From Winsford to Nethercote - a nine mile walk in search of the Johnsons

Winsford, with its thatched pub and cottages, and streams and bridges, may be the prettiest of all Exmoor villages, but it is sadly short on literary talent, past or present. Ernest Bevin, the Foreign Secretary in the post-war Labour government, has been the village’s most famous son for many years, but he popped his proletarian clogs even before he could pen any memoirs.

The title of Winsford’s foremost literary and political family now may be claimed by the Johnsons, the blond behemoths Stanley, Boris, and Rachel, who soon may include in their own dynastic soap opera the next Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

I have to confess that I have never read a word of paterfamilias Stanley’s many books on conservation, but I have attended a talk which he gave in Winsford Village Hall. It was a warm, autumn evening, and I had spent a long day in the saddle following the stag hounds. As Stanley floundered with the intricacies of the slide-projector, and as a surreal polar bear seemed to walk across the screen standing on its head, I sank into a profound coma from which I failed to awaken until the author of “Where the Wild Things Were” had sat down to enthusiastic applause.

I felt that I should do better with the literary aspirations of his children; Boris, the present mayor of London, and Rachel, editor of “The Lady”, the magazine “for elegant women with elegant minds.” For purposes of research, as men say when studying unorthodox internet sites, I borrowed Boris’s masterwork “Seventy Two Virgins”, and Rachel’s blockbuster “Notting Hell”, from the library.

 

In both cases I intended to adopt that traditional reviewing technique of reading only the first and last chapters of each but, to my eternal shame, in the case of the “Virgins”, I never progressed beyond the first page. My prep school English master had drummed into me, usually with the back of his hand and sometimes with the board rubber, that it was “the first sentence that counts.” If Boris too had attended that character-building academy on the muddy shores of the Severn Estuary, he might not have penned the following.

 

“On what he had every reason to believe would be the last day of his undistinguished political career Roger Barlow awoke in a state of sexual excitement and with a gun to his head, the one fading as he became aware of the other.”

It’s not quite on a par with Jane Austen’s use of irony, is it? “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” Austen’s sentence balances effortlessly like a high-wire walker, but the Boris period flops like a great blond whale. If you replace “one” with “former” and “other” with “latter”, the conclusion at least becomes more precise, but it still deserves “awkward” in red ink in the margin. If the sentence ended at “head”, it would be much improved.

I think that it was Albert Camus who created a character who spent his life polishing the first and only sentence of his first novel. It never progressed any further. Boris has much to learn from him. You might find it an absorbing exercise to improve Boris’s opening yourself. Obviously, his publisher’s reader failed miserably.

Rachel Johnson is a more accomplished writer than her brother. The title of “Notting Hell” may well be the book’s best moment, but this saga of a community garden in a fashionable quarter of the metropolis may amuse some. The relentless punning and listing of chic brands, however, soon becomes a surfeit, as in the following passage.

“I put on some Levi’s and some cashmere socks, a grey cashmere sweater over a white Agnes B long-sleeved T-shirt, and pad down to the kitchen. I make a cup of green tea, slip on my fleece-lined lace-up nut-brown Ilse Jacobsen boots, and head out into the communal garden for some fresh air, pausing only to fondle the bud of mop-headed allium in our garden.”

What is it that makes reading this feel like a form of literary water torture? It’s the relentless stacking of compound adjectives, one on top of the other; “fleece-lined lace-up nut-brown Ilse Jacobsen boots.” It induces the throbbing neuralgia of a serious hangover until you are slugged from behind by the nausea from the inevitable brand name. Still, Rachel’s a tasty looking blond and I took a quick whiz through this saga of metrofolk to see how she dealt with what we called at school  “the good bits”, but they never seemed to progress beyond heavy breathing and references to obscure lingerie brands.
Perhaps the Johnson literary standard should be left in the hands of Rachel's aunt, Birdie, who produced "Reflections", a book based on her collection of Exmoor oral history. Birdie interviewed scores of Exmoor characters, and the books includes some fascinating photographs and personal accounts of life on the Moor.

Notting Hill seemed far away as we left Winsford by Ash Lane, after parking opposite the tea rooms and crossing the ford, in search of the Johnson fastness at Nethercote in the Exe Valley. We passed the lane which led up to the church and continued on the road until we could dive into the footpath which leads to Withycombe Farm and the Punchbowl. It’s a pleasant walk through the sheep pastures with dense woods lowering on the left. 

When we reached the Withycombe farm drive, we turned right and walked uphill back towards Ash Lane. The views of the Punchbowl behind us were stunning with a superb cloudscape.

To the right were the slopes of Winsford Hill.

When we reached the lane, we turned right and followed it, past a gateway leading to a Dutch barn, until we reached two gates together. The bridleway lies through the left-hand one, and this took us up a steep climb on to the top of Bye Common. After negotiating a gateway choked with a suckler herd of cattle, we passed through another and down the track which overlooked Nethercote.

We joined the rough roadway which follows the Exe and crossed the bridge which leads to the settlement of Nethercote. I have no idea of how many of the dwellings belong to the Johnson family. A skull-and-crossbones hung from the flagpole of the first cottage we passed, which seemed a suitable emblem for this swashbuckling family. I had a brief mental image of Boris as a child, in shorts and Clark’s sandals, living out some Arthur Ransome adventure on the banks of the Exe. Another property further down the lane appeared to have been renovated recently, and finally we came to the long, low farmhouse which I have always imagined was the family seat of the Johnsons.

All had a distinct feel of second, rather than first, homes. Everything was tidy enough, but plants grew across one of the front doors and the windows had that blank look which they show to the world when there is no life behind them. Notting Hill, not Nethercote, and Westminster, not Winsford, are the pastures where the Johnsons safely and mainly graze these days.

We walked on with the river on our left until we reached Lyncombe, another remote settlement which has a weekend retreat feel about it. We followed the track through the yard and upwards and on, past High Combe, until we reached the Staddonhill Road, a metalled no-through road where we turned right with a view of Dunkery Beacon to the north.

Above Staddon Farm, the roadway becomes the track known as Kemps Lane. This took us downhill back into the Exe Valley and eventually to Larcombe Foot. This is a lovely spot on the river and a good place to let a horse cool his legs after hunting, although we had never seen so little water in the river after the heat wave in July.

We took the footpath which runs to the south of the river back into Winsford, emerging on to the road just above where three hours earlier we had set off for Withycombe. At the side of Winsford Church we found this larky set of figures in a cottage garden playing out a cricket match.

Winsford Tea Room has fairly new owners, and they have certainly smartened the place up. As well as the charming garden next to one of Winsford’s many streams, there is a large indoor room for when the weather turns rough. A cream tea at £5.60 each was the most expensive we have seen on our travels so far but, in addition to the lovely setting, the Winsford Tea Room gave us the best scones we have tasted. There is proper clotted cream and a choice of raspberry and strawberry jams. We had both between us, and the vote goes to the raspberry.