Post 338: Driver to Navigator, are Yew there?
A short way to the south of us is a collection of buildings halfway up the hill. One’s a church, and there’s a white-painted tower on the back of another unknown building. I’d like to see what’s there, and we might have done already but for the search for loo rolls on Sunday afternoon. We were heading towards that hill but veered off in search of some Andrex.
So I woke with a mission. At least one that is. And stealthily snuck out the cottage door while the morning sunlight streamed into number 2’s south facing doorway.
I quietly locked the thin wooden front door and walked around the back to where the car was parked — and where the first challenge was going to be the navigator.
It was the thing that nearly led to divorce the other day, and I’m not about to be beaten by a car.
So I jumped in Big Bro—well, I went bum first, slid around, forced my legs under the steering wheel, then reached over to try and grip the door handle to close the door. It’s not easy for me to “jump in” now, but I like to think that what I do.
This was now going to be my five minutes of tutorials to understand the navigator better.
I struggled the other day to input this parked position as the “home position” on the sat-nav.
I struggled again today, without any joy, and gave up.
I then put the village of Shillingstone into the Sat-nav to get along to the Co-op for tissues and loo rolls.
As I drove off — one of three ways to get there — all I wanted was to complete a journey so I could ease my Darling’s worries and to provide some valuable experience on these tidily lanes, bisected by smaller tracks and ancient signposts.
I took it easy in the busy Monday morning commute. The pigeons, post office vehicles and Bog Bro were the main users at this time of day, funnily enough.
The supermarket was easy to spot, and when I had shopped and bagged up, I got back in the car and tried again to establish a home point — and failed yet again.
I drove back somewhat disconsolately on what I thought were the same miles of hedges and piles of stones in the middle of the lanes, but no — these were new piles of stones in the middle of the roads. A different farm, a caravan encampment, the roughest road I’ve ever called a road. In fact, it was becoming a dreadful horror story, again.
The last thing I’m going to do, if I get back, is tell any of this to my Darling — she’ll never drive again.
Oh how I miss our busy roads around home, with their potholes and familiarity.
I finally got home and gave up with the car’s sat-nav. I’ll read the relevant parts of the manual later, if I can be bothered.
The car locked itself as I walked away from it, as if to say, “leave me alone.”
I get the feeling the car doesn’t like me.
I don’t care — I don’t like it. Ner ner di ner ner. (We need time apart to think things through.)
I saw my Darling waiting for me in the garden with a steaming hot cup of tea, as if I had returned from the war.
A warm hug too, was my prize.
Fantastic.
She said, “I’d been following you on my app on your way home and thought a cuppa might be nice.”
Damn right it was.
“Thanks, that’s so kind and just what I need — but let’s go inside, the breeze is cold here, and I need to recharge my mind and soul in the quiet of number 2.”
And so it was decided that we would don our boots and climb the hill to the south and see just what Woolland Church was all about, as well as Dame E. Frink’s studio — who was a notable artist who lived at Woolland House (a spiralling medieval mansion wrapped in a more modern building).
She died in 1993, but her studio still stands tall beside the church.
We set off with water bottles and pills, as per usual — which was overkill, even I knew that — but you never know when you’ll be back.
The route to the hill was straight, but as soon as the trees started to envelop us and darken the day temporarily while we gained a little height — which only that the birds and bees, and rare cyclists, followed up this steep hill.
But my legs could only take the hill in small amounts, slowly taking in the Woolland woodland and the energy of spring starting to tickle the ground gradually releasing its hidden treasures.
We arrived at a levelling of the road and the sight of the various buildings perched on the hill as we turned a sharp right bend. Relief was at hand.
There was a very old hall-type building with a bright white clock tower of a modern design, I’d say — but the time was wrong, and that’s always a disappointment.
The following building on the right-hand side — the side where the hill dropped away suddenly but serenely, with its magnificent trees in the distance, most of them imported gems — drew our attention.
As we looked out over the formal pond so far below us, one wondered who lived there now — and was he the guy on the sit-on mower droning away doing his thing? I doubt it.
We passed a few more steps after catching our breath, to the iron gates opening onto the small graveyard, prior to following the path to the iron gates in front of the main church door. But as I turned to view the vista to the left, I spied the most magnificent yew I’ve ever seen.
I stopped my Darling and said about it — there’s not many yews bigger than that yew… amazing.
I stood, and just stood some more. The power of an ancient life form is hard for me to just pass by. It was so massive, so impressive.
The church, I have to say, was lovely. It was open, and the stonework and tiled floor were beautiful. There was a narrow stone tunnel to the pulpit — so I’m guessing the hips of the incumbent vicar would need to be rather slimmer than plumper, for obvious reasons.
But even the stained glass windows would never beat the sight of that yew.
There was a framed certificate from a yew tree survey of some kind on the table of information by the door. It read that on this day, etc etc, these fellows had convened and estimated the age of this magnificent yew to be 2000 years old.
That settles it, that it one very important and beautiful life form.
We walked carefully back down the road to the cottage. We can’t quite see the church, nor the yew tree, but that tree has presided over two millennia of human intervention in the valley. What a rich source of history it has shared — and probably older than the person whom the church represents.
I guess everything is for a reason, and today, to see that venerable old tree was like visiting the Egyptian tombs — except for the fact that this is still a living life form that stands there without any razzmatazz as a local historical statesman.
Long may that tree stand there, inspiring those who notice it.
Good night.
