Drumburgh Castle

Today’s reconnoitre mission was not overly ambitious, owing to a sluggish start to the day. Clocks going forward (do used car salesmen put their crocks forward?)  and bloody stewdents getting ‘messy’ on Church Terrace into the wee hours and thus keeping me awake,  meant we didn’t venture out until midday.

Forgot the camera and the ‘phone, so no snaps taken. All pictures will be sourced from elsewhere. We decided to do the final leg, Drumburgh to Bowness-on-Solway, a round trip of about 8 miles.

We turned left soon after Drumburgh Castle (” Drumburgh Castle, a sixteenth century pele house built by Thomas Lord Dacre, replacing an early fortified tower. Lord Dacre used stone from Hadrian’s Wall to build his new house, so for those walking the wall from west to east this is the first sign of Roman stone.”) ambled down country lanes and over fields to the village of Glasson. Little to report, and to be honest, little of interest. A bloke washing his car (very thoroughly, I might add, as he was still waxing on and waxing off over 3 hours later, when we returned). An ‘American Beauty’ moment with a discarded black bag . Meanwhile we discussed the rather unsatisfactory ending of The Killing last night (which didn’t quite repay 10 weeks’ worth of investment and loyalty).

Glasson has little to recommend it other than its notoriety as the child-scaring capital of east Cumbria. Rather unfairly, this reputation has been gained owing to its annual pagan festival, The Sooky Men of Glasson, during which the  adult population disguises itself in makeshift outfits and  kidnap and terrorise the local infants, birching them lightly and threatening them with further gentle terrors. Local children understand this to be merely a rite of passage and are not harmed, psychologically or otherwise.

You have an appointment with the Sooky Men

The walk then abutted a caravan park and became much more interesting when it followed a path adjacent to the wide expanse of the Solway Firth. Just gazing out across the sands makes you feel very far away, like Uncle Kasimir in W.G. Sebald’s The Emigrants: “I often come out here, said Uncle Kasimir, it makes me feel that I am a long way away, though I never quite know from where.”

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