ot surprisingly, when we awoke and drew back the curtains, it was raining. We consoled ourselves with the thought that it might brighten later. As it turned out it didn't. We showered and packed our rucksacks for the last time then moved into the dining room at the front of the cottage where place settings had mysteriously appeared on the table overnight. Shortly, Mrs. Amos’s daughter came running in from next door with two cooked breakfasts and, once we had finished eating, was very soon driving us back to Longformacus. We waved goodbye to her as she drove back to Duns and there we stood in the rain adjusting rucksack straps and clothing with only eighteen miles left to walk. We would soon be getting our first glimpse of the sea since leaving Portpatrick all those days ago. Those early days had since receded and become a distant dream for me now, not part of this trip at all but a long buried memory of some other walk in a previous life.

We marched along the road leading out of Longformacus before turning off across a stile into a very wet field. The rain came and went but never really stopped. The walk now followed an attractive forest path above Whiteadder Water (above) and even in the rain it was difficult not to enjoy this section. We reached Abbey St. Bathans near a hostel and I phoned my partner Ann back in Buckinghamshire which was the signal for her to drive to Scotland as she was our taxi home. We would be staying the night in the village of Coldingham, about five miles from Cockburnspath, where we had been unable to find accommodation and I looked forward to seeing her. We eventually crossed the river by a pleasant café where we stopped and indulged ourselves in a pot of tea with jam and scones. From here the route crossed unremarkable farm country, quite often on metalled lanes as it made it’s way to the coast. No longer was the Way a wild, untamed beast challenging us and testing our resolve. We had tamed it. It now walked alongside us at our heels like a chastened puppy following his master as he strolled around the park. Soon the roar of the A1 shattered the peace and we waited for a gap in the traffic before jogging across. After climbing above the traffic on a path between trees the North Sea suddenly revealed itself through the gloom. It was difficult to separate the sky from the sea in the overall greyness but it was definitely there. We passed a strange walker who appeared to have forgotten to put his shirt on which seemed bizarre in the pouring rain and after passing through a caravan site we were suddenly on the clifftops.

We followed the cliffs for a short while before turning inland again above Cove Harbour (right) for the last half mile to Cockburnspath and then suddenly, it was over. There was no fanfare. There were no congratulations. There wasn’t even a pub to celebrate in as the only one in the village had recently been closed down. We sat on the steps of a memorial cross in the village square wondering what to do next. Ian went into the village shop and purchased two cans and we sat there drinking warm beer with that special glow of satisfaction inside that can only come from within upon achieving a personal goal. We asked a bemused driver who pulled up outside the shop to take a photograph of us together (below) and I wanted to tell him that we had just walked 212 miles from the west coast of Scotland but of course I didn’t. Later, I was struck by the difference in our appearances between the start and finish pictures. We really looked as though we had just walked across Scotland in the latter. Soon we were on the bus to Coldingham where we located our guest house and met up with Ann. After Ian and I had cleaned up we headed off to a local pub for dinner and to talk about our adventures which Ann patiently listened to. Of course it meant nothing to her, why should it. It was something that was totally meaningless to anyone who hadn’t walked it. It would however, for Ian and myself at least, always bring memories flooding back to us whenever we heard the words, 'The Southern Upland Way'.