Expert Photography on the Somerset Levels

My friend Mick is a photographer. Well he's trying to be. He decided he wanted some shots of the sun rising at Glastonbury Tor and asked if I wanted to go along.
'Ok' I said blithely before realising the bleedin' obvious - in order to get a photo of sunrise we would have to get up Very Early.

'I'll swing by yours and pick you up at five am,' he said.
'F*ck off.'
'Half-five?'
'Six.'
'Six is too late.'
(Sulkily) 'Ok, half-five then.'
By some miracle I was ready to go at half-five. The temperature was minus five outside so I was fully kitted out in three layers on the bottom half and five layers top half plus hat, gloves etc. I sat and waited by the window. At five-to-six Mick's campervan rolled around the corner.
'You're late,' I said grumpily.

We headed down the A39 through Wells to Glastonbury without bothering to look at the atlas or plug in the satnav. Mick hates looking at maps, he thinks it's cheating. At Glastonbury we got lost and headed off towards Frome, at which point I insisted we pull over so I could dig out the atlas. In the end we did a massive loop around the bottom of the Levels before finally finding them hidden away on our right. By the time we had found a view of the Tor, dawn was upon us. We were on a race against time.

Mick screeched to a halt on the side of the road, grabbed his camera and tripod and legged it over a stile. Layered up as I was, I could only waddle after him like a Tellytubby. By the time I caught up with him, he was set up and snapping away.


We had just made it. Soon the orange sun appeared on the horizon, rolling up behind the green fields. I stared at it in awe - what a beautiful sight. Suddenly I had dancing spots in front of my eyes and remembered it is not a good idea to stare directly at the sun.
'My eyes, my eyes!' I cried. 'I'm blinded! Look away!'
'Don't stare at it then,' said Mick unsympathetically.
After a few moments my eyesight returned to normal and we headed back to the van to make a hot drink. 'Fancy a bit of breakfast?' said Mick.

We headed up the road to the Peat Moors centre. The centre has closed but there is a craft centre, next to which was a chuck wagon selling 'eco bites.' Eco bites apparently means no bacon and egg rolls, just falafels and flapjacks. This wasn't what we had in mind. We decided to press on with our walk and get something to eat at the pub. We were heading for The Sheppey Inn at Lower Godney which we had passed before but never been in.

We were immediately thrown by the route apparently taking us through a peat farmer's yard. Three big dogs came bounding out, barking furiously, and we were about to run away when we saw the farmer beckoning us. 'They won't hurt 'ee,' he shouted. 'come on through.' Sure enough the dogs were only curious and rather friendly. We made our way past old tractors through the barn - another example of the great British tradition that, when it comes to footpaths, 'we shall not be moved'. You can steal our pensions, trash our public transport and dismantle our health service and we won't make a sound. But don't - just don't - fuck with our footpaths.

My route took us across Meare Heath before crossing the B3151 and striking out across the fields to Lower Godney. There were some issues however. Firstly, despite the map indicating we were on a footpath there were no markers whatsoever; the rhynes(water channels) which criss crossed the fields meant we sometimes were taking massive detours; and there were no stiles, only farm type gates which wouldn't open. We had to climb each one and as they were spaced only twenty yards apart I began to feel like I was attempting a steeplechase rather than a country walk. Eventually we found ourselves at the back of someones garden and had to walk through a pigpen to get onto the lane into Godney. By this time we were both salivating at the thought of a pint. 'Maybe we could squeeze in two,' said Mick hopefully.



Fat chance. When we got there we discovered that the pub only opens in the evenings. 'Oh, that's a shame,' said Mick. (He said it a bit more forcefully than that but that was the general gist.)
'I can hear voices,' he said desperately, pressing his ear to the door. 'Bang on the door, see if they'll serve us.'
'Don't be silly,' I said.

So we trudged disconsolately back. On the way back we detoured into Meare as the OS map indicated a blue jug in the village. The path took us past the Manor Farmhouse, fourteenth century summer residence of

Manor Farmhouse, Meare

the Abbot of Glastonbury. The pub, however , was not only closed, it had been turned into a private residence. The pint of beer receded even farther into the distance. We gave up trying to find a pub and headed back to the carpark where the camper was parked.

Pub at Meare

 

Swan - Ice Breaking

Back at base we ate out of tins we had stored in the van and had another cup of tea, before donning multi-
layers once more. Mick wanted to get some photographs of Starling Murmurations. Despite the Levels being only thirty miles away, neither of us had seen them before. It was now half-four and the temperature had dropped significantly. We walked along the path (which also forms part of Sustrans Route 3) to Ham Wall. There was quite a gathering of humans there, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands as defences against the cold. 'Quite a gathering,' said Mick. 'Maybe the starlings come here to look at us not the other way around?'

'Look over there,' someone said suddenly, pointing to the southern horizon. A cloud of black was rising from the hillside.
'That's smoke,' someone else said and everyone laughed.
Soon birds were heading towards us in groups from all directions, forming fantastic shapes in the sky. Mick, I noticed, had his camera still trained on the plume of smoke. 'Don't you want some pictures of the birds?' I asked.
'That's what I'm doing,' he said.
'But that's smoke,'
'No it's birds'
'It's smoke. I heard someone say so.'
To be fair, it was an easy mistake to make: it did look like a flock of starlings in the distance and every now and again a group of them would apparently emerge from the smoke, like phoenix from the ashes.
'Bollocks,' said Mick.
Suddenly the starlings dropped like stones as they settled down to roost.
When the sky was empty we started back along the path.
'Ok?' I asked.
'Think I'll stick to photographing flowers in future,' said Mick. 'At least I know what a snowdrop looks like.'

We decided to stop at the Railway Inn for a pint which turned out to be a mistake. The beer, Tawny Owl from Cotleigh, was as tired as the decor, probably as the few locals in there were all drinking cider. The ladies toilet may have been pink once but it was entirely coated in black mould. There was at least a warm fire in the grate, so we defrosted ourselves and then made our exit and walked the mile or so back to the van.

The day, we agreed, had been like the curate's egg, good in parts. Unlike the egg, however, it was not entirely spoiled. After all, Mick had some fantastic photos of smoke signals from Bridgewater. Why he wouldn't share them with me for this blog I just don't know...

Cow

Freshwater mussel - the fields are strewn with these

Bridge

Path