Hadrian’s Wall – IJM Photography

Welcome, Dear Reader, to the very edge of the Roman Empire, and by implication, civilisation. You might be wondering why there’s a carving of a phallus as the cover photo for this article. Well, don’t forget that soldiers will be soldiers, even when they’re part of a Spanish Cavalry regiment stationed here. Some things never change—except these soldiers were caught by archaeologists centuries later!

Chesters Roman Fort was constructed along Hadrian’s Wall to keep out the “uncivilised” Picts and Scots. This impressive wall stretches across the country from East to West, ending at Wallsend in Tyneside. It was a massive undertaking, and I’m still amazed by this feat of engineering.

Killian, my dear son and heir, whom you might recall from the previous article about his misadventures at Otterburn, was slightly less impressed. “Ce n’est pas le Mur d’Hadrian, mais le muret d’Hadiran,” he quipped—translating to, “Not Hadrian’s wall, but Hadrian’s little tiny miniature wall.” Some people are just impossible to please!

Despite his initial skepticism, Killian was genuinely impressed by the quality of the stonemasonry, even after nearly 2,000 years. With his background in plumbing, he quickly noticed the Roman plumbing and underfloor heating, which makes you realise how little we’ve actually invented since then.

When we visited the cavalry lines and saw where the horses were kept, he was astonished to learn that three men and three horses lived in the same building, with the horses at one end and the soldiers at the other.

Even though he was flippant at the start of the visit, he took a keen interest in everything and enjoyed explaining each building to me. Maybe he’s a closet intellectual after all…

As we continued our tour, my knee was giving me trouble, and Killian showed his concern, asking if I really wanted to go down to the river to see where the bridge once stood. I insisted we go, so we made our way slowly towards the river and the soldiers’ baths. And by baths, I mean a fully-fledged hammam complete with sauna and dry heat—the very latest technology to provide the frontier soldiers with some home comforts. If those baths were still operational, they might have been perfect for soothing my arthritic knee!

We walked slowly towards the west gate and could only imagine the civilian buildings buried beneath the fields in front of us. This site wasn’t just a series of building outlines but a thriving Roman community on the very edge of civilisation.

Speaking of civilisation, I felt it might just be time for a cup of tea. As we strolled through the site towards the car, we spotted a tea shop. A cup of tea and a slice of cake were just what I needed—I was in heaven! Good old National Trust! No wonder they’re an institution. Our conversation shifted to the gift shop, where I was trying to convince Killian that, despite how cool owning a replica Roman helmet and armour might be, it could be a tad impractical and he might not have many occasions to wear such Roman regalia. Mind you he would be very dashing!

If you want to, you can even play a game of “Where’s Waldo” or “Where’s Wally,” for the British readers. Note I didn’t say “Where’s the Wally…” Keep an eye out for the photos of Killian…

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.