Soggy Camping - an essential skill

18.5.2103 – Boroughbridge  

Yesterday’s glowing golden sunshine did not last.  2am - gentle hissing like static on a distant radio station gave way to a lengthy drum riff on the tent roof, loud, long and heavy.  Lying awake, the thought of the river, not five feet from the back of the tent, obsessed my mind.  In my imagination, it became a frothing, growling menace, ready to assault the baskets of rubble and cascade down onto us.  The longer I lay there, the more imminent the danger seemed.  Any minute now, we’d definitely be inundated, drowned even.  Barefoot I crept across the dark wet grass and up the little bank, only to see the river still quite quiet, its brown surface pock marked by the fat raindrops.  Back to bed, feeling silly.  And damp.

Morning mist obscures the tree covered cliffs across the campsite.  Our door mat is a puddle in a puddle.  Ah well.  We are hardened campers, we can cope.  Squelch across the grass, through the showers, to the showers.  Wrestle the tent, saturated and resistant, into the trailer and snap it shut just as rain explodes from the heavens across the campsite. 

Jedburgh Abbey

We jumped in the car and set off to explore the Abbey, this time from inside.  Soaring, elegant, ancient, it was rebuilt and rebuilt since King David 1^st commissioned it in the 12^th Century.  Much extension and development in the early years gave over to repeated repair following repeated destructions by English armies – time and again they came, burnt it, ravaged its graceful arches and peaceful cloister.  Time and again the Black Canons of the Augustinian Order rebuilt it, till at last it lost its raison d’etre after the Reformation, and the locals quarried its carved stones for their little homes and byres.

Coffee and a cherry scone reinvigorated us for trek up the steep street to the town jail museum.  Little wynds between the houses showed glimpses of cottages and neat gardens, tucked behind the mainstreet in little pools of privacy.

Jedburgh Town Jail

Built in the 19^th. Century and way ahead of its time, the jail actually supplied single cells, bedding (which they boasted of being changed twice a year), communal spaces and even central heating.  But the children, oh the children – 8, 9 years old, imprisoned for stealing a turnip, a loaf of bread.  And the ‘vagrants’, often living rough because they had no alternative, and seeking work by walking for tens of miles, begging what they needed to live on.  And then imprisoned  as ‘undeserving poor’.  The poor are an embarrassment.  Convince yourself and others it’s their fault - it clears the way to deal with them as harshly and cheaply as you can.  Imprison them.  Transport them.  Cut their benefits???  But ‘the poor you have with you always’, someone once told us, and placed the responsibility in our hands.  Makes you think.

Back to the car and again, neatly closed the doors as the heavens opened once more.  Fields, mountains, valleys all shrouded in mist.  A viewpoint at the Scots/English border, enveloped in grey cloud all around, obscuring any vistas.  Drenched little lambs, following their mothers, heads down, cold and miserable.  And now we are in Boroughbridge, Yorkshire.  Tomorrow we’ll see what we can find, and in the evening, sail all night to Belgium.