A Somerset Lad

If you are looking for a girl’s name and not a Somerset place name, the spelling is Zoe. It’s from the Greek word ζωή (zoe), which is a word for “life.” 

The closure of the road north from the village has meant a diversion westward, down a precarious hill, along a road with seven sweeping bends, and then skirting Middlezoy, driving through Weston Zoyland, and passing a sign for Chedzoy.

“Zoy” could mean almost anything. The local dialect has a capacity for changing words beyond recognition. The village of Stogursey outside of Bridgwater was the home of the de Courcy family, the most famous member of which was John de Courcy, who conquered Ulster in the Twelfth Century. Originally known as Stoke, the village became Stoke de Courcy, and in the vernacular of the local people slowly changed in pronunciation and spelling to Stogursey.

When I was young, we were told that “zoy” was from a Dutch word, that the “zoy” villages were on the Levels and that the Dutch had given advice on the drainage of the Levels If anyone doubted the explanation, old maps of Holland showing the Zuider Zee could be pointed at. In retrospect, it seemed a doubtful story, each village has a medieval church, surely built long before the Somerset lowlands were drained?

Pondering the names as I drove the road on a bright, icy morning, I decide that I should settle the matter for myself.

Googling the names of the villages, this evening,  produced suggestions of what “zoy” might mean.

The Wikipedia entry for Chedzoy suggests, “The name of the village is pronounced “Chidgey” or “Chedzey”, and derives its name from being Cedd’s Island. The “zoy” part of the name being derived from eg or ieg meaning island”. This seemed straightforward, the word was from old English.

However, the entry for Weston Zoyland says, “The name of the parish derives from its location on the “island” of Sowy, an area of slightly higher ground on the Somerset Levels between the River Cary and the River Parrett.” So, it is not “zoy,” but “sowy?”

The explanation of the origin of Middlezoy seems a combination of the other two interpretations, “The name Middlezoy meaning the middle stream island, derives from Sowi, the name of Glastonbury Abbey’s major estate, sow, a British river name from a root meaning flowing. The extra i is derived from the Saxon ig for island.”

Re-reading the entries, it seems that “zoy” means something slightly different in each case. In Chedzoy, it is just “island;” in Weston Zoyland, it is “the island of sowy;” and in Middlezoy, it is “flowing island.” I think I like the Dutch version better.

The normal road to work is closed; the M5 motorway must be reached by way of a diversion. If the official signs were followed, it would mean driving three miles in the opposite direction before turning on a road that would lead towards the motorway. Google maps takes me along roads I have walked many times on summer evenings before following a steep, narrow and winding lane to the A372 road below.

It is a diverting diversion. The view from parts of the descent is one that takes in many square miles of moorland. On a misty morning, there is a magical feel. The blue sky and bright sunshine lie above a blanket of whiteness that resembles some sea that has reclaimed territory that was once its own.

Descending into the mist, the seasons change; from a brightness worthy of a summer’s day into a thick greyness that could be in deep midwinter. The temperature drops and progress is slowed on a road that snakes its way towards Othery, a place that was once an island in the wetlands of the Somerset Levels.

Two A-roads cross each other at acute angles and in reduced visibility, there is a feeling of a need for caution lest someone bound for Glastonbury or Taunton come looming out of the gloom.

The mist comes now in pockets: greyness and brightness alternating. Weston Zoyland lies ahead. Here there is an opportunity for imagining things far more substantial than anything in the mists.

A sign announces, “The Battle of Sedgemoor – the last battle fought on English soil.” It wasn’t much of a battle, more a massacre. Among the Royal army, there were 200 killed. The rebels under the command of the Duke of Monmouth, local peasants seemed with pitchforks, suffered 1,300 deaths. After the battle, 320 were executed following the Bloody Assizes held by Judge Jeffreys; a further 750 were transported. Passing Weston Zoyland Church, where many prisoners were held, there is a chill moment in thinking about the fate that awaited them; some were hung, drawn and quartered.

Beyond Weston Zoyland, the road crosses the old wartime aerodrome. Stretches of the runway are still intact; airfield buildings stand in ruins. Both the RAF and United States Air Force flew from here, now nothing bigger than a microlight takes off.

It is odd how it is the places of violence stick most in the mind, battlefields, military installations. Those miles of road must have many happy tales to tell, but who puts happy moments into history books?

Of course, they had given plenty of notice. For the past three weeks, at least, there has been a yellow sign beside the road that crosses the moor announcing that on 25th March the road would be closed for three weeks. Driving the road this morning at 6.30, I made a mental note that the road would probably be closed for the return journey and that I would need to drive home via Bridgwater.

Of course, I forgot. Driving home, I dropped down from the A39 road from Bridgwater to the A361 road from Taunton and went to turn onto Nythe Road, the road that crosses the moor – it was very firmly closed. The prescribed diversion added seven or eight miles to the journey.  Taking a shortcut meant following the narrow single track road, with steep banks on either side, that takes adventurous drivers up Turn Hill, each one hoping that they meet no traffic coming down, because the steep ascent includes a one hundred and eighty degree bend, from which the hill presumably derives its name.

Even if I hadn’t forgotten, I might have tried the moor road. Local road signs would not necessarily constitute the sort of evidence that would pass muster in a court of law – they might be true and they might not be true. Road signs announced the road was closed last year, even Google Maps insisted the road was closed, telling me to turn back when it was obvious that traffic was moving freely – the road had not closed.

Even if I hadn’t forgotten, I might have recalled journeys from the early-1970s when the bridges over the River Cary and the Eighteen Foot Rhyne were replaced. Everyone knew the road was closed and everyone told everyone else that the road was closed and everyone carried on travelling across the moor, driving over the temporary bridges that had been put in place to accommodate farmers who needed to reach livestock. Everyone knew that everyone continued to use the road, and no-one said anything. If someone has ventured down to the road works, word will undoubtedly spread as to the possibilities of ignoring the signs.

The road works are a piece of hubris. It is a bog road and the subsidence of one edge into the adjoining ditch is what happens on bog roads; millions could be spent, and the road would still sink. For months, barriers have kept traffic safely away from the subsidence, they have meant giving way to oncoming traffic, but traffic is infrequent on the road and slowing down was no inconvenience. In fact, the uneven nature of the road made it much safer. The diversion will probably simply cause problems somewhere else.