Walking to Camelot (26 page)

The capstone to all of this, and the key discovery of Alcock's archaeological team, is the Great Hall, a massive room that dominated the hill and “was the principal building — the feasting hall, in fact — of the Arthurian stronghold.” Based on what we know of the prevailing hierarchy, this is consistent with the presence of either a king or a supreme warrior leader. The hall has been carbon-dated to between
AD
470 and
AD
580 — precisely the time period in which the Romano-Celts were fighting their final desperate battles against the Saxons. Judging by its location, its Great Hall, and its history as the highest, most defensible hill fort in the region, Cadbury Castle was probably
the
key stronghold from which the West Country was defended in the late fifth and early sixth centuries.

No historian or archaeologist has rationally refuted Alcock's findings. However, Alcock himself admitted later in life that there is still no real evidence that a king or leader named Arthur ever lived, nor that any home base equivalent to the Camelot of legend ever existed. That said, given the strategic importance of Cadbury Castle, there is little doubt that the Saxons could not have extended their grip to include western England without capturing Cadbury Castle — and Alcock's excavations indicate that a major battle ultimately spelled the demise of the hilltop fortress.

Historian Michael Wood is adamant that Arthur was likely not a high king but rather the leading warrior chieftain of the day. Yet Wood recognizes that this does not derogate the myth or the historical consciousness of the British people. “The figure of Arthur,” he writes, “remains, as it always will, a symbol of British history; the living bond between the Britons and the English Spirit.”

The “once and future king” written about by Malory lives on in the hearts of Britons and people the world over, judging by the number of Hollywood films, books, and Arthurian societies which continue to flourish. As we have seen, it was not enough for even John Steinbeck that he author some of the most successful novels ever produced about American life. He regarded his career as unfinished until he produced a modern rendering of Malory's epic. And it was to Somerset and Cadbury Castle that he looked for the inspiration for his proposed tome.

THE CLIMB UP
Cadbury Castle by the prescribed route commences at South Cadbury. Woods surround the lower flanks, with patches of grazing land perforated by rabbit holes and badger setts. The layers of earthen ramparts are visible at various levels. The lane we climb is deep rutted, muddy, and lined by pink campions. The hill is five hundred feet high, with four main defensive perimeters. At the top is a sloping, grassy field. There was never a stone castle here, but rather wooden walls, ramparts, and a massive gate at the main entrance facing the southwest, above Sutton Montis village.

Within the hill fort walls would have stood the Great Hall and many buildings housing arms, food, and animals. Habitation would have been limited to the chieftain (or king), his household, and his leading warriors and their retinues. Most of the common folk lived below in villages clustered about the hill near the River Cam.

In the great hollowed bowl beneath the hill lay the storybook fields that would have supplied the castle community with grain and other crops; there are two springs in the hill, the most famous being King Arthur's Well, which has been located on a path near the church in Sutton Montis. According to legend, once a year at midnight the thundering hooves of Arthur and his knights' horses can be heard as the entourage travels down from Camelot to drink water from this well.

The view at the summit is breathtaking. The sun is setting and the fields below are backdropped to the northwest by the pillar of Glastonbury Tor, appearing as some distant phallic symbol, its dark image projecting defiant against a rising cuticle moon. Far to the northeast I discern the silhouette of Alfred's Tower, standing guard over Wessex. And I am here at Cadbury Camelot — Arthur's centre of operations in resisting the Saxons. It is at this moment that I simply sit down on a rampart, overwhelmed by emotion, and weep. Karl turns away, embarrassed.

Later, I discover that I am in good company in my brief emotional meltdown. John Steinbeck describes his own experience standing atop Cadbury Castle on April 30, 1959: “Yesterday something wonderful. It was a golden day and the apple blossoms are out and for the first time I climbed up to Cadbury-Camelot. I don't think I remember an impact like that. Could see from the Bristol Channel to the tops of the Mendip Hills and all the little villages. Glastonbury Tor and Alfred's Tower on the other side . . . I walked all around the upper wall. And I don't know what I felt but it was a lot — like those slow hot bubbles of molten rock in a volcano, a gentle rumbling earthquake of the Spirit. I'll go back at night and in the rain, but this was noble gold even to use Tennyson's phrase — mystic-wonderful. Made the hairs prickle on the back of the neck.” Then Steinbeck broke down.

One reason why myths remain powerful in culture is that they often contain many kernels of truth. They just won't go away. For example, as hard as Anglo-Saxon writers from Bede onward have tried to ignore the evidence of early Celtic Christianity in Britain, it just won't wash. Historians now accept that many Britons had been converted to Christianity well before the Roman legions began to withdraw in 410. In fact, Britain sent three bishops to the Catholic Council of Arles in 314. It was the departure of the legions and the arrival of the pagan Angles and Saxons that set back the faith. The latter pushed the native Britons farther and farther to the western fringes, into Cornwall and Wales.

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 village 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.