Under Red Kites

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We were treated to a wonderful aerial display of a red kite swooping down low over trees and being harried by two smaller birds which no doubt feared for the safety of their nests.

This is the secret of England: tiny country lanes that weave their way through the countryside and offer glimpses of ancient patterns of life when such great birds were once more abundant. Lanes that can take you back into the very heart of the past.

Our lane took us to a bridge across the River Nene. A crossing where many had once died in the attempt before Elizabeth I had a bridge built there. We sat eating chocolate cake were once parliamentary soldiers had marched across Elizabeth’s bridge scoring out her name with the points of their swords. This old bridge is now long gone and has since been replaced.

There is a church on the hill that dominates the scene. Tombs of ancients are interred therein; and nearby we climb an ancient mound, all that is left of Fotheringay Castle where Mary Queen of Scots was executed.

Someone has left a fresh bunch of colourful carnations by the entrance way. We have read the description of her death and even know of her acorn buttons and the ring that slipped from her finger engraved with the name of the one she loved.
Sandy Denny is singing her song in my head as we look across the meadows and down towards the peaceful flowing river.

It’s an odd place: a place where the road turns unexpectedly to the east and a place where the river turns to flow unexpectedly towards the north. There are blocks here. There is more than just the executioner’s block that Mary’s fingers fumbled to feel. This place has been stopped. The free flow of time has parted around this place in the way that a river flows around a stone in its course and leaves untouched it with eddies of its own.

Henry VIII’s wives knew of this place and walked along its shores. Long before them Richard III drew his first breath here. The place has been touched by wealth and grandeur which has now been robbed away.

It’s a place that jars time, and roughs up visitors with Mary’s pleas and tears that went unheeded.

A red kite circles the church as we eat chocolate cake. Then as we drive away we slip into the freer air and gentle peace of the surrounding countryside from which Fotheringay holds itself aloof.

minutes have passed another red kite attempts to impress us with an acrobatic display.

‘Nay,’ we say this time, and we don’t bother to stop and watch.

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