We’re Olde England bound/ Our stories are etched in the earth
The morning was spring in Norwich. I had packed my guitar and looked forward to the journey ahead. I had spent most of my adult years in this beautiful city with its easy access to Norfolk’s waterways and beaches. It was a great place to grow and live. It was a wonderful place to have lived and grown, but I felt restless.
As a writer, I was also nurtured in these folk clubs and cellars bars. I wanted to take my music further afield. To explore and travel like an old bard, creating a journey on the spot, at the intersection between land and song.
From where I was, on the right side of England, it always felt as if the rest of England were a faraway dream, an unknown territory. It was to my regret that I never looked under its wings, nor had I explored it thoroughly. Was England really as beautiful and romantic as its poets, musicians and storytellers had claimed? I could not claim to be able to answer, but I was among them.
I decided to go on a journey across the island, a sort of pilgrimage, in my large estate car with a fold-up bed. The goal was to go off the beaten tracks, explore these ancient lands, and write a poem about my trip. Without a destination in mind, I left my friends behind and crossed the border.
The days were long Yet, it is fleeting. As I made my Way Across the Isle The patchwork of citiesKeeping quiet / Olde England
I chose to use paper maps instead of motorways or major A-roads whenever possible. I was happy to get lost, following my nose rather than my satnav. I stopped under an oak by a grassy field in a village I didn’t know the name of. The car was safe, I thought, as it was very quiet. I filled up my water bottle in the spring and continued on.
The first time I can remember, I was a nomad. A man without a fixed address. The ancient fields, roads, churches, and monuments were still there, even though I wasn’t on foot. In a few places, I paused in a layby to admire the simple beauty of water on stone and wildlife moving around me. I felt my senses coming to life after spending too much time in cities. I could see and smell the thatch. I heard the bells. This England was a place full of wonder, and I began to awaken.
After spending the night in Wiltshire near Avebury I took a walk the next morning. West Kennet Avenue They leaned against the stones and imagined their place in an ancient world. What songs, in Celtic tongues, had they heard before? Who would have sat around these fires, in circles of kin and death? I closed my vision and focused on the mystery.
The last day of April was marked by spring showers and I headed to Glastonbury where Beltane, the pagan festival, was in full swing!
I saw A May with ferris wheels The Dart lit up the night and I found you waiting.
In Avalon in Glastonbury, I was able to witness the crowning and procession through the city of the May kings and queens. One couple told me that they started their day at Dartmoor where morris dancing began with the sunrise. They weaved their dances to herald the sun. I told them that the Suffolk molly-dancers, who don’t appear at Beltane or Samhain but rather at Samhain mark the start to winter, have faces covered in soot and smoke, looking like devils heralding the darkness.
Beltane (also known as May Day) is a time when Olde England celebrates its customs. As I walked through Glastonbury and saw the painted faces and costumes on display, I was amazed at how folkloric traditions still remain mysterious, both in their origins and rationales. These customs are a testament to an untamed, uncivilised, and magical world that still captures the hearts of many townspeople to this day.
While climbing the winding path leading up to Glastonbury, I met a grouping of druids, who were on their own pilgrimage and in ritual rapport with the element. As I looked out over the Somerset Levels and flew above this beautiful island, I felt far from home.
A fair wind blew As I drove to the south, I could see clouds clearing. Olde England
Under a spring sky, I drove down to Dartmoor and stayed the night near Hound Tor. It is a large outcrop at the eastern edge of moorland. I spent the morning exploring the paths behind Hound Tor, which led to a beautiful faery land of tinkling brooks and shallow, flower-filled pools.
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After a tip from a local, I parked in Holne late afternoon and went into the ancient woods overlooking the River Dart. The river looked iridescent and the trees were covered with moss. It was as if the place had been left untouched. I could feel that there were more trees than people in the air, and I felt like a visitor. I sang a little, wondering who lived in these woods long ago. I wondered if we would return in a different time to live there again.
How did I miss Dartmoor until now? Its beauty left me speechless. It was as if, from any roadside gate or hedgerow, I could wander into a dizzying dell of bluebells and earthy delights. The vast moorland, with its ponies, cattle, and odd stone rows, was stunning.
After visiting Norwich, I felt the cord of my starting point stretching out all the way to Cornwall. After visiting St Michael’s Mount, The first rock samphire was growing along the cliffside. This made me remember collecting samphire in the Blakeney Marshes with my friends. I was soon compelled to return to Norfolk.
The call of the bone, the warming of the fires […] Down the St Michael Line, the stories come alive […] The West Kennet Moors / From gold Norfolk shores […]How to / Molly Men they dance put people into a trance […] / Olde England
After crossing the border into East Anglia, I stopped to eat lunch on a village’s green. I recorded some birdsong with my handheld recorder, and then played a new tuning of my guitar which sounded warm logs burning on an open fire. Images of my journey – of Avebury, the Dart, May queens, molly men and samphire – swirled in my head and swept out through my voice, on to the pages of my lyric book and into a song.
The song Olde England Alive helps me to remember the connection that I felt while on the road. A sense of wonder, an indigenous connection and a pride that has been forgotten in our history and countryside. Many say that the old beauty has been forgotten, but it was still alive and well all around me.
Who told me that England had become a concrete country or lost its charm? Who is it who said that England has become a ruin? Who is my father? The politicians? The politicians? This notion may be true, given the constant flow and development of modernity. But that’s one narrative. If we look beneath, we can see a line that is unbroken, an Olde England spirit moving through us. It’s in the standing stones, landscapes and strange customs.
Father You Lied / You said it was dead […] The books that they lied about They said it died You know what I mean? […] Olde England alive!
James left Norwich after a brief stay. He toured and travelled around England, recording songs that he had written on his travels. James now lives on Dartmoor. Olde England Alive is the finished song. James’s New Album All of Our Hands, Listen to the music on Streaming platforms
