Walking to Camelot

by John A. Cherrington

  Sadly, Steinbeck died in 1968 after only partially completing the manuscript for his planned magnum opus, which was published posthumously in 1976 as The Acts and Deeds of King Arthur and His Noble Knights.

  The Leland Trail overlaps our Macmillan route for seventeen miles to South Cadbury. The trail is named after John Leland, an erudite scholar who became chaplain to Henry VIII. The king commissioned Leland to perform an inventory of all books and manuscripts in the religious houses of the realm. This was important in view of the impending destruction by that same king of most of those monasteries. Leland’s work led to many valuable manuscripts being preserved.

  Leland also authored a major work, The Itinerary, in which he recorded the key antiquaries, artifacts, and geography of the kingdom. He toured the West Country in 1542. Leland became a learned advocate for the notion that the hill fort at South Cadbury was in fact the legendary Camelot of King Arthur.

  Bruton joins with other towns in the West of England that have become chic and trendy. A large Congregational chapel fallen into disrepair on High Street is being renovated into a country hotel with an in-house bakery. The plan is for the building to contain a piazza where the community will come together, particularly for arts and crafts events. Its name: “At the Chapel.”

  A small country town, Bruton has it all — a superb parish church, a Gothic almshouse, a narrow packhorse bridge, Augustinian abbey relics, and three ancient public schools: King’s School, the Bruton School for Girls, and Sexey’s School, a boarding academy.

  On a packhorse bridge I stop to peer down at the coppery water of the River Brue, where lie medieval stepping stones forming a “giant’s causeway” across the stream. A few minutes later in town, hordes of teenagers clad in smart navy blue blazers pass us on the sidewalk, laughing and playing with their mobiles. Sexey’s takes children aged eleven to eighteen, and was founded in 1891. It is named after Hugh Sexey, who was Royal Auditor to both Elizabeth I and James I and left a fortune for the benefit of Bruton’s educational needs. Sexey’s was described recently by the Secretary of State for Education as “one of the most outstanding schools in the country.”

  “Ah, Karl, we’re not supposed to ogle here — those girls are young enough to be your grandchildren.”

  “They do look gorgeous in their uniforms, John. And the boys too are so smartly dressed. Why can’t we do that in Canada?”

  “We do, at the private schools. But don’t forget those private-school kids have a reputation for mischief equal to kids from any public school.”

  “Perhaps, but they sure as hell look smarter dressed than the baggy-panted, mop-haired kids you see on our streets these days. By the way, I could use a Guinness about now.”

  “You will have to wait, I’m afraid, until Castle Cary.”

  We leave the streets of Bruton behind, pass the oddly named Quaperlake Lane, and trundle up Trendle Hill. A dark track called Solomon’s Lane leads to huddled farm buildings denoting the outskirts of Higher Ansford. This village was the home of the famous diarist James Woodforde.

  Woodforde was vicar of Castle Cary Church and rode his horse to town to give sermons. He was a keen observer of town and country life, and his Diary of a Country Parson is a classic. He was not your archetype churchman of strict and sober demeanour. His entry for January 1, 1767, records the revelry on New Year’s night: “I read Prayers this morning at C. Cary Church being New Year’s Day. I dined, supped and spent the evening till 10 o’clock at Parsonage, and after . . . I spent the whole night and part of the morning till 4 o’clock a dancing, on account of Mr. James Clarke’s apprenticeship being expired. A great deal of company was there indeed . . . We had a very good band of musick, 2 violins and a Base Viol. We were excessive merry and gay there indeed.”

  Parson Woodforde had his eye on a local maiden for several years, but despite his boisterous, outspoken demeanour, he never mustered the courage to propose to Mary Donne (whom he liked from first meeting, when he wrote, “Miss Mary Donne is a very genteel, pretty young Lady and very agreeable with a most pleasing Voice abt. 21 Yrs. very tasty and very fashionable in dress”), and lived out his life a bachelor. He also enjoyed a good table, as extracts from his diary, such as this, relate: “We had for Dinner to day one Fowl boiled and Piggs face, a Couple of Rabbitts smothered with Onions, a Piece of rost Beef and some Grape Tarts.”

  Not all the parishioners were sober, respectful Christians. Woodforde records in his diary a sermon he preached at Castle Cary in 1770 that was interrupted by an uncouth individual: “Whilst I was preaching one Thos. Speed of Gallhampton came into the Church quite drunk and crazy and made a noise in the Church, called the Singers a Pack of Whoresbirds and gave me a nod or two in the pulpit.”

  One wonders what Woodforde would have thought of today’s byline in The Telegraph informing us that the rector of nearby Bath Abbey has just been defrocked after being found guilty of extramarital sexual affairs with not one but three different women, and attempting an affair with a fourth!

  We see nary a soul in Lower Ansford. But Karl stops abruptly ahead of me and points with his walking stick to a strange sculpture atop the crenellated wall of a manor house. I look up in disbelief. Clearly visible is the stone figure of a man bent over, clutching his bare buttocks and mooning. A copper weathervane is mounted on top of it.

  “What do you suppose that is all about?” laughs Karl.

  “The owner definitely wanted to make a statement, Karl; but I doubt if his neighbours appreciated that sculpture — and I am certain Vicar Woodforde would have frowned at it as he rode by.”

  “Is it that old?”

  “Well, the architecture is part Tudor, part Georgian, it seems. So it’s a reasonable bet that the sculpture was present in Woodforde’s era.”

  Mooning, or exposing one’s butt to the enemy, has been practised since ancient times, and in England since at least 1743. In the Siege of Constantinople in 1204, Greek defenders mooned the Crusaders. Hundreds of Norman soldiers mooned English archers at the Battle of Crécy in 1346. And in June of 2000, a mass mooning was orchestrated in front of Buckingham Palace by the Movement Against the Monarchy.

  Charles II hid in a house in Lower Ansford on September 16, 1651, while being pursued by Cromwell’s troops after his defeat at the Battle of Worcester. His escape route through England is commemorated by the long-distance Monarch’s Way path. From time to time our Macmillan footpath overlaps with it as we wend steadily southwestward toward the English Channel.

  Beyond slumbering Ansford, we turn down a rutted track with overhanging trees, eventually emerging into the Ansford Road approach to Castle Cary. Our B&B for the night is south of town.

  If the blind house in Box was dreary, the lock-up here is pathetic. Picture a round stone erection with a dome on top, all barely large enough to hold one man. This aptly named Pepper Pot resembles a poor Hobbit’s hovel. It was built in 1779 at a cost of twenty-three pounds. The structure is said to have inspired the shape of the British police helmet, and that’s exactly what comes to mind. It sits in the only parking lot I have noticed in the entire town, perhaps to remind motorists that if they overstay their allotted hours, they stand to pay more than just a small fine. Daniel Defoe dubbed this the most impressive structure in Castle Cary.

  I have no luck in finding a bookshop that is open. The quaint store in Castle Cary looks intriguing, but there is no light on inside. I check with the antique vendor next door, who says the bookshop owner has gone on a walking tour to Scotland. Karl laughs and says I have enough books already. Another year, in Arundel, I diverted especially to visit a venerable bookshop, only to find a sign on the door advising that the owner had gone fishing. On yet another visit, I almost struck out with my favourite shop in Dorchester, where the owner had posted this sign: “Proprietor has lost his keys — shop will open when keys located.” I waited around and a short, balding man eventually appeared with keys in hand and let me in. In the course of chatting with him, I discovered that he had forme
rly been a film editor, and he avidly recalled working on a television edition of the CBC’s This Hour Has Seven Days.

  Despite the Pepper Pot’s pall, Castle Cary exudes a relaxed air of charm and sophistication, and I love the museum that sits in the centre of town, with its vast plaza of stonework out front where people lounge about on benches. The building itself is a mini Areopagus — classical and stately, with pointed windows, casements, and majestic pillars.

  Across the road from the museum sits another George Inn. It was here that Somerset cudgel battles took place in 1769 and 1771 to mark the anniversaries of George III’s coronation. These were bloodthirsty contests between two strong men who each tried to break open his opponent’s head. Contestants and bystanders recited the words “Keep up your butt and God preserve your eyesight.” Inn landlords organized the affairs and dragged them out over two or three days to maximize drinking profits. The contest ended in victory for one man either when blood began to flow above the neck or when a man cried “Hold!” This brutal activity was also called “backswords.” A tempered variant of the sport still exists in Chipping Campden, where “Cotswold Olympics” shin-kicking contests are held. Two contestants kick each other viciously until one party relents.

  Castle Cary is the hometown of Douglas Macmillan, after whom the Way is named. Across from the Methodist chapel we find Ochiltree House, where Macmillan lived. Fittingly, the Macmillan clan’s motto is “I learn to succour the distressed.”

  Macmillan never recovered from his father’s slow, agonizing death from cancer in 1911. He was aghast at the ignorance of the disease and at the absence of medical and community support for cancer patients. Determined to help alleviate cancer suffering, he founded the Society for the Prevention and Relief of Cancer, now known as Macmillan Cancer Support.

  Macmillan believed that cancer patients should be able to remain in their own homes even in the late stages of the disease. His society was a game-changer. Today Macmillan Cancer Support collects 150 million pounds a year and employs some 2,000 nurses and 300 doctors in Britain. Every second shop in England seems to have a donation box for Macmillan, and its influence has even spread to North America. I witnessed my law partner dying of cancer, yet he remained of good cheer until the end, while remaining in his home overlooking the ocean, surrounded by family and friends.

  Castle Cary is the jumping-off point for Macmillan Way West, a 102-mile walking path created as part of the Macmillan system in 2001. It is now feasible to walk 346 miles from Boston to Barnstaple — from east coast to west — omitting the southern leg to the Channel. Last year, Karl and I sampled a slice of Macmillan West over two days as part of our general reconnaissance for a long-distance walk. The Way West passes through the Levels, a low, marshy area of meadowland resulting from the convergence of eight rivers that meander toward the sea. King Alfred famously burned the cakes he was tending while hiding in the Levels from marauding Vikings.

  2003 DIARY FLASHBACK: We commenced at the Pepper Pot, from which one descends swiftly to a series of pleasant meadows. Here we encountered several rare red roe buck deer jumping about. The route parallels the meandering River Cary for a stretch. The meadow grasses were full of wildflowers, through which we caught glimpses of darting hares, or “jackrabbits.” These creatures differ from rabbits by virtue of their longer bodies, floppy ears, and burrowing habits. Hares grow so large in East Anglia that they are called “fen donkeys.”

  At Somerton Church we opened the heavy oak door for a peek inside, only to stumble upon a full wedding rehearsal. A beautiful young girl was singing “Ave Maria” to an accompanying organ. We sat respectfully in a back pew and soaked it up.

  From Somerton, the route follows the River Yeo. Here we ran into serious trouble. We had about fifteen fields to pass through, with the River Yeo on one side and a deep canal on the other. The weather turned inclement. Driving rain slashed our faces — it was “chucking it down,” as the English say. Each field held between twenty and thirty steers. And I tell you, they were rabid. Usually when you enter a field, a herd of bullocks will approach you and you yell and wave your walking stick and they back off. These animals did not back off. They kept coming, eyes red, mouths foaming. It was like a nightmare, with the lancing chill of the rain and the charging herds of steers — Stephen King’s Christine is not half so terrifying as those mad brutes chasing you! We kept getting pushed farther down the slope of one field, and I glanced toward the river as a possible escape route. But Karl can’t swim. We were in a desperate pickle.

  As we clambered wearily over stile after stile into each succeeding field, the aggressiveness of the steers intensified, until in the last field they were wholly bent on running us down. We yelled and screamed with all our might, but they kept coming in a raging fury, and we knew that we were about to be trampled to death. Somehow we reached the far fence but were not going to make it to the stile, so we crawled under the low-hung barbed-wire fence and bloodied ourselves. The herd charged after us and careened past, and then the lead four or five steers crashed into both stile and fence and rolled over and over down the hillside, covered in blood, into the river below, taking most of the stile and fence with them. Karl and I just lay there panting.

  “That last bit ought to have taken the bollocks off some of the bullocks,” Karl deadpanned.

  When we reached our B&B at Huish Episcopi, the proprietress looked at us as if we were a pair of wet weasels, for we were sodden and bleeding and bruised; but a good cup of tea soon sorted us out. In a quiet conversation with a farmer that evening at the local pub, we gleaned — without any incriminating admissions — that because of the recent foot-and-mouth disease epidemics, many farmers were injecting their cattle with hormonal drugs that supposedly made their animals more resistant to disease but had the unfortunate side effect of “perhaps making them a tad more aggressive.” You think?

  AT CASTLE CARY, we are fortunate enough to book into a wonderful stone manor-house B&B on the town’s outskirts. Jenny, the owner, even offers to cook us a roast beef dinner. This suits us just fine. Karl heads immediately for the soaking tub, while I update my journal. The day has been long and tedious, and we have overdone it with an eighteen-mile walk that included the climb up Alfred’s Tower and a ramble to Stourhead Gardens and back.

  Jenny is an effervescent widow in her late seventies. She is both refined and compassionate, and makes sure we have plenty of heat for our rooms — a welcome change from the norm! Jenny is also dying of cancer, yet keeps in good spirits.

  Promptly at seven, she raps on my door and announces that dinner is ready, and would I please let Karl know? I will indeed, but have to rap hard on his bathroom door to distract him from his tub ablutions, as I hear him singing amid a cacophony of splashes and thumps. He reminds me of Churchill, who used to behave like a walrus in his bathtub.

  “It’s time for dinner, Karl!”

  No response. I rap harder. Finally the splashing stops.

  “Karl, roast beef in five minutes!”

  “Ask her if she has Shiraz and plum brandy; I’ll be down shortly!”

  We relax over a scrumptious meal of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, creamed cauliflower, and mashed potatoes lathered in rich black gravy. Dessert consists of homemade trifle. And yes, there is a choice bottle of Barossa Valley Australian Shiraz, but Karl will have to settle for sherry for his nightcap.

  Jenny’s joy lately has been anticipating a visit from her long-lost nephew in the United States, whom she wants badly to see. She has no children. The nephew had not stayed in touch since leaving England for America years ago, but recently he noticed her website advertising her B&B and contacted her by email. He is now scheduled to come over and visit her in the summer. She says she hopes to live long enough for his visit, as her cancer, which had been in long remission, has now recurred and she has decided to refuse chemotherapy and radiation. But she does not dwell on this, and is immensely cheerful at our candlelit dinner, saying she enjoys the company of many friends.
Moreover, the Macmillan Cancer Relief nurses are of immense benefit.

  “And are you both enjoying your walk?”

  “Yes indeed,” I say. “It’s a very different world we see along the Macmillan Way. So much history! A little arduous, mind you, when it starts raining and the wind blows across those muddy fields.”

  “Ah, yes, I expect so. A different world for those of us too, John, who have dwelt here all our lives. People in the town now often commute to London or work out of their homes. Not like the old days — why, I walk down High Street now and hardly know anyone!”

  Jenny serves strong Colombian coffee with the trifle, and life is good.

  Before I turn out my light, I reflect that Douglas Macmillan would be very pleased to know that Jenny is able to continue living in good spirits in her own home despite her body being ravaged by cancer.

  * * *

  4 I later learned that the ship was decommissioned in 2011 after sailing 1.4 million miles, and was to be cut up for scrap at a Turkish recycling plant. Angela was on hand in Portsmouth at dawn’s first light on a summer morning in 2012 to watch the vessel be towed out of harbour. “It kind of feels like losing a loved one,” she told reporters. “I’ve seen the ship come back unscathed from the Falklands and the Gulf, but now she’s going to be broken apart in Turkey.”

  10

  Cadbury Camelot

  On either side the river lie

  Long fields of barley and of rye,

  That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

  And thro’ the field the road runs by

  To many-tower’d Camelot;

  And up and down the people go,

  Gazing where the lilies blow

  Round an island there below,

  The island of Shalott.

  —ALFRED LORD TENNYSON—

  “The Lady of Shalott”

  THE FIRST COMMUTERS TO London are gathered at the Castle Cary train station early this morning, most of them carrying laptops. Nearby, a cappuccino board beckons patrons into the Old Bakehouse Coffee Shop. Strong espresso tweaks my nostrils. Needful Things Interiors boasts of its fine silk curtains; Pantry by the Pond offers delicatessen delights such as paella, port tagine, and cream cheese roulades; Maya Boutique offers ladies’ clothes, including Scottish cashmere. Sophisticated town meets country here. Expensive SUVs mingle with Mitsubishi pickup trucks on the town’s main street. No kitsch, please.