Day 28 Part 2: a British engineering institution

(continued from Part One)

I headed out of the one-time capital of Wessex along The Macmillan Way. I bumped into Nick and Pauline, a couple of walkers who were studying their map. "We're from Berkshire, near Broadmoor Hospital!"

We got talking and shared the road for a mile or two.

Nick's brother is just about to complete the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostella. During my walk, I've heard of several people doing this but Nick's brother is seventy!

Nick joins his brother in Western Australia each year to tackle another section of a long-distance route, the Bibulmen Trail from Perth to Albany. It's different from my experience; with basic huts every ten to twenty miles along the trail instead of B&Bs. They fill their flasks with rainwater and take enough provisions for the four or five days distance between towns. That's a real adventure.

It was really good to walk with others for the first time in my twenty-eight days.

I shared another short section of the journey with two horse riders. I let them pass and followed them down the narrow lane. Horses, I realised for the first time, walk quite clumsily. Watching the way their wonky hind legs vault along, ending each stride with a flick of the hoof, I thought that walking is their least elegant way of moving. There's no grace in a walking horse's bottom.

I paused at The Mitre in Sandford Orcas and settled down with a pint of Revd Awdry ale. I think that the author of the Thomas the Tank Engine books had Gloucestershire connections, but perhaps the landlord of the Mitre is following an ecclesiastical theme.

Refreshed (and dare I say blessed?) by the good reverend, I set off again by way of Staffords Green, Corton Denham, Girt, Sutton Montis and into Sparkford.

The church of Mary Magdelene at Sparkford was open. It was a neat and tidy kind of place, clearly well used for worship. I liked the 1950s stylised statuette of the deposition by William Thornton, and the 1977 painting of the cross by "A. Heinke" near the door.

Sparkford is unlike any of the other villages I passed, much more developed. The railway line still passes through but there is no longer a station. Still, I reckon the railway led to the growth of the village and turned into a peculiarly strung-out small town.

Opposite The Sparkford Inn, where I'm staying, is the headquarters of The Haynes Group, best known for their fabulously meticulous workshop manuals. I own several, and in the days when I tackled my own car maintenance, the grubbiest of the grease-thumbed pages indicated which parts of the car gave me most trouble.

The Haynes buildings have a lovely "British engineering" feel. The plain concertina door leading from the road is marked, "Haynes Project Research Workshop" and beyond it lay, I imagined, bearded, pipe-smoking, head-scratching gents dismantling vehicles. Behind doors such as these we used to build jet engines, rockets and hovercraft.

I wondered what business is like for Haynes these days. Modern cars offer little scope for tinkering and tatting for the owner. Manufacturers guard their secrets carefully, making it hard for independent garages to service their cars without special tools and diagnostic equipment.

I wondered how a Haynes manual for the church might read: "Prise apart the Parochial Church Council and identify the vicar. It's usually standing proud. Withdraw it carefully, inspecting for signs of wear, and being especially careful not to rub the it the wrong way. If friction is encountered, some lubrication may be necessary."