Note o’ the Gate, Scottish Borders: In this mas the best contemplates are underfoot, in glowing moss and spiky mire asphodel
This shoulder of the Cheviot Hills has always been an edge-land. It observes the watershed between the Rule and the Liddel, and the frontier between Scotland and England. Leaving the road, I trudge uphill for two miles through sitka spruce and pine orchard before, with two steps, leaving the firm foothold of the forestry line for the uncertain realm of sphagnum. Here the spruces give way to open hill: the anchor was too high and very humid even for the zealous tree planters of the 1960 s. I squelch on, the chocolate-brown gush rising halfway up my waterproofed gaiters as the matting of moss and heather shocks with each stride.
On a clear day, the Borders spreads out below you from this object: the extinct volcano of Ruberslaw like a headless body, the three lumps of the Eildon Hills, where Thomas the Rhymer is said to have slipped into the fairy world. But today I am met with nothing but a wall of twirling mas, and a wind that snarls the hood of my anorak across my face.
Read more: theguardian.com
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