The Langport Arms is a quirky place. More Bar than Restaurant and more hotel than bar.

I stayed in room 11, which was in an out building across the courtyard/beer garden from the main residence, not because it was busy, I’m fairly sure there were fewer than 5 rooms occupied, but perhaps because of Tess and so they gave me a disabled access room, notably having a wet room shower, which did prove useful for giving Tess a partial clean.

Breakfast was served at 8am, and I arrived and there were two local gentlemen already present about to tuck in. I couldn’t tell if they lived in the Langport, or were just coming to breakfast. But thought it a little rude to ask.

The more talkative of the two was a quintessential Somerset gent, with a cracking local accent and equally flamboyant floral shirt. He was keen on telling me all about the local area its history and took great pride in his heritage.

Like the table of three with whom I was chatting to last night in the Black Swan, visiting Glastonbury Tor was recommended to me, so very up for a challenge I decided to modify my route, and quadruple the ascent, to go via the highest point in Somerset for quite a distance.

We set off just after 0930 and after a mile or so of walking through the neighboring town artfully named Huish Episcopi, Latin for Bishop’s household, we spent the next 9 miles walking along the Somerset levels on a farmer’s track. Lots of exciting smells for Tess, but as she was bounded by ditches on both sides, was free to roam and chase the shadows to her heart’s content.

The walking was pretty difficult, as although it was pretty flat underfoot, we were walking on tractor tracks for most of way, dodging stones and deep water puddles. On a couple of occasions I mistook soft mud for the hardened variety and paid the price in dirty wet socks.

Most of the fields on the flats were empty of livestock but on the more accessible sections, those that were sat within half of a mile of a paved road, there were occasional residents. Most often sheep, but on the final section into Glastonbury we were flanked by cows. Quite disconcertingly, the beats were only a few meters away kept separate from us by a rickety fence and a shallow ditch. We certainly seemed to antagonise the bullocks as one jumped on to its hind legs and kicked the air, liked I’d never seen before whilst charging round the field with its compatriots.

Fortunately within a few minutes of passing the cows we were on the outskirts of Glastonbury, and had been under the watchful eye of the eponymous Tor for the past few miles. The town itself was very trendy, and had I been fully shaven I would have felt even more out of place. Crystal retailers, colorful clothing shops and quirky antiques stores took over the entire high street, but nestled in amongst these I managed to find a My Fine Deli serving marvelous Sunday Dinner which was a whole world away from the bovine perils of 10 minutes ago.

A quick detour round the back of Glastonbury took me up to the Tor itself. On the way I passed women in white whispering incantations, men with ridiculous beards wearing ill-fitting carpet jumpers and some unwashed backpackers meditating in the shadow of the tower.

The Tor stands majestically about 100m above the town on a lone hill and even though it’s claimed to be haunted, lead to the very depths of hell and even if the whole place is enshrined in some claptrap King Arthur myth, magic and legend allegedly cooked up by some destitute monks nearly a millennium ago, still there is something pleasantly English and alluring to the whole town and likely worth a less furtive visit.