Biggar than Peebles

It isn’t but it would be ok if it was. Today was a 17 mile walk from the camp site in Biggar down alongside a stream to the River Tweed and on to Peebles. Biggar is a mile from the River Clyde, which runs on to Glasgow and down the Firth of Clyde to the Irish Sea and the Atlantic. But the stream that runs through Biggar turns left, instead of right, and runs on to the Tweed, which wends its way to England, the east coast and the North Sea.

The two white houses to the left in the photo above are on a tiny ridge that marks the watershed between the east and west coasts. Weird innit?

The site was alright, it’s a caravan club site and a golf club rolled into one. Clean bog, lots of bog roll, good washing facilities but that’s less relevant for Little Old Swine Stinker Me. The pond was full of fish too but you’re not allowed to fish it. Bullsh it.

I slept so well last night in ma tent. Eleven hours with only one tiddle. Big un though. 90 seconds easy, and free flowing. Not like my usual old man’s spray, dribble, spray, dribble. May I use your bathroom?

Heavy showers forecast. Oh well, here I go. By the way, Lanark is where William Wallace came from, of Braveheart fame. They don’t make anything of it. Local story is that he was only a pawn in a bigger player’s game. The fall guy that they shopped to the English and got taken to London to rot and then to be hung, drawn and quartered. Dirty English barstewards.

This is the stream, with tiny flowers, which runs past the site and later becomes part of the Tweed. I half expected Ophelia to come floating down.

The first eight miles were along a disused railway line. Fast walking flat and straight from a to b.

This lasted for eight miles but then it got rougher and unclear.

Where it was clear the farmers, as in Spain, tried to discourage folk. I couldn’t resist touching this and got a hell of a shock for my cheek. Well, for my arm actually. Scottish batarde farmer. Scuse my French. 

The hills breathe lovely life into the landscape. Just fab.

The shot above is where my stream, coming in from the right, flows into the Tweed, coming down from the hills ahead. My right foot is hurting like hell with blisters and at this point I had to change the dressings and my socks, which were soaked. I’d been walking in trainers to ease the pain but they let in water.

On top of one of the dry stone walls was an inscription and inscribed rocks. To Georgina Stewart, 1919 – 2014. A good innings and a lovely place to rest eternally.

Peebles was a long way. My foot is a bugger, but it’s a short one tomorrow. Eight miles I think, so that will be ok. The site is nice today as well. And I beat the rain showers to get the tent up on dry ground. Excellent.

The club on site opens at 5pm. Excellent. And I’m in it now. Excellent. But it’s horrible. Not excellent. And town is half a mile away and I don’t want to walk. Not excellent. And the club doesn’t do food on a Monday night. Not excellent. And I haven’t got a crum to eat. Not excellent. So I’ll have three pints, a packet of crisps and an early night in the fresh, clean air of the Scottish Borders. Excellent!!!

I’m worried about my foot. It’s identical damage to when I roadwalked the last two days in Spain. I’ve got to toughen it up or change my boots. The boots are fine. I’ll toughen it up then.

Night night.