We left early again, heading back to Kingston Bagpuise,
still wondering at the origin of such a name, and headed south toward
Marlborough on the A346.
Brown tourist attraction signs seem to be the same the world
over, or at least the parts we travel; this one suggesting a detour to
Whitehorse Hill, west across the Vale of White Horse on the side of slightly
higher land, all part of a popular walkway. This is The
Ridgeway and even at this cold time of the year, seems to be well patronised.
The White Horse is an enigma, a brush stroked styled “horse”
cut into the hill visible for many miles and now administered by the National
Trust which meant that our membership allowed us free parking. We donned out
coats, hats and scarves, and set off across the mown track toward the view
point. Below us on the plain, the views were obscured by mist and offered
little photo opportunity, and the ancient art above did little more.
Archaeological endeavours have discovered that trenches
of one metre were dug and then filled with chalk from the surrounding area, to
provide the shape of the 374 foot long horse. Theories abound as to its
purpose; a signpost to the ridge, or some memorial or religious symbol? It is
not the only such massive artwork here in Britain, and not unlike that on the
hill above New Zealand’s Waimate, although that one was created far more
recently.
After walking a
lengthy circuit, more for exercise than cultural pursuit, we returned to our
camper and headed off south again, travelling through narrow hedge-bound roads
and through more charming villages until we regained the more major road
leading on down to Marlborough.
We had had no intention of stopping here but were drawn by
the charm of the town and the business of the market on this Saturday morning.
We found a car park across the Kennet River and walked up and down and around
this wonderful town, tempted by the pastries in the Waitrose Supermarket and
impressed by the suited checkout staff at the same. After lunching in the car park, not willing
to spend time hunting for a parking space elsewhere, we headed west, this time
for the ancient historical spots of the West Kennet Long Barrows, Silbury Hill
and Avebury.
At Avebury we were tinny enough to find a parking spot in an
almost full car park and set off on foot with the hundreds of other tourists
around the circuits and to the more specific attractions of this amazing place.
The village of Avebury stands in the midst of a stone circle
that rivals Stonehenge according to the tourist guides, although the stones are
generally smaller, the circle is wider and more complex. A massive earthwork 20 foot high and 1400
feet across encloses the main circle, which is approached by four causeways
across the inner ditch, two leading into wide avenues that stretch over a mile
beyond the circle. The best guess is that it was built after 2500 BC and
presumably had a similar function to Stonehenge.
Our National Trust membership allowed us free entry to the
Alexander Keiller Museum, the Barn Gallery and Avebury Manor, a sixteenth
century residence with four or five panelled and plastered rooms, a massive
topiary garden, all restored in a joint effort by the BBC and the National
Trust, the subject of a television series called the Manor Reborn, and a book of the same name.
By the time we returned to the camper, the afternoon was
well advanced and we decided we should head for our booked CL camp for the
night. But not before detouring through a small village to the east of our
route, Manningford Bruce, where some of my ancestors came from, not too far
from Pewsy where others of the same family harked from. We did not stop, the
afternoon was closing in but I was happy to have passed through this beautiful
part of Wiltshire that my great great great grandparents Charles Lake and his
wife Louisa (nee Perret) left in the early 1850s.
From here it was not too much further on, across the eastern
edge of the Salisbury Plains, past signs indicating numerous military camps,
through Amesbury and on down to just north of Salisbury where we are tonight.
This camp is again on a small farmlet, in a small paddock up behind the
farmhouse and past farm sheds and piles of long discarded machinery, the latter
an eyesore. But here we have power, water, a secure spot, rubbish and waste
water disposal facilities, for a more inflated fee of 13 GBP, one pound
more than indicated in the directory.
The Caravan Club suggests one should book ahead, a practice
so contrary to our normal travel mode, however we have managed to plan four
days ahead and decided that tomorrow night will be spent here again.
We have decided too that this hired motorhome is absolutely
perfect for our purpose; it is a six metre Ford powered Chausson camper. The
design is excellent; the bed on one side of the rear and the bathroom on the
other, the dining room and kitchen cosily side by side and while this is
supposed to suit a threesome, two are on top of each other in such a compact
arrangement and it is just as well that we are not only very compatible but
experienced motorhomers. However there are several features which have proved
to be problematic; the shower tap is easily knocked should one choose to
venture into the bathroom / toilet in the dark to meet the midnight call of
nature, as Chris soon found out. I woke to his cries as he and his essential
pyjamas became drenched in the dark, and he groped hopelessly for
the light switch.
We experienced a different kind of flooding when en route,
soon discovered to be caused by blocked shower drains. When we lifted the
wooden slat floor of the shower, we found the left-over cotton buds and other
bathroom rubbish from earlier hireage, not cleared in between contracts.
Needless to say, we were not impressed and we used up spare towels and clothes
to mop up the deluge as it flowed forward through the entire motorhome, and
even worse, under the bed and into the suitcases and the few clothes left in
storage, not least Chris’s suit transported for his brother-in-law’s funeral.
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