My little family of three crosses Hadrian’s Wall on foot, where it tracks the natural fortification of the Whin Sill. Intended as an expression of might, Britain’s most epic Roman structure now perhaps hints at something more futile: an attempt to keep the unmanageable out, and a reminder that nothing is owned for ever, if at all.
As the sun begins to sink, we leave access land to enter a steep pinewood bordering a lough. The strip of level ground at the bottom looks a perfect spot to wild camp, but a sound halts our descent: a brisk, semi-regular shhh-shhhhh-shhh.
