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A singular candle flickers in the upper window of the stone tower. A faint red glow outlines the remote ridge, silhouetting a bank of horsemen versus the sky. They thunder more detailed, intent on plunder ... even murder.

We are at the Tullie House Museum in Carlisle, England seeing a noise and light show depicting a typical border raid by the reivers, or plunderers, the nighttime guerrilla action that occurred from the 12th through the mid-17th centuries. Sometimes the dispute was in between neighboring clans; at other times, Scottish riding clans signed up with forces with their bitter enemies to push back English profession.

The theater lights increase, illuminating the audience, and we keep in mind that the sign-in book is controlled by the signatures of visitors whose surnames are identical to those of the significant players in the Anglo-Scottish border feuds that transformed obedient citizens by day into terrorists by night.

So it is that my hubby, Boyd, and I find we are not the only ones on a venture into the past. Our geographical location is the location known as the Borders: the chunk of much-fought-over land specified loosely by Carlisle on the south; Berwick, England, on the northeast and Dalkeith, Scotland (just south of Edinburgh), on the north. It is countryside as soon as roamed by my forefathers, the Bells and the Maxwells. Not atypical Scottish border households, they were amongst the ruffians and cattle rustlers who, in the 17th century, were exiled by the British government to Northern Ireland.

A generation or so later on, these difficult and resolute individuals with strong clan commitments sought their fortunes in North America, in my case on the Pennsylvania frontier. While probing my family's knotted roots, we will see the storybook world they left behind along with their worries.

Having vicariously experienced a common border raid, Boyd and I roam throughout the street to explore Carlisle Castle, built by the Normans in 1092, and the neighboring Carlisle Cathedral, significant for its middle ages carvings, stained-glass windows and the altar where Sir Walter Scott was wed in 1797.

Holding even higher fascination for us, Carlisle is head office for tours to Hadrian's Wall. He offers us with comprehensive maps to peruse throughout his helpful narration. From Solway Firth on the west to the River Tyne on the east, he informs us, the 73-mile stone wall was constructed between 122-128 A.D. by Roman emperor Hadrian to secure Roman Britain from northern tribes.

Hadrian's Wall marches through fresh, rugged countryside, bounded on the north by forests, parkland and barren crags rising nearly 2,000 feet. To its south, the Cumberland Plain is dotted with grazing sheep, Roman ruins, ancient castles, and crumbling abbeys where monks once mass-produced stunning wools for regional usage and export.

At each major excavation, a little museum houses antiques revealing how the ingenious Romans made themselves at home in a harsh land. They constructed comfy barracks, health centers, granaries, shops, inns, bath houses and latrines.

After capturing camera shots all the more photogenic for the fantastic blue sky dappled with cottony clouds, we go back to Carlisle and capture the next train to rendezvous with our genealogist-hostess, May McKerrill. We discover in advance from others who have actually enjoyed her hospitality that she must be addressed formally as the Lady Hillhouse (noticable Hill'- iss), and her Scottish chieftain other half, Charles, might be described as Sir Charles, or Lord Hillhouse.

The train rockets north from Carlisle past Gretna into Scotland. The countryside is a quilt of grassy mounds speckled with grazing sheep, accentuated by rough hedges, meandering streams, stone fences and whitewashed homes of bygone ages.

Minutes later on, we detrain in Lockerbie. Except for the stationmaster, we are alone. The late afternoon privacy is increased by the nearby barren hillock, site of the 1988 Pan Am explosion. For a short while, a Renault station wagon pulls up, the driver dressed in pants of the McKerrill clan's blue tartan Introductions aside, Sir Charles loads us and our luggage into his cars and truck for the 10-minute ride west to Lochmaben. On the way, he takes a short detour to point out Remembrance Garden, Lockerbie's the majority of checked out area, dedicated to the Pan Am victims.

Our road parallels a hiker-friendly taken apart railroad track leading from Lockerbie to

Lochmaben, five miles to the west. Beyond the town green overlooking quaint brick and stone homes, Lochmaben Castle - website of the boyhood home of Scottish King Robert the Bruce, who won his nation's independence from England - lies in ruins.

Taking a cue from other Borders aristocrats bent on weathering a depressed British economy, May and Sir Charles welcome guests into Magdalene House, their strong brick house called for the town's patron saint. The cellars of the house date back to the 14th century. Resplendent with McKerrill heirlooms, Magdalene House warmly accepts visitors eager to plumb their past.

At 7:30 each night, May serves dinner in the magnificent dining room, its walls luxurious with red velvet flocking. Candlelight romanticizes massive gilt-framed portraits of the previous lords Hillhouse - all dressed in the clan's distinct blue tartan - and their stylish women.

Magdalene House is large enough to serve a number of celebrations of ancestor candidates, yet little enough to be comfy for all guests eager to join May on her day-to-day treks. Early mornings at 9 sharp, sated by a hearty English breakfast, guests rush into May's station wagon for a trip through villages and pastures dotted with destroyed castles and towers marking ancient clan and family websites.

May has studied the history of each clan and freely recites realities, figures, and lore. She states that my Bells are amongst the most visible of the Borders households, with their guard of three bells still to be seen engraved on gravestones and above numerous doorways throughout the location.

Our Bell nation encounter begins the moment May hustles us into her vehicle for a short village fairs in india drive to Dumfries, the royal burgh and commercial headquarters of Dumfriesshire where, in 1306, Robert the Bruce multitude Red Comyn and stated himself King of Scotland. This was the last house of poet Robert Burns. He passed away in Burns House in 1796 and is buried in the family mausoleum in St. Michael's churchyard simply throughout the roadway.

Today, Burns House is a museum using a film about Burns' life, portraits of his member of the family, and original copies of his works penned in his hand. After perusing its antiques, we ponder more history at the Old Bridge House museum on the River Nith. Straight throughout the water is the village of Maxwell Town, made famous by the tune devoted to one of Burns' enjoys, Annie Laurie.

Later on, from high within a refurbished windmill, the Burgh Museum, we view the red sandstone structures and vast stretches of parkland that consist of the town of Dumfries. Little has altered given that my forefathers made their method through these growing, narrow streets by foot or cart, other than for a substantial Safeway market that anchors the main mall on the edge of town.

On the road as soon as again, we glance frequent destroyed towers and thick forests as we motor eastward. Beyond Lockerbie, May deserts the contemporary speedway for back roads that meander through small settlements at Nithsdale and Annandale to an ancient church controling the village of Middlebie.

The cold, consistent rain sags to a drizzle as we push on to two Bell homes dating to the 14th century. A direct view