On a High

Many years ago now, when I was young(er) and strong and agile, I took a solo trip to England. It was early summer, and I had spent the fall and early winter nursing my mother through her last illness, the hard winter and spring grieving and regrouping. My ED was doing a doctoral degree in England and I knew I could have a base with her. And so I packed up, left my menfolk and flapped off to southern England. My redoubtable daughter extracted me from Heathrow (probably) and took me back to her college where she had arranged for a guest room for me. I toured her town for a few days and then, to get out of her way, partly, and for interest (mostly), I rented a little tin can of a car and trundled off around England for several weeks.

I had, as you can probably imagine, some adventures, but I can tell those stories some other time. What I want to do today is to feature, as I recall, one of the best days of my trip, perhaps one of the best of all my days. I want to savour that memory and share it. The day and place? A summer day walking a portion of Hadrian’s wall on the England/Scotland border.

I have always been fascinated by Roman history. I recall getting, from our school library, a book titled The Last Days of Pompeii. I was probably ten or even younger. The librarian questioned whether I could read it and made me read a piece aloud to her. But I got the book and I loved it. I still recall bits of it and have reread it as an adult. I am sure I read other books with bits of Roman history in them, but the next book I love to remember is The Eagle of the Ninth by Rosemary Sutcliffe. I think we read it in Grade 9, but after that I found and devoured all of Sutcliffe’s books about Roman Britain and have found them, over time, to be fairly accurate, where there are known facts.

I enjoyed Latin as a high school subject and carried it on into university where I also found a whole course in the Classics department on Roman History. The course was excellent and a fine source of reading material. I ended up writing a thesis fifty pages long for my final term and I had a lot of fun doing it. My grasp of the history and geography of the eastern edge of Rome’s mantle is less than that of Germanica and Britannia, but all of it is fascinating.

And so, when on the loose in England with a car and all the time I needed, I went north to Hadrian’s Wall.  I was not, of course, equipped to hike the whole sixty-something miles of the distance of the wall. I did have a day, a day of glorious sun with a cool breeze, and after exploring and inspecting the Vindolanda reconstruction, I decided that I could hike out the wall for a short half day and turn around and hike back before dark – late in that place and time of year. I am not sure what I had to eat and drink, but it was probably a sandwich and soft drink from a pub. I had a small knapsack and off I went.

I have a whole roll of film of photos I took of the wall, of the countryside around it, of the reconstruction, of the day and the place. Luckily for me, a pair of hikers stopped courteously and took a photo of me standing on top of a stub (which is most of what is left) of the wall. I am not sure where that photo is at present, but I do have some of the photos of the wall itself as it wound its way toward the sea. Other than the kind, photographing fellow hikers I saw few, vanishingly few, people along my walk. Not on the wall paths, not on the farms adjacent. I did see a lot of sheep. A lot. And in parts of the photo where you might believe there are white rocks, in video those rocks would move, slowly. There was also sheep shit. You could skirt it. 

A lot of the wall is just a few blocks high. Two thousand-odd years of farm needs and building needs will reduce the best wall to a stump. But there is enough of it, snaking along the high points, to see what it was. You can identify where the watchtowers were. If you go far enough, the ruins of the forts, with their entry gates to the wild lands, can easily be seen. I did not get that far, but it did not matter. You do not walk on the wall; you walk beside it. And you look at rock shaped two millennia before you were born, painfully, and painstakingly placed with precision, There they still are, resisting all eradication.

I think that looking after my parents, coping with my mother’s dementia and physical ailments and my father’s difficulties, both physical and mental, had exhausted all of my resources. But I was able to navigate around the back roads of southern and then northern England with some ease. I was proud of coping by myself, although glad to see my daughter join me on weekends. I slowly healed, enjoying self-sufficiency and even competence. And the day on the wall, with its evidence of the work and politics of which I had only read, was simple and real and satisfying in a way I struggle to describe.

One thing that I saw that day delighted me more than anything else. The lengths of wall march along, string straight or carefully curved to avoid an anomaly. But in one spot where there is a fair height of wall remaining, two straight stretches are not perfectly aligned. There is an offset of a few inches. Although I tried to photograph it, the photo does not show the jog at the join. My mental picture is of two Centurions, (a sort of lieutenant in charge of, of course, one hundred men), both of whom had been charged with completing a section of the wall base, finding that their calculations were not the same and that their wall sections would not, seamlessly, tie together. There they stand, in their short togas and breastplates, (but probably with their legs wrapped against midges), looking at the mismatch. The stringers have been laid. It is too late to change anything. They look at each other and … what? Shrug, grin and go off for a sup of awful army wine? I hope so.

The display at Vindolanda is very much expanded from when I saw it. The roads and the pubs will have been changed and improved. GPS and aerial photography will be helping archaeologists discover more about the whole effort. But the wall, the line of painfully laid stones, is there and will probably be there for measured time, if not beyond. And that is no small immortality.