The Wild Mountain Thyme

Why do you love history? It is a question I am often asked. The simple answer would be, why not?

The truth is, I see history everywhere and every day. Tomorrow, today will be history; therefore, we must make today count.

I appreciate that many people place more importance on the future than on the past; I understand that. It is a question of balance.

Failing to look ahead and failing to plan can lead to a society that gets messy without those who forecast what lies ahead. However, we must learn from past mistakes, and predominantly, strive not to repeat them.

We recently drove south of the border, the Scottish English border, that is. The past and the present blend together in their inimitable way when undertaking a motorway journey.

 Firstly, I must say that the amount of greenery and woodland out there never ceases to amaze me. Great Britain is a comparatively speaking, small country. When I am in a city or even a town, it is easy to imagine that every square inch of our land is populated by houses, shops, architecture, some buildings decidedly lacking architecture, and people, lots of people.

When it was my turn to be a passenger, I allowed myself the luxury of drinking in our wonderful countryside and savouring it like a fine wine from a local vineyard (yes, we have those in Britain)

On certain parts of the journey, I looked at field upon field, hill upon hill, sporting numerous shades of green. From lime, chartreuse, and apple to emerald, sage and olive, the green was speckled with rusts and golds, interwoven with dashes of pink and smatterings of yellow. Some fields were divided by blue ribbons of trickling water meandering amongst riverbanks and stones. Tumbling frothy white waterfalls in all shapes and sizes rushed towards their terminuses and, of course, acre upon acre of lovingly tended fields of crops of all shapes and sizes for the benefit of humans and animals alike.

A plethora of farm animals furnished dry stone-walled fields, cattle in varying shades of warm honey, dark treacle, golden blonde, some even looked like a smattering of humbugs lazing on the hills in the distance. I was delighted to see some highland cattle, my favourites of the bovine world, because they remind me of Layla, our Newfie!

 Horses foraged, bolted and danced to their own tune. Of course, there was a healthy dose of ruined, as well as pristine buildings, from castles to elegant stately homes nestled snugly in dips and atop mounds, defying the passage of time, commonly surrounded by ancient woodland.

Delightfully dippy and docile sheep with fast-growing lambs were oblivious to our presence as they grazed contentedly on sprouting shoots of flora. I saw a devoted farmer with his or her clever sheep dog in tow, seemingly speeding in their UTV packed with buckets full of pellet food for the flock, who from a great distance looked like munching cotton wool puff balls with sticks for legs.

As we drove, my mind drifted, soaring like a bird of prey surveying the land, imagining what the ruins looked like when they were being utilised, who lived and worked there, what did they eat, what did they wear, what was happening in the country at the time. Was there a war?  Who was the monarch at the time? On and on, I allowed my imagination to take flight. I partly blame author and television presenter Ruth Goodman for this. When I read her books, drinking in the overabundance, if there is such a thing, of social history, it just makes me thirsty for more. That woman can bring the past to life with such passion; I adore her work.

 It is easy to imagine that nothing much has changed in the British countryside for centuries. The landscape is, of course, dotted with necessary pylons, wind farms, telecommunications towers, etc. That said, I am blessed with the remarkable ability to block the 21st century out, likewise with the miles of grey motorway planned by those looking to the future, and a necessary addition to the landscape for which I am grateful on journeys like these when I am anxious to reunite with family.

Both of my daughters are fortunate. They live in historical English towns comprising and surrounded by beautifully preserved buildings and structures. We walked on cobbled streets, embraced the atmosphere, shared meals, met new people, enjoyed conversations and created memories that will last a lifetime.

One special memory for me was sitting on the patio as darkness fell on our balmy last evening together. Fairy lights twinkled, flowers swayed in their unique floral dance, seductively reacting to the gentle breeze. The moon shone in the cloudless sky as my daughter's partner played ‘The Wild Mountain Thyme’ on his guitar. It is a hauntingly beautiful love song, one of my late mother’s favourites. It is a song about the arrival of summer, which encompasses all the sights, scents and senses that accompany that long-awaited arrival. A magical evening indeed.

 Living in the moment whilst creating our personal history, surely there is nothing better?

JHW July 2025.

#socialhistory,#ruthgoodman,#countryside,#history,#lovesongs,#scotland,#england,#farmanimals

“Oh, the summertime is coming, And the trees are sweetly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme grows around the blooming heather.

* Will you go, lassie, will you go? And we'll all go together, pull wild mountain thyme all around the blooming heather, Will you go, lassie, go?

I will build my love a bower by yon clear and crystal fountain, and all around the bower, I'll pile flowers from the mountain.

I will roam the country o'er Through that dark land so dreary; And all the spoils I find, I'll bring to my darling dearie.

If my true love, she won't have me, I will surely find another pull wild mountain thyme All around the blooming heather.

Oh, the summertime is coming and the trees are blooming and the wild mountain thyme grows around the blooming heather”

 The lyrics and melody are based on "The Braes of Balquhither," a song by Scottish poet Robert Tannahill Smith and composer Robert Archibald.

Adapted and popularised by Irishman Francis McPeake (1885-1971)