The Lost Valley of South Scotland

Last updated on March 19, 2023

   The Southern Uplands of Scotland are not a place the mind immediately associates with such things as craggy pinnacles of rock, multi-coloured screes, and twisted, volcanic rock formations. These are words you might perhaps expect to encounter in a travelogue of Iceland, but which seem out of place in any description of the rolling hills of Scotland’s south; a region better known for grassy slopes, sheep and heather moor.

   Nonetheless, it is precisely here that such a landscape is to be found; in the very core of the Southern Uplands, in the interior hills at the head of Annandale. This is a portion of the inner hill country that has more than its fair share of secret places – and the journey described in this post is perhaps the best-kept of those secrets. It leads to a forgotten valley that has in its time inspired legends, and that once helped to shape the regional economy – but today is largely ignored by the outside world. This is the story of South Scotland’s Lost Valley; of the secrets it holds, of how it came to be forgotten, and of why it is worth discovering again.

   It was a story that brought me here, as is so often the case. For years now I’ve been researching the legends of Southern Scotland, and their connections to the old Brythonic Celtic culture that anciently inhabited these hills – a pursuit that came to fruition in the recent publication of my book, “The Ghosts of the Forest”. One of the most important legends to originate in this region was that of Merlin; a figure who is today famous throughout the world, yet whose connections to southern Scotland remain comparatively little-known. I knew that certain writers had connected Merlin to one particular spot in the Annandale hills and, having been told by a few informants that it was a very striking place, made up my mind to find out for myself why…

   I started off by Googling, looking for photos. There were relatively few – it was clear enough that this was not a widely frequented spot. Most of those that there were seemed attractive enough, but not exceptional; they showed a little valley, containing a little stone building backing onto some screeslopes. A couple of shots, however, had clearly been taken further up the valley. These depicted a landscape of a startling nature. The screes had expanded to fill the whole of each shot; and they were no longer simple screes, but rather sheets of stone of shifting, striated colours. From amidst them eerie crags of rock thrust up, like talons emerging from inside the earth. This was something quite different; clearly, this was an exceptional place, after all.

   This was evidence enough; I was sold. I made a few bookings and, a few weeks later, off I went…

   I caught the bus south from Edinburgh, heading in the direction of Dumfries. We follow the highway of the A702 southwards, tracing the line of the old Roman road from Edinburgh to Carlisle through the inner uplands. I pass a series of hillscapes; Pentland, Moorfoots, Tinto, and the snow-capped crown of Culter Fell. At length, we emerge into the valley of Annadale, and a few minutes later finally arrive in the little town of Moffat. This is to be my base for this excursion.

   Typically, on excursions such as these I’ll stay in my tent; it lets me sleep out in the heart of the places I’ve come to see, so I can wake up with the wilderness right in front of me. In this case, however, I’ve made an exception – Moffat, and its hotels, connect to the places I’ve come to explore in a way that makes exploring it properly a key part of the story.

   Standing in the heart of Moffat, by the spot where the bus drops you off, it’s immediately obvious that this is a place a little different to the average Borderland market-town. The buildings that rise around the marketplace are a cut above the average. They are tall, elegant and abundantly decorated; Grecian columns, painted timberwork, ornately tooled stone and swirling patterns on the eaves all emphasise that this is a place upon which much effort and expense has been invested over the years.

   Most of the grand buildings that line the main square either are, or once were, hotels. Their presence here, and their faded grandeur, are the consequence of a time when Moffat was one of southern Scotland’s main tourist draws, attracting Victorian-era visitors from near and far. These visitors came not for the scenery, but rather to drink and bathe in the town’s waters; waters that were believed to possess medicinal, curative properties. For over a century, this place was one of the most popular spa-towns in Scotland.

   ‘Spa’ is, today, a word associated with luxury – and rightly so. In the days when Moffat rose to prominence as a spa-town, its meaning was somewhat different; it applied to a place where people came to improve their health. Such cures, however, required stays of many weeks – and as such lengthy stays were only practical for people with abundant leisure-time, this in practice meant wealthy aristocrats. Such people expected their stay in the town to be blessed with all the abundant comforts they enjoyed at home, and were well able to pay to make this so – and so a string of impressive, well-appointed hotels rose around the marketplace, with all the associated eateries, bars and servants’ quarters the visitors might require. At its height, their wealth transformed Moffat from a rural village into a hill-country extension of the fashionable neighbourhoods of Edinburgh and Glasgow.

   Two water sources made Moffat famous. The first was the Moffat Well; a spring of sulphur-laden water lying a couple of kilometres uphill from the town. The smell of its waters would put any modern-day visitor off going anywhere near them, but at its Victorian height they were pumped downhill to a red-stone bath-house located in the town centre for the benefit of the high and mighty of the land.

   The second, discovered later, was the Hartfell Spa. This spring lay further away, around seven kilometres up Annandale, and halfway up the flank of the towering hill of Hart Fell. The waters of this spring were considerably less aromatic than those of the Moffat Well, but they too enjoyed some popularity; at the height of their fame, they were even shipped to the Caribbean and India, so that their medicinal virtues might be available in the farthest corners of the empire. It is this latter spring that will play a large part in this tale – more on that in due course, though…

   Moffat’s days as a spa passed some time ago now. Advances in medical science eventually revealed the medicinal properties of the spa-towns’ waters to be questionable at best, and alternative tourist destinations developed to take their place, offering grander mountain scenery, country sports or access to the sea. With the decline in popularity of the waters, Moffat too declined – but the remains of that era are still to be found here. The hotels still decorate the town centre, and it is far cheaper to stay in an ornate Victorian hotel here than it is in the centre of Edinburgh or Glasgow. In the absence of development, the town has retained more of the original character of such a place; behind the hotels, a maze of narrow winding lanes are to be found, illustrating very evocatively what Scottish towns looked like in the days before the motor-car compelled roads to broaden and fill up with signs.

   I checked in to my residence (the Balmoral – significantly cheaper than the Edinburgh hotel of the same name), and spent the early evening taking a wander round the town. I made my way to bed early, though, so as to be up with the light. This was no evening for a late night drinking whisky, no matter how atmospheric the old hotel bars might be; the day ahead of me would be a long one…

   Breakfast was served from seven – and I was there right at the start, filling my belly for a long day of walking. After consuming my fry-up, I popped across to the local baker (R. Little), and procured a set of pies to keep me going through the day (the beef Bridie proved particularly tasty). This done, I set off.

   A couple of hours’ walk north along the Annandale Way will take you from Moffat to the start of the hill-path. I cheated and took a taxi – I hadn’t done a lot of hiking over recent months, and wasn’t sure I’d be able to complete the circuit in the available time. In the event this was to prove unnecessary; fit walkers could comfortably manage the following circuit in around eight-nine hours on foot alone, and with vehicular assistance I managed it in much less.

   The taxi dropped me by a green wooden building, which proved to be a community hall for the inhabitants of upper Annandale. Here, the road bridges a broad, swift-flowing stream; less a burn than a river, in truth. The valley it carves is steep-sided, but broad; broad enough for the river to meander across its floor in an attractive fashion. A little sign points uphill, directing the visitor along a path that runs up the valley’s northern edge. This sign declares that this is the way to the second of Moffat’s two springs, Hartfell Spa. A small explanatory board nearby delivers more detail, explaining the place’s links to the legends of Merlin.

   This plaque, and a series of others like it to be found around southern Scotland, are the work of Robin Crichton and his Merlin Trail project. They are an excellent initiative, connecting a number of the most important and evocative locations in the Dark Age history of the region, and the spot to which we are about to journey is certainly one of the most striking of all of these. When it comes to its connections with the legends of Merlin, I am obliged to say that I don’t agree with the exact details of Crichton’s analysis; he believes this place represents a legendary mountain called the ‘Nouquetran’, whereas I locate this mountain further south, on the eastern fringes of Liddesdale. The reasons for this, and the legends that connect to this mountain, are explored in detail in my book – and were I to attempt to relay them all here, this simple blog post would grow into a lengthy book-chapter. If you’re interested in knowing more about these legends, do give the book a look – they are truly fascinating stories. They paint the Borderland in a new and wonderful light, and deserve to be far more widely known than is currently the case.

   Although I don’t concur exactly with the details on the Merlin Trail plaque, I do however see connections between this place and the old Celtic mythology of the hill country – more than one, in fact. There are many stories to be found on this hillside, and many spirits that haunt it. We’ll encounter a few before this piece is over…

   From the little bridge, the path closely tracks the northern edge of the valley, staying close enough to the brink of the slope that you have a consistently good view of the river and its little floodplain. It’s a beautiful little place, complete with a miniature forest of native woodland, and the braids of an interior delta.

   About a kilometre up the slope, the next site of note is encountered. Here, a series of rings are carved into the earth; an exterior ditch, and an interior wall rising to a few metres in height. They are believed to date to the Iron Age, and are the remains of an ancient Celtic complex; the RCAHMS identify the place as a ‘fortified settlement’. The walls enclose a circular space of some size, which backs onto the steep slopes of the valley. Between them, walls and the slope form a set of formidable barriers; barriers somewhat undermined, however, by the fact that any ostensible attackers could easily take up position on the slope above, and rain projectiles down on the defenders. Though the place was clearly important enough to be defended strongly, as a fortress it was fundamentally flawed – and so rather than seeing its purpose as purely defensive, an alternative explanation for its presence must be sought.

   The path that we are following is the same one used by Victorian visitors to access the well at Hartfell Spa. The fortifications block this route perfectly. They do not, however, lie along any other route; the presence of the steep valley slope to the south blocks access in this direction, and any sites to the north would be more easily accessible by proceeding along the valley floor, rather than by first diverting up here. It therefore seems most likely that the fortifications were sited here to control the most natural route of access to the valley that lies above; that this was in ancient times, as in the Victorian era, a place of some importance. Some hints as to why this may have been will emerge as we ascend further…

   After the fortifications, the valley below narrows and steepens into an impassable gorge. At the same time, the character of the land around the path transforms. The fields disappear; no longer am I marching through open pastureland cropped by sheep. Instead, all around me low trees rise. They are not plantation pines, but rather broadleaf saplings; native trees, deliberately planted, but nonetheless a recreation of a natural forest. Their presence here is a sign of the work of the Borders Forest Trust; an organisation that is especially active hereabouts, having made the region the heartland of a project of habitat restoration. The term “re-wilding” is perhaps the more familiar term for this process; and here, in these hills, the Borders Forest Trust have already purchased three large contiguous estates, to form what they term the “Wild Heart” of southern Scotland. In time, these hills will be transformed into a vast wildwood, similar in character and composition to that which clothed them in ancient times. These little trees are among the first outliers, the saplings of the wildwood reincarnate. Their presence here brings me great delight – and if you have an interest in supporting the Trust’s work, you can find out more here.

   After a little while, the valley wall grows steeper, and the patches of tree cover thin out a little. The path now diverts from the course indicated on the OS map; rather than tracing the course of the burn, the path instead ascends and follows a newer ledge, carved out from the valley wall by more recent hands. I follow it, and am rewarded by a bird’s eye view of the inner valley of the Spa Well Burn; a wild, concealed valley nestled in the embrace of the hills. The river meanders across its base, unchecked and unstraightened. It’s a grand sight.

   The path follows the valley wall for around a kilometre. As I progress, the form of the hillside ahead of me becomes clearer. It is only really now that the size of the hill ahead can be fully appreciated; before this, rows of foothills and subsidiary ridges have obscured its full bulk. Now, however, its inner core is emerging more clearly; this is the summit called Hart Fell.

   Hart is an alternative form for stag, and refers to the times of old when the forests here were thick enough to harbour such animals in large numbers. Fell is a word for mountain deriving from Old Norse; its presence here, and throughout much of southwestern Scotland and northern England, is a legacy of Viking settlement during the early Middle Ages. At that time, Vikings from the fjords of Norway raided and colonised large stretches of the western shores of Britain. In this part of Southern Scotland, the invaders came up against the native Brythonic kingdom of Strathclyde, which was itself expanding, engaged in the task of uniting under one crown all the Britons of the North. Strathclyde survived the Viking onslaught, and seems to have managed to incorporate many of the settlers into its kingdom; carved tombs in the Viking style are to be found in the graveyard of Strathclyde’s capital, Govan, side-by-side with those of lords of the Brython. It’s a shame there aren’t more histories available from this era; the fusion of Celtic and Norse cultures that occurred must have been a fascinating one. Sadly, however, all the records of Strathclyde disappeared after its territories were incorporated into Scotland and England. The only traces we have of the era are legends, carved stones, and the occasional Scandinavian loanword – such as ‘fell’.

   From this angle, Hart Fell’s bulk is clear enough – though the summit itself is still invisible. It stands 808 metres high, which makes it over 4/5 of the way to being a Munro – in the world of Scottish mountain lists, it qualifies as a Corbett. Though a substantial hill, it isn’t an easily recognisable one; it hides behind layer upon layer of subsidiary summits and slopes, which means there’s no obvious dramatic prospect available from the valley floors, no iconic image to make its way into paintings or Facebook photo galleries. From this viewpoint, though, one of its most striking features is readily visible; the entire hillside ahead of me is riven by a long, deep gash, its flanks covered in dark, tumbled screes. This is the cleuch of the Spa Well Burn.

   The path drops down a little way towards the valley floor, then climbs back up through a final stretch of forest plantings. This brings me to the brink of the cleuch.

   Two fingers of rock rise from the earth at the point where the valley opens up; two doorposts of contorted rock, forming a natural portal in.

   Just behind them, a strange layer of stone ripples out of the heather to the left. It forms an overhang, enclosing a small, dry space beneath. In one school of thought, this was Merlin’s cave; the place where he dwelt in the wilderness, with the waters of the stream and the plants of the valley to sustain him. I don’t believe this to be so, but whatever the truth, the little cavern is certainly large enough to accommodate a visitor or two in bivvy-bags; if you’re hardy, it would be a fine place to rest your head.

   Just after the cave, the Spa Well appears on the right. It is protected by a round, stone building, now almost submerged in heather and moss encroaching from above. This is surrounded by a wooden fence, to prevent sheep and wild goats taking up residence within.

   A quick look within reveals a flooded chamber. The waters of the well have overflowed their alcove on the left, and turned the whole interior into a pool. I take a quick look at the carvings on the roof, and then head out. In Victorian times, visitors would have spent some time here, drinking the waters and consuming their picnics before returning to the town below. For me though, this was not the destination, just a stop along the way.

   I follow the little valley inwards and upwards. The screeslopes above become wide and darker, and more outcrops of rock rise on either side. It is easy to imagine Victorian gentlemen clambering onto their tops, striking poses for early, silver-nitrate photographys. Photos that will no doubt one day be replicated on Instagram!

   It’s a strange rock that forms the place, brittle and jagged, already halfway to becoming scree at the point it emerges from the ground. Little fractured pieces of it litter the earth around the outcrops; pointed, sharp-edged fragments that regularly resemble arrowheads.

   Such things have a strong resonance in Border folklore. Walter Scott and John Leyden gave an early account of a belief in supernatural arrows found in the Borderland;

“Cattle, which are suddenly seized with the cramp, or some similar disorder, are said to be elf-shot ; and the approved cure is to chafe the parts affected with a blue bonnet, which, it may readily be believed, often restores the circulation. The triangular flints frequently found in Scotland, with which the ancient inhabitants probably barbed their shafts, are supposed to be the weapons of Fairy resentment, and are termed elf arrow-heads. The rude brazen battle-axes of the ancients, commonly called celts, are also ascribed to their manufacture. But, like the Gothic duergar, their skill is not confined to the fabrication of arms; for they are heard sedulously hammering in linns, precipices, and rocky or cavernous situations, where, like the dwarfs of the mines mentioned by Georg. Agricola, they busy themselves in imitating the actions and the various employments of men… It is sometimes accounted unlucky to pass such places without performing some ceremony to avert the displeasure of the elves.” (On the Fairies of Popular Superstition, from ‘The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border’, Scott W., 1812)

   It seems to me that the jagged stones found in the precipice here would make it precisely the kind of spot associated with such elves – and that the springs here would be a most likely place for offerings to be made to them. In earlier times, such spirits were worshipped as gods by the Celtic Britons; and it is in this ancient worship that we perhaps find the purpose of the ruinous ‘settlement’ set upon the path up the burn. Sources of water were holy places to the ancient Celts, and it is by no means unlikely that they climbed up this hillside, as did the Victorians afterwards, to partake of waters they too considered special. In Celtic religion, striking natural features were worshipped as the abode of spirits; and the rocky crags to be found here would be obvious candidates for such worship. This little valley may have been many things in its time; Victorian health-resort, medieval gateway to elfland, and ancient Celtic sacred valley.

   I track the path of the stream uphill. It wends back and forth, and the going is not easy; the screes encroach close to the water’s edge, and the rocky outcrops are not easy to clamber across. It’s an attractive walk, though. At every turn, little waterfalls are to be found; around every corner, a new secret landscape of jagged rocks opens up.

   I ascend round a number of these turnings. The going is similar to canyoning; it’s necessary to clamber through the stream here and there, and the footing isn’t sure. There’s no climbing involved though – up until the point where I reach the Wall.

   The Wall is a great mass of rock, that runs horizontally across the entire width of the valley. The waters of the burn tumble down over it in perhaps the most beautiful of the valley’s waterfalls. It’s not possible to go around; to go any further, it is necessary to scale it.

   The route I choose is just to the right of the line of the stream, up a sloping mass of rock clad in patches of heather. Any other route would involve full-on rock climbing, or risking an ascent on a slippery scree-slope. It’s not easy, though; I cling to the heather and the rocks with my hands all the way, and am compelled to pay close attention to my footing. Doing it alone like this was, in retrospect, a very bad idea – ropes and harness would be advisable in replicating the journey, if at all possible. In a few paragraphs time I will also outline an alternative, much safer access route. My emphatic advice is to do as I say, not as I do…

   On reaching the top, I discover that the Wall really is a wall; the very top is a narrow dyke, over which it is necessary clamber to reach flat ground beyond. What geological processes shaped this strange formation I am unable to guess; I have seen some similar things in Iceland, but could not say with any conviction whether the forces that formed this one were volcanic or otherwise.

   I am amply rewarded for my effort, though, with a wonderful view back down into the valley below.

   The area immediately behind the Wall is an interesting one. There’s a little bowl of grassy ground here, beside the stream. Its proportions are ideal for accommodating a tent. Anyone who chose to camp here would be rewarded by views over the top of the valley and, of an evening, potentially the most impressive sunset spectacle available anywhere in south Scotland; the valley faces directly west, so for much of the year the light of the setting sun will shine straight up the valley, turning the black rocks red and sending all sorts of shadows racing over the screes.

   Camping here is something I will of a certainty one day do myself – and I’d be very, very interested in seeing photos by anyone else who does the same. So much so, that I would like to announce a COMPETITION for the purpose! Here are the details;

• Anyone contacting me with photos of the valley at sunset over the next year (until the 4^th of March 2024) will be entered.
• The prize is either a large dram or a copy of my book, according to the winner’s preference.
• I’ll publish a page on this site covering the winner’s shots (with their permission, of course).
• I’ll also publish a further gallery of shots by the runners up (again, with their permission).
• Submissions will be judged by me and my wife, and will be based on no systematic criteria whatsoever.

If anyone is interested in participating, do get in touch – either through the comments below, or the contact details given on this site. It is eminently possible that there will be very few entrants, so if you’re a Southern Uplands outdoor photographer and have a hankering for a free whisky, do consider entering – the odds may be stacked in your favour!

   From the little hidden alcove behind the Wall, a brief further scramble over scree – not too challenging – leads up to the final slopes.

   Here, a steadily-broadening stretch of grass emerges to the south of the stream, and the going becomes easy. There’s still a spectacular set of views of the screes to be had, though. From here, a series of strange rocky striations can be seen emerging from the northern slope, like the ribs of some enormous monster entombed in the black rock. It’s quite a sight.

   And then, you’re out. Over the upper edge of the valley, and I find myself standing on a grassy slope, looking out over the hills of the Southern Uplands. From here, there’s no sign whatsoever of the jagged valley below. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never guess what lay only a few metres away – the lost valley returned to secrecy, as swiftly as it emerged.

   A brief few metres further upslope, and I reach the ultimate source of the Spa Well burn. It’s as obvious a spring as you’ll see; a bubbling, gushing little stream of water pouring fully formed from an aperture in the earth. This is the point of origin of the whole valley, and upon attaining it, my traverse of the place is done. The whole journey is not yet complete, however; having come this far, it would be foolish not to complete the ascent of Hart Fell too.

   A very short distance to the left of the spring, a track ascends the slopes of the hill. The safer, more sensible way in to the upper reaches of the Spa Burn cleuch would be to ascend the valley side lower down to connect with this track, at a point before the screes envelope the slopes. The track would then carry you to the vicinity of the spring, at which point the stream could easily be followed back down as far as the hidden valley and the Wall. This would avoid the questionable climb I undertook – and I cannot stress enough that this climb was distinctly unsafe, and should be avoided by any sensible visitor.     

   From the spot near the spring, the track ascends to the summit of Hart Fell via a subsidiary ridge that bears a particularly evocative name; the stretch of hillside I find myself ascending is called Arthur’s Seat. There’s no folklore on record that explains the origin of this nomenclature, but based on parallels elsewhere in the region we can offer an educated guess. In the same text quoted previously, Scott gives the following description of hills believed to be inhabited by the elves & fairies of the Borderland;

“They inhabit the interior of green hills, chiefly those of a conical form, in Gaelic termed Sighan, on which they lead their dances by moonlight; impressing upon the surface the marks of circles, which sometimes appear yellow and blasted, sometimes of a deep green hue, and within which it is dangerous to sleep, or to be found after sunset.”

   In legends from many parts of Britain, heroes from the past were claimed to reside in the otherworld alongside the elves, and could be encountered therein. King Arthur was one such. The legends of Arthur are Celtic in origin, specifically Brythonic, and he was regularly connected to places held sacred in their old, pre-Christian religion. In southern Scotland, several such sites are to be found; folk tales have been recorded that connect him to the Eildons above Melrose, and to Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh. It is probable that Arthur’s Seat on Hart Fell was once one more such place; that this shoulder of the mountain, on which the eerie Spa Burn cleuch is to be found, was considered a ‘hollow hill’ inhabited by elves, ghosts, and the spectres of ancient heroes.

   As I ascend the hillside, a possible piece of evidence supporting this notion comes into view. There is a flatter stretch of hillside halfway up the ascent, almost a ledge on the slope some 200 metres in length. On the southern edge of this ledge there is a stony cairn, raised on a low earthen mound. It is easily seen from the path, and spectacularly situated – and, upon giving it a close inspection, I formed the distinct impression that the mound itself is no natural outcrop. I have seen a great many ruins from ancient times in the Borders, over the years, and this bears all the hallmarks of one; circular in shape, composed of piled up stones not obviously deriving from the surrounding earth, and situated in a commanding, hilltop location.

   Exactly what this mound represents is unclear. It might be a cairn from the Neolithic, Bronze Age or Iron Age. Alternatively, it could be the remains of some circular shrine-structure from the Celtic era. Were it to be any of these, its presence would undoubtedly have enhanced the supernatural associations of the place; and the notion of this as a hillside whereon the ancient dead dwelt might have been reinforced.

There is ample evidence of old burial sites in southern Scotland being re-used by the Celtic inhabitants in later eras, presumably reflecting a retained sacred character; an especially good set of examples are available on Cairnpapple Hill in Lothian, where a hilltop ritual complex was first created in the Neolithic, and was still being used for burials as late as 1000AD. This spot on Hart Fell may very well represent another such site – it is certainly dramatic enough to fulfill the purpose…

   The little plateau by the cairn represents the final waystation before I gain the peak. I push on up, into an increasingly wintry landscape. Hail showers are now sweeping in with some regularity, and the tips of the grasses around me are encased in sheets of white ice.

   On reaching the summit itself, I find the cairn and trig point encased in similar icy sheets. I briefly halt to eat one of my pies but, finding that the wind strips the heat from my fingers with an alarming rapidity, I swiftly embark upon the descent.

   My route downwards leads me to the south, over a narrow pass called the Hass o’ the Red Roads, and from there on to the subsidiary summit of Falcon Craig.

Here, I find myself perched atop a series of cliffs that ring the Black Hope valley below. The hail briefly clears, and I am able to capture a few shots of a spectacular landscape laid out below me.

   The hanging valleys set between the crags are called Upper & Nether Coomb; the central crag that divides them is Hound Shoulder. The word Coomb is a surviving part of the Brythonic Celtic language once spoken here; hikers who have visited Wales will recognize the word as ‘Cwm’, the Welsh equivalent of the Highland ‘Coire’, or corrie. There are quite a few linguistic relics of that ancient past to be found in these hills; traces of a language that was spoken in Scotland before even Gaelic. Few are as spectacular as these, though…

   My route follows the line of the cliffs for a kilometre and a half, before turning off to the southwest and beginning a slow descent from Swatte Fell.

From here, the next three kilometres are an easy descent over gently sloping grassland – with a brief stop along the way to examine the ‘Cheese Wells’, another set of springs where offerings were perhaps once made to the elves.

   The final stage of descent, two kilometres above Moffat becomes more interesting once again. Here, on the foothill of Greygill Head, a series of rocky torrs are to be found. There also a striking pile of boulders named the Bannock Stane – another possible offering site, and again a distinctly evocative location.

   From there, it’s a brief saunter down a small valley – named Hell’s Hole, picturesquely enough – to the start of the tarmacked road leading into Moffat. This road is called the Well Road; and its route leads past the original Moffat Well, where the town’s whole spa era started.

I drop in briefly to give it a look, before heading on into town for a shower, dinner, and a dram in one of the fine old bars of the town. It has been an exceedingly pleasant day – and one that ends as pleasantly as it began.

   The whole journey thus outlined took only seven hours. This included numerous detours to inspect assorted outcrops, springs and mounds. A focused group of walkers could complete the entire circuit on foot, starting and ending in Moffat town, in 8-9 hours comfortably. Alternatively, for those with a taste for camping, it can form part of a multi-day trek; north, through the Gameshope valley and over Broad Law towards Drumelzier, or east over White Coombe and Winterhope Moss to St Mary’s Loch. I would heartily recommend any such excursion; there are few places in the Southern Uplands where it’s possible to encounter such a variety of landscapes or, in the cleuch, such an impressive set of rockscapes. Add in the numerous legendary associations, and what is a dramatic walk also becomes a fascinating one; there are many layers to this journey, all sorts of associations to unpack. It is my hope that this post will have passed on a little of the inspiration for adventures this part of the country has provided to me; it is an exceptional place, and one that receives far less attention than it deserves. Should you visit, you’ll find it well repays the effort.

   If you have an inclination to visit Hart Fell, do bear my warnings regarding the ascent of the Spa Well cleuch in mind. Do also bear in mind he prize of a dram or a book awaits anyone who can provide a particularly striking photo of the cleuch at sunset! It’s a place that has been photographed far less than it merits, and a well-taken photo shot here at the right time has the potential to be iconic. My technical skill is not up to the task – but there are plenty of talented photographers out there who are eminently qualified. If you should decide to undertake the challenge, do let me know 😊

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