This reminded me of something I did many years ago in Northumberland.
We lived in a house along the old Roman road known as the Stanegate. This road was built before Hadrian's Wall, I can't remember now...60-80 C.E. Hadrian's wall was more around 122C.E. The Stanegate paralleled the wall or should I say the other way around, only further south. There were forts built every so often along its length.
Anyway, we lived between a village called Fourstones and one called Newbrough...pronounced New-bruff in Northumbian. Newbrough had a pub which made it much more interesting. http://www.redlionnewbrough.co.uk/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=96&Itemid=178
To the west of town was St. Peter's Church which was built on the site of a Roman fort. The fort must have guarded the crossing of the Newbrough Burn.
http://www.northumberland-cam.com/churches/newbrough.htm
One November day I went down to the church and was sitting in an alcove, out of the wind when this event occurred...
On The Stanegate by
Jack Kunst Newbrough, Northumberland 1992
The winter sun shines meekly
above the morning misty hills.
A westerly is blowing
through the valley where it wills.
Newbrough Burn, rushing swiftly
on its way to meet the Tyne.
Tumbles through the shadows
of trees, growing in a line.
The Sycamore and Beach
stripped of leaves and branches gray.
Reach up as with frozen fingers
on this cold November day.
On a flat beyond the rook filled trees
where the bridge spans o’er the burn.
A church squats on a smallish mound
as the Stanegate makes a turn.
Spread upon its sheltered aprons
‘neath the cedars and the yew.
The gravestones of those who’ve passed
glisten with winter’s dew.
Yet on this spot, this gentle slope,
in centuries long ago.
A Roman fort stood on the road
though few today would know.
For the Stanegate is an ancient track
built ages long before.
When there were nowt but scattered farms
of Celts along the Moor.
So it should not be surprising then
on days when winter calls,
to hear the echo’d cadence
as iron shod hooves approach these walls.
There’s a Roman on the Stanegate
his horse lathered, mud spattered and blown.
He looks across expectantly
to where his fort is overthrown.
They will not hear his urgent cry
nor the message that he carries.
All is silent in the churchyard
yet he lingers, yet he tarries.
Worry and confusion
crease the brow beneath the helm.
For he bears important letters
from the emperor of the realm.
Far off borderlands are falling
to tribes who murder, loot and burn.
Hence the call has come from distant Rome
for the Legions to return.
Yet, this solid four square church
with grounds of tilting stones,
stands coldly unfamiliar
to anything he’s ever known.
Now it’s a spiteful wind that circles low
and tugs along a fold.
And tearing back the mud attained cloak
bathes the soldier with the cold.
Flights of arrows his shield might break.
But his corselet of maile
or his sharpened sword are no defense
against the northern gale.
So with determined grimness
he pulls his red cloak tight,
as his weary mount cocks an ear
something’s coming, out of sight.
Horse and rider turn as one
to the unfamiliar sound.
Rubber tires on metal’d surface hiss,
heavy lorry shifting down.
The pony’s ears are twitching,
wind is ruffling his mane,
As he waits upon his rider
he champs his bit and tugs the rein.
But the Roman on the Stanegate
is still loathe to leave this place.
Where expected rest and shelter
have now vanished without a trace.
At length, the fast approaching din
becomes the final goad.
The rider turns his weary mount
and slowly heads back down the road.
The lorry comes and goes with a roar,
a scattered cloud of fumes and leaves.
In haste to make his distant rounds
driver sees not the soldier’s grieves.
Across the bridge and through the town
recedes the tortured whine.
Leaving just the winter wind to rattle
the Beaches in the line.
Then once again the old churchyard
is as silent as those who wait.
In their quiet tombs they will listen for
hooves upon the Stanegate.
