Walking to Camelot Read Online Free PDF Page B

its progeny — where the great man observed the proverbial apple drop.
    Speaking of Isaac Newton, the National Trust has recently begun a program called “Making the Countryside Real,” intended to teach city children about rural life, and Wools­thorpe Manor, Newton’s home, is the scene for the first field trip — a neat way to combine history with the flavour of the countryside. Polls indicate that urban schoolchildren harbour fears of rural areas.
    We stop to catch our breath in the charming stone village of Greatford. It is here that, in 1788, Dr. Francis Willis temporarily “cured” King George III of his madness, in a private asylum he operated at Greatford Hall. Today we might call the king’s ailment a severe psychiatric disorder, whereas George just told Dr. Willis, “I am nervous; I am not ill, but I am nervous.”
    The king was required to undergo the same regimen of fresh air and physical labour assigned to other patients, and so he toiled in the fields, anonymous but set apart from other patients. Upon being cured, the king rewarded Dr. Willis with a pension of one thousand pounds a year for twenty-one years. In 1801, the king suffered a relapse and returned to Greatford for further treatment. After a third and final relapse in 1810, he remained completely mad until his death in 1820.
    None of which stopped Dr. Willis from becoming so well known as a psychiatrist that many other wealthy aristocrats travelled to Greatford Hall for treatment. Villagers were amused by the curious sight of these patients working in the fields clad in black coats and wearing powdered wigs, for Dr. Willis believed hard physical labour was vital to the treatment process. Little did they know that one of these labourers was their sovereign.
    â€œIt’s too bad the good doctor was about thirteen years too late with the cure,” I muse. “Then perhaps the American Revolution would have been averted.”
    â€œIf I had just lost the American colonies to a bunch of backwoodsmen, I think I would have developed a chronic nervous condition too, John.”
    We trudge through fields laced with shoulder-high rapeseed plants, immersing ourselves in sopping yellow stalks that coat our hair and clothes with yellow, sticky powder. A light rain adds to the clammy experience. The path through the fields has turned into gumbo.
    â€œNot exactly
Field of Dreams
today, Karl.”
    â€œCome on, John, it would look just grand on a sunny day.”
    We finally exit the field, climb over a stile, hit a brief section of tarmac, and abruptly leave the road to enter a lovely green lane about six miles north of the market town of Stamford. Green lanes are ancient drover roads that farmers used for centuries to drive cattle and sheep from Scotland and northern England to the pasturage of the Midlands and then on to London for consumption. The remnants of these roads make for some of the loveliest walking in Britain.
    This lane runs along the Lincolnshire–Rutland border. It is dark, with lush growth and high hedgerows — and holds a morbid surprise. About a hundred yards along, I spot a bright object lying in the verge, and stop to investigate. To my shock, I find a pair of red high-heeled shoes beside a heap of fancy clothes — in fact, a complete female wardrobe: a new and expensive-looking pink silk blouse, black skirt, pantyhose, bra, the works. But where’s the body? Nobody just randomly dumps a complete set of designer clothes in a dark lane. Gingerly, I reach out with my walking stick and raise the label on the blouse.
    Etched in ink on the underside of the label is a phone number, and then this:
    Raped me in back of cab
Help! Tiffany.
    Karl and I stand stunned.
    â€œMy God!” Karl exclaims.
    â€œWe have to report this right away to the police, Karl. Stamford is the closest town.”
    Karl nods and we set out, but we also carefully examine the east side of the lane near