After a little less than two weeks I walked into Devon, crossing the border just beyond Bude, some 133 miles on from Land’s End, averaging 12 miles per day of progress. What a thing it is to think now that the 84 mile journey by car would take two hours - so much time saved - and of what I would have given up: how many footsteps; how many lengths of wave on their way into shore, and crests then breaking, and swash gliding over sand; cliff, cove and beach I would never otherwise have seen; sunsets above the sea; mornings, afternoons and evenings looking out at beauty; quantity and quality of peace; the contribution to the rest of my life thereafter.
The next stage of my walk would take me to Darracot, across to Clovelly, Bideford and Barnstaple, along the lower boundary of Exmoor, over the Quantocks, then so too, finally, the Somerset Levels, before arriving at Glastonbury. I do not remember crossing the border and leaving Cornwall. Looking back, I am not sure I even knew where the border was. No matter how long I had spent studying maps in the months before setting off, nor that I carried these very maps with me, information of such a macroscopic perspective was now forgotten. I had to come to care for the geography I could see, and the weather. As the day fell before me, I would wonder whether perhaps there was a pub or a shop beyond the curve of coast. Comfortingly, the sea was always to my left, and this was enough of a guide to see that I was never lost.
More noticeable are the small cultural differences between the counties, pasties and cream teas now Devonshire, and with the latter cream before jam, as with other dairy products, the butter on toast for example, or the milk of rice pudding, but little enough did I think of these, as between Bude and Bideford there is only country and coast, no villages to furnish me with food and wine, and so here I was obliged to head inland, into the wooded valleys, that I might find an inn, and save myself the distance of Hartland Point, cutting off the corner, so reaching Clovelly in good time the day after.
Clovelly is one of the most beautiful villages in Britain, dreamy as it disappears down the steep - a stream of cobbles and fishermen cottages cascading between cliff-sides of jurassic forest and crashing waterfalls - so dreamy that I wonder how it happened, that people chose it as a place to build their lives. It is quintessential and charming, yet somehow a little haunting too, isolated, wild, and I suppose often very difficult, for the sea and the storms. Perhaps the most grisly survival story is that of the Clovelly Cannibals who lived in a nearby cave, snaring passers-by to take home for pickling and subsequent consumption, and are rumoured to have eaten as many as 1,000 people, although some contend that the story was put about by smugglers to protect their cave from closer inspection. Now, only a thin layer of life is left scratching out an existence, peddling tourism from the cobble stones, carrying on with modern life in structures that were designed for entirely different modes of living. I had been to Clovelly before, as a child, perhaps more than fifteen years ago, and I was delighted to return, but this time it was deserted, such had been the weather so far that summer. Various live-in blokes sitting at the bar bemoaned their failed marriages and limited visiting rights. A couple of lads discussed their forthcoming shifts as porters, carrying luggage up and down the steps of the village. Tourists came to eat pub meals and then departed.
Bideford and Barnstaple, on the other hand, are proper places, and both pleasant little towns in which to while away some time. I enjoyed eating at a Chinese restaurant in Bideford, and browsing the parade of independent shops down the side of the old market in Barnstaple. The route between the two is however flat and uninspiring. From Bideford one takes the Tarka Trail towards Barnstaple, so named because of the region’s links with the Henry Williamson novel ‘Tarka the Otter’. The novel was published in 1927, so it is understandable if things have changed, and perhaps I did not do the best bit, but I have to say I found the whole experience painfully un-otterish. There is a long tarmac path leading around a concrete waterfront towards the local military base, after which another tarmac path leads away eastwards along an old railway line. Occasionally one passes a sign making vague allusions to the presence of otters, but there is not a sniff of them, nor, in the parts that I saw, is it remotely credible that they ever would live there.
From Barnstaple, I moved inland again, aiming for Exmoor. Without the seaside resorts to support me, I walked in search of pubs, churches and post offices, three pillars of countryside society without which I would have gone hungry, wet and cold so much more often. I had picked up a real ale trail leaflet and thought to try what there was, stopping then throughout quiet weekday afternoons, sat alone with the landlords, who I took to interviewing about their trade, for the interest, for this book. Whilst there has been a decline in the overall market, there are plenty of success stories out there: the pressures of the current climate have driven an improvement in the product offer, particularly in food. Unfortunately, not everywhere is suited to dining. Things keep getting harder for places that are too small or that are located in areas of weak demand. Pubs are part of the fabric of British society, not just because they are traditional and we are thus sentimental about them, but because they bring people together. The criticality of their role in providing this function varies according to the location. It is at its highest in small villages and poorer urban areas where often there are few other options. Pubs are also a local business in which family owners, with limited means of investment, might succeed. As such, they should be cherished as a source of independence.
Churches I started to visit for their shelter, but I was more glad eventually for the craftsmanship, my first on the way to Bideford in the village of Alwington. As I wandered along a country lane, I spied its tower reaching out above the treetops, the stone work of its spiralling turrets and gargoyles now dappled with lichen in patchwork-quilted comfort. In the churchyard I looked for its age, inspecting the engravings on wall-plaques and gravestones - perhaps to chance upon the epitaph of some famous, dead sea captain - but I was unable to find any older than 1769, although that itself was wonderful:
‘Near this place lies the body Of John Pine and Samuel his son And Mary his son’s wife, also John Pine their son who died the 19th day Of February Anno Dom 1769 aged 82. I’ve travelled far by sea and land Through hardships, frost and snow Through dismal woods beyond the seas I wandered to and fro Yet God with whom my soul Doth hope to rest for evermore Did by his goodness bring me safe Home to my native shore Where with my friends I lived and Died and here my corps does lie Entombed in my parents grave In hopes to life with joy.’
Born in 1687, John Pine lived through the War of the Spanish Succession, in which Britain and its allies sought desperately to avoid the union of France and Spain, the Great Frost of 1709, said to be the coldest winter seen in 500 years, the Hanoverian ascendancy and the Jacobite rebellions, but I don’t know which of these he saw, if any, nor what were the reasons that he travelled so far beyond the seas. I remember thinking that these days there was little cause for adventure, and no risk that I should wander to and fro through the dismal woods of foreign lands.
After this, I stopped to see all the old churches that I passed, and was frequently pleased for some reminder of Christianity, medieval or more recent in our history, whether gravestones, or medieval pew carvings of corn and springing rabbits, or ancient crosses. If interested, the South West is a good place to explore, much visited by Celtic missionaries from the sixth century. Some of the region’s distinction is derived from its position within the Celtic fringe, beyond the spread of the Saxon hordes. British Christian history is sometimes said to be too focused on the work of Saint Augustine; certainly, much of history’s colour is missed if due attention is not given to our West coast.
Cornwall and Devon formed stepping stones for roving saints from Ireland and Wales on the way to the continent. Cornwall has since taken Saint Piran as its patron saint, who is also the patron saint of miners. Legend has it that the smelting of tin was rediscovered when his hearthstone miraculously smelted itself to form a white cross of metal above the black ore (hence the black and white flag of Cornwall). Piran is also supposed to have been tied to a mill stone by the Irish and tossed into the sea, only to float his way in safety to the Cornish coast. Saint Petroc has similarly been taken as the patron saint of Devon, although this is another matter of dispute between the Devonians and Cornish. He is said to have been a Welsh king who studied in Ireland. After coming to South West England, he spent thirty years in Padstow, went to Rome and then returned to Britain to spend some time in Devon. After presuming to predict God’s plan for the weather, and guessing wrongly, he travelled to Rome, Jerusalem and then India in penance. These are but snippets of the distinctive history that can be found in an area that has long valued its separation from the English establishment. Much later, John Wesley, founder of Methodism, would here find strong support in this vein of independence for his advocacy of a personal relationship with God. Today, dark mutterings of discontent linger on in both Cornwall and Devon.
My final pillar of support was the post office, which I stopped at for the shopping, several shelves of biscuits, crisps, bottles of budget-brand wine, perhaps a small fridge, but where was issued from local citizens free advice, weather warnings, stern looks, expressions of surprise, raised eyebrows. As I headed into Exmoor, the rains set in and the South West began to flood. Having been directed to the pub, I sat looking out at the pouring rain, or otherwise looking in, musing at the hunting memorabilia and wall-mounted stag heads.
I had been strongly in favour of New Labour’s initiative to ban hunting with dogs, but my opinions softened, sat away from the storms, staring at the walls, and later, looking through the windows of village shops, glimpsing at the countryside tradition, that is much harder to hate than one supposes, when forming opinions on the basis of class prejudice, or when empathising with only the hunted, the victim, whether stag, or in the case of the ban, foxes.
I supposed then that hunting is not really about gaining pleasure from pain, even if the two do seem inextricably linked. There is a strange veneration for the stag that embraces its death as part of the cycle of nature. Practitioners will tell you that if done well, the targeted shooting of older or weaker beasts allows the herd to flourish. The locals love the animals, and genuinely seem to believe that hunting supports the environment, and the economy, in which with it they can continue a sustainable relationship. I remain squeamish, and oh, poor stag, I would regret shooting you, so ending your life, but the benefits to maintaining hunting seem strangely obvious when you are there, for the trades and modes of employment it sustains, whether hospitality, livestock management or specialist equipment distribution. Real people do these jobs, apparently, and in many cases, the jobs have been in the family for generations. Like pubs and post offices, hunting is part of the community’s fabric. Thus, when we criticise the cost to such an activity, we must be clear about how much value it brings to others. I dislike it and, frankly, I disapprove of it, but ultimately I am also loathe to take away such value from the people it belongs to.
Heading out when the rains had eased off, I found Exmoor to be a much more remote place than the Cornish and Devonshire coasts: the campsites are fewer and further between; the pubs, posher, refused my requests for an inn-side camping pitch. As such, I was obliged to camp in the woods, and here listened attentively to the sound of men wandering through the trees, shooting at some poor deer, which, in one case, fled directly to my tent, looking at me, as I was brushing my teeth, preparing to go to bed, and then ran on. Thankfully, Charlie and his friend, the hunters I could hear, did not follow, but went home.
For the scenery, Exmoor is the most pleasing of all England’s moors. It has an intense variety of formation and colour that the others largely lack, for valley and coast, lake and wood, hills heathered purple, and scattered pink with the flowers of fox gloves and hollyhocks. I spent my days losing myself under the airy broadleaf trees, playing at being free. I particularly enjoyed myself one Monday morning when the sun came out, whilst wandering through the woods south of Wimbleball Lake, listening to Rachmaninoff’s piano concertos. Thinking myself a Bohemian peasant, it was blissful not to be working. Over time I came to appreciate being away from the coast, which in hindsight felt isolated yet touristy, whereas the countryside was comfortable, lush and quiet, the paths now leading, rather than cliffside, through fields and woods, and then up past welcoming farmhouses.
Exmoor then turned into the Quantocks, a range of hills just a little further to the east, which are picturesque, with a good stock of ancient oaks, and breathtaking panoramas from the top, as far as the eye can see across Somerset and beyond. The levels I crossed for the most part on road, but Glastonbury was one of the places I had been looking forward to most. I had never been to the town, I had only caught sight of the tower of its tor floating in the distance from the fields of the festival, which is a great beacon to the imagination, and somewhere then I had always wanted to visit, but I was particularly gratified on arriving, to learn that the terraced hill on which the tower sits is landscaped as another labyrinth. Such a theory would place the tor as a Neolithic monument to the great ‘Mother Earth’ goddess. You can see it if you want to. Glastonbury is full of such shimmering: historically a series of hills surrounded by watery marshes and wooden causeways, the Lake Village is said to have been visited by Arthur and Guinevere, the King of the Fairies, Joseph of Arimathea and even Jesus. There are sacred wells, sacred oaks and sacred yew trees. There is also the abbey, once the richest in the land, and the last to succumb to Henry VIII. Alongside such treasures are shops selling tie-die t-shirts and beginner kits for occult worship, health foodstuffs and second-hand books. I picked up Bertrand Russell’s ‘A History of Western Philosophy’, which is the beginning of another story.
As it was, I had other business in Glastonbury. I was interested in the festival, because I love it, because it is cool and intriguing, but also because of the interest for my book about Britain: it is an interesting example of something that really works. It is by far the best. It has never made a profit, instead donating a percentage of revenues to charity and then reinvesting the rest for the following year. It has been going strong since 1970, which is a remarkable tenure, and I couldn’t help but wonder what there is to be learnt from its success. Specifically, I wanted to know what it is that makes it such a special event, and what it is that motivates the people that contribute to it, if not financial gain. My feeling for the matter is that there is an implicit consensus to give extra effort, and I find this fascinating, for it is a result only rarely achieved.
I first went to Glastonbury in the year 2000, at the age of 16, and despite having seen it on TV, I had not anticipated the explosion of human creativity and joy that resides in those Somerset valleys for a few days at the end of each June. It has the scale of a small city, but of tents and flags and trees, and within it is an endless swirl of diversion, that can leave you feeling euphoric, or in fits of laughter, or in child-like wonder and awe. Without even really knowing how, you find yourself doing so many different things that can you barely believe it the next morning, even if you can remember.
I couldn’t quite believe it either that summer of 2012, but I had decided on it, and so, whilst sat on a bench in the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey, I gave a call to festival’s press office, to see if they would like to be interviewed for my book. I wasn’t quite sure of what I wanted or why, and I had difficulty explaining myself over the phone. John, their press officer, told me it sounded like pyschogeography, which was not a term I was familiar with. I said, ‘Well, you know, it’s about Britain. I’m going to write a book about Britain, and what’s good and what’s bad about it, and I want to speak to Michael Eavis about the festival and what makes it such a success.’
Quite surprisingly, they were very nice about it, inviting me to come and visit the farm, and so I spent an afternoon drinking tea on the lawn with a few of the team that live nearby. Michael and Emily were away for the fallow year, but the people I met were anyway very lovely, passionate about the objective of organising an amazing party, and for the values that the festival promotes, the specific causes of Green Peace, WaterAid and Oxfam, and more generally, sustainability, of living, and farming in Britain. There was not much wrong with the world at that very moment in time, and so otherwise we chatted away about this and that, before John took me on a tour around the farm with Mandy, the lead camerawoman from Glastopia, who was there to shoot some footage for a short film about Joe Strummer. I was disorientated, without the festival there, and it is surreal to see the empty fields, that I had only seen before under the guise of Shangri La or Arcadia. There is something slightly magical about the idea that these fields, which so many know as the location for one of the world’s best parties, spend most of their time as part of a working farm, and I thought that perhaps all the fun and happiness must somehow pass into the grass. I would drink the milk of the farm’s cows, which I imagine must taste better than normal. John the Glastonbury man told me that Worthy Farm has the highest yield of milk in the country, and there was talk of a V&A exhibition, the arrangements of which were at the time stalled, for how to include the cows, as part of the authentic Glastonbury experience.1
https://www.vam.ac.uk/collections/the-glastonbury-festival-archive