My rest day on Monday 17 August turned out to be a very full one indeed. Guest House owner Ken informed me that he and Joy had an arrangement with the nearby Riverdale Hall Hotel to use their swimming pool and sauna. The Hotel also had an internet-connected computer for the use of guests so, after breakfast, I made my way there. Having sorted out all my IT needs, I headed for the pool, pleased that I had packed my swimming trunks in my rucksack. Next, it was into the sauna where I met Annabel, who just happened to practise Reiki Therapy at the Hotel. My shin-splint injury had still not gone away completely, and the rest of my body felt like it had been walking with a heavy rucksack for a month, so I booked myself in for a session later that day.

I have an open mind about the benefits of such alternative therapies, but was determined to use any feasible method to get myself fit enough to tackle the Yorkshire Three Peaks Challenge in 9 days time. Annabel was aware of my ambition when she set to work on me, and I felt quite positive after the hour-long session. Moreover, she donated half her fee to my charities.

Afterwards, I was invited to eat supper with her and John Cocker, the Hotel owner. A gathering of folk musicians calling themselves 'Cross the Wannies' were performing that night so, following an excellent meal, we were treated to their singing and playing. They also made a substantial contribution to my charities after John brought my walk to their attention.

I returned to the Guest House to find Ken and Joy entertaining four German guests who were on the final days of a break that involved driving two Minis to an International Mini Meeting in Birmingham, and back. I didn't know that the Mini had such international appeal. It was midnight before we all retired to bed.

Next morning's weather gave ambiguous signals, but soon decided that it was going to rain. Shortly after leaving Bellingham I found myself tagging along with a family from Kent on a walking holiday. I welcomed the company as the countryside we were passing through was relatively dull.

I later marched on ahead and had my lunch at the northern end of Wark Forrest. It was when I had passed through the forest that the vistas really opened up with the line of Hadrian's Wall clearly visible ahead atop the crags.

Having walked the length of Hadrian's Wall on a previous occasion, I was excited to see it again from a new angle. The Pennine Way joins the Hadrian's Wall path at Rapishaw Gap and the two routes coincide for 8 miles. This is the very best part of the Wall and I enjoyed every moment as I walked along it, especially as the weather had cleared. The views over the crags are spectacular, particularly from Steel Rigg, and there is the added interest of the Roman Milecastles and Turrets. You will note that most of the accompanying pictures are of, or from, the Wall.

I eventually came to Walltown Quarry, which offered a perfect camp site. I ignored the 'No Camping' signs and nobody bothered me.

In the morning I needed provisions so I walked down to Greenhead. The Youth Hostel was unoccupied and the Cafe closed, so I pushed open the door of the Greenhead Hotel to find the staff eating their breakfasts. They were happy to cook some for me too. Suitably refuelled, and with a couple or Mars bars, a packet of crisps and a packet of peanuts to last me the day, I felt ready to make Alston, 16 miles to the south.

Alston had all the facilities I required to enjoy a beer and a meal, and replenish my food stocks for the following day. On the advice of the publican at The Turk's Head, who gave me a Highland Malt Whisky nightcap on the house, I pitched my tent down by the River South Tyne. It wasn't raining for a change.

Friday 14 August, and I was awoken from my slumber by the loud mooing of a curious herd of cattle who had surrounded my tent. I am getting used to this sort of thing, so we all minded our own businesses as I dismantled the tent and packed my rucksack.

The Cheviot Hills are at the northern end of the Pennine Way trail, so by mid-morning I was steadily and laboriously climbing my way into them. The day was cooler and there was light rain. I knew that the weather was expected to deteriorate further, so I had donned my waterproofs right from the start.

My initial destination was a 601 metre hill called The Schil. As I came over its summit the wind strengthened dramatically. Its severity was growing steadily, so when I arrived at Auchope Mountain Refuge Hut roughly a mile and a half south of The Schil, I decided to take shelter in it. Shortly after, three mountain bikers, Tony, John and Luke, joined me to get similar respite from the penetrating wind and repair Luke's bike. By then it was late afternoon. The bikers were destined for Kirk Yetholm and they still had ample time to fight their way through the buffeting gale to get there before the light failed, so they rode on. Walking south, however, I would need about 9 hours to get safely down from the exposed hills. This meant that I would inevitably become stranded at height in the dark - not a wise idea in a howling gale when erecting a tent on my own might prove impossible. The only sensible choice was to stay in the Refuge Hut overnight and proceed in the morning when, hopefully, the wind will have blown itself out. Fortunately I'd brought sufficient food for supper and breakfast, and Tony had given me an additional half litre of water before he cycled off.

A young lady, a teacher, properly equipped for hill walking, also stopped briefly at the refuge before opting to proceed to Kirk Yetholm. Then, at around 7.30pm, Newcastle University post-graduates Matt and James turned up. They were in a similar situation to me, so all three of us ended up spending the night in the wind buffeted Refuge Hut.

It was still raining next morning and the wind, though diminished, was still strong. However, the night spent protected in the Refuge Hut had restored my spirit. I now had over 12 hours of daylight ahead of me, so I dressed myself in all my warm and waterproof clothing and set forth with the intent of making Byrness by early evening. Along the way I made a detour to the 813 metre high Cheviot, the highest mountain in Northumberland, and found myself chatting to Pete. Similarly drenched, he had arrived at the summit at the same time but from a different direction.

The weather improved throughout the day, making the walk all the more pleasant. Byrness is small, but I had been informed that I could get a meal at the local Youth Hostel. When I got there all the rooms were booked, but I was able to pitch my tent in the garden. As for the meal, I had bangers and mash and it was excellent. There was plenty to chat about with the other Hostel guests, who were mostly walkers.

Next morning I made myself a good breakfast then headed off to Bellingham (pronounced Bellinjum). The weather was mixed and the going very, very boggy at times, but otherwise the day was relatively uneventful. The best views were nearest the end of the walk, but by then my aching feet had diminished my ability to appreciate them. I was due another rest day so I had booked two nights at the Lyndale Guest House in Bellingham just before leaving Byrness. I arrived at about 6.00pm to be greeted by friendly hosts Ken and Joy. Joy prepared a pot of coffee for me while I removed my boots. I think I'm going to like it here.

Leaving Stow, I headed southwest climbing the steep flanks of Torsonse Hill. There was a huge wind farm under construction near the Hareshawhead Plantation. I probably wouldn't get much support for this from the locals, but I actually find the windmills attractive, with their sleek towers and beautifully shaped blades, like sweeping scythes. I wondered if they condemned the windmills in Holland when they were first built?

After about 8 miles I came down to Lowood, on the River Tweed between Galashiels and Melrose, and then followed the route of the Southern Upland Way into Melrose itself. This was where I had hoped to meet fellow end-to-enders John and Jane again following our earlier meeting in Fort William. Sadly, a family crisis had forced them to abandon their walk. I know that this will have been a great disappointment to them.

I was a little ahead of schedule, so I lingered a while in this neat and historic town, but the overlooking Eildon Hills were an even bigger draw. I climbed into them following the St. Cuthbert's Way path, which passes over the saddle between the two largest of the three hills. I thought that I might climb one of these hills, but couldn't decide which. Eventually, I just dropped the rucksack at the saddle and climbed both - with no weight on my back I practically floated, so this took less than 30 minutes.

Satisfied, I continued to follow the St. Cuthbert's Way path to Newtown St. Boswells and pitched my tent alongside the River Tweed. The location by a beautifully constructed suspension footbridge was idyllic - and there were no midges.

My riverside walk continued for a few miles next morning. I bought some provisions in St. Boswells (a different place to Newtown St. Boswells), then left the river at Maxton to join Dere Street, the route of an old Roman Road. In the distance ahead I could see the tower of the Waterloo Monument, dedicated to Wellington's great achievement in battle. I later turned off Dere Street and climbed up to the Monument before descending the other side of the hill into Nisbet, where I had an invitation to stay the night.

My connection to Mike and Steph, my hosts in Nisbet, was via mutual friends Pete and Rosemary Yeoman, the later being responsible for making my rucksack banner. Mike and Steph are a wonderful couple who I warmed to immediately. I felt pampered when Mike gave me crisps and a lager to enjoy while I bathed, and he later cooked supper. The subsequent provision of a Glenmorangie ensured I slept well.

A full breakfast set me up for the following day, and I enjoyed a final cup of tea with Steph on their patio, with its magnificent countryside views, before bidding farewell to rejoin the St. Cuthbert's Way path.

The weather was perfect for walking and I reached my next destination, Kirk Yetholm, by the early evening. I consumed an excellent beef casserole at the Border Hotel and chatted to some of the other customers, including Steve and Sue, who I had bumped into several times during the day. They were following the St. Cuthbert's Way to it's eventual destination at Lindisfarne.

On my way along Edinburgh's Royal Mile to meet Sarah on the Friday evening, I was approached by a chap called Joe Donnachie who had spotted the John o'Groats to Land's End banner on my rucksack. Joe had recently run between the two end points himself and was interested in comparing routes, etc. He was presenting his experiences the following day at a one-man Festival Fringe show entitled 'The Road to Endorphia' and gave me a flyer.

Sarah lives just a couple of miles from the centre of Edinburgh so we walked in to enjoy Joe's show. The rest of the afternoon was spent watching various street performers and drinking in the lively Festival atmosphere.

On the Sunday we saw an act called 'Circa' at the Assembly Hall - a kind of mixture of gymnastics and contemporary dance. It was really engaging, right to the end.

The easy-going weekend, coupled with daily baths and the regular application of anti-inflammatories had resulted in my leg feeling much less painful. Just as well as the walk resumed on Monday.

I said my grateful goodbyes to Sarah and was on my way at 9.00am. Leaving Edinburgh inevitably involved some road walking. After Gorebridge I had intended to follow a disused railway track, but wasn't convinced that it was walkable, so I ended up doing a bit of car dodging on the A7 instead. Happily, at Heriot, I was able to divert to an old road which ran parallel to the A7. The road was at a higher level than the A7 and undulated like a switchback over the hills, but gave me great views of Gala Water and the path of the old railway line below. I had seen several official notices stating that certain areas of land on the path of the old rail track were to be 'vested' by the local authority to enable a new railway service into Edinburgh to be constructed. Later, I noted that at least one house had been built on the old line, so I assume that this will be demolished.

My route turned out to be a good choice for the relatively easy walking enabled me to cover about 23 miles, getting me all the way to Stow (pronounced as in 'How Now Brown Cow') by 8.00pm.

One of the attractions of Stow, or so I thought, was that it had a pub. My disappointment when I stood outside the closed premises was considerable. I chatted to couple Fiona and Neil living opposite, and they confirmed that there were no other pubs in the village. My heart sank. Such was Fiona's sympathy that she rushed inside and returned with 4 tins of cold beer. In an otherwise uneventful day, this was yet another example of how generously the people of Scotland treat visitors. I wild-camped by the river and enjoyed 2 of the beers with my al fresco beef and rice supper. The others I will enjoy tomorrow.