| The Ridgeway - West | |
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Monuments, poseurs and beer rations ...
We took a taxi to the start of the Ridgeway, a fair distance from Avebury and uphill to boot. Sixteen miles was quite enough for one day without volunteering extra effort beforehand.
The sarsen stones kept marching across the land in all directions as we sped along. Some of the ancient avenues have been plotted; by no means all of them, and many of the arrangements remain enigmatic, permanently obscured by the passage of time. I wondered what a night hike across this landscape might feel like under a full moon, these stones marking your progress in the dark. I filed the idea away for a possible — though most likely unrealised — future journal entry.
The Sanctuary sits in an open grassy field and we made our way to it to officially begin the walk. There isn't much to see anymore — eighteenth-century farmers destroyed most of the monument — so it offers nothing like the immediate wow factor of Stonehenge. In its time, though, it would have been impressive: concentric rings of wooden posts and stones, arranged for a purpose present-day archaeologists can only guess at — a shrine, a sanctuary, a ritual site, a gateway to monolithic structures further afield. Stone blocks now mark where the original posts and stones stood, some four millennia ago, and an information board offers an artist's impression of what it might once have looked like.
We pottered about aimlessly while I did some perfunctory filming, gathered for a group shot, and set off westwards along the wide white track that marks the start of the Ridgeway proper. The nature of the trail announced itself immediately and was to remain a constant feature for the whole journey — impacted, hard, chalky white soil, studded with flint chips in places. We had drawn a heatwave for the entire walk, and under a cloudless sky the sun beat down and then bounced straight back up off the pale ground, so there was little real escape from it. Sunglasses were worn less to soften the sun itself than to take the edge off the dazzle of the path beneath us. Nobody was complaining, though. It was glorious, and we knew we'd got lucky given what British weather could easily have done to us instead. The sunshine let the sweeping views across Wiltshire show themselves at their best. The Ridgeway by definition follows high ground, and we had unobstructed views across green fields, vibrant acres of rapeseed, and woodlands wearing the fresh-painted green of spring. I hoped this would last — the weather, the views, the relatively flat walking.
I made a few comments to camera as I walked, musing on the usual subject of my fitness and lack of preparation. I had fallen to the rear, stopping for photographs here and there. Colin and Jess were just ahead, and Bod was already some distance further on — his usual forge-ahead style, unchanged in two decades. It was decidedly warm, and when I caught up with Colin and Jess, who had stopped to shed some layers, Colin echoed my sentiments precisely by declaring to the camera: "I'm all sweaty." I was all sweaty myself by this point, and hoped it wouldn't lead to an outbreak of chafing in delicate areas — a condition I'd experienced before and had no appetite to revisit.
Bod had stopped beside a field of large white cattle with long curving horns. I speculated on the breed — some French variety, perhaps, or Texas Longhorns — though I claim no expertise whatsoever in this area.
A few more miles passed with very little change to scenery, weather, or pace. The pace was causing Bod some mild concern, as he wasn't convinced we'd make our pre-booked evening meal in time. I was grateful for the warning, and our speed did improve as we settled into our stride. As it turned out, though, the punctuality of dinner was not destined to be the issue we thought it might be.
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The village green, Meriden |
I rounded a bend shortly afterward and found Bod waiting. He made no mention of the strange youth, though he must have passed him too. We talked instead about the day's progress and his concerns about the dinner reservation. After a few minutes Colin and Jess appeared, both grinning, Colin doing a passable impression of the young man's pose. We agreed unanimously that he had been odd, and equally unanimously that none of us had the faintest idea what he had been trying to prove. He had at least added a touch of whimsy to an otherwise predictable morning.
We set off again, hedgerows giving way to open ground and the return of those sweeping views. I walked with Bod for a few miles, chatting about this and that, falling easily into step. We stopped for lunch eventually beside a little track that dipped between farm gates. Colin removed his boots and set them down in the middle of the track before finding shade under a rowan tree, Bod and I shuffling along to make room for him. As we ate I kept glancing at those boots with private amusement. It looked exactly as if Colin had exploded in the manner of an old silent comedy, leaving nothing behind but his footwear standing neatly in place. All it lacked was a faint trail of smoke. Jess, meanwhile, had found a patch of sunlight and was lying flat on her back with her feet pointed to the sky. I think she had already begun feeling some discomfort from her footwear, though for the moment she said nothing about it.
After lunch we set off on the day's final miles. The views were sometimes shut off by lines of trees or hedges, which seemed only to thicken the humidity, before the ground opened up again and reminded us how high we were on this ridge of land. It is a natural pathway, and easy to see why it has been used to cross the country for at least five thousand years — safer up here, presumably, than down in the trackless wild woodland that would once have carpeted the lower ground of ancient Britain. The day wore on and the sun kept beating down. We began to tire more from the heat sapping our strength than from the actual mileage. Bod assured us the end was only a few more miles off, which I was grateful to hear — and even more grateful, shortly afterward, to discover a bench. The only one we encountered on the entire route, sited at the edge of a small wood, looking out across the Wiltshire plain below. I sat for a while and recorded an optimistic snippet of video declaring the day's walking all but done.
This was not, in fact, the case.
The Ridgeway angled toward a hill but veered away just short of climbing it, leading us instead into a vast field of beans. Bod was a dwindling figure in the distance, Colin and Jess some way behind me, and I trudged on alone, straining for any way-marker that might suggest an ending was near. A slight rise far ahead looked promising — perhaps the road we were making for. Bod reached it, climbed it, and disappeared over the other side. By the time I made the same climb myself, the huge field simply kept rolling on regardless, Bod still far ahead of me. Behind, Colin and Jess were still toiling along. What I was not seeing, anywhere, was a road. I trudged on resignedly and, after what felt like considerable time, turned a corner to find Bod waiting patiently at a metal gate beside a marker post. When I reached him he was peering at the map with a furrowed brow. There was some confusion about what came next. The guidebook mentioned a ruined castle off to our left; the map showed a road straight ahead. Colin and Jess caught up as we debated it. I favoured the castle. Bod was convinced we should take the path to the road. Bod's option was taken. He was, of course, proven right.
The path angled down sharply over rough, tussocky ground — precisely what tired and aching feet are crying out for at the end of a long day — but eventually delivered us to the road, where a taxi was waiting by arrangement. We climbed in gratefully, relishing the simple novelty of sitting down, and were driven to the village of Ogbourne St George.
I won't say too much about the accommodation, as it would feel like unfair criticism of people clearly doing their best with very little. The owners had been trying to sell the business for some time and were running it on a shoestring, with no staff and no bar. The room itself was perfectly fine, and I took a hot shower and changed before joining the others at the communal seating area outside for a cold bottle of beer. The proprietor doled these out with the distinct air of a man who considered one bottle per person a generous allowance. It was a balmy evening, and after a long day's walking, one bottle was not going to be sufficient. I was duly volunteered to request a second round. The door opened just wide enough to receive my request — with poor grace, I should note — before more bottles emerged reluctantly from some unseen stash, and the door was shut firmly enough to discourage any thought of a third.
Bod had stayed here once before, some years earlier, and told us it had been thriving back then — a full bar, live music, the works. We sat instead among piled-up seat cushions, quite possibly the only guests in the building, with owners keeping their contact with us to an absolute minimum.
Dinner was adequate, just about, and had evidently been cooked from frozen by the proprietor himself. Only two other guests were staying that night. The bar remained shut, chairs stacked against the wall, cushions piled in corners. The whole place had a rather sad, dispiriting atmosphere, and we didn't linger long after eating before heading back to our rooms for an early night.
I notice the place now has a new website, showcasing a refitted bar, updated rooms and exciting plans for the future under new ownership. I wish them well. It would have been an excellent overnight stay, but for the circumstances we found it in.
See Route on ......
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