What giddy daydreams of delight transport you when clomping up a stream in a pair of wellies. Slithery pebbles underfoot, burbling water crashing round your ankles STAMP STAMP STAMP. Onwards you go, with a stick, of course with a stick, hoping for a deep spot where the water clamps round your calf and forcefully suggests a different course, which you resist, gleefully. How can you tire of this?
Clomping up a stream in the Mendip hills whilst on your way to inspect a ’swallet’, some kind of natural underground drain, is beyond cool. Swallets mean porous rock formations under your feet: which means CAVES. And not any old caves. No, caves with ‘in case of emergency, contact the emergency cave rescue unit’ plaques hammered into their entrance arches. And a cave called ‘Goatchurch Cavern’, where witches used to live back in the day (ritual ‘witch marks’ can be seen on the cave walls), the approach to which takes you down a narrow yet worn path through brush and woodland. How long has this path been there? What pagan madness has occurred in and around this hole in the earth? Intriguing, spooky and exciting.
But it’s not all high-octane thrills on this meander across the Mendips, though. There is the expanse of Black Down – Black Down! Man that’s a good name for a hill – above, with the Rowberrow ridge leading down to Dolebury Warren, a large iron age fort with marvellous views across the Severn estuary and the Somerset levels. Standing in the grassy ramparts of an ancient fort, staring at big skies. Can you ever tire of this?
This site is supposed to be about appreciating those places and activities not necessarily associated with younger age groups, but really, this walk is not an exercise in middle-aged rambling; it is a regression. A regression into imagination, sticks, stones, water, animals, where energy is consumed, childishly, constructing stories and dams in the countryside.
The grand sweep towards Dolebury Warren
And I haven’t even mentioned Rod’s Pot. It’s an enormous crater in the earth, with a dark, dark tunnel snaking off at its base, a gigantic spermatozoid space removed from the ground. Named after a man called Rod. A man? A giant. A god. The origins of the myth are not for our townie ears, though. But who cares – it’s called Rod’s Pot! Who can tire of such a name?
Our limbs, though, do tire, sadly. But ignore the sonic radar of your stomach’s grumblings; closest does not equal best. The Crown at Churchill and the Bank House Cafe in nearby Axbridge are heartily recommended. I’m sure they’d both accept you in your damp wellies, too.
Burrington Combe
The nearest village is Churchill, on the A38 south of Bristol. Follow signs to Burrington (A368) and look out for the B-road that takes you to the ‘Rock of Ages’ car park, just past a garden centre and a rather dilapidated old pub that still deals in luncheon vouchers, as far as I can work out. Look, it’s here, ok?