Walking to Camelot (22 page)

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 disintegrated. 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
A
365 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.”

By this time, Karl has found some eggs and a frying pan and soon things are sizzling, toast is popping, and the orange juice is flowing.

“So how long, ah, has this place been servicing certain local needs?” I ask.

Drew gives a start. Marnie is standing smoking in the doorway, and she looks like hell — pale with no makeup, dressed in a long, flowing, frayed Chinese silk robe.

“Drew,” she says calmly, “leave these gentlemen in peace and go up and fetch your clothes. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

Drew averts his eyes from us and trundles past her.

“And Drew,” she shouts after him, “you are on probation. You hear, mate?”

Marnie shakes her head, her red curls falling all askew over her forehead as she pads about the kitchen in her soft pink slippers.

“Sorry about all this,” she says, pulling out another cigarette. “Some blokes just get out of hand.”

I quickly finish my eggs and toast, settle up with Marnie,and Karl and I tread down the path past the debris-laden wheelbarrow still teetering by the algae-covered pond. From the street, I cast a last lingering glance at Liberty House.

We take a shortcut to reach the far end of Bradford, but I am apprehensive. In the field we have to cross, there is a herd of dairy cows, amid which lolls a huge black bull.

“Come on, John, that old guy is so engrossed with his harem, he won't bother us.”

I clamber over the stile. “Seems like the entire male species is well serviced in these parts, Karl.”

Karl laughs and bounds forward with his customary sang-froid. He scares me by raising his walking stick as if to swat the old bull's rump as we traipse by.

“But I don't want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.

“Oh, you can't help that,” said the Cat: “we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.”

“How do you know I'm mad?” said Alice.

“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn't have come here.”

—LEWIS CARROLL—

Alice in Wonderland

KARL CUTS A RATHER
picaresque figure this morning. He is deeply tanned, hair rather shaggy, Tilley hat misshapen. We both need haircuts. Our visages are probably making the rounds of
MI
5 at this moment, given our scruffy appearance and the sheer number of surveillance cameras we have seen in and around Bradford. Britain has more security cameras per capita than any other country in the world — ironic for a country that is so obsessive about the privacy of one's person, one's thoughts, and one's home.

We join the Kennet and Avon Canal towpath that forms part of the 84-mile-long National Waterway Walk that runs from Reading to Bath. A short path diverts us to view one of the largest surviving tithe barns in the kingdom. The impressive fourteenth-century structure boasts fourteen bays projecting into porches. It measures 168 by 33 feet and is unique in possessing a stone roof braced by a huge A-shaped set of wooden trusses, also known as a “cruck” support. The barn stored produce brought here from the abbey estates around Bradford by the serfs, villeins, and others who owed tribute. Tithe barns were built throughout northern Europe in the Middle Ages. A tithe represented one-tenth of a farm's produce, which had to be given to the church to help support the priests.

Just south of Bradford, we become lost and stumble onto the grounds of a dilapidated Georgian mansion surrounded by rickety outbuildings and a shabby, unkempt garden. Just as we near the entrance to the mansion on a faint field path, cars begin arriving and strangely garbed people alight — young people with tattoos, capes, and dark robes, including spike-haired punk rocker types and some goths. I nod at two angular druidesses wearing long black dresses and conical black hats. A six-foot-tall magician with dreadlocks and a nettled expression looks to be in charge, greeting the guests curtly as they straggle down the walkway to the mansion. It seems a trifle early in the day for a costume party.

Dreadlocks approaches us with an angry scowl. I point to my
Macmillan Guide
and ask him where the path might be.

“You're not coppers?” he says, frowning.

“Would cops have Canadian accents?” growls Karl, crossing his arms and placing his legs akimbo.

Dreadlocks sizes us up for another moment or two. Then he turns and motions to one of the druidesses, who struts forth, marches us perfunctorily down the driveway — and then tells us to get lost. The sweet aroma of marijuana wafts off her cape, mingling with the honeysuckle scent emanating from the tangled hedge of the driveway.

“Friendly natives,” laughs Karl.

“I wouldn't want to run into any of them in a dark alley.”

“Ah, they are all harmless sods — soon will be, anyway. I give them an hour before they're all completely zonked.”

Twenty minutes later we reach the outskirts of Avoncliff village, a popular commencement point for scenic walks along both river and canal. The key object of interest here is the Cross Guns, said to be the most haunted pub in Wiltshire. The Blue Lady is the most commonly seen ghost, but there are others. And yes, this is all taken in dead earnest by the owner, who, after the disturbances became too frequent, called in the Dean of Salisbury to bless the pub. Staff workers swear that the hauntings continue, and that in addition to the Blue Lady, a monklike figure is sometimes seen standing close to a cellar door that opens to a tunnel leading to the nearby canal.

We pass under the Avoncliff Aqueduct, a triple-arched, 330-foot structure completed in 1801 that still ranks as one of the country's most splendid waterway edifices. It actually carries the open canal across the River Avon. It must have served as inspiration for the waterparks that kids enjoy today.

The path takes us across the River Frome on a delightful stone bridge boasting a finely hewn statue of Britannia at mid-span. The sculpted figure looks toward Iford Manor and its renowned yew topiary gardens. A few hundred yards beyond, I stand by a wire fence to take a photo of the winding river. Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in my leg and realize I have been nipped by a goose that has stretched its neck through the fence, obviously resenting my presence. Karl starts laughing and I curse.

The first goose is joined by a second one, who also wants to have a go at me. These are Chinese swan geese, a popular species as they are usually of good temperament — the golden retrievers of the geese world — but will fiercely protect their owner's property. One goose is brown-feathered and the other white, both with orange beaks.

“You're the only person I've known to be bitten by a goose while out walking,” Karl chortles.

Fortunately, my jeans have absorbed most of the bite.

“Better a goose than a bull, Karl.”

The River Frome is now to our immediate left as we pass a weir and enter Somerset. Waves of black clouds stack the sky menacingly to the northwest, and Karl fears that we are in for some dirty weather. The rugged castle ruins of Farleigh Hungerford loom ahead. This castle from the fourteenth century was built by Sir Thomas Hungerford, steward to the powerful John of Gaunt. It played a role in the English Civil War but fell into disrepair in the early eighteenth century, after which the locals removed most of the stones of the crumbling structure as “salvage.” Only the chapel and its crypt survives.

The locked crypt here reputedly contains the finest collection of anthropomorphic lead coffins in Britain, and it is open to the public — but only on Halloween! The chapel displays one of four extant ancient paintings of St. George and the Dragon. The tomb of Sir Thomas Hungerford is impressive. But there is a feeling of unease in the air, accentuated by the storm gathering overhead.

Morbidity rules here. The blackberries, brambles, and nettles are gaining ascendancy. The Halloween ritual of opening the crypt reeks of necromancy. Though it's a beautiful setting with the Frome Valley winding below, the history of this place is replete with much violence, disease, and military conflict from the Wars of the Roses through to the Civil War. I sense bad karma.

We wander down the desolate main street of the nearby village. Ugly gargoyles adorn the church. Worst of all, the Hungerford Arms pub is closed.

“Not terribly inviting, John; all these desolate ruins — who really wants to see a bunch of half-human-, half-animal-shaped coffins anyway? Hell, there's not even tonic for a walker's parched throat. Let's keep moving. There's a wicked storm brewing.”

“I thought you had your Tiger Beer from the Bradford Tithe Barn?”

“That was quaffed way back on the path.”

Blazing flashes of lightning dazzle my eyes, followed by a booming clap of thunder. Then the downpour commences. We button up the Gore-Tex and lower our heads with chins tucked into the wind — much like Karl's white bull assumed his position just before his charge. The thunderstorm lasts for a good twenty minutes as we trudge onward in the deluge, leaving Farleigh Hungerford to its coffins and ghosts. A BritRail cobra speeds past nearby, a blazing silver behemoth of metallic foam and fury that wakes us from our stupor. Modernity intrudes again moments later, when in the distance we observe the hideous hillside slash of the
M
5.

Karl and I emerge sodden and dripping onto a tarmac lane, which leads to a path with a hornbeam hedge running along it until Crabb House. Then we cross the Frome again via an alluring arched bridge. A World War
II
pillbox sits gathering moss on the opposite bank. This particular pillbox was part of a fifty-mile-long string of structures dubbed the
GHQ
Line, designed to slow the advance of Hitler's armies up the Frome and beyond.

Tellisford is one of the few “Thankful Villages” — those villages that lost no men in World War
I
. Only fifty-three civil parishes and thirty-one villages in England had all of their men who fought in the Great War return, though many of the survivors were severely wounded. Only thirteen of those thirty-one villages are considered “Doubly Thankful,” meaning they experienced no military deaths in World War
II
either.

Our
B&B
for the night has been booked off trail, so we are obliged to tramp almost four miles to the village of Norton St. Philip. By now the storm has abated, the sun has come out, and all is well, except for fatigue. I am ready to drop by the time we reach our
B&B
. But after tea and a slice of pound cake, I take a bath, enjoy a nap, and by six-thirty am ready for dinner.

The George Inn boasts of being the oldest continuously licensed inn in England. It was originally built by monks in 1223, as living quarters for their neighbouring priory, and be-came a coaching inn after the dissolution of the monasteries.

Early-bird North Americans invariably find themselves sitting alone in pub dining rooms, since the English practise Continental European habits of late dining. This evening is no exception. We are alone in a vast hall, eating at a battered table that could have been used by Samuel Pepys, who stopped to dine here on June 12, 1668. The famous diarist was en route to the West Country with his wife, Elizabeth, and her maid, Deborah Willet, in tow.

Other luminaries have frequented the venerable George over the ages. The Duke of Monmouth quartered here after his defeat in 1685 at the Battle of Sedgemoor, the final act of the Monmouth Rebellion against King James
II
. Judge Jeffreys hanged twelve rebels at one of his Bloody Assizes, using this dining hall as a courtroom and conducting the executions immediately thereafter on the village common. The inn has also been used as a film set in three productions,
The Remains of the Day, Tom Jones,
and
Canterbury Tales,
plus two
TV
series, Daniel Defoe's
Moll Flanders
and Jane Austen's
Persuasion
.

Of all the pubs we have visited, this one certainly merits highest praise for ambience. Old pews surround the bar. The windows are leaded glass, the floor made of old ship's planking. Then there is the huge stone fireplace. One can easily imagine winter travellers standing in front of the roaring fire warming their hands, the windows frosted with snow, and a black dog lying there too, with the aroma of pipe smoke everywhere, as all the while a servant feeds chunks of maple and beech into the yawning, roaring fire to keep the guests toasty.

Karl and I enjoy a dinner of roast duck with cherry chutney sauce, julienne Grand Marnier sweet carrots, and mashed potatoes. I marvel at the high Tudor-style beams and wall tapestries all about us that portray knightly combat themes. A few small oak barrels hang from the ceiling beams, and numerous colourful medieval shields are displayed. I imagine Pepys sitting with his lecherous eyes peering about him, sizing up his surroundings — especially potential fleshly quarry — while his wife, Elizabeth, sits prim and proper across from him with her maid, who at the time was his secret lover.

A few months after this West Country tour, on October 25, 1668, Pepys was caught by his wife
in flagrante delicto
with Miss Willet. He expressed remorse and the maid was dismissed, but in characteristic fashion Pepys continued to pursue Miss Willet afterward. He simultaneously carried on an affair with a London singer named Mrs. Knep, who signed notes to him as “Barbary Allen,” a song she sang at theatres, while he signed his notes to her under the pseudonym “Dapper Dickey.”

Over trifle, our private dining hall is invaded by a noisy group of German travellers who sweep in speaking their native tongue and gesticulating wildly at the lances and swords and battle gear hanging about. Karl is amused and sits watching them, nursing his brandy. Surely, such cacophony typifies the traditional English coaching inn. There would always have been travellers from all over Europe mingling here with the natives in one clamorous hubbub. In past centuries, more French would have been spoken than German, of course. But German tourists are wild about England these days.

THE MORNING DAWNS
as light and airy as fairy dust, the sky a mackerel sheet of gossamer threads. It's a long four-mile trek back to the main Macmillan. After a stiff hour's trek, we discern two miniature spires atop a church in the distance. We are at the entry point to Rode.

Inside the Church of St. Lawrence, we read about an unusual ceremony called “clipping the church,” whereby the congregation forms a circle around the church on Easter Monday evening, then dances to the left and to the right, cheers lustily, sings hymns, and, finally, rushes inside. Only a few other churches in England perform this ceremony, which dates back to pagan times, and only in Rode do the people in the circle face inward, toward the church.

There is another reason Rode has a historical reputation. The town won a countrywide competition to manufacture a unique dress for King George
III
's Queen Charlotte, after one of its mills developed a rich blue dye that became trademarked as Royal Blue.

“And there you have it, Karl,” I remark. “Church clipping and a Royal Blue dress fit for a queen.”

“The only thing I don't understand is the bit about the church clipping.”

“It's meant to reflect love for both the church and one another. That's why, I suppose, everyone forms a ring and holds hands. Apparently, everyone sings a song or two, like ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful' and ‘Morning Has Broken.' ”

“Where's our next refreshment, John boy?”

“The Woolpack Inn, coming right up.”