The Mists of Cadbury Castle

What little I knew of Somerset mostly came from a single source. It concerned the village of South Cadbury, a most wonderful place, I had been told. Having a few hours to kill I recently checked on the quality of my information; 40 years after hearing it.

The village wasn’t hard to find despite a very authentic arthurian mist. It was there, roughly where the map had predicted. It was small, a one pub village, as expected. It was a bit too tidy and well groomed to meet with my pre-conceptions of thrifty wurzels but that hardly registered as I entered the village hostelry.

This was as smart and modern inside as it was outside. I asked for food and drink and was served. My request for information on James Stockton met with a blank look. The barmaid told me in a London accent that there was information on local history on the walls. There was indeed; the Romans had massacred the Celts before Arthur came to the rescue. I explained that I sought information on a more recent historical figure who had been King Arthur’s next door neighbour when I was but a lad. There was a distinct cooling of the ambiance.

About an hour passed during which I heard no trace of the kind of Somerset accent that The Wurzels had sung in when we listened to Champion Dung Spreader less than a lifetime ago. Curiosity about my motorcycle prompted one ‘local’ to speak to me. He confirmed, in a London accent, what I had already worked out. As he put it: “The whole of Somerset has been turned into a theme park for people from London with money.”

I was far too polite to say that I had never met anyone from London who wasn’t deep in debt. I had the feeling that some terrible events must have overtaken the firmly rooted love that James Stockton had for his village.

Was there a night in the youth of the hostile barmaid when she blacked up her face and listened to a pompous Oxford voice ? “Now men and women of the 66^th Babylon Mortgage Holders, these communist wurzels don’t have a credit rating between them. They are trying to monopolise identity, thus causing the Greater Brengland Identity Crisis. I want you to go up that hill and deal with Stockton and his renegades. If you do a good job I’ll personally see to it that every one of you gets enough credit for a four wheel drive.” A collective sigh of longing; razor sharp credit cards in hand; they marched out into the early morning mist …

Were the few survivors quietly loaded on an early morning flight that never happened? Destined to endless opportunities to serve the United Fruit & Drug Company?
Did a phone ring at the bedside of one of Her Most Imperial Secret Scum? “Somerset is secured for some serious money-lending; Sir!” 

What really happened to the village I knew so much and nothing at all about? According to James Stockton, or maybe it was Tolkien, in the time of our greatest need King Arthur will return and sort out the imperialists.

It could be any day now!

Louis Mair

October 2007