The privilege of starting a day by walking up the chalk-scattered rise of Hambledon Hill. Sculptured Iron Age earthworks on a massive scale, and the most dramatic three hundred and sixty degree views. It's a wild, ancient, vital place and I feel small and temporary. We plan to spend a night up here at Midsummer. A tent, and a lamp and the simple wish to absorb the atmosphere of a place that has held such power for so many centuries.
Then to my job - in the confines of Longleat Center Parcs. I've had no reason to go to Center Parcs before. Weird. A Stepford Wives version of woodland. It smells correct - all foresty, damp and coniferous. But so manicured. Paths and rustic railings, and lights and chalets, and specially laid-out cycle trails. I get the point. It's rural-made-easy. But it's not for me.
Ready countryside, like ready meals. Quick, convenient, and ultimately unsatisfying. No.
Hambledon Hill. Hambledon Hill. Hambledon Hill.
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