Morag Fleming explores the beauty of the Borders
Morag Fleming explores the wild countryside spanning two nations.
HISTORY tells of brother fighting brother, neighbour stealing from neighbour, invasion and counter invasion, illicit liaisons with threatened monarchs, countries and kingdoms pitted against each other . . .
No, I’m not talking about the latest series of “Game Of Thrones”, nor am I speaking of the welldocumented turbulence of the lawless Highlands of Scotland. I am talking about the even wilder area of our country that is rarely talked of. The border.
I set off from tranquil Kelso and travel south towards the imposing Cheviot Hills. Just short of these hills and the border with England is a pair of villages on either side of the Bowmont Water – Town Yetholm and Kirk Yetholm, collectively known as Yetholm. These villages are like oases in the rough country all around, as they
are beautifully picturesque. Boasting a campsite, hotels and shops, they are a good base from which to explore the Cheviots, and such long-distance walks as the Pennine Way and St Cuthbert’s Way.
I discover that Yetholm is well known for its gypsies and there is a memorial on the green – the Gypsy Stone. Their origin is up for debate.
One story goes that, in the war against the French, a gypsy saved the life of a British officer, Captain David Bennet, who owned property in the Yetholm area. In gratitude for this deed, the captain built cottages at Yetholm and leased them to the gypsies.
According to another story, however, Sir William Bennet of Marlfield had a particularly valuable horse which was “borrowed” by a group of Jacobites. Sir William gave the task of recovering his horse to a gypsy who had been following the Jacobites.
The successful recovery of his horse led to him giving the gypsies permission to settle in Kirk Yetholm. It’s interesting that, in both stories, the benefactor was called Bennet. Perhaps that gives them a bit more credibility?
I head south from here, following the Kale Water down to Hownam (pronounced “Hoonam”). Rough hills are rising on my left and right, and it seems incongruous when I round a corner and enter the prettiest village I have seen so far.
The row of cottages that forms the spine of this village is bedecked with bright flowers, and a gorgeous wee kirk is tucked away just down the side.
I speak to the couple who stay in the old post office in the middle of this row. They moved to Hownam from Kelso a few years ago and apparently no-one in Kelso could understand this decision.
“They consider this place the back of beyond, but it isn’t that far from civilisation, really. It just feels like it!”
It certainly does today, but not in a bad way by any means. It is idyllic in its sunny tranquillity.
I tear myself away and start a wee tour of the most remote part of my journey so far – the moors and hills south of Hownam.
Many of the roads I travel are single-track, no-through roads up a glen or over a hill or following a burn (often fording it!) to a farm or homestead, where I have to turn round and retrace my steps. This is wonderful countryside, barren and striking.
In the middle of nowhere I suddenly notice an official-looking sign and pull in for a closer look. It turns out that I am at a junction with Dere Street, the Roman road which was the main thoroughfare between York and the Firth of Forth.
The tarmacked road actually follows Dere Street for a short period and rises up to a plateau which affords an incredible view of the surrounding countryside.
I pull in to survey the scene and find another information board telling me that the Romans did exactly the same thing and had a camp here.
The board helps me to pick out the ridges in the moorland in front of me which mark out where the Pennymuir Camps would have been. It is quiet and lonely enough for me to imagine what it would have been like.
At the same time I am rotating to take in the view and there is nothing – absolutely nothing – as far as the eye can see. I am standing on one of the most remote spots in Scotland, a stone’s throw (well, maybe a Roman gladiator’s throw) away from the English border, which is where I head for next.
Carter Bar is a pass at the top of one of the Cheviot Hills, Redesdale, and is where the A68 crosses the border. As such it is busy with tourists, but I ignore that and instead look at the incredible view
down to and over the Scottish Borders. Before the souvenirs and burger vans, this spot was the site of the Raid of Redeswire, a bloody battle between the English and the Scots.
More peacefully, it has also been a location for Truce Days held between the wardens of the marches on both sides of the border to create and uphold some sort of order.
Next, I spend a couple of nights in Newcastleton, to the west of Carter Bar. It was created in 1793 by the Duke of Buccleuch and named Newcastleton as there was already a Castleton just up the road.
However, the village also goes by the name of Copshaw Holm, or for short, Copsha or the Holm after the lands on which it was built.
That is a lot of names for a small place! I ask a few locals about this and which they consider to be the real name. None of them, they tell me.
If they are outside the village, they say they are from Newcastleton, but in the area they refer to it as Copshaw Holm or one of the shortened forms.
One woman tells me that when she went to secondary school in Hawick, 20 miles away, she told people she was from the Holm and everyone felt very sorry for her, thinking she was from a children’s home!
Hermitage Castle is just up the road and is a great way to finish my tour of the wild border lands. The stark angles of the fortification, surrounded by bleak moorland and inhospitable hills, are both atmospheric and symbolic of the nature of this border country.
The castle is perhaps most famous for the visit by Mary, Queen of Scots, in 1566 to James Hepburn (more commonly known as the Earl of Bothwell, whom she later married), who was injured after a local skirmish.
She rode from Jedburgh, some 40 miles over this wild and rough land, returning the same day, and the ensuing exhaustion brought on a fever from which she nearly died.
On this trip I have discovered much that I had no idea was there: beautiful villages nestling in wild and barren country, next to hills and moors oozing with tales of Romans, gypsies, reivers and daredevil monarchs.
The nature of the border attracted lawlessness, the most famous of which was reiving.
Although we think of this as being a Scottish pursuit, the word is an old English one meaning “to rob”, and the behaviour was pretty evenly distributed on both sides of the border.
As much of the border region is mountainous or open moorland, unsuitable for arable farming but good for grazing, livestock was easily rustled.
This went on between the 13th and 17th centuries and gave rise to the riding of the marches, which is still celebrated in the border towns’ annual festivals.
The march was the local area and riders would regularly patrol the boundaries to protect this.
The reivers have been romanticised through the rose-tinted spectacles of history and lore, especially by Sir Walter Scott in his novels, and the short-lived Borders rugby team was named the Reivers.
Thankfully the area now presents no danger other than being completely addictive! n