Lacock, United Kingdom

A huge full English breakfast set me up for the day as I trudged out of Lacock, admiring its pleasantly wonky buildings in the daylight. The landlady had told me that several locations in the village were used in the Harry Potter films, and that they had been filming down here just the other week for the new film, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

I passed Lacock’s famous Abbey, a truly unique building that dates back to the 13th century, en-route to my second World Heritage site in three days, the tiny Wiltshire village of Avebury.

I had hoped my first waypoint of Bowden Hill was a quirkily-named place that had nothing to do with steep gradients, but sadly it wasn’t so. It was a long slog up to the top, but the view over the surrounding countryside - and of the Abbey now far below - was just reward for the exertion.

At Sandy Lane I turned north for Calne. For somewhere fairly large and local, I knew precious little about the place. Although I soon realised why: it didn’t have a single redeeming feature. It was like a really crap version of Bath, with lots of homogeneously-coloured faux-Bath stone housing, the majority of which was sadly too new and identikit. If you happened to be after a night of debauchery, Calne would not be on your list, consisting as it did primarily of traffic-calming measures, warnings to clear up your dog’s output and alcohol-free zones. The first two pubs I approached - bear in mind this was lunchtime on a Friday - were shut. I rest my case.

Luckily, in the centre I chanced upon a gem called The Kings Arms that offered good food and free wifi to boot. As I’d been walking all morning, I decided to push the cider boat out and try a pint of Applestone’s.

“It’s about halfway down the barrel,” the barman offered up.
“I see,” I answered in what I hoped was a knowledgable tone. I even stroked my beard for effect.
“It’s usually 4.8% but as the barrel goes down it goes up to 5.6%,” he added, correctly identifying that I didn’t have the foggiest what he was on about. “When it starts to look like orange squash, it’s time to worry.”
I nodded and carried my pint of Kia-Ora to a table, to be shortly accompanied by a fabulous home-made burger.

I pushed on along the mostly paved A4 through Cherhill and ever closer to the impressive  White Horse I had seen before I’d even reached the nadir of Calne, but felt a bit cheated to learn it was not ancient, but rather only 200 years old, as was the memorial obelisk next to it. The imperceptible Iron Age fort that both were situated on, however, was around 2000 years old. One thing that amazes me about England is that we are absolutely falling over history in our little crowded isle (compared with the Colonies, at least) but nevertheless - or perhaps because of this - we take it completely for granted:

“Want to stop at the Iron Age fort, dear?”
“No, I’d rather get home to Calne for Songs of Praise and an early night.”

I was flagging badly as I reached Avebury. The journey had entailed an extended stumble along an overgrown path alongside the A4 with traffic streaming past at lightspeed or thereabouts, and so I dived in the nearest Bed & Breakfast I saw, hoping that the price would be right this late in the season. It was indeed, so I repeated the routine I had got into, crashing for a couple of hours and then rising in search for some grub.

On checking in, the landlady had kindly informed me that there was a pub down in the village. What she had failed to mention was that I should also bring a portable streetlight with me, since the road was pitch black with only a thin verge to walk on, or so I saw from a car’s headlights as one came screaming past. I was stranded.

My guardian angel came to the rescue. My now recharged and fully functional TomTom SatNav indicated there was a nearby side street that led in the direction of Avebury village. Whilst the route didn’t go all the way there, from the layout of the roads I figured there would be a path or field I could traverse to send me pubwards. So I set off, using passing headlamps to guide the way.

Away from the road the light dimished and soon it was pitch black. I used my mobile phone to give me a metre radius warning of kerbs, roadkill and axe murderers, as clearly they didn’t believe in streetlights around here. The irrational part of my mind took over as I passed what seemed to be an electricity substation which made a noise as if someone were inside… knocking…

I reached the gap on the map, which was a cyclepath, and emerged in the High Street at Avebury church, following the dim streetlights that indicated a cosy pub ahead, called, er, The Red Lion, of course (seemingly like every other pub in Wiltshire).

The chatty barman supplied me with Old Speckled Hen and bangers & mash and I studied the menu a second time. In small print at the top, it modestly reported that it was “the only pub in the world to be situated inside an ancient stone circle”, and went on to describe it was one of the top ten most haunted locations in the world, thanks mainly to a murder and disposal of the body in a well which happened to be in one of the rooms. This place had everything - except, er, patrons.

The time came for me to repeat my ghostwalk, past the eternally-standing, silent stones, past the church complete with hooting owls for effect, and past the ghostly knocking generator - at somewhat of a trot, I must admit.

Pfff! Irrational fears, I thought to myself as I reached the sanctity of my B&B room, and bolted the doors and windows. Twice.

Email this to a friend