DRAMATIC ramparts loomed to the right, a buzzard soared and I arrived at a style where a National Trust sign announced Eggardon Hill. This iron age fort was once owned by Isaac Gulliver, the smuggler who impersonated his corpse in his coffin to evade capture by H.M. Excise.

A chalk path dived under the style and split. One half lured downwards, and the other went up, ending as a plank overhanging the valley. I walked the plank to its tip where the path plunged out of sight and a panorama opened up; miles of countryside unrolled to the sea, which sparkled on the horizon. Stitched together by trees and forest, valleys and fields rose and fell in green hues; cloud shadows floated past like ghosts, and ten miles away, the yellow sandstone of Golden Cap could be seen, overlooking the Jurassic Coast. I abandoned the path for the scarp, and clambered up while the buzzard mewed overhead. At the highpoint I stood where Isaac planted trees to aid his ships’ navigation; it was the perfect place from which to plan landings, and map nighttime routes for contraband.

A cumulus blocked the sun and air cooled. An uncanny stillness descended, all birdsong ceased, and clouds stalled in the sky. I looked about for other walkers; not a soul was in sight, and the sheep at the trough did not raise her head. Goose pimples crept up my arms, I wanted to shout out but couldn’t, and strange creaks came from behind. Numb with fear, I dared not look round, and seconds passed before I identified the sound of old leather boots. Feet creaked towards me. They were ten feet away, seven, five; three feet off their owner stopped and fumbled in his pocket. My imagination went wild with what he might find, tobacco, a guinea, or even a pistol. The relief was immense when brass tubes shucked apart and a spyglass pointed over my shoulder, held by translucent hands in a heavy black coat. My heart pounded loud and I was terrified the spectre would silence me, but he merely adjusted his lens, muttering,

“As I thought, that track leads to Abbotsbury… and the forest will shield us from the corvid eyes of the Excise – we will be safe from those robbers.” The spectre angled the tip of the eyeglass at Bridport and leant forward, revealing his shimmering face: bushy eyebrows, a long straight nose, and generous mouth; there was no mistaking Isaac Gulliver. A bird’s silhouette passed over my toes; he stood back, tipped his head to the sky and asked,

“Buzzard, old friend, have you come to bequeath your advice?”

Emboldened, I tipped my head up, too. Kingly and undisturbed, the bird streamed sideways, undulated air with feathered fingers, and flew a long arc in front of us. Isaac followed the bird’s progress, deriving obvious pleasure from observing his flight. His pleasure was short-lived: a murder of crows unfroze from trees, and swooped and dived, in turns haranguing the buzzard.

At first the bird shrugged off the mob, and with a flick of his wrist conducted the wind to alter his course. But the crows were intent on forcing his descent. Isaac and I watched the thieves fly out then attack; working in concert, they jabbed at the buzzard. He tried to fly higher, but crows blocked his way and he sank. Too near the ground the buzzard’s elegance was affliction, and he bellied up as if he was dead; it seemed the crows had won. Isaac flinched as they lunged for the final strike. 

Suddenly, the buzzard thrust his talons, their curved claws glittered in the sun and a crow fluttered to the ground. Another crow tried, met the same fate and zig-zagged out of sight. One by one, the crows peeled off until a single felon goaded from a distance. The buzzard spurned its provocation, regained his height and swept over his realm, harmonizing sky with magnificence.

Isaac Gulliver chuckled,

“My friend, you teach me well.”

Estelle Phillips is a performance poet and writer living in Broad Chalke. Her work includes the poetry collection ‘Motherhoodlum’ (Jawbone), for which she was nominated for the 2023 Forward Prize, and ‘Hard Wet Sand’, for which she was awarded second prize in the Yeovil Literary Competition (Novel) 2022.

Estelle is currently working on a piece for the Festival of Words at the Ancient Technology Centre, Cranborne Chase. She took part in the Dorchester Literary Festival’s recent poetry slam, and one of her poems was cycled around Portland Bill at the b-side festival this September.

Estelle can be found on Instagram @estelle_writer44 and TikTok @estellephillips.