Talking of Time

Unsurprisingly,* I’ve been thinking a lot recently about Life and Death.

Yesterday, as I sat on the hill, trying to work out what Life and Death were and how to explain the connection between them, I suddenly had the idea that this life – the one made up of physical matter and Time – is like travel, whereas Eternity is our home.

As I’ve said before, I do believe from both direct experience and because it makes so much sense, that we live more than one life. Through our lives we learn and develop our spirit. In between lives we return to where we came from – Eternity. Life therefore is a sort of gap year and Death is simply the journey home.

I liked that.

And talking of Time, on Sunday I went for a walk with my friend C, her dog Darcy (aka Bert) and my dog Ellie. We climbed a path new to me, called Armour Lane because of its connections with the Civil War.

Armour Lane, with C, Darcy/Bert (the small black dog in the distance) and Ellie (the fluffy black-and-white dog

(The distortion on the left of the picture is I think caused by me putting my finger over part of the lens by mistake. Oh dear.)

On the way up we passed Armour Wood, also named after its connection with the Civil War.

Armour Wood

Unfortunately the wood is privately owned and not open to the public so this is all we saw of it

Near the top we paused to look at Parliament Cottage, so named because the Parliamentarians used it as a base - but for how long or how many times, C didn't know.

Parliament Cottage

At the top, there were views all the way to the coast.

The views from the top of Armour Lane

C showed me this sign designating the track a County Road (And, yes, my picture is the right way up. The sign is pointing back down the path.)

County Road sign

What a County Road is, I have yet to find out (Google not being any help) but C says Armour Lane was once a major route, and W G Hoskins (in his classic book The Making of the English Landscape) says that many long-distance paths date back to prehistoric times.

Nor did Google help me with any of my other questions about the area and its past.

It always amazes – and pleases me – that there is still so much to discover about our history and countryside.

*given that Frog, my husband of 44 years, died suddenly of a heart attack last year, aged only 69

Scots pines and leys

Scots pine and Dog (if you can see her), a couple of days ago

The Scots pine is not native to England and some say that the trees that exist are descended from trees planted by prehistoric people. They did this to mark leys, so the story goes. Leys are straight lines that appear to run between prehistoric structures, like standing stones, as well as natural features like ponds and the tops of hills. There are many theories as to what leys are. Some say they helped prehistoric people find their way around; others that they mark ‘energy’ currents.

Several times a week I walk past the wind-blasted Scots pine in the picture above. It nods to another one on top of a nearby hill and I always take time to stand in line with the two trees. There, I imagine the earth’s energy flowing through me and pray for whatever it is I need that day, such as strength, courage, wisdom or trust. I do feel better afterwards. In any case the wind through its needles is beautiful and sounds like the sea.

Friends’ sixteenth/seventeenth-century house stands on the same line, and it has been suggested that older buildings, especially sacred ones like churches, were sometimes built on prehistoric sites. Perhaps my friends live on a ley. Aren't they lucky.

Here is a view of the tree from the ley. I love the shape of its branches. It’s like a heart or a yoga ‘mudra’ (thumb and finger together). 

The Scots pine in March

My friends' house is behind me, hidden in trees, and the tree's twin is in the distance, blocked from view by the tree itself. It always takes me a while to get into the right position, but I think I usually know when I do. Something clicks.

A day of magic

A few miles away from us on top of a hill is something marked on the map as ‘fort’. I was vaguely aware that it was something prehistoric but in all my forty years of living in this part of the world had never visited it. Frog hadn’t either and he loves things prehistoric. So yesterday, in line with our new policy of avoiding all beauty spots (and as per local Lockdown guidelines) and instead exploring Devon's unknown hinterland, we set off to climb it.

It was a short drive cross-country on icy back roads, so we took it carefully, only for me to nearly lose my footing on sheet ice as I climbed out of the car.

 

 
Frog then spent a long time deciding where best to park so as to keep out of the way, eventually backing uphill on to a grassy verge opposite the church. 

He had to crawl into the passenger seat to get out of car, which he did head first, falling into the frosty grass, while the dog watched, puzzled. Parking is always a problem when you venture where others don’t.

There were only a few scattered houses – no village - but the church was huge.

 

We made our way down the lane to the start of the footpath, me hanging on to the dog lead and trying not to slip as Ellie surged forward, panting with excitement. It’s always surprising how strong she is.
 
Most of the path was uphill through trees where the mud was frozen into ruts and snow lingered. It was the first snow we’d seen as ours at home hadn’t settled. I began to feel excited. I love snow (unlike Frog).

I’d done some research and discovered that ‘hill forts’ are Iron Age villages protected by ditches and banks, but I didn’t hold out much hope for this one as any I’d seen before were hidden in undergrowth and more imaginary than real.
 
We came out into the open. The sun blazed down, and ahead of us was the unmistakable outline of something.

As we came nearer, we could see massive banks and massive ditches.

 

We went through a massive opening . . .

 
. . . into an enormous arena whose ramparts were almost completely intact, stretching all the way round in a circle.

It was extraordinary, perfect. Like Avebury without the stones. I was gobsmacked. How come I never knew?
 
The dog was, if anything, even more intoxicated by the place and the snow than I was. She threw herself on to her back and wriggled in ecstasy, pedalling her legs like an upturned beetle.

She then sicked up her breakfast next to the sign board. Oh dear.

The views were 360 degree, with a snowy Dartmoor to the south-west and a snowy Exmoor to the north. It was stunning. There was no one there but us.

 
I followed Ellie to have a look at a snowperson someone had built, only to realise afterwards, when I downloaded the photo, that my shadow – and the snowperson - and the fort’s northern gateway - were in a line and that I’d probably taken the picture at about midday. Spooky. And I normally try not to have shadows in photos so how this one got there, I don't know. 

It made me wonder whether, like Avebury, the site dated back to the Stone Age when people erected stones in circles - and rows and singly - related to the movements of the sun and/or for spiritual purposes (or at least that's what we think they're for. We can never know for sure. I find that tantalising). That would make the site thousands of years older than the 500 BC to which the Iron Age village was said to date. It certainly felt like it. 

 
Frog needed his lunch, so we propped ourselves on a section of bank, Frog at the top in the wind and Ellie and me hunkered further down in shelter.

 

I think that’s a fox earth next to us. I hope we didn’t disturb the occupant.

Incidentally, there should be a line of snowy hills on the horizon in most of these pictures, but it hasn't come out. Pity.
 
A family appeared in the circle and Ellie raced off to say hello to the child who squealed in terror. She wouldn’t come back when we called and we felt very bad although the child’s mother and grandmother told us not to worry.
 
We retreated to the snowy north ditch with the miscreant.

There was no round walk so we had to retrace our footsteps. Back at the car, while Frog changed his walking boots for shoes he could drive in, Ellie and I toured the graveyard with its snowdrops.

Many of the stones bore the name of the family who owned the nearby historic house – somewhere else I’d never visited. Another day perhaps (not that I’m that keen on historic houses) as Frog wanted to go home. He’d had enough trauma for one day, what with the ice and the snow, the worry about where to leave the car, a new walk where we might have got lost, and the dog. He’d shouldered it all, while I’d had a day of magic. Thank you Frog.