A Wizard divides the Eildon Hill (a 2-3 sandwich walk)

Once upon a time I was a little girl, had no conscious memory of the Eildon Hills, and I was talking to my Dad.

Dad was blethering. The Scots’ dictionaries will tell you “to blether” is to talk rubbish and “a blether” is a liar. Dad meant something softer. To shoot the breeze, to spin a yarn. Come and have a blether with your old man, Sarah.

And he told me, as if he had been there at the time, that the Wizard Michael Scot divided the Eildon hills into three in a bet with the devil.

The devil bet Scott his soul he couldn’t do it, and he could. Then Michael Scot bet the devil his soul that he couldn’t spin sand into rope at Tynemouth beach.

And, said dad, if you go down to Tynemouth beach on a winter night, to this day, you can hear the devil howling in rage as the sand he tries to spin falls back to the beach, over and over again.

The world used to have real magic to it, said Dad, straight faced.

Dad died in 2008. When I moved back North in 2020, I remembered the story. I was delighted to learn that Michael Scot had been real. Michael Scot, 1175-1232, mathematician, scholar, could read arabic as well as Latin and Greek, expert in rainbows who may have travelled with the Tuareg. Academic careers were clearly just as multinational in 1200 or so. The only Scot to be featured in Dante’s Inferno.

I was less delighted to learn that the Roman name for Melrose was Trimontium - three mountains. I imaged sharing this news with the Old Man.

The memory of Dad was of course undaunted. Well, I imagined him saying, that changes nothing. A wizard strong enough to divide one mountain to three hills would send echoes back in time as well as forward. The hill could be three hills in Roman times because of - Dad was stretching a bit here, even in my imagination, but not a good loser - quantum.

And wouldn’t that have disturbed Arthur and his Knights, also under the hill, or hills? I imagined asking. And cheeky monster that I always was, “Despite also being under Alderley Edge, Arthur’s Seat and Glastonbury Tor?”

Portals, suggested the memory. There’s no reason on earth why there couldn’t be a portal to the land of youth in each of those hills, all leading to where Arthur lies, waiting for Britain to need him.

He was suspiciously well rested in world war two, though, wasn’t he, Old Man?

I imagine Dad going quiet. Well, child, the imaginary man sighs. I wouldn’t dwell on that. That rather implies there’s something worse coming. And brightening - I imagine Dad suggesting a walk.

So - parking, yes, transport, yes, there’s a train as far as Galashiels then a bus. Toilets, none on the hill - and no convenient boulders either - but plenty in Melrose itself. The guidebooks say it’s 2.5 hours - I’d allow 4, with time for two snack stops and some general appreciating the view.

Also, they are steep. Yes, they’re only half a Monro. Eildon North is a cute wee 422m. But they’re steep, and there’s a sneaky saddle and back up to manage. I checked a couple of books and you’re looking at about 550m of ascent if you do all three, because of the coming back down and going back up bits.

The Eildon Hills, all three of them, are best done from Melrose.

You turn your back on the abbey and walk up the road towards Dingleton, where the bypass passes over your head on a bridge, and look for the little signpost to St Cuthbert’s way. Up through a little wood with well maintained handrails, along a field margin, and on up the obvious path to one of the glorious random benches that make walking the more touristed hills in Scotland such a joy. This is, in fact, a wonderful place for your first sandwich.

The path remains obvious, and there is no bog. Miracles, on both counts. St Cuthbert’s way takes you up to a saddle between the tallest peak - Eildon Hill North - and the two smaller peaks - Eildon Mid and Eildon Wester.

If you’re only doing one peak, Eildon North is the one. As well as being the tallest, there are remains of hill forts, and you can go down the other side to find the Rhymer’s stone. So if you’re doing all three, then do Wester and Mid before North.

The paths are pretty obvious, but they’re surprisingly windy. Don’t let the fact they’re not cairngorms fool you.

I’d find a nice patch of lee on one of the peaks for the second sandwich. Gird your loins a bit.

Then head down the nice obvious path on the other slope of Eildon North. This will take you down, again, along nice woods and with nice views. It comes in by the Rhymer’s stone.

Now, True Thomas Rhymer may not strictly be real… nah. The memory of Dad rebels at that. This story is 100% true, and I will tell you it as I told the kids as my dad told me, and earned an approving nod from a passer by who LOOKED like a wee old man but I cannot prove was NOT a fairy.

Thomas fell asleep under a thorn tree at the base of the Eildon hills. When he woke up there was a lovely lady, pale with hair of gold, riding a white horse, with a whole retinue behind her. And for some reason despite the fact I am sure he should have known better he went with her. As I’m sure YOU know, because YOUR gran raised you well enough to know, this was the Queen of the Fairies. No, NOT fae. Not at this point in time. Fairies. And off he went with her into the hill - presumably tiptoeing past old Arthur at this point - and to her kingdom. He feasted and entertained and presumably she liked him, because after 7 years she gave him a “gift” and sent him home.

And that “gift” was that he could only ever tell the truth. Which on the one hand, meant he was effectively a prophet. Ask Thomas if the crop would succeed and he couldn’t tell you the wrong answer. On the other, turning up 7 years late for dinner and saying “I went off into the hill with the prettiest woman you ever saw” probably didn’t endear him to the wife. However, he got on with his life and eventually vanished back into the hill, chasing a white hart.

And if you know a different version of that then so much to the good, living folk tradition and all that, but it happened my way and that’s that.

Anyway. The thorn tree’s great grandbaby is there to this day, and I won’t be held responsible for what happens if you sit down under it and eat your last apple.

Instead, you can head along the path by the edge of the bypass, cross using the nice safe underpass, and head back to the abbey.