O, To Be In England...
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SimonBurchell
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Continuing with the Cotswolds, at the beginning of the month I hiked from Charlbury, Oxfordshire, to Moreton-in-Marsh, Gloucestershire. Again, fantastic countryside with some interesting places on the way, including a couple of Iron Age hillforts. Upon my return I found one of them sat next to a quarry, and a crossroads, with some interesting folklore attached. I also, when walking away across the hill, glimpsed what looked like a standing stone in the distance, about 300 yards off across a field. I thought nothing of it at the time, since there was no stone on the Ordnance Survey. When I got home I was kicking myself to find it was a standing stone at the end of a long barrow. This meant I had to return, so last Saturday I reworked a route I had already been thinking about and walked from Kingham to Charlbury by a very roundabout route in order to take in both the standing stone and the haunted crossroads by the hillfort, and onwards to Enstone to see the Hoar Stone dolmen, which I visited in passing about 30 years ago. I combine both routes here.
This is The Roundabout, an Iron Age hillfort northeast of Lyneham, Oxfordshire. It is mostly on private land, with lots of PRIVATE signs all over the place, but can be viewed from the verge of the A361.
The southern portion of the rampart has been quarried sometime in the past, eating it away. The area of the quarry is said to once have been inhabited by an old crone who had a hidden pot of gold, and she is said to haunt the area. This sounds like fairy lore to me... The adjacent crossroads is said to be haunted by a White Lady, with sightings as recently as the second half of the 20th century. In some accounts, these two pieces of lore have been combined and the White Lady is the ghost of the old lady.
Here, the line of the rampart denotes the field edge on the left, with the A361 on the right:
And this is the haunted crossroads:
Only a few hundred meters south, there is a substantial long barrow, with a solitary standing stone. Rather interesting that it is so close to the haunting site of the crossroads, hillfort and quarry, a bit like the conjuntion of ancient sites at Blue Bell Hill. On Saturday I walked up a field edge on a public footpath to take me close to the barrow, but no joy, it was separated from me by a ridiculously impenetrable hawthorn hedgerow. I then risked life and limb walking along the edge of the A361, to be rewarded with a glimpse of the standing stone.
Looks great doesn't it? That's not what I saw - I had my camera on maximum zoom, held above my head as I teetered at the roadside. I continued to the haunted crossroads and hooked a left, where I saw the stone in the distance across the field. There was a gate. All the other gates were padlocked shut with big signs saying PRIVATE PROPERTY and NO PUBLIC RIGHT OF WAY. This gate had no padlock and no signs. Under the circumstances, I would say that was practically an invitation. The stone stands about 5 feet high, with the substantial long barrow behind it, heavily overgrown with hawthorn, bramble and oak.
This is the arse end of the long barrow, with additional stones exposed:
There was an interesting feature in the middle of the sheep field, which I at first took for an overgrown dew pond when I passed it on my way to the barrow:
Closer inspection revealed it to be much more interesting, an overgrown hollow scattered with loose limestone boulders. I wondered if it was a robbed barrow. I made my way into the hollow, which was fantastically eerie with twisted hawthorn and oak growing amongst the rubble:
Continuing onwards past the hillfort towards Sarsden, I spotted some curious bulbous things poking above the ridge across a largeish field. They looked almost like fairy-tale spires from a distance but I assumed they were probably something much more utilitarian, like the tops of silos or something. I was wrong.
These late 17th or early 18th century columns were put up by the local lord. A later lord put in a little walled enclosure with a memorial bench, the most fantastic place to break for lunch (would I still have done so if I had known the ghost story, to follow, - yeah, probably).
I mean, just look at the view:
The story goes that a farm labourer used to walk up the path to get home to the neighbouring village. It was a longish walk in the dark, so he was glad of the company when he heard someone walking along behind him as he was passing the Sarsden Pillars. The labourer was a chatty type and chatted along merrily with the person walking behind him. The next night the same thing happened at the same spot, and the labour chatted away to his unseen companion. On the third night, he realised that during his conversations, his companion had never uttered a word, so curiosity overcame him and he turned to see who it was that followed him every night. He was horrified to see that behind him was walking a man in Tudor garb with ruffle collar... but no head. The labourer fled in terror, and in future took a different route home.
I, however, was going in the opposite direction, down the hill to Sarsden where I found this wonderful wayside cross, delightfully intact. It appears to be 14th-century but there is some speculation that it was reconstructed from fragments from a church demolished in 1825. It would certainly be unusual for it to have survived the Reformation:
Sometimes on my walks I pass a stone such as the following, embedded in a hedgerow. I have seen such stones on occasion in Hampshire, and I have always wondered if perhaps they were standing stones, or awkward stones moved from barrows, long forgotten and unnoticed by modern folk:
In the quaint village of Churchill, after visiting the local church, I passed the following monument. An apparently famous architectural critic described it as of no merit whatsoever. I make no pretense to such high culture; I quite liked it. Critics, eh?
Some way on I passed Chastleton Barrow, a nice little Iron Age hillfort, apparently walled in limestone although I did not notice that when I walked across the middle - the ramparts are completely overgrown. The entrances are gated and the interior is used as a horse paddock, but a public footpath runs right across the middle:
Then I dropped down into Chastleton village, passing a rather nice dovecote on the way:
The hamlet is dominated by Chastleton House, early 17th century, now a National Trust property and swarming with visitors. I would no doubt have enjoyed wandering around it, but that was not my intention for the day. After the solitude of the hills, I found the crowds at the church unbearable, and didn't even look inside it, but swiftly carried on.
I am unaware of any ghost stories associated with the house, but would not be surprised to find one. I shall explore my library to see...
Just outside Moreton-in-Marsh I saw this farmhouse across a field. It really does have character, and I hope it also has a ghost or two, or perhaps a fairytale witch with a basketful of poisoned apples, and a large oven for the cooking of children:
Sometimes the trees stand like trollish guardians, glowering from the ridges, these ones were on my way to Enstone:
In Enstone itself stands the Hoar Stone, a collapsed Neolithic dolmen in its little enclosure. At midnight on Midsummer's Eve, it is said to uproot itself and walk to a nearby stream for a drink:
On my way from Enstone to Charlbury, I passed through the corner of the evocatively named Deadman's Riding Wood. I would love to know what the story is behind that name (it reminds me of a piece of woodland near Petersfield called Widow Knight's Copse, which sounds like something from an Arthurian romance). The wood was appropriately gloomy and atmospheric:
And then it was onwards across the fields to Charlbury, disturbing a small herd of deer on the way, and walking into the sunset:
I arrived in Charlbury just before dark, and went into The Bull, which was fully booked for food, which was probably just as well. I ordered from the bar snack menu instead, a venison sausage - which was just that, a sausage, nothing else, and a pint of Kicking Goat cider, which together set me back an eyewatering sixteen quid. I was still hungry after the sausage, and almost went to buy myself another "snack" then remembered the price just in time and settled for a second pint, and a pack of crisps from my backpack. Another couple of fine walks (my walk to Moreton-in-Marsh ended rather more satisfactorily at The Swan, with a great fish and chips meal and a pint of cider).
This is The Roundabout, an Iron Age hillfort northeast of Lyneham, Oxfordshire. It is mostly on private land, with lots of PRIVATE signs all over the place, but can be viewed from the verge of the A361.
The southern portion of the rampart has been quarried sometime in the past, eating it away. The area of the quarry is said to once have been inhabited by an old crone who had a hidden pot of gold, and she is said to haunt the area. This sounds like fairy lore to me... The adjacent crossroads is said to be haunted by a White Lady, with sightings as recently as the second half of the 20th century. In some accounts, these two pieces of lore have been combined and the White Lady is the ghost of the old lady.
Here, the line of the rampart denotes the field edge on the left, with the A361 on the right:
And this is the haunted crossroads:
Only a few hundred meters south, there is a substantial long barrow, with a solitary standing stone. Rather interesting that it is so close to the haunting site of the crossroads, hillfort and quarry, a bit like the conjuntion of ancient sites at Blue Bell Hill. On Saturday I walked up a field edge on a public footpath to take me close to the barrow, but no joy, it was separated from me by a ridiculously impenetrable hawthorn hedgerow. I then risked life and limb walking along the edge of the A361, to be rewarded with a glimpse of the standing stone.
Looks great doesn't it? That's not what I saw - I had my camera on maximum zoom, held above my head as I teetered at the roadside. I continued to the haunted crossroads and hooked a left, where I saw the stone in the distance across the field. There was a gate. All the other gates were padlocked shut with big signs saying PRIVATE PROPERTY and NO PUBLIC RIGHT OF WAY. This gate had no padlock and no signs. Under the circumstances, I would say that was practically an invitation. The stone stands about 5 feet high, with the substantial long barrow behind it, heavily overgrown with hawthorn, bramble and oak.
This is the arse end of the long barrow, with additional stones exposed:
There was an interesting feature in the middle of the sheep field, which I at first took for an overgrown dew pond when I passed it on my way to the barrow:
Closer inspection revealed it to be much more interesting, an overgrown hollow scattered with loose limestone boulders. I wondered if it was a robbed barrow. I made my way into the hollow, which was fantastically eerie with twisted hawthorn and oak growing amongst the rubble:
Continuing onwards past the hillfort towards Sarsden, I spotted some curious bulbous things poking above the ridge across a largeish field. They looked almost like fairy-tale spires from a distance but I assumed they were probably something much more utilitarian, like the tops of silos or something. I was wrong.
These late 17th or early 18th century columns were put up by the local lord. A later lord put in a little walled enclosure with a memorial bench, the most fantastic place to break for lunch (would I still have done so if I had known the ghost story, to follow, - yeah, probably).
I mean, just look at the view:
The story goes that a farm labourer used to walk up the path to get home to the neighbouring village. It was a longish walk in the dark, so he was glad of the company when he heard someone walking along behind him as he was passing the Sarsden Pillars. The labourer was a chatty type and chatted along merrily with the person walking behind him. The next night the same thing happened at the same spot, and the labour chatted away to his unseen companion. On the third night, he realised that during his conversations, his companion had never uttered a word, so curiosity overcame him and he turned to see who it was that followed him every night. He was horrified to see that behind him was walking a man in Tudor garb with ruffle collar... but no head. The labourer fled in terror, and in future took a different route home.
I, however, was going in the opposite direction, down the hill to Sarsden where I found this wonderful wayside cross, delightfully intact. It appears to be 14th-century but there is some speculation that it was reconstructed from fragments from a church demolished in 1825. It would certainly be unusual for it to have survived the Reformation:
Sometimes on my walks I pass a stone such as the following, embedded in a hedgerow. I have seen such stones on occasion in Hampshire, and I have always wondered if perhaps they were standing stones, or awkward stones moved from barrows, long forgotten and unnoticed by modern folk:
In the quaint village of Churchill, after visiting the local church, I passed the following monument. An apparently famous architectural critic described it as of no merit whatsoever. I make no pretense to such high culture; I quite liked it. Critics, eh?
Some way on I passed Chastleton Barrow, a nice little Iron Age hillfort, apparently walled in limestone although I did not notice that when I walked across the middle - the ramparts are completely overgrown. The entrances are gated and the interior is used as a horse paddock, but a public footpath runs right across the middle:
Then I dropped down into Chastleton village, passing a rather nice dovecote on the way:
The hamlet is dominated by Chastleton House, early 17th century, now a National Trust property and swarming with visitors. I would no doubt have enjoyed wandering around it, but that was not my intention for the day. After the solitude of the hills, I found the crowds at the church unbearable, and didn't even look inside it, but swiftly carried on.
I am unaware of any ghost stories associated with the house, but would not be surprised to find one. I shall explore my library to see...
Just outside Moreton-in-Marsh I saw this farmhouse across a field. It really does have character, and I hope it also has a ghost or two, or perhaps a fairytale witch with a basketful of poisoned apples, and a large oven for the cooking of children:
Sometimes the trees stand like trollish guardians, glowering from the ridges, these ones were on my way to Enstone:
In Enstone itself stands the Hoar Stone, a collapsed Neolithic dolmen in its little enclosure. At midnight on Midsummer's Eve, it is said to uproot itself and walk to a nearby stream for a drink:
On my way from Enstone to Charlbury, I passed through the corner of the evocatively named Deadman's Riding Wood. I would love to know what the story is behind that name (it reminds me of a piece of woodland near Petersfield called Widow Knight's Copse, which sounds like something from an Arthurian romance). The wood was appropriately gloomy and atmospheric:
And then it was onwards across the fields to Charlbury, disturbing a small herd of deer on the way, and walking into the sunset:
I arrived in Charlbury just before dark, and went into The Bull, which was fully booked for food, which was probably just as well. I ordered from the bar snack menu instead, a venison sausage - which was just that, a sausage, nothing else, and a pint of Kicking Goat cider, which together set me back an eyewatering sixteen quid. I was still hungry after the sausage, and almost went to buy myself another "snack" then remembered the price just in time and settled for a second pint, and a pack of crisps from my backpack. Another couple of fine walks (my walk to Moreton-in-Marsh ended rather more satisfactorily at The Swan, with a great fish and chips meal and a pint of cider).
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Sollywos
Studying for finals of Grumpy Old Lady degree.
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Many thanks for another wonderful virtual walk @SimonBurchell. I really appreciated it! The photos are really very good. I was particularly impressed by your being able to take the one of the standing stone holding the camera above your head! Editing was probably involved but how the heck did you hold it so steady? 
Pity you weren't rewarded with reasonably priced pub grub.
Pity you weren't rewarded with reasonably priced pub grub.
SimonBurchell
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Nope, no editing, I focused before holding it in the air, pointed in the right direction and hoped for the best! Of course, I don't upload the worst pics...Many thanks for another wonderful virtual walk @SimonBurchell. I really appreciated it! The photos are really very good. I was particularly impressed by your being able to take the one of the standing stone holding the camera above your head! Editing was probably involved but how the heck did you hold it so steady?
Lord Lucan
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Next time we'd be liking footage of the Hoar Stone on it's midnight ramble. If you wouldn't mind?
SimonBurchell
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Sounds great! Actually, on a road trip with my brother thirty years ago, we slept in the car while it was parked up beside the Hoar Stone. I didn't see the stone walking, although I was rudely awoken when a copper shone his torch through the window directly on my face. After a sleepy, mumbled explanation he let us be.
SimonBurchell
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Journal of a Dragonhunter
I had planned to go further afield for a two-day hike, having a free weekend, however Storm Bert rolling in just for Saturday and Sunday meant a change of plans. Unsure what the storm would do to public transport as the weekend advanced, and with Waverley Abbey being very much in my mind due to the article in the recent issue of Fortean Times with reports of a dragon haunting the ruins, I decided to get the bus to Farnham and hike home from there, stopping by the ruins. I first crossed the River Wey in Farnham town centre, what better place to start than an old market town, with its castle perched up on the hill, a stout defence against marauding dragons. The townspeople seemed unafraid, going about their normal business. I popped into Sainsbury's on South Street to buy supplies for later, a nostalgic moment, since I was but a serf in the mid 1980s, cleaning the floor of that wretched place. Anyway, onwards, the crossing of a river is always an important point in any quest, as I ventured into the Land Perilous:
As I left town, the evidence of the townspeople's vigil was ever more obvious, with plentiful watchtowers betraying their nervousness, no matter how casual they had seemed:
Through a tunnel under the defensive wall, and now I was alone. However I am of stout heart and not easily cowed.
It occurred to me at this point that a dragonhunter should really have a protective amulet of some kind. A bit late to be thinking of that now, but I considered my current hiking poles, that had accompanied me on two treks along the Way of Saint James, to the tomb of the apostle James, and to the monastery of Saint Turibius of Astorga, with its relic of the True Cross. There we go, one holy pole of Saint James, and the other holy pole of Saint Turibius, I had my amulets!
It seemed only fitting, as I headed out into this landscape populated in local folkore with witches, fairies, ghosts and now dragons, that I should pass fairytale residences sporting turrets and spires:
The locals seemed to adhere to tradition, I found the cell where they imprisoned their selected maidens as propitiatory offerings to hungry dragons. The cell was empty, not a good sign:
As I progressed across Moor Park, the terror of the locals before the draconic onslaught was obvious. Local landowners had contracted professional protection in the form of mercenary knights:
Reading dragonsign is a subtle art, honed over years of experience and study. For those unlearned in its intricate craft, and for townies, I shall list some of the marks that a knowledgeable eye may discern: Burning farmsteads, people running screaming (sometimes on fire), blackened corpses of locals or livestock, thick cloying ash, bones crunching underfoot. At closer ranges, searing heat and earth-shattering roars. I digress. Onwards.
I passed more and more watchtowers, abandoned by their craven custodians. I am made of sterner stuff.
However, I was seeking the dragon a full year after the sighting (better that way, the chances of survival are much greater). Was the ruin overgrown after being shattered by a dragon attack? I investigated one or two, and did not like what I found:
Scorched wood. The dragon had certainly been here, but not recently.
On one side of my path a steep bank rose; to my right extended the desoslate and storm-lashed flood meadows of the River Wey, a haunted landscape:
I proceeded with utmost caution through the landscape of my teenage adventures, and soon came upon Mother Ludlam's Cave, these days sadly sealed with iron, to keep her within:
I had explored the dank depths of the cave in my mid-teens with my friends. But today was not a witch-hunt, it was a dragon-hunt so I did not tarry. I soon arrived at the ruins of Waverley Abbey, passing beside a veritable troll bridge.
I did not see any trolls, and was slightly annoyed to see that the Health and Safety gestapo had marred the bridge with modern portable metal railings. I wondered if dragons ate trolls. Probably.
Then I was in the dank, rain-pelted ruins themselves.
There was no immediate evidence of dragons. They had obviously heard of my coming, and fled the field. I believe that makes me the victor. I was infuriated to see the health and safety gestapo had been here too, and parts of the ruin that I have wandered through many times were know blocked off with ugly metal mesh. A pox upon the petty bureaucrats.
I headed over to the old yew, which has always offered convenient roots to sit upon. As I often do when I pass the ruins, I sat there and had my lunch:
A note to those claiming unfounded ages for ancient yews - this one is growing upon the wall of the abbey church, abandoned after the Dissolution of the Monasteries, so is younger than 500 years. This particular tree is where one of the smaller dragons settled, according to the article in the Fortean Times. The dragon did not disturb my lunch.
My onwards route took me across Sheephatch Copse, the woods on the far side of the river where the largest dragon was witnessed.
The only roar was of the wind in the pines, I still saw no dragons. Obviously they were fleeing my presence.
On my way into Tilford, I passed Rapunzel's tower. It was securely locked and boarded against marauding dragons:
As is only right after vanquishing a dragon, I stopped off at Tilford church to give thanks for my deliverance:
Yet I was not content. The dragon had fled. I decided that I must storm the very gates of Mordor to find my dragon:
But the gate is fallen, and all is ruin after Frodo's shenanigans. Mordor, once dwelling place of all manner of foul beings, is now a dark tourism site... The dragon-hunting portion of my hike was over. Yet I found a fairy cage abandoned in the woods. I bet the blighters can't escape cold iron!
Before dark fell, I passed along Houndown Bottom, the desolate, windswept and rain-pelted scene of the Wigwam Murder during the the Second World War:
Near Thursley, dark fell and by the time I threaded my way through the bottom of the Devil's Punchbowl it was full dark with raging winds and lashing rain, I have never known the Punchbowl so wild and desolate. It was a tricky passage in the dark, my head-torch more hindrance than help, with glare from rain and my glasses, so I tied it to my fist which helped enormously, allowing me to see the path much clearer, over Hindhead Common and down to the chippie, a satisfactory end to a day's dragonhunting.
I had planned to go further afield for a two-day hike, having a free weekend, however Storm Bert rolling in just for Saturday and Sunday meant a change of plans. Unsure what the storm would do to public transport as the weekend advanced, and with Waverley Abbey being very much in my mind due to the article in the recent issue of Fortean Times with reports of a dragon haunting the ruins, I decided to get the bus to Farnham and hike home from there, stopping by the ruins. I first crossed the River Wey in Farnham town centre, what better place to start than an old market town, with its castle perched up on the hill, a stout defence against marauding dragons. The townspeople seemed unafraid, going about their normal business. I popped into Sainsbury's on South Street to buy supplies for later, a nostalgic moment, since I was but a serf in the mid 1980s, cleaning the floor of that wretched place. Anyway, onwards, the crossing of a river is always an important point in any quest, as I ventured into the Land Perilous:
As I left town, the evidence of the townspeople's vigil was ever more obvious, with plentiful watchtowers betraying their nervousness, no matter how casual they had seemed:
Through a tunnel under the defensive wall, and now I was alone. However I am of stout heart and not easily cowed.
It seemed only fitting, as I headed out into this landscape populated in local folkore with witches, fairies, ghosts and now dragons, that I should pass fairytale residences sporting turrets and spires:
The locals seemed to adhere to tradition, I found the cell where they imprisoned their selected maidens as propitiatory offerings to hungry dragons. The cell was empty, not a good sign:
As I progressed across Moor Park, the terror of the locals before the draconic onslaught was obvious. Local landowners had contracted professional protection in the form of mercenary knights:
Reading dragonsign is a subtle art, honed over years of experience and study. For those unlearned in its intricate craft, and for townies, I shall list some of the marks that a knowledgeable eye may discern: Burning farmsteads, people running screaming (sometimes on fire), blackened corpses of locals or livestock, thick cloying ash, bones crunching underfoot. At closer ranges, searing heat and earth-shattering roars. I digress. Onwards.
I passed more and more watchtowers, abandoned by their craven custodians. I am made of sterner stuff.
However, I was seeking the dragon a full year after the sighting (better that way, the chances of survival are much greater). Was the ruin overgrown after being shattered by a dragon attack? I investigated one or two, and did not like what I found:
Scorched wood. The dragon had certainly been here, but not recently.
On one side of my path a steep bank rose; to my right extended the desoslate and storm-lashed flood meadows of the River Wey, a haunted landscape:
I proceeded with utmost caution through the landscape of my teenage adventures, and soon came upon Mother Ludlam's Cave, these days sadly sealed with iron, to keep her within:
I had explored the dank depths of the cave in my mid-teens with my friends. But today was not a witch-hunt, it was a dragon-hunt so I did not tarry. I soon arrived at the ruins of Waverley Abbey, passing beside a veritable troll bridge.
I did not see any trolls, and was slightly annoyed to see that the Health and Safety gestapo had marred the bridge with modern portable metal railings. I wondered if dragons ate trolls. Probably.
Then I was in the dank, rain-pelted ruins themselves.
There was no immediate evidence of dragons. They had obviously heard of my coming, and fled the field. I believe that makes me the victor. I was infuriated to see the health and safety gestapo had been here too, and parts of the ruin that I have wandered through many times were know blocked off with ugly metal mesh. A pox upon the petty bureaucrats.
I headed over to the old yew, which has always offered convenient roots to sit upon. As I often do when I pass the ruins, I sat there and had my lunch:
A note to those claiming unfounded ages for ancient yews - this one is growing upon the wall of the abbey church, abandoned after the Dissolution of the Monasteries, so is younger than 500 years. This particular tree is where one of the smaller dragons settled, according to the article in the Fortean Times. The dragon did not disturb my lunch.
My onwards route took me across Sheephatch Copse, the woods on the far side of the river where the largest dragon was witnessed.
The only roar was of the wind in the pines, I still saw no dragons. Obviously they were fleeing my presence.
On my way into Tilford, I passed Rapunzel's tower. It was securely locked and boarded against marauding dragons:
As is only right after vanquishing a dragon, I stopped off at Tilford church to give thanks for my deliverance:
Yet I was not content. The dragon had fled. I decided that I must storm the very gates of Mordor to find my dragon:
But the gate is fallen, and all is ruin after Frodo's shenanigans. Mordor, once dwelling place of all manner of foul beings, is now a dark tourism site... The dragon-hunting portion of my hike was over. Yet I found a fairy cage abandoned in the woods. I bet the blighters can't escape cold iron!
Before dark fell, I passed along Houndown Bottom, the desolate, windswept and rain-pelted scene of the Wigwam Murder during the the Second World War:
Near Thursley, dark fell and by the time I threaded my way through the bottom of the Devil's Punchbowl it was full dark with raging winds and lashing rain, I have never known the Punchbowl so wild and desolate. It was a tricky passage in the dark, my head-torch more hindrance than help, with glare from rain and my glasses, so I tied it to my fist which helped enormously, allowing me to see the path much clearer, over Hindhead Common and down to the chippie, a satisfactory end to a day's dragonhunting.
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@SimonBurchell
Your posts on this page and the last are my favourites on the board for many months--thank you.
Pleasantly homesick.
Your posts on this page and the last are my favourites on the board for many months--thank you.
Pleasantly homesick.
SimonBurchell
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Thank you! I sometimes wonder if I'm waffling on too much, but the feedback seems favourable, so I persist! There is so much that I come across in the countryside, much of it little known, it seems only right to share.
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Sollywos
Studying for finals of Grumpy Old Lady degree.
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Hello @SimonBurchell, You most certainly are NOT waffling on too much! Keep on persisting. Your photos and the commentary are brilliant.
Frideswide
Fortea Morgana :) PeteByrdie certificated Princess
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Persist! Persist! I love Rapunzel's Tower... Is the Fairy Cage internal reinforcing from concrete? I mean, could it be mistaken for internal reinforcing from concrete?
SimonBurchell
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OK, I shall dispel the mists of romance. The walls of Mordor were, in fact, the Atlantic Wall, two sections of defensive wall built on Hankley Common by Canadian troops during the Second World War, based on the German defences of Normandy, in order to practice for the D-day landings. Sizeable chunks are blown away, leaving twisted rods exposed. Around the wall are scattered anti-tank defences including dragons teeth and anti-tank blocks and sizeable chunks of reinforced concrete - I am not sure if they are (large) anti-tank blocks, or pieces of wall sent flying by explosions. I think the metalwork was either for construction of a new anti-tank block, or a new wall section. Either way, due to the progress of the war, the concrete was never poured.
I would highly recommend the route I took for anyone interested in the archaeology of the Second World War. The River Wey formed part of the GHQ Line, with plentiful pill boxes, artillery bunkers, anti-tank obstacles (often repurposed) and anti-aircraft gun anchors. I have walked this route many times, and every time I find a new pill box, carefully hidden in the landscape, that I have not seen before.
Usually, when I am not dragon hunting, I find it a sobering thought. The flood meadows of the Wey would have been a killing ground if the Germans had invaded. And it was obstacles such as these that our grandfathers had to cross in France, Belgium and Germany.
Edit: For anyone not familiar with Farnham, no, it is not a walled town and never has been. The tunnel under the wall was actually through the railway embankment.
Second edit: I make light of dragon-hunting, but I do not mean to detract from @lordmongrove 's excellent investigations or mock them. I found the atmosphere at the abbey much the same as on other visits, and as usual I was disappointed not to hear ghostly chanting. I did not expect to see dragons, but I would not fancy being at the ruins on my own after dark either.
I would highly recommend the route I took for anyone interested in the archaeology of the Second World War. The River Wey formed part of the GHQ Line, with plentiful pill boxes, artillery bunkers, anti-tank obstacles (often repurposed) and anti-aircraft gun anchors. I have walked this route many times, and every time I find a new pill box, carefully hidden in the landscape, that I have not seen before.
Usually, when I am not dragon hunting, I find it a sobering thought. The flood meadows of the Wey would have been a killing ground if the Germans had invaded. And it was obstacles such as these that our grandfathers had to cross in France, Belgium and Germany.
Edit: For anyone not familiar with Farnham, no, it is not a walled town and never has been. The tunnel under the wall was actually through the railway embankment.
Second edit: I make light of dragon-hunting, but I do not mean to detract from @lordmongrove 's excellent investigations or mock them. I found the atmosphere at the abbey much the same as on other visits, and as usual I was disappointed not to hear ghostly chanting. I did not expect to see dragons, but I would not fancy being at the ruins on my own after dark either.
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SimonBurchell
Justified & Ancient
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- Sep 15, 2001
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- 3,353
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- Somewhere in the labyrinth
Do tell!
There seems to be a rooted Knight lurking above, with his Shield guarding the property?
Mother Ludlam's Cave reminds me of the old ice houses that they used to use to keep their ice in?
*Just a Coincidence perhaps?
ramonmercado
CyberPunk
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- Eblana
It'd great stuff! Keep it up!
kesavaross
Justified & Ancient
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- Oct 18, 2015
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- Brighton, UK
Brilliant and very interesting. Good job you scared of the dragon.
Mythopoeika
I am a meat popsicle
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- Inside a starship, watching puny humans from afar
No, no - the waffling is entertaining! Great post! I love it.
catseye
Out of focus little thingy
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Oh this was wonderful.
I have questions regarding the dragon flying above the wood - it can't have been flying very low or it would have crashed into the trees, so how certain were the witnesses that they approximated the size correctly?
SimonBurchell
Justified & Ancient
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That photo in particular is indeed an ice house, not the cave, which is a bit further on. The ice house used to be open to the public, but the gate is now rusted shut into one impassable lump.There seems to be a rooted Knight lurking above, with his Shield guarding the property?
Mother Ludlam's Cave reminds me of the old ice houses that they used to use to keep their ice in?
*Just a Coincidence perhaps?
View attachment 84340
Tunn11
Justified & Ancient
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- Under the highest tree top in Kent
Keep going, excellent reading.
Kondoru
Beloved of Ra
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I took pics but do not know how to post them here.
Tigerhawk
Godzilla Just Has Anger Management Issues....
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- Skaro
It is thought provoking waffle, so please continue. Through your posts we see parts of the world we might never see.
Bad Bungle
Tutti but not Frutti.
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- Oct 13, 2018
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- 4,193
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- The Chilterns
Took this photo last month in the Autumn gloom - the further you stared into the gloom, the further back in time you'd see. Top left is one of two Roman tumuli and on the right is the oldest bridge in Buckinghamshire (Thornborough ~1400 AD). The bridge is about the 6th iteration of the original river ford/crossing point used by the Romans and was isolated from the main road (like an oxbow) 50 years ago. Didn't have a camera when I walked over the bridge today - well, walked half way over - heart in mouth, very uncomfortable feeling.
Good stuff.
Good stuff.
Ronnie Jersey
Justified & Ancient
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- Nov 22, 2021
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OMG - the most stunningly beautiful photos of the English countryside I have ever seen!
I know I've said this before, but I don't understand how my parents could have left such a beautiful country.
blessmycottonsocks
Beloved of Ra
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- Wessex and Mercia
There are still areas of great beauty in England, but the countryside is ever dwindling due to gross overpopulation.
Just one US state - Texas, is larger not just than England, but the entire UK (and Texas also has some stunning scenery).
I can understand why Brits decide to emigrate to less crowded places like the US, Canada and Australia, but I'm too set in my ways now to think about that.
PS. great to have you back Ronnie!
blessmycottonsocks
Beloved of Ra
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This was just posted on my Nextdoor site.
Welcome to poor old dysfunctional 2024 England!
Welcome to poor old dysfunctional 2024 England!
Flooded?