The Ghosts of Ettrick Forest

Last updated on May 6, 2023

This post covers one of the finest trekking routes through the Southern Uplands of Scotland – and one of my personal favourites. It combines a string of wonderful, varied sites into one package easily doable in a long weekend. Along the way, you get a taste of some of the things that give this region its distinct flavour; ancient standing stones, grand hillforts, the scent of pinetrees, soaring hillsides clad in heather. Set beside these characteristic parts of the Border landscape there are also, however, a few unique gems that you’ll encounter nowhere but on this particular walk – and the best of these are very special indeed. It’s a part of the country that commands far less attention than its own merits would suggest it should; this is, in my opinion, largely a consequence of flaws in the existing networks of roads and paths, which don’t easily connect the finest spots in the region. The route you are about to see does, emphatically – and I have some additional thoughts on how such routes might be extended and connected to better showcase the region, which I’ll discuss towards the end. Now though, on to meat of the tale – and to Eskdale…

We arrived from the south, a bus from Carlisle dropping us off in the little border town of Langholm. I’d been doing some hiking along Hadrian’s Wall with a Danish photographer, and brought her north with me for the next part of the journey; with a week to play with, connecting the two areas makes for an excellent trip. Langholm is not a difficult place to get to, by car or by public transport; the bus route that brings you here connects Edinburgh and Carlisle, and provides a very regular service. Edinburgh’s an easy journey from most of central Scotland, and Carlisle can be reached with little difficulty from most of northern England; for English hikers, the journey time to the start of this route is no more than that to many of the Lake District hiking routes.

We stopped to resupply in Langholm itself, picking up some essentials (whisky, pies), before hopping into a taxi and off to the northwest, up the winding valley of Eskdale.

This valley is, today, a quiet, empty place. Up-valley from Langholm there are no other settlements of any scale; there’s only one road that follows the Esk, and almost all the towns to which you might drive using it are more easily accessed by alternative routes. It was not always so, though. In the distant past, a major routeway connecting the Solway plain to the Tweed basin passed through here, and made of this valley one of the principal channels for communication between the eastern and western sides of the island. This past importance is reflected in the scale of the ruins to be found here – and it was to seek out some of the most spectacular of these that we had come to Eskdale.

The taxi dropped us off in a little Forestry Commission car-park, at a place called Castle O’er. A forest track departs from here, heading into a deep stretch of plantation pines; we followed it inwards and then upwards, before breaking off along a narrower footpath to ascend towards a hilltop. We climbed past pinetrees and ferns, the scent of needles and summer vegetation hanging thick in the air. In less than twenty minutes, we gained the summit.

The ground here was bare of trees. Immense ripples in the earth around the summit announced why, more eloquently than words ever could; this place was a hillfort, and one of the largest in the region. Since it is a site of major historic importance, the foresters are obliged to leave it clear of planting; and so its walls carve out an enclave of meadowland free of the enclosing trees. We set up camp within the ring of the ruins and, after a few drams of whisky to toast the setting of the sun, laid our heads down for the night.

The next morning dawned, warm and bright. There were clouds, but high ones, and white; the light was strong, and the views of the distant hills unobscured. The hillfort circle that was in the evening a meadow is in the brighter morning light transformed into an island; a circle of open ground in a sea of green pine that ripples off into the far distance. Wave upon wave of that sea can be seen from up here, undulating stretches of hill and valley stretching away to the limits of vision.

We drank our coffee, then took a little time to take in the great, sweeping rings of fortifications that loop around the hilltop. Even today, they are immense – and these walls were raised more than 2000 years ago. Then, they would have defended a regional capital, a centre of power of some importance. Now, millenia later, time has transformed the remains of that place into something resembling land art; the stylised lines of the walls fossilising into ridges of grassy heath that seem to subtly mirror the rolling hills that surround them. Those hills are all easily visible from the vantage point of Castle O’er, giving a view of the sights that are to come; it’s a fitting place from which to begin a walk into the wilds.

Walk on we did. Northwards through the trees for a mile or two and onto the valley floor, entering a narrow corridor of fields between the green walls of the pine trees. We wasted little time on the road, instead wading almost directly across the river Esk, emerging beside the twin stone circles named the Girdle Stones and the Leaping Stones. These are some of the finest examples in this region of that iconic form of ancient monument; one that can be seen here in a setting far less manicured than that of more famous examples at places like Stonehenge or Kilmartin Glen. These stones rise amidst a tangle of meadow undergrowth; twisting thorn-trees grow between them, adding green shapes to the ring of grey ones. These are stones as people would have encountered them in the years between their construction and the modern era; monuments absorbed into the nature of the place, rather than tourist attractions set apart from it.

When the early antiquarians started to record tales of such places, they named them druidical circles. This term subsequently fell out of use; archaeologists discovered most stone circles were erected in the Neolithic (New Stone Age), long before Celts or druids arrived on the island of Britain, and the connection between the stones and the Celtic priesthood was written off as an inaccuracy. Lately, though, more attention has been paid to the re-use of older monuments during the Celtic eras – and in Scotland, such evidence has proven plentiful (https://www.oxbowbooks.com/oxbow/the-use-and-reuse-of-stone-circles.html). Although the Girdle Stones and the Leaping Stones were not erected by druids, it is likely they were used by them – especially since there are so many neighbouring monuments from the Celtic period found nearby. The 19^th century term “druidical circle” may therefore be partially resuscitated; and the images that haunted their imaginations, of robed druid priests directing rituals amidst the stones, be admitted back in to the world of facts.

The most impressive of the ancient sites of Eskdale have lately been grouped together into the Eskdale Prehistoric Trail. This route is most easily done by car or bike, as there’s a shortage of footbridges by which the Esk may be traversed; accompanied by a picnic, and in decent weather, such a trip can make a very fine day out. On foot, connecting every single one is a bit of a stretch – but if you are hiking through the valley, including some at least on your route is well worth the effort.

Past the stones, we follow the road a few miles north, into the tiny village of Eskdalemuir. Here there’s a café-bar and a little shop, operated by and for the community itself; much of the work is done by volunteers. It’s a great wee initiative, providing a space for the people of the valley to come together; a stop for a cake, a coffee, and a top up of supplies will see your money go to good use. Beyond the shop, there’s very little else; a scattering of houses and a church. The quiet throng inhabiting the red-sandstone graves in the kirkyard outnumber the living population by several orders of magnitude; there is more of the past to be found here than there is of the future, as is the case in much of Eskdale.

We walk on once again north again, following the river on its way north. On the other side, the remains of a Roman fort and a road lie beneath the fields; they were constructed during the brief two decade period in the mid-2^nd century AD when the Romans occupied southern Scotland. That occupation did not last long, and the fort was abandoned when the legions retreated south in circumstances that are unclear – presumably in the face of some Celtic insurrection whose success the Roman historians were not eager to record. The roads they built continued in use though, for centuries after – and today a large part of the route of the Roman road from Eskdale eastwards is traced by the ‘Romans & Reivers’ long-distance path, connecting Hawick to Eskdale through the depths of Craik Forest.

Just after the remains of the fort, the road carries us on to a much more recent monument; one whose historical importance is in fact far greater, and whose origins are infinitely more exotic. The trees by the roadside flutter with prayer flags, bearing the bright, primary colours characteristic of the Himalayas; they announce that we have reached the monastery of Kagyu Samye Ling, a Tibetan Buddhist foundation of international significance.

Samye Ling was the very first Tibetan monastery to be created in Europe. Over the years it has grown into an enormously impressive complex, with a large and ornate prayer hall, a monument-strewn meditation garden and a sizeable library.

The name means “hill of Samye”. Samye was the name of the first Buddhist monastery ever erected in Tibet, when the religion arrived there from India; this is a religion that has moved across many boundaries, influenced many civilisations since its origins during the 1^st millennium BC. The word “Kagyu” is the name of one of the four orders of lamas who make up the Tibetan Buddhist clergy; each of these sects follows different practices, and preaches a subtly different theology. Despite their differences, they do nonetheless manage to rub along together today without any particular conflict.

The Kagyu tradition originated in northeastern India sometime in the 10^th century before crossing into Tibet, where it is today a minority sect; it is also practiced in the neighbouring Himalayan nation of Bhutan, where it is the dominant school of thought and the core of the state religion. The land of Bhutan was never conquered by China, never incorporated into the British empire; it only allowed modern technology to be introduced at all in 1999. What Tibet was before the Chinese troops marched in, therefore, Bhutan still is today; an ancient land, ecologically pristine, utterly distinct from the rest of global civilisation. The fact that a thread connects southern Scotland with this most fascinating of Himalayan lands is, in my view, something that cries out for further exploration…

The origins of the Kagyu Samye Ling complex in Eskdale lay in the 1960s, when a British Buddhist organisation invited some Tibetan lamas who had recently fled Chinese rule to take up residence at the site. In the subsequent years the community expanded swiftly, attracting both more Tibetans, and also a far larger number of westerners with an interest in Buddhism – including such well-known figures as Leonard Cohen and David Bowie. The interaction between these two groups didn’t always go smoothly. Western spiritual-seekers of the 60s and 70s had far more liberal attitudes to a great many things than Tibetan monks did, and some of the lamas found themselves confronted with temptations they were not necessarily prepared for. One of the founding monks, Chogyam Trungpa, arrived while he was in his twenties; he swiftly took up smoking and drinking, and had a string of inappropriate western girlfriends. His relationship with the other monks broke down, and he was eventually obliged to leave Samye Ling in 1970 – a setback to which he adjusted swiftly, setting up his own franchise of Buddhism in the United States, preaching “crazy wisdom” to a receptive western audience. Allen Ginsberg and Joni Mitchell were among his students. He died in 1987 at the age of 48, whilst suffering from alcohol-induced cirrhosis of the liver.

Visitors to Kagyu Samye Ling today will find it under more sedate management. There are occasional traces of the counter-culture, but the overall atmosphere is respectably monastic. This is not to say that it is unwelcoming, however; there’s a café serving excellent food to passers-by, and walkers are welcome to spend the night in the pilgrim accommodation. Should you do so, it is important to behave respectfully, and to show an interest in understanding the place – but this is little hardship, given the setting, and something I have done a number of times.

We stopped there for the rest of the day. The murals in the interior are worth the visit on their own. They fuse the traditional iconographic style of Tibet with the setting of the Southern Uplands; Buddhist saints and deities are depicted passing through green, rolling hills that recall those around Eskdalemuir, rather than the barren wastes of Tibet.

The afternoon we spent exploring the grounds and the gardens; an impressive complex, strewn with monuments.

After a late lunch, we take a wander to a little wooded hilltop nearby. Here, pilgrims to the monastery have shaped a little shrine that blends the cultures of the place; a ‘Fairy Hill’. It’s a mingling of local tradition with Buddhist iconography, filtered through the lens of the New Age; a cluster of carvings of fairies and Buddhist deities, scattered among coins and candles. The late afternoon sun blazed in through the pines, picking it all out in vivid detail, and casting in even more vivid colours the prayer flags that festoon their branches.

In the evening, we sat in on the prayers in the main shrine room. This is an especially striking experience. The room is huge and ornate, decorated with murals and statues, and the sound of the deep chants echoing around the chamber in the candlelight of the evening is both atmospheric and intensely powerful. There are very few places in Europe where you can encounter anything like it.

In the morning, we took breakfast porridge with the monks and their students, and then set off northwards once more. We walked a few kilometres, past the meteorological station, before finally departing from the road. We turned left, to the west, and plunge into the depths of Eskdalemuir Forest.

Beyond Samye Ling, forest tracks dive deep into Eskdalemuir Forest. A gravel path carries us northwestwards, ascending steadily into a range of low, wooded hills. Here and there, stony ruins are visible, the remnants of the old shepherds’ dwellings of the region now overflowing with ferns and flowers. The ghosts of the shepherds gaze out from their empty windows, watching a wilderness slowly reincarnate before their eyes – the ghost of a forest, quietly being reborn.

There was another forest here, once, which was long ago cut down. Once this whole part of the inner Southern Uplands was called Ettrick Forest, and largely kept clear of human development to serve as a hunting ground for the kings and aristocrats of Scotland. It was a refuge too for brigands and for rebels; this was a part of the territory of the Border Reivers, and before that was one of the principal refuges from which William Wallace fought his guerrilla campaigns against the occupying English armies. Almost all of that ancient wood was cut down centuries ago – but now, on the hills where it once stood new trees have sprouted. Most are plantation pines, but in the quiet spaces between them, by riverbanks and on patches of clear ground, other, wilder trees have risen. These little spaces are the seeds of a new wildwood – spaces in which the land is remembering what it once was, and showing its ancient face again.

We marched for long hours through the woods. Eventually, we ascended over the crest of the hills around Ettrick Pen; the highest of the hills in the region. The word Pen is a very ancient one; a Brythonic Celtic one, meaning “head”. The name of this hill may conceivably have been the same since before the Romans arrived; and on its summit stands a great burial cairn of ancient date, showing that it was recognised as an important place in the distant past.

We crested the ridge, and pause for a long time. The late summer wind was warm and pleasant, and we allowed it to wash over us. Ahead of us, the view was wonderful; the upper reaches of the Ettrick valley, framed by the high hills of the upland interior. In the mellow summer light, it was a fine sight.

At length, we headed downwards. A little stone cottage was visible on the valley floor, and a stream leading towards it; the Entertrona Burn. This is a place that holds its own ghosts; the setting of a quite particular kind of haunting. The story was recorded by James Hogg in his “Shepherd’s Calendar”, published in 1829, and describing a tale recounted to him of an old shepherd long resident in these hills;

“…he followed a whole troop of (the Fairies) up a wild glen called Entertrony, from one end to the other, without ever being able to come up with them, although they never appeared to be more than twenty paces in advance. Neither were they flying from him; for instead of being running at their speed, as he was doing, they seemed to be standing in a large circle. It happened to be the day after a Moffat fair, and he supposed them to be a party of his neighbours returning from it, who wished to lead him a long chase before they suffered themselves to be overtaken. He heard them speaking, singing, and laughing; and being a man so fond of sociality, he exerted himself to come up with them, but to no purpose. Several times did he hail them, and desire them to halt, and tell him the news of the fair; but whenever he shouted, in a moment all was silent, until in a short time he heard the same noise of laughing and conversation at some distance from him… he made every exertion to overtake the party; and when he judged, from the sounds, that he was close upon them, he sent forth his stentorian hollo—”Stop, lads, and tell us the news o’ the fair!” which produced the same effect of deep silence for a time. When this had been repeated several times, and after the usual pause, the silence was again broken by a peal of eldritch laughter, that seemed to spread along the skies over his head. Will began to suspect that that unearthly laugh was not altogether unknown to him. He stood still to consider, and that moment the laugh was repeated, and a voice out of the crowd called to him, in a shrill laughing tone, ‘Ha, ha, ha! Will o’ Phaup, look to your ain hearth-stane the night.’ Will again threw off every encumbrance, and fled home to his lonely cot, the most likely spot in the district for the Fairies to congregate; but it is wonderful what an idea of safety is conferred by the sight of a man’s own hearth and family circle.”

The cottage to which the shepherd fled is the very stone cottage visible at the foot of the Entertrona Burn, towards which we were now heading. It is a place called Over Phawhope. No longer used as a shepherd’s residence, it is now maintained as a bothy open to the public; any who pass by here are free to stay the night, and make use of its basic facilities. These are, it should be pointed out, decidedly basic – there’s no running water, toilet or mattresses, so a night here is not so far removed from camping. There is a fireplace, though – and more than a little of history and legend to entice people to spend some time here.

The shepherd whose story James Hogg recorded was one Will O’Phaup, meaning “Will of Phawhope” in Old Scots. He was an extraordinary character, and one of whom we in fact know a great deal – principally because he was James Hogg’s own grandfather, and that famous Victorian writer made sure to commit his stories to paper. Hogg described his grandfather, and the cottage he inhabited, in the following terms;

“He was the last man of this wild region, who heard, saw, and conversed with the Fairies; and that not once or twice, but at sundry times and seasons. The sheiling at which Will lived for the better part of his life, at Old Upper Phaup, was one of the most lonely and dismal situations that ever was the dwelling of human creatures. I have often wondered how such a man could live so long, and rear so numerous and respectable a family, in such a habitation. It is on the very outskirts of Ettrick Forest, quite out of the range of social intercourse, a fit retirement for lawless banditti, and a genial one for the last retreat of the spirits of the glen—before taking their final leave of the land of their love, in which the light of the gospel then grew too bright for their tiny moonlight forms. There has Will beheld them riding in long and beautiful array, by the light of the moon, and even in the summer twilight; and there has he seen them sitting in seven circles, in the bottom of a deep ravine, drinking nectar out of cups of silver and gold, no bigger than the dew-cup flower; and there did he behold their wild unearthly eyes, all of one bright sparkling blue, turned every one upon him at the same moment, and heard their mysterious whisperings, of which he knew no word, save now and then the repetition of his own name, which was always done in a strain of pity.”

Hogg recorded a series of tales recounting Will’s encounters with the supernatural inhabitants of the region, all of them enigmatic and somewhat menacing. They are too large in number to deliver here, but suffice it to say that almost every other little valley in the vicinity was the setting for some story connected to him. These tales, and the others told around the Phawhope fireside, were to have an enduring impact on Scottish culture; Will’s daughter, Margaret Laidlaw, was one of Walter Scott’s foremost sources for the old ballads, songs and tales he compiled into the “Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border”. This book was one of the formative texts of Scottish literature, and one whose creation shaped Scott’s own literary output ever after; some of the most popular and influential works of Victorian Romantic literature were therefore directly inspired by the tales of the shepherds of Phawhope. This little cottage had an influence far greater than anyone might reasonably expect.

I have a longstanding desire to climb up to Over Phawhope and spend a good few nights here, in the company of a bottle of brandy – Will’s drink of choice – exploring the little glens and their stories. We are intensely lucky to live in a country where the door to such a place is always open, and we may sit freely in Will’s living room, watching the firelight flicker over his walls, letting strong spirits dance over our tongues and into the corners of our imaginations. Whether the spirits that inspired his stories derived purely from a liquor bottle, or were perhaps supplemented by the ghosts of an ancient culture that lingered in the high hills is unclear; a cocktail of the two is perhaps the most likely explanation. Whatever the truth, I would happily partake – and will one day spend some nights there in the winter dark, perhaps around Hallowe’en.

Such an adventure is for another time, though; on the summer afternoon when we walked by, such visions seemed a long way away. All was light, bright, green and bucolic. We paused at Phawhope only briefly, to have a quick look around and pay our respects – then made our way onwards, heading for the crest of the hills to the west.

We followed an ancient track over spine of the next line of hills, and found ourselves descending into the deeper, grander valley of Moffatdale. A prehistoric standing stone marks the way, a sign of the antiquity of the route that carried us. Across the valley a set of higher hills soared up over the skyline; the summits of Hartfell and White Coomb, some of the very highest in this part of the land. Between them, perfectly framed and symmetrical, sat the ridge of Saddle Yoke. This summit is the only true ridgewalk in the central Southern Uplands, and a very fine one; an ascent of it can be combined with either of the summits to the east or west, to provide a very fine day’s hillwalking. We had reached the wild heart of the Southern Uplands now; the zone in which the most dramatic of its hillscapes are to be found.

Our track dropped down the valley side to the farm of Bodesbeck – a place in folklore once served by a Brownie, a domestic spirit who helped perform the household chores.

Here, we crossed the Moffat Water, then followed the road up the valley a couple of kilometres, as far as the  spot where a little carpark lies by the side of the road, flanked by trees and heather. A wooden sign names the place, in an elegant font; this is Carrifran Wildwood.

The name Carrifran is an old one; one of the oldest in these hills. It is Brythonic Celtic in origin, related to the Welsh language, and signifies “Town of the Ravens”.  It was given at least a thousand years ago, potentially as many as three thousand – but despite the passing of so many years the reason it was first bestowed remains abundantly clear. The moment the eyes rise to the cliffs that overhang the valley, and see the black shapes that flutter from them all becomes clear; this has been the place of the ravens since long before humans ever trod here, and will likely remain so long after.

Although the nests of the ravens on the high rocks have remained undisturbed, though, the character of the valley over which they fly has changed greatly over the years. The ancient wildwood, once known as the Forest of Celython, and more recently that of Ettrick, was cut back over the centuries, and the land that held it given over to pasture. For many years sheep wandered the hillsides here, cropping the vegetation short, turning what was once forest into bare moor. Lately though, that trend has been reversed. The valley into which we now gaze from the roadside is a green, verdant one, full of low trees and wildflowers; a far-cry from most of the hillsides of the Borders. This is a special place.

In the year 2000, an organisation called the Borders Forest Trust acquired the valley of Carrifran, and began an ambitious project of ‘Re-wilding’; the restoration of the habitat to something resembling its original state. For this part of the country, this means nothing less than the resurrection of the ancient wildwood; and in Carrifran, after several decades, their work has progressed very well indeed. We walk north, into the valley, and as we do so our path is shaded by the rising branches of native trees. This place is now a forest once again, albeit still a young one.

The work of the Trust has steadily expanded as the years have passed. They have acquired more properties in the area, including those of Corehead to the west, and Gameshope & Talla to the north. All are being absorbed into the project of a restored wilderness; the Trust has named the area the “Wild Heart” of South Scotland, a beautiful term and a beautiful vision for a what is fast becoming one of the finest exemplars of re-wilding in all of Britain. Here in the centre of the Southern Uplands a seed is germinating; the seed of a long-lost place, steadily returning to life. It is well worth a visit, and in my view well worth supporting too.

We camped in the valley that night, beside the rushing waters of the stream.

The heather was in bloom, and a host of wildflowers too. What was not wildwood here was meadow – and a beautiful example of it.

We took our time ascending the valley, exploring as we went. Above us, the hillsides soared up, culminating in rock, scree, and sometimes cloud.

Little structures were scattered here and there on the valley floor. Some are the remains of sheepfolds, now abandoned.

Others were shelters used by the volunteers who planted the valley’s trees.

As we neared the top of the valley a smir of rain rushed past; the heat was dispelled, and the valley walls faded momentarily to dimness. We marched on over the purple heather, past trees now short in stature. The higher, starker portions of the valley do not make for the verdant growth of its lower reaches.

We passed a rocky cleft cut by the burn, and ascended by its side into a higher, subsidiary valley.

By stages, we clambered up the hillside, tracing the line of the little Firthhope burn to the top of the escarpment, to the spot where it pours over the edge in a cascade.

At the rim, we looked back briefly onto the green of the valley below…

…before marching on into a grim and barren plateau for a couple of kilometres.

Beyond, past the summit of White Coomb the views open up once more, and we find ourselves looking down into the wild little valley of the Midlaw Burn.

We descended into it, and were met by a contingent of the local wildlife; a herd of wild goats, which watched us passing curiously.

A little further over the heather, and we arrived by the banks of Loch Skeen. This is the highest loch in the Borders, and beautifully framed by a semi-circle of crags and hillslopes.

Our final descent took us down from the loch along the side of the Tail Burn. It cut an attractive path, past a series of little cascades and pools.

Eventually, the descent culminates in the pièce de resistance; the soaring waterfall of the Grey Mare’s Tail, which pours the waters of Loch Skeen down into Moffatdale below. It’s the highest waterfall in the region – and in the late summer, framed by purple heather, it makes quite a sight.

And then, we’re done – a taxi from the foot of the falls down to Moffat for a shower, a hot meal and the comforts of civilisation. The whole route thus outlined covers 41km; we did it in three days, but it could easily be accomplished in two. This path appears on no map, is described in no guidebook – but in my view, it does a far better job of assembling some the highlights of the region than many trails that do. Despite the fact that an extensive network of long-distance paths criss-cross the Southern Uplands, it is nonetheless the case that none of them take in the Wild Heart itself; even the Southern Upland Way detours to the south, running steadily along the line of the Ettrick valley when a route just a few kilometres to the north would deliver a vastly superior experience.

This is a pattern repeated elsewhere. I’ve spent many years now hiking through the hills of southern Scotland, and the vast majority of the most memorable trails I’ve followed have been “wildcat” routes; informal paths picked up from the websites of local hikers, or simply routes I’ve cooked up myself. That this should be so is a failing in the existing infrastructure; while the official paths that currently exist do have their virtues, there are glaring gaps in them that do the region a disservice. The Highlands has the West Highland Way; a beautiful, popular route that connects the city of Glasgow with some of the finest scenery of the Western Highlands. The paths in the south don’t do as good a job – and so there’s a gap for an equivalent.

Having spent a great many years looking at maps of the region, here’s my shot at suggesting such an equivalent; a “Wild Heart Way”, to connect the city of Edinburgh to the finest, wildest scenery of South Scotland. The trail described in this book coincides in large part with some of its stages; and where this post leaves off, the longer trail picks up, adding further chapters of comparable quality to the tale delivered here:

This is my recommendation for a wildcat route, taking in the best of the Southern Uplands. Were officialdom to engage with the notion – or something broadly comparable – there could be distinct benefits to the region. It would connect some towns not currently on the long-distance network to a path of their own, helping to bring visitors to places like Langholm, Eskdalemuir and Drumelzier. It would join one of the main cities of the central belt to the re-wilding projects in the Wild Heart and the Tarras Valley, encouraging eco-tourism and raising funds for their support. More than that, though, it would result in far more visitors to the region departing with spectacular photos – helping to fill up the internet with beautiful shots of landscapes that will entice others to follow in their footsteps. The higher the quality of experience on offer, the more visitors will come to experience this; and on this measure, South Scotland has room to up its game.

I’ll cover the full route and the rationale behind it properly in a future post – but I’d be interested in hearing the thoughts of anyone else with an interest in hiking in the region. There might be tweaks that could be made to improve it, or administrative obstacles I’ve not considered; I’d be interested to hear form anyone with light to shed on either. I am also always keen to expand my knowledge of the hills, and my repertoire of its routes; if you’re an outdoor writer with a site covering the region, do drop me a line. I hope this tale has given you some enjoyment – and hope to hear from you soon.

If you’ve enjoyed this post, and have an interest in the subject matter it explores – the legends, landscapes and the history of the Borderland region – do give my book “The Ghosts of the Forest” a look. It details a number of other such routes, and dives far, far deeper into the culture of the region; if you were to give it a moment of your time, I’d be very grateful.

© William Young and Inter-Celtic, 2023. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to William Young and Inter-Celtic with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.