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Preface
The Uffington White Horse is a chalk hill-figure in the disputed territory between Oxfordshire, Berkshire and Wiltshire. It is part of an ancient sacred landscape which incorporates White Horse Hill itself, the artificially levelled Dragon Hill beneath it, the fluted combe caused by glaciations and known as the Manger or the Devil's Step-Ladder (one of two rival sources of the local River Ock), the Iron Age Hillfort of Uffington Castle on the top of the downs, and the Ridgeway which connects these sites with the neolithic chambered tomb, Wayland's Smithy, a string of other hill-forts, and ultimately with the Sanctuary, which is part of the Avebury complex, incorporating Silbury Hill, West Kennet Long-Barrow, the Avebury stones and ditches and Windmill Hill, the cradle of Neolithic culture in these islands. The White Horse has recently been silt-dated to the Bronze Age, and has therefore been recognised as by far the oldest surviving hillfigure in Britain. It has been maintained through a process of periodic 'scouring', in which inhabitants of neighbouring villages, such as Woolstone, Kingston Lisle, and Uffington itself, keep the chalk exposed by removing any encroaching grass. Legend insists that the Uffington White Horse comes to life at night, and drinks at the springs at the base of the Manger. If so, it must surely be tempted to visit other landmarks along the Ridgeway (which is in itself an ancient monument), and perhaps some of the other chalk hill-figures beyond. These poems make that assumption. My illustrations for this little collection were made with chalk pastels, gouache, watercolour, wax-crayon and Ridgeway chalk on paper. Giles Watson, 2012
Looking in on Snap
Even the White Horse has his work cut out Finding Snap, though he watched it thrive As a Celtic village: state-of-the art. It was Old when its name was written down In the thirteenth century. By Victorias reign It was known to breed countryfolk Of uncommon health; they lived into Their nineties, in ten or fifteen houses, And the schoolroom doubled as a church. He cranes his neck through the branches, Catches a glimpse of Snap High Street: A rutted track of chalk, erratically cobbled, Overhung by trees. House foundations Are marked by nettles. A box tree has Outgrown its garden, the gardener Cast out by economics. The farmers Who lived there could not compete With cheap American corn, and at the end Of the century, fell prey to invention: Frozen meat from Australia, New Zealand Cost less than lamb from Snap. Mr Wilson, Butcher, bought up the land. Some folks Hung on, lived off barter in the schoolhouse, But time has a habit of whittling away, And the mortar crumbles for the elder tree. Street plans become earthworks. Marks. The White Horse sympathises with marks, Being one himself. One of those urchin tests Falls out of his eye, rolls onto the lane. He cocks His ear for the nightingale who doesnt sing. After Fox Hill, the Ridgeway takes a southwards turn, and after it has bypassed the little town of Aldbourne, and is making its way towards Ogbourne St. George, it passes the vanished village of Snap. Oddly, there are still signposts to Snap (formerly Snape), although the village completely disappeared in the early twentieth century.
Nonplussed at Westbury
The White Horse cannot suppress a snort Or two of recognition before that inevitable Sense of deflation sets in. There are even Ramparts of a fort in the right position, And a grassy eye, but the beast itself is staid, Restrained. It barely blinks or shudders, Just stands there looking handsome, doesnt Paw the turf or kick up a clump of flinty loam, Tame as a work of taxidermy. The lower lip Hangs as though anaesthetised. The fossils In its skin have a look of extinction about them. Long ago, the Westbury Horse had been Good company for a gallop through the Pleiades. On dark nights, the old sickle Tail was an acceptable substitute For a moon, and it scattered the lesser Stars with stumpy legs. But that colt Has been buried by Enlightenment; The replacement inert as clay, quite Drained of skittishness. Nothing works: No piaffe, passage or pirouette Can provoke the slightest whinny. The Westbury Horse was heavily reconstructed in the late eighteenth century, but when Richard Gough surveyed the creature in 1772, he depicted a very different creature from the one which exists today. The horse suffered further indignities in the twentieth century, when it was concreted over to prevent erosion. These days, it is scoured by steam-blasting.
Nobody knows why the Uffington White Horse was etched upon the landscape in the Bronze Age: perhaps it was a religious symbol a representation of the horse-goddess Epona or perhaps it was merely the symbol of the local warlike tribe. Perhaps it was merely an echo of the forms indelibly marked on the landscape, and human beings found it before it was lost. The Blowing Stone is a large sarsen, riddled with holes made by tree-roots, in a garden a couple of miles to the east of White Horse Hill, and is reputed to have been blown by King Alfred to summon his men to battle. Segsbury, Liddington and Barbury are Iron Age forts, strung out like garrisons along the Ridgeway. Swallowhead Spring is a source of the River Kennet, and the point at which that body of water is joined by the Winterbourne, which flows through Avebury. It is now, and may always have been, a local sacred place. Windmill Hill is the site of a Neolithic culture defined by significant technological advances in the art of pottery-making. Lob and Grim are household names for nature-spirits, mentioned by multitudes of authors. The Uffington White Horse has taken quite a detour to visit the Cerne Abbas Giant in Dorset one of the few chalk hill-figures whose provenance is hotly contested. Some affirm that the giant is an ancient representation of a fertilitygod, whilst others question whether such a figure could survive for centuries overshadowing a Christian monastery, and insist that it was inscribed in the turf during the Civil War, or afterwards. The earliest documentary records of the figure were made in the late 17th Century, but its penis has been a nocturnal point-of-assignation for couples wishing to conceive for as long as anyone can remember, and it remains to date the only pornographic image which the British Post Office will handle unwrapped, with a stamp licked and slapped upon its back.
Swallowhead Spring, which is a short walk from Silbury Hill and West Kennet Long Barrow, is regarded as the source of the River Kennet, although much of the water is supplied by the Winterbourne, which joins the Kennet at the same point. The spring, with its over-arching willow, is a popular walking destination for modern pagans, who regularly hang clouties (strips of coloured cloth and ribbon) from the branches of the tree. Large sarsens laid across the river-bed serve as stepping stones when the river is awash.
At Windmill Hill
Theres not much here, a tourist said Earlier today, Just a couple of barrows, And weve walked all this way. Nice view, Though. Pity you cant see Avebury much, Except for the church. Those trees ought To be trimmed. And from this distance, Silbury looks smaller. Darling, arent you cold? The White Horse hears echoes of that voice And a thousand others but the older ones Have more resonance and they travelled Too, importing pottery, limpets and whelks From the Cornish coast, arrowheads Of Portland chert, Mendip sandstone, Cotswold slate. Amid the voices of makers And merchants, are murmurs of children, Their bones in the ditches. The White Horse Inclines his ear, hears yet darker echoes From layers deeper than Bronze Age barrows: The laughter of women, rounding pots Out of Kennet clay, laying the foundations Of culture. His deepest deposits of silt Begin to luminesce. He touches ground, prods With a gentle hoof, feels the thrumming Of all that existence, under compacted Earth, and the little buried things carved Out of chalk come alive at his passing; The crude phalli throbbing in the loam. Theres not much here... barrows... Avebury... Silbury... church... Darling, arent you cold?
Windmill Hill, a causewayed enclosure which overlooks Avebury, shows signs of habitation and other human activity from the Neolithic through to the Bronze Age. Much of it remains unexcavated, but the artefacts mentioned in the poem demonstrate that the Windmill Hill culture was capable of gathering resources from far afield. Among the most interesting finds are carved chalk objects, including little cups, and erect phalli, which archaeologists have been quick to associate with fertility rituals. The deepest layers have yielded rounded pots which are amongst the earliest in Britain, and which would have revolutionised the preparation and serving of food.
This poem was completed on the second day of the White Horse Country Show, in the fields between Uffington and Fawler. Large crowds gathered on White Horse Hill to watch the Red Arrow stunt fliers from the R.A.F., and helicopter flights to view the White Horse from the air cost more than ten pounds a minute. Gnats and hawks are the types of aeroplanes flown as Red Arrows.