Hidden Yeovil: Jack the Treacle Eater and Nine Springs.

It is fair to say that if I asked you to name a town in the UK beginning with ‘Y’, you’d say Yeovil. You might struggle to name three others.

Yeovil has a special place in my heart. It was the town that kick-started my teaching career nearly thirty years ago, which may explain why I am willing to overlook its rather shabby edges and iffy reputation. That said, not many towns can claim a heritage that ranges from glove-making to helicopter production. Teaching Year 9 rugby was often threatened with disruption by the arrival of an Apache gunship, rising menacingly from the tree line at the far end of the playing field.

The residential sprawl continues unabated, filling gaps once occupied by industry and economic life. In turn, this feeds the daily choking traffic that struggles to navigate sponsored roundabouts and traffic-light systems seemingly designed to confuse as much as relieve.

Yet despite this rather droll reflection, Yeovil remains a gateway to some fantastic countryside and history in all directions. From the upmarket majesty of Sherborne to the honey-coloured Hamstone villages of Montacute and Odcombe, this is an area linked by sunken lanes and long views stretching deep into neighbouring Dorset. Yeovil is one of those places that can easily be overlooked and therefore missed. Today’s wander was about putting that to the test, and perhaps proving myself right.

Having parked up and tackled the steepest hill straight away, I turned to look back over the town. It certainly isn’t a view that inspires, but it still produced a wave of nostalgia. It is easy to reflect on your life and feel it has been a series of disjointed dreams; friends past, memories and anecdotes that often saw me moving on rather than standing still.

Nostalgia is something I am happy to embrace, but it has increasingly led me down an avenue of melancholy: a trap that invites overthinking past decisions and events, conjuring a whole load of what ifs, buts and maybes. On this wander, it felt important to turn those feelings into gratitude instead. Reflecting in the spirit of life’s rich tapestry, towards times that opened doors and added to my bucket of wisdom, rather than sinking into regret or self-pity. I have much to be thankful for, and acknowledging that openly matters.

It is hard to believe that there are still buildings out there that haven’t been renovated and turned into a Grand Designs project. Luck would have it that the first point of interest today proved just that.

Looking out over the fields below stood the incongruously named ‘Summer House’. This uniquely designed property, with its symmetrically positioned tower, crumbling roofs and boarded windows, all but screamed haunted. Further adding to the sense of foreboding were open windows, their torn net curtains gently caressed by the breeze. Obliged to take a picture, it was slightly disappointing that on closer inspection there was no wispy figure standing mournfully in the shadows.

Moving swiftly on, with a growing sense of unease shared by the visible hackles of the dog, the path dipped towards open fields and further discovery.

Before long we were met by a rifle-barrel line of trees that both directed the way and hinted at a fledgling holloway. The map suggested our main aim for the day was hiding not far away, and with not a soul in sight the sense of having the place to ourselves heightened the anticipation. In all fairness, Jack the Treacle Eater did not disappoint.

Standing within the grounds of Barwick Park, this folly was built in the mid-18th century. The proud figure on top was originally thought to be Hermes, messenger to the gods. By the early 19th century, however, local imagination had transformed him into the much more exciting character of Jack — a messenger who could travel vast distances thanks to his fondness for treacle. The only downside of this sugary diet was an unquenchable thirst, prompting Jack to leap down from the folly to drink from the lake below. Perhaps the final word on this crafty little chap is best left to Charles Causley:

Here comes Jack the Treacle Eater,
Never swifter, never sweeter,
With a peck of messages,
Some long, some shorter,
From my Lord and Master’s quarter
(Built like a minaret)
Somewhere in Somerset.
Jack, how do you make such speed
From banks of Tone to banks of Tweed —
And all the way back?
‘I train on treacle,’ says Jack.

The impressive parkland surrounding Barwick House swept gently back towards Yeovil and the final part of the wander. Catching sight of another folly, the Fish Tower, the open grassland offered extensive views across the town below before inviting us down into Nine Springs Country Park.

The overriding feeling on entering here is surely that this can’t be Yeovil. Stepping into an altogether different, almost mystical world, visitors are met with interlocking springs, streams, pools and pathways snaking through steep-sided woodland. Children’s voices and barking dogs sound distant rather than intrusive, drawing thoughts more towards fantasy and fiction than the reality of the busy town centre just a stone’s throw away. It is a truly special place, offering the calming sight and sound of water, alongside the reassurance that wilderness can still exist in the most unlikely settings.

As the path led towards the inevitable conclusion of the walk, I felt I had achieved my aim of reconnecting with a place from my past, unlocking some of its mystery and history over four peaceful yet intriguing miles. More importantly, it allowed that sense of gratitude and presence to filter through. Wandering with purpose, but without the need to achieve anything more than seeing where the path led, free from the tyranny of a ticking clock. Yeovil, I realised, had quietly given me more than I remembered.

With the dog towelled off and looking pleased with herself, only one thing remained: a decent pint and a warm fire. The marvellous Helyar Arms in East Coker duly obliged. Cheers.