South Downs Way - Day 3

  

South Downs Way - Day 3

THE CAMERA OF THE MIND

Having opted for the early breakfast sitting I shared more bacon and eggs with 3 cyclists who had pedalled from Winchester as I'd walked from the Seven Sisters the day before. They were over half way now and inquired about the route ahead. I didn't ask if they were in the army when they said my pack weighed only as much as a modern standard-issue rifle - to be honest I was more interested in claiming any left-over individual packs of Flora, as my own spread had been reduced to liquid with the heat and had leaked, along with some sweaty cheese portions, into my pack.

 

*****

    9 am saw me walking down to Botolphs and the A283 crossing, a low sun already hot on the back of my neck. On the river Adur at least 2 dozen swans picked amongst the flotsam that flowed swiftly upstream on the tide. Some soreness in my toes gave me concern and I took ten minutes in the shade to sort my feet out.

 

    A few dabs of Vaseline later and with turf underfoot again, I was enjoying the steady climb up Annington Hill. Par-ascenders were again practising their skills above Steyning Bowl - landing looking equally tricky to get right! Past New Hill Barn I came across a large home-constructed memorial to a farmer and his wife who had worked and loved the Downs all their lives - poignant reminder of the people who live here and must make a living from this poor thin chalky earth.

 

    Saturday now and more walkers were about. I had passed some 'polers'. These are walkers who have been convinced by astute outdoor shop sales-persons that trekking poles are an absolute essential addition for the modern walker, not one, to act as a staff or walking stick, oh no, but two. 'Four legs are better than two' they argue. Yeah, right. I wonder what Darwin would make of that? Evolution, theoretically, seems to dictate otherwise. They look like insects from a distance, and nearer, cumbersome overland skiers; they seem to have convinced themselves of the seriousness of their venture and bear a very determined air.

 

    I was approaching Chanctonbury Ring - the hill-top earthwork planted with Beech trees in the 1760's by one Charles Goring who had walked up with saplings as a boy. He must have spent a good deal of time nurturing his creation that was to become such a famous landmark, but today it looked very different from the magnificent spectacle that confronted us 25yrs ago when thick mist had suddenly cleared.

 

    "What happened?" I ventured of a couple sharing a flask of coffee, who took advantage of two of the stumps that had once anchored the large trees to the hilltop. A hurricane had caused massive damage all across the region in the late 80's explained the man. Because of their exposed position most had been toppled or snapped like matchwood. We spoke of the Downs in general and I unashamedly took him to task when he described the walking here as 'boy's stuff'.

 

    11am: boots off, stove out - coffee stop. I sat where he had sat and thought about his comment. Undoubtedly 'Manuel of the Mountains' had rattled my cage. Striding Edge I suppose would be 'man's stuff' - with queuing at busy times. Many walkers today fix their sights farther a field for bigger and better 'man's stuff'. The world has now become accessible to the jet-setting walker but there was nowhere in the world I would rather have been that morning. Perhaps it's not a macho thing to enjoy your walking I mused as I sipped at my coffee. Well at 51 I'm no boy and enjoying it immensely I'd told him.

 

    Beyond the Cross Dyke (ancient earthwork - originally in the form of bank and ditch, but now no more than a ripple in the surface), I took the bridleway past the dewpond. A black Labrador had jumped into the murky water and swam to retrieve a stick. This was the biggest dew pond I'd seen. A board had been erected by the conservation society explaining how the habitat was beneficial to the local wildlife - Labradors excepted, being wild with enjoyment that is. Off the official route the thistles brushed my legs with their needle-like points, but I was glad to be away from the main track as it was nearing midday and busy with loud gossiping groups of ramblers and cyclists alike.

 

    Beyond the next gate the hillside became littered with evidence of the activity of man. Depressions and hillocks, left to the weather and the sheep - like the evidence of lead mining in my native Derbyshire. Here, perhaps, flints were taken from the hillside, for building, or much earlier even for tools and axe heads.

 

    Rejoining the main route I was soon at the A24 crossing, then climbing back onto the Downs by Barns Farm and Sullington Hills. Out of the breeze the sun beat down and I was again using my waterproof for shade.

 

    Beside the bridle to the trig point on Kithurst Hill I rigged up the fly sheet to keep off the sun and delved into my packed lunch provided by the hostel. One drawback with my tent is that it is bright orange and I soon found myself causing an obstruction with horses refusing to pass. The young riders tried again and again to turn their steeds up the bridle as two cyclists waited, rather impatiently I thought. I was about to move when, at last, the girls got their mounts to obey. "Walk on girl! Good girl." Silly mare, I thought as the third and more reluctant of the fine looking mounts were persuaded past.

 

    I thought the lunch good value: ham cob, as requested, with a packet of crisps (salt would come in), a pear, a Fruesli Bar and a small pack of fruit juice - tell thi, proper Bo.

 

   

 

    It was all downhill into Amberley. I had planned the diversion into the village for my evening meal, but when I arrived at the Black Horse (High St.) sometime after three, I learnt that no food was available till 6pm and sipped my drink in the enclosed garden deciding what to do when a young couple arrived with an active baby. I offered to give up my shady seat for them but they explained that they wanted shade for baby but sun for themselves. He worked for C. of E. Estates and would be moving here once their new place was built. His father had walked the Way, he told me, and was looking forward to doing it himself one day. They had been walking by the river, he added, but turned back because of bulls in the field.

 

    I had passed the shop and the phone box, but rather than back track I decided to try at the pub near the station a mile away. I should have called at the shop and reported home here in hindsight, but I headed down to the river Arun and riverside path that would lead me back to the official route. On the outskirts of the village stands a castle - (luxury hotel now), but it doesn't seem to occupy a very prominent position a half mile from the river. Perhaps the river flowed nearer to the castle back then, I wondered.

 

    Beyond the main railway line serving the South Coast I walked over lush meadow grass wondering about those bulls. A concrete walkway with hand rail leads up to the water's edge. I had good reason to be here, 25 yrs previously almost to the day she and I stood forlornly looking at the river, expecting to have found a bridge here. It was hard to imagine, but back then the rain poured and we were fast getting soaked. It had started the previous evening and had continued through the night. It took hours to pack up under the flysheet at the camp site at High Down House (no longer a site) and we had decided to head for the Roman Villa at Bignor for the day. But we didn't get to see the remains of the fine mosaic floor and had failed to complete the walk, returning to a life that held many changes. Although in my twenties it was probably at the end of this walk that I made that transition from boy to man, taking on the responsibility of adulthood all rather too quickly - or so it seemed. And that major turning point, if I had to fix a point on it, was right here, looking down at these dark swirling tidal waters. Tears filled my eyes and it was some time before I could draw myself away.

 

    Eventually I retraced my steps to the flood bank and caught sight of the bulls, one of them right on the path. I strode up to them full of authority (NOT recommended for the compus mentis!) "Way up! Giddon!" I shouted, flapping the map. Initially the nearest jumped and moved away startled, you could see his expression: 'What the f#ck!' But he stopped abruptly, probably remembering what his mother had told him: 'Be afraid of nothing my calf, especially the two leggeds, and particularly the bald headed's with bright yellow jackets.' The young bull bowed his head as the others stared now, ready to chip in with a bit of muscle. "Go on giddup, whey! Giddon." I waved my arms. How is it that farmers command authority? When they do this the effect is instant. Instead Bovril chops just stood his ground: 'you'll have to do better than that, you old git,' he seemed to goad. I looked around: to my right the deep swirling river; to my left a reed filled drainage ditch. Looks like I could get another soaking after all, I thought. But then, seeming bored with the whole business, he turned and sauntered down the bank to join the others. I overtook them, but as I quickened my pace, they quickened theirs. Then after about 50 yards or so, they lost interest. After all, they were losing good grazing time.

 

    A cruiser cut upstream - the figure of a man leaned over the side. He seemed to be checking the hull. Perhaps the craft had struck a log in the flotsam. I waved. At the helm a fit looking woman in a pink bikini top waved back. 'tell thi...

 

    Hereabouts a new bridge has been erected over the river purely to serve the South Downs Way - I bet the locals weren't too happy! They'd had to rely on a one man ferry operation until the sole operator in Bury died in the late sixties. I'd seen the jetty and steps on the far bank. Of course, that explained the concrete walkway.

 

    Beside the bridge, the tents I'd mistaken for backpackers camping wild on the other side were in fact fishermen. Strange breed fishermen, they can stare at water for hours on end. Economical with words too. Conversation must ruin their concentration.

 

    Rejoining the 'official route' I clanged over the new steel construction only to turn left to leave the route again - heading for either the tea rooms, the Bistro, or the pub near the station where 25 yrs ago our attempt had reached its final conclusion.

 

    The road bridge at Houghton, had been built for horse-drawn vehicles and the parapet stand-ins seemed a good way apart in the oncoming traffic. As I sidled ahead I could see that the 1st option was off. CLOSED - very definitely, by the size of the sign. The Bistro looked deserted, but as I looked at the opening times on the door a woman came out and informed me that they opened at 7pm - but they were fully booked: "SORRY". Why do people say sorry when they're not? That left the Bridge Inn across the road, eh? oh no! THE Bridge Inn. This was it, not the one half a mile away. When organising the walk I had used the internet at vic.org.uk. - The Bridge Inn, Houghton it said, allowed campers to pitch on their small garden. They did, but the new tenants - as I discovered when I had telephoned to check - were trying to discourage the practice. 'But seeing as it's still on the internet you can pitch but only after 11pm when all the customers have left,' a woman had said, a little tersely I thought. I replied that I would try and make alternative arrangements, which I did - thank you very much, there is a site about five miles farther on at Gumber Farm (National Trust), and that was where I was making for... I wouldn't pass up another pint though.

 

    Having seen a couple with a small dog and familiar backpacking gear arrive I watched them go through the same food-finding routine. I asked if I could join them in the shade of their outdoor table. He admired my small pack, explaining that he probably had more in dog food alone than I was carrying in total. As he spoke, the landlord's Alsatian appeared in the doorway and the backpacking dog leapt from beneath the table, yapping and snarling like the big 'un he wasn't. They were all tired he explained - too hot for walking, she added. Her feet had given out, they said - wrong shoes.

 

    I had, by now, resigned myself to a dinner of snack pot curry, Ryvita and my packed lunch left-over Fruesli bar. Still, I had been enjoying a steady day, losing most of the afternoon to nostalgia and memories, but I had at least 5 or so miles to go and the 'tempus' was 'fugiting' as we talked. The couple couldn't decide whether to call it a day or continue and as I didn't want to influence their decision, I shouldered up and headed back to the river - soon climbing back onto the Downs by Combe Wood.

 

    Up the hill I soaked in as much of the panorama across the valley as I could, utilising 'the camera of the mind' - (a matter of necessity as I wasn't carrying a more practical variety, although I was wondering whether an exception could be made in future with the small digital models now on the market). At the road crossing I was shocked to find two dusky pink baths and other plumbing bits and pieces, neatly bagged - evidence of someone nearby having recently replaced their toilet arrangements. Fly tipping has become a massive problem, but not, it seems for the illegal tippers themselves, who quite casually dump any old shite wherever it suits. Back home wardens are employed to keep an eye on regular fly tip sites. I once wanted hardcore for a garage base and what better place to get ready bagged-up rubble for nothing? Trouble is, I was challenged for depositing rubbish! The woman warden took some convincing that I was actually taking stuff away! One man's rubbish... treasure and all that…

   

 

    A subject often tackled by long distance walkers is the topic of conversation. How to, or should you in fact, try and engage other people? Well I got my come uppance a little farther up the track when I came upon a group of cyclists, one of whom seemed to be holding the others back with some adjustment or other. 'Problems?'  I asked, and, with half a mind on matters digital and the camera issue, added: 'Bit like computers, bikes - all right when they're going.' It was an inane comment and I deserved the stony silence returned. I think one of them raised a sort of half grin, but I wouldn't have put money on it.

 

    Before long I was picking my way along the track side as the large loose broken flints were again becoming tedious on me tired pinkies. Ahead I could see the car park of Bignor Hill and knew that here I would be close to my overnight retreat. Many tracks are in evidence on the ground here so it was out with the compass just to make sure I got it right first time, and sure enough, after a while I came upon a laminated notice attached to a gate:

 

 

 

BRIDLEWAY CLOSED

- in the interest of -

PUBLIC SAFETY

 

 

I was standing on Stane Street, the Roman Road built in the 1st century AD to connect the new port settlement of NOVIOMAGVS REGNORVM / REGENTIVM (Chichester) with the bridge over the river at LONDINIVM:

 

 

 

 

ROMAN ROAD CLOSED

 

 

Would've been more accurate. And in the small print, rather than planning application waffle:

 

 

 

complainants likely

to get large spear up jacksey  

 

 

Just what I needed with only 1m left to go. So I ignored the closure and continued ahead seeing no discernable reason why it should have been instituted anyway.

 

    On site I pitched warily next to a father and son camping - (no they weren't from the hostel!) As I waited for my half a pint of water to boil, I fruitlessly enquired after spare eggs from other campers. I have what Showell Styles, author and mountaineer, describes as a biddable stomach. Give it a boiled egg, some bread and a mug of tea: happy. Give it a 'just add boiling water' instant snack rice with one Ryvita followed by a Fruesli bar left over from your YHA packed lunch and it's happy. The happiness on this occasion though, I have to admit, tinged with a little sadness by the wonderful smell of a delicious meal being prepared by the occupiers of the nearby camping barn... ah, the sting of it.

 

    The shower was most efficacious, but I'm still undecided on the dove wipes and kitchen towel...

 

*****

    The sharp bump under my lower back - suddenly seemingly as sensitive as the heroine's in the story of the Princess and the Pea, turned out to be someone else's tent peg, and the bump under my left shoulder turned out to be yet another - someone somewhere was running out of tent pegs, fo'sure.

 

    Ah... this was the life. I turned out the light at eleven or so and settled down for a hard earned kip. The countryside is so quiet and peaceful isn't it? A gentle rustling of the flysheet… the contented bleat of sheep settling in the next field… the odd distant owl in the woods... a distant murmur of... night club music? Eh? I don't believe this... a RAVE! An all-night rave. Oh no! It was all the worse for coming and going on the strength of the breeze. At times it became accursedly loud and at others it became blissfully distant and lost. ALL NIGHT LONG!

 

 

Reviews

[Solst Rapture]

Hi Mick,
another fantastic account of your journey. The writing remained accomplished throughout. I'm obviously more interested in fiction and human relationships so the little nostalgia trips win me over every time. I think they're just so tender and endearing!

The occasional witty remark has continued to make me smile. The only problem I have now I have got to chapter 3 and it is an unfair problem; you didn't seem to engage me quite as much as you did in the other chapters. I know this is a non fictional account of your journey and I respect it for that, I respect you for capturing it, particularly without any images (A small, almost invisible mobile phone equipped with a camera could benefit you if you did it again, I'm sure - keep it on silent of course, so as not to be distracted), but I perhaps could have done with learning what you were thinking about those cows, for example, or how that young couple in the pub made you feel. These are just ideas of course but with these extra little insights, I think you'd be onto a publishable travel story. You may not be interested in such things, which of course is your choice. I'm just musing!

"..snarling like the big 'un he wasn't." - I felt like you wanted to say, 'like the big 'un he wanted to be.' It just seems fitting for the tone of the whole boos thus far.

"...come uppance..." - remove the space?

Otherwise Mick, brilliant!

[Emily B]

All night long!!!! You just can't plan for that, can you?

I wonder if the path has changed more or you in the time that has lapsed since your last go?