…and Through the Gap A fiery sun drops below the cloud cloud horizon and in a brief window of opportunity we are privy to a moment of glory. The mere is ignited and the starched land below the Lincoln Gap is bathed in a blood-red, evening light, that exposes millennia of human interaction. Beyond the Cow Paddle, the ghost of The Car Dyke. This lonely catchwater of memories is illuminated by a dying sun that wheedles out the ruts, runnels and furrows of its shallow grave. A frosty silence. I am struck by the clarity of a frozen industrial sound as it resonates across the fen. For it appears that the echo of our own navigation is no respecter of time, space or distance. Tucked up tight beside their heathen fires ‘the people of the gap’, pay inadvertent homage to Vesta and her celestial fires of yore. It appears we have entered a water-land of hogwash, bilge and dread. For here at Washingborough, we cross the threshold into another, more fluid world; one that is no respecter of the Roman directives of class and order.

Limping Over Horbling Fen A menacing bank of cloud hinders the procession of a lame, mid-winter sun as it limps over Horbling Fen. Up on Nimbus ridge, it begins to rain. Across saturated fields, I encounter a causeway that leads me out across the Car Dyke and into a land where strange customs and animal gods prevail. Spectres from days of yore. A timeless, stilted man wades cautiously through a brimming dyke – one that mirrors the intimidating leaden sky above me. He carries with him nets, rods and the accoutrements of his trade, for he is a fisher, a wader lost in time. Despite the historical musings of Morton, Stukeley, Rennie and Colonel King Fane, The Car Dyke still poses a conundrum. Is it a navigational canal, an imperial boundary or simply a catchwater drain? Perhaps it fulfilled a multitude of principles; some of which, our modern minds have yet to perceive. The weather has turned and the fen becomes enveloped within a dank, colourless shroud. I plan my retreat and retrace my steps back across the causeway into the real world.

Viridius Awakens I am the green shoots. I am the fresh breeze. I am the mighty wind. For I am Viridius and I have returned to claim my spoils. Through, clegg, clag and rutted land of low-road, fen and mere. I have come in search of the Car Dyke: a spirit ditch of Roman dreams. I snook through the limestone gap, that has been my home now for two-millennia or more, In pursuit of an ancient calling – a call to arms. But what have we here? What was once open grassland is now silted fields and the serpentine path of my great channel no longer demarks the low-fields from heath and wold. And I ask poor stranger, what have they done? What have they done? Disregarded, neglected and vandalised in search of what my friend? In search of what? I continue on and stumble across remnants of those mighty banks, and I thank the gods that some still remain. But most have fallen victim to the plough and are now but dark stains on sodden soil. For these ramparts alone retain the souls of the ancient Navvies who broke their backs in pursuit of a watershed of dreams. But I no longer recognise this glorious dyke for it has become bisected, dissected and quantified by Saxon thanes, who perceived my glorious cut as simply an administrative boundary and not as a magnificent example of Roman guile and endeavour. Perhaps it is best that I slink back from whence I came. Back through the gap to my silent, stone-lined tomb and resume my deep slumber beneath roots of St Martin’s yew.

The Dream of the Saltmen The great banks rose above our cottage and you could say, we lived in the shadow of the Car Dyke. As a small boy my dreams were vivid and dominated by the mighty ditch. Each night, as my head it the pillow, I entered another domain, a strange water-land where time and distance played no part. One dream in particular springs to mind, would you like to hear it? I was standing atop the great bank and staring east – out across the great level. The sky was clear and the stars shone like diamonds set inside a pitch-black dome. The water in the dyke appeared as a black, sparkling ribbon that mirrored the heavens above me. It was dark, really dark. No artificial light to pollute the sky in those days. I remember the stillness and the sense that I – even as a small boy - was part of a giant event that stretched back to a time when the cut was a crucial cog in the Roman landscape. Do you know what I mean? Beyond the dyke lived the others – salty tribes who existed beyond the reach of Rome. They lived a dank and dour existence and it is said, that the big skies had sent them mad, but they appeared sane enough to me; they just lived by their own rules - they banged their own drum. From my vantage I could see their flickering fires that burnt brightly in the sodden mire. And then it came, a supernatural light that began as a faint glow on the eastern horizon, but grew into a pink, ambient radiance that illuminated the fen. From their huts and their hovels, The Saltmen appeared. They congregated on the great level as if mesmerised by the celestial event. Even in my dream-world I could hear their chants and yelps of joy in the cold night air. On the causeway below me, a gathering of Roman infantrymen became transfixed by the strange light. And I could see from their faces they were truly afraid. Although it was only a dream, I truly believe that those who lived beyond the great dyke were held in reverence by the occupiers, for they were the guardians of an ancient, supernatural knowledge that lay beyond the grasp of Rome.