After some time, it becomes apparent that someone, or something, is following us. A figure remains some distance behind, maintaining the same pace, lingering just at the edge of vision as dusk descends over the parkland surrounding Burghley House. When we stop, the figure vanishes, only to reappear when we resume walking – a shrouded shape, a shadow stalking our steps. This is perhaps not unexpected, as the old Roman highway we have been tracing from Water Newton to Stamford is a nine-mile stretch steeped in history. Now overgrown and concealed, it was once a bustling part of a major north-south route that has served as a backbone through Britain for at least 2,000 years – a convergence of ancient trackway, Roman road, medieval path, pilgrim route, coach road, and modern motorway. Today, the A1 loops west, leaving these forgotten stretches of highway to their own devices. My fascination with the road connecting London and Edinburgh began years ago. While participating in an archaeological dig beside the A1 in North Yorkshire, I unearthed the remains of a man buried alongside an earlier iteration of the highway, possibly 18 centuries prior. Kneeling by that grave, with a stretch of Roman road exposed on one side and the rush of the motorway on the other, I felt acutely aware of time – past, present, and future converging. That feeling persisted, leading to extensive research and the discovery of family connections to this highway. I began to see it as more than just a road, but as a timeline through the land, a repository of collective memory. This led me to explore its 400 miles, walking its carriageways and tributaries across the country. This leg to Stamford is a revisiting. I am joined by a friend and writer who wants to experience the road's aura. We meet outside the Bell Inn in Stilton, a high street now bypassed by the A1. In the 1830s, 42 coaches and mails passed through Stilton every 24 hours. The inn's arch bears the destinations of these coaches, along with rumors of Dick Turpin's escapades. Inside, the menu features stilton, the Bell's renowned export. Though made miles away in Leicestershire, the cheese became popular in the Bell's dining room and was sold to passing coaches, thus acquiring its name. After lunch, we drive up the A1 to Water Newton, six miles north. Its only thoroughfare, "Old North Road," is like a loose fiber from the dual carriageway veering west to avoid the River Nene. Another preserved village emerges, with stone houses, lawns, and willows. It requires imagination to picture Durobrivae, the Roman walled town and transport hub that once existed to the east, with its travelers, livestock, soldiers, warehouses, potteries, kilns, and villas, bisected by the Roman road north, known as Ermine Street. To join Ermine Street, we cross the River Nene near the Norman church of St Remigius, where a slab commemorates Edward Edwards, captain of HMS Pandora, which was tasked with hunting down the mutineers from the Bounty in 1790. From here, the Hereward Way footpath follows the Nene, connecting with Ermine Street. While reduced and buried, the Roman road still reveals itself as a long ridge under the earth. We spend the afternoon walking through fields and woods, encountering the base of a Saxon cross – Sutton Cross – in the undergrowth. Approaching the parkland of Burghley House, the track becomes a footpath through green baize, dotted with oaks. As evening falls, we notice the figure following us. Burghley was built by William Cecil, chief adviser to Elizabeth I, and the area is also connected to John Clare, the rural laborer and nature poet who was a gardener at the house. In 1806, Clare jumped over the estate wall on his way home from Stamford to read poetry, a moment that changed his life, leading to writing, fame, and eventual mental illness. In 1841, Clare undertook a journey up the north road, fleeing an asylum to return home. We are discussing this when the figure appears. We quicken our pace to reach the estate gate where the path joins the old Great North Road. The figure disappears, but as we set off down the pavement, we see it ahead of us, turning the corner towards Stamford before vanishing into the dark. Stamford, described as "the finest sight on the road between Edinburgh and London," has clusters of churches and mazy passageways, giving it the feel of a condensed Oxford or Cambridge. The George, near the bridge over the River Welland, is an ancient coaching inn. Cromwell is rumored to have stayed overnight, and Charles I spent his last evening of freedom in the town. A century later, the Duke of Cumberland dined in the same room after defeating Bonnie Prince Charlie. Over pints, we discuss the history experienced during the walk. My friend mentions the figure, expressing its strangeness. But this is something to accept. Old roads lead to uncanny places, where time stands still and the past possesses the present.
