I stood on the small rock formation atop The Schil, the final peak before the long and gentle descent to Kirk Yetholm where the finish of the Spine Race waited. It’s a peculiar set of boulders, as if they had been intentionally dropped there amongst the gently rolling bogs of the Cheviot Hills. The strong winds had ceased entirely as I climbed it, adding to the sense that I was in a bubble separate from the time and place surrounding me.
In over a thousand miles on the Pennine Way I had rarely stopped to appreciate a single spot. Not intentionally anyway. And while fully coherent. Kim Collison had likely finished hours earlier to claim victory in the race, and all I could do was claim the rest of my own time in those lovely desolate hills. Before leaving my bubble, I savored one last sip of the Irn Bru I had carried from Byrness. Only miles to go before I sleep.
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