David Taplin

One of our favourite walks remains the Bove Town, Stone Down Lane and back down Bushy Coombe one, ending in Dod Lane, home of course of NFG’s illustrious founder, Vicki. This week, however, we checked out the newly-pebbled Paradise Lane Cycle Route right at the at the top of Bove Town, pausing on the shiny...

One of the many joys of living in Glastonbury is the way so many people dress up, if even a little, just to go out for a bag of spuds, loaf of bread or whatever, and indeed there are many who do so whether they’re going out or not. We live in a time when...

There is a great conspiracy afoot, and it affects all of us. All our lives, and indeed all down the ages of humanity, all of its societies have been in hock to it. It’s breathtakingly convincing; the evidence of our everyday senses sings its reality; we awake (even after transformingly dramatic dreams full of insight...

I was but a small child Before Covid, rippling and insinuating its way across the globe, an invisible monster lurking on every door-handle in every street, and it’s hard to believe that I was part of that world at all. There’s plenty of documentary evidence of life BC, of course, and old people nod wisely...

The long rolling winter winds blow coldly and steadily westward off the deep Atlantic ; they catch all manner of things and speed them to the east high over Cornwall’s rocky spur and deep into the softly rolling red Devon hills. High over Exmoor they rush and moan, sweeping down, rustling and loosening the last...

No, the title’s not actually my Native American name (though I’ve been accused of doing so quite frequently). I’ve recently decided to become Wearyall’s bull-whisperer, taking the footpath up the Hill from the Roman Road not far from the Pomparles Peace Camp and then walking into Glastonbury along the top of the hill. A large...

The old bicycle, a vintage Amsterdam model, clanked a little with each turn of the pedals. The brakes were adequate but it really needed new ones, though she rarely used them anyway on the flat Somerset Levels; the long droves usually afforded plenty of time to see and avoid any obstacles a long way ahead....

Burrowbridge Mump is a strange echo of Glastonbury Tor; a conical hill rising dramatically from the low wetlands around it, crowned with a ruined church dedicated - unsurprisingly - to St. Michael, and John Michell's "Michael Line" runs like an arrow across the flat landscape between the two.

The road was busy. Cars and lorries rumbled on, air brakes hissed and the occasional bus swished by, usually empty of all but a small handful of pinched looking people. The rain had stopped, though more was forecast, and after about fifteen minutes walk the young man reached the spot he wanted; it gave oncoming...