Priddy in October
Thursday 13th October – Priddy
Walk Leaders: Audrey & Michelle
We walk from this highest village in the Mendips up North Hill passing 2 sets of ancient burial mounds. We walk on narrow paths, tracks and quiet lanes – sometimes the land is bumpy-old mining and caving areas- but views are good! There are 8 stiles. The walk is 5 miles.
Report
(Priddy, n. from the Welsh ‘pridd du’ = black soil)
A Gentle Walk on top of the Mendip Hills
In the lee of the Queen Vic’s wagon load of wooden be-hooped barrels leader Audrey marshalled her bipeds under the watchful eye of lieutenant Michelle, extracted the tax and briefed the expectant walkers fifteen of the challenges ahead of them.
Off along Pelting Drove Lane, across the green nodding in passing to the old thatched sheep hurdles building, they went onto sheep lazy meadows and damp lanes showered cheerfully by a confetti fall of autumn leaves. The sun becoming less and less bashful heralded the curious up gentle slopes pointing to North Hill atop the Mendips. Along the way and left behind the left behind detritus of Roman lead mining and their long to follow Victorian successors, all still now, everything lost in the ashes of earlier times.
Then thirsts slaked under the spooky gaze of the dinosaurian bat and the silent cackle of the flattened skeleton adorning the modern cavemen’s retreat. On sprightly then to Farewell Pond, still and limpid, conjuring thoughts perhaps of the Lady of Shallot and Ophelia, ‘though to streams they perished.
Stiles aplenty, stone and wood, stiles of all styles gathered loosely for a show of ramblers impediments. Forward went the pilgrims new of this ancient land recounting tales of Sydney and Hong Kong, and of Amsterdam and Bryn Amman. No talk of Lizzie, Vlad or Kim Jong-un.
More lane side trees, bare of root tripping travels onto mulch; beech and birch and sycamore too, and many more arboreal delights, shedding leaves of gold and brown, and red and yellow. Yellow too the golden moorland furze and the she blue pixie harebell hats. No, not hats but bells! But fauna none. Dry stone walls boasted skills and labours hard of builders old - sturdy men and sturdy women and children too, all of times long ago and not so long ago.
At last atop North Hill, atop the bare and barren windswept sweep of Mendip lands, marvelling at the clear bright vista of Sunshires’ south-western expanse, watched by slumbering pre-historic barrow mounds of age of bronze. Nine Barrows they are called but there are only seven, and just nearby another seven not called nine, making in all fourteen or perhaps sixteen or some say seventeen.
Descent then to the woods again, passing the itinerant farrier, muscle taut shoeing the patient mare by the dried-up bullrush pond. On along some more the Mendip lanes through puddles big and small paddled proudly by the only rubber booted companion. O to be a child again!
Welcomed back by Priddy’s timeless peace, to the sycamore shaded barrel filled wagon’s shelter for beer and sandwiches and then farewell.
Report by Stan