Day Thirty Nine

Thursday 22 July – Abington to Lanark

A service-area life could get addictive. Decent room, very nice staff, filling supper and WHSmith a few paces away, and breakfast brought to your door – what more do you need?

But I tore myself away and gritted my teeth for two to three miles of necessary main-road walking. Actually it was OK. The A702 had wide verges, and the A73 wasn’t busy. At Roberton, I turned left (West) on to a lane which took me up on to the moors just below Roberton Law (hill). Tarmac walking it remained, but of the best. The weather was dull but dry. The lane meandered across the moors, with distant views of other hills, including the ones to come.

Three miles on, I came to the foot of the Tinto Hills. Tinto itself is about 1400 feet high, and is marked on the map with a viewpoint symbol. Walking Scotland says that “in good weather it provides excellent views through 360°”. By good weather they mean not when there’s a cloud wrapped magnetically around the summit, as there was today. My way was not to the top, but up a track to a pass at maybe half the height of the hill. The map shows disused quarries, but it looked as though one was still in use or had been reopened, which accounted for the good repair of the track. After said quarry, the track became a green path as it descended.

The River Clyde, meanwhile, was describing a wide arc around these hills. I would meet it again later. North of the Tinto Hills, more quiet lanes through gentle farmland took me to Carmichael, a pleasant linear village. I chatted to a builder, exchanging plans on walking the West Highland Way. He is planning to do it a fortnight before me. But his niceness was just a ruse to lull me into a false sense of ease, as would become clear.

The churchyard looked like a good place for lunch, until I put my hand on the gate and found out the hard way that it had just been painted. My thoughts were far from godly as I stalked off along the road. I knew without a doubt that they were out to get me when I made a second attempt at a lunch stop. I went through an open gate, and settled myself in a field, my back to the drystone wall. On the other side of the wall, two vehicles drove wide to pass each other on the road, the one nearest me running through a puddle. Most of the contents flew in the air, over the wall, and over the top of me. Only a few drops actually fell on me, but I got the message. I finished my sandwich and nana, and cast the dust of Carmichael from my heels.

A couple of miles further on, I got talking to a chap working for a company which (the Internet tells me) manufactures temporary tracks to lay across fields. We did not discuss the company’s products. Seeing the rucksack he asked me the usual (from and to), and told me that “the wee lassie in the office” had just had to abort a walk along the West Highland Way, because her feet let her down. I gingerly felt the blister on one of my big toes, and smiled sweetly.

A small disaster then occurred. My plan was to cut down a lane to the banks of the Clyde (now approaching from my right), and cross it on the weir footbridge above the Falls of Clyde. Except that it was closed for repairs. The bridge was fenced off, and people were hard at work, so there was no chance of slipping across unnoticed. So it was a 3½ mile walk to the next bridge, and then a mile back into Lanark. Not a tragedy, and in fact it turned out to be one of the best bits of walking in the whole week.

The path was mostly high above the river as it squeezed through a gorge, a succession of spectacular waterfalls and rapids providing some great photo-ops. The raw power of a large body of water thrusting itself through a narrow gap is surprising, shocking even, how ever many times I see it. This diversion did mean that all I saw of New Lanark (on the other bank) was a few glimpses of the handsome buildings through the trees.

This 18th Century village of cotton mills is a World Heritage Site. I would certainly have paid it a visit if my plans hadn’t been forcibly changed. (The same evening, I heard on the telly that the Forth Railway Bridge had been proposed as a World Heritage Site, but this was being opposed by Network Rail, afraid that it would prevent them running it efficiently as a working railway bridge. I could see their point.)

From the bridge, an old one next to the modern road bridge, I made my way by paths and quiet roads through the suburbs of Lanark to my b&b, just by a delightful park.

After supper (Wetherspoons, where else?) I went exploring Lanark, finishing up at the ruins of St Kentigern’s Church. Dating from the 15th Century, the row of arches which remains (added to a 12th Century building) had to be rebuilt in the 1950s when it collapsed during a storm. Today some of the arches are supported by wooden frames. Behind the church, the town cemetery is dominated by an Art Nouveau-style chapel, looking stunning as it caught the evening sunshine, set against a mackerel sky. Sadly, one semi-circular window was boarded up, and the rest of the fabric is clearly in need of a bit of tlc.