Cornwall, it’s not Arthur’s I’m afraid.

I love all the mythology of the UK, with thousands of years of history we are very lucky to have such a rich and varied story telling history, but sometimes there a few things within the mythology field that just, well it irritates me. One such thing is the whole Arthurian subject, remember the knights in armor galloping away on war horses saving damsels and fighting mythical beast across the land, yes that fella.

I’m no historian or archeologist, but I am someone who knows a great deal about mythology and love the stories of history.

For my Birthday this year we booked a weekend at the amazing Jamaica Inn, a place that promises smugglers, ghosts and stories of the murky underworld and murders that lives and breathed in 17th C onwards Cornwall.

Being slap bang on Bodmin moor, you are very spoilt for the shear number of historical monuments there, literally you cannot throw a stone without hitting a stone circle or a hill fort. For instance behind the pub lies a lake with its very own Arthurian links and not more than 30 minutes away is the reputed ‘birth place’ of Arthur the mighty Tintagel.

Now Tintagel has taken full advantage of the less than provable links with the character and why you may ask, well its predominantly based upon the works of one Geoffrey of Monmouth and if you have read his great work the History of the Kings of Briton you will realise that it is at best described as pseudohistorical.

Full of dragons, giants, wizards, otherworldly beast and demons to name but a small few of what lies within, he also places Arthur at Tintagel, his Birth place and starts this all off with some very spurious links to a legendary leader of the Greek Troy who escaped here post trojan wars.

So lets take a look at the actual story, as written by Mr. Monmouth with an extract from that very story.

Tintagel the great striking and foreboding castle on the headland cut off from the land but only for a bridge, provided an almost impregnable fortress and according to Geoffrey and the legend, Arthur's father was Uther Pendragon, the king of all Britain. He goes to war against Gorlois, the Duke of Cornwall, to capture Gorlois' wife Igraine, with whom Uther has fallen in love. Gorlois defends himself against Uther's armies at his fort of Dimilioc, but he sends Igraine to stay safely within Tintagel Castle which is his most secure refuge, according to the legend and Historia Regum Britanniae. Uther besieges Dimilioc, telling his friend Ulfin how he loves Igraine, but Ulfin replies that it would be impossible to take Tintagel, for "it is right by the sea, and surrounded by the sea on all sides; and there is no other way into it, except that provided by a narrow rocky passage—and there, three armed warriors could forbid all entry, even if you took up your stand with the whole of Britain behind you." Geoffrey of Monmouth's story goes on to explain how the wizard Merlin is summoned and magically changes Uther's appearance to that of Gorlois to help get them into Tintagel Castle, while also changing his own and Ulfin's appearances to those of two of Gorlois' companions. Disguised thus, they are able to enter Tintagel where Uther goes to Igraine, and "in that night was the most famous of men, Arthur, conceived."[43]

As nice as the tale put forward by Monmouth is, there are a number of glaring mistakes, inaccuracies and laughable accounts that he had put forward, aside from the fact that ‘magic’ was not used, there was no castle and no knights in shinning armor.

So what is the truth!

The truth is well very murky, you see Arthur is such a complex mythology that it is hard to tease out what is truth and what is fiction, but lets try and have a look with more documentable and provable facts, the actual ‘castle’ you see today are the remains of a medieval structure built in 1230s by Richard 1st Earl of Cornwall and son to King John and Brother to King Henry, when he set about building the castle, no doubt he was inspired by the stories told at court and with the popularisation of Monmouth’s stories from 100 years earlier began to bring to life the legendary tale.

The castle itself served no defensive purpose at all being in such a place that served no strategic importance to the British empire, it does not sit on on any cross roads, protects no harbors or important inlets. Little is known about its function during this time other than being assumed it was a place of stature and known be a place to accept other Royalty and it is fair to say invite subjugated kings to see the English claims and links to the legendary Arthur and cement their right to rule over the kingdom.

What is interesting, if we take a massive step back to Monmouth’s reasons for writing such a work, you have to place yourself in his mind set and thinking, you see in 1135 when he starts to write about Arthur, the current King of England (Henry 1) had died and his Nephew Stephen of Blois became King, this was against an oath himself and other barons had sworn, he was unpopular and despite his good looks and prowess as a warrior he was thought of as lack luster and uninspiring and definitely receive much in the way of loyalty, at the same time the Welsh were rising again and starting to cause problems inspired by the story of the very Welsh legend of King Arthur and their claim to rule the kingdom, therefore making Arthur English would help to secure England’s claim to the throne.

We know that there has been evidence of human habitation from at least the 4th C with further evidence of Roman visitation but these are very small finds and cannot say for certain there was anything other than a passing occupation, there is virtually no evidence to suggest anything before the Romans and with many local hill forts in close proximity its unlikely it was used for anything strategic or for habitation.

Moving through and into the post Roman period, was left of the Roman world and the Brittonic peoples made this their home and no doubt would of felt safe here cut off from the main land, it became a thriving place with recent archeology work finding 5th C stone building complexes and possibly being one of several strong holds for the rulers of Cornwall, with its post Roman trade links to the Mediterranean it remained a rich and powerful place to live and rule over. This carried on well into the 7th C and it’s hard to imagine that stories or tales from this period of a rich and powerful ruler would not be used as part of the Arthurian legends.

In amongst all of this we know the Saxons began their colonization of the England around 410, with the West of England being under Britonic control and the western edge being under Saxon rule, (see map)

Its easy to see from the map that with only a small proportion of England being under Saxon control and this was very loose as each Saxon group also hated each other and there was no singular group. It could be surmised that Dumnonia was a strong hold out against the Saxon tide, that along with the Welsh, Northern and Scottish groups would perhaps pool armies and fight against the invasion giving rise to the myths of Arthur and in some cases Arthur is not a King but actually the right hand man of a lord or King who led armies to great victories.

Arthur which ever story you follow will of been a Britonic character, not a king but more likely a strong leader of men and second to the King of which ever land her hailed from.
Another issue with Monmouth’s story, their were no knights, the closest that existed were cavalry brought over as part of the Roman contingent who in some tales is suggested as being the inspiration for Arthur, these horse men were formidable even to the Romans and were well armored and to the British and even the Saxons such sights would of been shocking.

It’s unfortunate that as it’s name suggest the ‘Dark ages’ very little is actually written and what is has been told within the ark of Saxon poems and these themselves pose an issues as they were commissioned by which ever Saxon lord wanted a little fame and so stories were either altered or embossed to provide favoritism.

During the 14th C, the castle was a shadow of its former self, with a small staff and Chaplin employed to look after the once magnificent ruins but by the 1600s it was largely abandoned.

This remained so up until around the 19th C when Victorian England fascinated by the Romance and chivalric stories of Arthur and his knights, interestingly the post office actually gave Tintagel village its name, as Tintagel was the the name of the headland and not the main land, it was thought easier to name the village itself this way, in 1894 Rev Kinsman was honorary constable and built a court yard and a guide was employed and in the late 19th and early 20th C excavations began on naming certain areas such as King Arthurs footprint which legend says was used as Arthurs place to leap from one side the to the others and although it has been worked by human hands, possibly for some reason as far back as the dark ages it was romanticized by the English.

In the 1980s a fire raged on the headlands which helped to reveal much more of archelogy than first thought and in 1998 the Artognou stone spuriously described as Arthurs stone was uncovered. You may remember this from the news articles at the time which claimed it was linked to Arthur owing to the Latin name scribed into it, it was pushed by mainstream media at the time as evidential proof of Arthur, however when translated and examined it was believed to have been a practice stone for another purpose, broken in 2 and then used as part of a drainage system, even the name Artognou is suggested to be a very weak link to the actual name of Arthur and is translated as "Bear Knowing", from the Brittonic root *arto "bear" plus *gnāwo- "to know", and is cognate with the Old Breton name Arthnou and Welsh Arthneu.

This is only a very short insight into Arthurs, the story is so vast it stretches from Cornwall all the way into Scotland with stops in Cumbria and the Peak district, there a numerous other accounts, stories and tales written by multiple people which stan hundreds of years and I believe there will be no real one story of Arthur, my view is that Arthur was never a singular character, he was an amalgamation of stories and folk lore told by Britonic peoples, told through the many different periods of occupation of England and each telling was grown or expanded upon, Monmouth no doubt took Normal Chivalry and ideas of courtly and knightly behavior and imposed that upon his story to make is more of the time, make it more relatable for the Norman population to understand.

I’m hoping to create a road trip based around some the more notable legendary characters of the British isles and some that you may not know but are no less important.

The Birthday Boy 2.

Saturday the 3rd arrived and with it my 43rd birthday, for some reason had believed I was 44, I guess the passage of time had some what pickled ones brain.

I opened my cards and some presents, given to me by Mrs. Beard and my sister and we settled downstairs for our breakfast, the Inn during the day light presented as a mixture of different time periods, difficult to pinpoint with any accuracy which parts were original, the Inn was built in 1750 and due to becoming quite busy had an extension built in 1778 which included stables and a coach house.

There is some question as to its naming origins with some saying it is from the use of as a smuggling den to the naming in honor of a local family who had made extensive wealth from their time as governors in Jamaica .

It holds the dubious reputation of being a haven for smugglers which was rife throughout the many hidden coves of Cornwall. Tea and rum were heavily taxed during the 17th and 18thC and locals would banned together to lure ships into the rocky shoals in order to crash them and rob what expensive goods were aboard, owing to its position as the main turnpike between Launceston and Bodmin it was often reported being the stop off for the less than clean and holy.

We partook of a rather lovely if somewhat filling full English before we departed for the days adventures along with our companions. First driving the short distance to the famous Bodmin jail, it would seem the mist had not departed since its arrival yesterday and remained stuck to the mostly uninhabited places or sparsely populated hamlets of the winding and twisting roads and tracks. It was definitely an eye opener to imagine being an unfortunate prisoner sentenced to life or death in this most miserable of places, a rough and harsh carriage ride across open moor to arrive at somewhere that would not of looked out of place in any good gothic horror novel.

Ravens flew around the outside of the building providing an excellent story point to regale my companions with, the story of an unfortunate lady labeled as a witch but in truth nothing more than a healing lady known for mixing herbal remedies and providing cheaper cures to those in the area. She had befriended the local raven population and soon discovered how clever they were, being thankful that she had been feeding then and like their crow or magpie counterparts, they began taking shiny objects, silver, pocket watches and so forth from people, anger as they were and no doubt encourage by the local clergy she was found guilty of being a witch, brought to Bodmin the ravens joined her and spent their time harassing guards and other prisoners attempting to steal keys and silver wear for their master. She unfortunately passed whilst awaiting sentence and the ravens never left.

I do sometimes wonder why this kind of knowledge is retained in my brain as in ordinary day to day life serves little purpose.

We took part in a brief but excellent 4d experience in the bowls of the center, the wrecking of the ship is definitely one to experience, before being guided along and into a very small section of original cells where differing displays told the stories of life there, one we found hard to digest were the tales of children as young a 8 being interned with their parents for no other reason than they had been born to a convicted and a sentenced criminal. We all thought though it would of been nice to have seen more of the original jail but i guess most has been turned in rather expensive hotel accommodation.

We departed and headed over to Tintagel once again, the roads winding and narrow speckled with the mist hanging like a wet woolen blanket over the landscape, still it was less spookier in the day time. We arrived and parked within easy walking of the castles start, as paying English Heritage members we were allowed in as part of our membership fee, this is probably one of the most middle age things we do, apart from myself running around at Christmas trying to locate all the Marks and Spencers biscuit tins.

We made our way down through a simple but wide and well maintained footpath towards the base of the ruins, before slowly making a gradual climb up, taking in the many photo opportunities and majestic rock formations that bordered our way. Entering through a simple check point we were soon inside the start of the many and sprawling ruins, large walls having stood since the 12thC created secure and wind free court yards, offering both photo opportunities and a much needed break from the wind blowing in from the Westwardly squall of the Celtic sea.

around us also lay the ruin of the earliest inhabitants being 5th and 6th Century, don’t fret I have covered much of Tintagel’s history in another blog, the place buzzed with crowds from all corners of the globe today, families took the opportunity to capture those moments never to be revisited, pictures were taken at ever moment, cliff tops were explored with stunning views of the staggeringly beautiful coast line.

We wound our way along the path, one of our companions taking time out to capture selfies perched sitting on the cliff side much to his partners horror, she opted to walk away instead of bear witness to his untimely demise much to our amusement, but both she and Mrs. Beard took a brief interlude to grab one of their own.

Once at the top, we grabbed the obligatory picture with the most impressive King Arthur sculpture and then opted to take in the most bracing of winds and views, here I remarked that I could write a book based upon the best 50 places I have pooed in the UK, whilst our friend screamed in joy that she could fly like a bird as the wind blew heartily around her propping her up.

Myself and Mrs. Bearded opted to take the Landrover back up to the top as my feet were now starting to hurt, it instantly took me back to when I was a child and trundling around in the many skip like metal boxes we used to own, we had great fun though and as we rattled along the paths and every single inch of the vehicle made some form of dissatisfaction.

After a hearty Cornish pasty, we left for our 3rd and final destination of the day, Goliath falls. Passing familiar roads now clear for a change and into a realm that would not look out of place in tales of fairies and otherworldly magicians, moss and Deadman’s fingers covered every possible space here, tress usually dark greys and browns became almost illuminous green with streaks of grey/green blues hanging freely from exposed and tort branches, we would of loved to have stopped but the narrow road prevented any opportunist photos.

Pulling into the car park for Goliath Falls, a selection of small cabins took up one end, a cafe, moonshine distillery and a BBQ smoke house made a promise for the end of our walk. We set off swiftly, a short 20min round trip through ancient native woodlands, green moss covered every square inch reminding me of many a scene from Lord of the Rings trilogy.

Water soon sounded our destination was coming close, the roaring sounds louder as we edged closer and multiple waterfalls fells and gained speed through the little valley, we spent a short time here, by now unfortunately I was about done, my feet stung with the few miles they had covered today and so heading towards the Smoke house BBQ and after an amazing thick and creamy milkshake and some small bbq items for later, we headed back for a much needed nap until the evening meal.

There was little in the way of excitement that night, the energies of the day spent walking and exploring had taken their toll upon us and we opted for a quieter evening, meal completed, I was surprised with a happy birthday song and candles in my most delightful chocolate fondant.

A few drinks finished of a most delightful day before bed and the long drive home the following day.

Another year older.

As humans we are ever surprised by the passing of time, always taken aback when a year comes and goes, its as if we are for ever stalked by the months fleeting by and then when New Years arrive we beckon in another world and the cycle starts again.

I for one have noticed the time going by, my diagnosis of cancer provided a reminder that life is finite, no one can live for ever and we must make the most of what is given.

This year 2024, I turn 43, another year older than my mother had always stated in angry tones that I would never make when younger, I have an odd relationship with my birthday these day, 4 years ago I turned 40 and I was unable to enjoy it due to illness, for ever suffering with headaches a few days post 40 and I was diagnosed with cancer.

This year is very different, I am now facing a fuller and longer life than I was 6 months ago, the cancer thanks to a new treatment has gradually been reduced to nothing.

This year is about me, about living and experiencing the world, feeling that I have been unable to so far. Gone were the usual discussion on where we would go, giving Mrs. Beard no option or say I took control and booked the famous Jamacia Inn, lonely sitting atop Bodmin moor once home to passing travelers, smuggles and general nefarious sorts.

We set forth from our home at around 9am, a quick stop along before leaving town to get the all to essential car snacks and we were heading out along the m5 towards our first stop off location. It never ceases to amaze me how people seem to loose all sense of reasoning whilst driving, their little chips which in ordinary life provide them with a list of commands and instructions to follow, but when driving it becomes faulty and people loose the ability to drive with any sense at all, I still laugh that the DVLA refused to give me my driving license stating ‘you no longer meet the safe driving criteria’.

Still we plod on, soon turning off the M5, following along the M40 and M42 respectively and then coming off onto the A429 and through idyllic Cotswold style villages resplendent with thatched roofs, these made for ideal for selling ‘England’ abroad to tourist, with the many wide open and flat fields it is not hard to see why when the Romans and later Saxons made much of this area their home.

We eventually pulled up the a large layby, large lorries and cars passed by at some speed which seemed at odds to the peace and tranquility of what lay beyond the hedge.

On our 3.5hr road trip we decided a brief stop over was needed and opted for the well known Rollright stones just outside of Long Compton, the stones today consist of around 70 odd stones, odd as the local legends tells that you can never quite count the same number twice and this certainly provided true and both myself and Mrs. Beard counted differing numbers.

This little selection of ancient stones is around 2500 years old, as with all stones circles or monuments there is little known about why the were constructed, some ceremonial, some worship and some inline to celebrate the passing of the seasons, the stones are made of oolithic limestone which itself is a very unique geological stone, consisting of limestone weathered down and then re-constituted by the passage of time into almost concrete like stones. The weathering of rain, ice and frost creating worm eroded rustic rocks which only add to the already strange and mystic nature of the stones.

Originally some 105 stones were thought too stand at this spot, removed over time and usually around the birth of the puritan movement in where forces of the church concocted stories that these were the work of the devil and needed to removed and destroyed.

A short walk along a safe even path lays the whispering knights, once a place of burial for who ever was thought most important within the local area, now a wrought and twisted selection of rocks standing proud and behind a safe iron fence to try and protect their fragile structure, we wandered around, Mrs. Beard utilizing her dowsing rods in search of anything mystical. We retraced our steps, bracing the early morning breeze blowing in through the valley.

We waited at the busy roads at some times horrifying speeds and sensing a lull we quickly crossed and towards the King stone, this particular stone stands alone from the others, but holds a significant point none the less, excavations showed evidence that this area may have been important as a burial place, with other burial mounds, cairns and even early graves.

The Stones take their names from a legend about a king and his army who were marching over the Cotswolds when they met a witch who challenged the king saying, “Seven long strides shalt thou take and if Long Compton thou canst see, King of England thou shalt be”.  On his seventh stride a mound rose up obscuring the view, and the witch turned them all to stone:  the king became the King Stone;  his army the King’s Men;  and his knights the Whispering Knights (plotting treachery).  The witch became an elder tree, supposedly still in the hedge:  if it is cut the spell is broken the Stones will come back to life.

Once back inside the warm confines of the car, we set about stop number 2, much needed lunch and tea break and like most well respected middle class folk we enjoy a most excellent service station and non is more finer than Gloucester services. We arrived parked and made our way inside settling on a rather tasty Shawarma and salad, todays visit consisted of mainly people who looked as if they had been living presently in Ikea replete with all the necessities of the hipster lifestyle, still we enjoyed our drink and food before purchasing a drink and some brief snacks for the 3hrs that lay ahead.

A long boring and uninspiring motorway journey lay ahead of us, passing Bristol, the famous long suspension bridge over the channel before to long we were driving over the rugged and unforgiving beauty of the Bodmin moor, either side lay a dotting of farms and stark moors. The modern addition of the dual carriage way which carries one over the moors, seems in stark contracts to the thousands of years of human history and story telling which flanked its side, the weather presented as a heavy drizzle as we inched closer to the Jamaica Inn, sitting atop the old coaching road which served as the meeting points between important roads of the area, the weather only seemed to add to it mystery.

We waited a short time before our weekend companions arrived and settled on heading out to Tintagel to seek out the all important fish and chips by the sea, light began fading early as it does in winter time, the often one car wide lanes seemed to offer a more enclosed and sometimes spooky driving experience. We stopped in Tintagel and part took of our evening meal, before heading back to our accommodation the night had now drawn in and the mist had descended to no more than 10ft of visibility the same roads now reduced to a rather hair raising thrilling drive home.

Along the way we stopped at an old air field, once home to the RAF and built in 1942, it also quite interestingly held 3 formula one races in the 1950s, no however it became the setting for the start of a B flick horror movie, the darkness seemed smothering alongside the quite considerable mist. We got out of the car and I turned the lights off, the party of 4 became nothing but shadows which once separated became almost indiscernible to the darkness which now surrounded them, screams of delights and laughter filled the small space.

Once back at the Inn, we did the only thing which sensible and set about sampling the various Rums on offer of which there was some 20, bed time came and we bid good night to our friends hoping that the various spirits that inhabited the Inn.

Old Sarum

England is awash with tid bits of history, the signs of human habitation hidden under the very ground we wander across. Some places how ever leave their mark for all to see and usually these places are high.

Old Sarum was a place I had noted on another trip to see Stone Henge and Avebury a few years ago, but with time in short supply that day and the need to pre book saw this put to the side for another day. With a little road trip down south for another event, we opted to pop in for a stop on route.

With such a high vantage point it would be hard to miss the almost fairy tail crumbling ruins, deep ditches and banks of earth, in the earliest construction of the hill fort, it must of looked impressive as the hill is made up mainly of chalk, imagine a the white banks standing out against the green fields and forest, talk about status symbol.

Old Sarum has seen human habitation for some 5000 years, which is immense to think that at the earliest stages of man (prehistoric), this site was always deemed an important feature of the landscape. If you have ever been this way you will notice that it has its fair share of flatness and Old Sarum sticks out above the surrounding landscape.

Around 400bc, early Britons built the first of many fortification upon it, consisting of enormous ditches and banks that surrounds its roughly oval shape, being close to other notable hillforts and also two of the largest stones circles on the UK, Sarum was an important settlement, looking over and controlling an import intersection of trade routes.

Before the Romans entered the land, the fort was home to a group of celts who called the fort Caer Saflog or citadel of the service tree which grow locally and is thought to mean whitebeam.

With the arrival of the Romans, as with most hillforts Old Sarum was taken and became what is thought to be a Roman fort with a settlement outside the defended walls with many roads branching off to various important centers. This was common in the Roman period for the living and working areas to be on the outside of Roman forts, leaving the inside largely to the military, there is little known about this period of its life though. It is thought that the need for a hill fort reduced and the site was slowly disused by the military, during the end of the Roman and start of the Saxon period, it is known that a mint was built on the site with some evidence of a small Anglo-Saxon settlement also being found outside the ramparts. The Saxons in around AD55 threw out the Britons who had taken refuge in the fort after the Romans has left, this site became an important part of Saxon Wessex hence the mint.

With the arrival of the Normans shortly after their victory of 1066, the site became once more an important site of activity and power, the Normans quickly built a motte and bailey castle, the castle now sported two sets of defenses, the inner castle and the large outer ramparts and ditch, the large scale of the outer defense meant that it could house a large number of troop, the Normans keenly spotted that as with the Iron age period, Sarum sat and at a critical intersection of trade routes.

During this period, the inner section became home to a number of buildings, mainly built of timber, with the only stone sections being the outer keep/tower, a cathedral was also built at this time and its importance as a center of power was cemented, the Sheriffs of Wiltshire set up residence and the Cathedral became home to a body of clerks and scholars, the inclusion of a Scriptorium showed how important Old Sarum was to the Norman world.

For a short period, the site was left in charge of Bishop Roger, whilst king John I was away doing kingly type business abroad, after his death around 1139, Sarum became less popular as the New king King John II lavished money on his fancy new hunting lodge however by around the 1220s with the Royals failing to maintain its upkeep and the church and crown no longer getting on (think neighbor's from hell), the clergy moved into Salisbury and built and even grander Cathedral and city.

Habitation of the site hung on for a further few years, but by 1540 the castle and the dwellings outside the ramparts were no more, the castles mighty stone walls taken apart and used for other building projects.

Myth

It is said that Salisbury (new Sarum) was founded on the aim of an archer who stood atop Old Sarum and let an arrow fly. One theory as to how an arrow could of reached that far, is that the archer struck a deer which then ran off and died at the site of New Sarum.

Old Sarum and New Sarum has been identified and laying directly in line with the famous stone henge, leading to the theory that it sits atop a ley line.

The first cathedral had to be rebuilt after only a few weeks of being constructed, after having been struck by lightening.

Overall

The site is currently run by English Heritage, admission is £5.90 per adult and £3.50 per child, no toilets on site currently as these are being revamped.

there is a small shop that serves hot drinks from a machine, it is windy up there most of the time, but offers stunning views of the area, so take a blanket and wrap up warm on all but the suniest of days.

King Arthur Day 4

Another settled nights sleep, the weather helping to warm my aching bones through the night as rest allowed some reinvigoration of a tiering body.

I had slept well and the day already was warm, I was aware that my forearms were now burnt, the new tattoo I had completed back in the December the year before was reacting badly to the sun and seemed to burn even more so that anywhere else, I had stupidly forgotten my sunglasses as well which would of made a huge difference, I don’t think in all the times I had been out and about that I had experienced heat to this degree on consecutive days running,.

I carried out my usual routine, unpack the tent, drape tent over nearby hanging object, make food, pack bags, pack tent and off I go. This cycling lark was easy compared to running or walking, the tent could easily be stuffed on the open panier rack to dry in the breeze and sun thus saving time and not having to roll it up into a tiny item. You ever think that a tent is a bit like a block of butter, it never quite fits the packaging once opened.

Fueled with porridge and tea I set off around 7am today I was quite aware that my legs were stronger than I had thought, having covered some 100 odd miles already I knew todays journey would see me top 60 plus with 2 stops before finally arriving at home.

I pulled out of Cranberry Moss and headed for the roads and villages around the back of the main road, apart from the houses there was little else to say anyone lived here, not a car or a person was passed for some time and I often wonder if people in these little Hamlets live the lives of almost hermits and kept to themselves.

The lanes twisted with various wildlife and farm animals keeping me company in the void of human beings, it could almost be a pleasant view of a post human world, animals, nature and life itself just carries on being.

I began heading back towards Shrewsbury, being early afforded me again that luxury of time to meander and enjoy the journey plus the allure of breakfast was to strong a one to miss.

There was nothing exciting for the first part of journey this morning a gentle ride down into the small hamlet of Wilcott where a motte and bailey castle once stood looking over the Shropshire plains before arriving into Shrewsbury around 30 minutes later, I stopped at the first place I saw as open, the Loopy Shrew and a bacon sandwich, tea and the best hashbrowns ever, I sat in the sun and watched the day slowly roll into being, people busied themselves and hurried along.

Filled with breakfast fuel, I set off taking the streets out of Shrewsbury passing by the new, the old and Lords Hill tower, started in 1814 and commemorating General Hill who by all accounts was quit the soldier during the Napoleonic wars.

I was soon passing into the little village of Atcham and the rather grand bridge of Attingham Park before arriving at our first destination of Wroxceter.

I was to early for its opening and so I was forced to observe from the road way, still I was here last year and got to have a good look around and explore the vast and impressive remains of the once grand and important town.

Every one likes to link Arthur to Camelot, the fabled city of righteousness and glory, home to the greatest king and his knights, but in truth the name Camelot was an invention by the French poet Chrétien de Troyes and was then copied and copied by subsequent telling’s, writing so far past the time of Arthur, the true name had been forgotten. Post Roman Britain was split into 6 kingdoms with Nennius, the 8th century monk claiming that Arthur was the leader of these alliances.

One of the oldest surviving reference to Arthur is the Song of Llywarch the Old in which the poet tells the tale of a descendant of Arthur having died in glorious battle and this relative ruled over the capital of Powys in the Dark ages, which was non other than the old Roman city of Viroconium and interestingly this city, now named Wroxceter remained walled and well fortified well into the century, with recent archeological digs noting major rebuilding work having taken place around AD500.

With stories placing Arthur has ruling the most important British city around AD500 and Viroconium being the most important British city, it fair to assume that this could indeed be Arthurs home city.

From here we potter along the quiet lanes and byways of the Shropshire countryside, I was passing the lower slopes of the Wrekin, a hill I had frequented quite a few times in the past, its looming shape commanding the landscape all around it, atop sits the formidable hill fort, despite its formidable size and defenses it was taken easily by the invading Romans and its inhabitants moved down in the lower valleys and Wroxceter.

I’m soon passing into the realms of the modern world again, Telfords built up areas seem to surround me as I meander through streets and industrial estate, I pass through villages and take time to grab a cold energy drink and an Ice cream, sitting under the fine and grand branches of an old sycamore tree in church yard.

I head around some industrial estate and noticed that I had at some time picked up a passenger, a rather lovely looking caterpillar we chatted fore a time it was more a one way conversation on my part and I dropped him off in a lovely Oak hedgerow before finding a very rare Bridleway behind a large industrial park, the welcome break from the traffic and noise straight into a very underuse piece of greenway.

Little towns came and went and all to soon I was coming to my final destination and the ending to an epic tale spanning centuries.

White Ladies Priory sits outside of Telford near to the famous Boscobel House, its generally accepted it was constructed or consecrated around the 12th Century although it exact dates cannot be confirmed and some believe it is much older and existed as a place of religion long before the Normans invaded.

At the fateful last battle of Arthur and subsequent his death, Guinevere left perhaps for safety perhaps knowing that the great kingdom had come to an end, made her way to White ladies Priory with fabled sword and took to life as a poor nun, hiding away from the world and everything she had once known. The priory today sits as nothing but a ruin, nestled in the middle of a quite and sedate woodland, it offers a place of reflection and contemplation, a time away from the bustling world, almost creating a bubble from the modern world.

My journey has taken me through thousands of years of rich British and Welsh history, from the oldest standing stones of ancient peoples to the more modern ruins of chapels and castles now just reminders of times past.

I’ve always loved the story of Arthur and with each myth told stems from a grain of truth, perhaps one day something tangible will be found to tell us here is Arthur, King of the Britons.

Arthur day 3

With day 3 came to awareness of the climb that I had before me today, the campsite was quiet with a slight mist covering the sleeping field, I packed away and made some much needed breakfast, sitting quietly in a chair by the shower block and watching the world slowly come to life, I had but one destination in mind today before camp and no real time frame set, I have to say I was thoroughly enjoying the cycling life, this was so much easier than running everywhere.

My original route planned for me to head across the Stapeley Hills and up into Shrewsbury, being further down I opted to take the roads that ran from the back of Runnis Meadow and heading up towards the bog, the roads here spoke of little use, moss and grass grew in the middle of the road, sheep fed with out care whilst birds of prey zoomed across the sky.

I followed the road around Radley Hill and was some climbing up towards The bog a once busy mining village and now only a few houses remain from the 200 that would of stood there, a visitors center is there but being early was closed so no early stop off for tea and cake.

I passed by Pennerley towards the the Stiperstone and onto Snailbeach where a large mine now awaits the intrepid explorer views greeted me from the gained elevation and I took a few moments here to appreciate the early morning view.

Eventually I headed down and into Pontesbury where a quick stop at the church for a snack, with ample time ahead of me, I followed a bridleway down and into Pontesford Hill, It was nice to have some off road riding for a short time, the steep rocky descent gave way to a muddy rutted tracked that threaded the bottom of Earls Hill fort, another great Iron age construction and finally appearing again onto the roads and onwards todays Montford Bridge and into Baschurch.

I took a rest here on a handy bench, here a chap out on his mobility scooter stopped to chat with me, people were much more willing to chat to me on the bike, if I had been running and camping I would of been avoided like the plague. He told me that he had early stages of dementia but still had enough about him to be independant, I let him chat away telling me about the many cars he had owned, my own current travel and then we were treated to a cracking view of the Bentley owners club outing, along with some rather amazing pre 1950s motors.

We said our good byes and I headed off to my destination for today, Berth hill sits just outside of Baschurch and you’d be forgiven for passing it by as nothing suggest it is there, I turned off the main road and onto a track that passed by a few houses, I knew there was no public access here and with some distance from the track there was no real easy way for me to wander across the field.

The Berth is quite a unique feature, Owain Ddantgwyn had been a king of Powys, and, astonishingly, the burial site of the kings of Powys was also revealed in the Song of Llywarch the Old, the work that relates how the Powys king Cynddylan had been a direct descendant of King Arthur. According to the author, Cynddylan was buried at a place called the “Churches of Bassa”, and that his predecessors, the former kings of Powys, were buried here too. As this included Owain Ddantgwyn, it would seem that the Churches of Bassa could well be the final resting place of King Arthur himself. The place today is called Baschurch and may well be to final resting place of the great King Arthur.

For it’s low lying position , the berth consist of 2 interconnected islands in what appears to be a lake with a causeway connecting them, in all of my travels and experiences of Iron age constructions I have yet to see anything that looks quite like this. There has been very little in the way of archeology here, not even any scans of the structures, it seems such a shame that something as simple as a scan could not be conducted by historic England, what could be an amazingly important sight has yet to give up its secrets.

I stopped at a lovely little farm shop outside of Baschurch and grabbed some much needed food, a rest inside away from the burning sun and I was again on my way, Brownhill, Ruyton XI towns, before popping past Nescliffe and onto my final camp of the evening Cranberry Moss.

Despite its close location to the main ring road, it was fairly quiet and I was able shower and reset, before eating a large amount of food including 2 rather delicious Cornish pasties and 2 more boiled eggs in my freeze dried food. This was living.

I settled into my early finish, it seemed slightly odd given my scurrying for a camp spot in days past, the scrambling through undergrowth and the ever present fear of being caught somewhere, now I relax in peace the sun warming my aching body. I did have to move a few time as the sun began to burn my exposed skin. With tent erected and airing my gear I made use of the shower block making a brew afterwards and listening to pod cast as I drifted in and out of sleep.

The site was deathly quiet come 10pm and despite the hum of the busy dual carriageway only a feet away I settled into a

Arthur day 2

I awoke on day 2, a restful night, well to a degree anyway I’m not one of these sleep right through kind of campers and will often wake in the early hours feeling fully rested and have to force myself back to sleep again.

What is strange is not having to wake at 5am and pack away in the cold damp morning and then set off running for 8hrs, now I can wake, take my time and actually eat breakfast.

I had set myself a goal of around 30-40 miles for each day, thinking I’m not as fit as I once was and new to cycling I had little idea of how I would get on. With the tent resting over the gate to dry the last of the morning dew and with breakfast and a hot drink inside me I planned my route for the day.

I passed by the little hamlets of Crewgreen and Wollaston before the inevitable push the bike up and onto Long Mountain, once up it became a very reasonable road which straddled the border of the Welsh and English border. Here your treated to a view which in the hot and sunny weather of today was nothing less than outstanding. Here I came across the odd bikers, some out for a morning ride, others enjoying their own bikepacking packing experience, albeit with a nice BnB slipped in for the added comfort.

The road here becomes follows the line of an old Roman road which stretched from Wroxeter to Forden Gaer, with Offas Dyke and a Iron age hill fort thrown in this simple road offers allot. As I passed a woodland it was here that I realised what the infamous arrows represented, the hill was a tad on the steep side and as I cycled down I applied my breaks which then began to overheat with some smoke thrown in for good measure and then finally my breaks stopping altogether, a quick ditch in a hedge was called for.

Disaster averted and a rather embarrassing push my bike down a hill I was able to make good time along the A490 to our first stop of the day the River Camlad. Where a bridge now crosses the Camlad a ford would of originally sat here.

Today it is simply farm land with the river gently flowing between them, a campsite sits near to this bridge also but unfortunately does not take tents, seems to be a thing these day. But back in mist of time somewhere before 500 and the earliest mention being the Annales Cambriae from 537 mentions the strife of Camlann in which Arthur and Medraut fell, Medraut later became Mordred. What makes this hypothesis even more intriguing is that there are records of an actual battle having taken place on the moor above this place between 2 great armies. Either way many people pass over this very inconspicuous area without ever realising it importance to history.

I continue on, passing through Chirbury where I stop at the Church before heading into the local shop for a much needed pie and coke, I sat in the sun and watched people go to and through, before heading over the road and off to Mitchells fold. I cycled alongside a chap running his first ultra, what a day to pick a run certainly not one id of chosen.

Here we met one unbelievably steep hill that headed up to the farm of Lower Ridge, I took a much needed seat before carrying on pushing my bike onwards and upwards, I passed only one vehicle here a pick up truck which 10 minutes later returned my way, asked where I was headed and the farmer offered a much needed lift up and onto Mitchells fold. Once having reached the top I collected my bike and walked the short distance to my next stop for the day.

Mitchell’s fold is some 3000 years old, once comprising of 30 stones but now only 15 thanks in part to years of vandalism the most recent being in 2005 when a local farmer took down some stones and was later caught and prosecuted. Like all of the stone circles there is little to say what they were for other than theories and conjecture we can only imagine what would of taken place at their height of use.

So why are we here today, well in the Arthurian legends, the great leader and king is said to have pulled a sword from a stone and then became King of all England. In all reality this is more likely down to one Geoffrey of Monmouth when he first put to paper the story of King Arthur turning him into a knight and king. You see the tale of the sword in the stone can actually be attributed to something tangible in history, when swords were first cast, a mold would be carefully produced from carving a large stone split into 2 halves and molten metal would then be poured into the hole and once cool a sword would be ‘pulled’ from the stone ready to be finished. With the many burial cairns, Tumli and forts that dot this area it is not surprising that Mitchell’s fold perhaps once held a sight of special importance to the area, it’s almost secluded spot within the many valleys of the Shropshire hills that Mitchell’s fold could of provided a place to anoint kings or choose leaders in some long forgotten ritual.

I sat, ate some snacks and soaked up the sun for a hour before heading off once again, I would of originally like to cycle across the Stapley Hills but there was little in the way of camping to be had, one thing I’ve come to realise from all my travels is that I really do not enjoy the whole looking for camp spots and hiding away. Now I prefer a camp site where I can relax in peace.

I headed down along the road towards Runnis Meadow, a large and spacious campsite bordered by a trickling river which im told is home to a family of otters. The owner is a great guy, even offering me a lift past the many and maddening hills that awaited me. I purchased some eggs from him, set up my temporary home and chilled out in the sun for what seemed like ages. There was no phone signal here and I was truly free from the confines of modern tech. Whilst my pod cast played I cooked my tea and added a few eggs for good measure I was now hungrier than I had every been and even with this in my belly I was still a little peckish. Night drew in eventually and I was able to get a good rest.

In search of King Arthur day 1.

There are times when as an avid explorer and all round adventure type person that you hit upon an idea that truly becomes a journey back in time.

My latest outing finds me adventuring across the Shropshire country side in search of non other than King Arthur himself, that mighty king of old racing around the land fighting great beast, rescuing fair maidens and generally being an all super great guy.

Well the truth is, (spoiler alert) he was never a knight and may have not even been a king, he was never any of those things. The stories we learned as kids and legends of old seem far from the truth that permeates the land.

So who was he, where did he come from and when?

One thing that I have come to learn from my general meanderings through the annuals of history is that these characters are rarely one person, they tend to be a conglomerate of different stories and people from different periods in history and with each new retelling the story teller has added a new detail to make the tale their own.

I had woke at 5am and set off for my 11mile cycle into Birmingham in order to catch my train, this being the first time I had travelled with my bike, the ticket having been bought some weeks earlier in order to book a space, at £9 and with no need to have booked a space (first come basis) it was already a barging.

It was strange waiting around this early in the morning, one that I had not done for some time, I sat around eating my breakfast bun and tea before boarding my one train straight to Chirk.

I had originally booked all the way to Wrexham with the idea of cycling the 15miles to Llangollen and the actual start of my adventure, but having looked at the route whilst on the train, Chirk to Llangollen was shorter, (famous last words)

I arrived at Chirk on time and having navigated myself from the train station, I set about checking out the route forward, taking in the many back roads and little bridleways that dotted this landscape aiming to cut my journey down to save on the old legs. My route took me out past Chirk Castle, skirting the mighty home and grounds and passing by parts of Offa’s Dyke, how ever after an hour and having pushed my bike uphill for the tenth time, I decided that heading to Llangollen was out of the question, I had pushed my bike for half a mile along what was supposed to be a bridleway, it had seen the passing of time and the underuse of people, with the way now overgrown with nettles and grass making the going quite interesting and strenuous.

I knew that once down towards Llangollen I would have to retrace my steps backs wards towards Oswestry and go over the same terrain I had struggled to navigate.

I stopped just outside of Pennant and instead began to head towards Oswestry Hill fort, I was new to cycling and was unaware of what the arrows represented on OS maps some pointing up and some down on the many roads ahead, I was soon to find that these demoted how big the gradient was but the steep descent down into Pontfadog was certainly a nice change to having to push my bike up the never ending steep hills.

I was soon climbing yet again out of Pontfadog, following The Maelor Way and eventually into Gobowen where I stopped for a Bacon Sarnie, the café was an interesting place one that seemed to attract the many and varied locals who offered stern and humorous warnings about heading through Oswestry, the lacalness ran strong here.

From Gobowen it was a short and pleasant ride along quiet roads and eventually hitting my fist point on Arthurs trail. Old Oswestry Hill fort is some 3000 years old, it sits as a mysterious and well preserved throw back to our ancestors and remained in use for around 1000 years.

The hill fort had seen 4 distinct phases of building with large and deep ditches and banks, the Welsh name for the hill fort, Caer Ogyrfan, means City of Gogyrfan. According to legend, Gogyrfan was father to Queen Guinevere and therefore father in law to King Arthur. It is said to have been the birthplace of Queen Ganhumara – Guinevere of Arthurian legend.

There was a great battle that took place here in 642 between 2 great kings of the time, Penda and Oswald. Penda of Mercia defeated Oswald of Northumberland and dismembered his body, placing body parts on stakes near to his death. The place became known as Oswaldstre, or Oswald’s Town, and subsequently Oswestry, another side note King Oswald was said to have been the last decedent of King Arthur.

I’m soon on the move again, heading this time for Whittington Castle, I head out along the A495, threading my way along side the Saturday traffic, I peddle with ease along the road and I am soon coming upon my second Arthurian place, Whittington Castle.

I had been here a number of times before, to visit other notable myths of old, the castle cementing its place in not only the Arthurian legends but also that of Robin Hood.

Arriving I sample the delights they have to offer, it seems only fitting that I do this and admire my surroundings, the café’ sits with the grounds of what would of been a 13th C Norman castle, one of the many castles that made up the fortifications around the Welsh Marches.

Now the story goes that the ‘real grail’ was in fact something called the Marian Chalice, a cup used by Mary Magdalin and found in Christ Tomb after his execution by St Helen and then via many paths ended up at a destination we will later visit. The castle was built and lived in by the Percival family and the more notable Fitz Faulk Warren who are argued are the original grail protectors, the grail being hidden within the chapel here at Whittington. There is so much history here that it deserves a blog all on its own.

From here I set off towards my camp for the first night, one thing I have come to realise about bikepacking is the distance you can cover comfortably in a relatively short amount of time.

I threaded my way along quiet country lanes, gladly avoiding the many cars out on a Saturday drive, I was thankful for the warm weather, seemingly blessed by the travel gods, I was heading for my first camp, a little site at Crosslanes, I arrived well ahead of time and quickly finding the site, I settled into pitching my new tent, the site was quiet and spacious with only a toilet there, the whole field to myself.

The land was quiet even at mid afternoon, I snoozed on and off until it was time to eat, spending the hours reading and lazily absorbing the sun, this as a first introduction to bikepacking couldn't have been any better.

2024

Its funny how you are fully prepared for and aware at the same time of the year ending and another starting and yet seem to be fully unprepared for the actual reality of the new year.

Well here we are, survived another year in a world which seems intent on destroying itself and caring less and less about other that are affected, 2023 for was an odd year, I was once fit and stable with plans for the year and then from the blue cancer restruck and everything was upended.

I missed out on 2 fantastic weeks in Jamaica which we had booked to celebrate the previous 2 years of crap only to be scuppered by another load of rubbish.

Still, could be worse I guess, so were am I now, well I have stage 4 cancer, my future is uncertain in that there is little in the way of the cancer ever going away and so I am now planning for other things, I’m now officially now retired from being a nurse, I am no longer registered as a nurse and now have after 3 years have now taken back my driving licence back, with the freedom of now work, plenty of time on my hands and the added benefit of being able to access my pension early I am in a very fortunate position that most could only dream of.

I was talking with my wife around buckets list and where I want to go and the truth be told I am unsure, I don’t have a bucket list which may sound strange but I’ve never felt the need to have dream places to go that will ultimately never be a reality seems kinda pointless as my life has always been about obtaining what is reality and accessible.

This year for me is about connecting, connecting with friends and family, making memories with those that have stuck by me through everything and always had my back. I have the rough outline of plans for this year, places to go and things to see, wonders to touch and new experiences.

I feel lucky, lucky to be fully aware that my time is limited and that everyday is a gift to be cherished and made the most of, we all have ideas and place we want to go and things we want to do but in reality we stop ourselves with excuses that we can’t for some reason, but how long do we keep putting things off

Kingdoms lost

The man took his final sip of strong wine as he lay back upon the hay bale which had become his bed and resting place for so many years now, the night had been fully of revery, dancing and more than enough drinking.

He closed his eyes and fell into a deep and drunken sleep, but if the stories told are to be true he would never wake again, his body lost the cold dark sea.

Today Borth is a small seaside village on the West coast of Wales providing homes for both permanent residents and the many holiday makers who call Borth their home. It is situated not far from the bustling town of Aberystwyth and makes up the large Cardigan Bay stretching from Bardsey Island and Strumble head.

Beyound its quiet and quaint seaside persona lies a mystery which could stretch back as far as the last Ice age one passed down in the strong oral story telling tradition, a long held folk memory.

Cantre’r Gwaelod is a land lost to time, to foul deeds, carelessness or even an act of god.

There is no specific time frame for the tale to be placed in, but we do have a few characters to base the story upon.

Cantre’r Gwaelod was a mythical land said to have stretched between Ramsey Island and Bardsey Island and is now under the area known as Cardigan bay. its earliest mention is in the Black Book of Camarthen, written around the 1250 by a single scribe and written from tales within his life time and believed to be the earliest form written entirely in Welsh containing poems and tales including one of the mighty and ever so out of reach King Arthur.

There are many versions of this tale but all lead inevitably to the same place, Cantre’r Gwaelod was said to lie on the fertile flood plains in what is now Cardigan bay, its lands so valuable, that one hectare was equal to four for the rest of Wales. The land was ruled over by King Gwyddo and his palace close to what is now Aberystwyth.

The land owing to its low laying place required a complex system of weirs, gates and sea walls, King Gwyddno entrusted the protection of his land to his good friend, Prince Seithennyn and every night he would close the gates to protect the land from flooding.

Now depending on which story you read, it is some times a woman, sometimes a man, sometimes the woman was distracted by a love interest, tricked by another or either had been intoxicated, as in this tale, the kind held and great banquet and the keeper of the gates imbibed a tad to much, he passed out and the stormy sea coupled with the spring high tide flooded the 16 villages behind the walls.

What adds weight to this tale are the small points of evidence that seem to lend some credence to the tale, the Gough Map a mid 14th C map and thought to be the most accurate map of Britain before the 1600s was found, when researchers took a closer look they could see 2 distinct islands or land masses, one between Aberystwyth and Aberdovey and the other between there and Barmouth to the north.

Researchers believe these 2 land masses are perhaps left overs from the previous ice ages and slowly over time eroded by the sea and rivers, its date is still contested but some believe it to be an updated version of something much earlier but all agree that despite its mythological drawings that it is correct.

Along with the map, there are a number of causeways that project from different points along Cardigan bay with one being Sarn Badrig or St Patrick’s causeway and extends for about 20km from the shore and as it is easy to walk upon it more than lends its support for lost lands.

Just out from Borth and at low tide you can wander out and at first spot black blobs protruding from the sand, its not until you get closer that you can in fact see the remains of a forest, some 4,500 years old, submerged and hidden for most of the time, it was after a giant storm in 2014 uncovered the remains of a native forest that once flourished on the fertile plains, in the midst of time the Irish sea was quite shallow with only rivers flowing that could be crossed, but as ice melted and seas rose the rivers widened and became what is now the sea.

Unfortunately it being winter and in the midst of another storm we were not able to see anything on our trip so I’ve pinched a few images from the web.

Its fair to say that a land mass was once lived on, perhaps farmed and hunted on, people called it home and for a time perhaps flourished. If you familiar with the story of Dogger land then you will be very familiar with the land that once connected the UK to Europe and this land stretched for much of the East coast, that was until a catastrophic land slip originating in the far north of Europe triggered a monumental tsunami that flooded most of the UK and anything on the East coast was wiped from the map, there are also stories held with the oldest surviving stories of The Epic of Gilgamesh which predates the Christian great flood myth.

You may also be surprised to know that there are a further 3 tales of lands lost along the Welsh coast all recount a similar tale of the land suddenly being swallowed or taken by the sea with only a few if any survivors.

We may never know the full truth, but we do know that the sea was once lower than today, perhaps those early humans passed down the story of the great flood and over time it gathered new places and new characters.

Wild Eadric day 3

I slept with some comfort, my brain having forgotten that I had turned on the radiator to try and dry my socks from yesterday and the room became hot all night and by morning I was desperately needing a drink and cool morning air.

I began getting myself ready, a cup of tea followed by porridge in my new collapsible mug before dressing and packing my meager possessions for the final day and 20 miles to Ludlow.

I leave the room at 6.30am and head to the back of the pub and to rejoin the Shropshire way, my first few miles being a steady climb and up towards Bury ditches. The woodland is quiet at this time of the day and deer run about escaping my intrusion in their early morning feasting.

The air is settled around me around the sky’s are clear allowing me a view across towards Hopton Castle, the large banks of the fort begin to raise to to my left as the land drops down to my right.

Bury Ditches dates from around 5000 years ago when humans were in full swing of the farming lifestyle and used stones tools in their day to day life.

Bury Ditches is a spectacular example of a well defended enclosure and up until the 1970s very little was known about its existence until a large storm felled a large majority of trees on its top exposing some of the earth works and again in the 1980s further showing us what had lay hidden away.

2 large and deep ditches that would of been topped with formidable wooden fences with men stationed above and ready to throw down fire and death from above, what makes this an interesting place to others is the complex entrance ways where the walker is funneled through and around the defensive structures ensuring no easy access to the inner plateau.

A myth from old forms in my mind, a young boy makes a deal with a tricky fairy upon the hill, he wanting the pot of gold and unable to life it and carry it away ties a long and golden thread to it handle he walks back to the cottage he and his mother inhabit but on his way down he trips and the thread snaps. They search for many months but nothing is ever found again and the gold still sit hidden away on the hill somewhere.

down I trod and onto the car park for the hill, I had ended my last adventure here, the many cars that pulled up telling me that this was a ‘busy’ place for couples to meet on the evening and I took my leave quickly. Now how ever the car park was empty and bidding a farewell I wander the road for a little time before coming across a little cottage and farm, hidden away from the main roads of life, quietly watching time go by.

I was soon coming into the little village of Kempton, sleepy and empty it seemed to be hidden away in the world, with only one road into houses it was somewhere to remain hidden. Across the footpaths, tracks and hills I walk heading into Kempton, one thing is for sure this route certainly takes you through those small and forgotten villages and hamlets England does so well to give life to.

Farm land slowly begins to give way to the activities of humans as roads become more frequent and footpaths more common, from the greenery of the woodlands we are soon embraced with the glow and warmth of fields of Rapeseed, the yellow almost needing sunglasses to navigate, paths skirt Craven Arms, the call of tea and cake is strong here and I know there is a few cafe’s here, but I bolden my spirit and walk onward to Stokesay Castle where I am able to take a rest within the café here, what makes this even more sweet a deal, 20% off all food.

As I sit and eat, I’m mindful that the closure I get to areas of population people are less inclined to speak to strangers, those of us that tread the boundaries of society become ones to avoid or pay little attention too and in some instances make purposeful moves to avoid.

Stokesay Castle is currently run by English Heritage, Laurence of Ludlow was one of the richest men in the country at the time having made his fortune through wool and although built as it was, Laurence wanted to demonstrate his wealth and power. Despite its strong walls and defence’’ it was none the less built to reassure the Welsh lord who were more than keen to borrow from Laurence.

I bid my farewell to this rather distinguished home and headed out once more into the miles of farmlands, passing 2 rather eager train enthusiast and their equipment which seemed to cost more than my entire camping gear and off through more woodlands before coming down into Onibury and take a moment to sit in the delightful church yard.

Having struggled through countless pieces of farm land where crops were long and signs were few, I could no long bear the thought of trying to walk across even more freshly ploughed fields and instead pootle along the country lane towards Ludlow before coming out and on the gold course come racecourse.

I’ve never been a fan of golf course, they seem to take up large areas of land and only provide enjoyment to a few who are able to pay for the privilege, as I walk the busy B4365 I note that this area seems to be rich in burial mounds with 3 in very short distance of each other. One lie to the side of the main road here, resplendent with a giant and majestic tree growing from its Centre. This area once home to an very important ancient cemetery, one of the 20 odd barrows were excavated in the 1800s and the remains of a small boy were found along with some grave goods.

I head into Ludlow itself, my end in sight people mill around and non seem to keen to speak with myself as I wander the street heading for the front of the mighty castle and just as soon as it started my walk has now ended, I take a seat on a bench and spend a moment in contemplation before heading off towards the train station and home.

Clun - Bury Ditches - Hopesay - Stokesay Castle - stanton Lacey - Ludlow Castle.

20 miles walked

weather remained dry for the most part,

signs became less frequent through farmers fields who seemed very keen to take less effort to direct the walker.

I cream tea and coke consumed.

Wild Eaadric, Day 2

I wake at 5am, the world outside still and with life just starting to rouse itself from slumber, the ground shod in a frosty damp that covers everything it touches.

I make my way to the bathroom, my feet bare now cold and wet inside the already cold and wet trainers, I climb back into the warmth of my bed, but not before having been doused with the condensation that now covers the inside of my tent.

7am arrives and I begin to start packing away my gear and carefully separate the now wet outer from the dryer interior, at this point think wet bin bag that sticks to everything that it touches. I carefully lay out the contents on a little patch of gravel where the sun has begun to shed its light upon the ground, I make use of the warm wet room, its radiator providing me with some much needed warmth and a handy dryer for my once wet socks.

Breakfast is a simple affair of tea and porridge mixed with hot chocolate powder inside the dry cabin of the site and set off into Bishops Castle, the sleepy Saturday morning streets slowly coming to life, I head down towards St John the Baptists Church and turn left on to Kerry Lane which is part of the 15 mile ancient track way, used for centuries by cattle drovers to take cattle from Wales to England.

After climbing for what seemed like an eternity I turn left and onto Moat Lane, now officially in Wales it would seem, I pass small hamlets of buildings and long forgotten Motte and Bailey Castles set above the fantastic countryside. The welcome warmth of the day making a much needed change from the weather I had suffered yesterday.

I never used to be a fan of road walking back in the day, but find them easy to amble along these day and tend to pass some of the quieter places and villages. I pass the ruins of Caer Din, hidden inside a field with no public access. A late prehistoric enclosed settlement, not likely a fort as such but more a defended place to live. I find it odd that on all my travels very few of these places have every really been explored in the archeological sense which seems a shame considering the amount of history waiting to be found there.

I opt to keep walking down the road and at the Dog and Duck cottage I turn left and head down the little quiet track towards Lower Edenhope, I head through a gate, the sheep now waiting for me and even allow me to pet them, a short climb and onto a track through an un-named woods where I take a break and soak up the sun for a short time, I relaise as I set off that I had somehow missed the footpath, thanks in full to who ever decided to clear fell the woodland here, leaving no trace of the footpath.

Still I wander fourth and through more woodland with a quick hop of a fence I am reconnected with Offa’s dyke, built by the King of Mercia in the 750s to keep Mercia and the kingdom of Powys separate, now a 170 mile walking route, I’m glad I joined here and didn’t have to walk straight up the incline behind me.

I am grateful that such places exist for people like myself to wander along these days, the link between the modern and old world is at this moment one, you can imagine the many men working hard to build the ditch and at one point I imagined that I heard the talking of men and clattering of metal as they worked.

I met another walker on this section, a chap wandering the Offa’s Dyke trail, we exchanged our pleasant if short greetings before taking our separate paths. A steep walk down the Dyke and then into Church Town, less of a town and more a church and 2 houses, before again walking up and out of this little tiny valley on what seemed to be an enormously steep section forcing me to take regular and much needed breaks, A mixture of pasture and high land forms the next few miles, pleasantries are exchanged with people as we pass and makes the day of sun all that better.

I come down towards Clun, the castle looming in the far off distance and taking an ever more romantic feature to head towards, the walk down in to Clun threaded through little tracks which resemble nothing more than muddy rivers until we hit the River Clun and keep it to our left as we walk along scenic footpaths across fields before coming upon the might castle.

Clun Castle started its life as a simple motte and bailey, that simple wooden keep surrounded by a ditch and wooden palisade around 1150 and within 20 years it had been converted to stone, Clun never grew into anything more than a simple village, but the now rugged ruins remains as a testament to the Normans hold over their new land.

I head into the shop and purchase lunch for tomorrow, a steak pie and pork pie followed by heading into the White Horse pub for a well earned Ploughman’s lunch and a pint of beer, I’m shown to my room afterwards where I hang out as much of my wet gear as I can before settling in for the night.

Bishops castle - Bishops Moat - Lower Edenhope - Church Town - Cefn - Clun.

14 miles in all.

Weather bright and Sunny, took plenty of time to sit, relax and soak up the rays.

Got lost x1.

Wild Eadric’s Way

I woke at that ungodly hour in between the unnatural time to be awake and the time when one should wake.

The world outside was still, shod in its blanket of darkness and dimly lit only by the glowing amber of the street lights. I stirred from my bed and began my once familiar routine of moving around the house as if I was a trained ninja silently dressing and collecting my items of adventure before moving out and into the darkness of the streets.

It seemed strange, this was once the normal routine during park run, getting ready and making the hour journey into Birmingham to board the train and off to a new destination.

I walked to the tram stop, bracing myself against the cool morning air before boarding the early morning transport and watched as the rain began to flow down the windows, a foretelling of what was to come for my day ahead. I noted that nothing had changed from the last time I had taken this journey, people went about their day heading to work, most sat silent engaged in their phones and seemingly blind to the outside world.

The train arrives into New Street and I thread my way through the crowd of early morning commuters, heading through the barriers and onto the concourse before purchasing a hot cup of tea and a much needed breakfast roll.

I sat waiting for my train on the platform and watched others come and go before boarding my own train and settling into the journey for an hour to Shrewsbury where I stepped onto another train for a short 30 minute ride and into Church Stretton.

Having seen the rain streak across the windows on my journey there, I had donned my waterproof clothing already and realised that I had unintentionally packed the lighter rain shell, to late to do anything about it now I mumbled to myself. I walked through the sleepy little town before stopping for some cash, a seemingly more rare commodity in todays world and made my way towards the enclosed valley of Cardingmill, an 18th C mill once stood in the Valley and the area was renowned for its wool making, Carding coming from one of the 3 processes involved in wool making.

It never ceases to amaze me when wandering along the road here, the hills large and looming on either side creating a otherworldly feel, no wonder that during the Victorian period it was named ‘little Switzerland’ owning to the way in which the house hugged the hillsides. One wanders along the modern road way, a curt contrast between the 900,00 millon’s of creation and modern mans attempts to subjugate it.

I walk alongside the fast and flowing river, its burbling sound keeping me company as my lungs begin to burn and gasp for air, I take regular and small breaks as I slowly ascend the hillside and into the thickening mist, my view now obscured to all but 20ft. I recall a story from the recesses of my mind, a black dog of demons haunts this hill preying on the weary hiker. Its jet black fur punctuated only by the red glow of its eyes and the terrifying growl that freezes humans in their tracks and on a day such as this it isn’t hard to imagine a beast stalking me from beyond my sight.

My mind plays out the previous routes that I took 5 years ago and I glide across the terrain with barely a glance at my route planning, a left turn here, a wander along the road, past a small pool of water and up and over another section of moor. As I began to descend the grassy hill, cows resting at the bottom began to call out in anticipation of my arrival which seemed to spark the interest of the adjoining field of young male calves who begin to run down the hill, in their eyes as a welcoming party of snorting and dribbling bodies, to me a stampeding mess of danger. I now run at pace heading for the closest gate and manage to hop the metal gate before realizing the cows were in fact kept behind another fence and posed no real danger to me.

They gather at the fence adjacent to the road and I bid them good day as I wander by enjoying the scenery and to a degree the weather which changed with the regularity of our current government between light showers and the that ever more wetter rain drops.

I run through my stories of Wild Eadric for the camera, recalling the tales of a man once respected and feared, now a shadow of his former Saxon stature, living under the rule of a crueler invading King, his lords content with attacking Eadric at every turn until he finally reaches his limit of patience and he sets out to attack the very people who killed his beloved King.

Its a tale not really known outside of the Shropshire and Welsh border region, a hero of old and now cemented in folklore for a future generation to tell as their own from a time where little is understood and ancient gods still ruled their lives.

I pass through the little hamlets of Rattlinghope and Bridges before taking the long slow hill walk up to the Stipertones, a brooding and foreboding collection of ancient and weathered rock stands atop its ridge beckoning the brave to come explore.

A tale from old tells of how Eadric having sworn loyalty to the Norman lord, enraged his people and they employed the services of a travelling wizard who cast a curse upon Eadric and his soldiers, forever interning their soles in the rocks, only to be released on the world at England’s greatest need, some say they have seen Eadric and his ‘wild hunt’ ride across the sky on the outbreak of the Crimean war, WW1 and WW2.

I forgo my walk up to the rocks today, the weather begins to close in and take a more darker and moody light, the skies now increasing their wet onslaught upon the few brave soles that skirt the ridge today. I cross the road and onto farm land heading into a woodland and the hope of a small semblances of respite from the continuing rain, I find a small space under low hanging branches before taking off again towards Nipstone rocks, I pass what appears to be the remnants of an old quarry, boulders dispersed loosely across the ground and small sections of dry stone walls attribute to mans follies.

The paths winds and threads its way through a mixture of gorse and heather moorland, punctuated by growths of conifer plantations, the route hitting the bottom of a field, now only what can be described as a bath made up of mud and water from the local stream, I carefully pick my way across the obstacle and up onto another road, the rain having taken its toll for the last few hours, sees me taking a well earned break inside a farmers shed, fresh dry hay making a most welcome pit stop, if only for a short time.

I move on, and off into the rain and avoid taking the higher route up Linley Hill and instead follow the quiet road and into Heys wood, ancient and noble beech trees line my way, old growths of Oak and Holly stand guard to my left, the trees standing immobile in a world that seems to ever need to change, I always wonder what trees have seen, the people that have passed and the moments in history kept within its old and scarred bark, one such piece of graffiti notes a 1945 date and I’m left wondering if a passing soldier on training wanted to leave his mark before embarking on another journey.

We wander now along the road, quiet and empty for the time of day and passed a rather grand house, Linley Hall built by the Moore family around the 1720’s, it stands as a reminder to the grander times, when the super rich explored the world and created these lavish homes, now I believe a private residence.

I skirt the little village of More and the remains of a motte and bailey castle, the once strong hold of the manor of More in the 11th C, now nothing more than a few raised areas of fields. I wander on towards the village of Lydham the field in front a reminder that farmers can be funny old folk when it comes to land, here the signs seems to disappear and little points the way, in the distance I spy the next sign post which does little to direct you, a guess here and there and I am now walking along a busy road and off towards more famers fields.

Walking, forever walking towards Upper Heblands, I hit B4385 and opt to walk its simple path towards my final destination of Bishops castle, the road is bus with cars flying past and doing very little to slow as they see me walking the verge, I am soon wandering up the driveway to FoxHoles castle camping, a wonderful little campsite situated just 10 minutes outside of Bishops Castle and commanding excellent views of the surrounding country side, local rumor tells that Haile Selassie visited here during his exile after defeat at the hands of the fascist Mussolini.

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I pay my £10 fee and head towards the tent field, the rain beats down and I quickly throw together my MSR tent, the inside has become slightly damp and everything I own is now wet, I sit immobile inside the warmth of my clean dry clothes and sleeping gear, for 2 hours the rain beats down and Spotify keeps me company as I nap and by 7pm the world is now still, a warmth emanates from the evening sun and I can now readjust the tent fabric, take my wet items to the dry room and make my evening meal.

I sit, satisfied and warm.

15 miles walked.

Church streeton, Ratlinghope, Bridges, Stiperstones, Nipstone Rocks, Linley, More, Lydham and Bishops Castle.

Wet underfoot, rained for 7hrs. not to cold. Everything covered in mud.

For today you follow the Shropshire Way, easy signage.

0 other walkers met

Lots of Cows and Sheep.

A few days back in time.

It is that time of year again when my annual birthday comes around, tinged with that forever memory of first being diagnosed with cancer and at the same time a moment of happiness as we became man and wife, with Mrs Beards Birthday as well a few weeks later, I decided that we deserved something a little more special and booked a national trust cottage at the fantastic site of Avebury.

We headed off with adventure pup for what would be 3 days of history and relaxation in a place we both felt was extraordinarily special, on our way we popped into Marlborough for some supplies and a quick look.

Now Marlborough is an interesting place and seems to exude money from its very core, people wandered around looking as if they have just stepped off a family estate worth more than a small village and wearing clothing costing more than my cars are worth, but still they were very pleasant and with adventure pup behaving she seemed to draw the pets and admirations today.

In the grounds of the college just at the periphery of the town and unbeknown to me at the time sits a large 62 foot prehistoric burial mound with legend and folklore telling us that this is where the bones of merlin now lie and is a similar age to nearby Silbury hill bearing an uncanny resemblance to its taller sibling.

We found little there other than a few interesting shops and loaded with some snacks we headed for Fishlock cottage in Avebury circle itself, an 18th Century 1 bedroom cottage nestled within 5000 years of human history.

Once unpacked we settled in quickly and with no phone signal or wifi it was a welcome break from the hustle of daily life and jobs and one we both needed. We made use of the local Red Lion reputed to be one of the most haunted pubs in the UK for its ample ale supply and of course Wifi, well we aren't savages are well.

Day 2

I woke early and set off on a run with adventure dog, the grounds cloaked in a magical and mysterious mist, adding a feel to this ancient center of worship that perhaps our ancestors would of felt some 4000 years ago, we ran its bank and followed a little road out of town for a short distance before heading back and through the church yard where the mist clung to everything around it.

We opt for a delightful bacon sarnie courtesy of the local shop before heading out for a 3mile wander taking in Silbury Hill, West Kennet Long Barrow and then back along the West Kennet Avenue. The map was supplied by the national trust and used a print out of OS mapping which was ideal, a short walk and we were at our start of the National Trust car park before crossing the extremely busy A4361 and along the path to Waden hill, a likely through back the Anglo-Saxons and slight change to the name of Wodin Hill.

The path down reminded me of the Southdown’s, hard and compact in the baking sun, but slippery and sticky like clay in the wet of winter, each foot step making one move slightly to the side as you went, Silbury Hill was soon upon us and stood proud by the A4 itself a Roman Road. It is a protected monument these days with nu public access onto it, this is important to remember that being made of chalk is prone to damage and wear very easily.

Silbury Hill is an artificial chalk mound built during the Neolithic period and measures 129ft high making it the largest manmade hill in Europe and has a similar volume to the Egyptian Pyramids. Some estimates put the length of construction to some 500 men working for 15 years straight, the outer ditch is thought to have been made in order to construct the mound itself and completed over quite a few years, its use is still unknown with many saying a ceremonial or spiritual purpose.

We move on and cross the busier A4 making quick the gap in traffic as large lorries whizzed by at great speed, we headed up a slight incline and onto the even more amazing West Kennet Long Barrow, constructed some 5600 years ago it is perhaps one of the best examples of such a site in the UK and was used over a period of 1000 years.

It sits at 328ft long and 10ft high, there are 5 chambers inside and extends for 42ft, as you can see from the photo the stones is quite polished in places which is a result of the stones having been in a fast flowing river at some time in its life, with one stone appearing to have an ear lobe carved into it.

With 42 skeletons having been found inside with some complete and some not, it was thought that at times, bones were removed from the site and used in ceremonies and ancestor worship, the large stone on the outside of the barrow were there as a warning to others to its importance and around 2000bc the site was filled in with rubble and not disturbed until the 19th C.

We spent a little time here, I stood inside in the quite and felt immediately settled there, the chambers here are said to resonate at different hertz giving off both feelings of calm and trepidation, us humans cannot heard these frequencies but they have been found to have an effect of the psychology of the mind.

We left West Kennet and headed back along the path towards the A4 again crossing it quickly and up and over Waden hill before heading up along the West Kennet avenue of stones, Sarsens flanked us either side and we felt a sense of importance and connected with ancient times as we walked its central path back towards Avebury.

Originally 100 stones would of made up a wide avenue or procession way which would of connected the sites of Avebury and the Sanctuary 1.5 miles away. During excavations 4 bodies were discovered there along with scatterings of bones along its way, suggesting an important ceremonial route in its day. Interestingly the procession way seems to have had little use suggesting it was used only on special occasions, chalk being easily worn away.

It wasn’t long before we were crossing back over the busy road and once again stepping into the mass of stones at Avebury, perhaps echoing some long forgotten ritual entrance as our ancestors would of done, with appetites worked up we took a stroll over to the national trust site and partook of some chili and tea before spending the remainder of our time ambling around the Keiller museum which holds a number of important finds from the tireless work he carried out, before heading into Avebury manor which was home to Keiller and his life’s work.

We wandered around the many grand room, once restored by BBC ones a house in time, each room now a testament to the lives of its previous residents, although some are not the biggest fan of the work carried out by the TV show with one room being a little off from what would of actually have been there.

Day 3

We have a leisurely morning, breakfast of bacon and kindly supplied tea gift from the national trust, before making our way off again and in the town of Devizes, an 11th Century market town built around the castle, which today is a private residence. The town was bustling with people going about their daily lives and we opted for a cuppa and a cake during our little meander, the town boasts some 500 listed buildings, we got the feeling the town would be better suited to the seaside, having that nautical feels with its old buildings and many small passageways.

We left feeling refreshed and headed back towards Avebury again, where we spent the rest of they day chilling in the cottage and reading the many books on offer. That evening as night time feel, we heading off into the circle itself for some night trail photography, with limited light sources it was the perfect place to mess, we stood behind the cottage and noted how the stones seemed to absorbed the sound whilst stood in front created an echo that stretched off in the outer edge of the bank.

It was definitely an eye opener to have that briefest of glimpses into the past, the bank in its hey day would of been some 50ft higher, the many stones absorbing and echoing back the sounds of drums and people as fires created shadows that would of made the whole place seem like it was dancing.

We spent a good few hours wandering and taking different shots around the circle before gathering in the pub again for a well earned pint.

Unfortunately our time was at an end and by 10am the next day we were packed up and heading off again, not before a stop at the most English village I think I have ever been to, Bourton-on-the Water, one I have told people if I had to sell England as a place to other countries, then this would be the place.

Built in that typical Cotswold honey colored stone and nicknamed the Venice of the Cotswold’s and with some 4000 years of human existence in the area, it is certainly a place to visit in your life time.

Avebury, a place in time.

We stopped at Avebury stone henge recently but I wanted to give it its own feature, given that there is around 5000 years or more of history in one place it would be a shame to resign it to a small mention of the main blog.

Avebury is around 5000 years old, built during the late Neolithic period when people in the UK were just starting to live together and farm the land, prior to this we were still hunters and gatherers, during this period people from Europe crossed the sea armed with new methods for growing food and crop seeds and so the era of the hunter gatherer started to come to an end, the loss of one way of life and the creation of another.

Avebury wasn’t built all in one go, more that it was continually changed and shaped over several hundred years consisting of firstly an outer bank, ditch, inner stone circle which in its self surrounds a further 2 stone circles.

Stones were likely taken from the actual site or from the nearby Fyfield Down, where Sarsen stones still exist today and the site is the best evidence of Sarsen left in the UK, Sarsen interestingly is a result of what was sand deposited by seas or rivers, over time it slowly absorbed dissolved silica and eventually became stone which was very hard wearing almost like granite. It would also be an fair assumption that one stone existed here before the ring was even conceived, a large towering lump of sarsen where hunters would of gathered beneath for reference in the land, if this was the case the sigh of such a large piece of stone would of awed early man, perhaps even thinking it was left by their creators.

How it may have been constructed

It was largely abandoned by the Iron age and then by the middle ages Avebury was being dismantled and destroyed. Its position in the landscape is itself important, laying in chalk land in the upper Kennet valley that is a catchment for the River Kennet and a contains a large number of seasonal springs, around 4500 BC it appears that the environment itself changed from predominantly woodland to farm land as there is little pollen found in chalk soils from this period.

Archeology from the neolithic time was limited to a large collection of flint working not far away and a dig found post holes which some have suggested was a larger building, but with no dating evidence or even further digs it would be impossible to put a date on this, if true it would put its age near to the start of Stone Henge.

The construction of Avebury at this point in history helps to show that people were secure enough to be able to devote significant time to its construction, indicating they had a secure food source, water and safety.

The entire site sits across some 28 acres in all, with the outer circumference measuring over 1000ft, a bank that reached 55 feet high and the ditch plunging to nearly 30ft, with chalk being the rubble dug from the ditch its gleaming white banks would of looked immensely impressive at the time.

The site would of been made up of between 98-105 stones forming the outer circle are irregular in size and shape, the inner circles came together around what would of been the larges stone, the Obelisk would of reached a whopping 21ft high and 8 feet in diameter with very early descriptions making it phallic in appearance and giving rise to some suggestion that this particular area was for fertility.

The whole site would of been created by hand, with many hundreds of people digging with antler and jaw bone through the relatively soft chalk and pilling it up, this in its self is some undertaking, let along the combined human resources needed to complete such a project.

During the Roman period in Britain there is little evidence to suggest they paid much attention to it, with only a few coins having been found, however during the Anglo-Saxon reign there is good evidence to suggest they had a close link or settlements in the area from the common names given such as Wodin’s barrow or Wondin’s hill. Avebury’s earliest mention comes from this very period, around 939 and notes the boundaries of the village, nearby Silbury hill was fortified at this time as the Vikings rampaged across the land.

We can shudder today at our forebearers behavior, but during the medieval period the stones were buried in the ground or destroyed, this was in response to much of England becoming Christian and the churches almost demonic need to destroy or link with the devil in order to retain their hold on the land. During the 1930s excavations a stone was lifted and the body of a male was discovered underneath, it was said this was the result of the stones being toppled and one falling and crushing the man to death, its a nice little tale but it is more likely that as the church and Abbey were at constant loggerheads that this person belonged to neither and buried under the stone for ease. It was at the time of his death that locals stopped pulling the stones down, maybe in fear of more revenge.

It wasn’t until the Victorian era that Avebury was finally protected from further destruction by the purchase of the village and land surrounding the area, Sir John Lubbock encourage people to build outside of the henge rather than within it. With the 1920s an heir to the marmalade fortune Alexander Keiler purchased the village and much of the land around it, as homes became vacant he pulled them down as did the National trust until 1979 where the remainder of the homes were allowed to stand.

Not far away you have a procession of stones that head straight to the Sanctuary another henge constructed of mainly wood and stone and coupled with the nearby West Kennet long barrow and Silbury hill, the area certainly held a significant site of importance for thousands of years.

We had visited Avebury before a number of years ago and were taken with it then, the large stones some weighing 40 tons are a sight to be seen and offer the traveler a perspective of what it must have been like to enter this place of worship and significance.

One evening we were taking pictures at the site when I noticed that my voice created an echo that my wife could not hear very well, when we switched places the same thing happened, the stone we stood at acted as a barrier absorbing any incoming sounds, but stood no more than 6 feet way a loud and audible echo was heard which seemed to emanate from the darkness, on another occasion we were walking down from the cottage towards the outer circle and sacred tree when he church began to ring its bells, the sound appeared to be in front of us and then behind until it grew louder the further away we were.

I know there has been previous studies on sound resonance in the circle with it showing that sound from outside the henge would of been difficult to hear, lending it even more mystery and air and other experiments creating echo’s from the few stones left, but these are best achieved in the absence of visitors and cars.

During its heigh of power and importance and complete with its 160 odd stones, the acoustics must of been exceptional with music, chanting and ceremonies creating a spectacular atmosphere, having been and spent some time there, I was able to get better impression of the site and its landscape, the low mist that hung over the henge and other local sites gives you a sense of what our ancestors would of seen or experienced.

If indeed it was a sight of fertility significance then would it be fair to suggest that Stone henge celebrated death, the 2 sites being used at Spring for rebirth and Stone henge for death or end of seasons. Another thing that struck me recently was the close resemblance to the enigmatic cup and ring markings found throughout the UK and most heavily on Ilkley moor, the use of the circle seems to have been of a significance for the time.

What ever its original purpose, there is no denying that Avebury is a special place, a place that needs to be protected and understood, maybe we will never fully understand its significance but to each that visit it means something individual.

A night on a haunted hill.

It wasn’t that long ago that myself and Mrs. Beard set off for my birthday walk up Bredon hill and I remember speaking about wanting to spend a night atop its mysterious mound.

So with a little outing to Tewkesbury planned for the following week, I took the opportunity for a walk and cheeky wild camp at the same time.

Friday morning dawned and after a short day exploring Tewkesbury town with its many grade 2 listed buildings and numerous alleyways dotting the main high street, there is more than enough for the day tripper to see and do.

I popped into Tewkesbury Abbey during my day visit walking around the 11th Century building was amazing enough and then you enter through the large old and wooden doors and step inside an amazing open place, anywhere else and this would of been a cathedral.

The building was founded around 1092 and built with stone quarried in France, the high vaulted ceilings give this sanctuary a definite sense of importance. It hasn’t always been a place of sanctuary and peace though, during the war of the Roses some of the defeated Royalists took refugee inside, the Yorkist celebrating their victory hunted them down, broke inside and it is said the ensuing bloodshed closed the Abbey for a month before it could be cleaned and purified again.

As you wander around the inside, there is numerous burials within of the once many monks and other notable people of the time, one monument seems to be a little gruesome for such a place. The cadaver monument is dedicated to Abbot Wakeman who was buried elsewhere. The Monument has what appears to be the emaciated corpse of the Abbot and if you look closely enough you can find little bugs and even a rat scurrying across its Stoney surface.

Friday morning dawned and with only around 15 miles ahead of me I was afforded the luxury of having a longer sleep in, with a fresh brew inside me I headed off to catch the bus into the town Centre, with a brief wander and look at the outside of the Abbey with a slight covering of frost and off I set in the direction of the battlefield site.

A handy sign post pointed the way to the battlefield walk, I wanted to head to 2 separate areas I had seen on OS maps a rather ominously named Bloody Meadow and the more simple Margaret’s camp . After a simple wander along a quiet road i took a left and was soon wandering along a serene and quiet stretch of land. It was here in 1471 that the Royalist and Yorkist met to decide the fate of who ruled England, with the Yorkist defeated they were retreating along what is known as Bloody Meadow and hemmed in by Rivers on both sides, they were cut down by the Royalist resulting in some 2000 deaths and the death of the Prince of Wales.

I wandered on, the quiet meadow hides its rater nasty past and onto the Margaret’s camp a moated site just on the outskirts of Tewkesbury and thought to take its name from the camp set up by the Yorkist the night before the battle.

With my thirst for history satisfied for a short time I set off back towards the town again before stopping for light breakfast and then onwards to start my actual walk.

I had pre-planned a rough route out of town and towards Bredon hill, I hopped onto what was once a railway that connected Malvern and Birmingham but was closed in 1952, a short stroll along this mainly concrete path before I was now having to double back almost to join a path which clung close to the side of human habitation.

The path felt a little odd, initially making its way out and onto fields and open park lands, it soon seemed to vanish into a rough bog area next to a small brook and hemmed in on one side by a large industrial estate. I followed it along, in summer I imagine that I would be quite difficult to traverse with reeds higher than your head and thorns sticking out to capture you along the way.

It seemed at odds at times, as one side opened onto fields and open lands whilst busy traffic appeared at intervals to my right, I was soon coming upon the large and noisy M5 and with a quick wander along the bridge heading over the M5 I was soon on the other side and walking through more open farm land and onto the little hamlet of Kinsham, once I had entered the start of the village I was taken by fact that I was walking through peoples gardens and had to take a minute and make sure that I was actually still on the path.

I was getting a little hungry now and with only about 30minutes until lunch time, I walked through Kemerton lakes and headed to a bird hide to take a seat and watch the world go by. I was able to see from my vantage point that the water here was exceptionally clean and contained fresh water mussels which was a surprise in its self. A nearby notice board stated that the land here was once inhabited by Iron age tribes and its current iteration was much as it would of been during the last ice age.

Onwards we marched heading for Kemerton village where the promise of a coffee shop spurred me on, I wandered the road for a short time until the village was upon me and I stopped off for a quick tea and cake before beginning my ascent of Bredon hill, I headed for Bell’s Castle which stood atop the road overlooking Kermerton it self, resplendent with mock battlements and large stone butresses.

It is said that around 1815 a man name Edmund Bell purchased workers cottages and then built this huge mock castle, his fortune coming from his work as a pirate for the British crown during the Napoleonic civil war, he would smuggle his ill gotten gains from the River Avon by boat and and store them in his cellar. Nice tale but very little truth to it, in fact other than the name no Edmund Bell seems to have existed at all, no ship captains records, no maritime records, no news paper articles or even any prison or court reports on his subsequent arrest for treason and hanging in the 1840s. Personally I think it was nothing but a tale told by Edmund himself to keep people away from the house.

The hill was still busy and as I neared the top, a cyclist had already completed his 4th ascent and decent , dog walkers passed me by and I wandered around the hill seeking a place hide my tent, I wandered into a quarry and the story of Harry Dean came to mind, in 1939 Harry was working in Tewkesbury as a solicitors clerk when, at the end of his day he up and left catching a bus for Bredon hill, he then vanished and was found after a search 24hrs later dead in a quarry on Bredon. The manner of his death still continues to cause some speculation, you see Harry was found having fallen and his tie had strangled him. People have said it was witch craft or spirits that killed him, the judge ruled his knee had given way from damaged cartilage and he had fallen in such a position as to have self strangulated.

Another notable death came in the same year when a Joseph Charles Ricketts was found dead in bushes on Bredon Hill, he had taken a shotgun from home and took his own life, family stated he was in good spirits that day, a note found on his body said he was sorry and couldn’t find work.

With these tales in mind I set off for Parsons folly and took a seat for a short time and watched the various walkers go by before taking off across the ditches and headed into the outer ditch and decided on a pitch for the night, I waited until the sun was starting to go down, it was now cold and as soon as my pitch was set up I crawled inside to get warm but struggled to get any warmth.

I climbed out of my tent a few hours later and noted how the mist had suddenly descended and seemed to be creeping up on me from either side, I quickly headed back inside to the relative warmth and a restless night.

I woke at 4.30am and decided get going early and head into Pershore for the 7.45am train home, leaving the hill I set my torch to red light to help disguise my movements a little better and made a very slow descent eventually through the little village of Great Comberton I passed and marched along the main road and eventually into Pershore itself.

Little hill, big history

It has been some time since I have tread on Bredon hill, one that has fascinated me since I first ran its many permeations and contours some 5 years ago.

At the time I did write a blog about this hill but have some how lost it, but with my 42nd birthday now edging closer one of my birthday wishes was to head back to this hill for another visit and a better investigation of its many myths and stories.

Bredon hill starts as it means to go on, as an oddity of places the name Bredon itself literally translates as hill, hill, hill in not one but three different languages. A mix of rough Celtic and Britonic with a few bits of Saxon and Norman thrown in for good measure.

Bredon is now distant outlier to the Cotswold hills but before the advent of geological upheaval and erosion it would of formed a long range, uniquely you have to think of the hill as an upside down cake, the surface being composed of oolite limestone, capped off with chalk and underneath being mainly clay, which present an interesting mix as the clay retains water which is great above as the water will drain away easily, but underneath due to the clay it cannot go any further and so creates a hill that isn’t stable.

Around the 1700s a cave was reported to be on the Northern edge of the hill below Kemerton camp but by the end of the 1700s it had vanished from mention and it is thought that the landslip completely collapsed the cave and was forever lost. During the slip, it was noted a large amount of grain was found, this was common practice during the iron age where grain would be buried and sealed from the outside in a means to preserve the precious food source.

Bredon Hill is one of those rare sites which have seen an almost constant human present, from the earliest of humans in the Paleolithic where hand axes and other stone tools were found, zip forward to the Iron age where we have not one but 3 iron age camps atop the hill, the Romans making an appearance in the flat ground ground below the hill, through to the Saxon period and Norman periods of history.

But today we start our little wander starts from the charming sleepy village of Elmley Castle which takes its name from the 11th Century fortress which sits above the town. With its black wooden framed houses, thatched roofs and old Cotswold stone exudes every bit the archetypal English village.

We parked just outside of the main town streets in a little picnic area and set off back towards the amazing church we had seen not long ago, St Mary’s which also dates from around the 11th Century, around the church exterior and interior there is a number of herringbone stone work giving a clue to its original builders, as you approach you get your first glimpse of a time gone by, a 16th Century sun dial dotted with 20 dials of varying shapes and sizes now quite eroded and no numerals are to be seen.

We headed in through the front wooden door and were met with a rather interesting sites, immediately to the left of the entrance is a rather ornate tomb, the Savage Chapel is a memorial to three members of the savage family and a first for us, one is holding a baby which was born after the father death.

In front of this memorial and looking rather relaxed reclining back and staring into the distance is the 1st earl of Coventry, why is the early of Coventry here here, well a dispute with father and son saw the son refuse to allow him to be interned at the family chapel.

Sitting in between these 2 wonderous memorials is a 14th Century stone coffin slab with a ornate cross carved into its top, who it belongs to and where it came from is a bit of a mystery for now.

There a number of interesting features around the church its self including the ornate stone font, dating from the 13th Century it is the oldest surviving furnishing inside the building. We headed out and as I pulled back the large wooden door in the porch area a carved stone rabbit popped out along with a few other carvings on the walls which are described as being Norman in origin.

We headed out and around the left of the building cutting across filed and then a slow climbed up towards fiddlers knap and the Elmley Castle on our right. I would of loved to have walked up on to the ruins of the castle but it appears the land here is privately owned, I have to say I was a little annoyed at this, the land itself served no use to a farmer given its topography and historic importance and so you have to look at it from a distance. Now nothing more than banks and ditches with some stone work visible, it was first constructed in the 11th Century and built by Robert_Despenser before passing to his brother after his death. Like most castles it eventually fell into disrepair before stone was quarried from it and used to build and repair Pershore bridge.

We walked up through Long Plantation and took a seat at the top here which afforded us views down onto Teweksbury and far beyond, a quick water stop and we set off again, following the meandering path towards the goal for today of the hill fort.

We soon began to enter the first of 2 bank and ditches of the outer fort, with Parsons folly popping its head above the mounds on occasions, we wandered across what would of been the main living area of the fort and were afforded some quite astounding views out towards the Malvern hills and British camp, to the Welsh border of the Shropshire hills and its very own hill fort, I imagine that in an extremely clear day, smoke from fires would of been visible to all hill forts of the area.

It is thought that during the 1st Century AD just as the Romans were first invading the country, a battle took place here the result of inter tribal warfare perhaps?, during an archeological dig in the 1930s the bodies of some 50 men and boys were found, all either missing their heads or lower jaw bones along with a number of weapons.

There has been much speculation about this find with common thinking that another tribe attacked the one here and then massacred the 50 people, removing or taking their heads as a trophy, some skulls were found with charring or burning with speculation that they were placed on top of the wooden palisades and then set alight. It was abandoned not long after this.

Another line of recent thinking and research that this could of been the result of a sacrifice, it seem unlikely here though, given the number of bodies and lack of broken weapons which were a common votive offering of the Iron age. I have also read that this could of been the result of a raiding party from across the shores of the English channel. We know it was not the Romans as there have been no Roman finds alongside the bodies.

The Romans seemed to have inhabited the lower slopes of Bredon, with the find of a hoard of some 3,780 coins buried at what was later found to be a Roman villa and with a settlement of both Roman and prehistoric origins being discovered near to Kemerton.

But even with the above discoveries, they are but a starter for what is contained in and around the hill. Not far way there is Conderton Camp yet another ‘hill fort’ and was noted at one time as being named Dane camp. It is thought it may have gained its name from the nearby Deerhurst where in 1016 a treaty was signed by the Anglo Saxon king Ironside and the Danish king Cnut. Cnut has brought his vast army and may have used Bredon Hill and Conderton as a stopping off point.

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Conderton predates Kemerton Camp by some years and during the excavations three sheep burials were found below the remains of the circular huts which were thought to be sacrifice ritual of some form.

We took a short wander on the steps of Parsons Folly, a small tower built by John Parsons in the 18th Century to bring the height of the hill to a rounded 1000ft, now used for radio equipment.

It was a welcome rest from the almost constant wind, we dipped off to the right and from the very top of the hill here you can make out what is known as the Elephant stone, due to its shape resembling a seated Elephant. It is also known as the Banbury stone a mass of Oolithic limestone and on closer inspection resembles concrete. Oolithic limestone is basically eroded and then recompacted limestone full of little pot marks and tiny stones.

The stone is of natural origin and thought to have sat atop a cave which once sat underneath the fort with some theorizing that it may itself of been a site of great spiritual importance to those early Prehistoric and iron age folk. It is believed that all the stone here was once a great piece of Oolite but as a landslip occurred it has fallen and broken in two.

Owing to its position there have been the more occult amongst those that believed this was a sacrificial stone used by druids and witches through the ages, but given that its folklore is relatively recent it is likely these tales and stories are of more modern origin with writers of the mysterious copying and extending its tenuous link to something otherworldly.

It offers the walker an outstanding view into flat lands of Worcestershire and beyond, I have read that it also lies on what is known as a lay line and on certain days such as the Solstice the sun rises and sets in line with the stone.

We headed back along the same track heading towards Elmley and cut off down the slope towards Doctors wood and to the left side of Elmley castle to connect with the Hill lane where we wandered past chocolate box cottages resplendent with their thatched roofs, we walked past a rather interesting cottage, one that had a stone around 3ft high sat in front of it. What made it interesting was that the hedge and actual garden had been built around it and it almost resembled a little shrine.

What this stone is still remains a mystery at the time of writing as no one seems to know, one possibility if that of a boundary marker.

There are other more gruesome discoveries on the hill, ancient stones sitting hidden away, but you will need to pop back for my next foray onto the hill and a possible camp out soon.

Ghost and trains

In a completely no morbid way, 2023 has seen a growing interest in ghost for me, often has the conversation been do I believe or not?

Truth be told I sit firmly on the fence and that is despite my own experiences of being out camping or from when I was younger and being told that our own house was in fact haunted and there was many a time when footsteps would heard coming up the stairs in the early hours, or the dog would sit and stair at the corner chairs in our room and shadows would be seen moving up the stairs.

This year I aim to sleep over in a spooky location or locations with my want to stop in a haunted bothy of some description in the UK (a bothy is a mountain hut free to stop in usually in the middle of now where), Mrs Beard is all to keen to get on this latest intrigue of mine as she is a firm believer in the otherworldly.

My first foray of the year saw me head to the very own New Street station now a grand open plan venues with numerous eateries and shops, I of course remember New Street before the change, dark, unwelcoming and always smelling of diesel fumes.

I have often been through New Street on my travels and enjoy it’s almost planed randomness with the many and varied characters that inhabit its walkways, New Street never existed as a main station until around 1848 when construction started to build a singular more central station which encompassed the four different junctions in that area.

It was here at this time of great construction that a Jewish cemetery was dug up to make way for the new station, unfortunately I can only find sparse details of this project via other peoples ‘haunted’ stories which tell of the station being doomed from the start due to the disturbance of the dead.

This little section of Birmingham was originally called The Froggery and is where the first Jewish groups settled in a particularly poor part of Birmingham and a synagogue was establish for the community here.

It is no wonder than the Victorians of the time chose to build here, heir ultimate aim if not openly talked about was to remove the reported crime ridden community and squalor from their self imposed gentlemanly realm, there is no real information on how many of the dead were moved and only scant information that they may have been re-interned at the near by Betholom Row Jewish Burial Ground located near to 5 Ways Island or to Witton which were both centres for Jewish cemeteries. I remember many moons ago going on a ghost walk around Birmingham and being told that spectral horse and carts could be heard rumbling along the streets from New Street towards what is know locally as pigeon park, perhaps the many bodies removed from New Street now play out a ghostly show in the small hours.

Another story from the infamous platform 4 is that of a man who took his own life there in 1936, Walter Hartles was reported to have been a retired engine driver from Gloucester and after a period of separation from his wife, took a revolver and shot himself in the chest, it was reported that he was found in the waiting room of PL4 alone and still slumped in the chair. 

I did find a very brief mention of Walters name in a news paper article from a year previous when he gave evidence at the death of another driver which was put down to driver error and excess speed where the engine he was driving over turned crushing him, what part he played in this is not known and he was recorded as having been retired at that point. What is odd though in a follow up article a few days post his death, it was said that Walter was stopping in Birmingham and had made some plans to return home?

Walter is now said to be waiting on the platform for an onward journey that will never come and is sometimes seen standing on the platform waiting.

On the 19th October 1875 another death took place somewhere in New street station, noted as being the Midland platform, a man walking with his brother suddenly produced a pistol and shot himself in the heart. His brother reported that he had been unwell mentally for sometime and this was put down to mental illness.

Another ghost said to haunt this platform is that is that of ‘Claude’ now this was a name given to the supposed entity and there is very little information as to who this person is/was. They are said to wear Victorian style men’s clothing with a top hat and reports are said that he poisoned himself on the platform, I have looked through news archives but cannot find any such death taking place? An old tale told or maybe a spirit given a story to make sense of the presence however in 1894 a news paper reported the death of a man by the name of Henry Simmons who had been riding the train to Tamworth when he had taken an amount of Oxalic acid which is a form of Nitric acid, he was said to have been in dire circumstances in his life and so resided to taking his life and was found to be dead in his carriage at New Street station, could this be Claude?

In my search for stories and tales, I did happen upon the briefest of mentions of a lady in red seen to be gliding across the platform, what’s interesting here is that in 1901 there was a tragedy at the platform, where a train had pulled up and a great surge took place resulting in the death of a young woman crushed to death and a lady and her dog also being trampled in the crowd.

It seems that train journeys in the 1900s were wrought with risk as in 1921 there is tale of a great train accident at this very platform, ticket inspector William Barrington is said to have witness the terrible crash, when an express train entered New Street to be met by a stationary train at the platform, the trains collided to front to rear causing 6 deaths and injuring some 21 more, the disaster was put down to incompetent train drivers and bad communications.

Windy running

As part of my drive to bring over old blog posts from WordPress the following was originally written in 2017, still in the early days of running for me.

I decided I need some hilly privacy for my weekend run, a time to reset and think over recent events, I must admit in my yearning for adventure I feel myself being drawn more into the isolative side of exploring, with only adventure pup to keep me company I set fourth into the might Peak district, just outside of Buxton.

I headed up towards a very popular tourist spot of Stanage Edge, with a short drive from Hathersgate my thought that heading out early may avoid the worse of the crowds. I had roughly planned a route the evening before which would see me follow Stanage Edge for some distance.

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I had originally planed to arrive at Burbage Edge car park but as I arrived at the car park I realised I had actually parked at Hooks car park, but with only a short distance between the two, I sorted my gear, tethered adventure pup to my body and set off on an upward route towards the long running stone escarpment.

On my way up the narrow footpath I noted that the rock face was covered in a large number of rock climbers who now looked like ants scrambling around the vertical wall of stone. The route path continued to climb, but thankfully not for long and I passed only a few people as I began to hit the top.

I hoped from stone to stone, connecting the path like a giant dot to dot and making the running a more technical and fun adventure, I thread my way along, quickly passing along the top of the famous Robins Hood cave, from reading others route blogs, I noted that it would be all but impossible for me to access along with adventure pup. The cave is said to have housed he famous freedom fighter on his many escapades around the country and his most famous companion little John is said to be buried in the local church yard at Hathersage.

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I took the moment to have a quick wee in what I thought was a sheltered spot and although out of site of any walkers crossing above me, the wind whipped up a gully suddenly mid stream and yes it never went where it was supposed to, at this point my hat also blew off and rolled in said wee!!! 

I set off hatless, jumping from stone to stone, the wind howling across the ridge blowing both myself and dog to the side and off balance.

I took a video at the spot above somewhere before High Neb, the wind here was so intense that I was unable to speak or catch my breath, Millie looked on, trying to shelter her ears from the ferocious onslaught of mother nature we carried on and just before High Neb I came off to explore a little stone structure which turned out to be nothing more than a grouse butt.

Stepping down into protected depression It brought a brief and welcome respite from the wind, I sat and looked at my map trying to decide where I wanted to head next and decided to carry along the same route, I hit the trig at High Neb which is the highest point at 1503 ft, from the OS map I could see that there were a number of cairns dotted just off the path which shows its long use and reverence through human history.

I soon reached a point where I was able to see the A57 and here I about turned and followed a path that ran below Stanage Edge, the path having been churned by sheep was nothing more than a skating rink of mud and water, I slipped and slid as I struggled to keep my balance climbing a gully just after High Neb before descending around Buck Stone, as I struggled to stay upright I tripped turning my ankle, I sat momentarily as I stretched my sore foot and massaged its tender sides and off I set slipping only a few meters along on a stone this time and bruised my bum.

I ducked into Dennis Knoll and followed paths dodging fields and sheep.

I soon came upon the ruins of an old chapel dedicated to the holy trinity in 1685 in the time of James the II, but a few years later when William III came to power a mob of protestants set fire and destroyed this once holy place in 1688. Not far from here lay the cottage once used by none other than Charlotte Bronte herself and 2 years later Jayne Eyre was published.

I rejoined the road as an easy and less tasking option than attempting to navigate the wet and tricky terrain below the edge and was soon back at my car having covered just under 6miles.

It was a short day, but one that helped to reset the mind and body for a time being, the Peak district is becoming my go to area for running, with many paths, history and geography to keep anyone interested.

Lost chapels and elusive cave houses.

I’m using the last of my annual leave this week and wanted a good explore. I had been watching YouTube videos of people exploring around the Kinver area and came across a place named The Million Wood, just adjacent to Enville and with in its closely packed wood lay a strange cave house.

I parked by Stourton Junction and crossed the busy A458 before heading North on the canal

I bimbled along at a steady pace stopping to snap pictures along the way, it had started to drizzle a little but I shrugged it off and continued my canter.

To my left, the River Stour burble along quietly, meandering around its long formed bends, as sandstone cliffs held the right, tree roots and vines hung carelessly over the side creating a secret and forgotten place and near a little bend in the canal a set of doors hid a little stretch of forgotten canal , named the Devil's Den,

The little cut out here is said to date from the 18th century, built-in return for allowing the canal's construction through the Foley estate, a secret boat house, now it is home to protected bats and closed off to prevent damage, there has been some consternation from canal and history enthusiast who say that the canal trust and waterways has not been keen to have any public access and that history is being lost.

I plod on reaching the little bridge of Prestwood, no 34 out of 104 and take a left off the canal, heading across Gothersley Lane and joining a rather brick strewn bridle way. Joining the track passing many horses I caught sight of something, now I say something as it appeared to be dog sized, beige/brown in color and moved very quietly, it vanished and I was left wondering what it was, perhaps a local deer?

Next passing Gothersley Hall, built-in 1935 once home to non other than Roy Wood. Following the track I entered The Million, a large sprawling mixed plantation woodland, Consisting of mainly Pine cash crop.

Stock image, Roy Wood outside Gothersley Hall

From maps dating 1937 it retains this name thought to be named due to the amount of trees, in a map dated 1815 it is not shown, instead going by the name worrall Clump?

Old map of the area.

The Million appears in its current name around 1902 as a plantation, to throw an even stranger mix in, across from where the Fox Inn now sits, this area was known as Van Diemens Land, quite what the original name for Tasmania has to do with this corner of Kinver I can't say??

I ran around for some 40 minutes here, the rain was now torrential and making the going tough, I wandered through the wood, my bum taking an unscheduled sit of two occasions, I donned my waterproof's and carried on passing the scouts training Centre, it reminded me of a horror camp ground, where tails of hapless scouts being brutally murdered by an escaped convict, today in the quiet and wet solitude it definitely invoked those feelings.

 Onto the Enville estate we trod, I passed through sheep fields, they were more bolder here and one took a particular dislike to my pup, we made a hasty retreat before crossing a few more fields and onto Priest Wood.

The origins of its name are a little confusing but seems to date from the family De Prestwood or "by the priest wood" from which Prestwood surname takes its origins. But there is also some suggestions of it being linked to Lady Wulfrun the Anglo Saxon noble woman and landowner through out Mercia.

This little chapel here is hidden away amongst the gnarled Yews, built-in 1753 in a gothic style it was never consecrated and thus referred to as a sham chapel. It was a place for picnics and get togethers. Thought to be designed by William Shenstone and named in his honor after his death it sits beautifully amongst the ancient wood, overlooking the valley and hall.

Enville Hall was held by the Grey's from around the 1600s and claimed the Earl of Stamford title in 1720, it has been passed on only through inheritance ever since. The grounds were extensively landscape and became the talk of Victorian England as a place to be seen. There are many follies and items to see here and if you can find them, worth a little look.

Enville Hall

After my trek here, I retraced my steps running back through The Million, another snippet of interesting info, in maps from 1889 there is a circular race course adjacent to the main road, it is still visible albeit now a forest track, stopping to snap more pictures as I went. I was able to catch glimpse of both Munjact Deer and a couple of Roe Deer, the Muntjac being the earlier animal I had seen.

My original reason from the run today seemed to evade me, I had learned of other bloggers who had located a cave house, or set of room carved into the local sandstone, hidden away in the now private part of The Million, I have only seen one video of this particular spot and seems to be a selection of rooms with vents in the ceiling. Maybe one day I will return and try to find this elusive little bit of history. There is scan information about it, which seems a shame to be hidden away on private land with an over zealous land owner.