5 Real-life Lessons About Village Fairs In India

Posted by Stlouis on January 4th, 2021

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A solitary candle flickers in the topmost window of the stone tower. A faint red radiance details the distant 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 viewing a noise and light program portraying a normal border raid by the reivers, or plunderers, the nighttime guerrilla action that occurred from the 12th through the mid-17th centuries. In some cases the dispute was between neighboring clans; at other times, Scottish riding clans signed up with forces with their bitter enemies to repel English profession.

The theater lights rise, illuminating the audience, and we keep in mind that the sign-in book is controlled by the signatures of visitors whose surnames correspond those of the major players in the Anglo-Scottish border feuds that changed obedient people by day into terrorists by night.

So it is that my other half, Boyd, and I find we are not the only ones on a foray into the past. Our geographical destination is the area referred to as the Borders: the piece of much-fought-over land defined loosely by Carlisle on the south; Berwick, England, on the northeast and Dalkeith, Scotland (simply south of Edinburgh), on the north. It is countryside when strolled by my forefathers, the Bells and the Maxwells. Not irregular Scottish border families, they were amongst the ruffians and cattle rustlers who, in the 17th century, were banished by the British federal government to Northern Ireland.

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

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

Holding even higher fascination for us, Carlisle is headquarters for trips to Hadrian's Wall. The cabby at the head of the cue ends up being an expert on the local history. He supplies us with detailed maps to browse throughout his helpful narrative. From Solway Firth on the west to the River Tyne on the east, he tells us, the 73-mile stone wall was constructed in between 122-128 A.D. by Roman emperor Hadrian to protect Roman Britain from northern tribes. It topples across land simultaneously desolate and felicitous. Except for mournful cries of curlews and relentless winds that whip throughout this historical treasure, the surrounding moors are mute.

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

Almost 2,000 years after the Romans left, their preserved forts and signal towers attest to their engineering skills. At each major excavation, a small museum homes antiques revealing how the innovative Romans made themselves in the house in an extreme land. They constructed comfy barracks, medical facilities, granaries, stores, inns, bath homes and latrines. With many examples of innovation lying about, historians question why the barbaric locals discovered nothing from their progressive conquerors and continued to live in primitive style for centuries afterward. Our driver waits patiently while we study the exhibitions and purchase pamphlets to repeat home.

After capturing cam shots even more photogenic for the brilliant blue sky dappled with cottony clouds, we return to Carlisle and catch the next train to rendezvous with our genealogist-hostess, May McKerrill. We find out ahead of time from others who have actually enjoyed her hospitality that she ought to be dealt with formally as the Lady Hillhouse (pronounced Hill'- iss), and her Scottish chieftain spouse, 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 cottages of bygone ages.

Minutes later, we detrain in Lockerbie. For a short time, a Renault station wagon pulls up, the motorist clad in trousers of the McKerrill clan's blue tartan Introductions aside, Sir Charles loads us and our baggage into his cars and truck for the 10-minute flight west to Lochmaben.

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

Lochmaben, five miles to the west. Beyond the village green ignoring charming brick and stone homes, Lochmaben Castle - site of the boyhood house of Scottish King Robert the Bruce, who won his country's independence from England - depends on ruins.

Taking a hint from other Borders aristocrats bent on weathering a depressed British economy, May and Sir Charles welcome guests into Magdalene House, their solid brick residence named for the town's client saint. The cellars of the house date back to the 14th century. Resplendent with McKerrill treasures, Magdalene House warmly welcomes visitors excited to plumb their past.

At 7:30 each evening, May serves supper in the stately dining room, its walls luxurious with red velour flocking. Candlelight glamorizes massive gilt-framed pictures of the past lords Hillhouse - all dressed in the clan's unique blue tartan - and their stylish women.

Magdalene House is big enough to serve several parties of forefather seekers, yet little adequate to be comfortable for all guests excited to sign up with May on her day-to-day treks. Early mornings at 9 sharp, sated by a hearty English breakfast, visitors scramble into May's station wagon for a trip through villages and pastures dotted with messed up castles and towers marking ancient clan and family websites.

Genealogy is taken seriously here. Residents of ancestral farmhouses and towers throughout the area can recite their clan lineage by heart. Large church records validate their precision. May has actually studied the history of each clan and freely recites truths, figures, and lore. She states that my Bells are among the most visible of the Borders households, with their guard of three bells still to be seen engraved on gravestones and above various doorways throughout the area.

Our Bell nation encounter begins the moment May hustles us into her vehicle for a brief drive to Dumfries, the royal burgh and commercial head office of Dumfriesshire where, in 1306, Robert the Bruce variety Red Comyn and declared himself King of Scotland. This was the last house of poet Robert Burns. He died in Burns House in 1796 and is buried in the family mausoleum in St. Michael's churchyard just throughout the roadway.

Today, Burns House is a museum providing a movie about Burns' life, pictures of his member of the family, and original copies of his writings penned in his hand. After browsing its antiques, we consider more history at the Old Bridge House museum on the River Nith. Directly throughout