High plains drifter.
The trudge to the bus station is a little damp this morning. This is how I feel – 
But the rain stops before I alight from the bus at Manningford Bonhue. I know the start from yesterday and don’t miss the path leaving Wick Lane this time. It is a strange start through an industrial site, part of the Manningford estate. The way is diverted well away from the manor house itself. I seem to be sharing my route with PAT – the Pewsey and Avon Trail, their waymarks come in handy. 
Soon I am beside the River Avon, just a stream at this stage. It will be my companion for much of the way from now on. This Avon has nothing to do with Shakespeare or Bristol, I never realised this one eventually enters the sea at Bournemouth, despite having worked down there for some time.
A trout farm diverting the waters. 
St. James church, dating back to the C13th, has a large yew growing alongside it. 
Farther on this is the most amazing hedge I’ve ever seen –
After the inn, I follow the river downstream, but most of the time it is hidden away in the vegetation. 
When I cross it again into the little village of Upavon, it seems to have doubled in size. 
Thatched cottages start appearing more often. One in the village is having its ridge repaired.
The shop provides me with a morning coffee whilst I watch the village squirrel picking up morsels and then darting across the overhead wires. The day disappears quickly and I have only walked a couple of miles. 
Before I leave the village I spot yet another Sarsen Stone – this one commemorating some jubilee or other. 
The route goes up onto Salisbury Plain, and I have in my mind only to follow it if the tops are clear. it doesn’t look that interesting. The tops are visible so I have to start the climb, which is all on the tarmac. Workers are digging a pit for pipelines, and all is white chalk. Photo opportunity missed there.
Higher, I’m looking down into a valley where a driven partridge shoot is taking place. Guns are becoming part of this holiday. I chat to a farmer who normally beats for the shoots hereabouts but is having a year off recovering from a shoulder operation. Thousands of partridges are bred each year. The customers today are scrap metal merchants, of all people, from the Thames Valley. They pay about £40 for each bird shot. My man is joining them for lunch and some heavy whisky drinking. Not my idea of a day’s fun. He excuses the slaughter by saying the victims are not native birds but red-legged ones from France. Time to move on. 
I reach the edge of the military’s training ground. The red flag is flying, but my way skirts the danger zone. 
The road cuts through the ancient Casterley Camp, an Iron Age fort. 
The views are extensive but mainly featureless, Salisbury Plain stretches a long way. 
I don’t feel easy up here. usually revelling in wide open spaces, and I’m glad to descend away from the range. Is it the background shooting disturbing me?
A bonus on the way down is a clear view of a nearby tumulus. Man has been coming this way for centuries. 
Confusion comes into play at Compton, no idea what is going on here and I can’t find my way.
Thankfully I am now back in the Avon Valley at Enford with its picturesque cottages to save the day.
The last mile is through fields to suddenly emerge into Netheravon 5 minutes after a bus has departed. I’m left with over an hour until the next. The little café is closed despite saying it is open and there are no free samples at the brewery. 
I have time to walk to the church whose origins go back to Saxon times. The tower is the oldest part and is the most prominent feature. The massive arched doorway is closed, but I gain entry around the corner. Inside the church is plainly featured with the tall arches of the tower dominant.
The next bus arrives, and I doze my way back to Swindon. The mural that catches my eye is one by Martin Travers of the South American native environmentalist Nemonte Nenquimo.
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