A bimble round Arne

Arne spoke of that special kind of wilderness that Britain provides. Isolated enough to feel that you are alone on an island only inhabited by ancient woodland creatures and aviary types but within a cycle ride of a major conurbation.  Swanage, Poole and Bournemouth are all a 60 second bird flight away, with the luxury residences of Sandbanks on the opposite shore where a Redknapp or two roosts. I thought this was the perfect base for a bimble of incredible opportunity; East, South, West or North there were adventures to be had on two wheels.  To the South the Purbeck Hills provide a cloud barrier which allows Poole Harbour to repeatedly feature in the 'hours of most sunshine' spot on the evening news.  This was always a juicy bone to a Brummie dog looking for an escape route to the Sun.

As a bimbler I like to think I'm Paul Simon getting all the news I need from the weather report.  Repeated warnings of bad weather had driven many campers home by this point of the summer and the dark clouds over the Purbeck's hinted at misery beyond. I found a campsite within walking distance of Wareham but not too close to be rowdy and upon arrival of the Red Baron most campers left toot suite, chuntering about apocalyptic storms arriving.   I was happy to stay in the lee of the hills and explore the rich treasures of bird heaven on the lowland heaths around Arne, one of the RSPB's flagship sites and home of good weather.

With some glee I pulled my trusty steed, Claud Butler Dalesman, out of Rosie's bosom and headed off into the wilds.  Flat was good and speed felt right as I ate up the few miles on deserted roads through the heath to the point where Arne sits overlooking marshes and Poole Harbour.  The heather was out and the familiar ambrosial scent hang heavy in the warm summer dusk.  I was alone, exploring, happy as a young Baden Powell stranded on his beloved Brownsea Island, which was visible from the vantage point as the road petered out.  Dinghies from Poole raced in the bay and hidden beaches and islands called out for Scouts to explore and set up hidden camps of pirates.

I was here for the birds though ! I had been told of a lazy Osprey that hung out at one of the hides and a mythical white deer that roamed the salt flats. Looking for luck I combed the carefully tended paths through birch woods trying to sneak up on the roe deer grazing on the marshes with my telephoto lens searching for that magic shot.

I soon found my field glasses were probably relics of the war and frosted up in one eye.  I came across a twitcher and soon had techno envy. His powerful binoculars were a revelation picking out distant specks which his trained eye identified as rare summer avian visitors. He showed me his snaps of inquisitive bucks in high definition close up.  He got bored of me using his gear and I moved on determined to use the power of surprise.

They were a bit too far out for my lens and frisky, they probably caught my scent after a week in Rosie too.  What a great way to spend your summer evenings bumbling about watching wildlife. I envied the patience and the calm peace of the twitcher, happy as a trainspotter. Someone who was a master of one hobby and confident in his authority, informed and enthused by this lone activity.

As was the big buck, way out on the mudflats with his harem following behind.  Standing proud like Hearn the Hunter, with Poole looking rather incongruous behind. I left him to master his domain and whipped back to the comfort of Rosie in the fading light or a warm evening. As soon as I hit the tarmac three smaller deer jumped out in front of me!  These were smaller Sika deer which have become native to this area, protected and thriving.  I was to see many more boinging out of the undergrowth as I wound my way through the heath and forests of The Isle of Purbeck. I imagine this is why people go on Safari, to feel privileged to be so close to such special animals in their natural habitat.  But we don't need to go far! With their twitching ears and inquisitive faces one could only stop and stare as they size you up and sniff your scent.  I spent many a moment seeing who would twitch first and became a bit of a stalker over the next few days.  I always won as the sight of them bounding away, leaping over the furze in the relative silence of the heath was a joy to behold.

One of the reasons this is such a well protected nature reserve despite its proximity to a large population is that there is oil in them thar hills.  Cunningly hidden away in pine woods lies 'Wytch Farm' which claims to be Europe's largest onshore oil field pulling out 50,000 barrels a day from reserves up to 500 feet below the ground.  If you go looking you will find it but the only signs are a low hum of industry and some eerie lights at night. Modern pirates smuggling their booty from the earth's core. The less intrusion into their activity the better I imagine so they must support the raft of environmental initiatives that come with such a site of special scientific interest and the heritage sites of the Jurassic coast. A symbiotic relationship that cuts a delicate balance in the modern eco-system.  I doubt the frackers would have as much leeway.

This was perfect cycling terrain.  Quiet roads criss crossed the heath and for the more adventurous there were trails through the woods and along disused quarrying routes. Best of all it was quite flat until I hit the Purbeck hills.  I was so enamoured that I fell into a false sense of security and ventured out the next day without essential supplies, aiming for Studland Bay. I knew immediately that I had punctured and should have taken stock and retraced my steps.  You can usually sense that you have pushed it too far and that further risk will lead to disaster. Call it a day, take it on the chin and accept defeat. But no, the MAMIL's mind doesn't work like that.

I cursed my luck as I realised I was at least ten miles from the comfort of Rosie. I had been out all day and the light was fading.  My first thought was to find a bus stop lock the bike up and return with Rosie so in my madness I pushed on to the ferry to Sandbanks.  The only buses went to Swanage. Now I was further from home, nearer Bournemouth than bed. Instead I manically cycled to Studland Bay and then unwittingly up the side of the increasingly massive peaks of the Purbeck Hills.  I had started to pump the tyres up every 500 yards, but this became a pointless waste of energy.  As my fear grew I pushed on, rim to the road, hoping that the next summit would be the last and that cars would take pity on a struggling cyclist and sling my burden in the back of a 4x4.  A possible lycra clad hero rode by shouting see if I had spares.  To my horror that was it! He didn't stop.  I was now in a state of survival. It was exhilarating, the endorphins spiked and the adrenaline raced as I rode between emotions of panic and exhaustion.  At one spot I was running up hills and then wobbling down the other side. In the end I took a punt and dove back into the wilderness of the heath.

I ate my last carb as some Sika deer consoled my wilting figure as it disappeared in the dusk.  I became increasingly lost in the woods.  The lights of the oil refinery saved me as I eventually popped out near Arne in pitch black night.  I wondered how I would get on in the proper wilds of woolly and was beginning to doubt my Bear Grylls credentials. The only way now was to ride on a ruined tyre and hope I didn't leave the tarmac. Keep straight, upright and push on.  The relief as I rode back into camp and devoured a packet of fig rolls was like a cascade. That was the sweetest shower I ever had!

As my shaking subsided I felt like a real adventurer, a Hemingwayesque hero tackling the wilds. A man can be defeated but he can never be destroyed.

A Bimble down the Manifold Trail

For research purposes Sir Robert of Whitley Bay and I fortified ourselves in a hostelry in Longnor to prepare ourselves for the mighty journey ahead. Looping around the Manifold trail and the Tissington Trails, we endeavoured to ride the abandoned railways conveniently converted to well attended cycling tracks for the adventurous but not completely bonkers middle aged men in Lycra. We consecrated and patronised the two places that were giving heart to this village that time had forgotten. A chip shop that was livelier than Sally Sedan's diary and a pub that signalled a new and hopefully successful venture in rural entrepreneurship. It looked like a beautiful stone building that was once the heart of this village on the Staffs/Derbys border had been given a new lease of life by someone willing to defy the suffocating stranglehold of breweries and overweening tenants looking to sell off any vestige of village life to the highest second home bidder.  We bid the landlord well in his venture or at least his young semaphore who was off to 'Stralia as soon as he could get the fuck out of this one horse town.' This is Peak Practice country but the lights were off. I remember when the Welsh burnt those owning second homes out of town, which is a bit Welsh, but the impact has been keenly felt in the bucolic wastelands. Nice place to visit but you wouldn't want to live there., they say. Longnor is a gem, if you lived there with little else to do you would need a dog. A lively dog, that would get you out on the hills and no two walks would be the same. The White Peak is like the Lakes but without the massive hills and all the better for it. You could spend a lifetime here and tramp around the valleys and peaks straining yourself but not wiping out your Springer. So much variation within a small radius provides the cities within reach a playground of inexorable splendour.  

  

I love it because my Grandfather loved it. It took me a while to see through the mists and miasma of wetness but Manchester, Birmingham and Sheffield have bounty on their tails. I always thought it was damp and miserable but now I am in awe and only just reconsidering long worn paths and seeing them in their true glory. You could say I saw the light, but maybe that was after several pints in this freehold establishment. The only light I saw was Rob's rear flasher disappearing up the hill back to the campsite as I wondered how much more were I could outtage after a liquid dinner and the fat o the pie and chip supper. Don't tell  the cops but we flew up the hill like bats out of hell. 

 We took the high end option and booked a site with a putting green. I was meeting Robert Lord of Whitley so I had to up my game.  Within cycling distance of Longnor and just over the Staffordshire border it seemed like a booking with a modicum of aspiration.  Rob was a bit unnerved at the arrival of Rosie resplendent in rosiness, scarlet woman amongst the virginal white caravans.  Usually talkative campers took a further back step when they saw our erection;  of the tunnel tent which was to mark Robert of Whitley's territory.  The wine was in the van so after an unseasonably cold night under canvas Rob chose Rosie's welcome for the second night.  Chilled to the bone he withdrew from the offer of visiting Ludd's cave, a Staffordshire legend waiting to be explored.

 The morning chill was softened by clear skies and blue remembered hills.  So good to be back in the country with vistas to make any city dweller revoke their ties.

Whenever I venture to the White Peak it is to wonder why you would live anywhere else. But anywhere else is often just as good so maybe the human condition demands we keep searching for the new. So many places to see before we shuffle off this mortal coil, so keep searching.  However, it is a place that demands you spend more time here.  People love it and the Peak District has a captive audience from the cities that surround it.  If you feel yourself on the underground metaphorically or literally ask of yourself or the star or the wind, would you rather be in the White Peak?  It's just up t'road duck from just about everywhere so that is why we love it. It heartens the soul and revives the spirit.

 Growing up in the vale of the Trent these were the hills that beckoned to me.  I love a good map and the yellow ones are often the best and my dream breakfast accompaniment. Where we off today then Rob?  Lardons, eggs and coffee for two.

 Mamils mounted their steeds and set off in the cold light of a crisp morning.  A tip for the adventurous cyclist. Get the old mountain bike sorted at Halfords on the way through not the way back. It works fine now but made me look like a southern Jessy as Rob burnt me off on his son's bike.  My claims to be a cyclist, a gentleman of the road, came to ought as I repeatedly descended from the upright to bemoan my two wheels.  I had no lower gears.  I have now and just under estimated the terrain, honest. This is hill country for any lowlander and will punish the under prepared.

The beauty of this area is you get out there and wherever you go you will feel uplifted. Sweet hills and stone walls, sheep to die for and honest folk. Alright duck and Bakewell tarts.

 And we were off ! Beating down lanes with grass growing through the tarmac, only frequented by the 4x4 and Sheffield boy racers. Wind in our hair our joy in our hearts, sun out and a route full of history planned meticulously over several pints in the Cottage Cheese pub in Longnor the night before, studiously avoiding the rugged locals and their darts match. They didn't even offer us a sandwich as we pored over our shared map supping Bakewell's Thornbridge and Manchester's Robinson ales. We were adventurers come to this strange land to conquer and explore. They were up early to drive lorries and tractors. Or work in IT in Buxton.

 And then we stopped. We had too! The cakes.

 At the terminus of the Manifold Trail there is a wonderful tea shop. I went traditional; Bakewell, and Rob went off piste with a plum upside down affair and without asking he got a Middlesborough mug. Not bad for a black and white evangelist.  I won't go on about the cakes but moistness can only be hinted at in photographs. It reduced the pace but what are we here for?

We beat on down the Manifold track, boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the past. We are bimblers. As flash Harry's in lycra on souped up racers whooped past us we kept our pace, as charity runners whipped past us we kept our pace.  We were psychogeographers in low gear, taking in the historical magnitude of the area, delighting in the overwhelming tunnocks through which the track delved.  Oh to be in England!  The sense  of history, of minerals transported through this verdant valley. That someone had bothered at some point to plant a railway through this splendid valley of reeds and birdsong.  You have to wonder what it would be like if still extant. A narrow gauge train trundling along this hidden corner of heartland.  We had it mostly too ourselves, dipping into a valley of limestone wonder.  Caves carved into the hillsides went unexplored as we pushed on down the line.  It is as level as can be expected in such a sugar lumpy area but not without effort so we broke for Bakewell tarts.  I had smuggled some generic tarts in, iced with a cherry on top via ubiquitous German proprietors.

Now we were entering a  contentious area. My tarts were not up to scratch. The champion tart mentions a crisp shortbread pastry and a layer of strawberry jam, generous frangipane filling and no mention of a glace cherry on a thick crust of icing. The great  ALDINI has no hold here.

 The rivers bubble below the surface and the later part of the cycle path follows the Hamps river which I have never seen. It has always been dry when I have ridden this route.  It is all going on below in the limestone caverns. Cavers love it round here disappearing into troglodyte land. I like Conan Doyle's description of the pace as a Gruyere Cheese. It made me think of Grovesy my schoolfriend who we teased as he couldn't spell banana but gained a degree in Astro Physiscs then met me in New Zealand. He disappeared down a hole in the middle of a field near Hamilton, NZ.  I watched a lamb being born before he appeared five hours later, popping up a hundred yards away grinning like a hobbit. We saw fireflies that evening which sounds romantic until you have met Grovesy.  Actually he made me feel sad when he said I never gave anyone compliments, shortly after we survived racing the North/South Island ferry into dock on a two man kayak. Which reminds me of another friend who said I was mean of spirit.  Anyway, luckily Rob is a positive soul who is aware of my limitations and would make it very clear if I was lacking in ardour. We pushed on fired by icing and made it to Waterlow before being confounded by the Leek - Ashbourne road. Lorries carrying quarried stone thundered by as we tackled the hill to the relative safety of Calton

 Once up on the tops once more we could delight in the majesty of some walls without wondering if our hearts would give out before we were pounded into the blackstuff,

 And what a scene awaited us on our descent into Ilam. This is a hidden treasure of a road and luckily fairly unknown to the four wheels bad crowd. Bombing down the valley we found our ideal home overlooking the softer moorlands of Staffordshire. Lord Rutherford of Upper Longdon and Robert of Whitley would return to conquer this seat.  We flashed by only to be stopped by the great dun cow of Derbyshire. I'm never one to mess with our bovine friends and I must admit that even on two wheels I wondered if this was how I would meet my maker. Face down in a pat of cow.  Rob went last I have to say as I bravely entered the land of leather and took pot luck on their parting of the ways.

 This was the best bit, hurtling downwards for three miles on a rough track with views to inspire the hardiest of souls.

A bimble round Stonehenge

Perhaps the most striking view in the UK is the one which greets the driver on the A303 as the mighty stones appear on the horizon. Like seeing the Vale of Avalon as you crest the Mendips or how I would imagine first sighting Rannoch Moor? Seeing Stonehenge for the first time, stark against the sky is a wow moment, followed soon after by a fade into the what the bloody hell is going on with this road moment.  Queuing traffic in the countryside at 7am is not normal is it?  Most are slowing to study the monuments but there is a distinct clash between the ancient and the modern that no-one has yet overcome despite stories of tunnels and by passes.  The henge is the reason most people travel to the county of Wiltshire unless you are in the military.  As a man from Tennessee told me this is just like our state back home, 'the state of blowing shit up.'  Evidence of the Ministry of Defence is everywhere from barracks to signs for sinister corporations with dubious names like QinetiQ, straight out of a Bond film. The haunting presence of Porton Down hinted at apocalyptic chemical warfare, a feeling heightened by the proximity to Novichok central formerly known as Salisbury, down in the valley.   It is this juxtaposition of the ancient and the warlike that defines the area around Stonehenge as one big sepulchre for me and left a feeling of unwelcome trespass, as if I wasn't party to the real secrets of the area. Or maybe I was just in a bad mood.

Determined to gain the full experience I was first in line at the visitor centre and had to wait to park the van. Too early for the shuttle bus, I walked up to the stones with other early birds and wandered around the stones in the morning sun.  The site cannot fail to impress and the protection afforded by the ropes limiting access became clear as the hordes arrived soon after.  Initially I was in the camp of those wanting unfettered access, hearing Kerouac's cry,' once man gets separated from his rivers waddya got?' I had no idea so many people existed and soon wondered what neolithic man would make of the selfie stick.  Without protection the site itself would soon be eroded by these feet of less ancient times. It is peculiar to experience thousands of people descending upon the circle and wandering in a slow funereal procession punctuated by stops for selfies. the whole scene becomes surreal as the ubiquitous audio guides buzz away in a polyglot of languages as a zombified league of nations amble past. Some people were on the phone with audio guide blaring at the same time.  'I can't hear you I've got the audio guide on!'

Rather quickly the stones become less of a focus than the people, phantasmagoric people watching exercise as all ages and ethnicities disgorged from the bus and filed through, expressing varying degrees of wonder and bemusement. I was fascinated with body dysmorphia, the varying physical abilities and the sheer numbers.  I'm not sure how much visitors were gaining from the experience but there was no doubt this sometime ruin had become a modern day gold-mine. And what do all these blimming people do with all their photos?  Write a blog or sum fink?

The tide of humanity is a real shock in contrast to the remoteness of the location on top of the chalky downs.  It would seem that the ditch was the original eye-catcher, exposing the gleaming white chalk holding the altar on the hill. Radio carbon dating of antler picks used to dig the ditch and chalk avenues that led the eye to the horizon dated back to nearly 3000BC. The wave of settlers from Europe had wiped out the hunters and foragers in isolated glory a thousand years before and now the chalk and flint of the Downs was key to building a civilisation where tools could be used to inspire glorious mounmunets to lift humanity above the beasts. This must have been a key site on Ancient routes linking the prospering Southern lands of Britain.



I imagine a visit in the depths of winter would add to the drama exposed on the chalky uplands, this bare monument to man's desire to leave a trace. Only then could I imagine aurochs and boar wandering the site and corpses exposed to the leaden sky being picked clean by crows and ravens. One can't help but be transported to Ancient Britain as druids established some sort of ceremonial centre along the ridge of chalk that runs from Avebury and on into in Dorest and North East to Ivinghoe Beacon and beyond.  The landscape is riddled with barrows and sarsens and one can only wonder at the antiquities lost to the plough and resourceful farmers let along the munitions of marauding infantry.  There is an argument that the military occupation of the Salisbury Downs has done wonders for ecology and re-wilded vast areas but how would anyone know? It sounds like they are more concerned with blowing shit up as my American friend snorted in derision.

My impression was that this was a vast burial site with Ancient Britons bringing their dead many miles to the white sepulchre n top of the ridgeway.  Here they may have lain the corpses to be picked clean by birds or scorched and purified in fore before the bones were put to rest in a burial mound.  The barren nature of the downs and the significance of the ceremony of the stones seemed deathly.  Although mild in a summers sun this place would be whipped and wasted by winds and inhospitable particularly on the Winter Equinox when things seemed to line up. Most ancestral cultures seem to observe the cult of death and the whole place asks the question where do we go?  We seem as mystified as the Ancients and there is a sense that maybe they knew a bit more than the multitudes flocking to pay homage to this ritualistic site.  It provides a sense of mystery if not quite magic and allows the visitor moments of reflection. This area easier to find in solitude rather than the heaving masses of the visitor centre and it was easy to escape to the wider site to explore the Cursus, an ancient.

Another odd monument within walking distance is 'Woodhenge' which was near a much more habitable site at Larkhill where excavations prove a significant settlement had been peopled for many generations.  One can only wonder why some of the wealth generated by English Heritage could not reveal or restore some of the linked sites.  An underwhelming series of concrete posts rather took the magic out of this site. It would probably take a morning's coffers to erect a replica of the timber posts to create an awesome installation replicating Neolithic life.  The preference is to preserve rather than resurrect  and I got a sense that this was a touchy subject locally as it was all too near to MOD business to warrant drawing unwanted attention. The eternal conflict between tourism and blowing shit up was clearly marked in the dereliction of these linked sites. Tourists seemed to be there under duress in our military state. Not too many questions please or they will be wondering what else has gone missing.

A more rewarding walk is available to the more intrepid and is probably where the area comes into its own as the mighty henge is only the centre-piece, a portal to the secrets of our pagan past.  There are many approaches and the best I found was from below leading up to the stones from the River Avon. I was a bit disillusioned by the military presence in so scared a site and the home building frenzy by the old barracks and the vast numbers of people. Feeling frazzled I descended into the valley to find a softer landing.

I had heard about Old Sarum in History lessons at school and I remembered its significance as a rotten borough electing 2 MP's until the 1832  despite being a relic from a bygone age.  Like 'little dunny on the wold' where one Baldrick was elected this place was a symbol of feudal corruption until the 1832 Reform Act. A symbol of the power of the landed classes which haunts British history. Tolpuddle is down the road and the Luddites were active in this county, agricultural labourers who rioted in sheer frustration and near starvation at the inequity of service to landed masters. Blaming new machinery they took their frustrations out on inanimate objects and many were transported to distant lands.  The site of Old Sarum was itself another shining white beacon and must have been inspired by the precedent on the Downs above. William the Conqueror utilised the chalk in the hill to highlight a grand cathedral on the hill, inspiring awe into the Anglo-Saxons below. Over time the location of a city in such a high spot became impractical and Old Sarum declined as the epicentre of Norman rule.  Carrying water and provisions up the hill day after day would soon lose any appeal. The city itself moved to the site in the valley below to become the pivotal mediaeval city of Salisbury at the meeting place of five rivers and the trade of Southern Britain.

WH Husdon laments the tidying of the ruins of Old Sarum and uncovering of the Norman cathedral walls. He enjoyed the solitude of the ruin as nature had taken this historical giant into relative obscurity.  He would be apoplectic today as English heritage have commodified and sanitised the experience. The balance between conservation and preservation and turning Britain into a museum full of fun days out isa tricky one. The National Trust had bumper crowds this year with some sites and beaches unable to cope. The Poldark effect took hold in Cornwall making sites inaccessible. Perhaps the ack of imagination of the public is to blame. A little more adventure such as approaching the sites in the gloaming may be more rewarding. Some things should be left and Stonehenge was the apotheosis of this.  I remember walking about Xanthos in Turkey completely alone and swimming down rivers with Turkish boys jumping off Lycian tombs.   Of course the den side of this is someone comes along and takes them off to a museum in order to preserve the antiquity.  There was something magical about wandering through the undergrowth to fins a Roman proscenium arch covered in vines.  This was 20 years ago though and I imagine there are few places left in the age of Instagram.

 Old Sarum provided the backdrop for Rosie's holiday rest. Although it was a somewhat unedifying spot by a housing estate it was ideal for exploring the area. The walk up to Sarum Hill in the evenings was full of birdsong and batwings and the views rewarded the endeavour and allowed a perspective for a sortie upon Salisbury following the River Avon downhill.

A Bimble up a Wiltshire valley

I walked North from Salisbury choosing the bucolic Wylye River chasing Hudson's Wiltshire. Trout fought the current in clear pools as the river's, 'crystal current showed like a bright serpent for brief space in the green meadows, vanishing again amongst the trees.' Hudson writes of beech, ash and elms shading the villages so that they seem hidden but for 'columns of blue smoke' from homely cottages, the agrarian bliss that we seem to hark for. It is a compelling picture which I found myself yearning for like so many little Englanders. To his credit he smashes this myth as the life of a shepherd or agricultural labourer is documented as harsh and pitiless.  Whilst driven by their expert calling and revelling in their knowledge of country life, in their isolation they are rife for exploitation.  If they returned to the fireside it was after a day of toil for 7 shillings, shattered beyond complaint. Through it all there is a love of the land and a cry of hope.  Brutalised by the inequities of a feudal system, those who worked the land obeyed and toed the line, accepting their lot with a stiff upper lip and a deference that has now gone.  This allowed order to reign and a relative peace to enfold the valleys where everyone knew their place. The tragedy is the beauty and tranquility of this Eden could have been a bounty for all and happiness could have reigned.  Through the anecdotes of the shepherd the reality of a life of uncertainty is laid bare. To speak out or challenge the status quo meant being cast out upon greater hardship. Those who sought to ease their meagre existence or boost their diet with meat for the pot were met with stiff penalties such as transportation for stealing a sheep. The anonymity of the idyllic valley villages hid England's darker secrets.

Despite this poachers seemed to thrive in Caleb's time and even the just took an odd rabbit or deer when the opportunity arose. Hudson writes at length about the rascals in the area even devoting a a rather dubious chapter about the 'dark people of the village'. Eugenics is not his strong points as he tries to make the distinction between hedgehog eating 'true gypsies' and the 'three dark Wiltshire types.' He does, however, paint a picture of the rough health of those outcast in the countryside, unable or unwelcome to assimilate into this ordered society, surviving on their wits and nature's gifts. Great stealth and subterfuge was needed and the fear of justice led to tales of the lengths some would go to to assuage their hunger. Hudson recounts a tale of  a man with several children who helped a drover through the village then in a moment of madness clouted the sheep at the back and hid it in furze bushes. Drover's routes criss cross the landscape and ancient routes, such as the one that was used to transport lead from mines in the Mendips, are still evident.

Furze is a word that rolls off the tongue and evokes Wiltshire for me. This evocative Old English word for gorse is one of many that litters the narrative and draws you into the 18th century. Any road, the villager opts to return for his dangerous bounty at dawn but the snow foils his plan as the tracks would reveal his dastardly crime. 'He was not one of those callous men who had become indifferent to their fate; it was his first crime, and over his own life and his wife and children, crying to him for food.' He dreams of roast mutton for two weeks before the thaw allows him to recover his prize but of course it had been 'pulled to pieces and the flesh devoured by dogs and foxes!'

The lowlands contrast with the barren upland downs which seem unforgiving. The effect of chalk on the countryside creates a sense of emptiness and desolation and evokes the hardships of Hardy's Wessex. In my wind addled mind I imagined desperate people scratching round for turnips in the barren fields. Hudson talked of grey clouds and easterly winds frightening the strangers from the downs and windy and rainy days that 'may overcome you with misery'. A shepherd's life was tough, eking out an existence on 7 shillings a week. The loneliness, monotony and desolation are not shied away from in Hudson's narrative. In 1909 guide books were a lot different.

Hudson is saddened by the ploughing up of barrows and the description of antiquarian sites by farmers and ferreters. Even rabbits get a bad rap as their digging reveals ancient bone fragments which landowners have to hide to avoid further investigation. He is equally concerned about the impact of the military and wonders how the next generation will feel about all the history that is being lost to the forces of modernity.  As the weak soils went under the plough and earth became sterilised by pesticides and fertilisers it is a wonder any nutrition survived.  A walk along the higher ground above the valley reveals a thin layer of top soil which even sheep would struggle to survive on.  The area still manages to grow wheat but must be almost worked out.  I wondered what the future would hold after EU grants disappear. Quite possibly it will hasten the rewilding of large swathes of the Downs although the damage seems to have been done.

With a head full of Hudson and a bag full of windfalls I found a retreat in one of the villages he so articulately describes. Tucked in the folds of the valley with a crystal clear chalk river coursing through it I found an idyllic village pub with a hearty welcome. What better way to vicariously explore the rest of a Shepherd's Life than in the glow of a Wiltshire ale wondering if WH Husdon had passed this way.

www.royaloakgreatwishford.com

A Bimble round Salisbury

See Salisbury and die, they didn't say to the Skripals...I was intrigued by Salisbury's recent high profile and felt remiss at not knowing the city.  I had also started and put down 'A Shepherd's Life' by WH Hudson on numerous occasions and felt this would be a good time to immerse myself in Wiltshire life.

Hudson wrote the book in 1909 and his conversations with a shepherd, Caleb Bawcombe, reveal a land that time forgot and many hanker for. A period of agrarian simplicity when everyone knew their neighbours and their place and order reigned in the land.  I found a copy marked 'Xmas 18' and settled down in Rosie to enter the rather pompous mind of Hudson, and soon became glad that he saw his vocation as chronicling the passing lives of the simple folk who had no letters or means of recording their mostly oral tradition. I entered a fascinating world which brought the Downs to life albeit in the 19th Century.

I bumbled around Salisbury cathedral, which is magnificent, and the various landmarks which put the city firmly on the tourist trail, but it was the land that Hudson evoked that caught my interest.  The topography seen from Old Sarum makes Salisbury's import throughout the last millennia clear and this view must have made the founding fathers wonder why they had built their original city on a hill. It didn't take Jack and Jill  many pails of water to realise the valley below was the better spot.   Hudson pictures it as an open hand; Salisbury as the palm, with five fingers representing the evocatively named five valleys of the rivers Nadder, Avon, Wylye, Ebble and the smaller Bourne. Water from high country on the downs finds a meeting place and a city grows around this confluence. The chalk beds of the streams and rivers are enchanting allowing clear, reed strewn flows where trout linger in the currents and fly fishermen cast lazily into pools that beckon on warm summer days.  Leland called the city 'the pan and receiver of most of the waters of Wiltshire' and upon this bounty Salisbury became the centre of the universe for the folk documented in Hudson's book.

There was an edge to tranquil middle England that had out it squarely in the nation's focus.  Tape cordoned off a park by the cathedral and a visible if polite police presence provided a heightened sense of a city still under siege.  The Russians aren't coming, but they had certainly been!  Quite brazenly poisoning traitors. Their legacy was evident in the teams of security around the Zizzi restaurant, the chain now unfortunately now linked to poison. I opted for the safety of Cote Brasserie  and found a space for one where I could hear the kitchen gossip and make jokes which they politely laughed at.  There was a sense of calm but an underlying menace as the poison may still be active. The perfume bottle which had 'allegedly' been used in the poisoning was found in a bin by a rather thrifty bloke who had then presented it to an elated girlfriend. Things went downhill from there. The waitress told me' it could happen to anyone'. I like to think not but I caught the sentiment.  Not quite the sense of bonhomie or reckless abandon usually founding a cathedral city. Still in a sense of enchantment at the wonders of the Cathedral close I ambled round the streets which whispered of Hudson's portrait. Fish Row and Butchers Row harked back to a time when the market town buzzed with a Wiltshire burr. ' The Corn Exchange is like a huge beehive, humming with the noise and talk, full of brown-faced farmers in their riding and driving clothes and leggings, standing in knots or thrusting their hands into sacks of oats and barley.'

Such a cultivated city could not fail but contain a Rutherford Walk!