Being so close to the famed Cerne Abbas Giant, Karl and I decide to walk the short four miles off trail to observe this artifact. The Giant is a 180-foot-high man carved on a steep hill in foot-wide chalky trenches. In one hand he holds a huge club, and his virility is in no doubt, given his forty-foot-long erect penis and scrotum. His outline served in past centuries as a warning to would-be invaders that Dorset people are not easily intimidated. He was widely believed to aid in fertility, and many couples desiring a child over the centuries have spent a night sleeping beside the Giant “to ensure a healthy birth.” As recently as the late twentieth century, young women were known to leave their knickers with the Giant for good luck.
It is amazing that the Victorians didn’t plough the Giant under, given their hyper-sensitive attitudes toward sex. So why did they let this chimerical monstrosity on the hillside survive intact? All I can think of is that they feared an insurrection by the locals if they dared to touch it. Indeed, why didn’t Cromwell and his Puritans destroy it during the Civil War? Cromwell ruined enough churches, and regarded even market crosses as blasphemous. Victorian mothers were so embarrassed by the Giant that they told their children he was a “tailor with a large pair of scissors in his lap.” During the 1930s, local schoolchildren recited a rhyme:
The giant he looks over us
A-doing of our work
He must be very chilly
’Cos he hasn’t got a shirt!
John Steinbeck and his wife, Elaine, visited the Giant in the summer of 1959, and Elaine commented, “I think they put him there to scare the tar out of passing ladies.”
On May 1 of each year, Wessex Morris dancers “bring in the May” at Cerne Abbas by performing fertility rites around the Giant, followed by festivities in the village itself. Bringing in the May is an ancient custom in England. In the twelfth century, the Bishop of Lincoln chastised his clergymen for participating with common folk heading into the forest, picking flowers and greenery, and decorating their homes to welcome in the season. Later clergymen railed that virgins were defiled in the course of “a-maying” festivities. The maypole was banned by Cromwell, then revived by Charles II. The Victorians dumbed down the tradition by turning it into a children’s custom. Children were encouraged to make a spring garland, travel around the neighbourhood, and ask for money, much like kids do on Halloween in North America.
Scudding clouds sweep over the Giant as we dawdle down the steep slope. We have time to explore today, so we hike the two miles south to Godmanstone, where we visit the Smith’s Arms, reputed to be the smallest pub in England. We are not disappointed. The tiny structure is made of stone with thatch, and the front is only eleven feet wide, with just one, Hobbit-sized dining room. The building is 600 years old and used to be a smithy. When Charles II rode through the village and stopped to have his horse attended to, he asked the blacksmith for a drink and was appalled to learn that the smith had no licence, so he granted him one forthwith, and it has been licensed ever since. It also offers the usual pub services: shove ha’penny, darts, table skittles, and a variety of lunches. A terrace outside is where we have to eat as part of the overflow — in fact, this is where most of the customers sit, good weather or bad.
THE SIX-MILE TREK back to Maiden Newton is miserable. Rain lashes our faces, and cars speed by dangerously on the narrow twisting road, splashing us as we dart to nonexistent verges. I look back at one point when I hear thunder, and catch a brief lightning flash on the hillside illuminating the Cerne Giant’s head. Karl just presses ahead with vigorous strides. When we finally arrive at the Chalk & Cheese, we are as drenched as otters, and I am ready for a hot bath and lasagna. There is no sign of Bill.
At dinner, we talk in low tones about the walk and how it will soon be over.
“So Karl, at some point in life does one opt for a safe harbour as opposed to ongoing adventure?”
Karl contemplates me with a frown and downs some more Shiraz.
“I don’t believe in safe harbours. Once you decide to pack it in with your work, your wanderings, or your hobbies, you go to pot — physically and mentally. You have to keep going. As George Burns used to say, ‘Use it or lose it.’ And there is no Nirvana; even quaint places have problems.”
My mind focuses for a moment on an apple orchard in Somerset and a small cottage with a garden and a little picket gate with a sign reading “The Shire.” In Watership Down, a group of rabbits search for a safe haven. Ratty advises in The Wind in the Willows: “Beyond the Wild Wood is the wild world” — and he’s never going there. Yet even though the outer world is too much with us, most of us feel the need to press on into it. Frodo and Bilbo press on when convinced there is danger to their precious shire and a greater good to be achieved.
The storm is still raging outside and the entire inn shakes with a couple of rolling peals of thunder. Rain spatters the smoky leaded glass windows. A St. Bernard lazily shifts his position in front of the blazing fireplace.
I don’t believe in safe harbours, Karl said.
I join Karl for an after-dinner brandy. Then I stumble up to bed. Through the wall, I hear Bill rasping and coughing.
Before turning out my lamp I read the latest press report on Madonna’s battle to keep her estate closed to walkers. The planning inspector in Sherborne has just ruled that only 130 acres of Madonna’s 1,130-acre tract will become accessible as “open country” under right to roam legislation, not 350 acres. Both sides in the dispute seem happy with this decision.7
Bill is now talking to someone, although I can’t hear the words distinctly. Then I realize that he is quietly praying.
The second story to catch my eye in the newspaper is the conviction and sentencing of two brothers who have systematically abused a gypsy family, which is an offence under the provisions of the Race Relations Act. “Neil Shepherd, 41, a crossword compiler, and his brother Martin, 36, a psychology student, called the family ‘scum’ and ‘vermin’ as they drove past their camp beside the A350 at Blandford, Dorset,” reports The Telegraph. A crossword compiler? A thirty-six-year-old psychology student? The family in question qualify as travellers, and like the Romany, are a specified protected minority group under the law. These are the first convictions involving racially motivated behaviour against the traveller community.
The thunderstorm continues through the night. When Karl and I assemble for an early breakfast in the dining room, I notice streams of water cascading down the village street.
“We may want to wait for this storm to abate, Karl. I don’t fancy stepping out into that maelstrom.”
“Weather’s supposed to improve by mid-morning, John. Let’s go. We have to get to the coast.”
Before we leave I need to call our B&B at Abbotsbury — our final destination — because we will be arriving a day earlier than expected, and I have booked rooms only for the following night. So after breakfast I use the pay phone at the Chalk & Cheese to ring up the establishment.
“Hello, it’s Mr. Cherrington here, and we have a booking to stay at Farley Lodge for the fifteenth of June, and I’d like to book an additional night now for the fourteenth, as we are going to arrive a day early. You see, we are walking the Macmillan Way.”
“What, you want to change your booking, sir?”
“No, I’d like to book one extra night, please.”
“What is your name, sir?”
“Cherrington.”
“I will have to check the booking sheet, sir.” The pay phone beeps to prompt me for more coins.
“Are you there, sir?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“I am sorry, sir, but I must check out some guests. Could you call back in twenty minutes?”
“Uh, sure.”
Twenty minutes later . . . “Hello, Farley Lodge.”
“Yes, it’s Mr. Cherrington again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you confirm my booking now?”
“Confirm, sir?”
“Yes.”
; “You wanted the fourteenth of June, you said?”
“Yes, but I’m booked for the fifteenth already and would like the same room for both nights.”
“I was going to check and see if we had you down for the fifteenth, sir.”
“Yes, you were.” The pay phone beeps for more coins.
Silence; then I hear a rustling of paper.
Finally, a gushing torrent: “Oh, sir, sir!” the woman cries. “Why, I’ve located you in the book! It’s Mr. Cherrington, correct?”
Can orgasm be far behind?
“Uh, that’s great.”
“You’re booked for Room 7, sir.”
“Okay.”
“Yes, sir, it’s a twin room.”
“I know that.”
Silence again.
“So, ma’am, how about the fourteenth, then — am I booked for the extra night as well?”
“Oh, right, you’d now like the fourteenth, wouldn’t you. Do you still want the fifteenth, sir?”
“Look, how many times do I have to tell you — I want the fourteenth and the fifteenth. Twin room — okay?”
“Sorry, sir, you don’t have to get angry. I am doing the very best I can.”
The phone beeps for more coins.
“Please, ma’am, please just tell me that we are now booked for the fourteenth and the fifteenth.”
“Well, it would seem fine, sir, but I will of course need your credit card number to hold the room for both nights.”
“But you already have my Visa number from my earlier booking!”
“Sorry, sir, it is not showing up —” The phone connection cuts out, as I have run out of coins.
After obtaining more change at the pub, I return to do battle.
“Farley Lodge.”
“It’s me again, Mr. Cherrington. I’m sorry that we were cut off.”
“Well, sir, you didn’t have to hang up on me like that!”
“Please! I didn’t hang up — can’t you see that I’m in a phone booth on the Macmillan Way and it cuts off when I run out of coins . . .”
“I see, sir.”
“Yes, quite. Now here is my Visa number —”
“Sir, I’m afraid you cannot have the same room for the fourteenth as the fifteenth, as your Room 7 has been previously booked by another party. Do you want a different room for the fourteenth?”
“Please God! Yes, of course I do. I am so sorry for all of this.”
Indeed, it was all my fault. As the learned Anglo-Afghan writer Idries Shah — himself a naturalized Englishman — observes, “It is normal practice in England not to answer anything directly. Standard practice too, is not to ask direct questions: it is considered aggressive to assume that the other person can, should or will answer at all. The correct form if compelled to approach another for help, is to start with ‘Excuse me, I wonder whether . . .’ ” And this clearly had been my sin. Instead of charging ahead and boldly demanding my rights, as one does in North America, I should have delicately asked the lady to pardon my behaviour and requested her — nay, begged her — to perhaps accommodate us, if at all possible, without undue inconvenience to her, the staff, or other guests, with a room for both nights. One learns, but slowly.
Karl laughs at my Fawlty Towers encounter.
“We’ve dallied long enough, John. Time to heft packs.”
Just as we prepare to embark, Bill rattles down the stairs and into the dining room. His dog follows at his heel.
“I am afraid we have to be on our way, Bill,” I say.
“Oh dear, nine o’clock already; why, I must have overslept!” His dog looks up at me accusingly, as if I am leaving him and his master in the lurch, alone at the breakfast table.
Then Bill embraces Karl and me both, and wishes us a safe journey.
“Cheers, Bill. Take care of yourself,” I say.
He waves from his window seat as we pass by, and we wave back with our walking sticks. I can see his blue eyes twinkling, though. A good, kind man, undaunted by life’s cruel twists.
“Poor chap,” says Karl. “All alone with just his dog.”
I muse over the fact that we embraced one another on departing without even knowing each other’s last names. I think of Pat at Big Thatch, who also hugged us both.
The rain has finally ceased. Our route follows a wide track out of Maiden Newton, with the landscape rapidly changing to wide, flowing uplands of grass crops interspersed with little copses.
It is a steep hike to reach a bridleway that merges with the Dorset Jubilee Trail, a 90-mile regional path. Ahead are great views, with the 72-foot-high Hardy Monument clearly visible to our left. This high landmark that so proudly adorns the hill commemorates not Thomas Hardy but rather Captain Thomas Masterman Hardy, to whom Nelson, as he lay dying at Trafalgar, whispered, “Kiss me, Hardy.” When Nelson expired, Captain Hardy commanded the return to England of the surviving fleet.
England has been and continues to be defined by the sea. The ocean facilitated the empire, proving that a small land mass was irrelevant provided that a nation could establish a strong navy and a strong trading regimen. The Battle of Trafalgar was the decisive sea battle, forcing Napoleon to abandon his attempts to conquer England, the Middle East, and other environs, and marked the beginning of the end of his rule. Captain Hardy went on to become a rear admiral and later, in 1830, First Lord of the Admiralty. The Hardy Monument was erected in 1844 to both commemorate his achievements and serve as a navigational aid for shipping. The tower is octagonal and resembles a spyglass, with the corners representing the eight points of the compass.
From this high point I marvel at the Dorset Downs and the picturesque patchwork fields, much like scenes from children’s stories — the curves so graceful, the fields tidy and neat, the villages all quiet and ordered, with no sprawl. Thomas Hardy’s Valley of the Black Vale lies glimmering like a pearl to the east.
The Guide advises to “walk down a pleasant sunken lane with, in high summer, many butterflies and the scent of camomile. Beware of deep ruts in tract.” Well, those deep ruts are filled with water this morning after the storm, and it requires some occasional balancing acts to avoid them. Still, the capricious sun is appearing now and then from under a cirrus blanket. Cattle and sheep dot the steep hillsides; pheasants strut; curlews, rooks, and magpies circle and squawk about; and from this neolithic ridgeway, one is very much on top of the world.
Myriad round-barrowed neolithic burial chambers abound. The key one is a Bronze Age site known as the Kingston Russell Stone Circle, comprising eighteen low stones. It can scarcely be coincidence that this circle exists precisely at a point where no fewer than five public footpaths converge. No one can convince me that ancient man had no appreciation for art and aesthetics. At the highest point of White Hill, we have incredible views over Abbotsbury to the Channel, including the long line of Chesil Beach with the lagoons of the Fleet, and even the peninsula of Portland Bill beyond to the east. The sea at last!
The last three miles of the Way take us steeply downhill at first, over freshly trimmed fields still wet from the thunderstorm. Then the path descends sharply into a large ravine, where we follow a stream bed. The Guide cautions here, “Despair not if things seem jungly, as path suddenly emerges into pleasant, small grassy water-meadows.” Yeah, right.
Just over a mile from Abbotsbury, we become hopelessly lost in the swamps. All about us are tentacle-like branches with lichens, ivy, moss, bracken, and fungus — a tangled primeval soup. We are immersed in Tolkien’s Mirkwood! Karl halts and peers in dismay at the tangled morass of marshy woods ahead.
“Do you know where you are going?”
“No, Karl, and I don’t see any footpath; we’ve been following some fox trail.”
“We can’t be far from a road; hell, it’s only a couple of miles to the Channel!”
Karl pulls out his compass and we straggle through the quagmire in a southerly direction, getting muddier and wetter by the minute as we traverse boggy patches. At one poi
nt my boots sink up to the ankles in quicksand and I have to grab a vine maple branch to pull free.
We finally emerge from Mirkwood up a tiny dirt lane, and from here manage to reconnect with the Macmillan on a hillock beside some startled ewes, where we stand catching our breath. I hear a loud noise above and look up to see an enormous military helicopter hovering above us like some silver dragonfly contemplating its insect prey. After a long few seconds, it finally moves on toward the Channel, only to be followed by a second copter that zooms down to have a look at us. It reminds me of that opening scene in Hitchcock’s North by Northwest. I yell to Karl that we are being targeted.
“Don’t pay any attention, John — they’re just practising their rocket launcher settings for Afghanistan.”
I AGAIN REFLECT that in England there prevails an acute awareness of the sacrifices made in two world wars. The annual re-enactment of battles staged by Maiden Newton is another reminder of those sacrifices. There is quite a dichotomy between rural and urban collective memories in this regard. It is the hinterland that stores the memories; and it is in the hinterland where the military maintain a constant presence. In the Cotswolds, we watched as vast numbers of military transport planes droned by to land at some nondescript airfield near Cheltenham. Military bases lie discreetly hidden in the countryside and there are mysterious comings and goings at all hours of the night. The Royal Navy too is omnipresent — in the Channel, the Irish Sea, and the North Sea — probing, patrolling, protecting the shores. England may not be the great power it once was, but its compact fighting force seems very much at the ready.
One more stile and we are through a field and across the main street of Abbotsbury. This village of five hundred inhabitants very much caters to tourists. Our B&B can wait, as we are on a mission to dip our feet in the English Channel to complete our Macmillan walk. We limp by the Abbotsbury Tithe Barn, touted as the largest thatched building in the world. The final leg before we reach the sea is a climb up Chapel Hill. The path is covered with sheep shit. No matter — at the summit stands St. Catherine’s Chapel.
Walking to Camelot Page 28
