And also, perhaps, we were a little afeared of the London greyness.

But we were invited to sing, and present ourselves and our doings, to a number of high-powered Folk Industry Executives. We are glad such people exist, for we’d like to win some support for our project and our future plans, and we need to make some good allies. And of course, folk in suits are still just folk, and deserve a good sing-song as much as the next bunch…

So this is the story of our London walk, which is the first decent jaunt we’ve made with Holly dog.

Recordings and a little video can be found below…

In inevitable fashion, sundry preparations waylaid us. So on the friday before the gig, we finally stepped out…

We took the Pilgrims’ Way, aka the North Downs Way, from where it met the village of Chilham. This is the third time we’ve trod these paths going West, and they are a mixture of incredibly easy and very tricky. Certain points seem to roll gently downhill for miles, while other parts traverse the sloped edge of a muddy hill, each step forward sliding two sideways. So empty lanes were occasionally taken, instead of the wigglier hillside moments.

Spring is here, and this gave us great comfort. Vetch found its way into our sandwiches, and nettles and cleavers and chickweed into our cookpot.

We walked on past Lenham, where the great chalk cross is cut into the hillside. As we sat in rest, the M20 roared its dominance over the landscape. It is very full, and very rapid.

Walking this way, we remembered the strange shifts of consciousness that a long walk gives. Sometimes we focussed on each other, on conversation and companionship. Sometimes we watched the ground move beneath our feet. Other times we followed the shifting trees and hedges, and other times again, our eyes were fixed on the furthest horizon. We also found ourselves occasionally walking through an internalized landscape of small aches. Walking makes the world expand, and contract.

The first night we spent in woods near Jack Cade’s hole, where the leader of the (failed) 1450 rebellion hid, after Cade led his ‘battallions’ of ‘peasants’ to complain about the treatment of the poor in Britain.

Unlike the 1381 uprising, looting was rife once the common folk reached London. The King’s favourite officers were killed, their heads lopped off, and put on poles (and made to kiss one another, apparently). Just like 1381, the rebellion was routed, its followers ran away in disarray, and the leaders, including Cade (also named Jack Amend-All), were rounded up and killed. So feudal life in Britain carried on…

The woods were very lumpy, with no convenient bundles of fern to make mattresses. They were also brambled to the max. We were glad we carried no delicate tents nor blow-up mattresses. Our bones, we figure, must have been softened by recent house-dwelling. Holly dog got cold in the heavy wind (which brought the rain in too) and she was forced to retire to within the limited confines of Will’s bivi bag halfway through the night. She needs her own travel home…

On day 2 we crossed some busy roads, and found an acoustic hotspot.

This was an underpass with a fantastic acoustic, although with much background noise and horrible air. Here are two recordings we made:

The Colour of Amber

The Burning of Auchidoon

Soon after we met Kits Coty Stone, a dolmen-like structure, estimated at 6000 years old. A nasty spiky cage surrounds it, and we were foiled from sleeping in its perfect shelter.

Bluebell hill we met sunset, and rested in the Robin Hood pub, where a strangely uptight family ordered huge plates of food but ate almost none of it. Our eyes bulged, and thankfully the landlady agreed that a ‘doggy’ bag could be provided. So all 3 of us enjoyed steak, bacon, and chicken for breakfast, after a second lumpy night in the woods. We remembered again how important it is to find a place to sleep before resting in the pub, and before darkness falls. And we remembered, in the chilly winds of after-dark, how glad we both were to have a companion with whom to share these challenges and understandings. Alone, this journey would be perhaps more heroic, but lots less fun.

Day 3 we crossed the Medway at Rochester, the only real option. There ought to be ferry-folk, or smaller footbridges. The busy road across half-killed us, our energy boxes suddenly feeling horrendously empty.

Relief was palpable as we climbed the hill away, and found cool airy woods, which led to the fine sunday pub in Luddesdown. Here the landlord gave us an open invitation to his woods in Bexley, and after singing we sold a CD to pay for our sunday lunch, a most necessary luxury…

Then we walked on through Foxenden and Meopham, down the Shipley Hills Road, where we enjoyed such challenges as a 14 year old driving a peugeot really fast.

The few people we met on the path, we greeted happily, but found ourselves slow to offer songs. After but 2 days walking, this is no surprise, but it was still a disappointment, and we looked forward to a time, sure to be soon coming were we to continue walking, where every meeting comes with a song.

As dark fell, we vowed to continue, and walked through Halling, where the air-quality became noticeably poorer. London approached us…

Darkness got thicker, when we discerned a man with a huge dog, whose face we could not see, from whom we asked directions. “Do you know where the church is?” Ed asked. Silence was the reply. “We’re trying to find the pub” ventured Will. “Righto, it’s just over this field” came the answer.

So we walked to Hartley, where we found an almost empty pub who welcomed dogs, and took the opportunity to sing and meet. Although but 2 days from our home, this place was utterly unknown to us. The dialect was also very different. Promises of “24 owls” had us totally confused, and we looked and listened in vain, till we noticed the selection of 24 ales…

A chap called Steve, who told us he liked only dance music (“like everyone else…drum n bass and dub-step”), introduced us (when the pub got lively) to the people, and corralled us an audience. He told us he had no interest in folk music, but…”your journey is brilliant. You should make a video every day, put it on YouTube. Everyone would watch it. Trust me…i’m a sign!”

We told him we would take his words quite literally. We met a sign in Hartley. “But why did you come here?” everyone asked. “You’re right on the path to London” we explained, “you’re the main route!”. They were surprised, and proud too.

It got late, when we met a very drunken man called Uzi, who by introduction had turned to Ed and said “I f****g hate hippies”. It took a long while to bring him round to talk with us, Ed’s goodwork being largely repsonsible. Hugs and handshakes followed, and we rolled off.

5 more miles after dark took us to South Darenth, where our map told us (in gothic writing) of St John’s Jerusalem, a National Trust property. We assumed the ruins of a Knights Hospitallers castle, or chapel, who would never begrudge pilgrims, so we went looking. This ancient group are the ancestors of the same gang who provide free ambulances at public events.

But instead of a handy ruined wall, we found instead a manor house with cars parked outside, essentially a private residence. But the hour being late, the land behind us being wet and the land before us urban, we lay low in their parkland, and took our little sleep. It is not the best feeling, to know you are sleeping where you’re probably not welcome. But between the hours of midnight and 6:30, no-one ever complains. So we took the sleep we could.

Sure enough, at 6 in the morning the house labrador was let out, he smelt us, and started barking with heavy rhythmic insistence; so we quietly and tiredly down-tarped and scarpered.

Dartford was our morning treat, some 3 miles north, awaiting us once we’d passed beneath the M25. This was like stepping through a portal to Mordor,  where the litter was strewn to the very tree-tops, and living trees were scarred with fire, daubed with futile paint, churned up and made foul. Huge pipes pumped unknown fluids into the suffering stream of the Darent, and we stopped to consider how recently this river path would have been idyllic and delightful, and how extreme 100 years of change has been on England. But too tired to lament too deeply, we headed in for breakfast.

As we crossed the lakes, fruit of massive 1920s quarrying, we met a drunken man, red-capped vodka bottle dangling from his pocket. He slurringly asked us what on earth we were doing. We told him, and he became our town-guide, taking us to the cheapest cafe in town, and afterwards taking us to his house for tea and rest. He even let us use his shower, which helped bones and muscles considerably.

An ex-Royal Marine Commando, he had served in Northern Ireland and Cypress. He was court-martialled for the theft of 1800 rounds of 9mm ammunition, for use with the Colt 45s which many soldiers foraged from the confiscated weapons thrown down garbage shutes of blocks of flats, while the barricades were being cleared in 1973.

He called us scholars, and asked why we were sleeping outside when we could get proper jobs, and make real money. We explained our reasoning, which he grudgingly accepted. He then asked us to write a character reference for his upcoming court-case, for verbal assault. We did so.

Then he walked us to the right path, which would have taken us a long time, and much getting lost, to find. Weeping, he bid us farewell. As he walked away, a red kite flew from the sky and screamed the parting…

We were now tired, but London was ahead, and there would be no more opportunities to surreptitiously sleep the night. So we gritted our teeth, held our noses, and walked on.

Past Cray marshes, we met the Thames, and fields gave way to the urbanity of Erith. Poo was literally everywhere, on each bench and pavement, an incredible ring of excrement on the very edge of London. Next came massive industrial build-up, with about 8 miles of various sewage treatment, from the Victorian to the ultra-modern.

Our singular hope for a sleeping option was a high-fenced dump, on the edge of Belmarsh prison. Was this once a Beautiful Marsh, as the name suggested? We did consider trying to break in, but it looked little better than landfill, and so we thought better. By now, bones were aching from the concrete underfoot, and every rest we took needed 5 minutes of hobbling to regain momentum.

At last we found Woolwich, and got cold. A few phone calls, and we found our way to New Cross, where we stayed in the only purpose built housing co-operative in London, a wonderful community.

Morning, after a most welcome lie-in, we walked to the Cutty Sark, and Greenwich maritime museum.

We met a lady called Tharini, who had contacted us through the website, and walked with her along the Thames path, all the way into the heart of London.

We were not sure why we made this arrangement to meet and walk the last few miles with a stranger, but we were both slightly fractious and sad with each other, Ed from low energy, and Will from painful feet. Tharini, we are pleased to say, brought us right back to good companionship, an effect that some people seem able to summon almost without meaning to.

At Monument, we were arrived in the very heart of London. So beside the river, outside a pub called the Banker, we took our rest, and called ourselves finished. We had walked to London, and it was not so very difficult at all.

Here we also made our final recordings of the journey:

Lasses From Banyan

Last Verse Ryb and Avon (with whistler at end)

The Jolly Robber

This post is being written in the space between this arrival and our concert, the purpose of the journey. So we must go and practice. (edit – made the concert with 4 minutes to spare before our slot…)

Thankyou. Good evening. and Cheerio.

On our next walk, of which we’ll speak soon, we’ll be focussing on video-making as a main method of sharing information.

So we thought it a good time to bring together all our disparate web videos, to make viewing them simpler.

Please enjoy these videos responsibly.

Press more to see them all:

Short Clips of London Walk

Ed and Will on BBC1 Secret Britain 2010

Keep Your Knives Sharp with Barney Spoon

A Stool by Ginger

Barney Spoon’s Wooden Spoon Tutorial part 1

Barney Spoon’s Wooden Spoon Tutorial part 2

Barney Spoon’s Wooden Spoon Tutorial part 3

Barney Spoon’s Wooden Spoon Tutorial part 4

Hopper, on culture and how to split hazel

Hopper, on hurdle-making

Our woodland thanks

Building a house in the woods

Arriving in Radnorshire woodlands

Sourdough bread making

Ayla gets born

An odd egg

April Snowfall

A slippery hitchhike in Radnorshire

Birch Sap is better water

Will finishes a big hurdle

Under the bridge, urban folks make their sounds

Welsh Elvis and the Kitchenettes

Our pal Ryan comes to Radnorshire

Welsh dog sledding

Animation of Ed Will and Ginger, by Ruth Herbert

Waking Up in Paxton Tower

Adieu sweet lovely Nancy

Because i believe

Avebury Midsummer Madness

Boy Scouts Ritual

Songs Sung while not walking

Playing ankle tap

A short documentary, RTS award winning, by Molly King

It has been a short-to-medium while since we shared any information on this website. We have been off-target, waiting for tides to shift, and have found our previous expressive output a difficult standard to live upto.

The truth is, we took quite a bashing last winter, living in Welsh woods with our girls. Things fell apart, and we found we had no choice but to accumulate some character. Iindeed, it was fairly whacked into us.

While this was all a beautiful and unique opportunity to build a home, and learn about living outside in one place, it was also a terrible trial, for flimsy but razor-sharp personal reasons, and we found ourselves and each other very difficult companions.

O dear, poor walkers, singing a sad song now. Poor, poor, sorry singers, not walking so tall now. Yes, we felt very sorry for ourselves, and it has taken a good long low-lying fallow time to restore our strength in self and other.

But as far as we can tell, the job’s a good one, and we’re more ready than ever, to get going walking and singing soon after this winter thaws.

Between now and then we have to plan and record another album, and get a friendly dress-maker to make us good solid woolen walking clothes. We’re also winging for some organic longjohn manufacturers to sponsor us to the tune of free LJs. It really is fulltime rock and roll.

And we await inspiration as to where our next journey should tread. We figure we should be able to squeeze in 6 or 7 months walking next year; but from where to where? Your suggestions, we’d love to hear them. Tell us here.

Meanwhile, the other whole point of this post: the full archive page. Alaric, our friendly web miracle fellow, has made a page that succinctly lists all the articles up on this website, which makes it all far easier to browse, without falling into corners of no return.

So please take a look, and enjoy. WWW.AWALKAROUNDBRITAIN.COM/FULL-ARCHIVE

Or, just click on this LINK.

Stay warm this winter. Wear wool not cotton.

Thankyou. And cheerio for now.

will and ed.

Here is the clip. If you’d like to hear more about the filming, and the things left out, please press READ MORE.

The songs sung were: My Son John, Harvest Song, and Sorrows Away.The first 2 are available on the CD album, and the second may be on our next album (more said soon).

The show seemed to be not so much concerned with secrets, so much as ‘interesting’ things and places in Britain, pointing to and glancing at some fascinating layers of landscape and history.

The first episode was called ‘Crowded South’, and they asked us to come make a ‘postcard’ film on the South Downs. They didn’t mind Holly puppy being on stage too. We thought it a grand opportunity to talk more widely.

The day was very tiring, as every shot had to be taken from various angles, so that we appeared to have multiple cameras, when there was really just one.

The crew of 2, the cameraman and director, were very good at bringing information out of us. The director was ever so encouraging, in nodding and smiling, waiting for our answers. She reminded us of a really good primary-school teacher, always positive and encouraging, and we felt a sort-of early-school compulsion to volunteer the right answers, and win approval, which helped probably.

They were kind, it was the cameraman’s birthday, and they bought us lunch, and of course it was educational to find out the processes of making such a thing. They are hard-working people, and stayed out for hours longer than they get paid for.

Unfortunately, much of the good stuff was cut. We really feel the need to fill in the detail as to what did not make the final cut, as there is much more to this landscape than we edited to say. This is some of the info that didn’t make it in:

Stick-fighting at an ancient 5-way footpath junction, a hundred yards past Hampshire’ hollow-lanes;

Nature Plasters (greater plantain leaves chewed and applied to wounds, covered with intact leaves, and tied around with grasses – also exciting for children);

Silverweed sock stuffing sessions, to keep hot feet cool and blister-free;

Ghost-stories – we had stayed late in East Meon village on our last walk, talking with the manager of the pub. At about 1:30 am, having seen the church get locked at 8pm, we tried the main door anyway, on a whim. It swung open, and we were immedaitely struck by unseen presences, the certainty that something big, and powerful, was there in the dark. The font was all lit up in the moonlight, and was far more visilbe than it had been in murky daylight. We knew the font was a thousand years old, made of Tournai marble, a gift from William the Conqueror’s grandson. It showed Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, and their expulsion for being naughty. We saw the iron clasp on one side of the top, once a way of shutting the font, which was kept full of holy water, preserved with salt and maybe herbs (horsetail?). This water was apparently often stolen, by ‘black-magicians’, so a thick wooden board was attached to the iron clasp, and locked tight. When Puritans came to rule Britain, they deemed that there was no such thing as Balck Magic, so the covers were denounced as superstitious and ungodly nonsense, and removed. Anyway…we were inside the church, which should not have been possible, as we saw it getting locked. And the hackles on our necks were rising horribly, and we both felt the growth of panic, a fight or flight, screaming fear approaching fast…so we sang a song, called the Leaves of Life, the day being round Easter time, and the song surely suitable. Instantly calming, like butter to a burn, we crept off 5 minutes later, with a sense of peace won, and slept on the hill above the church. In the morning, the caretaker told us he had the only key, and it was locked when he got there in the morning, so he had no idea how it could have gotten unlocked between 8 pm and 8 am. So that was a story we told the tv people. But it did not make it onto the show;

There was also an obscure disused military complex (HMS Mercury), a building that’s technically a boat, at one point a top-secret communications centre, and now strangely desolate and tumbledown. We reckon there’s tunnels in them there hills…;

And East Meon itself, we told the camera, was once a hugely busy place, a thriving centre of trade. It was built in the middle ages in an early grid shape, indicating plans to expand it. A large population, good farming, an accessible river, and 6 water mills, made it a likely bet for growth. But it never happened, and a village it remained. Perhaps this is because of the Church, who owned the village for a long time, under the Bishopric of Winchester. It was once King Alfred’s village too. And it was also once the land of whoever lived on Old Winchester Hill, an iron age hillfort on the South Downs above. It was also once the land of the Bronze Age burial mound diggers, whose barrows are found within the hillfort, and even for the people of Neolithic times, whose oval barrow is the earliest sign of inhabitation in this area;

There was even the Sustainability Centre, arguably the most important living event in the area, with woodland burials, loads of courses and books and yurts and ecological work galore. There was a new Ben Law classroom just built, which we itched to go and see. But time, we were told, goes fast when filming…

None of this cool information could get put in. 2.5 minutes is not long, and the show was more about lovely images and quick hints, rather than the sharing of intense detail we had naiively anticipated. They had only an hour to cover a third of England. And we were just guests, it was not our party. So we were really grateful they let us on at all, and didn’t make us look too silly (as any editor could do). They even sent us a little card afterwards.

We were also pleased that the programme starred Simon Carley Smith, the canoeist at the start, who’s an old school friend of ours. So that was a good thing.

And although we realize we forgot to mention the CD album, or the website, it seems that people can find things all on their own. So thank-you too.

Thank-you Ginger.

Tools required, are:

And that’s it.

with Barney Spoon.

This winter, we were visited by a man named Barnaby, who calls himself Barney (though we named him Barn).

Barn makes spoons, with style and profound expertise. He taught us a lot, which is still slowly sinking into our craft consciousness.

We filmed Barn’s spoon chronicles, in order to spread the knowledge as he himself shared it. Here are the four short films, detailing exactly how to make a great spoon. It’s worth getting through to the final video, as it features Barney playing a song on his new spoon.

To add to his glory, Barney is currently on a long walk about Britain, living outside, and trading spoons for hospitality and a bit of food. Where he has reached by now, we cannot say, because he is wise enough to not be encumbered by a website. If we can get updates on his progress, they will be published here.

So, for the videos. Please enjoy them, and tell all your green woodworking friends that the definitive guide to spoon-making is, at last, online. Hurrah for Barney.

Barney Spoon part 1

Barney Spoon part 2

Barney Spoon part 3

Barney Spoon part 4 (the musical one)

Excellent.

Hopper had already taught us the rudimentary techniques of hurdle-making (CLICK HERE), and in this video he shows us how to split hazel rods.

As well as the practical techniques of splitting, Hopper also shows how to measure the height of a tree, with a stick. Interested?

There’s also an interesting discussion, on recycling, universities, and Martians. And there is a very blunt billhook, the inadequacy of which led Hopper to loan us a nice sharp replacement.

The video might take a short while to buffer, but please be patient. Hopper is worth the wait…

It is a series of clips from our first days in the woods last November, when we trolleyed in all the canvas, hand-tools and books that we felt necessary.

The track soon bogged up thickly. And once we’d done the many runs each, to bring in all the bits, we found a shortcut through a sheep field that would have saved us hours.

The film also shows the first part of building the A-frame, which was our immediate shelter while the main house went up.

And the fiddle tune was recorded by a doctor in a stone circle in Cornwall, on an earlier walk. It is a Breton tune, called (trans.) “the jumping chicken”.

Llandegly Rocks

We found much changed for us during the winter in Wales, but Spring was not quick in coming. Indeed, winter lingered hard, and the dreams of new leaf and soft warmth were slow to be realized.

Lesser Celendine, herald of Spring

Here are some of those exciting indicators, and events, of the newly risen Springtime.

Enjoy.

The winter just passed was a hard one, and temperatures in Radnorshire reached 18 below. Luckily, our hazel-house protected us from the worst of the cold, and woolen clothes and contant movement did the rest.

Frosty cold times

As Autumn faded, soon after arrival, the leaves disappeared, and buds took a long time to return to the boughs.

bare boughs, soon to change

But when things seldom come, they wished-for come, and so it was, with great happiness, we noticed the first signs of seasonal shift.

moss flowers

oak buds later

Primrose comes early too

yellow sign of willow awakening

willow yellow goes

oak-apple releases the sleepy gall wasp

There are a number of other interesting sights and sounds from this period, which are worth a share we reckon.

a fence-line division makes one hill into two

Daffodils announce the kissing season

straight as a gate

Holly flaunts its biceps

birch paper unrolling

Rowan twisting without visible prompt

big fella stands up

one leaf, many paths

No buds on the lightning struck oak

two full moons in february, this the second

colourful landline

There is very very much we’d love to tell and show of our winter experiences, and slowly we’re trying to do just this. But with another walk to plan, the sun shining, and elderflowers, chamomile, cherries, borage and plantain to pick and process, sitting on a computer can seem the wrong move on a rare summer’s day.

So bear with us, and we’ll get this old story told properly, while the next one takes shape…

And a huge good summer to you all.

Mother Beech holds her babies in her branches

Its a year now since we were in these bluebell woods near Michelmersh. Accompanied by Ayla and Susie we found shelter for a few days beneath a magnificent beech. Days were spent wandering among the glowing blue, with visits to the local gastro pub to see if we could sing for roast potatos.

Please do read on….

Grimbled nodes

One night we awoke to stomping feet around our heads, heavy clumping and breaking branches. Coming closer, the invisible night monster started shouting….NO! NO! NO!

There was nothing for it but to lay still and wait for it to pass by or perhaps tear us to shreds.  None were willing to grab staff and grapple like Beowulf the angry beast of the woods, and eventually it roamed away, its cries echoing into the distance.

Morning brought bluebell glow to heal worried sleepers and we soon forgot our fright and lingered more in the otherwise friendly woodland.

Here are a couple of recordings of Ayla, Susie, Ed and Will in Michelmersh church:

After a time we moved on toward Salisbury, crossing yellow fields of rape seed , through cowfields, where we often pause to sing. The cows will always respond to a good song, and they themselves sometimes at night sing also, a stange and eerie music which at first sounds like lots of noise. Listen for the harmonics they hit, and suddenly the depth of cow song is revealed.

The cows want Ayla to sing again

Reaching Salisbury, we sit to take a morning coffee. Fresh from an article in the Telegraph, people keep approaching, “are you those boys who….”, “yes, thats right” we reply, starting to get a small glimpse of what it must be like for those poor public faces, who can no longer enjoy a peaceful streetside morning coffee.  We take the warning, and embrace the blessing as a tour guide comes up and asks us to perform for her audience.  A mornings work in a matter of minutes as notes are squeezed secretively into our hands with knowing winks and smiles.

After busking awhile in the town centre we visit a pub we are recommended. There we sing for the bar and drink a  pint. It is a day of meetings as Lucinda comes to join our crew of four, so for a day or so we are five strong, without a place to stay. While busking a kind lady had offered us her house or garden for a nights sleep. We asked her tentatively about the possibility of sleeping five and she batted not an eyelid, accepting us all into her home.

Fiona, Stefan and Olivia invite us all to stay

An evening of song and fine French food followed. Ayla and Susie sung some wonderful new tunes, while Stefan showed us bows and arrows he had made and green wood chairs he learnt to construct with Mike Abbott, the chap Ginger went off to learn from. Good luck to Olivia on her new naval career, and thank you to a remarkably welcoming family.

Some of us awoke in the garden, others in the house. It is a morning of goodbyes as we become once more a duo, and prepare to cross Salisbury Plain.  We have a date with Radio 4 on the Wiltshire downs.

On the way out of town a car pulls over. “Are you those boys walking and singing…” comes the Salisbury chant, “yes thats right” comes our jaded reply. “Would you like to join us for lunch then?”  Well, we had left town now and had no desire to go back, even for a feed so we declined the surprise offer. But the kind couple would not take a no, and arranged to meet us up old Sarum outside town for a picnic. This was a first, having a full lunch, with sandwiches and chicken legs and cake and beer and juice and all sorts of goodies brought to us en route.

Surprise picnicking up old Sarum fort

So with belly full and packed leftovers for dinner, we thank our fortune and our benefactors, give payment with what we have (songs),  and set out north across Salisbury Plain.

We supplement our packed lunch with some young, soft beech leaves. We were told by a fellow in Dorset that they are good for the eyesight and thats why the deer eat them. They are certainly tasty.

Beech leaves in their new light green spring form, tasty, nutty, a good salad snack

The morning after next we are to meet Clare Balding for a recorded radio walk across the Wiltshire downs to Avebury.

We walk until late and dip into a copse for some sleep, with miles to cover on the morrow to make our appointment.

Its raining hard when we wake, so we move along quickly, stuffing wet bedrolls into our bags for later.

When the rain ceases for a while, we rig up a washing line, while army trucks thunder by wondering why people are doing their washing on Salisbury Plain.

A brief gap in the rain

We try a busk in a small town on the way. A solicitor leans despairingly out of his window above us. “Excuse me, some of us have work to do, would you please go away”, so we walk on.

Come late afternoon we stop for a replenishing pint in Upavon. Singing quietly outside, a fellow asks us to come inside to sing some songs for an Irish lady’s birthday party.

Accordian player at the party, The Ship, Upavon

One thing leads to another. Songs all round with accordian too:

Pints line up and buffet supper is provided, the evening unfurls into uproarious revelry.

We end up on the floor of the landlords flat above the pub, with alarms set for 6am ready to rock the next 8 miles to meet the radio.

Ed doesn’t sleep a wink, hes up all night feeling nautious and poisoned. The sun rises too early, and we stumble out slowly on our way to the Wiltshire downs.

Making slow shuffles toward Dragon Hill

Along the way a rock commemorates a blood pact between King Alfred and his brother before they set out to war against the Danish invaders. It makes us feel weaker, but drives us towards strength. The radio ring and we ask them to bring us coffee.

A barrow (burial chamber) on Salisbury Plain, complete with graffiti lorry

We meet Nicola and Clare in a car park where they instantly point a fuzzy microphone at us and ask us to describe each other. Will gives lavish descriptions of staves, feathered hats and brass lions while Ed mumbles that Will looks like a 19th century farmer. Its a start.

We drink our coffees and off the four of us walk up to Adam’s Grave hill and onto the downs.  The recording is for Ramblings on Radio 4 with Clare Balding, in which she walks with ‘interesting’ folk upon their favorite landscape.

Adam's Grave, the start of the Wessex Downs

It all went passably well, Ed recovered into vague lucidity half way through, while Clare and Will waxed poetic about the beautiful hillocks. At one point we got a bit lost and had to climb a couple of barbed wire fences. We visited West Kennett long Barrow for a song, then on to Silbury Hill and Avebury Henge where we say goodbye to our new friends. If you’d like to listen to the program, click here.

Ed, Clare Balding and Will at Avebury

Avebury is a village surrounded entirely by a series of stone circles, with stone avenues and a couple of great big Long Barrows.

One of the circles and some sheep

It lies on the Ridgeway path, said to be the oldest path in Europe, which seems to indicate that Avebury has been a pilgrimage destination for many thousands of years. It feels good to be here.

Resting against one of the stones

We climb  the nearby Silbury Hill, a huge ancient manmade hill which was built using ox’s shoulder blades as shovels.  Last time we were passing through here we found diggers tunneling into the top of it, looking for something, we presumed.

Silbury Hill and Will

Atop Silbury Hill

Swallowhead Springs, the source of the river Kennett, feeding the Thames with half its water. A hop and a skip away from Silbury Hill.

Feeling all shattered out, we find a tiny hidden patch of wood by a field and slink in to get some sleep.

Goodnight.

Bedtime