Between Britain

Welcome to our regular feature showcasing the talents of the nation’s best writers.

The track is my boundary,” said the farmer, as he switched off the engine of his little electric pick-up and trailer. “It follows the border.” He smiled. “It’s not Scotland, but you can walk where you like. Doesn’t bother me.” I’d crossed the Bowmont Water at Yetholm Mains and walked past what looked like four council houses to arrive on the banks of the Shotton Burn. It flows down from the Cheviots and since the twelfth century has marked the line of the frontier. I looked up from the flat valley floor to where the hills began to rise steeply, even abruptly, like geography drawn by children. “I’ll leave the gates open. Don’t need to shut them behind you. I’m coming back that way. One needs mending anyway. It’s on the list.” Nudging his grey-muzzled old collie along the seat, he smiled and turned the ignition key. “Have a good day.”

The track by the Shotton Burn was well made, fully metalled and flat for the first half mile. A good, gentle start under a cloudy-bright sky for what I knew would be the most taxing day yet – the steep climb up into the hills. The map showed contours rising sharply from 120 metres to 320 in less than a mile. My plan was to make the journey along the watershed ridge, where the border mostly runs, in shorter stages. No sense in rushing and risking a pulled muscle or a turned ankle. If, God forbid, that happened, how the hell would I get down off the hills? Except with great and painful difficulty. In any case, before I started climbing, I had a quest to complete, one that might prove to be a key to another world. By the side of the Shotton Burn, in flattish ground, the map noted in the olde-worlde font they use for historic locations the site of St Ethelreda’s Chapel. I wanted to see if I could find it.

According to the farmer, local antiquarians hadn’t had much luck, but he went on to say something intriguing. When he first took on the farm, the boundary track had, for no apparent reason, skirted around a rectangular area by the burn. “Just follow the track and you’ll come to where we straightened it out.” I wondered if there had been a memory of sanctity there, perhaps a graveyard.

About the author

Alistair Moffat is an award-winning writer and historian. He is the founder of Borders Book Festival and co-chairman of

The Great Tapestry of Scotland. Between Britain is published by Canongate, price £15.99