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.