2013 Thames Path, Cricklade to Lechlade Day 2/13 (June 28)
A Morris of Churches, a Squish of Slugs
I’ve always enjoyed terms of venery (had to look up the word itself though): collective nouns for animals, such as a pride of lions, a gaggle of geese, a kindle of kittens, and — everybody’s favorite — a murder of crows. This appears to have originated as an intentionally distinctive specialist vocabulary for hunting, a fashion picked up by the English from the French in the Middle Ages. Even in the 15th century, this had been extended humorously to human categories, as in “a Sentence of Judges”.
Today’s hike was marked — beginning, middle, and end — by historic churches. I think there should be a collective noun for that, and (for reasons that I’ll come to) I propose “Morris”.
Before hitting the trail, I explored Cricklade a bit, starting with the (once again, after centuries) Catholic church of St. Mary’s, dating back to the 12th century under various later additions and renovations. It’s a beautiful building with a striking 14th century preaching cross outside, and a small graveyard behind, all in carefully groomed grounds. Nearby is a building remaining from the medieval Priory of St. John, with a display about the history of the order. The priory originally served pilgrims on their way to Gloucester Cathedral, and later was a refuge for poor and elderly priests. I got another glimpse of the Thames from the bridge I had crossed on the way into town last night, then backtracked to St. Mary’s and turned onto Abingdon Court Road, following that out of town.
Soon the trail rejoined the Thames (now enhanced by several tributaries), passing through manicured meadows and along the edges of pastures — but sometimes also through heavily weeded fields. Except for a brief drizzle, the weather was magnificent. However, the heavy rain from the previous evening had left the weeds very wet, and my trousers and socks were soon drenched. Sometimes it was hard to see where the trail was, other than a slight crease in the waist- (or chest-) high weeds.
In addition, I encountered fellow travelers brought out by the rain: large black slugs. I saw dozens, perhaps hundreds of these, and the grass and weeds hid even more. I know they were there, from the squishy popping as I walked. A squish of slugs?
I photographed a couple more footbridges; the trail crossed them to swap which side of the river it followed. There was also an odd-looking arched “bridge” that carried a pipeline across the river. Mostly, however, the trail and the river already captured the pastoral essence of the rural Thames Path, a simple elegance I have rarely seen back in the States. We certainly have the grandeur of mountains, canyons, and lakes. With the exception of parts of New England, however, I haven’t found this sense of land transformed and enhanced by centuries of habitation. It’s not just England; I’ve seen that in other parts of Europe where I’ve had the chance to get away from the cities.
Rolling hills and fertile plains, fields bounded by ancient hedges or stacked stones, one-lane roads following a cow path from a thousand years ago. Swans (the first I’d seen this trip) and reeds, lush fields and lush weeds; the first willows I’d seen this high up the river, too. I stopped and recorded ambient sound for a moment, birdsong and — yes — the wind in the willows. Some fields were packed with chest-high plants dense with tiny yellow flowers: invasive mustard, probably, so not a good thing from an environmental view, but still contributing to the feel. Yes, pastoral. Even the woodlands hold signs of ancient habitation. This is the landscape of our childhood stories, of our dreams.
Eventually the trail left the river for over a mile, but in the middle of that stretch reached the town of Castle Eaton. It was just after 1 pm, so I stopped for lunch at the Red Lion. Sitting at a table behind the inn, I could see the Thames again, and get a picture of another bridge. And change my soaking socks… I can’t recall what I had for lunch, but my photo of the picnic tables shows my pack and various debris on the table, and a nice dark pint of stout.
Leaving the town, the trail was again away from the river, but passed another 12th century church, also named St. Mary’s (see photo at top). I left the trail again to walk through the lych gate (stone roofed, crusted with moss) and admire the church and its grounds. The medieval building was once again barely visible under centuries of additions, including a particularly odd 19th century bell turret.
Much of the afternoon was away from the river, including a long straight bridleway, where grounds-keeping equipment disturbed the peace, loudly chewing up encroaching shrubbery. Eventually the trail left the bridlepath and cut across a pasture to follow a busy road for over a mile. Warning signs here advised the faint of heart (or sore of foot) to call for a taxi or wait for one of the infrequent buses, as there was little or no verge, and in some places little or no visibility round corners. I decided to stick it out and made it down this stretch successfully if not safely, to where the trail turned off to the medieval Inglesham church of St. John the Baptist, the third of the ancient churches of this day, this one dating from the 13th century. This gem was restored in Victorian times but almost uniquely without a Victorian makeover — for which we can thank William Morris: hence my suggestion, “a Morris of churches”.
In a few days I would be touring Oxford and learn about another William Morris, founder of Morris Motor Company. This William Morris was a designer and major figure in the Arts and Crafts movement, a socialist libertarian, a novelist, poet, philosopher, and artist. He married Jane Burden, favorite muse and model for the Pre-Raphaelites, and he took out a joint tenancy with Dante Gabrielle Rossetti of Kelmscott Manor, just a short ways downstream of my destination for the night, Lechlade. During his life he was best known as a poet, but his fantasy novel The Well at the End of the World is considered by some to be the starting point of English fantasy, and today he is mainly know for textile designs and other decorative arts. I was astonished that I knew so little of this man who immediately became my hero.
I learned some of this that evening from a brochure in my room at The Riverside Pub, but I still had about a mile of walking to get to Lechlade and that inn. Not long past Inglesham, the Path joined the bank of the Thames, which had grown significantly since I had last seen it, and grew further at that point with the Coln. The disused (I fall into the British terms writing these notes, saying “disused” rather than “abandoned”, and “landslip” rather than “landslide”) Thames and Severn Canal reached the Thames at this same point, although nothing of it can be seen except the lock-keepers odd Roundhouse. Fascinating to think that boats and barges could actually cross England completely this way, but the Source truly isn’t far from the Bristol Chanel. The river here was nicely framed with reeds and willows, and furnished with narrowboats! I’d loved seeing these waterborne gypsy caravans since first seeing them years ago, and I dreamed of renting one for a vacation someday.
Reaching the top of navigation was a major landmark for the hike, while two more (the beginning of the historic towpath that truly made the Thames Path possible by establishing a right-of-way, and the first lock) would come early tomorrow. For now, a short walk across a manicured parkland led to Ha’penny Bridge with its 18th century toll booth. I’d already seen my inn for the night from just before the bridge, but I made a brief detour to a chemist before finding my room. Then I settled down at a picnic table overlooking the river and ordered a pint of Arkell’s bitters and a plate of fish and chips. Feeling very mellow, I took advantage of the Wi-Fi to Facetime home and talk to my wife, and show her the scene around me. As much as I had enjoyed the first two days hiking, I was delighted to have made it back to the Thames I remembered.