A Borders Holiday

BORDERS HOLIDAY, DAY 1

The coach tour to the Borders country looked good in the travel brochure, was less expensive than the cost of petrol and hotel accommodation bought separately, and it’s a long way from East Anglia to the Scottish border (close on 400 miles each way, and then some touring to do) so I decided to let the professional driver take the strain.

At the end of the 10-hour journey (including two stops for the driver’s rest periods) we arrived at the Swallow Hilltop Hotel at Harraby on the edge of Carlisle. The hotel, which opened in 1970, looked tired and so did the staff, perhaps not yet recovered from the excitement of the previous evening when a wedding party turned into a riot and the bride had the unenviable experience of spending her ‘first night’ alone while the groom languished in a police cell.

Harraby Hill, we soon learnt, had seen unhappy experiences before, when it was called Gallows Hill. 20 Jacobites were hanged there in 1746 for their part in the ‘45 rebellion, when Bonnie Prince Charlie briefly held the castle, one mile away.

Putting aside the thought of sleeping on the site of such grisly happenings I turned to the view from my window: a modern retail park with the ubiquitous Tesco , B&Q et al, standing on land formerly occupied for more than a century by one of the seven railway companies which once served this great city at the gateway between England and Scotland and contributed to its industrial wealth.

After an excellent dinner somebody suggested a stroll into the city to unwind after so many hours sitting still on our journey north, but only four of us braved the walk into the city centre, past derelict and near-derelict shops, presumably forced out of business by the greedy conglomerates, as is typical of most urban areas nowadays. The only people we saw on the way were the inevitable groups of teenagers in shabby jeans, expensive ‘trainers’, and baseball caps at every angle other that for which they were designed. They looked lost, standing expressionless, except when we walked into the road to pass them, when they managed an inane grin, accompanied by farmyard sounds.

Walking in the road was a risky business because of the activities of ‘boy racers’ burning rubber as they accelerated and skid-turned, but it was, after all, around 9 pm, and the streets belonged to them and the presence of police cars parked outside the County Constabulary a short distance away did not worry them.

It took about 20 minutes to reach the city centre, passing between the twin towers of the ancient Citadel, now rebuilt and housing council offices, then through the modern shopping centre to visit the 12th century cathedral, the second smallest in England. It was closed of course, at that time of night, but perhaps there would be another opportunity during the week. We also had a brief glimpse of the castle across the ring road, and that too was ‘pencilled in’.

So ended day one of the tour, and I was ready for bed when we got back to the hotel.