Finding Camlann Read Online Free
Author: Sean Pidgeon
Over the years, he’s taught me pretty much everything I know about the British landscape.’
They have c0me to a small crossroads, signs to Hullavington and Norton to the left, Tetbury and Easton Grey to the right. Donald reaches down next to his seat, pulls out a well-worn Ordnance Survey map. ‘We should probably make sure we know where we’re going.’
‘Show me,’ Julia says.
He finds a stub of pencil under the dashboard, traces out the route. They are to head south-west along the line of the Fosse Way—the old Roman road from Lincoln to Exeter—then cut off just past the Somerset border and follow the back-roads from there to their destination, a small steep-sided hill on the far side of the village of Northend.
Julia takes the map out of his hand, deftly refolds it and flattens it out on her lap. ‘I think there’s a shorter way,’ she says. ‘I suggest you turn left at the next crossroads we come to.’
Soon they are making steady progress along the western fringe of Wiltshire, following the rectilinear fragments of modern road that preserve, in spirit at least, the original line of the Fosse Way. Just beyond tse.ust beyhe Three Shire Stones, where thick slabs of rock mark the meeting point of three ancient counties, they turn on to a narrow lane, almost a tunnel beneath tall hedges on either side. Walls made of local limestone are buried deep within the foliage, slowly crumbling into pale shards that have mixed with the thick mud thrown up into a ridge along the centre of the lane. As they drop down into Northend, they meet a tractor lumbering up the hill towards them, its driver eyeing them with guarded curiosity as Donald squeezes the Morris into the hedge to make enough room for him to pass.
On the far edge of the village, they pull off the road next to a church whose grey-gold stonework glows faintly in the hazy sunlight filtering through a thickening layer of cloud. Donald turns off the ignition, brings the engine stuttering to a halt. The ensuing silence seems almost absolute, broken only by the faint pattering of the raindrops that are now beginning to fall on the windscreen. The churchyard in front of them is neglected and overgrown, gravestones tilting here and there through the weeds. Beyond the church, a tall grass-covered hill rises steeply to a flat summit.
There is a tight knot of anxiety in Julia’s stomach. By now, for sure, Hugh will have arrived at the Smoking Dog. She imagines him opening the door of the pub, breathless, expectant, to find only her terse note left with the barman.
‘We can walk up past the churchyard,’ Donald says, ‘but first I need to explain why we’re here.’ He reaches for his pencil and a scrap of paper, begins to outline a large irregular shape. ‘This is Britain, circa 500 AD .’ He adds three large arrows, from the west, north, and east. ‘For the past century, since the Roman withdrawal, the island has been under siege from at least three different directions. Here,’ he says, stabbing at the first arrow, ‘Irish pirates have been raiding the western shores. Here, Picts from Scotland are harassing the North Britons. And here, the Saxons and other Germanic tribes are landing in increasing numbers on the eastern and southern shores. According to popular tradition, this is when Arthur emerged as the hero who roused the British defence.’
The rain has progressed to a fine drizzle, making small rivulets on the glass that soon join up to form an intricate watery landscape. There are pictures in it, too, plump grey sheep on a distant hillside, the rugged contours of a steep-sided valley. Julia thinks of home, the upper slopes of Moel Hywel above Dyffryn Farm.
‘When I was growing up near Rhayader,’ she says, ‘my father used to tell me stories about the great warriors of the past, Arthur and Llywelyn and Owain Glyn D ŵ r. He said they started out as pure Welsh heroes, to be spoken of in the same breath, but Arthur’s story was stolen and
They have c0me to a small crossroads, signs to Hullavington and Norton to the left, Tetbury and Easton Grey to the right. Donald reaches down next to his seat, pulls out a well-worn Ordnance Survey map. ‘We should probably make sure we know where we’re going.’
‘Show me,’ Julia says.
He finds a stub of pencil under the dashboard, traces out the route. They are to head south-west along the line of the Fosse Way—the old Roman road from Lincoln to Exeter—then cut off just past the Somerset border and follow the back-roads from there to their destination, a small steep-sided hill on the far side of the village of Northend.
Julia takes the map out of his hand, deftly refolds it and flattens it out on her lap. ‘I think there’s a shorter way,’ she says. ‘I suggest you turn left at the next crossroads we come to.’
Soon they are making steady progress along the western fringe of Wiltshire, following the rectilinear fragments of modern road that preserve, in spirit at least, the original line of the Fosse Way. Just beyond tse.ust beyhe Three Shire Stones, where thick slabs of rock mark the meeting point of three ancient counties, they turn on to a narrow lane, almost a tunnel beneath tall hedges on either side. Walls made of local limestone are buried deep within the foliage, slowly crumbling into pale shards that have mixed with the thick mud thrown up into a ridge along the centre of the lane. As they drop down into Northend, they meet a tractor lumbering up the hill towards them, its driver eyeing them with guarded curiosity as Donald squeezes the Morris into the hedge to make enough room for him to pass.
On the far edge of the village, they pull off the road next to a church whose grey-gold stonework glows faintly in the hazy sunlight filtering through a thickening layer of cloud. Donald turns off the ignition, brings the engine stuttering to a halt. The ensuing silence seems almost absolute, broken only by the faint pattering of the raindrops that are now beginning to fall on the windscreen. The churchyard in front of them is neglected and overgrown, gravestones tilting here and there through the weeds. Beyond the church, a tall grass-covered hill rises steeply to a flat summit.
There is a tight knot of anxiety in Julia’s stomach. By now, for sure, Hugh will have arrived at the Smoking Dog. She imagines him opening the door of the pub, breathless, expectant, to find only her terse note left with the barman.
‘We can walk up past the churchyard,’ Donald says, ‘but first I need to explain why we’re here.’ He reaches for his pencil and a scrap of paper, begins to outline a large irregular shape. ‘This is Britain, circa 500 AD .’ He adds three large arrows, from the west, north, and east. ‘For the past century, since the Roman withdrawal, the island has been under siege from at least three different directions. Here,’ he says, stabbing at the first arrow, ‘Irish pirates have been raiding the western shores. Here, Picts from Scotland are harassing the North Britons. And here, the Saxons and other Germanic tribes are landing in increasing numbers on the eastern and southern shores. According to popular tradition, this is when Arthur emerged as the hero who roused the British defence.’
The rain has progressed to a fine drizzle, making small rivulets on the glass that soon join up to form an intricate watery landscape. There are pictures in it, too, plump grey sheep on a distant hillside, the rugged contours of a steep-sided valley. Julia thinks of home, the upper slopes of Moel Hywel above Dyffryn Farm.
‘When I was growing up near Rhayader,’ she says, ‘my father used to tell me stories about the great warriors of the past, Arthur and Llywelyn and Owain Glyn D ŵ r. He said they started out as pure Welsh heroes, to be spoken of in the same breath, but Arthur’s story was stolen and
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