Tag: walks

Cresting the County – Wiltshire

Milk Hill

Metres 294

Feet 965

30th July 2025

Two Walks and a Migraine

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.

https://www.sarsen.org/2019/08/gunsite-road-archaeology.html

Cresting the County – Southend-on-Sea Unitary Authority

Heath Mount AND London Road

61 Metres

200 feet

2nd July 2025

Twin Peaks

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

Cresting the County – Norfolk

Beacon Hill – Roman Camp

105 Metres

344 Feet

1st July 2025

I see no ships

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.

Cresting the County – Suffolk

Great Wood

129 Metres

423 feet

30th June 2025

Hot Footing

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

https://www.bing.com/videos/riverview/relatedvideo?q=bob+fleming+badger+watch&mid=59077F69EC78594845E659077F69EC78594845E6&FORM=VIRE

Cresting the County – Essex

Chrishall Common

147 Metres

482 feet

27th May 2025

The Only Way is Essex

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.

Cresting the County – Nottingham (Unitary Authority)

Mapperley

134 Metres

440 feet

22nd May 2025

Wednesday Night/Thursday Morning

After the night before (when Spurs had beaten Manchester United in the UEFA Europa League Trophy final, and after I had chalked off Rutland and the City of Leicester), I had one more day in Nottingham and felt the need to visit its highest point. I say I felt the need, but that’s not strictly true. To be honest I was just slightly hungover. Nothing that I was regretting, but just that slightly off feeling that thankfully I hadn’t felt in some years. Either way my brother was working from home, and it was important that I got out of his hair (of which he is still blessed, and I am not).

I’ve been to Nottingham many times; on a couple of occasions in the 1970’s on day trips from Leicester to the Old Trip to Jerusalem and other hostelries, but many more times after my brother moved there in the late 1980’s. I have to say it never occurred to me that it had any land higher than the site of the castle (which remains one of the world’s biggest disappointments, especially if you’ve ever seen any Robin Hood films). For everything else you’ll ever need to know about Nottingham, and the engineering beauty (!) of Maid Marion Way, I can’t recommend enough Mark Steel’s – In Town – Nottingham on BBC. *

I had discovered that the highest point in town was a place called Mapperley located vaguely somewhere in the north-east. Dosed up on coffee I drove directly towards the city centre, which involved passing the Trent Bridge cricket ground. There were a lot of people mingling around but I didn’t put two and two together (probably a county match I mused), and carried on over the bridge, with the Forest ground to my right. I should say a couple of things about Nottingham Forest’s City ground (just to string this relatively brief account out a tad more).

I’ve been there a few times with my brother and sister-in-law over the years, but mainly during Forest’s leaner years. The first time I went was with a die-hard Brighton fan called Trevor. From memory it was the second leg of the League cup quarter final, on a freezing winter night in December 1978, and for the life of me I can’t remember what convinced me to go or (being that I was from Croydon), why he had invited me in the first place. This was about the time when Forest were about to make history and had the classic Brian Clough line-up. We took a bus up from Leicester and by kick-off we were in with thousands of Brighton away fans.

It was an exciting game. The Brighton fans were boisterous throughout, but in the end Forest were triumphant, and eventually we set off back to the station (the surroundings of which have changed out of all recognition in the intervening years: the delightful Victorian Bentinck Hotel pub, now a desultory Starbucks) with the thousands of others who had made the long journey from the south coast. And that of course is where they left us, and we had to make our way to the bus station, on our own, in the rain, and with Trevor refusing to zip up his coat and cover his blue and white Brighton and Hove Albion scarf, despite my whimpered pleas to his conscience. With the streets still crammed with celebrating Forest fans, I had never felt more exposed. Dirty, threatening looks, abuse and the possibility of violent intervention at any time convinced me that if we survived the night and escaped Nottingham unharmed, I would definitely not travel with Trev to a Brighton away game again. We eventually made it out of town on the late bus to Leicester, and I kept my promise.

The other significant moment, just outside the City ground, was some years later when walking along the river Trent footpath with my brother and their dog. We were the only people about until ahead of us a group of male athletes on a powerful jog headed towards us. As they closed in my brother speculated that it was the current Forest team, and sure enough, as they passed, I recognised one or two. “Morning lads,” came the heavily Glasgow accented greeting from the older man at the rear. On the 11th of June 1978, Archie Gemmill had scored the greatest Scottish goal of all time against Holland in the World Cup in Argentina. As a Scottish family living in the diaspora we had watched the game, more in hope than expectation. When Archie scored his wonder goal the roof nearly came off the house, and in many Scottish towns and cities there are still buildings with structural damage from the resultant seismic aftershocks. Scotland won the game, but it wasn’t enough to qualify for the knockout phase, but it didn’t matter. Archie was God, and he had just spoken to us.  

I drove further into the town centre and, without incident, managed to find myself heading north-east on St Anne’s Wells Road. I turned left at Ransom Road, simply on the basis that it headed upwards, often a useful clue in these situations. To my surprise the road rose steeply with interesting parks to the left and right. At the top I turned right onto Woodborough Road and eventually pulled up in the carpark of an Aldi to get my bearings. I was in Mapperley, and a quick check informed me that the highest point was just a short walk further to the north-east. The sign said I had two free hours, so long as I shopped in the store. It was going to be a risk, but I figured that the chance of parking up, not making a purchase and being caught, was low.

It was just a three-minute walk. The highest point seems to be at the rear of a bleak looking Victorian block of flats set behind some grim railings and gloomy woodland just opposite the busy and confusing junction with Porchester Road.

There was no helpful instruction for Right turners.

I passed on by. The oppressive heavy-duty railings continued to line the left-hand side of the road, behind which was what appeared to be a grass covered reservoir.

The grassy uplands of Mapperley

The highest point appears to be the back garden of this indeterminate bleak house

Walking back to the car I looked around at the most eclectic collection of buildings you could find in any place in the country. Mainly Victorian and early 20th century not one of them looked like the next, and without exception, other than a strange quirkiness, none had any architectural interest or value. It seems that high ground to the east of an industrial city does not a garden suburb make.

I’d chalked Mapperley off the list but still had a few hours to continue my Nottingham investigations. I had an objective. Something I had been aware of for some years but had not had the opportunity. I drove back into the centre, navigating tricky road layouts, past the castle and then west, eventually reaching the area of Toton an hour or so later. I parked up on a new estate and then headed into the Toton Fields Nature Reserve. After twenty minutes or so the rising land took me to a point I had hoped existed. I knew I was there because there were a few other people with cameras and binoculars looking down the slope to the west, and the noise below was distinctive.

I was overlooking the Toton marshalling and freight yards. A hive of railway activity with locomotives slowly moving north and south, vying for position. Every so often a long freight train pulling through. Immediately below two peripheral sidings were the final resting places for scores of redundant diesels, just waiting to be scrapped. In a way quite a moving sight but somewhat inevitable given our rejection of railways as a means of tackling our multitude of problems. But beyond, the activity suggested that whilst the rail freight business might be down, it wasn’t quite out. And the only reason I am talking about this at all is that the site contained the largest selection of Class 66 diesel locomotives in one place that I have ever seen (and they weren’t all red) **

A colouration of Class 66s.

The end of the line at Toton

I could have sat and watched the activity at the Toton yards for hours more, but it was time to go back to West Bridgeford.

I walked back south on the low ridge (which I guessed was artificial) and just as the yard was coming to an end, with my route out of the reserve to the left, I looked up. On the horizon, perhaps a mile or two to the south, the huge cooling towers of the old Ratcliffe on Soar power station reared above the low Nottinghamshire plain. It occurred to me that it might be the last time I would ever see it, it having been in my line of sight on hundreds of occasions since the mid 1960’s. Coal powered and out of date, it nevertheless always had an uplifting, cathedral like and overwhelming appeal. But, despite the unaccountable nostalgia, it must go and for the last time I took a photo.

Fair ye well Ratcliffe on Soar.

After navigating through the usual late afternoon urban congestion, I found myself driving back past the cricket ground. It was heaving, which was a surprise. The radio had been on and suddenly they had gone over to Trent Bridge for an update on the cricket! England v Zimbabwe one off test match. And at that moment I was there, but not. How could I have missed this opportunity? I reflected that I could have spent the day in the sun watching the great game, but then, just think what I would have missed if I had.

* https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m001bgrp

** Red Class 66 locomotives have joyfully received a mention in at least two other Cresting the Counties (Rutland and Medway)

Cresting the County – Portsmouth UA

Portsdown Hill (Fort Southwick)

131 Metres

430 Feet

2nd April 2025

Up Pompy – The Wrong Way

The day after reaching the top of Bournemouth, Christchurch and Poole (UA), and a debatable claim to the highest point of Southampton, I awoke in Southsea, and to another sparkling but breezy day. I had some hours to kill before shifting back home, and so, with the couple I had been staying with, took a long and invigorating stroll along the seafront to Southsea Castle. With small, middling and large boats, vessels and ships slipping in and out of the channel, and across to the Isle of Wight – like a south coast version of the Bosphorus – there was so much going on it never crossed my mind to take a photo.

Over a coffee in the attractive Southsea Castle cafe, I tediously blabbed on about recent adventures and reaching the highest points of counties, but that it had now come with the additional complication of the Unitary Authorities. I think it was just about then that they started getting twitchy about when I was actually going to leave. “So,” I asked, “how do I get to Portsdown Hill?” At which point I noticed the life force leaving them both. Almost without thinking they told me it was above the main hospital and gave me what they claimed to be easy and accurate directions.

After bidding them farewell I headed out of Southsea, the same way I had come the evening before, this time without any major traffic jams. I reached the M27 which I crossed, and despite confidence in my directional skills almost immediately ended up on an industrial estate that had me befuddled for over twenty minutes. I eventually discovered the tiny road out and up, more by luck than design. I was relieved to have escaped the labyrinth of small roads, not least because I suspected that the more observant bystanders in the area were concluding that I might have been casing one or two of the units in the pursuit of criminal endeavour.

I knew my way now. Continuing uphill I came to a roundabout and turned left. Almost immediately I suspected an error, and at the first opportunity turned right into a housing estate. Actually, I thought, if I continued up, I might get to the hospital (one of the primary reference points suggested by my friends). Despite the grid pattern estate roads, one way and no entry system had me in another pickle. I surrendered, pulled up and consulted the phone. No, there was no way to get to the hospital without going back down and out. The road I wanted was just above me. I could see it. Vehicles were heading up and down the road cut into the chalk.

Eventually the estate spat me out and I was, at last, on track, passing the hospital and heading up the steep chalk incline on Southwick Hill Road (which judging by its appearance must have once been a long cliff butting up to the sea), and to the top. I crossed over a roundabout heading west and then followed the road (the brilliantly named James Callaghan Drive), for a mile or so before it started to lose elevation. The day before I had stayed in the Nags Head in Lyme Regis, which in 1964 had entertained Harold Wilson. For younger readers, and any wider audience, most will have heard of Harold Wilson, but not so many perhaps of his successor as Labour leader, and then Prime Minister, James Callaghan (Uncle Jim). Two socialist PMs in two days. Maybe this could be a new hobby – seeking out places honouring socialist Prime Ministers (it probably wouldn’t take too long). Callaghan had been born in Pompy. He lost the 1979 election to the Tories. I had voted Labour but to no avail (I was just 21 and it was my first time). I graduated the same year, and (I won’t mince my words) along with millions of others, spent the next three years either out of work or in temporary employment, primarily due to the slash and burn policies that were subsequently implemented. Nice to have a road named after him, I thought, but I had to press on. I was at Fort Southwick, but that wasn’t where I wanted to be. My friends had been quite specific. The highest point was surely Fort Widley, just above Queen Alexandra Hospital. Who was I to argue with the locals? I turned the car round and then set off back the way I had come, and at the roundabout continued over and, soon enough, came to a turning into a small road that I knew was going to get me to Fort Widley.

It was a busy spot. I left the car and walked past the burger van and into some overgrowth where a path hinted at further progress towards the top. The huge 19th century fort came into view, but despite a scout around to left and right, further progress seemed impossible as the entire massive fortification was protected by a modern metal fence with pointy bits on top.

I strolled back to the car, satisfied that as far as I could, I had reached the top of Portsmouth. Buying a coffee (a very good one as it happens) from the Route 66 Burger van, I sat and contemplated the view for the first time. It was entirely familiar to me. Last summer I had camped in West Sussex in the pursuit of Blackdown Hill, the highest point in that county. On the evening of my arrival, I had climbed Beacon Hill a few miles to the south. At the summit I had taken a photo looking southwest towards Portsmouth.

Looking towards Portsmouth and Portsdown Hill from Beacon Hill – August 2024

Now I seemed to be looking at the same view, but just a lot closer. Magnificent. The Solent, picture blue, with the Isle of Wight basking offshore. There was no sign of either of the royal white elephant aircraft carriers in the harbour, which was just as well as on the occasions I have seen them in the past I have just got upset at their sheer expense and lack of justification.

The infamous, In My Imagination Incident

Time to head off, but not before a photo to record the moment

A closer view of Pompy – From Widley Fort

I was out of town and onto the M27 quick time. Heading east the road began to take a slow sweep to the right. I recognised it immediately. The last time I had driven this way the radio was on and, at this point, up popped the then Prime Minister Liz Truss, giving one of the most baleful resignation speeches ever (beaten only by her predecessor Boris Johnson in its lack of sincerity). She had indeed resigned!! I had laughed for at least the next five miles. What on earth would Uncle Jim have made of it all?

The story should end now, but there is a final twist. At home, and with the benefit of technology, it became clear that Fort Widley was less of a height than I had thought. It seemed that my friends may have sent me on a fool’s errand. Where then was the highest point? My luck was in. Getting somewhat lost on the Portsdown Hill ridge I had, as mentioned above, inadvertently arrived at Fort Southwick, which, by a few metres only, turns out to be the highest point. Phew! I hadn’t stepped out of the car and attempted the short walk to the actual highest point, which seems to be to the east of the fort, but I think a drive was enough to make do, and the photo I would have taken, was likely to have been very similar to the one from Fort Widley. It would have to do, for the moment. If I return to Portsmouth, which is probable, I’ll get it right.

Cresting the County – First year Review – May 2024 to April 2025

I hadn’t seen it coming, but when it did, I had to confront the beast. The Unitary Authority! But before we meet the beast, time to reflect.

On the 10th May 2024 I parked up in Westerham, Kent, marched north out of town and fifty minutes later was standing by a wall, looking across a field where my very basic research had established the highest point in Kent. Betsom’s Hill. It was a small start, but as the months progressed, further counties’ highest points were reached, either on foot, or drive by. I’d have liked to have done one on the bike, but that may remain a pipedream.

I had initially been inspired to take up this arguably pointless activity after a climb to the top of Sugarloaf Mountain in Monmouthshire, with my daughter and her partner J. After the climb, in March 2024, I read that Sugarloaf was the highest peak in Monmouthshire, and I realised that there might be other opportunities, either by chance, or by deliberate choice. Indeed, as I began to research the topic, I realised that over 66 years I had achieved some already. Just a few weeks later, again with my daughter and J, we were standing at the top on Ben Nevis, in a thick, cold cloud. It didn’t matter, I had done it once before thirty odd years earlier with my son, on a glorious Highland day. Just getting there had been an adventure. On the way back home, and due to far too casual planning, I narrowly missed out on the highest point in West Lothian, but three days later I drove to the highest point in Nottinghamshire.

Early on I realised that if I was going to take it a bit more seriously, I would need to compile a list of counties and establish the highest points. With the immense power of the internet this would surely be an easy matter and completed in a couple of hours.

Days later, and despite numerous searches, I hadn’t yet found what I considered to be a definitive list of British counties. Eventually I settled on a list that, from all the indicators, felt about right. It contained all the counties in Wales, Scotland, England and Northern Ireland. I created a table and placed each county in alphabetical order. Whilst I had included the six counties of Northern Ireland, but with no friends or relatives to justify a visit, I rationalised that it was unlikely any would be trod. The list understandably included Greater London and Greater Manchester.

Over the following weeks I researched the highest points and began to log by county, nearest place and height. What this process began to reveal was that I wasn’t alone. I hadn’t been naive enough to think that I had come up with an original concept, but as the weeks went by, I came across more and more sites written by others (all men so far) who were committed to the cause. In due course it became apparent that far from being a micro niche activity, after angling, it was almost certainly the largest mass participation leisure activity in the country. Oh woe…!

Well, it was what it was, and I was enjoying going to new places, finding out more about areas I may have been to before, but more interestingly, the places I had never been to before and, up until that point, had never intended to go to at all (Warwickshire being the best example so far).

Ebrington Hill, at the western most point of Warwickshire, was the last to be achieved in 2024. Winter set in, and that involved it raining almost every day for the first few weeks of 2025. I wasn’t going anywhere, not least because the roof had surrendered to the elements and I was going to have to dig deep to get it fixed.

To fill the vacuum, I went online and purchased a very large and basic map of the UK, divided by county. Simple, but beautiful in its own right. Once I had carefully mounted it onto a sheet of ply, cut from a much larger sheet that I left in B&Q when I realised it wasn’t going to fit in the car, I could now sit comfortably and gaze lovingly at the entire UK and contemplate options for the coming months. When I wasn’t hypnotised by the map or watching steady rain on the window and getting more and more anxious about the arrival of the scaffolding, I started to research the underlying geology of each of the heights. I’d previously downloaded the British Geological Survey’s Geology Viewer (BETA), and this amazing work of science, art and technology was all I needed to not only establish the underlying geology, but also accurately pinpoint the highest points (believe me not everything published online about highest points is correct or accurate).

In late March 2025 I set off for a few days in Bristol and the West County. Before leaving I sat down and took a close look at the enormous map.

An Enormous Map

The good news was that I would be passing through the north of Hampshire, where Pilot Hill marked the county’s highest point. The City of Bristol was also on my list and would be an easy win. But, looking more closely at the region around Bristol, it became clear that any previous assumptions had been misplaced. Somerset had been on my radar, but the map, published in 2014 was showing far more “counties’” than I had expected, not least South Gloucestershire.

Back in September 2024 I had climbed Cleeve Hill in Gloucestershire and had assumed it had been a done deal, but no, not according to my map. It was a mystifying blow. What had I missed when I created my original list? Turns out that what I had missed was the huge change in the political landscape that has taken place in the last half century. Of course, I knew that some of the old historic counties had long gone, Middlesex and Caithness for example, but it had completely passed me by that much of the country, (especially England) had since been subdivided (presumably due to shifting demographics, or let’s be a tad more cynical, gerrymandering?).

What my planning strategy to visit the West Country had revealed was another entity, with, from what I could glean, similar powers to traditional counties – the Unitary Authority (UA).

On one level this was deeply troubling. At the time I didn’t have the gumption to count how many additional regions were about to enter the fray, but a brief look suggested at least some tens more. But on a more positive note, this now offered up many more opportunities, not least the many Unitary Authorities that now presented themselves for inspection over the coming days. South Gloucestershire for starters, but also Bournemouth, Poole, Christchurch, Southampton and Portsmouth, that I would be passing through on my drive home a few days later. And that didn’t include North Somerset, and Bath and Northeast Somerset, which, whilst being near Bristol would have been too much to attempt during my tour.

Over the last few weeks of the self-imposed calendar year (May to April), I started to update my list of counties by adding in the Unitary Authorities. This revealed other troubling difficulties. Again, working from information on the internet, inconsistencies began to emerge. For instance, my map had shown there to be three UA’s sitting next to each other in Dorset; Poole, Bournemouth and Christchurch. This had led me astray when I had passed through the area on my way to Portsmouth. The reason being that in 2019, long after the publication of my map, these three authorities had merged to become BCP Council (Bournemouth, Christchurch and Poole). Shucks!

What this confirmed, had I not already known it, was that whilst the map was helpful, it was already out of date, and couldn’t be relied on to provide a definitive list. Again, I faced the difficulty of trying to locate an accurate list of all the UA’s. In the end I decided to opt for the information on Wikipedia, which from what I could tell, was likely to be as accurate as anything.

Needless to say, my list has expanded exponentially and is likely to keep me occupied for some time to come.

The UA/County, West Country complication

Local authority elections were held in England in May 2025. I spent most of my life in London but now live in East Sussex. I am pretty sure that when I was growing up the county of Sussex was a “thing”. But I am wrong. Sussex has been divided between East and West Sussex for centuries, and maybe as long ago as the 12th century. 1889 was the year that saw them fall under separate council governance, and in 1974 this was formalised following the Local Government Act of 1972. Now what constitutes the entirety of old Sussex consists of East and West Sussex, and the Unitary Authority of Brighton (yet to be topped).

Along with all residents of voting age in all three authority areas I was unable to vote in May. Along with several other areas across the country the government paused elections whilst a period of consultation took place to decide on whether the whole of the county should come under a single authority. Because the outcome is due in the next year or so, it was decided that it would be too expensive and impractical to hold elections for councillors who may, or may not, be out of a job in just a few months. Not only could that see the end of East and West Sussex and Brighton, but potentially lower tier authorities such as Lewes, Worthing and Hastings.

Sussex covers a massive area. It stretches from Camber Sands in the far east, East Grinstead in the north and to Wittering Sands in the far west. It’s approximately 90 miles from east to west along the coast, and, just for the record, takes bloody hours whether by road, or even worse by rail. And, apart from the Channel, what these places have in common is probably restricted to the consumption of the rather fine Harvey’s Best. Of course there is an argument that in an age of austerity, and where confusion presumably reigns over the plethora of computer and information systems that must operate, combining the authority into one, would, in a nutshell, bring obvious efficiencies of scale. I can see some benefits in that, and am yet undecided, but my gut instinct is that if it is agreed, local democracy will be stifled. At a time when there appears to be a thirst for more localism, this feels to fly in the face of that process. A single authority and an elected Mayor running this huge, and hugely economically, politically and geographically diverse area? Hmm. I’m not so sure. I certainly need to give it more attention. At least (except for Brighton, which I guess I may need to do pretty sharpish) I have stood on the highest points of both East and West Sussex.

My last walk before the end of the calendar year took me on a train ride into Kent, and from Snodland Station up to the top of the Medway Unitary Authority (yup, this wasn’t a place I had anticipated visiting until recently). That day marked the first day of Reform UK gaining control of Kent County Council (not subject to any consultation on a single authority). Hmmm, well we’ll have to see how that goes. Their first act in office was to remove the Ukrainian flag at County Hall. Gesture politics, tokenism, who knows but feels like Vlad the Invader has just got his little tippy toes on the beach at Pegwell Bay.

Before I end this introspection, a word of warning to anyone thinking of putting on the boots and pursuing the county tops (and UA’s, and Metropolitan Districts – Oh, did I not mention them?). Speaking of Sussex and putting it back into the context of this arguably futile pastime, whilst looking at some of the many blogs and websites by other committed county toppers, one in particular caught my eye. I can’t now remember how I got to Richard Gower’s site, but not only was he going after all the current counties, he had gone so far down a wormhole (and I say this with affection), that he had completed all six of the ancient “Rapes of Sussex”. These ancient administrative areas divided the county, running west to east, into six areas: Chichester, Arundel, Bramber, Lewes, Pevensey and Hastings. It’s fascinating stuff, but it’s a cause too far for me. It may be that as the sands of time catch up with me and I find myself less able to travel, visiting their respective highest points (and as it happens, I have already unwittingly done at least two of them), could become an attractive option. I’m also imagining that if the rest of the country was at one time divided into these ancient domains, the quest would become an unending toil in every sense. All that aside, I must take my hat off to Richard Gower. It’s a pukka site. **      

Just a final note on the website (if that’s what it is?). It’s rubbish. Moons ago I completed several bike rides along the coast from London, around Kent, and most of Sussex, and after each wrote up some notes on a Word document. All very well but once done, would I ever revisit them? My daughter had started posting some things on a website/blog. I liked the appearance, and as importantly I could read them on my phone without the word blindness that normally prevails. For no reason, other than I had heard of it, I started to transpose the words from Word to WordPress, added a few photos and some infantile art, and began to post each leg of the bike journey under the perhaps less than original title of Pier to Pier. *** Whether or not people read the posts (on one day I had 15 odd “likes” from what I had to assume were “bots” and emanating out of the US, given that it appeared nearly all were teenage females whose likely interest in a cycle ride round the Isle of Sheppey was deeply suspicious), didn’t concern me. What I gained from it was the thought process and then, whenever I chose, being able to read them on my phone, or any other device, to remind myself of what I had done.

I’ve been writing since I was ten (to paraphrase Marc Bolan). Immature diaries, essays, short thoughts on bands and gigs, futile attempts to write a book, and then over thirty five years, millions upon millions of words in memos, letters, works order tickets, emails, reports, presentations, minutes and many moments of long reflection when things might be getting too much, and when self-articulation through pen and paper, or keypad and screen, relieved the pressure; like lancing a boil. It may sound a bit contradictory, given that each escapade I publish an account online, but I write (primarily these days) for myself. The accounts reflect how I was feeling at any one moment, what I might have been thinking about, if there were local or international events that might influence the narrative and any significant landscape or features worthy of note. They are not intended to be a fully formed guide to other intrepid walkers, so beware should you choose to make one of these ascents solely based on one of these reads. Unless it’s obvious or easy, always take a map, and of course a phone (and keep in mind that a phone can run out of battery or connection, a map never does). 

None of the above justifies the utterly useless presentation. I have honestly tried for hours to create a landing page where different threads and menus are clear to see (like everyone else’s), but I’m no further forward that I was years ago. The next time anyone younger than me visits, I’m going to have to collar them. In the meantime, what it is will have to endure.  

The music – well that’s just an afterthought if something about the day has brought a tune to mind.  

So, having walked to the top of Betsom’s Hill, and with some more county tops on the near horizon, so to speak, it made perfect sense to commit each experience to the page, and then the world. 

I discovered one other key detail, and as such see the need to advance a precautionary slice of advice. Some weeks after climbing it I discovered that Sugarloaf Mountain was not the highest point in Monmouthshire, it’s the highest peak. When I found this out and given that it had been   the motivation to start this project, it came as a bitter pill to swallow, not least because at some point I’m going to have to go back and climb to the actual highest “point” – Chwarel y Fan, which sits a few miles to the north of Sugarloaf. Well, at least now I know. Here’s coming for ya..?

* https://geologyviewer.bgs.ac.uk/?_ga=2.58458858.1363630663.1720815697-999374144.1720815697

** https://www.richardgower.com/blog/sussexrapes

*** https://elcolmado57.co.uk/2018/10/16/pier-to-pier-a-coastal-caper-with-occasional-calamities/

Cresting the County – Greater London

Westerham Heights

245 metres (approximately)

804 feet

10th May 2024

Tales of the Unexpected

Today marks the first anniversary of having intentionally set out to bag a county summit. On the evening of the 10th May 2024, I ran, or rather walked, the gauntlet of incessant traffic, climbing up Westerham Hill on the A233 out of Westerham to Betsom’s Hill (the highest point in Kent).

But, for the moment it’s bonus ball time. What is the highest point in Greater London (the clue is above so don’t peek)?

Anyone familiar with London, and asked what they think is the highest point, will probably offer up The Shard. Might they be right? Just for the record, I have been up to the public observation point of The Shard, with a friend, in a snowstorm so bad you could barely make out London Bridge Station directly below, and with snow drifts forming inside the viewing platform!

The View from the Shard when the weather’s pants!

We took the lift. At that moment, some years ago now, were we at the highest point in Greater London? According to Wikipedia we were (although of course we weren’t because there were a couple more floors above). But, when I came to write up this account (and rest assured it is not an account of how my friend and I paid for tickets and then took three or four lifts to the top of The Shard in a snowstorm), something nagged away at me. Could it really be true that this tower, with its base almost at sea level, be higher than the two Crystal Palace TV transmitters set high on top of Beulah Hill and Sydenham Hill some miles to the south? Due to the almost zero visibility on the day of the Shard ascent, it was impossible to make any comparison, and trying to get any clarification from Google has proved almost impossible.

At first, and instinctively, I was prepared to trust Wikipedia, but for whatever reason I expanded my research and doubts began to creep in. To cut a long story short (I made several attempts at it, having landed on a variety of confusing and sometimes contradictory sites), I came across what appeared to be a definitive and humorous account by Bron Maher (link below). *

Working on the basis that the writer of the article comes across as sincere and impassioned, I suggest that the highest man-made elevated point in Greater London, where the eagles fly, is the Crystal Palace television tower, erected in 1957 (a rather fine year I should add) at the top of Sydenham Hill in south London. At an estimated height above sea level of 330 metres the tower is about 27 metres above the top of the Shard. Thankfully, for this exercise, I don’t have to find a way to get to the top of the Crystal Palace television transmitter, because here we are focused on the highest point of land in Greater London.

Once upon a time you could live in any part of London and consider yourself to belong to one of the established Home Counties. Surrey and Kent south of the river and Essex and Middlesex to the north (I have no editor, so you’ll just have to hope this is correct). If, say, you lived in Deptford in south-east London before 1965, and gave your address, you would have added Kent at the end. Surbiton would have been in Surrey. Hounslow would have been in Middlesex and West Ham was in Essex. Surrey cricket club play at the Oval and Middlesex play at Lords. And so forth. No matter. Times change. Scotland was once an independent country. The Greater London Authority has existed as a political entity since 1965, but you could be confused for not knowing this.

So, getting back to the core subject (apologies for earlier wormholes), if you asked most people who know London what they thought was the highest point of land in Greater London, I am pretty sure that there would be a range of opinion. Primrose Hill is trendy and wrong, but the views of London are excellent. Others, depending on their geographical bent and possible prejudices, may say Highgate Hill, Westow Hill, Ally Pally, Blackheath, Muswell Hill or perhaps even Richmond Park. But Greater London is more than location, location, location. Beyond the noticeable clay and sandstone ridges of Hampstead and Highgate in the north, and Crystal Palace and Sydenham Hill to the south, the land gently rises again, stretching out towards the suburban rim and Green Belt. In the north, parts of Enfield, Harrow and Barnet reach over 400 feet. But the big hitters, towering a whole two or three hundred feet above the north London rivals, are far to the south, and beyond the view of most Londoners.

From central London one approach could be to head directly south-east and to one of the country’s largest and possibly least known post war council estates. New Addington is the size of a small town but is largely hidden from view. Whether or not that was a deliberate decision by the planners it’s hard to say, but as a teenager who occasionally ventured up Lodge Lane to meet with friends from school, it boasted one of the largest packs of stray dogs I’ve seen anywhere, and a rather fearsome reputation for violence (not including the dogs). Those days have largely gone, but whilst on a dreary winters day it still feels like a place beyond every other place (its colloquial name is “Little Siberia”), its fringes are surrounded by farm and chalk downland. If you can navigate through the estate and exit at the south-eastern end on King Henry’s Drive, you’ll soon get to Biggin Hill, and beyond that South Street.

If you wanted a short walk to the highest point of land in Greater London, South Street might be the best place to park up (if you’ve driven). But I wouldn’t know, because I arrived at Westerham Heights from precisely the opposite direction and hadn’t a clue I had ticked it off until some months after tackling the highest point in Kent. When I was putting together the list of the highest county points (sometime after I had climbed Betsom’s Hill), it became apparent that at a point in that walk I had passed Westerham Heights by a matter of a road’s width. Located just beyond a hedge to the east of the A233, and on the opposite side of the road to Westerham Heights Farm (an obvious giveaway that passed me by on the day). If you want to read a short account of my inadvertent discovery of Westerham Heights, it’s contained in the first of these tomes, Cresting the County – Kent. **

Westerham Heights – At the orange triangle – approximately. The thick black dash/dot line marks the boundary between Greater London and Kent. The barely discernible blue trig point just below marks the highest point in Kent – Betsom’s Hill.

If you make it to the moment where a local resident points me in the direction of Betsom’s Hill, but also explains it cannot be accessed, that’s the spot. Curious that he didn’t mention the Greater London massive on his doorstep! I’m not complaining though. Two in one day and I didn’t even know it – Hey Ho! 

There is a website called PeakBagger.com that I have since referenced a few times to check information, particularly on heights. Just to ensure I had indeed reached the highest point in Greater London I double checked, and in doing so noticed that the Westerham Heights link showed a few names of site members who had previously “bagged” it. It was the first time that it had dawned on me that “bagging” county tops was even a thing (I have long known that there is no such thing as original thought or action, but I was becoming increasingly aware that what I had assumed was, at best, a very niche activity, was actually a widespread pastime). I clicked on the last person to have made this trip. David Darby, an American judging by the list of 15k feet plus mountains that he had climbed, almost exclusively in North America. The highest was over 20,000 feet. At some point in his obsession, London came a calling, and he had to bag it. I wonder then what he thought when he arrived on the 19th of November 2023, having possibly travelled up through New Addington, clinging to the roadside hedges and hoping to live another second besides the 804-foot Westerham Heights. Well, I know one thing, from his records on Peak Bagger, he didn’t bag Betsom’s Hill. Poor research I reckon, particularly if you’ve come all the way from the States. Mind you, check out David Howell’s (who seems to have lived quite a life and has stratospheric ambitions), who, like me, completed the double on 2nd July 2023. The things we do…the things we do.

After cresting Greater London and Kent, and a couple of hours later, I arrived home, and soon after, for the one and only time in my life, watched in dismay the Northern Lights. Happy anniversary.

(Apologies – this scans horribly)

  * https://londonist.com/london/secret/shard-not-tallest-building-in-london-crystal-palace-transmitter-is

** https://elcolmado57.co.uk/2024/05/28/cresting-the-county-kent/

Cresting the County – Dorset

Lewesdon Hill

279 Metres

915 Feet

31st March 2025

The Eight Thousand and 39 Steps

Having spent the weekend with my daughter and her partner in Bristol, and having successfully claimed Hanging Hill in South Gloucestershire, rewarding myself with a strong coffee at the Swan Inn at Swineford, I drove south down almost vehicle free roads through Somerset, then east Devon and eventually into Lyme Regis in Dorset. A couple of nights booked in the Nags Head before heading back east to see friends in Portsmouth, then home.

After booking into my small room in the Nags Head and then having spent a couple of hours near the sea front trying the fish and chips and a couple of pints of the local ale, I set off up what felt like a 45% hill back to the Nags Head. By the time I arrived, panting and crawling over the threshold, with one of the patrons saying to me “have you been out there the whole time?” to which I had no answer, I flopped at the bar, rationalising that I desperately needed a small whiskey before bed. With fortification in hand, I took a seat whilst the last of the punters supped up and left. On gazing around my eyes fell upon a picture on the wall. It spoke of more optimistic times and for a moment I felt privileged to be in this space.

Toasting the man

Lewesdon Hill, Dorsets highest point, was a thirty-minute drive northeast of Lyme Regis. I decided on parking up in the village of Broadwindsor, located just north of the hill. As I neared the village, driving along the B3162, a stationary police car was parked up on the road ahead. I drew up behind but was waved on. Just up the hill, a second police car was pulled over next to what appeared to be an abandoned car, and a couple of officers stood silently by, with arms crossed.

I drove on and within a minute was parked up in a small close to the south of the village. The weather was perfect. Almost too perfect. I had no summer clothing so chose to leave my coat in the boot. The OS Explorer map (116) showed a route out of the village and straight to the top of Lewesdon Hill. It required walking into the village, which was fine because I needed a snack and guessed that the settlement was just big enough to support a shop. Fortunately, there was a profusion of old-fashioned signposts, and on each the words, Village Shop, as if it was the biggest attraction in the area. Maybe it was.

Surprisingly, being a Monday, the small community shop was open, although in truth it was rather lacking in immediately edible stock. Reluctantly, (I had walked in and so walking straight out would have been seen as a tad rude) I settled for a rather unappetising looking vegan sausage roll thing, made by a large food company that rhymes with “balls.” The shopkeeper was almost certainly delighted to see the back of it, but hey, needs must.

After procuring the snack and a cola, I walked back up to the White Lion Inn (closed Mondays) and headed west on err… West Street. A small house on the corner had a stone sign above the door that claimed Charles the Second had stayed there for a night in 1651. What it didn’t say is that he was fleeing from Parliamentarian troops after the battle of Worcester and escaped the village dressed as a woman. Just the previous day I had stood at the top of Hanging Hill in South Gloucestershire where, eight years before, a large force of his father’s military sustained appalling losses against a Parliamentarian army, taking the high ground before retreating.

Perhaps more interestingly, Broadwindsor also had a 17th Century vicar called Thomas Fuller who, apparently, often had his congregation in stitches. Who wouldn’t have wanted to live in a place which, whilst plague, and the warring elite ravaged the land, had a Sunday morning comedy club? I have an image of Paul Merton standing at the pulpit and drifting off into a flight of fancy, although having read a couple of Fuller’s “jokes” I think it’s likely that these days we would struggle to understand the nuance. By the time Charles the Second sought refuge in the village, Fuller was no longer the vicar, so missed the opportunity to crack a line at the King’s expense.  

West Street wound down a hill to a bend in the road (which headed on up beyond). A footpath sign pointed south and confirmed the evidence on my map. Passing between a handful of buildings the path crossed a sparkling stream before reaching a large gate, with fields beyond. So far, so good. The gate, of course, was locked. There was no sign to indicate why. I don’t get annoyed in these situations, but it happens too often these days and can be mildly disconcerting. I looked around to see if I was missing something and noticed a small track leading away to my right, following the stream and through some woodland. It felt a bit unlikely, but I was in no rush so decided to follow the path and see where it took me.

Which was about 200 metres. The path petered out as it became overwhelmed by marshy ground. A delightful spot, but for me it was back to the drawing board, which meant a retreat to the gate. I looked beyond the gate and eyed up the path that clearly led to the top. No sign of a bull. I looked at the map, which showed an alternative path, but which required beating back through the village. I looked around. No one was in sight, so without further thought I was up and over and then stepping boldly along the path.

From there on it was reasonably straight forward, although at another locked gate a sign pointed east towards an alternative route, which I duly observed. After twenty minutes or so I arrived at a gate that marked the entrance to the Lewesdon Hill site, managed by the National Trust. Ahead lay dense woodland, with a variety of mature trees climbing up the steep slopes towards the top.

The approach to the enclosure

Proceeding through the gate, a large, mounted sign provided information about the area, the flora, the fauna and that an Iron Age settlement had probably existed on the site. That this seemed to be any doubt felt odd. It seemed to be a perfect setting. The board also stated that Lewesdon Hill was “the highest, quietest and most remote place in the county”. From what I had witnessed so far it felt a little bit like stating the bleedin’ obvious, but I wasn’t complaining.

A few steps on and a second sign. Slate grey, with the image of a Spitfire flying overhead in the top right-hand corner. I anticipated a sombre story.  

In summary, on 15th March 1942, Jean Verdun Marie Aime De Cloedt, a Belgian in the RAF, in poor weather and with a faulty engine, crashed into the top of Lewesdon Hill. The commemorative board also mentioned that it was still possible to see the destructive path the plane had taken through the trees at the top. It felt like an unnecessary detail, but regardless it was a poignant tale. An intimate human story at “the highest, quietest and most remote place in the county”. Wars and hilltops. It was becoming a theme.

Chert stones that must have travelled down from above and onto the sandstone bedrock, scattered the path that headed south towards the top. Unusual, but would almost certainly have made this an attractive spot for early flint pioneers.

Within five minutes the path broke from the cover of the trees onto a heathy plateau and continued towards the only point that looked slightly higher than the surrounding topography. There was nothing of note to pinpoint the spot, but a hump of grassy earth seemed to be the place. I looked out to the south and towards the sea some miles away. Rays of sunlight swarmed through the large gaps between the trees. Looking down the steep escarpment the sun on the otherwise stark branches revealed the first, almost indiscernible, green blush of new growth.

From the top – Looking south southwest towards Morecombelake

Despite the delay in making progress at the foot of the climb, (due to the locked gate) I had made good time, and so after taking a few bites from the almost inedible vegan roll (cardboard wasn’t included in the list of ingredients, but I think it should have) I followed another path heading west and above the drop to the south. And a considerably steep and long drop it was too. Despite almost qualifying as a cliff, ancient birch and oak trees rose up from below, climbing and clinging on bravely to the thin earth. At some point it occurred to me that this was likely to have been the area where Jean Verdun Marie Aime De Cloedt’s plane had torn through the trees. I chose not to try and work out where.

Reaching the end of the plateau area another notice board gave more information, which must have made no impact on me at all, given that I can’t remember a word. A view opened out. The land fell away, but then rose again to the top of Pilsdon Pen, about two miles to the west, which even from a distance revealed features consistent with a hill fort.

West towards Pilsdon Pen

Scrambling down the north slope, on land recently cleared of larger trees, I was back on the main track which forms part of the Wessex Ridgeway and banked up to the right. The sound of a helicopter overhead intruded but tailed off as it headed north. Soon I was back at the entrance with the information boards, and after a quick look back set off across the first large field. I had noticed on the map that at the end of the field another path veered to the northeast and past Fir Farm. This was a more direct route back to the car and avoided having to negotiate the closed gate.

Objective Broadwindsor

By a large farm building I found what appeared to be the route, heading into some woodland. The noise of the helicopter should have long gone by now, but it was still audible, somewhere just to the north. Entering the woods, it was evident that the trail was little used. A sign had been attached to a tree, informing people like me that due to storms the previous year some of the trees were unsafe and walkers proceeded at their own risk. The sign itself was a year old, and I figured that the landowners would, by now, have taken the necessary action to make the area safe.

This was a lovely spot, a proper dingle dell. A low wall appeared ahead, with a nook cut out to allow the traveller to cross with ease. As I stepped over, something about its appearance had me confused. What kind of stone was this? I looked more closely. What I had thought was a stone wall was in fact a massive fallen tree, so embalmed in moss and lichen that it mimicked a human structure.

Not exactly sycamore gap, but art in nature nevertheless.

Carrying on down through the winding path the noise from the helicopter began to increase, annoyingly. Perhaps it was the military on manoeuvres, or a crop being sprayed with agent orange. Either way it was taking the edge off the afternoon. A bit further on and the path began to flank a track leading back to the farm. Looking ahead something stopped me in my own tracks. Through the trees and hedges, and about 200 metres further on, I could clearly make out the intermittent red and blue lights of a police vehicle.

In the 1935 film, The 39 Steps, Richard Hannah (Robert Donat), is on the run on a Scottish hillside when out of the blue (and out of all context given that Buchan’s novel was set before the Great War) a helicopter appears, hunting him down. Now, I should say at this point, nothing remotely interesting has happened to me for a very long time, although two evenings earlier in Bristol I had witnessed what might well have been a stolen motorbike being crashed at 5mph, and completely bizarrely, into a wall, before a car pulled up and swished the fallen rider away. Surreal. Nevertheless, and just for a moment, with the sound of the helicopter above, and knowing the cops were hovering somewhere just down the lane, my thoughts were suddenly hinting at the prospect of a manhunt! But who, and why? Was it fight or flight time?

Momentarily I engaged in mental research. Who was I? Robert Donat, Kenneth Moore, or, controversially, Robert Powell. I settled on Robert Powell, largely on the grounds that I had liked him a lot alongside Jasper Carrot in the TV show The Detectives. Now all I had to do was to get past the police checkpoint. Did I have my papers? It’s essential to have papers on you in these situations. I patted the inside pocket of my jacket. Hmm… would the Nectar loyalty card suffice? I was about to find out and started to walk purposefully towards the blues and twos.

I noticed that the police car lay beyond another vehicle and realised that I had reached the point I had passed in the car on my way into Broadwindsor. Whatever was going on seemed most particular. I reached the end of the drive and volunteered a “hello” to the two officers idly guarding the mysterious car. I think they may have said something back, but either way I wasn’t subjected to any stop and search, or interrogation, for which I was most grateful, although as I carried on along the road back into town, with the helicopter still bothering around above, I wondered whether the officers might have been a tad neglectful in their duties.

Back at the car I checked the app which had been recording the walk. 2.79 miles. 411 ft elevation gain. 670 calories. 8k steps. No more, no less. Oh, for 39 more! But never mind, for an hour or two, in a remote part of Dorset, which had once been the home of “Have I Got Sunday Morning News for You”, I had been away from the numbers.