Station to Station – Up Walk to London: 5 Etchingham to Stonegate

5 Etchingham to Stonegate

2nd September 2026

5 miles

OS Explorer 136 (no Google maps were used in the production)

Carry on Up the Rother

Crap route map!!! Apologies

I stepped onto platform 1 at St Leonard’s Warrior Square station at just the moment when a triple headed posse of Class 73 electro-diesel locomotives pushed on through, heading west and with unknown purpose.

Leading the way – 73201 – Class 73 (built 1960) and sporting classic British Rail blue livery

Bringing up the tail class 73 sporting err… Wasp livery?

I’ve gone off piste already. Apologies. My destination was Etchingham and then connecting by foot to the next link in the chain at Stonegate. Two days earlier I could barely walk to the recycling bins, having spent more than a week significantly weakened by the sort of pains one normally associates with the advice that seeking urgent medical attention is an imperative. I had reasons not to do that, having just become a grandfather for the third time and not wanting to spoil the occasion by worrying the rest of the world. Foolish really, but out of nowhere, and against all expectation I was suddenly feeling a lot better. Not 100%, but enough to risk the purchase of an off-peak day return to Stonegate.

I alighted at Etchingham where just a month before, and in another climatic latitude, I had reached after walking up from Robertsbridge. The old waiting room had been converted into a small Bistro (I’m not sure what that means, but I was prepared to find out). And very nice it was too. I took a large slice of quiche (spinach and caramelised onion), had it wrapped in foil, and set off back towards the church I had poked my head in to on the last outing.

The weather was humid and overcast but with a chance of rain. I wanted to crack on to test the legs and try and make the return train from Stonegate, due to arrive at 15.58. The first footpath led through the graveyard at the eastern end of the church. I wasn’t really paying any attention but glancing at a passing gravestone I decided to stop and see who was there. I was completely unable to comprehend the name without closer scrutiny.

The random gravestone – Nee Josphine French Ambler Stead (formerly of Leeds)

It read, Marchesa Lady Castellani Countess of Chisimaio, and that’s not the sort of name you normally expect to find in a Sussex village graveyard. Later, back at the ranch, I decided to look her up. The initial search located her, but only through the annoying AI overview. Fortunately, without having to click on the link, I could see a reference to Sir Aldo Castellani, who, now working through Wikipedia, turned out to be an Italian of some significance, a pathologist, who amongst other worthy achievements, at the turn of the 20th century, was a pioneer of combined vaccines (and wherever he’s buried, I have no doubt he is turning in his grave as American politicians scramble up the greasy pole, desperate to impress on the ignorant why vaccines, especially the combined sort, are the work of the devil).

With only a smidgen of information available from the gravestone, which also honoured her daughter, Jacqueline, who died at the age of 105 in 2015, and who had married the aristocratic Miles Lord Killearn GCMG (I don’t know what these initials stand for, but he was a high ranking diplomat with very old school views on other races and the Empire, and who, whilst never actually the Viceroy of India, apparently acted as if he was), and lived in the nearby stately pile of Haremere Hall.* Given the evidence on the stone, it seems that at some point, presumably after Sir Aldo died, mum had moved in with her daughter till the end of her days. Haremere Hall no longer houses the aristocracy. If I wanted to, I could spend three nights there at the start of an early November week for a mere £4013.00, and that doesn’t include breakfast! I won’t be mentioning this to my daughter if she decides to get married!

Passing on through the back of the graveyard I took a last look at the imposing church.

Suitably gothic vibes

The path led out through a gate to the north and into a wooded area, which after a couple of hundred metres met with Church Lane. Turning right I passed a short terrace of old cottages, with the railway just behind. The road bore to the right and over the tracks, but the country footpath that I needed was to the left through a gate.

Ignore the chevrons – bear left

From here the path broke into open country, with gentle slopes rising away to the left.

Open country for the next 500 metres

The OS map shows the path heading almost directly west for about a mile, and hugging the railway line immediately to the north, but the reality on the ground was that much of the land near the line was heavily overgrown, and most of this section of path ran through a large field away from the tracks.

When it eventually met back up with the line it intersected with another path heading north and over the tracks.

The only seat for miles – don’t cross here

I chose this spot to have a rest and take some bites out of the quiche. It was very nice, but so fresh that within seconds juices were tracking down my left hand. Mopping up with a tissue (which now meant the fluid was running down my right hand) and badly rewrapping what was left, which was still quite a lot, I noticed a large building a hundred metres to the south; surrounded by trees. This was Forge House. ** The “forge” element was a bit of a give-away. I was aware from the map that somewhere in the field beyond the house was what was marked on the map as an Ironworks (site of) so it seemed perfectly rational to assume that the building had at some point held a connection. After shoving the badly wrapped, and no doubt leaking quiche back in the bag I set off past the house and across the field with a small winding stream to my right, and keen to find any evidence of the old ironworks.

Site of Ironworks – somewhere here. Forge Woods to the left

By the time I had reached the top of the field I realised I had failed.

Top of the field and no obvious evidence of an Iron works to be seen, but nice wildflowers

Fortunately, the stream was made fordable by a raised mound of earth, and I continued to the western corner of the field where a gate led into another field rising away to the south-west and with dominant woodland to the left. The map claimed this was Forge Wood, another clue, but meaningless now.

I began the steady climb up the hill. After a couple of minutes and looking up and ahead three deer (roe I think), at two hundred metres. I saw them, they looked up and saw me, and without hesitation the largest (mother of the smaller two I suspected), turned on her heels, and in a flash all three were dashing and leaping away and towards Forge Wood.

And… their off

These are the moments. The moments when, out of the blue, and on an idle walk, nature catches you unawares and you drop your jaw. Elegant, powerful and disconnected from the human condition (unless hit by a speeding car, or the nearby venison farm), I watched them approach the woods, then leap one by one the high fence that separated the trees from the field. It was over in a flash. Remarkable. I walked a few metres. Looking back over to the woods I noticed that one of the kids had failed the hurdle and was entangled with the top wire. Not a pleasant sight, but within seconds it was free, though suddenly alone and on the wrong side. It ran one way along the fence, and then the other. Clearly distress, as, I have to say, was I. It was my fault after all! Eventually it started a long run down the field and then into the woods on a track that disappeared into darkness. And that was that. Who knows?

Excitement over I carried on up the long and pleasingly undulating field. Nearing the top a couple with a dog emerged from a gate set into a high hedgerow. We said “hellos” as we passed, and unthinkingly I headed towards the gate, went through and carried on up a clearly defined footpath towards another long hedgerow, and another gate.

In hindsight I shouldn’t have gone through that gate.

Here I found myself in what appeared to be a large, wooded garden area, with a plain stucco but attractively grand old slightly Tudoresque mansion a hundred metres in. At this moment nothing screamed at me that I was off course, but of course that that was precisely what I was. It’s not unusual for public footpaths to run through people’s gardens, particularly in rural spots, so I carried on up through the glade and to a gravel road a short distance from the house (part of a group of buildings under the name of Court Lodge Farm).

I had noticed a man get out of a car just outside the house as I had passed through the gate, but no one came out or over to challenge me. A main gate providing vehicle access lay ahead, and I assumed this was the exit that otherwise eluded me. It wasn’t; fitted as it was with a robust magnetic lock. There was nothing more to do but go back through the wooded area and out the way I had come.

Beyond the gate and back in the field I tracked up along the side of the garden to another gate which opened out into another field, with extensive views south and east, and bizarrely the remains of a lawn tennis court, the only evidence of which was the flat rectangle area of overgrown grass and the two metal net posts, rusting away into history. In a few hundred years’ time, what archaeologists will make of this site is anyone’s guess, but, (as I later discovered through a quick online search of Court Lodge Farm – and finding that it was still operating as a farm of sorts – it’s main function being breeding a quarter of a million pheasants every year for target practice across the land and beyond), being located near to a recently installed animal incinerator, speculation could run riot, this of course being the era of new cults.

I hopped over a solid gate, Wimbledon winner style (not) and walked confidently away from the farm and to the main A265 road, called at this point Straight Mile.

I had to head west along the road for what looked like a mile or so, and needless to say it lacked any pavement or any alternative footpaths. It couldn’t be avoided so I got on with it. The countryside rolled away to the south towards another hill range, but I didn’t look too often as I was regularly squeezed up against the verge hedge as the traffic passed. To be fair, no one tried to spook me or run me down, which was pleasing as it’s not always like that. To my right most of the route was flanked by a large wood. Park Wood to be precise. Except it wasn’t a park at all, and there was no way of entering it to seek an alternative route away from the potentially murderous road. Shucks – private property rules.

Past the woods and on the other side of the road signs of an enormous, seemingly old house, peeking through the hedges. A care home of some sort. Lovely setting (if you omit the road) but in the middle of nowhere. Escape would be difficult. A red kite lazily flew overhead and moments later the sound of an alarmed cluster of geese, located somewhere within the institution’s grounds filled the air.

I reached the footpath sign I had expected to come across just past the entrance to Great Tott farm. I stopped for a minute to confirm my bearings and watched three sheep walk towards me but then veer away to a water trough at the top of the long and descending field. I had another bash at the quiche, still dripping and again proving difficult to rewrap once another two mouthfuls had been consumed.

The second quiche stop – Great Tott Farm

It brought back a memory from decades before, when reaching the top of Mam Tor in the Peak District on a wild but sunny day with an old friend, who, on sitting down, promptly and in true Bob Mortimer style, produced an unwrapped scotch egg (curried I should add) from his pocket. This small act instantly attracted the curiosity of a nearby sheep, which trotted over and made a lunging grab for the disgusting egg, pork and curry snack. The resulting tussle nearly sent them both over the edge but in the end my friend surrendered the small object of desire and we left the scene, speculating later in a Castleton pub (The George to be precise, which had served us up the most insanely hot chilli con carne), what the consequences might be to a sheep that had just consumed a curried scotch egg? A diminished sale price at auction was inevitable.

Through the gate and onwards, the path led directly north and slightly descending, through a field full of sheep. The edge of Park Wood (see above) met the eastern flank of the narrow field and in a clearing hundreds of sheep sheltered in shade under isolated oak trees. The end of the field was out of sight, hidden by a brow of land that then fell away sharply. As I passed the glade a solitary cough from one of the sheep. Unfortunately, the poor creature continued to cough every ten seconds or so for the whole time I remained in the field, and whilst I’m no expert (definitely not), my gut told me that it wasn’t a good thing.

The brow at the top of the hill masks the end of the field. Don’t be put off, the exit is here.

A gate at the bottom end of the field, which had now narrowed to an arrow point, opened into a wooded area. A stream, a tributary of the Rother, snaked through the woods. Crossing the bridge the path then climbed for a short distance and then between two fields coming out onto Shrub Lane, a minor road that led north.

Onto Shrub Lane

I headed along the road, busier than I had expected with various delivery vehicles out on the range. I almost missed the sign indicating the footpath. I think I had been taking evasive action from a pincer movement that involved a supermarket delivery vehicle and a van belonging to a company named after the world’s greatest river, and who don’t pay tax.

The sign points northwest

The footpath (a bridleway) was through a gate behind which a low building with a weathervane indicated an historic past. On closing the gate behind me, I noticed a very important message.

I didn’t omit

I wasn’t sure what the exchange rate was from old money (LSD) and today’s new pence, or whether or not the sign was genuine or had been installed as a novelty ruse, but I wasn’t prepared to pay forty shillings so left the gate firmly closed. There are cameras everywhere these days!

The bridleway led through a large modern farm, the only noise a solitary dog, fortunately behind a door, but letting me know it knew!

Beyond the buildings, fields swept away in all directions. A shallow valley with the River Rother, or what was left of it, meandering down the middle. I crossed one field, then through a gate and then bearing northwest across another (full of cattle that were suitably far away) and then reaching the bridge over the Rother, evidence of which was scant. I stopped for a minute, relieved to have navigated through the field without any cow conflict, but also to grab another bite or two from what was turning out to be a substantial quiche.

I wrapped up what remained (I don’t have a huge appetite) and moved west through a long and narrow flat field, rammed full of sheep, many of which expressed their dissatisfaction with my presence by demonstrating some quite assertive acts of urination within feet of my feet. But they weren’t intimidating me. I’d just crossed a field of cows after all.

Beyond a fence to the right, and which ran the entire length of the field, the land rose away and up towards woods beyond which the mainline was hidden from sight. A solitary oak tree stood in the field, and beneath its boughs rested the unmolested remains of World War Two anti-tank pillbox.

Historic building – missing from all maps

I hadn’t seen any others so far but assumed that it was part of a network of similar defences that would have lined the river during the war. It would have been quite a trek for the soldiers, presumably Home Guard, who would have been stationed there, and its location appeared to be quite exposed. Maybe it had been surrounded by bushes or trees back in 1940, but as it stood aloft and alone, apart from the tree that would have added many metres to its height and girth since then, it now looked small, vulnerable, and from another time, almost beyond reach. I’m pretty certain that if I had been there in 1940 and three Tiger tanks appeared down the valley, I’d have up sticks and scarpered to the nearest pub for last orders. And it’s not on any maps. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I have found an online website (The Pill Box Study Groups) dedicated to mapping pillboxes @

https://edob.mattaldred.com/map/S0008244

Good work!

Through another gate at the end of the field and now the land began to rise over a folded landscape. The official footpath headed at a slight angle across the large field, but I turned immediately right and followed its edge, with a wooded area to my right that partly hid a stream that came down the slope from the railway at the top. I say stream, but in truth it was as dry as a bone, despite some recent rain. Reaching the top of the field I turned left and continued west with the track to my right and hidden by more substantial woods. This continued for more than half a kilometre, with views opening along the valley.

Eventually, with a last view over the Rother, the trees ended and an enormous, recently improved embankment curved ahead and away to the right.

The walk took me down to the foot of the embankment, across another dried-up stream at just the moment an up train from Hastings powered through and above.

One view

And another

As it disappeared into more woods I climbed back up and to a level crossing where I crossed the tracks as quickly as possible.

If you have the time it’s worth reading all the signs

Beyond the crossing the path veered left through more woodland, eventually crossing a small ravine, naturally devoid of water, and where the trees had been thinned out.

I say ravine…. Perhaps an exaggeration

The path began to rise again into a field, now with the railway a couple of hundred meters to the left. Something caught my eye. Could it be real????? A triple header of class 73’s cresting the horizon and heading towards the marshalling yards at Tonbridge (I presumed).

Too much excitement for one day – three more Class 73’s

I assumed it was the same grouping I’d seen earlier at Warrior Square, but there was something wrong with the order of liveries (this is quite niche, so don’t get too excited). Later, with time to examine the photo in more detail, it was clear they were not the same grouping of locos from the morning. That meant there were two, three class 73 loco combinations working the same area. Who knew why, and I imagine, who cared. Oddly, I did. It’s an affliction.

I was now nearing Stonegate (thank goodness, you cry) and after navigating another field round some farmhouses (the wrong way) I reached an asphalt track that I recognised, and with a large, good-looking pond to the left.

Is this pond is on the tilt, or have I just been less than diligent in the production

As I began the short descent to the station it all started to come back. I’d been here before and a mystery was being resolved. A long time ago, at least fifteen years or more, I had arrived by train from London with some friends, met up with another old friend who had driven to the station, and then set off east. The destination was Bodiam. We made it to Bodiam and enjoyed a meal and a couple of pints at the Castle Inn, whilst watching the steam trains trundle up and down the Rother valley. All good. Except, now equipped with a far more detailed and personal understanding of the local geography, I had been trying to work out where we had started and ended the walk. It had been troubling me for a few weeks since starting this exercise. Now, heading towards the station I fully recalled the moment when we had made it back here so many moons ago.

That being the case, that walk, which included a couple of pints of Sussex best, must have been the best part of 20 miles. If I’d known at the time that that was the challenge, I might well have found an excuse to dodge the occasion. As it was, we had done it, and here I was now, having puffed and panted a mere five miles. Mystery solved, nonetheless.

Familiar territory – approaching Stonegate Station

I had some minutes to kill before the train arrived. Time enough to dispose of the remains of the quiche (I’d eaten enough). To my delight there was a mini recycling nirvana directly outside the station. A general waste bin but also a bin for metal and one for food waste. These people were eco warriors for sure, and I had the products to match. I pulled the remains of the quiche from the remains of the foil and prepared to flick it into the food waste bin. I went to open the lid. It failed to open. I tried again, but it was definitely locked. I then tried the lid of the metal waste. Locked too!!! The general waste was the only option. The disappointment was complete.

I was still musing on the bitter experience when the train arrived.

Time to go

I was pleased to have resolved the Bodiam walk mystery and thinking back on the group of old friends who had made the journey, there was only one tune that could match the occasion. Just going for a walk in the trees. Probably the best cover track of all time. I found another version of this on YouTube from 1978, a surreal black and white film that begins with a lot of excellent southern region train action but then goes off into the ridiculous with George Melly and a woman wandering through trees across Hampstead Heath, I think, being followed by a youth playing a harmonica, and that the end, Melly, or the woman, kicking over cardboard cut outs of band. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the sound quality was so poor, I’d have posted it, but instead, enjoy.

* A week after coming across the gravestone, I casually mentioned it to my mum, now in her 90’s but with an astonishing memory for anything in her youth. I mentioned Lord Killearn being listed on the gravestone, and she immediately recognised the name. She had been brought up in Glasgow and then evacuated to Lennoxtown, a small town north of Glasgow, and not a million miles away from Killearn House. They were very “in” with the monarchy and it seems that everyone in Lennoxtown knew what they used to get up to when certain members used to visit the Killearn’s. It would certainly have included a lot of shooting, but I can’t possibly mention what else, unless I was prepared to face the full force of the Royals legal team.

** Forge House is now described on the website as a holiday cottage! £3400 for seven nights in mid-September. Which sounds a lot, but it has six rooms and sleeps 16. A full complement works out at £30 per head per night. And it has Wi-Fi! I need to work on that sixteen friends’ goal.

Station to Station – Up Walk to London. 4. Robertsbridge to Etchingham

4. Robertsbridge to Etchingham

1st August 2026

OS Explorer 136

Distance: 4.5 miles

Up the Rother

Another hot day (not scorching for a change) as I disembarked the up train from Hastings, just after 1pm, at Robertsbridge station. I wasn’t anticipating a long walk so was in no rush as I wandered over to the recently constructed terminal building for the Rother Valley Railway.

Strolling onto the empty platform I looked around and then decided to walk to the end to get a better view of the heritage diesel shunters parked up on the outer track. As I walked up the platform two men in hi-vis were walking towards me. They were about to lock up, but we had time to chat. One was the Chief Engineer. How lucky was I?

How was the project going, and when will you be closing the A21, I asked? Everything was going well, they had enough funds, they would be closing the A21 in 2027, and the link would be completed and trains running by 2028. It all made perfect sense to me, but just in case anyone unwittingly chooses to read this, some explanation may be required.

The Kent and East Sussex Railway operates out of Tenterden and runs its heritage engines (diesels only this year due to the risk of fire) up the river Rother, terminating near the remains of the medieval castle at Bodiam, a few miles to the east of Robertsbridge. On a visit to Bodiam a year earlier I discovered that they had ambitious plans to continue the line through to Robertsbridge, which would have to include “fording” the busy A21 road. Controversial? Yes, by all accounts. Residents of Robertsbridge had been consulted, and whilst there was good support for the scheme, a minority were unhappy. It was a quiet town, and that’s how some people liked it. Regardless the green light had been given, and ever since the volunteers have been busily laying new track along the old disused line.

In just over two years’ time trains will once again operate between Robertsbridge and Tenterden, necessarily closing the A21 a few times every day in the summer, and possibly causing me some inconvenience from time to time. That’s okay by me. The number of times road works and accidents mash up your day on the A21, the odd five extra minutes to allow a train load of happy passengers to enjoy this part of the world will be nothing in comparison. For more on this watch this relatively short video which features a lot of middle-aged men – like me, I guess.

I took my photo, thanked the two volunteers, and walked back to the Brightling Road. An excellent start to the day.

D2112 – Built 1960 and equipped with a Gardner diesel engine. Interesting fact: In 1980 I worked at the now closed Gardner factory in Patricroft, Manchester. *

Considering myself updated, and lucky, I walked the quarter of a mile east and into the small town to grab a coffee at the bakery on the corner of Brightling Road and the High Street. Sitting outside and nursing my drink I took in the quirky and attractive architecture, including the Seven Stars Inn, which, despite having been closed for years, still held onto a blackboard outside advertising beer options, good food and entertainment!

The building that was once the Seven Stars – Closed all and every day, and probably for ever.

It was interesting to think that some residents of the town were against the new/old railway, because they liked the peace and quiet. Once upon a time, when I was young, and my friend got his first battered up second hand car (a brown Triumph Dolomite with extra rust included free), sometime at the end of the 1970s, we’d occasionally set off on a summer’s evening in the middle of the week from south London, heading to the coast for sheer hell of it. Sometimes we’d make it, and sometimes not. On the occasions we didn’t it was because we’d left it too late, and because the main road (the A21) used to run right through Robertsbridge we’d call it a day and take a couple of cold ones in one or two of the several pubs that lined the High Street. That would almost certainly have included the Seven Stars. Being a bit of a bottle neck (the High Street, not the mode of drinking), the traffic was almost perpetually snarled up and going nowhere. Many years later, as part of a scheme that has never meaningfully matured, Robertsbridge did at least get a by-pass, and judging by the almost complete lack of activity observed over my coffee, it had had the desired effect, but which might also explain why the Seven Stars had to close.

More Robertsbridge architectural action – traffic free!

With my OS map in hand, I set off back west on the Brightling Road. Somewhere on the right, and just over a small bridge spanning a stream, it showed a footpath that headed north and would take me out of town. On arriving at the spot on the map, I was confronted with two options. A track by the stream that led to a gate and then on into open fields, or a dusty road leading into a small industrial estate. Without a very powerful magnifying glass I was unable to say with certainty what was what, so, based on probability, I opted for the track with the gate and nearby stream.

A bit further up the track, and to the right, a large electricity sub-station, along with appropriate health and safety notifications, lay at the beginning of a large field area.

If you are here, turn back

In the distance I could see a recreation ground, with a game of cricket playing out, and groups of people enjoying yet another glorious day. All I had to do was navigate across the ragged, rough and uncultivated field, which increasingly came with snags and snares, and I’d be properly on my way. Fifteen minutes of scrambling around, climbing over and bending under various hazards whilst looking for anything remotely looking like a bridge to carry me over the small tributary of the River Rother, I gave up and retreated back to the road. A little voice in my head told me to try the industrial estate, but it looked so inhospitable that I dismissed the option (in fact I should have gone with my instincts), and headed back to the High Street, turned left at the junction and walked the road to the Clappers recreation ground.

New Captains please

I’d spent far too much time getting lost in Robertsbridge so only stopped for a minute to watch W.G Grace pushing forward to a medium paced delivery, and missing, before heading into the unknown under the railway bridge, once abandoned, but now carrying new track.

Back on, under track

I was now in a pocket park nature reserve, and aware I was again off track. I followed my instincts through the wooded groves and found a well-trodden track that led down through a tunnel of trees and then out into open meadow. I guessed that even if I wasn’t entirely back on track, I would be soon. Passing over a stout stone bridge, which may or may not have been a random feature of a wild crazy golf challenge, I was now heading northeast.

Dropped Ball.

I crossed a wooden bridge over what I assumed was a marshy area, but which bore no evidence of the wet stuff, and then under a bridge carrying the mainline. At last!

The bridge over an ex-marsh.

Going under the mainline

Turning right after the bridge, I was now definitely on the track I should have been on half an hour earlier. Almost immediately the path headed at a 90-degree angle away from the railway and up a gentle slope with trees providing cover from the increasingly intense sun. After 200 metres or so I was in a field and then on a path at the edge of the field, with trees and thicket to the right. A few metres in and a female blackbird popped out from the undergrowth and fussed around in the bone-dry earth.

This bath ain’t big enough for the both of us

I stopped to watch, assuming also that within moments it would shoot off. After a good minute, with it seemingly unaware of my presence, I moved forward. It reacted by skipping another few metres along the path, settling down again into the dirt and challenging me to come on again. This behavioural pattern continued for the next fifty metres or so before it finally decided to stop playing the game and disappeared into the bank. A few paces on and a metal gate to the right invited me to enter a large field with a path heading northeast and running back down to the railway.

Fantasy clouds

Whatever the crop had been, it had been cropped, with large bails dotted around and waiting for collection.

Rolling

At the foot of the field, I was reunited with the railway and a bridge that took me to the other side of the line and another uncultivated field.

Bugsell A bridge. No idea if there is a B

Following the footpath on the map here was less easy. I crossed over a stream (possibly the Rother) and below something of a torrent of running water was heading towards the sea. Surprising given the climatic conditions but encouraging to see a small trout circling in the shallows.

The Rother still in flow

At the end of the scrubby land, through which I had guessed the route, I intersected with a path heading north/south through indeterminate scrub and woodland. Beyond, through the trees a large southwest facing field staked out with hundreds of vines reflected the new farming norm. The climate optimists will tell us that the UK is on the cusp of a wine bonanza and that’s a great reason to welcome the hot summers. Of course, it’s great to have a summer worthy of Crete (particularly as I am unable to travel there this year), but you can’t make bread with grapes (as far as I know). I went north, over a stile, which on the other side consisted of a single upright post that challenged the elderly gymnast, and then through a tunnel of thick hawthorn.

Crossing the minimalist stile

Through the web of hawthorn.

Beyond the hazard zone the path continued along the east of a field with trees to the right, and the railway now back in view to the left. After a while a wide track to the right crossed over a stone bridge that spanned a small brook (probably the Rother again) nestling in shady woodland. It was time for the newly introduced hydration break. I think that the track led on up to a large country house, but I wasn’t curious. Just knackered. Drinking warm water and listening to the tired afternoon birds lament, and the occasional knocking of a woodpecker testing a truck, I gazed down at the stream, stagnant here, but at least lowering the surrounding ambient temperature.

Soft light, soft spot

Back on the route, and another hundred metres on the path partnered up with the railway line and continued northwest until arriving at a level crossing at Squibs (no, I don’t know either).

Squibs Level Crossing – the approach

Here the mainline stretched out far in both directions, forming part of the track that took the line in a wide arc heading northwest out of Robertsbridge and then west into Etchingham. I dallied a moment, contemplating the next steps that involved safely crossing the track. Then the familiar noise of metal on metal hissing up from the line warned of an incoming train, and sure enough moments later, at 15.18, the eight carriages up from Hastings zapped by towards Etchingham.

Incoming

I was grateful for my dally but once satisfied that there was no reciprocal down service heading towards me in the other direction I quickly crossed and headed away from Squib on a path wedged between the line and a large, unkempt field to my left. With tatty strips of wheat that looked like they had been planted but possibly abandoned, intermingling with tall dried out weeds, it was a sorry sight. Maybe the field had been left fallow, but given the concrete hard earth below, the chance of any regeneration seemed slim.

The path continued for a few hundred metres. The uplands of the Rother valley to the east bore the appearance of the Midwest in late August. The Dustbowl Weald was looking more like a reality.

Scorched earth

The field ended just below Lundsford Farm. A concrete bridge crossed a wide stretch of water.

Lundsford Farm looming on the hill

The stream held far more water than I had expected, and in both directions lush and colourful vegetation clung to the banks, fighting I guess for every atom of water that leaked into the land. There was something of an oasis quality to the scenery here.

Looking east towards the mainline

Looking west – A small part of Provence in the heart of East Sussex?

Having lingered for a while, enjoying the pastoral glories, I proceeded across the bridge, then to the right where the map showed the footpath entering a field that would take me around the perimeter of the farm. At least that was the plan. Pushing open the wooden gate and stepping into the field I was immediately confronted by a large brown cow standing broadside on, just ten feet up the hill. I am wary of cows, now that reports of their attacking humans seem to be on the rise, but had it been standing maybe twenty feet to the right I may have ignored it. Instead, because it was giving me the “sorry mate, I’m not moving, and also have the high ground” look, without further hesitation I popped back and pulled the gate shut. Well, that’s one way of explaining it.

Don’t look back in anger

Now, of course, I had to navigate the farm. There was no path on the map, so I assumed this was going to require some trespass. At the top of a steep hill, this indeed came to pass. The farmhouse was far to the left, but between me and the road beyond now lay a conglomeration of buildings designed to store things, milk things, repair things and no doubt bury things! There was no avoiding it, despite having watched Southern Comfort on more than three occasions.

I managed to make something of a pig’s ear in my navigation of the area, never quite finding a direct route through, and all the time hoping desperately not to encounter anyone else. Completely irrational. Needless to say, I reached the road without incident and now whistling a merry tune to settle the nerves, I looked down past some large squashing equipment towards my destination.

Etchingham in sight

A gate in the wire allowed access to the large field where the path carried on down to the village. At the foot of the hill the path continued through the grounds of a large, sprawling white boarded building that looked like it might once have been a pub, but was signed as the Stores Cottage. Having researched Etchingham earlier I had noted that it lacked anything remotely resembling a pub, which was surprising, but at the same time, not so surprising. It would have had a pub at some time, surely, and maybe the Stores fulfilled more than one function. Daydreaming again.

The old Stores – Etchingham

If I had had more time I would have wandered west into the town, but it was just fifteen minutes before the hourly train, so instead I headed east. A large, unorthodox looking church appeared to the left. I had time to have a quick gander and the door was open. Edging in I took a look before noticing a woman on hands and knees sweeping the floor near the alter thing. After saying hello, but receiving no noticeable reaction, I decided to leave; just in case I spooked her.

The church at Etchingham – uncertain style

I made it to the station with a few minutes to spare. The train arrived just after four, and in a moment of reflection I realised that I fancied a pint. I don’t do afternoon drinking, but on my last outing, on reaching Robertsbridge, I had considered popping into the Ostrich public house, just next to the station, but had chosen instead to jump the next train, just minutes away. And I had subsequently regretted it.

On time at Etchingham

The journey from Etchingham to Robertsbridge was just four minutes (it had taken me two and a half hours to walk the 4.5 miles), and I hopped off and hopped into the Ostrich. A quirky looking Victorian building from the outside, it was even more quirky and intriguing inside. From what I could tell it hadn’t seen a lick of paint since the war, and the pictures on the walls spoke of a time before the ring road. Just two middle aged men sat at the bar. Luckily for me they did Harvey’s Best Bitter. I ordered a pint and slipped into the garden, a mishmash of levels, plants and styles and given the heat and dry conditions it felt a bit like a sub-continental colonial heaven.

Waiting for the rains – they never came

As I sat slowly sipping the warm beer (I had plenty of time before the next train), it occurred to me that this throwback pub might only be hanging on in in the hope of the masses arriving at Robertsbridge station in two years’ time to take a ride on the heritage trains out to Tenterden. I hope it does.

Back at the station I looked again at the new track laid next to the mainline. The thought that a mighty Deltic, or the legendary Mallard, could one day slip into these sidings was thrilling. And with that thought, this is a Deltic (Kings Cross – 1972).

* During the time I worked at Gardner’s Diesel Engines the country was going through industrial turmoil, and the factory was reduced to working three, and then two-day weeks, followed by strikes. I remember a protest outside the factory one day (it wasn’t a strike day but there were rumours that the multi-national Lucas Industries might take the old company over) where banners humorously proclaimed, “We Want Government Aid, Not Lucas Aid”. Those were the days.