A Mendip Adventure: Walking Through Stories Written in Stone

They began at Black Rock, a hidden corner of the Mendips that appeared almost reluctant to be found. The small parking area sat quietly beneath the limestone hills, barely acknowledged by maps and seemingly content with its obscurity. The silent hot-air balloon extravaganza had filled the sky moments before they met. Earlier that morning, dozens of balloons had drifted overhead, turning the dawn into a moving gallery of colour. One may discover Roman history, forgotten mines and hidden churches, yet somehow still arrive too late for the balloon spectacle.

Black Rock immediately prompted a question. Could it serve as a future overnight camp? A handful of campers were already emerging from tents, making coffee and preparing to depart. The thought lingered as they set off. It seemed precisely the sort of place from which adventures ought to begin.

Their route led first towards Charterhouse.

At first glance it appeared little more than a scattering of structures  resting quietly amongst the hills. Yet the longer they lingered, the stranger the landscape became. Nothing sat quite where one expected it to. The ground folded and dipped in curious ways, as though some giant hand had crumpled the earth and forgotten to smooth it flat again. Every hollow seemed to conceal a story. Every rise invited investigation. Cameras emerged. Curiosity took charge. She paused amongst the strange contours of the landscape, trying to imagine the generations of miners who had once worked here. Standing above Velvet Bottom, she realised this was not a landscape one simply walked through. It demanded interpretation.

The folds and scars of the ground were not natural quirks but the accumulated fingerprints of nearly two thousand years of industry. Romans searched here for lead. Medieval miners followed. Georgian and Victorian workers continued the hunt. Generations arrived, dug, smelted, sorted, hauled and departed, leaving behind a landscape that still carries their signature. The Mendips do not advertise their history. They hide it.  One must learn to read the clues.

Around Velvet Bottom and Ubley Warren the land rises and dips unexpectedly, scarred by centuries of digging. Locals call this uneven terrain "gruffy" ground, a wonderfully descriptive term that fits the landscape perfectly. Here and there lie the remains of old workings: long mineral veins known as rakes, dark heaps of glassy slag, circular stone-lined buddles where ore was washed, and traces of smelting plants, flues, dams and leats that once formed part of a busy industrial world.

Now nature has softened much of it. Grass and wildflowers spill across old workings. Birds sing where hammers once rang. The machinery has vanished, yet the shape of the land still tells the story.  Hidden amongst the vegetation are old mine shafts, reminders that this peaceful landscape was once a place of industry, danger and determination. They lend the hills an air of mystery too, as though the Mendips are still guarding some of their secrets.

The miners were searching for galena, the lead ore that drew them here. Much of the path glittered in the sunlight as though scattered with fragments of crushed glass. It was slag, the by-product of centuries of lead smelting. Once molten, it had cooled into heavy black glass-like stone.  The effect was enchanting. Velvet Bottom seemed determined to shine.

She picked up a fragment of the black mirror stone, as she privately named it, and turned it in the sunlight. It gleamed like polished jet against the backdrop of wildflowers and grass. Somewhere within that fragment lay the story of furnaces, smoke, labour and lives long vanished. The quest for lead had shaped generations. Even now it continued to catch the light.

As the expedition continued, the meadows unfolded like a series of paintings. Greens merged into silver. Purple flowers competed with splashes of crimson and yellow. Butterflies crossed the path in abundance, including small brown specimens that flashed unexpected electric-blue when sunlight struck their wings.

Long Wood provided welcome shade as the morning advanced. Ancient woodland alternated with open views. Gate followed gate. Every rise revealed another horizon.  One particular stretch of path appeared to be governed entirely by biting insects who regarded passing walkers as a valuable natural resource. The attack lasted only a few minutes, but by evening nine bites had been officially recorded. The flies could only regard the encounter as a considerable success.

The heat continued to build.  The map may have described the route as gently undulating. Certain hills, however, appeared to possess rather more ambition than that. Then came the tree. Not a forest. Not even a copse. Simply a solitary tree standing beside a stone stile with the quiet confidence of something that knew exactly how useful it was.  On a cool spring day it might have passed with little comment. On a day approaching thirty degrees, however, it achieved near-mythical status.  Lunch was declared.

Beneath its branches they unpacked sandwiches and settled gratefully into shade. Before them Somerset spread out like an enormous relief map. Brent Knoll stood proud upon the Levels. Beyond it, the Severn Estuary shimmered beneath the afternoon sun. Glastonbury Tor rose unmistakably from the distant landscape, while fields stitched together a patchwork of greens stretching towards every horizon.The explorers lingered. Who had sat beneath this same tree a hundred years earlier? Quarrymen? Farmers? Miners? Other wanderers escaping the heat?

The tree, unfortunately, declined to answer.

A family arrived carrying remarkably little water for such a hot day. Strawberries were shared, along with shade and conversation. For a brief while strangers became companions before continuing in opposite directions.  There seemed something pleasingly old-fashioned about that.

Eventually the route joined the Mendip Way and turned towards Cheddar Gorge.  This would be a first encounter for both of them. That felt strangely surprising. Cheddar Gorge is one of Britain's most celebrated landscapes, yet somehow their paths had never crossed before.

The first sight arrived almost without warning. One moment they were crossing open Mendip grassland. The next, the land simply seemed to fall away.  Immense limestone cliffs rose in pale walls. Shadows gathered in crevices. Tiny figures stood near the edge, reduced to the scale of chess pieces against the vastness of the rock.

It was one of those views that briefly rearranges perspective.  Human concerns shrink. Geological time takes over.  It is difficult to stand above Cheddar Gorge and think in centuries. Millions of years seem more appropriate.

Birds crossed from cliff to cliff beneath them, disappearing into cracks and ledges within the rock. It might have become a moment of perfect meditation had it not been for the endless procession of enthusiastically modified engines echoing along the winding road below. The gorge itself remained magnificent. The soundtrack occasionally suggested a racing circuit. Some landscapes demand movement. Others demand silence.Cheddar Gorge demanded both.

They descended through woodland towards Black Rock Quarry. Here the ancient foundations of the Mendips revealed themselves. Towering rock faces displayed layers formed beneath tropical seas hundreds of millions of years ago. The quarry prompted another question. How many landscapes had existed here before this one?  How many forests, oceans, rivers and mountains had come and gone while the rocks quietly endured?  Nature, it seemed, had been reinventing this place for an extraordinarily long time.

The day's final discovery awaited at St Hugh's Church.  From the outside it appeared modest enough. Inside, however, lay another chapter of the Mendips' story.  Before becoming a church, the building had served as a welfare hall for local miners. The old fireplace remained. Traces of its former life lingered throughout the building.

It was impossible not to wonder about the men who once gathered there. Did they sit beside the fire discussing the day's work? Did they complain about aching backs and difficult supervisors? Did they speculate about tomorrow's weather? Did they know that one day walkers would arrive from distant places and spend part of an afternoon wondering about them?

If the miners of Charterhouse could have seen the place today, they might have been astonished to discover visitors carefully photographing slag heaps and old workings that they themselves regarded as little more than everyday surroundings. The hall eventually became a church, giving Charterhouse a place of worship where none had existed for generations. Beyond that lay an even older story connected to the Carthusian monks of St Bruno, whose influence helped give Charterhouse its name centuries ago.

The temperature was still hovering at thirty degrees.

When tea and cake were offered, acceptance was immediate. Indeed, the offer was received with the enthusiasm normally associated with explorers discovering an oasis after crossing a desert.

Time slowed.

The old miners' hall, the church, the valley, the ancient workings and the surrounding hills seemed somehow connected. Outside, butterflies drifted above landscapes shaped by Romans, monks, miners and travellers.

The workers have gone.

The furnaces are cold.

The machinery has fallen silent.

Yet the hills remember.

As they finally made their way back towards Black Rock, the little parking area looked much as it had that morning. Cars came and went. Campers packed away equipment. The limestone hills sat quietly beneath the evening sun. Yet the place felt different now.

Our explorers had arrived expecting a nine-mile walk. Instead they had wandered through Roman Britain, medieval monastic history, the industrial age and deep geological time.  Not bad for a Saturday in Somerset. Black Rock had proved itself worthy of future adventures. The question was no longer whether they would return. The question was what other stories the Mendips were still keeping to themselves.