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The Ridgeway, July 16 Day 4, 21 miles

July 18th, 2022

The Ridgeway, July 16 Day 4, 21 miles

The early morning walk out of Wallingford was one of the best I’ve ever taken. No longer on the ridge, the path simply winds its way between wheat fields and pastures, but it is shaded by huge old beech trees. In places it drops down into old holloways (like those described so beautifully by Robert MacFarlane in his book of the same name). As  the heat wave continues and temperatures were rising across the day, I worried a bit that the path would break out of the woods and cross fields or even get back up on the ridge, but apart from a few scattered exposed sections, it largely remained in the shade.

Crossing a farm not that far from Chequers (the Prime Minister’s country residence— supposedly Boris was there), I heard yelling, barking, and bleating. Before long I got to a gate where a man with a pickup truck and a border collie was moving a flock from one field to the next. We stopped and talked for a moment while I helped him secure the gates and then watched his dog turn the flock, round up some stragglers, and send them down a lane, with the man only saying a few words of direction. Proud of his dog, he noted she had been working for 10 years and was showing no sign of slowing down.

The distances and my too soft feet were starting to take a toll, and I had booked accommodations at the 21st mile marker. On arriving at Princes Risborough, I took the opportunity to get some refreshment and prop my feet at the Bird in Hand pub. Then I pressed on to The Plough at Cadsden which had very fine (and reasonable) accommodation as well as a fascinating regular clientele who obviously spent much time together arguing amicably. Today’s distance puts the end point at Ivinghoe Beacon within 16 miles, so tomorrow should be less intense (if even hotter).

T. Hugh Crawford

The Ridgeway, July 15 Day 3, 18 miles

July 18th, 2022

The Ridgeway, July 15 Day 3, 18 miles

Early mornings of wild camping are always a mix of exultation— hearing all the fauna around the tent while slowly waking with the sun (and birds) is magical—and anxiety as the sun reveals presence to landowners. I was up and out long before a gamekeeper could accost me, walking into the morning sun up high on the ridge. I was no means the only wanderer out that hour, meeting almost immediately a man walking his dog— another of the Ridgeway characters with their history to tell. Just ahead was yet another barrow which he noted was both the grave of an ancient leader and the site of a market town. Although villages here tend to be down off the ridge where water is available, this site was at the crossroads of various drove roads and so was an early livestock center—at least according to my interlocutor.

 

Today was also the day I crossed the halfway point and learned just how different the second half of this trail is. In the morning I continued on the ridge past many of the same fields I’d been in. As I was leaving Wiltshire and heading into the Chilterns, I was treated with a spectacle uncommon some decades ago. At least a dozen red kites were circling overhead. A raptor that was nearing extinction and only living in Wales, has recovered and been reintroduced in this area. They were circling a field where presumably some game was about. The angle of the sun was such that their shadows regularly passed over me, giving that little jolt of adrenaline that nearby danger brings out.

Late morning I descended off the ridge to Goring and spent the rest of the day walking within sight of the Thames. Like in Oxford, the canal boats were passing and the locks were In full operation. Although the length of the walk made me feel at some distance from Oxford (my current base of operations) I was actually quite close and regularly saw buses on their way there. Given the heat and my own lagging energy, I was sorely tempted to hop one back but resisted. Although Wallingford is a mile off the Ridgeway, it has a campground (the Bridge Villa Caravan Park which is technically in Crowmarsh but, as the name implies, is right by the bridge) run by a lovely couple, so I pushed on off the path, setting up my tent is a now-legal spot, wandering the town before dining on oysters and what-not. All in all, another satisfying day.

T. Hugh Crawford

The Ridgeway, July 14 Day 2, 22 miles

July 18th, 2022

The Ridgeway, July 14 Day 2, 22 miles

An early breakfast at the Bear (eggs, bacon, tomatoes, and blood pudding) and a bus back to where I had left off the trail, I slipped into a hiking rhythm immediately. There are the regular encounters with Iron and Bronze Age barrows— some just rounded hills, others with some visible stones and such. Apart from an insistent history pressing with each step, what struck me most was how intense the contemporary agriculture is in this region. Often I get the impression farming in tourist areas is subsidized decoration, but the farmers here are active— particularly in wheat production. I stopped a while watching a combine emptying its grain in a wagon.

My overall plan remains tentative— just need to average 20 miles over the next 4 days. The guide book tends to draw a distinction between the first half of the path and the second, with accommodation more scarce (or at least at greater distance) in the beginning. I set out today with no clear end point, trusting I’d find a place to sleep and perhaps some food. The latter involved serendipity as up on the ridge approaching the Uffington White Horse nearing lunch time, I crossed a road which had the familiar post and poster of a bus stop. Turns out a bus was due in five minutes that would take me to Avebury, home of the Rose and Crown pub. I soon found myself tucking into whitebait and a roast beef sandwich. Returning to the path required some walking which was soon rewarded by the Uffington White Horse (900 BCE), which is only partly visible from the ground, but shows the stability of the chalk downs environment and the skill of some very early inhabitants.

As there were no nearby villages to find accommodation, I resolved to wild camp, hoping one of the many beech copses would turn up near the end of the day. I’m not sure if beeches ward off competition with chemicals, but their forests rarely have thick (or any) underbrush, making for ideal campsites. In the afternoon I fell in walking with a man from Wantage, the closest large town, who (like Thoreau) tried to walk at least 4 hours per day. Many of the paths are linear, so it takes some ingenuity to walk out a good loop, but he has worked out many. Like everyone I’ve me thus far, he has a deep sense of the history of the area, particularly the geology. He pointed to a series of villages off to the west of the ridge, noting they has been built near the springs that bubble up because of the permeability of the chalk and density of the clay underlying it.

As the day wore on and my feet wore out, I began to despair finding the perfect beech hanger. The area the trail was crossing was heavily farmed and the woods tended to be pine plantations. On crossing a car park, I ran into two shirtless, tattooed, very drunk young Englishmen who were inordinately interested in my trek. After a fist bump or two, they recommended I seek out an abandoned hunting lodge just down the path. Although the structure was still habitable, they recommended I tent in the field near it. Apparently the lodge has a lot of “weird energy.”  I hoped I wasn’t heading toward some Wiltshire version of the Red Lodge in Twin Peaks, but I never got to feel that weird energy as their directions were as fuzzy as their brains. Pressing on, I found myself near the Great Bottom Woods, a promising name for a place to trespass, and after a bit of a wander, I discovered a spot for my tent, with my night’s sleep regularly disturbed by deer tramping past.

T. Hugh Crawford

The Ridgeway, July 13 Day 1, 10 miles

July 18th, 2022

The Ridgeway, July 13 Day 1, 10 miles


The Ridgeway, an 86 mile National Trail, wanders (as the name makes clear) along a ridge running between West Overton and Ivinghoe Beacon and is often called the “oldest trail” in England. Obviously any such designation is dubious at best, but it does focus any walker’s attention on what is clearly a deeply sedimented history (both textual and material). I commence this trek on a whim, finding myself in Oxford not long after finishing the Scottish National Trail and so, more or less, in good trekking condition (that remains to be seen after spending several weeks in Oxford more or less sitting on my ass). I’ve been teaching a seminar on walking literature, had made an adjustment to the syllabus that suddenly freed me of obligation from midday Wednesday until Sunday night. I doubt anyone would recommend walking the Ridgeway in 4 days (plus a little bit on first day) but, given the possibility of four 20 mile days (commonplace near the end of the SNT), I dove in— with virtually no planning or preparation.

The first bit of the Ridgeway is a celebration of ancient history, chalk, and flints. I took a train to Swindon and a bus to Avebury where I circled the stone circles circling the Red Lion pub. More like the standing stones on Orkney than Stonehenge, the stones set the tone for the weekend. I later found my way to West Overton, the official starting point of the national version of the Ridgeway. What struck me most was how apt the name is. I’ve hiked so many trails where my heart sinks if the path follows the top of the ridge. The ongoing up and down can be exhausting, and all the pathmakers need do is drop off the ridge a bit to level out. But the Wiltshire downs are slow, rolling hills where walking on the top is a joy. The surface is usually forgiving, the chalk crumbles though the flints do poke a bit.

My disorganization kept the question of accommodations open for the duration. I’ve brought my full kit, so I can wild camp if necessary, but for tonight I caught the bus at the village Ogbourne St. George down to Marlborough where I had a bunk room above a pub (The Bear) and a remarkable meal at Pino’s, a local Italian restaurant. A satisfying start to a new adventure.

T. Hugh Crawford