Pewsey, United Kingdom

The church bells were pealing for Remembrance Sunday as I left the outskirts of Pewsey. It would’ve been nice to have stayed for the service, but I had to make some headway towards my destination of Stonehenge.

No sooner had I left, it started to rain - not heavily, but an incessant, cold, misty rain that got on your nerves as well as down your neck. I escaped with a light soaking and it had cleared by the time I reached the village of Upavon, which was as pleasant as it sounds. I retired to the village pub, pleasingly called not The Red Lion but rather  The Antelope. Unfortunately, inside it smelt not unlike I imagine an antelope to smell like - perhaps one that was incontinent as well. And dead. I did nothing to improve the dreadful smell but instead dripped gently around the bar stool nursing aching muscles and a pint of local bitter.

Refreshed, I followed the River Avon southwards on small roads that curled through countless villages. At a place called Netheravon I took a minor diversion to check out a “tourist attraction” highlighted on the map, which was, er, a dovecote. I’m sure it had some special significance, but as it appeared to be part of somebody’s private estate I was reluctant to investigate lest they set the dogs on me.

To get back on track I tried a nifty shortcut by the church next door, in front of which a handyman was pottering about. Seeing me looking slightly perplexed, he came over to chat. He was eager to pass on the latest village gossip: the church had had a whole strip of leading stolen from one side of its roof last night.

“You would’ve thought He would’ve seen that one coming,” I said brightly, but the man paid no attention, going on to describe how the people in the Remembrance Service had got leaked on this morning - the same rain that had caught me just outside of Pewsey.

Indicating that I was heading towards Stonehenge (but leaving out the whole “I just left my house, turned left and started walking” bit, as no-one gets it in the slightest), he suggested taking an old sheep drove that headed right over Salisbury Plain to Larkhill. I considered it, but as time was marching on I decided to stick to the road - not so much what I knew, but certainly what my SatNav knew.

The first indication that I was crossing Salisbury Plain was  this sign, one rarely seen outside of Moss Side. The British army play their wargames down here, but the only evidence I saw of the professional killers was a fleeting glimpse of a convoy of army lorries crossing the road ahead.

I was tiring once again - six hours of walking a day tends to get to you - plus I had managed to cultivate a blister on my little toe the size of, well, my little toe, which had reduced me to a hobble. I hadn’t even decided on a firm destination yet, so there and then I picked Amesbury, as it seemed the largest place close by to Stonehenge.

There were several budget places I could have put myself up at, but with little difference in costs between them I plumped for the cosiest: The George Inn, a former Pilgrim Hostel founded in 960 AD or thereabouts and rebuilt in the 16th century as a coaching inn. Apparently many of the timbers still holding up the roof of the bar came from galleon ships of that time. The place had no less than three ghosts and had seen a fair few famous guests through its doors. The present owners had thoughtfuly - if not tastefully - named sections of the menu after them, including King George V [World War I monarch] Jacket Potatoes, General Fairfax [Civil War Parliamentarian] Roasts, and Ralph Waldo Emerson [no, not of Emerson, Lake and Palmer, but rather an American literary genius. Apparently] Steaks.

My eyes gleamed as I saw there was a space on the menu. The “Steve James Lasagne and Chips” had a certain ring to it, and I decided to bring it up with the owner in the morning.

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