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.