A Stone that Once Mattered — A Forgotten Boundary

A low-angle view of a nondescript triangular stone, half-buried in a bleak expanse of dry, brown heather. The pale sandstone stands out against the darker, tangled vegetation, with the occasional patch of golden rushes breaking the monotony. In the distance, the low hill of Easby Moor stretch across the horizon, its gentle slopes leading to the barely visible Captain Cook’s Monument, a thin obelisk standing against a clear blue sky streaked with high cirrus clouds—the harbinger of an approaching weather front.

A local archaeologist, who appeared to know what he was talking about, suggests that these upright triangular stones, not uncommon across the North York Moors, were prehistoric boundary markers. Perhaps part of some long-forgotten field system, first carved out of a wooded landscape by Neolithic farmers when the climate was more forgiving. A plausible theory. Not that my opinion carries much weight.

Boundary markers, in one form or another, appear in almost every culture, an attempt to impose human order on an indifferent landscape. They serve as reminders of power and hierarchy, their significance drawn from the very authority of those who declare ownership. Deciding who gets to use a piece of land and for what purpose has always been a matter of control—with immediate and obvious economic consequences.