puddleshark

'Holloway' comes from the Anglo-Saxon 'hol weg', and refers to a sunken path that has been grooved into the earth over the centuries by the passage of feet, wheels and weather...

'The Old Ways' Robert Macfarlane

Set off early from Symondsbury. Through the village with its pretty yellow stone cottages still quiet in the sunshine. Against the cottage walls, climbing roses in flower, cascades of white wisteria.

Onto the shady track to Quarry Cross.

A last glimpse of strange pointy Colmer's Hill, and of the world, before the path descends into darkness and the underworld.

Blackbirds fluttering up in the corner of your vision, like animated fragments of shadow.

At Quarry Cross, onto Hell Lane. The upper reaches of the track, a deep dark gorge in the sandstone, where wrens trill from hidden crannies behind the ivy.

In the underworld, the tree roots are above your head.

The lower reaches of Hell Lane are always an adventure. It is more of a stream than a track, even during the driest spring on record. It's not as overgrown as it used to be - in the past I've had to fight my way through curtains of brambles - but it's still a scramble in places, round quagmires and deep ruts. Four-wheel drives trashed the path so badly in places that it is no longer passable at all for motor vehicles.

At the bottom of the hill, Hell Lane gives up all pretense of being a path and becomes a proper stream.

But it's a very shallow stream. You can walk it dryshod if you have faith in the waterproofing of your boots.

Hell Lane emerges in the village of North Chideock, and from there it was north along along a quiet farm lane, between high hedges, the way pleasantly shaded here and there by old oaks.

Some of the older ash trees here seem to have some resistance to ash dieback, though the younger trees are dying.

At Venn Farm onto a bridleway lined with Red Campion:

Brooklime (Veronica beccabunga) growing along the centre of the track, a plant which normally grows alongside streams - a sure indication that this would be a very wet track indeed if we had not had such a dry spring. The fleshy leaves are edible, but very bitter.

The bridleway winds along the foot of the hills, through fields of buttercups.

Views of the Marshwood Vale, and the church tower of Whitchurch Canonicorum in the distance.

Then onto the lane which runs from Purcombe Farm to Denhay, past the very upmarket-looking Coppet Hill campsite. They seem to have a tea room in one of their barns, but alas, the campsite and the tea room were not yet open for the summer.

Purcombe Farm.

A quiet lane, leading only to farms, and a pretty lane, lined with Cow Parsley, but a very long lane on a warm May morning...

At Lower Denhay, onto the bridleway back southwards.

But after this, there was an interval of lostness. Not complete lostness. But the frustrating minor lostness of knowing roughly where you are, and which direction you need to head, but never managing to find the actual path.

I took the wrong path. Climbed a steep hill, and breathless, at the top, had to arm myself with a big stick and fend off a mob of merry May heifers. (It's not Dorset and it's not May, if you are not chased by cattle at some point.) Descended a steep hill. Wandered around some fields in the hot sunshine. Finally found my way back onto a farm track, and trudged along it thinking "Not all who wander are lost. But some of us are, and could really do with a cup of tea." The track kindly brought me back out at Venn Farm, and, too tired for further exploration, I gave up on the idea of a circular walk, and retraced my steps back through North Chidoeck and, very wearily indeed, back up Hell Lane.