William Ogilvie

At 2pm we attended the 100th anniversary of Fordham Hall in Roberton, a stone throw away from where we live in the Borthwick valley. I always nag Charlie to attend these functions, because we live here, we exist, existing with others has meaning, so we go, nonetheless to show our faces and support the hall. There was a talk by an elderly man, who I presumed was related to Mr and Mrs Forman, who built the hall in June 1923.

There was a talk by Dereck about another memorial, that he claimed boasts the best view of Borthwick water, although I'd have to disagree. To reassure myself, we visited the memorial, and found that our view of Borthwick water was the best. We were greeted with a friendly smile and seated; a few minutes had passed when we were offered a plate of cream cakes and a choice of tea or coffee. Animosity was mild, perhaps I felt over self-conscious, so many colourful summer dresses, yet I was cloaked in a solemn black. The Cherry tree they planted in commemoration is beautiful. Charlie purchase three strips of raffle tickets, but no prizes did we win.

"The hill road to Roberton: Ale Water at our feet,
And grey hills and blue hills that melt away and meet,
With cotton-flowers that wave to us and lone whaups that call,
And over all the Border mist – the soft mist over all.
When Scotland married England long, long ago,
The winds spun a wedding-veil of moonlight and snow,
A veil of filmy silver that sun and rain had kissed,
And she left it to the Border in a soft grey mist.
And now the dreary distance doth wear it like a bride,
Out beyond the Langhope Burn and over Essenside,
By Borthwick Wa’s and Redfordgreen and on to wild Buccleuch
And up the Ettrick Water, till it fades into the blue.
The winding road to Roberton is little marked of wheels,
And lonely past Blawearie runs the track to Borthwickshiels,
Whitslade is slumbering undisturbed and down in Harden Glen
The tall trees murmur in their dreams of Wat’s mosstrooping men.
A distant glint of silver, that is Ale’s last goodbye,
Then Greatmoor and Windburgh against a purple sky,
The long line of the Carter, Teviotdale flung wide,
And a slight stir in the heather – a wind from the English side.
The hill road to Roberton’s a steep road to climb,
But where your foot has crushed it you can smell the scented thyme,
And if your heart’s a Border heart, look down to Harden Glen,
And hear the blue hills ringing with the restless hoofs again".
From The Border Poems of Will H. Ogilvie (John Murray Hood, 1959).

The rain poured down as we left the hall; many folk complained about the rain, along the short distance to their cars. I parted feeling apprehensive of optimism, but Charlie was reinvigorated, this helped me take leave from social apathy; knowing he enjoyed this event is to know he gained something that I had somehow missed.