Afoot In Britain, Bath (2025)

08/03/2025

The heavy iron-bound door groaned as it swung inward, revealing the flickering glow of candlelight within the abbot’s chamber. Rain pattered against the high, narrow windows, and the scent of damp parchment and burning tallow filled the air. The chamber was sparsely furnished, but its austere simplicity did not mask the power held within these stone walls.

Two men entered, clad in mail and soaked woolen cloaks, their boots tracking mud across the worn flagstones. Behind them, a third figure followed, a scribe clutching a bundle of parchment close to his chest. The men were emissaries of the king, and they carried his will upon those pages.

The abbot sat at a heavy wooden desk, his thin fingers resting on an open manuscript. His face, lined with age and worry, bore the solemnity of a man who had seen his share of hardship. He did not rise as the men approached.

One of the warriors, a grizzled man with a scar running from brow to cheek, stepped forward. His voice was low, edged with the weight of command.

“We have come to speak with the Abbot. Our lord the king has ordered us to make the cleric sign these documents.”

The scribe unrolled the parchment, its wax seals catching the candlelight.

“They will give the king ownership of Glastonbury Abbey and its estates,” the warrior continued. His tone was firm, without pretense of negotiation. “And the clergy will go home.”

A silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire. The abbot folded his hands, his gaze steady.

“I am the abbot,” he said at last, his voice calm but unyielding. “And I know the will of the king.”

The warrior’s mouth tightened. “Then you know you have no choice.”

The abbot exhaled slowly. “There is always a choice.”

The second warrior, younger but no less hardened, took a step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“The king grows impatient,” he said. “You have defied him long enough.”

The abbot stood, the candlelight casting deep shadows on his face. “Defied?” He shook his head. “This is God’s house, not the king’s. These lands were granted to the Church by kings before him, men who knew that some things are not theirs to take.”

The older warrior sighed. “And yet, here we are.” He gestured to the document. “Sign it, Father. It will be easier for you and your monks.”

The abbot did not move. “Easier,” he repeated softly. “Easier for whom?”

A gust of wind rattled the windows, the storm outside mirroring the tension in the room.

“I will not sign,” the abbot said. “Nor will I order my brothers to abandon their vows. If the king wishes to claim this abbey, he must do so by force.”

The younger warrior’s grip tightened on his sword. “Do not force us to drag you to the king in chains.”

The abbot’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “If that is the will of your master, then so be it.”

The scribe hesitated, glancing between the abbot and the warriors. The older soldier gave him a nod, and he began rolling up the parchment once more.

The younger warrior let out a frustrated breath. “We will return,” he warned. “And next time, we will not come alone.”

The abbot inclined his head. “Then I shall prepare.”

The warriors turned, their cloaks whipping around them as they strode from the chamber. The door groaned shut behind them, leaving the abbot alone with the dimming candlelight and the certainty that the battle for Glastonbury had only just begun.

Word of the confrontation spread swiftly through the abbey. The monks gathered in whispered clusters, their faces drawn with anxiety. Some spoke of fleeing before the king’s men returned, of seeking refuge in other monasteries. Others, their hearts steeled by faith, swore to stand with their abbot, no matter the cost.

Brother Eadric, the abbey’s steward, approached the abbot as he walked through the cloisters. “Father, you know they will not stop. The king is determined.”

“I know,” the abbot said.

“They will bring soldiers,” Eadric continued. “What will we do when they come with swords?”

The abbot paused. “We will not fight,” he said simply.

Eadric looked at him in disbelief. “Then we are doomed.”

The abbot met his gaze. “No,” he said. “We are not doomed. We are faithful.”

Eadric clenched his jaw. “Faith will not stop a blade.”

“No,” the abbot agreed. “But it will give us strength to endure what comes.”

The next day, the king’s men returned, this time not as emissaries but as enforcers. A dozen soldiers rode into the abbey grounds, their banners snapping in the wind.

The abbot and his monks stood in the courtyard, waiting.

The older warrior, still leading the king’s forces, dismounted and strode toward them. “Father,” he said. “This is your last chance.”

The abbot did not waver. “We have made our decision.”

The warrior’s expression hardened. He turned to his men. “Seize the abbey.”

The soldiers moved forward, their mail clinking, their hands on their weapons. The monks did not run. They did not resist. They simply stood in silence, their heads bowed in prayer.

When the soldiers reached them, they were met not with swords but with peace.

And for the first time in his long years of service, the warrior hesitated.

The king’s men moved through the abbey like a storm, stripping it of its wealth, its relics, its holy books. The monks were forced from their home, their vows powerless against royal decree. Some wept. Others remained stoic.

The abbot was taken in chains to stand before the king.

Henry Vlll, seated upon his great wooden throne, studied the aged cleric before him. “You are a stubborn man, and I once called you a friend” he said.

The abbot did not bow. “I am a faithful man.”

The king’s lips twitched in something like amusement. “Faith has cost you your abbey.”

The abbot met his gaze. “The abbey was never mine. It belongs to God.”

The king leaned forward. “Then let your God reclaim it, if He can.”

The abbot was taken away. Back in Glastonbury he was marched to the top of Glastonbury Tor and executed. His death a reminder to others that the King rules in this land.

But in the years that followed, long after the king’s reign had faded into dust, Glastonbury endured.
…………
Another of my historically fictional tales, written to encourage your curiosity . If you’d like to read more of these short stories, you can subscribe here. https://buymeacoffee.com/markseymour

07/03/2025

Our regular update re: tour availability:
2025 - The second of our Carcassonne and the SW - 1/2 places
2026 - Cotswolds tours both have availability but are selling fast.
Greek Islands has availability
Northern Gree, North Macedonia and Albania has availability
Raasay, Spirit of Christmas has availability
Orkney has availability
2027 - availability on all tours but some are already selling fast.

Check them out by clicking the link below. Contact me for info.

https://www.seymourtravels.co.uk/tour-calendar

22/02/2025

What is a ‘staycation’ ?

A staycation tour refers to a vacation where individuals or families explore attractions and engage in leisure activities within a single region or country, rather than spending time traveling, which after all, is very inefficient. This concept combines “stay” and “vacation,” emphasizing enjoying time off close to a home base. Activities might include visiting nearby parks, museums, attending local events, or exploring regional landmarks and gorgeous landscapes. Staycations are gaining in popularity as they offer a cost-effective and convenient alternative to traditional vacations.

In the UK and France, the term “staycation” has evolved to encompass domestic tourism, where individuals vacation within the country rather than traveling internationally. This shift has led to increased interest in destinations such as the Cotswolds, Snowdonia and North Wales, Devon and Cornwall and the Scottish Highlands.

Opting for a staycation tour allows people to discover hidden gems close to home, support local businesses, and reduce travel-related stress and expenses. It’s an opportunity to appreciate and engage with one’s immediate surroundings in a new and enriching way. It’s immersive travel at its best.

For more insights into the benefits and considerations of staycations, you might find the following link interesting:

https://www.seymourtravels.co.uk/2027tours-1

11/02/2025

The Lamplighter of York

The city of York had always been a place of strange mysteries. Beneath its cobbled streets lay the bones of Roman soldiers, Viking warriors, and medieval monks. Its crooked buildings leaned together as if whispering secrets, and in the twisting alleys, the past never truly seemed gone.

But of all the oddities that York possessed, none was more enigmatic than the Lamplighter.

Every evening, just as the sun slipped behind the Minster’s towering spires, he would appear—a tall figure in a dark coat and wide-brimmed hat, carrying a long pole tipped with a flickering flame. He would move from street to street, lighting the gas lamps that lined the ancient roads, bringing pools of golden light to the encroaching dusk. Some said he was a ghost, a remnant of an older time. Others whispered that he was a man cursed to walk the city forever, doomed to chase away the darkness but never escape it himself.

The truth, however, was far stranger.
Jonas Blackthorne had been the Lamplighter of York for as long as anyone could remember. His face was weathered, his hands rough with age, but his eyes burned with a quiet intensity. He never missed a night, never failed to light a lamp. And though the world had moved on—electric lights now shining in the grander streets—his gas lamps still flickered in the forgotten corners of the city, where the past refused to be erased.

For Jonas, the task was more than duty; it was a ritual. Each flame he lit was a barrier against something unseen, something lurking in the deep shadows that stretched across York’s ancient stones. He never spoke of it, never warned the townsfolk. They did not need to know. They only needed to stay in the light.

One evening, as autumn winds howled through the Shambles, Jonas noticed something odd. The lamps, which usually burned steadily, flickered unnaturally. Their flames wavered, dimmed, as if something unseen was trying to s***f them out.

Jonas tightened his grip on his pole and moved faster. He reached the next lamp and struck the flame to life, but for the first time in decades, a chill ran through him. The shadows at his feet twisted, curling away from the light like living things.

Something was coming.
As Jonas turned onto Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma Gate, a figure stepped out of the fog. He was a man, tall and thin, dressed in an old-fashioned coat. His face was pale, his smile too sharp.

“Good evening,” the man said, his voice smooth as oil. “Still tending the lamps, I see.”

Jonas paused. He knew everyone in York, but he had never seen this man before. And yet, something about him felt familiar.

“That I am,” Jonas replied carefully. “And you are?”

The stranger chuckled. “Just a traveler. Passing through, as it were.” His gaze drifted to the nearest lamp, where the flame shuddered. “Funny, isn’t it? How the dark always finds a way back.”

Jonas felt a cold weight settle in his chest. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

The man tilted his head. “Oh, but you’ve held it back for so long, old friend. Don’t you ever wonder what happens if you stop?”

Jonas said nothing. He simply turned and walked away, moving to the next lamp, relighting the next flame. But he could feel the stranger watching him, the weight of his gaze pressing against his back.

And as Jonas worked through the city that night, the shadows stretched longer than ever before.

Long ago, before Jonas had taken up the pole and flame, there had been another Lamplighter. His name was Elias Crowe, and he, too, had walked the streets of York, tending the lamps, keeping the darkness at bay.

Jonas had been a boy when Elias vanished. One evening, the lamps had gone unlit, and when people searched for him, all they found was his coat and hat, left neatly by the river’s edge. Some said he had grown old and wandered away. Others whispered that the darkness had finally taken him.

But Jonas had always known better. He had seen the shapes in the shadows, the way they reached for Elias in his final nights. And when no one else dared, Jonas had picked up Elias’s pole and continued his work.

Because he understood something that no one else did: the lamps were not just for light. They were a barrier. A wall against something ancient, something hungry.

And now, after all these years, it was coming for him.
It began with the wind. A howling, unnatural gale that whipped through the city, rattling windows and s***fing out candles. The lamps flickered violently, their flames struggling against the sudden onslaught.

Jonas moved as fast as he could, relighting each one, but for every lamp he kindled, another went out. The shadows moved like living things, swirling, stretching, whispering.

And then he saw him—the stranger from before, standing at the edge of the Minster’s great square. His smile was wider now, his eyes darker.

“It’s time, Jonas,” the man said softly. “You’ve fought long enough.”

Jonas gritted his teeth. “I will not let the darkness take this city.”

The stranger sighed. “It was never your fight to win. You are but a man. The dark is eternal.”

And then, with a flick of his hand, every lamp in York went out.

The city was plunged into blackness.
Jonas stood alone in the darkness. The air was thick, suffocating, filled with whispers that slithered through the streets. He could feel them—things with no shape, no form, but endless hunger.
But he was not afraid.

Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a single match. The last one. He struck it, and in that tiny flame, he saw every night he had walked these streets, every moment he had kept the darkness at bay.

And then, he touched the flame to the wick of his pole.
The fire roared to life, blinding and golden, not just a flicker but a blaze. The shadows shrieked and recoiled, twisting away, fleeing into the cracks of the city. The stranger’s grin faltered, his form flickering like a dying candle.

Jonas took a step forward, driving the fire into the night. “You do not belong here,” he said.

The stranger hissed, his form unraveling. “You cannot do this forever.”

Jonas thrust the flame forward, and with a final, wordless scream, the darkness shattered. The lamps flared back to life, one by one, pushing away the night. And when the last flame was rekindled, the stranger was gone.

When the morning sun rose over York, the city was as it had always been. People went about their lives, unaware of the battle that had raged in the dark.

Jonas stood on the city wall, watching the dawn. His hands trembled, his breath came in ragged gasps, but he had won.
For now.
He turned, walking back into the city, his pole in hand.

There would always be another night. Another shadow waiting to creep in.

But as long as he walked the streets, as long as he lit the lamps, the darkness would never win.

For he was the Lamplighter of York. And he would never stop.

( I write these fictional short tales in an attempt to create curiosity and encourage travel. I hope you enjoy it )

https://www.seymourtravels.co.uk/2026tours-1

09/02/2025

There is famine in the land.

I returned from Waterloo expecting a hero’s welcome, but London is no longer the city I left behind. The streets are filled not with revelry, but with ragged beggars clutching at empty bellies. The markets are barren, and the smell of rotting refuse lingers in the alleys. Victory has brought no comfort, only hunger.

I have seen suffering before. I marched through the fields of Belgium, where broken bodies lay as thick as autumn leaves. I fought in the mud, the blood, the cannon-smoke. And when it was over, when the last French soldier had fled and the drums of war had silenced, I thought we had won something. But war takes as much as it gives, and when I stepped off the ship in London, I found a city brought low not by battle but by starvation.

The markets are empty. The Thames, once the great artery of commerce, carries only misery. The ships that dock bring not grain but news of further hardship. The blockade that strangled Napoleon now tightens around our own necks, and the bad harvests have turned the countryside into a wasteland.

I hear that some of my friends from the Irish regiments and the yeomanry from Devon are thinking about sailing to the Americas. In fact, many are thinking the same thoughts. They whisper in the taverns of Liverpool and Bristol, making quiet inquiries about ships bound for Canada, for the Carolinas, for any land where a man might carve a living from the earth. The war is over, but for men like us, the battle for survival has just begun.

I walk the streets of London in my uniform, though it earns me no favor. The sight of a redcoat once stirred pride, but now it is only a reminder of what has been lost.

Near St. Giles, I pass a woman hunched against the wall, clutching a swaddled infant. The child does not cry—it is too weak to make a sound. I drop a few coins into her lap, but I know it is not enough. It is never enough.

At the docks, I find familiar faces among the desperate throng. O’Reilly from the 95th Rifles, pacing the quay with a worried expression. Sergeant Graves, his broad shoulders slumped with the weight of decision.

“You thinking of going?” I ask him.

He nods, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. “No work here, no food. America’s got land, at least. I fought enough for this king—I’d rather break my back on a farm than beg in the streets.”

I understand. I cannot fault him for it. But something in me resists. I fought for England, bled for it. To leave now feels like surrender.

“Come with us,” Graves urges. “New start. No war, no hunger.”

I hesitate. Across the river, the spires of the city rise against the grey sky. This is my home. But home is a hollow word when there is no bread on the table.

The docks are alive with movement. Ships bound for the Americas fill their holds with men seeking a future they cannot find in England. I watch as Graves and O’Reilly board a brig set for Nova Scotia.

“This is the last call,” the ship’s captain bellows.

Graves clasps my shoulder. “You sure?”

I nod. “I’m staying.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods in return. “Good luck, old friend.”

The gangplank is drawn, and the ship drifts into the mist. I watch until it vanishes beyond the horizon.

I find work where I can—hauling cargo at the docks, sweeping floors in the taverns. It is meager pay, but enough to keep me from the gutter.

One evening, I hear of a bakery near Covent Garden that needs a pair of strong hands. The baker, a stout man named Carter, eyes me warily.

“Soldier, are you?”

“Was,” I reply.

He grunts. “Can you knead dough?”

“I can learn.”

He gives me a long look, then nods. “Be here at dawn.”

And so, I become a baker’s apprentice. The work is hard, but honest. My hands, once trained for musket and sword, grow accustomed to the weight of dough.

The famine lingers, but there are small victories. The harvest improves. Trade trickles back into the city.

One morning, as I set loaves upon the counter, a woman enters the shop. I know her face—it is the mother from St. Giles, the one I gave coins to on that bleak night.

She looks better now, her cheeks less gaunt, her child stronger in her arms. She meets my gaze and smiles.

“Thank you,” she says.

For the first time since Waterloo, I feel like I have truly won something.

( I write these short stories to provoke thought, curiosity and travel. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.)

https://www.seymourtravels.co.uk/2026tours-1

Afoot In Britain

08/03/2025

07/03/2025

22/02/2025

11/02/2025

09/02/2025

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