firmly dismissing my overactive imagination, I had seemed to have the place to myself; alone with the lavishly decorated masonry far above my head, shreds of broken arches and empty windows imploring the heavens for those long lost days of grandeur.
A post near the entrance held a short history, that the original building had been founded during the reorganisation of the Scottish Church in 1126 by King David the First. Intended for the Cistercian church which, while dedicated to poverty, contrived as did the great abbeys of the period to create unprecedented wealth. The truth of this lay in the tiny hamlets and villages which had sprung up alongside.
The original abbey was a place of worship but after its destruction by the English army following the Scots raid over the Border in 1385, rebuilding was in stark contrast to its former simplicity and the new edifice’s ornamentation marked it out as one of the most opulent Border monasteries.
Now only the village of Eildon remained, a cluster of houses arising from a systematic pillaging of the Abbey’s scattered stones. There was something here for the philosopher in all this, I thought, choosing a broken cloister wall as the vantage point for a sketch of the ruined chancel.
Engrossed in my task, the silence was shattered by a bird rising screeching into the sky. I looked up and saw the faint outline of a watching figure high up, gazing down.
A tall man. The light behind him made identification uncertain.
But there was something in that stance – something familiar .
‘Jack!’
Had he come back unexpectedly and guessing where I’d be, was trying to surprise me?
Jack? No, that wasn’t Jack’s style at all.
Shading my eyes, I looked upwards. He immediately stepped back.
Definitely not Jack.
I went on drawing, curious but not in the least alarmed – not yet.
A few moments later, conscious again of distant eyes intent upon me, I looked up knowing that he was back once more.
This time I waved, called a greeting. Immediately he ducked out of sight. And that furtive gesture was enough to scare me. I no longer felt safe sitting alone in this vast ruin.
There was worse to come. As I made my way towards the entrance, I passed the spiral stair which led to the ruined gallery and heard stealthy footsteps descending.
A braver woman would have stayed until the mysterious watcher appeared. But aware of the isolation and now certain that I was being stalked I hesitated no longer.
I took flight and did not stop until the gate clanged shut behind me. Only then did I pause to look back.
The abbey grounds were deserted and whoever was on that spiral staircase had not appeared across the lawns.
I am not nervous by nature, nerves of steel had been forged by the constant everyday dangers of a pioneering life, but there was something sneaky and furtive about this encounter that touched a raw edge of nightmare.
Conscious that my heart was beating fast, I was overjoyed to be hailed by Jack’s father in the pony cart.
He was taking the younger of his two collies, Rex, ‘to a farmer up-by’ he said, indicating the area I had explored earlier. There was a fine bitch to be served. Did I fancy coming with him?
Saying that I thought animals made their own arrangementsabout such matters, as I jumped aboard, he said,
‘Valuable breeding bitch, great pedigree, had some wee trouble with her innards, while back. But I’ve managed to put it right, a few of the right herbs and a bit of nursing. Aye, she’ll have plenty litters yet awhile. This’ll be Rex’s first siring – officially,’ he added proudly.
Asked what I had been doing I told him I had explored the abbey and, listening to a full account of its history far outpacing the small notice I had read, I decided against mentioning my sinister watcher.
In fact, the further we travelled from the ruined abbey, the sillier it sounded, the product of an overwrought imagination. And what was more important, we had now reached a
A post near the entrance held a short history, that the original building had been founded during the reorganisation of the Scottish Church in 1126 by King David the First. Intended for the Cistercian church which, while dedicated to poverty, contrived as did the great abbeys of the period to create unprecedented wealth. The truth of this lay in the tiny hamlets and villages which had sprung up alongside.
The original abbey was a place of worship but after its destruction by the English army following the Scots raid over the Border in 1385, rebuilding was in stark contrast to its former simplicity and the new edifice’s ornamentation marked it out as one of the most opulent Border monasteries.
Now only the village of Eildon remained, a cluster of houses arising from a systematic pillaging of the Abbey’s scattered stones. There was something here for the philosopher in all this, I thought, choosing a broken cloister wall as the vantage point for a sketch of the ruined chancel.
Engrossed in my task, the silence was shattered by a bird rising screeching into the sky. I looked up and saw the faint outline of a watching figure high up, gazing down.
A tall man. The light behind him made identification uncertain.
But there was something in that stance – something familiar .
‘Jack!’
Had he come back unexpectedly and guessing where I’d be, was trying to surprise me?
Jack? No, that wasn’t Jack’s style at all.
Shading my eyes, I looked upwards. He immediately stepped back.
Definitely not Jack.
I went on drawing, curious but not in the least alarmed – not yet.
A few moments later, conscious again of distant eyes intent upon me, I looked up knowing that he was back once more.
This time I waved, called a greeting. Immediately he ducked out of sight. And that furtive gesture was enough to scare me. I no longer felt safe sitting alone in this vast ruin.
There was worse to come. As I made my way towards the entrance, I passed the spiral stair which led to the ruined gallery and heard stealthy footsteps descending.
A braver woman would have stayed until the mysterious watcher appeared. But aware of the isolation and now certain that I was being stalked I hesitated no longer.
I took flight and did not stop until the gate clanged shut behind me. Only then did I pause to look back.
The abbey grounds were deserted and whoever was on that spiral staircase had not appeared across the lawns.
I am not nervous by nature, nerves of steel had been forged by the constant everyday dangers of a pioneering life, but there was something sneaky and furtive about this encounter that touched a raw edge of nightmare.
Conscious that my heart was beating fast, I was overjoyed to be hailed by Jack’s father in the pony cart.
He was taking the younger of his two collies, Rex, ‘to a farmer up-by’ he said, indicating the area I had explored earlier. There was a fine bitch to be served. Did I fancy coming with him?
Saying that I thought animals made their own arrangementsabout such matters, as I jumped aboard, he said,
‘Valuable breeding bitch, great pedigree, had some wee trouble with her innards, while back. But I’ve managed to put it right, a few of the right herbs and a bit of nursing. Aye, she’ll have plenty litters yet awhile. This’ll be Rex’s first siring – officially,’ he added proudly.
Asked what I had been doing I told him I had explored the abbey and, listening to a full account of its history far outpacing the small notice I had read, I decided against mentioning my sinister watcher.
In fact, the further we travelled from the ruined abbey, the sillier it sounded, the product of an overwrought imagination. And what was more important, we had now reached a
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