Huffing and Puffing up Maes Knoll

Maes Knoll. I'd been meaning to climb it for years, ever since I first saw it from the stone circles at Stanton Drew. And so I did, and although this is definitely a TED Walk in the time of Coronavirus, I've decided to give it a blog post in its own right because it was just bloody glorious.

Son the Younger, Ted and I started our walk in Norton Malreward. It was pretty hot - around 25° - so I was quite glad that we'd chosen the shorter, although possibly steeper route. Though the village itself could have been a bit more welcoming.

The footpath up to the summit of the hill is a lot more daunting than it looks in this photo.  My companions loped up it easily ... 

... but every hundred steps or so, I found myself unaccountably interested in the flora ... 

Ooh look, comfrey!

... and this kindly, shady ash, which necessitated a pause that could be construed as a bit of a breather. 

This photo, in which I'm obviously merely enjoying the view, gives you a better idea of its gradient. 

We stopped and sat on a bench for a bit near the top of the hill.

The views were hazy but amazing. I liked that I could see Chew Valley Lake and the transmitter on the Mendips, which made me think of all my poetry friends (and my pottery friend) in Wells, Glastonbury and beyond. 

There was just a little more climbing to do ... 

... to get to the hill fort on the summit.  

And even then there was a fair bit of walking to be done to tour its considerable circumference. 
The ground was dry and crunchy underfoot.

On its northern side, Bristol comes into view, startlingly close on account of the lack of edgelands on its southern side. 

This is a hazy view of Purdown, with its telecommunications tower and the yellow Dower House. 

We could also glimpse all three bridges - the two Severn crossings and Clifton Suspension Bridge - though the newer Severn Bridge is harder to make out than at the other end of the ridge in Dundry.

Here's the Suspension Bridge in the middle distance. 

There's a narrow neck of high ground at the western end of the fort, which is protected by a massive ditch and a 50 foot bank known as 'The Tump'. 

Time for a bit of a lie down.

Top of the world up 'ere

'All these things I will give thee,' saith the Ted, 'if thou wilt bow wow down and worship me.'

Around the Harptrees II: Church, Combe and Castle

Number of stone stiles on our rou-  

Nah, I'm bored with that ... and with these keyhole squeeze stiles. I mean, they might be OK for pugs, but they are no friend to the older, more statesmanlike dog, and Ted - who has yet to realise he can jump - had to suffer the ignominy of being carried over. 

First, though, the 12th century Church of St Laurence ... 

... which has the distinction of being the only one I've visited with a tomb in its porch. 

Sir John Newton, who died in 1568, was evicted from the spot where the altar stands in 1883. Along the bottom of his tomb are ranged his 20 children, twelve daughters and eight sons.

There's a lovely soft light in St Laurence Church which was evident the moment Ted and I set foot (and paw) in it. 

I think this beautiful, ancient window has something to do with it. 

Next to it is the outstanding Great War Memorial window depicting St George flanked by St Laurence and St Agnes, by Arts and Crafts stained glass artist, Karl Parsons.

The dragon wouldn't disgrace Daenerys Stormborn ... 

... though my favourite detail right at the bottom of the central panel is the illustration of a mother and child waving farewell to a man setting off to fight in France.  

I also loved the bench ends, a few of which date from the 14th century ...  

... especially the honest way in which they've been repaired, with no attempt to dupe or deceive. 

Outside the difference in height between the churchyard and the surrounding field is accounted for by the large number of burials.

Ted and I were off over said field in the direction of Harptree Combe. On the way we glimpsed the ubiquitous Chew Valley Lake with Maes Knoll beyond it. 

My walking book was quite eloquent on the loveliness of the combe ...

... but omitted to mention how muddy it is. Within a few yards, I was wishing I'd worn my stoutest walking boots - or even wellies.  

We pressed on - well, I did; Ted, being a border collie, really didn't care - and before long we encountered the East Harptree aqueduct, a feat of engineering dating from 1851 and still instrumental in providing water to Bristol today. 

However, it couldn't compete with the 11th century motte and bailey castle also in the vicinity. 

Up there somewhere, in fact.

I re-acquainted myself with the few known facts. The original owner was one Azeline de Percheval, who came over with William the Conqueror and whose cruelty earned him the sobriquet 'Lupus' or 'the Wolf'. After passing to his son - unpromisingly called 'the Wolf Cub' - it eventually came into the ownership of the de Harptree family, and was held for the Empress Matilda in 1138 by Sir William against Stephen, who only managed to take it by luring the defenders out.  It was destroyed during the reign of Henry VIII.

For me, however, the most compelling thing about it was that it was described as 'inaccessible'. 

The route up didn't look bad from the bottom - until a few feet from the top where I had to resort to proper hand and foot climbing. 

Once up, however, I had the nasty feeling that I wouldn't be able to get back down - not even by sliding on my bum. 

Rumour has it there is still some masonry to be found under the vegetation, but all I saw was a series of earthworks, some of which pertain to the castle and some to the calamine workings which went on spasmodically until the 19th century.

I felt thankful that when my kids were poxy, I just had to go to the local chemist. 

Considering the steepness of the motte, I decided to leave the rest of the combe until bluebell time next year and consulted my map to see if there was a way down that didn't involve risking my neck. 

It turned out there was a footpath all the short distance back to the village. 'Inaccessible', my arse. 

I'll check the map first next time. 

Listen to the past's long pulse

According to this article I'd read, Lord Byron invented 'wild swimming' on 3rd May 1810 when he swam the Hellespont from Europe to Asia. Though our ancestors swam in rivers and ponds for centuries before tin baths became commonplace, to get clean and probably for fun too. 

'Oh, Mum,' scolded Offspring the Eldest. 'Don't you know something only starts to exist when a posh boy does it for the first time?'

The posh boys at hand were wetsuited and occupied the whole of the narrow river beach. We sat down by a patch of goldenrod and waited for them to move on or even just up a little. From time to time they looked as if they were getting ready to leave but then started to jump in and out again. Even their sploshes had posh vowel sounds. In the end we left before the whole afternoon was lost to resentment and ill-wishing.

On the way down we'd been diverted through Stanton Drew following an accident on the A37, and it transpired that Offspring the Eldest hadn't visited its famous stone circles, so we stopped off there on our journey back. 

Stanton means Stone Town. The last time I'd visited was with my then neighbour, Cathy. I'd taken my Collected Poems by U A Fanthorpe with me and read the poem 'Stanton Drew' aloud, to her and the stones and the sheep. 

Two days later U A died. 

There's an argument to be made that you should always carry a copy of U A's poems with you, in case of unexpected happenings like an ad hoc visit to Stanton Drew. I'd overlooked this eventuality, however, and was poetryless. 

In any event we weren't on our own. Instead of sheep, there were heifers in the field, and at the entrance, a father trying unsuccessfully to get his two children to smile for the camera. 

As we approached the stones, the father caught me up. 'I'm so glad you're here,' he said. 'My two kids wouldn't walk past the cows till they saw you do it and live to tell the tale.' 

We watched them running, laughing, climbing and striking poses. They don't know yet that it's the stones that have the power. We were glad to have facilitated this first encounter, however ... 

... since it's good to get up close and personal with the stones. Listen to the past's long pulse, as U A says ... 

... even if you can hear the traffic on the B3130 and an aeroplane coming in to land at nearby Lulsgate Airport at the same time. 

Maes Knoll

U A Fanthorpe's poem about Stanton Drew invites the listener or reader to remove everything from the landscape that wouldn't have been there when the circles were created.

Since I was there last, a couple of beautiful dead trees have disappeared. 

More will grow up and grow old and the stones will outlast them.