Day Seventeen

Monday 13 December – Cheltenham to Gloucester

Cheltenham has been a spa resort since the discovery of mineral springs there in 1716. The spa waters continue to be taken recreationally at Pittville Pump Room, built for this purpose and completed in 1830. The railway station (which my overnight stopping place was almost part of) is still called Cheltenham Spa. The city is also well-known for horse-racing – there is a friendly invasion of Irish racegoers every Spring for the Gold Cup meeting – and a clutch of cultural festivals. I had seen a little of the Georgian and Regency architecture in the Montpelier district the previous evening, but today I headed South West out of town.

The rush hour traffic was in full cry, and as soon as possible I escaped from main roads on to a back street leading, I thought, to a footbridge over the railway. When I reached the end of a cul-de-sac, no bridge. But the milk of human kindness flowed. As I explained my predicament to a chap having a fag in a front garden, and he tried to remember where he'd seen a footbridge in the vicinity, the disembodied voice of a woman carried across the road. Actually she had a body, or at least a top half. How she had overheard our conversation I have no idea, but she was leaning out of a first-floor window, giving me directions to the bridge. With this help I was soon on my way.

After a 15-minute skirmish with the semis of Up Hatherley, I turned on to a bridleway leading Westwards, my rough direction for most of this walk. The way was clear at first, then became indistinct. I blundered around for a few minutes but, as soon as I had worked out my position relative to the traffic noise (from the M5) I was able to find the exit from a field on to a road which went over the motorway. This was swathed in fog, as was the countryside beyond it.

The day was mild, and the sun had being trying valiantly to break through a pall of thin cloud over Cheltenham. But the fog was too much for it. Rugby posts loomed eerily out of the gloom. I had a few seconds' difficulty distinguishing the path from a bikers' dirt track, but I soon found the tunnel I was seeking beneath the railway.

Cheltenham and Gloucester are separated by a shared green(ish) belt of flat farm land. I had left the Cotswolds behind by now; I could see no hills in any direction.

Once I had followed a cycle track beneath the A40, I was walking around the perimeter of Gloucestershire Airport, a bustling place indeed. That bit is a lie; there was no sign of any activity whatsoever, let alone any actual flying. Distressingly, what seemed to be the wreckage of a small plane had been dumped a few feet from the fence, as an awful warning, perhaps, to pilots and passengers.

After crossing a road, I was walking alongside Hatherley Brook, across as golf course which straddled the brook. There was no getting away from it; despite some extensive tree planting, this was a very boring golf course, and not a very exciting walk. There were golfers out playing, making the most of the warmer weather, with another cold snap gleefully threatened by Carol for the end of the week. I was jolly glad to quit the course for a relatively thrilling stretch of path past a sewage works.

Interestingly (well, I was desperate), some two hours after quitting Up Hatherley on the outskirts of Cheltenham, I was now in the vicinity of Down Hatherley. Just past the sewage works, I turned left (South) for a first flirtation with the suburbs of Gloucester. Innsworth is just houses, and I left it again almost immediately, following a scruffy, unmade road, and hopping over a stile into my last few fields for the day.

I stopped by a kissing gate for a snack, and got into conversation with a woman walking her own dog and one belonging to her neighbour. We exchanged notes on our experiences of walking. She and her husband liked to go off b&b-ing, but found this more difficult because of the dog. My reference-librarian instincts prompted me to whip out the netbook and try to get a wifi connection so that I could help her find dog-friendly b&bs, but I resisted this temptation. We parted with mutual hopes for a happy Christmas.

Entering Longford, I set about getting to the city centre with as little time as possible spent on main roads. I accomplished this well, walking for nearly a mile along a quiet back street. As I rounded a slight bend, I was suddenly confronted by the sight of the absurdly-high tower of Gloucester Cathedral. I though how mind-boggling, intimidating even, this edifice must have been when it first started to loom over the house. But actually the buildings I could see around me were not much higher than their Mediaeval equivalents, hence the effect the cathedral still has.

I passed another place of reverence, the rugby stadium, before passing under the railway and into the centre. I had a little time for tourist activity (and lunch) before my train back to London, so I went past the Cathedral and made for the docks.

It seems rather strange to reflect that Gloucester, such a long way up the Severn, was a thriving port, thanks to the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal, which allowed larger ships to reach Gloucester's docks than would have been possible on the tidal Severn. At the docks, cargo was unloaded from the sea-going vessels and loaded on to narrow boats for onward transport using the inland waterways network. Like many dock areas, the buildings and infrastructure fell into disrepair when transport methods changed, and were renovated starting in the 1980s. One huge warehouse was destroyed by fire in the late 90s, and rebuilt using the original bricks. Today, the warehouses are host to the National Waterways Museum, a range of retail opportunities, and some cafes. one of which did well as a lunch stop.

I wandered back through the city's not-unpleasant shopping centre to the railway station, bringing this short day's walk, and this year's East-West walking, to an end. Next up, all being well, in January I shall walk through the Forest of Dean into South Wales.

Below is the state of the walk at the year's end:

Day Sixteen

Sunday 12 December – Bourton-on-the-Water to Cheltenham

If you had handed me a menu of December days, this is the one I would have chosen. As I ate my breakfast, my shadow was pinned to the wall by the early morning sun. Outside it was cold, a degree or two above freezing, with almost no wind.

Bourton-on-the-Water looked stunning. The sun twinkled on the water as I walked over one of the little bridges, along the bank, and back over another bridge. The ever-present cast of feathered clowns did not disappoint, chuntering to one another, girding up their loins and charging under the bridges. The gift shops were being prepared for trading as I popped into the Spar for my lunch, then headed West out of the village along the road.

Soon I crossed the A429 and found a bridleway just above the River Windrush (the true identity of Bourton's stream). I crossed the river at Little Aston Mill, climbed briefly on the road, then headed South West on a footpath. Yesterday, late in the day, I had crossed from Oxfordshire to Gloucestershire, and the footpath I was following forms part of the Gloucestershire Way, a 100-mile long distance route with the rather twee motto, 'Forest and Vale and High Blue Hill'. I was planning to follow it for most of the day.

As I approached Cold Aston, a fox lolloped towards me in the middle of the road, regarded me unconcernedly, and hopped into the hedge. Cold Aston is a very attractive village, the main street lined with sympathetic buildings, and a nice little church tucked away behind the school.

I was now heading more or less due West, scuffing along the top edge of my map. After a short section of road out of Cold Aston, I turned on to a phenomenon. It was a bridleway, to be prosaic. But it was so much more. Three lines of trees ran dead straight, with two tracks between them. After a quarter of a mile, the whole edifice, lines of trees and tracks, shifted a few yards to the left and continued for another quarter of a mile. Why? Who? Somebody planned this and carried it out. It can't have been a grand drive – there was only space between the trees for walking and riding – and anyway, why two tracks? It was really quite intriguing and exciting.

Notgrove is another lovely village in a rather austere way. There is no show here, just good-quality buildings and roads between them. Beyond the village, the Gloucestershire Way uses a farm track to enter a beautiful green valley, dipping down and then up again, picking up an estate road through Salperton Park. The fine house (16th or 17th Century) is clearly visible from the footpath, as are some of the jumps which form part of the park's well-known eventing course.

A bit more tarmac led to a bridleway descending to the hamlet of Hampen, where I found a quiet perch on a tree stump to eat my lunch. It was still a glorious day. Some cloud was gradually building up on the Northern horizon, but the sun was still unobscured, and the breeze remained light.

Field paths led me a further mile into Shipton. Specifically, I first walked through Shipton Oliffe, still a village but bloated by a fair bit of new build. It was neither pretty nor ugly, certainly not unpleasant like some expanded villages. Leaving the main street near the attractive little church (with twin bells visible in the tower), I took a path which bypassed Shipton Solers, crossing a series of paddocks to reach a junction of two “A” roads. Having negotiated this, I walked alongside one of the roads for a few yards, turning off on to what clearly used to be the main road, past a mill converted into a hotel and restaurant.

Field paths led to Foxcote (some swanky cars lining the street), then I climbed quite steeply to a road. On the map here it says “St Paul's Epistle”. It doesn't say which one, and it doesn't say what it means in the context of the Gloucestershire countryside. The name of a house further along the road is my best guess.

I left the Gloucestershire Way, crossed a few fields, and briefly joined the Cotswold Way, a National Trail. I had a choice to make. To get as near the centre of Cheltenham as possible on paths, I would have to go round the edge for a mile or so, and do some more climbing. The alternative was to enter the City more straightforwardly along a main road.

The cloud had now spread across the sky and throttled the sun, so views were not high on the agenda. And looking down the scarp slope of the Cotswolds, I could see fog engulfing the trees on the lower ground. So I decided to descend quite quickly and take the road.

It wasn't as bad as it might have been; by referring frequently to the map I was able to take a few back roads and avoid the main drag. By the time I got near the centre, it was dark so, rather than go sight-seeing, I cut across the City to the South of the centre to find my billet for the night near the station.

Day Fifteen

Saturday 11 December – Charlbury to Bourton-on-the-Water



On my way to Paddington Station, I saw a fox cross Praed Street. After I had popped into Tesco to buy my lunch, The fox trotted back across the road, swerving at the last second to avoid bumping into a chap walking along the pavement. Who needs the countryside?

I didn't see any foxes at Charlbury. Leaving the station, I crossed the railway by the road bridge, almost immediately turning on to a narrow lane leading to Walcot “only”, as the sign has it. Walcot is a few cottages in a single terrace, and some farm buildings. Beyond it, the lane becomes a field-edge bridleway. I was heading roughly North West, bending round Westwards above the River Evenlode.

After a prolonged cold snap, today the temperature was a few degrees above zero, and almost all of the snow had melted. The cloud was thick and leaden, the daylight seeming yet to arrive properly at nearly ten o'clock in the morning. At Shorthampton, I briefly joined a road, before taking another bridleway across fields to the hamlet of Chilson.

The countryside hereabouts is not at all spectacular or even particularly pretty. The hills are modest, but there are sufficient trees to break up the scene and keep it reasonably interesting. The walking was easy, if a little muddy. What was frozen a week ago was now gooey and clinging.

A mile or so from Chilson, I reached the start of a progress through villages known collectively as the Wychwoods, The first was Ascott-under-Wychwood. The Wychwood was a large area of forest which was gradually eaten away as grazing was need for those profitable chompers, sheep.

In 1873 (so Wikipedia tells me) “a farmer dismissed several men of Ascott-under-Wychwood because they had formed a branch of the National Union of Agricultural Workers. He hired labourers from the village of Ramsden to work as strikebreakers but group of women from Ascott-under-Wychwood tried to dissuade the Ramsden labourers from working. 16 of the women were arrested, tried by magistrates in Chipping Norton and given short sentences of imprisonment in Oxford Castle. Their convictions were met with rioting in Chipping Norton, questions in Parliament and a royal pardon from Queen Victoria. The 16 are commemorated as the Ascott Martyrs. In 1874 at least four of the women emigrated with their families to New Zealand, where they now have numerous descendants. In 1973 on the centenary of the women's ordeal a commemorative bench was erected in the village.”

They seem rather proud of their history in Ascott. The former village pound (for stray animals, a necessity before the enclosure of fields), is preserved and signed; within the pound, stones retrieved from a long barrow (burial mound) are laid out to give an idea of its proportions.

A bridleway, and then a delightful footpath through young trees alongside the Evenlode took me to the second village, Shipton-under-Wychwood. I saw little of this, as my route merely skirted its Northern edge. It is joined to Milton-under-Wychwood, of which I saw a lot more.

Outside the Co-op, a small group of local people were singing Christmas carols with instrumental accompaniment. A small girl was handing out cards giving (I think) details of seasonal services at the church, and chocolates. Nobody was making any attempt to collect money. I am a fully paid-up member of the Bah Humbug Society (E. Scrooge, patron), but I have to admit that it was charming. After popping into the shop, I had a quick chat with one of the group, who enquired after my walk.

I was just out of range of the music when I found a jubilee bench (George VI's jubilee, since you ask) in the recreation ground to have my lunch. Apparently "Milton stone" has been quarried in the area since the early 14th century. It was used at St George's Chapel, Windsor and Christ Church, Oxford. I walked along the sleepy High Street, past the Wychwoods Library (a tiny shop in appearance), leaving the village on a bridleway across fields.

Fifield is attractive in a low-key way, The only activity came from the postie in his van. The dips and hollows were becoming more pronounced by now, The path from Fifield to Idbury descended to a stream, and then rose again.
Idbury is a tiny hamlet with one large house called, amazingly, Idbury House. The engineer Sir Benjamin Baker, noted for his work on the Forth Bridge, Victoria Station and the first Aswan Dam, is buried in the churchyard. J.W. Robertson Scott moved to Idbury Manor in 1922 and founded The Countryman magazine there in 1927. In 1924 the novelist Sylvia Townsend Warner rented a cottage in Idbury form Robertson Scott. In 1934 the Canadian poet Frank Prewett moved to Idbury where he briefly worked as assistant editor of The Countryman (thanks, Wikipedia). Who'd have thought it? - all these interesting people in such a minute place.

Having temporarily run out of footpaths, I followed a lane West out of Idbury, soon reaching Nether Westcote (unremarkable) and then Church Westcote (much more characterful). I could have left the lane and taken to a footpath at this stage, but there was next to no traffic, so I kept on the tarmac for another mile, until I reached the main A424 (Swindon to Stow) road. Luckily, I only had to walk about 100 yards along the verge of this before I could turn off on to a lovely bridleway between hedgerows.

After a brief walk along a much quieter road, I was back on to field paths, descending now quite steeply. Wyck Rissington is a rather lovely Cotwold village. There is a wide grass verge on either side of the trafficless street, lined by some handsome houses. An old pump on the green stood in juxtaposition to a portaloo serving some building works. Between the two, I could see a van advertising a Dial a Dog Wash service, no doubt a necessity with all the mud about.

In the early 1890s composer Gustav Holst, at the age of 17, was the resident organist for the church. The organ that Holst played is still in use. But not just at the moment – the church is a no-go area for organists and worshippers, being surrounded by scaffolding and white plastic while it is refurbished.

I now had just a little way to go, by bridleway and footpath, to my goal for the day, I crossed some water meadows which are part of a nature reserve. I could have found out much more about what is being done to restore this neglected habitat, but the device on a post which gave audio information had to be hand-cranked to generate its power. My arm quickly got tired, so I skipped the lesson and completed the last mile into Bourton-on-the Water.

I'm sure that Bourton (the “Venice of the Cotswolds”, as it is described in all guide books) is overrun with tourists in the Summer, it's many-bridged stream running along the main drag being the subject of thousands of snaps. In December, the only snapper I noticed was me. I did the tourist bit myself, starting with the Model Village. The 1/9th scale model of the village in which it stands is lovely, the small buildings being allowed to age as gently as the originals in the surrounding streets. There is even a model of the Model Village although, disappointingly, this does not include a model of the model of the model of the village (if you follow me).

Then I had a cream tea (substituting coffee for the tea), probably putting on most of the calories I had lost during the day. Later, after my supper I had a short wander around the centre of the village, looking rather magical as Christmas lights twinkled on several of the buildings. The village Christmas tree is not on the grass by the stream; it's actually in the stream. The tree was the focus for disturbing scenes as hooligans surrounded it, splashing through the water and calling raucously to other ducks.

Day Fourteen

Saturday 4 December – Oxford to Charlbury

It wasn't as cold in London as it had been during the week, but I took no chances. I was wearing several layers of clothing, starting with my very efficient Japanese thermals (made in China, of course, Japanese label). Topping off the natty ensemble, I had my Benny-from-Crossroads beany hat.

I didn't see much of Oxford. Within about 100 yards of the station, I was on the Thames towpath, heading North. The path was properly constructed, shale on rubble, but lethally slippery. This path construction provides a great walk in most circumstances, but it retains water, and becomes like a nobbly skating rink in cold weather.

I picked my way along the grassy margin, where there was a bit more grip. Several joggers passed me, some jogging normally (they obviously had stickier soles than mine), some teetering hesitantly (they didn't have the magic fotwear). Whenever the surface changed to concrete or tarmac or almost anything other than shale, the going was much easier.

After Bossom's boatyard, the riverbank widened out, and there was plenty of grass to walk on when the path itself looked slippery. Fishermen stood mournfully on either bank of the river. To my left was the unceasing low roar of traffic on the ring road, while to the right all I heard was the occasional parp from trains. Port Meadow opened out across the river, green round the edges and white in the middle. An impromptu game of ice hockey was taking place on what, I guess, was frozen floodwater. Behind me, the sun was trying hard to penetrate the gloom. The cloud obscured it like a thick net curtain.

I reached the ruins of Godstow Abbey. Dating from the 12^th Century, the abbey was built for benedictine nuns on what was then an island surrounded by arms of the Thames. Suppressed with all the rest by Henry VIII, it was converted to a private house, but fell into ruin after it was damaged in the Civil War. The ruins became a compound for farm animals, but remained picturesque enough to appeal to the Victorians, including Lewis Carroll, who brought the Liddell girls here for picnics. It remains an atmospheric place.

I left the Thames towpath to walk through Wolvercote, first passing the famous Trout Inn, popular for three centuries with boaters, students, townies and tourists, although I expect they've let a few locals in when there has been room to spare. Being built of biscuit-coloured stone, The Trout was for me the harbinger of the Cotswolds.

My diversion was necessary because the Thames Path swings round to the West at Wolvercote, while I need to head more or less North West. To pick up the necessary paths, I had to cross the river and (three times) the railway. For a brief interlude, I followed the towpath of the Oxford Canal. The usual low puttering noises came from the engines being used to heat the occupied boats. One very right-on boat had three solar panels mounted on the roof; sadly, they were probably delivering precious little power today, although the temperature had risen a degree or two above freezing.

I turned from one towpath on to another, alongside the Duke's Cut, the Duke being Marlborough, and the cut being the only route between the Oxford Canal and the Thames until the lock at Oxford was built. I soon left the cut to head Northwest across fields, frozen ground turning muddy as the temperature rose. Still no breakthrough by the sun, though.

I was now on Shakespeare's Way. The waymark signs bear the legend (I kid you not) “twixt Stratford-upon-Avon and the Globe”. Twixt, forsooth! This route might possibly have been the one taken by young Will as he commuted between Stratford and London. On the other hand... Never mind, it provides an agreeable 150-mile walk, and does no harm. It took me to Yarnton, a village which, its local website records, is possibly the oldest village in England, though the wesbsite admits with admirable candour that this is a claim shared with several hundred other villages.

I entered the village opposite Yarnton Manor, an imposing house dating from the 17^th Century, with the parish church in matching stone just over the hedge. I saw little more of Yarnton, as I turned away to the West to find the splendidly-name Frogwelldown Lane, an ancient track running between trees and hedges, now just a path. Emerging from the trees, the track went downhill along field edges.

Where Shakespeare (allegedly) turned Northwards towards Stratford and home, I continued Norhwest on a remarkably straight path. A stile, standing beside a gap in a hedge, was therefore unmuddy, so I sat on it to eat my lunch (with no wind, it wasn't necessary to find shelter).

Moving on, I joined a quiet road for half a mile, then turned on to a busy main road, luckily with a pavement, leading into Long Hanborough. Since this is a linear village, strung out along the “A” road, I wasn't bothered about walking through it, and there was an alternative, a pedestrian by pass, starting with a road which, on the map, has green dots on it. If you put the dots under a microscope, they would probably turn out to be miniature pictures of the Ordnance Survey washing its hands. The symbol indicates that the legal status is uncertain, and “it ain't our fault, guv.”

The road led to bridleways and footpaths which loop right round Long Hanborough, sometimes along field edges, sometimes through woods. The landscape was becoming more rolling as I penetrated the Cotswolds. Mostly in Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire, the Cotswold Hills are about 25 miles across (the way I was walking), and 90 miles long, with a spine running from Southwest to Northeast.

I next reached a road at the curiously-named East End. East End of what or where? To the West of this linear hamlet there are just fields. I followed the road Northwest for a few minutes, looking for a bridleway heading North. In fact it was well marked, not for my benefit but because, just a few hundred yards along what is in fact a farm track, there are the remains of North Leigh Roman Villa.

This was the “home of a Roman aristocrat”, the sign said. I wondered if he was a genuine Roman or a local recruit like the chap who owned Fishbourne in Sussex. If the former, what did he make of England on a day like this, snow lying on the fields and a mist hanging over the River Evenlode? Admittedly, he had central heating – the hypocaust system can be clearly seen – but even so, he might not have enjoyed a winter among the savages! Just a fraction of the floorplan has been exposed, a few courses of stone at the most, but still somehow exciting and full of atmosphere.

At one end of the site, a modern building protects an almost-complete tile floor. The building was locked, but generous windows provide a glimpse. Nuisance drizzle had turned to rain. I put waterproofs on my rucksack and myself, and spent a few minutes whipping out the camera, snapping the ruins, and pocketing the camera again before it took on water.

Resuming my walk, I soon reached the pleasant village of Stonesfield. A string of fairy lights, hung along any ivy-clad fence, blazed in the gloom. A board offered information on local fossils, but I kept walking in the now-steady rain, intent on completing the last three miles to Charlbury. But I was wrong to hurry, since this was the best bit of the walk. A farm track led to another ancient lane, enclosed between hedgerows, passing across high ground between large fields, with occasional views down iinto the valey of the Evenlode.

The path became a residential road leading into Charlbury, a small town rather than a village, with a pleasant central street, climbing gently and then dropping sharply downhill. Charlbury is shut on Saturday afternoons, only the pubs being open for business. I could probably have got a coffee in one of them, but I wasn't in a pub mood, so I walked on to the station.

I was hoping for an inter-city train with a buffet car, but a miserable three-car job turned up. Disappointment loomed, but – hurray! - a trolley lurked at one end of the carriage I got into. The coffee was not very hot, but it did the trick, helped by a KitKat. Simple pleasures.

Day Thirteen

Tuesday 23 November – Haddenham to Oxford



Nobody walks from Haddenham to Thame. That, at least, is the opinion of the planners, who have failed to provide a footpath alongside the road. Even the grass verge is sometimes unwalkable. Luckily motorists were courteous, and after a few minutes I was able to turn off the road and take to the fields.

After crossing the River Thame, a more modest waterway than its near-namesake with an “s”, I soon reached the village of Long Crendon, emerging on to a quiet road near the church. Long Crendon used to be called plain Crendon. When it was felt necessary to distinguish it from another, nearby Crendon, it was noticed that the village was quite a long one, and inspiration struck.


I walked the full length of the old part of the village, along the High Street. For once, the parked vehicles failed to overwhelm the attractive old buildings which line the street, newer infills tending towards pastiche or politeness rather than contrast. It was a pleasant stroll. Long Crendon is a very old village, with the architecture to prove it. It comes as no surprise that it often provides the backdrop to episodes of Midsomer Murders, with local people completing the scene as extras.


Apart from this starring role, the parish is possibly best known for including, just outside the village, Notley Abbey. When it was supressed in 1538, the abbey was allowed to fall into ruin and quarried for its stone. The exception was the abbot's lodging which had survived as a farmhouse before being converted in the last century into a country mansion. The most famous residents of the house which took the former abbey's name were Laurence Olivier and his then wife, Vivien Leigh.


Between 1944 and 1958, their weekend parties were attended by everyone who was anyone in showbiz, often shadowed by a posse of press photographers. "Of all the houses I've lived in over the years, Notley is my favourite. It was absolutely enchanting, and it enchanted me. At Notley I had an affair with the past. For me it had mesmeric power; I could easily drown in its atmosphere. I could not leave it alone, I was a child lost in its history. Perhaps I loved it too much, if that is possible," mused the great man. And today, all the glamour of Notley can be “exclusively yours for 24 hours”, if you rent the place from Bijou Weddings for your big do.


Leaving all the stardust behind me, I walked roughly Southwest along a quiet lane, leaving it to join a footpath across fields. A Red Kite flew low to my left. The bright but cold day provide few thermal updrafts; the bird had to work hard to keep aloft.


I saw little of Shabbington, crossing the road from a footpath straight into the churchyard to find another footpath. The church apparently dates from the 11th Century, and is a handsome affair.

More field paths followed. The grassed fields were easy to walk; wherever the soil had been disturbed, the claggy earth clung to my boots. I crossed the Thame again over Ickford Bridge, an old humpbacked bridge with another arch, across a pool, almost joined on to it.


More fields led to the village of Waterstock. This is not as “olde worlde” as Long Crendon, but has an agreeable main street (actually its only street!) with some good buildings.


Turning right (Northwest) near the mill, I followed an enclosed, unmetalled but decently-surfaced estate road past Waterperry House. The house, which can be glimpsed several times from the public footpath (and closer if you trespass a few yards along the drive) was rebuilt in the Queen Anne style by Sir John Curson in 1713. After being owned by the Henley family for nearly a century, it was sold to Magdalen College in 1925.


Seven years later Waterperry Horticultural School was opened by Beatrix Havergal, the principal, as a residential horticultural college for women. Miss Havergal was known as the ‘Strawberry Queen’ at Chelsea Flower Show, where for many years she won the gold medal prize for her exhibit of Royal Sovereign strawberries. She retired in 1971. The house was then taken over by the Fellowship of the School of Economic Science. It is now run as a horticultural and garden centre. The school organises the annual ‘Art in Action’ festival in July, where craftsmen and women from all over the world exhibit their skills.


The ghost of Waterperry is the Grey Lady, who walks the footpath from Holton to Waterperry House. A number of people living in both villages have encountered her while walking the footpath in the last 20 years. She was away when I passed. Some of the above comes from "The New Oxfordshire Village Book" written by the local village WIs and compiled by the Oxfordshire Federation of Women's Institutes.


After gingerly negotiating a muddy farmyard, I turned West towards the already-audible M40, a couple of fields away. After crossing the motorway (on a bridge), I took to fields again, sitting on a convenient stile to eat my lunch. That's a safer bet in Winter; in Summer, as soon as you sit on a stile, several people appear, wanting to cross it.


Reaching a road again, I walked beneath the A40 into Wheatley. Little of Wheatley's ancient orgin is apparent from the road I took through the village. It looks, as it is, a dormitory for Oxford. One of Wheatley's main industries used to be quarrying limestone which was used for building Windsor Castle, Merton College, local cottages and ecclesiastical buildings, most of which were erected between the 13th and 18th centuries.


But for all its unprepossessing appearance today, I was now walking along the old road from London to Oxford. Beyond Wheatley, the old road (called, helpfully, Old Road) narrows and climbs up on to Shotover Hill.

Shotover was once part of a royal forest, covering a large area to the east of Oxford. During the Civil War the forest was gradually denuded until it stopped justifying the name forest at all, and became rough grazing. In the following 250 years the slopes were open heath and marsh and became a popular haunt for local naturalists, and for many local people who came to explore the slopes and admire the views. In 1908 the Rev A. H. Johnson raised enough money to buy part of Shotover for the University, a condition of the gift being that it be opened to the public forever. This land was later leased to the City Council who were also given much of the rest of Shotover on condition that it be kept as public open space, which goes today under the name Shotover Country Park.


By the time I reached this area, on the summit of the hill, the narrow road had become an unsurfaced, potholed track. The council has not bothered to put gates up to discourage motorists: the holes do a good job. Only the ranger's truck (which I passed, wobbling its way along) and car thieves would bother with it. Two burnt-out cars testified to the latter activity. “Police aware” said a notice on one of them, so that's all right.


Although it is a terrible driving surface, the track was great to walk on. The soil here is sandy, so it was like walking on newly-uncovered, firm sand at the seaside. Very nice walking. I spotted another Red Kite, patrolling a neighbouring field. A man and a woman passed me, accompanied by a little girl and a dog. The adults were teetering round the puddles, while the girl and the dog splashed happily through them. Much of the the bright day had disappeared under a pall of cloud; snow fell for about two seconds.


At its Western end, the track became a narrow road again, then entered the suburb of New Headington, a place devoid of interest. After walking past one big hospital on the right, I passed another one on the left, still following the old route into Oxford from London. South Park provided a welcome break from tedious suburban roads.

Leaving the park, I only had a few minutes' walk along a main road before I entered the City proper over Magdalen Bridge. I was happy to wander about for a while, doing the tourist bit and snapping away with my camera, before repairing to Costa for coffee and something. They (very thoughtfully) felt it necessary to warn me about the size of their large coffee cups – like white, two-handled buckets. I told them to bring it on.


I was in good time for my walk to the station for the trip back to London. So that completed the Cambridge to Oxford “core” of this East-West walk. Next time, the Cotswolds.

Day Twelve

Saturday 30 October – Marsworth to Haddenham

As a village, Marsworth goes back many centuries. But it owes its greatest expansion to the coming of the Grand Union Canal. The main London to Birmingham route passes through here from South to North, and from Marsworth Junction a branch canal, known as the Aylesbury Arm, heads for about 6 miles West – its towpath was my next bit of walking.

The arm was completed in 1815. The big idea was to use it as part of a through route between the Grand Union Canal and the Thames at Abingdon, and ultimately through to the Kennet and Avon Canal and Wilts and Berks Canal. Some chance: the plan was squabbled over even before the arm was dug, and came to nothing. The canal was used commercially for transporting grain, timber, coal and building materials until the 1960s.

A website warned me that the towpath was in a dodgy state in parts, so I was ready for anything. As it turned out, there was nothing to worry about. There were obvious signs that stretches of path had been shored up and the surface  (well) restored. After the night’s rain, it was just a bit muddy. No sign of rain this morning – the sky was not completely blue, but the cloud was wispy and unthreatening.

From Marsworth, the canal headed briefly Northwest, and then turned to go almost due West the six miles to Aylesbury. It’s a narrow canal, the locks taking one boat at a time, with a few inches only to spare at either side. Narrow canals always seem much more intimate than the wide variety, as though you could almost reach across and shake hands with.. well, anyone on the other side.

There are 16 locks on this short stretch. A few boats were in action, the majority being moored up. At times, I couldn’t see the water at all. I was walking in a channel between the hedge on my left and a line of 8-foot high reeds or sedges, or whatever they were.

Almost as soon as I left the Marsworth dog-walkers behind, I started to meet those from Wilstone and Long Marston and Puttenham. None of these villages is actually on the canal, but a network of paths gives the dog-walkers a choice of circular routes. Then two strange things happened.

I met two couples without dogs; they weren’t even jogging. And secondly I witnessed a fisherman catching a fish. Admittedly, if you topped and tailed it, it would easily have fitted into a matchbox, but I can’t recall ever seeing a fish caught before. I’m sure it’s not why they do it.

The day was now idyllic. Sheep, cows and horses grazed. A glider glid overhead. There was a car-park by the towpath, so that Aylesbury dog-walkers (and those not accompanied by dogs, by special arrangement) could drive out of town for a bit of fresh air and poo-collecting (or not – boo! hiss!).

Towns used to be protected by ramparts, now it is ring roads which keep invaders at bay. On the map, Aylesbury looks like a snail, roads spiralling around until they disappear up its own shopping centre.

The basin at the end of the canal is a modest affair, the province of an enthusiasts’ group. Mooring is free for short periods, by arrangement with the “Welcome Boat”. Very civilised. The towpath ends without ceremony, just behind a small office block, whose car park you cross to get to a main road, a few yards from the innermost ring road. I decided to have a quick look at the marketplace and its surroundings, which meant negotiating the said ring road.

Aylesbury is the county town of Buckinghamshire. This is a bit surprising: what about Buckingham? Apparently Henry VIII swapped the title between the two places. Was there nothing that man didn’t muck about with? Aylesbury was a bustling place well before that event, and has been even busier ever since. Iron Age fort, rallying point for participants in the Wars of the Roses and the Civil War, place of trial for the Great Train Robbers – this has been, and still is, an important regional centre.

The traffic was Saturday-shopping busy. The Civic Centre, a soviet-style brick affair, seemed to be entirely surrounded by 8-foot high boarding, painted white. Very sinister. The market place was bustling, a general market providing a centrepiece for the retail experience. Not wanting to join in, I took a couple of photos and headed down a road which passes underneath a multi-storey car park.

This led to the start of a long, wide bridge which carries a footpath and cycleway across the railway line and South into the suburbs. Since the route then skirted the housing, I saw remarkably little of Aylesbury before I was plodding across a raked/harrowed/whatever field back into the country. After the disrupted stretch of footpath, the next bit was much better, across cropped grass. Then I reached a farm track which was inches-thick in mud, rutted and puddled by tractor tyres. I opted out, hopping over the fence and walking the edge of a neighbouring field, getting legal again just before I came in sight of the farm.

The Chilterns (their raggedy edge a constant presence near the horizon on my left) are chalk, but the Vale of Aylesbury is clay, so a sticky time can often be had walking its footpaths. It is also very flat. A local website describes it as “rolling”, but that is untrue. My route was generally Southwest, but not straight. As when I had crossed the flatlands of Suffolk and Norfolk, I zig-zagged along field paths and bridleways.

I came across a few "Say no to HS2" notices pinned up by gates and stiles. The proposed high-speed rail link between London and Birmingham would avoid following the existing railway line through the Aylesbury urban area by swinging round to the South West of the town, where I was now walking. The notices claimed, probably rightly, that some paths would become unwalkable or no pleasure to walk. So the local landowners are trying to sign up walkers as allies. A cynical comment enters my head.

I briefly entered Bishopstone, whose name indicates, unsurprisingly, a relationship of some sort with a bishop, but no such connection can be confirmed. West of Bishopstone, a large area is fenced off as a conservation area. A variety of trees has been planted, and feeders indicate that pheasant are preserved here until it’s time to unpreserve them.

In Ford, a hamlet within the parish of Dinton-with-Ford-and-Upton, there is rather twee-looking pub called the Dinton Hermit. Said hermit was one John Bigg, who lived in a nearby cave. He was involved in the execution of King Charles I in 1649 and was reputed to have been the actual executioner. As one of the regicides, Simon Mayne, lived at Dinton, and was buried there after dying in prison, it is quite possible that he helped the executioner find a new career as a hermit. But he was ahead of his time: it wasn’t until the 18^th Century that hermits became fashionable.

On the outskirts of Ford, I walked past a range of converted barns and other buildings, all now achingly-sharp dwellings. There is plenty of farming going on round here, but it’s difficult to see where it happens, apart from the actual fields – all the buildings seem to have been converted. A couple of Wendy houses in a garden provided the only original design.

Aston Sandford is a few houses (one of them a manor house) a farm and a church. The parish's rector from 1803 to 1821 was the biblical commentator Rev. Thomas Scott, who trained the first missionaries of the Church Missionary Society here, and was the Society’s secretary. In Scott’s day their focus was on “Africa and the East”, a wide enough remit, you might think. But later their evangelical tentacles spread around the world, and they’re still at it.

An unwelcome but short stretch of busy-ish road took me to my last footpath of the day, across fields to the outskirts of Haddenham. In a field, a few cows were grazing. No surprises there. But behind two cows standing close to each other, what I at first took to be a calf was hiding shyly from me. Then curiosity overcame fear, and it popped out to have a look at me. It was a young deer. As I crossed the field, the deer continued to check me out, returning after every sortie to the protection of the two "mums". I wondered whether this unuusual fostering arrangement had anything to do with the place I was fast approaching.

Turning left on the road into the village, I soon passed St Tiggywinkles, the “world’s busiest wildlife hospital”. It was started in 1978 by a couple called Sue and Les Stocker  to fill a gap. Domestic animals were usually well looked after when they were injured, but for wild animals it was much more chancy.  It is the hedgehog ward which is probably best known, but the clients have ranged from toads, badgers and deer to wrens, owls and swans. These days it is a tourist attraction, with a dedicated visitor centre and lots of activities for kids. But this didn’t look to be open, so I pressed on.

Church End Green provides a rather special entrance to the village, with (of course) an old church, a duckpond, village sign, and three adjacent pubs. It’s a lovely setting.

One fact about Haddenham tickled me. In 1295 Edward I granted Haddenham a charter to hold a weekly market and annual fair, but the holder of the market charter at neighbouring Thame suffered from the competition, so he got Haddenham’s charter cancelled seven years later. Apparently the annual fair survives. I also read the claim, yawning the while, that this is the largest village in England, a claim made for dozens of villages, quite a lot of them bigger than Haddenham.

A sounder claim is that this is one of only three wychert (or whitchet) villages. Wychert is a method of construction using a white clay mixed with straw to make walls and buildings, which are then thatched or topped with red clay tiles. This gives rise to a subsidiary claim, that the Methodist Chapel is the largest wychert building in the world – a claim which looked less impressive when one of its walls collapsed in 2001. It has been rebuilt.

It may not – certainly is not – the largest village, but it is a maze of roads, lanes and alleyways, through which I happily wandered in quest. Reaching the Northern end of the village (Fort End), I reached the what I was seeking – coffee and something. A very smart Italian (or perhaps just “Italian”) café dispensed excellent coffee and simple but superb iced cake.

My treat delivered, I trotted the remaining half mile to Haddenham and Thame Parkway station. And so this East-West walk is on hold for a while, as next week I go to Fort William to resume my Alternative End-to-End walk. 

Day Eleven

Thursday 28 October – Dunstable to Marsworth

I took a train from London to Luton, and then a bus to Dunstable, to resume my walk. When we pulled into Luton town centre, a group of elderly people dragged their suitcases off the bus. The driver left his cab, questioning people in the queue about the whereabouts of a local hotel. This was all for the benefit of the party with the heavy luggage. The bus started again, but soon stopped. The driver, clutching his coin box, rushed off the bus and ran fully a hundred yards, returning to announce (not at all boastfully) that he’d spotted the hotel, and the oldies walking in the wrong direction. A kind act.

Dunstable shops are running a bit of a poster campaign. Shop local is the message, but it doesn’t seem t9 be getting through. The shopping centre is a depressing place, and it was a relief to walk away towards the brighter face of the area, Dunstable Downs.

A strip of green runs almost due South, away from the Ivinghoe road, gently gaining height until it opens out on the right hand side, revealing the steep drop down into the Vale of Aylesbury. This is an authentic downland landscape to set alongside Box Hill, say, or Ditchling Beacon. Bright intervals were promised (they never arrived), but as I set out along the top of the scarp slope, dark grey clouds rolled overhead, and there was a fine mizzle. Down on the plain, the cloud boiled around, whipped up by a keen Westerly wind. The wind was being deflected up the slope; even a modest spread of bushes was enough to push it still higher, giving me occasional relief from its attentions.

 At 797 feet, Dunstable Downs are the highest point in Bedfordshire. Because of its elevation, the Downs hosted a station in the shutter telegraph chain which connected the Admiralty in London to its naval ships docked at Great Yarmouth between 1808 and 1814. The area is unsurprisingly popular with gliders, kite fliers, hang gliders and paragliders. The London Gliding Club is based at the foot of the downs; today it was lurking in the gloom.

After just over a mile I reached the Chilterns Gateway Centre, erected by the National Trust to act as information centre, café and shop. As I drew level with the centre, I was puzzled by a large metal obelisk-like structure. As sculpture it wasn’t very exciting, but a nearby information board explained all. It is a wind collector (generous contributions today). The wind is captured, piped to the centre, and acts to cool the interior in Summer and slightly warm it in Winter (I’m not sure how the “slightly warm” bit works, but what do I know?). It seemed churlish to pass without calling in to say hello, so I used the facilities and had a good mug of coffee while enjoying the cabaret.

It wasn’t an intentional free show. Beyond the glass, a photoshoot was taking place. A young chap with a very large camera on a tripod was being protected from the drizzle by a big umbrella held by a girl in an enormous fur hat (large, big, enormous – this sentence is getting out of hand). The photographer’s model was another young man, sitting in a folding chair, with a brightly-coloured tent straining at its moorings behind him, and beyond that the edge and the murk. Three more girls were standing by, chatting. Meanwhile, the centre had the air of a seaside café on a day of poor weather, but instead of watching the waves everybody was enjoying the obvious discomfort of the chap in the chair.

Tearing myself away, I resumed my walk along the Downs. It wasn’t a very long walk before I had to divert from the edge, because Whipsnade Zoo got in the way. The zoo is owned by the Zoological Society of London, and covers 600 acres. The society wanted a place in the country, so they bought a farm in the 1920s. There are more than 6,000 animals, many from endangered species. The zoo opened in 1931 to act as a breeding centre for endangered animals and a day out in the country for townies. During the Second World War, it was a refuge for animals from London Zoo, until many of them were shipped back to boost morale in the City, taking their chances along with the other London residents. The conservation work continues, and the zoo is still an important visitor attraction and revenue-boost for ZSL. But it’s a bit of a nuisance if you’re heading for Ivinghoe Beacon, which I was.

The most direct route is along a nasty road, the alternative being a wide arc around the zoo, through Whipsnade village. I opted for the circuitous, quieter way. There wasn’t much visual evidence of the zoo to start with, but I could hear a constant public address drone, a female voice giving a long lecture on something – no word was audible. Before I reached the village, I passed Whipsnade Cathedral.

For effect, I have missed out a word there. Whipsnade is not a diocesan HQ, but it hosts the Tree Cathedral. In memory of three friends lost in the First World Way, a chap called Edmond Blyth planted the area as an act of "faith, hope and reconciliation". The pattern is roughly that of a mediaeval abbey or cathedral, with a nave, cloisters, side chapels and all the other accoutrements, all represented by different trees. At this time of year, the effect is rather stark, and I guess the experience is richer in Spring. But even on a dull October day I could see why it is used occasionally for actual religious services and celebrations.

I didn’t see much of Whipsnade village, but I don’t think there’s actually much to see. As I walked along Studham Lane – now just a path – I caught sight of a black squirrel. This was the second time I had seen one on this East-West walk, and this time I managed to take a blurry photo. Up close (or rather closer), it is obvious that the black is a variation on the grey – same shape, same size. 

I saw some more of the zoo as moved around its rather ugly perimeter fence. I’m sure they need a high fence, with wild animals allowed a lot of freedom inside, but the army-camp feel was unwelcome in the country. Paying customers are allowed to drive between the various enclosures; I could see a few cars drifting slowly around. There is also a bus service and – its whistle clearly audible – a train. A few animals were grazing near the fence, and further off there was a herd of bison, ignoring the train as it scattered more nervous birds.

I had to cross a golf course, always a dicey prospect. I paused while a golfer took his putt, and was warmly thanked by one of his companions, who set me on the right route to cross the course. Even with his help, I lost the path, which was not well marked. With a bit of guesswork I got myself back on the right track, descending the now-wooded scarp slope into Dagnall, an undistinguished place which has the misfortune to be on a main road. You can be sure it’s a main road, as South of the central crossroads it’s called Main Road South, and North of the crossroads… fill in the blank.

The Golden Rule pub, despite being painted an eye-catching, not to say eye-offending, golden-y yellow colour, was defunct. The other pub was still trading, but didn’t tempt me. I’m sure that, in and around this popular area of the Chilterns, it is necessary to dissuade non-customers from using the loos, but if that is the only notice on the door, the effect is less than welcoming. I couldn’t even leave the place, along a driveway heading back uphill South-Westwards, without passing a forest of notices banning this, exhorting that, and generally making it clear they would rather you just f***ed off. Can’t put me off that easily!

I passed Hog Hall, and a few field paths later I was back on National Trust territory, the Ashridge Estate, which includes Ivinghoe Beacon. To reach the Beacon I walked through an attractive bit of woodland called The Coombe. As I emerged from the trees, the reason for the name became clear. I was indeed in a coombe (or combe), a hollow between the main part of the downland and the spur which comprises Gallows Hill and Beacon Hill. I deliberately walked down the near side of the coombe, across the flat fields and up on to the spur at its lowest end. This allowed me to walk up and along the ridge, gradually gaining height until I reached the viewpoint. 

At 757 feet high, Ivinghoe Beacon is a pimple in the company of many hills, but round here it’s a big banana. Actually the local summit is not the beacon itself: a neighbouring hill rises another 50 feet or so. But this is the iconic spot. In the Iron Age (whenever that was – I was away for dates) there was a hill fort here. The Ridgeway long-distance paths heads Southwest from here, while the Icknield Way Path, much mentioned in this blog (and which I forgot to say I had been following for most of today), ends its Westward journey.

Like Dunstable Downs, it is much frequented by small aircraft, although here they tend not to have people attached to them, being a foot or so long. Many a walker’s picnic takes place here, especially at the weekend, and it has featured in many films, being a conveniently short distance from Elstree Studios. These include Quatermass 2, Batman Begins and The Dirty Dozen.

I paused to enjoy the view and, leaning over the map mounted on a stone plinth near the trig point, imagine the places, across the Vale of Aylesbury, which I could have seen on a clear day, which this was not – it was growing darker rather than lighter as promised, black clouds banking up and drizzle briefly resuming. Oxford was on the map, two days’ walking away for me, but well beyond vision today.

As I moved obliquely down the slope of the hill to the plain, I could see Pitstone Windmill. This mill is under the stewardship of the National Trust. It’s a comparatively rare post-mill, which means that the whole thing rests on a central post, upon which it pivots as the wind changes. The design has very obvious drawbacks, and the mill was all but destroyed by a gale in 1902. Only in 1970 was it able to grind corn again, having been lovingly rebuilt by volunteers. It’s open to visitors on Sunday afternoons.

A path across a bare chalky field, and a quick burst of pavement beside a busy road took me to Ivinghoe village. Ivinghoe was once used as the set for the children’s TV show, Chucklevision, featuring the Chuckle Brothers, Dan the Van, and his grandma, Lettuce the Van. I could find no record of how welcoming Ivinghoe was to these broadcasting luminaries. It’s possible that locals would prefer to be known for living in an ancient village, recorded in the Domesday Book, and for the fact that, though a village, it has a Town Hall.

The village has some handsome buildings, particularly around the village green. The next village, Pitstone, is joined at the hip to Ivinghoe. Pitstone is an agricultural village which was transformed by the building of a cement works, now defunct. I saw little of Pitstone, as there is a footpath “by-pass”. Then a not-very-busy road passed beneath the West Coast railway line.

A hundred yards from a T-junction, a narrow bridge holds up the traffic as it passes over the Grand Union Canal. Today I walked just a mile or so along the towpath, passing a pair of locks, before turning off along the main road through Marsworth.

Day Ten

Sunday 24 October – Hitchin to Dunstable

Today’s route was a departure from the original plan. I was going to loop round Luton and head for Leighton Buzzard. But I had second thoughts, on the grounds that Leighton Buzzard is a less-than-thrilling place to visit, while there were some goodies lurking West of Luton, of which more later. So it was to be a game of two halves, through countryside in the first half, with a plunge through the urban mass after the break. First I had to walk through Hitchin.

What a pleasant surprise it was. It helped that traffic was light – I was starting before 9.30 on a Sunday morning. The most annoying noise came from a single church bell, apparently rung by someone with a serious twitch or palsy. The car park near the town centre was suspiciously full, but the reason was soon obvious: a market was in full swing, a cross between a car boot and a farmers market. Bargains were being earnestly sought in the chilly air under a cloudless sky. There had been frost on the fields as I travelled out of London on the train.

Hitchin is described as a Royal Manor in the Domesday Book. The town is notable for St. Mary’s Church which is remarkably large for town of its size. The size of the church is evidence of how Hitchin prospered from the wool trade. It is alleged (the allegers are at it again!) to be the largest parish church in Hertfordshire.

The Sunday calm allowed me to appreciate the street pattern of the market town, remarkably unspoilt. People were breakfasting in coffee shops. I took a lane South near the River Hiz  towards the hamlet of Charlton, turning half right on to a footpath which ran almost parallel to the lane. The first part of the path had been obliterated, but the going wasn’t too bad; then came a couple of meadows before I turned sharp right (West) on to a farm track cum bridleway.

The map showed a windmill, but I couldn’t see it. If it was lurking behind the farm, it must be just a stump. The going was excellent; a string of bridleways and paths headed generally Southwest towards Great Offley. The ground was not flat, with a few steepish climbs. The name of a nearby track – Chalk Hill – gave a clue, but the giveaway was that I had joined the Chiltern Way. This was the North-Eastern end of the Chiltern Hills.

The Chilterns stretch in a 47 mile, Southwest to Northeast diagonal from Goring-on-Thames in Oxfordshire, through Buckinghamshire, via Dunstable Downs and Deacon Hill in Bedfordshire, to where I was currently walking. The other end of the range ends abruptly at the Thames; here it was a gradual affair. The most obvious feature of the range is the steep scarp slope facing North West – I would encounter it several times before I left the Chilterns to cross the Vale of Aylesbury. Behind the scarp slope, the gentle decline to the South East is far from simple; the Chilterns are characterised by folds and wrinkles with sometimes brutal climbs and falls, as though some god had taken the tilted surface and rucked it up randomly. All in all, an interesting walk was promised.

As I approached Great Offley, the church bells (several of them, rung well) were signalling the eleven o’clock, while on the soccer field the muddied oafs were all shouting loudly for the ball. The pub was still in darkness. I followed the Chiltern Way round two sides of the village, and then I turned West along what used to be the main road between Hitchin and Luton, now superseded by the noisy monster a field away.

I scented a conspiracy: another invisible windmill was marked on the map. This time, I could see a suspiciously-round farm building which presumably used to be the mill. A farm road took me under the A505, and then the Chiltern Way headed West again, on good field-edge paths.

A remarkably well-preserved notice on a post advertised a public meeting to protest about development. The meeting had taken place 18 months ago. There was a website address, which I looked up. The website belongs to an organisation called Keep East of Luton Green. Several of the remaining fields between here and Luton had been earmarked for house building, and I had come across the resistance movement. So far the campaign has been successful – a big building scheme has been turned down by the council - but it’s the sort of threat which has a habit of coming back, so the fight goes on.

The path crossed a road at the village of Lilley. A sign at the cricket ground claimed that the club was Hertfordshire’s “finest band of cricketers since 1895”. That’s a long time to be cock of the roost, even if it is just in their own estimation.

The path was a bit muddy, but only so far as it coexisted with access to the allotments; beyond that it was good again. When I emerged from the enclosed path, a tree ahead stood out at the top of a hill. As I stepped back a few feet to get some greenery into shot as framing for a picture, I was startled by a disembodied voice asking, “Are you doing the same as me?”

I resisted the temptation to answer, “It rather depends what you’re up to”. When I stepped forward again, I could see the man who had spoken. “Are you taking a photo of that tree?” he asked. I said I was. “I ‘ve photographed it through all four seasons,” he enthused, and I could see why: it was completely on its own on the horizon, at the top of a field which had probably been cropped and harvested while he returned to take his photos. After the usual weather chat (it was still great, though with a few more clouds than earlier), I left him to his current task – photographing a single sunflower at the field edge. When I reached the top of the climb and looked back, he had not moved. Sensible fellow.

As I turned briefly North West, I could see what lay in the next dip. It was Luton. Not wanting to picnic in the town, I found a spot for my lunch. But I was well within dog-walking and jogging range of the urban area; my munching was interspersed with hellos. It brought home to me what a blow it would have been if any of the network of paths round here were to be lost under housing: this is the green lung for the Eastern part of Luton.

The central feature is a country park based on two hills, Galley and Warden. This ran right up to the edge of the housing. The trick from now on was to find a reasonably agreeable route through the town, and my old chum, the Icknield Way, came in useful again. The Way had sidled in through the country park, having taken a more Northerly route from Hitchin. With its help I found some quiet roads, a playing field to cross, and footpaths through a grassy corridor near the infant River Lea/Lee, which rises nearby and flows to the Thames East of London, with spelling variations as it goes.

I walked firstly through Limbury and then Leagrave, both of which used to be villages before they were swallowed up by Luton. Leagrave, indeed, was a place of resort in the 19^th Century, the “Blockers’ Seaside”. Blocking was a trade in the straw hat-making industry for which Luton was famed.

A few hundred yards West of Leagrave Station, I reached a - to me - significant junction. My current East-West Walk crossed the line of my Alternative End-to-End Walk, which I was due to resume next week at Fort William.

Some suburban roads and a litter-strewn footpath led me to a road crossing the M1. West of the motorway lay Dunstable, but first there was to be an unexpected further burst of Chilterns. I had spotted on the map what looked like a useful green corridor alongside the old Luton to Leighton Buzzard railway line. What I hadn’t registered – not paying attention – was that this corridor was in fact part of the scarp slope, Blow’s Downs by name, a lovely bit of chalk downland with, I guess, the remains of a chalk quarry, now overgrown and mysterious to walk through.

There were signs of things happening to the old railway, apart from its use as a rubbish dump and a park for those things which aren’t really caravans and neither are they bungalows, which come on the back of a lorry. The former route of the railway is being transformed into a busway, along which “guided buses” will travel at up to 50 miles an hour on specially-designed tracks. Why not just revive the old railway? you ask. Good question. The cunning part of the plan is that the buses will be able to leave the track and serve districts surrounding it and further afield. Removal of the single-track rails has just begun, prior to the building of twin tracks for the busway. Cunning. eh?

The trackside footpath took me to within a quarter of a mile of the centre of Dunstable. The centre itself is an unfriendly crossroads, formerly graced with an Eleanor Cross, which Edward I had erected at the nightly resting places of the body of his dead wife, Eleanor of Castile. The crosses were firstly made of wood and later of stone. The final cross, at Charing Cross, has just been restored.

In Roman times Dunstable’s name was Durocobrivis. There was already some form of settlement by the time that the Romans built Watling Street, crossing the older Icknield Way here. Dunstable Priory was the setting for a special court which approved the annulment of Henry VIII’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon. This didn’t stop it going the way of all such institutions later in Henry’s reign. Dunstable itself prospered in the 17th and 18th Centuries because of its role as a transport hub, reinforced in the 19th Century by the opening of the aforementioned railway line between Luton and Leighton Buzzard. The town participated in the boom in straw hat making in Luton in the 19th Century, and lost any claim not to be a satellite of its bigger neighbour in the 20th. Ironically, the M1 serves as the only barrier to a seamless join between the two.

Even though the priory was supressed, the priory church survives, and a very handsome building it is, its precincts providing a sense of place entirely lacking in the shopping streets. Harrumph!