Pilot Hill
303 metres
938 feet
28th March 2025
Wild Life – Waking Up
The last weekend of March and the start of a new season. A trip to Bristol to stay a couple of nights with my daughter after a long, dour winter, during which the sun refused to remind us of its existence.
ETA in Bristol was 6pm, so I figured I would have enough time to chalk off Hampshire’s highest point on the way. When I think of Hampshire it’s the New Forest, south coast ports, and heathland environs stretching southwest of Surrey. I was surprised to discover then that its highest point, Pilot Hill, is far to the northwest, and not far short of Newbury and the M4.
I seem to have a knack these days of underestimating journey times, and so, after nearly three hours of picking my way up through the roads of the southeast of England I arrived at my chosen destination, the village of Ashmansworth, around two miles from the top of Pilot Hill, located to the northwest. Well, you need to start somewhere! As the morning had progressed, the main breaking news was of a terrible earthquake in Myanmar (aka Burma). A few people were thought to have died, but as the reports came in that was never going to be the final toll.
On the roads near Basingstoke, and then heading north towards Ashmansworth, I became increasingly aware of a high preponderance of Tesla cars. I may have just been more alert to their existence given the turmoil in the US in the previous weeks, but it did seem to be almost every fourth or fifth car.
As I drove into the village, and along the main road, something became clear. Every house was old, large and came with a lot of ground. There were very few vehicles parked on the road, but those that were appeared to be larger than the average. I guessed that the Tesla’s were parked indoors for their personal safety. Exclusive. I reached the end of the village and looped around the small green with its war memorial and then noticed, and balked at, a large, sculptured bush outside one of the houses. What looked like a cross between a bullfrog, Humpty Dumpty and the Witch Finder General, it had been shaped by someone with a vivid imagination, and a seriously sharp pair of clippers.
I drove back along the way I had come, and found a spot to park up. As soon as I did, an unsettling feeling caught me. It may have been imposter syndrome, but at that moment it felt more like intruder syndrome. I had every right to be there, but, given the environment, the many Neighbourhood Watch signs, the peculiar and slightly sinister, shaped bush, and having recently rewatched the Wicker Man (1973), I made an instant decision and drove out of the village, turning left onto a lane leading towards East Woodhay.
The road clung to the top of the chalk ridge and then, as it merged into woodland, started to head downhill. I figured going any further would be a mistake so stopped the car and reversed back a few metres, managing to park up on a patch of muddy kerb and as close to the adjacent bushes as I could, in the knowledge that one small clip from a passing tractor would be catastrophic. Opposite, a lane tracked west, marked by a sign that simply read “Charldown”. I consulted the recently procured OS map (Landranger 174) which confirmed a footpath heading more or less directly west towards Pilot Hill. Assuming I was at the correct spot I took the plunge.
The track, a bridleway, led gently upwards. Pockets of wild daffodils at their best flanked the verge to the right, and a mournful buzzard screeched through the boughs.
The Yellow Flanked Road
I passed Charldown, a large modern eco looking building, presumably built on the site of an older substantial house. Everything was very pleasant, quiet and, the new house aside, as tranquil as could be. Past the house the lane veered left, then dog legged to the right again and became more of a path, with woods to the right and a large field beyond a fence to the left. Breaking out of the woods the views north over open countryside stretched for miles. It was an unseasonal, brisk, bright afternoon, and not a pylon in sight (a testament perhaps to effective lobbying or the price of land). Red kites and buzzards swooped above, and then out across the north facing scarp slope.
A woman with a dog emerged from a path to the right. We said our hellos and I asked if I was on the right track for Pilot Hill (I was fairly certain that I was, but don’t ever miss an opportunity to double check with the locals). There was a slight hesitation in her reply, but yes, yes, I was and should keep going. Validation enough I decided, although in truth I was thinking that I must be close.
Into some woods and then the path wound out and once again open ground fell away to the north. I continued for a couple of hundred metres. A jogger was approaching so I stopped to let him pass. More hellos as he passed. “Great view,” he spluttered. “Yes,” I agreed. And then, for the same reason as before, “I’m looking for Pilot HIll.” He smiled and carried on. I turned and looked down into the plain below. The fields fell away like a green carpet and seemed to converge outside a large red brick stately home. I looked at the map. Hmmm….
“I’ve looked on my phone.” I looked back up the path. The jogger had stopped at the entrance to the woods. “Pilot Hill is back up here and then through the trees to the south.” Needless to say, I was taken by the man’s generosity. He had stopped an activity that was clearly a passion to assist a complete stranger, and I shouted back my profound appreciation. “It was really nothing,” he said, before disappearing and leaving me wondering if he was called William. I was already beginning to work out that I may have gone too far and would have decided to turn back within a few minutes, but under the circumstances the man’s generosity of spirit meant a lot. I’ll tell you now, that in these overtly selfish times, and with a certain self-proclaiming king narcissist telling his worshippers that there has never been a better time to get rich (whilst global markets plunge into oblivion), these small acts of thoughtfulness need protecting, by regulation if necessary (oh no, woke talk).
If you’ve reached here from the east, you’ve gone too far
Doubling back, I found a short track through the woods and then a field stretching to the south. By now I knew that the top of Pilot Hill was somewhere in the large field to my left but chose to track along the top of the southern hill, which had sweeping views and was bathed in sunshine. At a point that felt about right I dipped back into the hawthorn thickets exploding with blossom, that divided the fields, and found myself looking over towards the trig point that I presumed marked the spot. Unfortunately, due to an annoying electrified fence the prospect of reaching it seemed unlikely. The fence, protecting a scrappy, uncultivated field, extended away to the southeast and eventually to a large metal gate. There seemed to be no hope, and I considered calling it a day, but decided that there was nothing to lose by heading for the gate and finding out, one way or the other.
Beyond the fence. So near, so far!
I ducked back through the thicket into the other field and continued the trek. The retort of shotgun fire somewhere down the valley, and fifteen to twenty pheasants of all creeds, faiths, genders and none, broke cover in front of me. School child error surely? Will they never evolve and learn?
I reached the gate, and to my surprise and relief found it open. There was no footpath sign, but a quick look round suggested that no one was going to notice and so set off in a northerly direction towards the trig point. A small act of trespass perhaps, but somehow necessary.
On approaching the trig point, two objects laying in my path made me wonder whether I had made the right choice.
Empty boots. Message or metaphor.
Had I missed a sign warning me that trespassers would be persecuted, or even shot? Mindful of the sinister topiary back at Ashmansworth, and now confronted with possible evidence of human sacrifice, I scanned the horizon to double check that there were no signs of a wicker man being erected.
Whatever had led to the abandonment of a pair of walking shoes, at the very spot you might think you would have needed them most, something else was bothering me. Whilst the trig point logically indicated the highest point, the land appeared to continue to rise towards the west. It could well have been an illusion, and the OS map wasn’t detailed enough to clarify, but my instinct was to keep going. Another fifty metres to the west and I considered that I was now higher than the top of the trig point and, I figured I was at the top of Hampshire. *
True Top?
Well done me then, but an image of the empty boots popped into my head. It was time to skedaddle. I wondered if I could find a way back to the main path by heading straight across the field to the top of the ridge but was it worth the likelihood of almost inevitable entrapment by electric fence or mantrap. Nope.
I went back the way I came. Heading back on the main path, and with the Pilot Hill field now to my right, protected by the electric fence. I looked up to the ridge at exactly the moment a roe deer stepped into the view and taking the high ground. It stared directly at me but didn’t move, which gave me enough time to slip the phone from my pocket and take a couple of snaps before it got bored with me and skipped off towards nearby woods and the electric fence.
Monarch of the Chalk
I was back at the car (it was still there and unscathed), within fifteen minutes. The walk had not been much more than three miles, but the peace, and diversity of wildlife, had been unexpected. I headed back to Ashmansworth, before setting off towards the M4. Whatever had happened to the bootless walker, someone in this community held the answer, and I’ll say no more about that. **
* Trig points are generally located at the highest point of land, but not always. The line of sight to adjacent trig points being the determinate.
** For the record, and because I have seen stuff about the online crime investigator community (web sleuths), who have nothing better to do than poke their noses into the despair of others, I wish to make it perfectly clear that any suggestion of a mystery attached to the empty boots is simply an act of creative writing, and bears no relationship to anyone living etc. Just saying!
For no other reason than seconds after typing up the joggers comment this popped up randomly on the 7000 plus tune iPod!
El Colmado 57 