Philip Rutnam explains his love for this historic cultural meeting point
I’ve always liked borders. The sense of being at the edge, not necessarily one thing or the other. That and, frequently, the combination of remoteness with eventful history.
Many borders are memorable. Finland’s second city of Vyborg now lies wrapped in Russia. Vietnam’s distant border with Laos was the centre of France’s collapse in Indochina. But the border I love most is equally historic and much nearer home, England’s border with Wales.
For the last couple of years I’ve been walking Offa’s Dyke Path with one of my teenage daughters: 177 miles from one edge of Wales to the other, mostly through a near-empty landscape of fields, woods and hills.
Much of the countryside is spectacular: the Shropshire Hills near Clun; the Black Mountain ridge south of Hay; and the Clywdians on the north Wales coast. But there is quiet treasure to be found in less spectacular places too. I remember the deep peace of woods above Monmouth at dusk, the sudden appearance of a whitewashed mediaeval church after miles of greenery at Llangattock Lingoed, and the utter calm of the Upper Severn.
Whatever the map says, as the path goes back and forth across the border, this is neither England nor Wales but a strange, respectful amalgam of the two. Celtic place names frequent the ‘English’ side of the border – Maes Coed, Cwmmau, Olchon. River names may be older still – Lugg, Teme, Usk and Monnow – while castles may have been built by English conquerors, Welsh princes or both.
Now and then, like an inconstant companion, appears the dyke itself. At its best it strides up and down the steepest hills, eight feet high, with an almost Hadrianic sense of purpose. But it is the border I remember most – illogical, messy and lovable.