New Lanark to Annan Water Day 1.
Distance today: 16.9 miles.
Total distance: 435.1 miles.
Accommodation: campsite.
No angry farmers, no curious animals. I’d survived another night in the wild. There was however a fisherman slowly working his way up river. Eventually he climbed out onto the bank near me and we had a chat as I packed up my gear. “Didn’t you hear me?”, he asked. Apparently he’d got there at about quarter to five and had been fishing quite close when there were 2 deer in between me and the other tent. I’d heard nothing, in spite of me thinking I’d had a restless night. He reckoned this was a popular spot with campers, particularly ‘kids’ who went there to indulge in their drug of choice. I don’t think he was a fan of the youngsters who had a tendency to get quite stroppy when confronted, not to mention leaving the place in a state. I guess I was just glad I didn’t have to deal with them last night.
Today’s route took me mainly along country roads. It was the first time that I wasn’t following (or at least trying to follow) an official trail. I was actually using the route that Adam Dawson walked when he did the LEJOG in 2014. One of my lasting memories was how ‘clean’ everything looked. Away from the dirt and the grime of the big, bad cities there was a crispness to the landscape. No plastic bags, no takeaway boxes, no empty cans of drink. It was as if they’d just had a massive tidy-up ahead of a royal visit.
Something else was preoccupying me as well. Meat. More specifically, our ability to disassociate meat with the creatures it came from. Throughout the trip I had passed field after field full of sheep. I challenge anyone not to smile when they see a frolicking lamb do its trademark four-legged leap. And I’ve just learnt a new word. Apparently this is called stotting. And yet, I do like a lamb roast dinner. When we see this happy, carefree little animal, how do we then say I want that on my plate. It feels hard to justify. What do they call it – cognitive dissonance?
At some point, Adam’s route seemed to go off piste. First it went from a road to a forestry track. Then it just seemed to take a beeline over a hill. I sensed I was going roughly in the direction I needed but it was nice to be reassured once I reached the brow and could see another road in the distance. Around about this time I started to see lots of cars and campervans parked up and, more strangely, quite a few people with large rucksacks making their way up hill. It seemed a very random place to warrant this much interest. The mystery was solved when I finally asked somebody passing. This was a well-known paragliding spot as used by the Lanarkshire and Lothian Soaring Club. After a couple more conversations I was temporarily better informed about how it all worked and sure enough, brightly coloured chutes soon started to appear in the sky. As ever, it was all a nice distraction from the job at hand.
After a couple more road miles I reached the village of Roberton. While there I got chatting to an older Scottish woman called Heather. She was on her way to a plant sale at the village hall. Sometimes when I talk about what I am doing, I do have the horrible feeling that I am making it into a sales pitch. Of course I want people to donate but I don’t want them to feel pressured. At the end of our conversation, Heather did kindly give me £10 for the cause. It does always feel like a boost, in many ways.
Theoretically, my stopping place for the night was going to be the campsite at Abington. Unfortunately, between there and Roberton there was a main road which meant hopping off and on the verge every time there was oncoming traffic. I can tell you, this gets boring very quickly. I’m sure Adam’s route was meant to take you along a quiet track but I could not find it.
Abington was doing its best impression of a one horse town. Peering into the windows of the hotel, there was no sign of life and so I didn’t rate my chances of getting a pub meal later. Across the road was the general store which at least had enough snacks to keep me going. The campsite was a few hundred yards away on the other side of the railway line. With no obvious walking trails in the vicinity, I wasn’t surprised to find that the site was mainly set up for caravans and campervans. While not going quite as far as saying “walkers not welcome”, the old woman who booked me in exuded indifference. The place where I was supposed to pitch my tent was the central area in the middle of all the caravans and quite clearly the one spot where kids would choose to kick a football around. I managed to find somewhere off to the side which also had a little shade. Did I mention that it had been quite warm for most of the day?
After one more visit to the general store for emergency beer, that was me pretty much done for the day. Predictably the noise levels did remain ‘raised’ until later in the evening when the kids finally headed back to annoy their parents instead.
