This time of year, my wife and I like to take a trip to the Oxfordshire countryside to walk along the ancient trackway that is the Ridgeway. This ancient path, Britain's oldest road, stretches from Avebury in the Southwest all the way up Ivinghoe Beacon in Buckinghamshire.
The section we like to visit passes Wayland's Smithy, an ancient long barrow tomb, and heads Northeast towards the Uffington White Horse and "castle", an iron-age hillfort overlooking the Oxfordshire countryside and the Thames Valley to the North.
We begin our walk at the car park where the Ridgeway crosses Ashbury Hill in bright sunshine on a warm afternoon in late October. The clocks have just changed, and we know that we now only have a few hours before night draws in, so we set off at a brisk pace.
As well as taking the opportunity to stretch our legs, and to be present in the sacred landscape, we are on the lookout for some of nature's bounty.
Today, we are specifically looking for rose hips, as well as crab apples and sloes. From previous years, we know that these are all found on the stretch along which we will walk.
As ever with foraging, we know only to take what nature can spare. We'll make sure we don't strip any trees or bushes of their bounty, and we are mindful to leave food for the birds and beasts for the coming winter.
Setting off along the first stretch of the Ridgeway, between the car park and Wayland's Smithy, a distance of a little under a mile, we keep an eye out for anything worth taking. Whilst there are some sloes here, there are few fruit, and those that are left are high up. We leave these behind; these trees have obviously already been foraged.
This section of the ridgeway is quite narrow and overshadowed by trees and bushes on both sides. In some parts, there are small copses of beech trees to the side of the path.
There are numerous berries which we do not pick; the bright red orbs of wild clematis, and the shiny black berries of alder buckthorn, which whilst attractive are poisonous to humans.
We see too, the pinkish red berries of the spindleberry tree, which are also toxic.
As we move along the Ridgeway, we find several wild rose bushes heavily laden with rosehips. We are planning on using these to make rosehip wine (more on that in a later post), and as we approach Wayland's Smithy, we gather handfuls into a bag.
We arrive at the path that leads to one side of the Ridgeway, from here appearing to lead to nothing more than a stand of beech trees. We know better, though, and head through to the treasure that lies beyond.
As we peer through the trees, the Smithy is revealed, an ancient long barrow burial mound dating back to 3,500 BC. We each place a coin into the holes in the weathered stones. The folk tradition holds that this would be done as an offering for the spirit of Wayland to shoe your horse.
One stone is more weathered than the others, and whether it be from nature, or from the actions of human hands over the centuries, the holes that are here form the perfect receptacle for small offerings.
They also appear to be the homes of overwintering native 2-spot and 7-spot ladybirds.
We move on to pay our respects to the burial chambers within, and then move on to walk around the monument.
The mound slopes slowly towards the ground at the far end, as if to cover the roof of a subterranean passage leading deep into the bowels of the underworld.
The burial chambers are only towards the front of the mound, excavations over the years have shown nothing beneath the turf beyond.
We reach the far end of the mound, which is marked by a much smaller stone. Again, we see a ladybird seeking a refuge in which to hibernate.
There is a small group of other visitors walking towards us along the other side of the monument, so we turn around and head back to the Ridgeway, knowing we will pass again on our return journey later in the day.
We walk now towards a more open landscape, with fields, and the occasional tree lining the path. The shadows are already growing longer as the day draws on.
Along the way, we find yet more heavily laden wild roses, and stop to gather the plentiful rose hips.
In the fields to either side of the track, we hear and see the squabbling of pheasants, and as dusk draws nearer, we hear too the shriek of a barn owl.
After another mile or so, as we approach the point where the path starts to rise towards Whitehorse Hill, we decide to turn around while there is still light. We reach the crab apple tree we'd been looking out for, but had managed to walk right past on the way up the track, and stop to pick up the fallen fruit from the ground. I plan to combine these with sloes to make a tart but powerfully fruity jelly that can be used in cooking, or simply spread onto hot buttered toast.
We are also at the section of the path where the blackthorn trees upon which the sloes grow are plentiful. The lower fruit have already been taken, no doubt by earlier foragers. There are still fruits left in the higher branches, which we could pick with the aid of the hooked walking stick we have brought with us, but the night is now drawing in, and we decide to leave these for another forager, be they man or bird. There are other places, and other days, where we can forage for these.
The sun has now dipped below the horizon, rewarding us with the beginnings of a fiery sky. In the distance, we hear the cries of tawny owls, and a barn owl silently swoops down into the trees that line the path.
We push on, to head back down to Wayland's Smithy before the dwindling light leaves us, as the robins now take up their dusk chorus. The path takes on a magical feeling, as our other senses compensate for the impending gloaming.
As we reach the Smithy for a second time, its character has now changed. In the semi-darkness, there is a more edgy feeling, but it is also now more peaceful; we are now completely alone, compared to the steady trickle of visitors the monument garnered earlier in the day.
There is just enough light left in the sky to see our way into the tomb, and we leave some offerings from our forage; a crab apple and a pair of rose hips, placed at the far end of the tomb, amongst the ashes of burned-out incense, where an earlier visitor has left an egg, perhaps as an offering for Samhain, which is in just a few days' time.
As we head back towards the car, the path is now dark, and the cries of owls are more numerous. Perhaps if we were here earlier in the year, we would see bats swooping over the path, but the nights are now too cold to see their antics.
As we end our walk, we load our haul into the back of the car and head off, from a landscape that has remained largely unchanged for thousands of years, back to modernity. Our time in this special place always feels too brief, but it leaves us refreshed and with a feeling that we have spent some time connecting with a storied land stretching back over five and a half thousand years.
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