Otterburn was the original destination of this little outing into the Northumbrian countryside. As a younger boy, I had been with Killian to the Mill in Otterburn that used to make beautiful rugs from the wool of the local sheep. That mill stopped producing them a few years ago, but Killian had this memory in his mind.
But we weren’t there yet… The drive from Hepple to Otterburn takes us through yet more landscape. We passed by Cragside, the first house in England to have electricity, powered by a waterfall. Green before green was no longer just a colour. We had visited the huge house when Killian was about 13 and hadn’t been back since. But this story isn’t about Cragside. Not this time. It wasn’t open as we drove by, so that was that.
As in the previous sections of our father-son drive, there were plenty of places to park along the side of the road to take in the scenery. And that we did. I remembered that time two years ago when I was there connecting with my father. And here I was, connecting with my son.
Otterburn means different things to different people. It is not just an area of outstanding natural beauty, but also a training area and live firing range for the Infantry of the British Army. I remember playing for an Officer’s mess night once when I used to wear green for a living. Although you can still wander around when the Infantry isn’t training, you’re constantly reminded not to touch any military debris—it might explode and help you become an integral part of the landscape.
The landscape shifted from the wild moorlands of Hepple to more farming country. Think sheep, hemmed in by century-old dry stone walls. Signs warned you to keep dogs on leads and informed you that any dog found attacking—or even just worrying—sheep would be shot on sight. A sobering thought. I jokingly warned Killian not to do the same, just in case.
At the top of the hill, I parked up and surveyed the patchwork landscape, scissored by those dry stone walls. Killian pushed on one and you could feel it giving way. I told the feckin’ eejit to stop right now. These walls were old and not to be messed with. His French side came out—he wasn’t impressed by this stalwart of the British countryside. I told him these walls had stood for years and it wasn’t going to be a bloody Frenchman that was going to change that.
But this story is about Otterburn. I’d warned Killian that Otterburn wasn’t as he remembered. He had this dream of buying a rug, but I wasn’t even sure they still sold them. My latest recollection of the place was that it had become more of a “country style retail outlet.” The signs still said the rugs were made in the UK, but the magic was gone.
It was the low point of the day. Killian stood there, staring at the overpriced rugs, his expression shifting from excitement to quiet disappointment. “This wasn’t how I remembered it,” he muttered. I could see the years of imagined nostalgia fading in real-time. We looked at what was on offer, checked the prices, and it just wasn’t worth it. The small café had a sort of mini-museum feel, but all we bought was a double espresso, a sausage roll, and a small cake. Killian ate; I didn’t touch it.
As we sat there, the conversation drifted to how Killian could see himself living in the area. I had to let him down gently. “We’re on holiday, son. Living here isn’t the same.” I knew what I was talking about, especially after living in France for over thirty years. The economic decline in the area was as stark as the difference between summer and winter in Northumberland. Both beautiful in their own way, but I know I have a penchant for summers. Winters are dark, rainy, snowy, cold, and thoroughly depressing. Beautiful—but still depressing.
It was all such an anti-climax. This had been one of the places Killian had been dreaming about for years.
I was at a loss for what to do. Then, out of nowhere, I had one of those genius ideas we only dream about. I wanted the day to end on a high note. “You know, son, we’re not too far from Hadrian’s Wall. Do you fancy it?”
His eyes lit up. He did fancy it, so off we went, a certain spring in our step.
IJM Photography 