Another hot day (not scorching for a change) as I disembarked the up train from Hastings, just after 1pm, at Robertsbridge station. I wasn’t anticipating a long walk so was in no rush as I wandered over to the recently constructed terminal building for the Rother Valley Railway.
Strolling onto the empty platform I looked around and then decided to walk to the end to get a better view of the heritage diesel shunters parked up on the outer track. As I walked up the platform two men in hi-vis were walking towards me. They were about to lock up, but we had time to chat. One was the Chief Engineer. How lucky was I?
How was the project going, and when will you be closing the A21, I asked? Everything was going well, they had enough funds, they would be closing the A21 in 2027, and the link would be completed and trains running by 2028. It all made perfect sense to me, but just in case anyone unwittingly chooses to read this, some explanation may be required.
The Kent and East Sussex Railway operates out of Tenterden and runs its heritage engines (diesels only this year due to the risk of fire) up the river Rother, terminating near the remains of the medieval castle at Bodiam, a few miles to the east of Robertsbridge. On a visit to Bodiam a year earlier I discovered that they had ambitious plans to continue the line through to Robertsbridge, which would have to include “fording” the busy A21 road. Controversial? Yes, by all accounts. Residents of Robertsbridge had been consulted, and whilst there was good support for the scheme, a minority were unhappy. It was a quiet town, and that’s how some people liked it. Regardless the green light had been given, and ever since the volunteers have been busily laying new track along the old disused line.
In just over two years’ time trains will once again operate between Robertsbridge and Tenterden, necessarily closing the A21 a few times every day in the summer, and possibly causing me some inconvenience from time to time. That’s okay by me. The number of times road works and accidents mash up your day on the A21, the odd five extra minutes to allow a train load of happy passengers to enjoy this part of the world will be nothing in comparison. For more on this watch this relatively short video which features a lot of middle-aged men – like me, I guess.
I took my photo, thanked the two volunteers, and walked back to the Brightling Road. An excellent start to the day.
D2112 – Built 1960 and equipped with a Gardner diesel engine. Interesting fact: In 1980 I worked at the now closed Gardner factory in Patricroft, Manchester. *
Considering myself updated, and lucky, I walked the quarter of a mile east and into the small town to grab a coffee at the bakery on the corner of Brightling Road and the High Street. Sitting outside and nursing my drink I took in the quirky and attractive architecture, including the Seven Stars Inn, which, despite having been closed for years, still held onto a blackboard outside advertising beer options, good food and entertainment!
The building that was once the Seven Stars – Closed all and every day, and probably for ever.
It was interesting to think that some residents of the town were against the new/old railway, because they liked the peace and quiet. Once upon a time, when I was young, and my friend got his first battered up second hand car (a brown Triumph Dolomite with extra rust included free), sometime at the end of the 1970s, we’d occasionally set off on a summer’s evening in the middle of the week from south London, heading to the coast for sheer hell of it. Sometimes we’d make it, and sometimes not. On the occasions we didn’t it was because we’d left it too late, and because the main road (the A21) used to run right through Robertsbridge we’d call it a day and take a couple of cold ones in one or two of the several pubs that lined the High Street. That would almost certainly have included the Seven Stars. Being a bit of a bottle neck (the High Street, not the mode of drinking), the traffic was almost perpetually snarled up and going nowhere. Many years later, as part of a scheme that has never meaningfully matured, Robertsbridge did at least get a by-pass, and judging by the almost complete lack of activity observed over my coffee, it had had the desired effect, but which might also explain why the Seven Stars had to close.
More Robertsbridge architectural action – traffic free!
With my OS map in hand, I set off back west on the Brightling Road. Somewhere on the right, and just over a small bridge spanning a stream, it showed a footpath that headed north and would take me out of town. On arriving at the spot on the map, I was confronted with two options. A track by the stream that led to a gate and then on into open fields, or a dusty road leading into a small industrial estate. Without a very powerful magnifying glass I was unable to say with certainty what was what, so, based on probability, I opted for the track with the gate and nearby stream.
A bit further up the track, and to the right, a large electricity sub-station, along with appropriate health and safety notifications, lay at the beginning of a large field area.
If you are here, turn back
In the distance I could see a recreation ground, with a game of cricket playing out, and groups of people enjoying yet another glorious day. All I had to do was navigate across the ragged, rough and uncultivated field, which increasingly came with snags and snares, and I’d be properly on my way. Fifteen minutes of scrambling around, climbing over and bending under various hazards whilst looking for anything remotely looking like a bridge to carry me over the small tributary of the River Rother, I gave up and retreated back to the road. A little voice in my head told me to try the industrial estate, but it looked so inhospitable that I dismissed the option (in fact I should have gone with my instincts), and headed back to the High Street, turned left at the junction and walked the road to the Clappers recreation ground.
New Captains please
I’d spent far too much time getting lost in Robertsbridge so only stopped for a minute to watch W.G Grace pushing forward to a medium paced delivery, and missing, before heading into the unknown under the railway bridge, once abandoned, but now carrying new track.
Back on, under track
I was now in a pocket park nature reserve, and aware I was again off track. I followed my instincts through the wooded groves and found a well-trodden track that led down through a tunnel of trees and then out into open meadow. I guessed that even if I wasn’t entirely back on track, I would be soon. Passing over a stout stone bridge, which may or may not have been a random feature of a wild crazy golf challenge, I was now heading northeast.
Dropped Ball.
I crossed a wooden bridge over what I assumed was a marshy area, but which bore no evidence of the wet stuff, and then under a bridge carrying the mainline. At last!
The bridge over an ex-marsh.
Going under the mainline
Turning right after the bridge, I was now definitely on the track I should have been on half an hour earlier. Almost immediately the path headed at a 90-degree angle away from the railway and up a gentle slope with trees providing cover from the increasingly intense sun. After 200 metres or so I was in a field and then on a path at the edge of the field, with trees and thicket to the right. A few metres in and a female blackbird popped out from the undergrowth and fussed around in the bone-dry earth.
This bath ain’t big enough for the both of us
I stopped to watch, assuming also that within moments it would shoot off. After a good minute, with it seemingly unaware of my presence, I moved forward. It reacted by skipping another few metres along the path, settling down again into the dirt and challenging me to come on again. This behavioural pattern continued for the next fifty metres or so before it finally decided to stop playing the game and disappeared into the bank. A few paces on and a metal gate to the right invited me to enter a large field with a path heading northeast and running back down to the railway.
Fantasy clouds
Whatever the crop had been, it had been cropped, with large bails dotted around and waiting for collection.
Rolling
At the foot of the field, I was reunited with the railway and a bridge that took me to the other side of the line and another uncultivated field.
Bugsell A bridge. No idea if there is a B
Following the footpath on the map here was less easy. I crossed over a stream (possibly the Rother) and below something of a torrent of running water was heading towards the sea. Surprising given the climatic conditions but encouraging to see a small trout circling in the shallows.
The Rother still in flow
At the end of the scrubby land, through which I had guessed the route, I intersected with a path heading north/south through indeterminate scrub and woodland. Beyond, through the trees a large southwest facing field staked out with hundreds of vines reflected the new farming norm. The climate optimists will tell us that the UK is on the cusp of a wine bonanza and that’s a great reason to welcome the hot summers. Of course, it’s great to have a summer worthy of Crete (particularly as I am unable to travel there this year), but you can’t make bread with grapes (as far as I know). I went north, over a stile, which on the other side consisted of a single upright post that challenged the elderly gymnast, and then through a tunnel of thick hawthorn.
Crossing the minimalist stile
Through the web of hawthorn.
Beyond the hazard zone the path continued along the east of a field with trees to the right, and the railway now back in view to the left. After a while a wide track to the right crossed over a stone bridge that spanned a small brook (probably the Rother again) nestling in shady woodland. It was time for the newly introduced hydration break. I think that the track led on up to a large country house, but I wasn’t curious. Just knackered. Drinking warm water and listening to the tired afternoon birds lament, and the occasional knocking of a woodpecker testing a truck, I gazed down at the stream, stagnant here, but at least lowering the surrounding ambient temperature.
Soft light, soft spot
Back on the route, and another hundred metres on the path partnered up with the railway line and continued northwest until arriving at a level crossing at Squibs (no, I don’t know either).
Squibs Level Crossing – the approach
Here the mainline stretched out far in both directions, forming part of the track that took the line in a wide arc heading northwest out of Robertsbridge and then west into Etchingham. I dallied a moment, contemplating the next steps that involved safely crossing the track. Then the familiar noise of metal on metal hissing up from the line warned of an incoming train, and sure enough moments later, at 15.18, the eight carriages up from Hastings zapped by towards Etchingham.
Incoming
I was grateful for my dally but once satisfied that there was no reciprocal down service heading towards me in the other direction I quickly crossed and headed away from Squib on a path wedged between the line and a large, unkempt field to my left. With tatty strips of wheat that looked like they had been planted but possibly abandoned, intermingling with tall dried out weeds, it was a sorry sight. Maybe the field had been left fallow, but given the concrete hard earth below, the chance of any regeneration seemed slim.
The path continued for a few hundred metres. The uplands of the Rother valley to the east bore the appearance of the Midwest in late August. The Dustbowl Weald was looking more like a reality.
Scorched earth
The field ended just below Lundsford Farm. A concrete bridge crossed a wide stretch of water.
Lundsford Farm looming on the hill
The stream held far more water than I had expected, and in both directions lush and colourful vegetation clung to the banks, fighting I guess for every atom of water that leaked into the land. There was something of an oasis quality to the scenery here.
Looking east towards the mainline
Looking west – A small part of Provence in the heart of East Sussex?
Having lingered for a while, enjoying the pastoral glories, I proceeded across the bridge, then to the right where the map showed the footpath entering a field that would take me around the perimeter of the farm. At least that was the plan. Pushing open the wooden gate and stepping into the field I was immediately confronted by a large brown cow standing broadside on, just ten feet up the hill. I am wary of cows, now that reports of their attacking humans seem to be on the rise, but had it been standing maybe twenty feet to the right I may have ignored it. Instead, because it was giving me the “sorry mate, I’m not moving, and also have the high ground” look, without further hesitation I popped back and pulled the gate shut. Well, that’s one way of explaining it.
Don’t look back in anger
Now, of course, I had to navigate the farm. There was no path on the map, so I assumed this was going to require some trespass. At the top of a steep hill, this indeed came to pass. The farmhouse was far to the left, but between me and the road beyond now lay a conglomeration of buildings designed to store things, milk things, repair things and no doubt bury things! There was no avoiding it, despite having watched Southern Comfort on more than three occasions.
I managed to make something of a pig’s ear in my navigation of the area, never quite finding a direct route through, and all the time hoping desperately not to encounter anyone else. Completely irrational. Needless to say, I reached the road without incident and now whistling a merry tune to settle the nerves, I looked down past some large squashing equipment towards my destination.
Etchingham in sight
A gate in the wire allowed access to the large field where the path carried on down to the village. At the foot of the hill the path continued through the grounds of a large, sprawling white boarded building that looked like it might once have been a pub, but was signed as the Stores Cottage. Having researched Etchingham earlier I had noted that it lacked anything remotely resembling a pub, which was surprising, but at the same time, not so surprising. It would have had a pub at some time, surely, and maybe the Stores fulfilled more than one function. Daydreaming again.
The old Stores – Etchingham
If I had had more time I would have wandered west into the town, but it was just fifteen minutes before the hourly train, so instead I headed east. A large, unorthodox looking church appeared to the left. I had time to have a quick gander and the door was open. Edging in I took a look before noticing a woman on hands and knees sweeping the floor near the alter thing. After saying hello, but receiving no noticeable reaction, I decided to leave; just in case I spooked her.
The church at Etchingham – uncertain style
I made it to the station with a few minutes to spare. The train arrived just after four, and in a moment of reflection I realised that I fancied a pint. I don’t do afternoon drinking, but on my last outing, on reaching Robertsbridge, I had considered popping into the Ostrich public house, just next to the station, but had chosen instead to jump the next train, just minutes away. And I had subsequently regretted it.
On time at Etchingham
The journey from Etchingham to Robertsbridge was just four minutes (it had taken me two and a half hours to walk the 4.5 miles), and I hopped off and hopped into the Ostrich. A quirky looking Victorian building from the outside, it was even more quirky and intriguing inside. From what I could tell it hadn’t seen a lick of paint since the war, and the pictures on the walls spoke of a time before the ring road. Just two middle aged men sat at the bar. Luckily for me they did Harvey’s Best Bitter. I ordered a pint and slipped into the garden, a mishmash of levels, plants and styles and given the heat and dry conditions it felt a bit like a sub-continental colonial heaven.
Waiting for the rains – they never came
As I sat slowly sipping the warm beer (I had plenty of time before the next train), it occurred to me that this throwback pub might only be hanging on in in the hope of the masses arriving at Robertsbridge station in two years’ time to take a ride on the heritage trains out to Tenterden. I hope it does.
Back at the station I looked again at the new track laid next to the mainline. The thought that a mighty Deltic, or the legendary Mallard, could one day slip into these sidings was thrilling. And with that thought, this is a Deltic (Kings Cross – 1972).
* During the time I worked at Gardner’s Diesel Engines the country was going through industrial turmoil, and the factory was reduced to working three, and then two-day weeks, followed by strikes. I remember a protest outside the factory one day (it wasn’t a strike day but there were rumours that the multi-national Lucas Industries might take the old company over) where banners humorously proclaimed, “We Want Government Aid, Not Lucas Aid”. Those were the days.
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.
This was the second leg of my attempt to walk the line from Hastings to London (or at least the suburbs). Having walked the six miles from West St Leonard’s Station to Crowhurst the week before, this leg would be shorter, arcing from the station at Crowhurst, west, and then north and east back into Battle, and to some extent mirroring the path of the mainline running half a mile or so to the east. A view from above shows its Charles carton ear-like characteristics.
The Battle map
I parked up near Crowhurst station. Thinking ahead, as these locations get further from Hastings, I don’t fancy driving long distances for the sake of what is essentially a narcissistic leisure activity. Too many petrol miles to justify, but for the moment I can live with a few miles for a quick start.
An option at the station could have been to go directly north and approach Battle from the southeast, but it looked a bit short on the map and as it was a glorious day I was up for a prolonged wander. Starting downhill along Station Road and passing an eclectic range of mid-20th century houses, the verge splattered with bluebells and primroses, I was full of positivity, which I can report from the outset, lasted for the next two hours.
St George’s Church – from Forewood Lane.
And one of the reasons was because of this.
Ancient U
In the previous report (that would be number 1), I briefly mentioned that a hard core group of activists have, some might say heretically, argued that the Battle of Hastings in September 1066 did not happen at the official English Heritage site located in Battle (clues in the name I guess), but somewhere near Crowhurst (other “conspiracy” theories are available). I have an open mind on the subject, but in any case, the main point of interest in the graveyard of St George’s Church is its ancient yew tree (pictured above). Estimated to be 1300 years old it would have been a mere sapling at the time William marched his troops from Pevensey Bay (or Bulverhythe, or Hastings – take your theory pick), and up this, or maybe the next or previous valley. Whatever, it was there then and perhaps people then already marvelled that it was 300 years old.
Now this would be impressive (well it is but there’s a spoiler coming). Thirty odd miles to the north, in Surrey, there is a village called err… Crowhurst, just down the road from South Godstone. It has a church too. It too is called St George’s. I’ve never been there, but it has a yew tree that is thought to be 4000 years old. That’s 2000 years before the Romans arrived! I just don’t believe it but if true then our East Sussex St George’s church in Crowhurst yew tree is frankly embarrassing and unworthy of the blue plaque it sports. It is also important to be aware that if anyone happens to read this and feels the burning need to follow this walk, not to make the cardinal mistake of starting in the wrong Crowhurst. The following account will instantaneously become redundant and could lead to unintended consequences. (I just have to say this to cover myself and avoid potential litigation).
A yew trees view of Harold’s Manor house
Having viewed the old log I returned to the road and turned right at the church gate, pursued by a black cat which shooed me off the premises. A few metres along I turned right up a signed footpath and onto a track between a handful of old buildings. About 100 metres and on the left the gutted remains of the old manor house, now incorporated by the surrounding buildings and making a pleasant walled garden.
The remains of Harold’s manor house, probably a later rebuild fashioned by a Norman baron.
The origins of this structure are a bit hazy. The “official” narrative is that it was built by a Norman in around 1250. And there is no reason to believe otherwise. Except, in the YouTube video about the disputed site of the Battle of Hastings, it gets a mention. How so? The suggestion is (and it does seem to be the case) that the then Earl, Harold Godwinson, later to be King Harold the second, had his own manor in the area, and that it might have stood on this very spot. Well, who’s to say, and I don’t know, but there is very little online information to be found. Surprisingly, about the only small entry on the Historic England Missing Pieces Project is a photograph taken by the one and only Nick Austin, who, if you have read the previous account, will know, is one of the main heretical Battle of Hastings site sceptics!! And again, who am I to say? Just saying.
The track continued on through fields and directly north. The valley to my left looked impressive, with a very orderly group of trees at the top of the hills to the south.
A regiment of trees crest the hilltop
Passing through a gap in a hedge the track headed straight across a large undulating field and then down to a small bridge that passed over the western arm of the Powdermill Stream (western arm).
Powdermill Stream
Footpaths carried on north on both banks. I chose the eastern bank and then over a style and into a wide, long meadow with the Fore Wood nature reserve to the north, looking spectacular with new growth peeking through and with the stream to my left.
The end of the meadow – an enchanted vale
It felt like a small piece of paradise, and I was in no rush to reach the far side. Naturally, too soon I reached the end and now headed into the woods. A man with two large but passive dogs approached and we agreed that it was a beautiful spot. Bluebells and wild garlic disappeared up through the undergrowth in all directions.
You’ll need to imagine the pungent smell from the wild garlic
Continuing on a winding and undulating path through the woods and just to the right of the stream, surprisingly wide at this point, the idea that I was within a mile of Battle’s suburbs seemed absurd.
The path eventually spilled out at a bridge back over the stream, which I crossed and started up a bank that led to a small road. I should say that by joining the path in Fore Woods I had stumbled onto the 1066 Country Walk – Bexhill Link, and by turning right onto the road I was going to continue on this route for the rest of the journey (I think). A short walk up through more woods and I arrived at a large old manor house affair. I took the road to the right, moving north and headed back down into a glade which crossed back over the Powerdermill Stream, much wider at this point and where it felt like a mill might have once stood.
If you are ever lost, but presented with pylons and possess a map, you are found
The road headed uphill again, with occasional large houses to the right. By now I was expecting to encounter urban sprawl at any moment, but instead the road wound down again and then through a cluster of old and new buildings that seemed to go under the collective identity of Peppering Eye. The background was to this nomenclature was unclear, but of course somewhere in the neighbourhood, nearly 1000 years ago, being peppered in the eye was definitely something to be avoided. This was a very chic location, with all the hallmarks of past and present affluence. Several buildings stood out but I was quite taken by the old oast house (or was it a windmill?).
Interesting! Word, is trying to autocorrect oast to “oust!” So much for regional AI nuance.
Beyond the buildings the road continued with heath type land rising to the right but across the valley to the left, fields of rape gloriously shining effervescent up the western slopes.
The definition of perfection
Guess what? It was now hot and I was down to my t-shirt, the first time this year and it felt joyous. I was in a place where, for just a while, I wasn’t thinking of or being troubled by my own difficulties (just life things) but more significantly, Donald Trump and his warmonger minions. I suppose for balance I should add the Iranians, Israelis, Hezbollah and the rest, but one way or another the recently self-released image of the Donald as Christ (no, sorry, as a “doctor”) had inflicted a new low point on humanity.
Anyway, I wasn’t thinking about any of that when I reached the junction with Telham Lane and turned left. Just past the Telham Lane Borehole (I made a mental note to remember this place for when the tap water runs out later in the summer) I crossed over Powdermill Lane (B2095) and up onto a footpath above the road to the right and the expanse of the Powdermills Hotel on my left. Only I had been under the impression that it had closed some time last year. Seems it had but has reopened as Crafted at Powdermills. A massive new carpark and high-end sporting facilities, but also allotments and a slightly alternative feel amongst the 4 by 4’s and SUVs. Good luck to it.
At the top of the path, I crossed the back road into the facility and back onto the path that led through some modern barns and then into fields. To my right a fence indicated private property, and as the path led back up another hill the landowner’s details emerged.
Smile…you’re on English Heritage CCTV
English Heritage! Holders of the flame. 1066 and all that. I stopped a moment and looked around for the CCTV camera. I wasn’t going to enter (I’d been before) but it did strike me as all being a bit absurd. If we take it as read that the land beyond the gate and fence was where the Battle of Hastings took place, why have we put a fee-paying barrier around it? Whilst the battle itself was a relatively small-scale affair compared with other medieval wars, and those beyond in the East, it can be argued that the result itself was one of the most pivotal in world history. The immediate impact of the Norman conquest completely changed the British Isles (England up to that point was considered a model of administrative modernity in Europe at the time), by imposing an entirely new and ruthless political and landowning class. As the centuries passed the spirit of Norman expansionism and its internal disputes between the landowning class and the monarchy slowly shaped the legislature and colonial ambition that was ultimately exported around the world, for good or bad. Had Harold’s army won the day it would have all been very different.
And so, this most important of sites, essentially a field with some impressive, but not valuable old ruins, can only be seen by shelling out £15 if you’re an adult and £7 for a child. I’d make it free. Magna Carta and all that (except that’s somewhere else).
At the top of the hill a solitary Chestnut tree crowned the crown and framed by a blue sky with scudding clouds.
A look back on where I’d been
The track continued around the side of the Battle Abbey site and towards the end a small path edged around the backs of the High Street buildings with a cricket pitch on the left and warning signs that anyone not a member, but found using the nets, was trespassing. The message was clear.
I followed a lane through to the High Street and with enough time to spare I stopped for a coffee at Bonnie’s Bistro. Sitting outside in the heeling sun, and with an endless stream of traffic for entertainment, I played a game of “spot the normal car”. It was only as I took the last sip that eventually an old-style Fiat 500 slipped by without having to slow down or navigate awkwardly to avoid lateral damage.
Within striking distance
Having dispatched the caffeine, I rounded the high walls of the Abbey, then down Upper Lake and right onto Lower Lake and to the slip road for the station.
Turn left before the Railway Inn
A short walk along the approach and the station presented overlooking a large carpark.
The station building
The plaque
A fine building with a plaque that confirmed it, but its fine rustic detail diminished by the sprawling car park laid waste in front.
With a bit of time, I bought a single to Crowhurst, popped over the footbridge to the down platform, sat without peeking at my phone for ten minutes and looking down the line and at the trees instead, reflecting on what an excellent walk it had been.
Crowhurst bound
Back in the car, the tune that accompanied me home seemed very appropriate. A top day.
El Colmado 57 