It begins, as it so often does, with a memory. A passing mention of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves—was it truly only yesterday?—and already the location scouts of fate have dragged us to another of its sites, like an ear-worm in your head.
Hulne Abbey. Founded in the 13th century by Carmelite friars in search of something that reminded them of Mount Carmel. England’s first Carmelite house, and one of the few not entirely flattened by time or policy. The friars were aided by local nobility—the de Vescys and the Percys—who handed out timber, fish, and grazing rights as a sure-fire ticket into heaven.
In 1488, Henry Percy, the fourth Earl of Northumberland, built a tower. It was said to be for protection, though in reality it served the more pressing need of hunting deer for sport. Then came the Dissolution, and with it, the predictable decay. The Percys kept the property but could not be bothered with upkeep. It mouldered while they entertained themselves elsewhere.
Things changed in the mid-18th century, when the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland decided that Alnwick would do for a country seat. The Duchess, having an eye for the picturesque, converted the cloister into a garden. After her death, the Duke constructed a picnic house overlooking it, in that peculiar aristocratic habit of commemorating love with stone.
Today, the abbey still stands. But only just. Entry is tightly controlled. Two and a half miles on foot through Hulne Park. No dogs. No bicycles. Signs forbid the presence of picnics, presumably in honour of the Duchess. And when the Abbey is hired out for weddings or yet another film—do not expect to be allowed anywhere near it. History, after all, now comes with a booking fee.