Miles to Go - Day One

On the first day of my challenge, I have walked thirteen miles (see map).  So far, I am surprised at how early I arrived home, and how all right I feel.

Admittedly, I woke up ridiculously early and couldn’t get back to sleep, so left the house at ten to seven, so it wasn’t so surprising that I was back by shortly after three in the afternoon.  All the same, I had moved more briskly than expected.  It helped that most of my journey except the first and last part was along roads.  This was partly to simplify finding my way and plotting it in on Map My Walk later to check how far I had walked, and also because the fields were looking damp after recent rain. 

I could have walked it all along roads, but the first part offered such an inviting short cut across a field that, with or without long wet grass that soaked my jeans and dampened my not-totally-waterproof boots, I just had to explore.  I moved slowly, not just because I was walking through long wet grass, but because I had to keep stopping to take photographs of cobwebs and their owners.  Several spiders had bound leaves together in silk to make a safe place to keep a clutch of eggs, and were now crouching over their bundles of eggs as if trying to work out how to manoeuvre them into the nest.

Apart from this, I mostly kept stopping on my walk to take snapshots of flowers.  This is the time of year that brings a profusion of pink and purple flowers: campions and catchflies, mallows, knapweed, thistles, red clover, vetches, foxgloves, orchids, and the cranesbills, the true geraniums, much more charming and far less malodorous than the things sold as geraniums in garden centres.  

I am turning into something of a cranesbill nerd, and on this walk I identified (shown with my hand to give an indication of size):

blue Meadow Cranesbill,

Herb Robert (not to be confused with Wild Robert, the hero of a novella by Diana Wynne Jones),

tiny Little Robin (not to be confused with Ragged Robin, which is also a pink flower but is a species of catchfly),

French cranesbill, and

this one which I still can’t identify.

Apart from flowers, I decided to look out for churches as landmarks.  As with pubs, most villages have one, but it’s less awkward to go up to every church you pass, and pray in it if it’s open, than to go up to every pub you pass when you don’t intend to buy a drink or snack in each one. 

The snag is that there are buildings that look like churches and aren’t.  In Holcombe, I took a wrong turning and assumed that the Gothic-looking building must have been the village church marked on the map but must now have been converted into a house (just as our own house is a converted chapel).

Then I realised I had misread the map, and managed to find the actual Holcombe Church. This is not the late Saxon/early Norman church in the fields beyond the village, but a modern church that, as PDB11 puts it, ‘has a big Gothic arch to join to the tower it hasn’t got.’  Anyway, it was closed, but I paused to pray under a yew tree in the churchyard before going on.  

Confusingly, both Holcombe churches seem to be dedicated to St Andrew.  In fact, over twenty churches in Somerset are dedicated to him, including St Andrew’s Church in Mells, St Andrew’s in Ansford,  Backwell, Banwell, Blagdon, Brympton, Burnham-on-Sea, Cheddar, Chew Magna, Chew Stoke, Clevedon, Compton Bishop, Congresbury, Curry Rivel, High Ham, Northover, Old Cleeve, Stogursey, Taunton, Whitestaunton,  and, of course, Wells Cathedral.

Holy TrinityChurch in Coleford was open, but first I paused in the graveyard.  I find it sad that many cemeteries do not allow people to plant flowers, trees or shrubs on graves, leaving people to resort to artificial flowers, which soon look very tacky, and can be a hazard for wildlife.  So it was encouraging to see that here, wild flowers and even shrubs were finding their way in.

Holy Trinity Church was preparing to hold a coffee morning on Friday, its first since before lockdown.  A parishioner called Sheila was busy sanitising everything in preparation for the influx of visitors.  I stayed for a few minutes to chat, and (not strictly breaking the ban on singing indoors) hummed a hymn under my face-mask, but it seemed best not to stay too long.  As it was, Sheila would have to sanitise everything I’d touched.

I arrived in Mells by a quarter to twelve, in time to visit the Talbot Inn.  I had resolved to bring sandwiches with me for most walks that I did on my own, and eat out only when PDB11 and I did a shared walk.  Nonetheless, the Talbot looked such a splendid place that it was a shame not to visit, and besides, I needed to use their loo.  In return, it was only fair to order something to eat and drink, but I restricted myself to a glass of bumbleberry juice and a packet of crisps.

The Talbot’s menu looked delicious, but way outside my price range.  Even standard pub grub like fish and chips or burger and chips cost £14.50.  The more mouthwatering-sounding dishes cost between £16.50 for the butternut squash gnocchi with red pepper coulis, pumpkin seeds and cavolo nero, and £22 for the plaice with nori and green peppercorn butter, samphire, courgette and potato salad.  While I realise most restaurants aren’t as cheap as Madhatter’s in Shepton Mallet, where you can get a cottage pie, full English breakfast or omelette and chips for £4.50, this was going a bit too far in the other direction.

I crossed the Mells River and walked back along the roads, past the edge of Melcombe Wood, through Hurdlestone Wood, and back home through beloved, familiar Harridge Wood.  Here, when I was nearly home, was the point at which I decided, ‘Stuff walking along roads – I’m going to get some mud on my boots!’ 

In Harridge Wood, we see the early stages of the stream that hasn’t yet decided to become the Mells River.  I had been trying to photograph the river further down its route, but my pictures couldn’t do it justice; what I could see was a clear river showing the mud on the bottom just looked in pictures like a muddy brown waterway.

Photographing it in its youthful playfulness as it sparkled in the sunlight and leaped over waterfalls, I could at least express something about the stream.  These still photographs couldn’t capture the way it dances about, or the song it sings, but at least they give you some idea.

And now I’m home, and not feeling too worn out.  I’m a bit lethargic, and spent an hour lying on my bed listening to a CD of relaxing bits and pieces of classical music before attempting to write this, and skived off sorting out the recycling.  But, apart from my toes complaining about spending the day in boots, nothing hurts.  I don’t even have blisters yet – but then, I’ve only just begun.