f course, despite my feelings on the Lowther Hills, it wasn’t downhill for the rest of the way. The following day as we left Brattleburn my legs felt very heavy and I was not looking forward to a second consecutive night in a bothy. We followed the track through forest and fields (below) then past a memorial to a Lance Corporal Foy before arriving at a metalled lane. Following this for a couple of miles we reached Beattock, where we planned to stock up with food and other goodies which would help the ease the discomfort of another night without basic comforts such as a cooked meal, a pint or two and a proper bed. Crossing a railway line, we soon found ourselves in the main street, which seemed strangely quiet and empty, even for a Sunday morning. We found a phone box and rang home before searching for the nearest shop. After some minutes of fruitless searching we stopped a lady in the street who informed us that the only shop in Beattock had closed down a long time before and the nearest one was now in Moffat. This was not what we wanted to hear. We were down to the last of our food and had promised to treat ourselves once we reached Beattock. We wandered aimlessly along the street to the pub, which appeared to be shut, rather like the rest of the town. In a state of disappointment, we headed off out of the town, the Way now meandering along country lanes and crossing fields. I was carrying out a mental inventory of exactly what food I had left, which wasn’t much. It consisted of some Selkirk Bannock, a type of fruit bread that we had purchased in Wanlockhead, and a number of dried packet meals.

In a state of mild depression we once more climbed into the hills in warm sunshine as a wide track wound it’s way upward back into the woods. As it levelled out we threw our rucksacks on the ground and lay down in the grass to rest from the climb in the warm afternoon sun. After a pleasant break basking in warm sunshine we were on our way again, following the track as it wound through wooded hillsides and once again entered remote countryside. I had noticed that the sky had been clouding over since our last break but now it had turned cold and windy and the first few spots of rain had started to fall. I was soon marvelling and at the same time cursing, at how soon the weather had changed from a warm and sunny afternoon in June to something akin to a cold day in early March. It was whilst we were in these hills that we finally passed from Dumfries and Galloway into the Borders and a sign confirming this fact was displayed rather incongruously in a remote stretch of hillside. I could not recall ever seeing a signpost denoting a county border high in the hills before but I found it rather comforting anyway. As we rounded a bend, I was toying with idea of retrieving my gloves from my backpack when we spotted a walker standing alone at the side of the track staring into the valley below. He turned on our approach and we had a quick conversation with him in which we ascertained that he was heading for the same bothy. We left him standing in the rain staring at the view as the Over Phawhope bothy (below) came into view in the valley below. There appeared to be a large Volvo estate which, somehow seemed out of place parked outside the attractive looking cottage which stood adjacent to a river. We hurried to the bothy to escape the now pouring rain and as we neared the building I thought it odd that there appeared to be a well tended garden outside. As we entered the cottage, the sight of a middle-aged couple painting the window frames and cleaning the stove greeted us. They said hello and welcomed us in but we both felt as though we were intruders in someone’s private home. Shortly after stripping off our wet gear and unrolling our sleeping bags in the separate sleeping area the walker we had seen earlier turned up dripping wet and cursing the weather. He introduced himself as Terry and his presence relaxed the awkwardness we both felt at walking into someone’s private lounge. The couple turned out to be members of the Mountain Bothies Association and were responsible for the maintenance of Over Phawhope but seemed to have adopted it as their own personal holiday home. They had a side room containing bunkbeds earmarked as their own private sleeping quarters and took obvious pride in the condition of the building. We, along with Terry, spent the next hour or so sorting out gear and preparing something to eat, which in our case didn’t take long as all we had to do was heat up a dried packet meal followed by (in my case) some of the remaining Selkirk Bannock and coffee. The caretakers on the other hand produced a large pan which, they placed on top of the stove and began slicing potatoes, onions, vegetables and meat which they threw casually into the pan. I cannot remember feeling more envious of someone else’s dinner in my life and I just sat there watching and drooling over the smell as they ate real food. Once dinner was over, out came the drink, and I began to think that I was going to have to commit murder, as this was a step too far. First they opened a bottle of wine which, to my surprise they poured into five glasses and passed around the room. I put aside thoughts of bloodshed and gratefully accepted the glass. Once the wine was finished, cans of beer appeared and again we were handed one each. This was turning into a party and I was now warming to these wonderfully generous people. I even forgave them for then producing a bottle of whisky and sitting drinking it between just the two of them once the beer was finished, as I hate whisky. We retired early to bed and I had a very uncomfortable and sleepless night on the cold wooden sleeping platform. No matter, I thought, tomorrow we were staying at the Tibbie Shiels Inn on the shores of St.Mary’s Loch where there would a bath, a hot meal, beer and a comfortable bed. Sheer bliss !