Rhymer's Reel

The Eildons

Fed up with the limitations imposed on my wanderings by a game leg and frustrated by erstwhile climbing companions gleefully reporting” there’s still snow on Ben Wyvis”, I decided to test myself on our own mini-mountains, the Eildon hills. The remains of an ancient volcano, Trimontium of the invading Romans, and oppidum of the native Selgovae, the Eildons stand out from the surrounding country and would, I thought, be a fair trial.

Melrose Abbey

Setting off from the site of the Eildon Tree where True Thomas the Rhymer met the Queen of Faerie, I trekked up North Eildon with much grunts and muttered expletives. It took a long time but it was worth it. On a clear day, such as it was, I could see as far as the moor above our village away on the coast and had a great view of Melrose Abbey where that other Border wizard, Michael Scott, lies buried.


Rhymer's Tower

Thomas the Rhymer was a real 13th century man. His keep still stands in Ercildoune (Earlston) and his name appears on documents of the time. He is credited with some of the earliest recorded Scots poetry. His poem-play, Sir Tristem ,was resurrected by Sir Walter Scott who also took the great landscape artist Turner to Rhymers Glen by the Huntley Burn. Turner’s watercolour of the glen is in the National Gallery.
Ralph Vaughan Williams was so intrigued by the tale that he started to compose an opera about Thomas. Sadly, it was never finished.

Thomas, apparently met the the queen of Elfland while resting under the Eildon tree, she took him away and he was not seen for either three or seven years depending on which version you read. He was given the gift of prophecy but cursed with only being able to speak the truth. An Orphean figure,his prophecies were widely consulted for hundreds of years down to at least the eighteenth century. Only being able to speak the truth might indeed be a curse but also quite a handy reputation to have once word got around that everything you said was gospel.

Our current politicians would give all their expenses for such an accolade. Many of them seem to have been “away with the fairies” when it came to filling in claim forms
Thomas probably worked as a spy, maybe even a double agent, in the days when borders were fluid and kings and families battled for overlordship as the Canmore dynasty came to an end. Quite handy then to disappear and claim to have been abducted by the fairy folk

In some versions, Thomas fell asleep by the Huntley Burn and woke to meet the fairy folk. The folk that go to sleep there nowadays awake to find bits of themselves missing. It is the site of our District General Hospital.

Midddle and West Eildon from North Eildon

After getting to the top of the North Eildon I could see the path up the next one but discretion being the better part and all that, I made my reluctant way back to the car., Still, a good day out and, on return, thank goodness for hot baths, ibuprofen and whisky.

Patriot Games

The restoration of the thirteenth century Priory that dominates the centre of our village proceeds apace. A Cinderella amongst the great Border abbeys, it has been neglected for decades. Thanks to the efforts of local interest groups, support has been garnered from every conceivable source even including a visit from rock megastar, bassist, metal detector enthusiast and gentleman, Rolling Stone, Bill Wyman.

It all started after the local council started laying waste to the area with strimmers and chainsaws. My involvement came by chance as I rushed to protect three gean trees I had planted; one for each daughter in what was the wild area surrounding the ruins. That led to committees and meetings as I felt obliged, in my mind, to give useful advice or stick my nose in as others may have seen it.

The ruins are now being stabilised. The ancient grave slabs, including the enigmatic “Templar” crosses, are being professionally restored and interesting finds being unearthed. A wheel-head cross and an inscribed stone are probably from an even earlier establishment, closer in time to St Aebba herself. A Northumbrian princess, allegedly fleeing an arranged dynastic marriage, she was an Dark Age example of what is now called “girl power”. It is also a reminder how random are national boundaries.
This was once part of an Anglian, from whence “English”, kingdom. Aebba’s brother, Oswald, having already annexed Mercia, the area south to the Humber, marched north to the Forth and defeated the Scots. Aebba’s other brother, Oswui, consolidated the kingdom. Her nephew Ecgfrith laid siege as far north as Dunottar. Had it not been for the victory of the Picts at Nechtan’s Mere, Scotland and England might never have evolved into separate nations with arguably different characters. We might well have become part of the Anglian kingdom of Northumbria and be now worrying about Newcastle United’s imminent relegation from the Premier League. Way-ay, the lads
I tell myself this as part of an auto-conditioning process. In the event of Scotland not qualifying for the next World Cup, I will have to cheer on England, especially with four English grandchildren. I will have to shout encouragement to Rooney (sounds Irish): Rio Ferdinand (sounds Spanish enough to have sailed with the Armada): Gerrard (un morceau de sang normande, peut-etre ) and their Italian coach.
Nations are mere constructs and we should not get too hung up on them.
Mind you, if by the longest of shots, Scotland do qualify then I might sing a different song.
“ 0’ Flower of ….”