On Hadrian's Wall

Last night on PBS I watched a program on Hadrian’s Wall. In 122 A.D. the Roman Emperor Hadrian came to Britain and ordered his legions to build a wall across the island at the narrowest point. It was a mammoth undertaking which kept his soldiers busy for many years. The remains of the wall stretch up and down hill like the Great Wall of China forming the border between England and Scotland.

Today at the retirement community where I live, I gave a talk on England The old ladies, who gathered in the living room to hear my talk, never heard of Hadrian’s Wall. I guess last night while I was watching PBS, they were watching American Idol or The Biggest Loser.

I first saw the wall in 1983. Mother, my son David, and I were on a month’s trip around England, Scotland, and Wales. On a cold, wet afternoon, I turned our little red rental car off the highway into a small asphalt lot. We were the only car there. Mother stayed in the car, while David and I climbed a steep hill, getting soaked in a freezing drizzle. Eighteen-year-old David bounded ahead while I struggled, huffing and puffing, to haul myself to the top of the hill. We found the wall, now reduced from its 30-foot original to the height of a garden wall. Even I was able hoist myself up.

We walked along the top of the wall for several hundred feet. I kept telling myself, “I am walking where Roman soldiers marched two thousand years ago!” It did not seem real.

David and I were both chilled to the bone. We soon gave up on trying to evoke the ghosts of Romans and went back down to the car.

The narrow highway ran along the base of the hills, but as darkness enveloped us, we could not see even a hint of the wall which paralleled us on the crests. We were all glad when we came to the bed and breakfast where we had reservations. It turned out to be a small hotel in a Victorian brick building which reminded me of old Catholic schools in the States. Our hostess was waiting to serve a most welcome supper of vegetable soup, followed by hot roast beef and potatoes. We were the only guests in the spacious dining room.

After supper David went up to bed. Mother and I went into the sitting room, where we were surprised to find a man and woman sitting close to the gas fire. We introduced ourselves. I told them I was from Chicago. They were Americans from Long Island, New York. The portly, gray-haired man was recently retired from Standard Oil; they were celebrating his retirement with an extended trip of the British Isles.

We talked about places we had both visited in the last few days. Then came the surprise. This couple from New York had grown up in Fort Worth. All four of us, on that cold, wet night in that remote place in the North of England, had attended the same high school. We ended the evening, not with ghosts of Roman soldiers, but recalling our terror of out Spanish teacher, Miss Bomar, at Paschal High School in Fort Worth, Texas.