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!

Day Nine

Tuesday 19 October – Royston to Hitchin

“After you quit Ware, which is a mere market town, the land grows by degrees poorer; the chalk lies nearer and nearer to the surface, till you come to the open common-fields within a few miles of Royston. Along here the land is poor enough. It is not the stiff red loam mixed with large blue-grey flints, lying upon the chalk, such as you see in the north of Hampshire; but a whitish sort of clay, with little yellow flattish stones amongst it; sure signs of a hungry soil. Yet this land bears wheat sometimes. Royston is at the foot of this high poor land; or rather in a dell, the open side of which looks towards the North. It is a common market town. Not mean, but having nothing of beauty about it; and having on it, on three of the sides out of the four, those very ugly things, common-fields, which have all the nakedness, without any of the smoothness, of Downs.”

This was William Cobbett in 1822, on one of his rural rides. Royston is still not mean. The skeleton of the coaching village can still be seen in the dormitory town. The town centre has shops with local names alongside the national clichés. And thanks to the by-pass, the traffic is light at the old crossroads. I bought what proved to be an excellent sandwich for lunch, before walking South along the main shopping street, and then turning West along a residential road, with houses dating from (I think) the 50s.

A bridleway, the Icknield Way again, then led me South. From Royston to Hitchin, the railway describes a wide arc, Westerly at first and gradually turning South. My route was a distorted mirror image of this, South first and then West into Hitchin.

The Icknield Way was easy to follow, sometimes taking on the characteristics of a sunken green lane, sometimes becoming a field-edge path. It climbed for half a mile on to the chalk, levelled off for the same, then climbed again gently towards Therfield. Cobbett’s lack of enthusiasm for the area is not surprising; there is no drama in this landscape, the fields rolling but never folding like the South Downs. And there is certainly nothing approaching the scarp slope of the North Downs. But the walking was pleasant enough in the rapidly-disappearing sunshine. The forecast clouds were rolling in, increasingly dark and threatening, driven by a keen North wind. Patches of blue sky persisted, but you’d have had to sew them together to make a sailor his trousers.

Wikipedia tells me that from near Therfield you can see Ely Cathedral on a clear day. I forgot to look. The village has a nice green, overlooked by a pub, and a church down an attractive lane. Some people called Hagger hold an annual open meeting in the pub, hoping to attract Haggers unknown or information about their family tree.

Half a mile of field paths led to the next village, Kelshall. Kelshall is little more than a hamlet, but it turns up on a great number of websites because of two brothers, born locally, who emigrated to Australia in the mid-19th Century and founded Sole Brothers Circus, which in some form still exists. The Soles of Kelshall, like the Haggers of Therfield, are avid ancestor-hunters.

A field path headed South West. Actually, the route of the path took this direction. The path itself had been dug up by the farmer. In one field he’d actually planted a crop without redefining the crop, the silly s*d. The young crop will be trampled far more by walkers trying to navigate their way across it than they would if he’d just run his tractor across the proper route. There are drongoes in farming as there are in most jobs.

I looked for a tasty titbit of history or gossip about the next village, Sandon, or nearby Roe Green, but drew a blank. Sandon had a really nice village green, but was otherwise unremarkable. The paths to Roe Green weaved their way through a series of paddocks; this is horsey country. Another badly-defined path reached a road at one of Sandon’s outliers, Redhill. A small deer poked its nose out of a hedge, clocked me and a passing van, and turned on a sixpence.

West from Redhill, the walking was much better. Well-defined paths followed field edges and bisected woodland. As well as being the Icknield Way, this was also the Hertfordshire Way. The Oldman Way toyed with these two for several miles, abandoning them when they didn’t suit. I skirted round the hamlet of Clothall. Thomas Stanley, author of The History of the Philosophers, was born in Clohall, in 1625; he died in 1678, and was buried in the parish church. The book is not big on Amazon.

A mile further on lay the much bigger village of Weston. But before I reached it, I had to hole up under a tree for a quarter of an hour while a heavy shower passed across. Weston had a most attractive village green, a duck-pond with attendant weeping willow, and a post office which dispensed coffee, a winning combination. Of Weston, the Hertfordshire Genealogy website has a good story, culled from a magazine called Hertfordshire Countryside:

In the churchyard there are two stones which - without much foundation - local tradition claims to be the gravestones of Jack o' Legs, a local "Robin Hood" of gigantic stature. Although the stones are fourteen feet apart, it is said that he had to be bent double before being lowered into the grave. A more probable explanation is that the stones are some standard of measurement. It is said that he was killed by the baker of Baldock who objected to his custom of stealing their bread to feed the poor. He begged one last wish - to be given his favourite bow and be buried wherever the arrow should fall. Apparently it landed neatly in Weston churchyard.

A plaque under the village sign says his arrow hit the church itself; either way it was quite a shot from Baldock, more than three miles away!

I followed a bridleway West and then North, expecting to have a bit of road walking to come. But a study of the map and a recce on the ground held out the attractive alternative of a farm track along some field edges – not strictly a right of way, but very useful, eventually reaching a road opposite the bridleway which would take me under the A1(M) through a muddy tunnel. For a few hundred yards, my path was part of National Cycle Route 12, with the usual shale surface but not very well engineered – several puddles spoilt the effect.

A lane took me North into the former village of Wellian. Wellian has been swallowed by Letchworth Garden City, along with Norton and a third village whose name was taken by the new town. The Garden City was founded in 1903 by Ebenezer Howard, was one of the first new towns, and is the world's first Garden City. Its development inspired another Garden City project at Welwyn Garden City, as well as many other smaller projects worldwide (Canberra, the Australian capital, was influenced by its design concepts, as was Hellerau, Germany), and had great influence on future town planning and the New Towns movement. Today it has a population of around 33,600. Thanks, as ever, to Wikipedia.

Instead of walking further into Letchworth, I turned West again towards Hitchin. A mile of grotty road looked unavoidable, but an open gate suggested an escape route. A very nice track followed the edge of fields a hedge away from the busy road. Then I passed a sign: I was legit after all. This was part of the Garden City Greenway, and by the time it ran out I was on the outskirts of Hitchin, with the railway station 15 minutes away by suburban pavement and a final stretch of field path. A light drizzle fell on Hitchin’s rush-hour traffic.

Day Eight

Wednesday 13 October – Cambridge to Royston

A world of bicycles! They come at you from all directions, on the road, on the pavement, down alleys and across parks. If a bike dropped from the sky, you wouldn't be terribly surprised. But I'll tell you what is surprising – the cyclists of Cambridge tend to obey the traffic laws, stopping at stop signs and traffic lights, and going the right way along one-way streets. All a bit shocking when you're used to the two-wheeled anarchists of London.

As I had noticed when I walked into the city, most of the road signs seem to relate to cycling; motorists are left to get on with it. And cycling is very democratic here. Students predominate, but persons of a certain age wearing sensible clothing are also well represented.

The Romans found Cambridge a convenient place to build a castle, defending an important crossing point on the River Cam. When the Romans moved out, squatters moved in – Vikings, mostly. The town was a busy trading post by the time the Normans arrived to build their own castle. Then (allegedly), in 1209, some students escaped from the unfriendly townsfolk of Oxford and set up what eventually became Cambridge University.

As my walk into Cambridge had demonstrated, the studenty/touristy heart of the City is surrounded by a ring of real life in the form of housing estates and commercial districts. Beyond that a further ring of high-tech establishments is wittily known as Silicon Fen. Cambridge doesn't have a cathedral, and has only been a city since 1951. All the usual tensions are present – people versus traffic, old versus new, uni versus town and so on, with an added ingredient of bicycle overload.

The road from the station to the city centre is rather horrible, so I wandered down some back streets and across Parker's Piece, which is now just a town park, having had previous lives in various sporting guises. 15,000 people partook of an outdoor feast to celebrate Queen Victoria's coronation here in 1838.

I headed for the river, but avoided the main tourist drag opposite King's College Chapel and the like, crossing the water at a quieter spot and heading out of town in a Southerly direction. A jink away from the Cam is necessary at a district known as Newnham Croft, but after walking along some rather pleasant streets of what probably used to be artisans' cottages, I reached the path to Grantchester.

Cyclists are also permitted to use this path, at the pleasure of the landowner. We're not talking Farmer Giles, though – the land is owned by King's College and managed by Savills! The path, though tarmac, is very attractive, cows peacefully grazing and a mixture of tourists and locals wandering, walking, jogging or cycling (last time I passed this way, one man was even swimming along the Cam, but not today). There was no weather to speak of - it was grey and stayed grey but dry, with almost no wind.

Grantchester is said (who actually says these things?) to have the world's highest concentration of Nobel Prize winners, supposedly current or retired academics. The village was listed in the Domesday Book, and probably goes back much further than that. For a very long time it has been a destination for punting students and tourists, armed with picnics. Rupert Brooke, who went from being an extremely mixed-up young man to revered war poet, lived firstly at Orchard House and then next door to the Old Vicarage, recalled in the eponymous poem. The most quoted couplet, “Stands the Church clock at ten to three? / And is there honey still for tea?” comes right at the end of a very long, very sentimental outpouring of home-sickness. The house is currently the home of scientist Mary Archer and her husband Jeffrey, Baron Archer of Weston-super-Mare. The village is also the subject of "Grantchester Meadows", a Pink Floyd song. What a cultural soup!

I avoided the lair of the celebrity perjurer, turning off short to walk along the main street, picking up another path heading South West towards the M11, surprisingly quiet on this stretch as it is sunk below the level of the fields. Of course, once I was crossing it on a footbridge, I got the full benefit of the traffic roar. The path soon swung to head South, crossing the line of a former railway line. I had been surprised that it wasn't marked on the map as being a cycle route – they usually are – but in fact it was a cycleway, permissive rather than right of way.

Also using the route is a “travelling radio telescope” belonging to the University. Twin tracks, much further apart than railway tracks, carry a telescope dish backwards and forwards over a distance of more than a mile. Why? No idea.

The path led to a road, quiet except for a Parcel Force Fangio, which took me into Haslingfield. A chicken coop was guarded by a scarecrow and a giant pig pig, constructed – it seemed – from canvas.

Of Haslingfield’s Tudor manor house, only one wing remains. When Elizabeth I stayed there she lost a ring. Apparently they still mount an occasional hunt for it. No luck so far. I spurned the chance to have my own rootle. It's not a particularly interesting village, so I hurried on. But I did pause to eat my lunch, sitting on a bower-like seat in the churchyard.

I had, I reckon, reached the edge of the fenland, climbing gently as I left Haslingfield on to gently-rippling chalk downland. A Westward-bound path skirted a huge lime quarry. A bit perverse, you might think. In an area with so few hills, they demolish one of the ones they've got.

An elongated black shape darted across the path. Its shape was squirrel-like, but it was (in full light) definitely black. A slower-moving example confirmed that I was indeed seeing black squirrels. A day or two later there was an item about them on the TV news. A variant of the greys, they were probably introduced to this country from North America by an enthusiast whose pet(s) then escaped. Cambridgeshire (in which I was now walking), Hertfordshire (which I would enter just before Royston) and Bedfordshire are the collective hot spot for these creatures, which are as welcome (or unwelcome) as their grey cousins.

Turning South, I walked into Barrington. I read that Barrington is “quintessentially English”. This was on the website for Barrington Hall, country house turned wedding venue. They don’t mention the defunct cement works, which used to process the lime from the aforementioned quarry.

Barrington was the first of a necklace of villages a mile or so each from the next, joined by field paths and lanes. Next up was Shepreth, probably best known for Willersmill Wildlife Park, which started as an animal sanctuary, caring for injured and orphaned animals. When this became too costly to run, the owner turned his home in a visitor attraction to fund the rescue work. Exotic refugees from closing zoos (tigers, lions, monkeys… ) have joined the original native species, and the park even participates in breeding programmes for endangered species. I passed “Shepreth Castle”, a pallisaded structure which is in fact a plaything for younger visitors to the Wildlife Park.

Shepreth merges seamlessly with Meldreth. This and near neighbour Melbourn are commuter villages. This is hardly surprising, since they are separated by the Kings Cross to Cambridge railway line (with station) and the A10, so the commuters head in either direction every morning. Before the days of commuting, these villages were centres of fruit growing; nowadays local employment is provided by Melbourn’s science park. While the commuters are away, a small army of workers tidies the gardens and repairs the entry-phones at the gates.

A path past the mill (minus wheel but with water still pouring underneath it) leads to meadows and then to a curious woodland walk, seemingly rural but in fact just the width of the tiny River Mel from a series of back gardens. In one garden, right by the water, was a fake heron. Given the numbers of the real thing to be found by rivers and streams, it had a pathetic air. From near Meldreth station, I picked up a byway which crossed the A10 (dangerous) and then resumed its peaceful course towards the outskirts of Melbourn. Then I had to cross the wretched main road again, joining another byway Westwards, passing under the railway line.

In order to avoid nearly a mile of A-road walking, I zig-zagged along some field margins. These weren't exactly public footpaths, but there was a decent track, and no crops were trampled during this brief illicit incursion. After a bit more traffic-dodging (luckily the drivers were busy getting in each other's way, leaving some big gaps for me) I followed a boring roadside pavement to Royston station.

On the map, Royston looks a bit like on of those crosses which has a semi-circular hood over it, the hood being the by-pass, and the cross formed by modern roads on the lines of the Icknield Way (East-West) and Ermine Street (North South). This meeting point was a big deal for Royston. The Icknield Way may or may not be prehistoric in origin, but it is certainly pre-Roman, and has long been a vital link between the East coast and the South West of England. Ermine Street was built by the Romans to connect London with Lincoln and York. Ever since, Royston has made a living out of being at the crossroads.

It had a priory, dissolved along with the rest, which became a gent’s residence, and it also had lots of inns catering for the coaching trade, mostly between London and York. The coming of the railway, along with nearby Luton and Stansted airports, completed the communications set, and today the town is big enough to have local trade and industry as well as the inevitable commuters.

Day Seven

Saturday 2 October – Newmarket to Cambridge

To reach open country, I needed to spend half an hour in the company of the Newmarket-Cambridge Road. There was a pavement, so at least I could ignore the traffic and daydream. Every few hundred yards, there was a crossing point for horses – the various rides which comprise Newmarket Racecourse were on either side of the road, jumps to the left and flat to the right.

And down the middle of the road, cones, hundreds of them, evenly spaced at about ten-yard intervals. It was bizarre. There were no roadworks or other obvious reason for them. My theory? - they were there to stop the silly beggars trying to overtake each other on this invitingly-straight road, to the detriment of the horses.

After a mile and a half, I turned right, heading roughly North West on a footpath between the main part of the racecourse and the National Stud. Not just a footpath – this was the Devil's Ditch (as marked on the map) or Dyke (on the information board I passed). This is thought to have been an Anglo-Saxon earthwork, built in the 6^th or 7^th Centuries. The massive bank and ditch ran (and mostly still run) for about 7½ miles almost dead straight across the chalk landscape, as a means of controlling the main routes into and out of East Anglia, including three Roman roads – for this was, of course, well after the Romans had decamped.

The footpath is on top of the bank and, being chalk, was greasy with its slick of morning dew. Across the racecourse there are three breaches in the bank, two of them for horses, the last allowing the Rowley Mile to pass through. To my left, a woman was walking her dog, despite a ban until 1pm, presumably to allow the horses to be exercised in peace. The dog was on a lead and giving no trouble. To my right, another woman was walking her husband – he too seemed well under control, without the need for a leash.

Hidden behind a cordon of bushes, and sunk below the level of the racecourse, was the ghastly A14. I crossed on a footbridge, continuing to follow the ditch/dyke. This corridor forms a linear nature reserve, grassy and flower-filled despite the attentions of a herd of horned sheep. Mushrooms and/or toadstools, many of them brightly coloured, were putting on a particularly good show.

After nearly another mile, I deserted the dyke, turning due West towards Swaffham Prior. A disrupted stretch of path across a recently-cropped field was made easier to navigate because of the twin landmarks of the church tower and the windmill – the trick was to aim between them. The path soon became better defined, and by now the bright-but-chilly day had become warm and lovely.

Foster's Windmill was built in 1857. It stands on the site of an earlier post mill and it is believed that mills have stood on this site since Domesday. The mill was purchased by the Foster family who worked the mill for all of its working life, ceasing in 1946 when the mill was ‘mothballed’. The mill was rescued in 1970 and then began a restoration process carried out by Michael Bullied which culminated in the mill grinding corn again in 1992. The mill now works daily in the care of the current owner, Jonathan Cook. Thanks to the mill's website (fostersmill.co.uk) for that information.

On the same hill (hill, as I have observed before, being a relative term in these parts) there is another non-functional mill. Swaffham Prior and neighbouring Swaffham Bulbeck go back beyond Domesday, the former not only sporting twin windmills but twin churches as well, a matter of yards apart but now serving a single parish.

The existence of a bypass road enables it to be a sleepy sort of place on a Saturday morning. I passed the former pound and keep – the pound for stray animals and the keep for local scallywags. Two notices bore witness to a sociable spirit in the place. Firstly a Movable Feast was advertised – not a religious rite but a meal of three courses in three locations. The second ad was for the Dog Show, with prizes for the dog which looks most like its owner (tricky to judge – so many do) and for the dog which the judge would most like to take home. The winning owner presumably has to keep a tight hold on the mutt while collecting the prize.

It was now a really nice day. As I walked between the two Swaffhams, I had a feeling of great contentment, which was perverse, as I was walking beside a busy and noisy road. On the outskirts of Swaffham Bulbeck I turned on to a side road heading West again. This road led to a series of footpaths taking me further West. After another undefined path across a field, a complete contrast came in the form of a tarmacced half mile between the one-road hamlet of Long Meadow and the village of Lode.

Lode was pleasant in itself, a spider's web of footpaths running between the quiet roads. But I had planned to walk through here because it is the “home village” for Anglesey Abbey, a National Trust property where I intended to have my lunch.

A community of Augustinian canons built a priory here, known as Anglesea or Anglesey Priory, some time during the reign of Henry I (i.e., between 1100 and 1135), and acquired extra land from the nearby village of Bottisham in 1279. The canons were expelled in 1535 during the Dissolution of the Monasteries. The former priory was acquired around 1600 by Thomas Hobson, who converted it to a country house for his son-in-law, Thomas Parker, retaining a few arches from the original priory. At that time the building's name was changed to "Anglesey Abbey", which sounded grander than the original "Anglesey Priory". In the late 18th century, the house was owned by Sir George Downing, the founder of Downing College, Cambridge. Further alterations to the building were carried out in 1861. Huttleston and Henry Broughton bought the site in 1926 and made improvements to the house. They were the sons of Urban Broughton (1857–1929), who had made a fortune in the mining and railway industries in America. Henry married, leaving the abbey to his brother, then 1st Lord Fairhaven, in 1930. Henry became the 2nd Lord Fairhaven. Huttleston used his wealth to indulge his interests in history, art, and garden design, and to lead an eighteenth-century lifestyle at the house. On his death, Huttleston left the abbey to the National Trust so that the house and gardens could "represent an age and way of life that was quickly passing". (Wikipedia)

It was a popular resort on a bright October Saturday. The car park was nearly full, and I approached the entrance somewhat gloomily. My mood was not improved by the sight of a queue for the café/restaurant – the Beige Brigade were out in force, and they were all going to have a good think before they chose anything. I bit the bullet and stood patiently in the queue (no, really!). It was a good lunch when I got it.

When I showed my NT membership card, a rather grumpy volunteer asked me whether I was going to visit the house. Remembering the number of cars, I asked her how busy it was. She sucked her teeth and looked at me disapprovingly. “I really couldn't say.” Since she was handing out the tickets, I rather think she could have hazarded a guess. I wondered why she volunteered.

I decided not to go in the house – I could always come again with more time to spare – and have a quick look around the garden. I merely scratched the surface; it's a large garden, with formal parts and wilder bits, and you could obviously lose yourself for hours without getting bored. I was very taken by a cathedral-like planting of silver birches – magical. There is a watermill to visit as well as the house, but with a few miles to go to reach Cambridge I did the place scant justice.

In order to visit Anglesey Abbey I had had to divert from the footpath I was following, so I had now to retrace my steps for half a mile. This is something I dislike beyond reason, but the alternative was a spell on a main road, a very unappealing prospect. Soon I was heading South West beside the Quy Water, a stream which looks more artificial than natural, although very lovely along the wooded stretches near the Abbey. The artificiality is not surprising: after the comparative heights of the Newmarket area, I was back in fenland, the flat fields often lying at or below sea level, and well below the Quy Water – I was walking along the retaining bank.

I approached the village of Stow cum Quy on a wide concrete roadway, which looks as though it might once have been the driveway for Quy Hall. A car came towards me, stopped and turned, and drove away so slowly I almost overtook it. It accelerated slighly, but stopped at a gate. Two women emerged and examined the gate.

One of them came across and asked me if I knew who might have locked the gate since they drove in. "We just came for a look round", she told me. "We used to live here." I sympathised, and we shared a look at my map for alternative escape routes; it didn't look promising. I left them questioning a man up a ladder cutting his hedge opposite the gate.

After skirting the village and Quy Mill (now a hotel) I turned South to pass beneath the A 14 and then within a hundred yards, to dice with death crossing the A1134, which connects the Eastern part of Cambridge with the A14. Then it was back to the fields again. While I was eating and rubber-necking, the blue sky had been totally overwhelmed by cloud, which was now thick and threatening, although it remained dry. Had it been Lord's, bad light might have stopped play.

When the path finished at Teversham, the rural part of the walk had more ot less come to an end; it was mostly road work between here and Cambridge. Teversham itself was not busy – it, too, is bypassed. Nearby, the presence of Cambridge Airport was betrayed by the buzzy noise of small planes taking off and landing.

As I walked South towards Cherry Hinton, I passed a car in a layby with its door open. A woman was picking blackberries. She carried her plastic box back to the car, looking well satisfied with her haul. I was tempted to start picking, but I wanted to avoid further delay, so I decided to make do with the Tesco blackberries at home in the fridge. Within fifty yards I passed another woman blackberrying; she was sticking them straight into her mouth. Then a third blackberry-picking woman, this one feeding the spoils to her baby. Talk about living off the land!

Cherry Hinton is a suburb of Cambridge, so it was unsurprisingly suburban and tedious to walk through. Relief came in the form of a footpath cum cycleway which started off narrow, widened and became rather posh as it passed between new commercial units and a huge indoor tennis shed, and then narrowed again as it crossed the railway (the branch to Newmarket) on a bridge. When the path ended, the streets of Romsey Town took me West towards a bridge over the main railway line and Cambridge Station.

Cambridge is Cycleville. There seem to be more signs guiding cyclists than there are for drivers. The forecourt of the station is a sea of tethered bikes. The station was the nearest I would get to the Centre of the City today (that is, not very near); the pretty bits were for next time.

The 5.15 train to Kings Cross was packed – the students were off for a night on the town.