Experimental Travel on my Doorstep or I'ts All A Bit Wierd In Wiltshire

It is often quoted that adventures can be found in your own back yard if you look hard enough. But what does this really mean?

Currently residing in a picture perfect part of the English countryside, I often long for the wild and rugged fells of the Lake District, the majestic mountains of the Scottish Highlands and the soaring cliffs and secluded sandy coves of Devon. All places I have been fortunate to live in at some point of my life, and all places where the breath taking natural beauty and sense of untold mystery and tales of old, inspire a need to seek out adventure and discover what lies beyond the horizon. So, with the itchy feet of a global explorer but the financial and horological limitations of a civil servant, I was going to have seek my Everest closer to home.

A few years back, I purchased a book titled 'the Lonely Planet Guide to Experimental Travel', and although it's pages were occasionally ruffled as I flicked absentmindedly through it, it has languished on bookcases of various homes every since without serious thought. Yet every so often, one of the travel methods described would float up from the sediment of memories.

Just go for a walk and see what you can find!

Since my relocation to middle England, I have become intrigued by some of the legends and folklore abound in this history rich part of the country. With ancient standing stone circles encompassing an entire village, mysterious man made hills, burial chambers and white horses aplenty, one local legend has captivated me. The 14th century exploits of Wild Will Darrell of Littlecote Manor. Adulterer, murderer, debtor and all round bad boy of Tudor England, whose ghost is said to still haunt a selection of locales to this day. Vilified by both family and neighbours, and documented through history as a scoundrel of the worst kind, the more I found out about him, the more I questioned this less than advantageous description of a wealthy land owner from almost 500 years past.

Littlecote Manor, situated between the towns of Hungerford and Marlborough, is now a hotel and leisure resort also out of my price range, but with two public bridal ways running through it's expansive grounds, it was time for a mini adventure to 'go have a look see' at what foreboding a place such a monster could have called home.

So on an overcast late spring morning, with the threat of rain heavy in the air, I set off to the small village of Ramsbury, from which, according to the map I found on the internet, I could walk to Littlecote. Not having access to a working printer, I was unable to take a copy of the map with me, which meant relying on my poor memory skills and a reasonably good natural sense of direction. Both of which strongly added to the sense of adventure of exploration, like a modern day, and land bound Captain Cook.

According to local legend, should you count all 100 of the studs in the North wall door at midnight in Ramsbury church, the spectre of Wild Will Darrell himself will come out to greet you. So this seemed like as good a place as any to start my mini expedition. Maybe because it wasn't midnight, but mid  morning, or because I counted 102 studs, no bodyless soul popped out to say hello on this occasion.

A small village with high aspirations, someone had the foresight to place an interpretation panel outside the local inn to guide other mapless explorers and tourists alike to the hidden wonders of their neighbourhood. So thankfully, I was at least able to head off in the right direction for the bridleway to Littlcote Manor, although this was the first and only time I was sure of my destination.

Crossing a duo of chalk streams, I came across a fork in my path. One, a flat ribbon of black tarmac, following the course of the meandering Kennet, the other, an uneven dirt track rising gently to woodland cresting the summit of a hill. So, being without chart, this second route I followed, despite instinct telling me to follow the river, as it was along this way that a battered metal sign depicting three trotting horses pointed.

A hundred meters later I made my first discovery whilst pausing to read a rain drenched sign tacked onto the post of a now defunct gate.  A discarded pirate beanie, emblazoned with skull and crossbones. Nearby, a glimmer of something bleached white turned out to be the skull of a rabbit nestling in the hedgerow. Strange coincidence!

 

 

Further up the hill, and another split in the path, my route forward was uncertain. From memory, the track to the left should be the one to follow, yet large 'Warning Private' signs deterred my from this course. To the right, leaving the shelter of the trees, the full force of the drifting rain hit me. Momentarily uncertain to proceed or retrace my steps, I turned about heel and noticed something entangled in the branches of a nearby tree.

 

 

 

 

This was getting weird!

 

And just a little bit exciting.

 

 

On the right hand track I descended, passing only an occasional dog walker. Each junction marked not by the standard cheery yellow arrows so beloved by county councils, but a fine selection of Private and Do Not Enter signs.  On the lands of an estate impregnated with so much mystery, was somebody trying to hide something still?

 

A patch of colour on an otherwise drab day sprouted in the undergrowth. Somebody had been a bit trigger happy.

 

 

The track now led through the bottom of the valley, bordered by towering Beech trees. Possibly an old entrance to the Manor itself. With no map to consult, I could do nothing but follow and hope.

 



 

 

Onwards I continued until cresting a small rise, I saw, away to my left,  a red brick Tudor manor house nestling on the banks of the Kennet. But alas, the path continued straight until it joined the main road, where ball topped gate posts announced a welcome to Littlecote House, a member of the Warner Leisure Group.

 

From members of the Kings court, it now courted members of the more affluent sections of society, so maybe little had changed over the past half millennia. Although I doubt Henry VIII would have wooed Jane Seymour by a plastic cow. Although he could still partake in the regal sport of archery.

 

 



At last, a close up view of the house I had come to see. Behind its wrought iron gates and manicured lawns, sat an impressive yet unimposing abode, exuding a sense of warmth and friendliness. Surely no evil monster could ever have lurked behind these doors?

 

 

Little could be found in terms of history of the house but a Llama lurked under a tree nearby tree.

 

 

 

Whilst a signpost pointed the way to the remains of a Roman villa and the Orpheus mosaic. Which on closer inspection appeared to depict images of a creature of the night more traditionally associated with Eastern Europe and Hollywood.

 

 

 

 

 

What did our forefathers know and who was the house in the tree home to?

 

 

Answers I didn't really wish to dwell on, so locating the path back to Ramsbury (which it turned out was the flat, tarmac track that looked so inviting earlier on), I hastily headed home.

I have a strong feeling that Littlecote was not home to a murderous monster called Wild William Darrell. Too much doesn't add up and I think it's more likely that he was tricked, exploited and outmanoeuvred by more powerful neighbours.

But as for that mosaic?

There's something a bit weird about that bit of Wiltshire.