June had been a busy month, mainly taken up with research, writing and working with my editor. At least the weather was nice and I was able to sit on the decking at my little round mosaic table while I worked. Of course there was some walking, but nothing very exciting, or worthy of writing about. By mid July, the bulk of the work was done, and as the weather was still good, I was pining for greenery and off road trails.
After a bit of thinking, I decided on a nice circular walk taking in Millers Pond and Sholing Henge. With COVID restrictions still in place it all felt very adventurous but at least I’d be able to bail out easily if things got too crowded. It was a touch warmer than I’d expected, so I was glad to reach the Millers Pond pub and the shade of the trees on the other side of the road. As a bonus, the trail was completely empty.
Dappled shade and glimpses of water through the trees is good for the soul. I meandered my way along the trail to the main path and unobstructed views of the cool, green water. There are benches along the banks of the pond. I sat for a while enjoying the view and wondering where all the ducks had gone. Usually the pond is teeming with them.
The sounds of quacking to my right eventually got me to my feet and a little further on I found where some of the ducks had been hiding. This was when I discovered I’d acquired a friend, a small black poodle, at least I think he was a poodle. He seemed very pleased to see me, and as I moved away from the water, he began to follow me. I looked around but there were no humans in sight. It all felt very bizarre, especially as a small black poodle who looked as if he was wearing a Russian hat played a part in the tale I’d been editing for the last few weeks. There was a moment or two when I began to wonder if he’d leapt out of the pages of my book.
Obviously, dogs don’t materialise out of nowhere. They certainly can’t appear just because you write about them either, but he was so much like the dog in my book that I began to doubt my sanity. It was a great relief when a lady with a small white dog appeared and he ran to her. Perhaps he was some kind of an omen. Then again, maybe I did conjure him up.
Once I was sure my imaginary poodle wasn’t going to come back I carried on with my walk. My plan was to walk the perimeter of the pond and then head up towards a church CJ and I had spotted when we were looking for the Titanic houses of Sholing. We hadn’t had time to explore that day but some of the graves looked interesting.
So, I carried on along the trail beside the pond, still half thinking about the poodle, my book and the work I still had to do. The meeting with the poodle was so surreal I even began to wonder if I was going to bump into any of the other characters I’d created along the way.
Walking up the hill towards the church I felt caught between two worlds, the real one in front of my eyes and the hundred year old fictional one whirring around in my head. Had a group of Great War soldiers, or a bread van pulled by a horse passed me by, I doubt I’d have been surprised. Sadly, my chance to wander around looking at the church and the intriguing graves was scuppered by something that looked very much like a wedding about to take place. Given all the COVID restrictions around weddings, I didn’t think they’d want a strange, scruffy looking woman adding to their numbers. A proper look at St Mary’s Church in Sholing would have to wait for another day.
Disappointed, I carried on along St Monica Road. I could have simply turned left onto South East Road and walked down the hill towards my old school then turned right again towards home but there was one more bit of greenery I wanted to see along the way so I scooted down North East Road and navigated the side streets instead.
It was in the summer of 2016 that I first discovered Sholing Henge. Of course, it isn’t really called that. As far as I can tell, it isn’t called anything at all. It’s simply a cut way across a strip of greenery that runs roughly parallel with Shoreburs Greenway between Millers Pond and Bursledon Road. On one side there is a short trail leading towards South East Road, on the other, fenced off fields and allotments.
The cut way leads down steep steps to the bottom of a valley. At the bottom there is a trickle of a stream. Like the cut way and the valley, it doesn’t appear to have a name. Sometimes there is a horse in the field behind the fence but there was no sign of him that day. Perhaps he was off somewhere pulling a bread van?
The reason I have dubbed this place Sholing Henge was off to the left of the trail, just above the bottom of the valley. In a small clearing there are a ring of wooden figures. They look as if they were made from fallen trees and they have been carved into vaguely human forms, like a coven of witches gathered to perform some ancient rite or a ring of standing stones. Who made them, why and what they really represent is a mystery, but I like them.
By this time I was a touch overheated and annoyed that I hadn’t thought to bring any water with me. I plodded up the second set of steep steps to the top of the valley panting a little and cursing my stupidity. Close to the top I found the place where the trail begins. I thought about exploring it, but, as it led back the way I’d just come, I decided to leave it for another time.
The best I could manage before I turned for home was a quick detour to look at the two wooden figures I’d spotted at the edge of the road. Why they are separated from all the others is as much a mystery as what any of them mean. These kinds of puzzles are what good stories are made of and this walk had been all about the line between truth and fiction so finding them seemed quite fitting.
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