22. Jedburgh

C & C Site
May 10^th - 12^th

A beautiful drive through rich farmland with the rolling Cheviot Hills in the distance. Great variety of colours in the trees. Carefully manicured grass verges and hedges trimmed neatly into a taper towards the top (presumably an anti- snow measure). Almost like driving through a park. Into Scotland at Coldstream, passing over the Tweed on a lovely old stone six-arched bridge. On to Kelso and into Jedburgh from the north-east, passing through Bonjedward (yes, you heard me) on the way. Whatever happened to Jedward anyway? The site is in the lee of a wooded hill and faces west, with the Jed Water running through it.

This area is the heartland of Scottish border rugby, with Jedburgh, Hawick, Selkirk, Melrose, Kelso and Galashiels all within virtual touching distance of each other. The brand of rugby played here, with light, fast, mobile forwards, gave the national Scottish side its attractive playing style in the 'Sixties and 'Seventies. Ireland at the time had a similar style and it was a joy to watch games between them; total mayhem, all action, end-to-end, attack, attack, attack. Watching England was, I'm afraid, like watching paint dry. And Wales, of course, were simply in a class of their own. France were quite good, too.

A heron on the Jed, waiting

So it's farewell then to the great Professor Colin Pillinger, the mastermind of Beagle 2, Britain's gallant failure to conquer Mars. He designed it on a beer mat and built the prototype out of cardboard. Surely only Britain, or possibly even only England, could have produced such an eccentric; the world may have lost a character, but we haven't lost our essential national character. Not quite yet. The thing to remember, though, is that Beagle 2 is still out there, wandering silently through the universe and beyond. It will be like in Arthur C Clarke's ”Rendezvouz with Rama”; way in the future someone will discover Beagle 2 and wonder what it is and ponder the nature of the creature who created it. I like to think that one day in that far distant future the Prof. will be re-united with his brain-child.


http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/10815922/Professor-Colin-Pillinger-obituary.html


Now, here's a thing. I watched 'City of Angels' last night. It's a Hollywood re-make of Wim Wenders' sublime 'Wings of Desire'. Hollywood re-makes are usually awful, I detest Nicolas Cage, I cringe at Meg Ryans's little cutie act, yet I love this film. I suppose it's the central story. Stranger still, my Dad told me he liked it. Now, he wasn't into films at all, (which is probably why I went to the pictures so often as a child with my Mum) and I'd never heard him say he liked a film. Very strange. On a lighter note, when I typed 'Wings of Desire' just now I typed 'Wigs of Desire' by mistake. Ho, ho.     

Oh, bliss! On Sunday morning I put my cycling shorts on and cycled into and around Jedburgh without winceing or whimpering once! What a result! I found a promising-looking butcher's whose frontage boasted of its wonderful pies. Popped into the Co-Op to get some milk and found some interesting food in the cold cabinet; black pudding in batter, steak slices, which look like steak mince formed into a loaf and sliced like bread and lorne, which is a square sausage. The chief Cartwright in 'Bonanza' was played by Lorne Greene. Strange to name a child after a square sausage. Found the town's original public library which, a plaque outside said, was endowed by Andrew Carnegie. Just think, Jedburgh might have had a giant concert hall, too.

There was an interesting information board by the river near the lovely ruined abbey. Apparently, James Hutton, who is regarded as the father of geology, based his ground-breaking (sorry!) Theory of the Earth on rock formations he found in in Jedburgh.


Presumably the abbey was another of Henry VIII's victims. He was a complete bar steward, wasn't he? Why couldn't he just steal the monasteries' treasure, drive the monks out and leave the buildings alone? With the roof on an abbey would have made a great stately home or community swimming pool or working mens' club or Wetherspoon's pub. He was a complete and utter monarch, I think.

Now, here's a Stephen Fry moment for you. The name of the butcher with the magnificent pies is 'Learmonth', and this seems to be a local name, as I saw two more examples in Berwick. The great Russian writer Mikhail Lermontov was descended from a Scot whose name was Learmonth. Lermontov = Learmonth, see? The little lad on the advert on the door is saying 'Say aye to a pie'.  

There was an interesting stone in the graveyard of the abbey. James Laidlaw, RAMC, killed in action in 1914. On the grave was a small fresh wreath with an inscription from Jedforest Rugby Football Club. Was he the club doctor over a hundred years ago? How fine of the club to remember him for so long. (There are lots of Laidlaws here and two played at scrum-half rugby for Scotland in my time; Roy in the 'Eighties and his nephew Greig, who is still playing).

Rock strata by the Jed