I cross the A1 bridge over the River Tweed 300 miles into
my drive from home to Edinburgh. The sun is low to my
left, illuminating the glimpse of Berwick-upon-Tweed you
can catch from the car. The skeleton of a stone fishing
shiel sits in shadow on the banks. The official border is 4
miles further up the road, but for me, this is the moment I
feel I cross from one nation to the other.
The Tweed defines the Easternmost section of the
Anglo-Scottish border; a marker of the centuries of
conflicts between the nations. On this river, towns were
traded, armies crossed its bridges, castles were built
and destroyed. In the peacetime that followed, the river
supplied the two nations with trout, grayling and salmon;
the surrounding area thrived on its fishing industry.
Without the need for their castles, the descendants of
noble border families built lavish manorhouses.
Today, the river is almost dry of fish. Commercial fishing
ceased in 1987, and the shiels along the river’s edge lie
mostly empty. Those who still fish on the river go days in
the water without catching anything.
In time the border, and this river, might come to mark a
more important division. For now, this physical border
exists in a quiet, unassuming state. Its history washes up
on its banks and embeds itself in the landscape.
my drive from home to Edinburgh. The sun is low to my
left, illuminating the glimpse of Berwick-upon-Tweed you
can catch from the car. The skeleton of a stone fishing
shiel sits in shadow on the banks. The official border is 4
miles further up the road, but for me, this is the moment I
feel I cross from one nation to the other.
The Tweed defines the Easternmost section of the
Anglo-Scottish border; a marker of the centuries of
conflicts between the nations. On this river, towns were
traded, armies crossed its bridges, castles were built
and destroyed. In the peacetime that followed, the river
supplied the two nations with trout, grayling and salmon;
the surrounding area thrived on its fishing industry.
Without the need for their castles, the descendants of
noble border families built lavish manorhouses.
Today, the river is almost dry of fish. Commercial fishing
ceased in 1987, and the shiels along the river’s edge lie
mostly empty. Those who still fish on the river go days in
the water without catching anything.
In time the border, and this river, might come to mark a
more important division. For now, this physical border
exists in a quiet, unassuming state. Its history washes up
on its banks and embeds itself in the landscape.