Weyland’s Maps
I can remember some of the names but whether I could point them out on the ground after all these years is another matter.
In those days Uncle Weyland used to take us off on expeditions from the camp. He wasn’t really my uncle. I don’t think he was anybody’s uncle, but that’s what all the kids called him.
When he led us out he used to wear what he called his English gear. That was tweed jacket and corduroy trousers. It looked old fashioned even then. If the weather was especially bad he’d take an equally old fashioned waxed coat to keep the rain out. He’d have a soft black cloth hat that he pulled down to his eyes, and over his ears, and he’d wear it like that until we got to where we were going.
We had those hats too, and when we got to where we were going he’d make us pull them up off our ears, however cold it was, because he said we needed to be able to hear everything that was going on around us. We didn’t have English gear. We had big padded coats with camouflage patterns on in black and green, which the Americans used to bring over and distribute around the camp. In the spring you could sell them for a good price to the people in the town, if you were prepared to take the risk, and then you’d get given another one in the autumn.
Our parents used to get nervous when Uncle Weyland took us on expeditions. Nothing was ever said, except, be careful now, and do exactly what you’re told, and don’t mess about. He’d get out all his maps and fold them into plastic covers so you could read them without them getting wet in the rain. Some of those maps must have been a hundred years old by then. You don’t see them around these days, which is what he said would happen. That was why he took us on the expeditions I suppose.
He’d lead us out of camp in a ragged column, sometimes as many as a dozen of us. The people would come out of their shelters to watch us go. Some would look away as he passed, but most would nod or smile, and once I saw a man I didn’t recognise raise his hands to his chest and clap, but the UN soldiers would just shake their heads and look sorrowful. Uncle Weyland said that they meant well, but were useless.
He would lead us up the valley, taking a narrow path that soon left the camp behind and angled across the hillside. Then we’d climb steeply for an hour or two, sometimes following the line of a stream, sometimes the finger of a ridge. There was scrub and young trees in those days. The sheep, of course, had already gone.
Eventually we’d pick up a ridge line and follow it, keeping just below the summit, so that the place we’d come from stayed in view, but the place we were going to existed only in our expectations. Then, he’d fling himself down, waving an arm for us to stop, and we’d crouch down on our haunches and wait while he crawled towards the crest.
There was no talking allowed after this. At the top we’d see him stick his head briefly above the false horizon, and then he’d shuffle back down a little way and slip out of his rucsac, and start to sort through the maps. When he’d found the ones he needed, he’d beckon to us, and we’d crawl to the crest too, fanning out on either side of him, the way we’d practised back at camp.
Then we’d get to look over the ridge, and see what lay ahead. That’s when the test would start. He’d point out some feature or other: an old barn, an abandoned farmhouse, a bridge, a cluster of houses at a crossroad. Sometimes it would be a natural feature: a patch of woodland, a waterfall, the confluence of two streams, a summit, or a cleft in the skyline. Then we’d have to name them from memory, memory of the maps, and of the sand-table model back at the camp.
Always one or two of us would be less than enthusiastic, and he’d turn on us with fierce sparkling eyes.
That’s your ancestor’s land, he would hiss. They knew every step of the way by name; every twist and turn, every crossroad and junction. They knew each road and track and path, and where it came from, and where it went to. They knew the names of the rivers and the streams, and of the waterfalls. They had names for the woods and for the fields, and for the marshes. They had names for the farms, and the houses, and the little villages. And when they remembered, he said, they had memories of all those places, and memories of the walls and of the gates, and of the individual boulders, and of the trees that stood out on their own. That was because it was their land, he said, and when you too know those names, then it remains your land, whoever lives upon it now.
He said he was a Cumberland Man, but none of us could find Cumberland on any of his maps. He said that was why you couldn’t be a Cumberland Man any more. And once I made the mistake of asking him where the border was, and he turned on me savagely and took me by the shoulder, and said, there is no border, and never you forget it!
And I glanced down across the distant fields to the edges of the town, and saw the checkpoints of the militiamen on the main road, where we traded the American jackets, and I saw the watch towers along the perimeters; and I wondered if they used the same names as we did for the hills we were watching from.
Which of course were names given to them long ago by people unknown to us and in a foreign tongue.
Weyland’s Maps
I can remember some of the names but whether I could point them out on the ground after all these years is another matter.
In those days Uncle Weyland used to take us off on expeditions from the camp. He wasn’t really my uncle. I don’t think he was anybody’s uncle, but that’s what all the kids called him.
When he led us out he used to wear what he called his English gear. That was tweed jacket and corduroy trousers. It looked old fashioned even then. If the weather was especially bad he’d take an equally old fashioned waxed coat to keep the rain out. He’d have a soft black cloth hat that he pulled down to his eyes, and over his ears, and he’d wear it like that until we got to where we were going.
We had those hats too, and when we got to where we were going he’d make us pull them up off our ears, however cold it was, because he said we needed to be able to hear everything that was going on around us. We didn’t have English gear. We had big padded coats with camouflage patterns on in black and green, which the Americans used to bring over and distribute around the camp. In the spring you could sell them for a good price to the people in the town, if you were prepared to take the risk, and then you’d get given another one in the autumn.
Our parents used to get nervous when Uncle Weyland took us on expeditions. Nothing was ever said, except, be careful now, and do exactly what you’re told, and don’t mess about. He’d get out all his maps and fold them into plastic covers so you could read them without them getting wet in the rain. Some of those maps must have been a hundred years old by then. You don’t see them around these days, which is what he said would happen. That was why he took us on the expeditions I suppose.
He’d lead us out of camp in a ragged column, sometimes as many as a dozen of us. The people would come out of their shelters to watch us go. Some would look away as he passed, but most would nod or smile, and once I saw a man I didn’t recognise raise his hands to his chest and clap, but the UN soldiers would just shake their heads and look sorrowful. Uncle Weyland said that they meant well, but were useless.
He would lead us up the valley, taking a narrow path that soon left the camp behind and angled across the hillside. Then we’d climb steeply for an hour or two, sometimes following the line of a stream, sometimes the finger of a ridge. There was scrub and young trees in those days. The sheep, of course, had already gone.
Eventually we’d pick up a ridge line and follow it, keeping just below the summit, so that the place we’d come from stayed in view, but the place we were going to existed only in our expectations. Then, he’d fling himself down, waving an arm for us to stop, and we’d crouch down on our haunches and wait while he crawled towards the crest.
There was no talking allowed after this. At the top we’d see him stick his head briefly above the false horizon, and then he’d shuffle back down a little way and slip out of his rucsac, and start to sort through the maps. When he’d found the ones he needed, he’d beckon to us, and we’d crawl to the crest too, fanning out on either side of him, the way we’d practised back at camp.
Then we’d get to look over the ridge, and see what lay ahead. That’s when the test would start. He’d point out some feature or other: an old barn, an abandoned farmhouse, a bridge, a cluster of houses at a crossroad. Sometimes it would be a natural feature: a patch of woodland, a waterfall, the confluence of two streams, a summit, or a cleft in the skyline. Then we’d have to name them from memory, memory of the maps, and of the sand-table model back at the camp.
Always one or two of us would be less than enthusiastic, and he’d turn on us with fierce sparkling eyes.
That’s your ancestor’s land, he would hiss. They knew every step of the way by name; every twist and turn, every crossroad and junction. They knew each road and track and path, and where it came from, and where it went to. They knew the names of the rivers and the streams, and of the waterfalls. They had names for the woods and for the fields, and for the marshes. They had names for the farms, and the houses, and the little villages. And when they remembered, he said, they had memories of all those places, and memories of the walls and of the gates, and of the individual boulders, and of the trees that stood out on their own. That was because it was their land, he said, and when you too know those names, then it remains your land, whoever lives upon it now.
He said he was a Cumberland Man, but none of us could find Cumberland on any of his maps. He said that was why you couldn’t be a Cumberland Man any more. And once I made the mistake of asking him where the border was, and he turned on me savagely and took me by the shoulder, and said, there is no border, and never you forget it!
And I glanced down across the distant fields to the edges of the town, and saw the checkpoints of the militiamen on the main road, where we traded the American jackets, and I saw the watch towers along the perimeters; and I wondered if they used the same names as we did for the hills we were watching from.
Which of course were names given to them long ago by people unknown to us and in a foreign tongue.