Chapter Nine
The Roman Road
The Wakes, two weeks in summer when construction workers took their holidays, had started. Uncle Steve, a master builder, and the only worker in his firm with a driving license, usually picked up his co-workers early in the morning and drove them to their current job site. During holidays he was given personal use of the company lorry. On this, the first Monday of the holiday, he had an unusual load; three bicycles and three knapsacks, carefully stacked amongst the tools and sand on the flat bed. Three boys, curious to know where they were going, sat jammed in the cab next to him.
The early part of the drive, down the main road to Ulverston and along the coast road to Bardsea, was familiar, but a left turn off the main road in to a hedge fringed country lane took them into unknown territory. Even P.C., who was rumoured to have acquired his considerable knowledge of local geography on illegal poaching trips with his father, was at a loss. The short lane ended abruptly on a rock-strewn beach, opposite the familiar, but still mysterious, Chapel Island.
"This is it lads. Here's where you get out. This is supposed to be the start, or the end, depending which way you look at it, of a Roman road. I want you to follow it. I'll pick you up at the other end around teatime. Let's say four o'clock."
"I don't think we'll make it, Mr.Dover."
"Why on earth not, Rev?"
"I've heard that all Roman roads lead to Rome. That's quite a long way."
Uncle Steve laughed. "That's quite true, Rev, but you are only following part of the road. I'm sure you'll make it easily by four o'clock if you don't waste time fooling around. Remember too that Roman roads are famous for being straight. This is no exception. If you ever have to make a choice, keep going in the same direction. Did you bring your compass, Rev?"
Rev nodded.
"One other thing. Be careful. Any accidents and your parents might put a stop to our adventures. Once or twice you will have to cross main roads. Stop, look right, look left and right again before crossing. It might even be a good idea to walk your bikes across."
Instructions given, Uncle Steve helped the boys unload their bikes and knapsacks, wished them well, boarded his lorry, and drove off up the lane.
The boys loved bike riding. Very few families owned cars and the country roads were quiet. It was quite common for groups of them to take day- long bicycle trips along known routes. This was different. Their destination was a mystery.
The lane leading back from the beach to the coast road was straight and flat, but P.C. immediately ran in to difficulty. The hedgerows were in full bloom and the scent of wild rose and honeysuckle hung heavy in the air, making conditions difficult for an asthmatic.
"Are you going to be alright, P.C?" asked Henry, who had noticed P.C's laboured breathing.
"I'll manage," wheezed P.C. "On the tops the hedges will be replaced by dry-stone walls."
"Are we going up the tops?"
"We're heading in that direction."
On reaching the coast road, the boys dismounted, looked both ways and then trotted across the empty asphalt.
The road ahead continued in a westerly direction, but they were now faced with an incline that would have tested the best climbers in the Tour de France. The boy's bikes were not really designed for the assault. They were still riding gearless two wheelers. It was accepted that they would not obtain a three speed until they were in their teens, two to three years in the future. Undaunted the trio decided to attack the hill in their usual competitive manner. It would be impossible to make the summit so they would see who could reach the highest point.
At first glance this would seem to be no contest as P.C. had recently experienced a growth spurt, and was by far the tallest and strongest of the threesome. However, he was asthmatic and had the smallest bike. Henry was quite chubby, but blessed with great reserves of stamina. Rev was not in the least athletically inclined and tended to use his wits to offset the disadvantages resulting from his rather frail physique.
Henry was the first to go. He set off along the gentle approach to the hill, at what for him was blazing speed, reasoning that this would carry him further up the gradient. He headed straight up the slope but within seconds was forced in to a standing position as he strained to keep the pedals turning. The effort became too great, and he clumsily dismounted, after barely making it half way up the escarpment.
Rev very rarely won these competitions that were so popular with his friends, but he was always willing to have a go. He made a much slower approach to the hill, but to no avail. Long before he reached Henry his forward progress halted, and he was in imminent danger of going backwards. He hastily dismounted.
P.C., determined to maintain his status as the best athlete in the group, tried something different. Like Henry, he built up speed in the lower reaches, but was already standing on his pedals as he entered the steepest portion. Instead of heading straight up the hill he started to weave from side to side, using the full width of the road. Grimacing with pain, purple-faced from the strain and lack of breath, he inched towards Henry. With one last muscle-knotting push on the upper pedal, he achieved his goal, raised his arms in triumph, and ignominiously crashed into the hedge.
Luckily, P.C's injuries were minor and didn't interfere with the rest of the climb, most of which they spent on foot. The bikes had been more of a hindrance than a help in this initial part of their journey.
After a brief rest at the summit, the boys remounted and continued their journey along a short stretch of road bordering the local golf links. A mysterious stone monument loomed over the course. None of the boys had ever been and actually seen the structure up close, but this didn't prevent their usual characteristic speculations. Henry thought it might be a lookout built at the time of the Spanish Armada, Rev, a Victorian folly, and P.C. believed it marked the ninth green. As usual they couldn't agree.
The road ahead suddenly started to curve to the right for no apparent reason.
"What's happened to the straight and narrow?" asked Henry.
"I think I know," replied P.C. "Me and you, Henry, we were near here the other day."
Henry gave a puzzled look.
"Over there on your left. Can't you see the mound? It's the one we found when we were heading towards Ulverston. Don't you remember?"
"Of course. That's one of the barrows.. But you know what that means?"
Rev just knew what was coming.
"They have built this road around the edge of the moor and not disturbed the mounds. The Romans avoided the burial ground."
"Maybe it was just easier to avoid the barrow," said Rev, sarcastically.
P.C., ever the peacemaker, changed the subject. "I have an idea why the Romans built this road. It leads to Lowfield Bridge."
"And what's there, P.C.?" Rev asked.
"Iron mines."
After passing the mound the road straightened out and led them to a small surmountable hill followed by a gradual descent to a crossroads. Beyond the junction the rugged landscape changed. One more excruciating climb and they emerged on to an intensively farmed limestone plateau. A following wind and bright sunshine buoyed the boys, and progress was rapid.
"There it is. Lowfield Bridge. Uncle Steve brought me here once to go ice skating."
"I didn't know there was anywhere to skate around here," said Rev.
"It's right next to where the road goes under the railway bridge." Henry's memory, for once, hadn't failed him. A large expanse of murky brown water came in to view. "Uncle Steve told me that when he was a boy there was a terrible accident here. One day, just as a train was passing over the bridge, the ground just opened up, the bridge collapsed, and the train fell through."
"He's been pulling your leg again, Henry."
"Not on this one, Rev. He showed me pictures of the wreck in an old Evening Mail."
"I can well believe it," said P.C. "My Dad says the ground round here is not too safe and that there are sink holes all over the place."
"What are sink holes?" asked Henry.
"In the old days a lot of iron mining went on here, but they had to stop when big holes started to appear all over the place. My Dad called it subsistence, or something."
"Subsidence, you mean," said Rev, unable to resist a correction.
"Anyway these holes rapidly filled up with water, and the mines became unworkable."
"Have you seen one of these holes?" queried Rev.
"I think Henry's skating rink is one, and there are many more on the other side of the main road. Don't worry, Henry! They're all fenced off."
The traffic on the A590 was light and the boys crossed without difficulty. Their route continued straight as an arrow in to the Furness fells, but the boys' attention was drawn to a broken stile leading in to the scarred remains of ancient mines.
"Isn't this where we came to watch the scramble, P.C.?"
"Sure is. That was a lot of fun watching the motor bikes flying over those bumps."
"All I remember is the noise and all that bright red dust. I looked like a red Indian when it was over."
Rev had never been to a scramble, and feeling like an outsider, interrupted Henry and P.C's reminiscences. "What's a scramble?"
P.C., being the expert, explained. "They were motorbike races, which followed a narrow rugged path through the pitted land."
"How far is it round the course?" asked Rev.
"I'm not sure," said P.C. "but the scramblers cover it in about three minutes."
"So we should be able to go round in about fifteen minutes. Why don't we have a race?" It was most unusual for Rev to suggest such an activity, but he really wanted to make up for his earlier miserable showing on the hill climb.
"Why don't we do it as a time trial, then we can eat our lunches at the same time?"
"Good idea, P.C.," said Rev. "Who goes first?"
Rev and Henry made their way to a grassy knoll overlooking the course and opened up their lunch boxes whilst P.C. wheeled his bike to the designated starting point.
A wave from Rev, and P.C. was on his way. He soon realised it wasn't going to be easy. The path was strewn with chunks of shattered rocks embedded in clinging red sand. Ground that the motorbikes crossed with ease acted like quicksand. It was hard work to push the pedals even on level ground and the hillocks, designed for aerobatics, proved impassable. Undaunted, P.C. battled his way round, and in a show of bravado actually accelerated over the last stretch and rounded the last bend like a seasoned Speedway rider.
"Fifteen minutes forty seconds, P.C. Not too bad," yelled Rev.
"Not too bad! I'd like to see you do any better. It's really tough."
"We'll see. It's Henry's turn now."
Henry made his way to the start with some trepidation. He knew deep down that his chances of beating P.C's time were remote, and he really didn't feel confident about handling some of the steep parts.
Almost twenty-five minutes passed before P.C. and Rev started to worry. Even Henry couldn't be this slow. A forlorn figure, pushing his bike, appeared in the distance. P.C. waved. Henry slumped to the ground. P.C. and Rev jumped on their bikes and rushed to his aid.
Henry, cheeks tear stained, sat on the ground, gingerly inspecting the graze on the outside of his right knee. Blood was oozing through the red earth covering the wound. Rev was the first to act. He took a water bottle from his bike, washed away the clinging earth revealing a skinless patch. The damaged area was too large to be covered with a plaster from their kit, so Rev used a handkerchief of dubious cleanliness to staunch the flow.
"The Elastoplasts will keep it in place, Henry, but I don't envy you when you take this off. The scab will stick to the hankie. It will rip off and start bleeding all over again."
"Don't worry about that. What about my bike? Can you fix that?"
P.C., who was quite squeamish, had already started work on the mangled bike. In no time at all he had straightened the handlebars, and replaced the chain that had been torn from the cogs. "Lucky no tires were burst or we could have been here for a long time."
"But what should we do now, P.C.? Henry is hurt, and we still must have quite a long way to go. This couldn't have happened at a worse spot. We have to be about halfway. I suppose it's up to you Henry. How do you feel?"
By this time Henry had struggled to his feet and was slowly flexing his knee. "I think I'll be alright. It stings a bit when I bend the knee, but I suppose I'll get used to it. And anyway I don't think we have much choice. We have to meet Uncle Steve at the end of the road, wherever that might be."
They decided to continue. Rev's time trial would have to wait for another day. The stiffness in Henry's leg eased as they pedalled in to what had obviously been the heart of the ancient mines. Everywhere the earth was bright red in colour and some of the exposed rocks had a purple hue. Large areas were forbidden to the public. Signs were everywhere, "Entrance Forbidden", "Danger Subsidence", and even the occasional skull and crossbones, none of which seemed to perturb P.C.
"Do you want to see a real sinkhole, lads? It'll only take a minute."
Rev and Henry were, to say the least, hesitant, but after some cajoling agreed to join P.C. They left their bikes at one of the forbidden entrances, and headed for a barbed wire fence on the crest of a hill.
"It can't be that dangerous if the farmers leave their sheep out here." Rev had noticed the closely cropped grass and the abundance of black droppings. "And there is one bleating its head off up there. I wonder what's bothering it."
"Let's go and see," said P.C. moving towards the noisy ewe. It seemed very strange that the usually timid animal stood its ground as they approached, and continued bleating. The distressed animal was standing by the barbed wire, bringing the boys' attention to its offspring trembling on a ledge overhanging the sinkhole.
"The lamb must have got under the wire. It's so frightened it can't move. I'll go and get it."
"I don't think you should P.C. Just look at the hole. It has to be at least a hundred feet down and it's a sheer drop. What if you fell? How deep is that water down there? If it's a flooded mine it won't have a real bottom."
"Geeze, Rev. If I listened to you I'd never get anything done," muttered P.C.
Ignoring all protests, P.C. carefully squeezed under the lowest strand of the vicious wire and worked his way on hands and knees along the lip edge. The lamb was stranded on a protruding ledge about five feet below. In order to clamber down P.C. had to cling to knots of grass embedded in the red scree. He gouged footholds out of the yielding earth. Inch by inch he made his way towards the stranded beast. With one last lunge he landed on the ledge. His added weight proved too much. The earth crumbled under him.
The dust cleared. Rev and Henry peered in to the hole hoping to see a head bobbing in the water. But no, P.C. was spread-eagled in the branches of a tree on the side of the hole about halfway down. He had slowed his descent by frantic clutching at the shale and luckily a protruding fossilized oak had brought him to a stop well above the water line.
"P.C., P.C., are you alright?" yelled a frantic Henry. Apart from a few scrapes and bruises P.C. was unhurt but trembling with shock and unable to answer Henry's cry. Involuntary convulsions racked his whole body and he felt an all-encompassing chill.
"Should I go for help? Get a rope ladder or something?"
"No", squeaked a shaken P.C., as he slowly regained control.
The blackened tree was part of a primordial wood that had been buried for eons. The creation of the sinkhole had exposed intertwining trunks and branches, offering a possible route back up the face of the pit. The petrified tree cradling P.C. was quite sturdy and an exploratory pull on a protruding root proved encouraging. The ancient wood might offer adequate support.
Carefully P.C. placed both feet on the broad black trunk and used two conveniently placed branches to attain a vertical position. Testing every branch and root for stability he laboriously climbed out of the pit. At no time did he look down, but kept his eyes constantly upwards, searching for the rim and the two pairs of staring eyes that were following his every move. For about the last twenty feet of his ascent he had to resort to his earlier surface-hugging technique. Words of encouragement poured from Rev and Henry as their eager arms reached out to pull him over the protruding edge.
"Phew, P.C. What a scare you gave us."
"No more than I gave myself.'
"Don't you think we'd better move away from the edge, on the other side of the barbed wire?" suggested Henry. "I don't think I could take any more accidents today."
The boys followed Henry's advice, rolled under the barbed wire and spent some time relaxing in the grass, staring at the blue sky, lost in thought. Rev broke the silence.
"We'd better not tell anyone what happened. If my parents ever found out I wouldn't be let out again."
"Me neither," said Henry. "We'd better start being more careful. All we were supposed to do was follow the road and I think we'd better be moving on. Do you feel okay, P.C?"
P.C. nodded. The shaking had stopped. The chastened boys made their way to their bikes paying no attention to the lamb gambolling around its mother on the crest of the hill. It had somehow scrambled clear.
The road became their adversary as it climbed steeply towards the forbidding moors. Now there was no evidence of farming or habitation, just bleak bracken, spotted with rare gnarled trees bent out of all recognition by the frequent westerly gales. Even on this summer day the boys faced a challenging head wind. Progress was slow and fatigue began to take its toll. Stops became more frequent, and secretly they each began to wonder if they would meet their deadline. Surely Uncle Steve would wait, or come and look for them.
At last the crest was in sight, and encouraged by the prospect of a long descent their aching muscles pumped the pedals with a little more vigour. Their enthusiasm waned at the top of the hill. Before them the road led directly to a dark, brooding body of black water. On the far bank they could see the road, straight as ever, reaching for another summit, but in between it swerved from its course, following the wired banks of the forbidden tarn. Earlier the boys might have wondered about this, but now all their thoughts and energies were concentrated on ending their gruelling trek.
The next climb proved to be the last. From the summit they had an incomparable view of the Duddon estuary, and the surrounding Cumbrian Mountains. Far below, they could see the shadows of scudding clouds gliding across the golden sand bars and sparkling blue waters. Young boys are not known to be scenic nature lovers, but this trio drank in the landscape as they regained their collective breath.
A milestone revealed that Kirkby Ireleth was still five miles away. They were due to meet Uncle Steve in twenty minutes. That must be their destination. Speed was of the essence, but not a problem. They were able to freewheel the rest of the way down the escarpment, constantly applying brakes, to prevent breakneck speeds. Henry constantly worried about the possibility of brake failure, and an unexpected cattle grid caused them all a few anxious bone-rattling moments. Caution returned as they entered the village, and all three safely screeched to a halt at the junction of the steep hill and the main road.
On the opposite side of the road, the familiar lorry was parked on the grassy shore.
"No problem then, lads?"
"No problem, Uncle Steve. It was a piece of cake."
Uncle Steve merely smiled as he loaded the bikes on to the back of the lorry. By the time he climbed in to the cab and turned the ignition his bruised dust covered charges were fast asleep. The interrogation would have to wait.