The glow of the sun kissed my face, smoothing weary creases and tired eyes. I stretched my legs free, unfurled my arms and breathed in air unguarded. A salty, doughy morsel touched my lips, comforting and contented, filling a roiling void somewhere in my stomach. And then I took a sup on a coffee from Pret and came down to earth. With a bump.
Not for the first time today, meeting Great British tarmac at Heathrow Airport. A concrete scene which diminishes with miles, through the leafiness of Surrey, the crops and commuter towns of Hampshire, the river valleys and chalky plains of Wiltshire. The proportion of sunshine to concrete proves related, as cool, cloudy skies greet me in Salisbury, alongside Dad.
To leave Australia at this point in time seems fortuitous given the dreadful weather before I left. And here we have a UK bathing in the after effects of a jubilee, a promise of summer to clutch on to as you avert your eyes from the petrol pump. A summer of pretending a pandemic has gone, crowds feasting on fresh salads with iceberg cheap and plentiful. Not that I’ll be overdosing on salad.
Every return I make I am struck by the burgeoning salad of the English countryside, even though this time I left an oddly verdant Australia. Wiltshire presents the kind of gentle introduction I need, an ease in to a Britain that is still to be treasured for its tranquil waterways, butterflied meadows and rolling downs. A Britain of bunting and thatch and country piles interspersed with the odd pocket of chaviness. This Country indeed.
Ably guided by Dad it is splendid what you can simply embrace within a small radius of Durrington. The River Avon never seems far away and a small stretch is but a mere five minutes walk from home. The background buzz of mowers competes with the chirping of the bird life. Around each corner lies the possibility of catching a kingfisher in flight or an amorous couple in fright, each as frisky as the other. A melange of nettles, weeds and grasses rise to a height in which other things no doubt hide. But blessedly not so many snakes.
A greater danger around here seems to be the prospect of emerging from the long grass to face a head-on confrontation with a tank. The armed forces war-gaming upon Salisbury Plain makes walking a slightly more interesting proposition. For centuries these have been venues of military endeavour, evident in the many iron-age hill forts punctuating the landscape. Obvious staging posts with expansive views out to marauding invaders.
Today Sidbury Hill is a quieter affair, though two men in combats linger beside a Land Rover near the top. I can’t decide if they were discussing the strategic ramifications of ground assault in Donbas or eating lunch. Dad and I ate lunch, looking out for butterflies.
The plain isn’t all that plain, and an impromptu detour on the way down the hill takes us through a patch of woodland. Fresh off a plane I remind myself to look up into the canopy at the shapes of the leaves, broad and green, forming into layers which intertwine their way towards the sky. Leaving hobbit-like tunnels and corridors of natural art through which to stroll.
There is little strolling for the squaddies however. We encounter backpack-laden platoons traversing water and nettles and unbearable banter during another walk over the plain and down alongside the Avon. It is, almost, tolerable shorts weather but I’m glad I didn’t succumb given the undergrowth to navigate. Not quite squaddie style, but a little track-hunting through the long grass nonetheless.
Nature infiltrates everything here but so too is it tamed. That could be a slogan for Wiltshire, the taming often coming in the form of genteel cottages clustered together in the midst of industrious fields. It frequently makes you feel as though you are in Escape To The Country, only without the two million quid on which to prevaricate.
Our own escape in the country culminated with a flurry of thatch in the small hamlet of Ablington. Here it was as if everything had been deliberately arranged for my convenience. Under sunny skies dotted with cotton wool clouds, a row of whitewashed cottages sit higgledy-piggledy along the lane. Gardens and window boxes pop with colour, hedgerows hum with insects, and glimpses of perfectly manicured lawn conjure images of scones and jam on a latticework table. A Union Jack waves proud, and underneath a Mini in racing green. And everywhere, rambling, decadent, undeniable English salad.
It was a more placid day departing the north, incrementally brightening on my journey towards London and then onward to Salisbury; the very heart of a conceptual south. Perhaps near here, somewhere within the borderlands of Wiltshire sits that romanticised version of England; of thatched cottages and village greens; of tinkling brooks and sun-dappled woods; of church fetes and coffee and walnut cake. Perhaps, indeed.
Praise the Lord for a pint outside in the open air, soaking up the sweetly chirping birds and the smell of the country. And thank the almighty for a gentle downhill totter back to the car, parked beside the marquee on the green next to the church in the contented village of East Knoyle. Everywhere around here is easy to suspect as a secret filming location for Bake Off.
“When I were a wee lad you didn’t see us lot wasting our time with Instagrams of food and posing for selfies,” Dad clearly didn’t say as I took a photo of some coffee and cake and indulged in a selfie. Because this wasn’t Yorkshire and neither was it the 1940s anymore, though you suspect some in Shaftesbury would be pleased to turn back time. At least to the years before that bloody advert sent people flocking to a hill to take Instagrams and selfies.
Back in a more reassuring south, a morning in Salisbury offered increasing photographic opportunities, marvelling at the famous Cathedral with its famous 123-metre spire and its famous clock, a renown reaching as far and wide as Russia. The water meadows glowing under the sunlight, it was briefly warm enough to amble in a T-shirt, a clear signal that things were still on an upward trend. The birds continued to tweet and to chirp and to wade and to pose in such land of growing abundance.
Bluebells really were in profusion across England at this time, evident everywhere during this sojourn in the south and among the storm-laden lands of the north. Spreading across the country like the philosophy of Nigel Farage, only exponentially more unifying and much easier on the eye. They would have been a clear highlight, if it were not for that slab of coffee and walnut cake in Honey Street before catching my train west. A very perfect bookend to this haphazard instalment of North and South. And preparation for the tea and scones still to come.
Facing a long drive back from 
gbpilgrim 