Dawn breaks at Segsbury fort - The Ridgeway.
Christchurch Meadow: Oxford.
Inspired by those topographical geomancers of yore: Fiennes, Theroux, Defoe et al and our contemporay explorers of our Isles such as, Nicholas Crane and Ed & Will, Monty set about employing a faithful companion to roam the English landscape with. Monty first encountered Mr. L G Thompson some years before whilst Church Bell-ringing in Oxford; both of us sharing a love of said bells and late-night drinking dens. Our first adventure would be we determined, along that vast ridge of chalk downland; much trodden since our ancients established the 'Ridgeway' route which, traverses the land. On the 14th September 2010, I met L G Thompson back in Oxford - neath the pepper-pot of Wren's Tom Tower of Christchurch as, 'Great Tom' struck two and cattle grazed among the frittiliaries of the meadow.
We boarded the bus for Wantage on St Aldates; our rucksacks laden with camping emphemera. The bus-journey seemed quite normal until we reached the fringe of Grove village, whereby our bus came to a stand-still behind a line of traffic. Following some length of time, our chubby bus-driver ventured to see what the concern was. He returned some five minutes later, supping at a roll-up cigarette and simply informed us that " the bus is going no farther, ya'd be better off to wark!". Arse and buggery, thought we. Leon also lit a cigarette and, we both hoiked-on our rucksack's following procession-like with the other muttering passengers. At the head of this procession was another abandoned local bus with, a rather stressed driver also gripping at a roll-up and, refusing to budge his bus. Oh well, just a mile or so into Wantage town.
Wantage: Mr Thompson contemplates the A338 and the climb onto the Ridgeway.
Wantage. King Alfred was born here in the ninth century, where once stood an Anglo-Saxon palace. It is considered as a centre for venturing the Berkshire Downs and the White horse Vale. Horses, horses horses. They have been associated with these nearby downs for aeons. The ancient 'Uffington white horse' hill carving has gazed down upon the vale for 3000 years; beguiling all who see it. Race-horses have been bred and trained here over time. Lester Piggot (jockey) was born in Wantage. As for ourselves, Wantage is a brief encounter today. As the school-children pile into the town at the end of their day, Mr Thompson and I head to raid the towns' Waitrose store for 'sensible' food-stuffs to accompany us on our impending journey.
We re-emerge armed with a 6-pack of Carling lager and a box of cheap red wine (sensible foods); bread and cheese accompanying. We wander into the spitted threat of rain and say "tatt-ta" to the Victorian statue of Alfred that dominates the market square, finding the A338 south onto the downs.
The A338 - The Downs & White Horse Vale.
The road is steep as it leaves Wantage. Slowly the houses become wider-spaced apart, pavement diminishes and the ethereal drone of distant motor cars take over. We are finally on our journey; the chalk escarpment casts its dominence ahead of us. I tell Mr Thompson that this is the hardest part of the walk - the approach onto the Ridgeway. The berries and fruits of mid-September fill the hedgerows of the farmland peripheries.
We have devised means of entertaining ourselves over the course of this adventure, largely by dueting vocals on 'power ballads, a small transisitor radio and documenting our walk by means of oral dialogue on a digital voice recorder; this requiring regular updates.., the wind whistling into it's tiny microphone. We rest a short time against some farm buildings and relieve ourselves of urine then, revitalise with a can each of the already warming Carling lager. We are joyous, such adventures are rarified in modern ways of life. We play the pocket radio - Henry Kelly hosting the popularist Classic FM - 'The Lark Ascending' - for it's millionth time. Our people used to walk the land, as we do ourselves today. The car is king these days. I think of Hardy's 'Angel Clare' in Tess of the D'urbervilles who also explored Wessex by foot, the first time he encountered the tragic Tess.
We reach the Ridgeway.
It is now 17:00pm. Before this journey took place, I noted the time it would get dark. We needed to have camp set-up by 18:30, latest. Consulting the map, amid glorious names of downland hills and villages, it seemed that the Iron-age hillfort of Segsbury would be our ideal over-night stopping place. We turned onto the Ridgeway, already chalk rubble eversing our treads. Already, we become acutely aware of walking territory politeness. "Hallo", every passing walker or jogger!; folk we would otherwise ignore in day-to-day mundanities; as they would us. My friend and I stride forth to Segsbury and it's huge ramparts, fractured in half by an ancient track-way.
The Iron-age fort of Segsbury.
Segsbury Camp: Letcombe Regis.
Our pitiful home.
We find a sheltered embankment after determining wind direction and, the invaluable factor of remaining relatively hidden from walkers and farmers; remember, we are illegally camping and, know for sure we will be just a 'little boozed' on that cheap red wine. Segsbury feels like a special sacred place. What is now an isolated hill-top of the modern-age was once, an occupied site; an early village. The wind whistles through it's grassland. Before darkness only several people appear within Segsbury, walking their dogs. We pitch my tiny light-weight tent, creating a temporary home for the night. As the sun begins to diffuse the day and candles lit, we look down upon the village of Letcombe Regis; several miles below on the vale. This is for Thomas Hardy, the literary village of Cresscombe in 'Jude the Obscure'; the place where the fatalistic protagonist Jude Fawley derives. I drunkenly ask Mr Thompson what his favourite book is, "Facebook", he replies. One of many of our voice-recorded diatribes.
Lights out darling.
The night sets in, and we appear to have camped on a nest of spiders, the booze adds elavated volume to our girlish squeals each time another 'crawler' is discovered.., biscuits and peanuts becoming pestled into our bedding. The radio flickers between 'local call-in show & radio four; We immitate 'The Archers (Ed Grundy) and we discuss important matters such as Guns & Roses as Reading festival headliners that year, sing falsetto to (Billy don't be a Hero) & excacerbate David Bowie to 'Life on Mars'. Mr Thompson ignites cigarettes and we, in turn attempt to urinate from the tent-door; a defeating process.., feet do become damp and, the wind does blow on hill-top promonatories. Before we know it, we hear the Shipping forecast & BBC World service and, so to sleep... red wine smiling.
The Devils Punchbowl.
We wake at dawn, just a few short hours of precious sleep. We talk of how, as soon as the 'human gets back to the land', our natural body-clocks adapt to how it is intended without, the distractions and light pollutions of modern day. Within a short time, we are back on the chalk path and, look down on the glorious 'Devils Punchbowl'; it's lush curves once a sea-bed. To our left are the racehorse gallops, down in the valley lies Kingston Lisle. We pass also Sparsholt Firs and the Water-tap in Memory of a boy named Wren; we are grateful to him.
TheWren Water-tap & sinister dead Moles; hanging by straw on barbed wire.
The weather has taken a turn for the worse. We walk South-west, into the slanting rain. The terrain is tiresome; lumpy chalk and flint in abundance. We pass constant Ridgeway sign-posts with promises of near destinations that, do not emerge so quickly as they promise. As we pass the 'Devils Punchbowl' and gaze upon its sea-smoothed wonder we, notice a line of dead moles strung upon a barbed fence aside the gallops; whatever are these for, we ponder? There exists more than one Devils Punchbowl; I know of one on the South Downs.., Christianity applying 'namesakes' to the pagan landscape. This is a natural auditorium that I suspect our ancients used to gather within. Very few people on the Ridgeway, just several joggers and a 'horsey mother and daughter'; miserable, barely breaking into a grimace at us; us, the waist-coated travellers.
Monty at The Devils Punchbowl.
Mr L. G Thompson.
Between short breaks, we reach White Horse Hill. A sense of some achievement when standing beneath the familiar forest green/acorn of the National Trust sign. We both know the horse (or Dragon) well and, decide to not bother the climb over the Uffington Hill-fort so, following a couple of windswept photographs and a digital voice recorder update, we continue onwards to 'Waylands Smithy. Now, for Mr Thompson, the Smithy is a foreboding place; he came here some years before and, on entering the Neolithic chamber something disturbed him and, his sleep thereafter. I also camped here some years before when rained-off my walking and, not realising it was the pagan (Beltane) spent the night in the adjourning copse keeping a low-profile and listening to the percussions of celebration through and beyond the next dawning day. No other souls around today though, save a tractor turning on the neighbouring farm. Wayland is cloaked in dark trees. Whilst this is a Neolithic place, the Saxons attributed their Norse God Wayland to the site with 'horses being shod' at the gesture of a coin; left for Wayland; typical of the Saxon story-telling tradition.
Monty & Mr Thompson reach White Horse hill.
The path of perpetual chalk continues, endlessly horizons appear and diminish before us. The chalk rubble; the product of dead sea-creatures from aeons afore us. The drones of motor cars can still be heard as, they were when we first left Wantage and despite our progressions, the power station at Didcot remains in clear view - much to Mr Thompsons chagrin.
Mr L G Thompson at Wayland.
Horses.
We leave Waylands Smithy. Mr Thompson vows to return in another eight years as, it has been eight years since he last came here. The rain continues to perpetuate. Monty has to do the unmentionable; yes, crapping in the woods, so after some time nervously squatting over a Badgers lair, I re-emerge feeling slightly repaired and aided by the great investment of cuccumber wet-wipes. Mr Thompson mocked then, realised he had to perform the same. We laughed and, continued on our way; the path of perpetual chalk. The rain causing a slight tinge of misery; cold hands, rain trickling down the face & the knowledge of a punctured small tent 'fed the fear. We had found old snapped branches earlier that, became our 'pilgrim walking staffs'. Past constant Ridgeway signs we walked; telling us of promised villages ahead. We eventually make it onto the road dissecting the Ridgeway into Ashbury village. We are steep on the ridge; our heads aloft in the misty rain-clouds. We turn right, off the Ridgeway & make our way down into the potentail humanity of a village; a quest for hot food and warmth.
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Mr Thompson at Ashbury (St Marys) - he found an aged pedal organ and hammered out some Bach. Ashbury - Thatched Holly-hocked picturesque and a warm Ale house. We took food in the cosy warmth of the 'Rose & Crown' in Ashbury; an average fare of food.., conjurred by a barmaid or as Mr Thompson put it on the digital voice recorder "The food was tastier than the bar-maid"; said the cruel cad. We later found St Marys Church; Norman era details with later mediaeval transitions. Mr Thompson pedalled at the ancient church organ and broke out into a deafening Bach Baroque number; easily audible around the village.., "There are strange waist-coated gentlemen broken into the church"; I imagined being said by neighbourhood watchers. And then it hit us.., Bugger it, lets check out the bus times and sod off back to Oxford, which is exactly what we did - via train to Swindon and a change at Didcot; the power station haunting us further. Neither of us could face the 3 miles up-hill onto a dreary weathered Ridgeway and a further night under damp-sodden stars. |
