The second bright warm day of Spring, I was desperate for a sunlight-downland fix. Met a friend by the Beckhampton roundabout and started our walk from the first layby on the Calne road.
The walk up to Oldbury hillfort on a fine day is just fabulous; a pair of deer ran across a field below - the same scene held Silbury nestled at its centre. I've seen the old Lansdown monument many times from afar, coming upon it through one of the castle ditches gave it a very different perspective.
Cherhill long barrow sits at the highest point, now much damaged it is easy to overlook; where it is positioned is what is so impressive though - panoramic views of the Wiltshire landscape.
I agree with what others have written, it is the view towards the ancient Calstone Coombes that captures the spirit and feels almost like flying - a landscape of undulations and shadows, must be one of the best views in Wiltshire.
Lovely close up of the Cherhill White Horse too.
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I have walked through the Greywethers drift many times; today I was in the unusual position of leading three 'walking' friends who had never seen them before up to Fyfield Down. The Polisher first; where an ominous mist descended - we were not deterred and descended diagonally across the bumpy stone-strewn downland towards the Herepath. In the distance a pair of brown deer leaped their way across our line of vision.
As we made our way across the Herepath and around the sarsen 'greywethers' the mist disolved and the pale January sun made an appearence again. One of my friends was plotting a route for a guided walk so following the OS map we picked up a green track along a field boundary. A word of caution - perhaps because of the recent snow there were many potentially ankle-turning deep crevices and holes in the ground so not a good place to walk alone at this time of year.
Most people who experience Fyfield Down for the first time are astonished that somewhere so wild and ancient still existed in Wiltshire. My three friends were no exception. Words used - misty and mystical.
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It was great to have the opportunity to visit Nympsfield and Uley long barrows this afternoon (courtesy of a friend who was visiting family in the Stroud area).
Both barrows are closed; the Uley barrow (Hetty Peglers Tump) is by far the most impressive. My over-riding impression of both, however, was the stunning locations. Both overlooked the Severn Valley with views of the snow covered Brecon Beacons; the Nympsfield barrow has a picnic and viewing area beside it though both barrows had their views obscured by small plantations of trees which no doubt served act as windbreaks. However, it did not take much imagination to see why these sites were selected by the 'ancients' for burials.
The Uley site has a glider club nearby and three or four of them glided over the barrow; a pair of barrow buzzards made an appearance as well – it all added up to a sense of tranquility. I hung about on my own for a bit while my companions made their way back to the road and would love to have stayed for the sunset but was grateful all the same to go back to the warmth of my friend's car.
It was a perfect crystal clear afternoon, too cold today (for me) to head off along the Cotswold Way but I will go back later in the year and do that section by foot.
Thanks to thesweetcheat for directions, which we proved extremely helpful.
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The Romance of the Road
by Kenneth Grahame (1859-1932)
Among the many places of magic visited by Pantagruel and his company
during the progress of their famous voyage, few surpass that island
whose roads did literally ''go'' to places -- ''ou les chemins
cheminent, comme animaulx'': and would-be travellers, having inquired
of the road as to its destination, and received satisfactory reply,
''se guindans'' (as the old book hath it -- hoisting themselves up on)
''au chemin opportun, sans aultrement se poiner ou fatiguer, se
trouvoyent au lieu destiné.''
The best example I know of an approach to this excellent sort of
vitality in roads is the Ridgeway of the North Berkshire Downs. Join
it at Streatley, the point where it crosses the Thames; at once it
strikes you out and away from the habitable world in a splendid,
purposeful manner, running along the highest ridge of the Downs a
broad green ribbon of turf, with but a shade of difference from the
neighbouring grass, yet distinct for all that. No villages nor
homesteads tempt it aside or modify its course for a yard; should you
lose the track where it is blent with the bordering turf or merged in
and obliterated by criss-cross paths, you have only to walk straight
on, taking heed of no alternative to right or left; and in a minute
'tis with you again -- arisen out of the earth as it were. Or, if
still not quite assured, lift you your eyes, and there it runs over
the brow of the fronting hill. Where a railway crosses it, it
disappears indeed -- hiding Alpheus-like, from the ignominy of rubble
and brick-work; but a little way on it takes up the running again with
the same quiet persistence. Out on that almost trackless expanse of
billowy Downs such a track is in some sort humanly companionable: it
really seems to lead you by the hand.
The ''Rudge'' is of course an exceptional instance; but indeed this
pleasant personality in roads is not entirely fanciful. It exists as a
characteristic of the old country road, evolved out of the primitive
prehistoric track, developing according to the needs of the land it
passes through and serves: with a language, accordingly, and a meaning
of its own. Its special services are often told clearly enough; but
much else too of the quiet story of the country-side: something of the
old tale whereof you learn so little from the printed page. Each is
instinct, perhaps, with a separate suggestion. Some are martial and
historic, and by your side the hurrying feet of the dead raise a
ghostly dust. The name of yon town -- with its Roman or Saxon suffix
to British root -- hints at much. Many a strong man, wanting his vates
sacer, passed silently to Hades for that suffix to obtain. The little
rise up yonder on the Downs that breaks their straight green line
against the sky showed another sight when the sea of battle surged and
beat on its trampled sides; and the Roman, sore beset, may have gazed
down this very road for relief, praying for night or the succouring
legion. This child that swings on a gate and peeps at you from under
her sun-bonnet -- so may some girl-ancestress of hers have watched
with beating heart the Wessex levies hurry along to clash with the
heathen and break them on the down where the ash trees grew. And
yonder, where the road swings round under gloomy overgrowth of
drooping boughs -- is that gleam of water or glitter of lurking
spears?
Some sing you pastorals, fluting low in the hot sun between dusty
hedges overlooked by contented cows; past farmsteads where man and
beast, living in frank fellowship, learn pleasant and serviceable
lessons each of the other; over the full-fed river, lipping the
meadow-sweet, and thence on either side through leagues of hay. Or
through bending corn they chant the mystical wonderful song of the
reaper when the harvest is white to the sickle. But most of them,
avoiding classification, keep each his several tender significance; as
with one I know, not so far from town, which woos you from the valley
by gentle ascent between nut-laden hedges, and ever by some touch of
keen fragrance in the air, by some mystery of added softness under
foot -- ever a promise of something to come, unguessed, delighting.
Till suddenly you are among the pines, their keen scent strikes you
through and through, their needles carpet the ground, and in their
swaying tops moans the unappeasable wind -- sad, ceaseless, as the cry
of a warped humanity. Some paces more, and the promise is fulfilled,
the hints and whisperings become fruition: the ground breaks steeply
away, and you look over a great inland sea of fields, homesteads,
rolling woodland, and -- bounding all, blent with the horizon, a
greyness, a gleam -- the English Channel. A road of promises, of
hinted surprises, following each other with the inevitable sequence in
a melody.
But we are now in another and stricter sense an island of chemins qui
cheminent: dominated, indeed, by them. By these the traveller,
veritably se guindans, may reach his destination ''sans se poiner ou
se fatiguer'' (with large qualifications); but sans very much else
whereof he were none the worse. The gain seems so obvious that you
forget to miss all that lay between the springing stride of the early
start and the pleasant weariness of the end approached, when the limbs
lag a little as the lights of your destination begin to glimmer
through the dusk. All that lay between! ''A Day's Ride a Life's
Romance'' was the excellent title of an unsuccessful book; and indeed
the journey should march with the day, beginning and ending with its
sun, to be the complete thing, the golden round, required of it. This
makes that mind and body fare together, hand in hand, sharing the
hope, the action, the fruition; finding equal sweetness in the languor
of aching limbs at eve and in the first god-like intoxication of
motion with braced muscle in the sun. For walk or ride take the mind
over greater distances than a throbbing whirl with stiffening joints
and cramped limbs through a dozen counties. Surely you seem to cover
vaster spaces with Lavengro, footing it with gipsies or driving his
tinker's cart across lonely commons, than with many a globe-trotter or
steam-yachtsman with diary or log? And even that dividing line --
strictly marked and rarely overstepped -- between the man who bicycles
and the man who walks, is less due to a prudent regard for personal
safety of the one part than to an essential difference in minds.
There is a certain supernal, a deific, state of mind which may indeed
be experienced in a minor degree, by any one, in the siesta part of a
Turkish bath. But this particular golden glow of the faculties is only
felt at its fulness after severe and prolonged exertion in the open
air. ''A man ought to be seen by the gods,'' says Marcus Aurelius,
''neither dissatisfied with anything, nor complaining.'' Though this
does not sound at first hearing an excessive demand to make of
humanity, yet the gods, I fancy, look long and often for such a sight
in these unblest days of hurry. If ever seen at all, 'tis when after
many a mile in sun and wind -- maybe rain -- you reach at last, with
the folding star, your destined rustic inn. There, in its homely,
comfortable strangeness, after unnumbered chops with country ale, the
hard facts of life begin to swim in a golden mist. You are isled from
accustomed cares and worries -- you are set in a peculiar nook of
rest. Then old failures seem partial successes, then old loves come
back in their fairest form, but this time with never a shadow of
regret, then old jokes renew their youth and flavour. You ask nothing
of the gods above, nothing of men below -- not even their company.
To-morrow you shall begin life again: shall write your book, make your
fortune, do anything; meanwhile you sit, and the jolly world swings
round, and you seem to hear it circle to the music of the spheres.
What pipe was ever thus beatifying in effect? You are aching all over,
and enjoying it; and the scent of the limes drifts in through the
window. This is undoubtedly the best and greatest country in the
world; and none but good fellows abide in it.
Laud we the Gods,
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
From our blest altars.
Taken from the Pagan Papers a collection of essays by Kenneth Grahame written in 1893. (Kenneth Grahame is the Scottish born author who went on to write Wind in the Willows in 1908).
http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/g/kenneth-grahame/pagan-papers.htm
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Another Avebury first for me today; a few hours to spare this morning so headed out to the downs on the 49 bus (fantastic views of layers of mist lifting). The morning still bright when I met up with a couple of friends - we headed out to Gunsight Lane near East Kennet village. From here they led the way up field-side tracks towards East Kennet Long Barrow. Like most of the less accessible sites within the Avebury WHS it is the walk to them that makes the experience so special. Today was no exception, en route there is a very different view of West Kennet Long Barrow across the sparse fields - no road, no cars, no visitors; just a view of an ancient long barrow as it must have looked for the past few millennia.
From the direction we were walking, East Kennet Long Barrow seemed to appear suddenly - too large to photograph in its entirety, the now leafless beech trees holding it fast. Apart from some badger damage it remains intact, we all all agreed that we hoped it would remain so. Long may it keep its secrets, its atmosphere and its sense of apartness.
[Once again acknowledgements to PeteG for his expertise on the Avebury landscape and for his willingness to share it]
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Devil's Den – 2nd August 2009
I should have posted this under field notes back in August, the day after Lammas when the sun was shining. As autumn sets in with the wind and rain its good to remember that sunny Sunday and Devils' Den.
I didn't set out that morning to find the Devil's Den, only to participate in a 10 mile walk 'around Marlborough'. The person leading the walk lived in the small village of Fyfield so knew the area very well. It turned out to be the sort of day that is feels like a gift, sunny, warm with butterflies everywhere.
When the walk-leader led us into a field of wild flowers, predominately poppies (apparently the second flowering this year) there it was on the far side of the meadow. To the best of my knowledge, Wiltshire's only dolmen, Devil's Den. I understand the field is now under Natural England's Countryside Stewardship Scheme so the dolmen is a lot easier to get to. I believe there was previously an issue about going onto private farmland.
I had only seen Devil's Den once before and then only from a distance as I walked across Manton Down. It looked very beautiful in the sunshine and meadow of wildflowers in August.
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Spent a day in St David's last week and headed down the quiet lane to St Non's well. It sits, overlooking the sea, at the bottom of a short track next to the ruins of the original chapel. The well is housed in a small stone grotto shaped structure, the inside of which had recently been whitewashed - there were flakes of whitewash floating on the water which also looked brackish, so no impulse to drink from the well occured. However, in the adjacent field the spring runs away from the well towards the sea and has a far more natural sense of the elemental.
There is another whitewashed stone grotto nearby with a religious image inside it which I admit to recoiling from ... however, the ruined chapel, a small standing stone and the splendid walk along the cliff to Porth Clais (where there are some disused lime kilns) made the visit more than worth while.
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Just returned from Pembrokeshire; this was the first ancient burial site I encountered and I went back to Manorbier twice. King's Quoit is built from red sandstone and sits in a sheltered spot just before the brow of the cliff. Directly behind it there were five or six large sandstones set into the bracken covered cliff. The other interesting thing is that apart from the path up from the beach there is a second cliff path that runs from the quoit directly to the village's Norman Church of St James - the leaflet about the church says "The foundation date of the church is unknown. However, the oval shape of the churchyard suggests a religious site of great antiquity".
It is not hard to imagine that in times when people believed we are spirit as well as flesh, this was a place to set the spirit free - into the wind, sky and sea.
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Today I went with some friends to visit Stoney Littleton for the first time. The visit left me with a lot of mental impressions and images to digest - not ready to write about them just yet. On the way back however, the friend who was driving us suggested calling off at Lanhill Barrow, near Chippenham.
What a lovely and unexpected surprise - this long barrow is tucked away in a field quite close to a busy road. In spite of the background traffic noise it was incredibly peaceful ... hay baled up in the field, the route of a now dried up river leaving an indentation in the centre of the field. There was a stream on the far boundary of the meadow along with a small 'water works'. The barrow is sealed but with one of its side chambers open - our guide today, the ever knowledgeable PeteG took us to the end of the barrow by two old oaks and pointed to a short stone wall which had been build with the stones from the exterior of the barrow.
Compared to Stoney Littleton, Lanhill is unspectacular in its setting but I found visiting it curiously satisfying ... very much the cherry on the cake.
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On Saturday I walked up to Painswick Beacon and hillfort from the village of Painswick. I was surprised to find that much of the walk up towards the beacon is a golf course. Even more surprised when reaching the top, to find the golf course is also inside the ramparts of the hillfort.
I understand the hillfort to be a scheduled ancient monument, is a golf course on one unusual I wonder?
Terrific views, now inspired to explore some of the long barrows in Gloucestershire.
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After my wonderful visit to the Orkneys last week I visited the Shetlands and Jarlshof. It is similar though much bigger than Skara Brae and visitors are able to wander around freely. Also by the sea, the neolithic bit is now thought to be 7000 years old. Our guide, who was local, produced some oyster shells which had been found in the sandbanks along the shoreline – he told us oysters are not found in those waters so must they have been brought there by the neolthic settlers; these shells had been examined by photo luminescence which dates the last time daylight fell on minerals and were found to be 7000 years old.
Jarlshof reflects a settlement dating back to the Neolithic. In the earliest part of the village a Bronze-Age smithy can be seen.
There was a large Iron-Age roundhouse in the courtyard of the broch which was built about 2000 years ago.
Other additions to the village include a wheelhouse which was occupied until the Norsemen arrived plus the remains of stone buildings right up to the 17th century with the ruins of the laird's house.
It is a wonderful and remote place not far from the stunning Sumborgh Head where I saw puffins close up for the first time in my life.
(I did take lots of photos but had difficulty posting them, will have another try when I get time)
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I visited Caithness, the Orkneys and the Shetlands last week. It was a tiring journey to the north of Scotland, made by coach over two days (a night in Stirling) but so very worth the effort. The highlight for me was without question the Ring Of Brodgar on the Orkneys; just now I did a search for it on TMA and found that other people felt the same way.
The light was the sort I have never experienced before; a crystal clear midsummer day and the whole island looked the brightest green-blue. I was out around Avebury today and struck by the fact that it has its own unique flora, wild grasses etc, today the scent of camomile was in the air. At the Ring of Brodgar it was heather - I was not prepared for the elation I experienced when walking up to the site, I did not want to leave. Sadly I had to, as was travelling with a group of people and at 11.00pm that night we boarded an overnight ferry to the Shetlands.
I am determined to go back and stay for at least a week - we also visited Scara Brae but it was the Ring of Brodgar, Stenness and Maes Howe that blew me away - astonishingly they mirror Avebury is many ways. Brodgar has the blue sea/loch; today, Avebury had a green sea of wild grasses and ripening barley/wheat fields.
I did not get to go inside Maes Howe this time as you have book in advance with Historic Scotland and they do not allow large groups in - so that will be a must when I go back (next year maybe). I noticed that buses run to these sites which is very helpful for people like myself who don't run a car.
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Passionate about:
Nature; Avebury and the Wiltshire landscape; all ancient sites that involve walking through unspoilt countryside/being near the sea; the night sky.
Islands around the the British Isles, especially those with ancient monuments e.g. Orkney.
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