DUROGANTE MUDHOPPERS

THE STRID

2011-01-19T04:07:00.000-08:00

Bolton Abbey is a ruined abbey-that is to say, it is an abbey which has been ruined. There is rarely much else to say about the ruins of an abbey, once you have seen one you have seen them all. Having said that, they are usually worth visiting; not for the piles of stone left behind after the ruining was done but because they can be set in some spectacular surroundings. Here Bolton Abbey scores higher than most-it sits in the Wharfe Valley as it runs through the Yorkshire Dales (which rates amongst the most unspoilt countryside imaginable). That this is so is due to the geography of the place, which made it impossible to clear for cultivation in the valley above the abbey-so the ancient woodland remains between here and Barden Bridge a few miles upriver. It climbs up steep hillsides from the tops of which streams run down to join the river below. The River Wharfe takes its name from the Celtic word meaning 'twisting and winding', a well chosen description and giving ever changing scenery to a riverside mudhop.

AUTUMN 2010

Unless you enjoy getting ripped off for a few hours parking it is best to find somewhere to leave your car a mile or so away from Bolton Abbey. Finding a layby close to one of the footpaths near the river is useful, it is a good walk to your destination-and some of the money you have saved can be spent on cake when it is time to stop for a cuppa. The walk through Strid Wood is to surround yourself in one of the largest areas of acidic oak woodlands in Yorkshire-this much any guidebook will tell you. What is more fascinating to us simple Mudhoppers are things like the sulphur well we come across on the way: bad eggs smell bubbling up from the earth proving that the Spirits who inhabit this place have a wicked sense of humour. And there is The Valley Of Desolation, a wonderfully evocative name reeking of Dr Who adventures, maybe with Hawkwind playing in the background. But such things are merely a sideshow for us today-we are here on a mission.

THE SULPHUR WELL

We have come to seek out The Strid-so we will follow this by explaining what The Strid is, starting with a few figures. The River Wharfe, as it flows through Strid Wood, is a magnificent eighty two ft wide. Then it hits a point where this narrows down to twenty one ft over a distance of just eight hundred and twenty ft-in practical terms this means that an enormous amount of water suddenly has to find somewhere to go and that it will go to that somewhere with one hell of a lot of force. As if this was not enough, this narrowing of the river gets to less than six ft where the water drops down into a submerged gorge, estimated to be twenty five ft deep and running for about fifty yards.

HERE IT COMES....

This is The Strid and it is the point where Mother Nature created a small wonder, it is one of those places where the untameable power of nature is there in front of your eyes in all of its hypnotic glory. It gets its name from the narrowness-a stride-and it is very tempting to make the jump from one side to the other. But you do not do this; whereas with most rivers falling in involves getting wet, here it inevitably entails getting drowned. The force of the water dropping into this gorge sends you under and there are no records of anybody surviving after falling into The Strid. It is a place to treat with the utmost respect.

....AND THERE IT GOES.

The roaring of the river as you stand on the solid rock into which the gorge is formed prevents conversation; but there is nothing to say, you just stand and look. The speed of the water being funnelled through this narrow gap seems to grip you, almost as if it is trying to pull you along with it-the magnetic power over the human body at its most intense. And though the geographical conditions which have created this phenomena follow an easy to understand logic, there is something incomprehensible about it when you are stood by The Strid.

THEN IT RETURNS TO BEING A RIVER ONCE MORE.

PENNINE SNOW

2010-12-01T13:36:00.000-08:00

The view from our front door: The Old Bronte Cinema.

We had become used to the meteorological micro-climate that exists in Poole. This is a posh way of saying: no matter what was happening in the rest of Dorset, it rarely snowed. When it did it rarely settled and, if by some outside chance it did settle, it was usually gone again within a few hours. So the snowfall we are experiencing here in the Pennines is more than a novelty for us, especially as we live high enough up on the Brow to get a view right across this part of the Worth Valley to see the rest of the village stretched out before us-and thence to the moors beyond. It is strange to have the dark stone buildings, the green of the fields and the near black of the winter heather all levelled out to a pure white. It distorts the usual perspective and, to use that well worn phrase, it is another world.

So the Mudhoppers become Snowhoppers or more precisely due to the great need for caution with flagstones underfoot, Snow Waddlers-that awkward gait which involves placing the foot down squarely with each step, a method of walking which makes the buttock muscles grumble after a mile or so of this unaccustomed movement. But it is this mile or so which will get us through the village to Penistone Hill, our destination which no amount of muscle grumbling will deny us. On the way we pass many local kids who are dragging their sledges to any slope of their choice-all of them running about on the slippery stuff with no thought of mishap.Worse, they get away with it! Not tempted to follow suit, we stick to our waddling.

"The north wind shall blow, And we shall have snow..." as the rhyme goes. As hard as it may be for the Robin, poor thing, the Kestrel has probably got to work harder-what with all that hovering burning up thousands of calories before it gets some nosh. The hunter whose territory is on this part of the hill is suspended in the air above us, more visible against the grey sky than at any other time of the year. The voles which it loves to munch on must be more elusive to with the predator so clearly evident. As we follow what we hope is the path leading across the hill, the snow making this well trodden path invisible, there is a sound in the distance which is difficult to place. To try to describe it: like the far off rumour of a storm approaching or-to give it a more mechanical reason for existence-a piece of heavy plant chugging some miles away, its sound borne on the wind. But then comes the realisation that the source of this whisper is not only closer to, it is all around us. The sharp northerly wind is blowing through the frozen heather and wavy hair-grass which is giving rise to a low mournful drone. It is little wonder that the moors can be an eerie landscape for travellers after dark, it is spooky enough in the daylight.

The view from Penistone Hill today is snow and yet more snow. In the village this hides all but in the further distance it accentuates some features: the occasional old farm building, an odd tree, a house built in an isolated spot-whereas all of these would normally blend in to their surroundings, now they stand out so starkly that you wonder about not having noticed them before. Below us is Lower Laithe Reservoir, the water level high after the rainstorms of a fortnight ago. Reflecting the cloud cover it appears like a huge sheet of ice, an illusion broken when a gust of wind sends ripples across the surface.

Everything around us is reinforcing that sense of unreality which comes with the snow: it causes inconveniences to everyday living, though this is largely due to the modern way of life when so much depends upon a system where everything has to be kept moving. So much so that to many people the only time that snow would be welcome is Christmas Day-and then they feel cheated if it does not happen. But to the rest of us snow is fun-not least because it makes everything slow down or stop, the air becomes fresher to the taste and the background noise level drops like a stone. For us Snowhoppers, we have left the central heating and kettle behind knowing that we can go back to them to warm up after. For now, we would not swap Penistone Hill and its surroundings in this bitterly cold wind for anything.

HOLDEN PARK: FOIBLES AND FOLLIES.

2010-11-13T12:44:00.000-08:00

It being a sunny Autumn day, one where the afternoon sun is making it warmer out of doors than in the house, we decide to get out and kick our circulations into gear. We had heard that in nearby Oakworth there is a park with some sort of Victorian folly in it. We thought it may be worth a look and the walk over there is always good-especially the bit where we can get off the beaten track and follow the river for a while, lots of mud down there! So off we went, totally unprepared for what awaited us in Holden Park.

Eccentricity is a trait for which we as a nation are known throughout the world-though in our 21st century identikit society such singularity of character is increasingly frowned upon. And eccentricity is something that the Victorians did so well that it has become a byword for that era, perhaps inaccurately. It was, after all, a time of great change scientifically and culturally. With so many new ideas and possibilities suddenly being developed it is little wonder that some of them, by later standards, seem a bit wild and whacky. At the time they were quite normal. So when in 1875 Issac (later Sir Issac) Holden spent £120,000 creating a system of caves and grottoes in the grounds of his home, Oakworth House, it was probably seen as just a rather grand bit of landscape gardening very much in keeping with the age. Sir Issac was an inventor and a wool manufacturer, so successful at both of these things that in 1859 his company had become the largest wool combing business in the world. He died at the ripe old age of ninety in 1897 and ten years later Oakworth House, still in the possession of his descendants, was destroyed by fire. After a further twenty years had passed the family gave the land which the house and grounds had occupied to the local council, to be used as a public amenity for Oakworth. So was born Holden Park.

On the spot where the house once stood is now a bowling green, where the Turkish bath and the billiard room were situated is now a children's play area. As for the rest, it is the wonderfully preserved grottoes and caves-which are more extensive than they appear to be at first glance. That first glance, it has to be said, takes us completely by surprise: we had expected to find a run of the mill folly (whatever that is!) and instead there is this whole garden where follyness abounds. The starting point for Issac's grand plan was in the fact that the piece of land around the house was, many centuries ago, a stone quarry. This meant that the sides and back of the property were bordered by a rock face some twenty foot high. Into this he created a series of interconnecting caves running right around the garden, open to the sky in places where stone steps were cut to lead up to a garden on top. Throughout the caves various openings large and small lead into the grottoes, some of which can be entered by squeezing through a gap on one side and exited by an equally tight gap on the other side. Much use has been made of hypertufa (look it up-we had to!) blended in with the natural rock to give the impression that cave roofs are supported by fossilised tree trunks, so realistic that it had us wondering if this is what they actually were. Here and there on the cave walls are the evidence of pipework and brass jet fittings which, with the drainage points on the floor, show that the whole complex was also a water feature. Water was also a feature in the top garden where walkways wind around planted areas through which streams were created. These lead to a central point where a waterfall would have dropped down into a large grotto facing the back of the house-it must have been incredible to see all of this in full flow!

Holden Park is one of those places where you could spend a lot time in wandering and never knowing which way to turn next, not wanting to miss something which may be tucked away out of sight. That it was created a hundred and fifty years ago, the result of one person's vision, gives it an iconic air. It is also cool to realise that this is not a tourist attraction for which an admission fee is charged (it could well be, and then they would probably go and build a tacky gift shop in one of the caves). It is there in a public park, open to anybody to walk in and enjoy and this is how it will stay. A secret garden, one of the country's hidden gems.

PONDEN KIRK

2010-10-08T01:52:00.000-07:00

This is a Mudhoppers public information announcement: There are some places for which photographs and words could never do full justice-certainly not through the medium of a blogspot.

The walk up through Ponden Clough and then up some more to Ponden Kirk starts easily enough: about three quarters of a mile of tarmac road past the Old Hall and through a couple of farmyards, then across a field which leads to a well made and maintained track. This track, despite being part of an international tourist trail (the signposts are worded in both English and Japanese) is not kept so for the public. For at the far end of the clough, where two high waterfalls run down the hill to join Ponden Beck below, the local water board have built lock gates on each one-presumably an emergency measure in the event of flash flooding. As the track ends abruptly at the works it is clearly to enable easy access for water board vehicles. Beyond this it is stout walking boot country, more suited to Mudhoppers and sheep than to coachloads of tourists.



Getting up to Ponden Kirk should, in theory, also be easy. Alongside of one of the waterfalls stone steps have been set into the steep hillside and a wooden handrail is in place on the downhill side. But the stones were only ever going to be temporarily secure: the soil beneath them has gradually washed away and they now tilt every which way and wobble. This means the handrail is indispensable for making the ascent, a good climb for all that (so long as you keep looking ahead, if you have no head for heights the backward view will send your sphincter into overdrive) and attaining the top step is enough to make even the most complacent feel smug. When we walk up here today visibility is good and distant hills spread across the horizon. But it is the closer scenery which grabs our attention. The heather across the moor has lost the purple blanket of its flowers and the bracken on the hillside is turning brown. These dull colours, under a bright mid-afternoon sun, are a blaze of autumn glory (Wordsworth can keep his daffs!) The air here is full of the time of year too, these wilting flora mixing their earthy aromas with that of the rich black soil-this last made more prominent by a good soaking in the recent rainstorms. With the steep drop to one side and the chance of encountering a quag on the other we find the path to the Kirk, a path which in places is no more than a rabbit track. Keeping to the track is therefore wise, but difficult to do whilst unable to stop yourself from looking all around for the sheer pleasure of it.



The small outcrop of rock known as Ponden Kirk is named for a church, though the reasons for this are lost in the mists of a time long before churches were built in this country. There are folk tales surrounding it (which can, arguably, be held to be the most accurate way of learning of our history-if you can sort the wheat from the chaff) that tell of the wedding ceremonies which took place here. These tales are so enduring that it would be hard to not give them credibility as the reason for its name. Also associated with this rock are methods which would ensure that a desired marriage will take place-either by a couple hoping to wed each other or a single person wishing that, before they pop their clogs, someone will turn up who will be the ideal partner in the enterprise. All of these tales involve climbing around the rock to its base and squeezing through an opening known as the Fairy Cave (and this name also suggests legends from a pre-christian era). Not needing these services for ourselves, we are content to sit upon the flat top of Ponden Kirk for a while and enjoy the peace and calm. It is a very special place, a one-off and time spent here gives a reality to the old tales. And can this statement be qualified? Yes, in that all of us know that there are times when, for one reason or another, there is magic in the air.



Having negotiated the wonky stones to get up here we let discretion be the better part of valour and do not attempt to go down them. Instead we follow the top of the hill, which crosses the top of the other waterfall and leads to a more gentle descent (plus this second waterfall is even more photogenic than the first). If the walk up was relaxing due to the clough shutting the rest of the world out, this downward path is inspiring for exactly the opposite reason-the sense of space and of place is immense. We are walking on top of the world.

PENISTONE HILL, HAWORTH MOOR.

2010-09-28T09:25:00.000-07:00

We have moved from Dorset to West Yorkshire, to a village called Haworth high up in the Pennines. It is a fantastic place to be, surrounded by miles of open moorland which climb into the sky and then drop down into deep valleys. Water tumbles down the hillsides and over rocks, brown tinged from the peaty soil, it finds its way to the becks below in any way that it can. These becks in their turn join the rivers, the same rivers which powered the many mills which dot this area. You are never far away from one, whether it is a crumbling ruin now overgrown or one which has been given new life with a more modern commerce. What land has been cultivated over the centuries seems to be purely for the grazing of livestock, there are no wheatfields adding their colour to the scene. It is little wonder that its most famous literary connections are with the Bronte sisters whose works were peopled with dark brooding characters, living embodiments of the landscape. It has a reputation for being a dour landscape, but this is a shortsighted view which does not do justice to the breathtaking beauty of this part of our green and pleasant land.

After living, as we were, at sea level in Dorset it is now a huge contrast to find ourselves (at 1000 ft) living in the sky. The sky is now our world and though our feet, by neccessity, still use the ground to walk about on this does at times go unnoticed. All around us is the deep blue of of clear skies or, in another mood, clouds. The blue is welcome because there is less chance of rain falling out of it but it is the clouds which give shape and substance to our new world. They come in colours which, if not so vivid, are more varied than those found in a rainbow-especially in the evening just before the sun sets. At this time we walk up onto Penistone Hill where the uncountable miles of panoramic views can give the clouds in all of their variations. From the west we get the dark, sometimes thunderous, clouds creeping towards us. Due to the setting sun behind them, these are usually tinged with gold. Where the cloud cover is more sparse the golden hue streaks through the black, its brightness giving lie to the threat of a storm.

On each side of the rainclouds-to the north and the south-are thick bands of clouds ranging from grey to pure white.These last form into strange, almost box-like, shapes over the far hills. To the east the clouds tend to be thinner and, catching the rays of the setting sun from a distance, have pinkish tints to them which deepen in colour as the sun sets lower. Here too we see the sky peeping through the breaks, pale watery blue. But the most spectacular effect is back in the west during those short minutes when the sun has virtually dropped out of sight. Then it appears as if a fire is raging along the hilltops, moreso when there is wind to give movement to this illusionary inferno.

When it has burnt itself out this singals that we should make our way back down the hill. When darkness comes to the moors at this time of year it tends to be sudden and complete, so we head for the village and return to earth. Haworth is a one-off: it is dark and lopsided, oozing history from streets and buildings that make no apology for their failure to be picturesque. The energy that was spent in years gone by, when daily survival was a struggle, still pervades and feeds our imaginations. It is an exciting place to live.

SOLSTICE 2010: KNOWLTON AND STONEHENGE.

2010-06-26T08:42:00.000-07:00

Saturday.

Our relaxing into the Solstice starts on Saturday evening with a visit to Knowlton Rings to watch the sunset. Here we meet a small crowd who have settled themselves down to enjoy a weekend of gentle celebration-and Knowlton is the perfect place for gentle. This Bronze Age earthwork must have been a very important site, the Christians felt the need to build their church slap bang in the middle of it. This church, like so many erected on Pagan sites, now stands in ruins-adding more to the ambience of Knowlton than it ever could have done when it was in use for its intended purpose. It is interesting to note that this church, first built in the 12th c, collapsed in the middle of the 18th c-a time generally credited as being one of new enlightenment (interesting, that is, to Pagans, who like to think of this land's old religion sweeping the upstart Christians away!) So we sit against the wall of the church: drums are drumming, a whistle is whistling, a didgeridoo is didgeridooing, a child is playing, the sun sets and all is well with the world.

Sunday.
Girls and boys come out to play, it is the eve of the Summer Solstice and (for a good option on celebrating it in the traditional way) that means Stonehenge. Your newspapers and televisions will tell you that the whole thing centres around 'Druids and Hippies' but of the 20,000 that we mingled with this year there were comparatively few who would have been identifiable as either of these stereotypes-as a scan through the photographs of the Beebs report on the event will show. Instead what you will see is that the majority of folk there are 'ordinary people': ages ranging from the very young to the very old, drawn from most sections of society and from all over the world. These are the type of people who have been coming to Stonehenge at this time of year for far longer than any modern day Druid order and for over a century before the 1960s presented the world with its first 'Hippy'.
(For a more detailed-not to mention highly readable-history of the gatherings at Stonehenge since the mid-19th century, Andy Worthington's 'Stonehenge, Celebration and Subversion' is recommended.)

For ourselves, we are openly Pagan and undoubtedly freaky in our way of life-perfect fodder for both of the stereotypes-but we are at Stonehenge for the more fundamental reason. To be at this enigmatic ancient site on a rare occasion when everyone can actually get amongst the stones and to enjoy the relaxed atmosphere created by a good natured crowd. It is a combination for what the Druid would describe as 'A Raising of Energy' and the Hippy would declare as 'A Good Vibe'. Us Mudhoppers just call it 'Fun'.

Close to the stones stands 6 tonnes of 20ft high statue-an impressive work in steel created by Andy and Michelle Rawlings called 'The Ancestor'. We first see it against the darkening sky, a good setting as it towers over the crowds below. Crowds that are laying, sitting, standing or walking around-all intent on doing very little apart from being there. Within the stones itself the revelry is more intense, though no less good humoured: drums are once again dominating, punctuated by joyful whoops which start up from nowhere and spread through the crowd until they break out into wild cheering at nothing in particular. Experiencing this sound happening all around you is akin to being suddenly lifted a few feet off the ground and, as the cheering subsides, gently lowered down again. Getting into the depth of the press of bodies is a feat well rewarded, the energy everyone is giving out is infectious and addictive-and this is for us two who in usual circumstances cannot abide being in crowds. But this is Stonehenge at Summer Solstice, a time to be with folk who, despite differing appearances, are of a like mind to get amongst the stones and celebrate the day. Which brings us back to the old religion of this land: There is something drawing people, of all races and creeds, to Stonehenge. Forget the rubbish that the journalists report, forget the claims of some neo-pagans who believe that the Solstice at Stonehenge should be exclusively theirs, if you have never ventured to the site at this time of year but feel drawn, then go and feel it. It is for you.

HOLES BAY PART 2: SCANDAL AND RUMOUR. THE STUFF OF LOCAL LEGEND.

2010-01-14T07:12:00.000-08:00

The tarmac path ends abruptly, as does all sign of the four lane commuter route. Here a narrow wooded walk leads through mainly Oak and Beech interspersed with some fine Holly trees. To your left a low steep bank leads down to the shore-now dominated by reed beds which stretch to the small island in this part of the bay-whilst to the right are fields. Or, from a more feathered viewpoint, seabirds to the left and Buzzards and Kestrels to the right. Growing so close to the sea the Oaks are very gnarled and stunted, their lower branches sweeping the ground. As their trunks are growing out at the top of the bank and with their branches heading down to the shoreline, they create a screen in their leafy season which increases the effect of walking into a green haven. The road noise subsides, at the end of this path lies Upton Country Park.

This is a spread of over 100 acres of public gardens, parkland and woodland surrounding a late Georgian manor house, built in 1816 upon the profits of cod from the New Found Land-though the estate has a history dating back many centuries before this time. It is also home to a scandal which was big news in the Victorian era: The Case of the Tichborne Claimant. These legal battles started in 1871 and lasted for a total of 288 days, with evidence presented to the court so complex that the final summing up by the judge took 18 days. They were instigated by the disappearance of one Sir Roger Tichborne in the early 1850s and his subsequent reappearance in 1866 to claim his, not inconsiderable, inheritance. The court cases centered around a simple case of identity: was he Sir Roger, as he professed himself to be, or was he an Australian butcher's assistant by the name of Arthur Orton as some of the Tichborne family alleged. It was a case that divided the Tichborne family as well as public opinion and each side of the debate still has its protagonists even to this day. It is a tale which has been used as the subject for many books, plus a couple of films, and they all document how Arthur Orton failed in his fraudulent claim. The cad was sent to prison for 14 years hard labour-a verdict which caused a small scale riot on the streets of London-but this did not stop him, upon his death in 1898, from being buried with the name 'Sir Roger Charles Doughty Tichborne' inscribed upon his coffin. What is pertinent to this whole affair, and is not even touched upon in books or films, is why Sir Roger done a bunk in the first place: He had fallen in love with his cousin, Katherine Doughty, but the families of both feared a scandal were they to marry and prevented the liaison. So off he went and so ensued many years later a court case which (in today's figures) cost ten million quid, which is a totally disproportionate expense in preventing two young people from playing 'Hide the Sausage'.

So much for Sir Roger: it was a fair cop but society was very much to blame. Now jump forward a hundred years to hear a local legend-some of the loot from The Great Train Robbery was buried in the grounds of Upton House. More than this, it was never recovered and is still there. Ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, I ask you to consider the facts of the case;

At the time of the robbery Upton House was the residence of the exiled Prince Carol of Romania and Hohenzollern, which all sounds very grand but he had only got the tenancy because Poole Council, who had granted him the lease, were under the delusion that he had a lot of money. In fact he had none to speak of though, fair play to him, he was doing his best to support his family and maintain a fully staffed mansion (including gardeners for the estate) by setting himself up as a carpet salesman. I should point out, before you all throw up your jobs to become carpet salesmen and women, this line of work did not appear to be a total success and Prince Carol was running up a lot of debts.

Quite why the Boys in Blue suddenly took an interest in him in 1965 has never been fully explained, but they certainly felt it necessary to raid two properties that he owned-one in Nice and the other in Surrey-after they were given a tip off that the Prince was aiding Ronnie Biggs, at that time on the run following his escape from Wandsworth nick. They did not find any sign of their quarry, but that did not stop the locals around Upton House from making a few, extremely tenuous , connections between their poverty stricken neighbour and the train robbers.

Perhaps they were a little envious of nearby Bournemouth which had a train robbers legend of its own, namely the belief that, after dividing up the swag, the robbers went on a celebratory binge in that seaside town (though this, if true, would have been a fairly stupid thing to do: at that time Bournemouth was clinging on to its image as a 'Bathchair Resort'. Any strangers arriving in the town who were under the age of 120 would have stood out like a sore thumb). But there must be some thread of truth in that town's connection because one of the gang was arrested there. So, the Great Train Robbers were known to have possibly been in the vicinity, the Bluebottles had been sniffing around the Prince and, finally, the most damning piece of evidence pulled all of these threads together. At least two locals remembered seeing, shortly after the robbery had taken place, a strange car driving down a road not far away from Upton House! Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury what further proof could you possibly need? I put it to you that, when we simple Mudhoppers are enjoying our walks around the grounds of Upton House, we are unknowingly walking over the spot where bags of ten shilling notes still lie concealed. Such is the local legend.

Oblivious to these unimaginable riches we head towards the bird hide, a good place to rest our foots and to look out over the part of the bay which attracts many nesting seabirds. Amongst the more obvious species, such as the Shelduck, there are lots of others which we do not have a clue what they are. Actually, this is not strictly true: there is a big information board in the hide which tells us bad birdwatchers exactly what we are looking at out there, which is more than a clue. A bit of a dead giveaway in fact, certainly enough to cause us to feel jolly clever when we manage to identify one of the little buggers correctly. There are a few places around the shores of Poole Harbour where bird hides are to be found, but this one at Upton House is by far the most easily accessible. Couple this with the part of Holes Bay which it looks out upon being rich in the variety of birds which can be seen at any given time, it is always a relaxing place to rest awhile. Being able to name each and every species is not essential, enjoying what is there is enough.

Above is the view from the bird hide looking out towards Pergins Island, another place of local legend which will be the subject of Holes Bay, Part 3-coming soon.

HOLES BAY, PART 1: MUD, GLORIOUS MUD!

2010-01-08T03:22:00.000-08:00

More or less wherever you live in this country it is possible to escape the urban areas and get out into the open spaces. We Mudhoppers are fortunate in our location as the choice of escape is wide-we have within very close proximity the sea, countryside, hill ranges, woods, the New Forest, heaths, in fact whatever takes our fancy at any given time is there within a very short distance. But this is the first in a series of posts about a place which is, literally, right outside our front door; Holes Bay, a more or less neglected backwater in Poole Harbour. For many years it has been used as the dumping ground for old boats and the evidence of this is in the wrecks which are rotting or rusting away in parts of the shoreline. Also in places around this shoreline are the reed beds which collect all manner of flotsam, jetsam and old supermarket trolleys-all of which is never cleared away and create a constant eyesore. When the tide goes out this bay virtually empties (apart from a main boat channel through its centre) exposing vast areas of mud which, on a hot day, proclaims by its odour the amount of pollution that was at one time discharged into it mingling with the usual acrid smell of backwater mud. In short: look beyond the waste and it is a beautiful place, largely undeveloped, a haven for wildlife plus it is possible to walk around practically the whole of it-a walk which takes a couple of hours or so, starting and ending in the town, but which will take you through ever changing scenery along the way.

The walk proper starts where the Old Town ends, level with an area which used to be the only landward entrance to Poole. Now overdeveloped with the type of buildings which conceal the borough's 'Historic Town' claim, there is suddenly a great sense of space as you look out over the bay which dominates your vision. Close to are the lumps of Purbeck stone jumbled down to the waters edge (evidence of where you are stood being reclaimed land) with sporadically spaced concrete blocks. These latter house the pipes which drain water into the harbour and, though not pretty in form or structure, they are very popular with the seabirds. It is not unusual to see a pair of Swans leading their Signets here to feed and they are also attracting the ever increasing numbers of Little Egrets-until recently a rare sight in the harbour. Like the Swan, the Little Egret stands out as magnificent looking creature. There is something about pure white birds in the natural environment, contrasting vividly with Mother Nature's grubby reality, which is breathtaking. The Little Egret, of course, is a close relative of the Heron-a bird whose numbers in the harbour have been decreasing over recent years. Why this is so is uncertain, but we would not mind betting that the rise in Little Egret numbers has something to do with it-they are showing the Heron up for what it truly is: a joke bird which Mother Nature plonked onto the planet for our amusement. Y'see, the Heron is the epitome of gracefulness, whether in flight or stood at the water's edge feeding. Until, that is, it opens its beak at which point all gracefulness flies out of the window. Its cry can only be likened to the sound that Rod Stewart might make if he was to be suddenly garroted whilst in the throes of expelling a particularly reluctant turd from his body.

Where were we? oh yes, Holes Bay. This first part of the walk is like treading between two worlds: on your right are four lanes of main commuter route with houses and factories laying beyond. To your left the wide open space of the bay where everything moves at a slow peaceful pace and which causes you to forget whatever else is around you. When the tide is up the V shaped ripples of the larger fish disturb the water close to the shore whilst the sand eels-their prey-panic in the shallows creating the illusion of the water boiling as they thrash about. The Gulls are overhead to take advantage of the ease with which they can pick off this small fry, screaming at and squabbling with each other constantly as they do so. It is a place which never sleeps; we walk along this part of the bay day or night when we need a good leg-stretch and there is always something happening on the water. A mile further down the path it climbs over the Waterloo-Weymouth railway line and shortly after that it veers around the top of the bay taking us away from the busy road and into another world, one with a Victorian scandal and a Local Legend.

More to come in Part Two.

2009 GOES OUT IN STYLE!

2010-01-01T05:06:00.000-08:00

It is New Year's Eve and we are at Avebury-to Mudhop, certainly: but we also have an underlying reason to be here on this day.

Our first stop though is West Kennet Long Barrow for a good stretch of the legs after the drive up here. It is a day that can be described as 'crisp', though not so crisp as to involve frost. Mind you, it's not far off this level of crispiness-we are both throwing fashion sense to the wind (not that we seem to have any of this commodity in the first place) and displaying ourselves to the world in all of our winter wrappings-essential against the freezing wind which is cutting across the Marlborough Downs. So; crisp in the sense that without our thermals parts of our bodies would be shrivelling up!

The walk up the hill to the long barrow sufficiently jump-starts our circulatory systems to ignore the aforementioned wind and, as ever, the stones give us a warm welcome. The short time we spend here this afternoon charges our batteries ready to fill the rest of the daylight hours with trudging through muddy fields, up and down hills, surrounding ourselves with this most enigmatic of landscapes and building up an appetite.

And due to a rather devious bit of forward planning we have ensured that the apex of this appetite building will coincide with our arrival at 'The Red Lion'. Here, for a small fee (actually about twenty quid), our Mudhopping metamorphoses into New Year's Eve relaxing, warming up and stuffing our faces full of food. All in preparation for our underlying reason to be here today......

...... Which is the Moon. For not only is it New Year's Eve, it is also a full moon and not only is it a full moon, it is a blue moon. As we both seem to possess a somewhat slightly off the elliptical approach to life, we had decided a few days ago that we wanted to view this moon whilst we stood on top of West Kennet Long Barrow. With this in mind we had been keeping an eye on the weather forecast every day of the preceding week, noting its predictions waver between snow, sleet, rain, dry, clouds and clear skies with each changing hour. By the the time we had left the house that morning only one thing was for certain; it might or might not be too cloudy to see the moon that night. So our campaign slogan for the day was 'Sod It, We Are Going Anyway'!

When we finally wrenched our well fed bodies out of the Red Lion to head towards our Sod It the moon was well up and playing peek-a-boo with us from behind broken clouds, clouds which were thickening fast. So much so that by the time we make our second walk up the hill to the Long Barrow the moon was completely hidden and we could tell that there was little chance of us seeing it that night. Boo! But there was other magic in the air for us; stood on that mound, with the great stones which screen the entrance to the tomb below us, we looked up at the patch of sky which was illuminated by the moon. Even from behind this thick cover she made her presence known as the light caught the edges of the huge black cloud giving it the sheen of burnished steel. Further away, where the cloud was patchier, this same light was giving the appearance of a foam flecked sea washing across the sky. Back on Earth we were surrounded by the darkness, a stillness and great calm as the wind, though still cold, dropped to a breeze. It was a very primitive atmosphere, a rare moment to stand and enjoy-and if some barrow wights had crawled out of the tomb to join us we would not have been at all surprised. But the best bit was saved for when we tried to leave.

We were sixty miles from home and the temperature was dropping, not wishing to run the risk of icy country roads it came time when we knew we must leave. But when we started to make our way back down the side of the barrow our legs suddenly made it clear that they were reluctant to do this-there was something more for us here tonight. Not knowing what this something was, and needing to get our bodies moving again, we decided to take a walk along the top of the barrow to its far end. Once there we turned to walk back (there being little else we could do) and then it happened. Rather like the cheesy ending straight out of Hollywood, at that moment a great split appeared in the thick cloud and the Moon was fully exposed in all of her glory. For a few minutes she did her 'doth shine as bright as day' bit, casting her full light upon us and creating long shadows over the countryside. This is why we came and, unexpectedly, we were not to leave without seeing it-giving rise to two loonies on a hill on a cold dark night, grinning for the fun in it all.

Happy New Year Folks!

Yule Greetings: We Didn't Go To Buzbury Rings On Christmas Day.

2009-12-26T04:10:00.000-08:00

We didn't go to Buzbury Rings; it is completely fenced in with no public access at all.

After days of freezing rain the 25th dawned bright with little or no wind and, as your Mudhoppers have been stuck indoors for too many days, we went and had a good squelch through the muddy lanes around Badbury Rings. It was a beautiful day to be out of doors and we joined the many who were taking advantage of a bank holiday to get away from the glittery madness.

And afterwards we didn't go to Buzbury Rings-a little known earthworks a couple of miles away from Badbury. If we had we would have needed to park the car in a lay-by and walked along the B3082 until we found the overgrown bridleway which borders the western end of the site. This we would have had to follow, alongside that dense (and more than a little inviting) woodland until we reached a gate at the end. Here on the southern side of the site the barbed wire gives way to an electric fence-and far be it for us to even consider scrambling underneath it.

Had we done so we would then approach the Rings with that feeling that most people get when walking into part of our history, the fascination with what those who went before have left behind. In most instances of this, e.g. with a Saxon church or an Elizabethan merchants' hall, there is written history which, although it does nothing to dispel that sense of awe, gives a fairly detailed account of life in those times. But, with so much unknown of the folk who constructed the ancient earthworks, sites like Buzbury have that edge of mystery, of excitement and even, dare we say it?, of magic.

Had we walked into the Rings we would have been treated to the rare sighting of a hare, a hefty example of its species darting around in the centre. The kestrel too, flying low over the field not a hundred feet away from where we would have been stood. And all around the peace of the countryside on a warm winter's day would have given our spirits, already high from our day's Mudhopping, that extra lift. Probably enough to cause us to decide to climb through a barbed wire fence to get back to the car.

But we did not go to Buzbury Rings, that would have been trespassing.

Our seasons greetings to you all. We hope you enjoyed the festivities in whichever way you celebrated them. 2010 here we come!

Dartmouth (Come Rain Or Shine)

2009-12-02T11:15:00.000-08:00

Dartmouth we first explore on a cold, wet November night, none of which can hide this Devon town's quirky magnificence. This magnificence does not exist on the grand Georgian scale of our island's cities, for Dartmouth it is the layout of a town, established as a deep water port on the River Dart, which has been built ad hoc over many centuries and which retains something of each period. The oldest building dates from 1380 whilst, at the other end of the scale, the Flavel Arts Centre is surprisingly unobtrusive in its surroundings for such a modern structure. So as we wander around the narrow streets and alleys we never know what gem from the past we will encounter around the next corner or, as Dartmouth is built into the side of a very steep hill, at the end of one of the many flights of old stone steps which connect the various levels of the town.

Having read virtually nil about Dartmouth's history before we came here (we prefer to explore places 'cold', rather than have a list of 'things to see and do'-it's much more fun!) it was with big grins on our faces when we suddenly found ourselves walking into Bayard's Castle. One minute we are walking along a stretch of quay which is a film makers dream (i.e. The Onedin Line) and the next we are stood in one of Henry the VIIIs coastal defence forts with the gun ports open to the sea lapping just below. The atmosphere within buzzes whilst the smell and the sounds of the cannons still hang in the air - at least, it does in the Mudhoppers' somewhat fertile imaginations on a wet night in Devon.

After playing at being soldiers for a while we head off up a nearby flight of the aforementioned steps, from the top of which we look over the roofs of the houses below and across the wide River Dart to Kingswear on the opposite bank. It was from there that we had caught the ferry to get into Dartmouth, a scarily exciting experience for the one of us who is not used to waterborne travel - being, as it is, a small floating bridge which is manoeuvred by a tugboat tied along one side of it. Even the one of us who is used to waterborne travel felt his sphincter twitching a bit at first. But this is enough of climbing upwards for one night, we make our way back down through the streets, diverting off to the left or the right as the fancy takes us, until we reach the railway station.

Ah yes, Dartmouth Railway Station. Dartmouth has a lot to recommend it to all sorts of people - except trainspotters. This is because, having built a railway station in the 1860s, a decision was then made that this is as far as Dartmouth was willing to go in respect of this mode of transport and no railway lines were ever laid into the town. This is ironic considering that Thomas Newcomen, a native of Dartmouth, was the first person to build a steam engine - which gave rise eventually to the development of steam locomotives. Back in the 1860s this fact was of no concern to the boatmen and the merchants of Dartmouth who saw the railways as a threat to their nautical way of life and who successfully resisted the incursion of the new-fangled technology into the town. It is a very nice railway station though.

Dartmouth in the dark is all very fine and dandy, but it gives us the itch to see it in the daylight too - though for this we have to be patient. Having arrived here on a Saturday evening our day on the Sunday is taken up with an indoor event so our next proper sight of the town is not until the evening again. This is not without its compensations as our first bit of exploration then was to hunt down some food, which can always be a hit-and-miss venture in a strange town. But we were in luck (unashamed plug coming up here) with the first place we walked into: The Windjammer Inn on Victoria Road is a family run truly independent free house, good food, good beer and no bloody television spoiling the friendly atmosphere within. We recommend it.

Monday morning gives us our first chance to wander the town in daylight and, bonus, a change of weather has chased the rainclouds away. The morning is spent revisiting places that we had only seen at night and discovering all the bits that had been hidden in the darkness - it really is a fascinating town where its 1000 years of history blends in with all the modern trappings of a holiday resort. Having explored awhile around the river and backstreets us Mudhoppers then decide (some would say foolishly) to go for the birds eye view. As noted above, Dartmouth is built onto the side of a hill-a very big, steep, hill-which we make our way up determined to reach the top. It's a hard climb, though made easier at first by the flights of steps, but rewarding as the fantastic views increase with the height. Away to the right are the two castles, one each side of the rivers entrance, built in 1481 to guard the port. To the left more and more of the river becomes visible as it snakes inland while below and in front are the towns of Dartmouth and Kingswear and the hills of Devon beyond. It is breathtaking (and not only 'cos of the hill-climbing involved to see it all!) Our climb starts with the much used steps, then goes into the little used and overgrown steps before finally leading us up a muddy country lane to the intriguingly named 'Jawbones Hill' (as yet we have not been able to discover the origin of the name, any clues?) Any ill effects that we may be feeling through having to spend the previous day indoors are blown away as we stand at the top of this hill-it is a beautiful part of the country.

Postscript:

This is probably none of our business, as we are not residents of the town, but there was one rather worrying sign that we noticed in Dartmouth-several signs in fact. These are the little notices in the windows of the small local shops protesting about a proposed rise in the, already high, business rates. One trader is quoted as saying that his bill is set to rise from £5,400pa to £18,000pa in one leap. It would be a shame to see Dartmouth's atmosphere changed (as in too many other places) by the loss of local shops-driven out by overblown rate demands-to be replaced by endless rows of Starbucks, Subways and others of their ilk. At the moment one of Dartmouth's strengths is its uniqueness.

Brean Down

2009-09-16T06:32:00.001-07:00

At one time, and not so very distant in the past, the land around Brean Down was mainly marsh and subject to frequent flooding, which would turn this 320ft high headland into an island. But then came sea defences and land drainage which in turn stabilised the marshes and, some may say unfortunately, gave an opportunity to create caravan parks. Not one caravan park, nor even two, three or four caravan parks-there are loads of them in unending procession blotting the landscape with that particular ugliness which is found in static caravans. It seems to take forever to drive the few short miles from the village of Brean to the Down with static caravans closing in on all sides, causing tunnel vision to a mind-numbing degree. But then, just as it starts to feel as if the whole universe is permeated with the stench of suntan lotion, the caravan parks are left behind and in front of you is the huge lump of limestone rock extending one and a half miles out into the Bristol Channel: Brean Down.

It is a steep climb up, but made easier by the steps which get you up the sheer hill which takes you most of the way to the top;

"A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare"*

But once you have climbed the 150 steps and reached the spot where the ground evens out you will then find yourself standing and staring. Looking inland across the Somerset Levels Glastonbury Tor stands out some twenty miles away. Closer to stands that edifice which is a shrine to the mighty John Cleese: Weston-Super-Mare. When you turn your back to the land the view is dominated by the sea and the gentle rise of the top of Brean Down ahead. From the spot where you now stand there is about a mile to walk to the tip of this headland; during this walk you are surrounded by evidence of human activity stretching back to the Bronze Age and reaching up to WW2. There is a choice of two paths to take. The lower path is a gravelled single track road which was cut in order to make easy passage for the horse and carts (and, later, the horseless carriages) carrying supplies to the fort. The higher path takes you through grazing cattle, remains of a Romano-Celtic temple, an Iron Age hill fort, various cairns and barrows, until finally you reach the ruins of a Victorian fort which was further developed and re-armed during that spot of bother we had with old Adolf. The Mudhoppers decide on the higher path out and the lower path back.

This walk is one to be taken at a leisurely pace, the views are stupendous; to the left is the sweep of Bridgewater Bay facing towards the Atlantic while to the right is the start of the Bristol Channel. In the distance before you is the Welsh coastline and, not so distant, the two small islands of Steep Holm and Flat Holm. With this panorama it is easy to miss what is underfoot, so we stop frequently to take in the more immediate scenery. The ridge is dotted with the remains of the cairns, the great number of which are an indication as to the importance of Brean Down to its earliest settlers; to see burial mounds atop high hills is by no means unusual but, to date, we have rarely encountered so many in such a relatively small area. As you reach the highest point on the down the trail of cairns is broken by the lines of the Iron Age hill fort. Just beyond this the path dips sharply, leading down to the ruins of a much later fortress.

At the very seaward tip of this spit of land a fort was constructed in Victorian times in response to fears that Napoleon the third was about to send shiploads of French soldiers over here to rampage across the countryside, invading these isles and eating all our slugs and snails. Brean Fort was built between 1864 and 1871 and most of it still stands today, though only as shells. In the early 1900s, following an explosion in one of the underground gunpowder magazines, the garrison was moved out of the fort (as the aforementioned Napoleon had died some thirty years previously the danger had long since passed) and the fort changed from military use to a more genteel incarnation: it became a cafe, afternoon teas and dainty fancies for the daytrippers. But then came Himm Hitler and the Nasties so once again the army marched in to defend this bit of coastline. The legacy of this later use is a Victorian Fort/WW2 Outpost blended together, the decorative flourishes and brickwork of the earlier buildings being in stark contrast to the 20th c. functionary and flat reinforced concrete.

Enough of technical details, skimpy though they are: the Mudhoppers are here to have fun. This involves one of our (frequent) lapses of memory concerning our actual ages and climbing amongst the ruins with childlike glee. Looking in one direction fills the imagination with images of the scarlet tunics, pill-box hats and waxed moustaches of the Victorian military man defending the Empire. Clambour over a wall and scarlet is replaced by khaki, the hats by steel helmets and the dreams of Empire are replaced by the radio, broadcasting songs by Vera Lynn and Bud Flanagan to soothe the nations' frayed nerves. We leave no stone unturned in this "What's-around-the-next-corner" playground and we pout sulkily at the iron bars which the grown-ups have put at the entrances to the gunpowder magazines to stop us from going in. We also couldn't get into the searchlight post, pictured below: the sea is well on the way to claiming that one!

Eventually it is time to head back home so we wander off in the direction of the lower path, which takes us along the northern side of Brean Down. Where the southern face is the steep rise, here the land falls more gently to the sea and is almost a complete forest of Hawthorn in places. The windswept trees grow amongst the dense braken and the scenery of the Down has changed once again. This is a walk on the wild side with the knolls rising above and the sea lapping below. With such diverse aspects to this small promontory, and with its wealth of pre-christian history, it is easy to see why Brean Down provided the perfect setting for Dion Fortune's classic work of occult fiction, "The Sea Preistess". There is magic in the air.

*From "Leisure" by WH Davies.

Wistman's Wood, Spinsters' Rock and Wistman's Wood.

2009-08-31T17:27:00.000-07:00

The path to Wistman's Wood

We are on Dartmoor to seek out Wistman's Wood-a quest which begins fairly easily as there is a sign pointing out the footpath that leads to it from Two Bridges. But this is Dartmoor and a path which is easily defined at the outset can sometimes peter out into a fan of well trodden paths spreading out in all directions. Today this wouldn't be too much of a problem-the wood is only a mile or so along this path and should be easy to spot from a distance (it being the only wood around here and thus easily distinguishable from the Tor above, the river below and the sheep all around) but then we encounter another of Dartmoor's idiosyncrasies: the weather. Fine summer rain is all very fine and dandy in its own way but halfway between Two Bridges and Wistman's Wood, where the aforementioned path peters out, it creates a haze which hides all around which may help us into the right direction. But, we agree, Wistman's Wood has been there for dozens of centuries and probably longer so it aint going to go away. We can find it another day and, in the meantime, we shall go and find Spinsters' Rock instead. It is a place of legends.

OK, so which legend fires your imagination more? The one which insists the rocks were placed there by Noah and his boys who, having parked the Ark atop a nearby hill, wandered down to erect the stones after which they wandered away again? Or do you prefer the one that tells of the three spinsters? These spinsters were of the original breed for this title-i.e. those who spun rather than unmarried women-and this paticular trio are three of the twelve Nymphs of Valhalla of Norse mythology-the Choosers of the Slain in battle. These Nymphs were known as the Valkriur and they rode around the battlefield on horses, waving great swords around as they decided who should live and those that would die. To our minds this is far more stirring stuff than the namby-pamby Noah theory, and two of the spinsters had really cool names befitting their status: Mista and Sangrida. (the other one was called Hilda-which is almost as silly as calling a bull Alan: see earlier post.) Anyway, the story goes that these three erected the stones one morning before breakfast.

Whichever legend suits your thinking it is a place well worth seeking out. A peaceful spot, a magnificent cromlech standing alone in a field of grass that couldn't be any greener if it tried.

A few days later we are once again setting off up the path from Two Bridges to Wistman's Wood-this time without attending rain to baffle our inner lodestones once on the moor. The path to the wood is well defined at the start and at the end, in the middle there is just a few hundred yards which is difficult to follow. The problem that we had earlier that week was, without any visibility, getting past those few hundred yards and onto the track again is a matter of pure luck-we were wise to abandon the attempt because now we can see that we were heading the wrong way completely-we had been heading towards Crockern Tor. No such worry today, our path is clear and we take a stroll up to what has been described as "the most haunted place on Dartmoor".

Wistman's Wood is indeed a strange place. There are numerous stories of supernatural happenings in and around these ancient stunted oak trees, all of which have great credibility once you are stood amongst them-even in broad daylight. The trees (mainly oak but also rowan and willow) grow from between boulders that litter the hillside upon which the wood stands and everything-boulders, trees and the ground, is covered by a thick layer of moss. It is certainly an eerie place, which is a good reason to explore it fully-but slowly. It is not easy terrain to walk over as the moss disguises the crevices underfoot and in places can be slippery. But it is compulsively inviting to walk from one end to the other.

Apart from the various spectres which are known to wander here after dark Wistman's Wood is also believed to be the home of the Wisht Hounds, those terrifying beasts which roam the Moor at night chasing sinners, scaring seven shades out of the unbaptised and doing the voice-overs for "The Hound of the Baskervilles". (There is another canine spook in the woods-a small terrier called "Jumbo". The story goes that this little feller was hunting rabbits amongst the rocks when he got fatally bitten by an adder. His unfortunate moniker suggests that he was more than a little domesticated and this was presumably why he was unable to tell a rabbit from a snake. Perhaps his demise was the kindest thing really.....)

When you spend time in Wistman's Wood the spectres become real: everywhere through the wood unseen eyes are watching you, you can feel them and out of the corner of your eye there is...........something? or perhaps your imagination is playing tricks on your vision? It is a feeling that cannot be conveyed in words, nor can our photographs fully do Wistman's Wood justice. You will have to go and see it for yourself.

MUDHOPPERS ON TOUR

2009-08-11T02:02:00.000-07:00

Day two sees us taking thirteen hours to cover a distance which we should have completed in just four hours, an early reminder that embarking upon a tour of these isles is only for those prepared to take the rough with the smooth: Our road network is at saturation point anyway and our one car, small though it is, is only adding to the problem. When we hit the traffic jam on the outskirts of Newcastle, where it took three and a half hours to cover just eight miles, we could only be thankful that this had not happened on day one-a sweltering hot day not conducive to the fine old tradition of sitting in traffic jams. Day two was a lot cooler and, though tedious, more bearable as we inched slowly toward the Tyne tunnel and the clear roads beyond. But Newcastle was not going to let us out of its clutches so easily. When we did finally escape the jam and saw one of these aforementioned clear roads stretching out before us our alternator burnt out-resulting in a tow back to the city to get it replaced. But we were lucky-late on this Friday evening the mechanic located a new alternator, fitted it and had us back on the road in under two hours, at a total cost of just £57. 50.

So, as planned, we awoke the next morning in Edinburgh for a weekend of exploration slightly off the tourist trail (though a few bits of the obvious places could not be left unseen.) People visit cities for any number of reasons, our weekend here is to mudhop on paving slabs: just as we might go for a long walk through woods or over green hills, with no particular plan other than to head in any direction which takes our fancy, so we approach Edinburgh. The kilt shops and castle tour were forsaken in favour of the back streets and lanes where history is more hidden from the public gaze. Cities can be magnificent places and none more so than this one, mercifully devoid of the '60s tendency toward ripping the heart out of centres in order to build ugly shopping malls (the one blot in Edinburgh is the Scottish Parliament Building-it has all the appeal of a multi-storey car park which was designed by an architect having a bad day!) If you are heading to Edinburgh seek out the Stockbridge Colony houses, dwellings erected after the formation of the Edinburgh Cooperative Building Company Limited-a group of craftsmen engaged in all aspects of the building trade who banded together to build decent homes for their families at the latter part of the 19th century. This co-operative spirit was born of a need to provide healthy and affordable living conditions for themselves and the buildings, quite apart from being attractive in their own right, stand as a monument to what can be achieved when folk work together.

There are two abiding memories of this weekend which will stay with us-in their own way they best sum up the city; We were looking around a graveyard, Greyfriars Kirk, where there are many old tombs enclosed in ornate stone and ironwork cages. The reason for these secure final resting places is quite simple-it was to keep the mortal remains safe from graverobbers who could earn a few shillings by keeping the Edinburgh Medical School supplied with fresh corpses and no questions asked. One of these tombs was for the most part underground with a small iron gate set into one side and steps leading down into the darkness. Crouching down to peer inside, one of us (it's ok Leon, we wont tell them it was you) had the fright of his life when a voice suddenly spoke to him from within. Moments later one of the local winos, can of Special Brew in her hand, climbed out of the crypt and proceeded to assure us, in a thick Scottish accent, that;

"Y'a'right pal, et's ooonly me, y'a'right there pal.... etc"

And the other abiding memory? It has to be the sight of three Japanese tourists who had kitted themselves out in the full Scottish regalia of kilts and blouses and were stood together posing as their wives took photographs of them. Hoots mon and och aye tha noo!

From this beautiful city, and by complete contrast, we drive down to Lindisfarne, an island off the Northumbrian coast which is only accessible by road via a causeway when the tide is out. The island is small, measuring just a mile and a half long by a mile wide, with a population of 170-most of whom live in its one village. Having located our B&B-not easy when none of the sreets have name plates to identify them-and dumped our gear, we set out to explore. Whereupon we walked straight into what can only be likened to a scene from a Hammer Horror movie. Making our way through the graveyard (yes, we do seem to like graveyards) we suddenly heard the sound of dozens of wailing voices being carried in the wind. Moaning and wailing they were, in a low eerie manner guaranteed to conjour up images of The Night of the Living Dead: but it was still broad daylight and Ghosties and Ghoulies and Long-legged Beasties, by tradition, only walk abroad at night. If we had encountered this sound for the first time during the hours of darkness a good supply of clean nappies would have been essential but, as it turned out, the daylight served to help solve the mystery. Walking out of the graveyard and towards the shore we could see, about a mile out into the bay, scores of seals on a sandbank moaning and wailing for all they were worth. It had been a trick! It certainly fooled us simple Mudhoppers!

Outside of the village Lindisfarne has a castle high on a rock, a fisherman's dock, ruins of an Abbey and lime kilns and wide open spaces which, all with the sea as a backdrop, stretch out much further than the land and give the illusion of being in a much bigger place. The effect is one which takes away your breath and makes you ready to give up whatever life you live and move here without question. Approaching the fisherman's area there were to be seen a lot of upturned boats on the shore: not unusual, you may think, but these appear to be what were once quite large craft which had been cut in half. Which is exactly what they were. At the beginning of the 20th century the boats which sailed out into the North Sea to catch herring became redundant (the herring fishery vanished for some reason) and were pulled up on the shore, cut in half and the bow section was overturned. This was then converted into a shack, There is no doubt that during times of financial hardship many of these would have been used by the fishermen as homes, but today they are all store sheds-still standing after a hundred years.

We had just under twenty four hours on Lindisfarne, plenty of time to get acquainted with it and to know that we would have to return. It has to be said that our timings for arrival and departure had (quite by chance) turned out to be perfect. We had driven over the causeway to the island at half past five in the afternoon, just as that day's crop of trippers were leaving and we drove away the next afternoon as the next batch were arriving. The crowds number in their hundreds but our time there was spent with very few folk around, so we probably mudhopped Lindisfarne at its most deserted. During the course of our ten days wandering we will see some incredible places but this island will remain the jewel in the crown.

Our next port of call is Whitby, where we go well posh for a couple of days. Our B&B accomodation is in a magnificent guest house called "Number 5" (this is an unashamed plug for them-it ticks every box for comfortable relaxed hospitality, plus a few more boxes that you didn't know existed!)

What is at Whitby? The only answer to that question is that Whitby is at Whitby. Beyond the present day trappings of a popular tourist destination lies a small fishing port with a great history which belies its size. It was from here that Captain James Cook set sail to chart the world and discovered Australia in the process. More well known is that sometime in the later part of the 1800s a certain Bram Stoker was sat on a public bench on the West Cliff looking towards the ruined Abbey-a sight which caused him to go away and write the book "Dracula". (The importance of Whitby as an inspiration to Stoker cannot be underrated, his descriptions of the town in the novel go much further than anything else he describes within its pages-he must have felt a deep affinity with Whitby.) A less well known fact is that it was a Whitby man, one Captain William Scoresby, who invented the Crow's Nest. And that is all the history you are going to get from us-we want to talk about food! There are two local delicacies for which Whitby is rightly noted and proud of; the first being Fish and Chips. The town fries to perfection, so much so that this dish may blind the stranger to that other local speciality, Whitby Kippers. Breakfast time will never be the same again!

Any visit to Whitby has to include the climb up the 199 steps that lead to the Abbey-if only for the fantastic view from the top. The town, both old and new, spreads out in front of you while directly below are the two piers which form the harbour entrance. Further afield is the line of the Yorkshire Coast and the grey expanse of the North Sea-from this position on the East Cliff you feel as if you can hold the whole scene in the palm of one hand. Behind you stands the Abbey ruins and in front of it the Church of St Mary. Given its position high on the clifftop the effect of the dark weathered stone of both church and graveyard give it a slightly forbidding air-and if the outside seems brooding just wait until you go inside the church. St. Mary's has the rare distinction of being far more forbidding inside than out; it is set out with a claustrophobic array of high sided box pews which must cause the congregation to feel trapped once a service commences. No chance of sneaking out for a crafty fag during a long and boring sermon.

A few short miles down the coast from Whitby is Robin Hood's Bay and the cluster of houses known locally as Bay Town, built into the sides of a narrow steep ravine leading down to the sea. The layout of the streets and houses here appear to be random-it's as if they were all constructed high on the cliff above and then thrown over by some giant hand to land where they would in a jumble below. Bay Town grew from a small fishing/smuggling community, situated so close to the sea that on one occasion the bowsprit of a lugger crashed through a window into the bar of an Inn-how the various insurance companies sorted out who was to pay for this particular bit of storm damage is not recorded! To have a seatown built into the cliffs is not unusual around our coasts, but Bay Town stands out for the ammount of buildings squashed into such a comparatively small area-creating a fascinating maze of streets and alleyways to explore. When it was an isolated spot in centuries past it must have been a tight-knit community indeed.

From the coast we head inland to the Yorkshire Dales and the market town of Settle where we are to spend a couple of days staying with a friend. From here we set off to mudhop a landscape startlingly different to any we have yet seen on our wanderings-hills from where water falls down into deep valleys, a lush green outlook of rich pasture which shows its skeleton everywhere with the limestone rock exposed through the grass. Settle itself, though seemingly very sedate and easy-going, has in recent years committed an act which plonks it very firmly into the tradition of English Eccentricity. Inevitably it involves a red telephone box, one of the last strongholds of our inbred idiosyncrasy. On a small area of green, surrounded by houses, stands a red telephone box which BT had decided was no longer keeping in service. So the town council purchased it, the phone and all of its gubbins were removed and the box was handed over to a group of local residents who have turned it into an art gallery-which they proudly advertise as "Probably the smallest art gallery in the world". Whilst it is true that, somewhere in the world, somebody could jump on this slogan and say, "No it aint, I know of one smaller", this cannot detract from this reassuring example of quirkiness: The Gallery On The Green. It is well worth a visit, admission is free, the impressive art on display is ever changing plus, once inside, you have the whole place to yourself!

It is in the Yorkshire Dales where we forgo our mudhopping and embark upon a little bit of Limestone Pavement hopping instead. No sooner had we decided this than the fun began-the six mile drive that took us from Settle to the village of Malham. The road is narrow and its twists and turns are absurdly tight as they make their way up hill and down dale, it's like a cross between two fairground rides combined: the Rollercoaster and the Switchback. But this drive, potentially nerve-wracking to driver and passenger alike, is one that benefits from the forced lack of MPH-who would want to hurry through countryside like this? So when we get to Malham and discover that it is one of the places that the long-distance path "The Pennine Way" passes through we are sorely tempted to wander off on this 267 mile trek straight away, just on a whim. But then we agree to compromise and head to Malham Cove instead-it's only a mile away.

Malham Cove is a natural limestone formation some 263 foot from top to bottom, or from bottom to top when you are climbing up the 400 irregular steps which take you to the Limestone Pavement above the cove. Steep steps. The climb is well worth the effort, not only for the view over this part of the Dales but also to stand on the Limestone Pavement-a rock formation found in very few places in the world. As with a lot of our landscapes it was formed by the good old Ice Age-an era determined to leave its mark throughout the land with sculptures on a gigantic scale cut into the earth.

More evidence of the aesthetic leanings of the thawing ice caps is seen at Gordale Scar where, even in this dry season, Gordale Beck runs majestically down the rock to fall gracefully onto the heads of the school party playing at its base. The walk here from Malham Cove has taken us through a country lane with farmland on each side and where there is farmland in the Dales there are the old stone barns. These structures, and there are thousands of them throughout the Dales, have a neglected air about them nowadays, but when modes of transport and roads were more primitive the barns were essential to the survival of the Dale farmers; a lot of storage space would have been required for the seasons when the scattered and isolated population would have been completely cut off from the rest of Yorkshire. Also, being in a damp environment, cereal crops had to be taken into barns to dry out once cut. Being built of local stone they blend in with their surroundins perfectly, as do the miles of dry-stone walling stretching off in every direction. Little do we realise, as we turm from Gordale Scar to make our circuitous way back towards Malham, that we are about to enter a different world; one of Fairies and Hermits.

Janet's Foss, a small waterfall over which the Gordale Beck falls into a deep pool before rushing and tumbling over a rocky course under the trees. This pool was used in times past by the farmers for dipping their sheep but there is a far older history to this place; behind the waterfall can be seen a cave and it was here that Jennet, Queen of the Faries in these parts, made her home. There is another cave nearby wherein lived a Hermit, as legend would have it, but Jennet's chosen dwelling is by far the more excellent spot. Looking out from behind her curtain of water she would have a view of the lush vegetation crowding on each side of the Beck with Dragonflys dancing in the air before her, their vivid colours changing as they caught the sunlight-a stark contrast to the open dales which surround this oasis. The farmers dip their sheep elsewhere these days but, walking down the valley beside the beck, we know that Jennet lives here still, waiting to entice foolhardy mortals into her dangerous and lovely realm.

After Settle we point our car in the direction of the North Yorkshire Moors, taking a meandering route out of the Dales through Wenslydale and a break in the journey at Aysgarth Falls. This triple flight of waterfalls on the River Ure captured the imagination of Turner, Wordsworth, the producers of "Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves" and, last but not least, us simple mudhoppers. Stretching your legs is always a good idea on a long journey but beware of doing it in a place like this-you dont want to leave!

Leaving is made easier however because of where we are heading: the Moors have great appeal to both of us. Our B&B is in the village of Castleton, from where we can wander in any given direction and within minutes all signs of civilisation have virtually disappeared. It is little wonder that this national park is so popular but, having said that, there is very little evidence of it being a 'tourist trap' (or a 'honeypot', as they call it in this part of the world) there is so much of it that there is plenty to go round. Even at Goathland, a village made famous as the setting for Aidensfield in the TV series 'Heartbeat' and which attracts many thousands of goggle-box addicts every year, there is not much to differentiate it from any other quiet Yorkshire village: the only thing out of the ordinary here is the Ford Anglia panda car parked up outside the village stores.

As we explored our immediate surroundings Wheeldale was a highlight, and not only for the 1 mile stretch of Roman road with its hard-core and drainage ditches still visible. Walking through the heather with the rich peat soil beneath and Grouse running off in all around us fell firmly into the category of 'Life's simple pleasures'.....

.....as did crossing the River Esk at Lealholm using stepping stones so well made and placed that they give the impression of being a regular throughfare, rather than a haphazard method of getting from one side of a river to the other. Somewhat less reassuring to the ankle department was our walk, or rather clambour, along the banks of a stream which we discovered somewhere along the way and which begged to be clamboured along. No clear path, instead large boulders and tree roots made the going slow and awkward-but fun. And when you have landed in a place with no reason to know nor care where a path might lead you to, nor to worry about how long it takes, then you are well and truly Mudhopping.

One final impression of the North Yorkshire Moors, names and locations deliberately witheld: We had stuck our heads into the bar at a village Inn to ask directions, which we were given by one of the locals within but not before we had noticed that this bar was pretty much unravaged by the modern trend to destroy the 'Good Old British Pub'-it looked real and lived in. The next day, and in the next village, we were talking to somebody who knew the area well and we mentioned the Inn. She looked at us in alarm and said;

"You didn't have a drink in there did you?"

We answered in the negative and told her that we had just popped in there to ask directions. She continued;

"If you ever have a drink in there, have it from the bottle or can-their glasses are filthy, everything in that place is filthy, they don't keep the place clean at all!"

All of this was related to us with her facial expression showing disgust at the thought of this filth but then, after a slight pause, the look softened as she said;

"Mind you, it's not surprising really. The people who own it are very old and almost blind

One day we have just got to go back to that Inn!

OUR NEW BEST FRIEND

2009-06-17T13:49:00.000-07:00

Those of you who have followed our blog from the start will be aware that we occasionally wander into a farmyard near Glastonbury to collect gurt big lumps of cheese for the lord of our land-this farm having a dairy within it. In a barn opposite the dairy lives a bull-the biggest bull you are ever likely to see in your life. One of us is six foot tall and the bull stands higher. It is, not to mince words, bloody enormous and (given the reputation that bulls enjoy) we have only stoppped to look at it from the safety of the car. Clutch down, in gear, foot hovering over the accelerator, ready for a speedy escape in the event of the bull taking exception to our stares and treating us as some kind of china shop.

Until today. Today whilst collecting the cheese we asked the dairyman about the bull (typical silly non-farming-folk questions like 'how much does it weigh' and 'why doesn't it have a ring through its nose') and discovered that it has been at the farm for a long time and is as gentle as a lamb. We put this last to the test on our way out and discovered it to be true, putting aside all of our fears about bulls we went and made friends with it. Close up it oozed an aura of gentle calm, it clearly wouldn't harm a fly (unless the fly was out for trouble in the first place, and even then the bull would turn the other cheek and only retaliate if the fly became murderous. This would then become a case of self-defence and no Court in the land would find the bull guilty) As you may be aware, one of the Mudhoppers New Year Resolutions was to be less afraid of bulls and the fickle finger of fate has led us to making close acquaintance with a veritable Goliath of its species.

But the best bit of information about this magnificant beastie is his name-the last question we asked the dairyman, almost as an afterthought;

Mudhoppers - Does the bull have a name?

Dairyman - Yes, but it's a stupid name for a bull. I don't know why, but his name is Alan!

THAR SHE BLOWS!

2009-05-17T06:19:00.000-07:00

One thing we are very lucky with in these Isles is our weather, its unpredictability continually changing the back-drop to our lives with some wild extremes. It also drives the wimps away to foreign climes, taking their moans and groans with them, leaving a bit more space for those content to enjoy what is on our doorstep. Today our doorstep extends 50 miles to the West, to Lyme Regis, where we head off for the dual purpose of a bit of shopping (there are two items on this shopping list-a piss pot and a smock) and because 45-55 mph winds are predicted for the day. As these are coming from the South West, backing South at times, it promises to be a lively seafront to walk along when we feel the need to escape the shops. There is the added bonus of it being a good 50 miles to drive twixt our garret and this tiny seaport, the road taking us there passing through some spectacular veiws-with the hills stretching inland on one side and the Engish Channel on the other. We are adding "shopping" to our list of reasons for heading to Lyme safe in the knowledge that this activity is only going to involve two shops, one of which is more like a museum of Britain between the years of 1900-1970. In one of these shops we know we can buy the smock, in the other we hope to find the piss pot.

Only it doesn't work out like that: the smock shop no longer stocks them, instead it now seems to be full of fleeces. Traditional Cornish Cotton gives way to recycled cola bottles. Boo, but never mind-it is a sign of the times and this minor disappointment is more than compensated by a visit to the seafront Antiques Centre-an Aladdin's Cave of all of those things from your childhood now half forgotten, but bringing forth instant memories as soon as you spot them. It is stuffed full of items that must have spent many decades in folks attics before finding their way here-branded tin containers for cough lozenges, bakelite telephones, art deco whimsy, flying helmets, metal signs, wooden toys and tin soldiers, a policeman's helmet (Tempting!) sheet music and old 78s, enamel bread bins, copper measures etc etc and-deep joy-a piss pot. £6.50, bargain! Deal done and that's enough shopping for one day.

We have a wander around the town-all Art Galleries and Fossil Shops it seems, but the lay-out of the narrow side streets, with their twists and turns making the buildings into a shantytown of crooked houses, is a relaxing place to explore. In the midst runs the River Lym, the houses situated to allow its passage to the sea, and alongside this still stands the Lepers Well where, 700 years ago a Leper Hospital was established. Nowadays,with the Hospital long gone, the area is set out as a garden and is open to non-Lepers. But our main destination is The Cobb, the harbour wall protecting the small anchorage, whose enigmatic presence has drawn folk to Lyme Regis for centuries and inspired writers and artists to capture its essence in their work.

The Cobb. It was created in the 13th Century or maybe earlier, nobody can agree on this one though-in the manner of "experts" everywhere-many claim to know for sure. It went through various incarnations until it arrived at what you see today in 1820. At one time important as one of Dorsets' four ports (the other three being Bridport, Weymouth and Poole) what it has now lost in its position as a seaport has been more than compensated by it retaining its character. From the earliest structure, built of wood, through to the later designs in stone it has taken the battering of the sea in its worst fury and, occasionally, fallen. It protects the town of Lyme Regis which built up around it and when The Cobb fell then parts of the town went with it. The doggedness of the folk who, undaunted, rebuilt both Cobb and town can be seen on this day on a much smaller scale in the few like ourselves determined to take a stroll along The Cobb. The strong winds are sending the seas crashing into the sea wall and some of these waves are being driven over the top and down onto the unwary with the force of a swimming pool falling out of the sky without warning. Fully grown adults are indulging themselves in a playground game of "Dodge the Waves" whilst their kids look on in bafflement before joining in the fun with enthusiasm. The Durogantes get through, and back, with just a comparatively light splattering from the spray and enjoy the spectacle of those whose timing was not so fortunate, resulting in a good soaking. Savage humour? Nah, its all in the spirit of fun and none are laughing more than those who copped a wave.

TO SEE THE MAY DAY IN............

2009-05-06T11:57:00.000-07:00

...............The alarm clock was set for 3am to give us plenty of time to wake up fully, eat and then dive into the depths of the Dorset countryside. It is May Day and, without any undue fuss, all over the country folk will be rising early to see in the dawn on the first day of summer. It is a tradition, once strong in these isles, which has largely died out-but is still alive and kicking (literally, once the Morris Dancers get going!) in most, if not all, counties. The Durogantes are heading towards Cerne Abbas to join in the celebrations there simply because it involves climbing up a bloody great big hill in order to do so. As we leave our garret at 4am the seagulls which usually wake us up at 5am screech and squawk at us in dismay: having got themselves into the routine of pissing us off two hours before we would prefer to be awake, this early rising has taken them by surprise. Gleefully we stick two fingers up at them to show our adversaries contempt in our small victory.

Cerne Abbas sits in the Valley of the River Cerne and is known worldwide for the 180 foot high carving on Trendle Hill above the village. The origin of this carving is unclear (and therefore the subject of much conjecture and debate) but it is not only impressive it is wonderfully explicit-that it has survived at all is a minor miracle given that society has a problem with human genitals displayed in public. The carving is commonly known as 'The Cerne Abbas Giant' but whether its creators intended to portray a giant or a large scale figure of an ordinary mortal is, again, unknown. Theories on who the figure is supposed to represent include, in no particular order, a Danish giant (who was leading an invasion and who was beheaded by the people of Cerne as he slept on the hill), the Roman God Hercules, Oliver Cromwell, an Abbott called Thomas Corton or a Pagan Fertility Symbol. All of these are feasible but let's hope the answer is never found, there being a certain appeal in some things remaining a mystery.

Above the carving, at the top of the hill, is an enclosure known as the Trendle the origins of which once again are uncertain (are you starting to get the impression that the good folk of Cerne enjoyed a bit of secrecy or two ?) Some say it is a small iron age earthwork while others insist it was not created until the 1700s as a spot to place the village maypole. Whatever the truth of it, today a small group of folk are making the arduous climb up to the Trendle half of whom have bells attached to their legs-the Wessex Morris Men. They are a much maligned breed, the countrys Morris Dancers, but only by those who are equally unable to cope with anybody doing anything out of the ordinary.

High on the hill the fog which has been forecast for shortly after dawn is only manifesting itself in the occasional wisp. In the growing light the view is spectacular, taking in the valley below and the hills in the distance. Everybody is out of breath after the climb especialy the bloke who has carried the Dorset Ooser up to take part in the celebrations for it is no small bit of kit. This mask, representing the Horned God Cernnunes, has been part of local folklore for many centuries. As another name for the Horned God is Cerne his appearance here each May Day is possibly highly appropriate - though if there is any connection between the Horned God and the name of the village we've no doubt that it is a local secret.

Now to the dancing and the stars of the show-the Wessex Morris Men. Even at 05.15 and after climbing the bloody big hill there are great elements of humour, entertainment and energy with their dancing in the dawn-the po-faced traditionalists of modern perception they certainly aint! Besides the dancers themselves there are about twenty or so folk like ourselves who have come as spectators, both to the dancers and the sunrise, but you know that even if nobody came to watch these guys would still be up here having fun. As with most, if not all, Morris sides the Wessex Morris Men have a Fool-a character dressed in a smock and carrying an inflated pigs bladder tied to the end of a short stick. This latter he uses to beat any of the dancers not keeping to the correct steps and also to keep the spectators in line. We noticed that this guy is obviously somewhat older than the rest of the side but it was not until we checked out their website that we discovered he was one of the founders of the Wessex Morris Men. As this was back in 1957 it would put his age now into his 70's-and still fit enough to dance energetically after climbing up a bloody big hill before dawn. Hats of to Jim!

Getting down the hill is a lot harder work than getting up, the steepness combines with the slipperyness, but thoughts of a fry-up overrides all else and sees us down without mis-hap. To add to the mornings' fun a Hare popped out of a field at the side of the road, gave us a friendly wink and disappeard back from where it had come. It was as if it had been waiting for us, the Spirit of the Fields. Following breakfast we head for Glastonbury and by 9am we are sat on the Tor-our second bloody big hill of the day and well worth it to sit and look out over Somerset under a clear blue sky. Then off to the cheese farm to pick up the Masters posh cheese (see earlier post 'Glastonbury and Cheese'. It will not enlighten you much as to why we do this but it will show that this behaviour is not out of character for us) The rest of the day we spend relaxing in the town, watching the world go by and the pageantry taking place in the market square; which involves more dancing, the crowning of the May King and Queen, music and folk stopping work for a day to take part: Glastonbury certainly knows how to celebrate! As a special treat to ourselves, on our way home we stop off at Heck's the Scrumpy farm for a couple of gallons of their finest straight out of the barrel. Summer has arrived.

STUDLAND: SANDHOPPERS AND MERECATS

2009-04-19T13:31:00.000-07:00

It is a foggy morning in April - which means that the sun will have burned off the mist by lunchtime and turn a dull late winters day into a bright early spring one. The Mudhoppers decided that enough mud has been hopped upon and, for a change, we will find some sand that we can get between our toes. The met office confirms that the day will warm up greatly by one o'clock so we head through the mist toward Studland. Here not only can we enjoy the fresh sea air but we have the added bonus of being able to do so naked.

To get to Studland involves crossing the entrance to Poole Harbour on a chain ferry from the Sandbanks Peninsula. Sandbanks is most noted these days for its property prices, six or seven bedroom homes costing anything up to £8 million (and rising). Last year a 5 year old property was acquired by a Russian businessman who liked the location but needed one additional bedroom than the house boasted - so he had the place demolished and it is currently being rebuilt with one extra room. The bloke spent £5m on the property and will have spent a further £5m by the time the new one is completed. Such properties are not set into massive acres of land, proberly no more than the combined space occupied by a pair of 1960s semi-detached council houses, but the location is now the 4th most expensive place on the planet to buy a house. And just a few minutes ferry ride from this display of unimaginable wealth lies Studland, mile upon mile of unspoilt and unique countryside which no amount of money could buy.

The uniqueness of Studland is in the wildness of the landscape. Situated at the western end of Poole Bay, the sea meets a wide sandy beach uncluttered with the trappings of a "seaside resort". Beyond the beach are sand dunes, rather than a promenade of amusement arcades and ice cream or fish and chips parlours. The dunes cover a narrow band that in turn becomes heathland, a vast expanse of heather dotted with marshes -"quags" as they are called in this part of the world. The backdrop to all of this is the high chalk cliffs beyond Studland village which stretch inland as the Purbeck hills. Today we are following the shoreline from where the ferry lands us at the slipway towards the village-a good hour or so's walk each way. The first part of this walk will take us along Shell Bay, so called for the great number of sea shells which get washed ashore here. Being so close to the ferry it is a beach which gets quite crowded during the summer, and where bathers are swimming and playing in the sea just a few hundred yards away from the deep water lanes where cross-channel ferries sail in and out of the harbour.

At the end of Shell Bay Studland Bay starts its long sweep around to Old Harry Rocks, today lost in the mist. A quick glance skywards convinces us that the sun is indeed starting to burn this away. This stretch of coastline has much history to it, the two most notable involving battles. One of these was a brilliant example of people power, the other a bit of military history which beggars belief. This latter was during WWII, just prior to the D-Day landings in France. Realising that Studland Bay very closely resembled the Normandy coastline and beaches they decided to use the place for a practice run before the main event. So far, so good: it makes a lotof sense as and when invasions of enemy held territory are deemed necessary. But somewhere along the line some bright spark in the war office came up with a mind- bogglingly stupid idea of subjecting our own troops to live fire during the course of this rehearsal. Apparantly the thinking behind this strategy was that it would make the poor buggars who were taking part aware of what the Jerries were going to do to them on the day. And it also must have been just as harrowing for the troops behind the triggers-knowing that they were loosing off bullets and shells at their own side. Then, after the event which was observed by The King, Churchill, Eisenhower and a few others from the safety of a bunker, the top brass decided that putting their own troops under fire "proberly hadnt been necessary". Just think of the money they could have saved if they had asked the troops their opinion of the idea before the event.

About thirty years on from the above another, somewhat more subtle, battle took place-namely the naturists vs the authorities. At that time Studland beach was very little used, mainly due to it only being accessible on foot and a fair walk from the nearest place to park a car. This huge deserted stretch of beach, not overlooked by any properties, was seen as the perfect place by the nudists to use as their own. Nudity being then, as now to a lesser extent, something of a highly contentious issue. This inevitably caused outrage in some quarters. Despite the fact that it was happening out of the public eye, by folk who would quickly cover themselves when they saw members of the general public approaching, it was illegal and therefore had to be stamped upon. But the problem for those who would wish to stop the nude sunbathers is that, in view of the isolated position of the beach, it was impossible to catch them with their trousers down, so to speak. By the time the boys in blue reached the beach, having been spotted coming a mile off, the nudists were clothed. Finally, with no other option open to the powers that be, the area was designated as an "official" naturist beach.

This did bring its own problems-pervs. Once news started spreading that people were using Studland Beach to sunbathe nude the dirty raincoat brigade began to hide themselves in the sand-dunes. From this point, binoculars in hand, they would spend hours looking at people with no clothes on. Sad but true. Unfortunately some of these people thought that the liberal attitude shown toward the naturists meant that Studland was a sexual free-for-all area: there were soon cases being heard in the local courts concerning indecent behaviour in the dunes. Fortunately, and sensibly, this problem was dealt with as a seperate issue to the use of the beach by bona-fide naturists, (which no doubt pissed off one member of the local council. This individual later admitted that the only reason he had supported the moves to make the beach an "official" naturist one was to then use the inevitable "perv problem" as an excuse to stop the activities of the nudists on the beach completely, a sort of divide-and-conqueor policy)

Today, with thirty years of use, Studland Beach is now fully accepted as a mixed use beach. With signposts at each end of the designated area warning the unwary that naturists may be encountered, and outside of the perv community (whose activities have been seriously curtailed by the establishing of a police station in Studland village, specificaly to keep the area well patrolled), families, both naturists and non naturist, walkers and equestrians all mingle on the beach quite happily- which is exactly how it should be: a good example of the "live and let live" philosophy in action. With the fog still surrounding us, however, we are keeping our clothes well and truly on-until the forecasted sunny afternoon breaks through.

The walk around the Bay eventually brings us into Studland village, unspoilt and clinging to the side of a hill. Here we find the aforementioned police station (pictured) tiny and thatched. On the clifftop stands Fort Henry, the 90 foot long bunker from where the D-Day rehearsal was observed by the King, top brass, and war leaders. It is possible to go inside, whch you may want to do but only once out of curiosity. It's a spooky place, though not dark inside it has a strange and uncomfortable feel to it. Just outside of one of the entrances is a memorial stone to the troops killed during the practise run when their Valentine tank (which was a semi-submersible model also known as a "swimming" tank ) sank after being launched from a landing craft. Just beyong Fort Henry the clifftop path leads to the part of the village where the Norman Church (though there is still evidence of the original Saxon church still visible) stands. This rugged little building has some wonderful glimpses of "hidden history" around it-not least in the carvings to be seen around the corbels. They depict carnal sins and before suffering at the hands of the iconoclasts would have been a much more graphic display than any thing that the pervs in the nearby sand dunes could come up with. Even after a combination of the wilful destruction and centuries of weathering there is still evidence that though nowadays some women may complain that many men do not know where to find a clitoris, the stonemasons who produced these carvings certainly did. We have no doubt that some discoveries did get lost ever the centuries.

This church also has a bricked-up North door, something that can occasionaly still be clearly seen in the early churches. This practise came about due to the buildings being erected at a time when christianity first came to these shores and co-existed quite happily alongside followers of the native pagan religions. Eventually christianity took more of a hold, usually by forcing it's beliefs and festivals upon the community and paganism was driven underground. At this time churches would have doors in both the South and the North walls and it soon became apparent to the clergy that folk who still adhered to the Old Religion would use the North door of a church-the North being where the Earth Goddess and Gods reside. So eventually these doors were bricked up in order to further deny the populace the right to worship as they chose.

By now it is early afternoon and the sun and the fog have obviously not read the weather forecast-or, if they have, they are ignoring it. There is no sign of the bright sunshine which we hoped to take advantage of during the afternoon. No matter, there will be sunny days to come and Studland beach will still be there to welcome our naked bits. In the meantime we retrace our steps to the ferry along Studland beach laughing occasionaly at the pervs who, pointlessly considering the coldness of the mist, are hding in the sand dunes and popping their heads up (like so many merecats) in the hope of seeing a naked body.

BREAMORE: WE ARRIVED WITH THE LAMB AND LEFT WITH THE LION

2009-03-13T12:59:00.000-07:00

The A338 between Ringwood and Salisbury is one of those routes which takes you through a lot of open countryside interspersed with the occasional village along the way. One of these villages is Breamore and, to the average motorist on their way from A to B, it appears like most others of it's kind. A road sign giving a name, another advising of a 30mph speed limit followed by a mile of houses on each side of the road. There and gone in the blink of an eye. But if Breamore is your destination and you turn off the main road and into the village proper prepare yourself for a pleasant surprise: there just aint nowhere else like it!

Within seconds of leaving the A338 you will find yourself driving into a unique village scene, the layout of which has remained unchanged for centuries. There are no rows of houses, instead the cottages are dotted around in small clusters with wide open spaces between them. It is a culture-shock when you first see it and it never loses it's appeal through familiarity. This is probably because it does not fall into the picture-postcard category. The homes were built for agricultural workers and country tradesman and although it may now house a much more affluent section of society, there is still the rugged atmosphere of it's original purpose within it. Driving through this part of the village takes you up to Breamore House, a saxon church and, most importantly, the countryside beyond.

We park by the church and start walking up the footpath leading to the woods beyond. No ordinary footpath this, it is also at the start, the driveway for Breamore House: This imposing 16th C. Manor House is home to the Hulse family - apparantly there are three generations of them living there at any one time. They are Baronets, or some such similar but the riff-raff are permited to walk through their front garden and so close to the house we can almost see through their windows. And as these are titled people it does not seem like an invasion of their privacy to do so. It is what they are there for.

Once past the house the driveway becomes a bridleway which climbs steadily through an ancient woodland. Amongst the Beech, Horse Chestnut and Oaks are more Yew trees than are usually found in one place: old, proud and magnificent. The rugged atmosphere is more intense beyond the village, there is a rawness to this place which can be summed up by a sight we observed on one of our previous mudhops here: about five hundred yards ahead of us a rabbit had come out of the wood on the left. It was not in any particular hurry and we thought no more about it until, a couple of minutes later, a fox came out of the wood in the same spot. Following the trail of the rabbit, it disappeared in the direction of it's prey. Not long after a panicked squawking from the wood suggested that Reynard had come across a pheasant instead. To witness hunter, hunted and victim whilst out walking (as opposed to a wildlife programme ) is rare indeed, but it did not seem at all unusual to encounter it here. Breamore Woods has this wildness to it which is is palpable.

The path up through the woods eventually leads into farmland, wide corn growing fields on each side. The bridleway here is lined on each side with Yew and Hawthorn, like a processional leading to the last part of the hill. At it's summit is a small wood comprising almost entirely of yew trees, one of the comparatively few such woods in the country and the only one in Hampshire. This in itself makes the climb up this hill worthwhile but it has still more to offer, in the clearing in the middle of this wood is the Miz Maze.

The Miz Maze is not a maze in the sense that most folk understand the word, it is a labyrinth cut into turf. It's age is unknown, and open to a lot of debate, but what is certain is that such labyrinths (there are about eight known still remaining in these Isles) have a connection going way back to Brutus of Troy, by legend the first King of Britain. It is designed in such a way that a raised path can be followed through a series of twists and turns through a pattern which never crosses itself and leads you into its' centre. (The name "Miz" is almost certainly a shortened version of "mizzled" - a dialect word in some Southern counties which is derived from "mis-led" and is used to mean "confused".) This one now has a fence around it to prevent further erosion caused by it being walked.This is frustrating but , sadly, necessary. It would be even sadder to see it damaged even more than it is already, while to take measures to strengthen it would also destroy it.

Today we mudhoppers follow the bridleways and footpaths on the other side of the Yew wood which take us on a circuitous route back to Breamore woods. In doing so we pass a field where last year we saw a pair of hares ears. This field was a sea of ripened corn at the time and as we passed a pair of ears suddenly popped up. The hare had no doubt heard us and was using it's ears radar-like to check on our progress. For a full five minutes as we walked close to where it, probably, had a few leverets to protect, it's ears remained stuck out over the height of the crops. This is the longest that either os us has been able to study a hare in the wild, though it would have been more satisfying to see the rest of it too. It was during this walk that the month of March decided to give a display of it's contrasts: the day had started in it's lamb aspect with sunshine and a breeze. The breeze became suddenly a wind which grew in strength until, by the time we got back to the wood, it had become the lion. The sound of it howling through the trees was incredible, almost deafening: this is real Durogante weather and to experience it here was a highlight of the day. The topmost branches of the trees were being bent to such an angle that you wondered why they did not break, whilst lower down in the fields dried leaves were being thrown into the air: here they swirled around as if performing a crazy dance in mid-air like so many whirling dervishes.

We made our way back to the village following a path on the far side of the woods to the one which we normaly use. Not knowing this path, nor even caring whether or not it would take us back to where we'd parked up the car, eventually meant that we had to do a few short cuts across fields. This turned out to be a good thing. It took us past the other side of the Manor House - different windows to try and look into. It finally lead us into the churchyard, where stands a Yew tree to top them all, the trunk at its base must be about five foot across and from this trunk grows a ring of individual trees. They say that Yews hold the spirits of the dead and that their faces can be seen in the bark of the trees; looking at this one you can see where they got that idea, it's full of them.

BADBURY RINGS

2009-03-02T12:20:00.000-08:00

It is that time of year when, from a distance, the countryside is still in winter. But, much closer to, there are definite signs of spring with the buds starting to show on the trees and early flowers pushing their way out in the hedgerows. Rooks are to be seen collecting nesting materials, some of the twigs they are carrying in their beaks so large it makes you wonder how they can manage to fly. The countryside smells different too: gone is the heavy dampness from the air which accentuates the decay of winter. In its place on days such as this, when the drying easterly winds coupled with a few days of sunshine have freshened the fields, are the subtle aromas of growth. Subtle because the growth is, as yet, almost imperceptable but it is there nethertheless. And, although we know full well that it is the time for Mother Nature to be preparing for the return of spring, this in no way diminishes the pleasure in walking through the countryside and noticing the signs. It happens every year but it still takes us by surprise: this is not because we forget but, as with all creatures of the earth, our species needs this wake-up call at the changing of the seasons.

The mudhoppers have, due to work, been pretty much house-bound for a week se we head off to Badbury Rings to change the back-drop. This hillfort lies in the Dorset landscape like a sleeping giant, no less magnificent in it's slumber. We come here regularly but rarely go to the rings themselves, our feet tending to lead us off into the many bridleways which surround the fort and have taken us, on occasions, on much longer walks than we had intended. It is a piece of countryside which draws you in and makes you want to explore just that little bit further, along tracks which were first established long before the Roman occupation of this area. The evidence of these earliest settlers is not only in the many barrows which dot the fields but also, when stood on higher ground, being able to see how these straight tracks allign with villages in the distance. Very slightly more recent history can be seen in names such as "Kings Wood" and "Kings Down", relics from the era of the division into kingdoms. It is at this latter place where our walk is accompanied by a huge Buzzard circling low over the fields just to our right: it is so close that we can see the detail in it's feathers.

Here too we come across a barn. So what? Well, there was a time when barns were solid structures built of stone or wood. Nowadays they are more likely to be erected using steel girders clad with modern, flimsy looking, sheets of plastic. In between these two developments were the barns such as this one at Kings Down Farm, the lower sections being old railway sleepers stood upright and the upper being clad in sheets of corrugated iron. This sheeting may have looked good when first put into place but now it is rusted and bent in places, whch gives it a charm not quite old-worlde but a charm all of it's own. Inside the barn smells wonderful: a "farmyard smell", more commonly known as shit. It is pungent, but not enough so to burn the nostrils, and reminiscent of the hen-houses that most folk used to have in their back garden. High up in one corner is a nesting box for Barn Owls, birds that we have occasionaly seen here at early evening hunting over the fields.

Having come from an era when history lessons at school would have us believe that everything started with the Romans, we tend to ignore this aspect in favour of the real history of these Isles. But in this landscape it is impossible to do so, it almost breathes Roman Britain. There is no obvious reason for this, apart from the ordinance surveys maps showing the "sites of" there are few remaining signs of them actually being here. But, sometimes, walking these bridleways gives a feeling that the legions passed through here only moments before. This is a sense much stronger than is sometimes felt in places where their presence is still plain to see-such as Roman Baths etc. It's as if their aura still lingers, tramped into the countryside as they marched through.

Today this gets us talking about the Romans ( no, this blog is not about to sink into a series of quotes from "life of Brian".) who we reckon were nothing more than a bunch of thugs really. They just seemed to go around mob-handed pushing folk around - which aint particuarly clever: any crowd of boot- boys can do that ! And their treatment of any who resisted them was a bit over the top, all that butchering and wholesale slaughter: plus the stuff in the arena, blood letting as a form of public entertainment. These are the people who history teachers told us had civilised our country! It just went to prove early on that a structured society is not necessarilly a good thing. Ok so they were good at sticking up a few poncey buildings, but as they could only maintain the structure of their empire with a sodding great big army, it must have been pretty crap.

By now you must be thinking that we Mudhoppers have a fairly low opinion of the Romans. But this has to be balanced against where we agree that they did get something right. This is in their ability to celebrate their festivals in he most impressively depraved manner imaginable. Youv'e got to admit that their excessive debauchery is something sadly lacking in the world today, and more's the pity we say. The recent annual festive season is a good example to use here: every year, without fail, for as long as we can remember the media is at pains to point out that, to most folk, xmas is more stress than it is worth. Of course it is in the way that people feel that they have ought to do it, the big over commercialised way! How much better it would be if folk just shut themselves away for a week and abandoned themselves to total hedonistic pleasure, a week of pushing the human frame to the limits of enjoyment in every concievable way. We have no doubt that the the three "C"s (church,chavs,and commercial outlets) may have a problem with the idea, but we certainly think it's worth serious consideration.

TYNHAM VILLAGE AND FLOWERS BARROW

2009-02-04T13:10:00.000-08:00

Just over half an hours drive away from the town lies the ruined village of Tynham. Here we are using the word "ruined" but many others are used to describe this place: "ghost", "deserted", "stolen", "destroyed", "evacuated", being but a few. The place lies in a deep valley running down to the sea in the Isle of Purbeck. To reach it entails driving along A roads, B roads and then finally down a country lane which drops into the valley. This has to be one of the most uniquely beautiful places in Purbeck and within it sits a national disgrace.

In 1943 the army needed to borrow Tynham in order to use the valley as a training ground. Not wishing to put the villagers in danger from marauding tanks they evacuated them out "During the Present Emergency" - official speak for World War Two. The occupants left sadly but uncomplaingly: after all, they were doing their bit for the war effort and they had been promised that they could return once the war was won. This was sixtyfive years ago and the army are still there. The homes of the people of Tynham, once they were put into in Army hands, were allowed to fall into such a state of neglect that they began to crumble and fall down. Now there are just parts of the outer walls standing. Since 1978 limited public access has been allowed to the "ghost village" and it has become a tourist attraction. It is a fascinating place to wander around, a village caught in time, but it also has a sadness to it's history which overides this. It perhaps would have been better if the buildings had been completely removed as soon as the MOD decided to break their promise to the villagers. This would have spared them the added heartbreak of witnessing the result of the total neglect of their homes.

During the sixties and early seventies there were a few attempts by displaced inhabitants to regain their village. In this day and age there is no doubt that the word "compensation" would be screamed from the rooftops but, to these villagers, money was not an issue: It was simply the wish to return to their homes. The MOD stayed largely tight-lipped in their response to these endeavours - after all, the nations imminent danger of nuclear was with Russia far outweighed the wishes of a small handfull of civilians. When the army did decided to speak out in their own defence it was with the most ridiculous piece of PR guff imaginable: they claimed that their occupation of this land had been the conservationists dream-come-true!

The thinking behind this statement, converted into hard print by a publicity department somewhere, ran thus; that by keeping this land for their own use they had prevented it from becoming over developed. In turn this had created a haven for wildlife which had flourished in the valley, free from the danger of their natural habitats being destroyed by the encroachment of man. Noble sentiments indeed, but rather empty when you look around the rest of Purbeck. The whole area, and it is a large one, remains unspoilt and underdeveloped. Wildlife flourishes throughout the Isle in great abundance, not to any greater or lesser extent in parts of it in MOD hands.

But it has to be acknowledged that the villagers campaign to return to their homes is now a piece of history. Those who fought for promises to be kept have now passed away or have accepted that there is no longer any village to return to. There are many who would point out that if the village had not been allowed to crumble then, by now, it would not be in the possession of local folk anyway. The houses would now be in the ownership of moneyed people from various parts of the country, most of whom would be using them as weekend/holiday retreats. Whilst this is probably true, it is a seperate issue to the fact that the inhabitants were denied their wish to return and live out their lives in their own homes. After all, they left in good faith.

From Tynham we walked the short distance to Worbarrow Bay, one of those parts of the Countrys' coastline which has long attracted visitors from far and wide. Why? Who can say. There are many such places throughout the world that draw people simply because they want to see it. Mother Natures art and sculpture galleries, dotted around purely for asthetic purposes: we may be simple mudhoppers but we knows what we likes! But today we are here not only to enjoy the scenery, we have set ourselves a goal. Before we left our garret that morning we had promised ourselves that we would go and find a bloody big hill to climb up - one that we had not climbed before. There is such a hill which follows the sweep of Worbarrow Bay to the West, this was to be the remedy for our growing restlessness - the feeling that had been creeping up for a couple of weeks previously. It was reminding us that we had not climbed up any bloody big hills for a while. Other mudhoppers may possibly look at a map, or do a bit of research, before heading off up a path. In this way they would know what to expect to find, not only en-route but also at their destination. Sometimes we do this, but more often than not we make such decisions on a "lets-go-there-and-see-what-its-like" basis. So it was with the climb from Worbarrow to Flowers Barrow.

That the hill we set off to ascend fell into the catagory of bloody big was obvious as soon as we looked at it . Big and beautiful and exactly what we were looking for. The further we rose from sea level the more we would be rewarded with spectacular views. To our left this was the Purbeck coastline, where even on calm days the sea throws itself against rocky cliffs. In the distance the Isle of Portland sat wedged-shaped in the haze, while closer to seabirds squabbled over optimum perching places. To our right the hills falling into valleys, green farmland where calmly grazing livestock gave a peacefulness to their surroundings. Halfway up the climb, just as we were really starting to feel the effects of our lack of exercise for a fortnight or so, it became a steep hill.

Steep? If the incline was any sharper it would be classed as a cliff! I dont think that either of us had ever seen such a steep hill before in out lives. (actually, we have probably not only seen them but climbed them also. The previous sentence is just there to add a bit of emphasis to this particular hill. Indulge us ,dear readers.) It was hard work on our our bloody big hill climbing muscles, to the point that if one of us had insisted on abandoning the effort the other would have been secretly gratefull. We would then have congratulated ourselves on getting thus far and assurred each other that we had done well. As neither of us was prepared to wimp out, however, we carried on ever upwards- all the time avoiding the temptation to look behind us. The threat of vertigo was very real. Our objective was the artificial mound atop the hill which we had spotted from the start: this, we had assumed, was Flowers Barrow.

Only it wasn't. Eventualy reaching the end of the climb, expecting to find a barrow, we discovered ourselves instead walking into a neolithic hill fort. This was the perfect reward for our exertions: not only for the chance it gave us to sit down knowing that the path would be downwards from here on, but also because we did not know that this hill-fort existed. And it is a fine example of these ancient defences so common in this part of the country, mainly due to its builders having to fully utilise the landscape in which it sits. There is little of the uniformity to be found at, say, Maiden Castle nor is there any sense that this would be an ideal place for such a structure. The thought and energy expended by the people (whom our history teachers at school would have us believe were dull-witted) is incredible to comprehend. That the "hows and whys" of these hill-forts are still not fully understood by those who study them only adds to the appeal for Durogante Mudhoppers: it is almost, but not quite, as if we are walking amongst a neolithic joke- one that keeps people guessing.

MUDHOPPING INTO 2009

2009-01-03T08:04:00.000-08:00

We live in a garret, for an artist and a writer this gives us an idyllic edge to our existence. To many creative minds out there it is the ideal situation to be in whilst struggling to achieve recognition. It is the very cliche of a garret: hot and stuffy in the warm weather and difficult to heat in this present cold snap. In this way it gives extra impetus to our creativity, driving us to produce work which will hopefully sell. It is furnished with little regard to home comforts: where others may have a sofa we have a writing table, in the corner where a television would dominate instead stands an easel. All the paraphenalia needed to create is given it's place, secure from harm. The rest of our few belongings are stuffed into corners like so much baggage. If they get themselves trodden on as we move around our garret then it is their own stupid fault.

From this base, as the fancy takes us, we go mudhopping. This singular activity might, to the casual observer, appear as rambling, hiking, or simply going for a walk. Given our approach to the pursuit is is all of these things and none of them. Mudhopping shows no respect for the usual conventions regarding the above pastimes, our feet ever eager to take us off the beaten track. This inability to resist exploring had taken us through brambles and over barbed wire. On the occasions when we became lost we found ourselves.

On one memorable occasion we climbed up a very steep hill, through some thick clay mud at it's base. It was raining steadily and the higher we climbed the harder this was driven by a keen wind. At the top we made our way across some fields to a hillfort, upon which cattle were grazing. We entered the field by the same gate that the livestock had used - this much was clear by the large number of cowpats in our path. And each of these still wet cowpats had the imprint of a small wellie in it's centre- a child out for a walk had made a point of stepping on every single one ! This carefree attitude to the great outdoors put our mud spattered boots and clothes to shame.

Always we have found inspiration, mainly because mudhopping is a good way to clear the mind. Added to this are the obvious benefits of fresh air and exercise, but the great advantage in it is the never knowing what we will encounter. With no signs or maps to follow a day can be full of the unexpected. In it's way this is a perfect exercise for creative minds.

The Avebury paintings: we only intended to put photographs to go with the writing on this blog, but we may also put paintings on from time to time. The two included here (The Maiden and Circle Dance) are a result of our wanderings around Avebury, Wiltshire. People from all over the world visit this place, each for their own reasons. Some simply because it is an organised coach trip to a "place of interest" while, at the other extreme, some are drawn to the stones through feeling a deep spiritual connection to them. In between these two ends of the spectrum lie the many other folk whose purposes are wide ranging. If there is one aspect that seems to unite them all it is the incredibly good atmosphere that permeates the circles at Avebury:- everybody goes away feeling happy. The inspiration behind these paintings was a wish to capture the playful essence that makes Avebury so.

Finally, as we go into 2009, the mudhoppers resolutions:

Be less scared of bulls. Let's face it, bulls get very bad press. Us yelping "Shit, it's a fuckin' bull!" and running away when we encountered one in a field was not, on reflection, much help at all.

Be more scared of sheep. Poor little buggers, they are so timid and run away from us for no reason whatsoever. Perhaps by us running away from them for a change will instil a sense of bravado in them. Who knows, if everybody was to join in with us on this then pretty soon the sheep will be swaggering around like so many woolly John Waynes.

WINTER SOLSTICE. WE CELEBRATE.

2008-12-23T12:03:00.000-08:00

Do we attract a certain surrealness into our lives, we ask ourselves. Or is it the time of year, the conjunction of the planets or simply the fact that it has always been there and we just notice it at some times more than at others ? Who knows, or indeed cares: it is enough for us that our weekend away in deepest Wiltshire has a good dose of the surreal to increase our enjoyment of the Winter Solstice.

It starts in our Bed and Breakfast Inn, set in a wonderful location: a quiet village which spreads itself out through the surrounding fields. Wherever you stand in this place the sights and smells of agricultural England is all around you. The Inn itself sits very well amongst all of this, as opposed to the (too) many such establishments which have been extended into "family eateries". Financial dictates have changed and many pubs have had to change with them, this cannot be denied, but it is good to come across one which is unspoilt. Better still we are staying in it.

So much for outside of the Inn. Inside is where the surreal starts: we are shown into our room by the landlady who accompanies all of her speech with much wringing of the hands, bows and over-exaggerated smiles. She is wonderful ! Rather like a caricature of Basil Fawlty at his most ingratiating, she is so over the top that it would be impossible to be offended by her insincerity. Our room is so comfortable that we did not feel we were walking into it, more a sensation of melting into it. For the following twelve hours or so this will be our home and it proved to be a perfect escape from the noisy High Street upon which we live. Not even the eccentricities of the en-suite toilet could spoil our night.

If anything the fact that the shit-house declared it's independance when we were on the verge of sleep only gave cause for delight: it was then that we discovered that when the toilet in the room next door was flushed it made ours loudly gurgle and bubble. It was a sound to give rise to images of the Pooh Pooh Monster emerging from the depths of the pan. Being of an age where we have left such childhood fancies behind us such images held no terror. Instead we dissolved into fits of rum soaked giggles whenever it happened. Such was the lullaby that eventually accompanied our drift into the land of nod.

It was also our alarm clock the following morning: it seemed that the folks in the next room were arising early. As this happened shortly before we had intended to be awake anyway, the disturbance was not a problem. It was the start of the shortest day and we were in perfect surroundings to fully appreciate the dawn. Over the field to the left of the Inn an owl was still hunting even as it started getting light. We had this symbol of the night until it's end, at which point the rooks and crows took over the field and announced the daytime with their raucous cries. It was during our waking up process that the en-suite toilet, seemingly in an act of pique at our refusal to take it seriously, became rebellious and refused to flush turds away.

After a cooked breakfast downstairs we packed up to leave the Inn and set off for a days mudhopping. Before we left we paid the landlady, thanked her and then, heading towards the door, informed her about the blocked toilet. It was the least we could do.

Morgans Hill. The birds and beasts had welcomed in our day and then stayed with us through the morning. On our way to Morgans Hill we had diverted off to explore a path on the Marlborough Downs- one of our " where does that leads to ? " moments - and met a hare. Everybody knows that hares can run very fast but this one wanted to show off to us, to make sure that we were fully aware of how fast fast is. It is usual to only get a glimpse of one of these creatures before they bolt for cover: not so this one. We were walking down a grassy track between two fields when it was suddenly there at the side of the field to our right. It took off and ran straight ahead of us, ignoring all cover each side and giving us a good display of speed as it did so. Then there were the starlings and their air show. It is , apparently, rare to see large flocks of these birds nowadays so to have them all around us - at a little over head height - was a treat. The flock would take off from the field and create their dark mass, a shape in the air that constantly fluctuated with changes in direction. At times they seem to disappear entirely for a few seconds as you are looking at their side profile. When they then suddenly bank to swoop around in an arc, it is as if the flock has materialised in the air before you. This is an example of nature at it's most magical and knowing how the magic works does nothing to diminish it's wonder.

Climbing up to the top of Morgans Hill fires the imagination in another way. There are earthworks up here, also barrows. There is the Wandsdike cutting through it with all of these things showing usage at different times of pre-history. The name is evocative of "The Morrigan" and on occasions, when storm clouds are gathering in the sky, it could not be more aptly named. Today we are approaching it from a direction new to us attracted by a clump of trees standing atop part of the hill. It looks both intriguing and ominous mixed with more than a little inviting. We head towards these trees knowing that they were not placed here at random, we will find something amongst them. Which we do, but it is a new one on us. Having crossed a henge and ditch to get to the trees we find they surround a large bowl shaped hole dug into the ground, at a guess it's aout a hundred foot across and twenty to thirty foot deep. All around are Beech trees, their exposed roots clinging desperately to the sides of this bowl. The atmosphere in this place is very "other wordly" - so much so that had we encountered the little people we would not have been at all surprised. Normally after we have mudhopped our way up such a hill we would need to stop and get our breath back. But here we find ourselves clambouring about with new-found vitality, completely forgetting to have any theories about exactly what this place is. It has a very happy atmosphere too, which is proberly a good clue to it's secret: whatever it's use in the past it has retained a very strong energy, a very positive energy. All we can add to this is; go there, feel it and enjoy it.

Walking out of this clump of trees we can see the Wansdyke in front of us so we follow it across the rest of Morgans Hill. It is a good way to see the extent of this site and also the incredible views across this part of Wiltshire. The air is fresh and free, as it was to those who built this dyke all those thousands of years ago. Time passes but in places like this there are some things that have remained the same, in this sense we are walking with our ancestors. Above us a kestrel hovers, around us cattle and sheep are grazing giving us a connection to the present time. It is the winter solstice, and whatever else we do today, this is how we will remember it.

A HAPPY YULE TO ALL OUR READERS

2008-12-22T14:55:00.000-08:00

STONEY LITTLETON LONG BARROW

2008-12-18T12:23:00.000-08:00

We had been planning to go to Stoney Littleton for some time, but always seemed to end up somewhere else. Finally a day off was looming upon which we determined we would definatly go. Except that due to an excess of cider the night before- proper cider that is, Scrumpy: it comes out of barrels in a farmhouse, flat and cloudy. A totally different drink to the piss-water that comes fizzed up in plastic bottles, Scrumpy is a gift from Mother Nature.Where were we ? Oh yes, due to an excess of cider the night before we had overslept. Not only that, a forecasted dry day had made an error and started raining. We spent all morning trying to wake up while outside the rain increased. Another attempt to go and see this long barrow doomed to failure. Lunchtime came and we wondered what we could do with the day instead or, at least, the rest of the day. By now it was one o'clock and on a dull afternoon like this darkness would come early. Eventualy we decided that, sod it, we would go to Stoney Littleton anyway.

The drive up into Somerset was good despite the weather and an hour and a half after we set off we were within a mile or so of our destination. Then the fun began. It seemed that, for this last short distance, we were suddenly in an area of Somerset where the locals have a bitter hatred of road signs. The turning we had to take ended up being a matter of guesswork backed up with the knowledge that "it must be around here somewhere". We drove down a country lane and within a half mile started wondering if it was some kind of trick: it certainly looked like a country lane when we turned into it but, very quickly, it was only the hedgerows each side that defined it as such. It was not so much a case of "mud on the road" as "is there a road under this mud?". The unwary travellers would be forgiven for thinking that they had made a wrong turning and were actually driving across a field. Eventually though we came to a sign which read, rather reassuringly, "Stoney Littleton". We had arrived. We started looking for a sign to point us in the direction for the long barrow.

Silly us ! of course there were no signs, but it did not matter because there were equestrians. Having driven right through the village and out the other side we stopped by one of these horsey types and were pointed back to the direction from which we had just come- with the added information of where we had to turn right. Having done this we stopped alongside two more riders who gave us more exact information. Within a couple of minutes we there there- there being a small parking area for the car. From here on we would be mudhopping.

The walk up the hill to the long barrow is worth the drive in itself. With a wooden footbridge across a river, a stream to jump across, stiles and fences, it is the rural and rustic English countryside that many believe is lost in time. The blast of fresh damp air that hit us as soon as we escaped the cocoon of our vehicle lifted our spirits immediately. The hill we had to climb could not be seen as a challenge: ascending it would open up more of this countryside to us. The rain retreated back into the clouds and for the rest of the afternoon we exchanged suspicious looks with them. It was an uneasy truce.

Such is the route that the footpath up to the long barrow leads us we get no glimpse of it until we are practically there. Even then it's full potency is not apparant until you have walked around the mound and found the entrance to the passage leading into it. Then you find yourself fighting any fear of claustrophobia as it's long, low, narrow chambers pull you in. Unlike West Kennet, here you cannot stand upright. It has to be at least a crouch and in places a crawl to negotiate the passage. There are six chambers off this passage, three on each side, and one at the end. It is dark, damp and dramatic.

We spent an hour or so here. Exploring the stones by torchlight was our first priority, the neolithic builders of this tomb having used many stones that contained fossils. The largest of these is an ammonite at the entrance, clearly visible, but the rest have to be searched for in the dark. When not fossil hunting we sat in the chambers and had brief encounters with other folk who like to crawl around in burial chambers on a Sunday afternoon. It is, it has to be said, a somewhat unusual way to encounter strangers. Though they were few (it not being a well known site) the cramped space did make greetings both inevitable and easy. And although we ranged in age and dress we had two things already in common: the first has already been noted, the second is that we were all prepared to get splatted by mud in order to be here. It was our common uniform.

When we did venture outside of the barrow it was to go and stand atop the mound and look over the surrounding countryside. Even through the soggy haze the encircling hills stand out clear and proud. Grassed or wooded by turns they seem to create a barrier around this site: protective in a gentle way, like the warmth of a parents arms around a small child. A short time later, and back inside the barrow, this was echoed by a passing stranger. As we crawled into side chambers to allow him to pass he remarked, simply;

"This is the safest place on earth."

We stayed until the light started fading, by which time rain had started falling. This made the descent hazardous but fun: not even a torrential downpour would dampen our spirits in such a place. A hidden jewel, we shall return here one morning to watch the sunrise.

AVEBURY: FROZEN MUD AND MOONSHINE

2008-12-12T13:46:00.000-08:00

Just over halfway 'twixt our garret and todays destination we pass by Stonehenge. Even in mid-week and winter the coaches are rolling in from all over the country, disgorging the tourists out for this section of their itinerary. It did get us wondering what the experience must be like for the day-trippers. The posters and brochures do give the rest of the world an iconic image- the mighty stones set in the wide open space of Salisbury Plain. The reality, when they arrive, is somewhat different. Herded from the car park and through the dreary visitor centre, onto the walkways and kept away from the stones. It must be an anti-climax. Outdoor it may be but, with the fences around it and the ropes to keep the tourists on the correct pathways, the whole site does have a claustrophobic air about it.

It was noon and biting cold when we arrived at Avebury or, more precisely, the lay-by near West Kennet long barrow. Todays plan was to walk the path by the River Kennet into Avebury, eat, walk on up to Windmill Hill then back down through the Avenue, over Waden Hill and then up to the long barrow: which is how we spent the next five hours. During this time the mud which we generally squelch through showed no sign of defrosting so we clumped our way across the top of it . Having put much emphasis on the coldness it has to be said that it was a beautiful day, a clear sky filled with sunshine and a clean air that only comes with a frost.

Windmill Hill. The folk who built the hill fort here later went on to construct West Kennet, Avebury, and Silbury: this is where it all started but this hill fort has not weathered as well as the others in the area. It takes a bit of searching and guesswork to find evidence of the henges and ditches. Having said that the site has lost none of its' energy and the views all around take in many of the ancient sites in the area. We stood atop one of the barrows that sit in the fort and were joined by a dog walker passing through. During the exchange of general chit- chat common to these brief encounters, conversation fizzled out. This was nothing to do with having nothing else to say, more a shared wish to just stand and look: all around the horizen stretches into seeming infinity. Words cannot do this place justice.

After walking back down to Avebury and out through the Avenue we cut across Waden Hill where the sheep played silly buggers with the sight of the camera. They were stood on the ridge of the hill as we approached them. Silhouetted against a dramatic late afternoon sky they struck photogenic poses. However, as soon as the camera was switched on and pointed in their direction, they would then turn and present their dingle-berry encrusted arses to the lens and look back over their shoulders at us. Whilst this pose may be much used by glamour photographers and their models it was very definately not the one that we were looking for. But, after all, it was the sheeps' field and we were guests in it. Respecting their wishes, the photos were taken from a safe distance.

West Kennet Long Barrow. This was why we actually came to this place today: the night before, having a "what shall we do tomorrow" conversation, we had decided upon West Kennet. As is our wont we had taken a very roundabout route to walk to it. We reached the barrow just as it was getting dark. In the West the sky was golden yellow with the sun setting behind the distant hills. To the East a waxing moon, only two days away from full, was shining brighter and brighter as the sky darkened. Alone at this spot, we entered the barrow and walked down to the far chamber. This moment, just as daylight fades and night approaches, is when the barrow comes into its' own. There are spirits here and it is sometimes impossible not to be aware of them. They will soon let you know if you cause them displeasure but, otherwise, you soon realise that there is nothing malignant here. On this evening we only spent a short time inside the barrow, enjoying this connection to the past before we went outside again. Poets and dreamers have long looked to the moon and found magic in its' brilliance. Tonight it was our turn, we were the "girls and boys come out to play". Let the academics pontificate about the whys and wherefors of these neolithic sites we are here to enjoy ourselves: a simple exercise that involves little more than that which each of our senses gives us. There are six of these and we used them all during the following hour. If it had been summer we would have taken our clothes off, such is the sense of freedom here. The fact that we remained clothed may come across as lacking in bravado, but in December even we would have to admit that to do otherwise would have been bloody stupid.

Just before we left something that we had not realised about the long barrow before occurred to us. Standing in front of the entrance to the chambers is a row of sarsen stones All of them are quite large but the highest and widest of these stands directly in line with the entrance. Whereas in many of the ancient sites stones seem to have been placed to allow the rising sun or moon to shine through them at certain times, this one would appear to do the opposite- it blocks the light out. We walked back down the hill wondering if this was deliberate on the part of the builders and, if so, why.

Getting back to the car we hit the flask for warming cuppas before we started the two hour drive home. With the coming of the dark the biting cold had turned to bitter cold, it was time to warm up. Or so we thought. Instead, on a whim, as we headed along the A4 we decided to turn off toward The Avenue at Avebury, to walk it in the dark.

It is said that the folk who live close to the stones will not venture into them after dark. We had done this once before and we could quite understand why, there is a lot of inexplicable activity around the stones at night. Some of them have a dull light around them, making them appear bigger. Others seem to be moving. We have wondered if this was a trick of our eyes but, if this is the case, it does seem strange that it does not happen in other places where we walk after dark.

As we approached the parking space near the start of the Avenue we were treated to the sight of a barn owl in flight, the brightness of the moon making it look huge and silver. Once parked and into the stones this moonlight gave the same effect to our surroundings. The grass, from which that mornings frost had not disappeared, glistened and crisped beneath our footsteps. The stones showed up as in daylight and cast long shadows. The air temperature had dropped even further and the car had started warming up temptingly. We looked along the Avenue of stones stretching up the hill into the darkness and we knew that nothing would stop us from doing what we had come to do. We walked, it was beautiful.

GLASTONBURY AND CHEESE

2008-12-08T07:37:00.000-08:00

Today we rose with the cockerel-or we would have done if we lived out in the country. As it is we live within a hundred yards of the sea so we rose with the seagulls. Those of you with romantic notions of living by the sea probably do not take the seagulls into consideration. Believe us, they are a pain in the arse, especially when they are waking you up in the morning. Dont believe us ? OK, look up a list of "songbirds", you will not find seagull on it; we rest our case. Their squawks can only be likened to the sound of the Bee Gees trying to sing with serious throat infections. But today the seagulls were forgiven, we wanted to wake up with them to make the most of the short winter daylight hours. Today we were on a mission : like so many millions before us we were heading towards Glastonbury as seekers. We felt the pull of the ancient Isle of Avalon Unlike the vast majoritory of those millions, however, we went in search of cheese.

Cheese ? OK, let's be honest here, the cheese was really just the flimsy excuse that we were using for a day out in Glastonbury. A mate had asked us if we were intending to go up that way at all in the near future and, if so, could we go to a farm and pick up a box of cheese that he'd ordered. He has a restaurant, a posh restaurant, and this was posh cheese y'see. We had a scrap of paper with directions on it of the "follow the old lane until you find a farm, go into the farmyard and in an outhouse you will find a box of cheese" variety, which, though vague, was a lot more precise than most seekers get when they head towards Glastonbury.In actual fact most people find Glastonbury by mistake: it is what they find at a time in their lives when they are , in reality, looking for themselves. Such is the power of this wonderful place that they then stay, or keep returning, hoping to find "an answer", some walk away disappointed, not realising that the secret of Glastonbury is that if you ask it nothing it will give you everything.

So, today, we went to get a good dose of everything and Petes' cheese. Being the sort of folk who definately do not view gluttony as a sin, the timing of the journey fits around a breakfast involving the frying pan before we start and Burns the Bread when we arrive. For those who do not know, Burns the Bread is a small bakers shop in Glastonbury high street which is the tastiest downfall of weight watchers clubs in the land. Even if you are not a seeker of the truth you now have a reason to go to Glastonbury. Once you have tasted the fare you could be quite forgiven for thinking that the town has nothing else to offer: you would be quite wrong but, if you need to, go back into the bakers and buy something else to munch on while you ponder. We do and we don't need to ponder.

Now, this might sound ridiculous but it is a fact: if a person, male or female, decided to walk down Glastonbury high street wearing flippers, a kilt, a boob tube and a busby nobody would take a blind bit of notice. On the other hand, nobody is expected to dress in such an outlandish fashion. Basically, it is a place where everybody fits in, there is no "norm"which makes it an incredibally relaxed place to be. During the first half hour that we were there we had a good chat with a druid, became on nodding terms with the local vicar (who seemed to have no objection to us munching our pasties in the church porch) and watched the hare krishnas chanting and dinging their way up and down the town.

From the town we set off in search of Pete's cheese-in a muddy farmyard far from the madding crowd. Once located it proved to be an idyllic setting. Idyllic, that is, to those of us who accept that farms smell of cow shit (rather than those whose knowledge of them has been gleaned from pictures on biscuit tins) Pete's cheese, it turned out, weighed half a ton (an exaggeration-it was heavy) but we managed to get it into the boot of the car without the aid of a crane and drove very slowly back through the farmyard. The speed was nothing to do with the mud, it was so we could admire the bull in its pen and the tiny calves in their byre. There were also some cows there , but cows are two-a-penny so we didn't bother with them. The next stop would be the Tor.

Glastonbury Tor. This is another place that folk dont seem to associate with mud and cow shit-preferring to concentrate solely on it's more spiritual connotations. Today the cows that usually graze on it were not to be seen and the mud was mostly dry and easily negotiable. At any given time here you will meet people from all walks of life and all ages, yet all of them agree on two things: it is a bloody steep hill and it is worth the climb. The first is obvious from the pained and puffed out greetings that are exchanged with total strangers engaged in the same arduous climb. Short greetings that somehow manage to convey sympathy, encouragment and solidarity in the struggle all in the briefest of glances. Once at the top it is a different story: the friendliness between strangers is still there but, for the most part, folk get lost in a world of their own.

Today, our world of our own is the view over the surrounding countryside. It is both breathtaking and inspirational. Due to the recent prolonged wet weather many of the surrounding fields, over a distance of four or five miles, have areas of slight flooding. Even with this minor display it is possible to imagine what it would have looked like before the sea defences some miles away were built. At that time the Tor would, on occasions, be totally surrounded by flood water making it an island, The Isle of Glass; on calm days such as this we would have stood here in those far off times and the land around us would have appeared as a huge sheet of glass. Today we can see it as clearly as if it was there in front of us. Moments like this are what brings us back to Glastonbury time and time again.