WILDER'S FOLLY

I went on a long walk today: a ramble, if you will. Ramble. I quite like the word. It carries a sense of lazy meandering on a summer afternoon, windswept grasses on a sun-kissed ridge, shady woods, backpacks and sturdy walking boots. I suspect I think this because it contains the word 'amble' and that's a type of walking with an air of aimless wonder. I reckon I subconsciously thought of a ramble as a kind of amble-extra, a super-amble that you can only take on with a walking pole and a mac.

Certainly, my book of 24 Classic Berkshire Rambles was promising me a gentle stroll in the countryside. In the summer perhaps, the little yellow book with its cheery instructions would have been less deceitful. Take the well marked path (indiscernable chain of puddles and thick mud) along the hedge (brambles, twisted branches and nettles) until you come to the style (rotting deathtrap) at the top of the field (cowpat minefield).

Just as you can add a simple R to a happy little amble to make it a ramble, you can also carry on prefixing and stick on an S and a C. For a scramble, much as I found today, is no simple trek across the fields - it's more like a kind of extreme sport in the mud where it's a small victory if you return with both of your shoes.

It was fun though. I slipped down woody paths, grabbed hold of mossy tree-branches, sank my freezing feet into puddles, forded a small torrent that's normally a stream, got myself wedged in some brambles, climbed a tree, squelched through leafy, slimy woodland and strode across fields in the pouring rain. It's a great way to feel alive.

In addition, I also visited the lonely brick-built tower known as Wilder's Folly. Since my university days, when I accidentally discovered Sham Castle, I've always had a bit of a thing for follies. I like their oddness - stuck out alone in a place that makes them look ridiculous. I have a sympathy for that kind of thing.

Wilder's Folly is a small round tower, originally castellated with arched windows (now bricked up) on the first floor. It sticks up like a pepperpot on the ridge of a hill and it's visible from miles around. It's been used as a dovecote and apparently, pigeons still nest in its ruined roof. It's not much to speak of, but you do get the feeling that it might have meant something once, to someone.

And indeed it did. The story goes that Wilder, a young reverend from the village about a mile away, built it as a token of his love for Joan, a girl from the next village. She could see the tower and be reminded of him; he, from his prayers and studies at Sulham House, could look up and be reminded of her. It was a point of connection (and perhaps of rendezvous) that simply reminded them both of each other. It was then, a primitive PDA - after all, everyone else could see it too.

I stopped by Wilder's Folly today and thought about the fact that their public display of affection had long outlived both of them: Henry and the girl he eventually married. I peered through the arch at the white house in the trees. I turned and looked the other way to see Theale, clustering around the parish church. I was perfectly positioned at the convergence of an eighteenth century romance.

It seems odd to call it a folly, when it represents something so permanent. In this age of social networking, of mobile phones and photographs and all the rest of it, it's much easier to forge those little points of connection without calculating lines of sight and building a memento. We have our own ways to remind ourselves of the other person and how love holds us together across the valley. We can't all build a tower, but we can make little follies of our own I suppose.

Well, that's if you have somebody to build it for! I smiled and picked up my trail through the muddy field. I do enjoy a scramble.