It makes my heart beat faster: it always happens when I go up the Pentlands at the Edinburgh end: from the top of Allermuir you look south, and see the blue hills stretch away, away, ready to be skipped over, to ... where?
I looked on a map and found it was Carnwath, so I booked a B&B in Carnwath and on Friday caught the bus to Penicuik and, humming 'Tom, Tom the Piper's son' - or for a change 'Lilibullero' (I've got the eighteenth century on the brain) danced over the hills and far away.
It began through the woods around Penicuik House (the eighteenth century is pursuing me, I tell you), which dripped with that other current obsession of mine: moss.
The thing was, even in the pouring rain, what appeared from far off like the bleakest and most featureless of landscapes, is, under your feet, the most intricate, gorgeous tapestry of bright colours, rich textures and dazzling forms.
However, I still didn't know where I was. My map had turned to mush (memo: get plastic map case). I was getting wetter and wetter in a pathless wilderness. But this was the reason I was doing this in the Pentlands and not (say) on Rannoch Moor: I knew reaching civilization would always be within my capabilities. I could see woods and a reservoir, and although I was sure it wasn't where I wanted to be, I decided I'd just better go for it.
It turned out to be ten miles up the A70, not a good road to walk along, but at least I knew where I was. I headed south about through fields, buggering about delicately in my perpetual fear of a. scaring lambs, b. trampling crops, c. damaging fences, d. committing some other blundering city-dweller transgression, until I reached a minor road which I could identify on my soggy shreds of map. It looped around half West Lothian. I went around three sides of a wind farm which I came to hate with a cordial hatred. I had the Binns and the railway line to Carstairs ahead of me -- places definitely in the 'over the hills and far away' category. But it did at last bring me to Carnwath.
I've never been so glad to arrive at a B&B. They said I was the wettest guest they'd ever had. I'd walked about 25 miles.
SO the next day dawned completely different.
The southern end of the Pentlands really are romantic. I didn't meet a soul in the whole two days, until I got all the way back to West Kip. The featureless wasteland of yesterday formed itself into evocative places: the high-point Craigengar; the Raven's Cleugh (I'm sure I've encountered that in literature? Walter Scott? John Buchan?). Most romantic of all, when I came down Bleak Law (!), the Covenanter's Grave:
I hadn't conquered the Pentlands, and they hadn't conquered me, but I'd got completely immersed in them, and come out clean and refreshed. It feels amazing. And I've been there: I've been over the hills and far away.