Swallets & Redshanks

Feel sleepy - must be the Redshanks – the local fairies. I scoff the somewhat stodgy pasty bought at Hansford’s in Penscot, then fall asleep in the sun amidst the small scabious, early purple orchid and eyebright flowers. Acid-loving bell heather, too, surviving, I am informed, on ‘small patches of acidic sand blown onto the site during the ice age’. I dream about things to be done, and heavinesses lying upon the sea, and wake up suddenly to write: “The greatest dance is danced alone, and for no honour or glory. Only the wide sky and the far-off chocolate of the Bristol Channel.” Below me the trees wave their green signature in the clouds’ passing. Do they come and go, or is ‘coming’ and ‘going’ only human representation of no coming and going? It is the voice of the Poet that is to speak with slow power at the unravelling of Time. Jerk properly awake, roll over, try to take some self-portraits which turn out to be mostly of grass and flowers as the camera keeps falling over, then hit the top of the ridge and proceed jauntily Eastwards Ho.

The track wanders along on high between wide-grassed variances of impromptu Nature interset with mole hills – or could be emmity butts (= anthills!) – or consequences of thawing and freezing? Unlikely. Hiding places for Mendip Trolls, their craggy heads sticking out of the cropped sward with bad shaggy haircut grass? Hmmm… mini-tumps, anyway, some topped with a heather bush. Views over thorn trees to far off chocolate waters.

The path wavers in and out of the trees, then descends slowly to open scrub, grass, bracken, crosses the N-S track nudged between Dolebury Warren and Hill Farm, clambers over a style – or could be a kissing gate - and gallops into sink-hole country; what do they call them? Swallets. A [Swal´let] is: ‘n.1.Water breaking in upon the miners at their work; - so called among tin miners’, according to my online dictionary. It does sound very much like ‘swallow’, doth it not, as in ‘the very earth swallowed him up and spat him out’. There’s a lot of mileage in ‘swallet’. The tracks proliferate at this point, a sort of system of hills clashing leading to rumpled land. The spelunkers’ spiders’ web trails lead off every which way. Bos Swallet, Sidcot Swallet, Rod’s Pot (Google comes up with Rod's Pot), Goatchurch Cave, Whitcombes Hole, East Twin Swallet.

Of Goatchurch Cave, or Cavern, Wikopedia says: “Goatchurch Cavern (grid reference ST47585823) is a cave on the edge of Burrington Combe in the limestone of the Mendip Hills, in Somerset, England. The cave is historically understood to be approximately 750m long, although 1500m of surveyed passage has been measured (UBSS, unpublished survey, pending: 2007) and reaches a surveyed depth of 61.5m. It has a complex network of predominately dry passages and has two entrances. It is though that it was explored by lead miners in the 19th century. Around 1901 the owner unsuccessfully tried to turn it into a show cave. The cave is especially popular for training people who are new to caving. This is due to its easy access and wide range of terrain that does not necessitate the use of special equipment such as ropes or ladders. The two entrances to the cave add interest as cavers can do a round trip. Many of the surfaces within are polished, as a result of numbers visiting over many decades and are slippery. Notes of exploration in the 1920s record finds from the Pleistocene period including bones of mammoth, bear, hyaena and cave lion. During November 2003 inscribed marks were noticed in Goatchurch Cavern while cleaning away graffiti. Three finely cut marks were uncovered, resembling the letter W with a patina darker than in nearby graffiti dated 1704. These have been identified as ritual protection marks, possibly dating from the period 1550 to 1750. The term ritual protection mark was preferred to the description "witch marks". I used to go caving around here with a friend called ‘Tink’ Taylor in the ‘70s when I was a student at the then Bristol Polytechnic (acetylene lamps and all), but got put off by a rather bad experience at Seale Hayne Agricultural College and have never caved since.

The area is dimpled with inverted cones hiding mysterious holes. I find Bos Swallet, or could be Rod’s Pot. Maybe it is here that life comes writhing out of the folded haze of cthonic earth. Continuing along the obvious way I come across a parked car. The track is turning into a navigable way – must be wrong. I check the map. I seem to have imperceptibly bent northwards, following the contours around the walled off wood to my left, and be heading for the Rock of Ages. I reverse my steps, take the next available hikers’ motorway heading, as far as I can see, straight up Black Down, hang another left at the cross track and am on the Limestone Link. Bit of a plod, now – not the route, skirting Burrington Combe to the left – but the fact that it’s getting late. The path hits three more coming off or round Beacon Batch, curves to the North, down to the B3134, I plod up the road, into Ellick Road, miss the B&B, plod back up Ellick Road.