LE JOG

[Sweder]

It was claimed by Geoffrey of Monmouth in the 12th century that the castle at Tintagel Head was where King Uther Pendragon seduced Queen Igraine of Cornwall, while her husband, Gorlois, was under siege at Dimilioc. King Arthur was thus conceived and Tintagel Castle revered as the birthplace of legend. I’ve been fascinated by the whole Arthurian mystery, from the Sword in the Stone to Excalibur & the Lady of the Lake, the stories of Launcelot’s betrayal and tales Rude and Glorious of the Knights of the Round Table. Not forgetting (as if MLCMan would allow) the magnificent Holy Grail.



No wonder then that I’ve loitered here from some considerable time, soaking up the atmosphere like a redundant disciple of the 60’s might kick around the dusty bowls of Woodstock seeking residual wisdom by osmosis. Tempus fugit. There’s many miles to be made and a quest of my own to follow beyond these craggy castle walls. I bade silent farewell to Arthur, Merlin and a deliciously Woadian Guinevere, eschewing the kind offer of a white horse for my own trusty plates.



I purloined this gratuitous snapshot of Ms Keira Knightly appearing in the 2004 cinematic re-telling of the Arthurian legend, a curious piece featuring nothing less than a top-rate performance from Mr Raymond Winstone as Bors, as apt a character name as he's likely to bag in his illustrious career as a Big Screen ruffian. A tenuous link at best then, yet I make no apology for sharing an image that has kept me unashamedly warm these lonely nights on the road.

My northern traverse took me along the coastal path, through Boscatle and St Juliot. I strode on until I reached the hamlet of Higher Crackington, a place-name sparkling with possibilities. Alas it proved dull as dishwater, the humble village stores offering nought but idle gossip regarding Mrs Bothworth's curious bunions and a selection of fruit juices so far past their sell-by date they should surely class as antique. I took my leave (along with a lonely, crumbly pastie) driving my weary limbs onwards, ever onwards, towards the glittering spires of that Sodom of the West, Bude.

There's tales to tell of this Rake's haven, but the light fails and Nick Shadow's getting the ale in. My mind grows dim, numbed by the Hurculean effort of dragging my weary bones up these endless cliff-top humps. An evening of mead and wenching will no doubt put a different face on things on the morrow. Forsooth.