PORLOCK: SOMERSET SERENDIPITY
BY: RAJBIR DESWAL & CHANDER KOUMDI

We started from London early to avoid the morning rush. A couple of hours drive took us to the most scenic slopes in multiple hues. Initially we had planned to visit the three most beautiful counties of South England, Somerset, Devon and Dorset. But information collected from a Tourist Centre on the way, changed our mind and the desire zeroed down to be in an English village which should be close to sea.

We passed by many big and small towns before we finally settled for Porlock—a tiny hamlet boasting of beaches, cliffs and antiquity that was visible on houses, churches, market place, lanes and farm houses. Yes, this was the selfsame village, Porlock, from where had travelled the mysterious man, who shook Samuel Taylor Coleridge off his opium induced reverie, while staying on a farm house and composing his famous poem ‘Kubla Khan’. The ‘person from Porlock’ is said to have distracted the legendary poet who could not complete his work.

Before checking in a hotel close to the famous Porlock Weir, we had a good one hour drive through the little village, and to-and-from seeable places, to have a feel of the place we had been pining. When it was confirmed that our stay would be quiet, yet very exciting, then only we downed our anchors, as close to the shore, as might invite the tides to spray showers, through the windows of our room. Yes, there was only a road-wide distance between us and the boats, lilting with a lullaby, lying in shallow waters on the mouth of the weir. Porlock is one metre below the mean sea level but is separated by private fields.

The renowned Exmoor National Park, which has plants that grow nowhere else, has Porlock at one end of the ten miles long, most extensive broadleaved coastal woods, in Britain. The Anglo-Saxon kings might have had a hunting lodge here. The jutting cliff at Porlock is the steepest and has vast sloping stretches which are awe inspiring yet very attractive and inviting.

From the high-rise land, one can see the Caravan Camping site slightly away from habitation, which can be reached through a meandering lane which is heavily hedged with green stuff. There are hotels and restaurants having a unique inner décor reminder of the times gone by. The facades of the buildings speak volumes of their typically oriental looks that are still intact, and fascinating too.

While sipping coffee in the restaurant, you can hear the trots of the horses, and look out to confirm they are there, in the middle of the road, outside. There is a riders’ school here. Medley structures with thatched roofs, some pretty and others far from it, abound around, be they dwellings, churches or others.

In the late 15th century, Porlock had a lepers colony where about fifty of them were banished. Stories are still rife about the priests, who did service here. After the death of the last leper in early 16th century, the village had none to visit it, for nearly a hundred years, till in the 17th century when the smugglers moved into the lepers colony with their loot and booty.

Uphill at Culbone, reached through steep path from Porlock Weir, is the smallest Parish Church of England with a seating capacity of just 35. Up above from here is Ash Farm where Coleridge is said to have written his ‘Kubla Khan’. The place has now devolved into a ‘Bed & Breakfast’. Porlock has an old Methodists church besides the one with a truncated spire dating back to 13th century.

The place is not at all different from the rest of the South, where people are traditional and ‘do not like to be disturbed’. There is a typically English environment all around. It does not hurt others to the extent of discomfiture, yet it is there. You need to follows dyed in wool English ways and any departure is sure to invite being noticed, if not notified. But then it goes with every other place on earth which seeks to maintain its rhythm.

The evenings are very well lit particularly at the Porlock Weir and provide the best light for photography. Every leaf and grass blade is literally bathed in sunshine. So are the pebbles, well lit, and lying in abundance, as if pearls are strewn all around. The Sun goes down but as if not in a hurry.
The silent Bristol Sea impresses with its dark blue-green resolution. And suddenly you hear a big, fat cat meowing, followed by another, right in the middle of the road, as if announcing and indicating there isn’t going to be any traffic till 10 am the next morning. Mind you it is only 7 pm by your watch. You are all by yourself throughout the night.

We were already in the embrace of an engulfing but pleasurable quietitude. We decided to stay on the beach itself when we met a couple here, who came to Porlock for their honeymoon twenty-nine years back. “We have visited Porlock four times since then!” says the wife with an honest blush on her face and her hubby chiming in, in affirmation, soon after. It is said that there is nothing, yet enough to do, in Porlock.