There was a fine adventure
during our first week in
England, but I’d like to tell you
about one in the second week
first. (Did that make sense?)
During the first week we
were visiting the Throwers,
down in Chichester near
Portsmouth.
At week’s end they kindly
drove us up to Buckinghamshire
and turned us over to
Paul and Beryl Witheridge,
genealogical buddies of Anne.
Like the Throwers, Paul and
Beryl showed us a great time:
she, a superb cook, laying out
splendid meals (including a
salmon en croute I’m going
to try reproducing very soon);
and he, an Oxford graduate,
touring us around the University
and the old city.
Because Paul knew that
Anne and I were both fans
of the TV series, ``Morse,’’ he
created a ``Morse’’ pilgrimage
for us, leading us around to
area pubs and seating us right
where Chief Inspector Morse
had sat, berating his patient
subordinate Lewis. And Paul
and Beryl also conspired to
remedy a problem from an
earlier visit by Anne and me,
maybe ten years ago.
Back then, I’d been riding
her through Salisbury Plain,
spouting pedantry about
historic spots we were passing.
Ground mist steadily
thickened into fog just as we
approached a major attraction:
the Great White Horse of
Uffington. I was excited about
artist Anne seeing this awesome
figure, carved through
the turf and into the limestone
face of a great hill over
three thousand years ago. The
figure is stylized and seems
timeless; it almost portends
those spare paper cutouts
made by Matisse during his
last years.
And here’s what astounds
me: The local folk have carefully
maintained the Great
Horse, even as religions and
attitudes changed around it,
for thirty centuries.
The country folk have
always regarded it as sacred,
and neither medieval church
nor the 17th-century Roundhead
iconoclasts dared to
move in and destroy it. Hurray,
I say, for a sense of the sacred!
The horse, all sharp angles
and vital energy, is a football
field in length from nose to
tail.
Seen from below against
the lush green of the mountainside,
it’s breathtaking.
That’s what I wanted my Anne
to see, even as the fog thickened.
We crept along the road
below it.
``There it is!’’ I shouted,
keeping eyes riveted on the
obscured road. ``The Great
White Horse, right up there on
the hillside!’’ Anne’s response
was laconic. ``What hillside?’’
she said. And what hillside
indeed? There was no hill to
be seen, much less a prehistoric
horse.
When I told the Witheridges
about that disappointment,
they privately decided to
remedy it.
Without Anne’s knowledge,
we four set out on a leisured
drive to the Great Horse, approaching
the site from the far
side of the rounded mount on
which it is carved. We parked
halfway up the steep slope
and then trekked on by foot.
I can’t tell you my personal
elation at find that, though at
some cost, I could still climb
a height as I had for so many
years of hiking in England.
And when we reached the
mount’s broad top, I felt, as
Brits say, ``over the moon!’’
For the windswept top was
several acres of stubby grass,
and grazing idly across it were
dozens of sheep. As I walked
through them, they gazed
up with eyes wondrously innocent
of intelligence or guile.
Of course I said ``Hello, sheep,’’
repeatedly and got a few baa’s
in response.
As I walked towards the
edge of the hilltop, still another
wonder opened before
me: the whole of Salisbury
Plain, or at least a 180-degree
panorama of part of it.
A thousand feet below us,
it spread out for hundreds
of square miles, blanketed
by farm fields. There were
crisscross roads, church spires,
and clustered village houses.
Rising smoke suggested cozy
hearthsides indoors.
What an experience! Even
if it should be my last time
on such a height, no matter;
it will live on within me. I’ll
imagine that climb and the
wind-blown hilltop, the grazing
sheep and, oh, most especially,
that breath-stopping
view of the dear old Earth, still
steadily turning.
My Anne, meanwhile, had
been walked to another spot
of the mound’s edge and
realized that she was standing
just above the head of
the Great White Horse. (Later
we walked down beside it,
steadily more amazed by its
size and artistry.) Anne was
delighted, as were our hosts.
Nearby stood a much younger
couple, she turning slowly,
eyes closed, arms extended.
When I glanced toward her
partner, he explained. An old
myth claims a wish made and
backed up by that ritual at the
Horse’s head would surely be
granted.
I considered and set aside
closing my eyes and spinning.
I’d have stumbled and
bounced, tail over teacup,
down a thousand feet to the
plain. But then I turned to see
my Anne, bless her, making
her own slow spin.
I didn’t ask what my love’s
wish was. Didn’t have to.
READ ABOUT Jim Atwell’s book, From
Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in
Leatherstocking Country, at JimAtwell.
com.
