Walking the Pennine Way: Day 12

If not a day of two halves, it was a day of one half and two quarters. After yesterday’s momentous efforts – 21 miles including Cross Fell and its range, and the interminable, foot-destroying descent, this morning was gentle and mild and filled with flowers. We walked the South Tyne path to Slaggyford, along single gauge line of the South Tyne Railway, and then the abandoned train line – a perfect green corridor for alder and aspen, willow and birch, hawthorn, young oak and old ash, for rosebay willowherb, nettle, the yellow of coltsfoot and ragwort and birds foot trefoil and hawkbit, devil’s-bit scabious, greater burnet.

Beyond heather and gorse, I didn’t learn the names of plants or species growing up. They were just there. It didn’t matter to me what kind of cow was sucking my fingers, or what plant made that sweet, sour smell on the bog, what a bog was and why it formed.

Over the years I’ve found myself wanting to learn their names. In the Broadoak psychiatric unit, my friend Louise brought me two shoplifted guides to trees. I don’t remember the faces and names of colleagues, acquaintances, even friends – so it takes me a long time to learn stars, and plants, and birds. But I love the power and effect of names; how I see sneezewort, silver bright, once I know its name. I learn through books and apps, and Niamh, who tells me that a willow looks like cooked veg, whilst a birch is bright and fresh. We learn together the names for the things which trouble us – coming to “autism” and “ADHD” and “neurodivergence” at the same time, and finding in it, a way to understand our worlds, to frame our struggles and celebrate our particular joys.

From Slaggyford, onto the moors, and the heather is bright in the sun, and we save a thirsty bee with water and sugar from our iced buns, and we cheer when it finds its wings and flies away. By this point I am starting to feel its exhaustion and thirst, and by three o’clock, though we’re just two or three miles from Haltwhistle, the Pennine Way swerves away from our destination over the baking, shade-free, interest-free commons. It’s an inexplicable route, with little charm, history or culture, and two miles from Greenhead I hit the wall of intolerable tiredness and heat – I’m not proud that I shouted at the path, which seemed hell bent on destroying what skin remains on my feet. I felt personally attacked, and considered lying on the ground crying and refusing to move, and only Niamh’s gentle determination kept me going.

Nimah sang, and joked, and most crucially, swapped the 16kg pack I’ve carried for almost two weeks for her own, much lighter rucksack. She took charge of the map, fed me the last of the water, led the way. And I realised I’d been carrying too much. This is a young adult, fit and bright. She scratched my head and she hugged me. She walked ahead of me when the route was tough and unclear, she helped me over the stiles. I am beginning to walk behind. I am beginning to lessen my own load, to let her carry more of her own weight, walk out ahead in uncertain terrain.

Tonight we are in a cottage in Alston with Niamh’s other mum, who has joined us so that she’s present when Niamh opens her A-level results tomorrow. Niamh already knows where she’s going – her university was wise enough to offer her an unconditional place – but still I’m nervous about whether the academic system will recognise my child’s magic, her endless enthusiasm, her kindness and eagerness to please, her delight in reviving a thirsty bee, the way she can stride through waist-high, sharp grass and make her path. And the words I think for today are vetch and knapweed, sadness, dove, harebell and red kite, heat and hope and blisters, pylons and abandoned tyres, meltdown and flourishing ash. Grief and gratitude. Love.

Something else I’d like to mention: this walk is truly bringing home the importance of restoration and rewilding. In response to this, our next Writing Bogwise, which takes place on Wednesday 19th August, will focus on the subject of ‘Restoration’ – the process of repairing damaged ecosystems and ‘bringing the wild back’, and what this can teach us about our writing. We’d love for you to join us. Book your place here: