Where Eden, Caldew and smooth Petteril meet, Sits England’s northmost city: Cumbrian Carlisle. The Scottish border’s close; while within reach, The Solway Firth, the Pennines and the Lakes. A border buffer born of Roman need, its evolution defied a soggy climate through medieval and Victorian times. Today, Carlisle’s museum, Tullie, tells the story of old Luguvalium, a military hub for Hadrian’s Wall, and of the flourishing town with this stern heart, and of the timber forts replaced by stone. The original Roman grid survived what came, the land a palimpsest of war and trade. Norman Carlisle Castle, much besieged. Norman Carlisle Cathedral, once proud priory. The Border Reivers with their broken men, Debatable Lands allowing lawlessness. Then peace and the Industrial Revolution, Carlisle’s Citadel Station rising triumphant. All this I later learn, but while still there, absorbed the chilly autumn atmosphere as a stranger from an even stranger land. A piece of Owen Jones’ cathedral ceiling lives in our drawer, a blue star-studded tea towel that sparks more modest memories of the visit. The baps enjoyed at the cathedral’s cloister café. Discovering Tullie’s Pre-Raphaelite paintings. Seeing youths make mischief in the mall. Admiring a small dog on an old man’s lap.