There is an attractive illusion of softness about the west of the country. It’s there in the plump fecundity of the green meadows and valleys, the slow, swirling rivers, and on the breeze riffled turf of the Downs. It is of course there in the lilt of the accent. The look of the young people at the railway stations – dread-locks, tie-dye tops, piercings, alternative hats – tells you that there is something assured and relaxed and detatched about this part of the world. The land all around here, from Stonehenge to Glastonbury Tor, from Silbury to Avebury, is rich in an unusual abundance of legends and folklore. For the rambler, this can somehow imply greater freedom to wander; that such historic rural acres must surely be thrown open to all.
I am in this part of the world to try and walk upon some territory that is the exact opposite of easygoing; a chunk of land that is roughly the same size as the Isle of Wight yet utterly forbidden. This area seems ringed with stone circles, ancient longbarrows and Neolithic mounds; but is itself entirely, straightforwardly, hard as bullets. It is Salisbury Plain. Ever since the military started appropriating chunks of it for training purposes, from the late-nineteenth century onwards (and most spectacularly during the Second World War), the Plain has been steadily cut off, quadrant by quadrant, to any form of traveller. As a result, it is almost unspeakably tempting as a walking proposition. Exactly how far can a rambler get in to Salisbury Plain from the west side without being run over by a tank or blown up by a rocket or – perhaps slightly more pertinently – being arrested on suspicion of espionage? In this sense, the MOD’s occupation of much of the Plain is thematically in keeping with all those strange old West Country legends. For when you look at these old folk tales, from Silbury to Glastonbury onwards, you realise that they all have one thing in common: a secret, underground element. Silbury Hill in Wiltshire, for instance: the legend is that this was where Arthur’s knights were sleeping, awaiting the day when the Once and Future King would arise and lead his men once more to reclaim the land. It is a megalithic construction, a strikingly strange man-made cone of earth and grass rising some 300 feet above the level land around; in 1968, curiosity got too much for the BBC, which televised a dig within the hill and found nothing. In fact, this absence of anything at all – from skeletons to ceramics to jewellery to beakers – somehow seems even more baffling. Rather like Rachel Whiteread’s inverted life-size ‘House’ sculpture in London’s East End, the emptiness of Silbury Hill – combined with the artfulness of its construction – seems to give it a megalithic postmodern quality, if such a thing can be possible.
Sadly, the least mystical place in this otherwise preternatural area is Stonehenge. The A303, ceaselessly swishing with passing cars and coaches, means it is simply impossible to get any kind of a sense of atmosphere. I am old enough to remember when one was allowed to simply wander in and around the circle itself, looking for traces of blood on what they then called the Sacrificial Stone. Now one must wander in and around a Heritage Centre instead. Even though this is a World Heritage Site, the sense is that of a diminished wonder. It is even difficult to slip into a reverie about the people who transported these stones such vast distances, and the miracles of engineering they wrought with practically nothing in the way of tools. What the place lacks is that essential sense of quiet awe. This wasn’t the case in the day of novelist John Cowper Powys. In his 1932 book A Glastonbury Romance, when swathes of the Plain were still navigable on foot, there is a passage where the character John Crow feels mysteriously impelled to walk a tremendous distance to see the ancient stones:
As he plodded along the hedgeless white road over Salisbury Plain, John Crow became acquainted with aspects of bodily and mental suffering till that epoch totally unrevealed to him … The difference between the pallor of the road, which was sad with a recognised human sadness and this ashen grey sky overhead was in some way disturbing to his mind.
As he goes on, light turns to twilight, and the skies of Salisbury Plain acquire a more numinous quality, suggestive of ‘fleeing hosts of wounded men with broken spears and torn banners and trails of blood and neighing horses.’
I am setting off from Warminster, on the western side of Salisbury Plain. Given that pretty much a third of the Plain is currently in the hands of the army, for training purposes, I want to see exactly where the boundaries for eager ramblers lie. Surely in these days of pretty much Total Access, it seems inconceivable to me – as both a town-dweller and a civilian – that the military would not have bowed at least a little to public pressure. Are there no paths, for instance, that one might be able to use from Tuesday to Thursday, for instance, when the tanks are not rolling? The maps, understandably, will only tell you so much. As the train draws close to Warminster station, I see that the track line is bordered by vast warehouses and lines of dark green military vehicles. I always knew this was an army town, but it is rather bigger, and very much more military, than I had imagined. Unlike other parts of the country – where the walker is presented with a dazzling variety of signposts helpfully pointing at paths in all directions – it is obvious that the Warminster authorities have other priorities. As it happens, I know which direction to walk in to find the Plain. But there are no little green or brown signs to confirm this. Nor, obviously, road signs. It is almost as if the Plain simply does not exist in civilian terms. But my walker’s antennae are set twitching by quite another sign. I am standing, it seems, on the Imber Road.
Imber is still the cause of small outbreaks of local bitterness. For this tiny village in the middle of Salisbury Plain was part of the Second World War army land seizure. In 1943, the village’s inhabitants were evacuated, so the place could be used for training purposes. Indeed, it was put to rather effective use: the main training exercises focused upon the forthcoming Operation Overlord. British and American troops used the village and its surrounding area in tactical manoeuvres. There may have been some idea or suggestion, somewhere, that when the war was over, the village would be restored to its re-housed inhabitants. But it never was. And now it remains tantalisingly out of reach, a ghost village with weeds growing out of the pavement, and a church in which nobody prays, in the middle of a zone across which it is expressly forbidden for civilians to walk. To be fair to the army, it is not as if Imber was a bustling metropolis: strikingly, even in densely populated southern England, this village, lying in the middle of the Plain, was pretty remote and extremely small and the local rural economy, even before the war, must have been a little fragile. On top of this, the compensation given to those who were moved out was quite generous. Nevertheless, the resentment felt might be a culmination of both this and the army’s steady appropriation of what was once an extraordinarily wide open region, a ‘plain as free and open as the sea,’ where as historian Ralph Whitlock continued in his book Salisbury Plain (1955), ‘a man could walk where he would, shaping his course by sun and by stars if needs be.’
In recent years, the MOD has bowed a little to local feelings, and there are the occasional days when the road is opened to the public and Imber can be visited. They hold a church service there every Easter. The fact is that even if the place were to be opened up once more, it would be a little too late for its original inhabitants, or indeed anyone else who wanted to live there. Time has swallowed Imber up. For the walker, it’s not just a question of a lost village, but of a lost mass of pristine, unexplored, virgin countryside; an inland Atlantis. Imagine that springy turf, stretching off on to an empty horizon, the short grass beneath the feet, the sensation of walking beneath an illimitable sky with the clouds as soft as the chalk beneath, knowing it could be a day before any sign of habitation comes into view. How many thousands of walkers must have chewed their lips with frustration just at the very idea of it?
On this wooded footpath leading out of Warminster town and up a comically stumpy hill, fringed with large untidy trees, there are the familiar pleasures. Large hares loping off in all directions, and small wagtails, flitting from bush to bush – sufficiently disturbed by my presence to keep going in front of me, yet not sufficiently disturbed to fly off altogether. This part of the country is particularly rich in hares. One might imagine they will be more plentiful on the Plain itself, given that the only real peril is that posed by vast lumbering tanks. The same goes for so many species of bird. One especially rare exotic breed was recently reintroduced, rather triumphantly, onto the Plain: the great bustard. Here is the first paradox of military occupation: the absence of humans from the landscape allows other species – and the great bustard was absent from this area for a good many decades – to flourish.
In response to frustrated walkers, the MOD does point out an unexpected upside to the quarantine of Salisbury Plain: it has afforded not merely the bustard but all manner of rare species a great deal of protection. In fact, the whole plain has been designated a Site Of Special Scientific Interest. Here – if only the walker was allowed to have a look at them – there are wildlife riches not to be found anywhere else in the country. The grassland itself is of a type judged to be of ‘great antiquity’ by English Nature, in the sense that unlike practically everywhere else in Western Europe, the area has not been intensively farmed. So the short grass that you would see – if you could – would most likely be very much the same as that seen in the Neolithic age.
Among the different varieties of unspoilt grass, and the herbs among it, are some of the most wonderfully poetic names: red fescue, lady’s bedstraw, salad burnet, hairgrass. The SSSI is also concerned with rare flowers and plants, such as burnt orchid and purple milk vetch. There is an abundance of wild thyme on the Plain, as well as field fleawort. And flitting madly around the bright specks of flowers are similarly vulnerable and treasured butterflies, such as blue adonis and marsh fritillary. The area is popular with rarely seen birds; as well as the bustard, there are buzzards, stone curlews, long-eared owls, wheatears and Montagu’s harriers.
The MOD is quite insistent on another point: that the area is extraordinarily rich in archaeological terms, and the exclusivity of the region thus protects all manner of long barrows and other prehistoric structures. This is the second paradox of military occupation; the preservation of the integrity of ancient structures. Again, the walker is presented with an almost unbearably attractive set of images – a landscape so ancient and so unspoilt that among its tombs are to be found species that would have been there when those tombs were first built. Of all the unattainable places in Britain that we – or at least, those of us in this lifetime – will never see, this one somehow seems the most perfect. Not far from here – I can see it, from the vantage point of this high field – is the curious rippled grassland at the top of a hill denoting a Neolithic fort. Will it be possible to get to it without being shot down? On the other side of the slope I am on, I see a rather surprising potential obstacle. In the big hollow down beneath, between me and that tantalizing hill fort, lies an entire modern village, a mirror to the old market town of Warminster on the other side of the hill. This is the Warminster Garrison.
Down the hill, and back on the road, you can tell immediately that you are no longer on an ordinary main road. You are in a twilight zone. There are road signs, but they point to unfamiliar things and in unfamiliar fonts. This is no longer recognisably a public highway. So where does the curious walker stand? There are rather stern MOD signs forbidding photography. I had actually brought a disposable camera with me. In this paranoid age, I daren’t even take it out of my bag. There is another road sign, slightly antique in nature, redolent of Captain Mainwaring and the war: it has a burgundy background, with a very old-fashioned typeface – it proclaims that one and a half miles up this road, there will be no access owing to military firing. But this sign is so old as to make me doubt its modern relevance.
A little further on yet, the road beneath me is getting stranger and stranger still. Now it is nearly white in colour, floured with dust. I keep on expecting some military vehicle to draw up, and for me to be asked for my papers. The only transport going past consists of perfectly ordinary looking cars, and they all seem to be coming down the Imber Road. So how far can one get along it? On the brow of another hill, I see a very large red flag. Even I know that this signifies a firing range. On this road – which is now creeping ever upwards, ever more temptingly to the brow of another hill, beyond which lies that beautiful plain – there are no such flags.
No one has told me to stop, so I don’t. A little way ahead, at the summit of the hill, I see a whopping great obstacle to my plans for further progress. It comes in the form of a 1960s built low-rise building, a flat grey rectangle, with an old tank parked outside its gates – and a soldier carrying an automatic weapon. He sees me approaching from about 250 yards away. It is suddenly all a little awkward. Should I shout something out? Wave? Smile? All I do is plod on. The soldier walks back and forth by those big gates. He appears to be pretending that he hasn’t noticed me. I now studiously look about me as I walk, engaged in a charade of looking for a footpath sign.
This is quite a different prospect to that of walkers being confronted by a landowner. For in those circumstances, you generally know where you stand, legally and ethically. But this is land that is being paid for by me, the taxpayer. And where’s the harm? It’s a jumpy era we live in though: surveillance cameras, identity checks, flashing lights on GCHQ computers. When I eventually get to those gates, I am feeling a little apprehensive, almost as though military police are going to swoop from nowhere and arrest me. The soldier continues to pretend not to have seen me. I look along the road and see the giant red flag. The only thing now is politeness. I ask the soldier if I have inadvertently walked into a dead end. Perfectly friendly, he tells me that if I were to continue along that road, I’d be dodging bullets. He asks where I want to get to? I reply – rather wispily – that all I want to do is see some of Salisbury Plain. At first, he seems to find this rather too wispy. He frowns, and looks set to start asking some more questions about my intentions. Then, as I bleat about trying to find a peripheral footpath, the soldier grins and we are on the same side. He tells me that he once tried to organise a cycling event with friends through parts of Salisbury Plain, but it was no go, even for those in the army. He explains that there are always a few walkers who seem to want to hurl themselves straight into training areas. He also explains that getting any kind of access, even after pleading with the MOD, is incredibly difficult. If I come back at Easter, he says, I can go and see Imber on one of those special annual Open Days.
The soldier now points towards the Imber Ranges Perimeter Path, the one that I was initially less keen to explore – the word ‘perimeter’ alone suggesting being on the outside looking in. This path, which stretches for thirty miles and is in itself a sort of concession from the MOD, will lead on to the hill fort, and in the absence of any other options, I make my way on to it. Instantly, my low expectations are dissipated. Here is a path that leads right on to the fort itself. Before that, a moment of rather baffling ambiguity at a wooden pedestrian gate. There is a big red sign warning of ‘Danger!’ It is all about unexploded ordnance and ‘staying away’, and suggestions of no access. Does that mean that I am not allowed any further, or is it simply a warning of what lies ahead? Doubly confusingly, and by means of complete contrast, the MOD has also stuck up one of those colourful weatherproof laminated tourist boards, loving illustrated with examples of the rare birds and fragile plant species one might expect to see beyond the big red danger sign.
Through the gate I go and instantly down the track in front of me comes a dark green military vehicle. I stand to the side. The soldier in the cab nods his acknowledgement. Clearly I am allowed. A little further towards the fort and several more military Landrovers and trucks come down the track, and I receive polite acknowledgements from them all.
This is now terrific fun. The fort I am now standing on is a thing of weird wonder. A path runs along the top of the perimeter bank of earth; there are other such banks, together with occasional trees growing out of the fuzzy grass. This is Battlesbury Fort, and it dates back to the Iron Age. Upon this ancient man-made plateau is an old tomb. When the sound of the military vehicles dies away in the distance, you are left listening to the gentlest of breezes whispering through the grass. You imagine the work it must have taken to create this mighty earthern structure. From the start of this path, you gaze out across the valley of the River Wylye, and across to even larger hills, a sombre blue-green in the afternoon sun.
Then you turn and follow this thin path, which is beige with chalkiness, and supple, like Plasticine. From this high ripple, you see a very beautiful vista. Aside from the white of the military road, which winds and snakes away into the distance, there is the grassy plain that looks like pale green, faintly yellow Fuzzy-Felt. The air is punctuated with the sharp cracks of far away guns being fired; oddly, the noise is not remotely intrusive. A couple of hundred feet or so directly beneath me, in a vast rectangle of darker, scrubbier green, there are some geometrical structures that are coloured like copper targets.
As this path ziggers round the perimeter of the old earth fort, more of this Salisbury Plain landscape is opened up to the eye at least; you imagine these beautiful soft Downs stretching for mile after mile. The terrible question presents itself: has this vast tract of land actually benefited by being off-limits to daytrippers and dedicated hikers alike? One other side effect of an entire area being turned into a State secret would appear to be some very colourful local legends of a science-fictional nature. One of the most fondly remembered came in the 1960s: it was the story of ‘The Warminster Thing’. This phenomenon started off as a mystery noise, a weird clattering and crashing that induced a sense of oppression in those who heard it. Then it acquired a visual dimension, and the eager interest of the press, when strange light displays – from which further uncanny noises seem to emanate – were reported. It became a brief national craze, and also kicked off a rather longer lasting local tradition. Later that decade, the town became the focus of a combination of old school flying saucer enthusiasts, and West Country hippies. On summer nights, they would walk up the hills just west of Salisbury Plain – in particular, Cradle Hill – armed with binoculars and cameras.
The alien enthusiasts are still with us today. The area around Salisbury Plain continues to get an unusually high number of reported sightings. In a sense, both spotters and aliens have become woven into the cultural landscape of the West Country. And in a slightly wider, more philosophical sense: is there a curious mirroring correspondence with all the longbarrows and roundbarrows in the area, and these dreams of futuristic space craft? There was certainly that old hippy theory that ancient sites held a sort of interstellar significance, that UFOs used them as markers; that Stonehenge was some sort of age old marker beacon for gods from the skies. The idea, whatever you may think of it, has at least a poetic consistency and resonance: the notion that what lies buried far beneath has a direct relationship to the wonders in the skies above; and in the middle, we humans mill about, stuck between these two sublime extremes. There are those who are not impressed by this kind of thing. In the 1970s, many local bed and breakfasts hung up signs proclaiming: ‘No hippies’. What appears to have happened is that the hippies moved in full time, anyway. Their descendants are the young people I saw on the platform of Salisbury station.
I spend a good ten minutes standing very still, at the top of Battlesbury, on that thin ridge looking down across the almost featureless plain, with its dips and hollows and ridges – the landscape that has now inspired several generations of hippies, making their votive walks to sacred sites all around. But some mysteries perhaps are better kept mysterious.
In 1793, when Wordsworth wrote his poem ‘Salisbury Plain’, his walking narrator, travelling over ‘Sarum’s Plain’ with a sigh as the ‘troubled west was red with storm fire’, saw the place as an eerie and harsh wilderness. But on a fine, keen spring day, it doesn’t feel like that at all. We might all be better off not being able to swarm over it, though. Despite the philosophical importance of granting walkers access to all corners of the isles, it is paradoxically nice to feel that there is one wodge that we cannot know at all. Taking a final look across that haunting landscape, it now seems clear why this place and the areas just west of it have picked up such a mystical reputation, especially in the post-war years: while intensive agriculture destroyed thousands of miles of hedgerow and green pastureland, and turned once familiar countryside into bleak, bitter prairies, this part of the world has maintained an unusually strong link with the past, perhaps more so than any other place in Britain, save the Hebrides. When we look out over this Plain, we are looking directly into a parallel history, a view of what the land might have been. It is only natural that it should evoke a stab of yearning.