June 26, 2019: Nether Stowey to West Quantoxhead
In Nether Stowey we enjoyed our first meal of the expedition at the Ancient Mariner pub.
At 13:03 on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 25, 2019, a long Plymouth-bound train pulled from its position at Paddington Station and began a westward journey for three senior walkers – on their way to an encounter with The Coleridge Way in Somerset and Devon. Seated beside me in car C were my in-laws, Naomi and Adrian, and this would be their seventh walking holiday as my companions. We had scheduled such an outing – on the Pembrokeshire Coast Path – for the previous summer but I became unwell only two days before we were scheduled to begin and that trip had to be abandoned. Plans for the present outing had been made so late in the spring that we were unable to re-schedule it in Pembrokeshire and so we had chosen another Celtic Trails offering; we would walk in the steps of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and the Wordsworths from Coleridge’s home in the Somerset town of Nether Stowey to Lynmouth on the Devon Coast.
After last year’s disappointment I was eager to regain the footpath with my friends and, having overcome a plethora of minor health problems only recently, gratified that I seemed fit enough to undertake the venture. I read a bit and worked on a crossword puzzle as we made good time on our westward journey. But near Castle Cary the train came to a disappointing halt and I began to fret. There wasn’t much time between this train and our next and, sure enough, by the time we had finally arrived in Taunton our connection to Bridgend had left without us. There was another train in an hour but I suggested we look for a taxi here. The Celtic Trails folk, our trip organizers, had nominated Bridgend as the nearest train station to Nether Stowey but if were long in arriving at the latter we would miss our chance to visit Coleridge’s Cottage itself. Adrian went out in front of the station and was assured that cabs were on their way so Naomi and I, after some struggle with Great Western’s exit gates, joined him. It was a gray and chilly afternoon and there was a hint of moisture. There were no cabs and those firms reached by phone could promise only long delays. I sat somewhat disconsolately on a low brick wall as Adrian interviewed a number of drivers – here either to drop people off or to honor bookings. Finally, at about 3:30, a chap pulled in with no commitments whatsoever and he agreed to take us to our first b&b. Our mood improved immediately.
Like all the other drivers we encountered on this trip our driver liked to talk. He kept up a non-stop commentary on the passing scene, which was quite beautiful indeed, and he seemed to know a lot about local history. Since we were going to Nether Stowey Adrian asked the logical question, “Is there an Upper Stowey?” The reply was, “No, but there is an Over Stowey,” and he drove us by the spot itself – now not much more than a cricket pitch. Our ride took about twenty-five minutes and cost no more than the price quoted for a trip from Bridgwater. Our b&b, Merrywood on Lime Street, was well-situated for the casual tourist – across the street from The Ancient Mariner pub and only a few steps from the famous cottage. We made a dinner reservation at the former and, with only forty or so minutes to go before closing time, we entered the latter.
I plucked my National Trust membership card from my wallet – only to discover that I had failed to insert this year’s version. But, not to worry, the manager looked me up on her computer and let me enter free of charge after all. A semi-Dickensian maid in a mob-cap was positioned to direct us to various corners of the two floors of the cottage – where Coleridge had evidently written both The Rime of The Ancient Mariner and Kublai Khan. I wandered on my own from room to room, enjoying one spot where visitors could try their own hand at manipulating the quill pen. Then I wandered out in front (while Naomi and Adrian visited the gardens out back) and took some pictures with my iPhone.
My in-laws undertook some additional sightseeing while I rested in my room at Merrywood and at 7:00 we went across the street for a nice meal at the pub – where Adrian began his traditional search for local options. (In Somerset this meant an endless variety of alcohol-based ciders.) I have noticed that there has been a considerable upgrade in the accommodation standards adopted by the modern b&b and ours was no exception. I had an early night.
In the morning we enjoyed the usual breakfast repast, received our packed lunches from our hostess, Jenny, and – leaving our big bags behind us for transfer by a local taxi firm hired by Celtic Trails – we were ready to depart at 8:50. I was now using my Nikon for photography and the first thing I noticed was how dark the skies were. There seemed to be no threat of rain but it was still gloomy and somewhat chilly and I wore my rain jacket over my t-shirt. Near the town crossroads Adrian wanted me to see an ancient Toll House and then we turned up Castle Street to begin a multi-staged ascent that went on for a long time.
Unusually we had not been supplied with a guidebook but with Xeroxes of the OS maps and downloads describing the route from www.coleridgeway.co.uk. I had copied these so both Adrian, always out in front, and I could have these in our map cases. I looked at mine only occasionally, relying on Adrian’s pathfinding skills, but almost from the outset I began to have my doubts about the mileage figures supplied by Celtic Trails and others; we often moved forward at only a little less than a mile an hour.
Climbing Castle Hill as we left a most charming village behind was a challenge for some someone who hadn’t done any real walking since last August on the Cleveland Way but I managed to get to the top, still on tarmac, as we headed in a mostly westerly direction. I paused to catch my breath and take photos as we descended past a dog’s beauty parlor and, after several minor road variations, we reached our first muddy lane – where we turned right to accompany a stream. On the whole the Coleridge Way was well waymarked – a quill pen serving as the appropriate symbol.
The first steep climb of the trip will bring us to Walford’s Gibbet.
We passed the cottage at Broomsquires and headed steeply uphill, where after a short respite from the vertical, we turned west again to begin a long ascent into the plantation above us, following a left-hand hedge and eventually reaching a road (at Walford’s Gibbet) in the woods. This wound uphill, though on firmer footing, for some time and after almost a mile under tree cover we at last emerged onto open fellside – where we could catch our breath. One could tell that only a few more weeks were needed to make this a truly wonderful heather-carpeted downland but so far only a few of these plants were in flower.
I make friends with a horse in Holford.
The direction of the route switched to the north as we followed a bridleway past a cairn, evidently marking the highest point in the path, and then we dropped down into trees on Woodlands Hill and began a steep and slow descent to a road just above the A39. (We virtuously ignored the opportunity of visiting a nearby pub on this highway.) Adrian went off to visit a nearby church in Holford while Naomi and I found a bench in a nearby picnic ground and I made friends with a curious horse – who peeked out at us from his stone-walled field. Every day I had at least one photo taken with my iPhone so that I could send progress reports to Gavan and to Linda, who was looking after my Otto. Today’s would feature me and a horse’s head.
When Adrian rejoined us we persevered past a number of cottages and the Dog Pound, a formerly useful canine outpost that now bore a detailed plaque with its history embossed. Roads carried us forward as we turned northwest and followed a drive up to the shuttered presence of the abandoned Alfoxton Hotel. Here Adrian found us some low walls to sit on and we broke into our tuna sandwiches. It was close to 1:00 and we had walked only four and three-quarter miles (or so it said) in four hours.
As usual I was having problems with my trousers. I had purchased a new pair from the Cotswold people in Covent Garden only two weeks or so ago but my attempts to rely on braces (suspenders to you Yanks) were once again thwarted by the weak grip these had on the belt line and my efforts to reinforce this connection with safety pins had also failed – Naomi now had to re-attach some of the latter, which threatened to pierce my back. The pressure of my backpack was partly to blame, of course, but I spent much of the early days of our trip tugging my trousers back into position as we made our way forward.
Road walking was resumed as we left the hotel’s precincts but the angle of ascent was still a challenging one. I can say that skies were brightening a bit after a very dark morning but we continued to have a lovely woodland to walk through – with the sky itself rarely in evidence. One of the tracks we used, Pardlestone Lane, was evidently a favorite surface for the Wordsworths themselves. Our path continued to rise and fall as we circled Broom Ball on our left. Some of the territory ahead was a bit more open – moorland and agricultural fields – and my heart sank as I could see the path snaking up the the flank of West Hill ahead. Here I had a really bad idea.
I could see that our slow progress made two things unlikely. We had been advised that a taxi driver, who had been contracted to pick us up at the end of the day’s walk for transfer to our b&b, was unlikely to hear from us between 4:00 and 5:00 (as expected) and that, indeed, it was more than likely that we would not be able to complete all of the route to Bicknoller this afternoon. Faster progress, I hoped, might be achieved with a much more level and less circuitous walk along the roadway below us and with this is mind I convinced the others to abandon the Coleridge Way and head for the highway, using bridleways to emerge near Townend Farm.
The highway in question, the ubiquitous A39, soon proved to be highly unsuitable for walkers, however. There was no verge to walk on, cars, lorries and buses, whizzed past at great speed, and we were able to take only a few steps before throwing ourselves into the safety of some prickly hedge. Naomi in particular was spooked and we had travelled only a short distance to the west before it was necessary to abandon this idea. There was a crossing footpath we could use to escape the roadway but we were not certain where it lead and though we made our way over to a small unmarked settlement it was not easy to figure out how to rejoin the Coleridge Way above us.
We sat staring at our maps for a while and then Adrian climbed up a watery track, returning in five minute or so to tell us that he had, indeed, found our waymarked route. We all made our way up this middy chute and at the top resumed our westerly trod toward Perry – even further behind schedule than before. Gradually the route shifted from west to south and the sun now broke through as well. There were some ambiguities about the correct path to take at a number of points now but at last we were directed back to civilization on roadways that lead us back to the A39 itself. We emerged just at the junction of a road to St. Etheldreda’s Church (stag statue in situ) and here we turned left in pursuit of West Quantoxhead’s Windmill pub – where Adrian soon discovered that this hostelry (which we had agreed must serve as the day’s terminus) would not open for another twenty minutes. It was 5:40 and, after consultation with figures on Naomi’s phone and her Fit-Bit, we concluded that we had walked ten miles.
I used my phone to call our taxi driver, Trish, who, indeed, had been worried about our whereabouts. She arrived in about twenty minutes in the livery of Abbey Road Cabs. She told us that her husband was the great Beatles fan at home (it was named Strawberry Fields) and I could tell her that only a few days earlier I had passed the famous crosswalk and that, indeed, Paul’s daughter, Mary McCartney, had been spotted in our local park with her Beagle, Paddy, only a few days ago. Trish drove us north to the village of Williton, pointing out how we could continue our adventures of the Coleridge Way tomorrow.
This would be the only time on the trip when the need for suitable accommodation could not be met en route; we were booked into The Mason’s Arms in Williton and had arrived after only ten minutes or so. We made arrangements with Trish for a 9:00 pickup the next day and sought the comfort of our rooms. Then we had a nice pub meal (I had the salmon and a pint of lager) and headed for an early night after what had turned out to be a very strenuous day on the trail.
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