Station to Station – Up Walk to London. 3. Battle to Robertsbridge

3. Battle to Robertsbridge

17th June 2026

OS Explorer 124

Distance: 7.8 miles

Tunnel Trouble – On the Hoof (Bumper Edition)

The train took me from St Leonard’s Warrior Square to Battle where the walk began, but not before I took the precaution of taking a comfort break in the immaculate station toilet. Top marks too. Whether or not the facilities here were built by “reputable” Victorian builders, Messrs Hoof and Sons, this company will receive a significant mention at some point in this account.

The aim was to keep as close to the railway as possible over the coming miles, and from what I knew of the area there wasn’t going to be a pit stop opportunity at any stage, so a sandwich was on board.

The route and its significant significant’s

Leaving the station approach and heading towards town up Lower Lake it was overcast but warm. And it was also painful. Completely out of the blue I was struck on the nut by something (presumably a twig) that had fallen from above. It was a glancing blow, but already a small dot of blood had been drawn. Was it an omen?

At the top of Lower Lake, with the Chequers Inn on the left, I crossed over the road at the roundabout and took my bearings at the gate in the wall that led towards open country. From now on, and for the rest of the afternoon, the majority of the walk would be off road. A footpath sign explained that this was part of the Malfosse Trail. After the Normans had gained the advantage, somewhere in the area (actual battle site disputed – see previous posts – and I’m not an expert so provide no evidence one way or t’other), as the Anglo-Saxons fled in disarray, the Norman cavalry, in hot pursuit, had the unfortunate misfortune of galloping into a “malfosse”. The location of the “malfosse” is disputed (see above and the internet), but for the many Norman Knights who perished by plunging down into the pit, it had the unfortunate effect of ruining their day. A contemporary day trip to Hastings on a hot summer’s day can end in similar disaster when the late afternoon thunderstorm, just as you are dragging your family back uphill from the beach to the station, soaks you through to the sink, knocking the stuffing out of you and all. This is often termed a “right old malfosse”.

I passed through the gate and was immediately confronted by a large, unnecessarily brutalist slab of concrete with some eroding words etched into the surface.

The north – that way

I managed to make out the words STAMFORD BRIDGE 220 (presumably as the crow flies, and not Chelsea Football Club). Harold and his army beat the Vikings at Stamford Bridge on 25th September 1066, before marching to a place that would later become Battle, and losing to the Normans on 14th October 1066. These days you can get a train from London’s Kings Cross Station and be in York – just a few miles from Stamford Bridge, in 1 hours and 45 minutes. 210 miles. The quickest train from Hastings to London’s Charing Cross (62 miles) takes 1 hour and 33 minutes, but most take 1 hour and 43 minutes. And that’s the quick way – other slower routes are available. There’s lots of interesting maths that can be done with these statistics, and of course York is an important city in the north, but the evidence that would indicate Hasting’s isolation at the fringe of the south-east is overwhelming. We will explore some of the reasons for this in a bit.

It was time to start the walk in earnest. The track plunged down the slope and then awkwardly into a tunnel cut through thick and spiky shrub, before crossing a stream. Could this have been the “malfosse”? Will we ever know? Probably not. After the stream the path rose through fields on Calbec Hill and with the back ends of Battle to the west.

Leaving Battle, the scenic route

The path eventually led through the back of some old and solid buildings, pitching out onto Whatlington Road which headed directly north for about half a mile before bearing to the right at the end of town. * Just at this point I picked up on a track on the left that led past a large house and then headed down through some trees, but also where, just to the left, a stile allowed access to some fields.

Taking the stile, not the track

Wildflowers proliferated in every direction as I headed across and down open land before reconnecting with the track. Just beyond, a couple of yurts separated the continued passage of the track, and a footpath over a stile just to the right.

Another stile with yurts to the left

The footpath headed through a small, wooded area featuring an obligatory, and always mysteriously, abandoned and beyond repair, caravan. Breaking out onto another open field the path fell away towards the northeast.

Let the path be with you

A familiar noise down to the right and sure enough I was reconnecting with the railway, with the blue 13.47 South Eastern service up to London just visible between trees and crossing an embankment or viaduct.

Spot the train

At the foot of the sweeping hill the path punched into more woodland and across a ferrous rich stream on a good wooden bridge. The copper coloured, almost stagnant water could well have been the upper reaches of the River Brede.

The river Brede? Maybe.

Back in the day (AD 43 and beyond for a few hundred years), the Romans intensively mined the area north of Hastings for iron. I say the Romans, but of course it was slave labour culled from the local indigenous population that physically dug and then processed the heavy metal rock. Back then the coastline east of Hastings had a very different look to it (the Romney Marsh didn’t exist) and tidal rivers, including the Brede, allowed a degree of navigation to within a mile or two of Battle, giving the Romans the ability to ship the iron out of the country in huge quantities (the area just to the east around Sedlescombe was one of the most productive in the empire).

A year or so ago I read a book in which a fictional traveller finds himself in Spain at the height of the Roman empire and is overwhelmed by the epic scale of the industry where iron ore was smelted. Dark satanic mills but in the sun (except you couldn’t see the sun for the smoke). It got me wondering whether the Romans could have invented railways (yeah, don’t ask, I must have been walking). Not so many years ago I would have had to spend months in the British Library trying to find out, but thankfully I was able to go online and with a few key word searches found, unsurprisingly, that quite a few people had already considered the question. In a nutshell, there was no reason why they couldn’t have, but some key factors came into play. Firstly, Greek clever clogs had understood the relationship between steam, power and energy, and I think may have constructed rudimentary equipment. Having proved their point, they seem to have done nothing with it, almost certainly deciding that to gift the idea to the Romans came with existential consequences. Meanwhile, the Romans had grooved trackways, either by design or accident, and whilst not our understanding of a railway, they would have understood the principle of movement along a fixed track. ** The likely reason that the industrial revolution failed to materialise in the Roman age was, for want of another way of putting it, because they couldn’t be bothered. They had perfected the concept of conquer and control, and as such, if they needed more, all they had to do was conquer and control some more. Who needed innovation? Until of course they overextended, and without an efficient railway network, lacked the means to get their troops from one flash point to the next. For what it’s worth, because of course this is an entirely irrelevant diversion, the Romans didn’t invent steam powered railways, but wow, what if they had?

Beyond the bridge, and with the day heating up, I stopped and shoved part of a sandwich into my mouth. Sometimes I have to make myself eat. I can get up, set off somewhere, and in the process completely forget to energy up. Fortunately, knowing that this walk was going to be completely devoid of shops or cafes, I had planned ahead. I could just as easily have forgotten to snack, getting home hours later with a completely inedible snack dropping forlornly out of my bag and straight into the bin. But not today, because I forced myself to be sensible, knowing there was still quite a way to go.

After the wedge break, I bore left and followed the almost invisible path through high grass, then over another bridge and straight up hill towards Woods Place, a collection of farm buildings that appeared to be either converted or being converted to accommodation. Immediately to the right was an old metal barn structure, which I ignored and carried on to the top of the field before heading towards a gate to the right (I think the official path looped around the back of the barn). A quick map check and I headed off to the east, down a lane and then over a bridge over the railway (Woods Place B if I recall).

Woods Place B bridge

With the sun on my back, I carried on for about 100 meters before stopping to consider my orientation within the wider landscape. What I mean is that by now it had dawned on me I was probably lost, and heading away from the objective. A quick look at the map confirmed it so, and I retreated back over Woods Place B bridge, all the way back to Woods Place itself, where the true path led to the right of the farmhouse, and in a more northeasterly direction.

Soon, what I assumed was Woods Place A bridge came into view, and at the same moment, the sound of metal on metal coming from the cutting below. I hurried towards the bridge, whilst at the same time whipping out the mobile phone camera thingy and super professionally capturing what must have been the Southeastern 14.10 down service to Hastings (or maybe Ore) in the act.

Trainspotting

Beyond the bridge the path headed northeast, down another hill, where at the bottom a gate and a gap in the trees led to another well-maintained wooden bridge spanning another copper-coloured stream. Beyond the bridge, in a wooded glade with the path leading up towards a field, a smell of putrefaction welled up from somewhere dark in the undergrowth. I didn’t hang around to find out what it was and broke into the field, turning left and along what I thought was the path showing on the map. After about 100 meters I stopped to get my bearings. Something didn’t quite fit. The path should have followed the stream, but I was being taken north.

I backtracked to the woods, and back into the dell of the hideous smell. I searched for anything that looked like a path through the woods, but nothing was showing, and I didn’t possess a machete, so it was back to the field and a second go. At the same point I had reached minutes before I took out the map and concluded that by heading north towards Hoath Farm, whilst being an option, was going to take me too far from the tracks and into A21 territory, a proposition I was desperate to avoid.

And so I was back in the sleepy hollow, where the stench of what I now realised, or at least hoped, was the dying mass of this year’s wild garlic grasped my nostrils a third time. I decided to cross back over the bridge and through the gate into the field. I gazed at the map one more time, and to my relief worked out that the path lay this side of the river heading northwest.

If you’re here, don’t go through the gate and over the bridge. Turn right and follow the path

The path now followed the stream, otherwise known as the River Line (which I believe meets with the River Brede at Whatlington), and then into dense woodland. For whatever reason, possibly due to the unnecessary exertions back at the bridge, I was floundering a bit and meandered in a slightly tipsy manner through the trees before deciding to take a break. I found a suitably positioned tree stump and sat by a loop in the stream, surrounded by more decaying wild garlic. A blackbird sang away but all I could do was gaze at the water running slowly towards the sea. I was at the midway point. Had I cooked my goose? Four miles done, and another four to go. “You’re all washed up baldie”, I concluded, mournfully. Probably a good time to work out your “what three words” location and call it in.

After five minutes I pulled myself up and carried on. Taking it easy, I stopped at a large pond to the left, with the remains of a large but abandoned concrete and brick structure that could have been a bridge or something completely different set to the side. I had too few brain cells left to work it out, so instead flogged on across open ground and then back into a pine wood, before pitching out onto the A2100 which ran directly south and back to Battle.

Just to the south the mainline crossed the road, and I too crossed the road and back onto a path heading west and to the small hamlet at Riverhall Bridge. At the road I turned left and with the gates up, crossed over the tracks.

Permission to proceed

Just beyond the crossing, and to the right, a private road led off towards the British Gypsum mine (yeah – I know), at Mountfield. More about this in a minute. A sign made it clear that it really was a private road, which included pedestrians, but it was ok because there was a public footpath running between the tracks and the road. At first not very attractive and passing the entrance to Coussens Cranes (a more unlikely location for a crane hire company is hard to comprehend), the path then wound its way through pleasant woodland with the railway to the right. Just visible through the vegetation and past the metal fence I caught glimpses of the main event, the Mountfield sidings. If you are very lucky, and on a train travelling between Battle and Robertsbridge, you may catch the sight of a goods train resting easy on one of the two rusting lines that depart from the main line and terminate just to the west of the crane depot. I say very lucky, because despite travelling on that route countless times I have only ever seen it twice.

At the end of the sidings the path emerged from the woods and at a small piece of railway heaven. I don’t know if it has a name, but for want of a better one, I’ll call it the Mountfield branch line.

Towards the sidings that run to the right of the mainline

The first time I came here, from the other direction, it was purely out of curiosity, and to my great surprise, about 50 meters into the trees, I could see the front of a Class 66 diesel locomotive, idling away and seemingly ready for action. I waited around for a while in the hope that it would start forward towards the sidings, but nothing happened and, in the end, I decided to retreat before someone called the police.

A different perspective

The reason for this inconspicuous branch line, wending its way from the mainline and into the deep forest, an image more akin to continental Europe than the south of England, is that it serves the already mentioned Mountfield gypsum mine. Allow me please a moment to digress.

Towards the mines

In 1876 a gypsum mine was opened at Mountfield. The mining stopped at Mountfield many decades ago, but a new mine had opened at Brightling, a village some three miles further to the west. The mined gypsum from Brightling was transported overland through dense forest by a cable car type system, later replaced by a concrete encased conveyor belt system. It’s a very impressive, and for the location, unlikely structure. Whether or not it operates that often these days I can’t say. There is very little on the internet about this significant project. The site is owned and managed by British Gypsum, who in turn are owned by Saint-Gobain, the multinational products company.

The Mountfield works manufactures plasterboard. A lot of plasterboard. Traveling as I do, far too often, on the A21, the sight of white smoke rising out of the forest, a mile to the west, can occasionally be seen, presumably indicating part of the manufacturing process. So, gypsum is a key commodity in the manufacture of plasterboard. If you’ve got any plasterboard in your house or flat, then there is a good chance it was made at Mountfield. And, for the sake of local employment, that’s a good thing. However, there are some home truths that you won’t find on the official website. Most of the gypsum used to make the plasterboard is now imported to the site. Much of the material now used to make plasterboard is a synthetic by-product of power stations – called desulphogypsum, a result of fossil fuel flue-gas desulphurisation (which, if true, is quite a tongue twister).

The small railway line that leads so mysteriously from the mainline to the main works at Robertsbridge seems to operate rarely. From what I can gather when it does, it is shipping in the synthetic gypsum from our own decommissioned power stations, but mainly from overseas (including France), hence its journey commencing at Southampton, then up to London and back down to East Sussex. A Guardian article from 2010 says that the finished plasterboard is taken from the site by train. I have to say that I suspect they were being taken for a bit of a ride when they were told that by the company’s PR person. From what I understand, other than a tokenistic attempt to transport the plasterboard from the site by train many years ago, everyone who uses the A21 knows that it is all removed by lorry. Not just a few lorries. Scores of lorries every day. The private road I mentioned earlier serves the works. It’s almost certainly the best maintained road in the county. Lorries enter and leave the site every few minutes. Another road links the private road with the A2100 London Road from Battle, which in turn links up to the A21 just south of John’s Cross. If you were inclined to spend the day at the nearby Route 1066 biker’s cafe watching the passing traffic, you would almost certainly count one of British Gypsum’s distinctive lorries (or one of a number of other lorries not bearing the logo but almost certainly linked with the site) ploughing up or down every few minutes. The A21, the main road from Hastings to the north and London, and until it becomes a dual carriageway just to the east of Tunbridge Wells, has hardly evolved since its coaching days.

I confess to having gone on a bit, but it feels to me that there’s a lot of gypsum washing going on here. It is fantastic that there is a significant industry at Mountfield, which almost certainly keeps a few people employed, but the truth is the company’s front-facing image flatters to deceive. You might, for instance, be given to believe that the Brightling mine is the source of all the gypsum, when in fact most of it comes from overseas. They make a big thing of their new fleet of lorries that will help reduce their carbon footprint, and that’s great, but surely there must be a way of transporting the plasterboard away from the site by rail and to a suitable distribution point somewhere in the London area, rather than by the A21. At the end of the day, I guess I’m being a bit petty. Wishful thinking perhaps. Its industry, work and local. Moving on. Yours Sincerely, The Old Curmudgeon, Stuck-in-the-Past, Deepest Sussex.

Crossing over the underused line (let it go!), the path entered more woods and followed uphill and then finally leading over the top of the entrance to the Mountfield railway tunnel.

The Mountfield Tunnel – South Entrance – Note the single track

The Mountfield tunnel is no ordinary tunnel, playing a significant role in making Hastings one of the least accessibly connected places in the country. Apologies, another lengthy diversion ahead, and no replacement bus service. The photo above tells the story, but I’ll tell it anyway. The first railway line from London to reach the Hastings area arrived in 1841, via Lewes and terminated at what is now the TK Max warehouse at Bulverhythe, near to West St Leonards station where this walking exercise began. In 1851 a second line came down to Hastings via Ashford in the east. Great, except that neither of these lines were what you could call direct. Eventually these two lines met up at Hastings station, after the Bo Beep and Hastings tunnels were dug through the sandstone, at which point a dispute broke out between the two competing companies that came with fisticuffs, vandalism and other acts of violence. But that’s another story.

In the meantime, another company was ploughing its furrow down from Tunbridge Wells and across the High Weald. A much more direct route, and the one that I am currently navigating. Given that it was a more direct route, and had to negotiate an undulating landscape, it required the construction of three tunnels; the Mountfield tunnel being one of them.

All done and dusted, services began in 1852. Great! A direct, and no doubt relatively fast route to Charing Cross. That was until, in 1855, part of the Mountfield tunnel collapsed. Ooops!

I am sure we all hold images of very dignified men in fancy Victorian attire standing next to incredible engineering achievements that they had designed and (along with thousands of itinerant workers) built, and in that regard all respect to the main man, Isambard Kingdon Brunel. We revere the achievements of the Victorians, and an often-used refrain when discussing current infrastructure projects is “if the Victorians could do it, why can’t we?”

Apart from the obvious reasons that labour was cheap as chips, there was virtually no health and safety or regulation, and that there was an abundance of resources that we can never get back, we don’t always consider that a lot of it was probably done on the cheap. In the novel “The Ragged Trousered Philanthropist” written by Robert Tressell (not real name) whilst he lived and worked as a decorator in St Leonard’s at the start of the 20th century, he rails (I mean he really does rail) against working conditions, poverty, but most vociferously about the relentless drive of the bosses to cut costs, corners and any worker they considered superfluous. It’s a long read and not to be undertaken lightly, but there’s a lot of what he identified that possibly remains true today. But that’s not the point. The point is that Mr Hoof, the owner of Messrs Hoof and Sons, almost certainly looked good in his self-important black and white photographs.

Messers Hoof and Sons were the contractors tasked with digging and bricking out the tunnels. The company had been involved in much of the railway construction activity in and around Hastings, so you could assume they had a good track record (no pun intended). That was until the tunnel collapsed, and it was discovered that in its construction, the contractor had erred by err… skimping on the lining bricks. I’m not entirely sure on the technicals here but from what I have read there ought to have been six courses of brick used to line the tunnel. Incredibly, Hoof and his sons had managed to get away with just two. Not just at Mountfield, but at the other tunnels they had botched. That none of this had been picked up at the time of construction suggests that whoever was supposed to have been supervising the project was either incompetent or being treated by Messrs Hoof and sons to too many business lunches at the Goose and Gander. Regardless, this massive failure of Victorian infrastructure has had a profound effect on the railway links to Hastings ever since. So, what to do?

It would probably have been too expensive to remove all the bricks, widen the tunnels and then rebrick. There needs to be six courses of brick to make a safe operational tunnel. As far as I can tell, old Hoof and sons had only put in two (they were sued and had to pay the company about four grand – feels like they got away with it). The solution. Add four new courses to the existing. Two plus four equals six. Job done. Well… except now the tunnels were too small to allow two trains to pass each other without collision. This must have been a logistical nightmare for the railway company, but I can’t help thinking that they only had themselves to blame. The extraordinary solution was to build a fleet of new engines and rolling stock that were narrower than any others across the country. Job done, until the 1950’s, when steam was being phased out and new rolling stock was required. The southeast was the first region in the country to be, with some exceptions, almost fully electrified using the third rail. For reasons I am not entirely sure, but with the end of steam in the 1960s, it wasn’t going to be possible to electrify the Hastings line, so the fix was to design non-standard, thinner trains (diesel electric multiple units in this case), and from 1957 (when I was born) through to the 1980’s these distinctive units pounded the beat from London to Hastings.

And then… oh my gosh, British Rail decided that they could no longer justify or afford to renew the now elderly diesels with new be-spoke rolling stock. Not only had they decided not to renew the stock, but, by extension, decided to close the line for good. Obviously, a civil war ensued and eventually BR lost and agreed to seek a solution. They presumably already knew what the solution was but had kept it under their hat in the hope the problem would just go away. And the solution was, tarra tarra… to reduce the two track lines to one through the tunnels, therefore allowing standard electric rolling stock to pass through safely (see photo above). And that is what occurred. It saved the line, but consequentially it meant all trains passing up and down the line had to be moderated through the tunnel systems south of Tunbridge Wells, significantly slowing the journey time (keeping up?). If I have said this before I apologise but the quickest trains to and from Hastings to London take between one hour and thirty-five and forty-five minutes. It’s just sixty miles, which means that the average speed (taking into account a number of stops) is just over thirty miles an hour. Kings Cross to York is about two hundred miles, and it takes the same time. Tutorial over. Still a way to go. Flawed history lesson over.

The path beyond the tunnel pitched out into a large sweeping field, with some new crop growth attempting to flourish in the driest of years. I followed the path up the side of the field, with woods to my left, and at the top slipped into the grounds of All Saints church, where I took a break.

The open field up from the tunnel.

Time out at All Saints

Leaving the graveyard, I headed east on the minor road and then left onto the estate road for Mountfield Court, which advertised itself as a Winery. The road headed up with a huge old walled garden to the right and wide-open rolling fields to the left all speckled with sheep.

The road up to Mountfield Court

Quintessential English parkland under another worldly sky

There was no obvious winerying going on and at the top of the hill I passed by the low, but extensive, Georgian pile before beginning to head down a track towards open fields.

The back of the Court. Note tradesman’s entrance

A slightly confusing but short path through some woods before emerging at a stile, next to the track that I had been temporarily directed off.

The path sweeps down to the right

Over the stile a huge field stretched in all directions, with excellent views to the west and north. It was all going to be downhill from now on. Large numbers of sheep ranged the range. Quite a way to the right of the field a herd of brown cows munched away and showed no interest in me, which I was grateful for, until I spotted one of the cows, lying down, but appearing to be much larger than the others, and with what appeared to be a mane of hair not unlike a lion. To my eyes this was a bull, and to make it less endearing, with its mane of hair, was obviously a lion-bull, the worst type. The end of the field was some hundreds of meters away at the foot of the hill and close to the railway line which had come back into play. I picked up the pace.

Reaching the foot of the field, mercifully without any lion-bull interference, another livestock moment began to play out. A gated track led under the railway line. Several ewes with their lambs were gathered in groups near to the gate. As I approached most of them scarpered away, but on reaching the gate I noted a ewe and two lambs retreating under the bridge, but getting no further than a similar aluminium gate at the far side. How they had got there was unclear, but to proceed I needed to negotiate the space without causing them to panic. Another tactic was needed.

Who ewe lookin’ at?

I stood by the gate for a while and noticed that if I pulled it open slightly, the ewe and her two little ones became more confident and started towards me under the bridge. They stopped. By now another concern had arisen. A couple of the ewes with their lambs, already in the field, were now approaching, curious, I supposed, as to the meaning of the gate being opened. The sheep under the bridge still stood gazing at me but not moving closer. It was time to employ the fraction of knowledge I had picked up over years of watching Countryfile, by making some clicking sounds (and maybe some whistles). There was a response, and the family of three tiptoed closer and closer. Eventually, when they were within a few meters, I gently pulled the gate wider, and with a sudden explosion of energy, with mum in the lead, they belted forward and rock and rolled into the field. In the same moment I slipped past the gate and under the bridge. I had played the reasonably good shepherd, and it was time to move on.

Lichen rich, but sheep free bridge

At the other side of the bridge, I found the large gate locked. It shouldn’t have been because a public footpath was very obviously showing on my map. These things are sent to try the British walker. As I assessed the best part of the gate to clamber over, I heard the sound of a train approaching; from which direction it was unclear. I whipped out the phone and found the camera just as the train made the bridge. I wasn’t looking when I pressed the camera button, in the vague hope of catching an image. It all happened so quickly all I had time to note was that it was a solitary locomotive – a very rare thing in these parts.

You have to look very closely, but just up to the right, the front end of a class 73 locomotive (built 1962 – because you need to know this).

A moment of great excitement, only just captured before climbing over the gate then bearing right and to a path into some woods adjacent to the track and up a steep embankment. After a couple of hundred of meters the woodland gave way to another field with the path passing over another copper-coloured stream.

Another copper-coloured stream (which I now realise is missing on the important map above)

As I mounted the small bridge and looked down into the fast-flowing water, a plume of swirling mud suddenly clouded the stream. I had clearly disturbed something in the water. I stopped and gazed hard into the murk, waiting for it to disperse, but eventually, after the disturbance had settled, there was nothing living to be seen.

Past the bridge (just as a Spitfire passed over – as you’d expect these days) the path followed a line of trees to the right of another field, where suddenly things got a bit complex. At the corner of the field, to the right, a footbridge over the same stream I had crossed minutes earlier, and a path disappearing to the east. I had assumed that the path would continue along the side of the stream where, on the map, a series of water features, presumably reedbeds, were shown, but if a path had once existed, a sign saying no entry resolved the issue. But only to a degree. The path over the bridge led away to the east, and from what I could tell, up to the A21, where it crossed over before leading back towards Robertsbridge. That was too much of a diversion, so taking the risk of shotgun injury, I set off westward, still at the edge of the field but with my head down and hoping that no-one in the nearby Glottenham Manor at the top of the hill would be watching.

At the end of the field a small road that led towards the Manor house presented itself, and the small gate to the side of the large field gate made it obvious that many a stray wandered had used this route. Tolerated trespass, I guess.

The road headed directly north, with fields and then woods either side.

Aiming north and directly towards Robertsbridge

At one point a sign on the right indicated another path that led to another bridge over the stream. Whilst I was tempted to explore this further, it wasn’t showing on my map, and by now, being extremely risk averse, I got back on the road and was soon in the outskirts of Robertsbridge. The road continued under another railway bridge, but I took the path directly through a small thicket that led into a recreation ground and the first houses.

The path into town is just to the left of screen

Just up through the houses of Mill Rise and then right onto the Brightling Road, where the railway crossed the road, and the gates were coming down.

Downtown Robertsbridge beyond the lines

With the gates down I walked onto the station’s up platform, observing the small but neat retro signal box.

The signal box overawed by the adjacent monolithic pile

I crossed over the footbridge and arrived on the down platform, keen to find out when the next train back to Hastings was due. It was due in just five minutes. Bit of a blow, as I had rather hoped to conclude the walk by investigating, with a pint, the adjacent Ostrich Hotel. Sadly, the allure of an almost immediate train home appealed more, so I chickened out and caught it.

Take me home – train before pub!!! What have I become?

*The graveyard at the small village of Whaltington contains the grave of none other than the intellect and TV commentator and interviewer Malcolm Muggridge. Obviously, I don’t expect anyone reading this to know who he was, but you do need to know this.

**Some minutes after I had written this entirely off the top of my head piece about Romans and railways, an article from the Independent popped up on my phone. Not about the Romans, but on the results of a recent study which suggested that the stones that built Stonehenge were (rather than the traditional theory that they were pulled along on a sledge) pulled along wooden railway tracks up to three miles long. I know that our devices do interact, and sometimes throw up remarkable (or maybe not) coincidental links, but I didn’t know they could now also interact with our brains (yet).

Not easy to think of a tune involving tunnels, but maybe The Mock Turtles could have done a job better than Messrs Hoof and Sons.

The Mock Turtles – Can You Dig It? (Official Video) HD

Cresting the County – Shropshire Unitary Authority

Brown Clee Hill

540 Meters

1771 Feet

21st May 2026

Question: Is it all worth it? Ans: Absolutely

In the middle of October 2020, and with a brief window between lockdowns and restrictions, I grabbed the opportunity and spent a couple of days in Bristol with my daughter and her partner J (I stayed in a hotel!).

Reluctant to return straight home, with a bag full of masks, I took the opportunity to head up the River Wye and spent a couple of nights in a hotel in Ludlow. I remained cautious about mixing in large groups, though on arrival it turned out it wasn’t an issue in Ludlow, which was largely deserted.

I had a full day to get out and explore an area of England that I knew nothing about. The Long Mynd was on my agenda, but being completely unfamiliar with the range of hills, I decided to try and secure a map to aid my progress.

I drove randomly towards the area’s general direction and eventually parked up in Castle Bishop, a small but attractive town in the middle of nowhere, but with a slightly alternative Glastonbury type vibe to it. Not because there were people on the streets wearing sandals and bangles (there were no people full stop), but because a few of the shops, mainly closed, had windows full of crystals.

I found a book shop that was open. Donning a mask, I entered cautiously. Working my way around I found the map section and moments later was walking with the OS Explorer 217 for the Long Mynd area towards the counter, where the owner stood without a mask!!!!

To be fair, it wasn’t in the rules at that period to wear a mask in public, but the general consensus was (unless you were a conspiracy theorist) that whilst it may have helped reduce infection it was also a demonstration of politeness and courtesy. We exchanged pleasantries. Where was I from? East Sussex. I didn’t need to wear a mask in Castle Bishop, he explained, it was so far from anywhere that the virus had hardly bothered them. I said I was glad to hear that. I explained that where I lived, in a large community, but isolated by geography and crap connectivity, the first few months had seen very low transmission until there was a sudden and dramatic upshot that took our town to the top of the charts in just a few days. He chuckled somewhat dismissively. “Don’t worry sir, we have crystals. That’ll be £12.75.”

A few months later the area made it onto the national news. Some of the highest Covid rates in an isolated community with minimal services. There was no crystal miracle cure, except of course the vaccine.

Leaving the shop I drove over to Church Stretton, parked up just out of town for good measure, and then set off up the winding road to the top. Despite being an overcast but dry day I was staggered by the unusual landscape. Upland moorland over a condensed series of what I can only describe as large knolls. A highwayman could have ridden by, being chased by a giant frog in armour, and it might have felt quite normal. I didn’t reach the highest point, but back then it wasn’t a statutory requirement. I headed back down a hillside track that led to a valley, on the way finding a tree with gargoyles for roots, confirming in my mind that I was in an enchanted land.

Gothic roots in a land of pestilence

Heading back along a narrow road I came across a woodland café, run I think, by the National Trust. I hesitantly went into the large space with just a handful of visitors and ordered a coffee and cream and jam scone. It was a sign of the times when the multiple component parts of the scone were set out on my tray. The little scone, on its own, came in a sealed cardboard box. Two wrapped butters were accompanied by a small glass jar of strawberry jam. The cream in a sealed tub, and a plastic knife and spoon in plastic wrapping. After some minutes constructing the treat, I was left surrounded by an array of disposable items destined for landfill. I was overwhelmed by a sense of shame and guilt.

But that was then, and this was now. In 2023 I revisited the Long Mynd, after the virus had finally become, like the common cold, a routine hazard. I had somehow avoided the virus’s reach during its heyday, but two years in and it finally caught up with me and smacked me square in the face (a week of mind-numbing headaches and crippling muscle pains). The return, a few months after that humbling time, confirmed to me how special a place it was.

Today I parked up near the town centre, wandered around a bit and then took coffee in a small cafe on the road leading out to the Long Mynd. Opposite a couple of women, Jehovah’s Witnesses, stood at a corner hoping to catch a fish. Nothing seemed to be biting, but I guess it must be a tried and tested technique. I considered whether to have a quick look up the road and towards the hills, but this was just a stop off before heading towards the day’s objective – Brown Clee Hill – the highest point in Shropshire Unitary Authority (surprising really because if you were to have asked me to guess where the highest point in Shropshire was, until recently I would have said, without hesitation, the Long Mynd, surely?).

The route east to Brown Clee took me down narrow lanes with isolated settlements and only the occasional oncoming car. Beyond the settlements the roads bore signage that suggested the speed limit was the national limit – 60 miles an hour! This is often the case in rural areas, but, unless your vocation is treating speed limits as a minimum aspiration, feels like a catastrophic blunder. Fortunately, perhaps given my overcautious approach to driving these days, I barely nudged above 20 miles an hour as I wound carefully through the red soiled land. And thank goodness too.

As I rounded a bend in the lane heading towards the tiny hamlet of Tugford, and immediately in front of me, a creature the size of a small fox sat on the road. I have very occasionally seen hares in fields, normally at some distance, but by sheer luck, being this close to an adult was mesmerising. It was huge, and the moment it had worked out that I might be a threat (I had by now stopped), it raised onto its haunches, and with a quick step and a leap was up the verge and away. It was a privileged moment for me.

I carried on along Marshgate and reached Abdon, where I turned left and arched around a large field, pulling up at a small parking spot just a few hundred meters below Brown Clee. I left the car and walked the road until it came to a junction, with an old phone box (now a community library) marking the way towards the start of the climb. As you would expect in a location like this, a female roe deer was standing outside the phone box but buzzed off the moment she clocked my presence.

A gate to a field on the left was the obvious entry point. The big footpath sign stated Brown Clee 2min. I had come prepared to spend an hour or so climbing to the top, so to be told that it was just 2min away left me a tad stumped. I remained, and as I write, remain perplexed by the meaning of this sign. I can only assume that it meant that the foot of the hill was a two-minute walk, but that is the sort of information that no one needs. Never mind, these are discombobulating times after all.

I was still hanging onto a heavy cold that had been draining me of resources for a couple of weeks, but unlike The Wrekin, which I had wheezed up the day before, Brown Clee looked a bit more forgiving, and after all it was only going to take me two minutes.

After ten minutes of steady upward progress along a red earthed stony path, I stopped to assess progress and the view.

Eight minutes beyond the two-minute mark

I had been tracking along the side of a field in a south westly direction, and a bit further on another footpath sign (this one didn’t give any indication how far the summit was), pointed north and along the lower slopes of the hill. I chose to take this path, figuring from the map that at some point it would start to zigzag up. As I walked across this relatively benign moorland, I became aware of the constant chatter of birdsong. After a few hundred meters, during which I had gradually gained elevation, a long line of old metal and wooden fenceposts staked a line down from the higher ground, disappearing off towards the foot of the hill. As I approached, I noticed (hearing at first) that every second or third post sported a small songbird of some type – each perched on the top like Nelson on his column and furiously chattering away with unseen chums. My presence didn’t seem to spook them, although of course it could have been my very presence that had them gabbling ten to the dozen. In the bushes and brambles that clung close to these mini watchtower’s groups of small birds, in two’s, threes and fours, darted in and out, then up as one and then away back into the undergrowth. I couldn’t name any of the species though I guessed they were different types of finches. Nightingales and skylarks, they were not, as these more identifiable birds busied themselves instead on and above the open ground beyond the posts. Using the line of the posts as a guide tool, I started to move up the hill. Keeping to a recognisable footpath became more problematic and I found myself climbing a shallow gully, where, in places, the ground had given way and in the mini caves that were exposed, the channel of a man laid pipe was revealed.

I carried on up the gully, the small voids opening up every so often to reveal human activity, and conscious that straying into the low shrub might run the risk of disturbing nesting birds.

Nearing the top the gradient eased, and I now stood looking up at a long ridge with communication masts and what looked like the remains of iron age ramparts. Although I was nearly there, a robust and modern looking fence deterred further ascent.

Access temporarily denied

I tracked the line of the fence, using the top of a ruined dry-stone wall as my footpath.

This wall had come tumbling down

After five minutes a gate marked the entrance to the higher ground and a path that led to the top.

Here we go

A few more minutes and I was at the top and leaning on the toposcope. The communication towers aside, the 360-degree panoramic views were outstanding. I was having some difficulty working out the lay of the land immediately surrounding me. Whilst it seemed obvious that an iron age fort would have once been sited here, the ground was highly irregular and pitted, with a large and not exactly natural looking pond next to the service buildings.

A messy view at the toposcope

My plan was to head on over the top and then down a path that would head north and then track back south west down to the start, but before I did this I decided to explore the erratic land past the communication towers, not least because I had a feeling that the highest point actually lay thereabouts, rather than at the toposcope.

Direction north, and the Wrekin on the horizon as my guide

Easier said than done. It was easy getting there, but very quickly the path melted away into the low shrub and heather and I was treading lightly, increasingly wary of the next step and a potential twisted ankle. There was a point where going back wasn’t an option, and I carried on through the difficult terrain, edging back round to the east. I stopped for a while to get my bearings. We are talking about an area no bigger than a football pitch in size, but I might as well have been lost up the Orinoco. All reference points had vanished. I was not of this landscape, which I should have left well alone.

Eventually I came across a small track that led me back to the communication towers with an exit onto the service road that would lead me north along, and then down the plateau (the road is closed to private vehicles). I looked to the south and could clearly make out the Malvern Hills and Worcester Beacon. An impressive view, but it was about to get much better.

The Malvern Hills – just above the gap with the fence running through

Further on and another larger pond appeared on the right. Given what I had seen so far it was becoming evident that this area had once been subject to extensive abstraction; of what I had no idea.

I wasn’t tempted

Google maps had indicated that at some point just ahead there stood an historic building. I was curious to discover what this was, and as I passed beyond the pond a sturdy looking stone building (lacking a roof) came into view.

Approaching the historic building – located on the eastern flank and looking towards Birmingham

It was clearly an industrial building of some age, and apart from the missing roof and windows, in relatively good condition. I read later that it had been used for crushing stones, and its existence began to help explain the pitted landscape of the summit and surrounding slopes. Along with various minerals I have never heard of, at one time the top of Brown Clee was also the highest point in the country where coal was dug.

Tea Room potential

I moved around to the back of the building to where the remains of a large wooden structure projected out like a huge Roman ballista, ready, it seemed, to launch huge broken stones towards Walsall.

The remains of something

In warm sunshine I sat for a while contemplating the structure and the industry it supported. There was no significant community for miles around, and it seems that people who worked the area made their way out on foot from towns as far away as Ludlow and Bridgnorth. Standing at 540 meters this would have been an almost intolerable place to work, and not just in winter. But they did, until the mid-1930s.

In the real world (not my imagination) the crushed stone would have been loaded onto a light railway, the faint remains of which could be seen snaking north, and away. I carried on down the road, reaching a point where it fell away steeply down the northern slope, and where above, the remains of the old trackway rose steeply up the bank and towards the remnants of more industrial buildings.

Looking back up the old trackway

Walking down the track the sound of birdsong continued all around and picking up on the direction of one particularly chirpy chap, I made out the source sitting proud at the top of a low bush, and seemingly oblivious of my presence.

Today’s bird and song, a coal tit I think, but other species remained contenders

Some way down the road (built I presumed on the line of the old track), which stretched on and down to the foot of the hill, a fence and cattle grid marked the boundary between up and low land.

Tally Ho!

I veered left at this point and followed a well-used track with the fence to my right and with a grand, mature wood beyond. Small birds continued to flit between the branches. Further down I could see another larger unidentified bird on the track. I approached carefully, hoping to get a photo that would help identify it. This is the photo.

Spot the bird

This delightful woodland walk continued for a while. The path took a left and I was now on the western flank of the hill and with the woods now behind me. As if by some sort of osmosis, just to my left a bench appeared. It was good timing. I needed a short rest.

With the sun now swathing the land, and high clouds giving some texture, it began to dawn on me that I was looking at a significantly large part of England and Wales. Back at the summit I had been able to look as far south as the Severn estuary and to the west the Brecon Beacons and Sugarloaf, on my ascent I had peered across to the Long Mynd, and beyond the Welsh high north west, including Cader Idris (my all-time favourite) and Snowdonia, and at the stone crushing factory, looking east I had glimpsed Birmingham, but had also inadvertently viewed hundreds of square miles of the Midlands and the east of England, including Warwickshire, Northamptonshire and Leicestershire (Bardon Hill almost certainly).

I got out my phone and decided to see if I could pick out the points on the horizon where higher ground met the sky. To the northeast I could make out the Peak District and the Pennines stretching beyond. To the north the nearby Wrekin, but to the left of a young tree (see photo), and as far away as the eye could see, the bulk of the Lake District was clear. That was nearly Scotland! I was suddenly overwhelmed by the knowledge that I might possibly be looking at the most all-encompassing view in Britain. Well, maybe there’s another contender, but the more I thought about it, the more convinced that this was the spot. * The bench was dedicated to Ian Dodds, born a year or two after me, and gone before his time. I’ll say one thing for Ian Dodds, whoever he was, he knew exactly where to be. In the full knowledge that it was extremely unlikely that I would ever find myself at this sublime spot again I uttered a grateful and meaningful “thank you” to the friends and family of Ian Dodds.

The greatest view in the land (possibly)

Rested and with my mind buzzing I carried on along the path which followed the contour for a couple of hundred metres, all the time thinking about the views and what they hid. There wasn’t a single person visible in any direction but nestling between the folded landscape that stretched in all directions, millions of people were leading their lives. A diversity of dialects and languages ranged from the soft west country burr to the south, through Wales and then north, Scouse, Manc, Cumbrian, Yorkshire then down through the slowly changing lilt of the East Midlands and then the Black Country. Never mind the politics, it was crazy, and time to come down off the high.

Before the final descent I looked out for one last view. For the first time, maybe due to the time of day and angle of light, I picked out the long low ridge of the nearby Wenlock Edge. Stretching from Much Wenlock in the north and heading directly southwest for about twenty kilometres, ending at Craven Arms. Like a giant tsunami rearing above the plain, instantly fossilised in a moment of time by an unknown force, forever brought to a halt for the rest of time moments before crashing against the shore of the Long Mynd. I was delirious.

The permanent Wenlock wave

The path down zigzagged its way past more land pitted by long gone extraction, before pitching out onto the narrow road that ran past Fair View (possibly an old farm) and then to the junction with the phone box library. At the car I took my time changing out of my walking boots. A solitary cyclist slowly passed by and said hello. With the exception of a couple of walkers, spied at a distance near the top, he was the first person I had seen.

I drove slowly back towards Much Wenlock, still muttering a big thanks to the hill. What a day. Brown Clee had not been the most glamorous county top, but it had never stopped giving. Its isolation probably saves it from invasion, but with the decent road to the top and a little imagination (a heritage centre and a cafe at the old stone crushing building perhaps), it has essential Instagram, go to destination, written all over it. Yeah, right… perhaps not.

*Wikipedia mentions that the Clee Hills feature prominently in the Mappa Mundi. A couple of years ago I viewed the Mappa Mundi in Hereford Cathedral when exploring the tops of Worcestershire and Gloucestershire. I missed this subtlety, but that it does feature at all gives these hills some major significance.

Cresting the County – Solihull Metropolitan Borough

Meighs Wood

185 Meters

606 Feet

19th May 2026

Bluebells, leaks and Laybys.

From Corley Moor, the highest point in Coventry Metro Borough, it was just a short drive to Chapel Green, then a left down Fillongly Road and at a point in the road that bore a resemblance to my mind map of the area, a muddy layby appeared on the left and I pulled over.

A hundred meters ahead, on the other side of the road and beyond a hedge, a line of trees marked where dense woods met a large field. I climbed out of the car. This wasn’t going to take long. As I started down the road, a car pulled round the bend in the road to the south and abruptly stopped at a layby on the opposite side of the road. The driver’s door opened and out jumped a man who, without further ado, marched beyond the car and up to the hedge, where quite obviously he proceeded to have a leak. It might have been just at that moment that he saw me approaching on the other side of the road.

To protect his modesty, I naturally slowed my pace and pretended to look at something that might have been interesting beyond the trees on my side of the road. Whatever it was that I was interested in failed to hold my attention for too long and by necessity I continued in his direction. By now he had finished his essentials (at least I assumed he had, but I’m sure most of us – men – have been in that unsatisfying position of being desperate, only to be denied for some unaccountable reason), and had skipped back into his car. He drove on and I crossed over.

Just past the layby a gap in a fence gave access to the woodland, and just to the right another gap in a fence gave access to the north facing field. The field was cultivated, but a wide strip of land adjacent to the woods suggested some form of set aside, which I now understand to be a “cereal field margin”, land that is left uncultivated to encourage wildlife diversity. I’d heard of it but as far as I could remember, never actually seen it before. It looked great. I’m sure that there are arguments against such wokery, but it makes sense to me.

I walked towards the top of the field and along the edge of the woods. Ahead, spilling out of the woods and into the margin, a wave of bluebells in their prime. Quite a surprise given that all around me down south had come and gone already.

On the crest of a wave

I stopped and noticed a humble bee dancing between the flowers coronets and got down close to observe. Despite my close proximity, it had zero interest in me. Too fixated on task and outcome. I recently heard that a worker bee only lives a few weeks and, in that time, makes, creates, generates, just a fraction of a teaspoon of honey. No retirement, no pension, just a grinding few weeks contributing to the greater good before it’s all over. I can’t predict the future but with AI and the ever-continuing concentration of the world’s wealth by a small few, maybe there was some sort of metaphor evolving in front of me.

Inspecting the larder

I carried on a short distance. There was a gap into the woods. I entered, but only just. Somewhere around this point was Solihull’s highest elevation. Although Peak Bagger names the highest point as Meighs Woods, their own map seems to suggest the woods I was at were called Stocked Woods, and Meighs Wood was over the road where I had parked up. I looked back out and across the field. A leaden sky, but the forecast was for something different. Up until a day or so before the nights had been cold, and the days cool and stormy. By Friday that was all going to change.

The high point – Stocked Woods

I drove away from the layby. The destination was Much Wenlock for three nights. Whilst I had reached the highest point in Solihull, the road I took to get me back onto the M6 somehow managed to avoid contact with any of the town’s urban sprawl. Oh well, so it goes.

Station to Station – Up Walk to London West St Leonards to Crowhurst

Introduction and first leg.

1. West St Leonard’s to Crowhurst

4th April 2026

OS Explorer 124

Distance: 6 miles

Leaving the Suburbs

I had been thinking about this for a while. I live in Hastings. The direct railway to London runs north by northwest up through the countryside of East Sussex, Kent and then Greater London. Apart from seeing it all through the windows of a train on the occasional trip up to London and back, many of the areas are remote, and not obviously places to visit unless you have good reason to. In a moment of enlightenment, I realised that I could investigate these places by starting out at a station en-route, walking a few miles to the next station, and then jumping on a train back to the start point.

That moment was about two years ago, and with lots of life issues occupying my time, it was filed in the “maybe sometime” folder. Until the 4th of April 2026, when I woke to see a fine mizzle varnishing the street outside, after a forecast that had promised fair weather. The opportunity to procrastinate was tempting, but I had been bogged down in a blizzard of family issues since the start of the year, and with only a small window to stretch my legs and shake off the moribund (in more senses than one), I grabbed a coat and set off for West St Leonard’s station, intent on starting the task by walking as close as I could to the main line towards the small village of Crowhurst, the next stop on the line.

Start to Finish – Follow the spine of the seahorse. Made with ancient recently rediscovered paper

The fine mizzle remained. I stood on the nearby road bridge that spans the Eastbourne and Victoria station line to the south.

The Bo Peep signal box and entrance to Bo Peep tunnel. Mizzleable

But first, a minor digression. This exercise should, if being a purist, start at Hastings station. Hastings and St Leonard’s (they used to be separate identities but are now joined at the hip and for the purpose of local government administration are known collectively as Hastings), are blessed by four stations. There used to be two more, one to the west at Bulverhythe called Glyne Gap Halt, which is long gone and now houses a retail park, the other, just to the west of the bridge I was standing on, and very first, was Hastings and St Leonard’s station, opened in 1846 (later renamed West Marina station). The remains of this important railway feature now rests peacefully under a huge TK Max.

The four remaining stations are, from east to west, Ore, Hastings, St Leonard’s Warrior Square (my start point). Ore is situated high in the eastern suburbs and falls outside the orbit of this exercise, mainly because it serves a different route. The line out of Hastings to Ore heads off through a long tunnel dug into the sandstone and then delightfully across the marshes to Rye before terminating at Ashford. In recent years there have been calls for this single-track line to be upgraded to a High-Speed line from London. Whilst it would be great to have a fast train from Hastings to London, I think we can say that there’s more chance of the International Eurostar station reopening at Ashford before that becomes a thing. Ore has one distinction. Many confused travellers will have stood at Charing Cross or London Bridge stations searching in vain and then missing their train to Hastings because many of the Hasting’s trains don’t actually terminate at Hastings, but at Ore, a place almost everyone on the planet who isn’t from Ore, will never have heard of.

For anyone desperate or daft enough to follow in my weary footsteps, the correct place to start this sojourn would be at Hastings station. My first encounter with Hasting station (before it was modernised) was in 1980. After a Friday night session at a pub near to the bookshop I was working at the time, I boarded a train bound for East Croydon (or was it?) and sometime later was woken by a British Rail employee and asked to leave the train. Clearly it wasn’t one of the trains that went onto Ore. Somewhat befuddled, I dismounted the train to find myself on the platform at Hastings! Asking the group of attendants when the next train to London might be, they proceeded to crease up like the Cadbury’s Smash aliens (if you don’t know what I mean check them out online) and then told me it would be six in the morning. Exhausted, I looked across the platforms and could see the sign of a nearby hotel. Being after midnight, I rationalised that I’d missed my window of opportunity, and so instead tried to get some kip in the platform waiting room. Good idea? It should have been. Instead, for the next few hours a solitary gull perched on the adjacent bench and proceeded to squawk and screech its hideous call for the rest of my time. I caught the first train back to London and was the first in work that Saturday morning, but the gull had got to my central nervous system, and I swore never to return.

From Hastings station the options are to walk along the hilly and relatively indifferent back roads, or head straight to the seafront and then along the front for a mile to St Leonard’s Warrior Square station, set back a few hundred metres from the sea, and the locally popular Goat Ledge cafe. There’s no point trying to follow the line between the two stations because it’s buried deep down in a mile long tunnel. More on tunnels at another time perhaps – they matter here.

St Leonard’s Warrior Square (originally Gensing station, opened in 1847) sits at the top of the bohemian Kings Road. Small independent shops are stuffed to the gunnels with miscellaneous everything ever made before 1980. The station itself nestles snugly between the Hastings tunnel heading east, and the equally impressive Bo Peep tunnel, that heads nearly a mile to the west, and under the old colonial affluence of St Leonard’s, with its Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian piles (some in the Scottish baronial style) chaotically scattered across the high ground above the seafront. Hilly roads take you up and down quirky streets where independent shops, some art galleries and more outlets selling junk and second-hand stuff (called brocantes here abouts), through to antiques, and a range of hospitable pubs and eateries can swallow an hour or two. If that’s not your bag, and you just want to get walking from Warrior Square to West St Leonard’s, head south to the coast and then west past the impressively art-deco (debate) Marina Court, along the front with the very early Georgian facade, The Marina Fountain public house (good music) and then right and up the hill on West Hill Road and a final left into St Vincents Road.

Anyway, I’ve done those legs many times, so let’s start. And yes, I must have forgotten that terrible night with the gull, because decades later I moved here.

Digression over. From the station I set off west on St Vincents Road, and to the junction with Filsham Road. To the right is a bridge over the tracks and good views back into the station and on the other side an arc in the track looping away to the northwest and London. I crossed over at the zebra crossing and joined the public footpath that heads down and then along the south of the line. To the left lies the large Filsham Valley school and its grounds. To avoid congestion, stay clear of this area mid-afternoon and chucking out time.

At the bottom of the rise a became aware of a stream running between the track and the path. I smelt it before I saw it. From the stench I concluded that an unauthorised release may have taken place, and I quickly diverted from the path into the adjacent grass field, with woods climbing up to a ridge beyond. *

Beyond the field the path rose into the woods, and slowly back above the tracks. An elaborate footbridge allowed access over the line and to houses on the other side. Again, almost certainly a place to be avoided when the kids get out of school.

Vape Central before and after school

Another two or three hundred meters on and the path emerged onto the Harley Chute Road, and the second road bridge over the lines.

I promise the pictures get better – Harley Chute Road

The footpath continued on the other side of the road, but the view was instantly, and surprisingly, all country.

Goodbye to the suburbs

Within minutes the sound from the streets had receded, replaced by the chirps and cheeps of Blue Tits and Robins, which occasionally darted in front and above. Wild garlic, occasional primroses, delicate white but unidentified white flowers and clumps of bluebells coloured the quickly awakening birch and hawthorn woodland. The path fell back down and gradually away from the railway before heading back up and to a foot crossing.

Sensible Instruction number 1: Cross without stopping

I didn’t cross but continued to the south where the path diverged quickly from the line and down. At a junction in a dell, I bore right and back up through the woods. With the railway some distance away, the path continued through delightful woods. The rain had finally stopped, and occasional patches of blue sky appeared.

The buffer zone – Marsh Woods

With the path heading on up and into a field, and then another, views opened to the south. A glimpse of the sea and the higher ground above Bulverhythe, which, I believe only exists because it was once the area’s landfill site, now being blended back into nature, and an area I ought to explore a bit further on my next visit to the nearby recycling centre.

Manmade

At the end of the second field, I emerged onto the Crowhurst Road (so I knew I must have been on the right track, although the actually track was back and passing under the adjacent road bridge).

A gull and a buzzard were fronting it up above the tracks. You’ll have to take my word for it

Taking the Crowhurst Road northwest past Upper Wilting Farm and then under Combe Valley Way, a wide direct new link road running between the north of Hastings and Bexhill but shamefully lacking a bike lane (there’s just no excuse). Crowhurst Road continued downhill, with the odd passing car, over a stream, before climbing again past Lower Wilting Farm to the right and then to the top of the valley before heading directly north and down.

Just at the point, where the road veers to the north, I crossed the old bridge and high above the long disused Crowhurst, Sidley and Bexhill railway. Below, through the trees and undergrowth, the evidence of a well-used footpath.

The old track

Past the sign to Adam’s Farm, and through the trees the view extended to the southwest and over the filter beds that can be seen for miles, and from day to day, depending on the weather, are either flooded or bone dry.

Adams Farm and the filter beds beyond

Continuing down the Crowhurst Road, and to the right, an entrance to the Crowhurst Nature Reserve took me back into nature and eventually to the bottom of the disused railway, which at this point was clearly never going to operate again.

Water and leaves on the lines

Keeping on through the heavily wooded reserve, any evidence of the old line had clearly gone. After a few minutes and a large tree ahead sported a sign suggesting that further progress was unwelcome.

Private property – Keep Out

A tad annoying, but with evidence of a well-trod footpath continuing beyond the old oak I quickly forgot that I had seen any sign at all and here the bluebells and primroses flourished.

Blooming Spring

Eventually my luck ran out. I had assumed that it would be possible to walk the entire length of the old line, but a large fence cut straight across the path. I tacked to the right, hoping that this was just a temporary glitch, but it wasn’t to be. Heading back down to the bottom of the cutting a much larger sign on the fence emphasising the private property angle and that CCTV cameras were deployed convinced me that there was no point continuing. Not least because although some vague tracks led on, the dense undergrowth was enough to dissuade me.

You shall not pass

I headed back along the fence and then spilled out onto a rough vehicle track. Unsure exactly where I was, I decided to go right, and towards a path marked on the map that hinted at an old bridge over the cutting. The noise from some sort of mechanical equipment became louder as I plodded up the track, and then just around a corner a small digger came into view, scrapping away at the track. Reaching the mini digger the operator in the cab switched off the engine and opened the door. I had expected to be given short shrift and be advised to retreat but I was wielding my Ordnance Survey map and led from the front. “Am I lost?”

The man smiled and we started a conversation. He had just moved into the amazing looking Tudoresque white cottage just beyond and was flattening the track so that the family car could negotiate the hazardous central hump. It seemed that they owned most of the surrounding land and I asked if that included the railway cutting. He confirmed they did, adding that I may have seen some warning signs. I wasn’t quite sure how to answer, but before I did, he immediately became my favourite person on the planet by proclaiming that he was going to take them all down!!! Liberating his own land for the rest of us being about the most enlightened thinking in an age when walls are going back up. He was a good guy, and I moved on towards the public footpath with a spring in my step. By the way, the digger was called Ken.

The foot path was to the right of the track and headed uphill, crossing the old line on a heavily vegetated brick bridge.

Looking down at the old line through the ivy

The path was something of a muddy stream and to make progress I grabbed the branch of a shrub, instantly feeling pain on the inside of one of my fingers. I didn’t think much of it until I took a quick look, and the red stuff was expressing freely down between my two middle fingers. Whilst slipping slowly back down the muddy path I somehow managed to manipulate a tissue from my pocket and squeeze it to the wound and realising in the moment that whatever the shrub was, it had managed to pierce the fleshy bit on both fingers.

At the top of the climb the path bled out onto another farm track. Taking a right the public footpath reappeared to the left heading up through more woods. This old track, presumably once a vital rural highway serving the small community of Green Street above, was also the conduit for a running stream, which made the whole track something of a quagmire. With my bleeding fingers, reaching out for additional support was not an option, so I tiptoed on up trying my best to avoid my boots being overwhelmed.

Eventually I reached the top and over a stile leading to the small road through Green Street.

Narnia beyond the stile

The small cluster of traditional Sussex buildings felt like a lost community, hidden away from the nearby urban sprawl of Hastings. Neat.

Evidence of a past industry

With the flow of blood now mainly checked my focus was now on reaching Crowhurst Station and the next hourly train. I knew I was quite close, but also that the route headed away from the destination before tracking back.

The narrow road headed northeast and gradually downhill. At the foot of the descent the road crossed over the mainline, last encountered at Upper Wilting Farm only a kilometre or so to the south. At the far side a fine old building, built from large stones and more reminiscent of the North rather than old Sussex.

Unsurprisingly perhaps the bridge is called Stonehouse Bridge.

Looking north on the Stonehouse Bridge

The road lurched to the left and then began to climb back out to the northeast, but another track heading directly north and between two large fields full of yellow rape was what I plumped on. Within a minute I heard the sound of yapping dogs, quickly came into sight with their owner. Not only the first dog walker so far, but apart from the man operating Ken the digger, the only person I had met at all! The dogs were so small I think my modest size was intimidating enough and they behaved. A brief word with the owner, agreeing that it had turned out to be a lovely day, and I carried on up. After 2 to 300 metres the track was crossed by another. Beyond, to the right, the entrance to a small abode with land. I wasn’t entirely certain about my whereabouts in the field and decided to turn left and follow the track heading west. Another 200 metres across the field of rape and on the left a large pond surrounded by trees that brought a slightly continental feel to the land.

The view from the pond (which for some reason I didn’t record)

Carrying on down and eventually back into some woods, crossing over another stream. The path wound around and suddenly, ahead, the gaping mouth of a corrugated tunnel driven under the mainline. I was back on track, almost literally, but had to overcome the slight nervousness of the tunnel challenge.

Oh well, it had to be done

I’d missed the guided tour

Emerging back into the light I knew where I was. Some months earlier I had been here with a couple of friends (more shortly) where we had pondered on whether the derelict railway bridge that now rose in front of me, went over, or under the old Crowhurst to Bexhill railway. It took almost fifteen minutes for the three cleverest brains in the land to conclude that it must have passed over, or maybe under?

The correct answer is – over.

A large field opened to the right and towards some woods before heading down and with luxury yurts to rent in a field on the left. At the foot of the incline a small bridge over the eastern arm of Powdermill Stream, and then the path began another gradual climb, with a hill rising across a field to the right and a line of trees at the top.

Try to use your imagination here

Months earlier, with my two friends, we had ambled along this track, looking repeatedly across this field, pointing out relevant features and satisfying ourselves that we were in the right place. The right place being the alternative site of the Battle of Hastings in 1066. Some months earlier, one of my friends had mentioned to me that he had been watching a YouTube programme about a local activist group, led by Nick Austin, who passionately explained why the official site, at Battle, could not have been the site, and that the custodians, English Heritage, knew this but were too heavily invested in their asset to acknowledge any notion of an alternative site. Incredibly, given that I rarely watch anything on YouTube, I immediately knew what he was talking about because only the day before I too had watched the same programme (which for the life of me I can’t now locate). We agreed that at some point in the future we would visit the identified alternative location and see for ourselves. And that led to three of us standing in this field and satisfying ourselves that the evidence, based on the topography, was compelling.

But, since that short battlefield amble, I had delved further into the subject. There is indeed a wide-ranging debate amongst enthusiasts and historians about where the battle may have taken place. I have no intention of examining them here (it’s all on the Net) but the problem for the official site in Battle is, apart from the Abbey built by William some years after 1066, there has never been any physical evidence of a battle in Battle. The race is on to find some evidence, anywhere. There are at least two main alternatives. Where we had stood was one of them. Except that my further research, which included Nick Austin and his crew, seemed to suggest that their proposed site, err… lay about a mile to the north and on the other side of the mainline. How we had collectively managed to go to a completely different, random location, suddenly struck me as hilarious, but also astonished by the realisation that we had discovered a third possible site. If only we had found a medieval stirrup! The search continues.

The track headed on down into Bucklebridge Farm. Beyond I was just able to make out the ancient church and remains of an old manor house, thought to have once been owned by King Harold (though obviously not for long).

The old manor house and the church tower to the right

I emerged onto Station Road, quickly checked my watch and saw that I had nine minutes to get up the steep hill and to the station itself. I was surprised that I had managed to get to this point with a chance of the train, but as John Cleese once said it’s not the despair, but the hope. Legging it up the road, it occurred to me that it was much longer than I had remembered, but against the odds I made the ticket machine, was able to work out how to buy a single ticket back to West St Leonard’s on my first attempt, and then popped over the bridge to the down platform.

Looking north at Crowhurst station

Four minutes passed before the train rolled in and I, and the one other customer, left town.

One for the buffs 375 825

Minutes later and I was back at West St Leonard’s – with the train heading off towards the Bo Peep tunnel and the last leg to Hastings.

And away – to Hastings

Outside West St Leonard’s station and the mizzle had gone

A short drive back home but with the iPod on random, the sound of Weller seemed to encapsulate the day. I hadn’t heard it in years. Using all the tricks in his book the main man at his finest.

*A few days ago, and before I posted this, a reel popped up on my phone. I don’t look at reels, but from what I could see it was my local MP reporting a sewage outage into the Hollington Stream and posted on the 18^{th of} April. In hindsight perhaps I should have reported my concerns after the walk, but clearly my nose hadn’t lied.

Cresting the County – West Berkshire Unitary Authority

Walbury Hill

297 Meters

974 Feet

23rd February 2026

A Little Trespass Never Hurt

Since my last outing (a long weekend in late October when I managed to chalk off five tops) a lot of “stuff” has been going on, and it is a long list. Greenland, Epstein fallout (on repeat), Tariffs misunderstood, Ukraine (US inertia continues), Andrew (see above – on repeat loop) and so much more. On a personal note, getting opportunities to travel have been severely limited. The weather for one thing (I wonder if we’ll look back in years to come and remember the incessant rain, cold and absence of sun), but also an elderly family member’s slow decline and on-going care requirements. Which prompted this very short getaway.

With a very small window of opportunity I made a last minute, value for money, two-night booking at a pub come hotel in Newbury. I won’t name it because it was pretty good to be fair, but my need for sleep was rudely interrupted on both nights, and I came away less equipped for my on-going commitments than I had been at the start. Shucks!

I chose Newbury, a small town just south of the M4 corridor between Reading and Swindon because it was near to Walbury Hill (and Slough – but that’s a future post), sufficiently close to where I had come from and where I needed to be on the Tuesday, and because, surprisingly I had never been there before. Going to somewhere I have never been before has been one of the secondary objectives of the County tops endeavour.

Arriving in Newbury early evening I had time to grab some food and relax over a couple of beers in local pubs. The first, The Lock, Stock and Barrel, located by the side of the river Kennett, was great, and the riverside terrace would be a must do in warmer weather. As it was, the river (a tributary of the Thames, and probably not much to look at most of the time) was a raging torrent, just inches from breaching the pubs defences. I asked a local couple if they had seen it so high before. The answer was a definite NO. The second pub, which will remain nameless, was shocking. Arsenal had beaten Spurs at the Lane 4 – 1. I expected Spurs to lose, and don’t begrudge Arsenal, but the boys were still pretty hopeless.

I slept like a log, until at around 5am, when, with a monumental crashing sound, the bottle recycling team turned up to remove the pubs Friday and Saturday empties. Wide awake for a while until asleep again. At 6.30am an almost identical noise announced someone from the pub emptying Sunday’s empties into the recycling bin that had just been emptied a couple of hours earlier. Again, wide awake until sometime on. I know this for sure because I woke again an hour later when the sound of beer kegs being dropped from the back of the dray (a lorry that carries barrels of beer), was pretty much the final straw. I think I counted about 20 metal on padded concrete interactions before it eventually buggered off.

Having been up with the larks, metaphorically, on three occasions, I gave up the fight. I had a task to complete after all. Before that I strolled into the town centre and then along the Kennet and associated canal. And very pleasant it was too, although for people living nearby, they must live in a state of high anxiety for half the year.

Where does all the water go?

I drove out towards the southwest, noticing that many of the dense hedges were well over two meters wide – something I haven’t noticed elsewhere.* Not a long journey but made longer by taking a wrong turn and inadvertently arriving at Ashmansworth, where a year or so ago I had stopped briefly to get my bearings before finding Pilot Hill, the highest point in Hampshire (see https://elcolmado57.co.uk/2025/04/12/cresting-the-county-hampshire/). I took some bearings and then made my way along the narrow but traffic free lanes to Faccombe, where I stopped to take some bearings. Faccombe boasted a handful of very large houses, a church and a big pub called the Jack Russell, which for some reason looked a bit out of place. I stopped in the carpark of the Jack Russell (to get bearings) and considered calling in for a coffee. However, being surrounded by an array of high spec 4 by 4’s and SUV’s (are these the same things?), all of them looming over my little Ford, I chose to pass on through, aware that if anyone were to ask me my views on fox hunting I’d probably be lucky to get away with just a slashed tyre. Instead, I took a short stroll to the village pond, then took a photo of a swath of snowdrops, with daffodils above.

The lanes were awash with snowdrops, and I am pretty sure the daffodils were out far too soon

The road continued north. I noticed to my right a view across a valley towards Pilot Hill.

Pilot Hill – a new perspective.

I took some more bearings and shortly afterwards arrived at a small unmarked muddy carpark where I put on my boots and stepped forth.

A rutted chalk track took me northwest. It felt like it would rain at any minute, but it didn’t, which was a relief. The hill boasts an Iron Age camp, but the evidence on the ground was limited, with just a few mounds indicating the structure. After half a mile, with a field to my left that contained the summit of Walbury Hill, I came to a large metal gate. I had read that access to the summit, which was on private land, could be gained at this point. Judging by the padlock and a sign that emphasised the private property, no public access angle, I figured there must be another access point further along.

Towards the summit, and a hint at the top of the trig point.

I carried on along the track, now losing elevation. Another 200 meters or so on another large gate, but sitting next to it a pedestrian gate, with all the hallmarks of hiking legitimacy. Except, again the private property sign and a rusty padlock that said it all.

The rusty padlock, an assertion of power and ownership? Combe Gibbet on the horizon

I was getting the message. At some point, maybe even still, the land was/is owned by the Astor Family. I couldn’t be bothered to do the research, but I knew that they had/still are, very, very rich. Original oligarch templates, I guess. Oh well, not much I could do about that, but to block access to the highest point in the whole of the southeast of England felt mean and petty. Maybe I had just missed a trick and somewhere, somewhere, there was a legitimate route (I later re-read the on-line blurb about Walbury Hill and realised that I had misread the bit about access from the main track – there was none).

The walk had been short and in a desperate need to keep stretching my legs (the last few weeks having largely consisted of sitting behind a steering wheel and watching the rain whilst stuck in traffic) I carried on along the track, across a minor road that fell away down the scarp slope of the chalk and towards the settlement of Inkpen. The track, part of the Wayfarers Way, an old drover’s route, headed up the ridge and to another high point. I couldn’t miss it. It had an enormous gibbet to mark the spot.

Combe Gibbet. Just so you get the message.

In 1676 George Broomham and Dorothy Newman had the unfortunate experience of having their mercifully dead bodies hoisted up and left to hang from the cross beam so that everyone could see what happened to murderers. So far, fair enough, given the nature of crime and justice at that time, except the only witness was “Mad Thomas” (no further details available). I make no further comment other than I’m pretty sure evidential rules have changed over time, and probably for the best (even though there are some people now emerging into the light who would be quite happy to turn the clock back).

I set off back the way I came, crossing over the road and passing between more substantial Iron Age ditches, workings, ramparts, whatever they may have been. The extent of the camp/fort must have been enormous, and given it was subsequently bisected by the later drover’s route, presumably served as a large enclosure for cattle and sheep – although that’s just a hunch.

Back past the padlocked pedestrian gate and eventually the larger locked gate, situated within striking distance of the summit. I’d already pretty much made up my mind, and having a quick look around to see that the coast was clear, I clambered over the gate and walked directly south across the pasture field. The clear outlines of foot traffic indicated that others had passed this way before. The topography was plateau-like, and I figured that I wasn’t going to be attracting attention.

The day before, in the now febrile atmosphere that is the Divided States of America, a young man, carrying a shotgun and some canisters, and one assumes not in his right mind (I have no idea), somehow managed to get into the grounds of Mar-a-Lago. With sad inevitability he was shot and killed by security. It all feels relentless and unsolvable.

I tried to keep a low profile as I approached the top

After about 200 meters I was at the trig point. Someone had placed a plastic wreath on top. I struggled to understand how it hadn’t blown away in the wind, but the spot had obviously meant something to someone. A metal plaque attached to the concrete structure (not seen on trig points I have previously visited) informed that the monument formed part of the Ordnance Survey National GPS Network and that it was an offence to damage it. Which seemed to suggest that there was some sort of signalling gadget embedded in the structure. Surely not! In any event the number 11798 is listed as Inkpen on my latest on-line find – the Trig Pillar Map. Life just continues to get better.

Please don’t vandalise this gift from a bygone age. It’s older than me!!

Next to the trip point was a small flat area of old concrete that served no obvious purpose. Except, on reading up on the site a bit later, back when there were only a handful of satellites (about two years ago I think, given the hundreds that Elon now fires up there every other day), live broadcasting of the horse racing at Newbury was made possible by men (I’m just guessing) in mustard coloured coats, pipe smoking and wearing heavy rimmed glasses driving an enormous signal mast to this point in order to transmit black and white, and then colour, images of the action to daytime television viewers and the punters in the bookies. On a windy wet day in winter, they must have been over the moon to have got the gig. There’s no need for it now, and from what I can see racing on daytime TV is not such a big thing. Anyway, it was a nice image to take away with me.

Further to the south was another interesting looking structure. I should say that it was probably only interesting to a niche audience, but I’m happy to count myself as part of it. On the basis that so far, no pellets had whizzed past my ears, I cautiously walked on. A low circular red brick building, capped off by concrete and with a pipe for ventilation peeking out the top. It could only have been a reservoir but had all the attributes of a WW2 pill box, except it lacked slit loopholes.

Note the traditional running pattern in the brickwork. No fancy Flemish bond needed here.

Back at the trig point I took a quick look around. To the east I could make out Pilot Hill. It’s said that Walbury Hill is the furthest point to be seen from the top of the Shard in central London (approximately 50 miles).** That seems highly improbable to me, although to be fair on the only occasion I went to the top of the Shard, the snowstorm was so bad that the furthest point seen was the roof of London Bridge station directly below.

2013 – I know, the Shardenfreude is not lost on me. The further point observed was the conning tower on the Belfast

It was time to hop back over the gate and make my getaway to the car. The carpark was still as muddy as it had been an hour earlier. A couple of guys with a farm dog on a quad bike, entering the nearby field, eyed me suspiciously. Maybe they’d had a call to intercept a trespasser. Ah well. On the subject of trespass, or more precisely, why it is that so much of England is inaccessible, The Book of Trespass – Crossing the Lines that Divide Us, by Nick Hayes, is an essential read.

I can’t tell you about how I slept that night back in the room. That’s because, thanks to the two drunken, off their cup’s young men in the adjacent room, I didn’t get any.

The quest continues.

* In answer to the Google search “Why are hedges in Berkshire so wide?” There is none.

** On a related note, my daughters partner J, recently passed me a copy of the December 2025 edition of TRAIL – (The UK’s best-selling hillwalking magazine). Initially I flicked through it but then stopped and went back to the start. The articles were well written and interesting. An article titled the Long Shot, by Philip Thomas, really grabbed my attention. He explained that hypothetically, at 144 miles, the longest view in the UK was from the summit of Merrick, the highest point in Dumfries and Galloway, and the top of Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon), which we know is the highest point in Gwynedd (and Wales). It’s technically the longest view but for all sorts of atmospheric and technical reasons, it’s never actually been seen or more importantly photographed. The longest view that has been photographed is between a point in the Pyrenees and a point in the French Alps (275 miles).

A few pages on from this fascinating article (believe me), was another feature called Top of the World (mistitled I fear) which extoled the virtues of the County Tops challenge and listed 10 varied examples, some of which I had done.

Having immersed myself in the publication I decided that come the New Year I would start subscribing. When I mentioned this to J, he frowned and then told me that I was holding in my hand the last edition – ever! What a blow.

In the Long Shot article mentioned above, the author starts by referencing the Who’s 1960’s hit, I Can See for Miles. Nice touch, so why not?

Cresting the County – Westmorland and Furness (Unitary Authority)

Helvellyn

950 metres

3117 feet

Summer 2003 or 4

New Year Special – One From the Vaults

I was thinking about Scafell. Why had I never climbed it, wondering how on earth I would get the opportunity to do so now, and by extension reach the top of Cumbria. It had been bothering me, not least because I had climbed Helvellyn, a close second (or third as Scafell boasts two peaks, both slightly higher). But even Helvellyn was vexing me. It wasn’t on my itinerary, primarily because it wasn’t the top of Cumbria, but also because for the life of me my brain struggled to put together when and why I had been there in the first place.

It’s nineteen months since I started the county top challenge, and every week I’m finding out new things; not least that quite a lot of the on-line references, which on the surface look authoritative, often end up being unreliable; not deliberately, or due to casual research, but almost certainly because it’s a shifting shore.

My original list of counties, compiled just over a year ago from what, at the time, I assumed to be a reliable source, had included Scafell (which remains a legitimate target), in the county of Cumbria. My very large map obtained in December 2024 doesn’t disagree. So, some time ago, when a news article, or something similar, made mention of Westmorland, my ears started to twitch. Westmorland was a word I was certainly familiar with, but on checking the list it wasn’t to be found. I could have just left it like that, assuming that it was something along the lines of a generic term for a geographical area, but I’m beginning to find out that it’s best not to take anything for granted. I enquired further and soon discovered that Cumbria had been abolished in 2023 and divided in two, with Cumberland in the west and Westmorland and Furness to the east (are we keeping up?). And before anyone gets too nostalgic or sentimental about the demise of the ancient county of Cumbria, it ought to be noted that it (Cumbria) only came into existence in 1974 following the combining effect of, err… Cumberland, Westmorland, parts of Lancashire (!) and, (I can’t even believe the Yorkies let this happen without another civil war), part of the West Riding of – yup – Yorkshire! *

All these political shenanigans aside, once it had become clear to me that Westmorland and Furness was now a thing, and was added to my ever-lengthening list, I realised I had acquired a mighty peak by default. One could say of course that this is exactly the sort of bewildering quirk of the game that makes the exercise entirely meaningless. And, of course, one must agree, but hey, when I had climbed Helvellyn over twenty years ago, it had been an achievement, and by only a matter of a few metres is just a tad shorter than Scafell. It deserves to be a county top, and I am very grateful for that too.

Another notable claim to Helvellyn is that to the best of my knowledge it’s the only county top I have managed with both my son and daughter (with the possible exception of the City of London, which, I have just noted has disappeared from my latest definitive list).

I am unclear on the year, but from the information I wrote on the cover of the pack of the slightly disappointing snaps I took at the time, it was either the summer of 2003 or 2004. My children were teenagers and had been packed away for a week (voluntarily I should add) to a scout adventure centre at a place called Lochgoilhead, a remote location to the west of Loch Lomond in Scotland. The Scouting movement can divide opinion, but I don’t have a single bad word for the inner-city group that both my kids attended. Without any shadow of a doubt, it stretched them and cemented in them a desire for exploration, a sense of justice and a “can do” attitude.

Having said all that, whether they were thrilled by the prospect of another few days in the great outdoors under canvas, with their dad, at a campsite next to Ullswater only they can say, and I don’t intend to ask them now.

To reach the top of Helvellyn required me to do the following. I drove from London to Glasgow, spending a night or two with my Scottish relatives and brushing up on the lingo, before heading over the Erskin bridge into the Highlands, up Loch Lomond to Tarbet and then cross country to the remote settlement of Lochgoilhead. After meeting up I remember there was time for a march up one of the nearby braes to take in the breathtaking views down Loch Goil. The next day, with the rest of the squad, and the selfless volunteers who had made the whole thing possible, taking the long minibus journey back to London, I abducted my own and spent the rest of the day journeying down to Side Farm campsite, just to the east of the small village of Patterdale on the banks of mighty Ullswater in the Lake District. **

Our stay was for just three nights, and from memory the weather was kind. At the time my daughter would have been around 12 and my son 16. I recall that on the first full day we hired bikes and cycled on mountain trails up the east bank of the lake. About an hour in, one of the tyres on my son’s bike burst, leaving him to have to walk it all the way back. He seemed cheery about the prospect, probably delighted to have an excuse to spend some time apart from his sister and annoying dad. And who could blame him?

I can’t say with certainty that I can remember the exact route to the top of Helvellyn the following day, but I have an Ordnance Survey (Explorer OL5) map dated 2002 which fits into the likely dating, and a handful of photos, so here goes.

We drove the short distance from the campsite into Glenridding parking up near the large hotel… or did we? Yes, I recall that small boats lined the lake, dancing on the waves nearby… or did they?

Whether either of the kids saw this as an adventure, or just a task that needed to be completed to keep me happy, only they can say, but full credit to them, once we set off inland through the village on Greenside Road, they were clearly committed to the cause. The weather was largely overcast but warm. Ideal conditions.

We continued up Greenside Road until crossing over a small bridge over a stream and then onto open countryside, with Helvellyn in view at all times. I confess that at this stage it does get a little hazy, but I think we must have taken the main footpath running southwest and to the north of Glenridding Beck.

Looking towards the beast, with my daughter dressed completely inappropriately for upland hiking and asking if we were really going to go up that?

From cross referencing the photo with the OS map, I’m fairly sure that this photo was taken where Rowton Beck meets Glenridding Beck. The idea of taking on one of the almost vertical routes directly to the top was a non-starter.

We followed the main path along Glenridding Common, and then started the zig zag climb up the slightly less challenging slope to the right, and eventually along the long straight path from Raise summit to the cairn at Whiteside Bank.

Looking back along the route from Whiteside Bank, with Ullswater beyond

Before I continue this reconstruction of what is now a somewhat ancient journey, a brief aside. A couple of days ago, I’m watching BBC News and up pops an article about the Patterdale Mountain Rescue Team trailing robotic legs. My eyes and ears were immediately alerted and for the next minute I watched how these carbon fibre leg braces, with some sort of battery attached, positively hurled the wearer up the hill paths. It seems that the number of call outs over recent years has escalated and the equipment allows the already stretched service the chance to get to their target more quickly and more efficiently, particularly as they also have to carry heavy packs. I couldn’t quite work out how they worked, not least because one would still be subject to lung capacity issues, but from what I saw they looked like the very fellows (as Billy Connelly once said) and may have to check them out for myself as the arthritis kicks in further.

What a beautiful sight – Helvellyn on the Beeb and in the safe hands of the volunteer rescuers

The associated message within the article was the significant increase in people rocking up in the wilds without the right equipment and then getting into trouble. Nothing particularly new in that message I guess (it’s an age-old issue) but from what I have seen recently on social media, it doesn’t surprise me. I have been getting lots more feeds showing people taking walks and hikes in remote locations and getting positive responses (check out Eddie Cheee in Scotland – he’s brilliant). I think they are great, especially when they show places I have known, but it’s almost inevitable that others will follow in their footsteps, many poorly prepared and equipped. And, when I have looked at what my kids were wearing when we climbed Helvellyn, I am the last to moralise on the subject. T-shirts and shorts! What was I thinking?

Back in the past, underequipped and irresponsible, we completed the next leg to the summit. This required trekking across the tricky ridge that would eventually lead to Lower Man (a distinct summit in its own right just to the north of the Helvellyn summit)

A random shot that could have been taken on the route towards Lower Man and possibly looking south-west towards Thirlmere, or north, or east-southeast, or, but honestly, who knows?

We eventually reached the top of Helvellyn, a relatively flat area of land but with the best views in town. I have some pictures of the kids looking suitably heroic (which of course they were), but for jolly good reasons (i.e. they definitely haven’t given me permission) here’s one of me to prove the event (heavily disguised of course as I haven’t given myself permission to post this into the public domain, primarily on the basis that my receding hairline was now in full retreat and the sideburns were entirely unnecessary).

Used for evidential purposes only but note that I for one was wearing something that could have kept out the rain for a few moments.

Suitably refreshed and slightly intimidated by the weather system pushing in from the direction of the Irish Sea, we made our move down. Easier said than done.

Hmm… could be trouble ahead. Looking south-west

Anyone remotely familiar with Britain’s upland landscapes will know that Helvellyn is famous for its most distinctive feature. And here it is:

This is Striding Edge – no messing!

At the sight of Striding Edge, all jagged rock and with the land falling hundreds of feet away, potentially catastrophically, on each side, I recall suggesting a retreat back along the way we had come. It transpired that I was talking to myself. Both my children had left me at the top and were now clambering, skipping and jumping down and along the precipitous path towards, in my mind at least, almost certain referral to the authorities. I think I may have shouted some words of advice. “What the @*&% are you doing?” comes to mind, but it was probably more along the lines of “slow down and wait for me”.

A little blue dot at about 100 metres, and just to the left of the thin path, indicates my feral son. I can just make out three people to the right of the path clambering over the rocks. The whole scene just shouts, DON’T.

Striding Edge is a classic example of an arete (strictly speaking, being a French word there ought to be an ^ above the middle e, but you get the idea), a narrow ridge dividing two valleys, and brilliantly Striding Edge is the first image to be seen on Wikipedia when you search the word. As striking and visually impressive as Striding Edge is, it’s about 400 metres in length and although at times you can follow a safe’ish path, quite a lot of it requires clambering up and down awkward rock formations. Great fun if that’s what you’re after, but nerve wracking if you’re responsible for two minors (technically at least). My granddaughter, just nine, has recently been bitten by the climbing bug (nothing to do with me I should add), and from what I’ve seen of her on the climbing walls she’d boss Striding Edge.

We did survive Striding Edge and eventually made it to the Hole-in-the-Wall, a dry-stone wall, unsurprisingly I suppose, where paths intersected and forming a boundary between the up and low land. I have a clear memory of arriving at this point and looking at the surrounding landscape. Maybe it was just a profound sense of relief that we had made it this far and were well and truly on the home run.

At Hole-in-the-Wall looking back up towards Grisedale Tarn (out of sight) and Fairfield Peak rising to the left, and Dollywaggon Pike to the right. BTW, I’m prepared to be contradicted on this if challenged.

We took the descending path over open country and covered the three or four kilometres back to Glenridding in less than an hour, and then on to the campsite for a last night under canvas. London and reality were calling.

Last evening on site and the weather on the turn

I started this by saying I had been ruminating on why I hadn’t climbed Scafell. The reason is simple. I haven’t been there yet, and to be honest, I’m not sure I will (from what I have heard it’s supposed to be tougher than Helvellyn), but if it happens or not it’s unimportant. What is important is that once upon a time my son, my daughter and I made an effort and reached the third highest peak in England. Hallelujah…

* A fascinating detail, particularly if you’re a Scot (I’ll say no more), when the Normans invaded most of what we think of as being Cumbria (and for want of a better description – other terms were available then), it fell under the governance of the Principality of Scotland. It did not feature in the Doomsday Book. By 1092, just 26 years after the invasion of England, William II, unable to resist the urge to invade, put paid to that. $£@%*&?’s!!!!!!

** In my old day job, I happened to manage numerous council blocks located in central London that bore the names of both Patterdale and Ullswater, along with other large blocks of flats named after other locations in the Lake District, many (having now looked at the map again) in the Helvellyn area. When they were built, just after the second world war, the lobby of each block had a large ceramic painting set on the wall that depicted the area it had been named after. From memory, by the twenty-first century all but one of these fine municipal works of art remained, the rest having fallen victim to refurbishment schemes or vandalism. I used to wonder what people living in these blocks must have thought of the daily reminder, as they passed through the lobby, that they lived about as far away as possible, physically, culturally and economically from the Lakes, and the uplifting images that they were confronted with. Many may not even have noticed. Some might have shrugged and cursed the irony, whilst others might have been inspired to jump on a train from nearby Euston station, and head north to explore.

*** Robotic legs. They’re the future.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/videos/c0l9e4jgr2zo

Cresting the County – Swindon Unitary Authority

Liddington Hillfort

277 metres

909 feet

26th October 2025

The M4 and its relationship with the Iron Age (conclusion – there is none)

The highest point in the Unitary Authority of Swindon is Liddington Hillfort, resting low on chalk downland to the south of the town, and about a kilometre south of the M4 motorway.

I was returning from a weekend in Bristol, and the day before had managed to climb Pen y Fan, the stunning high point of Powys in Wales. Reaching Liddington Hillfort was, I hoped, going to be considerably less taxing.

Coming off the motorway at junction 15, I drove south on Marlborough Road and then turned left onto The Ridgeway. After a minute or so I was able to get a glimpse of the low ramparts of the hillfort on the ridge to the south. I had managed to recce the area earlier in the summer, when I had run out of time to mount a challenge. Fortunately, this meant I knew there were no stopping opportunities on this stretch of road and so continued on until it met the B4192. Just at the junction a small lay-by allows parking for a handful of vehicles, but as my luck would have it, it had already achieved its full complement.

No worries sport. I turned right and just a short distance up the hill, on the right, was a small patch of hard chalky ground large enough for me to park up. The earlier scouting exercise had come in handy. With low grey clouds, and the promise of drizzle filtering in from the west at any moment, I left the car and found the start of the walk just a stone’s throw away. Sadly, although stone throwing with intent had probably last been seen here nearly two-thousand years ago, the practice of rubbish throwing still flourishes.

Carpet bombing on the fly(tipping)

Through the gate and straight on the path that led up the slope, with a cluster of trees towards the top. I stopped for a moment to check that the car was still there. It was but of more interest was the view east and the M4 heading towards London.

Towards London – the M4 corridor

I passed by the small woods to the right and on, with a large field falling away to the south. Eventually a sign pointed north to a path around a large field leading to the hillfort, now visible on the nearby horizon.

The hillfort destination

The path led to the end of the field, then through a gate and left along the top of another field and eventually back up towards the ramparts where a wooden construction could be seen on the top of the inner mound.

At the ramparts

I flanked around along the top of the outer western mound before it descended into what would have been one of the main entrances. Here the ditch was at its deepest, but as chalk hillforts go, the parallel ramparts didn’t seem to amount to much. I passed in and then back along the inner rampart and up the small slope to the wooden construction, which was a mounting deck for a triangulation point (strange) and an underwhelming directional toposcope.

The raised Trig and beyond the confusingly disappointing toposcope, with Swindon beyond

With the low grey cloud formation still threatening rain at any moment, I wasn’t going to hang about, but looking west across the large enclosure site something didn’t quite add up. Most, indeed all, iron age hillfort sites I had previously been to sit firmly on the top of the hills they are located on, using the natural contours to create the series of broadly horizontal ramparts and ditches that complete the structure, and with a relatively flat central enclosure (the nearby Uffington Hillfort to the east of Swindon, and coincidentally the highest point in Oxfordshire, is a perfect example of this).* Here the land fell away in all directions, down what was effectively the side of the hill. Indeed, a later check on the BGS Geology Viewer showed a drop of at least ten metres from the top entrance down to the north-west corner. Now, I’m no archaeologist but I do know this, when you haven’t a clue it’s probably best not to speculate. It was a mystery, nonetheless.

Falling away?

I left. Just for a moment, as I passed east of the wooden plinth, a teasing watery sun threatened to break through.

Here comes the sun (before it went again)

Heading back the way I had come I looked over to the small woods, now to my left, and noticed a low structure. Of course! When I had researched the area a couple of months earlier, I had noted a reference to some sort of bunker. And there it was. I diverted from the main track and followed the edge of a recently tilled field.

The Starfish Decoy Control Bunker lurking at distance

The obvious question that popped into my head was, what was it? Fortunately, my phone had a signal, and a quick enquiry told me that it was one of many built around the country during WW2. Starfish (SF) Decoy bunkers were used to light fires away from urban and industrial areas to mislead Luftwaffe bombers, who, I guess the hope was, would drop their load in the wrong place. With this nugget of information, I approached with a degree of curiosity. When I was a kid growing up in the 1960s me and my pals spent many happy hours playing war, making fires, smoking and throwing bangers around in an old concrete bunker in a field near a river close to home. Who needed the internet? **

Naturally the bunker required further investigation.

An investigative approach

With the obvious exception of missing blast proof doors, externally the structure appeared to be in relatively good condition.

Looking in

I slipped through the entrance. Due to age, and a lack of understanding of local youth peer group culture, I was unable to translate the colourful graffiti. The concrete corridor led a few metres to the rear where two rooms led off to the left and right, with large rusting metal tanks sitting looking sorry for themselves. Whether they formed part of the original operational structure, or whether it was just something the landowner had dumped out of sight many moons ago I couldn’t say. Presumably because of the bunkers remote location, whilst a few beer and cider cans predictably littered the floor, I’d certainly been in a lot less salubrious WW2 bunkers and pill boxes.

Towards the light – Looking out

Back outside I thought it only correct to climb onto the grass covered roof. The view was only marginally better than at door level, but the outline of Liddington hillfort was on full display to the west.

Towards the hillfort. I felt confident I had discovered a new lay line.

From the roof I was able to look down into the woods, delightfully called Liddington Clump. I noticed that at various points within the small group of trees, discretely laid bunches of flowers had been deliberately lain. There is something similar near me, just set back from a road in woods at the edge of the local park. I’ve never looked too closely but have always assumed they were for much loved but departed pets. So, assuming the same here, when I later read that in fact the woods contained some natural burials – for humans, I wasn’t sure what to think. I’m pretty sure that on some sort of ethical, spiritual and/or humanist level I can see the attraction (maybe there’s a better way of putting that), but what would the consequences be if we all opted for a natural burial? A walk in the country near any urban setting would very quickly become a precarious totter through an ever-increasing open graveyard. Hmmm…. another moral quandary to occupy the mind.

Now, here’s the thing, and it needs to be told. I discovered the reference to the burial site in a quick search on the phone back at the car. I probably only glanced at the article for a few seconds, but it had registered. So, now, a couple of weeks on and wanting to find out a bit more, I have singularly failed to find any mention of a natural burial site at Liddington Clump. I have found a brief reference in a random comment on a post on Facebook that it is a memorial site for people and pets. The only explanation I can think of is, that there being an iron-age burial mound not far from the woods, and in some sort of mixed-up dystopian word jumble confusion, I’ve put too many one’s and one’s together and come up with fake news. It must be either that, or, and I am inclined to go with this theory, it was an involuntary AI search that led me up the woodland path. Either way, it had got me thinking about natural burials (which, for the benefit of doubt, are a thing); their implications, ethics and carbon footprint, and despite the latter being a justifiable reason, I think I’ll stick with the furnace.

In a similar vein, on-line information available on the Liddington decoy bunker, and indeed Starfish Decoy bunkers in general, is scant to say the least. I found a short article that gave a perfunctory description of their use, but no real explanation on how they were crewed and operated (I assume that gas or oil pipes radiated away from the bunker to where outlets would be lit for effect). A few weeks earlier, and completely coincidentally (a friend had sent me a fantastic short BBC documentary on YouTube about Swindon Town football club in the 1960s called 1963: Six Days to Saturday, which included some footage of the locomotive works, and…. oh, I’m straying badly here), I had read an article about bombing raids on Swindon. Surprisingly, given that the one thing everyone in the world knows Swindon for is its vast railway works (and XTC), it seems that the works survived relatively intact. Some surrounding houses were hit and sadly people did die, but apart from the odd unfortunate cow, the railway works were barely troubled by the Luftwaffe. There is no doubt about the fact that the decoy bunker at Liddington would have been placed there to keep the bombers away from Swindon, and very specifically the railway. To that end, it’s just possible that the tactic worked. Maybe one day some new information will emerge. Just as this was about to go to ‘print’ I came across a short YouTube video that followed a couple of modern day night raiders to the bunker, where they film the inside (see my descriptions above) and then leave, providing no more context than I have managed to offer up here. Quite why they filmed it at night is a complete mystery. It’s perfectly accessible at any time. But, and there’s a twist, just as they are about to leave, one of the participants drops off the roof, and (here’s the spooky bit) says they’re about to go into the graveyard!!!! What do they know that I thought I did, but now I don’t? The mystery continues.

Liddington Clump – The mystery continues

I left the bunker (“thank gawd” you shout) and returned to the gate at the end of the long path. Just past the gate the fly tipped mound had still not been cleared (bloody local councils are useless, aren’t they?), but miraculously my car was still in place.

Ten minutes later I was back on the M4 heading east and towards London. As I joined the motorway I glanced up to my right and could make out the ramparts of the hillfort. I must have driven past it over a hundred times and never noticed it. Half a mile further on and to my left, a familiar feature along the side of a chalk upland, where the side of the hill is distinguished by a crinkle cut pattern of indents that can only be explained by seeing them (just visible in the second photo to the left of the M4). Unlike the hillfort I had noticed these on many occasions before and now at last I understood their context within the M4 corridor. Never stop learning.

* https://elcolmado57.co.uk/2024/10/20/cresting-the-county-oxfordshire/

** In the interest of public safety, and to avoid the possibility of being sued, I strongly advise against allowing ten-year-old children access to matches, lighters, cigarettes and fireworks. It’s right that we have regulated these products to the extent that what I was able to get away with as a child is technically not possible today. When I look back I find it mind boggling that the so called straight up honest shopkeepers of old England would recklessly turn a blind eye to almost anything we wanted to get our grubby little mitts on (apparently, things are so much worse these days – or so you’d be led to believe if you spend too much time on social media – just saying).

*** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3h15FwCTdHA

Cresting the County – Bracknell Forest (Unitary Authority)

Surrey Hill

130 Metres

425 feet

24th October 2025

Straight tracks and Switchbacks

Just in the nick of time, a last-minute arrangement to visit my daughter in Bristol for the weekend (before the clocks went back), and a last gasp chance to tick off a few more “tops”. Just as well because I was almost out of material.

The objective was Surrey Hill, the highest point in the Unitary Authority of Bracknell Forest. Two months earlier I had made an initial attempt. Parking up in Bagshot town centre I had walked up to St Anne’s Church on Church Road, at which point I decided to abandon ship. Not because of inclement weather, or because I was facing a massive ascent, but because, for whatever reason (how to put this?) I was experiencing a discomfiture that I can only ascribe as mild form of irritable bowel syndrome. Something that gets me from time to time, usually a mile or two into a walk, and guaranteed to stop play.

With no such excuse this time and having previously seen what little there was to see in Bagshot (I’m sure I must have missed the best bits), I parked just up from St Anne’s Church. The weather was cool but mainly sunny. I started north down Vicarage Road, which soon led to the start of the Swinley forest walk, where a sign warned of the catastrophic legal consequences of picking (stealing) fungi – a consequence perhaps of rampant foraging to supply the kitchens of nearby fashionable restaurants (presumably not including Woking’s Pizza Express). The track extended straight ahead, with dense woodland of birch and fir to the left and heathland to the right.

Vicarage Road – The start of the walk

After some minutes I wondered if the rest of the walk would be like this. Potentially a tad dreary and tedious. Fortunately, just as I was thinking this, the plantation to the left ended, with heathland ahead and more mature forestry creeping up low hillocks. It was still a question of keeping on keeping on the straight, but with the wider views and the late autumn colours my enthusiasm was renewed.

Keeping to a straight-ahead policy

Heading on up a slight gradient I eventually came to a junction. Wide tracks led off to the left and signage indicated mountain bike trails through the forest. I had planned on continuing along the straight path but now with an option on the table I chose to go south-west and up another straight path with more of a gradient and dense forestry drifting away to both sides.

Towards the end of the track the land rose sharply. As I prepared myself for the heave ho, a man on a mountain bike lumbered past. I said hello but understandably his response was muted as he panted away and concentrated on the task ahead. A minute later he was near the top – whilst old muggins was tiptoeing reluctantly up and trying to regulate my breathing.

Where the going got (a bit) tough.

On reaching the higher ridge I went right. Straight tracks led away in three directions and with extensive views to places miles beyond. This sudden increase in height had been unexpected, but worth the effort.

Looking east towards Sunningdale

Straight on, with heathland beyond a line of trees on the left and evidence of the recent rain on the ground. Autumn was throwing up seasonal colours, and all was good, until, without warning, the land fell away and down into a deep gulley.

The top of the ridge and towards the switchbacks

Down, down, down and then up, up and up, and then another short stretch before a second switch back and with fungi fringing the edge of the track.

I wasn’t tempted by the Fly agaric – I’d been warned. Doesn’t compliment Beef Wellington

After the two rollercoaster like descents, the track plateaued out as I neared the top. Another straight track through the forest disappeared east towards the horizon, and beyond this dells and hollows contoured the woods to the right, with a hint of a reservoir behind fencing to the left, a sure sign that I was nearing the highest point.

Another straight track going east towards Sunningdale, or maybe Ascot.

Stopping to look around I concluded that the highest point on what I assumed to be Surrey Hill lay around a hundred metres into the forest just to the north-east. There was no obvious path leading in its direction, though a barely discernible overgrown track gave some indication of a possible route through. I set off into the dense bracken and followed the track which I guessed had at one time been used by foresters to clear excess growth. This was all well and good, but as part of their worthy intentions they had covered the route with cut branches which at the time would have been firm and robust underfoot, but which now snapped and crumbled with every rotten and uncertain step I took. With dense vegetation on either side there was no escape from the terror of a twisted ankle, or worse, at each leg extension.

Autumn’s bounty exploiting the rotting track – goes down badly with fish

A tree, just the same as any other, but with less undergrowth surrounding it appeared, and I settled on the idea that this was the top. Hard to be 100% sure, but it was as good as any other spot.

Surrey Hill – the top – probably

I made my way back along the hazardous route, and with a sense of relief, emerged back onto firmer ground. Instead of returning the way I came I set off east, and downhill in the approximate direction of Ascot. I was able to look back and up through the trees to the top of the hill; the only spot where its height above the surrounding landscape was more obvious.

Surrey Hill. Looking back up to the summit

Ten minutes later and I was on the main track back to St Anne’s Church and twenty minutes later at the car, just as the first few drops of rain hinted at a lot more to come. I had thoroughly enjoyed the walk in the Swinley Forest. If it was on my doorstep I’d be wandering (or maybe cycling) through it as often as possible and would be expecting interesting sights as the seasons change (the odd adder, or eagle perhaps).

There was only one thing to do now. I had an ETA with a take-away curry and a game of Catan in Bristol to honour.

Cresting the County – Newport (Casnewydd) County Borough Unitary Authority

Wentwood Forest

Metres 309

Feet 1013

8th September 2025

The Hidden Trig

The last heatwave of the summer had come and gone. I seemed to have missed most of the August one, driving between home, hospitals, care homes and petrol stations but the personal hiatus had calmed down. Before winter set in I decided to head off somewhere new and seek out some more county tops if the opportunity arose. Hmm… but where?

Sunday the 7th of September and I’m to the south of London, heading west on the M25. The day before I had booked a room for the night in Chepstow, just over the big river and just inside Wales. I had plumped for three nights in the extreme south-west of Wales, but the idea of taking that journey on in one day felt a bit too ambitious.

I had only been on the motorway for ten minutes before the almost inevitable slow down. It was still early on a Sunday morning but the M25 has a knack of buggering up your day at any time it wants to. As the stream of traffic plodded along under the scarp slope of the North Downs, at around twenty miles an hour, ahead I could make out the figure of one of our new breed of “patriots” standing on a footbridge, with a balaclava over his head and waving a St George’s flag at the passing motorists. It was a warm day. The window was down, my right arm shooting the breeze and with Cerys on the radio playing sweet Sunday morning melodies. And this “proud” boy had just gone and crushed my karma. In that moment, and just seconds before I passed under the bridge, my right arm made an entirely involuntary movement of the Churchillian variety. I doubt he saw it, waving as he was to someone who had honked, I assumed in support. Sigh…

Four hours later, and what felt like an over exposure to footbridges sporting St George’s flags (I should say, for balance, that the Women’s Rugby World Cup was on and England were the favourites), I drove over the River Severn at close to low tide, entered the Principality and fifteen minutes later was checking in at the Beaufort Hotel in Chepstow, a town I had passed several times before, but had never peeked.

With the sun beginning to sink I took a walk down to the River Wye. The Chepstow side (Wales) was flat and nestled in a large curve in the river. On the opposite side of the river (England) an impressive limestone cliff reared up. A hole in the cliff was explained away on a noticeboard as being used for different purposes over the centuries, including storing dynamite. Nothing explained away the huge Union Jake chalked onto the surface of the rock just to the right of the hole, but refreshingly it had nothing to do with recent “disturbances”. The tide was still going out, the dirty brown river thundering along and generating a mass of swirling eddies. Not too far downriver the Wye meets the Severn. It crossed my mind that if an opportunity arose in the future, I’d want to see the Severn bore. Looking around, the Castle took me by surprise and as castles go, it was the business. The rest of the town was an interesting mix of Georgian, Victorian and the occasional 1950s concrete misfire. Back in the Beaufort and a quick pint before bed Motorcycle Emptiness by the Manic Street Preachers issued from the speakers at a satisfactorily loud level. I was being welcomed to Wales, and I wasn’t complaining.

Monday morning and a coffee outside the Ugly Mug Cafe whilst planning my routes for the day. Until the construction of the first Severn Road bridge in 1966, the high street in Chepstow was the main road between England and South Wales. The road through the town is a bog standard small town road, but half way up it narrows to one lane as it passes through the medieval town gate, set into the defensive wall. Trying to imagine what it must have been like here before the construction of the bridge and M4 was enough to make the brain hurt. The ultimate destination was to be St David’s in Pembrokeshire. Still a long way to go but I had all day, the sun was still smiling, and so far, I hadn’t seen a St George’s flag. I wove out of town on the B4293 and then the B4235. (I had an uncle, no longer with us, who had the remarkable ability of being able to describe almost any journey to any destination – particularly if it ended in Scotland – by naming each and every A/B and M road on the route, and the exact locations where one became another. If you’d driven to his house from Cape Wrath, it would be time to go home by the time he’d explained to you in detail the way you had come in the first place – Scotch Corner often featured).

I was heading west to Wentwood Forest and the location of the highest point in the Unitary Authority – also referred to as a County Borough – of Newport (which would explain why its football team is called Newport County AFC). Wentwood Forest lies at the authorities’ north-eastern limit and on the boundary with Monmouthshire. The drive up from Chepstow was pleasant and almost traffic free. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going to end up but as I drove in the general direction of the forest, I met the Usk Road, and a sign pointing back east to the Cadeira Beeches car park. Parking up I checked the phone and was satisfied that it would do. An information board explained that the forest was unique and one of the oldest ancient woodlands in Wales.

Setting off on a wide track to the west of the car park, all I needed to do was keep on going. The track rose gently. A car approached from the opposite direction, which suggested I could have driven closer to the top, but I needed the stretch.

After about a kilometre the track bore to the right. A few metres on a sign pointed into the woods and to Wentworth’s Ancestors? These were two low Bronze Age burial mounds lying in a small clearing in the woods.

The view from one Ancient (me) to another

I climbed to the top of the larger mound. It took three seconds. A moment to ponder what it all meant, but no answers came. Back on the track and what was indeed a road quickly deteriorated into a muddy puddled quagmire that would have certainly swallowed up my little Ford. I’d made a sensible decision.

The track met an unnamed road which I crossed and then into a large carpark with just one vehicle, looking slightly vulnerable. A wide track led on west, but I chose to take a smaller path just to the south, on the basis that it, rather than the track, appeared to continue heading gently upwards.

On the drive up there had been a point near where I had joined the Usk Road where a dramatic view had opened to the north towards the Brecon Beacons and most obviously Sugar Loaf, the distinctive peak that was responsible for all this endeavour in the first place (requires reading the introductory premise). Whilst the walk in the woods was nice, given that I was near the top of the hill, it was a slight disappointment to realise that there wasn’t going to be a similar view at some point. I guess that every tree is sacred, but still!

Another 100 metres on and a communication tower to the left, a good sign at any location that the top is nearby. The path was wooded on both sides and after another 200 metres I sensed that I must have been near, or at the top. I knew that a trig point was somewhere in the neighbourhood, but it wasn’t obvious. Scanning the surrounding thickets I eventually picked out what looked like something of a track leading into the woods just off the main path.

Left turn to the top

It wasn’t immediately obvious but having discovered the indistinct path I took the bait and then, stooping below the brambles, took careful steps through the undergrowth. Every so often flattened vegetation indicated others had recently passed through. Other Crest hunters, it seemed, had been here too.

Within a minute or two I emerged into something of a clearing and there it was. The concrete trig point, painted white and with a red dragon to boot.

The trig in the woods

Any hope of a view here was dashed. The thickets and low trees continued into the distance.

A restricted view

That said it was a serene spot, and the painted trig point an interesting feature. I have an old friend who spent much of his youth growing up in Newport. I sent a photo of the trig, asking him if he could guess where I was.

There was nothing more to do but return the way I had come. I was slightly relieved to emerge onto the path unseen by anyone else. It might have looked a bit odd. The big car park had gained another three or four vehicles in the time I had been to the top, and dog walkers were heading off in various directions.

Just past the Ancient’s I noticed a break in the tree line and the entrance into what turned out to be a much bigger clearing than anything so far. Sun was occasionally breaking through the clouds. Walking down into the clearing a view of Newport, the Bristol Channel, and far beyond the north Somerset coast, shimmered between isolated tall pines. I stopped for a while to take it all in.

Glimpsing the county

I set off back to the car park, scanning between the trees for just one inch of a view to the north, but it never came.

Back in the car and taking off my boot, a ping announced an incoming text. It just said “Wales?”

I texted back. “If I said no? Well… yes. One-point smart arse.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, a month on and he’s not replied.

The walk was just two miles, but this was a nice spot, and deeper into Autumn the trees will radiate here. Just a few miles to the west lies Blackwood, the home of the Manic’s. Sorry, any tenuous excuse!

Cresting the County – Brighton and Hove (Unitary Authority)

Bullock Hill

197 Metres

646 feet

23rd August 2025

Move on Up

It was a Saturday, and I had woken up with no particular objective in mind. That said I’d spent nearly a month running around like a headless chicken on caring duties and was truly exhausted. Once upon a time, on a day like this (warm and a soft sun) I often found myself on an empty Saturday slipping onto a train or tube and spending a couple of hours watching football in one part of London or another. Those days are long gone, not least because you can’t just turn up at a ground and expect to get in, but more significantly because I no longer live in London. No footie, no worries. Take a walk instead and hope to avoid all results until Match of the Day.

This one had been on my mind for a while. The old county of Sussex is now (at the time of writing *) split east and west, and at its heart is the Unitary Authority of Brighton and Hove. I had done East and West Sussex in 2024, but Brighton and Hove had eluded me. Today was the day to get on the boots, a train, and then up the chalk.

I missed the first direct train. It was at the platform as I crossed the footbridge but knowing that there was no time to buy tickets and board, I was resigned to wait for the next. That was fine. There was no rush. I wandered down the nearby street, full of second-hand shops, small galleries and one stop dog manicuring facilities. It was busy, and the usual coffee outlets were bursting. Walking back towards the station on the other side of the road, music was seeping, quite loudly, from an unfamiliar shopfront. A vinyl record store that sold coffee. Hmmm… well why not?

With my coffee secured and sitting outside watching the world go by, all was well. And then it got ten times better. Those unmistakable opening brass blasts of Move on Up by Curtis Mayfield get me every time, and it was no different now. If I hadn’t already been motivated, I certainly was now. Sometimes, depending on whether something has inspired me on the day, I embed a music video from YouTube at the end of these accounts, and I’m just telling you now – it’s going to be there. The extended version of course.

The Brighton train pulled into Eastbourne, which is a terminus and where all trains stop for fifteen minutes or so to allow the driver to swap ends before onward progress. It’s a tad frustrating to be honest and is entirely the fault of Mr Beeching, who, along with his committee, decided to remove a mile long section of track to the north of the town. This had provided direct services along the coast, but now it has gone it means that everyone travelling east to west (and back), is sucked into Eastbourne for the mandatory pitstop, thus rendering speedy transit to Brighton or London an impossibility. Well, no worries. I wasn’t in a rush.

The train failed to leave the station at the designated time, but it was only when the guard walked down the carriage apologising to the passengers and explaining that someone had locked themselves in the toilet, that the atmosphere on the train changed. Almost immediately some of my fellow travellers were very loudly offering up a menu of opinions they had in mind if the situation wasn’t dealt with quickly. This included a man near me volunteering to kick the f’ing door down. I’m not sure the guard handled the situation very well to be honest. He chuckled at the offer of assisted violence but also hinted that the person was a teenager trying to avoid paying the fare. By now there were people, male and female, on their feet and baying for blood. A chant went up “get him out, get him out, get him out.” I felt like I was at a footie match in the 1980’s. I sat schtum. It’s felt a bit like the leash has been slipped in recent months, with some unpleasant sentiments and reactions bubbling to the surface of society that would have previously been unacceptable. The situation finally resolved itself when the toilet door opened and moments later three (yup, three) fifteen-year-old lads in trackies appeared on the platform looking cocky and unfazed. There was a muted round of applause for the guard. I looked at the three boys, heads turning this way and that like a group of nervous meerkats. They’d chanced it, had had a moment of fun and annoyed a few people. No one was hurt. Thank God they had been white.

The train left a few minutes late of course. I alighted at Falmer station. Falmer sits just to the northeast of Brighton. It’s the site of the University of Sussex and the relatively new Brighton and Hove Albion football stadium. Earlier I had had a moment of panic when it dawned on me that there might have been a Premier League game at the ground that afternoon. That would have been a drag, but there wasn’t, so I was the only person to get off the train. I was heading to Bullock Hill, the highest point in Brighton and Hove and a mile or so to the south of Falmer.

Walking out of the station I made my way up a series of concrete steps that led towards student residential buildings. It was summer and there was no one in sight. It felt strange wandering through an empty campus, next to an empty football stadium. I’ve supported Tottenham Hotspur since 1967, when they won the FA cup. As a teenager I was brought up in Croydon and so spent a lot of time going to watch Crystal Palace (ironically the current FA Cup holders). Along with Arsenal (see Spurs above), Brighton is the theoretical enemy. When Palace play Brighton, it’s called the M23 derby. As far as I can recall there’s never been any violence, and I hope it stays that way.

Past the university buildings and at a higher level now, I passed along the side of the stadium. On a game free early Saturday afternoon, a soulless place to be. The road led on to the east. I turned and took another look at the ground, nestling into the chalk.

The offside rule explained.

Before we start to go up, here’s a tenuous Brighton joke to break the tedium (I’m afraid it’ a longish read).

A year or two ago I was with family in the garden of a pub in Nottingham, expecting to watch Nottingham Forest on the outdoor TV. Due to a colossal misunderstanding the match (which was taking place a quarter of a mile from where we were sitting) wasn’t televised, so the entertainment had gone missing in action. Except, at just around 3pm, and as we sat disappointed by the development, a middle-aged man wandered over to our bench, sat down and proceeded to tell a joke. Over the next two hours, and without interruption, he told joke after joke, only pausing occasionally to accept the offer of another pint. None were offensive, rude or controversial, but most were funny. This was one of them:

“You’ve heard of the footballer, Danny Welbeck?” Yup, we all answer.

“Played for United, now at Brighton.” Yes, we all answer.

“You’ll have heard of his dad then?” No, we all answer.

“What? Everyone knows Danny’s dad.” Well, we don’t, we reply.

“Yeah, he was in the army. Everyone knew him.” We are all ears.

“A Bomb disposal expert.” Wow! We didn’t know that.

“Yeah, everyone in the army knew him. Great guy.” Hmmm… (where’s this one going?)

“Danny’s Welbeck’s dad,” he paused. “Yeah, we all knew Stan.”

Boom boom. How we laughed – eventually!

Walking east and away from the Amex Stadium and the university complex I crossed over Falmer Road then started the ascent on a well-maintained cycle/path path. The route was set back from road and tracked it up the chalk slope. Steep at times but then easing off views began to open out to the east and towards Lewis.

Waves of chalk heading towards Lewes

After a mile or so a slight bend in the road and some land set aside for wild planting offered an opportunity to inspect some colourful flora. Looking towards the southwest the view towards Shoreham was unexpectedly spectacular.

Spot the butterfly

This was a whole new part of the world for me, and I was impressed. Five minutes on and I was at the top of the ridge, with tracks heading directly east and towards my objective. Following the track that flanked the edge of the Woodingdean housing estate (a desolate dormitory in winter I imagined) I soon arrived at a point which presented options. The main one was a signposted path that had all the hallmarks of being official. Tempted, but not convinced, I decided to follow the unmarked track that headed straight into a field and with a telecommunication tower just to the right.

Bullock Hill rising just to the left of the aerial.

Passing the small collection of buildings and rising metal structures I was able to get a sense of where the highest point was located. This required a slightly tricky clomp over bone hard uneven ground until, after a couple of minutes, I could see a trig point in the middle of a recently harvested field.

The other thing I saw was four people gathered around the trig point. I was slightly surprised by this because it was clearly off the beaten track (which officially was running about 200 hundred metres to the north). Slightly self-consciously I cracked on across the cracked land and stubble. As I approached it became clear that the small group were in the middle of something which appeared to involve a camera and badly applied makeup. Despite the absurdity of it all I felt like a brazen intruder. At about ten paces one or two of the group became aware of my presence, which they acknowledged. “Hi,” one of the young men said (it was three young men and a woman). “Can we help?” he added. Feeling like a complete nerk, and not really knowing what to say, I managed to splutter out something about having come a long way and wanting to get to the trig point. “Ok, no problem,” he replied, “we’re nearly finished.”

By now I had noticed that the woman and one of the men were wearing white sheets with randomly applied muddy smears, and the other two men between them carried expensive looking camera and recording equipment. I guessed that they were probably students making the obligatory short zombie movie that they hoped would soon propel them to Hollywood. I stood and looked away towards the communication towers. Self-consciousness doesn’t get close.

Looking away from the action

Within a minute or two they had finished and I wandered towards them. “So, what’s the importance of this place then?” one of them asked.

“Oh, not much,” I replied. “It’s just the highest point in Brighton.” All four faces turned towards me, jaws beginning to drop.

“No way man.” “For real?” “Who knew?” The woman yawned. They looked around and behold, it was true. Moments earlier they had just been sitting in a field on a mound surrounded by loads of other fields on similar sized mounds. Now it was obvious to them that they were on the summit of a mighty hill, staring down imperiously over everything in sight, including the i360 in Brighton.

Conversation flowed. Did I know what the large crater was just a few paces to the east of the trig point. Well, I sort of did but wasn’t 100% sure. “It could be a sink or swallow hole, possibly post-glacial,” I ventured. “Actually, I reckon it’s more likely to be a dew pond. Dug out by a farmer a couple of hundred years ago, perhaps.”

Bullock Hill Trig. Today’s lecture will be from Prof Bull S. Hitter

The crater – subject of various bs theories.

Incredibly, within a minute, I had gone from an awkward stranger to a veteran sage of the mountain. Their collective astonishment at my imparted (and I should add – free) wisdom and knowledge was almost overwhelming, and for almost the first time in my life I had justified my choice of doing a Geography degree in the 1970s. It was time to go before they asked me a question I couldn’t answer, though to be fair I seem to have slipped into bullshit mode effortlessly.

We parted company and I wandered over to the crater for a closer inspection. Yup, artillery – Second World War. Time to move on down.

I followed the edge of the field to an open gate and at a point that met up with a bridleway heading east. I looked at my ancient Ordinance Survey map (Landranger 198). Immediately to the south, at a distance, I was able to make out the black and white form of the Beacon Hill windmill at Rottingdean. Which was exactly where I wanted to be. A path in the field adjacent to the bridleway headed straight towards it. After a quick rest I got on it and strode forth.

Tilting towards a windmill

It all looked pretty straightforward. Follow the path and head on down. At the end of the first field a walker friendly gate gave access into a much bigger field which rolled away on all sides. The only slight concern was a sign to the side of the gate proclaiming private property. That’s as maybe, I thought, before setting off on what felt like a path. After about five minutes I came to another of what appeared to be a recently installed gate. It sat at the end of a few low hawthorn trees and quite literally on its own.

The Riddle of the Gate

Another sign re-stated the private ownership of the land. Was this some sort of fantasy video game in which you had to correctly answer a riddle or question before progressing (Mordon’s Quest on the Spectrum from 1985 came to mind – I never did understand what the saltpetre was for). Obviously, I decided to go around the gate, but had this been the right decision? Well, I didn’t blow up, so I guessed it was and carried on down towards two more of these standalone installation gates, one of which I decided to go through just to make sure it was in working order. Carrying on I headed towards another fence and gate around 400 metres to the south. The land here was shaped into a wide folded dry valley with the crop recently harvested. It was a barren sight, made more dramatic by the endless hot and dry weather. It felt lifeless, except at that moment a green woodpecker flew past, settled on a nearby tree and then let out its distinctive high-pitched call.

Classic chalk dry valley, with the emphasis on “dry”

As I reached the end of the field and the escape gate (here at least there was the more traditional fence either side) a middle-aged woman accompanying a girl on a horse approached in the other direction. I gave way and they came through into the field. I said hello and asked the woman if she knew what the lonely gates in the fields was all about. She didn’t know, but then told me it was private land, and “they” could…… She hesitated, as if realising that what she was about to say next might sound absurd. “Hmm… Shoot me?” I joked. She didn’t look very amused but at least it broke the ice. “No, no,” was all she could muster. I smiled and passed on, thinking that what she probably meant to say was “they could prosecute me for trespass.” Yup, that really would have been absurd, but in England (not Scotland) there are many landowners who will go out of their way to keep the hoi polloi off their domains, either through neglect of the infrastructure, or in some cases, the deliberate blocking of legitimate rights of way. That didn’t explain why here, very new and quite obviously expensive walker friendly gates had been installed right next to signage which aimed to make it clear that walkers weren’t welcome. I did have a look on-line later, and whilst I couldn’t find anything to explain the existence of the gates, quite a vicious outbreak of words had recently appeared on a Woodingdean Facebook site about the allegedly deliberate ploughing of footpaths in the area. I didn’t look too hard because it was quite a brutal read, and perhaps reflective of our species newfound ability to miscommunicate with every touch of the keypad. Oh well, I guess I’ll never know the reason, and that’s probably for the best.

Past the gate I joined a more significant track that led towards a large farm complex. On either side areas of land had been set aside for horses and with people were milling around, mucking out and generally minding their own business. I wondered if they were looking at me through one eye and thinking “trespasser”. Too much paranoia I think (Ossie had only recently died after all). Through the farm and, with a slight sigh of relief, at last I was back on public land.

Continuing south and back on the Falmer Road, I started into Rottingdean. On the left cricket was being played on a pitch that made the slope at Lords look like a salt flat. A sign at the side of the road explained the history of the Rottingdean Cricket club and a little-known fact that the highest score ever run off a single delivery was made on a nearby older ground. For the record it was 67; after the ball had ended up rolling down the high street and before the introduction of boundaries. When the ball eventually arrived back at the wicketkeeper, he missed the stumps and the ball then set off down another street. There’s a metaphor here for something or other.

Howzat?

The buildings entering the town were, to say the least, eclectic, and in the main very well to do. Soon afterwards I was at the busy sea front heading west along the wide Undercliff path and under the chalk cliffs and towards Brighton. The last time I had been here had been some years back, on a cycle ride from Brighton to Eastbourne. Not a particularly long ride but trying to hoik the bike over the Seven Sisters had nearly finished me off. That was something that wasn’t going to happen again. ** Up until this point there had been a fine haze that had kept the temperature at a reasonable level, but that was now lifting, and the sun was occasionally breaking through, illuminating seaweed on the rocks below and bringing life back into the chalk cliffs.

Undercliff path looking back to the east

As added interest a low flying seaplane (type unknown) glided silently past, going west to east.

Flying with the birds

I was beginning to flag a bit and regretted not having stopped for a tea or coffee at Rottingdean. Keeping to the Undercliff path I trudged past the Marina, which seemed to go on far too long. Beyond the Marina I stopped for a few minutes to watch and listen to a rock band entertaining a large crowd gathered at a mini festival. The tune they were blasting out almost sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it, and it wasn’t quite my cup of tea; speaking of which I was now in desperate need.

Rock the Marina

Madeira Drive looked longer than I remembered it, but it had to be tackled.

I’m not entirely sure if it could be classed as music, but at the halfway point between the Marina and the Pier a brain numbing sound was blasting out from the Concorde 2 music venue. Two or three years earlier, with a friend, I had had the privilege of seeing Steel Pulse there. Whatever the genre was that was crucifying the eardrums of the punters there now, it certainly wasn’t anything like Handsworth Revolution. As I say, I was now desperate for a large tea, and I certainly wasn’t going to get that at the Concorde 2.

Now desperate, and against my better judgement, I finally succumbed to a tea option at one of the tacky seafront fish and chip/kebab/candy floss and ice cream outlets near the Sea World aquarium. Despite emphasising that I just needed a very small drop of milk, the man who served me couldn’t resist pouring a quarter of a pint of the stuff into the cup. I was tempted to protest but didn’t have the energy to follow up any potential conflict with added venom, so grabbed the miserable warm concoction and went and sat on an uncomfortable bench.

At least here there was more entertainment to be had. A small group of mods were posing on their classic scooters on the other side of the road. It was quite hard to establish which one of them was the “Face”. In part this was because all the men were bald and their facial structures, a bit like mine, had slowly collapsed over the fifty odd years since they had first arrived here on the back of watching Quadrophenia. Despite their average age of an estimated 65 plus, most were dressed in state-of-the-art 1960’s mod clothing. Revving up (well that’s not quite the right description – the sound more that of defective lawn mowers hitting hidden twigs), they began to assemble on the opposite pavement with an indication that they were about to ride off in unison. They were waiting for something. And then he was there and being saluted by a collective throttle tonk. The Face! At full speed and his ride decked in at least thirty rear view mirrors, a man drove by at maximum speed…. on his mobility scooter. From my side of the road, a young man and woman dressed in immaculately retro “Rocker” gear jogged across to their motorcycle. They were acknowledged by the mods, and a few friendly words were exchanged. I couldn’t help chuckling. Was it nostalgia, cosplay or a genuine commitment to the cause? Either way it had kept my mind off the task of digesting the disgusting warm milk that I’d paid £3 for.

Not in the least bit refreshed but suitably entertained, I continue past the Pavilion and then up the steep backstreets off the Queens Road. A familiar noise began creeping up behind me. I turned around and there they were again. The mods on their sewing machines. As they passed me by, and now closer, I was able to re-assess the average age. It was at least 75 and they were clinging onto the handles for grim death, which of course was waiting just around the corner. Three or four of the riders, who came with their partners on the back, almost had to get off and walk their bikes around the turning into Foundry Street.

By the time I reached Brighton station my ankles were crying out in revolt. I recognised the sensation. The last time I’d experienced similar hadn’t been during the climb of Ben Nevis a year earlier, but instead it had been at this exact spot in May 2024, after walking from Falmer station to Ditchling Beacon (the highest point in East Sussex) and then back into Brighton. History was repeating itself. Eleven miles in total, and whilst to date I have avoided ranking any of these expeditions, I have to say that this one had been a top five contender.

I reached the station just before my ankles reached their limits. It was time to move on up and move on out. Great day.

Meanwhile, in a funky bar somewhere in the Lane’s, four media studies students were huddled around and earnestly reviewing the title for their arthouse short movie. “What about The Zombie’s on Bullock Mountain?”

“Hmm… not catchy enough. How about Zombie Sinkhole Apocolypse?”

“That’s it. Your round Stan.”

The following day Brighton and Hove Albion played Everton away and lost 2 – 1. Danny missed a sitter, and then a penalty. Shucks!

* At the beginning of 2025 a consultation began on whether to reshape local government in Sussex. For what it was worth I put in my thru’ pence worth. We’ll find out soon what the final decision will be, but it looks like it could end up as five unitary authorities with shared services. That may or may not be a good idea, and it may or may not save money, or it may or may not cost everyone more. It may or may not lead to greater local democracy and representation, although I’m not convinced. Either way it will render my efforts to get to county tops somewhat meaningless. Creating two more here in Sussex would be no big deal (by topping Brighton and Hove I’d completed the Sussex set). Another two excursions close to home – okay. The problem is that these changes are likely to be taking place in many locations across the country and the implications of that are – well, to say the least – daunting!

** https://elcolmado57.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=96&action=edit

Hey! Why not?