Gunning it to Grey Mare's Tail

I’d researched good places to walk before I even came down to the Scottish Borders and this was the first to pop up so I was determined to visit it. It’s an incredible nature reserve with a 60m waterfall! So, the night before I wanted to go I googled good walks in the area and stumbled across “White Coomb by the Grey Mare’s Tail”. It looked challenging enough to be worthwhile but simple enough that I could manage so I didn’t read much beyond distance and height. Rookie error.

The drive from Oxton was just over an hour and wow, the scenery was unbelievable. Picture the green, rolling hills of the Lake District merged with the startling wilderness of Scotland interspersed with sheep and quaint villages. I arrived at the Grey Mare’s Tail car park and was met with a fair few tourists: a reassuring sign. Again, rookie error. I scoffed a banana and then started climbing the steep steps up to the waterfall. As the path wound around the gorge, the Grey Mare’s Tail came into view and it was spectacular. I understood immediately why it inspired Sir Walter Scott, especially with the Peregrine Falcons circling above the ravine. The path levelled out as I walked past smaller falls and then, suddenly, I was at the edge of Loch Skeen. The abruptness of such a big loch so high up caught me by surprise and it was framed beautifully by the surrounding hills. My awe turned to dread as I realised that these were the hills I was supposed to be climbing… However, if this was the view before I’d even started heading up then I couldn’t wait to see what was at the top.

The route instructions were slightly unclear at this point – “you can either follow an extremely wet path… or aim more directly across thick heather” – so I choose the more “direct” route, seeing as there didn’t actually seem to be a path. Having sped up the steps of the waterfall, I figured this would be the easy bit. Instead, I spent an hour going around in circles trying to cross marshland and avoid losing my boot. It was draining. I could see the tall summit of Lochcraig Head looming over me and I hadn’t even started climbing yet. Instead, my legs were losing energy trying to traipse across heather and bog. Here I also noticed the complete absence of people or any sign of human existence. I felt like I’d been plunged into sudden wilderness which was both exhilarating and slightly terrifying.

Once I’d reached the fence along the edge of the bog, I could start following it upwards. It became incredibly steep, incredibly quickly. I also realised at this point that I had no phone signal – surprise, surprise when I’ve just said how wild it was – and had accidentally offloaded all my music. Looks like my one downloaded album of Mumford & Sons was about to get a lot of plays! The path became ever steeper as I debated getting on my hands and knees, but every time I wanted to stop I just turned around and was immediately filled with adrenaline and wonder at the view. It was surreal. This was true fairyland.

After an exhausting climb, I reached the top of Lochcraig Head tired and hungry. The top was too windy to stop properly so I quickly munched my homemade wrap and then headed back along the wall to begin the descent into the Talla Nick. The boggy land made a cruel return so I had to hop onto the wall for parts of it, still desperately clinging onto my boots. As I started to climb Firthrigg Head, I realised which hill was White Coomb.

It was at this point, ladies and gentlemen, that I started to panic. I’m going to set the scene… Picture this: I was a naïve 22-year-old who thought I would pop out for a stroll in the sunshine, wearing shorts, carrying my backpack from middle school - with the extent of my waterproofing being a tesco plastic bag - and had already finished my lunch and half of my water. This silly billy then sees a huge hill in the distance – which it turns out is a Corbett – and realises that this is probably not a solo hike… I’ve seen no other form of life for several hours and looking around me, as spectacular as the view is, there is no indication of even a farm track. Moreover, as I keep walking and trying to keep my panic under control, I see a thick mist rolling in from the north and swiftly covering the peak of White Coomb. The cherry on the cake is that absolutely no one knows where I am right now. I have really thought this through… Thankfully, it is at this point that my phone pings with signal. I quickly message my flatmates – knowing that this kind of message would only serve to panic my parents (they’ve received a few too many like this in their lifetime) – my location and my planned route. I look at my route notes with its compass directions and grid references and, lacking both a compass and map, realise I’m slightly out of my depth.

Slowing my breathing and understanding that panicking alone on top of a hill is not going to help anyone, I ate a carrot, listened to more Mumford & Sons and trudged on through the mist thinking of Frodo. I passed over Donald’s Cleuch Head and then on beyond to Firthhope Rig, still an uncomfortable mix of terrified but also in constant awe of my surroundings. I climbed slowly up towards White Coomb and, when the mist began to clear, so did my mind as I gazed around at the rolling hills for miles on end. I reached the peak and then spent some time laughing at my attempts at self-timer, relieved that I’d actually made it! I looked across at Lochcraig Head in the distance and felt invincible.

Then began the descent – surely this was the easy bit? My feeling of invincibility did not last long… The descent became incredibly steep (have these footpath-makers never heard of diagonal paths?) and my legs felt like jelly after today’s turmoils. When it evened out, I hit the dreaded bog. It was back with a vengeance. I could see the footpath with walkers heading just to the waterfall in the distance and knew that that’s where I wanted to go. The only thing that stood in my way was this miserable marshland! I zig-zagged across heather, trying to avoid both the grass clumps and the puddles in-between – a nigh-on impossible task – before realising that the paths I was following just belonged to the herd of mountain goats up ahead. Frustrated but knowing I had no other choice but to keep going, I pushed on determinedly. However, my persistent clumsiness let me down and the inevitable happened: I fell and twisted my ankle. I tried to message for help but had no signal… I sat feeling sorry for myself for a short while before, once again, realising I had no other choice but to keep going. I hobbled on grumpily and eventually reached the stream joining me back to the main footpath.

I limped down those steep stairs, feeling like I’d just walked through the terrains of Mordor until I glimpsed the familiar little red polo in the car park. Yes! I’d made it! Unbelievably so! Looking back at the pictures in the car, having had some food and water, I fell into that constant trap of ‘rose-tinted’ glasses. What a wonderful walk! What a beautiful day! And did you see those views! So, same again tomorrow?

14th July 2020