Vale of the White Horse

The White Horse of Uffington is local to me and it was the inspiration for G K Chesterton's epic poem "The Ballad of the White Horse". This one of the last great epic poems in English Literature.

Before the gods that made the gods
Had seen their sunrise pass,
The White Horse of the White Horse Vale
Was cut out of the grass.

Before the gods that made the gods
Had drunk at dawn their fill,
The White Horse of the White Horse Vale
Was hoary on the hill.



Did a long-ish walk this weekend around the folklore rich are of the White Horse and Uffington Monuments. We parked in the National Trust car park and walked up the gentle slope to stand near the white horse.

We passed some strange ripples in the valley known as the "giant's steps". These are apparently a natural earth formation caused by the melting of water in the Ice Age. (Not the ice giants!) The valley below the horse is called the manger and is said to be where the horse goes down to drink.


According to legend, the hill below the horse is where St George slayed the dragon. The legend says no grass with grow on this hill as a result of the dragon's blood poisoning it. We walked on the hill, and sure enough there is hardly any grass growing on its top.

We walked from here up to Uffington castle, which an ancient hill fort and the highest point in Oxfordshire, and then walked the ridgeway, the ancient roman road, towards Waylands Smith.

Our pilgrimage to Waylands Smith took us on many diversions most notably the village of Woolstone where we found a really quaint old mediaeval church. I thought it was a beautiful place and loved the gothic interior. This is the sort of building the Pre Raphaelite writer William Morris would have admired. He often visited Great Coxwell Barn, a large mediaeval stone barn which is also in the area and the pre raphaelites were inspired by mediaeval arts and crafts.


On the way down to Woolstone we saw a real white horse:


Eventually we arrived at Waylands Smith where we left a penny for the invisible blacksmith to shod our invisible horse. The Waylands Smith does look a bit like a hobbit house and I think there can be no doubt that Tolkien was probably influenced by monuments such as this.
We then took a diversion through the very strang valley called Oddstone Coombes, looking out over the valley through the gnarled and strange looking beech trees.


We then followed the ridgeway on a long pleasant stretch of track all the way back to the distant landmark of Uffington castle, where we arrived just in time to watch the sunset.

Angels of Highgate Cemetery

Highgate Cemetery in London was described by the poet John Betjeman as "Victorian Valhalla". There are many graves of famous artistic and literary people, most notably the Pre Raphaelites. I found this grave of Frederick Warne, publisher of Beatrix Potter. As can be soon from the photo, the graves are very overgrown and some almost in perpetual shade.

However what impressed me most about Highgate was the melancholy beauty of its angels. I am going back there at some point to explore the monuments more thoroughly. Many are protected by English Heritage for their artistic and architectural merit.

The cemetery was rich in flora and fauna. We saw squirrels, a robin perched on a headstone, and I was delighted by the display of snowdrops which carpet the ground and grow through the cracks in some of the older stones. I find this reassuring as it seems to represent rebirth or growth and the signs of early spring.

Silbury Hill

"Clumsy treasure hunting," Sir Richmond said. "They bore into Silbury Hill and expect to find a mummified chief or something sensational of that sort, and they don't, and they report nothing. They haven't sifted finely enough; they haven't thought subtly enough. These walls of earth ought to tell what these people ate, what clothes they wore, what woods they used. Was this a sheep land then as it is now, or a cattle land? Were these hills covered by forests? I don't know. These archaeologists don't know. Or if they do they haven't told me, which is just as bad. I don't believe they know.


..."To-day, among these ancient memories, has taken me out of myself wonderfully. I can't tell you how good Avebury has been for me. This afternoon half my consciousness has seemed to be a tattooed creature wearing a knife of stone. . . . "

From "The Secret Places of the Heart" by H G Wells.

Waylands Smith

I walked along the Ridgeway, where the winter sun was melting the snow. I like the satisfying crunch it makes underfoot. When I arrived at Waylands Smithy, the snow appeared completely untouched apart from a row of deer hoof prints. The sunlight gave the snow a slight bluish tinge.

What makes Waylands Smithy so atmospheric, is the way it is so secluded and surrounded by beech trees. it is best seen on a sunny autumn day when the dappled sunlight plays on the stones.

The legend attached to the Waylands Smith, is that if you leave a penny on the stones the ghostly blacksmith will shod your horse.

Walking back along the Ridgeway, towards Ashbury Hill, I was amazed how much snow there is still in the fields and hills even though it seems to have melted everywhere else.


" '- here are we at Wayland Smith's forge-door.'

'You jest, my little friend,' said Tressilian; 'there is nothing but a bare moor, and that ring of stones, with a great one in the midst , like a Cornish barrow.' 'Why,' said Dickie, with a grin, 'you must tie your horse to that upright stone that has the ring in't, and then you must whistle three times, and lay me down your silver groat on that other flat stone, walk out of the circle, sit down on the west side of that little thicket of bushes, and take heed you look neither to right nor left for ten minutes, or so long as you shall hear the hammer clink, and whenever it ceases, say your prayers for the space you could tell a hundred, or count over a hundred, which will do as well, - and then come into the circle; you will find your money gone and your horse shod.' "

Sir Walter Scott, Kenilworth.

Snow had fallen, snow on snow...

What can be more Dickensian than a church that looks like something out of a Victorian Christmas card? I was snowed in this weekend, although I managed to visit the local church and take these photographs.

Perhaps a setting for a Christmas ghost story?

Beware of "The Goblins and the Sexton".

Minster Lovell Hall

Minster Lovell is the setting for Clara Reeve's gothic novel The Old English Baron. The ruins are steeping in mystery and intrigue. They have a fairy tale quality which lends itself well to the many ghost stories which are associated with the place.

Grave of Tolkien

Professor Tolkien's grave in Wolvercote Cemetery is obviously well cared for. It is like a small garden in a peaceful location except for the dull monotonous roar of traffic from the main road.
There are many plants and flowers, but what is most moving is the names "Beren" and "Luthien" on the stone. Tolkien was inspired to write the story of Beren and Luthien after his wife danced for him in a forest. The character of Luthien was based on his wife, and Beren is himself. Although the story is described as one of Tolkien's Lost Tales, it appears in the Silmarillion and is important to his mythology as a whole. So it really demonstrates how much of an influence and an inspiration his wife was.

Song of Beren and Lúthien

The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering.
Tinúviel was dancing there
To music of a pipe unseen,
And light of stars was in her hair,
And in her raiment glimmering.

There Beren came from mountains cold,
And lost he wandered under leaves,
And where the Elven-river rolled
He walked alone and sorrowing.
He peered between the hemlock-leaves
And saw in wonder flowers of gold
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,
And her hair like shadow following.

Enchantment healed his weary feet
That over hills were doomed to roam;
And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,
And grasped at moonbeams glistening.
Through woven woods in Elvenhome
She lightly fled on dancing feet,
And left him lonely still to roam
In the silent forest listening.

He heard there oft the flying sound
Of feet as light as linden-leaves,
Or music welling underground,
In hidden hollows quavering.
Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,
And one by one with sighing sound
Whispering fell the beachen leaves
In the wintry woodland wavering.

He sought her ever, wandering far
Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,
By light of moon and ray of star
In frosty heavens shivering.
Her mantle glinted in the moon,
As on a hill-top high and far
She danced, and at her feet was strewn
A mist of silver quivering.

When winter passed, she came again,
And her song released the sudden spring,
Like rising lark, and falling rain,
And melting water bubbling.
He saw the elven-flowers spring
About her feet, and healed again
He longed by her to dance and sing
Upon the grass untroubling.

Again she fled, but swift he came.
Tinúviel! Tinúviel!
He called her by her elvish name;
And there she halted listening.
One moment stood she, and a spell
His voice laid on her: Beren came,
And doom fell on Tinúviel
That in his arms lay glistening.

As Beren looked into her eyes
Within the shadows of her hair,
The trembling starlight of the skies
He saw there mirrored shimmering.
Tinúviel the elven-fair,
Immortal maiden elven-wise,
About him cast her shadowy hair
And arms like silver glimmering.

Long was the way that fate them bore,
O'er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of ireon and darkling door,
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless.