A new year, a new beginning on the East Coast of Scotland. Travelling up, my sister, Judith, kindly bought me a first-class rail ticket, making use of an expiring credit. The receptionist at the King Cross VIP lounge eyes my backpack and scruffy boots suspiciously, before checking my ticket. This is the life — relaxing with coffee and a pastry instead of standing at my usual spot on the crowded concourse, scanning the departure board. I don’t see many backpacks.
Given the travel time, it’s too late to pick up the coast walk, so I complete my circuit of the medieval ramparts defending Berwick-upon-Tweed, including the Bell Tower, built in 1577.
It’s such a fine day that I follow the long breakwater out to Berwick Lighthouse. Maybe not such a smart idea on a cold day — why do I always need the loo when I’m a mile from any cover?
Next day
The forecast is for sub-zero temperatures. Leaving the Travelodge before sunrise, I feel the bitter cold. Some fool forgot to pack thermal leggings.
I’m catching the bus for the short trip back to Marshall Meadows and the stop is only a few minutes walk from the hotel. The pavement is icy and treacherous — my feet shoot forward and I’m flat on my back. So much for the winter explorer. I’d even packed my micro-spikes for any steep slopes on the trail. Only a bruised elbow and bruised pride — and, no, I’m not following the NHS advice to walk like a penguin!
Despite the heavy frost, the coast path is much easier to walk along than urban pavements. The border approaches.
Stepping across the border, the sign back into England lacks investment. Cuddy means donkey or horse in Scottish. This refers to the steep trail down to the beach, where the pack animals could haul up coal or seaweed.
A beautiful dawn. Sandstone cliffs glow beneath a clear sky. Frozen footprints in the December mud. Winter hiking at its best.
I’ve learnt my lesson from the last two trips. There’s no point pushing for long distances on short winter days when the challenging weather and slippery mud slow progress and leave little time for exploring places off the path. So I’ve time to walk down the steep track to the “Smuggler’s Bothy” at Lamberton Skerrs, built by the smuggler John Robertson around 1760.
Bales of hay risk rolling over the cliff edge in a storm, impaled on the sea stacks below.
The path appears to vanish over the cliff edge. I check my map. Cowdrait, a tiny village, no more than a strip of houses, lies hidden below in the shadows.
A small coast road winds to Burnmouth Harbour, before climbing steeply back up to the clifftop.
I reach the town of Eyemouth around lunchtime, admiring the bright yellow Windcats in the harbour, servicing the offshore wind farm.
The lovely Rialto Cafe tempts me with delicious homemade soup, although I scold the manager for not telling me about the wonderful snug at the back with an open fire, where the more knowledgeable locals are warming themselves. In his view, winter is the best time to view the nearby coast as, while it may be warmer, it is often grey and misty in the other seasons. I’ll not argue with that today.
Echoes of smuggling are everywhere. Gunsgreen House, built in 1753, was custom-made for local merchant John Nisbet, with secret tunnels leading directly to the sea. He made most of his money from smuggling, not surprising when tea was taxed at 119% for the Government war chest.
Having passed a smaller sculpture at Burnmouth, Widows and Bairns by Jill Watson commemorates the women and children left behind when 189 men from Berwickshire ports lost their lives in the great storm of October 14th 1881. Some of the children were offered places in a Quarriers Home but the local mothers refused, saying “We shall keep our bairns for our future of our ports”.
It’s a beautiful coastline, full of deserted bays and small valleys.
My day ends at the small fishing village of St Abbs.
The sun sets over the pretty harbour.
It feels appropriate to finish with another bronze statue by Jill Watson. Rather poignantly, each figure represents a specific wife or child, grouped by families from the village.
Huddled in the bus shelter, the temperature falls — I hope the bus arrives!
Walk distance: 12 miles.
Total distance: 3,756 miles.
Lovely photos as ever and it sounds like you had a great time. Congratulations on reaching the border and moving on to Scotland. I remember at the border there was also a sign on the adjacent railway line too, not sure if it’s still there. I hope you got a seat on the right hand side of the train to enjoy the views up. I always enjoy that, especially once you reach Newcastle, cross the Tyne and follow the coast much of the time. If I look out the window at the right hand side I usually spot the Angel of the North, Lindisfarne and the Farne islands as well as the wonderful beaches as you approach Berwick.
Like you I did once travel 1st class as there used to be a loyality scheme on the trains called “East Coast Rewards” and once you collected enough points you could get a free journey. Sadly they shut it down (now you get a few nectar points) but before they did my points balance was not enough for 2 standard class tickets but was enough for one first class, so I did go first class once. Oddly last year I travelled up to Leeds a couple of times and found the coast difference between standard and 1st was only £10 and since 1st class included a proper hot meal (china cutlery and all) I obviously opted for that instead, saved me money on getting dinner!
I also stayed at the Travelodge in Berwick for parts of that stretch coast as it was pretty cheap and perfectly acceptable. Looking forward to the rest of your routes up the east coast of Scotland, it will get a bit harder once you reach the end of the “Berwickshire Coast Path”.
Thanks, Jon. I can’t remember now whether there were signs on the railway line. It is a stunning rail journey up that part of the coast. I wonder how long until they need to move the track further inland?
That sounded like a good deal. I think for my ticket, 1st class was about three times 2nd class.
Yes, I’m starting easy. I wonder if my gear is warm enough for the winter season as I head further north. I’ve four layers of good gear, which has been fine until now, but standing at the bus stop for 25 minutes made me doubt it.
We stayed in Burnmouth a few years ago, lovely spot. The fishing disaster memorials are so poignant – there are four in total as you’ve possibly discovered by now. A beautiful art of the coast, we enjoyed it.