Time moves slowly. The journey is punctuated by moments: of transition, beauty, mystery and fascination. In between there are great lulls. These are the times where I just walk and think. I lose track of the surroundings. It is now the inner path that I wander along. I can be oblivious to the real world for whole sections of the path. When I look back at the map or photos I don’t remember.
Before Castle Cary the way had been hard. The grey of the day and way after Hornblotton was stifling. Sometimes I just have to dig in. Keep going. Over the next stile. Round the next bend. Always following my progress on the worn paper OS map.
There are advantages to walking. There are things you witness which few people see. One of these is Bolter’s Bridge, a medieval packhorse bridge that crosses the River Alham between Hornblotton and Sutton before Castle Cary. It is a beautiful bit of architecture with four segmental pointed archways.
I would expect there to be a road or track leading up to it but there is nothing. Just the mud path. Apparently it is thought to have been built by the Abbots at Glastonbury to ‘connect the two parts of the moor and to make a road between Castle Cary and Glastonbury.’ (Somersetrivers.co.uk)
Sometimes the way is lost altogether and all I have to work on is the direction as I plough forward through long grass or undergrowth. This is what I have to do as the path follows near the River Brue between Sutton and Ansford Bridge on the outskirts of Castle Cary. The swish of the grass as I walk through it reminds me of the sound of a scythe.
It had been a long morning before I arrived in Castle Cary. I had not seen anyone apart from the dairyman at Hembridge. He was short and stocky. He was dressed in an olive green plastic apron and he’d just finished milking the cows:
‘Lost? Follow that hedgerow and it’ll join the Glastonbury road.’
And that was that: the only interaction I’d had with another person that morning. I was looking forward to exchanging a few words with someone and eating something.
Castle Cary is the first place I’d seen as I travelled south that has that gold coloured stone. At first I thought it must be Ham stone, a sandstone quarried out of Ham Hill several miles south of here. It is only later I discovered it has its own quarry at Hadspen which produces a gold stone similar to Ham stone.
The market hall is the building that best shows it off. The stone itself is best seen on a Summer’s evening where the stone seems to absorb the warmth of the sunlight.
I ignored the lattes and almond milk of the cafe close to the market hall. I plumped instead for a full English at the George Hotel. I dozed off out the back while an elderly gentleman with his OS map eyed me and no doubt wondered what I was doing.
There’s a great atmosphere here. It feels like it must have done in years gone by. A group of four local women all in their seventies sit upright at the table at the front overlooking the market hall. They have glasses of pop and giggle excitedly to be with each other. A workman with his toolbox is checking in for the night. Other couples sit and watch the flurry of activity as bar staff take orders and deliverymen arrive. Oh, how we’ve missed this.
I leave my phone to charge in the hotel and look for supplies. I get a sausage roll and flapjack from the deli. On the way to Co-op I stumble on the Bailey Hill Bookshop and get my introduction to ‘Tramping’. How fantastic are these moments of inspiration. I would never have expected it.
I loiter for ages and also look at Horatio Clare’s ‘Orison for a Curlew’ which I buy partly for its artwork. I also want to wait and listen to the cricket score which I’ve been unable to do because my phone ran out of battery.
And now, packed up and refuelled, it’s time to head South…
The Slow Walker 