Hadrian's Wall

Hitting the Wall

Sycamore Gap - as seen in Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves (of course....)

The plan was simple, and inspiring. Having had a perfect day last September walking a gentle 26 miles across Salisbury Plain from Stonehenge to Avebury and raising about £2,000 for the Alzheimer's Society, a new challenge would be straightforward. This one was advertised as being only 23 miles! And Hadrian's Wall! I had seen bits of it before, taking my daughters to stunning Birdoswald Fort some years ago, and admiring the Roman toilets at Housesteads years before that, but I had never walked the trail..... And in August..... The weather would be fine.....

The Emperor Hadrian - well, you've got to blame someone!

So, inscription fee paid, and fundraising under way, training began.

But I had not taken two things into account.  For one, Hadrian's Wall was deliberately built across difficult, undulating, rocky terrain in a part of England not known for its gentleness.  In fact, taking into account the rise and fall in altitude, this was not 23 miles but actually over 26.  And, for two, anyone who expects wall to wall fine weather in the UK in summer is, frankly, barmy.  The weather had been Mediterranean, and Hadrian would have felt at home here in July, but the forecast for August 2nd was orange.  High winds and torrential rain due to hit Hadrian's wall about the time we started and stay there all day.....

So, having pinched my feet in ultimate training, it was with a car load of trepidation that I got stuck on the M6 northbound, aiming for base camp at Bush Nook Guest House (which, by the by, is to be heartily recommended) at Upper Denton (the birthplace of St Patrick).  Storm clouds were gathering, and as I did a quick reconnoitre of the proposed route, my resolve began to quaver.  Two crows, the ghosts of Roman sentries at Housesteads, warned me of the ordeal to come.

Over supper at Bush Nook, however, there was solace in the camaraderie.  At least I was not alone, and good cheer and a general scepticism about fitness and training made me feel a little better, though I still felt the weight of the c£1250 sponsorship that was riding on me completing the course.

Alarm set for five.  A hurried breakfast of super-carbohydrate and coffee, a quick drive to Lanercost Priory, registration and briefing.  

Then everyone on the buses,

and a forty minute transfer through the mist and rain to Brocolitia (the place of badgers), where we sacrifice a sheep at the Mithraeum before, deep breath, we start heading west, following Hadrian's brilliant idea of building a wall to keep out the barbarians.  What was it for?  The work involved would have been immense, but the imagination that came up with it - without the benefit of aerial surveys, JCBs and huge trucks, the concept itself was amazing.  

It was in the year 122AD, when Hadrian visited and reviewed the extent and limits of his empire, that he gave the order to build about 80 modern miles of (in some places) six-metre high wall from sea to sea, with a castle every roman mile (about 1,620 yards) and turrets in between.  In addition there were several major garrison forts and supply roads and support services to provide. 

Some suggest it was a way of occupying the troops, though others will have it that it had a strategic importance of controlling those who would eventually become Scots (though years later the Antonine Wall was constructed some hundred miles to the north).....  Anyway, the project went ahead, and, given the assistance of three legions (about 15,000 men) it was operational within six years. 

And it is still there!  Despite the efforts of the elements and the fact that a great deal of the stonework has gone into building roads, houses, barns and farm walls, the remains of castles, gateways and the wall itself, with the ditches on the south side (the Vallum) are still traceable, and in some parts, very clearly evident.

Our trek covered only a section of the full distance, but it allowed us to feel the power of the wall, and to be stretched by the physicality of it all.  

To the north were the wilds of Kielder and Wark Forests in the Northumberland National Park (the darkest place in Britain); to the south the valley of the South Tyne and fells of Northumberland and Cumbria beyond. 

Overhead clouds gathered and drizzled then showered then poured down on us. But the gales and torrential rain that was forecast held off, and, though eventually soaked through and smelling like sheep, two hundred and eighty fund-raisers soldiered on. 

Some fell, literally slipping on the wet grass and uneven stones, some just fell by the wayside, understandably exhausted by the rigours of the undulations.    

It was harder than I expected.  Though the weather was in a sense kind (it could have been too hot - it could have been a wash-out) my pack was heavy, my clothes were sodden, by boots squelched and my feet were sore and around about half way, where the going was toughest, my knees were creaking on the down paths and my legs feebly shaking on the ups.  

The sycamore in the gap - close up

By the lunch break near the Roman Army Museum at Carvoran, just by Walltown Crags, I really felt I had had enough, but restored by sandwiches and lemon squash, and encouraged by companions, somehow I managed to get up and go.

In fact, though the rain strengthened, the latter stages were far less taxing, and generally it was downhill, through Gilsland (where Walter Scott is said to have proposed to his wife), crossing the River Irthing at Willowford, stopping very briefly for a drink at Birdoswald, then slowly dropping down to our starting point and registration at Lanercost Priory. 

It was over, and relief seeped through my tired legs, like hemlock.  I checked in with the organisers, about fiftieth I believe.  

Later I learned that some had not made it, with a number having run out (excuse the pun) of time.  For me, it was thanks to all, goodbye to new friends, a pint in the pub and a soak in the hot tub.  

I was walled out, though the stunning scenery was imprinted on my mind, and I was elated by the sense of commitment that was so obvious from all: my companions, new friends, organisers and not least those who struggled and fell, all of whom were making an effort to support the Alzheimer's Society.  But, phew!  After nine and a half hours, had I hit the wall!

And it's not too late to contribute to the Alzheimer's Society.  Please do give generously, as every little bit helps.....

Top of the world - Winshield Crags - about half way

https://www.justgiving.com/RPGibbs

Told you it would be tough!

Classics on the Common

Poop! Poop!

It's a beautiful afternoon.  Splendid English summer. A Wedgewood sky, the sun gleaming like lemon curd amongst a froth of egg-white clouds.  The grass underfoot is crisp like deep fried seaweed.  There are hats to rival Ascot.  Picnics in the shade. A slow cavalcade of bubbling, back-firing, smoking, steaming vehicles edges across the rumble boards and putters around the common, each ushered to a halt by a crew of aircraft carrier type stewards.....

Messrs Madden and Tibble, in their prime....

In 1994 Harpenden resident and Metropolitan Police officer Peter Madden bought a 1968 Rover P5B coupe and, with his fellow enthusiast John Tibble, then landlord of The Carpenter's Arms in Southdown, dreamed up Classics on the Common, which in its first year attracted 125 cars.

The good old days.....

The event is now the biggest show of its kind in the UK, attracting its maximum capacity of one thousand and fifty cars and vans (as well as some two hundred and fifty motorbikes and scooters) each year. 

 

More than ten thousand spectators, local residents as well as visitors from afar, throng across the common in the afternoon and evening, inspecting and admiring the much loved cars on display, chatting to proud owners, dreaming of what it might be like....

Glorious, stirring sight! murmured Toad. The poetry of motion! The REAL way to travel! The ONLY way to travel! O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O my! (Kenneth Grahame - The Wind in the Willows.)

A 2 litre Bristol - Quintessentially English, someone said, as I took this picture.....

A classic vehicle should be at least 20 years old but vintage cars also turn up, some of them more than a hundred years old, for example a 1900 Daimler Type A, and a 1913 model T Ford. Every period since then is represented, too, with Bentleys, Buicks and Austins, Morris Minors, Chevies and VW microbuses.  

Nothing wrong with a rusty Dodge from 1960....  Quintessentially American, perhaps?

The twenty year rule applies to vans and two-wheelers as well, but there are some modern bully-boys who will muscle in on the scene, with a phalanx of Ferraris prowling in at a certain point (though this afternoon half of them lost their way and turned up late!)

Robin, from Borehamwood, has had this Royal Enfield since he was 17.......

In 2008 Peter Madden decided to retire from organising the Classics, and, though still connected with Harpenden, John Tibble had by then retired to Suffolk. The Harpenden Village Rotary Club willingly took over responsibility for the event and so, from early in the day, the Rotarians have been busy preparing the grounds, assisted by members of their associated club, Harpenden Village Inner Wheel, and St Albans & Harpenden Police Cadets, volunteers from the principal charities supported by the event, members of Harpenden Lions Club and Carpenters Arms Classic Car Club and other volunteers.

Stalwart volunteers, such as Duncan Naughten of the Harpenden Village Rotary Club, make sure the wheels go round.....

It is very much a community event, and there is an aura of something special about it - perhaps the mixture of leather upholstery and high quality fuels and oils has something to do with that!  

You lookin' at me?

But as the day winds down, and drivers rev their engines for the drive home, the spectacle becomes even more colourful, with the dials lit up in tiny cockpits, and headlights sweeping the crowd.

Vroom, Vroom!

With a touch of Quadrophenia, ageing mods gather for a drink in Southdown.  The bunting is wound up on the common, and the Classics blur into the night.

In 2013 a record £23,000 was raised by a combination of entrance fees and donations. The main recipients were Herts Air Ambulance, the local branch of the Samaritans, Keech Children’s Hospice and WaterAid. 

The money raised in 2014 will be passed on to Community Meeting Point, the local branch of the Alzheimer’s Society, Youth Talk, Macmillan Cancer Support and Guildford Rotary Eye Project.

Elvis is leaving......

The wonder of this event is the care and pride which is apportioned to each vehicle.  It is marvellous to wander amongst these treasures, and to doff one's cap to the masters of this game.  The shine, the wear, the finishing touches all speak for endless dedication, and love.  The owners stand proudly by, glad to talk about their stories.  I have to say, however, that my attempt at pleasantry with one Ferrari pilot, who was struggling to arise from his steed, did not meet with frivolous risposte, but then if you have that much money, who needs friends, Toad?  

If Toad were around today.....

They reached the carriage-drive of Toad Hall to find a shiny new motorcar, of great size, painted a bright red (Toad’s favourite colour), standing in front of the house. As they neared the door it was flung open, and Mr. Toad, arrayed in goggles, cap, gaiters, and enormous overcoat, came swaggering down the steps (The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame).

Probably not the best time or place for a driving lesson.....

I had a lovely day!  Thanks to all who dreamed it, organised it, managed it, and spent years polishing for it!

Evening light reveals the cracks..... but, hey!

Classics on the Common

Organised by Harpenden Village Rotary Club

Sponsored by Harpenden Town Council

Wednesday, 30^th July 2014

I'm off home now....  See you next year!  Poop! poop!

Berkeley

The lamentable deaths (sic) of Edward II

Effigy of Edward II on a tomb in Gloucester Cathedral

I am in the Berkeley Arms, at Purton, musing on the fortunes of such a family before stopping to visit their ancestral home, Berkeley Castle.  The Severn drifts past, bored and listless, doing its best to keep the Welsh at bay. Over there, in the misty north-west, Edward II was born in (the then incomplete) Caernarvon Castle, in 1294, the first Prince of Wales, a post politically created by his ambitious father.  The boy saw little of his parents -  he was the youngest of at least fourteen children, most of whom died prematurely; his mother died when he was six, and his father was frequently abroad or at war.....              

Gazing out from The Berkeley Arms across the Severn.....

It will not be my first visit to this well-preserved castle - I remember the horror when I first saw the dank hole in which they told me King Edward the Second of England had been imprisoned.  I was small, and no one went into details.  I couldn't really handle that much information, but my imagination was seared by the idea of such brutal incarceration.

The Dungeon, Berkeley Castle

It was not until much later, perhaps when studying Marlowe, that I learned some detail of how the King was supposed to have been despatched - though even then it was the thought of such ugly pain that hit me, not the potential symbolism of it.

Only later, possibly seeing Derek Jarman's film, did I begin to understand some of the insinuation that has been woven into the tale, though was that interpretation fair to the maligned king?  And was Marlowe exploring something of his own inner demon?  There is no evidence of sexual relations between Edward and Piers Gaveston, though the two were indeed as close as brothers.

On November 1st, 1307, not long after the death of Edward's father (King Edward I) Piers Gaveston married Margaret de Clare, the Countess of Gloucester and Edward's niece.  Edward was at the time residing at King's Langley (where he spent a considerable part of his youth) and he attended the wedding in Berkhamsted Castle. On January 25th, 1308, Edward married the barely 13 year old Isabella, daughter of Philip IV, King of France at Boulogne. They had four children, including the future Edward III, who was born at Windsor in 1312.

Berkhamsted Castle, where Edward's troubles began

The trouble was that Edward was not really bothered about being a good king, and he allowed Gaveston, and later Hugh Despenser the Younger, too much influence.  As Holinshed recorded in 1587 in The Chronicles of England:  having revoked againe into England his old mate Peers de Gaveston, he received him into most high favour, creating him the earle of Cornewall, and lord of Man, his principall secretarie, and lord chamberlaine of the realme, through whose companie and societie he was suddenlie so corrupted, that he burst out into most heinous vices...... so that within a while, he gave himself to wantonnes, passing his time in voluptuous pleasure, and riotous excesse.  I am not sure where Holinshed got his evidence from, but he goes into some detail of the degradation under the influence of Gaveston: who furnished his court with companies of jesters, ruffians, flattering parasites, musicians, and other viles and naughtie ribalds, that the king might spend both daies and nights in jesting, plaieng, banketing, and in such other filthie and dishonourable exercises......

Kenilworth Castle, where Edward's troubles came to a head

So it is not really surprising that all sorts of lords joined together and eliminated Gaveston (in 1312), which didn't go down very well with Edward.  Things got worse, and so, with the connivance of his wife (who had, in 1325, fallen for Roger Mortimer of Wigmore) Edward himself was caught, with Despenser, in Wales, and brought to Kenilworth where he was kept until he was forcibly deposed on January 20th, 1327, his son Edward being proclaimed guardian of the realm and crowned king on February 1st.

Berkeley Castle, where Edward's troubles were said to have ended

Following real and/or supposed plots to free the now embarrassing ex-king, Edward was transferred to the custody of the Berkeley family, but, despite their care, he was said to have died on September 21st. Edward's embalmed and unrecognisable body was carried to Gloucester for public display on 22nd October, and on 20th December he was buried in St Peter's Abbey, in the presence of his son and widow. In later years Edward III erected a splendid tomb in his father's memory.

The room in which Edward II was supposed to have been murdered

Marlowe, probably relying on Holinshed, has it that Mortimer fears that unless Edward is disposed of, he will go down.  Apparently the bishop of Hereford .... signified .... that they should dispatch him out of the waie.... Edwardum occidere nolite timere bonum est: (To kill Edward will not to feare it is good.)  Although Marlowe makes play with the unpunctuated ambiguity of this instruction, the murder is planned.

The kitchen range and several unhealthily sharp spits, ready to heat in the fire.....

And so Lightborn commands a spit, and let it be red-hot, and a table and a feather bed, from his accomplices Matrevis and Gurney, and between them they assault Edward, who screams and dies.....

The Great Hall of Berkeley Castle

You cannot hear the scream today:  Lightborn is immediately silenced, Gurney and Matrevis disappear, and Mortimer is tried and executed. Now the castle is clean and smart, the blood and smoke and steaming entrails have long since dried and been erased.

The Great Hall of Berkeley Castle

There is, however, a faint chill about the place. The contrast between the refined and perfectly presented spaces within the fortified palace and the story of a clearly inept ruler cannot but be compared with stories from our more recent histories. Feed Romanian Dictator Nicolae and Elena Ceausescu, or Muammar Gaddafi, or even George Bush into your search engine and see what you get?  Holinshed refers to the way Gaveston was erased:  at length an ancient grave man amongst them exhorted them to use the occasion now offered, and not let slip the meane to deliver the realme of such a dangerous person, that had wrought so much mischeefe..... And thus persuaded by his words, they caused him streitwaies to be brought foorth to a place called Blackelow, otherwise named by most writers, Gaverslieheath, where he had his head smitten from his shoulders, the twentith day of June being tuesdaie.....  This echoes across the ages.  Dr David Kelly, anybody? Alexander Litvinenko?

Berkeley Castle as it is today

However.  Sometimes the truth is hard to find.

Another death awaited the sorry Edward. An alternative story about the murder attempt at Berkeley is well supported.

It goes like this:

Edward was wary.  He was expecting to be rescued but apprehensive about his captors.  At a certain point around September 20th someone visited him in Berkeley, causing him concern.  He managed to change clothes with a servant and kill the gate-keeper, and escape (think Toad).  He made his way first to Corfe Castle and then to Dover.....

Dover Castle, possibly Edward's last port of call in England

And thence to Italy.  

In the meantime, concerned about the political difficulty of a deposed king at large, the authorities (aka MI5/6/CIA/etc) advised that it was best to bury Caesar....  So the unfortunate victim of Edward's escape was disfigured and embalmed and carried to Gloucester and given the necessary rites to bury a problem.  A wooden effigy was paraded through the streets and then interred.  Where he (who?) was entombed....

In the meantime, a dispirited, frightened ex-monarch with temporary low self-esteem (think Toad initially imprisoned) is on the packet boat to the continent. A slight change in appearance and who would know you were a king?

And so, apparently, he made his way to the Sacro Eremo di Sant'Alberto di Butrio, a hermitage in the high woods of the Val di Nizza, in northern Italy some fifty-five miles south of Milan, or a hundred miles south-east of Turin. 

The Sacred Hermitage of Saint Alberto of Butrio

Within the confines of this remote, and unprepossessing, hermitage there is a tomb which is labelled as that of Edoardo II, Re d'Inghilterra. With no fanfare or extremes of sequins, the story is that the king was given hospitality by the monks when on his way to Rome.  Il suo corpo fu poi traslato dal figlio a Gloucester.... (The corpse was later taken back to Gloucester by his son....)

The supposed actual tomb of Edoardo II, Re d'Inghilterra

The story may seem far-fetched, but it has legs (as they say).  In March of 1330, Edward's half-brother, Edmund, earl of Kent, was executed for plotting to restore the late king.  And then, in 1337, a letter was written by Manuele Fieschi, a Genoese priest at Avignon, to Edward III. Fieschi was a papal notary and a member of a respected family; he later became Bishop of Vercelli. The letter claimed that Edward had not been murdered in Berkeley but had made his way to Europe, via the Pope in Avignon, and ended his days near Cecima in the diocese of Pavia (possibly not at the Sacro Eremo.... but nearby).

The letter was discovered at Montpelier in 1878 and has been proved to be authentic (though whether the claims within are true is another matter). Perhaps Fieschi sought improvement and therefore had motivation for invention. But then why make this elaborate tale up?  Perhaps this really happened?

Anyway, in the Arms of the Berkeleys, gazing out towards the mysteries of Wales, I cannot help but empathise with the outcast king.  However bad a ruler he was, to have had everything and then to fall so fast and hard is the stuff of tragedy. Whether he died in the most ignominious way, at the hands of a faceless hitman, or of natural causes in the remoteness of Italian monasticism, his fate was an unenviable one.

And have we learned anything?

Farewell.  I know the next news that they bring 

Will be my death; and welcome it shall be:

To wretched men death is felicity.

Cheers!