Lime Kilns? (various locations – Beadnell’s at NU237285)

Many of you will have noticed large man-made, cave-like structures dotted around the British countryside, and perhaps even be aware that they are lime kilns. Maybe a teacher or a relative pointed this out to you years ago – information which you have sagaciously passed on to the next generation, of course. But did your teacher/parent/mentor – and, in turn, your good self – really know what was meant when some adult show-off uttered unconvincingly “Well, they’re, er … lime kilns, aren’t they. For making, erm, lime.”?

Well, lime – or, rather, quicklime – is indeed produced inside a lime kiln. And it is achieved, basically, by the heating of limestone to 900-1,000°C, at which temperature the stone ‘calcinates’, or breaks down. Carbon dioxide is given off, leaving calcium oxide – or quicklime. In other words:
CaCO3 + heat = CaO + CO2
or,
Limestone + heat = quicklime + carbon dioxide

Quicklime is really useful stuff, and can be used in mortar/plaster, paper/glass/steel production, sewerage treatment, etc., but is especially handy in agriculture (to counter acidic soils) and to hide the smell of decomposition in open graves (plague outbreaks, and the like). Curiously, before electric lighting came along it was used in theatres as an illuminant – as it glows brightly when heated to high temperatures (hence ‘limelight’). Anyway, historically, at least, there was quite a demand for the stuff.

The thing is, quicklime is rather unstable. Left to its own devices it will react naturally with carbon dioxide in the atmosphere and revert to its ‘natural’ limestone state. Transportation, therefore, is/was a problem – as was easily lumping about the limestone, and, indeed, the coal needed to heat the kilns themselves. So, this is why you find so many lime kilns near the coast: easy to get the limestone/coal in, and easy to get the quicklime out. So quayside spots like those at Seahouses and Beadnell were perfect. Improvements in the transportation network during the nineteenth century led to many more inland (and often much larger) sites being developed.

So the next time your little sidekick asks the question, you know exactly what to say. And, moreover, you’ll know precisely what you’re talking about.

Beadnell Lime Kilns
(by Tom Curtis)

Grace’s Plot. Not. (NU178350)

When the tourist visits Bamburgh, Grace Darling is never far from their mind. I cannot believe that there is anyone reading this who isn’t aware of this young woman’s deeds, so I shall not insult your intelligence by recalling them here. Anyway, as you amble past the churchyard in this picturesque little village, you will find yourself drawn instantly to a large ornamental affair, thus:

“Ooh, look! It’s Grace Darling’s grave,” you will say. Well, it ain’t, actually. Which is a shame really, ‘cos it’s a lovely piece of work. Turns out that Grace, who died of TB in 1842, aged 26, is buried, along with her parents and siblings, in a much more modest plot 20 yards to the east of the fancy erection. The splendid effort which draws all the touristy attention is simply a memorial paid for by public subscription and erected shortly after her death. It was placed where it stands at the request of local seamen, who insisted that it should be clearly visible from the sea.

So don’t do what I did when I was last there (“Ooh, look, blah, blah,” take a quick snap – see above – and move on), but have a scout around and do the job properly, you lazy day-tripper.

St.Cuthbert’s Devils (NU218360)

As you will no doubt know, St.Cuthbert spent a good deal of his time as a hermit living on Inner Farne. As he was somewhat in demand for one reason or another, he must at times have felt like the hermit-in-the-hole in Monty Python’s Life of Brian when another interruption came his way. But before he settled down to his expected life of solitude it is said that he had to first banish certain ‘demons’ or ‘devils’ from the island so that he could get some peace. This he did, sending them packing to neighbouring Wideopens Island.

Long after Cuthbert had been carried off the island in a box and laid to rest, more recent inhabitants of Inner Farne reported catching sight of these creatures:

… Clad in cowls, and riding upon goats, black in complexion, short in stature, their countenances most hideous, their heads long – the appearance of the whole group horrible. Like soldiers they brandished in their hands lances, which they darted after in the fashion of war. At first the sight of the cross was sufficient to repel their attacks, but the only protection in the end was the circumvaliation of straws, signed with the cross, and fixed in the sands, around which the devils galloped for a while, and then retired, leaving the brethren to enjoy victory and repose.

Quite what the brethren were ‘on’ it is impossible to say. A little too much of the local mead, perhaps?

St.Cuthbert’s Cave (NU060352)

A famous local landmark, St.Cuthbert’s Cave is a large, natural sandstone feature 3½ miles west of Belford. It is not really a cave at all, but more of a rocky overhang – the sort of place where a couple of dozen ramblers could shelter from the rain without getting a splash on their cagoules.

(© Copyright pam fray and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence )

Indeed, for the walking enthusiasts of the region it is something of a must-have; like the summit of Cheviot or the Simonside Ridge. Reachable by any number of ways from almost any direction, it does, however, require a little more than pulling up in a car park and wandering across the tarmac. Belford, with its close proximity to the A1, provides as good a launch pad as any, with a pleasant eight-mile round trip on foot easily negotiated along the dotted lines of your trusty OS map.

Its claim to fame, of course, is that it is reputed to have been a resting place for the monks of Lindisfarne as they fled with the mortal remains of the revered saint from the Viking invaders in the late 870s. They wandered for several years until finding a home at Chester-le-Street – the saintly bits finding their way, eventually, to Durham, of course. Now the cave lies on the course of the aptly-named ‘St.Cuthbert’s Way’, a 62-mile footpath linking Melrose to Lindisfarne, so is never short of company. Not that it ever has, judging by the age of the graffiti etched into the rocks thereabouts.

Buckton Dovecote (NU081386)

I have a soft spot for dovecotes. But you don’t see a lot of them these days, especially up north. But there’s an ever-so-nice one sitting a few yards to the west of the A1 in North Northumberland, about 4 miles north of Belford. It’s a little ‘industrial’, as dovecotes go, but it has that solid, compact, folly-like demeanour which I find so cutely attractive. Cuddly, almost.

Buckton Dovecote is cheating, though. For it has recently undergone a substantial facelift thanks to English Heritage and Natural England – and doesn’t it look absolutely splendid:

Dovecotes were probably introduced to the UK by the Normans – though the Romans may have beaten them to it briefly in the early centuries AD. The ‘beehive’ example at Buckton dates back to at least the early 17th century and, like all structures of its kind, was intended to house doves (or, more likely, pigeons) so that their eggs may be conveniently harvested, their manure collected and, of course, the birds themselves slaughtered for the dining table. Internally, beehive dovecotes contained dozens (sometimes hundreds) of nesting boxes for the birds, who could enter and exit through the roof, with a human-sized door allowing access for the collection of eggs and, er, droppings.

There is currently no public access to Buckton’s fine little effort, but it can be seen from both the A1 and the minor road which leaves the main thoroughfare at Buckton.

[info and image from the splendid Archaeology in Northumberland, Vol.18, by Northumberland County Council]

Scotch Vagrants (NU053404)

Another classic quote, this time from Cobbett’s Political Register of 1832:-

When at Newcastle I learned that Scotch vagrants were regularly sent from that place back into Scotland by pass-carts; that the conveyance of them was contracted for; and that the contractor received two pounds two shillings for each journey; that this contractor put them down at a place called Kyloe, a place five miles distant from Belford, on the road to Berwick; that the vagrants were delivered into the custody of a police-officer, who saw them deposited in the parish in Scotland named in the pass; and that the contractor had sometimes taken the same individuals as often as ten or twelve times!

Cross-dressing Daughter Saves the Day

[from A Biographical Dictionary of Eminent Scotsmen, 1835]

Sir John Cochrane, being engaged in Argyle’s rebellion against James II [1685], was taken prisoner after a desperate resistance, and condemned to be hanged. His daughter [18yr-old Grizel Cochrane] having noticed that the death warrant was expected from London, attired herself in men’s clothes, and twice attacked and robbed the mails (betwixt Berwick and Belford) which conveyed the death warrants; thus by delaying the execution, giving time to Sir John Cochrane’s father, the Earl of Dundonald, to make interest with Father Petre (a Jesuit), King James’ confessor, who, for the sum of five thousand pounds, agreed to intercede with his royal master on behalf of Sir John Cochrane, and to procure his pardon, which was effected.

As the ditty goes:

“I will not tak thy life,” she said,

“But gie me thy London news;

No blood of thine shall fyle my blade

Gin me ye dinna refuse.”

She’s prie'd the warrant and away she flew

With the speed and strength o’ the wild curlew.

Sounds like the sort of thing my wife would do.

"The Grimmest of Comedies, the Most Hilarious of Tragedies" * (NU136418)

In 1966, a curious film entitled Cul-de-Sac passed through our cinemas. Best described as a black comedy-cum-psychological thriller, it was a typical effort by controversial director, Roman Polanski. Set in its entirety on the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, it is perhaps the closest the region has ever got to film noir.

Essentially, it tells the tale of two on-the-run criminals who stumble upon the residence (Lindisfarne Castle) of the effeminate George (Donald Pleasance) and his beautiful and wilful young wife, Teresa. As they await rescue by their boss, the two crooks force themselves upon the odd couple, one of the men dying from the wounds received during their bungled robbery. The remaining trio embark upon a strained and increasingly strange relationship, even feigning normality during a social visit to the castle by friends of the couple.

Pleasance (left, I think) camps it up in Cul-de-Sac.

I won’t tell you how it all ends. It’s not that I don’t want to spoil it for you, but rather that I simply can’t remember. Well, it was a long time ago when I forced myself to sit through it.

Stranger still than the film itself is the fact that in 2007 Hollywood superstar, Jack Nicholson, claimed that it was his favourite movie of all time. I’ve made you curious now, haven’t I? I suppose you want to see it.

* Quote from Polanski scholar, Ivan Butler.

Mead: the Mother of Booze (NU126418)

The ancestor of all fermented drinks, antedating the cultivation of the soil.
Maguelonne Toussaint-Samat, historian.

One of Lindisfarne’s most noticeable commercial concerns is St.Aidan’s Winery, producers of the famous Lindisfarne Mead. But what exactly is this strange concoction? Well, basically, it is a mixture of honey and water, fermented with yeast so that the sugars in the honey turn to alcohol. And as for its history, well, it is very likely the oldest alcoholic beverage in the world.

Lindisfarne may well be England’s ‘Cradle of Christianity’, but it can make no such claim when it comes to the old tipple. For mead has been around – in all the major centres of civilisation – for many thousands of years. Earliest references stretch back to around 7,000BC to (very) ancient China; and Africa, too, can claim a lengthy heritage. Anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss argued that the invention of mead marked the passage of man’s development “from nature to culture”. In Europe, the drink probably arrived with the Beaker people around 2,000BC; and Aristotle and his pals were known to have indulged in the heyday of Ancient Greece. The Germanic tribes of northern Europe (the Vikings included) helped make mead very much as popular as ale in the Dark Ages, and this is when it entered our own culture big-time. The word ‘honeymoon’ is derived from the Norse custom of having newly-weds drink the stuff for a whole moon in order to increase their fertility. So I guess it was considered an aphrodisiac.

So quite why the religious houses of Dark Age England took to brewing and drinking mead I shudder to think. Anyway, the monks of Lindisfarne were especially keen, it seems, though they would have probably claimed it was nothing more than a little side-line of their beekeeping hobby. As you can imagine, during its long and colourful history, mead has developed countless variants. Different strengths, the inclusion of fruits, spices and herbs (and sometimes hops), differing maturing periods – and even, recently, the development of carbonated and sparkling versions, as well as dry, semi-sweet and sweet mixes – all helping to enrich the world of the mead aficionado.

Mead has enjoyed its good times and bad. Its popularity waned as the Middle Ages progressed, taxation and strict regulation taking their toll. And when cheap sugar imports began to arrive from the West Indies in the seventeenth century, beekeeping and honey production took quite a knock – and so, then, did mead production. But hang on it did, especially in areas in which grapes could not be grown for the production of wine – and for that we have the monasteries to thank.

So say what you will about these religious types, but on this score, at least, they seem to have got their priorities right.

The Snook, Lindisfarne (NU101437)

A little off the main drag linking Holy Island to the mainland are a pair of curious erections known as Snook House and Snook Tower. Located on the sticky-out bit on the landward side of the island known as, in fact, ‘The Snook’, these isolated buildings are universally ignored by those intent on making the most of their window of sea-less opportunity who strike on regardless along the Causeway to Holy Island village, some 2 miles eastward.

There isn’t a great deal to say about them, as not a lot is known – at least by me. Any input would be most welcome. The first, Snook House, looks for all intents and purposes like any other domestic dwelling – which I’m pretty sure it is. However, it was once a ventilation shaft for Scremerston Colliery some 7 miles NW and very much on the mainland. From Scremerston the coal seam dips down deep below Holy Island and out to sea. The old colliery closed in 1965.

Snook House, Holy Island …
(© Copyright Ron Rooney and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence )

… and nearby Snook Tower.
(© Copyright Les Hull and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence )

Of Snook Tower, however, little is conveniently known. Build, presumably, in the nineteenth century, its purpose seems to have been nothing more than that of an observation tower or look-out point.

Goswick Sands (NU085445)

The vast expanse of sand and mudflats which can be seen at Goswick Sands north-west of Holy Island contain a dark and dangerous secret. Well, I say “secret”, but there are plenty of signs around to warn you…

( © Copyright Mark Anderson and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence )

This is only a problem at low tide, of course, but it is worth bearing in mind when your dog starts digging around thereabouts; and is especially relevant should your walking stick alight on something metallic as you pick your way through the marram grass in an otherwise carefree manner. For Goswick Sands can be a volatile stretch of coastline.

During World War II, when rookie bombing crews needed a bit of practice before the real thing, the RAF sent many of them to this remote corner of the country to hone their skills. Countless explosive devices were dropped, including a good many that somewhat inconveniently decided to bury themselves in the sand and remain undetonated. This was the least of our worries back in the early 1940s, of course, but it has caused some concern since.

Since 1945, the RAF has periodically returned to the site to effect a bit of clearance work, and since 1995 has maintained a permanent presence there. In 2005, two 500lb bombs were exposed during a storm, and the resultant controlled detonation could be heard in Berwick, some ten miles distant. Then, in 2009, a total of seven devices were disposed of in similarly spectacular fashion in front of crowds of excited spectators. The government is currently considering pulling the plug on the full-time bomb disposal team as financial cuts take precedence over the public’s safety.

Experts assure us, however, that it is virtually impossible to blow yourselves to smithereens at Goswick, unless you are minded to venture out onto the sands with a JCB. The signs, however, paint a more worrying picture.

Haggerston’s Place in Horticultural History (NU043435)

Many who visit the caravan park at Haggerston are somewhat disappointed at the paltry remains of the old castle. A tower and rotunda are all that survive of the edifice today – both Grade II listed buildings, but somewhat swamped and degraded by their current predicament.

The structure’s original inhabitants, the de Hagardstons, supposedly came over with the Conqueror. A castle is known to have existed at least as far back as 1311, but a succession of fires have blighted its history leaving historians bereft of much in the way of paperwork on which to base their work. It is speculated, however, that there was a stronghold of sorts occupying the site from the late 1100s. In subsequent centuries the old place passed down and through a succession of landed families – you know, the usual story – but the original name stuck, which is more than can be said for the castle walls themselves.

The 1880s saw the Haggerston estate pass into the hands of one Christopher John Naylor; and when the said individual later inherited his uncle’s fortune he switched his name to C.J.Leyland and moved from his Powys home up to Haggerston. From 1893, Leyland set to work revamping the castle/house and gardens, which included the planting of six new hybrid trees called Cupressocyparis Leylandii, which had been recently developed on a small scale by his brother back in Wales.

Another fire (in 1911), and Leyland’s death (in 1926) hastened the almost complete demolition of the castle – and its sale – by the mid-'30s. However, Haggerston’s great legacy became a horticultural one. In 1925, a firm of commercial nurserymen rediscovered the old leylandii, recognised their potential, and began marketing them as Haggerston Grey leylandii. Other nurseries – as well as the Forestry Commission – jumped on the bandwagon, enthused by the tree’s fast-growing properties. Many other hybrids have since been developed, and it was for many years the biggest selling item in every garden centre in the UK.

So if you’ve an issue with your neighbour’s rampant hedge, blame Northumberland’s Haggertson Castle, and its overzealous former owners.

Ancroft (NU002451)

Ancroft, a rather desolate-looking affair, sits on high ground above the Dean Burn, 5 miles due south of Berwick. There is not much to see there, but the hamlet harbours a horrid secret in a nearby field formerly known as the Broomie Huts. In 1667, when plague struck the nation, the villagers of little Ancroft thought it best to isolate the victims of the horrible disease in the aforementioned field. There they made shelters for them from sticks of broom (a type of shrub), and left them to die. Afterwards both bodies and huts were burned in an attempt to eradicate the disease – the field in question being, allegedly, the one standing opposite St.Anne’s Church. As a further measure, the old cottages which had been affected by the visitation were burned also, with the village effectively moving a little to the east to its present location. The site of the old settlement can still be discerned in a field of undulating appearance – and the famous line of trees nearby supposedly represent the families that suffered during this horrible episode.

Shoresdean’s Claim to Fame (NT955465)

Shoresdean, an unremarkable housing estate some 5miles SW of Berwick, bears a history of little antiquity. A somewhat isolated spot for a coal mine, this little settlement nevertheless had one from the 19th century; and the cluster of houses which stand a little to the north of the old mine works are no more than a few decades old. However, the hamlet is famous as being the place where the famous ‘Piper of Loos’ passed away.

Daniel Laidlaw was born at Little Swinton, Berwickshire, in 1875. Joining the Army in 1896, he found himself in the 7th Battalion of The King’s Own Scottish Borderers on the outbreak of World War I. He and his comrades arrived in France in 1915 and by September were in the front line near Loos. On the morning of the 25th they were preparing for their first foray ‘over the top’.

At 6.30am, and under heavy German artillery fire as well as clouds of swirling gas (fired by the British but blowing confusedly back over their own lines), Laidlaw and his colleagues launched into battle. With chaos reigning, the commanding officer ordered Piper Laidlaw to “pipe them together”, which our man duly did by climbing into full view of the enemy and charging his pipes. To the tune of Blue Bonnets O’er the Border, the 7th Battalion rallied and rushed toward the German trenches.

Laidlaw continued playing with complete disregard for his own safety until, falling, wounded, just short of the enemy line as his fellow soldiers won the day. For his “conspicuous bravery” Laidlaw was recommended for, and awarded, the Victoria Cross – as well as the French ‘Croix de Guerre’, whose troops had been similarly inspired in neighbouring trenches by his actions.

Our hero survived the War, lived a full life, and eventually died at Shoresdean in June 1950, aged 74. Hundreds of mourners from all over the country attended his funeral. He lies buried in Norham churchyard, where a headstone was placed over his grave in 2002.

Our man, plus a little artistic licence

Tweedmouth: The End of the Road? (NT996523)

It may be Berwick’s poor relation when it comes to recent historical attention, but it’s just possible that Tweedmouth, on the southern bank of the river from which it gained its name, may have been the place to be in this part of the world in the days of the Romans. Berwick itself has no evidence of pre-(Norman)Conquest occupation, though its place-name suggests that it may give up some such evidence someday. Tweedmouth, however, is much better placed for any potential Roman super-discovery.

The Devil’s Causeway, the Roman Road which stretches northward from its junction with Dere Street near Corbridge for 50+ miles, points directly at the town – though falls tantalisingly short a mile or so to the south in the fields near Springhill. At one time Springhill was thought to be the site of a Roman Fort, such are the features of its landscape – but this is not now thought to be the case. Since this area to the south of the Tweed has barely been scratched by archaeologists, then circumstantial evidence and speculation is all we have to go on – though common sense strongly suggests that a Roman site on or very near to Tweedmouth, at the very top of the Causeway, is likely to have existed when the great thoroughfare was in use.

There is enough solid evidence at other sites in the area to the south of the Tweed to suggest that Roman activity was substantial hereabouts. And the presence of a port, fort or supply base at the mouth of the Tweed – with the river acting as both a line of supply and a natural line of defence to the north – would tie in with everything we know about the Romans from other parts of their empire. Additionally, Tweedmouth has for centuries provided Berwick with its deep water dock, which would suggest that this may have had a historical precedent with the Romans.

Just look at a map. It all makes sense. ‘Bout time someone started digging.

East Coast Wonder (NT993533)

It’s a beauty, isn’t it? And a big ’un, to boot. It’s Berwick-upon-Tweed’s magnificent Royal Border Bridge, of course – the undoubted star of the East Coast London-Edinburgh rail line.

Begun in 1847, it was the very last section of the famous old route to be completed, being opened by Queen Victoria herself, no less, some three years later on 29th August 1850. Though the celebrated railway engineer, Robert Stephenson, claimed the glory for its design, he was little more than a figurehead in reality. Assistant engineer, Thomas Harrison, and resident engineer, George Barclay-Bruce, did most of the donkey-work – with contractors McKay and Blackstock responsible for pulling off the building feat itself to such aesthetic perfection.

And the construction process must have been a tricky one. The bridge was completed later than the rail line itself, the stone viaduct being built around and from within a temporary wooden affair. The foundations were driven down through some 12m of gravel to the bedrock using a state-of-the-art Nasmyth steam-powered pile-driver; and the stone piers – framing 28 giant arches – pushed the viaduct up to a dizzy 38m above the River Tweed. The bridge stretches a lengthy 658m (just over 0.4mile), and was later modified, width-wise, to accommodate an extra rail track. It is now a Grade I listed building.

No such protection was offered to old Berwick Castle, however, during those thrusting Victorian days. For the already ruinous landmark was pretty much obliterated during clearance work for the bridgehead and station, masonry being thoughtlessly and enthusiastically recycled during the bridge’s construction. It is thought that the very spot where King Edward I took oaths of allegiance from the Scots in 1296 lies beneath the present-day station platforms.

Berwick v. Russia and Other Unfinished Wars (NT997533)

Most of us have heard the story of how little Berwick-upon-Tweed remained at war with mighty Russia way after the Crimean War peace treaty was signed in 1856. In case you are blissfully unaware, it goes something like this….

Because of Berwick’s tendency to change hands between England and Scotland, old-time proclamations often referred to “England, Scotland and the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed”. Such was the case when the official declaration of war was made against Russia in 1853, when Queen Victoria supposedly signed herself as “Victoria, Queen of Great Britain, Ireland, Berwick-upon-Tweed and all British Dominions”. Though the war was wrapped up in 1856, the Treaty of Paris failed to include the “Berwick-upon-Tweed” bit, seemingly leaving the little border town at war with a substantial world power.

Investigations in the 1970s, however, revealed that Berwick was not named in either proclamation, and that the yarn had been spun by a lecturing vicar in the early twentieth century who hadn’t done his research properly. As it happens, the Wales and Berwick Act of 1746 had quite clearly stipulated that all references to England in matters relating to law should include Wales and Berwick – so the doubts about the 1853 or 1856 utterances were irrelevant. To ease all doubts, a Soviet official visited the Mayor of Berwick, Robert Knox, in 1966 to effect a peace treaty, ‘just in case’. It was at this meeting that Knox uttered the famous words: “Please tell the Russian people that they can sleep peacefully in their beds.” Unfortunately, Mayor Knox almost certainly exceeded his powers when signing the agreement, thus invalidating the belated ‘peace treaty’ – and any official paperwork concerning the meeting has been lost.

This all raises the question of whether other similar ‘conflicts’ have remained unresolved for lengthy periods of time. Wikipedia’s snappily-titled ‘List of Wars Extended by Diplomatic Irregularity’ gives a few interesting examples, including the incredible fact that the Second World War between the Allies and Germany did not technically end until the latter’s unification after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989-90. It was all to do with the fact that the Potsdam Agreement of 1945 concerning the governance of Germany couldn’t be properly and absolutely imposed until the nation was recognisably re-united. Consequently, the state of war persisted until the signing of the ‘Treaty on the Final Settlement with Respect to Germany’ on 12th September 1990.

Halidon Hill (NT968548)

In the narrow gap between Berwick-upon-Tweed and the Scottish border lies the site of the Battle of Halidon Hill. Fought between the armies of England and Scotland on 19th July 1333, it was the first battle of the so-called Second War of Scottish Independence. After the Treaty of Northampton had brought the first series of conflicts to a shaky end in 1328, Scottish-held Berwick soon found itself under siege by the English in the spring of 1333 as diplomatic relations deteriorated once again.

Ensuing negotiations betwixt the two nations left Berwick as the agreed prize in a straight fight between the respective circling armies of England’s King Edward III and the Scots under Sir Archibald Douglas, the ‘Guardian of the Realm’. The English ensconced themselves upon Halidon Hill, a modest 530ft prominence two miles north-west of Berwick, and awaited the approach of the enemy.

The Scots advanced on the English position from Duns to the north-west, across a muddy hollow; here they were caught in fierce archer crossfire from both flanks, and left with little choice but to plough slowly onward and upward towards the bristling English ranks. Though they reached the English line, the Scots were soon scrambling around for cover – and many fled for their lives in retreat, with the English cavalry in bloody pursuit. Though the Highlander division fought to the death, the Scottish defeat was complete, with several thousand casualties. King Edward, on the other hand, lost no more than few dozen men – and Berwick reverted back into English hands.

The Battle of Halidon Hill was seen as English revenge for Bannockburn in 1314. Edward III, though, failed to drive his advantage home in the years thereafter, and the Wars raged on for several decades more.

View from the site of the Battle of Halidon Hill, looking south(-ish). The River Tweed and the Cheviot Hills make it into the frame.