avenue | Life in the English Cotswolds

‘We’re off to the heath!” Such excitement whenever my father made this announcement. It happened perhaps just three or four times a year and when it did it was always a special day. Almost seventy years of summer sun – for we only ever went there when the sun was shining – have passed and the memory of those innocent days still bring joy. Much later the heath became my place of refuge when sadness threatened to overwhelm me; under the great tree that had witnessed my journey into adulthood, its shade restored and healed me.

*Many summers have passed since I last sought the shade of the great tree*

Going to the heath involved ritual. The ritual included packing the picnic that my mother had been busy making; the ‘paste’ and cheese sandwiches, rock cakes that required the currants to be removed before being eaten (“no, mummy, they look like eyes”) and the steel Thermos flasks of scalding hot water for tea. No tea bags in those days so teapot, loose tea and strainer were all added to the basket along with the rug for sitting on. The rug fascinated me for it was of coarse wool and a faded khaki in colour but, most of all, it had my father’s name written on it in capitals: SHORTLAND H A 174445, the numbers being those from his army days. The blanket, he would tell us, had seen the Holy Land, Tripoli, the Pyramids of Egypt and the ancient ruins of Rome. Being spared the horrors he’d witnessed during World War 2, it seemed to us as if the rug had magical qualities, perhaps it was the carpet that would one day take us to these far-off places as well. Of equal importance to the outing was the cricket bat, ball and stumps, all to be placed in the boot of the cream Consul car – but only after I’d been lifted out of it for my jumping into the boot was all part of the ritual too.

*Being packed into the car boot was all part of the ritual in 1955!*

*These days, picnics are taken in a lot more comfort…*

Driving along the narrow country lanes my sister and I, noses pressed hard against the car window, would comment on every house made of flint, or with a thatched roof, that we passed for we knew the journey so well. “Oooh, I so wished we lived there…” After a few miles the car would begin to slow and we eagerly awaited the moment it would stop and we could all clamber out. Hoisting me onto his shoulders so that I could see over the high hedge, we would look down onto the ‘model farm’. How I loved it for it looked so much like my toy farm at home with its cows, sheep and horses enclosed by beautifully painted white wooden rails. Of course, it wasn’t really the miniature farm that my father claimed it to be but set in a deep and steep-sided valley gave it the illusion of being on a much-reduced scale. One day, I’m not sure how or why, we visited the old farmhouse with its ancient, beamed ceilings. In one room the main beam was much split with age into which coins had been hammered. It only added to my sense of awe as the farmer showed me the oldest coins, some of which dated back three hundred years or more. He also showed me the one he’d placed with the ‘new’ queen’s head on it, the first he’d seen, for Elizabeth the Second had only come to the throne in the year of my birth.

*Everything about the farm seemed to be in miniature….*

Our next stop would be for a stroll around the village of Fingest. The church fascinated me for it had beautiful, honey-colour rendered walls quite unlike the other churches in the area. Its other unique feature was its bifurcated tower which to childish eyes looked as if it was splitting in half. Best of all, inside the church, was a ladder, so tall that I was sure it must be Jacob’s ladder that I’d learnt about in Sunday School. I never saw any angels climbing it but I was convinced that if I was allowed to do so I would reach Heaven. In adulthood, I would live in the village for a short while although by then, it was the excellent inn where they served great ale and delicious suppers that I eagerly sought after a long day at work.

*Jacob’s Ladder – was heaven just beyond the top rung?*

Fingest’s neighbouring village of Turville would only be visited on our way back from the heath, my parents stopping off at The Bull & Butcher. In those days, children were not allowed in pubs and so we were left outside to explore its two streets and to clamber up the steep hill to the windmill. How carefree those far-off days now seem when small children could be left to freely wander without fear. The village now is famed for it being the village of the film ‘Goodnight, Mr Tom’, the windmill featured in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and the church in the Vicar of Dibley. After I moved from Fingest, I had the pleasure of living within a couple of miles of the windmill (and so close to the heath) for eighteen years.

*Time stands still in the ancient village of Turville*

*The windmill stands high above Turville village*

The lanes beyond Fingest become narrower and more enclosed by hedgerow and woodland as you approach the heath, all of which adds to the excitement of finally arriving at its wide-open expanse. The car parked, out we would spill while mother busied herself with the picnic and my father set up the cricket. We only had one wicket and so the match didn’t consist of ‘runs’ – our reward was in actually managing to hit the ball at all and the praise we would receive for our skill. Perhaps this is why the heath holds such affectionate memories for, back in the fifties, fathers didn’t interact hugely with their children – mine was too busy working or tending the garden to make trips out a regular occurrence and my mother, like most women, was unable to drive. Finally, we would hear mother calling us for tea and after devouring everything in sight we would lie back on the short turf replete and happy. On one occasion my mother had packed roasted chicken legs, a rare treat for chicken was, in those days, a luxury meat. Before we had the chance to try them, our little mongrel dog Tammy had snatched them away and into the bracken to eat out-of-sight. Chicken never again appeared on picnics.

*My father in 1963 – a tie was required even for casual dress in those days…*

Soon we would be up and eager to explore. The heath was beautifully unkempt; the rabbits cropped short the wide grass rides allowing the bracken and scrub to grow elsewhere, untouched so it seemed by man. Along the western edge of the heath an ancient avenue of lime trees grew, their limbs now left to grow in a haphazard, twisted way. From time to time one of these great boughs would fall to the ground there to gently lie and rot and return to the soil. By summer, the bracken would have grown tall enough to obscure them from view. We knew where to find them and would crawl alongside beneath a green tunnel of fern fronds. Tiny, pale toadstools grew from moist fissures in the bark, beetle scurried away from our disturbance and here we learned about nature., much of which seemed magical to young eyes Later, as I learned patience, I would sit quietly to watch for wildlife: a wren chattering away as it searched for insects, the occasional slow-worm hunting for slugs and not as slow as its name suggests. Once I was rewarded by a family of stoats moving like a sinuous string of sausages as they followed one another each holding the tail of the one in front in its mouth. Such excitement!

*Casual wear for ladies in 1963: my mother out for a picnic in the country*

Magic played an important part in our young lives for everything we didn’t understand surely had to be caused by magic? We saw regular proof of this in our painting books for they had the word ‘magic’ written across the front cover. A blank page of paper would be transformed into a colourful picture by just brushing with water from the empty paste jars. The paste jars held the exact amount of water required for ‘art’ without too much risk of spills. In those days of necessity, although the word recycling hadn’t been invented, everything – paper, string, milk and other bottles – were all carefully saved or returned for re-use. Plastic wrapping and the throw-away society was still to come.

*Evidence of magic could be easily found within these pages!*

Further proof of the magical world around us came one day when exploring a new part of the heath. We’d always thought that one dark, wooded corner looked rather forbidding but like all small boys, I knew better. Venturing deep inside it, with every twig snapping under my feet making me jump, I came across a small, black pond besides which stood an old hollowed oak. I squeezed inside the trunk to look up expecting to see sky. Instead, there was darkness followed by much scrabbling and hissing as dust and twigs dropped onto my head. Running as fast as I could I found my sister to tell her all about it. Unbelieving, she and I returned and this time it was she who was hissed at. Scared witless, we ran back to our parents. Just an old barn owl we’d disturbed my father had said. But we knew better, we’d found the door to the magic kingdom of elves and goblins. How lucky were we that the door hadn’t snapped shut with us inside, never to return, as described in the numerous books that we had read. Utter nonsense we were told. That, we realised, was the trouble with grown-ups: they didn’t believe and that was why the magic was hidden from them.
*

*I have to admit that it probably was a Barn owl that scared us*

From time to time, I still return to the heath although I now live many miles from there. Whenever I do, I am struck at how small this ‘giant’ area to children’s eyes actually is. The difficult stage of my life, where the old tree supported me through despair, have long passed and the memory of it does not overshadow the pleasure that revisiting brings. Despite being a grown-up, I can still feel its magic. I’m not alone in this for recently I read Hugh Thomson’s book, The Green Road Into The Trees, in which he crosses southern England on foot. He too, feels the need to return to this very same heath in search of healing and finds it. He believes that the mysteries of the Ancient World are not as far away from us as we tend to think for our mixed Celtic, Saxon and Viking heritage shapes not just the British landscape but also our souls. Perhaps that’s where the magic comes from?

It is many years since I last visited Stonehenge, the prehistoric standing stones so closely attuned to the midsummer solstice. Renowned throughout the world, it has been listed as an UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1986. With fame comes numerous issues, not least how to cope with the estimated one million visitors that come to see them each year. To prevent damage to the stones through soil erosion and, surprisingly, physical damage through the chipping off of ‘mementos’, the stones are now cordoned off. This fencing is removed to allow access at the time of the midsummer solstice, a time when hundreds of people wait through the night for the midsummer sun to rise directly between the stones. The image below is of a postcard that my great-aunt sent me in 1963 when the stones were much less frequently visited and reminds me of those early years when I used to play amongst them.

*Stonehenge was far less visited back in the 1960s!*

The Stonehenge World Heritage Site covers an area that includes other Neolithic standing stones close by. A few miles away, and unlike Stonehenge, a place where you can walk amongst the stones every day of the year, is Avebury. This circle is huge and considerably older than Stonehenge: flint tools dating back 9000 years show that early man was passing that way 4000 years before Stonehenge was built. Avebury is the place to visit if you want to get close enough to touch the stones and it is also completely free to visit. To visit Stonehenge can be quite costly although there is another way you can see the stones (legally) without paying if you’re prepared to walk – see below.

*Avebury Stone Circle – part of the Stonehenge World Heritage Site*

The third site, and to my mind, the best one for you will almost certainly have the place to yourself, is known as Woodhenge & Durrington Walls. To be really impressed by this comparatively unknown place you do need to know some background information of its history plus a vivid imagination. For me, it is such an atmospheric place to visit that the latter has never been an issue! I recommend starting your walk here and walking inside the circle of Durrington Walls before exploring Woodhenge. The first thing that is noticeable about Durrington Walls is that there are no walls! The circular bank and ditch that surrounds the site was enormous and consisted of the bank itself which would have been several metres high. The ditch originally was over five metres deep and, in places, up to thirty metres wide. It is estimated that between four and six thousand people would have been needed to build the walls as well as the various houses and large timber circles associated with the site. A feat quite remarkable nowadays let alone over four thousand years ago using just antler pickaxes! Although nothing remains above ground now, apart from the bank, I found it very easy to imagine, as I walked alone and in silence, the bustle and noise of these industrious people.

*Within Durrington Walls, now a grassy bank, up to 6000 people once lived*

*Information boards help you to understand the context of what you are not seeing!*

Leaving Durrington Walls I made my way to the Cuckoo Stone, my only companions, sheep. Now fallen, this stone would originally have been placed upright. Looking at maps, it appears to be more, or less in line with the Great Cursus (more about that below) which in turn leads to Stonehenge. The Cuckoo Stone, positioned 4000 years ago, continued to be ritually used into Roman times for in 2007, during archaeological excavation, a small building thought to be a shrine from that period was discovered.

*Close to the Cuckoo Stone a Roman shrine once stood*

Leaving the Cuckoo Stone, my path led to an old track edged by wildflowers humming with bees and butterflies and bringing me out at the top of the Cursus. The Cursus is another huge earthwork showing nowadays as a crop mark – two bright green stripes in an otherwise darker landscape. If you compare my photograph with the one of the information board (below), I was standing at the opposite end. In my image, the end of the Cursus can just be made out on the far horizon almost two miles distant. The purpose of the Cursus is unknown but thought to be ceremonial as it is again aligned to the summer solstice. It is even older than Stonehenge having been constructed several hundred years earlier.

*The two-mile long Cursus now only shows as two grassy green stripes*

*The Cursus is better understood from this aerial* *photograph*

Another good track took me due south before turning west to Old King Barrows and then back south to New King Barrows. Before leaving the Cursus I stood to watch the visitors to Stonehenge some long way off and thinking how lucky I was to have all of this unseen history of the World Heritage Site to myself with only the song of skylarks as company. More than five thousand years separated me from the Neolithic people yet surely, they must have stood here too and seen a similar picture as they made their way to join others already arrived, a humbling thought.

*A distant Stonehenge can be clearly seen from the Cursus*

The Old and New King Barrows consist of two groups, each of seven burial mounds so fourteen in total, separated by Stonehenge Avenue which is only visible as another cropmark. The Avenue linked Stonehenge to the River Avon almost two miles away and was, perhaps, another route the Ancients would have taken to reach the stones. Despite their name, the Old and New King Barrows date from the same time period, and also around the same as Stonehenge.

*One of the prehistoric burial mounds at Old King Barrows*

It was by the barrows that I turned back towards Woodhenge, the last part of my relatively short but extraordinarily rich walk, rich both in its views and its wildlife, as well as its history. As if to bring me almost up-to-date in time, the sound of an old-fashioned binder in an adjoining field was busy bringing in the harvest. Not quite twenty-first century but a common sight less than a hundred years ago.

*Harvesting wheat the old-fashioned way*

The final part of my walk to Woodhenge can be found by clicking this link here.

To visit Stonehenge for free involves a walk not dissimilar to this one. Park in Durrington village and take the public bridleway path (where it meets Fargo Road) directly south to Stonehenge. The path passes the stones within yards of the public viewing path so you will still be separated from the stones. Public footpaths continue southwards, criss-crossing an area rich in more barrows and other ancient earthworks. With the help of an Ordnance Survey map it should be quite possible to make a longer, circular walk.

**Click on any of the images to enlarge**