Leatherhead to Dorking, Surrey

The Mole on its journey through Norbury Park

Start: Leatherhead Station TQ163568

Finish: Dorking Main Station TQ171504

Length: 8¾ miles/4 hours

How to get there: I travelled with Southern on services running to and from London Victoria, but both stations are also served by South West Trains services from London Waterloo

I arrive at Leatherhead at the very grand Gothic-style station, built by the London Brighton & South Coast Railway in the mid 1800s on the line through the Mole Gap in the North Downs – the route of which I will be following for much of this walk. The route to the town centre takes me across Red House Gardens where I find some magnificent trees – an enormous London plane, 6m in girth, a silver maple, a tall Wellingtonia that has a substantial Holm oak growing at a bizarre angle from its base. Together with a huge spreading cedar of Lebanon on Station Road, these form part of a ‘tree trail‘ through Leatherhead. The town centre itself is, architecturally, less inspiring, largely a nondescript mix of mid and late 20th century, with some earlier buildings and a tall-gabled timber framed construction which at first glance appears to be Tudor, but the date cast on the elaborate downpipe hoppers betrays it as mock Tudor dating only from 1928.

Town Bridge, Leatherhead

Leaning on the parapet, the Town Bridge makes a good vantage point of the ducks floating on the sluggish but clear waters below and the long ribbons of green weed waving gently just beneath the surface. Typical of the chalk streams that flow through the North Downs across the London Clay to the Thames, the River Mole rises in Sussex then follows a 50 mile long meandering sinuous course through Surrey to the Thames at Hampton Court. Like the Darent, which I followed recently, the Mole has seen a dramatic improvement in its water quality in recent years after decades of pollution and can now boast the greatest diversity of fish species of any English river. Its name possibly derives from mola, the Latin for mill, of which there were 20 according to Domesday, but I think I prefer the more poetic suggestion that the name comes from the river’s habit of disappearing underground in hot, dry summers.

On the south bank, I turn off the road to follow the Mole Gap Trail upstream along the river, which here flows around an island, a wilderness of willows and limes. Beneath the canopy, clumps of crimson-stemmed dogwood shine brightly – but even this splash of colour is not as vivid as the flash of electric blue that shoots past, skimming across the water’s surface. I catch only the briefest of glimpses but it can only be a kingfisher.

Shell Bridge, possibly the work of Lancelot 'Capability' Brown

Featuring an impressive tall-windowed (and very white) façade with Doric columned entrance and Romanesque pediment above, the Manor in its present form dates from 1772 when it was built by Sir Robert Taylor for Henry Crabb Boulton, chairman of the East India Company and MP for Worcester. Now used as offices, a steel and glass extension with white rendered circular tower housing a lift shaft was constructed at the rear in the 1970s; such a modern addition to a period building runs the risk of being, at best, incongruous, or at worst akin to an act of vandalism, but the end result in this case is surprisingly sympathetic.

Turning south, the Mole Gap Trail continues through Thorncroft Vineyard. But there are no grapevines to be seen; instead, there are rows of somewhat straggly elder bushes, from which the flowers are harvested in spring to produce cordial. A line of trees on the eastern boundary hides the Mole, limes heavy with mistletoe, and grey ashes, in the naked branches of which squawking parakeets are perching. The sun makes a largely futile attempt to break through the cloud above the high ground of Fetcham Downs to the south west, the summit of which is crowned with trees, ghostly-grey through the mist.

Where the trees peter out, the Mole curves to greet me, presenting a view across open meadows to the east. But only very briefly; soon the muddy path disappears into a tangle of brambly scrub and subsiding decaying willows on the river bank before sneaking under a busy road and into Norbury Park. The river flows through a more open landscape now, flanked by grassy meadows either side and lined with oaks, and with sycamores the last leaves of which are a fading yellow, polka-dotted with black splashes of acer tar spot. The meandering river has undercut the oaks, leading to the riverbank collapsing in places, exposing the tangle of roots and creating numerous hollows and crannies, ideal for water voles and kingfishers to make their homes.

Xylaria and Trametes fungi on a dead stump

The river bends to meet the steeply wooded railway embankment, then curves away once more. I however, follow the track at the foot of the embankment, the last blackberries on the brambles shrivelled and fluffy-grey with Botrytis, before turning west to pass under a low bridge beneath the railway into woodland. A track heads uphill into Updown Wood in a shallow ravine, carpeted with fallen beech leaves of any number of different shades – yellows, browns, russets, coppers, oranges, individual spots of colour, like a pointillist masterpiece. Dead timber on the woodland floor is alive with fungi: the turkey tail brackets of Trametes versicolor, the curious coral-like Xylaria hypoxylon, and the delicate and pale ghostly mushrooms of a species of Mycena. I turn off the track almost immediately, climbing steep steps through young larches, a last tuft of golden needles at their apices, to cross the railway once more – this time over, rather than under, as the footpath runs along the top of the northern portal of Mickleham Tunnel.

Beech woodland, Norbury Park

Back into woodland, the path drops downhill, over Mickleham Tunnel once more. Dense plantings of slender beech soar skywards from the coppery-leaved floor, and deep green ancient yews, the downward sweeping branches of one appearing to erupt volcanically from the apex of the squat trunk.

Then at the foot of the slope, I leave the cover of the trees for the meadows on the floodplain of the Mole. By an enormous lime, a slender totem pole smothered with mistletoe, I find what appears to be a flint well head, but at its centre is a steel bowl that reflects the sky. A plaque nearby explains that this is an artwork: Wellfont, which ‘marks the the journey of water on its endless life-sustaining cycle, travelling from ancient springs, lakes, rivers and great oceans on the earth’s surface to condense into a mass of vapour suspended overhead then falling to the soil once more‘.

Norbury Park, with Druid's Grove and Norbury Park Manor in the distance

…the rare moth, the dotted chestnut (Glea rubiginea) of which the locality is said to be unknown, frequents the yews in the Druids Grove when the berries are ripe, and becoming intoxicated with the juice is easily caught about the midnight hour in October. Perhaps there are not many persons who being suddenly set down in Druids Grove at the midnight hour, would be much inclined to go off in pursuit of moths…

To the south, on the summit of the hill, a grand building watches over the estate at the centre of which it stands. This is Norbury Park Manor, built by Thomas Sandby, first professor of architecture for the Royal Academy, for William Locke, a London art critic, in 1774. After Locke’s death in 1810 the Manor changed hands twice before being purchased in 1850 by Thomas Grissell, who allowed the LB&SCR to construct its line over his estate – it was Grissell who insisted on the ornamentation to the railway’s bridge over the Mole in Leatherhead. In 1890, the manor was bought City financier Leopold Salomons, whose legacy is the generous donation to the nation of 95ha of land on Box Hill, purchased to protect it from development in 1914. More recently, Marie Stopes, the palaeobotanist, campaigner for women’s rights and (less palatably by today’s standards) advocate of eugenics, made the manor her home between 1938 and her death in 1958 when she bequeathed it to the Royal Society of Literature.

Verdigris agaric

The curving Mole returns once more: I feel as if it’s flirting with me on this walk. I cross by a bridge as the river curves away westwards, whereas I turn east, alongside pasture in which flocks of pied flycatchers are feeding on insects in cow pats (ugh). At Cowslip Farm, I turn south again, passing – bizarrely – an old white London taxi parked outside the farmhouse. Over damp fields of rape, punctuated with stag-headed ash and oak trees, and then, there’s the Mole again. A footbridge takes me over the water once more, dwarfed alongside the brick arches of a railway viaduct.

The entrance to Camilla Drive; Fanny Burney's blue plaque is on the right

I circumnavigate the ‘pond’ to the trees on the western edge of the floodplain – according to a plaque, the Pickering Plantation, planted in 1953 as a tribute to Wilfrid John Pickering, Planning Officer for Surrey County Council between 1933 and 1951. Then, leaving Norbury Park behind, I reach Westhumble at an impressive stone and flint chequerboard arched entranceway, with its blue plaque remembering novelist and diarist Fanny [Frances] Burney. The road beyond the arch – Camilla Drive – commemorates Burney’s novel Camilla, the income from which paid for the construction of a house in Westhumble for Fanny and her husband Gen. Alexandre d’Arblay.

Eastwards, through Westhumble village, to the busy A24, along which a cacophony of traffic hurries. Crossing the road by the subway, I head north to cross the Mole yet again at Burford Bridge, past the hotel of the same name, to Ryka’s Café for a cup of coffee and a plate of chips. On a summer Sunday, the café car park would be full of motorbikes – Box Hill being a favourite destination for bikers in the south-east – but today it’s almost deserted.

A misty view northwards on the climb up Box Hill

Approaching the summit, I continue along a ridge, to either side of which the land drops steeply away through scrub and dense gloomy groves of yew and box. To the east, I can make out the line of the Zig-Zag Road, quiet today, but expected to be thronging with spectators when the 2012 Olympic cycle race passes through here. Perhaps a controversial choice, the decision to include Box Hill on the route has angered locals who have seen a dramatic increase in the number of cyclists using the Zig-Zag recently – not all of whom have been considerate to other road users – whilst cycling enthusiasts have expressed disappointment at the decision to limit spectator numbers during the race itself to protect Box Hill’s valuable wildlife habitat.

Major Peter Labilliere's gravestone

As eccentric in death as in life, he instructed that his landlady’s children should dance on his coffin to prove that funerals need not be sombre occasions. On the day of his funeral, 18th June 1800, his body was taken to his favourite spot on Box Hill and buried head first, supposedly so that, in a topsy-turvy world, he would finally be the right way up. Although the veracity of this account has been called into question: his diaries suggest that his topsy-turvy burial was in tribute to St Peter who was crucified upside down, and given that the inscription on his gravestone (which may not even mark Major Peter’s final resting place – this is possibly further down the slope) is erroneous on two counts – his name is spelt incorrectly and the date of his death is given as 18th July 1800 – it’s hard to be sure of the truth.

Atmospherically misty Box Hill Fort

Adjacent to the fort is a row of cottages, now home to the National Trust’s visitors’ centre. I browse in the shop briefly, the only customer, until a vociferous group of boisterous schoolgirls on a geography field trip enter. Time to move on.

Through beech woodland – groups of cloud funnel mushrooms (Clitocybe nebularis) sprouting from the leaf litter – to the viewpoint erected in memory of Leopold Salomons. The view is considerably hazier than the last time I stood here, no planes taking off from Gatwick and the hills of the Weald beyond today, just the mist over Betchworth and Dorking to the south. Nonetheless, a dramatic vista, and a pleasant spot for contemplation.

Twisted and tangled woodland on Box Hill

The descent is tough going, each step shocking the knees, but this seems not to bother the two ladies who, with their bounding ungainly red setter companions, pass me on the way down, and again as they jog their way back up. Jogging. Up Box Hill. Extraordinary.

At the foot of the hill, the path levels off through riverside woodland, the damp soil encouraging lush undergrowth, an area known as the Waypole, once part of the grounds of nearby Burford Lodge. Having been apart for some time, the Mole and I are reunited once more, at a crossing point in use for centuries; the ‘way pole’ that gave the area on the east bank its name was once a notched pole that indicated the water depth to travellers wishing to ford the river. Nowadays the river is crossed by the famous Stepping Stones, first recorded in 1841, although the current crossing dates from 1946 when new stones, dedicated by Clement Attlee, were put in place to replace those removed in the Second World War – presumably (but somewhat bizarrely) because it was thought that this would impede the progress of invading Nazi forces who, having just crossed the English Channel, would then find a river perhaps 75 feet wide and 3 feet deep an impassable obstacle.

Fading light in Denbies Vineyard

Sutton-at-Hone to Eynsford, Kent

The 'bridge' - probably a cattle screen - on the Darent at Farningham

I recently treated myself to annual membership of English Heritage which for the reasonable sum of £46 gives 12 months’ free access to over 400 of the country’s most fascinating historic sites (although when I signed up on a recent visit to Pevensey Castle, I took advantage of a 15-months-for-the-price-of-12 offer – which was just as well, as many of the most tantalising properties I found when leafing through the guide book seemed to shut for the winter just as I’d joined). Along with the grand honeypot sites such as Stonehenge, the site of the Battle of Hastings, Audley End House or Dover Castle, there are hundreds of lesser-known properties giving a fascinating insight into how Britons lived their daily lives, a visit to any of which brings history to life far more vividly than dull words on the pages of a history book. Lullingstone Roman Villa, in Kent, is one such site, its stunningly well-preserved remains giving a remarkable glimpse into Romano-British life over 3 centuries. Like many of English Heritage’s properties, Lullingstone is a little way from reliable public transport links, and for the car-less involves a walk from the nearest station. But what better reason could there be for heading out into the countryside on foot? Especially as the way to Lullingstone is along the very pleasant Darent Valley Path which follows the course of the Darent (or Darenth) River along a gap in the North Downs through beautiful landscape and picturesque villages.

Start: Farningham Road Station TQ556693

Finish: Eynsford Station TQ532593

Length: 9½ miles/6 hours (including 1½-2 hours to explore Lullingstone Roman Villa)

How to get there: Both stations are served regularly by trains to and from London Victoria: timetables can found on the Southeastern website.

Note: entrance to the Roman Villa costs £5.30 for adults & £3.50 for children (at the time of writing), but is free for English Heritage members. For more information go to the English Heritage website.

A few weeks before, when I had first attempted this walk but been forced into a last minute detour to Richmond Park, the skies overhead were crisp and clear and a vivid blue. Today, however, the weather is damp and drab, a misty melancholy grey. As I head east from the station, shining black privet berries and bright hawthorn fruits hang in the hedgerow, the only vibrancy in an otherwise despondent late-autumn landscape, from which the greater part of the leaves have fallen. Hereabouts, it doesn’t feel entirely rural – the factory beside the station, the road busy with noisy traffic – but certainly not suburban; a sort of hinterland between the outskirts of London and the Garden of England in deeper Kent. The motorways and trunk roads that this walk sneaks beneath unnoticed later will be a regular reminder of the proximity to the capital.

The Darent near Horton Kirby

The muddy riverside path narrows between dense hawthorn and sloe, the latter berried with fruits the colour of midnight, then leaves the waterside to emerge onto Westminster Field on the edge of Horton Kirby. Football teams in bright fluorescent bibs are practising, shouts of encouragement and derision in equal proportion echoing around the playing field. Beyond the field, the footpath weaves through a kissing gate and across a rough meadow to meet the river bank once more. Now the path twists beneath the crowns of sycamores, amongst scrubby corky-barked elm, surrounded by drab earthy tones: the mud beneath my feet, overlain with a veneer of fading buff fallen leaves; the grey-green lichen-coated tree trunks; the pebbledash of chalky pebbles visible beneath the gin-clear waters of the Darent; the chocolate and chestnut coats of the horses mooching in an adjacent damp field. Only the vivid pink-orange seed capsules of spindles provide any splash of colour.

At Franks Lane, I turn left to cross the river, then a short distance along the puddled lane turn onto a narrow footpath between post-and-wire fences. On the left, the manicured outfield of Horton Kirby cricket club, while on the right, open parkland dotted with mature horse chestnut and collapsing ash trees, and limes, the crowns of which are festooned with mistletoe and noisy parakeets flitting between the tree tops. Somewhere beyond, over the river and obscured by the tree line, lies Franks Hall, built in 1591 by Lancelot Bathurst who frequently played host to Queen Elizabeth I here. Now Grade I listed, the Hall was used as a barn in the 1850s, before Vavasour Earle, who bought the Hall in 1883, enlarged it with the addition of a picture gallery. During the Second World war, when the home was used as a maternity home, Earle’s gallery was destroyed by incendiaries and now only the walls remain.

View downstream from the bridge over the river at Franks Lane

The increasing rumble-roar of traffic heralds a more modern aspect of human history as a towering concrete viaduct takes the M20 motorway over the river. The dwarfing monolithic piers are unsurprisingly well graffitied, most of it banal vandalism, but one pier acts as an informal shrine to a deceased loved one with spray-painted tributes, wilted flowers, bedraggled cuddly toys, a fading football shirt….

The A20 also crosses the Darent here, the riverside path tunnelling beneath. I too cross the river, by a wooden footbridge. Just beyond, the path leads into Farningham. Despite the proximity to two very busy roads, the village still retains its picturesque charm, featuring attractive brick and flint vernacular cottages, a grand bay-windowed inn – which Charles Dickens visited when fishing the Darent for trout – and a substantial white weatherboarded building, once a watermill.

The former millhouse in Farningham

I continue along Sparepenny Lane, past the village butchers and quaint cottages, one of which has a sign affixed to the garden gate warning the postman of an ‘Unruly terrier. Please put post in postbox in alleyway. Thank you‘ – quirks like this give a place its charm. The lane rises between neatly-trimmed field boundary hedges topped with a tangle of old man’s beard onto higher ground, to overlook the valley that the river has scoured through the chalk hills of the North Downs over millenia.

Looking westwards from Sparepenny Lane, through old man's beard, across the Darent Valley

The map shows the Darent Valley Path continuing along the lane, but a permissive path allows me to avoid the tarmac and follow the field edge, along the perimeter of the Woodland Trust’s Nine Hole Wood. A recently planted mixed of native species, the wood includes guelder rose and wayfaring tree, both of which are displaying a flamboyant flourish of pink and crimson autumn colour.

Across the valley, a crumbling grey edifice: the flint walls of Eynsford Castle. Another English Heritage property, I had planned to take a detour to explore the castle, but unfortunately it was closed on the date of my visit due to structural instability. Built on the site of an earlier Saxon settlement, the castle was constructed in the 1080s by William de Eynsford, and was abandoned after being vandalised in the early 14th century as a result of a feud between the Kirkeby and Criol families. Its only subsequent use was as hunting kennels in the 18th century, such that it remains a relatively undisturbed and well-preserved example of a Norman curtain-wall castle. Despite the lack of public access today – November 5th – there is plenty of activity as the villagers prepare for bonfire night. Not quite Edinburgh Castle at Hogmanay, it is nonetheless a spectacular setting for a fireworks display.

Eynsford Castle - and locals preparing for Bonfire Night

At the summit, a muffled public address system emanates from Eagle Heights Wildlife Park, where a flying display is under way. The sound echoes across the countryside as I continue along the ridge parallel to the line of a hedge abundant with scarlet rose-hips and crimson dogwood. A solitary oak marks the point where the path turns to descend between buttery field maples into denser woodland and the valley bottom once more.

The steel-clad building amongst the trees seems incongruous with its surroundings, but having shown my membership card at the entrance and passed into the vast dimly-lit space beyond, its purpose becomes apparent: to protect what is one of the most remarkable and best-preserved discoveries in this outpost of the Empire, Lullingstone Roman Villa. From beginnings in around AD100, the villa began as quite a modest building, probably four rooms linked by a north-south corridor with protruding wings at either end. By the mid 2nd century, the house had been enlarged to include a bath house to the south and further rooms to the north. Then in the 3rd century the north wing was demolished and rebuilt with five rooms, three of which featured underfloor heating.

View from the southern corner of Lullingstone Villa, showing the steps down into the bath suite

The excavations here have contributed much to our understanding of the period, the patient archaeologist having transcribed and interpreted the minutiae of Romano-British domestic life spanning several centuries. But perhaps most fascinating is the evidence of Roman religious belief, the transition from polytheistic paganism to Christianity, which appeared to exist side-by-side. The ‘deep room’ below ground level, is thought to have been a cult room where pagan water deities may have been worshipped – evidence of this being paintings of water-nymphs on the walls. Two marble busts found in the deep room suggest that Roman ancestors may also have been venerated – the Imperial Cult – possibly at a later date. But of even greater historical importance is the ‘house-church’ and its ante-chamber above the cult room which demonstrate the supersedence of paganism by Christian worship. Wall paintings, reconstructed from plaster fragments (some of which are on display in the British Museum), depict six figures in Romano-Christian prayer, and feature Chi-Rho and alpha and omega symbols. Unique to Romano-Britain, the wall paintings of the house-church are internationally important – the closest parallels are found in Syria.

Lullingstone is by far the grandest villa along the Darent, which begs the question: who was its obviously prestigious resident? Marble busts and a ring-seal found on site have led to the recent suggestion that it may have been the country retreat, a Romano-British Chequers if you like, of Publius Helvius Pertinax. Governor of Britain from around AD185 to 187, Pertinax was later, as I discovered when I followed the line of the Roman wall of London, Roman Emperor, albeit for only 3 months in AD193, the Year of the Five Emperors.

Part of the mosiac, showing Jupiter, disguised as a bull, kidnapping Europa

A mezzanine level around the perimeter of the cover building allows a full appreciation of the floor plan of the villa, most of whose flint and mortar foundation walls still remain to a height of a couple of feet or more. A huge number of finds are on show in display cases – from decorative beads and jewellery to more mundane finds: pottery, tools, nails, padlocks, gaming counters, household goods, geese skeletons (possibly sacrificed). And roof tiles, many of which were imprinted with foot prints of animals – dogs, cats, geese, oxen – as they lay in the sun to dry. For me, the roof tiles give perhaps the most vivid indication of what life around the villa may have been like: somewhat hectic, with animals roaming at will around a busy farmyard, geese flapping, dogs barking… And just as we gain an insight into life at Lullingstone, we also glimpse death: two skeletons are on show, one of an adult male found with grave goods in a lead casket decorated with scallop-shell detail, the other, more chillingly, that of a baby.

But of course, it is the magnificent mosaic to the floor of the triclinium and entertaining chamber which are the centrepiece. Beautifully crafted and surrounded by decorative borders, one panel depicts Bellepheron, Prince of Corinth, slaying the fire-breathing Chimera from the saddle of Pegasus, the winged horse – the triumph of good over evil. Surrounding this scene are roundels featuring the four seasons, one in each corner, although sadly Autumn has largely been destroyed. In the other panel, we see Jupiter, disguised as a bull, kidnapping the princess Europa, while two cupids look on, one grasping onto Jupiter’s tail. Above this scene is a couplet in Latin:

INVIDA SI TA[URI] VIDISSET IUNO NATATUS
IUSTIUS AEOLIAS ISSET AD USQUE DOMOS

Translated, this reads ‘If jealous Juno had seen the swimming of the bull, she would with greater justice gone to the halls of Aeolius’ and alludes to Virgil’s Aeneid in which Juno (Jupiter’s wife) demands that Aeolius, god of the wind, drowns Aeneas’ fleet at sea; here though it is used to refer to Jupiter’s abduction of Europa in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

Regardless of interpretations of the mosaic’s meaning, it was clearly designed to demonstrate that the villa’s owner was a man not only of immense wealth but also highly cultured and well-read. His guests, reclining on couches around the apse of the dining room, feasting on the finest delicacies, could not fail to be impressed.

After such a whistle-stop tour, and with so much fascinating history to absorb, I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. I spend a few minutes sitting on the terrace below the shrine and mausoleum on the hill side, downing a bottle of appropriately-named Gladiator spelt beer (hang on, Gladiator is spelt G-l-a-d-i-a-t-o-r, not B-e-….oh, that sort of spelt) from the visitor centre shop.

The magnificent gatehouse at Lullingstone Castle

Aside from the many splendid rooms in the manor house itself, the grounds contain Queen Anne’s bathhouse, the church of St Botolph (the stained glass windows of which are reputedly the oldest in Britain), and a walled garden, recently restored as a ‘World Garden of Plants’. All of which would be worthwhile exploring further – but Lullingstone’s season ended in September, and on this gloomy grey November day, save for a few walkers following the river, it is deserted.

The Darent flows southwards beneath ash, sycamore and alder, their canopies reflected, shimmering, in the faintly rippled surface of the barely moving river; an enormous collapsed field maple lies adjacent to the riverside path, sprawling like a drunkard; songbirds flit from branch to branch; in the clear water, darting shadows hint at the presence of fish. An idyllic scene along a typical lowland chalk stream – but one which a few years ago may have been less vibrant. From being one of the finest trout rivers in the country, the river suffered from pollution and over-abstraction during the 20th century, many stretches running dry during drought years. But over recent years, as a plaque by the path commemorates, the Darent was the subject of a restoration programme – which seems to have been thoroughly successful.

Hop poles

Crossing the lane onto a farm track, the view eastwards gives an indication of the diversity of land use here: hop poles, naked at this time of year, indicate that this traditional Kentish crop is still grown locally, along with winter wheat, more pinstriped fields of lavender, grazing beef cattle, and, on the higher ground across the valley, beyond the Shoreham Road and the railway, forestry plantations and woodland.

Fine drizzle mists the hilltops as it begins to descend – if descend is the right word, so fine are the droplets they swirl randomly. A brief pause to put on a waterproof, then across a field and I’m back at the river, now flowing more surreptitiously in a narrower, deeper, more sinuous channel in the shadows beneath the crowns of alders. Almost unnoticed at the edge of its flood plain, the river feels insignificant in the landscape now, whereas, in reality, it was the river that sculpted much of this landscape.

The Water House, once home to artist Samuel Palmer

I turn away from the Darent at the pretty arched bridge which is the start of the annual duck race, along the road to the church of St Peter & St Paul. In gold gothic script on the lych gate are the words: Blessed are the Dead which die in the LORD. I’m not entirely sure if that’s a promise to the devout, or a subtle threat to the non-believer. Beyond the lych gate, a double row of stout neatly clipped Irish yews lines the path to the gabled entrance porch. A fantastic structure, its stocky timbers, some of which may date back to when it was first constructed in the 16th century, are weathered silver-grey with age.

Magnificent timber porch to St Peter & St Paul, Shoreham

Like so many churches, St Peter & St Paul has been altered, added to and restored over the centuries. Only the stonework either side of the door into the tower dates from when the church was first built in around AD1100. The north wall of the nave dates from the 14th century, to which was added the Polhill or Lady Chapel in the 15th century, while in the 16th century the church was enlarged by the addition of a south aisle, including the timber porch. Of the fittings and furniture, notable are the organ case and timber pulpit which are both reputed to have been brought here from Westminster Abbey. Somewhat curiously, what appear to be old leather fire buckets are lined up in a row on the lintel above the doorway into the tower.

The rood screen

I make a quick circuit of the church’s exterior through the churchyard, pausing to admire the tower, rebuilt in c. 1775 using flint with a rather colourful red-brick dressing to form the quoins, parapet and pinnacles. Then, with the light fading, I press on, leaving Shoreham behind to head south across the golf course. The narrow footpath skirts the edge of the fairway, in a tunnel of dogwoods, wayfaring trees and sycamores whose last remaining golden-yellow leaves glow in the dusk.

The Darent Valley Path doglegs to take a southerly course east of the river, but I leave it to continue directly south, alongside grassy meadows beneath a darkening and drizzly sky. In the near distance, over the railway, the hills of the North Downs fade into misty grey. Onto a farm track, further along which the map shows a ‘Monument’ – a typically nondescript, anonymous Ordnance Survey description – which might be worth investigating. I’m expecting a war memorial, perhaps in the form of a stone column, but nothing typically monument-like appears. To my right however, in the corner of the playing field on the edge of Otford, a number of white obelisks, similar to trig points, are scattered across the turf – can this be it? I hop over a stile for a closer look and an interpretation board explains all: this is the Otford Solar System, a 1:4595000000 scale model of our planetary system.

Otford Solar System: (l-r) the Sun, Venus, and (nearest the camera) Earth

It is possible, given a couple of hours, to walk to each of the planets in turn (as others have done). But the shortening days have caught up with me and there’s no time for space exploration today. Nor is there time to continue, as I had planned, along the North Downs Way for a few miles eastwards. Instead, I decide to cut short my walk and end here in Otford, but before I head for the train home, there’s time for a quick tour.

The north-west tower of Otford Palace

In the fading light, the latter, now an abandoned hollow shell, its mullioned stone windows open to the elements and the doorways gated with iron bars, is eerily imposing. Built by Warham to rival Cardinal Wolsey’s palace at Hampton Court, it is just as ostentatious in its construction of red brick, with stone quoins and blue brick diamond diapering. I peer through the doorway into the gloom: the floor is littered with rubbish and detritus. But looking up, a first floor fireplace, framed by a stone arch and with typically Tudor diagonal brickwork to the back wall, hints at the sumptuous splendour of its heyday.

Looking less than splendid currently is the church of St Bartholomew: scaffolding, corrugated iron and tarpaulin clads the tower and it looks as if the church is closed. Impermeable concrete render applied to the tower in the 1930s, compounded with water ingress through cracks caused by second world war bomb damage, has led to the rubble core of the tower walls becoming damp, and a long restoration project is currently under way. The concrete render has been removed, and the stonework, protected from the elements temporarily by tarpaulins, is being given a chance to dry out after which the tower will be re-rendered with traditional (and permeable) lime render.

The door into church at the base of the tower is boarded up. I head round to the south porch and try there: locked. I consider giving up and going home, but as I approach the north entrance, double doors open automatically with a pleasing hum, giving entry into a modern carpeted foyer. But once inside, the church is more traditional in character: a timber-trussed roof, dating from c.1635, spans the nave, almost as wide as it is long, some of the masonry of which is believed to date back to Norman times. The walls support the usual monuments and memorials, together with, on the south wall, the coat of arms of William of Orange, and on the west, a group of diamond-shaped hatchments dedicated to members of the Polhill family. More unusually, hanging from the roof beams, are highly ornate chandeliers.

Sir Henry Cheere's memorial to Charles Polhill, St Bartholomew's, Otford

While I’ve been exploring, a member of the parish has been busying herself around the church, tidying and cleaning, and I get the impression the church may be closing for the evening soon. Regardless, it is time to head home. I leave through the churchyard, to pass under the gloomy spreading crown of an impressive ancient yew, and along narrow footpaths and back alleys through the village to the station.

Richmond Park, south west London

Red deer stag

Start: Petersham Gate TQ182732

Finish: Richmond Gate TQ184737

Length: 4¾ miles – allow plenty of time for deer-watching!

How to get there: I took the train to Richmond (from London Waterloo or Clapham Junction, with South West Trains), but could also have caught the District Line or Overground. Then, from the bus stop just outside the station entrance, I jumped on a 65 bus towards Kingston, alighting at The Dysart Arms; the 371 runs along the same route. The bus stop is adjacent to Petersham Gate, a pedestrian-only entrance into the Park. At the end of the walk, as it was a pleasant evening, I strolled from Richmond Gate down Richmond Hill back into the town centre, but if you’ve walked far enough the 371 stops just outside Richmond Gate. Alternatively, turning left and walking down Star and Garter Hill takes you to the Dysart Arms bus stop to pick up the 65.

Off the bus, through the gate and up the hill. The steep climb through the impressive cedars of Petersham Park is quite strenuous (some people are even running up the hill – are they mad?), but is rewarded by the spectacular view over west London. In the gardens of Pembroke Lodge the change of season is announced by the planting of wallflowers for next Spring’s bedding display. But even though it is feeling distinctly Autumnal today, the recent mild weather has given the roses one last chance to perform. The rich crimson flowers and dark green foliage of a bed of Deep Secret – my favourite Hybrid Tea rose by far – hint at the memory of a prolonged summer that has clung on to the last but is now finally ceding to Autumn. I can’t pass by without stuffing my nose into one of the velvet blooms and breathing deeply of the gorgeous sweet scent.

Autumn sunshine in Queen Elizabeth's Plantation

A dark shape, silhouetted in shadow, moves amongst the scattered oaks to the east. The form of a red deer stag becomes apparent – russet coat, pale-tipped dark antlers. He meanders slowly beneath the trees, now reaching up, neck gracefully arched, to browse on oak leaves, now bending down to graze. I edge closer cautiously, aware that in recent weeks in Richmond’s sister Park, Bushy Park, several visitors who have foolishly approached too closely have experienced the belligerence of a testosterone-laden stag. But this solitary fellow, perhaps too immature to be clashing his four-pointed antlers for position of dominant male just yet, seems content to stroll nonchalantly amongst the trees. Nonetheless, I keep my distance.

Spotting my first stag of the day

Eventually, the stag scrapes at the ground with a foreleg, turns round, and drops down with an audible grunt-sigh to settle in the tall grass. Through the binoculars, I watch his eyelids droop, then snap open, head twisting, to survey his surroundings before settling once more.

I leave the stag to his slumber, to head south across open parkland. The delicate seedheads of grasses on long but dainty stalks form a golden veil over the grassland, obscuring the hummocky tufts, causing me to nearly stumble.

Resting red deer, near Ham Cross Plantation

All is mostly calm and settled; a few younger males lock antlers but with little aggression. But then a small group of stags approaches from the south and crosses the road to join the herd. This appears to unnerve the dominant male who until now has been relatively placid, trotting amongst his harem and reminding the stags of his presence, pushing aside any who don’t yield. Now, he enlivens, reacting to this new threat to his pre-eminence, and is soon rushing through the herd in a near-frenzy of aggression and sexual frustration, rushing at the stags, chasing the hinds with tongue flicking in and out rapidly to taste their scent on the air, even attempting to mount one or two.

Agitation in the herd: the bellowing dominant male is centre stage

This is unquestioningly his domain. Such is the stag’s omnipotence over this scene that even time seems to pass unnoticed. So absorbing is this fantastic spectacle, that I realize with some surprise that I’ve been engrossed for nearly an hour. Time to move on. Reluctantly I drag myself away quietly and head towards the Isabella Plantation.

Fire and water: Nyssa sylvatica at its finest

A young couple are admiring the burnished coppery trunk of a Tibetan Cherry. I join them to marvel at the smoothness of the bark, peeling in delicate curls, irresistibly demanding to be touched and rubbed and polished. They’re first-time visitors, and we discuss the Isabella and its beautiful collection of trees and shrubs, and the Park, and the deer, and the ancient oaks for which Richmond is famous. I worry I’m being a little over-enthusiastic, but as we part, I sense that they are falling in love with the place as I did many years ago.

Tulip tree

The light is fading and the sun has disappeared behind cloud, leaving a bleak chill in the air. Ducks and geese drift somewhat despondently across the water, while a big black crow flaps along the water’s edge cawing – there’s a sense of melancholy about this scene. I continue around the muddy perimeter of the upper pond, crossing the dam that separates it from the lower pond by a huge collapsed willow, to where a family are feeding bread to a flapping mass of squawking seagulls.

Then northwards, over Queen’s Ride with its magnificent vista. To the west, the land rises through Saw Pit Plantation, silhouetting other walkers on the distant skyline, while in the opposite direction, an avenue of trees leads the eye to the stately façade of White Lodge, home to the Royal Ballet School.

Oak tree, near Saw Pit Plantation

The land climbs to the eastern edge of Saw Pit Plantation, the elevation giving rise to a spectacular view over the bracken and tree tops towards the landmarks of central London – the Shard, the London Eye, the Post Office Tower, the Gherkin. On the edge of the wood, a large herd of fallow deer, Richmond’s other specie of deer, are nestled in the grass. Again, a crowd has gathered to watch, arranged in a semi circle, some perched on fallen logs, other sitting on the grass at deer-eye level. The majority of the herd are prostrate, resting placidly, legs tucked beneath their bodies, but a few of the bucks are sparring, clashing antlers, but even this seems half-hearted. Their coats are surprisingly variable in colour, many a light fawn with the characteristic pale spotting and chestnut stripe along the spine, but others sport a much darker coat, muddy-brown, near-black in one individual.

Fallow deer

I’ve been sat on the grass observing the herd for some time, but the dampness of the ground beneath and the fading light encourage me to press on. I wind my way through the ancient trees in the gloom of Saw Pit Plantation, swishing through the crispy leaves lying deep on the ground. The trees here, mostly oaks and sweet chestnut, are of considerable age – many of the chestnuts have fat bulbous butts, possibly a result of centuries of deer browsing at the adventitious shoots arising from the base. A grey squirrel, feeding on the last of the fallen chestnuts, scampers away in a flurry of leaves, tail flapping wildly to scramble up a stout trunk into the canopy, from where he chatters his annoyance at being disturbed. Then, peering through the darkness, I catch a glimpse of movement: three fallow bucks. I try to photograph them, the flash from my camera rebounding from their retinas, pinpricks of light, before they trot away into the dusk. The flash also draws my attention to a small engraved brass plaque screwed to a fallen log: ‘Ulrike, Willst Du mich Heiraten? James.‘ An unusual way to propose, it reminds me of Greg’s engagement to Louise in the ancient yew at Crowhurst.

Sweet Chestnuts in the gloom of Saw Pit Plantation

As the sun disappears below the tree line, I cross the road to Pembroke Lodge, the car park now largely empty save for a few lingering visitors. From the viewpoint on King Henry’s Mound, the light is too dim and the air too hazy from the woodsmoke emanating from Sidmouth Wood for St Paul’s Cathedral to be visible through the keyhole. But in the opposite direction, the lights of west London are laid out like a glittery carpet in the twilight. Now fading to black in the gloom, I can just make out some of the landmarks beyond the dim silhouettes of the Cedars in Petersham Park immediately below: the steely ribbon of the twisting Thames, reflecting the little remaining daylight; Ham House, Twickenham Stadium and Heathrow Airport, above which twinkling navigation lights in the darkening sky mark the trajectories of steeply ascending aircraft, only a few miles distant. Framed by the graceful limbs of shadowy beech trees, the leaves of which rustle soothingly in the gentle breeze, this must be one of the finest views in London. Beautiful.

Postcript: While the deer can be aggressive to humans, especially during the rut and calving period, they are themselves at risk from attack by dogs, which for the deer can lead to injury and even death, and for the owner, internet notoriety. Dog owners are of course welcome to enjoy the Park, but, please, be responsible and ensure your canine friend stays well clear of the deer and other vulnerable wildlife. More information on the Royal Parks’ ‘Dogs On Leads’ policy can be found here and here.

Southwards along the Royal Military Canal towards Cliff End

Then I began to wonder how much £234,310 would be in today’s money. The best person to ask would surely be an historian, maybe one with an interest in naval history? Luckily I have a good friend who is such a person, a Senior Research Fellow and Lecturer no less at the prestigious Greenwich Maritime Institute, housed in the grand surroundings of the former Royal Naval College on the banks of the Thames, with its amazing Painted Hall. So I asked him, and here’s what he said:

Calculating historic values of money is notoriously difficult because it depends on what you measure it against, and how that has moved in price relative to other commodities and general consumption. It’s easy to say that a pound would buy X amount of bread in 1800, for example, but that doesn’t take account of how much cheaper the inputs for making bread have become, or the fact that bread isn’t nearly as important an item of consumption now as it was two centuries ago. Economic historians have been shouting at one another about historical prices for decades, and there’s no sign of the storm letting up yet.

Therefore, there are various indices of the pound’s changing value. They all agree in terms of general trends – wartime spikes in the ‘long’ eighteenth century, nineteenth century a time of low inflation, big spike in the second half of the twentieth century, and so on – but values for given years can be very different. The index I tend to use is the one produced by the House of Commons Library. There’s also an inflation calculator on the Bank of England website, which as far as I know is produced from the same data and should show the same results. According to the latter, the Royal Military Canal cost £14,759,856.35 at 2010 values – which actually looks quite low by the standards of modern capital projects!

So, £14¾m for 28 miles of canal, or, simplifying the maths somewhat, £500,000 per mile. Probably not that much then: built today, that amount would probably be paid in fees to, as Private Eye would have it, the ‘usual suspects’ of consultants and lawyers before the first sod had been turned.

Rye to Hastings, East Sussex

Strand Gate, Winchelsea

Halfway to Rye on the train, I realised I’d forgotten my camera. So the pictures in this post, taken with my phone, are a little bit blurry and indistinct, but should give an idea of the landscape encountered on this walk. Think of them as an Impressionist revival.

Start: Rye Station TQ918205

Finish: Hastings Station TQ814096

Length: 15¼ miles/8 hours

How to get there: Rye is on the Marshlink Line between Ashford and Hastings – I went from St Pancras on Southeastern’s High Speed service to Ashford International, then changed onto Southern’s service across the marshes that clings to the coast towards Brighton; Ashford can also be reached by regular (cheaper) Southeastern services from Charing Cross or Victoria. The return from Hastings is either by Southeastern back to Charing Cross via Tonbridge, or by Southern back to Victoria via Lewes

It’s market day as I alight from the train at Rye’s elegant but diminutive station. The little 2-car diesel train from Ashford, something of an anomaly in the mostly electrified south east, is busy with shoppers aiming for the bustling stalls, and with tourists who head uphill from the station, keen to explore the history of this beautiful town.

And Rye has history in spades, much of it intrinsically linked to the town’s location just over the channel from France. Years before the invasion of 1066, Rye, as part of the manor of Rameslie along with Hastings and Winchelsea, was already in Norman hands. In return for being given sanctuary from the Danes in 1014, King Æthelred (one of the Saxon Kings crowned in Kingston as I learnt on a previous walk) promised Rameslie to the Normans, but died before fulfilling this pledge. His widow, Queen Emma, the daughter of Duke Robert I of Normandy, married Æthelred’s successor, King Cnut, and persuaded him to honour Æthelred’s promise: in 1017 Cnut gave Rameslie to the Abbey of Fécamp. Less than fifty years later, the monks’ knowledge of the local area – and the fact that many of them joined William’s army – undoubtedly gave William the Conqueror a foothold when he invaded in 1066. The town returned to English rule in 1247, although an area to the north, still known today as Rye Foreign, remained in the ownership of Fécamp Abbey until the Reformation.

Watchbell Street, Rye

In recognition of the town’s defensive role, it was granted the status of a Cinque Port by Henry II in 1189. Thought by some to have been established by Edward the Confessor, the Cinque Ports Confederation was a collection of coastal towns that provided the King with ship service (57 ships in total, each with a crew of 21 men and one boy, for 15 days of each year) in exchange for which the towns were granted freedom from various taxes and tolls, and the right to hold their own courts. As the name suggests, there were originally five such ports (Cinque from cinq, French for five) – Sandwich, Dover, New Romney, Hastings and Hythe – but each had associated ‘limbs’, neighbouring towns and villages which helped fulfil the quota of ships. Rye, along with Winchelsea, began as a limb of Hastings; the two towns were later incorporated as ‘Antient Towns’ before being granted full Cinque Port status by Henry just before his death. This, along with a Royal Charter granted by Edward I in 1289, helped ensure Rye’s prosperity.

Landgate, Rye

The streets are thronging, the many art galleries and tea shops brisk with trade. I stop at one of the many bakers for lunch of a roll and locally-produced pork pie before continuing along the High Street to Landgate, one of four fortified gateways that reflect the town’s historic embattled past. The 13th and 14th centuries were bloody and violent for the people of Rye, an almost constant period of conflict with France. Most notably, in 1377, the French raided Rye, burnt most of the town to the ground and stole the church bells. Some of those defending the town were thought to have made too little effort, and were subsequently hanged and quartered as traitors. The next year, in the return away leg, Rye raided Normandy to recover the church bells (and probably much more besides). A score draw.

Nothing remains of the other three gates – Strandgate, Baddings Gate and Postern Gate – but Landgate is still largely as built, two circular rubble towers either side of a central arch from which a portcullis, gate and drawbridge could be lowered.

Ypres Tower, now part of Rye Museum

I spend a while exploring the interior of church, which has much of interest: the pendulum which, unusually, descends from the clock tower above to sway slowly to and fro above the crossing; the original cherubic ‘quarter boys’ which once stood outside high up on the clock tower (their places now taken with modern replicas); Norman arches on the west side of the north transept. But the highlight of any visit is the chance to ascend the tower. I pay my £2.50, and climb a narrow staircase, to an even narrower stone passageway, from where one can look down onto the crossing and chancel far below. Barely wide enough for one, let alone for two people to pass, I have to reverse three times to allow people to descend (banging my head on a timber roof truss each time), then climb time-worn stone steps into the ringing room. A wooden tablet on the wall commemorates the ringing of ‘A Peal of Grandsire Triples, 5040 Changes, A Variation of Holt’s Ten-Part’ on ‘Monday May 30th 1898 in Three Hours and Two Minutes’. Opposite, the clock mechanism, dating from 1561 and one of the oldest working church clock mechanisms in the country, continues to mark time, as it has done for 450 years. A steep wooden staircase leads up into the belfry, where the bells – not those stolen by the French in 1377, but ones cast in 1775 – hang still and silent. A narrow wooden walkway leads across the gloom of the belfry, through the slimmest of doors out into bright light and fresh air on the tower parapet.

The view from the tower of St Mary's Church, Rye; Ypres Tower is in the foreground, and in the distance the Rivers Rother and Brede

Already an hour and a half since I alighted from the train and I still have many miles to go. Reluctantly, I descend the tower, and make a quick circuit of the churchyard, round to a curious yet elegant lozenge-shaped brick water cistern dating from 1735, and to Ypres Tower. A four-turreted rubble fortification, it was built as part of the town’s defences and now houses a museum – something for a future visit when I have more time. Pressing on along the cobbles of Watchbell Street – so named as one of the bells recovered from the French was erected here to be rung as a warning of further raids – past a hodgepodge of black and white timber-framed buildings, I take one last look at the view from the high ground before descending steep steps to the quay. I’m sure a return visit will not be too distant, but until then: God save Englonde and ye Towne of Rye!

Water is an intrinsic feature of this flatter lower-lying landscape beyond the edge of the town. A hairpin to cross the river to the south bank of the Tillingham, past a Martello tower (now a private residence and inaccessible to the curious), and over the Brede and onto Rye Harbour Nature Reserve, criss-crossed with drainage channels. Drizzle begins to fall from a drab grey sky beneath which sheep graze the thinnest of turf, a veneer over the sandy, stony soil deposited by the sea as it retreated southwards. The horizon is largely featureless: just a few trees. And in the distance, the bulk of Camber Castle.

When it was built by Henry VIII in the 1540s as a formidable defence against French and Spanish invaders, the Castle stood on a spit of shingle protruding into Winchelsea Harbour. But by 1637, when the garrison was disbanded, the harbour had shifted eastwards to such an extent that the Castle became obsolete and was abandoned. It now sits in brooding isolation – ideal for the multitude of wildlife that shares the landscape today.

The crumbling keep of Camber Castle

The sheep, of course, are oblivious to the sometimes bloody history surrounding them, and continue to shave the meagre turf as I continue to Castle Farm. Two grey-and-white donkeys dawdle around in their paddock dolefully, as is the way of donkeys, in contrast to the cheery sign on the fence: ‘Hello! We are Teddy and Patches. We are rescue donkeys. We are on special diets, please do not feed us’. Maybe that’s why they look so downcast.

Sea Road leads westwards, on a parallel meandering course to the Brede, now hidden behind idiosyncratic houses. Over the Royal Military Canal (of which more later) to turn up a narrow steep lane beneath the dense shade of sycamores. The higher elevation allows for glimpses through the trees of marshland stretching towards the distant sea. At the top, the road narrows even further to squeeze between the rotund stone towers and under the stone arch of Strand Gate, one of four fortified entrances into Winchelsea.

St Thomas the Martyr, Winchelsea; the ruined arches of the largely-disappeared north and south transepts are visible to either side

At the centre of the town (for, despite its relatively diminutive size, Winchelsea regards itself not as a village but makes a claim to be the smallest town in England) is the church of St Thomas the Martyr. Quite substantial for a settlement of this size, the present-day church only hints at what was originally constructed. Ruined transept columns to the west of the porch suggest that a much larger church may have existed (whether construction was ever completed was the subject of speculation for many years but it is now generally accepted that the church once extended westwards), but successive brutal and murderous raids by the French in the 14th century destroyed much of what had only recently been built.

I enter by the west door. Subdued lighting emphasises the serenity of this place, and allows the rich colours of the stained glass windows to glow. The quality of the craftsmanship is apparent not just in the fabric of the building, but in the decoration too. Arches supported by tall but slim perfectly proportioned limestone columns support elegant arches that draw the eye to the altar. The roof timbers are a testament to the skills of the woodcutters and carpenters who shaped them from oaks grown in the nearby Weald forest. Three effigies in the north aisle – thought to be of members of the Godfrey family – are exquisitely carved, every detail of the human form beautifully depicted in what was once a solid block of black marble. I feel an urge to touch the stone and feel its cool smoothness beneath my hand, but somehow can’t help thinking this would show a lack of respect not just for the memories of those the effigies commemorate but also for the craftsmanship involved.

Spike and Shelagh's grave, minus headstone

As a note in the church explains, Spike’s headstone has recently been removed by his family for re-engraving following the recent death of his wife Shelagh, which means I won’t be able to read for myself his self-penned epitaph ‘Dúirt mé leat go raibh mé breoite’ (‘I told you I was ill’), written in Gaelic as a compromise to avoid any perceived offence. A brilliant comic to the last. But, using the clues of other headstones show on the postcard, I am soon able to find his grave: a low mound of fresh earth, a solitary jam-jar of dead flowers pushed into the loose soil, beneath an ash tree, in the most tranquil spot in the graveyard. An appropriately peaceful spot for someone who found life troubling at times, tormented as he was by mental illness, despite his success, for many of his years. Rest in peace dear Spike, and thank you for all the laughs.

Time is pressing on. With the plinky-plonky piano theme from Q5 in my head, I leave the churchyard for a quick circuit of the town – past the tree under which John Wesley last preached in the open air in 1790, past the Millenium Beacon which stands on a site overlooking the Brede Level once occupied by St Leonard’s Mill until this blew down in the Great Storm of 1987 – to head south along an avenue of lime trees, cows to the left, sheep to the right. On the edge of the modern town now, but there are signs that mediaeval Winchelsea once encompassed a larger area, before the silting of its harbour, like Rye, led to a decline in its fortunes. Like a shark’s tooth emerging from the ground, a ragged gable end wall is all that remains of St John’s Hospital, not a hospital in the modern sense, but one of four almshouses in the town. In use until the 16th century, this crumbling monolithic slab is the only fragment left, all vestiges of the other three (Holy Cross, St Bartholomew’s and St Anthony’s) having long since vanished. Other remains have been found buried on the finger-like ridge of Wealdstone that stretches several hundred yards to the south, a promontory into the surrounding low-lying marshland.

The one remaining gable wall of St John's Hospital

Uphill across open country, and past Wickham Manor, a 16th century stone farmhouse, now owned by the National Trust and let to a tenant farmer, but once the home of William Penn before he emigrated to the Americas to found Pennsylvania and Philadelphia. Further uphill, to cross Wickham Rock Lane, past grazing dairy cows to the hill summit, overlooking the marshland to the south and, beyond, the sea. Such an ideal vantage point explains why a concrete pill box lurks semi-hidden in the undergrowth of a tree belt running along the ridge: a reminder that this coast has been threatened with invasion far more recently than the French offensives that have featured so prominently in the history I have encountered so far.

Over stiles through hedgerows, and downhill across a field spotted with the last few bright blue flowers of chicory among the rust-coloured seed heads – and a whole host of other wildflower species – grown, presumably, for shelter and sustenance for birds and bees. Back on Wickham Rock Lane, a mechanical grumbling over a hedgerow grows louder, a rattling and clanking of machinery and the thrumming roar of a diesel engine. Climbing the stile, a tractor and pasture topper trundles past, rolling along the undulating contours of Hog Hill up which I now climb. Breathing deeply, not just due to the exertion of the ascent, but to savour the sweet scent of freshly grown grass, I reach the summit and Hogg Hill Windmill, its black weatherboard roof, like the inverted keel of a capsized clinker-built boat, in vivid contrast to the gleaming white fantail. Built in 1781, it was originally erected in nearby Pett but moved to its current location in 1790, and is a well-preserved example of a post mill, although today the spring sails are missing. Not that this matters so much now. Milling ended here in 1920 and today it has a very different function. Obsolete(?) 18th century technology replaced with that of the 21st century: the windmill buildings now contain Sir Paul McCartney’s recording studio.

Downhill now, along a lane between dense hedges, then onto a barely discernible footpath through unkempt hedgerows and more overgrown fields of seeding wildflowers. Then, my planned route seems to peter out altogether: no sign of the footpath that on the map at least heads to the edge of woodland at the foot of Wickham Cliff, just another field of bird and bee food, including deep claret millet. A different footpath, this one along a track, heads along a bearing only a few degrees to the west, so I take the well-trodden path downhill to the edge of the reedbeds of Pannel Valley Nature Reserve.

Pannel Valley Nature Reserve

One ditch is crossed by a narrow footbridge into a hide looking over a lake – if a dried up muddy hollow can be described as a lake. Other visitors have noted their observations in the visitors’ book – one entry for July records the presence of avocets, oystercatchers, reed buntings, little ringed plovers, lapwings, sedge warblers and a variety of other birdlife but also notes ‘almost no water for feeding!’. Disappointingly, like some more recent visitors to the hide, I’m unable to spot anything, not even the deer that were recorded a few days earlier (although the presence of high fences in the distance makes me wonder if these were farmed and not wild visitors at all).

Another footbridge crosses to the east bank of the Royal Military Canal, which, reassuringly, means I’m back on route. The 28 mile Canal dates from the early days of the 19th century during the threat of Napoleonic invasion when Romney Marsh was a likely landing spot for French forces, and the realisation by Lt Col John Brown of the Royal Staff Corps that the flooded marsh with its network of ditches would be an insufficient barrier to a determined invader. Brown proposed a defensive ditch 19m wide be constructed from Folkestone around Romney Marsh to Rye and this was greeted enthusiastically by the Duke of York and Prime Minister William Pitt. John Rennie, who had had made his name with the construction of, amongst other things, Waterloo Bridge, numerous canals and the dockyards at Chatham and Devonport, was appointed engineer and proposed extending the canal from Rye to Cliff End, incorporating the Rivers Rother and Brede, thus creating an island of Romney Marsh. Once Pitt had convinced local landowners of the benefits of the Canal, which could also be used to drain surrounding farmland, construction began in October 1804.

Southwards along the Royal Military Canal towards Cliff End

But by this time the threat had receded: Napoleon had been defeated at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805 since when he had concentrated his empire building in mainland Europe. Faced with an embarrassing white elephant the Goverment opened the canal to barge traffic, charging tolls to try and recoup some of the construction costs, but this never amounted to much, particularly after the arrival of the Ashford-Hastings railway in 1851. The last toll was collected in 1909. But, of course, history has a habit of repeating itself, and the Canal’s defensive strength against invaders (this time from another megalomaniac empire builder, Adolf Hitler) was recognised in the 1930s and a line of pillboxes was constructed along its line.

Despite its origin in times of violence, the Canal today is peaceful and tranquil, a watery corridor of great value to wildlife. As I head south along Rennie’s extension to Cliff End, perfectly straight save for a kink which was deliberately engineered to allow enfilading fire should French troops try to cross the Canal, swans drift gracefully along the still waters; a kestrel perches on a fence post overseeing his domain; to the west, on higher ground, a nest box on a tall pole provides a home for owls – hunting along the dykes and ditches must provide a cornucopia of prey, including water voles for which the canal provides an ideal home. To the east, on Pett Level, hundreds of sheep and cattle graze contentedly in the stiffening breeze.

At Cliff End, I leave the Canal as it turns 45 degrees to run along a row of houses to its end. I climb up the flood protection embankment that runs parallel to the sea road, and descend onto the shoreline. It’s low tide: scrunching down the steeply sloping shingle colonised by sea kale and horned poppies, I come to exposed golden sand and grey-brown mudstone where flocks of oystercatchers are feeding in pools left by the receding water lapping feebly at the shore.

Low tide on the beach at Cliff End reveals mudstone and submerged forest

I could linger a while on such a beautiful beach, but time is passing and I’m only halfway to Hastings. I follow the road as it curves inland past the head of the Canal, then turn off up a footpath to climb steeply between fences and high hedges. Hidden by woodland and expensive houses with expansive gardens, I can hear the sea but not see it, until a stunning view unexpectedly opens up of the waves breaking on the shore far below, framed by the moss-covered, wind-stunted branches of oaks. Further along the clifftop path, the view landward is spectacular too, across rolling sheep-grazed open pasture that tumbles away inland, but the sea is hidden once more by dense scrubby hazel, sycamore and blackthorn clinging to the near-vertical cliff face. Scarlet rose hips and crimson hawthorn berries shine brightly, with a supporting cast of blush-blue sloes.

The path drops downhill into Fairlight Cove. With no access along the clifftop, I follow the lanes and footpaths through the village. Or at least, I try to: in a couple of places, roads and footpaths end at the crumbling cliff face and I find myself consulting the map for another route. But this rapidly changing coastline means that the map is quickly dating. Around a bend in the road, a building depicted by Ordnance Survey has disappeared, what remains of the garden locked away behind fence with a sign warning ‘Keep Out! Dangerous and unstable ground!’ Other houses cling on precariously, some boarded up, others still occupied, the residents living on borrowed time before inescapable geological forces and a tempestuous sea snatch their homes away, sending them plummeting over the cliff edge.

Eroding cliffs near Fairlight Cove

Labyrinthine grassy rabbit-cropped paths meander through the deep green gorse and golden bracken to the radar station perched on one of the cliff peaks. A superb vantage point over the Channel, all is wonderfully silent, save for the breathy whistle of a stiff on-shore breeze, and the steady but barely perceptible woomph….woomph….woomph…. as the radar waveguide rotates mesmerically.

Well over half way now, but the most strenuous part of the walk is just beginning. Three deep water-worn gorges incised in the sandstone – Fairlight Glen, Warren Glen and Ecclesbourne Glen – lie on the path to Hastings. With a kestrel hovering overhead, I begin the descent into Fairlight Glen, gentle at first through gorse and bracken, then dropping steeply into dense oak, hazel and sycamore ancient woodland. The sheltered microclimate, warm and moist, encourages mosses and lichens to proliferate on the oak branches. Steps cut into the steepest part of the slope twist downwards to the nadir of the Glen, and a densely shaded gully, a red-brown slash in the greenery, in which water trickles over jagged angular sandstone boulders, lush ferns on either side.

In the depths of Fairlight Glen

Descending into the depths of Warren Glen, the slope seems steeper and the woodland denser than in Fairlight Glen. If those fossilised Iguanodon and Megalosaurus suddenly came back to life, it wouldn’t seem so very surprising. Downhill, each step jars my whole body; uphill, my chest burns and legs ache at the effort, despite frequent pauses for breath and to admire the delicate ferns and foxgloves. The path is waymarked – just as well, as the twisting, turning path is not easy to follow on the map – but Hastings seems to remain a constant 4½ miles distant.

Eventually, the slope levels off and the trees melt away to reveal open grassland along the clifftop: here, the meadows are being managed, scrub and brambles cleared, and legumes and wildflowers planted to encourage long-horned and other bee species. The last flowers of the year of creamy yarrow, purple knapweed and bright yellow trefoils provide pinpricks of colour amongst the browning seedheads.

Then, the descent into Ecclesbourne Glen, a crevasse-like gouge cleaved into the cliff top, the walls of which are near vertical in places, too steep for any vegetation to cling on, thus revealing the strata of crumbling sandstone. Where scrub has managed to gain a foothold, the hawthorn has been wind-sculpted by sea breezes funnelling along the narrow Glen and reclines gracefully, arching backwards aerodynamically. Over a footbridge, to climb breathlessly up the steps carved into the opposite wall, back onto the open clifftop at East Hill for the first view of Hastings. Far below, red roofs atop bay-windowed pastel blue and yellow Victorian houses and, beyond, the pier, silhouetted by the setting sun, jutting out into the sparkling sea.

Ecclesbourne Glen

The fishermen are fiercely proud of their heritage and protective of their future, which explains the graffiti on some of the winch huts: ‘NO JERWOOD’. Next to the net shops, the modern lines of the near-completed Jerwood Gallery have met with significant local opposition. Although investment in Hastings, parts of which do seem down-at-heel, should be welcomed, I must admit I have considerable sympathy for their view that the Stade and surrounding Old Town are ‘a working community inhabited by working people’ and not a museum piece for coachloads of tourists.

Looking down on Hastings Old Town from East Hill

Ashurst to Lymington, Hampshire

Ancient hornbeams on Park Pale

The name ‘New Forest’ originates from its enclosure by the conquering Norman King William I for hunting deer – indeed, the word ‘forest‘ in English was originally a legal term to describe an area of land set aside for hunting by nobility – in which poaching of the King’s deer was punishable in a number of gruesome ways including blinding or having the hands cut off. The restrictions on the use of the Forest by local people, and the harsh rule of William Rufus (William the Conqueror’s son and heir) led to huge resentment, which has been suggested as one of many possible motives for William’s death: in a still-unsolved mediaeval ‘whodunnit’, William may have been murdered by a ‘stray’ arrow fired by Walter Tyrell who somewhat suspiciously immediately fled to France.

In later years, the local people were granted commoners’ rights – of pasture (grazing of animals), of pannage or mast (the feeding of pigs on fallen acorns in the autumn), estovers (the collection of firewood), of turbary (the digging of peat for fuel), and of marl (the digging of clay to improve land). Formalised in the 16th century and still administered by the Verderers today, these rights, particularly grazing and pannage, have subtly moulded the landscape character of the New Forest by interrupting ecological progressions and preventing natural regeneration. In fact, the woodland character of some parts of the Forest – grazed by animals leading to open wood pasture – has been suggested as an example of how the ancient European ‘Wildwood’ may have appeared before human intervention, according to Frans Vera’s hypothesis: not the dense dark impenetrable tangle of trees and undergrowth of ‘Hansel and Gretel’, but rather a more open landscape of mature trees in a matrix of grassy glades grazed by deer, bison and aurochs.

Pine plantation, Parkhill Inclosure

From the First World War onwards, the demand for timber resulted in the planting of fast growing non-native conifers – Sitka spruce and Douglas fir amongst others. Harvesting and extraction of such timber continues today, but, recognising the diminished conservation value of such habitat, the Forestry Commission is working on restoring native woodland by replanting broadleaves.

Today, the New Forest is patchwork of hugely valuable habitats, home to a vast range of wildlife (including all six species of native reptile), and well deserving of its status as a Site of Special Scientific Interest, Ramsar site and EU Special Area of Conservation. It is also hugely popular for recreation, with many honeypot sites that attract thousands of visitors every year. But even so, as I found on this walk, get away from the main roads and the sense of isolation and wilderness is wonderful.

Start: Ashurst (New Forest) Station SU333101

Finish: Lymington Pier Station SZ332954

Length: 12 miles/6 hours

How to get there: Ashurst can be reached directly from London Waterloo on South West Trains services to Bournemouth and Weymouth via Southampton. The return journey back to Waterloo from Lymington Pier requires a change at Brockenhurst, from where one can also catch a Cross Country train to Birmingham and beyond.

Having finally found my way out of Ashurst station (through a gate that is cunningly disguised as part of the fence on the platform for trains to Eastliegh [sic]), I follow the road busy with summer holiday traffic, much of it heading to and from the Forestry Commission campsite. Once off road, I head across tussocky grassland, then along a wide ride bordered by woodland: reminiscent of a dry river delta, islets of pink-purple ling and cross leaved heath separated by rivulets of close-cropped grass. In a group of trees, I find low earthwork banks, the only remains of Saltpetre House, where timber was burnt to provide a vital ingredient for gunpowder.

Open heathland near Ashurst

The drizzle that greeted me as I alighted from the train ceases and the cloud cover breaks into drifting grey-white fluffy cumulus, revealing a bright blue sunlit sky. There is little trace of the tumulus – just a slight mound – but it makes a suitable landmark for a change of compass bearing. I turn south making for a belt of trees marking the line of the Beaulieu River, crossing by a footbridge over a gently flowing stream beneath the verdant tranquil shelter of oaks and alders.

Taking a bearing for the tree line on Matley Ridge in the distance, I cross Longwater Lawn through sinuous black fingers of recently burnt heather, the crisp ground crunching beneath my boots. A small bird flits from one brittle charred stem to the next, too far away to identify – a species of finch maybe, with its dark head perhaps a bullfinch? A line of goat willows, and the young stems of bog myrtle, indicate increasing wetness underfoot and soon the crunch becomes a squelch. In bare patches in the damp soil, I find the tracks or ‘slots’ of deer – 6 species can be found in the New Forest. Soon, the landscape, treeless save for the occasional stunted windswept birch, becomes pock-marked with small crater-like ponds, some drying, others full of rust-coloured water covered with an oily film – indicative of the peaty soil beneath. Growing in the waterlogged mud of the wetter spots, I spy sundews, a type of carnivorous plant of which there are 3 species native to Britain.

Boggy heathland, Longwater Lawn

Continuing uphill across Matley Heath toward the ridge, the rising ground gradually dries underfoot. I push through a dense maze of head-high gorse, almost impenetrable to me, but not to deer – their droppings suggest they browse here regularly. At the summit of the ridge (click here for a panoramic view northwards), I dodge the cyclists to cross the Lyndhurst to Beaulieu road, then, greeting a group of walkers, head downhill along the western perimeter of a sun-dappled plantation of tall pines, edged with bright orange-berried rowans.

It’s not long before I reach a line of wide-crowned hornbeams, clearly of considerable age, their stout trunks encrusted with grey-green lichens, atop a long linear bank. This earthwork is Park Pale, at least 700 years old, and originally constructed to enclose the medieval deer park of Lyndhurst Old Park. I decide to follow its alignment, and continue along the bottom of the associated ditch, shushing through the deep leaf litter.

Where the tree cover thins, I push through chest-high bracken to emerge on Holmhill Passage, a wide open ride. Something is moving rapidly along the edge of the conifers on the far side, just above ground level. Through the scrubby bog myrtle, it’s hard to discern what – a deer? But as it rises to disappear into the pine tops, I catch a glimpse of a wide dark-tipped wingspan – a buzzard!

Dappled woodland, Denny Inclosure

Into Little Holmhill Inclosure now, and Park Pale continues through the dappled shade cast by beech trees and the gloom beneath dense yews. Then out into a sunlit firebreak, a wide pathless swathe cut through the conifers, through tall bracken that hides the uneven ground, tangled brambles and lying brash causing me to stumble. This, and the uphill climb to Park Hill, soon has me perspiring and breathing heavily, but being ‘off piste’ like this is exhilarating nonetheless. A sudden noise startles: I turn quickly to catch a glimpse of the powder-puff tails of two fallow deer bounding away through the trees, not 10 feet distant.

At the top of Park Hill, I leave Park Pale as it disappears into dense woodland once more, and follow a gravelled logging track into Parkhill Inclosure. Now more accessible, this part of the New Forest is waymarked and managed for access by the Forestry Commission. I meet dog walkers, and families on mountain bikes speeding downhill along the tracks into gully bottoms. All around are enormous timber trees: gigantic Sitka spruce and Douglas fir towering overhead, one of which I calculate as being 46m tall. The usual guilty thought crosses my mind: I would love to get in there with a chainsaw and fell one of these giants; the adrenalin rush and buzz as such a tree falls – imperceptibly at first (will it sit back? should I have used a hi-lift wedge?), then gradually gathering speed (have I gone too deep with the backcut? will the hinge break too early?), accelerating earthwards to land with a crashing and splintering of side branches and a reverberating THUD – is amazing.

Tall trees

I meet a helmeted family of stationary cyclists, the father looking at the map somewhat bemused. ‘Hello! I don’t suppose you know where we are do you?’ he asks. I point out our location, and he expresses surprise at the distance they have covered. His young daughter stands silently next to him astride her bike. She has a big grin on her face – maybe she’s amazed at how far their adventure has taken them, or perhaps she’s amused at her dad managing to get the family lost in hundreds of acres of forest. But to be fair, it’s easy to lose one’s bearings here – it all looks the same! – and I have only been able to keep track of my position by consulting the map regularly – not so easy to do while speeding along on a bike.

I continue southwards, past compartments of pine, Sitka spruce and oak. Amongst the trees of the denser plantations, little ground flora grows in the shade, except for thick stands of bracken or soft rush. But where the sun penetrates along the tracks and firebreaks, a herb layer flourishes: wild roses, grasses and beautiful pink betony, the latter growing in the damp ditches along the ride edge. All this in turn attracts insect life – chirruping grasshoppers and flitting dragonflies – that seem unperturbed by the many humans, two-wheeled and two-legged, passing by.

Where the logging track turns abruptly left, I continue straight on, southwards along a wide grassy path, beneath bright sunshine through stands of young pine. Not quite at the stage of first thinning, they line up in green rows, like soldiers on parade, intermingled with a fifth column of seedling birch.

I greet a group of 12 (nine human, three canine), then pass through a gap in a low mossy bank that marks the boundary of Pignal Inclosure. The tree cover is initially broadleaved here, mature oak and beech and sweet chestnut, a contrast to the acres of softwoods through which I have just passed. But the forest soon reverts to type; I continue along a firebreak, green and lush with soft rushes, which leads though more pines. I leave the sunlight behind and make a brief detour into the shade beneath the trees. Recently thinned and pruned, perhaps the previous year, piles of brash crack noisily beneath my feet, while above my head the tree tops sway gently in the breeze, releasing a shower of pine needles that drift down like a gentle shower of rain.

New Forest Pony, Balmer Lawn

On the far side of Balmer Lawn is Balmer Lawn Hotel, a grand 19th century building (although modernised in recent years – a squat tower on the roof, bristling with aerials and with scaffold handrail looks like it belongs atop a coastguard station) which in its 200 year history has hosted King George V, Winston Churchill and Dwight D. Eisenhower. Its grand façade overlooks a cricket pitch, where I find a game in progress, watched by sunhatted spectators in folding chairs.

The Lymington River, Balmer Lawn

Crossing the river by the roadbridge, I continue into Brockenhurst. Well, at the second attempt: having waded across the ankle-deep shallows, I find the grassy area beyond is fenced off, resulting in a retreat back across the river. Once in the village, a quick pint in the Virginia creeper-clad Rose and Crown follows, then onwards, over the railway to turn left down Church Lane. My intention from here is to follow, as closely as possible, the course of the Lymington River, although, now outside the boundary of the New Forest’s open access land, the dearth of rights of way along the river bank will make this something of a challenge.

Church Lane leads, unsurprisingly, to a church: St Nicholas, the oldest in the New Forest. A wicket gate allows entry into the churchyard, most of which is beautifully wild, tall grasses and wildflowers, knapweed and ox-eye daisy, from which rise headstones spotted with green, grey and orange lichens. One marble headstone features a carving of an old bearded man, in boots and coat, holding in one hand a stick and in the other……snakes! The epitaph explains all:

THIS STONE MARKS THE GRAVE OF HARRY MILLS (BETTER KNOWN AS ‘BRUSHER’ MILLS) WHO FOR A LONG NUMBER OF YEARS FOLLOWED THE OCCUPATION OF SNAKE-CATCHER IN THE NEW FOREST. HIS PURSUIT AND THE PRIMITIVE WAY IN WHICH HE LIVED CAUSED HIM TO BE AN OBJECT OF INTEREST TO MANY. HE DIED SUDDENLY JULY 1ST 1905, AGED 65 YEARS

New Zealand War Graves, St Nicholas Churchyard

A path through the tall grasses leads to the front of the church, and I enter through the beautiful chevronned Norman arch of the south doorway. Once inside, a kindly old gentleman greets me – he’s a volunteer guide. We spend a very pleasant 30 minutes chatting, ‘reading’ the church together. Along with the Norman arch, there are traces of herringbone Saxon stonework in the walls of the 12th century nave – like so many country churches, the building is a mish-mash of architectural styles, an ecclesiastical cut’n'shut, if you like. The wood-panelled Victorian north aisle (with gallery above – where once the church musicians played, until a harmonium was installed in 1855) is in complete contrast with the earlier chancel and nave. Face north and you could be in a Methodist chapel in the 19th century; turn and face south and you could be in the Middle Ages.

St Nicholas Church, the yew tree to the left, and inset, the Norman arch over the south door

I buy a guidebook to add to the collection (80p) and thank my companion for his time and knowledge. Pausing to admire the impressive yew tree just outside the south door – recorded as 15 feet in girth in 1793, and recently dated to over 1000 years old – I continue south along Church Lane, past the site of the wartime hospital, still recognisable from the old contemporary photographs my guide showed me. Then onto a bridleway across parkland – the grounds of Brockenhurst Park – home to impressive cedars, pines and wellingtonias, and a wide avenue of majestic limes.

The footpath drops downhill into Hampshire Wildlife Trust’s exquisite Roydon Woods Nature Reserve. Amongst the trees it feels vibrant and verdant, full of life, from the mosses and ferns growing high in the crowns of ancient oaks, to the grasses, rushes, enchanter’s nightshade and wood sage that carpet the ground. Even the decay and recycling of dead trees and branches seems to be busying itself along hurriedly: I find enormous fungal fruit bodies, huge multiple brackets of Ganoderma applanatum, dusted with brown spores, on a beech, and a sizeable and copiously oozing Inonotus dryaedus on an oak.

Snake!

The path crosses a sedge-lined stream in Dawkins Bottom, then climbs beneath tall beeches. I’m impatient to catch a glimpse of the Lymington River, so make a quick diversion east along a bridleway. Passing the warm red tiled roof and wisteria-clad walls of Roydon Manor, dating from the 17th century and now Grade II listed, the bridleway crosses the river by a ford. I linger awhile in this peaceful spot, leaning on the handrail of a footbridge in the shade of ash and alder to watch the peaty water drift by beneath.

Back on route, I leave Roydon Woods behind, and, now on tarmac, continue south past Blazemore Farm. In fields either side of the road Southdown sheep are grazing beneath some grand veteran oaks; one stag-headed tree supports large yellow brackets of chicken-of-the-woods on its bole. They would make a lovely risotto, but are sadly out of reach over a tall hedge.

I come to a crossroads and consider turning left to the church at Boldre that my guide at St Nicholas had recommended I visit. But actually, I’m quite enjoying sitting on a bench on the grassy patch at the centre of the crossroads, sun and blue sky overhead, birdsong and the faint smell of wood smoke in the air. The black and white cast-iron road sign by my side, its fingers pointing east, west, north and south, gives this rural scene a nostalgic inter-War feel.

South to Boldre

I could spend a pleasurable couple of lazy hours sitting by the water here, but I must press on and so cross the river by a footbridge onto Rodlease Lane. At the junction with Rope Hill, I turn right to take a quick look at the five stone arches of Boldre Bridge. As I’m leaning over the parapet, looking upriver, a metallic-blue flash shoots past, skimming across the water before disappearing into the crown of a white willow. It’s the most tantalising of glimpses, over in a second, but it could only be one thing: a kingfisher! How exciting! A shy and secretive bird, I could probably count the number of times I have seen a kingfisher on the fingers of one hand.

The Lymington River, near Boldre

A short distance on is Spinners garden and nursery, which gave its name to a sublimely beautiful hardy Geranium. It’s a bit too late to explore the delightful woodland garden; besides, I need to turn off Pilley Hill before I reach Spinners. I nearly get there anyway, almost missing the turning as the single track lane down which my route lies is well camouflaged: the ‘No Through Road’ sign hidden behind elm suckers, and the lane itself is encroached on from either side by shrubs and brambles. Further on, it plunges into the gloom between high fern-encrusted banks before coming to a dead end. The footpath continues beyond the trees alongside the river, now wide and open, lined with reeds and, on the far bank, an alarming amount of invasive non-native Himalayan balsam.

With the river on my right, I head downstream. The Lymington River here winds its way along a wide flood plain; consequently the ground underfoot – luxuriant with grasses, sedges, creeping buttercup and water mint – is wet and boggy and I soon sink up to my ankles in mud. The river’s edge is indistinct, grass and water merging fuzzily. Occasional splashes and ripples indicates the presence of fish. Two beautiful dark bay horses with white stars are grazing, splashing through the river up to their hocks (though they don’t look like hippopotami). I try to get closer for a stroke, but soon find myself on a peninsula-like sliver of dry(ish) ground surrounded by shallow water. I could retrace my steps, but, well, the water’s only ankle deep and it’s only a metre or so before I can be back on dry(er) land.

Lymington Reedbeds

Shaking off the mud, I follow the footpath into Lymington Reedbeds, another of Hampshire Wildlife Trust’s reserves, and a Site of Special Scientific Interest for its birdlife; beyond the alders, acres of Phragmites reeds sway in the breeze beneath the setting sun.

Back onto tarmac, Undershore leads me to the edge of Lymington. A detour to the sluice gates gives a better view of the reedbeds either side of the widening river; at the side of the road a sign asks motorists to drive slowly because of otters crossing. To the south, brightly coloured dinghys and tenders line the harbour wall, while in the marina hundreds of yachts are visible, and a faint ‘ting-ting-ting’ of halyards tapping on masts can be heard.

Lymington Harbour, from Walhampton

The end of the road. At the ferry terminal, the Wight Sky has just docked and cars and coaches are emerging from deep within its bowels. It’s hugely tempting to jump on board and venture across the Solent to Yarmouth, but the train home is waiting at the single platform of Lymington Pier station. 10 minutes later I’m back in Brockenhurst where there’s time for a quick pint at the Foresters Arms before the London train leaves.

Once on board (to my fellow passengers: sorry about the smell), the train speeds across the New Forest, and, as the sun disappears below a heathland horizon, I catch a glimpse of a group of four fallow deer – a final treat, and a perfect end to the day.

Oxted to Lingfield, Surrey

The Crowhurst Yew

Start: Oxted Station TQ393528

Finish: Lingfield Station TQ393438

Length: 12 miles/6 hours

How to get there: both stations are on the East Grinstead branch. Southern services from London Bridge and Victoria take less than an hour.

The rain lashes relentlessly against the windows as the train heads south, the only respite coming as we pass through tunnels, one at Riddlesdown and the mile and half long Oxted tunnel that takes the railway beneath the North Downs ridge. Thankfully, the downpour eases as we pull into Oxted station where I alight. I head along the High Street, past mock Tudor boutiques and coffee shops, before turning off through a housing estate overlooked by an enormous rusting gas holder, unused since 1999. Dodging the traffic, I cross the busy A25 where it passes beneath the three latticework iron spans of Oxted viaduct, just as a train to Uckfield rumbles over.

On Limspfield Common

On the edge of the woodland, an imposing Gothic building reminiscent of the Grand Midland Hotel at St Pancras can be glimpsed through the trees. Ostentatiously decorated with towers and lucarned spires, sandstone lancet windows contrasting with highly decorative red brick, this is the former St Michael’s School. The Grade II listed building is clad in scaffolding, having recently been converted into exclusive (and expensive) flats, although given the weather the builders have sensibly retreated indoors and there is little sign of any work to the exterior going on today.

Back beneath the trees once more. Dense dark patches of holly and thick impenetrable stands of young birch trees intermingle with more open oak woodland. Where sufficient light reaches the woodland floor, I find patches of delicately pink flowered herb robert. I push through waist-high bracken bent over the path by the weight of water on the delicate fronds and my trousers are soon soaked; not that I mind, woodland in the rain is a great place to be.

The Spigot Mortar

On the far side of the cricket pitch I find reminders of Limpsfield’s life in the Second World War. On the woodland edge is a concrete column in a sandbag-lined pit – the mount for a spigot mortar or ‘Blacker Bombard‘, a weapon capable of firing a 20lb anti-tank mortar to a distance of 100 yds. This doesn’t sound very effective, but this weapon was a cheap and easily produced armament invented by Lieutenant-Colonel Stewart Blacker to quickly replace the vast amount of munitions lost during the retreat from Dunkirk. Not the most successful design (the mortar would explode on impact which at only 100 yards away was potentially lethal for the operator), it was rejected by the regular Army, but issued to Home Guard units.

The Air Raid Shelters

After peace finally returned, the shelters and spigot mortar bunker lay hidden by undergrowth for years before being restored in 2006. Five of the shelters have been adapted to house roosting bats – like some of the pillboxes I have encountered elsewhere – but one has been restored to near-original condition and is opened to the public occasionally. Today is not one of those days unfortunately – the shelter that protected the children from bombs would as easily provide cover from the deluge that begins as I’m exploring the site. Luckily, the downpour is as short lived as it is heavy and eases off as I’m admiring the spectacular view over the North Downs from a clearing beyond the shelters. The countryside beyond springs to life, suddenly illuminated by the emerging sun as the cloud cover races across the clearing sky.

The North Downs ridge, seen from Limpsfield Common

A moment’s hesitation: the footpath appears to continue down a driveway guarded by a five bar gate inscribed ‘Private’. Reassured by Ordnance Survey, I press on regardless and a few yards later come to a ledged and braced garden gate marked ‘footpath’. Through the gate and on the other side, a hand-written washed-out notice asks me to close the gate, which I do, realising that there’s no way to open it again from this side. The notice also indicates the footpath in the direction in which I have just come lies through some trees and not along the driveway – a surreptitious (and probably illegal) right-of-way diversion?

I head downhill, ducking beneath branches along Tenchleys Lane, a dark gullied path in woodland, the floor slippery with last year’s leaves. The chestnut paling fence to the side of the path occasionally hops up and over mounds of earth – the spoil heaps from badger diggings spilling from higher up the steeply sloping woodland edge. The land drops away quite quickly; half way down the slope and over a stile the trees give way to grassland. Continuing downhill, three beautiful chestnut horses look nonchalantly in my direction but soon return to grazing.

Tenchleys Manor

Southwards through the gently swaying hay meadows of Itchingwood Common, then along an untidy hedgerow of brambles and long-dead elms in which blue tits flit from one tree to the next, chattering noisily. The track, now lined with wide-crowned, deep green oak trees, continues across fields of rich, fruitful farmland, lace-bordered with corn chamomile and other wildflowers missed by the sprayer. Fields of barley wave to and fro in the breeze, their long awns like hazy spray whipped up from a rolling sea. The flowers of a field of flax, white instead of the more common blue, give the appearance of a light unseasonal dusting of snow.

Crooked River, a tributary of the Eden, flows under the cover of a ribbon of woodland, the damp soil and shade encouraging hazel and creamy-flowered meadowsweet to flourish. Less than full flowing, its waters trickle over a ford, but still too deep for me to cross on foot, and I use the adjacent footbridge. This brings me to the farmhouse at Stockenden Farm, which sits in an extensive garden dominated by a mature walnut tree. But its 15th century features, grade I listed no less, that I had been keen to see hide behind scaffolding, which, combined with the beginnings of more rain, gives me no reason to linger.

Sheep in the rain

As I’m impatient to be on my way, I only wait until the rain begins to ease off. I follow the line of the hedgerow southwards, unsettling the sheltering sheep and forcing them to forego what little respite from the downpour they are able to find. Along the edge of woodland, to cross the railway to Uckfield; wet steel ribbons of rail glimmer and steam in the light from a sun breaking through the rain cloud. Then over stiles and across paddocks, colourful with selfheal, buttercups and red bartsia, and past traditional brushwood steeplechase hurdles – the proximity to Lingfield racecourse makes this a popular area for racing stables.

I’m heading for Staffhurst Wood, which lies across pasture occupied by beef cattle, mostly sheltering under the cover of the distant trees. One though, a huge thick-necked bull, stands side-on in the middle of the field, this stance emphasising the muscular solidity of his body. He looks at me, quite nonchalantly, largely disinterested. But this is enough to unnerve. I follow a curving path and try to avoid eye contact, while surreptitiously glancing in his direction occasionally to reassure myself that he’s still in the same spot, and not about to charge. His gaze follows me until his neck is almost bent double, but otherwise he doesn’t move, expect for twitching ears flicking off raindrops. Near the treeline, I begin to feel a sense of relief, but this is short lived as the cattle lined up along the woodland edge begin to walk towards me intently. Oh great, I’m about to be trampled to death in a stampede, my body to be pressed into the soft mud, my remains perfectly preserved by the waterlogged ground, to be found by a future archaeologist, the period of my death determined not by carbon dating but by Gore-tex.

Keeping my distance

The woodland enclosed by the fence is owned by the Woodland Trust, according to the sign tied to the fence with baling twine, on the back of which the farmer has helpfully scrawled ‘Bull In Field’; well, it would be helpful for walkers heading in the opposite direction, but a bit late for me. Over the stile, I’m dwarfed by tall pillars of ash and oak, top quality timber, but in places have to duck under the arching coppice of the hazel understorey. The woodland floor is covered with the raffia-like remains of Spring’s bluebell leaves – a few months ago, this would have been a stunning azure carpet. At some point, I cross the boundary where ownership of the woodland passes to Surrey Wildlife Trust, undefined on the ground, but possibly where the tree cover changes to a more open beech woodland type. A remnant of the Wildwood, Staffhurst shows signs of human use dating back thousands of years, such as a medieval ditch and bank and assarts – clearings within the woodland for growing crops. The wood suffered from excessive tree felling in the 1930s, and from use as an ammunition dump and troop camp during the Second World War, and even suffered direct hits from two large bombs. But today, the Trusts are doing a splendid job between them of managing the site, which clearly deserves its designation as a Site Of Special Scientific Interest.

At last, the rain stops. The sun finally re-appears from behind grey cloud, bright light filtering through the leaves, glinting diamond-like off water droplets shaken from the canopy by a strengthening breeze. A patch of woodland floor is bathed in a pool of light as if illuminated by theatrical spotlight; steam slowly rises, twirling gracefully skywards like some woodland sprite. Woodland after rain is a truly magical place.

Staffhurst Wood after rain

Swallows swoop and glide and dive over the grassland fly-catching. On the far side of the field, more cows are lined up along a hedgerow beneath the spreading crown of a stately oak. They jostle each other as I walk through the herd, some timid, others inquisitive, and one rejects my attempts at a friendly pat, bolting away. Through a gate, hastily shut behind me to avoid being followed by fugitive cattle, to follow a line of leafy oaks across more pasture. At a white wicket gate, the sound of a distant horn causes me to pause while a train on its way from East Grinstead to London rushes past. I cross the railway – perfectly straight in either direction, no deviation from this course as it disappears into the distance – onto grassland in which sheep are grazing. Most scatter at my approach, but one lamb, black faced and black legged, lies motionless until I begin to wonder if it may even be dead. But no, one eye opens lazily, and for few seconds sleepily takes in my form without seeming to acknowledge my presence; then, suddenly, in surprise, the lamb quickly jumps up and gambols away.

Climbing a stile, I reach Foyle Farm. A tractor buzzes around the farmyard stacking hay bales. Over a hedge I glimpse the warm red clay tiled roof of the farmhouse, parts of which date back to the 16th century. Heading south from the farmyard, I follow a grassy track; on one side fields of ripening wheat, on the other a sliver of woodland, in which a brook flows, almost hidden by lush green undergrowth.

The brook leaves the woodland behind near its confluence with the River Eden. Each of these watercourses twists its way back and forth across the open pasture in a grassy channel. In places the banks are bare, either trampled to mud by cows or undercut by the meandering watercourse, exposing a vertical face of red-brown sandy soil. I cross water several times, lastly over the Eden at a bridge under which the turbulent bubbling water tumbles into a peaceful shady pond beneath the crowns of alders. Once over the river, the land rises steadily: lush pasture fringed with hedgerows. On higher ground, next to another railway – this one from Redhill to Tonbridge – I disturb a flock of meadow pipits searching for insects in a huge pile of manure. With jerky flight, they rise up to settle on the railway boundary fence, only to ascend again as I climb the stile to cross the track, settling this time in rows on the rails, tails bobbing.

Crossing the Eden

But as beautiful as the church is, most visitors are drawn outside to the churchyard, for looming over the eastern wall of the church is an enormous mass of greenery: the Crowhurst Yew, reputedly 4000 years old, and (like the Sidney Oak at Penshurst I visited last year) one of fifty Great British Trees. With a wide spreading crown, it’s not the tallest tree by any means, but the gnarled, cracked and cleaved trunk is immense, almost oozing obesely as the sinuous fibres buckle under the tree’s own weight, many of the densely foliated branches supported by props. The portly trunk is around 30ft in girth, and is now largely hollow – access can be gained by a small door fitted in around 1850, although, as I find, it’s not a necessity as the bole is now split in several places, many of which are sufficiently wide to allow even my substantial frame to step through into the damp and musty yet somehow mysterious interior.

St George's Church and the Crowhurst Yew

I spend a while in awe of this giant, studying it from inside and out, before leaving the churchyard and crossing the road to the footpath adjacent to Mansion House – a Royalist stronghold in the Civil War which adds credence to the tale of the cannonball. The grassy footpath continues eastwards along a blustery ridge between fields of ripening wheat. A rolling expanse of heavily wooded landscape stretches into the distance across the Weald to my right and to the North Downs ridge to my left; vivid colours: verdant trees, golden wheat, azure sky, grey-white cumulus. Skylarks spring up at my approach rising vertically to be buffeted by the strong breeze. One pair hover together, no more than a few feet above the swaying ears of wheat.

Beautiful countryside near Crowhurst

Turning south, the land drops gently away into a valley bottom, the path crossing the stream by a wooden footbridge beneath tall willows. Just beyond, a pond edged with sedges and bulrushes, from which a heron takes flight with long, powerful wing beats. The footpath continues over a meadow, then slashes its way across a field of ripening thistle-infested wheat to the paddocks surrounding Chellows Farm. As I reach a cottage, two dogs rush out from the garden to meet me, a yapping terrier that rushes round and round in a frenzy, and a gorgeous but lively brindle whippet that bounds towards me excitedly, leaping up to try and lick my face. Their owner interrupts her vegetable gardening to call them back, but they follow me for a while before sprinting for home.

A gradual rise follows, past grazing cattle and along the perimeter of a crop of rather droughted, weedy maize. Then over a stile shaded by wide-crowned oaks; in the base of the hedgerow I find a small stone monument of carved granite, no more than a foot high and partially hidden by long grass. With some difficulty I read the inscription: 2000 AD. To Mark The 0⁰ Meridian Line. Erected by Lingfield and Dormansland Parish Council.

Long-horned cattle

Beyond the hedge, a bare muddy field, electric fenced, occupied by two rather depressed-looking pigs, half-heartedly nosing the mud for non-existent scraps. They look sad and lacking in stimulation, so one receives a scratch behind the ear and some kind words before I press on. Gently downhill now, along a hedge, the bottom of which is bare of leaves but tufted with skeins of sheep’s wool, like a tide mark. A pillbox lurks in the trees to my left, a reminder that once again, I’m on the GHQ line. Then onto a lane for a brief stretch along tarmac, turning off where the road bridges a stream. The fractured branches of a decayed and collapsed ash tree lie across the channel, but the watercourse is lush with the glossy leaves and delicate flowers of water plantain.

At Rushford Farm, the farmer is busy with his sheep in the adjacent farmyard, while a Collie bounces around in the back of his Land Rover, barking at me frenziedly through the grille in the tailgate. Husbandry complete, the recently shorn sheep are released to run across a paddock towards the hedge which I’m following, but on noticing me, all stop abruptly in panic and turn, as one, to run back the way they came, all quite comically.

Lingfield, my destination, is just beyond the foot crossing over the railway, but I turn away to the east towards open countryside, over a field thick with white clover, swooping swallows overhead. I cross Eden Brook at a footbridge by a weir, the river bank colourful with vivid splashes of yellow St John’s Wort and purple loosestrife. Along the edge of a wheatfield, a filigree of corn chamomile and yarrow at the foot of the hedgerow busy with flitting songbirds, then over a stile beneath the shade of an oak, to follow a farm track fringed with meadowsweet and silverweed, pinky-purple vetch and hedge woundwort. Through Park Farm, then west back towards Lingfield between low hedges full of hop, pink rose and sweetly scented honeysuckle. Over the Eden Brook once more, a solitary duck floating on the still waters just below the bridge.

Lingfield Old Town

Time to head for home. I share the footpath through open fields at the heart of the village with dogwalkers and commuters back from London. A stout buttressed wall marks the boundary of New Place, a grand house in Horsham stone with tall chimneys and steep gabled roofs. Just over the road, and equally grand, but in warm red brick is Lingfield Station, opened by the London Brighton and South Coast Railway in 1884, welcoming surroundings for the short wait for the train home.

Manningtree to Dedham and Flatford Mill, Essex/Suffolk border

Flatford Mill pond as depicted in The Hay Wain (click to compare with Constable's painting)

Start/Finish: Manningtree Station TM094322

Length: 8½ miles/4 hours

How to get there: Manningtree is on the line between London and Ipswich/Norwich, served by direct NXEA trains from Liverpool Street, taking around an hour either way.

I arrive at Manningtree slightly later than I’d hoped, but before beginning the walk, I just have to take advantage of one facility on the station: the Station Buffet. It’s now a pub which is something of a rarity on the rail network these days, other than at London termini and a few large main line stations. Being a Sunday, it’s quiet, a few locals sitting at the bar. I have a quick half in the narrow single-roomed saloon, much of the space taken up by two impressive baize card tables, before beginning my walk.

The church of St Mary, Lawford

The tree-lined path twists its way uphill bringing me to St Mary’s Church at Lawford. Standing in a somewhat isolated spot, the church was built to serve neighbouring Lawford Hall. Now Grade I listed, the church is built in a variety of materials – brick, stone, flint, with a clay tiled roof – reflecting various alterations and additions over its 650 year history, originally having been constructed in around 1340 by the Lord of the Manor, Sir Benet de Cokefield. The Chancel – the oldest part of the church – consists of pointed stone-arched windows and walls of brick and knapped flint, part chequerboard, part coursed, and well weathered statuary in niches to the buttresses. In contrast, the walls of the Nave are rendered. Above, the roof is of clay tiles, but that part over the Chancel features diagonal diapering in a slightly lighter coloured tile. The bell tower is a curious mish-mash of dressed stone, brick, flint,and puddingstone. The fabric of the building exhibits so many different styles, it’s almost as if each successive builder deliberately ignored the style adopted by his predecessors in order to leave his own individual mark.

Looking east along the Nave of St Mary's towards the 14th century Chancel

Buying the obligatory guidebook (£2 in the honesty box), I begin to explore. The many memorials are like bookmarks in the history of Lawford Hall, recording the families who were once Lords of the Manor. Lawford remained in the de Cokefield family until 1424, then during the Reformation ‘was forfeited to the Crown on the discovery of treasonable correspondence’ (so says the guidebook). Elizabeth I sold Lawford to Edward Waldegrave who, along with his wife Joan, is remembered by way of a carved marble memorial on the north wall of the chancel which depicts the Waldegraves facing each other kneeling in prayer. Also commemorated are the Dent family who bought the Hall in 1699 and four of whose daughters died of smallpox at a young age. One member of the Dent family who didn’t succumb, Catherine, married Edward Green; the Greens later sold the advowson of St Mary’s to St John’s College Cambridge which explains the memorials to Rev E K Green (Catherine and Edward’s son) and Rev Charles Merivale, both Fellows of that College and former rectors of St Mary’s. The Rev Merivale, who went on to be Dean of Ely Cathedral and was one of the founders of the Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race, was responsible for the rebuilding of the church during his time as Rector.

The piscina, sedilia, and stone figures beheaded by Puritans

I leave the church and join the Essex Way to continue across parkland then along a track flanked by majestic oak trees. At the gate lodge, I turn right onto a winding lane bordered by blackthorn undermined by extensive rabbit warrens. Then, off the road, and through a flat landscape of grassland and fields of wheat splashed with bright red poppies. At Aldercar, the path leads downhill into woodland which as the name suggests comprises alder trees growing in a wetland valley bottom, bisected by a gently trickling stream. Beneath the trees, lush green ferns and sedges, purple foxgloves and yellow buttercups flourish in the damp soil. Once over the railway, the path heads uphill, sharing buttercup-gilded timber-fenced paddocks with grazing horses and their foals.

Past a cottage garden in which cocks are crowing, then over a lane and into another paddock. Three silver ponies trot over to meet me, and enjoy being fussed over and patted. Long bristly tongues and warm wet nostrils explore my hands. They follow me, single file, diagonally across the field and look most put out when I go through the gate on the far side, but soon return to grazing, snorting as they playfully entwine necks and chase each other around in a canter.

Attention seekers

On either side are beautiful buttercup-filled hay meadows, tall grasses swaying in the gentle breeze: meadow foxtail, Timothy, Yorkshire fog (and a plethora of other species I’m unable to identify without my copy of Hubbard to hand). Acrobatic swallows twist and turn rapidly overhead, swooping down to snatch insects, gliding just above the grass before energetically launching themselves skywards again. A captivating sight.

Beautifully gnarly oak, Lower Park, Dedham

Crossing the cricket pitch, tall lime trees frame the flint and stone tower of St Mary the Virgin, my first stop in the village of Dedham. Constructed in 1492 in the Perpendicular style, it is one of many ‘wool churches‘ in East Anglia, having been built on the back of the wool trade that gave Dedham its prosperity, which perhaps explains why, like St Andrew’s Alfriston, it appears out of proportion to the size of community it serves. Externally, much of the church below the crenellated parapet is rendered in a rather drab grey, sitting on an ashlar plinth featuring Moorish style inset knapped flint detail. But once inside it takes my breath away.

The tower of St Mary the Virgin, Dedham, as painted by Constable

The link with America continues in the quatrefoil stained glass in the apex of a window in the north wall, in which the initials ‘E.S.’ commemorate the death in 1600 of Edmund Sherman. Between 1633 and 1640, eleven of Edmund’s family emigrated to New England, their descendants going on to shape American history as a co-founder of Rhode Island, Philip Sherman (who was born in Dedham in 1610 thus making him one of the family members who made the perilous journey across the North Atlantic); a signatory to the Declaration of Independence, Roger Sherman; a Civil War General, William Tecumseh Sherman (after whom the Sherman tank is named); the 27th Vice President of the United States, James S. Sherman; and two Second World War US Navy Admirals, Frederick C. Sherman and Forrest Sherman, the latter still remembered in the name of a current US Navy Destroyer. How different American history may have been if a family from a small but prosperous Essex village had decided that their future lay in the Stour Valley and not across the Atlantic.

Despite the age of the building, much of the internal decoration is far more recent, following alterations in the 19th and 20th centuries culminating in the extensive restoration of the church in 1960. The oak pews date from the 1970s, the pew ends featuring intricately carved descriptions and decoration. In another nod to Dedham’s transatlantic connections, one commemorates the NASA Apollo missions, while another is dedicated to the people of Dedham, MA, who in 1967 gave over £1000 towards the upkeep of the church.

Stone-carved detail to the roof of the Galilee porch, St Mary the Virgin

This being Constable Country, the church is an appropriate home for The Ascension which hangs on the south wall, one of three religious works Constable painted for local churches. Continuing round the church to the west and the highly decorated 1843 organ, a small door inset into stonework graffiti’d with scratched initials from centuries past leads into the tower, a landmark often seen in Constable’s paintings. The tower itself is actually a separate structure (and access through the door is not permitted), so for a closer look I have to step outside. At 131 feet tall, it dominates the surrounding landscape, but one of its most impressive features can be found in the archway through the base, a so-called ‘Galilee porch’, in reference to Jesus leading his disciples into Galilee after the resurrection. Looking up, the stone ceiling is beautifully carved with tracery and heraldic symbols, Tudor roses and portcullises, an example of astonishing craftsmanship.

Nikolaus Pevsner once wrote ‘there is nothing at Dedham to hurt the eye’. And how right he was: the village centre is exquisite. Leading away from the central Royal Square with memorial cross, the streets are lined with beautiful and highly individual listed buildings, 14th and 15th century timber framed juxtaposed with elaborate 18th century brick. Perhaps most prominent on the High Street is Shermans, an ostentatious two storey sash-windowed house featuring a sundial to its parapet, a central niche with ornamental carved urn and both Doric (in brick) and Corinthian (in plaster) pilasters supporting cornices – a very busy façade!

Dedham High Street, and, inset, the façade of Shermans

On Brook Street, the 14th century Marlborough Head Inn, and a continuing frontage of stately brick and rendered Georgian houses. Opposite, to the south of the square, is Well House, home of the former Grammar School which received its Charter from Queen Elizabeth in 1575. Founded four years earlier, the school’s first Governors included Edmund Sherman and his brother and father, both named Henry. The building’s present form, now Grade I listed, dates from 1732 when it was rebuilt by Nicholas Freeman, who must have found himself a very busy man as the alterations were carried out simultaneously with those at Shermans.

Not surprisingly, Dedham is busy with tourists, most of whom seem to have come by car which spoils the ambience to some extent. I continue northwards along Mill Lane which, also unsurprisingly, leads to Dedham Mill. A four storey brick rectangular box, it doesn’t appear to be the same building that Constable painted (also owned by his father). No longer in use as a mill, it has been converted into luxury flats; railings, electric gates and plenty of ‘Private – Keep Out’ signs suggest that the exclusive residents value their privacy. Past the Mill, the path first crosses a sluice, then Dedham Lock, onto the north bank of the Stour and thus over the border into Suffolk. As I skirt around the mill pond, mallards glide across the water, racing to gobble up lumps of bread before they’re snatched away by the divebombing black-headed gulls that circle overhead.

Thirsty Friesian, River Stour

Many of the willows lining the river bank are veteran pollards of around 200 years in age. Their branches would historically have been cut back on a regular 4-15 year cycle to a 8-10 ft tall bole, the timber providing fencing and basketry materials, and the foliage fed to livestock. The secret to the longevity of such willows is their continued pollarding, but this has been neglected in recent years (not just here on the Stour, but along many other lowland rivers too), and many of them have split open or collapsed under the weight of their overgrown crowns. Some have formed extraordinary shapes, arching, twisting and bending double, like agile contortionists. But even like this, their brown-rotted hollows and cavities provide shelter for a huge range of insects and bats and their retention is exceptionally important for wildlife.

Thankfully, the Stour Valley Landscape Project have begun to re-pollard the willows as part of their ‘Managing a Masterpiece‘ programme. Exploiting the ease with which willow cuttings take root, some of the straightest stoutest cut branches have been rammed into the damp riverside soil, and, having taken root, now sport tufts of fresh green foliage at their tips. With this nascent growth, a new generation of pollards is being established, thus ensuring the continuity of an essential element of the local landscape for hundreds of years to come. I don’t know how many of the families walking along the riverbank or floating on the water in hired rowing boats appreciate this, but to me it’s a highly commendable example of conservation in action, and I’m hugely impressed.

Collapsed and twisted (but still living and recently cut) willow pollard

Pressing on, Fen Bridge takes me over the river and back into Essex just as two canoeists paddle beneath. I hear the unmistakeable call of my first cuckoo of the year as the path continues to follow the river alongside more twisted willow pollards, eventually reaching Flatford Bridge, where Constable painted Flatford Mill (Scene on a navigable river). Crossing the river again brings me to Bridge Cottage, sitting snugly beneath its thatched roof. In the garden, a dry dock, the setting for Boat-building near Flatford Mill, painted in 1815.

Now owned by the National Trust as a tea shop, by the time I arrive at Bridge Cottage the staff are closing up, which means that only a few lingering day trippers remain and the lane down to Flatford Mill is peaceful and feeling almost timeless. A setting perfectly befitting the splendid buildings either side: the mullion-windowed Valley Farmhouse, dating from the Tudor period; and Granary Barn, whose roses climb up its dark timber cladding almost to the thatched roof. At the end of the lane, Flatford Mill itself, part brick, part weatherboarded, with round arched windows encircled by roses, wisteria and honeysuckle. Built in 1733, the lease was taken on by Golding Constable, John’s father, in 1765. The Constable family initially lived at the Mill but by the time of John’s birth in 1776, had moved to East Bergholt. Now owned by the National Trust, the Mill (and its associated buildings including Valley Farmhouse) are leased to the Field Studies Council as a base for arts and environmental courses.

Bridge Cottage

Despite its status as one of the finest works by any British artist – it came second only to Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire Tugged to Her Last Berth to Be Broken up in a 2005 poll – when first exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1821, the painting failed to sell. It was only 3 years later at an exhibition in France that the true masterfulness of Constable’s work began to be appreciated. Having passed through the hands of various dealers, The Hay Wain became the property of a Mr Young of the Isle of Wight. Upon his death, the art collector Henry Vaughan purchased the painting and in 1886 donated it to the National Gallery, where it remains today, the subject of tremendous admiration alongside the Van Goghs, Monets and Pissarros. Which begs the question: why The Hay Wain? Why not one of Constable’s many other masterpieces depicting scenes around Flatford Mill, or elsewhere in the Stour Valley? Why not, for example, The Cornfield (also in the National Gallery), which in terms of composition and craftsmanship is surely of equal merit? Answers on a postcard please.

Flatford Mill

A long, low, moss and lichen encrusted concrete structure appears ahead. Letting my imagination run wild, it could be a remnant of a military installation from the Cold War, or part of a launch structure from the early days of the space race. But, more mundanely, it is actually the ’56 Gates’, a row of sluices built in 1947 to allow waters to be diverted onto an area of floodplain rather than valuable agricultural land in times of inundation.

At the 56th gate (or the 1st, depending on how you look at it), a short flight of steps climbs back onto the embankment. It makes a great vantage point to look over the Stour, its banks now more clearly defined and not lurking beneath trees and bushes. On the floodplain beyond, cows are grazing peacefully; the only sounds are birdsong (another cuckoo!) and the faint rushing of the river as it flows over Judas Gap weir. As I follow the river bank downstream, the edge of the watercourse becomes fringed with mudflats, indicating that the Stour here, now close to its estuary, is partly tidal.

The 56 Gates

With the proximity to the coast, I begin to spot seabirds too: black-headed and greater (or lesser, I’m not sure which) black-backed gulls. Superficially similar to the black-headed gulls, but with a flatter, more streamlined head and a distinctive swallow-like divided tail, terns hover over the water before plunging down to snatch a fish.

The tidal Stour, looking upstream

Leaving the Stour behind, I turn south, along the road towards the station. At the level crossing I wait beneath the tangle of powerlines and overhead catenary for a northbound train to pass, the driver waving as he accelerates towards Ipswich. Arriving back at the station, the buffet-cum-pub is closed now, but as I don’t have long to wait for the train back to Liverpool Street, it’s no great disappointment.

Postscript: I made a return trip to the National Gallery a few days later to reacquaint myself with Constable’s classic. It’s just as stunning as I remember it (although I can’t help thinking that the Hay Wain itself is a little out of proportion to the width of the millpond – sorry Mr Constable, everyone’s a critic). As I stand in the crowded gallery, gazing at the canvas and thinking ‘I’ve been there’, every detail inspires memories and the painting springs to life even more vividly than before. And I realise that’s why The Hay Wain is John Constable’s finest, most celebrated work.

Polegate to Southease, Sussex

On the South Downs Way

Start: Polegate Station TQ582047

Finish: Southease Station TQ430054

Length: 12¾ miles/6 hours

How to get there: Both stations are on Southern’s network. Polegate is between Lewes and Eastbourne and is around 90 minutes from London; Southease, on the Seaford branch, has an hourly service and requires a change from Lewes to return towards London.

Not a promising start: leaving home, the weather is grey and dull, although warm, and threatens rain. But by the time the train crosses the floodplain of the Sussex Ouse river approaching Lewes, the sky is bright blue, punctuated with fluffy and wispy white clouds. A short while later, having followed much of my route today by eye from the train which here runs parallel to the South Downs ridge, I arrive at Polegate. Now, normally, the prospect of a long(ish) stretch of street walking before reaching open countryside would not be particularly appealing, but Polegate is pleasant enough and seems to have avoided the worst excesses of modern life. I cross the railway by the level crossing, adjacent to which is a delightful signal box, with nameboard painted in Southern Railway green, which controls the old fashioned semaphore signals at the station.

The World's Smallest War Memorial?

Heading off the pavement into Diplock Wood offers a brief but unexpected interlude from street walking. No public right-of-way is shown on the map, but a sign at the entrance indicates the wood is in the ownership of Wealden District Council, and I’m quite welcome to walk along the paths that wind between the trees. It’s marked on the map as Wannock Coppice but the canopy is largely oak, ash and field maple, with a hazel understorey that doesn’t appear to have been coppiced for quite some time. The ground flora, dappled by sunlight, is beautiful: delicate pink-flowered herb robert, bright blue germander speedwell, glossy-leaved pendulous sedge and hart’s tongue fern. A dog-walker approaches and I’m greeted by a huge but very friendly Rottweiler who gives my hand a lick and wags his tail enthusiastically. I comment on how wonderful it is to see such a waggy, undocked Rotty.

Diplock Wood

The path emerges between bungalows at the cul-de-sac of Mill Way. An elderly lady is busy in her pristinely manicured garden on the left as I step onto the tarmac pavement. ‘Hello!’ I say pleasantly. ‘DON’T STEP ON THE GRASS PLEASE’ she hisses in a whisper. I realise my right boot is on the grassy verge between the pavement and the road. I’m rather taken aback. Speechless, I find myself unable to either apologise or argue that the verge is technically part of the Public Highway so I’ll step where I like, thank you (which would be a petty argument anyway to be fair). I cross the road and head through the gate that leads back onto the chalky track. Looking back as I close the gate, my glance is met with a scowl.

Looking back over Polegate and the Windmill

On the far side of the valley, the rising ground allows for a great view back across Polegate – the windmill’s white sails once more a focal point in the landscape – and beyond to the Weald. At the top of the slope, I cross a track then pass through a narrow wicket gate and down steep steps into a belt of trees, the ground beneath which is thickly carpeted with the glossy leaves of ramsons, now finished flowering and going to seed. Beyond the trees, the footpath forms a chalky pale-grey slash directly across another field of wheat, this one far more healthy; lush glaucous blue-green foliage rustles in the breeze, hiding newly-emerging ears, soft, green and yet to ripen.

I turn left onto a tree-lined lane, on the far side of which a well-crafted but (in places) crumbling flint and brick wall hides behind thick ivy. The wall, and the parkland-style landscape and majestic cedar trees beyond suggest the presence of a country mansion: this is the boundary of Folkington Manor.

In the churchyard of St Peter ad Vincula

The isolated location, the squeak of the gate into the graveyard, the creak of the door as I pass through the low porch into the church, the cawing jackdaws in the surrounding trees; these could all make this feel an eerie location on a stormy night. But today, the sunny churchyard, with its swathes of ox eye daisies amongst the gravestones, dainty blue butterflies (common blue?) flitting between the flowers, feels a serene and tranquil place. One of the joys of walks like this is stumbling across an out-of-the-way gem of a country church; like St Mary the Virgin at Hurley, or All Saints, Boughton Aluph, St Peter ad Vincula is one such rural treasure.

Inside St Peter ad Vincula; note the box pews

Among the many memorials are two stones set in the floor. One commemorates William Thomas Esq., ‘who married Catherine, the Daughter of Esq. Roſe of Woodmancourt in this County by whome he had iſſue 4 ſones and ii daughters he Died in y^e Year of our Lord 1655′. Confusingly, Catherine’s memorial states ‘ſhe Departed this life Nouember y^e 11^TH 1678 & liued 23 Year^es‘ and ‘left ſurviving one ſone & 4 Daughters’. In the sanctuary is an ornately carved marble memorial to Hon. Sir William Thomas, Bar^t, ‘A right worthy Gentleman, Deſervedly Remarkable. For his great Zeal for y^e Publick good. For his generous Hoſpitality. For his ſtrict Juſtice. And extenſive Charity.’ Sounds like a lovely chap.

Numerous other memorials can be found in the church and in the graveyard, many to the prominent residents of Folkington Manor: Rupert Sackville Gwynne, MP for Eastbourne 1910-1924; his daughter Elizabeth David, the cookery writer who rebelled against her upper class upbringing; his sister Violet Gordon Woodhouse, highly influential harpsichordist and clavichordist, noted for her, shall we say, liberal approach to relationships with other men; and his younger brother Lt Col Roland Gwynne, former Mayor of Eastbourne ‘twice wounded on the Somme’, and close friend of suspected serial killer Dr John Bodkin Adams (the Harold Shipman of his day). Who would have thought that such an inauspicious country church would be intertwined with the scandals and intrigue of British high society?

A scented carpet of ramsons (or wild garlic) in woodland near Folkington

‘Cast ne’er a clout till may is out’, as the saying goes. A solitary battered hawthorn (aka ‘the May tree’) next to the trig point on the summit is flowering profusely (i.e., the flowers are ‘out’) so, as I’m feeling quite warm after the strenuous climb, I ‘cast a clout’ or two and take off a few layers of clothing. Despite the wind, it’s surprisingly warm in the sunshine.

The view north over the Weald from Wilmington Hill

The South Downs ridge is littered with such tumuli and long barrows. Many, like Hunters’ Burgh on Wilmington Hill, still conform to the romantic view that they are the final resting places of our ancient and mystical ancestors. But on many sites in the South Downs (like Harrow Hill which I passed last year) evidence can be found of an extensive flint mining industry and some archaeologists have suggested that a few of the mounds (like the Long Barrow on Windover Hill), are a result of flint mining, rather than being tombs. Much of the mining activity dates to the neolithic period, although some, like the many depressions on Windover Hill are now thought to date to mediaeval times. Nonetheless, the many barrows and mounds remain an enigmatic and atmospheric feature of an area rich in archaeology; not far from where I’m standing, a huge number neolithic and later Iron Age, Bronze Age and Roman-British sites of national importance can be found: Cissbury Ring; Chanctonbury Ring; Combe Hill.

Bowl barrow on Windover Hill

Like the similar Cerne Abbas Giant (but without the enormous phallus, except for a brief period in 2010 when some joker added one in white paint), it is easy to assume that the Long Man, a faceless outline of a human form 235ft tall, a stave held at the end of each outstretched arm, is neolithic in origin. I have in my mind the image of Stone Age Man, clad in rabbit furs, with matted beard and tousled hair, toiling with a deer-antler pick to expose the chalk bedrock beneath the thin turf. But the reality is less enigmatic: the earliest known record of the Long Man is a drawing by John Rowley dating from 1710, and research by the University of Reading has concluded that the figure probably dates form the 16th to 17th century. Rowley’s drawing, and one by William Burrell from 1776, both show facial features that are no longer present; Burrell’s drawing shows the two staves as a rake and a scythe, but it is thought these are an elaboration by Burrell and not a true representation.

Wilmington Long Man

I feel slightly disappointed by the Long Man; the concrete blocks and relative lack of antiquity destroy my preconceptions of it as an ancient, prehistoric chalk figure like the Uffington White Horse. Even the Cerne Abbas Giant is now thought to date from around the late 17th century. Nonetheless the Long Man still remains something of an enigma and an impressive landscape feature.

My route begins the descent into the valley of the Cuckmere River, along a chalk trackway glaringly white beneath the sun. A cyclist, pumping leadenly at his pedals approaches; ‘Afternoon!’ I call, but he seems to be struggling with the ascent and all I get in return is a pained smile. I continue along a track between ash and sycamore trees, finally reaching the waters of the Cuckmere, rippling in the gentle breeze and glinting in the sun.

The sparkling Cuckmere River and, in the distance, the tower of St Andrew's, Alfriston

First stop, the church of St Andrew. Located on a man made mound, the Tye, the church is surrounded by mature lime trees and overlooks a close-mown village green bordered by flint cottages, and to the south, the 14th century thatched Clergy House, the first house bought by the National Trust (back in 1896, for £10). A picture-perfect scene of rural England. Which explains the large groups of visitors, some on day trips by coach, others lying on their rucksacks in the sunshine on the green, midway through walking the South Downs Way. Unlike at St Peter ad Vincula, there’s no sense of hushed reverence on entering St Andrew’s; the church is busy with sightseers, and a tour guide points out the architectural highlights to one group in a raised voice. I buy my own guide – another one to add to the collection; this time, £1 goes in the honesty box.

St Andrew's, Alfriston

The Grade I listed church features some beautiful stained glass, and one remaining but faded mural of a consecration cross on the wall of the sanctuary. But there are very few memorials in St Andrew’s, unlike St Peter ad Vincula, probably because Alfriston, unlike Folkington, never had Lords of the Manor, whose generations would be buried in the parish church.

I cross the village green and pass along a narrow alleyway, poking my head briefly round the door of the United Reformed Church. This is a much less ostentatious place of worship than St Andrew’s, almost puritanical, but despite this, the scene of a fracas in 1831 when Charles Brooker and his supporters deposed the incumbent minister and re-instated the Rev George Betts. The alleyway leads to the High Street which reflects Alfriston’s honeypot status: boutiques, gifts shops, timber-framed inns, an art gallery, and at the centre of the village, an ancient stone market cross. Narrow lanes run off the main thoroughfare, down which can be found attractive sash-windowed flint cottages, overlooked by the South Downs.

Time for a pint. But which to choose: the Star Inn, dating from the 16th century, and featuring on its doorstep a red lion figurehead recovered from a Dutch warship after the Battle of Beachy Head in 1690. Or the Smugglers Inn, once owned by the leader of the local smuggling gang Stanton Collins, one of those who forcibly re-instated Rev. Betts. In the end, I choose the George Inn, low ceilinged and inglenooked, first licensed in 1397.

Chocolate box Alfriston

Turning north west through a gate, and I’m onto open downland. Still climbing, the wind buffets me constantly. The landscape feels lonely, almost desolate, but in a beautifully uplifting way. And despite the haziness, the view is fantastic: looking back, Alfriston is hidden in the valley, but following the line of the Cuckmere River leads my gaze along its meanders back and forth across the floodplain to Cuckmere Haven, and to the sea, just visible at the foot of the Seven Sisters beyond. My only companions are the numerous black-faced ewes with their lambs, well suited to the windswept environment, but even they must struggle to find much nutrition from the thin turf littered with sharp-edged lumps of flint, more like a boulder field than grazing. A white pick-up in the distance, on the edge of the crescent-shaped scrubland lining the slope of France Bottom is the only other sign of human activity. Or rather, the only other sign of modern human activity: as I climb I pass numerous other tumuli, and an ancient earthwork marked on the map as Cross Dyke, but much less visible on the ground. Like the sheep, our ancestors must have found a way to eke out a living from the thin soil.

The Downs here are divided by fences, silvery grey well-weathered timber posts supporting sheep netting and barbed wire, the strands of the latter adorned with horizontal straggly tufts of sheep’s wool fluttering vigorously in the wind. A distressed-sounding ewe calls to a pitifully bleating lamb from over the fence, and I feel concerned that this mother and baby may have become separated; the temptation is to try and re-unite them, but remembering what the Countryside Code says – ‘don’t interfere with animals even if you think they’re in distress’ – I decide to leave well alone.

Continuing uphill, I pass a saucer shaped circular depression with a raised bund around its perimeter, one of around 300 dewponds that can be found along the South Downs. Formed by excavating a shallow dish in the chalk and puddling with clay to form a waterproof layer, dewponds were constructed as watering holes for livestock long before boreholes, plastic pipes and pumped supplies consigned them to obsolescence. Many originate from Saxon times, but archaeological studies have suggested that two dewponds at nearby Chanctonbury Ring may date back to the neolithic period. Despite the romantic name, they are largely replenished naturally with rain, rather than dew or mist, but the accumulated rain can only be prevented from draining through the porous chalk if the puddled clay layer is well maintained – now that they have fallen into disuse, many exist as nothing more than a dry grassy depression, although those that retain water often make fantastic wildlife habitat, providing a home for dragonflies and newts.

Windswept

Gently downhill now, and heavily eroded paths converge at a car park in a col. This being one of the few places where it is possible to drive to the very summit of the ridge, Bo Peep Bostal is suffering the negative effects of the demand for open access in the South Downs. ‘Bostal’ is derived from the Anglo-Saxon for a narrow roadway up a steep hill, which perfectly describes the road that leads up from Alciston far below. The precipitous, twisting track makes an ideal venue for the ‘Bo Peep Crash and Burn’ luge and downhill skateboarding competition, organised by the appropriately named UK Gravity Sports Association. Hopefully none of the competitors will fall foul of the vertical drop of the adjacent disused Bo Peep chalk pit (maybe this is why Little Bo Peep can’t find her sheep – they’ve fallen into a quarry).

Uphill once more, and I meet a farmer in a green and yellow John Deere tractor heading in the opposite direction; we greet each other with a wave while the sheep scatter as he heads downhill. Passing more tumuli, I reach Firle Beacon, at 217m the 8th highest point in the South Downs whch makes it a ‘Marilyn‘. I have no idea whether this spot height includes the tumulus at the summit which makes a great vantage point as I sit in the strong but surprisingly mild wind (even in just a t-shirt, I don’t feel cold) taking in the view. To the south, Newhaven and the sea. To the north, a near vertical slope and at its foot, a tipi and yurt encampment (what a great spot to camp!); a patchwork of woodland and fields of wheat pinstriped with tractor wheelings; the circular stone Gamekeeper’s Tower, built by the Gage family of the Firle Place estate so that their gamekeeper could signal to his counterpart at Plashett Park to the north, also owned by the Gages.

Northwest from Firle Beacon

A line of trees – the edge of Firle Plantation – marks where the land drops away steeply to the north. Above the sycamores, flocks of crows are being buffeted by the blustery up draught as I descend to the car park at the head of the lane that climbs the Downs from Firle. Beyond the car park, the land rises again to climb Beddingham Hill, the path continuing over grazing land populated by cattle of all colours: brown, fawn, tan, grey, piebald. My presence fascinates young calves, looking quite comical with a bright yellow tag in each ear like big blowsy earrings.

Males Burgh, another tumulus, lies to the south of the path, marked by a group of scrappy gorse bushes. At the summit of the hill, two tall radio masts in a rusty-fenced compound, the gates of which are secured with a chain of 17 padlocks (I counted them).

Descending again, I continue across a patch of scrubland, more tumuli hiding amongst the gorse and purple-red flowered comfrey, then along the sheep-grazed ridge to Red Lion Pond, another dry saucer-shaped dew pond with a lonely trig point on its bund. The sense of isolation here is emphasised by a neglected and rusting set of disc harrows, clearly unused for some time and being gradually subsumed by the surrounding landscape. Looking northwards, the River Ouse twists its way across its floodplain to Lewes in the distance, beneath an increasingly grey-clouded stormy sky.

Red Lion Pond

From the hilltop, the land drops rapidly into the Ouse valley below along which trains are hurrying between Seaford and Lewes, reminding me that the hourly train from Southease is due shortly. The route of the South Downs Way follows a curving bight down into the valley, but for the sake of quickness, I leave the path and head directly and steeply downhill to rejoin the footpath where it crosses the busy A26 by means of a footbridge.

At Itford Farm, an abandoned rusting grain silo lies on its side in the farmyard, like a crashed 1960s spaceship. Now in the sheltered valley bottom, the track is lined with tall white willow and osier, the first substantial trees I have come across since leaving Alfriston. At the end of the track, a foot crossing leads over the railway to Southease station, a peaceful but very basic halt, a modern bus shelter the only facility on the platform. But then, as I’m the only passenger waiting for the train it seems perfectly adequate for the rural setting, and an appropriate destination for a walk across windswept isolated countryside.

Capital Ring, Section 6 (sort of), Wimbledon to Richmond

Red Deer, Richmond Park

Start: Wimbledon Station TQ248707

Finish: Richmond Station TQ180751

Length: 8½ miles/5 hours

How to get there: Strictly speaking, this section of the Ring begins at Wimbledon Park tube station, on the District Line, but because it was a more convenient place to meet, we began at Wimbledon. Numerous buses, South West Trains services from Waterloo, the Tube, and Tramlink from Croydon make it a very easy place to reach. Returning from Richmond is just as easy: train (to Clapham Junction & Waterloo, or to north London and Stratford), bus or tube once more.

It’s hot. Very hot; hottest day of the year so far, and the people of Wimbledon are packing the High Street, taking advantage of a bank holiday to spend the day battling through the crowds of other shoppers on the pavements narrowed by road works. We leave the crowds behind and head away from the town centre parallel to the District Line, along streets of Victorian villas. Past Wimbledon Park Station, with its original, quaint cottagey Metropolitan District Railway booking hall dating from 1889, and into Wimbledon Park. The entrance from Home Park Road leads onto a stone balustraded terrace which looks down over the Park; to the north east, a great view to distant central London: Battersea Power Station; the London Eye; the Shard; Tower 42 and 40 St Mary Axe.

The Waterfall Garden, a recent addition to Wimbledon Park's historic landscape

With its rose walk, bowling green and putting course, the Park seems an archetypal early 20th century public park. The land was purchased by Wimbledon Corporation around the time of the First World War, but its landscape history goes back much further. Back to when it was enclosed as a deer park in the 1600s; back to 1638 when Charles I bought the manor for Queen Henrietta Maria, who sold it in 1661 to George Digby, Earl of Bristol; to the early 1700s and Sir Theodore Janssen’s attempt to build a new manor house, only to lose his fortune when the South Sea Bubble burst; to Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough’s purchase of the estate in 1728, bequeathed to her son John, 1st Earl Spencer, upon her death in 1744; to the beginnings of property development on parts of the estate when it was sold by Frederick, 4th Earl Spencer to John Augustus Beaumont in the 1840s; to its passing to Beaumont’s daughter, Augusta, in 1886, whose desire for profit very nearly led to the Park’s complete loss to housing, only to be saved by its purchase by Wimbledon Corporation.

Wimbledon Park Lake, courtesy of Capability Brown

We touch briefly upon the edge of the lake created by Brown and nearly filled in by Augusta Beaumont. Despite the weather today, it’s still too early in the year for the sailing club to be active, but numerous Canada geese and ducks are floating by on the glistening water. On the far side of the lake, a church spire rises above the trees: St Mary’s, where my parents married.

The path continues along a row of tall conifers around the athletics track, then we head across the grass, dodging frisbees and footballs, to the park gate. A stretch along tree-lined, expensive streets follows, past wisteria-clad houses. Behind a fence, an absolutely perfect croquet lawn sits beneath an elegant mansion in the grounds of the All England Lawn Tennis Club, home of the Wimbledon tennis tournament.

We cross a busy road onto Wimbledon Common, but the traffic noise soon subsides as we head beneath the dappled shade of oak and birch woodland, broken only by patches of heather-covered heathland. Like the Park, Wimbledon Common is somewhere I visited often as child, and an early memory of being told off for climbing a tree by a smartly-uniformed mounted Keeper, and thinking ‘wow! what a great job!’ may have been the earliest stimulus for a later career in conservation and landscape management. So, thank you Wimbledon Common; sorry about the tree.

Heathland on Wimbledon Common; no Wombles

The Commons’ social history is just as fascinating as their natural history. The Commoners nearly lost their centuries-old grazing rights when, in 1864, Frederick, 4th Earl Spencer, proposed to enclose and improve the Commons, selling part for housing, which would be a solution to the problems of ‘noxious mists and fogs’ and the ‘great nuisance…caused by gypsies’. Fortunately, the Commons were saved for the public, being conveyed to the Conservators under the Wimbledon and Putney Commons Act of August 1871, for which we have to thank Sir Henry Peek, MP for Mid Surrey. Sir Henry is commemorated with an inscription on the stone work surrounding Caesar’s Well, a natural spring arising near Caesar’s Camp, an iron age (but not Roman; the association with Caesar is a Victorian construct and entirely whimsical) hill fort in the south of the Common.

Wimbledon Common windmill; still no Wombles

Passing an enormous beech, its twisting entwined branches like Medusa’s hair, we pause to take on water and take in the solitude – away from the car parks, the Common is delightfully peaceful.

Queen's Mere; not a Womble to be seen

The path continues through lacy cow parsley in a narrow tree belt flanked on either side by football and rugby pitches where what must be some of the last games of the season are under way. We cross Beverley Brook, a tributary entering the Thames at Barn Elms, and much improved in recent years, by means of a footbridge which provides the venue for a quick game of Pooh Sticks. A short walk across the sports ground brings us to the busy A3 at Robin Hood Roundabout, where the pedestrian crossing has a companion in the shape of an equestrian crossing complete with red and green horses!

Once safely over the road, we arrive at Robin Hood Gate, an entrance into Richmond Park. At over 1000ha, Richmond is the largest of London’s Royal Parks, and the most breathtakingly beautiful. OK, I admit to being biased – I worked here as a gardener for a while – but even so, a description of Richmond Park could include any number of superlatives, with no trace of hyperbole.

Richmond Park, near Robin Hood Gate

And of course the associations with royalty make Richmond Park all the more fascinating. Early connections with the monarch began with King Edward I and King Henry VII who built a palace in what was originally known as the Manor of Sheen. During an outbreak of Plague, Charles I moved his court to Richmond and, ignoring the grazing rights of locals, enclosed the Park with an eight mile long wall, introducing 2000 deer to satisfy his love of hunting. Charles was later forced to pay compensation and re-introduce the rights to gather firewood – access over the wall was via a ladder, from where the name Ladderstile Gate (on the south side of the Park) originates. In the 17th century, Charles II spent £3000 on improvements in the Park, including the digging of ponds for the deer to drink from.

Still Pond, Isabella Plantation

We pass a sign warning of Alligator Teeth (another species to add to the Park’s long list of fauna? No, just a traffic control measure) and another which explains why long trousers are being worn today in spite of the temperature – the risk of Lyme disease carried by deer ticks. The Ring heads directly north-west to Pen Ponds from Robin Hood Gate, but we take a more circuitous route in order to take in more of the Park’s stunning landscape. Heading off road, we continue through a parkland of unfurling bracken and gnarled and hollowed ancient oaks, to skirt the edge of Prince Charles’s Spinney, where a mass of bluebells carpets the woodland floor. A short but steep climb past an enormous oak monolith – a dead tree whose branchless trunk is allowed to remain standing, retained as valuable habitat for fungi, bats and beetles – leads up to Broomfield Hill, an open grassy area packed with picnickers.

Some of the 'Wilson 50' Kurume Azaleas, Isabella Plantation

The many, many varieties of evergreen Azalea on show are part of the National Collection of ‘Wilson 50′ Kurume Azaleas, collected by the plant hunter Ernest ‘Chinese’ Wilson in the 1920s on one of his many trips to the Far East. But the Wilson 50 are not the only oriental plants grown in the woodland garden, which features an enormous number of Rhododendron species, many originating from China and the Himalayas, and as many hybrids, some bred at Exbury and (so I was told) donated many years ago to the Royal Parks by the de Rothschild family in lieu of taxes.

We follow a meandering route through Isabella, around Still Pond, its pink and purple backdrop reflected in the water, and along and over streams (passing an Acer palmatum I remember planting 20 years ago) to Thomson’s Pond. The adjacent lawn features a collection of low hummocky Rhododendron yakushimanum hybrids known as the ‘Seven Dwarfs’, including varieties named ‘Bashful’ and ‘Dopey’! We pass the Bog Garden, looking wonderful, the leaves of Gunnera manicata not yet fully attaining their eventual 2m size, but impressive nonetheless. After a relaxing picnic amongst the trees we follow the perimeter of Peg’s Pond (where the knobbly pneumatophore ‘knees’ of a Dawn Redwood can be seen along the water’s edge) to the gate where we leave the Isabella Plantation.

Red Deer in Ham Cross Plantation

Crossing the road into an avenue of hornbeam trees running parallel to Queen’s Road, a red deer stag, far less timid than the group we encountered earlier, crosses our path entirely unfazed by the numerous human visitors. Raising a hind leg to scratch at loose fur, he saunters away westwards down the slope towards Petersham Park, almost regally, as if well aware that this is his territory, and we are merely passing through deferentially. Further on, a group of antlered fallow deer are dozing lazily next to the path, not bothered at all by the snapping shutters of dozens of cameras.

We enter the gardens surrounding Pembroke Lodge, a stately Georgian mansion once the residence of John Russell, 1st Earl Russell, twice Prime Minister in the mid 19th century, and his son the philosopher Bertrand Russell. Home to GCHQ’s Phantom Squad in the Second World War, the Lodge is now a popular wedding venue, and one such event is under way, smart soldiers in full dress uniform being photographed, as we climb the steps up from the Dell onto the terrace to the west of the house.

The view west from King Henry's Mound

Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around,
Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires,
And glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all
The stretching landscape into smoke decays.

Turning to the east, another less obvious view presents itself. Using the telescope installed on the mound, it is possible to look through a ‘keyhole’ in the holly hedge, along a ride through nearby Sidmouth Wood and across 10 miles of London to the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, which today shimmers in the heat haze. This vista was first established in 1710 and has been maintained ever since; it now has the status of a protected view.

Poets Corner; Ian Dury's bench is second from left

Through the gate and back into the Park, we continue to Star and Garter Gate, so named for the grand home for disabled ex-Servicemen just outside the Park wall, opened in 1924. Opposite the home on a traffic island is an intricate 1891 ironwork memorial to the RSPCA, four lanterns mounted on two conjoined arches over a fountain, mostly painted black except for four distinctly unfluffy, golden winged griffins.

A short distance along Richmond Hill we come to The Wick House, built in 1772 for the painter and first President of the Royal Academy Sir Joshua Reynolds, but since 1950 a home for nurses at the Star and Garter Home. The house next door, confusingly called The Wick, has in its time seen a number of famous residents including actor Sir John Mills, Ronnie Wood of the Rolling Stones, and current owner Pete Townsend of The Who.

Formal pond in Terrace Gardens, Bulbous Betty at the centre

Now Grade II listed, and recently restored, Terrace Gardens are looking splendid today. The twisting path takes us past a formal pond, at its centre a voluptuous naked stone goddess sitting astride a dolphin, ostensibly a statue of Aphrodite but renamed ‘Bulbous Betty’ by locals. Then downhill past a bright magenta flowered Judas tree, pristine lawns, beds of primroses and polyanthus beneath tall cedars, and maturing herbaceous borders.

Looking down over Terrace Gardens, and the Thames

The river is busy with boats, but not as congested as the path along the bank which we follow towards Richmond Bridge. The sky overhead has rapidly clouded over and looks ominously grey; just as we comment on this, a rumble of thunder confirms what we’re all thinking. We pass cafes and bars, both on land and on the water, and an enormous plane tree – the Riverside Plane, one of the Great Trees of London. Just beyond the bridge, a boathouse offering camping skiff holidays (which sounds idyllic – I wonder if the hire fee includes a small fox-terrier called Montmorency?), and a thronging crowd enjoying the last of the bank holiday sunshine. There’s a struggle to find a seat at the White Cross (surely the only pub with one entrance unusable at high tide?), but once the rain starts to fall, the crowd vanishes rapidly. We do the same, ducking in and out of shop doorways along Richmond High Street on our way back to the station.