The Cheviot
The Cheviot is the last mountainous outpost of northern England and an iconic marker near the terminus of the Pennine Way. But isn’t it, to be blunt, a little bit boring? Let’s find out…
Trail makes a dawn raid on Northumberland’s giant to uncover its hidden secrets
Do you like nothing more than curling up on the sofa, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in hand, while your brain disengages to the likes of Love Island? If you do, then I don’t think you’ll like The Cheviot. If, however, you like nothing more than taking cold showers, and endlessly read and re-read Thomas Hardy novels, then I think these are the hills for you (and me). Let’s get to grips with one of the last hills in England the hard(y) way.
Okay, so that’s the dramatically controversial opening paragraph out of the way. If there’s anyone I haven’t offended, don’t worry, I’ll get round to you in a bit. The truth is, a lot of people find The Cheviot dull. I don’t. That’s not because I’m dull – I am – but that’s not the point. The point is, all open spaces where we have the precious freedom to roam are special, to be cherished and most importantly for us, to be walked. And I mean walked with a passion and zeal, not because you need to tick it off a list, or just because you feel you should. But because you want to exercise your right to explore such free places. I’d go as far as to say if you find the likes of The Cheviot dull, then what you’re really exposing is a dullness within yourself. There we go, now I’ve offended everyone, probably even The Cheviot.
I’ve been to the Northumberland National Park’s highest peak a few times. Because of its proximity to the Scottish border (2km away), I’ve always tagged it onto a walk taking in that grand ridge that divides our nations. I now, however, feel that doing this doesn’t do The Cheviot justice. I always used to think more about the border ridge, but this time would be different. This time I’d be true to the hill that so many love to hate.
A new dawn
I decided upon a horseshoe walk, obviously taking in The Cheviot, but also the peaks to the southeast of it, as I’d walk the skyline of the Harthope valley. And here’s the first surprise; the Harthope valley is really pretty, particularly the lower sections, a destination in itself. I arrived early. This is the photographer in me talking – if you want to make somewhere or something, or even someone, look better than it is, you light it nicely. The forecast was for some very early glimpses of sun and I didn’t need any more telling, that was my ticket to seeing these hills literally in a different light. I chose a path that chased Hawsen Burn out of the valley, back up to where it came from; the ridge between Broadhope Hill and Scald Hill. I was rushing a little at this point, not just because my legs were fresh out of the car, but more to ensure I saw the hills in the light I’d got up so early to see. I remember a curly horned sheep skull, wedged into the wall of a sheepfold, lichens growing in its eye sockets, but I didn’t stop. Up on
that broad ridge it happened. Dawn broke. A lightsaber blade of sun swept over the hill I was on, everything looked like a contestant on that Love Island programme (not that I’ve seen it you understand), perfect and ever young. Moments like this should be heralded by some kind of fanfare but, alas, I had nothing to offer. As if to answer my insolence, the sun went in and I didn’t see it again for three hours.
These hills have eyes
The broad south-east spur that includes Scald Hill is definitely grouse shooting territory. Butts went off in all directions, all well maintained, and I had the feeling of being watched while on this part of the ridge. It’s funny, but I can’t remember seeing any of the usual wildlife I’d normally see in our uplands… A wire fence, itself perfectly in order, directed me to The Cheviot. The area feels like it’s had enough of centuries of border disputes, raiding clansmen and general uncertainty. Now it craves order and control. I did see one tree, but more of that later.
I was glad in a way that I was getting a mix of conditions. I’d seen The Cheviot, Comb Fell and Hedgehope Hill earlier,
but now I was experiencing a close-up view of the inside of a cloud, one sat squarely on the plateau of The Cheviot, like it was trying to hatch a brood of cloudlets. It focused my attention, as ever, on those things I could see; miles of millstones. Anyone that’s done a bit of walking on the Pennine Way will be familiar with these suckers (not that I’m on the PW yet, but I will be soon). For countless miles they stretch over the peat bogs and moorland of England. Most of them are reclaimed from the mills of the industrial north, but did you know that they place them in the ground out here upside down? Apparently, the smooth side that was uppermost in the mills is too slippery for us walkers.
There are places where these stone pavements are a lifesaver, and one of those is the summit plateau of The Cheviot. While I was up there, the low grasses were all in their autumnal colours. Up near the trig point, it’s like a scene from the WWI trenches, with the stone equivalent of duckboard tracks zigzagging through the shell holes. One step off the track and it’s goodbye Dora.
The summit of The Cheviot is a raised peat bog, pure and simple. In the end a lost glove caught my eye. The pathetic sight of the black woollen object, sinking into its surroundings, seemed to suit the occasion. I shunned the trig point and had a cup of coffee by the glove. I bid it farewell and knew things were going to brighten up, just as soon as I got off The Cheviot.
Bogged off
To the south-west of the summit is Cairn Hill and the Scotsman’s Cairn.
I sat there thinking, well, waiting really. I could feel there was going to be a break in the cloud so I was killing time, eager for the rest of my walk to be in the sun. I’d missed out on the summit being clear, but the second half of the route might just give me views back to The Cheviot. Also, it was the hills I was about to walk that were new to me, so I was keen to actually see something of them.
Ten minutes later and Comb Fell dropped out of the bottom of the cloud. Back on. The walk around the head of the Harthope valley was pleasant. Coldlaw Cairn caught my eye, it looked like a large prehistoric cairn, just the kind of thing I like to visit. I cut off-path to it, dipping down then rising up over peat hags. It was an adventure, but a pointless one, the ‘cairn’ was a natural tor. Back to Comb Fell proper.
I mentioned earlier about the summit plateau of The Cheviot being a raised bog. Well so was Comb Fell, only this time there wasn’t a pavement paving the way. Every 100m forward involved relentlessly circumnavigating bog after bog. I have to say, I was starting to like it. I was ready to embrace the challenge. Those peat bogs were pristine, each one surrounded by every shade of green. That green – moss, particularly sphagnum moss – is what creates the peat, laid down year after year in a nutrient-poor, acid-rich bog, it just squishes together and accumulates (apparently it takes 50 billion years for it to grow by 1mm, or something like that).
I have to admit, there were a couple
“If you like cold showers and Thomas Hardy novels, these are the hills for you”
of times, particularly between Comb Fell and Hedgehope Hill when I started to wish I was sat on a sofa with Love Island for company. I snapped out of it pretty quickly, usually when I’d gone knee-deep into another bog. I’m sure if something takes longer to like, it means you like it more in the end, right? It felt like these hills were going to be the loves of my life at this rate.
Let there be light
But then one thing changed; the sun came out. As I was climbing Hedgehope Hill it blooming well shone its head off, even nearly – but not quite – illuminating The Cheviot. The route wasn’t as quiet as I thought it would be, which was good to see (and I took a guilty pleasure in watching the other people struggle through the same bogs that I’d been through). We were all winners though.
I adore that wave of LOVE for everyone and everything around you that can sweep over your mind at any stage of a walk. It normally coincides with the sun coming out, being sat down and having just eaten chocolate, but it’s still a beautiful moment in any mountain day. Who’d have thought the dull old Cheviot hills could muster up that euphoric feeling? Embrace dull and reach on through to the other side, man…
Hedgehope Hill, with the fence marking my stride length as I climbed to the summit, is everything that The Cheviot isn’t. To begin with it’s dry.
It has a large cairn/rough shelter by the white trig point. The top is defined. The views hinge on that pivotal point in the landscapes, looking east looks less mountainous and a bit more lovely. But best of all, The Cheviot looks simply cracking from here. You’ve got all the separation you need to view it in its entirety. Hedgehope Hill summit is the highlight of this Cheviot walk. Fact.
Descending from the top, heading back towards the car, is like being tipped out of a wheelbarrow. There are very pleasant delights on this last leg, but I’m not going to tell you about them, I want you to find them for yourself. There has to be something left to discover.
Just before I dropped to the valley floor, I spied that tree I mentioned earlier. A birch tree, growing defiant, the only thing for miles around higher than the heather. An up-yours to over-management of the moors and, more relevant to us, two fingers to the idea of these hills being dull. A true maverick, it framed The Cheviot with its branches. The Cheviot – challenging yes, frustrating undeniably, but dull? No, never dull.