One of my earliest memories is of boiling, painting, and rolling Easter eggs, aged about 2. I remember the smell of the coloured Indian inks as they dried on the still warm shells. The way the eggs bounced over te ridges of the slope down which we rolled them. The grass enhanced tasted of boiled egg eaten outside, as new born lambs bounded startled and sideways down the hillside. Mum laghing as I chased an egg, tumbled, and rolled after it, unhurt and enjoying the close cropped turf. The hill was known locally as The Roman Steps. As children, we delighted in the story that long, long ago, Roman soldiers gathered in their thousands on this hill, and made the ridges which corrugated it. Picts ran from their fort on Dunmore and Benarty, and drove them away, but hundreds died in the battle and its aftermath. The Romans never came back. This year, I shall once more roll my egg on the Roman Steps. It is less than a mile from my new house.
Posted on: Tue, 01 Apr 2014 20:30:41 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015