The last day of the train’s operation was April 4, 1964. Mourners clad in black wearing bowler hats lifted onto the train a coffin filled with empty whisky bottles. A passenger train encountered one final gesture of defiance later that same day, when its approach to Trouble House Halt was blocked by hay bales burning on the tracks. Ah, the peaceful Cotswolds!
The Cirencester Road takes us to Tetbury. This market town is famous for its Woolsack Races, held on the spring bank-holiday weekend. Stocky, tattooed men and tough, muscular women carry sacks of wool up and down the very steep Gumstool Hill. The event began in the seventeenth century as an effort by the local males to impress the ladies with their strength. The men carry sixty-pound sacks, the women thirty-five pounds. As at Hallaton, the event is followed by a merry street fair. It is no surprise that the record holders for such events are invariably members of the British Army and local rugby clubs.
Woolsack Races aside, Tetbury is a quiet, orderly stone town that reeks of old money. The usual tea and coffee shops blend with antique stores in the town centre, and tastefully painted signs swing in the breeze. I am intrigued by the town crest, which features two dolphins, since Tetbury is far from the sea. It seems a former lord of the manor was saved on a sea voyage by a pair of dolphins and wished to commemorate this event.
Prince Charles maintains his Highgrove Shop, which sells naturally grown products from his nearby estate, in a converted town brewery here. All profits go toward the prince’s foundation. Cotswold chic dominates the high-street shops, with clothing brands like Moloh and Overider. Moloh has only two stores — Tetbury and London — and its women’s clothes, the ultimate in British high fashion, are made exclusively in the United Kingdom.
Tetbury’s Snooty Fox is a historic inn which offers a ballroom for the Duke of Beaufort’s Hunt, a world-famous hunt dating to 1682. One might have thought that the Hunting Act of 2004 banning the traditional fox hunt would have dealt a death blow to this event, but not so. Hundreds of riders and spectators meet to run horses and hounds over a vast area of some 760 square miles, centring on the duke’s Badminton estate. The hunt continues to be held by means of ingenious subterfuge — running out the artificial scent of a fox, for example. There are also loopholes in the act that allow “hunting . . . for the purpose of enabling a bird of prey to hunt the wild mammal.” Moreover, foxes that are a proven nuisance to farmers can still be killed by means of one or two dogs cornering the fox, with the fox being immediately shot to death rather than torn apart by the hounds. This is considered more humane.
The Tetbury Women’s Institute (WI) has successfully re-cruited Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, as a member. This came about as a result of the 2003 box office hit Calendar Girls, starring Helen Mirren, which was based upon a Yorkshire WI group whose members stripped their torsos to raise money for charity. The president of the Tetbury WI, Judi Mason-Smith, states that it is unlikely that the duchess herself will be removing her clothes for a calendar, however. During the period of her clandestine affair with Charles, Camilla was frequently seen on the streets of Tetbury. At the height of the matrimonial acrimony between Diana and Charles, she retreated modestly from sight but now is fully engaged in Cotswold life, and of course resides at nearby Highgrove with the future king.
We depart Tetbury, crossing the River Avon over a tiny stone bridge to enter Long Furlong Lane. Along the way, we pass a sliver of Highgrove. The manor house was occupied by Charles and Diana as a weekend residence from 1981 until their separation in 1992, and Princes William and Harry have spent much time here too. Prince Charles is devoted to organic gardening, which he calls “biologically sustainable farming linked to conservation.” Quite the coincidence, I muse, that on this slender thread of a footpath called the Macmillan Way we should have passed through Lady Diana’s ancestral home some ninety miles to the north in remote Northamptonshire and are now encountering her ex-husband’s residence in Gloucestershire.
Long Furlong Lane rejoins the main Macmillan route some three miles from Tetbury. Then it’s over a stile and through a gate, whereupon we see vistas of “tall and exotic trees, undulating lawns, leisurely seats, and arbours,” as promised by the Guide. We are about to enter the crown jewel of English arboretums, known as Westonbirt. The property boasts a world-famous collection of over 16,000 trees and shrubs on 600 acres.
Sir Robert Holford created the arboretum in 1829. Holford’s wealth allowed him to indulge his fantasy and scour the world for every conceivable type of plant and tree he could find. In 1956, his great-nephew transferred the vast estate to the Forestry Commission. Seventeen miles of marked paths criss-cross the arboretum.
The Silk Wood Path is the most enchanting of the forest walks. Especially interesting are the Brewer’s spruces, the poetic Japanese larch, and the Corsican pines. There are some 135 species of moths and a staggering 1,268 species of fungi. The rain has become a Scotch mist, and we meander along through the trees like medieval beggars with our rucksacks holding all of our worldly possessions. As if on cue, we round a bend and are met by a band of a dozen or so medievally clad teenagers carrying swords, clubs, daggers, and bows, who are performing some re-enactment of a Robin Hood adventure.
Just before leaving the arboretum, I hear a thundering noise off to the right. I turn to catch a glimpse of half a dozen thoroughbred horses galloping past in the mist that partly obscures the Highgrove hillside, as in some George Stubbs painting. Can the prince and his equerries be far behind?
We exit the arboretum, pass through a metal gate, and cross the busy A433. We pass by two men walking four huge Russian wolfhounds, who bid us good day; I swear the dogs are as big as ponies. As we turn down a narrow, steep, recessed lane, we hear the rumble of a large vehicle, and up the steep tarmac like some ugly lobster comes a farm truck towing a gargantuan harvester machine with long, spiky, iron tentacles. There is no escape, so we press our bodies into the brambly hedgerow. As this great beast rumbles by, there are only inches to spare us from impalement.
“That was a close one,” I remark, wiping the sweat.
“Just another walking hazard in Merry Old England, John,” laughs Karl.
“That’s twice now we’ve been thrown into a hedge.”
“Actually, John, it’s the third time — remember the pony trap up in Brampton Ash?”
In the next lane, numerous pheasants scurry in and about the copses. We observe two cocks engaged in battle; sitting demurely to one side is the female over whom the birds are presumably fighting. These are without a doubt the most regal birds in the land. The iridescent tones of their wings dazzle even in the dark lane. Each male stakes out a territory, and it is the females who come sniffing around like cougars to determine if the male would be a suitable mate. The male has a high-pitched call of karark karark that can be heard for over half a mile, and will flap his wings to warn other males not to tread on his territory.
Pheasant hunting is conducted with shotguns and dogs. Until the repeal of the Game Laws in 1831, it was the exclusive prerogative of the landowning class, though even then poaching was illegal. When the procuring of food for survival was the principal objective of everyday life for the populace, hunting restrictions caused the greatest social friction in rural England. Villagers believed they had a right to any rabbits, birds, fish, and hares they might catch. The poacher was often revered as a local hero. Most aggravating of all was the sheer extravagance of the landowner’s hunting parties. A typical pheasant haul for an estate manor house in the eighteenth century might be some three thousand birds per year. But by 1880, some three thousand pheasants might be shot on a good day on just one estate. Now that’s pillage.
The field path is soggy as rain begins to pelt us once again — thank God for Gore-Tex — and we cross through a kissing gate into a lane that takes us into Sherston, about as remote a little spot as one could find. (I know, I have said that before, but some of these places really are in Middle-earth.) It is definitely time to rest our bones and take refreshment, and w
hat better spot for that than the Rattlebone Inn — especially since our B&B is only two blocks away.
The Rattlebone was named after John Rattlebone, a denizen of the village who was killed in a battle between the Saxon army and King Canute that raged for two days in 1016 in and around the village. The inn is the official headquarters of the Ancient Order of Sherston Mangold Hurlers, which is a fancy name for a lawn bowling club. The word on the street here is that Princes Harry and William had some very good times at the Rattlebone Inn during their late teen years, not to mention Charles and Camilla. This is logical, given the close proximity of Highgrove.
It’s our lucky day — the Rattlebone opens early for dinner. And the place rocks. The music of the Rolling Stones, the Who, Pink Floyd, and the Beatles pulsates through the building, appealing to a wide assortment of patrons, from rock-dust-begrimed labourers to bikers to retired couples to tweed-clad aristocrats. But tonight all eyes are on the telly screen, as England faces France in an early round of the European Championship. The pub crowds erupt in a frenzy when David Beckham’s free kick is headed into the French goal by Frank Lampard.
All week the English papers have been building the excitement. England is so soccer mad right now that the churches have even got into the act — cunningly inserting football similes and metaphors into their programs. A church in the Midlands will begin its program with a service titled “Life is a game of two halves,” with the theme “It’s not over until the final whistle blows.” At another church, anger management is preached in a sermon titled “How to deal with the red card.” A Baptist minister in Surrey talks about God and football with the analogy “A goalkeeper saves; God saves.” And Rev. Richard Worssam, rector of a parish in Rochester, states, “There are parallels between an event like this and the act of faith. There are references to sport in the Bible. St. Paul speaks about running the race to win the crown. He also talks about taking blows like a boxer.”
A stocky bloke at the bar is punching fleshy fists toward the telly, slopping his stout over the sleeve of his mate, who stares glassy-eyed at the field action. A goal is scored against England and there is a collective groan. France has tied the game. The fans don’t seem to be in the mood to “take blows like a boxer.” A skinny, tattooed platinum blonde sitting next to us starts shouting obscenities at the screen, her mascara running wild. Her biker boyfriend pats her shoulder and hands her a glass of gin and tonic, which she quaffs enthusiastically.
Karl shakes his head. “It’s almost as bad as being at a Canucks game. Speaking of which, I must phone home and see who has won the Stanley Cup — the last I heard, the final round was tied three games apiece between Calgary and Tampa Bay.”
“Karl, I’ve been reading my road atlas of Britain and discovered some new names. Do you know that it would be possible to spend a day visiting the villages of Booze, Brawl, and Bedlam, and then motor on the next day to Slack Head, Crackpot, and Twatt? And there’s even a place up in Northumberland called ‘Once Brewed.’ ”
“You remember how impressed the Parisians were when Whitwell in Rutland unilaterally twinned themselves with Paris, John boy? Perhaps they did it in revenge for a drubbing by France in football. Imagine the wrath if someone in Slack Head or Crackpot decided to twin themselves with Marseilles. There might be a war.”
“I think if I was born in Crackpot, Karl, I would want to get the heck out of town.”
Karl trundles off to the bar, where he phones home. In ten minutes, he comes back with a glass of brandy.
“You’re frowning, Karl. Is everything okay on the home front?”
“It’s all over, John. Tampa won the seventh game and their first Stanley Cup. I was really hoping for Calgary.”
We do not tarry to watch the end of the football match. We are fagged. Karl downs his last sip of brandy and we walk home to our B&B, albeit a little unsteadily.
Before I turn out my light, I read in the paper of yet another old custom involving food — this time cheese. Five miles away, at Cooper’s Hill near Brockworth, some three thousand people have assembled to watch four races of twenty people each run, roll, and plunge down a hill, chasing seven- to nine-pound Gloucester cheese containers. Participants arrived from all over the world, and twenty-one were treated by the St. John Ambulance Brigade, five for major injuries. All over some cheese barrels. The event has been held for at least two hundred years. Oh, and a streaker hurtled himself down the hill at the end, butt naked, much to the crowd’s delight. Cheeky fellow! There are fewer injuries in the Indianapolis 500. Why do the English do these things? First Hallaton bottle kicking, then Tetbury woolsacks. Now this. Are they all mad?
Next morning we get an early start and follow a track beside horse stables to enter the village of Luckington. Five roads converge here, all of them minor, but they manage to slice the place up into triangular fragments. The manor house was the setting for the 1995 British television production of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
There is a James Bond connection with Luckington. Sir Stewart Menzies, former head of MI6 and Ian Fleming’s prototype for Bond in his novels, resided in a farmhouse in the town. Ironically, right next door, from 1936 to 1939, lived Captain Robert Treeck. Treeck was secretly a high-ranking German intelligence agent. Menzies and Treeck fraternized with one another extensively, and both men participated in the Duke of Beaufort’s Hunt. Treeck vanished back to Germany with his mistress, Baroness Violetta Schroeders, in 1939, whereupon his house was placed under the control of the Custodian of Enemy Property. There is something weird about two high-profile spymasters from different countries residing side by side as close friends in a remote English village.
Half the structures in Luckington are “listed buildings.” Over half a million buildings in the United Kingdom are listed, a status which has serious implications for those wishing to make renovations. A listed building is a structure of special architectural or historical interest and may not be destroyed or altered without permission from a local planning authority. This means that often the only way one can build one’s dream home on a plot of land is to make use of the outer walls of an old building like a barn and seek permission to turn the inside space into a residence. One is more likely to obtain permission for such a renovation than to build a new home on bare ground. The disadvantage is that one is limited to the footprint of the existing structure. Lighting also becomes an issue, since these old buildings seldom boasted large windows and the planning authority insists that the exterior be replicated. The result is that the converted vicarage, chapel, or barn can be dark and depressing unless flooded with indoor lighting.
A squishy woodland track leads toward Nettleton Mill. The last of the bluebells have wilted to a dull mauve. We have seen every kind of weather today — pelting rain, drizzle, Scotch mist, fog, and pale sunlight. In other words, typical English weather.
The entry into the wooded valley of the By Brook is truly enchanting. Here lies Castle Combe, consistently voted the most picturesque village in England. As we tramp down the steep lane to the square, we are inundated by Japanese tourists who have arrived with their colourful floral umbrellas and cameras to view this diamond of the English landscape. I feel grubby, sweaty, and unkempt alongside them.
The market cross with its water pump form the centrepiece of this classic village. This is a true “buttercross,” an open-roofed enclosure that dates from the medieval period when people from neighbouring farms and villages gathered to buy and exchange butter, milk, eggs, and vegetables.
Castle Combe features on millions of postcards. Whether it’s the loveliest village is subjective, but it certainly is tucked away in a dream-like glen with quaint stone buildings clustered beside a burbling stream. The church features one of the only medieval clocks still in use in England.
Castle Combe was used as a location in 1967 for the movie Doctor Dolittle, featuring Rex Harrison and Richard Attenborough. The filming was disastrous. First off, all of the trained animals for the production were quarantin
ed upon entry to the UK, so they had to be replaced at huge expense. Then, shooting was continually disrupted by bad weather, and the villagers resented the director’s arbitrary edicts — such as when all TV aerials had to be removed from personal residences. An artificial dam built by the producers was blown up one night by a local British Army officer, Ranulph Fiennes, using explosives he had obtained from his service, because he believed that it ruined the village ambience. The frustrated producers finally fled to St. Lucia to finish the movie.
We leave the tourists behind and exit the village along the By Brook. Then it’s up a wooded slope past gnarled, vine-clad maples and a magnificent coppice of beeches, while below us we hear the swish of ducks’ wings amid the Ooo-oo of wood pigeons and the distant call of a rooster farther down the valley.
A few scattered pollarded oak trees populate these woods. The practice of pollarding came from Normandy and used to be widespread in England. If a young tree was cut through about six feet from the ground, it would send out new shoots and form a bushy crown. Repeated pollarding created abundant supplies of small poles used for fencing, gaskets, and firewood.
At the end of the wood we descend to a stone bridge crossing the By Brook. Our landlady generously packed us a picnic lunch, and we find this an ideal spot to drop packs and grab the sandwiches. I stare at a tiny blue, paint-chipped rowboat tethered by a frayed rope to a makeshift dock. Around it swirl reflections of an oak tree with its roots literally disappearing into the water. Soft light filtered through the trees combines with the reflection to create an ethereal effect. A few molehills perforate the grassy bank. I think of Ratty in The Wind in the Willows taking Mole on their picnic excursion, when they hop into the rowboat on the river and sample their cold chicken sandwiches. The gentle By Brook babbles its way beneath the stone bridge on which we sit. Neither Karl nor I speak for some time, captivated as we are by this idyllic hidden riverside glen.
Walking to Camelot Page 18
