To Berwick and Beyond - 10th-13th May

EFOG's trip to Berwick-upon-Tweed, organised by Ken and participated in by ten others, began – for me – with a long walk.

This wasn't the walk from my house to Manor Park Station – which simply seems longer if I have more luggage or am pressed to catch a train – but the walk from the Circle Line platform at Kings Cross/St Pancras underground station to Kings Cross main line station. You used to go up stairs to the booking hall, up another flight of stairs to the street, then into the station. Now you are directed down many miles of wide pedestrian tunnels and up escalators until you are deposited in what I found to be an unknown area of the station that never existed when I used to collect train numbers.

Fred was there already, recovering from the walk, and we were joined by Ken and the others bit by bit until boarding the train. Some were evidently suffering from the route march, but I suspected that we might recover for the weekend.

It's a fairly enjoyable train-ride on the East Coast Railway Line, and Berwick-upon-Tweed appeared to us after a few hours - viewed first from the magnificent Tweed railway viaduct.

Berwick-upon-Tweed - the railway viaductThe youth hostel is not far distant from the station, the whole of Berwick seeming less distant one part to the other than Kings Cross underground is from Kings Cross Station, and is a two-year old hostel in a Grade 2 listed building which had been a granary. It is conveniently near to the River Tweed – just though a windy door in the town walls – and its eating facilities are open to the public.

That first evening we did an exploratory walk across the town and around part of the town walls – delighting in the extra hours of daylight afforded by being that much further north at this time of year. It was late, so the town was quiet, and we wandered into a churchyard with what seemed to me – though I said nought – to be a very odd church. It was only as we exited the gate that I saw that the church was very special, having been built in in the Cromwellian period of British History. Very few churches were built in this period; one other that I know of – rather surprisingly – is in Poplar High Street!

St Cuthbert's IslandWe had a Group discussion in the evening and elected to go to Lindisfarne (Holy Island) the following day, as buses would not run there on the Sunday. The bus was duly boarded and it is not a far trip to the road off the A1 that leads to the island. Lindisfarne – like Mersea – is connected to the mainland by a causeway which floods at high tide, so our visit had to be timed to enable us to get the last bus back. If not – then B&B prices are very high.

Possibly irritating people by going on about St. Cuthbert's Duck, I at least glimpsed one as we crossed the causeway, and a few others from the isle itself. We visited the ruins of the priory, and then made our way to the castle, passing some boats that had been converted into sheds. I've been to Iona, and Holy Island always feels to me like the second in the trinity of which St. Peter's at Bradwell is the third. Look up the history, if you are unfamiliar. Separating from the others – because sometimes a place like this needs feeling – I made my way to the smaller isel of Hobthrush, otherwise called St. Cuthbert's Island – which for a while was itself accessible by a way of many mussels because of the low tide.

The Group carrying their luggageThe bus is timed for the last possible crossing of the causeway, and indeed the wheels actually sprayed sea-water as we returned to Berwick.

Back in Berwick we paid a return visit to the Cromwellian Parish Church, and this time were able to go inside. Being Cromwellian, it is mostly plain, although the Victorians had added stained-glass windows. However, the very simplicity appealed to me. I was asked by the church-warden whether we'd be attending the service on the morrow, but I politely replied that I was the wrong person to ask (!) He was a lovely chap, and delighted in showing us round – including upstairs – and revealing an absolute wonder, the original simple-but-solid table-altar, hidden beneath a simple covering, to one side of the lectern.

Deciding what to do now we are in Scotland; that's England across the TweedThe following day's trip took us – again starting with a bus ride – to the English village of Cornhill on Tweed where, after distressing in a nice way the staff and customers of the village shop, we made our way on a glorious day across the Tweed into Scotland and the town of Coldstream. Our walk - of about 5.5 miles - was in the Hirsel Country Park, Hirsel being the home of the Home family, including Alec Douglas-Home. It's a friendly place to walk, with “Private” notices only directly near the house itself. The weather was sunny, but chill when the sun went behind clouds. After the walk, some of the group went to a tea-shop whilst Lynne and I walked along a stretch of the Tweed and then listened to piper practising in a town court-yard. We all finished with a visit to the museum of The Coldstream Guards.

The following day was our last, and prior to leaving we did a last walk around part of the town walls. The wind was powerful, and part way I received an expected 'phone call from my friend Jenny who had travelled up to Northumberland by car with her husband the previous day. I had to take a hurried leaving from the Group, to get back to the hostel where they were waiting to collect me for the beyond part of my trip – heading for the far north-west of Scotland. If you're interested read on –

Beyond Berwick

Berwick is not quite in Scotland, although it has been and its football team is. It's weird really, being on the wrong side of the Tweed and that.

Jenny, Garry and myself crossed the border shortly, with myself having the comfort of no thoughts of needing to drive and the back seat to (perhaps unfortunately?) myself and my luggage.

We sighted Bass Rock as we travelled the A1 towards Edinburgh and the Forth Road Bridge – the rock white even from that distance with thousands of Gannets. After Pitlochry we stopped at the Pass of Killecrankie - which I'd visited with EFOG a few years ago - had a snack and visited the visitor centre, enjoying the views of the feeding Siskins and nesting Coal Tits, and enduring the incessant rendering of “Bonnie Dundee”. We omitted to do a bungee jump, as we needed to press on.

Machair and beach near BadachroIt is a long way from the Scottish border to our rented cottage near Gairloch, and our cottage was not in the place specified on Google Maps. However, Badachro is a small village, and we found it easily enough. We hadn't paid a lot for the hire, and this showed from the outside and as soon as we opened the porch door: I was immediately thrown back to my grand-parents' house, with the smell of coal-smoke, a wide and varied collection of carpets, bits of carpets and rugs on the floors, dog-hairs on the bits of carpets and the chairs (also many and varied), portraits and photographs of ancient people on the walls and so much crockery and cutlery that we would have been overwhelmed if we'd attempted to clean all of it. We did need to clean some of it, for we otherwise try to live a reasonably healthy life-style. My huge double bed had a huge mattress with a mountain - reflecting those we'd passed on the way - of eiderdowns (probably made out of real St. Cuthbert's Duck-down), bedspreads and assorted ancillary coverings. I would have been flattened if I'd slept under this, so made use of the spare bed to store it. Weirdest of all, the toilet/bathroom was adorned with postcards, children's drawings, newspaper cuttings, pictures and plaques. You certainly didn't need to take a book in with you.

We soon got used to all of this of course, and the view from the living room/lounge window was wonderful, looking out over Badachro Bay and through to Gairloch Bay. Otters came into the bay frequently, and we were able to see them by getting up early and going down to the harbour.

Basalt columns on the Shiant IslandsGairloch has lost most of its fishing industry and now caters for visitors, visiting yacht-people, and trips-round-the-bay. The trips round the bay were many and various, and really catered for just that in glass-bottomed boats, or – as we participated – in whale-watching trips out in the Minch.

Our whale-watching trip was on a four-hour trip to the Shiant Isles, which I've always wanted to see. These three small islands and some rocks are 30 miles out from Gairloch, beyond the north tip of Skye and about 5 miles from Lewis. They are mystical Islands, and my outlook should strictly prohibit visiting them by means of a twin-diesel powered RHIB. However, I've some elements of pragmatism built into my psyche, so a power-run across a somewhat choppy Minch was well worthwhile, including even having to turn back first time because of the swell. One of thousands - a Puffin off the ShiantsWe'd been provided with appropriate wind and wet-proofs, and by mostly keeping our heads down and sometimes needing to sit backwards because of the spray, we reached the islands. We were treated to the experience of thousands of Puffins, almost as many Guillemots, some Razorbills, Hebridean Wrens, White-tailed Sea Eagles, Seals, Eider Ducks, Bonxies, and Shags – amongst others. No whales, though – not even small ones; the Gulf Stream current is still in the wrong place.

The coast in the vicinity of Gairloch - and indeed for much of the North-West Highlands - is magnificent, with great and small cliffs, machair, white sand beaches and wonderful mountains - Quinag, Stac Pollaidh. Suilven, An Teallach (which is also a good beer), and of course a number of Bens, Beinns or Cul Beags and Mors.

I still didn't manage to climb Stac Pollaidh or anything else of note - and we didn't even get up to Balnakiel Bay, a place to which I've a longing to return, but we left Badchro on the Saturday and journeyed south to Whitehaven in Cumbria for a few days, then rented a pine log cabin near Grange-over-Sands for a few more days before returning home.

Hence: Berwick and Beyond.

Paul Ferris, 29th May 2013