On the trail of the great wizard

sorcerer, an exile in Scotland's border lands? John Fowler

seeks the answer in the waters of a

legendary well

WAS Merlin here? Merlin the mage, the wizard at King Arthur's fabled court? Here is this bare, dour and misty Border landscape? It's hard to imagine, but it may be so. Lift your eyes to the hills and wonder. Nikolai Tolstoy (writer and distant relative of the great Russian) first expounded the theory more than a decade ago in his book The Quest for Merlin. He believes Merlin is not simply a pale figure in mythology but was a living man who flourished in the latter part of the sixth century, spent his last forlorn years in exile deep in a wild forest in the southern hills of Scotland, and there prophesied by the waters of a limpid spring.

Somewhat sceptical, but with

Tolstoy's good wishes and his book as a guide and a receptive friend for company, I set off to find, drink, and perhaps draw inspiration from this legendary well.

Gloom, gloom, all the way down the M74 to Beattock; not an auspicious start. Humid August had thrown a pall over the landscape and the higher hills were all obscured. At least a little sunshine had been forecast for the morning, but if anything the mirk had thickened when we stopped at a coffee house in Moffat to linger over hot pancakes and syrup, or in my case lemon and sugar (not the best preparation for healthy exercise) in the hope the sun would break through if we gave it time.

We also hastily revised our plan for an airy trek along the rounded ridges (long views on either hand, to culminate in a descent to the well - aha! the sacred spring discovered in its dell) in favour of the direct approach. Tame, but no need for compass and map work.

If Moffat knows of Merlin it keeps mum. The statue in the square is a sheep. Two or three miles to the north by a narrow back road a signpost points the way without reference to the magician; simply Hartfell Spa, two-and-a-half miles, right of way, follow the posts. (Hartfell Spa? Like Cheltenham?)

But there were no posts to follow, not at first, and two of the three that could be found had fallen flat. Not much sign of a track at the start either, though that didn't displease me - myth requires a veil of mystery, not beaten paths. In any case the way was clear enough, along the Auchencat Burn which flows gently down the glen from the hulk of hill on the horizon that culminates in Hart Fell, quite a considerable

summit at over 2600ft.

We strayed off course down towards the river bed and had to force our way back through swathes of dripping bracken that soon had my trousers and boots soaked through, then skirted a sown field, crossed another field where cattle grazed, and finally cleared the farmed land to reach more or less open country. More or less because there still were gates to cross and on one side a boundary fence ran along above the burn topped by - can you believe it? - green barbed wire. Is green barbed wire eco-friendly?

Barbed wire makes me see red. It says keep out, even though I mean no harm.

Then two bridges to cross, over the burn and back again - bridges of the rudimentary sort consisting of three thin tree trunks laid side by side, and hopefully not rotten. To tell the truth we might just as

easily have ignored them and taken a hop and a step across the stones of the burn.

On the hillside ahead was a gross intrusion on nature, at estate road bludgeoned across the slope. Fortunately, our track led below it, still following the burn. The summits remained lost in smoky mist but below them, quite distinct, was Merlin's gully, a raw wound in the green hillside where centuries of exposure and sheep-cropping had caused the slopes to crumble into dross.

Nikolai Tolstoy: ''The lonely ascent to Merlin's mountain spring, like the Stations of the Cross, represents a rite de passage symbolic of life itself, and it cyclical reunion with the infinite.'' Not so for me, but then I haven't been in thrall to the Arthurian legend since childhood, and I haven't immersed myself in the study of old Celtic poetry and medieval chronicles. Yet something stirred as we approached the spot.

I wanted to share Tolstoy's excitement; could this be ''where Merlin sought lonely refuge, bewailed his exiled existence, and uttered those prophesies which, in embellished form, so profoundly affected the mind of medieval man''.

The spell was rudely broken. As we climbed into the gully, expecting to find the rude, boulder-strewn cavern pictured in Tolstoy's book, it became clear someone had given the place - if you'll pardon the expression - a spring clean. The magic of Merlin's putative well had been dissipated by (no doubt) well-meaning busibodies who'd thought fit to put a rickety fence around it complete with garden gate that might have come from B & Q.

There was an explanatory sign on a metal plate: ''Hartfell Spa,

discovered in 1748 by a John Williamson. The water from this spring contained chalybeate, reputed to contain mainly iron and calcium deposits. Restored by Moffat and District Community Council and Countryside Commission for Scotland''.

Um. Not much romance in that. Not quite the Merlin Experience, is it? Not even a mention of the man. No truck with Merlin in Moffat.

We looked around, unlatched the gate, peered into the chamber, all neatly done up with a roughly masoned entrance, vaulted roof and a cobbled floor covered by an inch or so of muddy water. Here Tolstoy knelt down and drank from the source - even filled a bottle and took it home with him, he told me. Not I. It was April when he made his pilgrimage, and possibly after the rain, which may have made a difference - we were there in a dry spell and barely a trickle was flowing.

The well is situated near the base of the gully, which is curtained above by steep scree slopes and guarded by curiously contorted pinnacles. The rock - grey, reddish-brown and black in colour - crumbles and flakes underfoot and has (so I thought) no more allure than a pit bing. Not the kind of place to give inspiration, or even shelter, to a prophet on the run.

But fourteen centuries ago, who knows? It's possible that in the sixth century Merlin's ''nut-rich forest of Caledon'' still clothed the Lowland hills, at least on the lower ground, in which case this chasm, now so desolate, might well have served as a hiding place.

But now, with the second Christian millennium just round the corner, few trees grow on the hills except for vast conifer plantations visible across the valley of the River Annan.

We clambered higher and sat on a softer bank above the gully, eating sandwiches and enjoying a tardy blink of sunshine. There I found a trickle of water making music in its hidden grassy channel, clinking over the lip of a small stony pool. I'd found my own enchanted spring.

Merlin's well is only half way up the mountain, and from there the ground rises in rolling steps towards a height called Arthur's Seat (which has none of the visual drama of its namesake in Edinburgh) and then on to the round summit of Hart Fell, where a drystone shelter enclosing a trig pillar gave some protection against the rising wind - for the gloom had clamped down again after a few blinks of sunshine.

By this time we had been joined by Paul, on holiday from Rochester, who overtook us on the way to Arthur's Seat, and spent the rest of the day with us exploring some of the high moorland around the fell. We peered down into a long dark valley where the Blackhope Burn threads its way towards the Moffat Water, a fine example of a glen gouged clean by glaciers, with almost precipitous slopes on either hand marked craggy on the map but showing more scree than bare rock.

These frowning slopes have picturesque Border names: Hartfell Craig, Saddle Craigs, Falcon Craig, Upper Coomb Craig and Lower Coomb Craig, Black Craig and Redgill Craig. The spout of Whirly Gill was clearly visible from our viewpoint, and on the opposing skyline the curious twin peaklets of Saddle Yoke stood out. To the south, a drystone dyke twists and loops along an edge much like (if you half close your eyes and squint a bit) a Great Wall of China dumped down in the Southern Uplands.

We returned to Hart Fell and took a slightly different route downwards, above the well, and looking across the valley of the Annan to the deep fold of the Devil's Beeftub. then we dropped down through fields of bracken and patches of heather almost ready to burst into flame. Behind us a ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and cast an eerie light over the site of the magician's well. It seemed a fitting tribute.

Cattle had congregated on our way and as we approached a gate it became clear the beast barring the way was a bull, a tawny beast with a stubborn set to his stance. Not snorting and pawing, I was glad to see, but nevertheless he caused me a tremor for I'm not brave in the presence of large animals. Here Paul showed his mettle. He slid the gate open, shooed confidently, waved his arms a bit and lo! the bull, with the doleful look on his shaggy face lumbered slowly a pace or two aside. Shoo again from Paul - the bull retreated a few steps more and we sidled past.

Once safely past the bull I wished I'd had the presence of mind to take a photo of him but by then it was too late. There was no going back.

We were surrounded by his cows, all tagged in the ear with their numbers (it's a sign of the times - they don't seem to be Daisy or Betsy any more) and their calves. Cow 29 looked pretty, so I snapped her instead.