Parity? What parity?

I'm fed up. This week appears to have been defined by the latent sexism that oozes from the outdoor world. I feel patronised, I feel voiceless and most of all I feel angry that in 2019, these attitudes still permeate our society.

Let's just create some background: 

I have been going into the hills since I was 2 weeks old, at 2 months I was taken for my first camping trip. Every time the weather was OK, I was taken into the Scottish hills. When I was too small to walk all the way, I was carried, as I got older I learned to find a rhythm and to tuck right in behind my father. Every summer holiday involved 'wild' camping (I hate that term - it's called 'camping'). I have seen, and stayed in, numerous bothies, I have cycled into remote places to climb Munros and Corbetts. I grew up passing the time in a tent crawling over maps, and I can still sit for an hour enthralled by every name, every contour, every possible route, that I can see. I was taught to do an ice axe arrest so long ago, that I can't remember when it was. I didn't have crampons but was taught how to use my boots properly in snow and how to cut steps if I had to. Someone must have taught me to navigate, but that too is lost in the mists of time.

There was, of course, a teenage rebellion, but in my 20s, that love of the hill returned, even if time and my job stopped me doing all the things that I might have wished. In my late 20s I took up sea kayaking, became a coach and a sea kayak leader. I have paddled over the Pentland Firth (twice), I have landed on Muckle Flugga. I have paddled though big seas and tide races, been involved in quite serious situations. I used to be in my boat four times a week in summer. I started climbing in my early 30s, on Orkney sea cliffs, on grit, in the Lakes, in the Dales, in Wales, in the Highlands and in Spain. I've winter climbed in Scotland, stayed in the CIC and been on the Ben in a whiteout. I have witnessed terrible things when climbing, that no-one should ever have to see and I have become indelibly marked by those experiences.

I cycle-toured from South Uist to North Uist with my parents at the age of 8, more recently I have undertaken solo bikepacking trips in Border Country and in the Highlands. I've been with friends on long distance trips through the Lakes, Dumfries and Galloway, and North Wales and Anglesey and I cycled the Way of the Roses in two days with my club. Not to mention, the long distance day rides and cycling trip to Mallorca.

A few years ago, I became entranced by mountain running, moving fast and light through the hills, being away from the cars, the noise, from social media and real life. At first I tentatively ventured out onto the moors, clutching my map, just in case, but soon, I knew every inch of that place, every stone, every stride pattern, as I weaved through the gravel and stones. The hills I ran got bigger and although major injury got in the way, these environments were not new and I realised that all my preexisting experience was valid, it was merely being applied in a different way.

In another walk of life, I am a researcher, I hold a high level research degree (PhD), I am trained to think critically, to take in multiple strands of information and to pick and choose which bits of that information are relevant. I have presented my work at international conferences, published in international journals. I spent most of the first 11 years of my career working outside. I know how to make decisions and to justify those decisions. This thought process applies equally to academic research and to decision making in the mountains or in a sea kayak. 

I am sure there are many other things that I have done that I have forgotten about, but in short, what I am trying to get across is that even though I am female, I did not just come up the Clyde on a bike. I have experienced numerous things that you probably know nothing about and I am absolutely fed up of being patronised, by men, with regards to what I do in the outdoors. I am sick of the presumption that I must be clueless, merely because I have a vagina. 

This week, yet again, I have had 'well done' because I posted some pictures of a mountain run - what's 'well done' about that? I used a map, planned a route and went out and did it. I took some pictures because it was, at times, picturesque. I haven't achieved anything special, there was no major race involved, or a major goal set out. Would you say 'well done' to a man? No, you would say 'looks like a great day out', 'I really like it round there', 'Have you been to X place nearby?'. So next time, think about why you are saying 'well done'. First imagine that the poster is male and if you think it would be weird or patronising to say 'well done' to a man, then don't say it to me.

Then of course, there was the outdoor clothing question. I want something to wear for mountain running when it is a bit mizzly/drizzly/windy that will still breath well under my shell because I want to avoid putting my shell on early and then getting cold because I don't want to take it off/it takes ages to faff about/I can't find shelter to put extra layers on. I want to start with a (somewhat) water repellent layer and put my shell on much later in the day. Makes perfect sense to me. But no, I obviously didn't know what I was asking. What I wanted was a unicorn. I really should buy this brand. I still really didn't know what I was asking and the piece de resistance - an essay on what one man wears, what he carries, when he puts x garment on, when he takes y garment off. 

Well chaps, I hope you realise you made me feel like utter crap during that whole thread. You did not listen to what I was saying, I had to explain and explain and explain again what I was asking, even though it was perfectly eloquently outlined in the beginning. You did not credit me with the intelligence to know what I was asking  for and why I was asking (if you must know it was because I had become very cold on a mountain run and I had gone away and analysed what might have improved the situation, you know, using that big analytical brain that I have...). You did not ASK me what I am wearing to run in at the moment, why I felt I needed this other layer, instead, you talked down to me and told me things that, strangely enough, I already know. I don't need to be told your synthetic down is only for emergencies, or that you have a bivvy bag. What the hell do you think I carry? Washing up liquid and some marigolds, just in case there is a washing up opportunity en route? And if I say I am NOT interested in a particular brand, do not continue by bullying me and telling me over and over that I am wrong. Accept my decision. Do not presume that I don't know what I am talking about, instead, listen to me say 'I am not interested' and leave it at that.

There have been other exchanges this week that cumulatively have just left me feeling drained. It is as if it does not matter what I say, or what experiences I have had, my voice just does not get heard. I feel like I am shouting but no one is listening. My opinion on something related to the outdoors, more often than not, is simply not considered valid. Time and time again, a man has to have the last word, has to assume that he knows better.

I also feel obliged to make it clear (before the chorus starts) that not every man into the outdoors is patronising and condescending, but there are far too many who are, and far too many who may believe that they are not, but who need to think more deeply about their attitudes to women who share similar interests. Would you 'take the missus wild camping' or would you 'go wild camping with my partner'? Better still, would you let your girlfriend take the lead on a trip because you are happy to acknowledge that she knows more about whatever you are doing than you do?

Sexism has been present throughout entire my life and I am tired of battling with it, tired of trying to be heard. I am an immensely capable person, with tons of life experience, good and bad. Stop assuming you know more than me. Stop treating me like my opinions are invalid. Forget about my sex and treat me like the equal that, at the very least, I quite obviously am.

New Year

It's 2019 and I am supposed to be full of hopes and dreams, to leave behind the past and start afresh. But I don't feel like that at all. Yesterday was Monday and today is Tuesday. That's it.

The end of 2017 and 2018 were without question the worst times in my life. To lose my mother so suddenly and to have no time with her before she died was already very hard, particularly as she died the day I was supposed to move hundreds of miles south, but to witness what I saw when Pete died and to deal with the aftermath, just decimated my life. I don't think those who haven't gone through a similar experience can ever understand what it is like to be escorted off a hillside and taken, in the very midst of your hurt and anguish, to speak to the police. Hours of procedure and questions, your belongings separated out from their's when in life, it didn't matter whose carabiner was who's. Everything they owned being taken away and you finding yourself without transport, with a dog, in a climbing hut sometime around 1am. I drank the beer he had left behind and then I cried myself to sleep.

This December, I finally started to grieve for my mother again. I remembered her making a trifle and me whipping the cream and doing the decoration on the top. I would try to get her to put less custard on and then when we ate it, I would eat round it and give it to her to finish. She found Christmas stressful and as someone plagued by low self-esteem and anxiety, she lacked motivation to cook and bake. She thought everything she made was rubbish but her baking was fine. Every year she would make a Christmas cake, although often it became a New Year Cake. It was like some kind of science experiment as hats went on and paper came off throughout the six hours it took to cook.

Recently, there are things I think of and I know my mother would know the answer. I thought of her looking at a map the other day and looking up where I had been. I have been many, many places in the British Isles, but my mother had this amazing ability to have already have been there before. Even when Pete and I went to Kilarney, she had a somewhat comedic story ready about the time she went up a mountain there sometime in the 1960s.

So as a new year begins, I feel no further forward than I was before. I still miss Pete everyday and I can't describe how I feel as anything less than crushed and broken hearted. I wish I didn't feel this way, but I will never forget seeing him fall backwards from that ledge. But as that grief persists, it also lessons and slowly I have the chance to deal with losing my mother, something that was also very sudden, although I remember knowing inside that she wasn't going to survive. Slowly, I have found myself thinking of her again, the strangest things reminding me of her.

I start this new year grieving for two people but also grieving in advance for the loss of my father. I have not said a great deal about it publicly but he is dying and soon there will only be me left. I don't know how long he has left, but his cancer is not being treated and it is when things seem to be ticking along that he suddenly ends up in hospital needing blood transfusions again. Given his underlying serious chest condition, I doubt the prognosis is good, although it is hard to know anything when I am stuck in Bicester and he is in Inverness.

Through all of this, my means of escape has been to go to the Lakes, North Wales or the Peak, to ride my bike, to run or climb. It is all escapism. I made the wrong decision when I moved here and although the people are all lovely, it is not where I want to be. I want to buy a house up north, but I feel stuck in limbo as I wait to see what happens with my dad.

None of this is very cheery or positive, but it is the reality of my life. I keep going and I keep doing all the things that I want to do, or that I wished I had had the chance to do with Pete, but away from the sunny pictures and the upbeat facebook posts, reality is very different. Sometimes, I don't know how I'm still standing. If you had told me in the moment, that Pete was dead, I think I probably would have jumped after him. I'm glad I didn't and I feel more resilient that I have in years, but life is still hard.

For 2019, I want to do more of what I want to do, to run my ultra without injury or incident, to climb without the awful things I have seen impacting me on every route, to ride my bike from Cornwall to home. I want to achieve things with my work and carve out a niche for myself, I want to find a way of living, at least part-time, in Kendal or Lancaster and I want to meet someone who will love me for me, battle scars and all. I think more than anything, by the end of 2019, I hope my life is no longer defined purely by my grief.

Leaving Oxenholme

Your passion for Cumbria imbued me, 
it became entrenched in who I am.

As I wait on the cold platform,
the tears begin to fall.
I do not want to go, 
to leave this place behind.

I feel torn and wretched as I board the train.

At Hest Bank, final glimpses of your mountains,
of the expanse of Morecambe Bay.
The train hurtles forward 
and I am helpless as I am wrenched away.

By Galgate I know I have lost you
and my heart breaks once again.
Homesick for a place, a life, those memories
and the parts of me I've left behind.

A girl and her bike

I realised the other day that if I sit still for too long, the thoughts begin to start. Regrets of things said and not said, of things done or left unresolved. It is a sad place, and one which it is fruitless to spend time in. Things are what they are. I will never talk to Pete or my mother again.

Sometimes, the strangest thing will make me sad. Trains were wound up in our life and also that of my mother. When I go on a journey, I often think of them both. I cry silent tears as I pass through stations now imbued with memories. As I approached the Slochd the other day, the Highland Chieftain came the other way and unexpectedly I found that as I peddled along, there were tears flowing down my face.

On my way to see my father

My approach to counteracting all this is to never stop moving. I keep planning things to do and weekends away because if I am in perpetual motion, I am not dwelling on all the bad things that have happened in the last 10 months. There are so many things I am interested in and so rather than thinking that I'll do it someday, I am going to do it now. Even if it is frightening.

Riding my bike helps me, there is much time to ruminate on a 60 mile ride, but these ruminations seem more healthy than those that occur when my brain has headed down the negative track. There are many things that I want to do with my bike, things that were always ambitions but which were never fulfilled due to my ever present and intense anxiety.

Pete was almost a crutch, if he was there, things would be OK, but now, I have to make things OK on my own. I don't want to stop doing things because he is not here, even if I wish he could see the huge changes in me now. With Pete, I went touring, something that I had done as a child but which I would have been petrified to do by myself. I loved it, because it was something I was passionate about, and when I went to buy a new bike earlier this year, when the man pointed out the gravel bike, I was sold.

Lone camping in Kielder 

As I write this now, I can't imagine not going touring by myself, but I am a different person now. Significant changes in medication, months of counselling and the most traumatic year of my life have changed me. I will never be the same person again.

There is a life, there is a future and I am determined that, while I am still fit and able, I will live it to the full.

Bikepacking myself to happiness

Keep on going

There seems to be no handbook for grief and I don't know how to comprehend, let alone process, everything that has happened since last November. It took several months, but I am back at work, albeit on a phased return. It still feels huge, overwhelming, and the realities of life often still feel like they are all just too much.

But you have to carry on. The dead can't come back, those things you want to say can never be said, those things you'd like to do together will never happen. But I can't stop. I can't stop living because those people are dead, in fact I have to live more than I ever did before. I feel like I have to squeeze every last opportunity out of my life. Take every chance I am given, because I don't know what will happen tomorrow.

I have this sense of a desire to challenge myself, to make myself do things that frighten me, to take the anxiety that has plagued my life and stick two fingers firmly in its face. Pete facilitated many things I had wanted to do for some time, now he is not here I have to facilitate for myself. I would rather be frightened, even terrified, when I do things than to sit here feeling trapped by a fear of something unknown, unseen and probably non-existent. It is not an irrational fear by any means, but it does not deserve to be centre stage. 

Of course I would like to meet someone new, to share with them the many adventures I still haven't had, but at the same time, I feel a fierce sense of wanting to be on my own, to prove to myself that I can do anything I want and usually I'll be OK. It's like I might want someone else to be around, but I am beginning to feel that I certainly don't need them to be. Perhaps though, this is my defence, to build a wall so high and so thick that I protect myself from even the possibility of more hurt and pain?

Stuck in a place that is geographically far from ideal, I spend my spare time planning and dreaming of the places I would rather be. I have climbed as much as I can, although I wish I could do more and I proved to myself that the purchase of a set of bike packing bags was a good idea, riding in Wales and Scotland so far. But I want to do more, I want to climb when the weather allows, I want to do a solo tour, I want to wild camp as I ride from Glasgow or Oban to Inverness. I want to catch the Sleeper to Glasgow, Fort William and Inverness and go by myself to explore - even if my anxiety makes me sleep with a knife under my pillow as I do. 

These things, so far have been my saviour. To see South Stack lighthouse in the evening sun, to visit a glen that many have never heard of, to cycle through London at 8am, to climb classic routes in Wales. These things have given an escape. Rest bite from the grief, from the thoughts that go round and round my head, from the tears that fall, from the memories that I no longer want to remember. Without these things, life would have been very dark indeed.

South Stack, Anglesey

Top pitch of One step in the Clouds, Tremadog

I don't know if spending every weekend doing something 'interesting' is the right thing to do, but it feels like it just now. I have lost so much from my life that anything that brings something approaching happiness can only be good. 

For now I wonder, will there ever be an end to this grief, will there ever be a day where I do not cry, will I ever feel true, joyous and unbounded happiness again? It is as if I wear a heavy, grey cloak of sadness and it surrounds me everyday.

But, for all I initially thought differently, you do have to keep living and you have to keep going. I just hope that one day, I will lose my cloak.    

Heading back to Llandudno by the shores of Conwy Bay

The Lake

The water laps at my feet as I sit under the oak,
The branches give shelter,
The water bring peace.

"I hope you return here in happier times,"
You said.
Is this now?

The water laps at my feet as I sit under the oak,
I stare over the lake,
And I remember.
I look to the hills and I grieve.

The water laps at my feet as I sit under the oak,
Through hazy clouds
A sunbeam lights the water.
As I look to the sky,
Patches of blue appear.

As the wind drops,
I feel the warmth on my skin,
And I wonder,
"Is this hope?"

16th June 2018

Raven

A poem written for Pete and read at his funeral.

Raven

Those moments shared,

And sometimes not, 

Were precious.

Bonds were formed,

And ties were made,

And often there was solace.

As rock was touched,

A calmness fell, 

All that mattered was the present.

You told me once, 

Of how you hummed a tune,

A management of fear.

A placement good,

A foothold there,

Another over here.

And on you climbed,

A mind entirely focused.

In these rocks, and ice,

You found a home,

It was a place where nothing mattered.

It was somewhere you could be yourself, 

The noise and chatter all subsided.

And now you climb on again,

In peace that's everlasting.

On pristine holds, 

The gear good, 

Each placement almost perfect.

And as you disappear from our gaze, 

You look down to us and say,

"Cry not for me, my treasured friends,"

"Climb on."

"Climb on."

Armscliff March 2017

All those things I want to tell you...

Dear Pete

Today was the first time in weeks that I felt happiness. I was whizzing along on my bike, trying to keep in formation in the group and I suddenly realised that I felt happy. Someone else said that they noticed me smiling. It seems a long time since I have felt that kind of intrinsic joy. 

BMCC on the way home to Bicester

We rode 45 miles today, but I have no idea where we went. I learned what the 'whistle' means and tried hard to ride properly in the group. There were a few hills near the cafe, but I didn't get out of the big ring. I imagined you coming with us one day, riding my winter bike and giving it your all. I think you would have enjoyed it for the social aspect as much as anything. We had a stop at Wardington Garden Centre where I had a cheese scone - would you believe that I've gone off cake these days?

On Saturday we rode 44 miles to Waterperry garden centre. Each group did a different route and then ended up in the same place.  I don't know if the cafe knew what had hit them!

At Waterperry Garden Centre

The week after you died was the first time I went to BMCC. When we talked about it, you always encouraged me to go and I somehow felt that I had to honour that wish. They seem a lovely bunch and I have been on a few rides now. It makes me sad that I can't tell you all about them.

I have done a lot of climbing recently too. I have this really strong feeling that you would want me to. I know you wanted me to get involved with the Pinnacle Club and so I went along to the May meet at Cwm Dyli that I had told you about. I remember getting to the top of Sub Cneifon Rib and wishing you were there. The evening sun was beautiful and I felt this incredible feeling of elation and I wanted you to be there at the top to share it with me. I did a little bit of leading at the Moelwyns. I really wanted to tell you about that too. It breaks my heart that we will never swing leads on some quality multi-pitch. 

On Cneifon Rib

I went to the meet in Langdale too, it was funny to see your name and your handwriting in the book but Raw Head feels like home to me. We dragged Suki up to Upper Scout but there was no way we could get her over the stile - she spent the day happily sleeping under a big tree instead. I think I need to get her some kind of sled to go in. That would make me fit! 

I led the first pitch of Route 1 at Upper Scout. I really, really wanted to tell you about that. You told me when we went there in April that I should come back and lead it with Andrea and I hoped that you would have been proud of me. Noelle led the top pitch, I went left this time and it was much easier than the ridiculous thing I tried the last time! I hope that by the end of the summer I will have the confidence to lead the upper pitch.

Pinnacle Club meet at Raven Crag, Langdale

The day after your funeral we went to Trowbarrow. Judi, Andrea and I climbed and Suki watched from below. We did the mod a couple of times, once with Judi leading and once with me. It was lovely and gentle and we talked a lot about our memories of you. As I looked out to Morecambe Bay, I knew I was looking at a view that you loved. 

Judi seconding at Trowbarrow

I haven't been to work since the accident. I don't know what on earth has happened to me. I don't understand why the two people that meant the most to me in the world are dead. I don't know what I have done wrong. I miss talking to you and I miss telling you what I have been doing. I miss hearing about your antics and more than anything, I am deeply sad that we will have no more adventures together. We should have been off to Shetland soon, I was so excited to show you somewhere so important to me.

Tripe

But life goes on, I suppose. Suki has to be looked after, I have to try and look after myself. I keep trying to be the best version of me I can be and to do all those things that I know would have made you proud. I am sure that some people think it is strange that I am climbing, running and cycling, but to be honest, I don't know how else to cope. It's just what I have to do.

I miss you.

Love

Mary x

V 5 ***

With axes in hand, 
Step forth my dear.
Step up.

A soft jangle as you place your crampon firm.
Step up.

Clip the gear, take a breath,
Feel connected to the route.
Step up.

Be in the moment and enjoy the present.
Step up.

Take your fear and challenge it.
Step up.

And as you climb, 
Your brain is free, 
Those noises for once all silenced.
Step up.

Go on my friend, 
With axes in hand.
Step up.

Step up, step up and on and on, 
A route that never ends.

In memory of Peter William Metcalfe. 9th June 1971 to 22nd April 2018 -
The One Who Liked Mushrooms

https://www.gofundme.com/memorial-for-dr-peter-metcalfe

Off-road Manoeuvres in the Dark

I am not sure where the idea came from, but here we were, rushing across Carlisle station to catch at train to Dumfries. Our intention to cycle from there to Lockerbie. Several ideas had melded into one; a desire to do more cycle touring, through wilderness and mixed terrain, and a keeness to visit more bothies.

Marta on the train to Dumfries

We began, in perhaps not the most auspicious conditions, travelling west from Dumfries, along National Cycle Route 7. The quiet minor road, following the line of a 1760's military road, built to aid troop movement to Ireland. Even in the misty dreich, the rolling countryside was beautiful, the fields brought alive by the heavy plant associated with the construction of a massive pipeline, this time to carry not troops, but gas, across the Irish Sea.

Old school navigation!

After a brief, but unpleasant, dalliance with the A75, it was on to the Old Bridge of Urr and to Lauriston. Plunging into the forest, the road climbed steadily for over 3 miles, a great introduction to the high passes of these parts. A pause in Gatehouse of Fleet, before back up into the mist, onto the road to the old Gatehouse Station and the fantastic Big Water of Fleet Viaduct beyond.

Long steady climb to Gatehouse Station (no station)

Big Water of Fleet Viaduct

Here we reached my objective, where NCR7 became miles of car-free forestry tracks, climbing higher into the Galloway Forest Park. This was the challenge, 15 miles off road, fully laden bike, new cassette and road tyres (long story). At first I was nervous, but I recalled my childhood, riding a steel, drop-handlebarred, narrow-tyred tourer on all sorts of tracks like these. I kept my wheels turning and Marta just kept on rolling. The track steepened and I began to wonder if I had been foolish in binning my megarange freewheel in favour of a more sensible cassette with marginally less teeth. I gritted my own teeth and put those Yorkshire hills to good use.

The man has Soreen, he needs nothing more...

Queen on gravel

Finally at the top!

Dusk began to fall as we neared White Laggan, looking forward to our pasta and sauce and a celebratory bottle of champagne. But as we got closer, we spotted a car parked at the end of the path to the bothy. I was fuming. I had cycled 55 miles only to find some ill-equipped idiots and their dog had driven there (very probably illegally). For those unfamiliar with bothies and the idea behind them, let's just say they are not intended as free holiday houses. They are very, very basic, without water or any other facilities, beyond a fireplace (sometimes), and are intended for the use of those who love the outdoors and are prepared to make the effort to get to them. White Laggan is on both NCR7 and the Southern Upland Way, so we expected to meet like-minded people, on similar journeys to ours, not a carload of neds. The One Who Likes Mushrooms was equally enraged, so much so that he forgot to take his feet out the pedals, landing us both in a heap.

Track illumination, brought to you courtesy of Firth's Cycles, Black Dyke Mills, Queensbury...

The next (unplanned) five miles, in the dark, were challenging, the track was noticeably rougher, the descent steep. Through the deciduous woods there were awkward stones and lots of water to negotiate. It was a baptism of off-road fire. Finally on the last, gravelly climb, I was done and I pushed up the hill in defeat.

Having reached the road, we still had to find a place to sleep...

Long Legs demonstrates her happy face

We awoke to torrential rain. Neither of us could muster the energy or will to go back up Glen Trool to pick up our intended route, so, as it poured, we didn't know where we were headed, nor how far we were going to go. We began by going north; Plan A was to reach Stinchar Bridge and Forest Drive and after 12 miles of almost constant climbing we were finally rewarded with a view of the ethereal Carrick Forest to the north.

Leaving Dumfries and Galloway for a brief sojourn into Ayrshire

Definitely still raining...

Steam rises from Carrick Forest

Although open to cars, picking up the Forest Drive gave us another 5 miles of off-road cycling and, despite the atrocious weather, this really was a highlight of the trip. The landscape was wild, rugged and beautiful, it must be absolutely glorious in sunshine! 

Enjoying the Forest Drive, with Loch Bradan behind

Photobombing on wheels. Loch Riecawr.

Sweeping gently down towards Loch Doon, we passed above the Carrick Lane, a raging torrent of brown, boiling water, and continued down to Doon Castle. Obviously I had to stop, if only to marvel at the fact that someone had been bothered to move a whole castle before they constructed the reservoir.

Doon Castle with Black Craig behind

Loch Doon

Climbing away from the Loch and turning north, we reached Dalmellington and after a cheese sandwich in the bandstand, we left. 20 miles later, after the hardest time trial I have ever done, we reached Dalry. Never has a pub looked so inviting... 

This is not the bothy you are looking for...

The best B and Bs are often the ones you don't expect and we awoke warm and refreshed on Day 3. Our kit had dried, our bikes were tucked up in a shed and best of all, it had finally stopped raining. Now well off my planned route, we found instead that we were on the National Byway; it seemed rude not to follow it. Another 9 miles of climbing; up, up and over a beautiful high pass, then a long, glorious descent into wooded, luscious pasture and the village of Moniaive. 

Looking down towards the Water of Ken and the hills behind

The climb from Moniaive was a beast, steep to begin with and rearing up again just when you thought it was over. I regretted my 32 teeth, but perhaps with two days cycling already in my legs, I had every right to be tired! It was worth ever aching muscle, the reward a spectacular view of the Nith Valley, a flat-topped prehistoric hillfort incongruous in the rolling landscape.

The National Byway and the Kirkpatrick Macmillan bike (nowhere near the KM trail...)

Soaking up the landscape of the Nith Valley

Rolling through Tynron

In Thornhill we took stock and decided on a route to Ae that climbed out of the Nith Valley, skirting the southern tip of the Lowther Hills. The roads here seemed steeper, the countryside already rugged rough-pasture, only a couple of miles beyond the town. My tired legs toiled up the road; we were probably moving slower than walking pace, but there was a real sense of achievement reaching the summit plateau and looking back over the hazy landscape through which we had travelled. The flat topped hillfort still standing out proudly, Wee Queensberry poking her head above the vast coniferous forest, the larger Queensberry visible to the left.

Queensberry and Little Queensberry

Reaching the edge of the Forest of Ae, we climbed again, before a long, cool descent down to Ae Village. From here, Regional route 10 takes the forest tracks to Beattock, a key part of my original route, but with some sadness I had to concede it would have to wait for another day. 

Ae valley

Quite suddenly we found ourselves in a flat landscape, the flood plain of the Annan illuminated by golden late afternoon sun. Skirting through the arable fields to the north of Lochmaben, the motorway and Lockerbie, were finally in sight. After 165 miles, and just as darkness began to fall, we had reached our destination.

The Annan floodplain in the late afternoon sun

Wet, very definitely off-piste and stressful at times, it had still been an awesome experience. The quiet roads were fabulous, the scenery nothing short of stunning. I loved the long climbs over high passes and all the different landscapes we passed through. I hope that this time, it won't be around 25 years until I visit Dumfries and Galloway again.

Mission accomplished