APRIL 2026 · GROUNDED
Cheddar Gorge — 137m
Mendip Hills · Somerset
The Gorge Trail starts on the upper rim, not in the gorge itself. Up here the walking is ordinary — gravel path, scree on the verge, gorse in full yellow bloom. April in Somerset. The Mendips roll gently on every side. Nothing yet suggests what's below.
The path is narrow, edged with scrubby hillside vegetation. The gorse was the most vivid thing up there — not the geology, not the views, just the gorse, that particular aggressive yellow. The path picks its way through it, limestone rocks pushing up through the mud on the verge. A normal Mendip day out.

The descent changes things. The walls rise to meet you as you drop, or that's how it reads. Cheddar Gorge is England's largest gorge — 137m of limestone sheer at its deepest, carved by meltwater at the end of the last ice age, pressing down through the rock for a million years. The number is easy to repeat. Standing at the base is something else entirely.
Without the tarmac, without the cyclist, the cliffs could be any height.
Cheddar Gorge — April 2026

There's a road at the bottom. A working B-road, white line painted down the middle, running the full 3 miles through the cliffs from Cheddar village to the plateau. This is the thing Cheddar doesn't quite lead with: its floor is also the A371. Cars pass. A cyclist came through while I was shooting — head down, grinding up the gradient. Against 137m of cliff, the bike was nothing. A comma in the frame. That's when the height makes sense.


I shot both halves. The upper paths give you scrub and gorse and sky and quiet. The gorge floor gives you scale. The road makes the scale measurable — without the tarmac, without the cyclist, the cliffs could be any height. The white line is the denominator.

I came back up through the trees. From the rim, the road had vanished entirely. A pair of walkers below were trying to photograph the cliffs with their phones, holding them at arm's length. You can't get it all in. That's the point.

