Allsop's Haggerdown Hill

From its summit on a clear day one can see all the way from Dartmoor sixty miles to the west around to the Isle of Wight sixty miles to the east.  In Thomas Hardy’s novel The Trumpet-Major Eggardon Hill is called ‘Haggerdon’.

And it is somewhere I have been visiting since the summer of 1982.

I've loved this part of West Dorset ever since as a teenager coming on a two week holiday to Toller Porcorum, with my parents. Before then we'd oft holidayed in Bournemouth (including the infamous hot summer of 1976). Despite the 350 mile 8 hour drive from our North East home my parents loved Dorset, but always gravitated towards the east, land of furze heath, sea stacks and long sandy beaches. Why we ended up at Toller Porcorum that year I know not. Though I'm pleased we did. Something clicked. If memory serves me down the years, I recall spending much of the holiday lying in the bath of this holiday cottage reading Far From the Madding Crowd. The huge windows were wide open, not a breath of wind, my view a heat shimmering steep hill hard by the hamlet. Birds sang, swallows swooped and as many a romantic teenager before I enveloped myself in a sepia mist of that imagined artistic self lost in a bedrock chalk landscape.  

Which is interesting as these days I take many sepia photographs such as this one of the view down to Maiden Newton with Eggardon on the far right horizon.

That holiday as a teenager was remarkable for a single moment. Most people have pivotal moments in life, moments which change life and direction forever. Mine was asking my father if I could go for a drive (I'd recently passed my driving test) on the last evening before we trudged back to the north. In the passionate musing of a smitten teenager, I dreaded going back. 

It was mid July, warm, the sun setting slowly, allowing a golden hue to caress the fields and I just drove out of Toller Porcorum with no specific plan in mind. I headed east, not west. Coming back to the cottage I found myself on the Roman road climbing steeply out of Winterbourne Abbas. Vivid remain the memory of excitement, this straight, but crooked, Roman road was bathed in late evening summer light. Tall grasses brushed by the car as I sped along, windows down, I was free, enjoying that freedom teenage boys love when being away from parents. And then I came to a crossroad. In front of me was a single lane track, curiosity bore down on my decision where to go. Ahead. 

Only on writing this piece have I discovered this lane is called King's Lane. For decades it simply was the track on Eggardon Hill, a track with a view which took my breath away on that summers evening.  I stopped the car, got out and stood memorised. Silence, a meandering lane grass growing up through the middle, a hill fort to my left and precipitously to my right a steep steep drop into what I now know is Powerstock Common and beyond. Northumberland had huge skies and empty landscapes, but nothing like this. Of course I was not the first to discover it.

For the last few years of his life, the late great countryside writer Kenneth Allsop lived under the shadow of this "arrowhead plateau" as he called it. It was to become the backbone to this Yorkshire-man's life, as it has become to me. It draws me towards it by unseen threads, once pulled taut resistance is impossible.  

A decade before I discovered this Wessex Height, Allsop in his book In the Country elegantly summed up what Eggardon, or Haggerdown as he called it, meant to him;  I understand fully - it would be futile to add to his words, 

"This rooftop of turfed limestone is a place for kestrels and orchids, for butterflies like flecks of the sky itself, the chalkhill blue and the Adonis blue, they waver among the scabious and harebells, vast angels against the miniaturized woods and barns on the unfolding tracts below"

Allsop continues..

 " On this last great limb, a domination of wind, cloud and turf, there is a sense of pure form and power of rock-formation which I have felt nowhere else. Ahead the vale of clay dissolves into the Devon border"

One of the absolute joys of moving to Somerset in the early 1990's was being able to visit Eggardon as a day tripper. Before my move south, living in the North East of England and despite the distance, I had visited and re-visited this rooftop of turfed limestone every year, sometimes more than once. During a mad moment when I was feeling especially low, I spent a solitary hour on the Hill, after the 16 hour round trip. Youth was on my side for the energy needed to stay awake that long. Luckily I can now head down there as and when the pull of the threads draws me in. As it did this week, only 6 weeks after my last visit. The two days could be no different.

On my visit in May, Dorset was (as indeed was most of England) in the midst of the sunniest and driest spring for decades. On that day the land was parched, 30 degree heat bore down on these turfed ramparts making the day stifling for the few specks of sky I observed fluttering along it's flanks. 

My visit six weeks later reversed the mood. Rain bearing clouds scudded across the vanishing clay lands. Uncoordinated raindrops threatened to, but failed to, materialise into more organised downpours. And the wind blew. It was exactly why I walked along the track. The energy remained from a dilapidated tropical storm which had barrelled over the Atlantic this week. Low pressure squalls added to the feeling of isolation. I had the Hill to myself, just how I like it, though I never feel alone here. I'm always aware that many feet have trod this way since Eggardon's hill-fort was created around 50BC. Each and every owner of those passing feet leaves a presence, unseen, though still felt today.

I'd come to take photographs. Eggardon is almost impossible to either paint or photograph and do it justice.  The landscape is simply huge, omni-directional and never-ending.  I took many many more than are visible here, they will provide reference for the winter months, for I will conquer this image on canvas.  

  Until then I'll leave the last words to Kenneth Allop.

"As ever the gigantic hulk of Haggerdown filled the sky...........to earn the right to love a place you have to learn about it bit by bit. Dear Wessex - 'that wondrous world of sap and leaves' of Hardy"

Reference:

Allsop, Kenneth. (1972). In the Country. Hamish Hamilton

Friday to Tuesday in freezing ice.........

An eclectic posting today. I've just returned from a weekend at WWT Welney in Norfolk where as part of a team we recorded an episode of Saving Species in front of a live audience. This was broadcast yesterday and if you would like to be interested in the finished result, have a listen on the i-player, here. And as we worked over the weekend we have 2 days of in lieu, so I had mine on Monday and Tuesday. Therefore as the excitement mounts, go on admit it, you're on the edge of your seats with this posting, I shall recall the last 5 days, mainly in photographs. That way you don't have to read any of my scribblings.

This posting should have happened on Friday. And why? Well on Thursday lunchtime I pootled out into the snow capped streets of Clifton to have some fresh air. Passing the Oxfam book shop, in the window, this book. In a moment of extreme rashness and hot headed direct action, something said to me - just buy this book. And I'm glad I did.

Because passing £2.99 to the man in a scarf, I took the book unopened out of the shop and it fell open at page 12. Page 12 being a poem about Loders (in Dorset). But it wasn't. It was a poem about my all time favourite location in the British Isles, Eggardon Hill. So I wonder. What made me walk out at lunchtime for the first time in months, what made me walk past the Oxfam window, and what made me buy this book unopened, only for the page to open at a poem about Eggardon Hill? Some may say it is coincidence, but I wonder, is there something else going on out there, we just don't understand what fate can send in our direction. Before I move onto the rest of the posting, herewith this poem (apologies about the formatting, it's gone a bit haywire)

When frost lies thick on Eggardon, And every pool begins to freeze, From Mickleford to Nettlecombe, And hills are hung with sparkling trees.

O, then, to loders we must go, Before the world is drowned in snow, When mists fall low on Eggardon, And morning reddens sea and sky.

From Vinney Cross to Powerstock, The flocks of silent starlings fly, O, then, as evening breathes farewell, We take the rutted road to Bell.

When stars shine clear on Eggardon, And field and fold are hushed with sleep, From Yondover to Askerswell, The lanterns burn for wandering sheep

O, then, for us those lanterns burn, And, one by one, we shall return.

So that's got us neatly to Friday afternoon. Off we went to Welney, and well I can't really say much of note here other than in the photo below there's a bit of an eejit in the back row, on the left. It was a good weekend, the show went well and the real stars of the show were the birds.

It's my first ever visit to Welney and I loved it. A bit touch and go with this wintry weather whether we'd go, or make it in the snow, but in the end we did, and the audience loved it. Quite strange to be there with hardly any snow, while 30 miles away there was quite a bit. I popped out early on Saturday morning with my boss to see if we could track down some of the 2,000 Bewick swans on the reserve, but they'd already gone off to their grazing fields. But we did see a stunning marsh harrier quartering past the hide, and of course hundreds of Whoopers from the observatory.

Including this family of 7 cygnets who are on site at the moment. Apparently this same pair raised 6 cygnets last year as well. Fabulous to think they were in Iceland just a few weeks ago and now made it intact to Britain.

So by Sunday morning we headed back to Bristol, and after unpacking the cars, I then drove over to Julie's, where by 4pm we were heading out for a wonderful evening walk in the fields around East Grafton.

With of course a sunset thrown in to add to the walk (above) and a wonderful sight of corvids going to roost too (below). What these 2 photos don't show you of course is that it was bitterly cold by the time we got back to the house. Just in time for mulled wine.

Monday dawned cold, bitterly cold. in fact the temperature stayed well below freezing all day. So after some excitement of taking Julie's car to have 4 tyres fitted and buying a fleece in the agricultural merchants, we hoofed it to Waitrose in Marlborough, purchased maltesers and mince pies and headed to Savernake Forest with some nicely warmed mulled wine.

I think the maltesers must have been alcoholic versions, as there is no reason why the above photo would have been taken unless warming intoxicating vapours had been inhaled in my direction. I just hope you don't come across a wood nymph like that in the dark woods.....

Boy was it cold though. That damp, clawing cold only freezing fog brings. Very photogenic mind you.

.....it was probably a mix of mulled wine and hypothermia which meant I caught Julie talking to a pile of logs. She said she was sniffing the resin as she loves the scent of pine. Apparently that's more acceptable than talking to logs. I shall say no more.

But we did find a funny fungi in the forest. Is it a fungi? I'm not entirely sure what it is. At first I thought it was snow, but then realised it wasn't. It was quite delicate and broke off the beech twig it had erupted from quite easily, but was quite soft and feather like to the touch. Does anyone know what this is?

Or maybe why does this tree have feet?.... I'm sure if we hadn't had that second mulled wine this tree would have looked normal. Unlike my impersonation of Julie Andrews below........

I apologise unreservedly for this photo. It was the only way to keep warm. This was yesterday, December 7th and we were out for a 3 hour, 6 mile or so walk to Great Bedwyn and back. Blimey it was cold, with the temperature never getting above minus 4 all day, Julie couldn't work in this weather, I had a day off, but above all it was absolutely stunning out there, so off we went.

Molly wasn't convinced going out was the best thing to do on a day like this, so she positioned herself down in front of the radiator for the day. Over night on Monday the freezing fog had become thicker, and with the temperature hovering around minus 5 or 6 everything was covered in a film of ice-white. The Wiltshire countryside was stunning, absolutely breathtaking. so after a few chores in Marlborough (and breakfast for yours truly in the Polly tea room), we donned 5 layers of clothing and set off.

The first part of the walk is along the field edges next to Julies house and towards Wilton about half a mile away. It was so cold, the bridge of my nose was in agony, like a knife being pushed through it. But the scenery, even though foggy was fantastic. Julie couldn't wait for me faffing about taking photos, so she walked on. I can't blame her.

Literally everything was covered in 3 or 4 mm of ice. It looked much more like a heavy snowfall, but I assure you this was all ice, coating every surface possible. And with no sun in the sky, it wasn't melting either.

After a mile or two of fabulous walking in the bitter cold, we eventually made it to Wilton Brail. This is becoming one of my bird watching sites, and I was last here on November 16th (below). On my last visit we had had the first frost of the autumn, little knowing what the next three weeks would bring. But like on my last visit, a marsh tit was calling.

But this time, instead of heading up over Wilton Brail, we turned right and headed over to Bedwyn Brail, across the valley and across some rock hard stubble. Concrete wouldn't be as hard as that field was which made walking a bit difficult, but in the gloom at the edge of the Brail we saw a small herd of roe deer a quarter of a mile away. A good use then of my zoom lens.

.......you can tell Julie is happy to see the deer!! Is she telling me they're "that big"? Or is she telling me she's just heard a crossbill, of which one or two flew over calling. We never saw them, but that's the advantage of calling birds. One doesn't need to see them to enjoy their company.

Now there's a sight you don't often see, a footpath sign decked in Christmas lights!!

But eventually we arrived on the ridge of Bedwyn Brail, where the ice forms on the trees continued to delight us. With this cold weather, most people were sensibly staying indoors, so the countryside was eerily and delightfully silent. Quite comforting. There is something wonderful about being in total silence in the English countryside. I find it very spiritual.

I took a lot of photographs of the ice on the trees, but the images obtained are always a disappointment. Being there was like being enveloped in a Narnia-eske magical wonderland, something the photographs don't do justice to.

And so after 2 hours walking we finally began to head into Great Bedwyn, where I tried to recreate a moment from the last time I mentioned this walk on the blog, back at the end of August. Sadly this time there were no blackberries on the leaves. Surprising that.

For the return journey to home, we decided to walk back along the Kennet and Avon canal. And what a treat we had in store for us. Presumably the water in the canal added to the moisture in the air, and everything was thick with ice. At this point the canal was still running water, but eventually upstream it was frozen. Just after taking this photo, we flushed out a woodcock, presumably desperate to find food anywhere it could in this wintry landscape.

Bridges, ivy, trees, everything was just an artists dream

About a mile from Great Bedwyn, one reaches the Crofton Pumping Station, and by here the canal was very much solid ice. Dark clouds added to the dramatic scenery, as well as adding to the cold as the wind started to pick up.

But the scenic photos just kept coming and coming. I keep looking at the one below and can not believe everything you see is just ice; you will have to take my word for it, there is absolutely no snow in this picture. what you can't see well in the picture were large flocks of fieldfares and redwings foraging the berried bushes. Sadly no waxwings. A waxwing on a day like this would have been the perfect finale to a long walk in sub zero temperatures.

Just past the Crofton Pumping Station we headed back home past wilton Water, which is one of the few open water areas in Wiltshire. it is a holding pond for the pumping station and has a few birds on there all year round. Yesterdays highlight was a kingfisher which we heard, before we saw, and 5 little grebes. A few wigeon, teal, tufted duck and gadwall made up the other numbers.

But the scenery kept on being the star of the show. I'm lost for words now.

So lets leave the last word to firstly the flock of Canada Geese in the fields by Wilton water, and then a shot of Julie walking the last few hundred yards back to the village, it was only 2pm but boy oh boy, doesn't that look perishngly cold.

Busy but enjoyable....

Where on earth does the time go. This time last week I was impersonating a crane and here I am 7 days later and full of busy.

Last weekend was extremely good fun. On Friday night we were recording an "in front of a live audience" down at the Bristol Festival of Nature, the premise being "Biodiversity, the trouble with the word". It was an excellent evening had by all and you can hear the results for the evening tomorrow morning at 11am on Radio 4 or play it again on the BBC i-player here.

That's the commercial break over. Back to the personal stuff. After the event Julie, (who'd come to see this recording), and I pootled back home and sat outside with a bag of chips, some fizzy wine and relaxed the garden on a warm night, while watching bats dive bombing moths over our heads. At one point a fox began to cry too in the fields behind, such an eery sound, but all of this made the perfect end to a busy evening.

Saturday morning though we were both up at the crack of dawn as I'd volunteered to help at the BBC stand at the Festival of Nature, above, in the morning. This photo was taken just before the doors opened and it was the last time the floor was seen for 2 days such was the popularity of the event. People love coming to the BBC tent as we try and allow them access to cameras and so on. I didn't play much part in this event this year other than standing about like a lemon in an official tee shirt and pretending I knew what I was talking about. No that's not me.

Lunchtime came, that was enough for me and so we headed back home and my house martins. When I bought this house in December there was an old martin nest on the apex of the roof. Last week was the first time I'd noticed the nest was occupied, and by Saturday morning, plaintiff cheeping could be heard continuously. I love the fact that my house, just 16 years old, is home to sparrows, starlings and now house martins. I think bats too, as they swoop from the direction of the roof when they first fly in the evening. At the back of the house is a field frequented by foxes and between the field and the house a selection of shrubs which are awash with smaller birds. Yesterday afternoon a female sparrowhawk tried to pick a few of these off, but failed.

But back to Saturday. After a rest, at 5pm we drove to Lyme Regis. I never tire of this place and a stroll along the beach and the Cobb was wonderful. The light was staggering and made the artistic side of me want to stop and stare for a long time.

However we had another aim. Eggardon Hill. Maybe I shouldn't advertise this place, as it is very special to me, as somewhere I've come to for nearly 30 years, and I want to keep it that way. My place and quiet. It has a spiritual quality to it I can't explain. But up there anything seems possible and I'm on top of the world. I was last here for Julie's birthday in March (she was with me) and then we had a sense of something around us as we sat on the hill in the moonlight. I sensed years ago someone standing behind me, but of course there wasn't anyone there when I turned around. But who knows what is going on. Ley lines also cross the fort, which being a fort must have seen many human activities good or bad.

There were however a lot of things around us on Saturday. More tangible things. A herd of frisky bullocks. A conundrum then, we had a picnic. If we sat on the hill fort with the picnic would the bullocks pinch our sarnies? Or worse still, wine. It was too much so we sat just on the other side of the fence and watched the sun set while the night enveloped us both eventually. it's quite something to just sit in the countryside while the sun sets and the moon rises. A lot of noises change from day to night sounds. It's fascinating. But even at 10pm, the skylarks were still singing, 15 minutes after this photo below was taken. Nature doesn't stop for light.

I like this place very much. And on a June evening with not a soul about and then walking back to the car in almost total darkness, with just enough light to pick out pale moths rising from the cow parsley, it was a truly magical experience.

And that finally brings me to a few lines which have inspired me for as long as I can remember, because it is experiencing nature, the countryside and the soul of the environment which has driven me for years. And places like Lyme Regis, Eggardon Hill, Lindisfarne, the Coquet Valley and a whole host of British landscapes are places I'm drawn to time and time again.

The author BB used these few lines taken from a gravestone in the Lake District in the front of all his books. Nothing I've ever read before or since, captures what nature, the profound sense of well being I get while experiencing nature, truly experiencing it, quietly, on my own, or with someone who also understands. So I recommend we all read these words and remember them next time we are in the countryside as we pass by, but once....

The wonder of the world
The beauty and the power,
The shapes of things,
Their colours, lights and shades,
These I saw.
Look ye also while life lasts.