Wandering Langport’s Inland Sea: Serenity on the Somerset Levels

The hangover was worth it. England had stolen a last‑gasp win over France the night before, and now winter sunlight was slicing through my curtains with the kind of insistence that makes staying in bed feel like a personal failure. Outside, frost glazed the fields and the sky was a washed‑out blue. It was the sort of morning that demands you get up, get out, and let the cold do its work.

My relationship with the weather has always been complicated. For as long as I can remember, the sky has had a direct line to my mood. Sunshine drags me outside with a sense of urgency I can’t ignore, while grey skies can drain me before the day even begins. It is a trait I have grown to resent. Debilitating, pointless, and quietly exhausting. I have spent too many hours refreshing long‑range forecasts, comparing websites, and clinging to the most optimistic prediction as if it could change anything. The truth is simple: I cannot control the weather, so why let it control me? “Control the controllable” has become a mantra I am trying to live by. Part of that involves embracing bad weather rather than hiding from it, wandering and writing even when the skies are heavy.

Today, though, was one of winter’s rare gifts. Cold, still, and inviting. The kind of morning that feels like a clean slate. Perfect for clearing the head and exploring a landscape that wears each season like a different coat.

The land around Langport is shaped, and often ruled, by water. The Somerset Levels and Moors stretch across 160,000 acres, divided by the Polden Hills. Before centuries of drainage, much of this area lay under shallow, brackish water in winter and marshland in summer. The Romans began the long process of taming it; countless others continued the work. Even now, the landscape feels fragile, held together by pumps, rivers, and man‑made drains that carve straight lines across ground barely above sea level.

Recent years have brought a constant battle to keep the water at bay. Climate change is the obvious culprit, although dwindling funds for maintenance play their part. Still, the place feels ancient in its skin. A landscape where nature is allowed to reclaim what it can. Bleak at times, certainly, but that is part of its charm. Today, the sun and water combined to create a temporary canvas that felt both inspiring and serene, the kind of beauty that appears only when the land is half‑drowned.

The River Parrett is central to life here. It ferries water toward the Bristol Channel, yet it also draws people seeking leisure and escape. During Covid, when travel was off the cards, our rivers became makeshift holiday resorts. The “Costa del Riverbank” arrived without warning. Kingfishers and mallards gave way to inflatable flamingos and flotillas of paddleboarders. Those days have passed, but the council wisely kept the pontoons that proved so popular. Only in winter are they removed, leaving the river quiet again, its surface unbroken except for the occasional ripple of a moorhen.

Parking at the top of the old town, Langport’s island‑like position became clear. From the church, narrow alleyways pulled my gaze toward the flooded land below. The atmosphere was hard to describe. Vast sheets of water reflected the sky and softened every sound. The result was a sense of solitude that felt almost sacred. Even the air seemed to move differently, as if muffled by the sheer volume of water.

It was not especially early, yet few people were around. Those who were seemed to respect the hush. I set off along the footpath that follows both sides of the Parrett toward Muchelney, a couple of miles upstream. Through the town and onto the open parkland of Cocklemoor, the path hugged the river before spilling into countryside. The dog, thrilled by the promise of mud, took the lead. It did not take long to confirm that anything above the waterline was going to be a challenge. This was a walk designed to cake you from head to toe. Nature’s treadmill, relentless and oddly satisfying.

The next four miles were pure therapy. Even as cloud crept in and a chill threaded through my bones, I found myself slipping into that rare state where watching and thinking happen in equal measure. Swans had reclaimed the fields, gliding with a mix of elegance and quiet menace. They looked like rightful patrons of this temporary inland sea. The raised banks of the Parrett formed a natural causeway between two bodies of water, guiding us toward Muchelney, silhouetted in the distance like an island village waiting to be rediscovered.

Reaching the village brought firmer ground and a chance to explore. Muchelney Abbey, a 13th‑century Benedictine monastery now in ruins, remains its most striking landmark. The eerie quiet persisted as I wandered past abandoned cars stranded by the flooded road to Langport. The village radiates history, its isolation amplifying its sense of importance. It felt suspended in time, a place that has learned to endure whatever the water decides. It is somewhere I would like to return to in warmer months, ideally with a tour of the local cider farms. But today, with the sun breaking through again, I crossed to the opposite bank and picked up the Parrett Trail for the return leg.

Back on familiar ground, it was clear that my early start had paid off. I had enjoyed the solitude the landscape deserved. Now, families and ramblers appeared along the path, offering smiles and nods as the dog enthusiastically investigated every rear end in sight. The final stretch passed quickly, punctuated by the local rowing club preparing to launch and a pair of tandem canoeists slicing cleanly through the water.

Back in Langport, I claimed a bench and let the morning settle. The walk was just over five miles, stretched by mud and stillness, but it had done its work. With the sun on my face and the dog watching my pork pie with undisguised intent, the noise in my head eased. I spend too much time wrestling with things I can’t change. The Levels will flood when they choose; the weather will do what it wants. Some days only ask to be walked through slowly and left alone.