How Do I Feel At the End of the Day?: UK 2023, Day 03

I have a weird sense of writing about the next couple days, largely because we’ve done it before. Not just traveling to the places, but even blogging about it. Here, on this very site. Well, kind of. (We used to call this “Sasha’s Doghouse” and here’s a pro-tip for aspiring blogger types – don’t name your blog after a pet who will eventually pass away, unless you want an increasingly obscure title that you’ll have to explain to people.) That said, the people we were on our honeymoon vs. the people we are today are almost completely different ones, measured however you like. Add in two brand new people to the trip… I mean, new to the place, we didn’t abduct two babies… and it was like introducing my friends to an old acquaintance that I hadn’t seen in years only without embarrassing childhood stories I wished they hadn’t remembered.

Back it up a bit. We had the good sense to lay in provisions the night before, so we had a good night’s sleep timed entirely to when our friends felt human again after their flight; it was still only mid-morning so no problem-o. Lisa had done her usual fantastic job on finding lodging and in the morning we got a better look at the village of Bellingham. People there probably aren’t keen on words like “quaint” but it’s the first one that comes to mind – a small neighborhood serviced by a clutch of businesses and several taverns. It also hugs a small nationally-protected park so it’s even more lovely then usual.

Pastry nibbles and coffee and we were on the road, following the pretty simple directions (there are only but so many roads in this stretch of country). In less than half an hour we were in the carpark for Housesteads Roman Fort.

As Lisa likes to explain it (and she’s not wrong), the Romans moved up through Britain, just a-conquering away, until they reached the southern fringe of what is now Scotland. They took one look at the Scots and said “nah, we’re good.” (The Scots, meanwhile, were consumed with the eternal conflict between them and their mortal enemies, the Scots. (ba-dum-dum!)) And so it was that during the reign of the emperor Hadrian, a wall was constructed, 73 miles long and stretching from one coast to the other, an impenetrable barrier separating Roman society from those they deemed barbarians. It was a monumental defensive structure or, as the Chinese would have called it if they ever saw it, “a fence.” Because the Wall is made out of the same stuff the Saxons (and later the Normans and so on…) make their little-w walls out of, and those walls are critically important to the sheeps industry, once the Romans receded from Britain the locals made extensive use out of all that beautiful pre-cut stone that was thoughtfully left all stacked up for them. As a result, while you can certainly follow the path of the Wall, there are plenty of stretches that are only vaguely observable – mostly as the furrow in the ground left by other hikers, honestly.

Housesteads is not just the Wall, though. Along the Wall were regularly spaced watch towers and, less frequently, garrison forts for the men stationed at this Northern outpost. Housesteads is the remnant of one of those forts. It doesn’t look all that different from the numerous archaeological sites that you might visit in Italy, Greece, or Turkey (to pick three examples). What makes it really stand out is that… well, it’s in the rolling green hills of the Borders. So, we ramble (woo, drink!) through the foundations of barracks and bathrooms and the palatial quarters of the commanding officer, and read signs about how the army conducted itself, and meanwhile there are flocks of sheeps just grazing away. I don’t know exactly how to explain it, but it’s a heluva experience. Put it this way: I spent a day here in 2012 and spent the next 10 years talking about coming back to hike the wall. If you’ve ever met me, you know that this is not my usual idea of a good time. Until then, “take a hike” had only been in my vernacular as outdated slang.

A day amongst the rocks and sheeps worked up quite an appetite, so we made for the Battlesteads Hotel for what promised to be a lovely meal. Well… promise broken. Nobody takes pleasure in belaboring a bad time, so it doesn’t need a blow-by-blow breakdown. And also, maybe it was just a bad night? What it boiled down to is that we were attracted to the place by a very promising-looking menu with creative presentations of local specialties. Unfortunately, everything was just… meh. Like, it wasn’t an “F” meal, but they really set themselves up as an “A+” experience and the whole thing was like… “B-/C”. So, not awful but we all know how the expectations game is played, right? Still, it couldn’t put a real damper on what had been a lovely day, and back we went to our digs. Tomorrow would be an even more robust site… hubba hubba.