by Caroline Mckenzie
Third Place in the 2024 PureTravel Writing Competition
We stand and look down over the Northumbrian wilderness, bleak and beautiful and flanked by forest. In the distance, the ruin of Harbottle Castle creates a skyline tracery. The shadow of the ancient Drake Stone rises thirty feet into the sky behind us. It was said if you spent a night here, you would never leave and to touch the stone was to heal sickness. I lean against it to perhaps absorb healing powers from the smoothed, warm stone; who am I to argue with 340 million years of existence? This will be the very last time I ever stand in this hallowed place.
The path to the stone is cushioned with discarded pine needles. Trees on either side pan out for miles, tall sentries, guarding our steps up to the behemoth boulder, known once as the Dragon Stone and deposited high in these hills by an Ice Age glacier. Each step sends a slice of pain through my spine, which will come back with a vengeance later. I face it with rebellion, it will serve as a reminder of this day. Memories of hikes from bygone years travel with me as I go; walks from childhood, much-loved dogs bounding alongside.
Passing small children on their father’s shoulders and serious walkers with huge backpacks and good walking boots, I’m reminded we’re in rural Northumberland and there are rescuing teams that exist for the very purpose of collecting those who have strayed too far into the lonely heaths and dense woodland. But we lovers of nature always come back for more.
The little-known kingdom I have grown up in is becoming a tourist destination because of the breadth and diversity of its beauty; sea, forest, hills and castles. We locals by mutual and unspoken understanding, are somewhat tight-lipped about the best secrets, torn between encouraging the influx of tourism, and hiding the jewels of the land so that no one will come and spoil it.
We will stay today until we see the sun’s goodnight reflected red in the lake below us and the prodigious hills cast a shadow over themselves. While we wait we drink tea from a flask, hot and welcome. Sundays have always been for beach or forest and like the children I grew up with, I was taught to swim, light a fire, carry a first aid kit, always have water available. The message was to enjoy the beauty but be wary of it, and always come prepared.
In this county you might at any given time of day find these places completely empty. You may walk for miles and at some point come across a couple of elderly gentlemen (auld fellas), sitting on a style, enjoying the view and putting the world to rights. I don’t know if we can bear to see it busy. When I am in my chair with whiskey in hand, I shall think back upon today’s journey. How I walked among the myths and legends of the past with those who will carry them into the future.
Judge’s comments: I really enjoyed this piece. It has such an understated, considered charm. A really poetic piece of writing, beautifully observed.
Photo by Andrew Ridley on Unsplash
