Getting away from it all is hard

It was a grey and murky Sunday, as expected. But the evening before I had resolved to get away from it all by going on the walk behind the house. At the very least I would earn myself another 8000 steps and so be up-lifted by a warming sense of virtue. So off I set, squirming first through my hidden exit from the back of the paddock into the field behind. Ever since someone stole an old plastic water-tank I'd kept back there to help water some tree saplings, I have been paranoid about thieves swarming through my defences. So the hidden exit/entrance is camouflaged with devilish ingenuity which makes it a bit hard to get out of. 

     Along the field margin to All Cannings Cross, peering at the ground as I went. The soil had been harrowed the day before, all dark and friable, freshly turned over. But not a Roman sword or Saxon coin to be seen. Some lumps of chalkstone, a few scraps of plastic, a coke tin or two - and two crisply fresh, folded £10 notes. In the grass by the side of the field. It's faintly possible I had dropped them on the previous visit - I've certainly never seen anyone else ever walking where I go. People usually walk along the road, but you can't spot for Roman swords or Saxon coins from there. 

     At the Cross up the left shoulder of Clifford's Hill. A place of memory. The family, Grandma included, came here quite by chance on just one occasion on a trip back in 1980's. At that time life at the RN College Greenwich was pretty depressing with talk of closure and up the top on the edge of Rybury camp, I'd had a quiet think and made some plans for the future. If only I had known then that 30 years later I would be living in a house you can easily see from there ! 

     Anyhow through a little copse spotting en route and photographing a bush with half closed near purple leaves and bunches of sinister-looking black berries. No idea what it is. Then across a great empty field now covered with sprouting corn seeds-the kind you get with corn-on-the-cob. The hills look down and surround the field on nearly three sides. Perhaps for that reason it used to be a feast site, full of roasted animal bones but since thoroughly pored over by university archaeologists. 

    Up the old drover's track which they used to get the sheep up from and down to the Vale. Very Thomas Hardy. It makes one puff too. Really steep hill sides below, ideal you would think for kamikaze sledging in the snow. And still it goes up - to the hill behind Clifford's hill where you take a very necessary breather, look back and take a photo of the neolithic hilltop Rybury camp. 

The old lines show up well, even after 3000 years or so. Clearly it's not a military site, although you might think so given the fact that by the time your attackers had struggled up to you, they'd be fairly wasted. Probably a cattle compound and living accommodation. Behind it the Vale of Pewsey and behind that on the horizon the rising slopes of Salisbury plain. It's a grand sight even on a murky day. 

    No hang gliders about today. But plenty of ?Red Poll cattle (or South Devons ?). Seriously big they stand in your way and peer at you. Calculating, expressionless, well, bovine - and then skip away at the last moment   The hill levels up a bit, as it's near the top. They seem to have removed the trig point that used to be here. Introduced in the early 19th Century to help the military plan for fighting off the French should they get ashore. Nearby similar defences - the base of barrage balloon point. One was flown here to help protect the several airfields down in the Vale from another foreign invader - the German airforce. Scattered around it a group of sarsen boulders which would look very nice in the garden. 

    The Wansdyke appears. A place to stop and have some tea from my little flask. to the left the sheer scale of effort required to dig the great ditch as it goes off east towards Marlborough. Nobody really knows what its for. The name is misleading as while it's probably named after Woden its got nothing to do with the Saxons. Why should so much effort be devoted to a demarcation symbol between tribal areas ? But how could it serve any useful military purpose ? It's all very strange. 

    Not quiet and deserted either,  on this murky midday Sunday. Like Piccadilly circus, heaving with people. Two couples out sedately walking. Half a dozen cyclists, one group hauling their bikes over the gate marking the track up from from Avebury, Silbury Hill and the West Kennet long-barrow. So much for quiet contemplation. 

     Then off westwards along a white chalky track following the Wansdyke until striking the Manor farm tarmacked track going south back to Allington. Leaving the Wansdyke to snake its way to Bath, 25 miles away.

     Down the track that Simon on his bike likes whizzing down. Once going down with a saddlebag of flints for my latest walling project, my bike brakes failed. Terrifying. I only controlled it by deliberately running into the grassy verge. Past the large unsightly chalk pit, looking out over the Vale. One misty night we all came up here in a couple of cars with fireworks to celebrate the New Year and to look down at other gatherings in the far distance. Primeval. The end of time. When our rockets exploded, the bang echoed around the hills in the most satisfactory way.

     Further down, voices off. Over the in the big field to the left, hidden by trees and scrub. By the new barn artfully concealed by the copse where the old lime kiln used to be, two dozen cars neatly parked. The metal detector club from Devizes were having a meet - the rolling field full of people sweeping the freshly harrowed earth looking for those same Roman swords and Saxon crimes. Interesting to watch as they sweep, stop, stoop, dig their trowels in, stand up. Lean the instrument against their leg, pick with one hand at a handful of dirt in the other, flick it away, carry on across the field. All muffled up against the wind. And so back to the field behind the house, squeezing in the through my hidden entrance.

     More tea, then back to the reality it had proved hard to leave. The night before in another fit of virtue I had stewed up some more cooking apples. As is my wont, I then wandered off and forgot about it. Disaster. A spectacular boiling over followed by a some hard baking in and a ruined hob and casserole. An hour or so of scraping and cleaning half-restored both - but only half. Mute witnesses to my incompetence. I needed to get in some apple juice for Peter, arriving the following day. Out to the chest freezer in the garage. But the first uncovered battle seemed sticky, adhering to the bottom of an over-loaded freezer. And the second and the third. With gathering dismay I realised that about a quarter of the 30 odd bottles in there had either split or had their lids forced open. Presumably over-filled. Curiously the resultant gunge hadn't frozen but was like a viscous glue. No choice but to empty the entire thing and clean it out. Tilted right over reaching down with wet J cloths to wipe it all away, batting away the wasps, while one's sausages, bread etc began thawing around one's feet. Finally as the wind had whipped the first batch of leaves into convenient piles, I thought I would gather some in for my 'leaf-mould factory.' A sudden savage pain in my hand, stung by a wasp lurking in the leaves - no doubt peeved at being batted away earlier. At that point I decided to give up getting away from it all and retreated to the safety of my study and computer.