I’m sat beneath the remains of Nether Stowey Castle, trying to read ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’. Trying? I’m distracted. The gale I’m sheltering from carries the smell of nearby farms, and something in it is lulling me back to my youth, when my parents were gods and visiting the West Country was a major adventure. I’m reminded of the exotic tastes of pasties and scrumpy; real holiday treats that weren’t found elsewhere in the early 70’s. My eyes drift from the page and focus dreamily on the white waves of the distant Bristol Channel…then ‘boom!’ a low flying RAF fighter screams past, obliterating the past.

My eyes fall back to Coleridge’s classic poem, which was composed whilst walking through the surrounding Quantock Hills. It tells of a sailor who kills an albatross for no reason and is then made to face up to his guilt and responsibility by Nature itself. Oh, for this to happen to humanity in real life, I think, as rain spots dot the page.

I walk down to Coleridge’s cottage in the village and begin taking pinhole photographs with my new toy, a 1917 Kodak Autographic. It’s a really modern piece of gear as far as I’m concerned - it even has a viewfinder and a lens. Locals on their way to work take a friendly interest. During the next 15 minutes more strangers say ‘Good Morning’ to me than have done during 21 years of living in North Kent. They even have a real red phone box in the village, and it’s not vandalised either.

Following the Coleridge Way, which runs from here to Porlock 36 miles away via Exmoor, I reach the village of Holford in just over an hour. There, with the forest to my back, William Wordsworth’s old house to my left and open fields and the churning sea to my front, I sit reading part two of the poem. Having finished I look up and think, inexplicably, ‘wouldn’t it be great if deer walked out of the woods right now,’ and that very second three appear to my right, backlit ferns parting gracefully around their ankles. A wonderful coincidence. I follow them into a dip where they join a herd of 30 others. The wind gets fiercer, whipping leaves into my face and crashing branches down onto the path.

Each sheltering valley I pass through is alive with history – 12th century churches, sleepy villages and ancient packhorse bridges are abundant – and a sense of contentment. Dogs sleep in open doorways before stalls that are laden with books and fresh produce for sale. There’s nobody to take your money; you just choose what you want and slot what you owe into a box.

The weather turns nasty as I tackle a muddy path up Lype Hill, which at over 400 metres is the highest point on the route. The sun stops playing hide and seek behind racing clouds and defers to a dense bank of grey. Horses in blue coats and freshly shorn sheep turn their backs on cold rain. I walk head down - disturbing pheasants and crows which explode from the long swaying grass at my feet - and stop a foot short of what appears to be a shivering rock. I bend and see it’s a rabbit, blinded by myxomatosis. I talk to it, offering comforting low whispers. It doesn’t run. I think I can feel its confusion and fear. A bird of prey circles over us, waiting for me to move on.

A day later I’m standing bathed in sun, making images of a harbour-side statue of the Ancient Mariner himself. A spider abseils out of the Mariners mouth; a pigeon balances on his head. Nature rules, it seems. Coleridge saw that in this landscape, and now so have I. I pack away my camera, re-read the poem, and feed seagulls some of my fish and chips.

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