“I want to stay somewhere nice!” Sarah had insisted.
The place we had rented for our trip Harriston could only have been described as ‘functional’ if one were being brutally honest. If one was being creative, it could also have been described as ‘cosy’, if cosy meant that we had a room that kept us slightly warm and mostly away from Cumbrian snow.
I’m pretty sure I must have pulled a face when Sarah had insisted on staying somewhere ‘nice’; I worried that staying in a village that was in a slightly different area to the one we were visiting would be breaking our own self-imposed rules.
“I’ve looked; I can’t see anywhere to stay in Idmiston. There isn’t anywhere.”
I remember having a quick look online, and I couldn’t find anywhere either, but I did find some pubs that provided B&B accommodation, some small hotels in Salisbury, and a Premier Inn that was situated just off the A30.
“It could be like a mini-break!” insisted Sarah.
It didn’t take much for me to relent; to give up control of the choosing and booking of accommodation for our trip to Idmiston. There was, I told myself, something to be said for a nice good night’s sleep in a place that was nice and pleasant, nice and comfy, in a nice location.
Our meal at The George could have been described as nice too; the waitress was attentive, the food was nice, and there was a nice family in the restaurant area enjoying a nice meal together. The soap in the gents was also nice; a luxury brand that was said to smell of Espresso and Martini.
We found ourselves chatting about where we had just travelled from; about changes that were taking place in our local community: the building of a new block of flats and the opening of a new ‘micro pub’. I told Sarah that I had been in touch with the manager of a new three-screen cinema that was going to be opening in a disused part of a shopping centre that was a ten minute walk away from where we lived. I wanted to explore a vague idea of whether it was possible to run a comedy event there.
“Is that what happens? We travel all the way to all these places and then talk about where we’re living at the moment?” said Sarah. It was an interesting point.
It took a further half an hour of driving to arrive at our destination, which turned out to be as nice as expected. There was a TV, tea and coffee making facilities, hot water, and no evidence of any spiders. When everything was turned off, there was silence. There were no drunken voices, no police sirens, and no hiss of tyres or sound of engines.
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We had plans to do some exploring and walking the following morning, but this plan had to be curtailed.
“I think I’ve got the plague” said Sarah.
She had succumbed to a heavy cold overnight and was confined to bed. Leaving Sarah to recover, I donned walking boots, a waterproof jacket and explored parts of an area known as the Chalke Valley.
This was my first proper visit to Wiltshire. I had visited twenty years earlier, which involved a touristy trip to Stonehenge. I have a distant memory of parking, a cloudy sky and a drive back to somewhere, possibly London, but maybe Brighton, in a car that was the same age that I was. I have another memory of that trip, but not one that involved Wiltshire; a visit to the nearby cathedral city of Winchester, situated in nearby Hampshire.
Holding a map I had borrowed from our accommodation, I plotted a path across a stream and onto a narrow farm track. After picking up a bit of pace, it wasn’t too long until I started to notice a disproportionate number of large thatched cottages, which seemed to be an architectural feature of the area.
I crossed the stream again, which I realised was actually a river. I continued to follow a narrow track which led to a church that dated back to the 12th century. I have a generally ambivalent attitude towards churches or other buildings that are associated with collective worship. I find them to be mildly baffling curiosities; a physical manifestation of history and place, and distant symbols of control and power that I don’t fully understand or appreciate.
I crossed the path of the track and found a footpath that made its way past a farm. Five minutes of walking took me to an eerie expanse of open land that was marked on my map; the foundations of a ghost village that had been laid to waste due to the plague. There was a comment about the burning of houses and the shifting of the village to a new location. For some reason, I thought I would see something, some evidence of human habitation, but I saw nothing; just an open expanse of land; evidence of earth works that offered a distant suggestion of foundations.
The footpath took me across some fields filled with cows, and back into the main part of the village where we were staying. I passed dog walkers, and thatched cottages, and then onto a track that looped back to our accommodation.
Whilst Sarah recovered, I managed to find an online community or group called the “Porton, Idmiston and Gomeldon Forum” and made a short post explaining what I was doing (going through the alphabet, and visiting places randomly) to ask if it would be possible to speak with someone.
The first reply was from somebody called Simon who had written: “Keep going, and when you reach Dover get a fast boat across the water and join your EU mates.”
Simon had clearly seen my profile picture, which implied that I held a certain view about the political relationship between United Kingdom and the European Union.
To be honest, I had forgotten that I had changed my profile picture. I checked out Simon’s social media profile, and quickly realised that Simon and I were, quite possibly, very different people.
After having a restorative cup of tea, and a nice read of The Guardian, I received a further couple of messages. One message was from someone wanting to receive a fridge magnet from wherever my “EU mates” lived, and another was from someone called Kathy.
Not only were we going to visit Idmiston, we were also going to meet Kathy and Alan, who had lived in the village for three years.
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“That’s the River Bourne, which eventually goes all the way to Bournemouth” I noticed a tiny, barely flowing stream by the side of the road that runs through the heart of the village of Idmiston. Alan told us that during the Second World War, some Portuguese workers from the nearby Porton Down military complex built the wall that protects the road, and parts of the village from floods.
One of the features of Idmiston is that it serves as a staff entrance for a military site that I feel I had always heard about, but never really knew where it was. Porton Down is the headquarters for the Defence Science and Technology Laboratory (DSTL) and another organisation called Public Heath England (PHE). The DSTL website says that it is responsible for providing “specialist science and technology services” for the government, provides expert advice and monitors national security risks. The PHE website offers a fluffier and less cryptic summary: “we exist to protect and improve the nation’s health and wellbeing, and reduce health inequalities”.
I knew a little bit about Porton Down from two TV documentaries, and a couple of news stories.
“One of my hobbies is, I think, watching television!” I confessed to Kathy.
The first documentary I remember was about how the site was dealing with the legacy of chemical weapons that had been manufactured during the First World War. I have a memory of mustard gas shells being transferred into some kind of hut, and the shells being opened by a remote controlled saw, and its contents being incinerated. I remember scenes which featured men in chemical protection suits and being surprised at how long it would take to safely dispose of all the stockpiles.
The second documentary I remember had a slightly different tone to it, but one that was a little more unnerving. It was a documentary about chemical weapons – in particular, nerve agents. If I remember rightly, the documentary covered a broad history of the subject, from their origins and use, to the present day. The present day section featured a scene from Porton Down, where a scientist was reportedly synthesizing a very small amount of a deadly nerve agent called VX.
I found this part of the film unsettling because it seemed to present a paradox; I couldn’t help but feel that the scientist seemed to really enjoy his work. There is, of course, another paradox that I understood: the capacity to detect and to protect against weapons means there is the need to have the capacity to fully understand and manipulate them.
“I think the site also works with bacterial agents too”, I continued, no doubt impressing Sarah with my documentary informed romantic chit-chat.
During our drive to Wiltshire, I had chatted about what little I knew about the genetics of the Smallpox virus (of which I know next to nothing about) and the ethical dilemmas that accompany its destruction, and hypothesised, without any sense of understanding, that Porton Down might hold strains of Bubonic Plague.
As we walked, crossing the tiny River Bourne, we passed pretty thatched cottages, Victorian looking houses, and neat bungalows. We were led to the grounds of the All Saint’s church, situated on a junction that led to the adjoining village of Porton. Kathy told us that she was one of the people in the village who had the duty of locking and unlocking the church.
Kathy led us inside. Although the church is open for visitors, it wasn’t used regularly, but there were signs of relatively recent activity: there were some papers on a desk close to the entrance, and hymn numbers were showing. I was drawn to the stained glass window at the back of the church which depicted familiar scenes; Mary with a child, a shepherd holding a crook. Scenes presented in different shades of green, bold reds and pinks; items of clothing shone in sharp yellow. Some parts had been repaired with clear glass, leaving the viewer to imagine the rest of the scene.
As I wandered, looking at the different coloured stone that made up the internal structural arches, Alan mentioned an interesting link to literature. A vicar of Idmiston called John Bowle, edited an annotated edition of Miguel de Cervantes’ novel, Don Quixote that was published in 1781. According to the Dictionary of National Biography, Bowle was an Oxford educated scholar who was understood to be “well acquainted with French, Spanish, and Italian”.
Interestingly, Bowle’s edition Don Quixote was published entirely in Spanish, and wasn’t at all well received by his “EU mates”.
An account of Bowle’s accompanying reaction, written by a researcher and academic Ralph Cox paints an interesting picture. He wrote a series of angry letters to a publication known as the “Gentleman’s Magazine”, singling out Giuseppi Barette, an important literary critic of the time.
Bowle doesn’t hold back. In one letter to the Magazine, he calls his nemesis a “sly, petulant, impudent, a slanderer and flatterer, a bully and poltroon, dissolute, fool”. He then concludes by saying that Berette is “adorned with every abominable endowment”. In his article Cox is reflective about Bowle’s contribution. Even through Cox describes his work as “an interesting pot-pourri of facts” about Cervantes and Don Quixote, he is also clear that “the development of truly modern Cervantean investigations” began with Bowle.
Outside, Kathy pointed out a house that was known as The Rectory, where presumably Bowle had once penned his very angry letters and done a lot of swearing in Spanish.
We continued our tour by walking up Church Road until we met a railway arch that was guarded by a set of traffic lights. We were at the entrance of the Porton Down complex. We could go no further, and could do nothing more than imagine what might be inside the military gates that were, without a doubt, monitored by security cameras.
There was one further more part to our visit; Alan led us to a small road just to the right of the main entrance, and we started to climb a steep hill. During a short five minute walk we passed a series of well-maintained residential park homes, and arrived at a summit. It is a cliché to say that hills rolled, but these did. Wheat had been recently cut, and looking out in the distance, I tried to locate the church, but it seemed to be hidden by trees. Looking out, I could understand aspects of the geography; I recognised a gentle valley, and pictured the River Bourne below.
Kathy and Alan like Idmiston, and I could see why. It was quiet, except for in the morning rush hour when the Porton Down workers drive through Idmiston. It was picturesque and there were things going on. Alan gave a list of activities: there were exhibitions, walks, social events at the church, and some theatrical performances.
One of the reasons why they moved to the area was its proximity to Salisbury, which provides nights out, gigs, shops, and everything else that a large city has to offer. Idmiston isn’t too far from main roads, giving quick and easy access to other places. I remember comments about day trips to the coast, and easy visits to family members.
I really liked Kathy and Alan. On this random journey, I was again struck by the generosity, and trust, of strangers. Despite only meeting them for a couple of hours, I felt as if I had known them for a lot longer. We had things in common; Kathy had many years of experience of working in education, and Alan had worked in IT. Their friendliness and welcome had overwhelmed a mild feeling of unsettlement which accompanied the virtual welcome that Simon had offered me.
Later on in the day, I checked my phone. Simon had deleted his comment. It was almost as if it had never existed.
