Walking to Camelot (32 page)

Karl laughs at my
Fawlty Towers
encounter.

“We've dallied long enough, John. Time to heft packs.”

Just as we prepare to embark, Bill rattles down the stairs and into the dining room. His dog follows at his heel.

“I am afraid we have to be on our way, Bill,” I say.

“Oh dear, nine o'clock already; why, I must have overslept!” His dog looks up at me accusingly, as if I am leaving him and his master in the lurch, alone at the breakfast table.

Then Bill embraces Karl and me both, and wishes us a safe journey.

“Cheers, Bill. Take care of yourself,” I say.

He waves from his window seat as we pass by, and we wave back with our walking sticks. I can see his blue eyes twinkling, though. A good, kind man, undaunted by life's cruel twists.

“Poor chap,” says Karl. “All alone with just his dog.”

I muse over the fact that we embraced one another on departing without even knowing each other's last names. I think of Pat at Big Thatch, who also hugged us both.

The rain has finally ceased. Our route follows a wide track out of Maiden Newton, with the landscape rapidly changing to wide, flowing uplands of grass crops interspersed with little copses.

It is a steep hike to reach a bridleway that merges with the Dorset Jubilee Trail, a 90-mile regional path. Ahead are great views, with the 72-foot-high Hardy Monument clearly visible to our left. This high landmark that so proudly adorns the hill commemorates not Thomas Hardy but rather Captain Thomas Masterman Hardy, to whom Nelson, as he lay dying at Trafalgar, whispered, “Kiss me, Hardy.” When Nelson expired, Captain Hardy commanded the return to England of the surviving fleet.

England has been and continues to be defined by the sea. The ocean facilitated the empire, proving that a small land mass was irrelevant provided that a nation could establish a strong navy and a strong trading regimen. The Battle of Trafalgar was the decisive sea battle, forcing Napoleon to abandon his attempts to conquer England, the Middle East, and other environs, and marked the beginning of the end of his rule. Captain Hardy went on to become a rear admiral and later, in 1830, First Lord of the Admiralty. The Hardy Monument was erected in 1844 to both commemorate his achievements and serve as a navigational aid for shipping. The tower is octagonal and resembles a spyglass, with the corners representing the eight points of the compass.

From this high point I marvel at the Dorset Downs and the picturesque patchwork fields, much like scenes from children's stories — the curves so graceful, the fields tidy and neat, the villages all quiet and ordered, with no sprawl. Thomas Hardy's Valley of the Black Vale lies glimmering like a pearl to the east.

The
Guide
advises to “walk down a pleasant sunken lane with, in high summer, many butterflies and the scent of camomile. Beware of deep ruts in tract.” Well, those deep ruts are filled with water this morning after the storm, and it requires some occasional balancing acts to avoid them. Still, the capricious sun is appearing now and then from under a cirrus blanket. Cattle and sheep dot the steep hillsides; pheasants strut; curlews, rooks, and magpies circle and squawk about; and from this neolithic ridgeway, one is very much on top of the world.

Myriad round-barrowed neolithic burial chambers abound. The key one is a Bronze Age site known as the Kingston Russell Stone Circle, comprising eighteen low stones. It can scarcely be coincidence that this circle exists precisely at a point where no fewer than five public footpaths converge. No one can convince me that ancient man had no appreciation for art and aesthetics. At the highest point of White Hill, we have incredible views over Abbotsbury to the Channel, including the long line of Chesil Beach with the lagoons of the Fleet, and even the peninsula of Portland Bill beyond to the east. The sea at last!

The last three miles of the Way take us steeply downhill at first, over freshly trimmed fields still wet from the thunderstorm. Then the path descends sharply into a large ravine, where we follow a stream bed. The
Guide
cautions here, “Despair not if things seem jungly, as path suddenly emerges into pleasant, small grassy water-meadows.” Yeah, right.

Just over a mile from Abbotsbury, we become hopelessly lost in the swamps. All about us are tentacle-like branches with lichens, ivy, moss, bracken, and fungus — a tangled primeval soup. We are immersed in Tolkien's Mirkwood! Karl halts and peers in dismay at the tangled morass of marshy woods ahead.

“Do you know where you are going?”

“No, Karl, and I don't see any footpath; we've been following some fox trail.”

“We can't be far from a road; hell, it's only a couple of miles to the Channel!”

Karl pulls out his compass and we straggle through the quagmire in a southerly direction, getting muddier and wetter by the minute as we traverse boggy patches. At one point my boots sink up to the ankles in quicksand and I have to grab a vine maple branch to pull free.

We finally emerge from Mirkwood up a tiny dirt lane, and from here manage to reconnect with the Macmillan on a hillock beside some startled ewes, where we stand catching our breath. I hear a loud noise above and look up to see an enormous military helicopter hovering above us like some silver dragonfly contemplating its insect prey. After a long few seconds, it finally moves on toward the Channel, only to be followed by a second copter that zooms down to have a look at us. It reminds me of that opening scene in Hitchcock's
North by Northwest
. I yell to Karl that we are being targeted.

“Don't pay any attention, John — they're just practising their rocket launcher settings for Afghanistan.”

I AGAIN REFLECT
that in England there prevails an acute awareness of the sacrifices made in two world wars. The annual re-enactment of battles staged by Maiden Newton is another reminder of those sacrifices. There is quite a dichotomy between rural and urban collective memories in this regard. It is the hinterland that stores the memories; and it is in the hinterland where the military maintain a constant presence. In the Cotswolds, we watched as vast numbers of military transport planes droned by to land at some nondescript airfield near Cheltenham. Military bases lie discreetly hidden in the countryside and there are mysterious comings and goings at all hours of the night. The Royal Navy too is omnipresent — in the Channel, the Irish Sea, and the North Sea — probing, patrolling, protecting the shores. England may not be the great power it once was, but its compact fighting force seems very much at the ready.

One more stile and we are through a field and across the main street of Abbotsbury. This village of five hundred inhabitants very much caters to tourists. Our
B&B
can wait, as we are on a mission to dip our feet in the English Channel to complete our Macmillan walk. We limp by the Abbotsbury Tithe Barn, touted as the largest thatched building in the world. The final leg before we reach the sea is a climb up Chapel Hill. The path is covered with sheep shit. No matter — at the summit stands St. Catherine's Chapel.

The chapel belonged to a Benedictine abbey established by King Cnut a few years before the Norman invasion. The abbey has disappeared, and only the tithe barn and this chapel remain. The structure is constructed of ochre-tinted limestone, with a parapet, turret, and heavy buttresses. The abbey monks used the chapel as a retreat. After the Dissolution in 1539, it became a navigational aid and shrine. The dedication of this chapel to St. Catherine is interesting. St. Catherine was a high-born and scholarly Christian lady of ancient Alexandria. After torture on a wheel, she was beheaded during the persecutions of the Emperor Maximus in 290. She was widely venerated in the Middle Ages and considered the patron saint of spinsters. This is why women seeking husbands came here and recited the following prayer, which we find inscribed inside the chapel:

A husband, St. Catherine;

A handsome one, St. Catherine;

A rich one, St. Catherine;

A nice one, St. Catherine;

And soon, St. Catherine!

Below us stretches the long curving wedge of Chesil Beach. The sun is waning in the west. An approaching wall of fog from the Channel heightens the contrast and drama. The English have a saying when conditions for boating are inclement in the English Channel: “A pity — now the Continent will be cut off.”

KARL LIMPS
one last painful mile from St. Catherine's Chapel toward Chesil Beach. With his bad ankle, he is leaning heavily on his walking stick. Herring gulls swoop and squawk overhead. The tide is out. Fog is rolling in.

Our boots crunch the billions of rounded stones and pebbles that comprise the beach. Flotsam and jetsam abound: a dinghy's painter line, a rowboat panel, yellow rope, green netting. There is also the unsightly detritus of holidayers and weekenders: empty water bottles, popsicle sticks, cigarette packages, an old shotgun shell, nappies, a Nivea Care bottle, Styrofoam coffee cups, a small plastic Bombay Gin bottle, a battered toothpaste tube. Flanking the beach is a flowery meadow area intersected by sand dunes reminiscent of
Summer of '
42.

I shiver a little as we stumble our way over the rocks to the grey water. Winter storms here can be ferocious. Villagers say that one can determine the sea conditions and pending weather from listening to the drawing sounds of the pebbles on Chesil Beach in the evening.

Karl is now quietly doffing his boots and socks. He limps forward to plant his toes in the cold sea water. I follow with the same ritual. Then, as we stand there, the mist unexpectedly parts and we glimpse the grey outline of a British destroyer slowly knifing its way through the fog, appearing like a ghostly mirage before our eyes. The realm, I muse, is ever protected by the Royal Navy.

It is a poignant moment. I stuff my pockets with a few of the ubiquitous flints and cherts glistening on the beach. We then begin a slow trek back to the
B&B
in the village. Neither of us has said a word on Chesil Beach.

KARL IS STILL PENSIVE
as we dig into a fish pie at a village pub. From a corner near the massive stone fireplace, a fiddler entertains us with stirring Irish ballads. When the red-faced fellow puts down his instrument, the mellow jazz of John Coltrane kicks in from the overhead speakers. The pub is all one could wish for — fine spirits, ale, and food; copious rows of pump handles; brass vessels hanging on medieval walls; a roaring log fire; good music; and only a few quiet patrons lingering over their ale and port.

“Karl, you ought to get that ankle looked at soon. It looks painful.”

Karl ignores the remark. “It's good to be alive,” he replies instead. “I feel privileged to have tramped all those miles — and could do it again.”

Aside from the achievement of his conquering Macmillan Way physically, it is clear that the walk has altered Karl in other ways. He talks fervently of history, of culture, of different ways of seeing things. He even intends to pick up the complete works of Thomas Hardy. This was a personal mission for him as much as for me. He seems ageless — a compact, rugged character with a generous heart who still loves challenge and adventure.

Yet it is not exactly an evening of sybaritic delight, as both of us soon become immersed in our own thoughts. I calculate that we have walked about 365 miles, including the diversions. Not a great physical feat — the famed Land's End to John o' Groats walk is 1,200 miles. Moreover, we have taken some twenty-six days in leisurely fashion, whereas Colin of Derbyshire surely completed Macmillan in just under two weeks. Yet it has been a profoundly moving and humbling experience.

We linger over dinner, then Karl orders his usual cherry brandy nightcap. Five minutes later, he ambles up to the bar and returns with two foaming pints of Guinness.

“Don't be so sombre, John boy. We did it — the whole bloody Macmillan Way. And it's therefore time for one last pint.”

“To the walk!” he roars. We clink glasses.

“And to Cadbury Castle,” I intone. Karl raises his glass again, then pauses. Loreena McKennitt's soft Celtic voice is purring “The Lady of Shalott” overhead.

“Say what's in your heart, John,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling. “To Camelot,” he adds spiritedly, and we clink glasses a second time.

I am lost in reverie for a few moments. The magic is broken when Karl suddenly raises the subject of Tiffany again. Should we be getting in touch with the Oakham police to see if they have made any progress on the case?

“Karl, I promise that I will contact the constabulary by email upon return to Canada, and follow up on it. That's all we can do.”
8

He frowns and downs the last dregs of his brew.