Walking to Camelot (24 page)

But his mind has drifted off and now he is thinking again about poor Tiffany. “Do you think it's too early for us to call the Oakham police again?” he says.

“Yes, I do, Karl. And don't expect a whole lot. After all, there was no immediate report of a missing person. I‘d be surprised if they were to conduct
DNA
tests on the clothing unless they had cause to believe it might match that of a reported missing person.”

After refreshment, we wander the Nunney streets, where ducks waddle about freely. The path from here ascends a steep ridge toward the great woodlands of eastern Somerset, culminating in King Alfred's Tower. We plod up the escarpment. Near the tower we enter dense woods. Round a bend, however, our lovely path suddenly turns into an ugly-looking commercial gravel road, with a sign posted: “Logging in Progress; No Public Access.”

“Bloody hell, no public access!” sputters Karl as he marches onward. His mellow half-smile has vanished.

Just then a walrus-moustached walker dressed in a faded tweed coat approaches us from the opposite direction and stops to say that the Forestry Commission is doing some clear-cutting ahead of us and it is they who have placed the signs on the path, one of which he has just torn down. He is a calm, unflappable fellow in his seventies, who gesticulates toward the hillside with his black cherry walking stick, quite rightly pointing out that Macmillan Way “is open to the public and that is that.”

“That's the spirit,” cries Karl with his familiar panache. “Tally ho, then!”

When we round the next bend in the trail we immediately spot the rectangular Forestry Commission sign the tweedy gentleman has torn down, lying to the side of the path — and with alacrity add our own boot prints to it. A chainsaw wails loud and shrill as we pass through a coppice and encounter two forestry workers standing by a yarder. They must have seen the blood in Karl's eye, for they just smile and make no attempt to stop us.

“Another blow struck for freedom to walk, Karl.”

“Bloody bastards,” he growls. “I've managed lumber camps all my life and have never tried to bar access to a public trail. Course, it's not those workers' fault — it's their bloody bureaucratic masters who think they are so high and mighty they can close off a public right-of-way.”

Eleanor Farjeon, biographer of Edward Thomas, recalls how she used to walk with Thomas on the footpaths and one day accompanied a group of walkers from Thomas's cottage on a mission to tear down and burn a private sign warning off walkers from a traditional path. “May the fumes suffocate Squire Trevor-Battye, arch-enemy of ancient Rights of Way,” she wrote exultantly after the fiery deed was done. The experience inspired her to write a children's story,
Elsie Piddock Skips in Her Sleep,
about how a new lord of the manor closed footpaths where generations of children had always skipped at the new moon. The English take their walking rights seriously, with the same enthusiasm with which Americans defend their rights to own guns.
NRA
— meet the Ramblers!

Suddenly the tall finger of Alfred's Tower projects on a hillside above us. It is now very muggy and we are sweating like pigs. We finally arrive at the base of the tower, parched and out of breath. The folly was erected in 1772 as a dual memorial: to commemorate the conclusion of the Seven Years War, just finished, and to celebrate the Battle of Ethandun, Alfred's decisive victory over the Vikings in 878, in which the Danish army under Guthrum was vanquished. As a result, the West of England, or Wessex, was left to be governed by the Anglo-Saxons, and the eastern portions of the country became the Danelaw. The tower stands near Egbert's Stone, where Alfred rallied his Saxons to battle.

We pay the entrance fee at the kiosk and purchase a couple of bottled waters.

The tower is 161 feet high, and there are 205 steps up a tiny, winding dark stone staircase, at the top of which sits a platform on a crenellated parapet. We are rewarded with incredible views across Somerset. I can discern in the distance Glastonbury Tor and the ancient town of Glastonbury. On our way down we note a point where the tile becomes darker, demarcating rebuilding that occurred in 1986 to repair the damage caused when an American warplane accidentally crashed into the tower in 1944, killing all aboard.

A recommended diversion of two miles to Stourhead Garden is well worth the effort. One follows open wood-lands down to a lake and then into the village of Stourton. The Garden was opened in 1740 and comprises 2,650 acres. The setting is dominated by Grecian follies — little temples, romantic grottoes, and, the pièce de résistance, a reproduction of the Parthenon. The ninety-minute walk round the lake is a memorable experience and should not be rushed. It is so quiet and peaceful here that I find myself holding my breath, wanting to take in every bird's twitter, every leaf's movement in the breeze that gently whispers across the lake.

We trudge the two miles back to Macmillan. I am de-hydrated and hot. At the tower I purchase another bottle of water and drink deeply. The trail is wide and pleasant south of here. This was a major trackway in the Middle Ages, used by drovers herding cattle to London markets.

Soon I am peering through the gateway to Redlynch Park. This was the seat of Charles Fox, leader in Parliament of the Whigs, who opposed King George
III
's going to war against the American colonies. Fox was an enlightened reformer who persuaded Parliament to pledge itself to ending the slave trade. It would have amused him to learn that his estate was used in World War
II
to house the 3rd Armored Division of the U.S. Army preparatory to the D-Day invasion. Remnants of the command bunker are still visible at the park entrance, where hangs a plaque from the Americans thanking the local Brits for their hospitality. And so the wheel of history turns.

Redlynch was also the home of John and Elaine Steinbeck for nine months in 1959, when the noted author rented Discove Cottage. The cottage was crude. Steinbeck had the landlord furnish a refrigerator, which he named “His Majesty's Voice,” stating “It must be his late majesty because it stutters.” He chopped wood, grew veggies in a garden, and whittled wood carvings from old oak. On March 30, 1959, he wrote, “The peace I have dreamed about is here, a real thing, thick as a stone and feelable and something for your hands . . . Meanwhile I can't describe the joy. In the mornings I get up early to have a time to listen to the birds. It's a busy time for them. Sometimes for over an hour I do nothing but look and listen and out of this comes a luxury of rest and peace and something I can only describe as in-ness.”

Steinbeck used his time in and around Redlynch and neigh-bouring Bruton to familiarize himself with the Arthurian landscape of Somerset. He yearned to produce a modern version of the Arthurian story based upon Malory's fifteenth-century
Le Morte d'Arthur
. Steinbeck became a familiar sight on the streets of Bruton, where he frequented the pubs and the post office. He engaged a local typist, to whom he dictated the beginning of his manuscript.

John Steinbeck was completely overwhelmed by the land-scape. He writes, “The other night I discovered that fifty feet from our house, you can see St. Michael's Tor at Glastonbury. Elaine didn't believe it until I showed her and she is so delighted. It makes the house so much richer to have the Tor in sight. Am I in any way getting over to you the sense of wonder, the almost breathless thing? There is no question that there is magic and all kinds of magic.”

Sadly, Steinbeck died in 1968 after only partially completing the manuscript for his planned magnum opus, which was published posthumously in 1976 as
The Acts and Deeds of King Arthur and His Noble Knights.

The Leland Trail overlaps our Macmillan route for seventeen miles to South Cadbury. The trail is named after John Leland, an erudite scholar who became chaplain to Henry
VIII
. The king commissioned Leland to perform an inventory of all books and manuscripts in the religious houses of the realm. This was important in view of the impending destruction by that same king of most of those monasteries. Leland's work led to many valuable manuscripts being preserved.

Leland also authored a major work,
The Itinerary,
in which he recorded the key antiquaries, artifacts, and geography of the kingdom. He toured the West Country in 1542. Leland became a learned advocate for the notion that the hill fort at South Cadbury was in fact the legendary Camelot of King Arthur.

Bruton joins with other towns in the West of England that have become chic and trendy. A large Congregational chapel fallen into disrepair on High Street is being renovated into a country hotel with an in-house bakery. The plan is for the building to contain a piazza where the community will come together, particularly for arts and crafts events. Its name: “At the Chapel.”

A small country town, Bruton has it all — a superb parish church, a Gothic almshouse, a narrow packhorse bridge, Augustinian abbey relics, and three ancient public schools: King's School, the Bruton School for Girls, and Sexey's School, a boarding academy.

On a packhorse bridge I stop to peer down at the coppery water of the River Brue, where lie medieval stepping stones forming a “giant's causeway” across the stream. A few minutes later in town, hordes of teenagers clad in smart navy blue blazers pass us on the sidewalk, laughing and playing with their mobiles. Sexey's takes children aged eleven to eighteen, and was founded in 1891. It is named after Hugh Sexey, who was Royal Auditor to both Elizabeth
I
and James
I
and left a fortune for the benefit of Bruton's educational needs. Sexey's was described recently by the Secretary of State for Education as “one of the most outstanding schools in the country.”

“Ah, Karl, we're not supposed to ogle here — those girls are young enough to be your grandchildren.”

“They do look gorgeous in their uniforms, John. And the boys too are so smartly dressed. Why can't we do that in Canada?”

“We do, at the private schools. But don't forget those private-school kids have a reputation for mischief equal to kids from any public school.”

“Perhaps, but they sure as hell look smarter dressed than the baggy-panted, mop-haired kids you see on our streets these days. By the way, I could use a Guinness about now.”

“You will have to wait, I'm afraid, until Castle Cary.”

We leave the streets of Bruton behind, pass the oddly named Quaperlake Lane, and trundle up Trendle Hill. A dark track called Solomon's Lane leads to huddled farm buildings denoting the outskirts of Higher Ansford. This village was the home of the famous diarist James Woodforde.

Woodforde was vicar of Castle Cary Church and rode his horse to town to give sermons. He was a keen observer of town and country life, and his
Diary of a Country Parson
is a classic. He was not your archetype churchman of strict and sober demeanour. His entry for January 1, 1767, records the revelry on New Year's night: “I read Prayers this morning at C. Cary Church being New Year's Day. I dined, supped and spent the evening till 10 o'clock at Parsonage, and after . . . I spent the whole night and part of the morning till 4 o'clock a dancing, on account of Mr. James Clarke's apprenticeship being expired. A great deal of company was there indeed . . . We had a very good band of musick, 2 violins and a Base Viol. We were excessive merry and gay there indeed.”

Parson Woodforde had his eye on a local maiden for several years, but despite his boisterous, outspoken demeanour, he never mustered the courage to propose to Mary Donne (whom he liked from first meeting, when he wrote, “Miss Mary Donne is a very genteel, pretty young Lady and very agreeable with a most pleasing Voice abt. 21 Yrs. very tasty and very fashionable in dress”), and lived out his life a bachelor. He also enjoyed a good table, as extracts from his diary, such as this, relate: “We had for Dinner to day one Fowl boiled and Piggs face, a Couple of Rabbitts smothered with Onions, a Piece of rost Beef and some Grape Tarts.”

Not all the parishioners were sober, respectful Christians. Woodforde records in his diary a sermon he preached at Castle Cary in 1770 that was interrupted by an uncouth individual: “Whilst I was preaching one Thos. Speed of Gallhampton came into the Church quite drunk and crazy and made a noise in the Church, called the Singers a Pack of Whoresbirds and gave me a nod or two in the pulpit.”

One wonders what Woodforde would have thought of today's byline in
The Telegraph
informing us that the rector of nearby Bath Abbey has just been defrocked after being found guilty of extramarital sexual affairs with not one but
three
different women, and attempting an affair with a fourth!

We see nary a soul in Lower Ansford. But Karl stops abruptly ahead of me and points with his walking stick to a strange sculpture atop the crenellated wall of a manor house. I look up in disbelief. Clearly visible is the stone figure of a man bent over, clutching his bare buttocks and mooning. A copper weathervane is mounted on top of it.

“What do you suppose
that
is all about?” laughs Karl.

“The owner definitely wanted to make a statement, Karl; but I doubt if his neighbours appreciated that sculpture — and I am certain Vicar Woodforde would have frowned at it as he rode by.”

“Is it that old?”

“Well, the architecture is part Tudor, part Georgian, it seems. So it's a reasonable bet that the sculpture was present in Woodforde's era.”

Mooning, or exposing one's butt to the enemy, has been practised since ancient times, and in England since at least 1743. In the Siege of Constantinople in 1204, Greek defenders mooned the Crusaders. Hundreds of Norman soldiers mooned English archers at the Battle of Crécy in 1346. And in June of 2000, a mass mooning was orchestrated in front of Buckingham Palace by the Movement Against the Monarchy.