Walking to Camelot

by John A. Cherrington

  THE VILLAGE OF FORD lies on a small but busy stretch of the A420. We are booked at a B&B called Big Thatch, and Pat is there waiting for us. She is an attractive, vibrant lady whose first thought is for Karl’s sprained ankle. She offers to massage his feet. He thanks her but demurs.

  Pat’s husband commands a naval vessel and is away at sea. “We don’t really need the money, but you know, I get lonely and like to do B&B to meet people and have something to do.”

  We have a lovely meal of roast lamb and return to Big Thatch to chat and enjoy tea and biscuits with Pat before retiring. Next morning, after a delicious breakfast of croissants, fresh fruit, and strong coffee, we bid her adieu. She hugs both of us and says, “Thank you for coming into my life.”

  As we return to the banks of the By Brook, I reflect that wherever we walk in England, we have been amazed by the friendliness, frankness, and effusive warmth of Englishwomen. Sure, there are the frosty, frumpy landladies of the old school who guard their central heating thermostats like a daughter’s virginity. But they are hardly harridans. On the whole, I have formed the impression that many Englishwomen are starved for attention from their menfolk and crave not only adventure but improved communication skills from the male species. That said, they always observe the proprieties.

  A hazy languor pervades the fields this morning as we follow the meandering By Brook through the clover-studded fields. We see fishermen hunched on benches on the stream’s bank, so motionless that one wonders if they are props placed there to create an Izaak Walton motif.

  We follow a muddy path known as Weavern Lane into deep woods. Myriad mud puddles make it tough slogging. In the midst of one mass of mucky ooze I spot a pair of pink high-heeled stiletto shoes — just lying atop the mud and still shiny. We stop to ponder this. Unlike our “Tiffany site” up north, this doesn’t strike us as having sinister implications.

  Rather, as Karl observes, “It looks as if a fashionable lady got bogged down in the mud and decided ‘to hell with it!,’ then took her shoes off and carried on in her bare feet, leaving the heels behind.”

  “Maybe it’s a practical joke, Karl. The Guide says we are passing through a ‘Husseyhill Wood.’ Is there some play on words here?”

  But Karl has surged ahead and left me behind in the muck. Then the lane ends and I emerge at a stile where a sign is posted: “Beware of Bull.” Beyond is a vast field of at least five hundred acres with a steep, scarped hillside above. I stand on the stile and observe that Karl is already halfway across the field. As I clamber over the stile, I hear a commotion and to my horror glance up to see a two-thousand-pound bull thumping down from the hill above, heading full tilt in Karl’s direction. Karl sees him too, likely alerted by the ground shaking. But he is too far from the fence line to escape the big white brute!

  There is, however, one lone oak tree standing in the field close at hand. Karl makes for this, drops his pack, and prepares to meet the enemy. Meanwhile, the bull has slowed a tad. Then he stops to stomp his feet on the ground. His massive skull shakes. He lowers his head and rubs it into the torn-up earth. He’s about twenty feet now from Karl, who stands poised with his walking stick beneath the oak tree. I hear a merrumph, merrumph growl emanate from the beast.

  The white mammoth shakes his head one last time and, with nostrils steaming and spewing out snot, he rushes Karl with his head down, chin tucked in. My heart is in my mouth. Karl stands placidly, stick raised, and then at the very last moment sidles around to the opposite side of the tree. The bull crashes into low branches, which crunch and break and dangle to the ground. The entire earth seems to tremble. The bull shakes his head, puzzled. Where is his quarry? He ambles slowly around the tree, only to have Karl reverse his body back to the other side. The bull gets worked up at this and follows Karl around the tree, crashing against the trunk again. But as he does so, Karl gets in one good thwack with his stick on the bull’s nose from another side of the tree, where he has now taken up position.

  The bull backs off. He stands there contemplating his phantom quarry for a few moments and then, as if to shrug, lets out a loud snort of disgust and heads lazily off, back up the scarp. Halfway up, he starts grazing, still keeping a wary eye on Karl and the tree.

  By this time, I have in cowardly fashion climbed into the field and followed the lateral fence line, opposite Karl and the oak tree, ready to scramble under the fence should the bull attack again. But Karl is on the move. He is walking briskly toward the far fence line, and I jog diagonally across the field to join him, glancing nervously uphill. He is smiling, none the worse for wear, though he is covered with leaves and his Tilley hat is askew. He resembles the Green Man of English folklore.

  “So what were you thinking of when the bull attacked you?”

  “I just prayed like hell.”

  “I didn’t think you were religious.”

  “I’m not, but sometimes you have to hedge your bets.”

  “A nasty brute. The warning notice was clearly posted on the stile back there, but you sure couldn’t see him hidden over top of the hill.”

  “He’s just missing his harem, John. If there are cows in the field with him and he’s engrossed, he’ll never bother you.”

  “Perhaps, but next time if there’s any sign denoting a bull in a field, we take a diversionary route.”

  I wasn’t about to test Karl’s theory, as seven or eight people are killed each year in English fields by raging bulls and cows with young calves — half of them farmers, but the other half walkers. Even a minister of the Crown was recently injured by bovines while walking. Farmers are prohibited by law from allowing bulls of specified dairy breeds in fields containing public rights-of-way. Beef bulls are allowed in fields with footpaths only when accompanied by cows or heifers.

  Karl is now marching well ahead, his stick clomping the turf. He exudes a jaunty Al Pacino aura of indomitability.

  Historically, walking the footpaths in England was full of diverse dangers — bulls, vagabonds, and criminals being the most common. In Trollope’s The Last Chronicle of Barset, Lily bravely exhorts her companion to enter the field footpath: “We are not helpless young ladies in these parts, nor yet timorous . . . We can walk about without being afraid of ghosts, robbers, wild bulls, young men, or gypsies. Come the field path, Grace.”

  We stop to rest on a bench near the By Brook. We are on the outskirts of the village of Box, near Saltbox Farm. The village name derives from the rare box tree that is indigenous to only three locations in the country, the others being Box Hill in Surrey and a spot near Dunstable. We see a number of these trees lining the path. They are short with oval leaves, greenish flower clusters, and dark grey bark. As a tree, box is not popular in England, but cuttings from it have resulted in the distinctive boxwood hedges one sees throughout the country and in North America. It is the supreme example of a wild tree being transformed into a finely wrought garden delight. The million or more boxwood hedges in the world all originate from cuttings taken from a few box trees growing in England.

  While we rest, the inevitable dog walker approaches us. He is a man of about seventy, bundled up for the weather, wearing a long black raincoat, tweed hat, and bright red scarf. He is trailing behind his bulldog, who is straining at his leash to check out the two interlopers in his territory. He tells us that there are some ninety identifiable public footpaths in the vicinity. Box boasts 3,400 residents, and he finds it annoying that he no longer recognizes every soul he passes on the street. He is familiar with the Macmillan Way, especially the muddy section we have just traversed. More importantly, he is able to give us the scoop on the pink high-heel shoes.

  The man advises that since the late 1980s, pairs of women’s shoes have been found in this section of Macmillan Way — initially, a pair of stiletto heels fixed to the base of a tree, later replaced by a pair of pink knee-high boots, and later still by a pair of white stilettos. Apparently, the first pair was bolted so tightly to a tree that no one could remove them and they slowly d
isintegrated. At one point a pair of men’s brogues appeared, only to be replaced by another pair of stilettos. Local walkers are baffled. Some believe there was a murder committed here and the shoes are intended to commemorate that event. Others think someone is obsessed with women’s footwear. Personally, I think there is an Imelda Marcos who just tires of her manifold collection and gets her jollies putting shoes out to mystify people. Whatever — the stilettos have become part of the mystery and lore of the English countryside.

  Ten minutes pass and the villager concludes his story. The bulldog tires of sniffing us out, lifts his leg by my corner of the bench, and then starts dragging his master off to greener pastures. The man smiles, says he must be off; it’s ta ta, and then both man and dog disappear into the mist.

  The famous Box Tunnel was built by the renowned Vic-torian engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel under Box Hill. At 1.83 miles, it was the longest railway tunnel in the world at the time of its completion in 1841. Brunel was a genius who also built the longest span bridge in the world at Clifton, constructed the first ship made of iron (SS Great Britain), and both designed and constructed the Great Western Railway; the Box Tunnel was part of the line running from London to Bristol.

  Along the main street of this village we discover an interesting stone edifice called a “blind house,” a jail dating from the eighteenth century. More than a hundred of these lock-ups are still standing in England. Strategically located next to the pub, the blind house is a damp, dingy, cold place, with no windows and only tiny grilles for ventilation. It could accommodate only one or two people and was just a temporary holding pen for vagrants, brawlers, drunks, and “disreputable women.” Structures like these often stood next to pillories, ducking stools, and stocks in medieval times. It must be remembered that there were no constabularies in villages or small towns until 1839, when the County Police Act was passed. So until the Victorian era, a miscreant guilty of more than a minor offence had to be transported to the nearest market town for incarceration.

  “It’s one step up from the stocks,” Karl says with a smile. “I would sure have second thoughts about getting drunk again if I had to spend the night in that cold, dark jail.”

  Charles Dickens refers to the lock-up in Barnaby Rudge. An 1830 account of the Taunton lock-up is interesting: “A hole into which drunken and bleeding men were thrust and allowed to remain until the following day when the constable with his staff take the poor, crippled and dirty wretches before a magistrate, followed by half the boys and idle fellows of the town.”

  We leave Box in the mist and jog across the A365 to reach some narrow steps which lead to a path between two walls; then it’s over a stile to a meadow ablaze in a riot of buttercups, purple clover, iris, and assorted other wildflowers. I turn back to gaze north from whence we came, up the delightful By Brook Valley. I am sorry to leave the stream behind.

  South Wraxall is a timeless village which has the unique claim of being the first locale in England where tobacco was ever smoked. This is where Sir Walter Raleigh brought his earliest supplies of the weed from his Virginia plantations to be sampled by his friend Sir Walter Long.

  As we descend into the village, the lane sinks deeper and I observe vast systems of knobby tree roots honeycombing the slope above. This deep-cut lane has all the hallmarks of antiquity. A rabbit hops across our path suddenly, only to disappear into some dark hole. This is a weird, enchanted spot — somewhere between Alice in Wonderland and The Hobbit.

  These sunken lanes are known as “hollow ways.” In the limestone belt it is common for continuously used tracks to wear down at the rate of two inches per century — and some tracks have been used since roughly 2000 BC. In The Old Ways, Robert Macfarlane asserts that “one need not be a mystic to accept that certain old paths are linear only in a simple sense.”

  The village is home to 320 people. The Long manor house where Raleigh visited his friend has been acquired by John Taylor, bass player with the band Duran Duran, together with his wife, Gela Nash-Taylor, founder of Juicy Couture, a high-end women’s clothing brand. The clothier originally designed maternity pants. Then the brand name took off, after Gela designed a custom tracksuit for Madonna, which turned into a trend that is exploding this year after becoming popular with other celebrities. Rock stars, sheikhs, and businesswomen are the new aristocracy in the quiet backwaters of rural England.

  Another blind house greets us halfway across the Avon bridge as we trudge into Bradford-on-Avon. This one was originally built as a chapel. When churchgoing tapered off, the utilitarian Victorians put the building to use as a jail.

  “Jail or chapel —” Karl comments. “How ironic that this depressing, windowless structure could be so effortlessly interchanged between religion and punishment. Bah! That’s because they were equally miserable for the common man.”

  I don’t argue. But little chapels like this were common throughout Europe even during the so-called Dark Ages. One can imagine a weary wayfarer quietly entering the little chapel and finding a friar inside, sitting there with candles blazing, offering the traveller a cup of mead and a piece of fish to help him on his way.

  I am impressed by several gypsy canal boats, gaily painted in purple, green, and blue. Greenery covers the decks: flowers, trellised plants, even bikes and stacked firewood. The custom of decorating canal boats dates from the 1870s, after boatmen brought their families on board to save on housing costs.

  Our bones are weary — too weary for town exploration. So we point ourselves toward the side of town we believe our B&B is located. It takes us half an hour and several wrong turns, but we finally reach a rambling Victorian mansion that looks a trifle tatty. The garden is a tangle of vines, yellow-wort, and unkempt roses. A rusty wheelbarrow filled with debris sits perched precariously by a duck pond. We will call this establishment Liberty House in deference to the privacy of the owner.

  Karl follows me up the path, whistling an Irish tune. I bang the big brass knocker against the stout oak door. We are greeted by a middle-aged dyed redhead who is smoking and holding a mobile phone to her ear but who smiles at us and waves her hand, her stained yellow teeth contrasting with her blood-red lipstick and blue mascara.

  “Hi, we are the walkers who called for a room for tonight.”

  “Why, crikey, yes, you are the Americans — doing Macmillan, didn’t you say on the phone?”

  “Actually, we’re Canadian — but yes, doing Macmillan.”

  “You must be achingly tired, darlings. Do come in and I will make some tea.”

  We shed our dirty boots at the door. She ushers us into a drawing room that is surprisingly immaculate, then resumes her cellular conversation. I sink into the burgundy leather sofa, admiring the plush Turkish carpets, fine oak sideboard, and a huge fireplace with a mantel overflowing with cloisonné objects, including incense burners and a multicoloured Ming enamel bowl. By the odour, someone has been either burning incense or smoking a joint — or both.

  We have come far today, and I stretch out on the sofa, ready to purr. Then the front door opens and bangs shut as a giggling young woman dressed in a short black skirt, red blouse, and high boots breezes in, waves to us, and clomps up the winding oak staircase. The proprietress then clatters in with a silver tray holding steaming tea and biscuits. We make introductions and learn that her name is Marnie. Breakfast is at eight o’clock, and we are free to use the lounge and telly. And yes, she says, there are several good pubs just blocks away.

  “I hope you gents like Earl Grey,” she says with a smile.

  “That will do us just fine, Marnie,” I reply. As she clatters off in her high heels, I can’t help thinking that the fragrance of the bergamot in the tea mingles almost too sweetly with the lingering scent of what I now know to be pot.

  After a suitable repast at a crowded, noisy Bradford watering hole, we turn in early at Liberty House. I can’t sleep. In the adjoining room I can hear Karl snoring through the paper-thin walls. I drift off, but awake around midnight to a noisy
clomping of feet on the stairs, raucous laughter and boozy voices emanating from down the corridor. To my annoyance, there ensues continual banging and shouting throughout the night, and I don’t doze off again until well after three o’clock.

  In the morning, Karl and I assemble in the breakfast room promptly at eight. It is clear no one is stirring. Well, almost no one. No sooner do we sit down in the conservatory among the massive philodendrons than we hear a tap-tap on the conservatory door, which evidently leads to a walled garden. Startled, I observe a tall, swarthy young man smiling at me — and clad only in his undershorts.

  I let him in.

  “Thanks, mate. I’m Drew. You should just help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I doubt if anyone’s up.”

  Karl frowns.

  “Afraid Madame Marnie felt things got out of hand last night. Say, are you two blokes cooking something? I’m famished. It was bloody cold out there — Marnie just threw me out on my ear.”

  Karl fumbles with the toaster and searches the fridge for some eggs.

  “So what was all the commotion about during the night, Drew?” I ask.

  “Blimey, mate, you are foreigners. I’ll be damned. Well, Marnie here, like, she runs a good ’stablishment, she does. But see, Christine, like, she’s my favourite — I always ask for Christine and when Marnie said I couldn’t have her last night — like I’d have to settle for Suzie — well, I blew up, you know, mate? Like it’s not right — my coin is as good as the next bloke’s, you see? Besides, I’m not just some ordinary punter off the street.”