We were both up early so managed to pack up, clear up and saddle up by 9am.

We stopped for a refreshing tea/coffee in Muchelney. Someone was busy in the church so I just wandered round the graveyard – found an odd gravestone with a chain and anchor on it.

Muchelney churchyard

Also found Muchelney Abbey, which I’d never heard of – it’s just over the wall of the churchyard. Mirinda wandered up and down the main street to determine that we didn’t want to move there given the traffic.

We then stopped at the Countess Services just before the A34. Then it was a nice easy run home. In fact the entire run had been easy (as long as you weren’t heading in the opposite direction to us and going by Stonehenge). We were home in plenty of time to unpack then go and rescue the dogs.

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We had a great time, though the weather was very changeable. The main thing that impressed me was how nice all the people of Porlock were. No matter what they were doing or who they were, they never failed to smile and say hello. A very friendly place and somewhere I’d not hesitate in referring or returning. A big improvement was the fact that I typed up each day rather than write it in longhand. This means my poor readers do not have to wait 6 months to find out about holidays we’ve forgotten about!

Bossington Hill

Was up and out by 6:30. Today the plan was to climb Mount Bossington. That’s right. All 308 feet of it! Ok, ok, it’s actually called Bossington Hill but the path is very steep. As I climbed higher so the clouds fell lower until I was totally engulfed. The wind howled at my back, the rain slashed against me, visibility was minimal but still I ploughed on. I was heading for the Selworthy Beacon and something stupid like inclement weather was not about to stop me! Besides, the climb was so steep I didn’t fancy going back down the way I had come up.

Through the gorse I tramped, the occasional trill of birdsong all I had for company. I did see a twitcher in the Bossington car-park before I left but he was hiding somewhere out of sight. Mind you, the clouds were so low he could have been about 20 feet in front of me all the time.

My map was getting drenched, my trousers more so when I arrived at the beacon. I’m not sure what I was expecting but a big pile of rocks was not it. The trig point I can accept. I managed to shelter my camera enough to take a quick snap. It was then into the weather and down to the Memorial Hut.

Selworthy trig point

Oh bliss, oh wonderful bliss. Barton Arundel Acland, I love you! This selfless fellow, as a memorial to his dad, put up a hut in 1878, just knowing I’d need it! I stripped off and sat, resting my poor tired feet and trying to make myself dry.

Memorial hut

After about half an hour I felt revitalized and headed down towards Bury Castle ‘Settlement’. Fantastic! An iron Age hill fort! And it was all mine! Ok, there was no-one else stupid enough to be trampling around the gorse with me. Anyway, I wandered all over it, wondering what the views must be like (the clouds were still about my head) and marvelling at the ingenuity of early man. For anyone who doesn’t know what an iron age fort looks like, it’s a large circular flat area surrounded by a ditch. Sorry to disappoint anyone who was hoping for a structure. They rotted away long ago.

From here the path led me through woods, down thin paths, the edges crumbling away down sheer sides – it doesn’t get much more exciting than this! The clouds gradually lifted until the day was very clear (I’d managed to miss St Agnes’s Fountain) and arrived safely back in Bossington car-park. Looking back up at Mt Bossington, it was completely obscured by cloud. I walked the short distance back to Porlock and finally to the house.

After a much needed shower and change of clothes, we set off for Dunster Castle. We arrived on the day of the annual caravan club meeting. There they were all parked up alongside the car park, discussing such things as the merits of flying a skull and crossbones flag to a St George’s cross and what a pain it is that the owners have to come with them.

The castle is an odd place. At the top of the hill, the Saxons built a keep and Aelfric lived in it. When the Normans came, they snapped up the real estate and built their own keep on it. Gradually over the centuries, bits were added and taken away until now when the top of the hill, and easily the best vantage point, is nothing more than a garden with few views and the ‘castle’ now sits below the keep and clinging to the side of the hill.

Dunster Castle

The Luttrell family are largely responsible for everything at Dunster, having lived there from 1376 until 1976 (with a couple of blips in between). The castle we see today is nearly all left over from the Victorian ‘improvements’. Although there are still a few wonderful examples of early work and the place is crammed with portraits of the Luttrells down through the years, including a rather odd one of Sir John painted by Hans Eworth in 1550.

Rather than the normal portrait of head and shoulders or full body, this one shows a bare chested Sir John, his fist raised at a bare chested girl holding an olive branch. Behind the girl are massed strange people in poses ranging from war-like to lovers. Over Sir John’s shoulder can be seen a ship on the high seas. Intriguingly there is a dead woman floating in the water under his arm. It’s all very dramatic. No-one actually knows what it means though some have suggested it represents his victory over France at some stage. Karen should know this picture as the original is in the Courtald. Although this is but a copy, it was painted in 1591.

Sir John Luttrell

As we wandered the stately rooms, Mirinda, as usual, grew increasingly angry at the poor lives of the servants while the National Trust glorify the hard work of the aristocracy. I made her angrier than usual when I told her that the wealthy would decide to have archaeological parties on Sundays and drag their poor workers out to the fields in order to do the actual work of digging while they, the aristos, would sit under umbrellas and offer encouragement. Nuff said, I think.

After doing Dunster Castle we wandered the streets of the village. A lovely, though very crowded, place. Lots of little shops and buildings that defy gravity. Unfortunately (read ‘fortunately’) there is no ATM in Dunster and most of the shops do not take plastic – you have to remember that this is a REAL medieval village – so we had to make do with window shopping. I need to mention here that Porlock also has no ATM so we’ve had to manage on very little scraps of cash purloined from the post office when it’s open.

One place that does take cards in Dunster is Reeves. A fantastic restaurant that I wholeheartedly recommend. The name is the surname of the owners. The food is a delight and reasonably priced. They are also wonderful hosts. We had lunch there – a duck and warm salad & crème brulee for me, beef with thicko chips & meringues with pistachio for Mirinda. I have to report, apart from the top being slightly too thick, the brulee was perfect. Mrs Reeve was a teacher in Wolverhampton but decided running a restaurant was more rewarding than dodging missiles without recourse.

We then visited the church, which is heralded as being ‘quite unusual’ and is featured in a book about unusual churches of Britain. I know I read that somewhere but for the life of me, I can’t remember where! However, it is true. It is an unusual church.

Screen detail

St George’s, Dunster has a number of screens of great renown. Firstly it has a fantastic screen built in 1499 that somehow managed to survive the Dissolution. It stretches the full width of the church (54 feet) and is strong enough to support three grown men (or so one of the women in the church told us, with great authority).

There is another screen which effectively cuts off the altar from the rest of the church. This had something to do with a dispute between some Benedictine Monks and the parishioners. They couldn’t agree on a bunch of stuff and the matter was referred to the local head honcho in Glastonbury. It was decided to build a screen giving the monks the top bit and the parishioners and vicar everything else. Quite bizarre.

Naturally the church has a lot to do with the Luttrell family – it’s a bit like the church at Petworth and less interesting for this reason. I much prefer a little church with no obvious benefactors. In fact, in the case of St George’s, since the Dissolution, the eastern end of the church has belonged to the Luttrell family…and remains so.

Leaving St George’s we realized that someone had left the guidebook for Dunster in the toilet of the restaurant we’d had lunch in so we had to go all the way back, knock them up (they’d shut), and beg forgiveness. Mirinda did all that and we happily marched back to Sidney, guidebook in hand.

It was then back to Porlock as we wanted to visit the craft fayre, only the craft fayre closed at 4:30, so we drove out of Porlock and wandered round the very small and slightly shabby village of Luccombe.

‘Luccombe’ may mean ‘enclosed valley’ though, perhaps, ‘hidden’ would be more apt. Old houses needing a bit of TLC, is pretty much all you can say about Luccombe. Even the church needed a bit of a hug. Though saying that, I preferred it to Dunster church. I say, when it comes to these little rural places, let sleeping ducks lie.

At the risk of boring my readers, I’m going to talk a bit about this church now! St Mary’s, Luccombe is partly 13th, partly 15th century with various bits of interest, like most churches. There! That’s all you’re getting. Mirinda reckons I go on about churches far too much so, hopefully, that’ll keep her happy. You may notice there’s not as many photos of churches in the photo album as well. That’s NOT because I didn’t take heaps. And here’s one just because!

St Mary's, Luccombe

A big lunch meant a small dinner after which we watched the final episode of The Virgin Queen, then bed. Tomorrow is home time.

Up at 6 and hit the road by 7. This morning I decided to climb up to the Whitstone Post. Heading out along the toll road I turned up into the woods as soon as a path appeared. It was a long, long slog straight up! Fortunately it was quite windy so I didn’t get over heated.

I didn’t see another human all the way up. A few sheep scattered and bleated at me but otherwise it was me, the hill and the wind. When I reached the gorse of the heathland, I was in the clouds, the mist wetting my glasses. It was pretty wild and I watched the clouds approach, thinking they would chuck rain down on me at any time. They didn’t.

Up through the Exmoor gorse

I crossed the road and began the slow and steady descent via Homebush Wood, into Porlock. It was along this stretch that I saw my one and only human – a lady with her dog. It was 9am – that’s two hours of solitude! Who says this island is too crowded.

I arrived back at Little Hanger at about 10 and fell into a much needed though sadly inadequate shower.

At about 1 we set off for Hestercombe Gardens. This is a quite amazing place with lots of different English garden styles present in its 35 acres. The best thing about Hestercombe Gardens is the jolly staff. No matter who I had to deal with (café girls, ticket girl, shop girl) they were all pleasant and smiling and glad to be of service. Oh, if only everywhere was like that! Actually, I’m being unfair, Arlington Court was like that as well.

View to Taunton from Hestercombe

Anyway, back to Hestercombe. It sits on the southern slopes of the Quantock Hills and overlooks Taunton. The estate is named as early as 854 in the Anglo Saxon Charter. It belonged to the Warre family from 1391 until 1872.

In 1750 the estate was inherited by Coplestone Warre Bampfylde (which has rapidly become one of my favourite names) and, happily, he was a gardener and managed to design an amazing landscape including waterfall, stream, lake and many interesting sheltered spots. It looks amazing now but it would have been brilliant when he finished. He’s almost up there with old Capability Brown, I reckon.

In 1904 the Portman’s, who now owned Hestercombe, hired Edward Lutyens to do a bit of gardening for them. Edward, naturally, called Gertrude Jekyll and together they created a wonderful formal garden. And, seeing as Gertie is a particular favourite subject of Mirinda’s, it was only natural we should go there!

Regardless of whether you know anything about them, the gardens are a delight to just walk around and admire. With 35 acres, there is always a surprise around each corner and always something to admire. Mirinda gave me a potted history of the English garden as we walked around.

Of course, before we left we just HAD to buy something from the garden shop attached to the estate. Fortunately it wasn’t another couple of acers but a cute little ‘plant tower’. At least it won’t die on us.

For some reason, on our return trip, we managed to get all the tractors and trucks whenever we drove on a single lane road. Must have been because it was Maundy Thursday.

We followed a big flat truck to Porlock via Weedon Cross and up to Whitstone Post. The top of the moors was very, very misty. The truck left us at the ice cream carpark and we skidded down Porlock Hill.

At about 8 I walked down to Porlock to buy fish and chips. Naturally I went via the Royal Oak in order to sample another 6X – and I can report it was still very good. The chippie is attached to the Countryman restaurant and I was served by the same track-suited woman who caused Mirinda so much dismay. While I waited a couple came in to order and the woman was how Karen will look when she’s about 70 unless she starts wearing some colour! The guy had a big beer bulbous nose and was a tad confused so I guess that could be me…next year. The nose, the gout, it all has to happen.

We ate our cod and chips and watched the final episode of Planet Earth - BRILLIANT TV – then went to bed.

So much for going to bed early. I woke up at 5, laid in bed for half an hour then decided I may as well get up. Decided to walk over to the tower again seeing as the weather was MUCH improved this morning. I was on the road by 7am and at the tower by 8. Fantastic it was and I didn’t see a soul. The wind was not as ferocious as yesterday and the clouds had gone. Porlock Bay was bathed in the morning sunlight.

Porlock Bay

After having a sit, I was off back to the house. Took the track to Porlock rather than the lane like yesterday – a much nicer walk. Stopped off in the village to buy the Telegraph (so I can do the football results for work) and was back at the house by 9. Mirinda was awake and in the bath.

Mirinda was busy writing and resting so I typed up some of my journal, did some work on my essay and read the paper, until 1pm when we took off to enjoy the pleasures of the West Somerset Railway. We parked at Minehead, admiring the architectural brilliance of the Butlins holiday camp with rousing yells of ‘Hi-he-hi!” and wandering down to the train terminus.

The West Somerset Railway is similar to the Watercress Line except it goes a lot further. It has both steam and diesel trains (fortunately we were on steam for we were unaware there would be a choice!) and the trip takes one and a quarter hours. Now I know what you’re thinking: Why go on holiday just to take a train ride roughly equivalent to the same train ride we take every day. Hell, don’t ask me. It was Mirinda’s idea.

View from steam railway carriage

Anyway, the trip through the Somerset countryside was very peaceful, shattered by the awful kids on the train – for ‘awful’ read ‘very noisy’. Originally this section of railway was built in (my old friend) Brunel’s Broad Gauge – the better one that was not used throughout England because it didn’t shake everything and rattle enough – but was changed to the narrow gauge at some stage so the trains could fit on it. Apparently there’s a piece of Broad Gauge railway at one of the stations but not being overly train-crazy, I forgot to look.

Eventually the train pulled in at Bishops Lydeard. Now here’s a place. There should be a book called 50 Places to Avoid Before You Die with Bishops Lydeard given an entire page to itself. A sign at the end of the platform proclaims ‘To the village of Bishops Lydeard…well worth a visit’ Well, it ain’t! Firstly you arrive in a particularly awful part of town, backing onto some sort of truck yard, then walk alongside a horribly busy road then under another that is SO horribly busy they had to build a subway under it which is disgusting – the faeces smeared on the walls should indicate what the residents think of the place for a start. And the place is packed full of little girls in pink. There is obviously a gender recognition problem in Bishops Lydeard. I only saw two boys and one of them had a banjo and a shaved head.

After the subway you come across the Great Wall of Bishops Lydeard – I took a photo especially – and then turn the corner into Hell. Maybe it was our timing, maybe it’s always awful but there were cars everywhere, narrow streets, a closed pub, girls in pink riding pink bikes, nothing of any note…apart from what I’ve just noted. We turned around and went back to sit on the train to wait for the return trip. Anyone tempted to visit? DON’T!

The great wall of Bishops Lydeard

The trip back was lovely – we had the entire last carriage to ourselves – as we tried to find some of the promised imposing gentlemen’s houses and other points of interest along the route. There is only one more thing I just have to say about the train ride today. The guide book states that the station at Stogumber is not named after Kingswood. ‘Nuff said.

We retrieved Sidney from the beach front at Minehead where she’d been staring wistfully at Butlin’s, and drove back to Porlock.

For dinner tonight we were going to try the three rosetted Raymond’s at the Weir. Apparently it’s quite good. We parked in the pay 24 hour carpark – I can’t imagine someone coming round at three in the morning giving you a ticket – and walked over the road. We entered the empty restaurant and were immediately told they were full. Maybe it was the fact I hadn’t shaved for a fortnight, maybe it was Mirinda’s accent, I don’t know. What I do know is that this place is another ‘give your credit card number when you make the booking’, like the one in Oxford. It does make me wonder what would happen if you gave a fictitious number.

Anyway, we shrugged off our disappointment and strolled over to the only other place with a restaurant, the Anchor Hotel. Oddly we had to choose from the menu before sitting at a table, which stressed Mirinda out a bit, but eventually we were seated with a nice glass of Sancerre next to the only other people there. I ordered a garlic sausage for entree – I got four slices of devon on a bed of lettuce and capsicum. I ordered beef for main and was given half a cow in a goulash’y type sauce. Then the vegetables came out – mountains of vegetables. The food was fine but the quantities were just way too much. Mirinda had lovely lamb chops. For dessert (for we were determined to have dessert) Mirinda was given a massive wedge of cheese cake’y thing and I had ice cream.

The couple who run the place are quite nice. They bought the business about two years ago (the hotel AND the Ship Inn next door) and said they’d not stopped working. The sort of couple who would put you off running a hotel. Not that I needed putting off but you never know when Mirinda will get it into her head.

Went home and watched Planet Earth before going to bed.

Up at 7 and out for another walk by 8. A gloomy day with rain predicted.

This morning I went through Porlock and headed for the shingle beach. I walked along towards Bossington, passing the lime kilns on the way. The lime was bought to shore by ship and processed before being sent out again. Interestingly the kiln is on a bank and there’s a ditch around it so, apart from the building, it could be an ancient hill-fort that’s not on a hill. There’s also a gun emplacement from WW2 that sits looking out to Wales with an ominous eye.

Lime kilns near Bossington

I turned down the lane to Bossington – I’d planned to do a circle back to Porlock – and checked the time. It was only 9! So I thought I’d see how far I could get towards Hurlstone Point. The walk was steep but beautiful. Gorse dotted the slopes and the occasional dog walker moved along higher paths. This is all owned and managed by the National Trust.

The coast path branched off towards Minehead but the tower for which I was headed was up a narrow cliff edge path so I went straight on. The higher I climbed, the stronger the wind became. At the very top the path became five steps and as my head cleared the top one, the wind almost blew me off. I leant into the wind as I turned the corner and sat on the bench outside the abandoned coastguard tower. The other side of the tower, the path continued with a scary sign which I had no trouble heeding.

Danger sign on cliff path

As I snapped a quick photo, I glanced up to my right and standing on the precarious slope were a couple of black faced sheep, looking at me with such an air of superiority that I told them about last nights lamb – that shut ‘em up.

The tower is a very simple affair, though at one time it appears to have had three doors – two of these are now blocked up. There was a fireplace in the main central room which is also blocked up. The floor above is without one – a floor, not a fireplace – and the windows all look out into the bay. The only place out of the ferocious wind was in the tower so I rested for a while here. There was no noise except for the wind and no sign of life – the sheep were outside. I was obviously the only idiot out walking today.

I waited for the wind to die down to about 60 knots then carefully picked my way back to the steps and down the trail. It really blew the cobwebs away but was pretty scarifying. On the way back down to Bossington I passed lots of dog walkers and thought what a fantastic place to walk your dog. Incomparable views. It would probably be very crowded in the summer though.

From Bossington I strolled into Porlock along a lane. In Porlock I went to the bakery for some yummo bread then popped into the church of St Dubricius. Another Welsh saint (his name is Dyffrig in Welsh), his feast day is 14 November. He was a learned man and scholar who lived in the 6th century. If you believe some people he managed to survive to 120. Yet others claim he was the priest at the wedding of Arthur and Guinevere. According to the movie with Clive Owen and Keira Knightly, Merlin officiated. So, believe who you want.

It has been put forward that St Dubricius may have founded the church in Porlock himself. Whether he did or not, the church there now is not the one he would have seen. The current church belongs mostly to the 13th century with reconstruction work from the 15th. It has some lovely monuments. One is supposedly of a crusader (possibly Sir Simon Fitz-Roges). He looks quite small.

Monument of crusader, Porlock church

Another double monument has John 4th Lord Harington and his good lady wife Elizabeth Courtenay, laying peacefully together. Liz has her feet on a rather evil looking creature. Apparently this is the Courtenay Boar which mothers of Porlock use as a sort of local boogieman – “If you don’t behave, the boar will sneak into your room and eat you all up!” Wonder how many permanently damaged children THAT created.

Outside the church is the most amazing yew tree. Not sure why it is the way it is but it sure is weird.

The rain had started while I was in the church so there was nowt for it but to pop into the Castle Hotel for a quick (read slow) pint of Exmoor Ale. I wrote a postcard and read about the church and tried to wait out the rain. I had no more change for more beer so I went outside and walked back to the house, getting dripped on by the persistent Somerset rain.

After a laze around the house which primarily consisted of me having a shower and lamb sandwich, we set off for Arlington Court. This is a National Trust property over the border in Devon.

Arlington Court, Devon

Arlington Court has been around only a short period of time, being started in 1820 and then increased in 1865. But this isn’t why you come to AC. The real reason is the lunatic who used to live there. Now don’t get me wrong, I LOVE lunatics – the madder the better – and the mad Miss Rosalie Chichester is no exception. It is she who bequeathed the house to the National Trust.

Why was she mad, you ask. Well, she was a collector. But not an ordinary collector who has stamp albums full of penny blacks. Oh no. Rosalie collected mainly shells and model boats with a bit of bibelots thrown in. And she did it all over the world. She never married and, instead, had a travelling companion, Chrissy Peters who appears as petit as Rosalie was not.

Her house is filled with the oddest things. Shells from everywhere, snuff boxes from everywhere, 50 punch spoons???? You’ve gotta love someone this mad.

She was also (and this was obviously during her saner moments) a great conservationist. She set up the family estate in order to best please nature. The grounds looked great but it was pouring down with rain. So, like Blenheim before, we went straight to the driest part of the estate, the house. After a tea/coffee of course.

The house is very big and airy – though not as big as some. There are ‘things’ everywhere. When the National Trust took over they had to move a lot of her collections out because there just wasn’t enough room for them and visitors as well! She loved yachting so there’s also a lot of paintings of racing boats in full sail. This leads me to wonder whether she is related to Sir Francis Chichester, maybe she was his aunt as she had no siblings.

The house as it stands today is definitely the third and possibly the fourth built by the Chichesters on the estate. They had a bit of bad luck with the second house as they hired that well known London architect, John Meadows, to design and supervise the building. Unfortunately he died before completion and the job was finished in a very shoddy manner! 30 years after its construction, it had to be demolished and work started on the present house. Which only goes to show that you really have to keep an eye on these subcontractors or they’ll try and cut corners everywhere. Especially if your architect dies.

The biggest (and best) surprise in the house is the William Blake watercolour called simply The Arlington Court Picture, because Blake didn’t name it and there’s no record of it anywhere. It was found by National Trust staff on top of a pantry cupboard when they took over the place in 1949. It’s an exceptional picture, full of allegory and mysticism. No-one knows what it means. My interpretation is “If you wear a red tunic and threaten to leave, your life will be full of half dressed, tasty women – though some may be dead.”

After the house – the rain had let up – we walked over to St James’s church. This is not part of the National Trust but is open. It is a Victorian church (the nave and chancel built in 1846) and houses many of the Chichester family memorials. According to Reverend Henry Ayre (rector of St James’s 1971 – 89), most of the parish records have disappeared so very little is known about the original church. A few memorials remain, including one that is possibly Thomasine Raleigh who married John Chichester in 1384. This pair started the Chichester dynasty in North Devon. The National Trust put a memorial to Rosalie on one of the walls. Not sure if it was out of spite or delight, but they incorporated shells and ferns into the design.

St James' Church, Arlington Court

Outside the church, I was busy taking photos of things that no-one but me would be interested and I thought Mirinda said “Watch out for this hole“. After a couple of minutes I turned round and she was gone. Naturally I figured she’d fallen down the hole so I searched. There was no hole. I walked out of the church but there was no sight of her. I decided to walk up to the National Collection of Carriages which is housed in the stables and closes at 4 (it was 4:15) figuring she’d gone up there. No sign of her. I walked back down to the toilets at the main house then wandered lost and lonely until I spotted her returning from the shop.

Apparently she’d been waiting in the shop for hours (it was now 4:30) and demanded to know where I’d been. I’d missed all the action. A sheep in a field by the shop had been trying to rouse her lambs by kicking and nuzzling them but it wasn’t working. She increased her shaking and Mirinda and a number of other non-farm people were starting to get a bit hysterical so one of them rushed over to the shop and called for a warden. One was there almost instantly (take note emergency services!) and set about kicking all the reclining lambs, trying to find the dead ones. None of them were dead. As soon as he touched the ones that hadn’t moved they jumped to their feet and gamboled off. And just think, I missed all that.

We spent some money at the shop then left, going back via the Exmoor bisecting A396, coming out at Dunster. We arrived home at about 6 and decided to go out for an early dinner. As no restaurant in Porlock opens until 6:30, we first wandered then sat in the Royal Oak for a pint of 6X.

Dinner was lovely at the Piggie in the Middle. The waitress hadn’t turned up yet so we were sat by the chef. Had scallops wrapped in bacon (which were nice but the bacon is a bit too strong for the delicate little scallops) and venison (me), duck (Mirinda). All very nice and, of course, no room for dessert.

Home quite early so we watched Planet Earth and were in bed quite quickly afterwards.

Up at 7 to set out at 8 for the walk to Culbone Church, the smallest parish church in England. A glorious morning, all blue and sunny. I set off down the track to Porlock Weir, breathing in the heady smells of wild garlic and squishing through the mud.

I stopped for a breather at the Weir then set off up the hill for the long slog. The guy in the shop yesterday said it was either an hour and half or a mile and a half – reading the sign this morning, however, gave it away. Culbone church is two and a half miles away. Most of this is uphill. The nicest thing is most of the way back is downhill.

I set off along the small coast track. Stopped at the Worthy Toll gate for a few photos. I particularly like the sign that says “In the absence of the Toll Keeper please put £1 in the slot in Lodge door & close the gate – Thank You”. The honesty policy is alive and well in down town Worthy! Being on foot precluded me from forking over £1 so I strode on through the arch of the toll gate and on up the hill.

Worthy toll gate

I very quickly came across a big Victorian arch, which looked like a railway tunnel (apart from the fact that if a train had gone over the top it would’ve then gone crashing into the sea on the other side). Once through and further round, I walked through another but this one appeared to have battlements and arrow slits. Maybe the whole thing is a folly built by a castle-mad train spotter. My Ordnance Survey map marks them as simply ‘tunnels’.

From here on in the trail kept going up and getting steeper. At one point little signs declare that there has been a landslide so the path is closed. This would have been very annoying (memories of trying to walk from Hastings to Pett Level spring to mind) except that the kindly landowner has allowed people to walk along a track that goes through his property and runs alongside the ruined one. This is very handy as the original path is the coastal path that follows the entire coastline of the UK (omitting Northern Ireland) and can you imagine how you’d feel if you’d walked all the way from, say, Whitby and suddenly had to turn back because of a silly landslide! What it did mean was more going up rather than straight across. So I continued climbing.

Fortunately the track levelled off before the nose bleeds started and I had my first sight of the tiny Church of St Beuno. It nestles in a valley, with a stream running down from the hill behind it, and in the company of two houses. That’s Culbone – two houses. The sign as you walk across the little stone bridge declares that Culbone is a settlement. I’ll vouch for that. I was hoping for a Starbucks or at the very least a Tesco but no, just trees, stream and the smallest parish church in England.

St Beuno (who wasn’t Italian) was Welsh and born in the 6th century. Apparently he rescued St Winifred from King Caradog. He is regarded as the most important Welsh saint after St David. His name is pronounced ‘Bayno’. He has two feast days (21 April and 14 January) for some reason and in art is represented restoring his niece’s head!

The church itself has the honour of appearing not just in the Domesday Book but also in the Guinness Book of Records! Its total length is only 35 feet and the pews will hold 33 people if they all squish up. After Sunday lunch, you can only fit about 12 in. Although it’s in a small valley it still sits 400 feet above the sea – not that you can actually see the sea from the church – too many trees for that.

In St Beuno's church

Inside is a lovely 14th century screen and the small pews are amazing. Behind the door is what is believed to be a Norman font. You can almost touch the walls on either side with your arms outstretched! A box pew by the screen was put there for the Lovelace family of Ashley Combe House (that’s Ada and her family).

It’s all very neat and compact with nothing really fancy. The whole place is very, very peaceful. It even has bells though they are also very small but I didn’t get to hear them. Or maybe I did but they’re so small they make a very little sound.

It was 10 when I finally started the trek back. On the way to Culbone I didn’t see a single person but coming back I passed heaps heading down. One girl in particular with a collie and 56 tons of equipment on her back and a very odd chap in normal shoes, polyester trousers, nylon jacket and shirt. Not that there’s anything particularly odd about that per se except that he’d walked two and a half miles like that along sometimes muddy, always rocky tracks. Unless, of course, he actually lived in the woods up a tree and had come down for a forage.

On the way back I noticed a field where someone had planted a spiral of daffodils, ending in some sort of stone block. It looked great but will be much better when the daffs all bloom. Lovely idea…a pity our back garden isn’t quite so big!

I arrived back in Porlock Weir in time for a beer at the Ship Inn. I thought I was going to have to ask for a half pint as all I had in cash was £2 but, the angel of proper purchasing was obviously on my side. Behind the man behind the bar was the price list – Exmoor Brewery Ale only £2 a pint! Phew. I sat outside in the chill sunlight and enjoyed every single drop.

Walked back to the house to find Mirinda lying on the lounge reading. She’d spent a lovely morning doing what she loves – writing, reading and lying down. I had a much needed shower and we planned the afternoon.

First we drove up the horrifying Porlock Hill to the heathland of Exmoor. This hill is so devastatingly evil that it is world renowned. In the West Country whenever anyone says something is steep, the rejoiner is “but is it as steep as Porlock Hill?” Before the arrival of the car, no carriages of any kind could be taken up or down it. Everything that had to be transported into Porlock had to be placed in bags and lashed across horses. The hairiest bends have signs warning pedestrians not to stop there as it’s very, very dangerous!

The top section, when it was tarred, had to be rolled by hand because the steam roller wasn’t able to do it. This is one BAD bit of road. There are many horror stories of lunatics having picnics in the escape roads on the sand that is supposed to stop an out of control car and of brakes burning out and cars simply speeding through Porlock and ending up buried in a shop window. We didn’t have any problem but did figure that Neville would NEVER have made it. Sidney made short work of it.

We pulled off the road into a carpark which has to have one of the all time best views for an ice cream van, and went off in search of the Whit Stones. I eventually found them in the middle of the copious heather. They were leaning over rather than the usual standing – this explains why they were hard to find. I posed on one and Mirinda took my photo. We then strolled back to the car, stopping off in another carpark for a bit so Mirinda could sit and stare at a bird she didn’t know.

Whit Stone not standing, Exmoor

Back at the car we had a yummo ice cream each – Mirinda’s was made with sheep’s milk – then continued on to the legendary Culbone Stone. This small standing stone was discovered in 1940 and is believed to have been carved in the 7th century. How anyone found it is beyond me! It’s hidden away inside an odd wood of creepy trees and, at just under a metre, could be very easily missed. The signs help but I have to assume they weren’t there in 1940.

Mirinda sat by the Culbone stone and listened. She told me to be very, very quiet and listen as well. There was nothing to hear but for the faint trilling of birds and the noise our blood makes as it gurgles round our bodies. It was freakily silent.

Mirinda sits and listens to nothing

There’s also supposed to be a line of standing stones just down the road but I think they’ve been moved as we could only see one quite a distance from the road – it’s all private property and behind big wire fences so we couldn’t actually approach it.

Back in the car we headed for Selworthy, a National Trust village and thought to be one of the prettiest in England. At the top of the steep hill (but not as steep as Porlock Hill!) a truck was parked outside the church taking up three quarters of the road so everyone had to breath in so their cars would fit through. The truck was there because the church is undergoing renovations but it could have been parked a little bit more conveniently. Still, Sidney is such a slight, slip of a girl, that we slid by and parked.

All Saints Church, Selworthy has a fantastic view. I could think of gloomier places to spend eternity. After the Lilliputian church of this morning, this one was like a cathedral. Big and blocky, imposing itself on the landscape. It is one of the rare churches to still be coated with a mixture of lime and tallow which protects the local stone from severe weathering. As you walk into the church the first thing that surprises is the balcony above the door. This was once the pew of the Acland family who ran things once – it was the Acland’s who gave the village (and most of their estates) to the National Trust. Can you imagine owning a village?

All Saints, Selworthy

A rather odd woman poked her head into the church then disappeared again, never to return as if the contents surprised her. What did she expect to find behind a church door? A supermarket? Actually, to be fair, there is an old chapel in Innsbruck that’s actually a McDonalds. We had a brief wander round the churchyard then down into the village proper.

The National Trust has an information centre and a shop in one of the perfect houses in the village…which was shut. So we didn’t find out much more than what the church brochure tells us. Unfortunately it was not very forthcoming about the tea shop. A perfect little tea shop, in a perfect little village. Ah, not quite. Jack would love this one.

The menu lists all manner of food stuffs, including five different types of ploughman’s lunch. After yesterdays sweet-mania at the Whortleberry, we decided savoury was the go and having determined that Mirinda had a hidden £20 note, we decided to order the biggest ploughman’s with farmhouse ham. Eventually the guy came to take our order – Mirinda was wondering when we should give up waiting just before he came over – and the moment Mirinda asked for a ploughman’s, he blandly said “There’s none today, just cakes.” No other explanation. We were devastated. Mirinda had a piece of shortbread for some reason unknown to either of us while I just had a coffee.

Tea shop, Selworthy

We left as quickly as we could ingest. Traveller be warned! Take your own food and drink when visiting Selworthy. We returned to the car via the tithe barn.

This is quite magnificent. It was built in the 14th century and is in the grounds of the former rectory. In the end is a rather odd window which would look far more at home in a church. And it does. It was taken from the church in 1826 and put in the barn. Around the side there is another little creation which seems to belong in a church. This time, however, it would have been original. The almost obliterated figures beneath the arch are thought to be lambs and pigs. This sort of thing they did for good luck.

Detail of tithe barn

Back in the car we set off once more back to Porlock because it was finally time to visit Greencombe, a garden not far from where we’re staying.

This garden has been around for fifty years, begun in 1946 by Horace Stroud who had always wanted to run a garden. Oddly he was a county councillor who was also a window dresser. He thought this gave him some insight into gardening.

I have to say it’s a very impressive garden, although Mirinda was somewhat less impressed by the woman who sold us the very expensive tickets to go in. I’m not sure what the woman did but, believe me, given Mirinda’s reaction it was pretty much the worst thing anyone could do. So, to retaliate, Mirinda decided we’d go around the garden in the reverse order she had suggested.

It was a lovely garden but the highlight for me was the little chapel. It is called the Chapel of our Lady of the Secret and features a lovely statue of a mother and child all carved from a single, solid piece of chestnut. It stands on a large piece of oak. Outside, running down the steps is a banister made from a continuous length of chestnut 17 feet long! It is all very lovely and was started in 2000 and completed and blessed in 2001. Everything apart from the roof tiles was grown in the garden. It looks out over the marsh and into the bay. A lovely spot.

Greencombe Garden

Finally it was time to leave and, after Mirinda had an odd chat with a very old deaf woman who had been left with the car because she couldn’t walk up the drive, we set off back up the road to Porlock. I was dispatched for supplies (beer and toilet rolls) while Mirinda went back to the house to start our roast lamb.

Dinner was divine. We ate, watched TV and crashed.

Up with the sparrows and their wind breaking ways. The morning was gorgeous. No clouds, all sun and blue sky. After downing my first (and usual) morning coffee, I wandered down to the village to buy the Sunday Times. Not many people about, but for a few dog walkers, so the place looked lovely.

It feels like every second building in Porlock is B&B or hotel accommodation – the rest are very tasty looking restaurants and a few shops.

Castle Inn, Porlock, Somerset

Porlock is an ancient village. The name means ‘locked port’ and, as it faces the Bristol Channel one assumes it has always had trade by sea. Iron Age man lived here as well, attested to by the numerous amounts of standing stones and artefacts found about the place. Archaeologists have dated a human body excavated on Exmoor to 1500BC.

The real history of the Porlock area starts in Saxon times (around 700AD) when the land was cleared for farming. Vikings attacked a couple of times. Once Harold (later to be the king that our old friend Bill the Bastard, shot in the eye) attacked halfway between Porlock and Porlock Weir. He and his well oiled machine of fighting men fought on to the village and succeeded in burning every building and stealing everything not nailed down or worthless. A nice way for a future king to behave! And we worry that Prince Harry goes to lap-dancing clubs!

But enough history (for now). I woke Mirinda and we enjoyed a lovely breakfast of bacon and eggs on toast before getting togged up for a stroll down to Porlock Weir. We took the footpath that leaves from the toll road. It started out nice and easy but gradually deteriorated into muddy slush. This was fine for me in my hiking boots but not so nice for Mirinda’s Reeboks. We discussed galoshes which Mirinda thought were a splendid idea until I told her they’d been around for years and I hadn’t invented them just then.

Mirindas muddy runners

We passed a man, two horses and four dogs at one stage and had to squeeze up against the bank to let them all by. The walk was very up and down but the views from the ups were well worth it and there was a little bridge over a little stream in one of the downs which was very pretty. Finally we emerged onto the Porlock Weir road and walked the final leg into the village.

The sea here washes up on a shingle beach and boy are they big shingles! The beach itself is only about 8,000 years old, so very young in geological terms. With sea levels started to rise and reclaim the beach, it will never get the chance to be sand, methinks.

We wandered round and out, noting the crazy signs and watching the build up of visitors. Two ladies sat painting watercolours of the same scene and I figured how great it would be to be an artist. Instead of just snapping away with a camera you could actually sit and enjoy the view as you dissected and painted it. Mind you, these two were like Japanese tourists and I can imagine them comparing the same watercolours when they get home.

Sign at Porlock Weir

We popped into the Ship Inn where I tried an Exmoor Ale’s Fox which was very nice. It’s a non-smoking pub! And I have to say it smells pretty good. Unfortunately there was a lot of people there so we went outside and didn’t get to enjoy the novelty.

Rather than go back up the hill, we followed the Coast Path along the salt marsh to get back to Porlock. It’s very slushy in parts and shingled in others. Mirinda wisely had her binoculars so she could spot lots of birds she didn’t know and will probably never see again.

Almost at the end we came across a bunch of weird, dead looking twisted trees. Mirinda thought they looked like the forests of Mordor. Found one by a stone barn that looked particularly photogenic so Mirinda snapped my pic under it.

Back in Porlock we sat down in the very cute Wortleberry Tea Room and had a high tea for two. It was a LOT of sweet stuff!

Mirinda took a granny nap while I typed up the mornings adventures. Upon her waking, I taught her to play backgammon and she went and beat me!!

Had dinner at the Countryman Restaurant – we were the only customers and it felt very quiet without any music on! Mirinda: “It has to be the first time I’ve been in a restaurant and been served by someone in track suit pants.” This is true for she wore trackie top and bottom. Apart from this, (and the fact that she kept sitting just close enough to hear Mirinda’s rude remarks) we had a lovely meal. The food was fine (Mirinda – blue cheese & walnut pate, somerset chicken. Me – broccoli soup, griddled boar with apricot, lime and coriander sauce) though, obviously, no room for pudding. We walked back to Hartshanger.

We watched Battlestar Galactica then Mirinda went to bed while I watched Match of the Day 2. Chelsea beat West Ham 4-1 with only 10 men!

Porlock I shall forget thee not.
Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined
But often shall hereafter call to mind
How here, a patient prisoner, twas my lot
To wear the lonely, lingering close of day,
Making my sonnet by the alehouse fire
Whilst idleness and solitude inspire
Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away.
Written by Robert Southey while caught in the Ship Inn, Porlock, during a torrential downpour.

Mirinda took the girls up to the Forge while I did the last minute packing and clearing up. She returned with the news that the Forge is going to be closing in May! I had to quickly find a new kennel that could take the puppies for our Pompeii trip – we are so used to booking at the last minute and have been spoiled. Apparently the owners of the Forge are going to subdivide their land and the big kennel will be a house. In talking to the Frensham kennel, where I thankfully managed to book them in, I discovered that the Forge did the same thing last year but then changed their minds and had to buy back everything they’d sold! Still, no harm done.

We managed to hit the road by 1, wanting to miss any school holiday traffic – if there was any it was well ahead of us as our run was excellent. The traffic was even flowing by Stonehenge, which has to be a first.

Having had no lunch, we stopped at Little Chef (see how quickly we were convinced? Sorry Jack) for a couple of toasted paninis. The services proclaimed they sold ‘freshly baked Upper Crust’. For those not familiar with Upper Crust, these are baguettes with fillings – very nice, very tasteful – usually found at major railway stations. This tempted us in. The services also had a Burger King and a newsagent.

Considering this was a Saturday afternoon it was odd that the BK was shut up tight. I saw a few disgruntled teenagers return to their cars. We wandered round looking for the Upper Crust fare but, apart from a back passage and sets of toilets, there was nothing. Mirinda asked the girl in Little Chef about these delicacies and she said they were not there. Interesting, I thought. So it was either sad packed sandwiches from the newsagent or paninis from Little Chef. Not a tough choice though I have to assume that Jack would have eaten a newspaper, given his last email.

The paninis were fine but I have to observe that the menu declares ‘a selection of beer’ which amounted to any beer you wanted as long as it was Stella. I thought long and hard and settled on…a Stella.

We followed our old favourite (A303) road until we hit the Podimore roundabout then headed off onto pastures new. We were getting a bit desperate for refreshment – actually Mirinda was falling asleep – so pulled off the road at Long Sutton for a cuppa and wander round.

Long Sutton is one of those Somerset villages built entirely from the local blue lias stone. It makes everything look like it’s been transported from Huddersfield but not as cramped. Naturally we wandered over to the impressively towered Holy Trinity church.

In 1993 it was 500 years old so not as old as some we have seen. It is very light and cheerful inside with the most amazing pulpit. It has lots of carved figurines around the outside – either the disciples or some saints – and it is all in colour. The meagre pamphlet at the door claims it is the oldest in England and dates from the 15th century. It reminded me of the European churches we’ve visited as English churches very rarely have a coloured anything, let alone the pulpit. The altar is separated from the congregation by a magnificent reredos (or choir screen, I’m not sure which) also in bright colours.

Holy Trinity Church, Long Sutton

Wandering round I came across a rather odd stone carving of a head by one of the windows.

Strange head

Having no explanation I’m going to venture the theory that it represents a village maiden who was caught meeting her lover in the churchyard. She would wait for him inside the church, peeking out through the window until he signalled from outside. When the church wardens caught them cavorting among the gravestones they set about them. The man managed to escape but the girl fell into an open grave and died. From this time on the maiden haunted the church and her face could be seen through the window as she watched for her lover’s arrival. Eventually the villagers of Long Sutton clubbed together and had a stone carving made of her and placed by the window. Her ghost never returned.

Anyway, all refreshed and wide awake we returned to the road. The rest of the journey was increasingly scenic though something must be said about the pumping station museum at Westonzoyland. Apart from the fantastic name, I wonder how many pumping stations you can squeeze into a museum.

We stopped off at the Morrisons at Bridgwater for supplies. The only reason I mention this is because I have found the perfect cashier. I have been looking all my life for someone who can scan and pass my groceries to me in the order I intended. Well, Kirsty at Bridgwater Morrisons is just that cashier! You see, buying groceries on your own means unpacking the trolley onto the conveyor belt, rushing round to the other side and packing it into bags. Normally the cashier just takes it from where ever and I end up having to store various objects to the side while I work backwards. This means I hold up the next customer and get all flustered – fortunately I’m very used to this! But Kirsty…an absolute genius. She took it all off just the way I put it on. It meant a very quick turnaround and no storage pile! Wish we could do our shopping there all the time.

As we drove closer to Minehead, the sea appeared and the land grew more rural. Dunster saw us enter the edge of Exmoor National Park and it wasn’t long before we arrived at Porlock, our village destination.

Hartshanger is just a little way along the ‘pleasurable’ tollway to Linmouth. There is no tollbooth at this end so I assume you get to the other and suddenly have to fork over the cash.

Toll charges

We met Alanna and Mike Edward, the owners and were shown to Little Hanger, our home for the week. Cute is so inadequate. And quiet! My God, the noisiest thing here is the aquatic sheep down on the plains. Oh and the water on the shingles though that’s about a mile away. So no problems with our accommodation this time. I unpacked the car and we moved in.

Alanna warned us not to buy food from the One Stop in the village as it was a sneaky ploy by Tesco to sell cheap groceries for more profit. Given my Program of Hate towards the supermarket chain, this was easily agreed to.

After settling in we wandered down to the village for…well, a wander then a beer in the Ship Inn. Mirinda had a half of real scrumpy cider while I tried a Tawny and then a Barn Owl, both from the Cotleigh Brewery situated in that famous brewing town of Wiveliscombe – when are we going to holiday there? It’s been brewing since 1979 and produces something like 11,000 pints a DAY! Very nice it is too.

We played dominoes, which Mirinda thrashed me in, and sat while rain lashed at the windows. I thought this might be why it’s called the Ship Inn as it felt like we were being assailed by ferocious North Sea waves. By the time we left, the storm had passed and the stars came out. The moon was bright enough to cast shadows but, on the advice of our landlord, I’d taken the torch with me. It came in very handy when trees blocked the moon from sight.

We had a couple of lamb chops then I watched Match of the Day (Chelsea play tomorrow) while Mirinda went to bed. All in all, not a bad travel day.