot to take dinner at the Border Hotel. I don’t often offer unpaid advertising, but let me depart from my customary practice: I heartily recommend this fine establishment. Underestimating the demand, we have failed to make reservations for the dining room. Nevertheless, the delightful hostess takes one look at our trail-wasted faces, and announces that she will squeeze us in. The dining room is packed, so she clears a place for us in the bar and serves us there. The food could have been awful (it was actually very good) and I still would have awarded the restaurant a Michelin Star.

May St. Cuthbert’s blessing rest on the Border Hotel.