Mr. Williams and the Misty Mendips

Well, I wasn't *quite* in the Mendips although I could see them - I picked my title entirely on its alliterative merit.

After a long (and rather boring drive) down to Somerset, I pitched the caravan at a tiny campsite where there were only five pitches. My favourite sites are those that are particularly quiet and this, despite the hiss of traffic in the rush-hour was no exception. On the other hand the traffic only reminded me that, unlike the poor haggard commuters, I was on holiday. Did that mean I was determined to enjoy myself? You bet it did!

Me, standing next to a dubiously small doorway* in Wells.

During the course of the week, I wandered through narrow lanes of local villages, climbed Glastonbury Tor (which was very high indeed giving a panoramic view over three counties), and walked around Wells, the smallest city in England. Although it pains me to say it, I think that Wells was a nicer place than the smallest city in Wales. Although, in its defence, it was raining when I went to St. David's.

As a town, Glastonbury was rather an interesting place, full of the most astonishing characters one might hope to meet: druids; fairy-seekers (yes Tilly - faries!); people wearing scarves and shawls with more fringes and tassels than I've seen in a long time; buskers on street corners playing tunes more melodious and yet less recognisable than I've known before: I saw a chap playing an instrument I was able to recognise as a fife and yet another playing a small set of bagpipes.

Gog and Magog

However, the thing that really grasped my attention was the walk I undertook around, and over, the Tor itself. Taking a circular route from the main car park, I walked out of the town and down through fields until I reached Gog and Magog, two dead, old, dead-old oak trees who are reputed to be around 1000 years old. They lift their gnarled, twisted branches and remind me of the Rackham illustrations in The Wind in the Willows. I could imagine them coming to life and scouring the hedgerows; each crack and fissure in their bark presently becoming a mouth, now an eye, searching, searching for I don't know what. With these thoughts running through my brain I hurried on along the path until I reached the road winding ever upwards to the top of the hill. After a brief stop on the wind-whipped hilltop, I descended into the town for a well-earned lunch.

All too soon it was time to come home and, the long drive dispensed with (whose silly idea was it to drive home on Friday afternoon? Oh, that would be mine, then...) the caravan was stored neatly away and the kettle on.

While I've been away, I have been checking in regularly to see what you've been up to, although I couldn't post myself since I'd forgotten the password... trust me, eh! I've really enjoyed reading about your exploits - thank you all so much for taking the time to catalogue your holidays on here. Let's hope the others join in with us!

Cheerio!

~ Mr. Williams

* This door leads to the library in 'Vicar's Close' which is the oldest continuously-inhabited street in Europe.