Two of the Teletubbies welcome me to Ashington. They are resting under a sign.
I’m back on The Monarch’s Way. My passion for ‘slow walking’ grows, meanders and thrives. There isn’t much of a plan apart from reaching the end of the path. It’s all about the moments that appear like magic en route (and sometimes not at all).
Ashington is sleepy. There is another flag with the Somerset dragon. There were several of these I passed around Pilton when I did that stretch last summer.
It’s tempting to think that this is a symbol associated with Somerset going back to antiquity but the flag – normally a red dragon on a yellow background – was only ‘adopted in 2013’ and was ‘mentioned in the book ‘The Once and Future King’, by T H White and is said to have been worn by Arthur during the first joust between Arthur and Lancelot.’ (Wikipedia)
Ah, the legend of King Arthur and his association with Somerset. Isn’t Glastonbury Tor supposed to be Avalon where Excalibur was jammed in the stone? I read recently that the legend was much hyped by the monks at Glastonbury to encourage tourism to the area in the Middle Ages.
A man is mowing the churchyard and a young lurcher with a scruffy and freckled coat flies towards me and runs circles round me.
There is a little church with two bells and no tower. There’s scaffolding on the Manor House next door and signs on the roadside that say ‘Slow! Moorhens.’
The wind is cooler and stronger today. Silvery willows sway in it, the trunks moving together like old couples dancing. Beyond is the champagne schooner-like watch tower, radar tower, hangers and bright lights of RAF Yeovilton.
Yet the only sound is the wind and the trees moving.
The blackberries are past their best. They are fat and black but now collapse at the slightest touch. They’re not as sweet as last week.
The first dead leaves fall and skid along the road. The make a scratchy sound as they get pushed down the lane. Autumn seems to have arrived late this year.
The way takes me to the edge of the airbase. There are a row of lights to signal the approach to the airstrip while horses in jackets graze beside them.
What was the 21 year old fugitive King Charles thinking as he came through here? It must have been strange fearing for your life, any villager a potential death sentence, in your own land. I wish there were more signs of his journey but it was a brief – albeit dramatic – moment in history and one which I wish had more recorded about it.
Swallows still skim low over the meadow twisting left and right like a fighter jet on manoeuvres. They must be getting ready to leave. Is it Autumn or not?
An Alsatian runs up to me near the weir at Lymington. The owner looks sheepish and says
‘Sorry, she has no manners’.
I’m mostly welcoming to dogs. I think I’ve only got in trouble once walking in Mexico when two dogs I decided to pet weren’t the most well balanced or domesticated. I seem to remember having to extricate myself with one of them latched onto my water bottle.
Across fields. All is green and flat with the thin lines of rhines reflecting the white of the sky. This is a scene unique to Somerset; water courses everywhere. Little weirs and locks. Crumbling concrete dams. Old wheels and screws to work the locks.
Ilchester is up ahead. I can see the buildings, the bridge, the church tower.
I stop at the end of the field. A gate leads from the field into the town. In a bend of the River Isle a herd of cows stand in the water at Ilchester.
In the evening sunlight this scene appears biblical.
The Slow Walker 