Today, Rob of Risingham and I headed for Elsdon with my namesake, Lance the Piper. We drove for miles along a straight narrow road until we came to Winter's gibbet. Lance told us that Winter was the last man to be hanged in England. He had murdered an old woman.
As we rode along Lance told us a poem which started like this:
'Have ye ever been to Elsdon,
the world's unfinished neuk?
it lies amang the hungry hills
and wears a frozen look'.
It certainly had a 'frozen look' today because, despite the bright sunshine, there were still places where the hoar frost had never lifted.
Wildly beautiful it was, with ancient rigs and furrows standing out clearly.
Long ago men worked the land creating long strips, high in the middle with furrows between.
It is said that there was always a dry place for sheep to lie, or a place for them to shelter.
It also made bigger areas for grass and crops to grow.
We made our way down through the bracken, still crisp with frost, and climbed on a fence post to get a better view. There before us lay Elsdon Village, nestling in the hollow, with its church and pele tower, completely hidden by the hills.
Smoke curled from sandstone cottages clustered round the village green and to the right we could see the Motte Hills, a high grassy mound where, in ancient times, a wooden palisade once stood.
'That's where the laws of England were made when London was just a green field', Lance told us.
There were sheep in the fields with black and white faces just like ours. A pretty little ewe was grazing near the road. She looked up as we approached.
'Excuse me' I said, 'I think we might be related. I was born on these hills'.
We learned we were third cousins several times removed.
'I'm going to Afghanistan' said Rob of Risingham.
'What's Afghanistan?' asked the little ewe.
'It's a country in the Middle East', said Rob knowledgeably. 'It has hills just like our Cheviots, with no grass on them'.
'Oh!' said the little ewe. 'Won't you get hungry?'
'Not at all', said Rob, pulling himself up to his full 10 centimeters. 'James says I will be eating in the Mess. The Royal Artillery will be looking after me'.
'What kind of a mess?' asked the little ewe.' I like my chopped turnips and sheep nuts in a trough, not dropped in the mud'.
Rob frowned.
'A Mess is a place where you eat...and relax between sorties'
'My friend says that in the Cheshires Officers Mess, they sometimes play Mess rugby with a cabbage, after dinner', I told them.
'A WHOLE cabbage?' asked the little ewe, opening her eyes wide.
'Yes. They kick it.... and throw it to each other around the room. Sometimes it gets very rough and men get broken bones and bloody noses'.
'That must make a big mess', said the little ewe, 'I think I'd rather eat it'.
'Maybe that's why it's called a Mess because that's what they make' I said.
'I might get to ride in a Warrior or a Challenger', said Rob, proudly. 'You could come too'. He looked apreciatively at the little ewe.
' Warriors and Challengers?' The little ewe chewed thoughtfully.
'We get them round here.....Sometimes you have to jump for your life!'
Her brow furrowed slightly.
'My grandmother's aunt's cousin was killed by one of those, on the Otterburn Ranges. In the middle of the night, it was...She was sound asleep when BANG!....and that was it. Gone! Mistaken for a target in a thermal imaging site they said.......
No. I think I'll just stay here'.
As we wandered on down into the village, Lance told us that in days long gone, Elsdon was on an important Drove Road, used by the Drovers who collected the cattle and sheep from little holdings in Scotland and walked them down to sell in the markets in England. This journey would take many days. At night, the people of Elsdon locked the gates to their village so the cattle and sheep could graze safely and rest overnight.
There were lots of inns in Elsdon in those days: The Crown, The Bird in Bush and the Bacchus. Lance wanted to show us the Bacchus where he was born, with its statue of the god of wine.
He also showed us the Church where he was baptized.
Having been invited to Afghanistan with the Royal Artillery, Rob had been mugging up on all things military and was eager to see the Pele Tower.
A lot of peles were built in Nothumberland. Fortified houses with great thick walls. When Scots or Reivers were raiding, all the villagers would run from the fields or leave their hovels, driving their sheep and cattle and pigs inside the stronghold of the pele.
They would bar the outer door and climb up to the next floor through a small trap door in the ceiling, pulling the ladder up after them.
Lance showed us the stone drains from the ballustrade on the roof where the clan would pour boiling oil and pitch down on their enemies attacking the walls below.
The walls were so high and thick, I think I would have felt very safe there.
