Pyderweb Crossbow Target Scotland Crossing The Borders In Quest Of The Bell Clan


Reading scotland – border crossing quest bell clan a solitary candle flickers on the highest stone tower window. a faint red glow outlining the distant ridge, silhouetting a bank of the rider against the sky. they thunder closer, intent pyderweb crossbow target on plunder … even murder. we are at tullie house museum in carlisle, england looks a sound and light show depicting a typical border raid by reivers, or bandit, night guerrilla action that took place from the 12th through the centuries mid 17th. sometimes the conflict is between neighboring clans; at other times, riding scottish clans joined forces with their bitter enemies to repel english occupation.


The theater lights up, illuminating the audience, and we note that the sign-in book is dominated by the signature of the visitor’s surname are identical to those of the major players in the anglo-scottish feuds border transformed into pyderweb crossbow target law-abiding citizens by terrorists in the day in the evening. so this is my husband, boyd, and i discover we are not the only ones on a foray into the past. our destination is the geographical area known as the borders: the chunk of much-fought-over land defined loosely by carlisle in the south; berwick, england, northeast and dalkeith, scotland (just south of edinburgh), to the north.



Pyderweb crossbow target – Great Scottish Clans

This is a once roamed the countryside by my ancestors, the bells and the maxwells. atypical scottish border family, they are among the ruffians and cattle rustlers who, in the 17th century, were deported by the british government in northern ireland. a generation or so later, the poor and resolute people with strong clan loyalties sought their fortunes in north america, in my case in pennsylvania frontier. american history books identify immigrants as the scotch-irish. fitting that one of their descendants, neil armstrong, the first man on the moon. while probing gnarled roots of my family, we see the storybook world they left with their fears.


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Having vicariously experienced a typical border raid, boyd and i wander across the street to explore carlisle castle, built pyderweb crossbow target by the normans in 1092, and the nearby carlisle cathedral, notable for its medieval carvings, stained-glass windows and the altar where sir walter scott were married in 1797. holding more appealing for us, carlisle is headquarters for the tour of hadrian’s wall. the taxi driver at the head of the cue turns out to be an expert on local history. he provides us with detailed maps to peruse the rest of his knowledge narrative.


From solway firth in the west to the river tyne in the east, he tells us, the 73-mile stone wall was built between 122-128 ad by the roman emperor hadrian to protect roman britain from tribes north. it tumbles to earth simultaneously desolate and felicitous. except melancholy cries of curlews and relentless winds that whip across this archaeological treasure, the surrounding moors is pressed. hadrian’s wall marches by fresh, rugged countryside, bounded on the north by the forest, parkland and barren crags rising nearly 2,000 feet. to the south, the cumberland plain is dotted with grazing sheep, roman ruins, ancient castles, and crumbling abbeys where monks once mass-produced good wools for local use and export.


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Naworth, featherstone, corby, toppin and bellister castles lie along the 10-mile stretch parallel to the wall. casual hikers and backpackers serious dot the roadsides, fortified with sturdy walking sticks, binoculars, and rain gear. nearly 2,000 years after the romans left, the preserved forts and signal towers attest to their engineering skills. every major excavation, a small museum houses relics reveal how the ingenious romans made themselves at home in a harsh terrain. they are constructed comfortable barracks, hospitals, storehouses, shops, inns, toilet and bath house. with so many examples of technology lying about, historians wonder why the barbaric natives learned nothing from their colonizers progressive and continue to live in primitive fashion for centuries afterwards.


Our driver waits patiently while we study the exhibits and buy the booklet read back home. after taking camera shots all the more photogenic for the brilliant blue sky dappled with cottony clouds, we returned to carlisle and catch the next train to rendezvous with our genealogist-hostess, has mckerrill. we learn early from others who enjoyed his hospitality that he should be addressed formally as the lady hillhouse (pronounced hill’-iss), and the scottish chieftain her husband, charles, can be defined as sir charles, or lord hillhouse. the rockets train north from carlisle past gretna in scotland. the countryside is a quilt of grassy mounds speckled with grazing sheep, accented by rough grounds, meandering stream, whitewashed cottages and stone fences of bygone ages.


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Minutes later, we train commute to lockerbie. except for the stationmaster, we were alone. the late afternoon solitude is heightened by the adjacent pyderweb crossbow target barren hill, site of the 1988 pan am explosion. shortly, a renault station wagon pulls up, the driver clad in blue tartan trousers introduction mckerrill family side, sir charles loaded us and our luggage to his car for a 10-minute drive west to lochmaben. on the way, he takes a short detour to point remembrance garden, lockerbie’s most visited areas, dedicated to the pan am victims. our roads parallel hiker-friendly dismantled railroad tracks leading from the lockerbie lochmaben, five miles to the west.


Beyond the village green overlooking exotic stone and brick cottage, lochmaben castle – site of the youth home of scottish king robert the bruce, who won independence for his country from england – lies in ruins. taking a cue from other borders aristocrats bent on weathering a depressed british economy, in may and sir charles welcome guests at magdalene house, their solid brick home named for the patron saint of the town. the cellars of the house dates back to the 14th century. first occupied by priests serving at the now-deserted in the nearby roman catholic church, it became a presbyterian manse after the reformation.


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Shining with mckerrill heirlooms, magdalene house warmly embraces visitors eager to cast their past. more circular stairway in the entry hall, a parlor opens onto a walled garden adjoining church cemetery. caressed by the sun, her lush plantings offer food for thought in a steaming pot of earl gray tea. every night at 7:30, may serves dinner stately dining room, its walls lavish red velvet flocking. candlelight romanticizes huge gilt-framed portraits of past lord hillhouse – all clad in distinctive blue tartan of their clan – and their elegant women. magdalene house is large enough to serve several parties of ancestor seekers, yet small enough to be comfortable for all visitors eager to join in may in his daily treks.


Morning at nine sharp, sated by a hearty english breakfast, guests scramble to may’s station wagon for an excursion through the villages and pastures dotted with ruined castles and towers marking the ancient tribe and family sites. genealogy is taken seriously here. residents of ancestral farmhouses and towers throughout the area can recite their clan families by heart. vastly church records confirm their accuracy. there is studied the history of every race and freely recites facts, figures, and traditional knowledge. he said that my bells are among the most visible of the borders family, their shield with three bells still to be seen etched on gravestones and above the many doorways throughout.


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Our bell countries encounter begins once it got hustles us in his car for a short drive to dumfries, the royal burgh and commercial headquarters dumfriesshire where, in 1306, robert the bruce murdered red comyn and declared himself king of scotland. it was the last home of the poet robert burns. he died at burns house in 1796 and was buried in the family mausoleum in st. michael’s churchyard just across the road. now, burns house is a museum that offers a movie about burns’ life, portraits of his family members, and original copies of his writings penned in his hand.


After perusing his lips, we contemplate more history at the old bridge house museum on the river nith. directly across the water to the village of maxwell town, made famous by the song dedicated to one of burns’ loves, annie laurie. later, from high in a refurbished windmill, the museum burgh, look at the red sandstone buildings and vast expanses of parkland that make up the town of dumfries. little has changed since my ancestors made their way through the thriving, narrow streets by foot or cart, except for a large safeway market to anchor the main shopping mall on the edge of town.


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On the road once again, we often glimpse ruined towers and thick forests we motor eastward. beyond lockerbie, may abandons modern speedway for back roads that meander through small settlements in annandale nithsdale and an ancient church dominating the village of middlebie. the raincoats and boots we packed reluctantly prove their worth as we slog through tall grass with beaded raindrops to inspect the cemetery thick with bell gravestones. despite the erosion and chipping, the etchings of three bells are different from each other. the cold, steady rain slowed to a drizzle we hit two bell homes built in the 14th century.


A direct view of the abundant horse farm in bankshill blocked by a high hump; the next house is secluded beyond a narrow passage and a wobbly plank bridge spans a deep gorge and waterfall. our cameras clicked steadily and i quickly fill the pages of my notebook as may chauffeurs us over the stunning hills and dales, once vast battlefields where my ancestors had fought to defend their land from other clans and english riding. as we drive, may recounts tales of local intrigue, none more powerful than the fair helen irving of kirkconnel, whose short life was entwined biting my bell line.


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The daughter of an early 16th century local land baron, helen was hailed as the loveliest woman in scotland. when her parents offered her pyderweb crossbow target hand to the handsome, wealthy richard bell, heir to blacket house, everyone declared it a perfect match. helen, however, had a secret love, adam fleming. aided by the perception servant, the sweethearts met secretly until the fateful night when bell materialized from the shadows bearing a bow. at the moment he is aimed, helen threw herself between the two men. as helen lay dying, fleming chased his rival on the banks of the river kirtle and pierced him with a sword.


Fleming fled to france, but did not dismiss the ghostly cry of helen. heartbroken, he returned to die draped across his grave and buried beside him. the tragic event was later recounted in a poem by sir walter scott. after bell’s death, blacket house will flow to subsequent generations, but not without angst. because every resident has reported the presence of richard’s evil ghost, which is usually credited with orchestrating family misfortune, from lost love to financial failure. now, blacket house was recognized as the seat bell family because it is the home of the last recognized chief of their families, william (redcloak) bell.


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Near the village of eaglesfield, the tower is all that remains of the original l-shaped blacket house. situated on 13 acres of lawn, garden and woods bounded on the east by the river kirtle, the surviving tower reaching four floors, walls and stairs intact, the highest window of perfect lookout. later, warmed by may’s dinner of local lamb grilled, herbed vegetables and lemon pudding, we expect a restful sleep. scottish night because notably moist and swiftly, close our bedroom windows and avoid lighting a gas heater. snuggled down under the quilt, i nod off, knowing that boyd’s fresh air fanaticism at work.


Halfway in a dream, i heard a crash. then a faint cry for help. still groggy, i followed the voice to the bathroom. boyd was standing spread-eagle on the windowsill. how did he get there, i wonder, and why he was gripping the upper half of the window? moments later i understand the whole picture: overheated by heavy quilt, she climbed out of bed to open the window more apt to funnel the draft in our heads. as he lifted the sash, the upper half of the casement fell less parallel, wedging his fingers in between. (we later learn that this style vertical sliding sash and case window operated by pulleys and weights were first installed in scottish house in the late seventeenth century, we suspect that the errant window has received no maintenance since then.


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) help arrives immediately in the form of our vigilant army, pry off the heavy frame boyd’s finger. sir charles survey the window, shaking his head. “i can not imagine why the pulley broke,” he mutters, jaw clenched. as of may speaking, i notice that the color drained from his face. “this is the bell ghost! he must have been watching from the tower. he mischief to declare himself the last proven chief of the bell clan.” boyd and i exchange glances. who are we to dispute scottish ken? emily cary is a prize-winning teacher and novelist whose articles about entertainers appear regularly in the dc examiner.


She is a genealogist, an avid traveler, and a researcher who incorporates landscapes, cultures and the power of music in his books and articles. situated on 13 acres of lawn, garden and woods bounded on the east by the river kirtle, the surviving tower reaching four floors, walls and stairs intact, the highest window of perfect lookout. later, warmed by may’s dinner of local lamb grilled, herbed vegetables and lemon pudding, we expect a restful sleep. scottish night because notably moist and swiftly, close our bedroom windows and avoid lighting a gas heater. snuggled down under the quilt, i nod off, knowing that boyd’s fresh air fanaticism at work.


0549049

Halfway in a dream, i heard a crash. then a faint cry for help. still groggy, i followed the voice to the bathroom. boyd was standing spread-eagle on the windowsill. how did he get there, i wonder, and why he was gripping the upper half of the window? moments later i understand the whole picture: overheated by heavy quilt, she climbed out of bed to open the window more apt to funnel the draft in our heads. as he lifted the sash, the upper half of the casement fell less parallel, wedging his fingers in between.


(we later learn that this style vertical sliding sash and case window operated by pulleys and weights were first installed in scottish house in the late seventeenth century, we suspect that the errant window has received no maintenance since then.) help arrives immediately in the form of our vigilant army, pry off the heavy frame boyd’s finger. sir charles survey the window, shaking his head. “i can not imagine why the pulley broke,” he mutters, jaw clenched. as of may speaking, i notice that the color drained from his face. “this is the bell ghost! he must have been watching from the tower.


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He mischief to declare himself the last proven chief of the bell clan.” boyd and i exchange glances. who are we to dispute scottish ken? emily cary is a prize-winning teacher and novelist whose articles about entertainers appear regularly in the dc examiner. she is a genealogist, an avid traveler, and a researcher who incorporates landscapes, cultures and the power of music in his books and articles. situated on 13 acres of lawn, garden and woods bounded on the east by the river kirtle, the surviving tower reaching four floors, walls and stairs intact, the highest window of perfect lookout.


Later, warmed by may’s dinner of local lamb grilled, herbed vegetables and lemon pudding, we expect a restful sleep. scottish night because notably moist and swiftly, close our bedroom windows and avoid lighting a gas heater. snuggled down under the quilt, i nod off, knowing that boyd’s fresh air fanaticism at work. halfway in a dream, i heard a crash. then a faint cry for help. still groggy, i followed the voice to the bathroom. boyd was standing spread-eagle on the windowsill. how did he get there, i wonder, and why he was gripping the upper half of the window? moments later i understand the whole picture: overheated by heavy quilt, she climbed out of bed to open the window more apt to funnel the draft in our heads.


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As he lifted the sash, the upper half of the casement fell less parallel, wedging his fingers in between. (we later learn that this style vertical sliding sash and case window operated by pulleys and weights were first installed in scottish house in the late seventeenth century, we suspect that the errant window has received no maintenance since then.) help arrives immediately in the form of our vigilant army, pry off the heavy frame boyd’s finger. sir charles survey the window, shaking his head. “i can not imagine why the pulley broke,” he mutters, jaw clenched.


As of may speaking, i notice that the color drained from his face. “this is the bell ghost! he must have been watching from the tower. he mischief to declare himself the last proven chief of the bell clan.” boyd and i exchange glances. who are we to dispute scottish ken? emily cary is a prize-winning teacher and novelist whose articles about entertainers appear regularly in the dc examiner. she is a genealogist, an avid traveler, and a researcher who incorporates landscapes, cultures and the power of music in his books and articles.