Walking the Pilgrim Path.

The place I refer to as the Shire consists of two separate areas with two different names. For historical reasons too complex for a mere blog post, the main village is in the southern part (where I live) but the mediaeval Anglican church is over a mile away in the northern part (the village was afforded two chapels for those of the lower orders who subscribed to the nonconformist persuasion, both of which edifices are now private dwellings.)

The upshot of this is that people from the village who were proper Christians and wanted to attend a proper Christian church had to walk or ride more than a mile to get there, and one of the public footpaths in the area is the route which the walkers would have taken. It’s why I’ve taken to calling it ‘the pilgrim path.’)

It’s a walk I rarely do because it requires striding uncomfortably along ground which is uneven and stony in dry weather, muddy in wet weather, and furnished with two stiles which have seen better days and pass between untrimmed hedges which do so like to scratch you just because they can. But this evening, just for a change, I did.

The second half of the walk, once the uncomfortable part has been negotiated, passes through a narrow wood with a dark, still pool lying seductively off to one side. (I’ve often thought it would be a good place to die so the Lady of the Lake could be on hand to point me in the right direction and advise me as to the ground rules.) But the best bit is, at least at the moment, the final part before reaching a tarmac surface at the junction with Church Lane.

It’s a small meadow currently sown with barley which leads you downhill along an earthen track about three feet wide between the growing crop. And such a crop it is. The barley is now waist high, and as you walk the between the sea of stalks like slaves walking out of Egypt, the heads nod and wave while the whole top ripples lazily in the breeze.

It would be hard to describe the fascination of walking through such an experience, much less explain why. It just is, at least to me it is. The end of the path, where it joins Church Lane, brings you to a venerable – and clearly very old – copper beech tree (a great personal favourite of mine) which is unusual for being substantially wider than it is high. And on the near side of the lane is the gate and stile where I once told the Lady B of my relationship difficulties and she responded with a secret of her own.

And that, for the benefit of those still reading, is all I have to relate today. (Apart from the fact that a young woman in an unfamiliar car waved and smiled at me. I’ve no idea who she was or why she did it.)