I was at the end of a three day, six “tops” haul, and with one to go. After a short walk from the village of Crazies to the top of Bowsey Hill in the Unitary Authority of Wokingham I had driven north on the old A4 Bath Road, turned left onto Burchetts Green Road, and then left again onto the smaller Honey Lane that formed the end of the Knowl Hill Bridleway Circuit, last encountered an hour earlier at Bowsey Hill. It occurred to me that had I put in a bit more effort into research before the day’s outing, I may have managed both “tops” on a single stroll on the Bridleway Circuit, but it was too late now.
Honey Lane wound its way through thick woodland, skirting the northern flank of the Mitchel’s Wood plantation, before it took a sharp right and headed off north. I decided to continue west on a small track that abruptly ended at the ridiculously quaint Dew Drop Inn. I drove in and parked up. Being a Monday, the inn was shut, but that didn’t matter. I was looking at a pub that from its outward appearance hadn’t changed since it had either evolved, or been built, sometime in the 17th Century. I can’t remember if an Inn features in Humphry Clinker, but if it did, in my mind’s eye this is exactly how it would have looked. I think it’s fair to say that it’s only in the British Isles you’d find anything remotely like the Dew Drop Inn, hidden far from civilisation, in a nook in some woods, and serving (I certainly hope) warm beer and the fried and dried bits of pig’s skins (other less disgusting bar snacks are now available).
The Dew Drop Inn – Dogs and horses’ welcome
I realised that getting to the top of Ashley Hill was not going to be too much of a struggle, or that great map navigational skills would be required. So long as I generally headed in an upward direction the top would reveal itself eventually. I followed a path heading southwest, flanking the woods on my left. Looking down to my right, the edge of an estate that partially hid an enormous country house. Whoever lived in the house was hugely privileged. After all, they lived with the Dew Drop Inn at their back door. *
A footpath led upwards, so I took it. After about 50 metres another path headed right and along the level. Just after I took this option, I could hear the thwap, thwap of a chopper zoning in across the treetops. They may have been tipped off that an oik in a Ford Fiesta had parked up in the Dew Drop and were on a seek and desist mission.
Either the rotors had stopped rotating, or my camera phone is on spec.
After the helicopter had passed over, I proceeded along the muddy path, with grand old trees towering above and clinging onto the last of their foliage.
The viewpoint from a fern’s perspective
Around a bend ahead two large mud caked dogs lunged into view, scarpering at high speed in my general direction. The troubled look on my face must have alerted their owners, who followed up closely noting my obvious distress, which wasn’t so much the immediate threat of death but more an aversion to wet and excitable dogs pawing at my fairly clean trousers. A couple of shouts and the dogs were under control. We stopped and talked for a minute. I commented that one of the dogs was a certain type, based solely on what looked like a similar dog owned by my brother. The mother and daughter, after a moment of merriment (which may have come with thinly veiled scoffing) dismissed my basic error and then, in some detail, explained the type of dogs they were in fact in charge of. It went entirely over my head, but they were nice people, and neither of the dogs attempted to bite me – always a bonus.
Further on I bore to the left and shortly afterwards another track headed directly up the hill. Up I went and reached a point that Peak Bagger suggested was the top. By the mere fact that the path continued up a further 50 metres or so I determined that they were a tad wide of the mark.
Peak Baggers point, but not quite the top
The top of the path opened onto a small plateau area, beyond which a high fence enclosed a large building of no determinate age, but which could have been called Foresters Lodge. I was at the top of Ashley Hill.
The unofficial, but my official, top of the county
I slipped quickly back down to the Dew Drop Inn on a straight path. Reviews of Mitchel’s Woods (for that was where I had trod) were rightly positive, though someone who probably hadn’t been in nature before merely observed “No toilets”.
I drove back along Honey Lane and then cross country, avoiding the M4 and M25 as far as I could, until I passed through Windsor and then onto Albert Road, bisecting the Long Walk. I briefly looked to the south and towards Royal Lodge, but there was no celebrity royal in sight, although the Uber Pizza Express delivery scooter heading from the direction of Woking piqued my curiosity. Ending up at Runnymede, last encountered about three years before on a day with the grandkids at Legoland, nothing seemed to have changed much, although I noticed an attractive cafe in one of the gate houses which I guessed post-dated the Magna Carta.
The argument goes that what happened here (obviously not in the cafe) in 1215 changed history and the relationship between royalty and the people. I’m not so convinced. It certainly changed the relationship between the landed Norman elite and their grip on the land itself, the ongoing legacy of which I had observed earlier in the day at Bowsey and Ashley Hills.
At the cafe the royal tea was orf, so I stuck with an Americano which came with one of those ubiquitous, clear cellophane wrapped Italian biscuits that, along with plastic drinks bottles, are competing to be declared the most universal and unnecessary environmental pollutants currently trending. Mind you, they are tasty.
PS.
Three days later, on the 30th October, a resident of Royal Lodge, in the Windsor and Maidenhead Unitary Authority area, and just a mile or so from where the Magna Carta was signed in 1215, had, under Royal proclamation, and as recorded in the House of Commons library and titled the Removal of Titles and Honours, been revealed to be nothing more than a commoner after all. As Adam Ant once warned, “Don’t you ever, don’t you ever, lower yourself, forgetting all your standards”.
*I later looked up the history of the Dew Drop Inn. Apparently, Dick Turpin may have visited a couple of times with his horse, Black Bess. So, when I read further articles, and particularly the piece below, I was bemused and confused:
“Opened in 1939 by Frank Painia, what started as a barbershop quickly grew into a well-known hotel and music venue, complete with a restaurant and bar. Listed in the Green Book, the guide for Black travelers in segregated America, the Dew Drop Inn is now considered a historic landmark.”
Needless to say, it took a bit of disentangling before I finally worked out that I was reading two completely different articles about two entirely different places, but at least now I knew.
I entered the back room in the bar of the Prince of Wales pub in Marlow where I was met by a man with a tea towel over his shoulders. “Good morning,” he said. I replied in similar vein, looked around and asked where I should sit. “At your table, sir,” whilst pointing towards the only table that had been equipped with china and cutlery. I felt like a complete clot.
The evening before (Sunday) I had checked in after a drive from Bristol during which I had climbed up to Liddington Hillfort (the highest point in Swindon), then locating the Water Tower on Park Lane – needless to say, the highest point in Reading. I was breaking the journey home, and on Saturday I had gone online to find a stopping point somewhere in the Thames Valley that wasn’t going to blow a massive hole in my budget. I hadn’t been hopeful. So, when the Prince of Wales in the centre of Marlow popped up and invited me to stay overnight for a mere £72, I could only assume there must be a massive catch. But what could a poor elder do?
I had arrived early in the evening and on parking up couldn’t help noticing that the place was heaving. I checked in and was shown out the door and then round to a couple of terraced Victorian cottages adjacent to the pub. As we walked up the short set of stairs, I was expecting to find that the facilities had probably not changed much since it had been built, but lo it was not so. An excellent, fully equipped warm and cosy room which said, your welcome.
Given the seething mass of humanity in the bar I decided to go for a scroll into town whilst there was still some daylight. Just being a stone’s throw from the High Street I was at the High Street in just minutes. Clearly an affluent town, I booked a pint at the Chequers whilst studying the menu. Ah! “Anything else, sir?” “Yes,” I replied, “a large bowl of your finest peanuts please, my man.”
After a slow pint and more peanuts than a man can eat (at £5 a bucket I felt compelled), I wandered back down the High Street and to the junction with Station Road, on the corner of which Amorino Geleto’s was still doing a roaring trade in ice-cream (I guessed). I can’t think of another town in the country where a fine Italian ice-cream emporium would be open at 8pm on a freezing cold and wet Sunday night in October. Nevertheless, I was now regretting the peanut dinner.
It was still quite early, so I decided to venture into the bar before heading back next door. The pub had almost completely emptied out, apart from four middle aged men, all with their eyes glued to the TV watching a sport that involved a procession of high-performance racing cars following each other around an illuminated futuristic track somewhere in a desert. Apparently, it’s called Formula 1, but it had nothing whatsoever to do with Jim Clark, Fangio or even Jackie Stewart. Each of the men seemed to be sitting as far away from each other as was physically possible, yet every so often one would pipe up and wonder about some knowledgeable detail relating to the performance of one or other of the drivers turbo, pitot tube injector rods, or was Hasslebackers steering a bit out, or if Strollburgers right off was showing signs of wear? They seemed to be talking a different language.
Eventually the “event” was over. Someone, who could have been British, but was born in one of the “territories” seemed to have won, and with that three of the men supped up and buggered off. The man who remained was the owner and we chatted for a bit whilst he tidied up, and I did likewise with the cold beer. He seemed to have a northern accent but had lived in Marlow for ten years and absolutely loved it. I said I could see the appeal and explained why I was staying over. I was getting older and falling out of love with day long drives. He was sympathetic, although I’m not so sure he would have been quite so if I had mentioned my quest to get to two nearby County tops the next day. He went on to say that in the whole time he had been in Marlow he had never witnessed a crime and was of the opinion that indeed, crime was non-existent. Fortunately I was able to confirm to him that in the three hours I had been in town I had neither witnessed, nor been a victim of crime, although having had a quick look in an estate agents window and seeing the cost of renting a flat in town, I could have said that some crimes go largely unreported. I didn’t of course and instead went to bed.
After taking my seat in the breakfast area the man with the tea towel over his shoulder asked me what I wanted for my breakfast and pointed at a large table set out with all sorts of breakfast options, including cereals, tinned fruit and various wrapped bread things. I was overwhelmed. All this for me, and for only £72. Suddenly, and despite the lack of a proper meal the evening before, my appetite vanished. “Ehm, oh, err. Just beans on toast would be fine.”
“Are you sure that’s all? I can do you eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, tomatoes and more eggs if you want.”
“Oh, okay,” I surrendered, “can you add a fried egg please.”
“Just a fried egg?” He looked down at me expectedly. “I also have, and can make you, hash browns, chips, mushrooms and veggie sausages if you’re that way inclined?”
I declined his further offerings despite the knowledge that I was potentially missing out on the deal of the year. “Suit yourself mate,” he said as he turned towards the kitchen. “You’re paying for it.” Yup!
Waiting for my beans on toast with one fried egg I became aware of some movement behind me. “Are you the manager?” A man was standing at the bar and looking at me. “No,” I said, and explained that someone would be back soon. The man was youngish, looked fit as a fiddle, with a bronzed face that suggested a recent holiday somewhere south of Nice and wearing a hoodie, trackie bottom combo that looked like it had been purchased from the menswear department of Harrod’s (assuming there is one).
My man returned to the bar shortly afterwards. The new arrival made his presence known. “Hi! I’m working on the house next door. Any chance I can park my van in your car park for the day?”
“Suit yourself mate,” my guy replied, possibly as impressed as I was by the immaculately turned-out builder. It really was another world, and I was about to leave it for reality.
Before I set off, I took a short walk down to the Thames, passing the Two Brewers pub where Jerome K Jerome had written some of Three Men in a Boat. It felt very familiar and I wondered if I had been here before but couldn’t place when, or with whom. I gazed across the river towards the huge weir and then at two regal swans that circled around a small landing ramp. Their almost loving interactions were both quaint and meaningful.
After walking down some well-appointed walled alleys I reached the remarkable two-hundred-year-old suspension bridge and then back to the High Street for a coffee before departure.
Marlow Monday morning blue
Sitting at a table in the sun I watched as Marlow woke up. Chelsea Tractors competed for pavement space, immaculately turned-out dogs were out walking their minders whilst a retired Major-General, with an ancient, gnarled stick, accosted a balaclava wearing scallywag on a black bike and making it clear that he must reverse ferret and return from whence he came (nearby Slough to be precise). Meanwhile, a group of workmen were having a late breakfast in the high-end delicatessen opposite. Strangely, the Amorino Gelato was closed, but as I took it all in, I couldn’t argue with my landlord’s observations the night before. Marlow really was a fine place.
I drove out of Marlow across the suspension bridge, which required some advanced driving skills to avoid contact with the brutal metal width restrictors. Judging by the array of colours smeared on the vicious panels, many people before had failed the test. To get to Bowsey Hill I headed south on the A404 and then west on Henley Road before swinging left onto Culham Lane. On my right I glimpsed the entrance to a large estate, with enormous and immaculately pruned hedging. The stunning grounds looked more French chateaux than English baronial, and really, I should have stopped to have a closer look. Instead, I carried on and shortly afterwards pulled up outside the Horns Pub in a place called Crazies Hill. The well-appointed Georgian looking country pub was closed for refurbishment. Never mind, it was too early anyway. I made a mental note that if, at some point in the future, I might want to explore the area further it could serve as an overnight stopping point, until later, after a quick look on the website, it was clear that a one night stay would probably cost three to four times what I’d paid at the Prince of Wales.
Crazies Hill Community Hub
The destination was just a mile or so south on Hatch Gate Lane. A short walk on a pleasant, soft autumn morning. After a couple of hundred metres, I came to a junction. Opposite sat a large well-proportioned house. Probably worth a couple of million – at least. More staggering though was that it was a mere gatehouse.
Gatehouse to heaven
Carrying on, now on a slight gradient, to the left occasional glimpses through the trees revealed a substantial pile of something created out of historic great wealth.
A glimpse of just your average mansion in these parts
To my right another large old country house lay in open grounds. A gigantic back lawn stretched along the side of the road and led up to woodland, where, at its edge, a solitary, empty bench sat looking somewhat forlornly back down on the estate. A seat of power, in an area where old power had once come to settle, and where no doubt a different type of power still finds intoxicating today.
Beyond the lawn the lane began to wind upwards, with tall trees either side displaying their intoxicating autumn foliage.
Autumn colour scene
I reached what seemed to be the top of the hill. The road flattened out with a cluster of buildings huddling nearby. Looking to the southwest through heavy foliage I could see bits of Reading in the distance. For the people who lived here it would come with impressive views, albeit a significant part of it would be of Reading.
An attractive property in an exclusive part of the Thames Valley, with exclusive views of, err… Reading!
I wandered on for a bit, not entirely sure where the highest point of Bowsey Hill was until I reached the point in the road where it started to go down again. Just at that point, when I was about to turn and retrace my steps, three women, around my age, possibly slightly older, came into view, walking resolutely uphill and all equipped with modern lightweight walking aids. In seconds they had passed me by and were heading off down towards Crazies Hill. I decided to hang back for a moment just in case it might look to the casual observer that I had chosen to follow them.
Hanging back at the top
In the time it took me to hang back, a second tranche of maybe ten or so more resolutes came walking up from the same direction as before. Mainly older women, but with a couple of similarly aged men that formed the ranks of the 71st Berkshire Light Walking Pole Brigade who marched past in fine order, eyes forward and without breaking step, with only one solitary woman acknowledging my own solitary presence with a “hello”. I assumed they must have been under orders not to talk.
I thought it best to hang back a bit longer in case anyone observing thought that I had chosen to follow them. Am I alone when it comes to awkward situations like this, or am I naturally anti-social? Either way, and after a minute or so, it suddenly struck me that anyone observing now might think that I was behaving in an anti-social manner, I decided to head off back.
All clear on the road ahead – beech perfect
As I walked back down the road through the woods, I had only gone a hundred metres when lo and behold, coming back up the hill was the entire light pole brigade. As they passed the solitary woman (who was still in solitary mode) smiled and said hello again. The two men were now bringing up the rear. “Are you lost?” I managed to stutter. No, they said, they had just reached the limit of the walk and were heading back. It crossed my mind that maybe they had intended to reach the Horns Pub for lunch when someone had suddenly found out, halfway down the hill, that it was closed. Either way it all felt a bit Grand Old Duke of York’ish.
Which way did the army go?
The entire walk from Crazies Hill to the top of Boswey Hill had been along Hatch Gate Lane but at the top became Knowl Hill Bridleway Circuit, and whilst the road, and everything to my right was in the Wokingham Unitary Authority, everything to the left, including the massive pile behind the trees, was in the Windsor and Maidenhead Unitary Authority area.
Back at the car, and the Horns Pub was no closer to re-opening. I worked out the way to my next objective, Ashley Hill, in the Windsor and Maidenhead Unitary Authority, and set off on what turned out to be quite a complex journey around a place called Wargrave (the derivation seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with the obvious) and then north-east on the A4 Bath Road. About two miles on, at a left hand turning and emerging onto the main road in slightly dishevelled order, the rank and file of the old 71st Berks Light Pole, all poles still intact and no doubt heading, quick march, towards the Bird in Hand* at Knowl Hill, which I had passed moments earlier. Ah well, it’s all in a day.
* I have just had a quick look on the Bird in Hands website, and their doing rooms this coming Sunday for sixty quid! What’s occurring man?
My word. What a place! Sometimes you just get very lucky and remain eternally grateful for a while after (well, make up your mind – is it eternal, or just for a while?).
Pen y Fan is the highest point in the Unitary Authority of Powys. It’s the twelfth highest county top in the UK and the highest point in southern Britain after the magnificent Cadair Idris, eighty odd miles to the north.
Friday night with my daughter and her partner J in Bristol, checking weather apps whilst scoffing down an excellent take-away curry, and losing yet again at Catan. “So, are we looking to climb Pen Y Fan tomorrow?” J asks. “Yeah,” my daughter responded, “we’ve been talking about it for years.” That was true, not least because I had been nagging away about it for, literally, years (nine to be precise). Nonetheless, with conflicting forecasts, the certainty that there was going to be a brisk cold wind directly from the north, and in the knowledge that they had both done it several times before, I was prepared to be pragmatic. “I’m entirely flexible,” I added. “Maybe we just see how it is in the morning and if it’s not looking that good, we do something else?”
“We’re doing Pen y Fan dad. Get over it.” That was me told. I slept badly that night.
*
But, before we get there, I need to rewind and explain why climbing Pen y Fan had become something of an obsession for me.
Friday the 11th of March 2016, I was about to leave a hotel room in Weston-Super-Mare after a couple of days seeing my daughter and walking the local coastline whilst using up untaken annual leave. I had a plan for the day. Pop over the Severn road bridge, head down the M4 and climb to the top of Pen y Fan before driving back to London.
My phone rings. It’s my son and he sounds frazzled. My daughter in law’s waters had broken the night before, and far too many weeks before the baby was due. There had been no space in the local hospitals premature baby unit, so options as far afield as Liverpool and other points hundreds of miles away had been talked of before, finally, she was being offered a fifty-mile ambulance drive to St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. It had been a hideously stressful night and just listening to the events had me shaking in my boots. “What can I do?” I asked. My son was reassuring. Everything was being done and there was nothing I could do but get on with my day.
After we ended the conversation, I wasn’t so sure, but rationalised that there really was nothing I could do. I drove up the M5 to Bristol and with the London option still weighing heavily on my mind, I shook it off and went west and then over the big bridge. I can’t explain why the need to climb Pen y Fan was so strong and why it had to be then. For one thing, the idea of climbing county tops had never entered my head and wasn’t going to for another eight years. Maybe I had seen a programme on TV about it, or just that visiting Bristol on a regular basis after my daughter had moved there had seeded my thinking. Either way, climbing a mountain, instead of going straight home and fretting around the house, felt like a suitable distraction.
I drove up from Merthyr Tydfil and the valleys on the A470 and then into open countryside. The skies were cold winter blue, the land sparkling green. I had no idea what to expect, or pretty much where I was going, but sensing I was getting close I pulled up in a lay-by next to Beacons Reservoir, jumped out of the car and without any thought of whether or not I was in a good spot, or whether there was a more user friendly route to the top, I crossed the road, saw a footpath sign pointing over a wall towards open country, and was over without hesitation.
By the time I reached the first snow pockets I began to have doubts.
The lay of the land – March 2016
*
Back in the present, despite early morning rain the sun was making an effort to show off, and we bit the bullet. I drove (there is no significance in this other than if I read it again years from now, it will remind me that on the way back they both fell asleep) and instead of going all the way to Cardiff we headed off to Abergavenny before taking the majestic Head of the Valleys road west (my second experience of it in just over a month).
We arrived at the main National Trust car park and visitors centre at around 11:30, having passed the lay-by I had stopped at nine and a half years earlier. We were lucky to get a space and already streams of people were heading up and down the main trail which starts just to the south of the car park. Instead, we headed off on a flattish track (the Taff Trail) that took us north with the road and the impressive looking Fan Fawr mountain to the left, and a forestry plantation to the right. After a short while we were approaching the top of the pass where the A470 would start to descend towards Brecon, and past the Storey Arms Outdoor Activity Centre. This was the point where from now on the only way was up.
Looking west towards Fan Fawr. I was already panting Fawr air(no more puns.. Ed)
Due to the steep opening ascent, each faltering step started giving increasingly panoramic views of the surrounding landscape, particularly down the top of the Taff valley. The path underfoot was well trod and well-maintained, using slabs of the local stone, which, with the evidence of the alluvial waters in which they had formed millions of years ago indented on their surface, gave context to the surroundings.
After about fifteen minutes of this early lung breaker, we seemed to have reached a flatter section.
The kids, marching towards the top, or maybe not
For the first time it was possible to see to the top and a snaking path that headed directly (or possibly indirectly if you get my drift) to what I was assured was Pen y Fan. The only fly in the ointment, having made the initial effort to gain respectable elevation, was that the path was beginning to head back down. Don’t worry, I was assured, it only goes down a bit. Yeah, right!
Sometime later, and having lost considerable elevation, we crossed over a mountain stream.
Crossing the mighty Blaen Taf Farw
To the south it was possible to watch a stream of people gaining altitude on the main path from the car park. It seemed to me that they had only just about left the car park, confirming we had managed to lose most of the elevation we had gained in the first heavy lift. As I stood in the middle of the stream mulling over the meaning of life, my daughter and J seemed to be taunting me from the bank, taking photos as if I were some sort of endangered species (these have been deleted).
The paparazzi
Humph! Slogging on and straight up. Unremitting but at least the top was in view, seemingly quite close. There was a map consultation which I used as an excuse to slow down the ascent, and the truth was out. We were in fact looking at Corn Du, the slightly shorter twin peak to the east of Pen y Fan. Until now I had been putting one shaky leg beyond the other, head down and hoping it would all be over soon. Gazing now at Corn Du, a mere pretender, the little enthusiasm left in me started to ebb away. Even though it appeared to be in touching distance the stone path remained resolutely up. Don’t worry, I was reassured, Pen y Fan was just a short walk further on. It was time to trust in others, so on we (I) trudged.
Another 500 metres went by, and with almost no warning we were standing at a point where Pen y Fan came into view and the land to the north of the path dropped away dramatically.
The first sight of Pen y Fan, with Corn Du in the foreground.
With this unexpected view, and the sheer drop down to a small corrie (the Welsh is Cwm) tucked under the mountain, a sense of validation began to return. That said, it took an age to complete the last 200 metres to the top of Corn Du. In my experience most mountains tend to ease off as you approach the top. Not here. Just short of the top of Corn Du we stopped and took the time to recuperate, take in the views and eat sandwiches. A rainbow had been developing far away towards Brecon. It was one of those days. Bright, very breezy but with scudding clouds menacing away directly from the Arctic. Time for some photos.
With the motivator on Corn Du with Llyn Cwm Llwch below
In the time it had taken to take this photo and grab another bite of cheese and pickle, the rainbow had suddenly shifted from what appeared to be the far distance to directly below, and almost magically issuing out and up from the corrie. Frantic scrabbling for phones followed by all around to grab the moment. A rainbow’s a rainbow – right? Ah! Not so….
This is not AI generated and no filters have been applied. Just physics
We carried on east along the high ridge, with plunging views to the north and a huge U-shaped valley disappearing to the south-east. J pointed out an abandoned reservoir further down the valley. Upper Neuadd Reservoir, empty for some years since faults had been found in the Victorian dam. J explained that they had climbed up from there a year or two before. It looked like a miniature wonderland but still showed as water bearing on the OS map. The views had me flipping out. Until we had reached the top of Corn Du, I hadn’t fully appreciated the landscape. It was a glacially shaped masterpiece, even more extraordinary in that it lies on a similar latitude to Luton.
Glacial delights and the remains of the Upper Neuadd Reservoir (left of centre)
Getting across the ridge and covering the 300 metres or so to the top of Pen y Fan was relatively civilised. A bit down and then a bit up. At the final up, as the increasingly violent northerly hurled itself across the rounded top, my game was up and finding a large stone slab, lay myself down on alluvial remains.
This sitting position is unique in nature.
Once I had regained some composure, I crawled to the top for the obligatory victory photo (along with several dozen others doing the same).
Time’s up – now clear off.
The views in all directions were outstanding. Powys is the biggest council area in Wales, and from what I could tell you could see most of it, along with most of the rest of Wales. More glaciated U-shaped valleys lined up to the east facing north.
My compadres complimenting the unique landscape
Pointing towards Brecon and the whole of Wales, and 1500ft of elevation under the belt
After soaking up the moment we started back along the ridge towards Corn Du. An almost constant stream of people was moving in the opposite direction, and quite a few of them seemingly dressed for a different season. There is a Welsh joke and unprintable poem, that claims every Welsh person has been to the top of Pen y Fan. Obviously not true, but from the numbers making the journey it seemed to be a national ambition.
Instead of going back to the top of Corn Du we took the lower track to the south just below the summit. It was at this point, and just before we were about to emerge back onto another ridge, that the sun disappeared, the sky turned grey, and a furious hailstorm crashed in at too many miles an hour from the north. One look at the direction of assault was enough to tear lumps of skin off your face, and more than one other walker was reduced to tears. We hunkered down with our backs to the wind with just a few tufts of grass to give protection. It helped, and within a minute it was over. I stood and started to carry on walking. A mistake. As I emerged onto the ridge proper, a second and even more violent wave of ice bullets blasted into me. Having moments earlier sacrificed the relative security of the grass tufts there was no escape other than drift down the slope to the south. It made no difference and all I could do now was surrender to the moment. I stood with my back to the onslaught with hood up and completely accepting the conditions. I suppose knowing that it would be over in a minute or two helped, but in that moment, I don’t think I had ever felt so alive.
Counting hailstones
It went as quickly as it had arrived, and we took to the descent, observing the wreckage of humanity that had taken the full force and gathering their senses as they continued up. With a warm sun back in control it was a shame to be exiting the mountain, but you have to come down sooner or later. Halfway down a middle-aged man with some writing on his clothing trudged past us on the way up.
“I think that was Pen y Fan man,” J commented. Interesting, I thought, who was Pen y Fan man, I asked.
“Pen y Fan Dan. He climbs the mountain every day for charity.” *
As we approached the bottom of the path a beautiful waterfall plunged down to our right and begged to be photographed.
The view of the waterfall as it should have been
The view of the waterfall as it actually was. Boy oh boy! A picture can paint a thousand words, and in that moment I had none.
It was a last chance to look south and back down the valley. Nearly ten years before I had climbed over a wall and began a yomp straight up the side of the steep slope leading up to the ridge south of Corn Du. I had no structured plan other than getting to the top and then heading north. Despite the early cold it had warmed up, and I was having to de-layer. Whether I was sweating due to the weather, or my advanced state of anxiety, I had no idea, but one thing was for sure; I was beginning to wonder what on earth I was trying to prove. Patches of snow began to appear. I was about two thirds of the way to the top, breathing heavily but still intent on reaching the ridge when a ping went off on my phone.
“They’re in St Mary’s hospital now.”
I looked around. It was a beautiful spot, but the text was all I needed to bring me back to my senses.
The point of reality and return – Corn Du in the distance. March 2016
I believe in the meditative power of walking, but also in the adage that there’s always another day. Pen y Fan was going to have to wait.
I scurried back down to the car and three and a half hours later was parking up outside the hospital on South Wharf Road, Paddington. It was my first encounter with pay by phone parking, which, in torrential rain, I spent twenty minutes painfully navigating through to the eventual point of payment (it’s funny how this little detail has stuck).
My daughter in law was in the best of hands, my son was looking exhausted and of course there really was nothing for me to do, but I knew I had made the right decision. Two weeks later my gorgeous granddaughter was born (it wasn’t easy either but that’s another story), and any thoughts of an immediate return to Powys were banished for some years. But hey, there really was to be another day, and what a day it had been.
* Pen y Fan Dan doesn’t just climb the mountain every day, he’s often doing it three times a day, for charity. I’d say that’s impressive, so here’s a link to his fundraiser.
In answer to the question to myself at the start – Eternal, or memorable, just for a while? I won’t forget Pen y Fan, the views, the storm blast, the encouragement of my daughter and J, it’s significance to me as a grandparent and it’s shear glacial glory. I guess that makes it eternal.
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.
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!
It was Wednesday. I’d spent two nights in Bristol with my daughter at short notice and was now due to head home. However, something was in the air. Something that suggested I was about to have an unpredictable, intense and taxing experience over the coming weeks (accidents will happen). For the moment at least my brother was on the case. To break the journey back and buy myself a bit of me time before the storm broke, I decided to book a night in a room in Marlborough.
We were in the kitchen (my daughter and I), chatting away and about to go for a therapeutic walk when, for no reason I could fathom (it’s often that way), I spotted the first nondescript but telling sign of an oncoming migraine. Well, that instantaneously knocked the edge off the day! “Ready for our walk Dad?”
As the insidious black and white geometric pattern started to flesh itself out, I closed my eyes. My daughter had enough on her plate and here I was slipping into instant fug. Ten minutes later, against my better judgement and experience, I decided to throw the migraine into the metaphorical bin and put my boots on. “Let’s go.”
Without overdoing it we managed an interesting three mile walk through the Coombe Brook nature reserve and along the Bristol and Bath Railway Path, a fascinating combination of dells, glens, playing fields, open heath and industrial heritage. It will have to be done again when I’m not having to half close my eyes to keep out the light.
This new strategy seemed to have worked, for the moment at least, and I was feeling good enough to set off to Marlborough. We said our goodbyes and soon I was driving east towards Chippenham. Past Chippenham, which just seven weeks on I can’t remember a thing about, I carried on through Calne and continued directly east on the A4. I was heading for Milk Hill, the highest point in Wiltshire. I had done some basic research and noted that somewhere near to the site was a white horse carved into the chalk. And so, as I passed out of the small town of Cherhill and noticing what appeared to be something that looked like a white horse on the north-west facing slope of a range of hills, I assumed I was getting close. I stopped in a layby just past the town and got out to survey the scene.
The first thing I should say is that as white horses carved into chalk go, it was a bit of a disappointment. It looked more like a cross between a stunted giraffe and a starving hyena. It certainly lacked the surrealist brilliance of the truly ancient Uffington white horse I’d seen the previous September, or the starkly beautiful and anatomically accurate Bratton White Horse near Westbury (visited in 2023 but not in the county tops list).
The Cherhill white creature and, at the time, an unidentified interstellar communication device.
Scanning to the right, along the ridge and unavoidable to the eye, a massive stone pointy thing thrust upwards. A commemorative structure of some sort, no doubt, but not necessarily what I had expected, unless it marked the top of Milk Hill. *
I figured that all I had to do was drive on a bit and eventually I would come to a turning to the right that would get me closer to the top (I had previously done a journey planner on Google where a small road ran a good way up towards the top of Milk Hill). I drove on but nothing materialised. I reached a roundabout at a place called Beckhampton. Things weren’t making any sense. I pulled over again and tried to re-orientate. I had another go at entering a route on the phone, and I was told to carry on east and then turn right onto a small road at West Kennett.
There always seems to be a complication when I’m trying to find these spots. I’ve concluded that the complication is me, and my increasing lack of engagement with new tech. I think this is in part because I don’t want to know everything. Knowing everything means there are no surprises. So, when five minutes on and a bit further down the road I noticed a familiar conical shaped hill just to the left of the A4 I was genuinely surprised and delighted. It had been many decades since I had last gazed at Silbury Hill, and there was time for another quick stop.
Silbury Hill in its original un-grassed state – as re-imagined
After a few minutes of contemplation (Why? Well, because when you see Silbury Hill you do have to wonder) I carried on to West Kennett and located Gunsite Road on the right which, according to Google, was going to take me to within touching distance of Milk Hill (check it out, the blue line takes you to within 300 metres). **
The narrow road headed south and slowly up. A large farm building emerged to my left, and then, just around a corner, a heavy metal gate blocking further progress. This hadn’t been in the script. I stopped and inspected the obstacle. Locked, along with a second metal gate just to the right where another road led away to the west! This was an unexpected blow, but it was obvious that I wasn’t going to be getting near the top on four wheels. Conscious of my delicate condition (I have occasionally had more than one migraine in a day), I turned the car around and headed back towards the A4. Just before reaching the end of Gunsite Road, I noticed a car parked up on a small patch of dry ground just off the road. I pulled in behind and spent a few moments considering my position. My body was weak, that was for sure, but I’d come a long way and doubted that I’d be back this way anytime soon. It was mid-afternoon. A bright sunny day, and not too hot. Sod it.
With my walking boots on I headed back to the locked gate and then onwards along a concrete road that continued south and gradually up. I had by now lost any concept of where the top of Milk Hill was, or even if I was on the right track. It was just a question of keeping on walking, and so long as I was going up, I stood something of a chance. Looking back, I noticed a small number of people dotted around an unusual hump in the landscape on an adjacent rise.
An old barrow. See **** for extra extraordinary information.
I had seen a sign earlier to West Kennett Long Barrow. Judging by the small gathering of people clambering over the mound I figured I was now looking at it and wondered if I had ever been to it. I’d certainly been to Silbury hill many decades before, but nothing came back to me to suggest I had been to the barrow. It was too far away now to divert me just so I could tick a box. I carried on along the concrete road, slightly out of breath, until it levelled off for a while and I reached an isolated barn structure where the road bore to the left. By now the landscape was opening out and I could see what appeared to be the higher ridge stretching east to west a mile or so further to the south. I had more than once toyed with the idea of calling it a day and retreating, but now the objective seemed to be tantalisingly close. I chose to go on.
The first sight of the higher ridge
I expected at some point to find a path that would take me on a direct course but nothing materialised and at the next collection of farm buildings a sign proclaimed the land to be private property, whilst another claimed that CCTV was in operation to prevent rural crime. Whilst sympathetic to the farmers’ need to protect assets and knowing that rural crime is a blight, I hadn’t come this far (still with the threat of a migraine in the back of my mind) to be deterred by these notifications. Rightly or wrongly, I carried on, conscious that my progress/trespass might be being monitored. The road veered back southeast and continued up past huge fields to either side. Stopping to catch my breath I took a 360 look around. Far to the west, at least three miles away, and rising dominantly above the ridge, it was impossible to miss the enormous obelisk I had seen back at Cherhill. Well, that at least told me I had been entirely misguided in my assumption that it might have marked the top of Milk Hill. Despite all the gadgets I had become seriously disoriented and regretted not having an Ordinance Survey map to provide a degree of certainty.
I ploughed on up. Towards what I hoped was near the top, the road intersected with another that led up a steep slope from a valley below. Using this road I soon reached a gate and an information board that hinted that at last I might be close to the top. A path headed directly south across a grassed field and towards some trees, with another cultivated field to the left. Precisely what was being cultivated was unclear to me, but I had little doubt I was looking at Milk Hill, with the highest point a hundred or so metres beyond the barbed wire.
Here’s looking at the top – Milk Hill
Maybe somewhere a path led to the top, but from what I could see it seemed unlikely. I had done as much as I could, and frankly, by now I was more impressed with the magnificent and commanding views of the Vale of Pewsey opening to the south. I still had some reserves in me so carried on along the edge of the field until, with no white horse to be seen, I decided to stop. The reason for stopping was simple. Scattered randomly across the grass were a number of limestone boulders that made perfect seats. They looked entirely comfortable in these surroundings, but as I sat and took in the views, I was left wondering. Wasn’t this chalkland? ***
Unaccountable erratic’s
The landscape looked familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time. I’d seen a view not dissimilar to this before and it slowly began to occur to me that about twenty years before, along with my son, we had been on these hills, having camped for a couple of days at nearby Pewsey.
I’d pushed my luck getting to this point and decided to abandon the idea of seeking out the white horse. I started back the way I had come. Back on the concrete track and looking west the outline of a huge ditch snaked along the top of the ridge and towards the horizon. Hoping to get a dramatic picture of what was clearly a man-made structure dappled in light and shade, I waited a while for the right combination of sun and shadow. As neither presented themselves and I was getting bored, I took a shot anyway, just at the moment a red kite swung into view. Despite this interesting moment, it remained a disappointing photo.
A disappointing photo of the Wansdyke and a rhyming red kite.
Down I went, now with three or four red kites circling the adjacent fields, and then passing the group of buildings with the CCTV. Happily, there was no one there with a pitchfork to challenge me. A movement to my left and a hare dashed out of some crops, stopped for a moment and then darted at immense speed into more crops. Hare coursing remains a significant rural activity. Those who do it would call it a “sport”. Because it’s illegal it’s not a sport, thankfully. How anyone might get a kick out of setting dogs on one of these stunning creatures is beyond me, but then again, I’m just a townie, so what do I know about the country ways, but it might have explained the CCTV.
As I approached the second solitary barn there was an odd but slightly disturbing thumping noise coming from its general direction. So far, apart from one large harvester in a distant field, I hadn’t seen anyone and whatever was going on inside the structure didn’t sound like it was being generated by a human. Being in Wiltshire, a county steeped in ancient mysticism and crop circles, I moved towards the structure, which was nothing more than a corrugated roof, some metal supports and a few bundles of hay. The knocking noises continued. Suddenly there it was, the source. A deer, quite large but type unsure and clearly startled, skipping around at the back, and trying to escape…. from me!
The poor thing was in a terrible panic. I stood still trying not to make the situation worse. Its problem was that it was trying to get under a corrugated panel and into the field beyond by throwing itself at the light, but its small downy horns kept hitting the metal sheeting and knocking it back. On the third or fourth attempt it eventually managed to hunch low enough and with a final, slightly sickening thud, it scraped under and vanished. For no logical reason I felt slightly guilty for the animal’s discomfort but rationalised that they were hardy creatures and probably found themselves in similar pickles daily.
Silbury Hill and West Kennett Long Barrow from Gunsite Road
I carried on down the road where, to my surprise, a car suddenly appeared coming up what must have been a subsidiary road. This was the moment I thought I would be challenged. But it wasn’t. The car carried on down Gunsite Road. **** Moments later two further vehicles were behind me. I moved over. This was all getting a bit too Southern Comfort for me, but whoever they were (farm workers knocking off for the day I guessed), they passed on by before pulling up a couple of hundred metres ahead at the locked gate, which they opened with ease and disappeared.
I reached the gate a couple of minutes later. It had been locked again, and I noticed that the bridleway sign, which had been upright earlier, was now on its side and lying in a ditch. Sometimes there’s no point in trying to rationalise things. The good news was that I hadn’t experienced another migraine, and the car was still where I had left it. I remembered to stop the walker App. Six miles!!! What had I been thinking? I collapsed into the driver’s seat. I had one night in Marlborough before what I knew were going to be exhausting and challenging weeks ahead. Despite the sudden onset of knackerdom I knew I had made the right call. I’d breathed in the heady Wiltshire air and seen its ups and grassy Downs, I was ready.
* The enormous monument was erected by the 3rd Marquess of Landsdowne (who he?), in honour of one of his ancestors. The Petty-FitzMaurice’s have been around a very long time, and one of them was even Prime Minister around the time the French were despatching with their own aristos. From what I can tell the 9th Marquess still sits, unelected but inherited, in the House of Lords.
** As at the end of 2025, if you look on Google Street view you can see that the gate is unlocked and just inside the field several cars are parked up. Daytripper’s/hare coursers? Nearby a sign states, “private property”. One way or the other the landowner has since decided to secure the premises and this may be legitimate, but by locking the gate she/he has also blocked a signed byway (thus preventing onward horse travel).
*** It took a while and a lot of searching but I’ve since concluded that the erratic’s at the top of the chalk weren’t limestone but in fact sarsen stones. How they came to be there is unclear (see infinite theories on Stonehenge). The logical answer is by glaciation, but maybe human action too.
**** Well blow me down!!! I decided to see why Gunsite Road was called what it was called and came across this little article (which suggests it once led to a firing range). Just up the hill from the locked gate, going towards the long barrow, was the setting for the moment in Saving Private Ryan when the army officer and priest visit Mrs Ryan at her home on the plains of Utah to tell her three of her sons had died in action. A very moving scene.
The forecast was for persistent rain (the first significant precipitation in weeks) starting at 9am. So, when, half awake and in that contented slumber state, the first few heavy drops landed just inches above my head on whatever the modern version of canvas is these days, it was time to leap into action. It was 7am.
When I say leap, what I actually did was roll about for a few minutes in an effort to attach whatever bit of clothing was to hand to my body. Having eventually achieved a degree of decency I unzipped the tent flap and rolled out into the early misty morning day. Isolated large drops of rain landed all around, but it wasn’t yet the predicted downpour.
I rattled around for a bit, setting up the small gas burner, placing a tea bag in a mug whilst simultaneously pulling metal pegs from the rock-hard earth, and decanting various bits and bobs from inside my little mobile home and throwing them into the car boot. It’s surprising what you can achieve when suitably motivated.
Twenty minutes later, suitably lubricated and with all evidence of human occupation removed from the two-metre square patch of grass that had been my bed for the previous two nights, I set off towards the “facilities” for a quick wash and brush up. As I set off, coming in the opposite direction was the friendly woman who ran the site, and I had last seen when checking in. At 7.50 in the morning, and with no other evidence of life, naturally my immediate thought was “what have I done?”
“Good morning,” she said as we neared. “Good morning,” I replied, “ehm… have I not paid you?”
“No, no…. I mean yes you have, but I saw you taking down your tent and just wanted to thank you for staying with us.”
This doesn’t happen in real life. I was genuinely surprised, thanked her back and then got on with my day. Naturally the site received a 5-star rating some days later.
I was going home but had factored in two more “tops” on my journey back. The first was going to be Southend-on-Sea Unitary Authority, and then, closer to London, Thurrock Unitary Authority. It was going to be a long journey down through Norfolk, Suffolk and then Essex, but it was still early, and I was set on the idea of pulling over at the first greasy spoon (AKA diner) on whatever A roads I was going to be on, and getting stuck into a big breakfast and a large pot of tea.
I had a fairly good idea of the roads I was going to take and figured that something along the lines of the breakfast opportunity outlined above would materialise somewhere in the vicinity of the nearby town of Holt. As I approached Holt, the rain, which had stopped seconds after I had left the tent, began to show itself again, but before I knew it, I was beyond Holt with not a cafe in sight. Never mind, it would just be a matter of time before I came across a Happy Eater type roadside.
Time passed, as did countless fields, coppices and the occasional farm. I reached Norwich, which eased me onto a ring road not much shorter than the M25. Time continued to pass, as did countless fields, coppices and the occasional farm. I was now heading towards Ipswich, and so far, not a sniff of a mid-morning breakfast stop.
Under leaden skies that continued to threaten but not produce, I ploughed on south on the A140 and then, just west of Ipswich, on the A12 and towards London. It was late morning, and still not a hint of a roadside cafe or diner other than the occasional petrol station with their generic coffee brands and fast fat grab fests.
There’s always a moment in time when, despite the lofty principles, you have to admit defeat, and that came halfway between Colchester and Chelmsford. Apart from tap water and a small bag of mints, the longed-for breakfast had proved to be a dismal disappointment. With the adventure in Southend still ahead, I had to take an executive decision and pulled in at the BP petrol station just short of Witham. A sign just before the turning had indicated “services”, but (and at risk of legal action by the company in question), the ubiquitous global refreshments retailer outlet on offer suggested otherwise. Given I now had no option I shelled out some hard-won bucks for the soapy sludge they called coffee, and several more for a lump of stodgy dough that was shaped like a croissant. Out of the window, the long-awaited rain at last appeared. What an abject experience.
With “breakfast” now swishing around inside of me, I continued on to Chelmsford and then took the A130 directly south towards Southend. There had been one benefit from stopping at the “services”. I’d taken the opportunity to double check on my objective at Heath Mount. On previous checks I had not been entirely clear on the exact spot. I did another one of my random searches. The result on this occasion: “The highest point in Southend-on-Sea is London Road.”
London Road! What? I searched the London Road suggestion, and it was at least a mile away from Heath Mount. I went back to the source and read on. “Alternatively, and at an equal height, is Heath Mount.”
I had made an important discovery. An authority with twin peaks, although at just 61 metres perhaps twin flats was a more appropriate expectation. Either way I had found this out in just the nick of time. If I hadn’t discovered this till later, I doubt if I would have the enthusiasm, or indeed the life force enough to have returned. Looking at the two locations I decided to chalk off Heath Mount first, and by now had a pretty good idea where to go.
With the rain easing I pulled up on Belfairs Park Drive, a small cul-de-sac just off Woodside, another small road on an interwar estate just south of the A127, but nowhere near the centre of Southend, or indeed the sea.
On Belfairs and Woodside – the inspiration I am sure for many a suburban novel
At the end of the drive there was an entrance to some woods with occasional dog walkers entering and exiting. I walked into the appropriately named Belfair Woods and after a couple of hundred metres rationalised that I must have passed over the highest point, so returned to the car. There was no helpful sign to indicate it was Heath Mount, but I was satisfied that the first part of the mission had been accomplished.
Entrance to the Woods
The heady heights at 200 feet
Back at the car I checked my bearings and then set off, winding my way through unfamiliar streets until I reached the London Road (A13) where I turned right, eventually turning left into Tattershall Gardens and pulling over. There was another peak to conquer. I looked south and directly towards a grey smudge at the end of the straight road. Just a hint of the Thames through the drizzle. If it had been a brighter day, I might have been able to see the eastern tip of Canvey Island, but it wasn’t, so I didn’t (any excuse to slip in a Dr Feelgood reference). *
I walked back up to London Road. On the corner two children’s scooters lay abandoned on the greasy grass verge. Crime had reached a new low in these parts.
Within metres I was standing at the edge of Southend’s boundary with Essex and the town of Hadleigh. Other than a sign it would have been impossible to have distinguished between the two towns.
No ambiguity here
The back gardens of Tattershall Gardens backed onto a large field that largely sat in Essex. Looking south across the field the land appeared to be slightly higher at this point, sadly obscuring the estuary.
The rise of Hadleigh and towards the Thames
But it was Essex and the joint highest point in Southend was approximately somewhere on the pavement I was standing on and looking at a fenced off lump of wood that told a tall tale of some old tree or other being on this spot. There used to be a sign on the side of a modern building in Tavistock Square in London that stated, “Charles Dickens once lived in a house near this spot”. Someone with a sense of humour and objectivity had scrawled next to it “So what!” It was a well-made point and always used to make me smile. It’s gone now. I’m tempted to go back there one day and write on the same wall – “In memory of – So What”.
Maybe instead of a lump of wood commemorating a long-gone tree, a plaque on a large stone pointing out that this was the “joint” highest point in Southend might draw more interest. Just a thought.
So what?
I’d been to Southend-on-Sea several times over my life, mainly with the kids, but also on my bike. I had reached the end of the world’s longest pier (at least twice), and lost money in the arcades, so, on this bleak but humid day I had no desire to head down to the front. I still had one other objective for the day. The excitement of reaching the highest point in Thurrock Unitary Authority was rising and I needed to get going.
*I was going to insert the theme tune to Twin Peaks but having listened to it again for the first time in more than thirty years it’s far too mournful and depressing so here’s some Feelgood instead. Canvey Islands finest assaulting a defenceless French ville in 1976
I knew I had landed in Norfolk when I drove past a large sign saying so, but which added that I was also entering Nelson country. It was, apparently, the hottest day of the year so far (so far there had been too many already), and had just reached the top of Suffolk at Great Wood. I was heading for Norfolk’s north coast and a campsite just outside the village of Blakeney, a place I knew nothing about.
Almost as soon as I entered Norfolk the scenery changed. Mile upon mile of heathland and conifers marked out the impressive Breckland landscape, which, prior to undertaking the high points challenge, I had assumed would be where Norfolk’s high point would be found. Apparently not.
I reached the campsite late in the afternoon and was offered the choice of two remaining pitches. One was next to the cleaning facility, the other by a hedge next to the nearby road. The appeal of being close to the toilets was enticing, but something told me to take the other option. After pitching the tent, I needed to take the opportunity of using the facilities, and as I approached in the baking heat, realised that I had made the right call. The septic tank might have been doing its best but there was no mistake – this was another type of county “high”.
In need of food, and having blown my options the previous evening, I walked into town. All I knew about Blakeney was that it was a great spot to see seals, but I had also just read that it had the highest number of exclusive homes in the UK that had been subject to charity lotteries through Omaze, a phenomenon that I simply can’t get my head around. In a town near me a huge modern oligarch type bunker was recently built on the site of an older family house. On completion it suddenly appeared on numerous feeds in one of these lotteries, going for £4m. Who would have thought we were in the middle of a housing crisis?
With the heat still pounding, I spent a while taking in the views around the creeks and then dived into the Kings Arms.
Up a creek
I had hoped to have sat outside, but understandably every seat was taken. It was like a sauna inside the bar. I ordered a meal and a pint and found a snug. The meal arrived within minutes and was as hot as the core of the sun. I had noticed a sign outside claiming that it was a Michelin star establishment. Based on the searing pile of mashed potato and molten gravy offered up, it wasn’t anymore. As I ate, more plates of food of mammoth proportions were being served up around the pub. Each delivery was met with a gasp of incredulity, or perhaps despair, by the customers, many of whom had already placed orders for desserts and were now regretting their enthusiasm. I managed to quell the burnt embers of what was left of my palate with another beer before heading on back to the campsite and promising to myself that I would make do with something from the nearby chippy the following evening.
The weather forecast for the following day was for a scorchio repeat. The night before my tent had been sited under trees and by a cool lake. There was none of that here on the exposed Norfolk field. So, when I woke up after a good night’s slumber, and hadn’t felt the immediate need to escape from an oven, it occurred to me that the weather had changed. And, on crawling out of the tent, it had. The sun was hidden behind low and intermittent clouds. A breeze was pulling in from the north-east and it felt that the sweltering heat had passed. After a couple of brews, it was time to head off to the day’s objective: Beacon Hill at West Runton.
I drove along the north Norfolk coast road, a satisfying journey through interesting looking towns, Cley next the Sea being the pearl. I stopped in Sheringham, ostensibly to grab a pie and a coffee. The best thing about parking up in Sheringham was that the car park serviced the North Norfolk Railway. As I was locking the car I heard the familiar rumble of a class 37 gunning up its distinctive diesel engine. I had my SLR camera on me and was desperate to get onto the platform to get some shots, but with all the flaffing around with bags and mobile phones there was no time to get there so I had to content myself with a quick snap on the phone from the other side of the tracks.
The Class 37 leaving Sheringham – missing audio enhancement
The town was heaving and at the seafront the sun came and went behind scudding clouds whilst seahorses danced on excitable waves. It was a lovely day, but I was here to secure an interesting breakfast pastry. Walking back up the hectic high street, it became apparent that despite the huge number of food outlets, there was a homogeny common to most of our towns these days. It might just be me, but when the only options are fish and chips, and sausage rolls, we seem to have lost our culinary diversity. The problem was I couldn’t put my finger on it. Was I imagining some previous time that didn’t exist when it was possible to get pastries and tarts that consisted of more than just cheddar cheese and pork? * Either way in the end I had to settle for an average sausage roll from a local bakery. I retreated back to the station, grabbed a coffee nearby and watched the occasional engine moving up and down the line.
Classic diesel multiple unit action
Twenty minutes on and I was parking up on Sandy Lane, West Runton, and just above sea level. Beacon Hill is one of the few county tops that can be reasonably reached after starting any walk from sea-level. One of the few others is Ben Nevis, and here the comparison ends.
Confirmation I was in Norfolk
Some paths led away to the west and into woodland, but I knew that my objective lay almost directly up Sandy Lane and decided to go route one, rather than taking the risk of getting lost in the woods. It was a narrow road, and I had to keep my wits about me whenever a vehicle approached. Large Edwardian homes were set back off the road in dells and with extensive luxuriant grounds. Beyond the houses the beech and birch woodlands spread away on either side. After a kilometre or so I reached the brow of the hill and turned right on a track leading to a caravan site, opposite which was a sign for Roman Camp, the top of Beacon Hill. I read the information board which suggested that there is no evidence for any Roman activity at the site, and that whilst the location had seen some beacon like activity at various points in history, it all seemed a bit vague. A warning sign also warned of the risk of ticks. I was wearing shorts and now was now regretting I hadn’t brought my tweezers.
The top of Beacon Hill – and associated risk warnings
I walked across the flattened ground with its raised grass banking, and looked out to the north, past the trees and towards the North Sea. But there was nothing to see on the small segment of sea that I could see, so I carried on along the track that serviced the caravan site and gradually lost elevation.
No boats or ships to see through the trees and towards the distant sea.
A couple of weeks ago (as I write), mass hysteria broke out on the beaches of Norfolk when a boat, whose crew were merrily rowing around the UK coast to raise money for charity, was wrongly identified as a vessel full of asylum seekers. Urgent Twitters were sent out by all and sundry, urging a Border Force intervention, and people gathered and marched along the beaches near Great Yarmouth to deter any landing. The local MP Rupert Lowe (ex-Reform, now Independent Witch-finder General) led the on-line charge (sorry – frenzy) and later had to apologise. Of course, this incident is no reflection on the people of Norfolk, the vast majority of whom would find this behaviour a tad indecent and recognise that the chance of a small rowing boat making it from mainland Europe to this coastline would be nothing short of miraculous. Horatio would have been impressed. I only mention this here because since I started this exercise, the xenophobic atmosphere has been escalating, and incidents like the one described here are becoming commonplace. Perhaps I should turn a blind eye, in the Nelson style, but…. Nah!
After a quarter of a mile, I picked a footpath down through the woods and heartland. A nice spot that you could spend some hours just chilling.
A better view
At the foot of the hill a lane headed back towards Sandy Lane with a field to the right. In that field I noticed several large horses. One, a bandy-legged large grey, was gazing at me from a distance. As I walked along the lane this particular individual followed my progress, either with menace, or simple curiosity. Getting closer it struck me that these horses, in particular the bandy-legged big white, were massive. I had realised that they were probably shire horses, but having only ever seen one or two in all my life, I was struck by their size.
Who you lookin’ at?
Outstared I moved on and was back at the car five minutes later.
Returning to the campsite and a quick brew, I legged it back into Blakeney. It was still relatively early, but I wanted to make sure I got to the chip shop before it closed (you never know these days). Guess what? It was closed. A sign indicated that it only opened early afternoons. WTF!!!! How bourgeois!
And so, it was back to the King’s Arms. The heat of the day before had gone so I was happier back in the bar but hesitant to order any more food. On a chalk board a parsnip, coriander and curry soup was being offered, with some bread, for just £7. After it had arrived and I had finished it off, I went to the bar. The woman behind the bar asked what I would like. “I just wanted to say that that was the best soup I have ever had.” And it was.
*A couple of days ago, while watching a TV drama, the main character was walking along a station platform. It must have been filmed a couple of years back because he passed by a closed up Delice de France. And it all came back to me. Once upon a time there had been a Delice de France in most towns, providing just a little bit more than the traditional bland. Now, from what I can see there are no more than a handful across the entire country.
The drought and high temperatures of early 2025 had been on-going for weeks, and the weather forecast for the coming days was something along the lines of “another heatwave”, “end of humanity”, “hotter than Athens”, “keep hydrated – unless you live in any of the regions that have run out of water”. You get the idea. I’m generally ok with high temperatures, but there’s something about heatwaves in England that can be stultifying.
Ten days earlier I had managed to spend a couple of sweltering weeks in Greece, where the cicadas sang and the sea breeze stole the heat. Those delights were not going to be available in the UK over the next few days so, with the great outdoors in mind, and a few basic necessities in the backseat of the car, on Sunday 29th June I drove to the village of Gosfield and pitched up under some trees next to Gosfield Lake. At that moment, under the shade, and with a wind from the lake, it was the coolest spot in Britain.
Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to spare
In the evening, I walked into town to seek food and drink from the local hostelry – The Kings Head. Naturally, being a Sunday they didn’t serve food (a tactical mistake on my behalf that required the purchase of three bags of peanuts to stave off disaster), and whilst I had thought when booking the site that I would be spending the night in Suffolk, judging by the accents in the bar (the lack of a soft rural burr was evident), a quick check revealed I had only managed to make it to north Essex.
My overnight stay in Gosfield was just a stepping stone on my journey towards Suffolk and Norfolk, where I hoped to capture the tops of both counties. Returning to the campsite from the Kings Head I noticed a huge old country house (Gosfield Hall) that displayed a variety of historical architectural styles. Once the home to several generations of Courtauld’s (textiles and central London gallery), many of whom now lay in the graveyard of the nearby St Catherine’s church, the rowdy shouting and screaming drifting across the fields betrayed its current status as a wedding venue. A big expensive wedding, in Essex, on a hot summer evening? The stuff of reality TV surely, but what would I know about such things?
Show me the way to go home
Back at the tent and the day-trippers had gone. When I had arrived the extensive site was occupied by large family groups enjoying the weather and surroundings. One family in particular, the one next to where I had pitched my tent, seemed to be very keen to advertise their presence by playing music, which could have been K-Pop for all I knew, at maximum volume through the car speakers and with all the doors open. I should state that these events took place nearly two months ago, but whilst I have been writing this account an email has just arrived from the campsite booking website saying that I haven’t yet reviewed Gosfield Park. I was certain that I had but never mind. What’s important is that had my noisy neighbours still been there on my return that evening, my review of the site would have been very different to what I probably wrote at the time – which was along the lines of it being a very pleasant location for a Sunday night and out of season, but that perhaps during school holidays it might be a different kettle of fish.
That night, as I slowly drifted off into a sleepless night, the souped up internal combustion engines of the local boy racers (presumably on their way home from the nearby wedding) filled the sweet summer air as they greased it up the small country road to the south of the lake; reminding me that the next day I would be in a different, and perhaps slightly quieter, county.
*
It was another scorching morning, and I was grateful for the shade under the old trees and the breeze from the lake as I took down the tent and decanted the site. I drove north along insanely quiet country roads, and at one point on a road I recognised from years before on a cycle ride out of north London, eventually arriving at the town of Clare (just over the border and into Suffolk). Thirsty, but also in need of a substantial calorific infusion after the disappointment of the King’s Head I stopped at the market square, grabbed some scram from the Co-op and took a short stroll around Clare’s blanched centre. I’d never heard of this place before, but it was an architectural gem, stuffed with houses and building going back centuries, with hardly any modern clutter.
After the regenerative input I carried on north, and again along tiny lanes that were almost traffic free. Arriving in the small hamlet of Rede, I parked up near All Saint’s church. The moment I stopped the air became suffocatingly hot. It didn’t seem like a lot but from the OS map (Landranger 155) that I unaccountably possessed, I had a three mile walk ahead of me. I was beginning to have second thoughts, but on the basis that it was extremely unlikely I’d be anywhere near here ever again I dragged myself out of the car with half a bottle of tepid water as my crutch.
All Saints Church – Rede. A handy sign proved invaluable
The church looked kind of interesting, so I ambled over to the grounds, aware that every eye behind the nearby cottage windows was probably on me. It being a church and yard, it was a peaceful spot. I walked along its northern flank, determined to remain in shadow, and became aware of frantic sounds from above. Looking up I could see several bird boxes tucked under the eaves, and every few seconds swallows would fly in and out. The noise of the hungry chicks inside was being amplified through small speakers set next to one or two of boxes. There are so many wrong things going on in the world at the moment, to see that someone had spent a bit of time providing nesting sites for these beautiful birds, and bringing their sounds to the ears of the occasional visitor restored a little bit of faith in humanity.
Bird songs of praise
I walked back to the road, turned right, and then almost immediately left onto a small road that quickly led into a large field. I flanked the northern edge of the field before hopping over a ditch into an adjacent uncultivated field where trees provided some cover. A large military aeroplane with one of those big radar attachments, circled above. A gate at the end of the field took me through a pasture where a sign suggested lurking horses. None were visible.
Another large field opened beyond the small coppice I had emerged from.
Target obtained – The Great Wood!
The path headed straight as an arrow towards what was perhaps the inappropriately named Great Wood. It was obvious where I needed to go, and the baking midday sun made it an imperative I got there as quickly as possible. Under normal circumstances the path should have been a doddle, but with the ground rain free for weeks, the numerous inch wide cracks in the earth required some careful navigation. On reaching the woods, the path continued around its flank to the north. Another field, protected by a wire fence, lay to my right. A sign indicated that it was being left to nature to encourage wildlife. It looked tatty but was clearly performing its designated function. Hundreds, if not thousands, of small white butterflies danced around in the air above the vegetation. These sorts of interventions in the countryside are controversial, particularly as we continue to import more and more food from the other side of the world, and, as evidenced this year, global warming is knocking the shit out of our crops. But, when you can see with your own eyes the astonishing fecundity of nature when we provide the necessary rebalancing habitat, you must be hopeful.
A thousand small white butterflies – but you’ll have to take my word for it
A common brimstone butterfly, one of many gracing the Peloponnese two weeks earlier.
At the top of the field a huge construction site was generating some activity. An Anglian Water, pipeline and water storage facility the size of a football stadium. It’s infrastructure at least but whether it is too little too late, we’ll have to see.
Top Digger action at the water works
Flanking the works and along a path through shrubland I emerged onto a dusty road network, primarily servicing the construction traffic. From what I had researched the highest point wasn’t in the Great Wood, but directly opposite in a small thicket that sported a communication tower. Lots of warning signs warned of crossing the roads, and to be fair, I was duly warned. There was no point trying to explore further so I sat down on a plastic road barrier (which was bizarrely full of stagnant water that hinted at a mosquito breeding ground) and took a moment out of the sun.
Catching the rays at Suffolks highest point.
Looking at the map I could tell that there was an alternative route back to Rede and that at the end of this route the sign for a public house. It being a Monday, and it also being in the middle of nowhere, I had to accept that a cold soft drink at the end of the walk was unlikely, but it was incentive enough.
I wound back through the shrubby path and after a couple of false starts found the alternative path that took me through woodland to the south of the Great Wood. Despite the relative coolness of the glades, I was conscious of being slightly dehydrated. Emerging from the woods a track headed south-east along the edge of a vast field. Again, the heavily cracked earth made progress mildly treacherous, but eventually the track gave way to a metalled road, Pickard’s Lane. The lane continued into a complex of buildings that looked like a farm, but which seemed to be slightly more industrial. To the right a small field had been contoured and landscaped in an imaginative style, which included what looked like a miniature Glastonbury Tor.
East Anglia’s Avalon. If you’ve reached this point, you’ve gone too far.
A man was delivering some goods to the industrial building just beyond. If I continued along the lane, would I get back to Rede, I asked. No, it was private property (Pykards Hall to be precise), and I had to go back a bit where I would find a path heading north. The thought of any retreat by this stage was slightly depressing but it had to be done. Finding the path, I walked through more woods and eventually emerged at The Plough, which immediately spoke of bygone times and warm beer after a hard day in the fields.
The scene of the crime – The ex-Plough
Initial observations weren’t hopeful. As I suspected, being a Monday it appeared to be very much closed. And I wasn’t wrong. Indeed, it was so closed and devoid of any indication that a good beer, or other sustenance, could be procured that I had to conclude that the old Plough Inn was now very much a private home. I guess it didn’t surprise me too much, but it still felt like a rural murder had been committed. Why hadn’t this made national news?
Opposite the gutted remains of the pub stood a small and neat village hall. A woman with a small dog was sheltering under a nearby tree. As I passed, I said hello and asked her what had happened to the pub. She confirmed it had been closed for some years and was now a private home. Shucks! I thanked her and made for the car. As I passed the side of the hall, I noticed a flyer in one of the windows. A local character called Charlie Haylock was going to be doing a talk about the history of spoken English, at the hall on the 2nd of August, with proceeds going to the church. It might have been interesting, but I wasn’t going to be there, and I also wondered if I would have been able to sit through it without being reminded of Bob Fleming’s, Country Matters from the Fast Show, and not coughing out loud.
Charlie Haylock’s last gig
Walking the short distance back to the car, if Lee Van Cleef had stepped out from behind a post further down the road and spat a mouthful of tobacco into the curb, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. I opened the driver’s door to be met by an urgent escape of searingly hot air bursting out into the open, reminding me of the time I’d visited Ravenscraig steel foundry in the 1970’s.
I waited a few minutes before risking getting into the car. I guess I had enjoyed the walk, but it definitely hadn’t been the day to do it. I liked Rede too, though the murder of the pub had probably killed off the hamlet’s beating heart. Still, there was always the village hall and the occasional event, but you’d have had to be there, and it was time for me to vamoose. An ice-cold drink was calling from a faraway town
I had been driving around the large and presumably ancient village green at Langley Upper Green for several minutes hopelessly trying to find a legitimate parking space. Not because every parking space was occupied; quite the opposite – there simply wasn’t anywhere to park. Despite my frustration I had to admire the fact that you could take in the sight of the green space without the slightest hint of painted metal and rubber. After several reconnoitres, I noticed a modern building with its own small car park located on the greens eastern flank. I parked up, searched high and low for any signs that might indicate a vehicle indiscretion and concluded it was safe.
I was at Langley Upper Green because, from what I could tell, it was the closest starting point to get to the highest point in Essex, and a spot called Chrishall Common. Half an hour or so before I had been to the top of Cambridgeshire, at the nearby village of Great Chishill. At 146 metres high, Great Chishall is 146 on the list of County and Unitary Authority tops. At 147 metres Chrishall Common is 145 on that same list (keeping up?). If that’s some strange symmetry, make of it what you wish. Or maybe call it a plateau.
After weeks of drought and high temperatures, a gathering cold front was pulling low, grey but thinnish cloud in from the west and offering the possibility of rain. I pulled on a light anorak and set off across the green and towards the north-west corner, where I hoped to find a path into fields.
A gravel-based road ran along the north of the green, serving some houses on the northern edge, and then a handful of newer mock period houses ranged on the eastern edge. Not unattractive, and blessedly not gated off, but surprising given that I assumed the green had at one time been common land. Maybe it wasn’t. A look at a map from around 100 years earlier showed that the green then was about twice as large.
The green at Upper Langley – not yet gated
I found the path at the top of the green and then passed between two areas of land, possibly orchards that had been fenced off. This path led to a large field with a huge stack of hay, the size of a large building, that can be identified from space on Google earth.
Giant haystacks – The great Bale of Langley
A path flanked the field heading west and then a turn to the right and north and skirting another much larger field.
Sweeping up to the top
A stiff breeze brought with it spots of rain that threatened a possible deluge. It would have been very welcome, but never quite materialised. A large wood lay at the north of the field and stretched away several hundred metres to the west. As far as I understood it, the highest point in Essex was either in, or just beyond the line of trees. A path, identified by a post with multiple signs, led through the woods and into another field.
Every which way in Essex
If the highest point was somewhere in front of me, it was impossible to pinpoint it, and as far as I knew it could have been back in the woods. With the threat of increasing rainfall (which failed to materialise) I retreated to the southern field, and within fifteen minutes was back on the green.
Chrishall Common – The high point!
As a leg stretcher I quite enjoyed this short walk in a big flat landscape. Maybe the overcast conditions didn’t do it justice, and maybe it would be best enjoyed dressed to the max and traipsing across the fields in a February blizzard with the wind whipping in from the east.
A distressing discovery has emerged whilst writing up this account. Earlier in the year, and based on sound research, I had climbed to the highest point in Bristol at Cossham Memorial Hospital, Lodge Hill. So, as I was checking down the height information for this piece on the Peak Bagger list I noticed Bristol, but it was showing a different name!!! What the what the???? Dundry Hill East! Dumbfounded, I did some searches and sure enough a recent article in Bristol Live explained that following a boundary change in 1949 Dundry Hill was quite a lot higher than Lodge Hill. Peak Bagger must have agreed and made the change. Finding this out means a lot of unpicking, but most distressingly requires another trip. Oh well, the joys.
El Colmado 57 