THERE are few places where you can feel you are embraced by primeval forest, but last weekend that was our experience at Thornton Glen.

It’s not really a forest, of course, but a very small strip of ancient woodland, east of Innerwick, that clings to the steep slopes of the glen by Crowhill. The woodland is a nature reserve currently managed by the Scottish Wildlife Trust.

The upper path takes you to Innerwick Castle. This path is narrow in places, although quite well trodden so easy to follow.

But it is sided by a steep decline into the gorge that demands you take care when walking. The castle, built in the 15th century, is perched dramatically atop a sandstone outcrop looking over the glen. It is picturesque now but a crumbling ruin in such a precarious condition that it’s not recommended to venture inside.

I wrote of its history on this page over seven years ago, and will touch on it again here, but the purpose of this visit was mainly to explore the gorge below the castle, which I’d never managed to do.

I’ll give a warning here too: the lower path that takes you closer to the burn, although marked, doesn’t seem to be maintained and is in parts very muddy and slippery. It can become an adventure rather than a woodland walk. But that’s what we wanted.

We were immersed in native woodland as we descended, embraced by ash and oak trees. The burn ran with some confidence through the glen, carrying the rainfall of previous days. Touches of autumn were everywhere, yet the summer canopy was still intact. It was a perfect combination.

As the path heads deeper up the glen, the trunk of a massive fallen tree make it an obstacle course, but also an opportunity to sit and just take in the beauty of the place and soak up the birdsong.

In those moments, it was possible to forget that we were, in fact, in a landscape dominated by agriculture and open fields. The steep sides of the gorge hide the fact that the wood is just a very narrow strip. The eye is deceived, the imagination lit and the senses lifted.

I was determined to make it to the water. The short scramble down to the burn from the path was a drama of mud.

I know, I’m not selling this place so well, am I, but it was the challenge to reach the burn that made it feel so remote and wild once we got there.

Then one of my kids, in between complaining about muddy shoes, said something that lit up the day for me.

“Wow, you know, it almost feels like we are in a world of fairytale make believe, you know because we are in a wood that feels like it’s mysterious and magical at the same time.”

She summed up my feelings as I sat by the burn, listening to the water tumble over the rocks.

I really wanted to walk up the burn to the point below the castle.

We’d earlier peered down at the burn from the base of the rock on which the castle is built; at least a 70ft-fall, I reckoned.

It was far too dangerous to descend at that point, although I had wanted to; it was where a Scots soldier from the castle leapt for his life in 1548 when the castle was besieged by English hakbutters, an early kind of musketeer.

He was desperate; his comrades had been picked off by the gunfire, so he took the chance to escape.

Miraculously, he survived the initial fall and was allowed to run to safety. Sadly, he made the fatal decision to run upstream, towards Thornton Castle, where he was seen and shot by a different group of English soldiers who knew nothing of his daring feat.

The incident was recorded by an English eyewitness, but we have no name for the man who met his end so tragically in this gorge – just another nameless victim of a brutal war that became known later as the ‘Rough Wooing’.

Later, the castle was used as a base by moss troopers in 1650 in their attacks on Cromwell’s supply route, but that’s another story.

The melancholy of the glen’s history didn’t diminish its beauty for me and I made my way carefully along the burn, jumping from stone to stone, getting my boots muddy and soaked in the process. It really was a magical experience in which my inner child felt free.

However, I had a different kind of gunfire to contend with as I ventured upstream. I’d insisted my kids stay in a safer place and my wife Kate was happy to be with them and keep her feet dry. But the children showered me with a volley of distant shouts and yells that they wanted to come too, which I felt would have been too hazardous for the youngest.

So I was compelled to abandon my exploration in case they broke ranks; you see, they don’t always do as they are told, especially when their dad is doing something they want to experience as well!

But I will return if I can find the time in the winter, with perhaps just one of the kids: my own inner child.