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