Well, the fact I’m almost able to type this, would seem to suggest that I made it through the walk.

I did, but it was a closely-run thing. Up until yesterday, the furthest I have walked is 11 miles, from Galashiels to Lauder on the Southern Upland Way. The walk yesterday took in TWO other stretches of the way – from St Mary’s Loch to Traquair and then onto the Three Brethren. From there, it was a supposedly easy jaunt to Selkirk – in all, it was supposed to be 20 miles, but I’ve got a sneaky feeling they slipped a few extra miles in there when nobody was looking.

For my sins, I am part of the Borders Barmy Army (the BBA), a group which, for some reason, does every charity venture in kilts. I have to say that walking in the kilt was a very pleasant experience. William Wallace and his cronies were not that daft, after all… This time, it was for Cancer Research.

Most of the first bit went really well – the exception being the climb into Craig Douglas Forest, which brought out calls for ropes, harnesses and Sherpa guides. None of these were available so I gritted my teeth and my toes and got into a rhythm. I thought I was doing really well and was almost sprinting up the path, when an elderly fella strode on past me as if I were a rock. There was not a bead of sweat on his brow, while the stuff was pouring from every inch of my body.

I did eventually get to the top and it was all nearly worth it. The vista opened up with welcoming arms and a photo was in order.



From there, it was a lovely wee walk into Traquair. Four of our group – the BBA – thought they had found a shortcut to Traquair House, where they thought the checkpoint was, and added an extra couple of miles to their journey. When they arrived, I almost didn’t have the heart to laugh at them.

After the best cup of soup in the world – I must call Guinness – we (or most of us, as the first bit was enough for some, including Paul, who said that his blister was down to the flesh!) headed up to the Minch Moor. This particular part of the journey was incredibly difficult. My muscles had seized up a bit during the stop at Traquair and I was feeling it now. The path itself was so steep it made the bit through Craig Douglas forest like a walk in the garden.

Once at the top, though, it really was worth it again. Even Walkerburn looked like a postcard paradise when viewed from above. Soon, the Three Brethren were in view. They looked like they were twenty miles away. Up hill and down dale we hiked, and, for the first time, I began to wonder why people found this in any way enjoyable. My feet were itching, and by the time the three cairns were within smelling distance, the blisters had become fully formed.

I was really beginning to dislike Clovenfords, which stayed in the same place, no matter how far I walked. I also stay just along the road from Cloven, so there was that feeling of being so close to home and yet so far away. There was some feeling of relief as we reached the Brethren as it formed the end of our sojourn up the Southern Upland Way and, at last, Clovenfords was at last out of sight.

By this time, we were a band of four, and the mad half-hour after the Brethren was a laugh, but it soon turned into a shouting match. Lee, who kept tripping over pebbles, always wondered where the hell Selkirk was. Andy kept checking his GPS tracker and not telling us the truth. Steve was, in between laughing at the rest of us and naming Lee ‘Trippy’ was chatting to the sheep. For my part, the blisters had married and bred, and were having a christening party in my socks. Every step was becoming a nightmare and I fell behind the other three, urging them not to wait.

That last stretch is quite easily the worst bit of the walk. The path is rocky, with loose stones and cracked boulders. The party in my shoes was really bouncing by now. Maybe the blisters were playing rock music. Ha. Ha.

I crawled on both feet to the end of the road, the checkpoint at the Corbie Lynn sign. My walk was over, but to reach the fabled beer at the end, I had to walk to the Cricket Club. I almost cried. I reached the end of the road and was looking for a shortcut across the football pitches, when the official minibus was taking some of the other finishers to the club. He offered me a lift in and I, to my total disbelief, said that I would like to go there on foot. I wanted to beat me up.

To my utter relief, he said “are you sure?” and I said “Ok then”.

So that was it. I sat down at the club (I was the last BBA guy home) to a loud cheer and that fabled pint. I tried to get up 20 minutes later and found that I couldn’t. Drat.

My legs regained some semblance of life as the night went on, and even more after a hot bath. This is the morning after the nightmare before, though, and although the legs are ok, the blisters have formed a community and are building a village hall. When they get round to forming a religion, I may join it.

Well worth a mention, though, is MyTartan.com, who provided ghillie tops for the group. Well done guys.

Until next time ... Pray for my feet.

Yeehaa! Got another clout on Sunday. That makes three in total – in more than five months of shooting arrows.

If you think that’s pretty rubbish, I would probably go along with that. Although, the thing is – as I have said before – the size of my belly button, 120yds away from me and there’s no sights on a longbow, so it’s either:

a) become a robot

b) remember the tens of thousands of things different parts of your body should be doing at any moment during the aim, draw and release phases

c) buy a fantabulous bow that will actually take you to 180yds along with the rest of the men

d) sculpt your arrows and fletchings so that they are the epitome of aerodynamicism. (Is that a word? If it isn’t it should be)

e) Use a club bow, shoot from 120yds with the women, juniors and other happy twangers who have not yet got a bow of their own, shut your eyes and pray for the best

Up till now, I have gone for option e). Only because I don’t at this moment in time have the finances available to get a bow. That will change soon, though, I hope.

Connor – forever known now as Frozo for reasons only known to the rest of the happy twangers – also got his third clout on Sunday, before I did. Imagine his delight when I got one five minutes later to draw level once more. He was so happy, steam came out of his ears. It is a joy to see your son enjoy himself at a sport you enjoy doing yourself.

If I get another clout before he does, I think I’ll liken us to Kenny and Paul Dalgleish. The father being the master of all things while the son, although remarkably competent in every way, can’t quite come to terms with the fact that he’ll never be as good as the old man. That oughta please him. More steam could be emitted aurally.

Yes, I’m still arching. Only I’ll miss one of the club’s competitions this Sunday, as I’m doing a sponsored 23-mile walk for Cancer Research. Although I do call it sponsored euthanasia rather than a walk. I’m hoping for a pretty dreary day until the end, where I hope for sun. So I can enjoy a beer or seventeen outside. I’ll even break all tradition and put up another blog on Monday, three days after the last. I’m almost becoming prolific. I promise, that if I ever do, I will see a doctor right away.

Wish me luck, I might just need it…