Hello, I'm Hadrian.

If walls could talk, I wouldn’t anyway. I’ve stood here for years, too many years sometimes, I think. But things change and since they built me in the year 123, I’ve never stopped changing but I am still here.

I think if I uttered one sentence, it would be, ‘I miss the fuss.’ There, I’ve said it. As a mere babe, I was no more than turf and a ditch. But there was excitement, movement and a need. They needed me back then, oh yes! Roman artificers designed me and at my best I stretched over eighty miles across England. Not England and Scotland as commonly thought. No, no, no, across Cumbria and Northumberland, from Bowness-on-Solway to Wallsend, I was responsible for keeping the barbarians in the north of England and Scotland.

Didn’t work, did it. I mean, a lot of the barbarians were already in England. They just didn’t want other barbarians to come down and steal their plunder. Don’t plunder from the plunderers! There was many a skirmish across my rocks. Afterwards, the Romans would paint my rocks red with the blood of the northerners and lay their bodies out for the ravens to pick over. Under cover of night, the tribes would come and collect the bodies of their dead for burial. Those that weren’t collected, the Romans buried in the ditches that ran alongside me. The next time the barbarians attacked, they risked putting their foot through the rotting corpse of one of their fallen comrades.

I’ve decided that I like people. And it’s just as well because I’ve seen a lot of them in my time. It all started with Emperor Hadrian who is named after me. He came over from wherever he lives and it was his idea that I should be built. Of course, he was just called The Emperor in those days, but after I was christened Hadrian Wall, he picked up on it. I don’t blame him. I was probably his most lasting achievement. He brought a big cat with him, ‘Magnus Leo’. The men loved it and later on, images of his lion were often carved on my corbels.

The next thing, actually, really, the first thing I remember as a proper wall, were the various languages. Amazing! Latin, of course, but languages from Romania, Spain, Africa, Belgium and even Syria. Mostly, the men worked well together but if you know where to look, there are some bodies buried at the base of my foundations. Six years they spent, bringing in the rocks. I was quite the industry! Villages sprung up to house the men. A few babies were conceived in my shadows. Petals were thrown when the men married their brides atop my stones. Then the children walked along me, holding their parents’ hands. Later they played at Barbarian Invaders and attacked each other with sticks. I was quite the attraction!

At one time, I even found fame as an altar. Someone had introduced the worship of a god called Mithras and their cult stole a bull and sacrificed it on my stones because from what I could understand from the chants, that’s something that Mithras had done, and they thought it was a good idea to copy. Later, the leader of the group was laid on the very spot that they had killed the bull and beheaded for the theft.

It didn’t take long before the Romans found out they couldn’t get to the trouble spots fast enough along my length, despite rotting bodies not being enough of a deterrent. They built little forts along every mile or so, then they stabled their horses and the soldiers lived in rooms behind the stables so that they could get to their mounts in a hurry if the barbarians came. It was lovely and warm. Those northern winters can be bitter so naturally they lit fires in their forts. My rocks glowed with appreciation. If only walls could smile…

After a while, I had some competition. About 15 years later they built another wall, called Antony. He was further north than me and of course I’d never have known about him except that some of the soldiers garrisoned there came back to me and I listened while they complained bitterly that by comparison, I was a much better wall. It’s true, walls have ears. Or ‘muri aures’ as the legionnaires would have said.

And then one day, they left.

I suppose it wasn’t all in one day, but to a wall like me, nearly 2,000 years old now, I realized that things were suddenly quieter than I was accustomed to. After about 500 years of activity and one nasty little war when the Romans got lazy and the barbarians struck one of the forts and killed everyone, the soldiers finally abandoned me! Me, who was charged with keeping them safe for all those years. I had protected them and they had maintained me. It had been an equitable arrangement. Oh, ordinary people still lived nearby, but the activity had died down, and it wasn’t long before the sheep moved in. When the cruel winds swept down from the North, the sheep herded themselves against my bricks for what shelter I could give them. I was happy to help, but sheep aren’t interesting like people are.

I waited a long time for people to come back. I knew they would, and occasionally, they did. But it was to rob me! General Wade came to crush the Jacobite rebellion and he ordered that my bricks and stones be taken to build a road! A Road! A stupid anyone-can-walk-all-over-me road! I was created to stop people. I was a great barrier! The Venerable Bede wrote about me, describing my length and importance now this clown comes and robs me for a mere road construction. If only walls could weep! How the mighty have fallen! And that wasn’t the end of it. Now I became a free wall for all, I was dismantled to build churches and houses. Goodly buildings in their own way, but not me. I was no longer me. I tried to find me, but now there were too many gaps. Parts of me formed farm walls and enclosed gardens. That's nice, but it's not my original purpose. Things change and I was forced to change too. If only walls could rage!

Finally, one man recognized my greatness. John Clayton bought up as much land as he could, that I still held and guarded. All through Chesters, Carraburgh, Housesteads and Vindolanda where the Romans had made their homes and fortresses, he bought and preserved. He revived national interest both in me and the old Roman occupation. Once again I enjoyed attention and featured in the writings of learned scholars. People exchanged gold coin to visit me and John Clayton used that gold to hire labourers to rebuild me, hopefully to restore me to my former glory – but it was not to be. While I may be immortal, John Clayton was not and when he died, the work stopped. If only he had lived. Walls can grieve.

I began to fall back into disrepair and despair. Lichen spread like a rash. Weeds invaded more successfully than the barbarians ever had, and bricks fell away before the push of saplings. But all was not lost; once again I was to be rescued. This time, by the National Trust who fell in love with me! They realized that I marked a treasure trail of Roman occupation and had a wealth of historical information scattered around my foundations. Personally, I had cursed the Romans for littering, but the National Trust archeologists got quite excited with the finds. Oh well, each to their own. It worked out well because although it took nearly 2,000 years, I was finally getting the garbage taken out.

Not long ago, ummmm, in the year 2010, I was celebrated. My entire route, including the missing sections, was lit up with 500 beacons. They called it: ‘Illuminating Hadrian’s Wall’. Okay, they didn’t get my name quite right, but I’m not complaining. And then they ‘twinned’ me with The Great Wall of China. I’ve heard that it is a bit bigger than me, but I doubt it. Anyway, that little loser Antony up north didn’t even rate a mention in the wall celebrations, so I’m not at all put out. If only walls could be smug!

These days, a new generation of children have been brought back to play here and while they are still allowed to walk on my bricks, they are encouraged not to in deference to my age. Instead, a path has been laid beside me for my admirers to walk along and point their little boxes at me by way of admiration. It must be some new form of worship because everybody does it.

Now, as I prepare to enter my second millennium, I am quietly confident, because I am. Quiet, I mean. You see, walls can talk; not with words, but by the history that we hold and the stories we can impart. I stand here, quietly allowing time to flow around me and if you stand quietly with me, I will share it with you.

Thank you for listening.