From British Camp to Swinyard Hill

Dawn on Thursday saw us breaking our fast up on the Malvern Hills again, this time at the mighty iron-age hill fort named British Camp.

Just us and the ravens

It was far less cloudy than our previous walk here, a couple of weeks earlier, and with the added delight of patches of dragon's breath tracing the course of the Severn.  

Which made up for the short but brutal climb to the top of the hill, which is known as Herefordshire Beacon.

You really wouldn't want to be an invader staggering up here with arrows raining on your head. 

Luckily, we didn't have to contend with the ancient British chieftain, Caractacus, who, According to Lore, made his Last Stand there. All we had to do was admire the view, here looking south ...

... and south-west ... 

... and north-west. 

You can't move anywhere on the Malverns without there being some upping and downing. 

This is the view north from the more southerly part of the Camp. 

Looking along Shire Ditch (Red Earl's Dyke), which might date from 1287 and have something to do with a boundary dispute, or might be a prehistoric trackway, or anything really.

Then we were off southward over Millennium Hill and Hangman's Hill. (I don't know what the former prominence was called last century; maybe it didn't have a name.)

Whitethorn with mistletoe

We had a second helping of breakfast on Hangman's Hill. I had to decline the coffee ...

... while Ted had a good scratch and a roll.

Eventually we reached the fenced-off quarry on Swinyard Hill with its still misty views over to the Cotswolds.

Time to descend and head north again around the flanks of the hills.

Part of the quarry face

On the side of Hangman's Hill is Giant's Cave, also known as Clutter's Cave. 

There was still a bit of climbing to do, but we'd done the worst of it. 

The remainder of our route took us around the eastern flank of the Camp ...

... with vertiginous views showing what a prodigious feat of engineering it is. 

Sunrise at Chew Valley Lake

Sometimes there are compensations to lying awake half the night because you know you have to get up way before sparrow fart to drive your extra-special son to some film set in the middle of nowhere.

This was yesterday. Call-time for extras was half an hour earlier today, so my stop-off at the lake on the way home was half an earlier too. 

It was a lot mistier this morning. Dragon's breath! 

It was even dense on the road.

I decided to stay and watch for a while. As I said to the guy who paused alongside me, if you have to be up this early, you might as well make the most of it. 

'Life is beautiful, isn't it?' he answered.

A rag-tag of crows flew by ... 

The mist thickened and my toes grew really cold in my sandals. I wondered about driving on home. And then sunrise started to happen ... 

... and I quite forgot I was shrammed.

The Best Thing 2012

Trying to decide what's The Best Thing I've seen this year.  It's very tempting to say Leonard Cohen.  After all, I'd waited nearly 36 and a half years for the miracle to come.  But I feel there has to be an element of serendipity to what ever occupies the Number 1 slot which is erased by the purchase of a ticket.  Plus, I'm seeing Him again in 2013. (Have I mentioned that at all?)

Last year's Best Thing was encountering two badgers in the middle of Parry's Lane.  I'd only ever seen dead ones before.  It was the sort of moment that imprints itself on the inside of your eyelids. And so was this - the swathing of the Vale of Avalon in mist with Glastonbury Tor poking out of the top as I came down off the Mendips, headed for this year's Wells Festival of Literature. 

Fire, Frost and Dragon's Breath

If I had any doubts about the wisdom of getting up early on a Sunday to read poems to the converted in Wells, my drive across the Downs - all smouldering trees, dragon's breath and frost - dispelled them. Then, as Pameli and I started the descent from the Mendips, I screeched to a halt and jumped out of the car.  No matter that it was a relatively busy single carriageway ...  Glastonbury Tor was adrift in mist.  And how can anyone deny it's magical?

And when we arrived, the City of Wells was morning-dark and misty also.

With such auspicious auguries, the reading of poems in the Oak Room of the Swan Hotel could hardly have not gone well, and so it proved.  For once, we seemed to have an audience that didn't consist entirely of contributing poets, including my friends, Liz and Paul, who had kindly come over from Portishead.  And I sold a couple of copies of my collection, Communion, too - always a bonus.

Before heading back to Bristol, Pameli Benham, Stewart Carswell and I had a little wander around the moat of the Bishop's Palace.  It must be quite sheltered as autumn doesn't seem to have advanced far there yet. 

On the way back to the car park, I managed - finally - to get a photo of Union Street, which was once Grove Lane, and before that Grope Lane, and before that, Gropecunt Lane, for my collection of Gropecunts.  

Which reminds me, whilst on the walk around Bristol yesterday, Mark Steeds mentioned a lane in the bombed mediaeval quarter of Bristol which went by the splendid name of Cock and Bottle Lane.  Must do come googling.