St. Augustine of Canterbury landed in Kent in 597 and converted the Saxon King Æthelbert. Over the next century, the entire hierarchy of Anglo-Saxon rulers was brought into the Christian fold. It took a century or more for the Celtic bishops to be vanquished by the overwhelming forces of Roman Catholicism as directed from Canterbury. But Rome recognized the importance of gaining the loyalty of the Romano-British inhabitants and so ordered construction of the largest abbey and monastery in Britain — at Glastonbury.
Glastonbury was and remains the spiritual centre of Britain, notwithstanding the formal designation of Canterbury as the seat of Anglicanism. Glastonbury is associated with both Druidism and Celtic Christianity. As the mecca of New Agers, Wiccans, and assorted hippie types over the years, Glastonbury now extends its appeal to a much broader cross-section of the population who find spiritual nourishment, mystery, and wonder in this ancient Isle of Avalon.
On Wearyall Hill in Glastonbury stands a thorn tree native only to Israel and Lebanon. There is also one standing on the abbey grounds. Of course, these offshoots of older trees could have been planted in Glastonbury at a much later date than the first century AD. But the tradition of Joseph of Arimathea having landed here upon the Isle of Avalon shortly after the crucifixion is a powerful folk legend that has endured through every century. As a trader and merchant, Joseph would have certainly known of, if not participated in, the trade of the Phoenicians with Cornwall for the precious tin and iron found there. Associated with this is the theme expounded by William Blake, whose most famous poem evokes the possibility that Joseph of Arimathea brought Jesus to Britain as a young boy on one of his voyages as a merchant to these parts: “And did those feet in ancient time / Walk upon England’s mountains green . . .”
As a warrior king, Arthur would have been well aware of the spiritual importance of Glastonbury, and the mythical tradition of he and his queen being buried at Glastonbury is also credible. Even so, Arthur appears on the historical landscape as a noble zephyr, ever ethereal. It is fitting that the largest music festival in Britain is now held annually at Glastonbury, attracting hundreds of thousands of people and such luminaries as the Rolling Stones and Sir Paul McCartney. Perhaps they are coming home to their roots.
WE ARE STAYING two nights at Parsonage Farm, a B&B at the foot of Cadbury Castle run by John and Elizabeth Kerton. Just across the lane is the twelfth-century Sutton Montis church, which stands on a much older site believed to have been a Saxon place of worship. The church embodies the spirit and mythology of the region. A lovely and unique stained glass window commemorates the history and landscape, with the River Cam, tilled fields, Cadbury Camelot, and Glastonbury Tor all celebrated.
To the west of the church is a sublime orchard which leads to Queen Camel village a couple of miles distant. In late afternoon, I go for a walk in this orchard, just aimlessly pottering along and enjoying the fragrance of the late apple blossoms, until I become deliciously lost in a distant field. On my return walk, a kind villager appears in her garden and offers me refreshment.
Jean is a retired widow. We sit chatting in her solarium sipping elderflower cordial — cold, fizzy, and refreshing, its aroma mingling with the ripe apple blossoms. Ambrosia for the soul. Jean at one time lived on Salt Spring Island, near Vancouver. She and her husband had retired back to Somerset, and she enjoys reminiscing about her years living on the west coast of Canada.
“Such vastness,” she sighs.
I thank Jean and rejoin Karl at Parsonage Farm. Another lodger is staying here — a short, slight German named Bruno, a seventy-year-old former civil servant from Bonn. Bruno is determined to learn English before dying, so he has enrolled in a grammar school in Somerset that caters to immigrants, though he has no intention of moving to England. He practises his English on us. We like him. He wears a beret — appearing more French than Teutonic — and swings a neat cherry-red walking stick. He displays much joie de vivre.
But it so happens that on our first night at the Kertons, Bruno asks us where to go for dinner. I have to think quickly. We were looking forward to the brassy hospitality down the road at the Red Lion Inn, within easy walking distance. The proprietor there, however, is implacably — nay, violently — anti-German, and would surely cause a scene. So I try to divert Bruno off to the pub at Corton Denham. Alternatively, I suggest, if he doesn’t mind the drive, the Mitre at Sandford Orcas serves a fine meal.
“But where you go to eat?” he queries.
“Uh, there’s this hole down in South Cadbury, and we are likely going to just have a beer or two.”
“Why not eat?”
“Bruno, it’s more of a bar. Trust me: for food, go elsewhere.”
He shrugs, and I feel badly because he likely thinks we just don’t want to dine with him, when that is just not the case. But he takes it in his stride and clambers into his Volkswagen and says he will try the Mitre.
We sup at the Red Lion in South Cadbury. Al, the feisty, ex–British Marine publican, says he is thinking about changing the name of the inn to the Camelot — but thinking even more about retirement. He regales us with stories of the Korean War. As noted, he is fiercely anti-German and also anti-French, and will not stock their wines, but fortunately he has good Australian Shiraz. Once he has finished excoriating the French and the Germans, he moves on to voice acerbic thoughts about the EU, the Chunnel, welfare bums, and Germans again.
“Beer and skittles are on tap tonight at the inn,” he says. “It’ll be a hell of a ruckus.”
“So, Al, what is skittles all about?” I enquire.5
Al shouts at his dog, Charley, who has his paws up on the bar stool, to lie down.
“Like bowling for you North Americans,” he says. “Hard to explain much more, and the rules vary throughout England. But it’s going to be a hell of a ruckus tonight, mates, a hell of a ruckus,” he repeats.
We sit at our table sipping Shiraz and observing the locals coming in for a pint or two. Above our table hangs a tacky charcoal sketch of a dusky nude woman. Charley has now worked his way under our table. Al, seeing this, interrupts his customers at the bar by barking at the old mutt, “Charley, get out of there! Charley!” The dog finally moves.
Al personally delivers the plates, piping hot. “There, lovies. Enjoy.”
One doesn’t get this kind of personal service in most pubs, least of all from the proprietor. But then, there are only three tables in the entire place. Al’s wife does the cooking.
We have both ordered steak and kidney pie. It burns the mouth but tastes delicious. We watch as village children come in from time to time to buy chocolate bars and Smarties. Al treats them all with smiles and warmth. A local farmer sits at the bar watching the soccer match on the tiny telly mounted on the ceiling.
“I saw a beautiful fox on the road today, Allen,” the farmer says.
Rejoins Al, “Was it dead?”
Two dogs start to muck about at the bar, but our Charley stays out of the fray. The farmer at the bar suddenly cheers as his team scores a goal.
“You’re not wearing your Roman ring,” Karl says abruptly.
“I know; I put it on last night and had horrible nightmares of monsters and Black Riders and gladiators, all spattered with gore. So I took it off about three in the morning.”
“Sounds to me like your brain cells got King Arthur mixed up with Lord of the Rings.”
Later in the evening at Parsonage Farm, we sit in the kitchen with John and Elizabeth Kerton. John is of medium build, taciturn, and enjoys his tea with a few wedges of cheese and apples. His faithful collie lies by his side. There is no central heating in this fifteenth-century farmhouse, but we are dry and cozy in our rooms. The kitchen woodstove provides ample warmth this fine June evening. “But blankets and water bottles are needed for the chilly nights,” explains Elizabeth.
Elizabeth is a wonderfully erudite, well-groomed lady who is concerned about the decline of village life, vandalism, and farm succession. Almost all the cottages in the vill
age now have burglar alarms installed, she advises. John cuts some apples with the paring knife and nods. Through the open window we can hear the family’s favourite horse kicking and snorting in his stall. John’s eyes roam toward his fields, around and up the slopes of Cadbury Castle. A true countryman always keeps farm and weather within sight and hearing.
John and Elizabeth are kind and thoughtful pillars of the community and stalwart stewards of the land, quietly carrying on with the spirit of yeomanry and service that has defined country people throughout English history. They have allowed archaeological excavations on their farm property, on and around which have been located Iron Age foundations of a group of neolithic huts. Romano-British artifacts have also recently been found in an area that likely served as an approach to the main southwest gateway to Camelot.
John weighs in on the subject of badgers — creatures everyone wants to hate — by writing a Letter to the Editor in response to the movement to cull the badger population of the country:
It may seem peculiar but if I am wearing my farming cap I would certainly not like our badgers culled. Nobody could possibly have more badgers than we have on Parsonage Farm . . . As far as we can tell they don’t have any TB . . . One can only presume that we are breeding and exporting clean badgers in some quantity and if they were culled, in would come infected ones . . . If I am wearing my green ecological, conservation hat, I would certainly support a cull. We have always had two large setts on the farm and in the old days that number of badgers was sustainable . . . The farm is all old pasture and cider orchards. No artificial fertilisers are used and no tractor spraying, and because of the sheep, no grass is cut until early July.
Until about twenty-five or thirty years ago the farm was teeming with wildlife — plovers, skylarks, pippits, wild English partridge and wild pheasants, also plenty of hares and hedgehogs. Now as far as ground nesting birds and ground game, the farm is the epitome of The Silent Spring.
Somerset is known for its dairy production, apple orchards, and cider. A folk ritual is practised here called the “Apple Wassail.” Wassailing dates to the pagan era. It typically involves a wassail queen leading a procession to the oldest and most fruitful tree in the orchard. She dips a piece of toast in mulled cider, which is placed in the tree boughs to draw favourable spirits. More mulled cider is poured round the base of the tree, which, when combined with the noise of sticks banged together, scares away evil spirits. The tree is then serenaded by the crowd.
Country apple festivals are held in Somerset and Dorset to promote local apple varieties and make the public more aware of the importance of conserving orchards. These liquid events invariably highlight three periods of English history: Merrie Olde England, where locals portray medieval times by dressing in tight green jerkins, playing fiddles, and waving around pig bladders; the era of Mansfield Park refinement, with women wearing muslin dresses being driven around in elegant horse-drawn carriages; and the modern era, with everyone joking around on tractors, baling oats, and quaffing cider to a bevy of off-key fiddlers. Morris dancers and one or two flutists round out the program.
OUR SECOND DAY at Cadbury is spent relaxing and puttering about the lower reaches of Cadbury Castle. In the evening, we again dine at the Red Lion. On our way back to our B&B, we ascend the hill fort for a final visit.
I sit overlooking the sweep of the Somerset Levels atop the highest rampart, dreaming of Camelot and wishing I could have watched Leslie Alcock and his keen archaeologists dig up the grounds and uncover the king’s Great Hall. I can see Glastonbury Tor to the northwest and, immediately below, the quiet village of Sutton Montis, with Parsonage Farm, the precious little church on the lane, cute cottages, and the lovely apple orchard winding away toward Queen Camel like some Avalonian garden. Overhead can be heard the drone of a small plane. The plane looks military; it comes closer, circles briefly, then dips its wings and buzzes off like a hummingbird toward Yeovilton’s Royal Naval Air Base.
In the mind’s eye, thick dust is billowing, as a knight canters up the main entrance from the fields below to enter Camelot and report to his warrior king on the latest incursions of the Saxon hordes. And is that the Lady of Shalott and Sir Lancelot standing furtively in the shadows of the Great Hall?
The idyllic scene is complemented by a huge amphitheatre of quilted fields bounded by high rolling hills to the south with cattle and sheep grazing as mere dots on the hillsides. Glaciers long ago rounded out this landscape into hill and hollow and coomb. Neolithic hunters eventually arrived, followed by Celts, who began to farm and gradually refined the smooth hills by adding a patina of velvety green furrowed fields. It seems a thousand miles from urbanity here, yet the nearby A303 can take you to London in two hours.
Of all the places I have been in the world, few move me as much as the summit of Cadbury Castle. New Agers have made much of theories about ley lines around Glastonbury and Cadbury, but one does not need to study astrology to feel the power and magnetism of this fascinating place.
Karl is obviously moved as well.
“I can certainly see why a warrior leader would choose this spot to defend the West Country from the Saxons,” he muses.
Then, after a long pause, Karl turns to me. “This alone was worth the walk, John.”
At that moment I know that he has felt the same frisson of excitement I have felt, the very charged atmosphere of Cadbury Camelot.
* * *
5 Regarding skittles, I have learned that in Somerset there are six players per side, and the balls are made from apple wood. This is a popular indoor pub game that dates to 3300 BC in Egypt. It shares an ancestry with lawn bowling. The skittles themselves resemble small bowling pins.
11
Raleigh Passion and Hardy Haunts
It is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till.
—J.R.R. TOLKIEN—
The Lord of the Rings
THE CLIMB OUT OF South Cadbury follows the crest of Corton Ridge for over a mile. Karl and I pause to look back north. Cadbury Camelot is directly across from us now, as the apex of a triangle. Glastonbury Tor is faintly visible to the northwest, and to the northeast I can see the silhouetted finger of Alfred’s Tower. As I ponder the enormous significance of this historic triangle for one last time, a writhing steel snake in the guise of a high-speed train passes far below us near Queen Camel. I hear the church bells ringing in Sutton Montis, then the familiar Ooo-oo of a wood pigeon. I know that there is something wonderful here, something to be cherished.
The moment is broken by bracing wind gusts, lashing us on this exposed ridge. Waves of fierce, ugly black nimbus clouds approach from the northwest. The nefarious antics of English weather.
“Dirty weather coming, John,” warns Karl. “Best we hunker down and fortify ourselves.”
We scramble for Corton Denham, a Lilliputian village hidden in a high, remote corner of Somerset. Solace awaits at the Queens Arms, a hospitable free house known for its fine local ciders and sumptuous accommodation. On this high ridge winding down from the Dorset border one is in a virtual fairyland. A lovely parish church nestles into a coomb. Horses, paddocks, and sheep cluster the steep hill upward to the sky like on some Black Beauty movie set.
The pub is busy inside. We know we are welcome because of the friendly sign out front: “We like dogs and muddy boots.” So we each order a pint of local cider. Sitting next to us is a family, the father dressed in a tweed sports jacket, jeans, Italian silk shirt, and wellies. Perhaps this is the new attire of the squirearchy — or, more likely, the affluent Londoner down to his cottage for the weekend. Through the back window of the pub I admire a wattle fence decorated by a low lavender hedge.
Refreshed, we don jackets and Tilley hats but have to huddle in the doorway for several minutes to avoid a passing squall. Our route takes us to the village of
Sandford Orcas along a narrow lane now slick from the downpour. Cool rain lashes our faces in alternating sheets and splatters.
Sandford Orcas dozes in a copse just inside Dorset. The unusual name originates from a ford here with a sandy bottom — hence “Sandford”; the “Orcas” derives from the Norman Orescuilz family, who were given the village manor by William the Conqueror. The current manor house was built in Tudor times from Ham Hill oolitic stone — and is one of the most haunted places in England.
A team from the Paraphysical Laboratory concluded in 1966 that the house held five separate ghosts. One of them is thought to be the spectre of a depraved footman who was known to rape the young maids of the house. This phantom targets only virgin girls. As part of the Lab’s investigations, two allegedly virgin women volunteered to spend a night in a bedroom. Next morning they emerged from the locked room in a terrified state and independently described a seven-foot-tall man dressed in Georgian costume.
I don’t know about the ghost, but I am accosted by an angry, rotund gardener who yells and gesticulates at me to go away when I approach the grounds with my camera, repeatedly telling me that the garden is closed. I am simply trying to photograph the manor house framed by the lovely terraced gardens and topiary. My dander up, I yell back at him, “Being England, sir, I expect nothing less!” which leaves him rather nonplussed, likely more befuddled by my accent than by the cheeky purport of my riposte. Perhaps if I had resembled a medieval knight he might have been friendlier. (A fellow walker, Jonathan Greatorex of Stamford, passed through here recently on Macmillan and related how he felt an “out of body experience” when approaching the manor house, suddenly imagining he was a knight returning from a Crusade.)
Walking to Camelot Page 24
