South Downs Way - Day 4

 

 

 

 

 

   

South Downs Way - Day 4

THE PROPER BO BEERITE SECT

 

 

With the 'thump thump' of the music still audible I continued westward in the morning. Whether it stopped around 8am or I walked out of range, I know not or care not. I was just glad to be up and off. A bright and early sun again too, razor sharp on the back of my neck, made the more wooded sections of the walk very welcome; although I realised I'd probably seen the last of the sea by now.

 

*****

    By 10am I was boiling up for coffee with my socks, not quiet dry from the previous night's washing, hanging on a footpath fingerpost to dry. I'd passed two other walkers, both women. The first, near Tegleaze (highest point on the Sussex end of the route at 750ft - Crown Tegleaze 836ft, but off route, being the highest point in Sussex), informed me that she was going one and a half hours that way, then one and a half hours that way, pointing in the opposite direction. Good on y'girl, I thought. The second, on Graffham Down, replied in the affirmative to my 'Good morning' with a curt: 'It is.'

 

    The views to the north had been obscured by trees all morning so I parted the barley up the footpath to the triangulation pillar for the view. Not that I walk to see the view or to 'see' anything for that matter, but I had missed the panoramic views enjoyed on the 3 days getting here.

 

    Beyond the A286 above Cocking I was bearing uphill towards Linch Down when I realised I would be able to take lunch at the top of Beacon Hill. Very civilised - looking forward to my sweaty cheese portion a little too much perhaps!

 

    Soon I was passing the Bronze Age round barrows named the Devil's Jumps (corruption of humps?). Not wanting to investigate too closely - see one grassy mound and you've seen 'em all - the PRIVATE KEEP OUT! sign on the gate being something of a deterrent anyway. They do look much larger than any other tumuli I'd seen though and according to the map there were five in a row. Pretty impressive structures for early man I would have thought: 'Oh mighty bearded one, why do we have to keep making these bloody great mounds.' 'Shut up Baldilocks, keep filling the baskets,' comes to mind.

 

    A few hundred yards farther on beside the path is a memorial to a German pilot. Brought down during a WW2 raid, he had controlled the aircraft sufficiently long enough to enable his crew to bale out. A testimony, perhaps, to the thick sea mist that frequently rolls in off the Channel to blanket these low-lying hills.

 

(Source: http://www.england-in-particular.info/parishmaps/m-wsusx2.html): "ELSTED, TREYFORD and DIDLING: Memorial to Hauptmann Joseph Oestermann 1915-1940. The memorial was erected in recognition of his bravery. He was a German pilot of an aircraft disabled during a raid on Aldershot. He remained at the controls, enabling his crew to bail out."

 

   

 

    I crossed the Lane to Buriton Farm only to find the path infested with cyclists. Well I say infested, there were more than a few. It was a Sunday after all. To lose them I cut off onto a footpath that seemed to follow the contour of the hill, but in fact fell away steeply and I had a good pull ahead of me to regain the path and then summit of Beacon Hill. The official route takes cyclists round the hill and south to Telegraph House, then back up the other side. Walkers can just go straight up to the top. And, as it turned out, so too can some of the more determined macho pedal-pushers.

 

    The only shade to be found was by the trig. point, and that is exactly where I sat. Not much food left now though. But that sweaty cheese did taste good. With glucose tablets washed down with tea... hmm. I needed to find a shop between here and... yes, that's a good point, where was I heading? I had a few options. I could make for a site at East Meon ... proper evening meal... would need to ring ahead though. B&B... proper evening meal and bath... no, too luxurious. Or the Cafe at Queen Elizabeth Country Park... hmm, would it still be open? A general rule of thumb is that places are either long shut when you get there, or they have only just shut, by minutes usually. I've heard it so many times. I should know better than to rely on shops and pubs and all things 'established'. A dog suddenly bounded over the crest of the hill and decided to sample my scant lunch."Hey get off! I haven't got enough to share." He stared and slobbered as only mad dogs do. Then appeared the reason for his madness: Dad, Daughter and Mum, or should I introduce them as the 'owners' for the less family-minded. One blow on the silent whistle from Dad and the dog sprang off in the opposite direction. Obviously dog training was being taken very seriously by Dad because he ignored me completely. Daughter smiled. Mum apologised... not entirely for the dog I thought.

 

    Other people appeared, stood for a minute or two to take in the view then disappeared again, usually in the opposite direction. I shuffled round a bit more every time my left shoulder began to burn as the sun crept round the white-painted concrete block.

 

    Dad re-appeared, now even redder in the face. The dog? Having a great time in evading his training session, so much so it seemed that they had lost him altogether.

 

    My destination lay somewhere beyond the next hill, six miles away. Just how far I would get I wasn't sure. Time to get going.

 

    The next road crossing came after about a mile and as I approached I could make out the sturdy hull of an ice cream van. Well, ice cream vans are sturdy. Built to last. I wouldn't pass it up, that is for sure. Approaching the car park I realised that something of a 'do' was in progress, but as my attention focused on the ice cream van my brain didn't register the round shiny things in an open sided marquee nearby... It was only as I sucked my ice lolly I began to take in the significance of the spectacle: beer! A BEER TENT!? Ah but, this could be a mirage... had I been over-doing it in the sweltering heat? I strode over to feel the trestle table and tapped the barrels to reassure myself that God was indeed only one 'o' short of good. What more proof would any agnostic require: A BEER TENT! In the middle of nowhere! The lady behind the 'bar', Carola, cleavage an' all, (tell thi' - no kami kazi lager here), explained that this was brewed locally and 'up north' it would be called flat beer. I must have been rambling incoherently by then for she offered me a barrel to sit on. And in between visits to the WI cake stall, was still sat there nearly two hours later! Well it was far too hot for walking anyway I'd convinced myself. And, the marquee - (on loan from the Scouts) I realised, did an excellent job in keeping off the sun. It doesn't get much better than this I thought, but knew that it was going to be tough to resume the walk. Good things are hard to give up. And I knew it well, but there was still a long way to go yet.

 

    The brewer arrived - see that kid over there; it was his teacher's brother. Sadly though, this signalled the imminence of 'closing time'. Closing time, in this sense meant 'the putting back thereof into the back of the Volvo time'. It took some time to sink in: time to put all those nice shiny barrels back into the car and return them to the Ballard's Brewery down the hill whence they had come.

 

    Argh, bye bye barrels...

 

Visit Ballards Brewery online here

    I don't remember much about the walk to the Queen Elizabeth Country Park, except for some cyclists mending a puncture (I must have appeared to them as a very happy walker, beaming at least as much as the newly converted Saul of Tarsus, I kid thee not). And there were some very fine looking Copper Beech trees that made an otherwise tedious road stretch much more acceptable.

 

    On entering the Country Park I paced a cyclist who wobbled and floundered on the steep uphill so much that he gave up to push. We talked of the way, behind and ahead, and he told me that he'd heard that you could now walk all the way to Weston-Super-Mare, but it wasn't official yet.

 

    Further into the park I passed embarrassingly close to a private Christian service. Should I have taken up the podium to declare my new found faith with fundamentalist fervour? But had I not the last minute doubts of Thomas? Just think though, I could've gone down in history as the founder of the Beerite Sect - or more properly 'The Proper Bo Beerite Sect'. The story would be, over many years and mistranslations, of how the master had been blinded by the shininess thereof of many barrels on the ancient track from Eastbourne to Winchester. An acolyte could be a 'mild', a novice a 'bitter', a master a 'special brew' and so on... oh no, I was walking the wrong way again... I was walking uphill. I should be going down! I peered through the trees realising I needed to be down there by the Visitor Centre; where the phone box was. Up here among the trees people were parked-up barbecuing. Hmm? I wondered though, could I cadge a burnt sausage? Could I use some ruse to obtain a whole barbeque full of sacrificial offerings maybe by shouting FIRE! No.., I'd probably get a bag of charcoal round the ear'ole.

 

    I scrambled down through the brambles and circled the main building 3 times looking for the phone to no avail. It was now 5:30pm: CLOSED is what it said on the door - (see: what did I tell you?) I could find mop and bucket but no cleaner attached to enquire of, so it was onwards, with still no clear plan as yet of how the evening would pan out.

 

    Across the road I found my way barred. Steel Glastonbury-style fencing confronted me with another 'footpath closed' sign. 'When in a tight spot try to imagine yourself marooned on a desert island...'  This was the South Downs Way, officially opened as a continuous right of way as long ago as 1972, but today alas it doubled as the Royal Hampshire Showground. There was just no way I was walking round at this hour. As the show was over and the exhibitors clearing away, I decided a good swift kick would suffice, which it did, breaking the plastic tie-wraps, and I was on my way again, weaving between empty stalls. Half way up the hill I found a small photocopied and laminated diversion sign for West to East walkers that pointed down to the road.

 

    The springy turf ascent of Butser Hill reminded me of the 1st evening walking over the cliffs, it felt like a week ago and yet it was only a matter of days. The reward? Good views: back over the miles I had tramped, and south to the Channel and the Isle of Wight. This is the highest point on the Way at 800ft (the summit being 880ft/270m but off route) - no mountains these, but fine hills none the less.

 

    From here I could head down to the farm campsite at Oxenbourne House (B&B also) - but 2 miles off route, add the 2 miles back in the morning and I could be 4 miles farther on my way I decided.

 

    Caution thrown to the wind, well it would have been - but there was no wind, apart from my own... the 2nd wind that distance walkers need... and er, well, the 1st wind must have been due to that rice snack pot curry last night. Nothing worse than textured vegetable protein, 'tell thi. And so I continued down Tegdown Hill passing up my last safe haven for the night but certain now that the end was in sight. I'd had a notion earlier that I would get as far as The Milbury's, a walker friendly pub eight miles from Winchester, but it was now nearly 7.30 pm and I'd not arrive till after midnight, so I sat on a nearby stile at the footpath junction to Lowton's Copse, as consolation, to sort myself out. A quick foot stop, with a few glucose tablets, and more of the water I'd stocked up on at the Country Park. I studied my photocopied sections of map. Now, if I could make the pub in Exton...

 

    Beyond the road junction I came upon a tired pair of backpackers; father and son asking if I'd seen anywhere they might camp. They had water and so I recommended a nice little spot just around the corner. I told them I didn't think anyone would object to father and son erecting one small tent for the night. I could've been wrong though.

 

    The deserted MoD establishment, previously HMS Mercury, was still very secure, threatening pain of death to anyone foolish enough to even consider intrusion. I peered through the chain link fence. Clearly visible, preserved in the grounds was another of the curious Cross Dykes - ancient earthworks that have been discovered at many places across the Downs. No one has yet come up with a satisfactory explanation for them.

 

    Beyond the radio mast on Salt Hill I came down to Combe Cross, here, via the internet I had learned was a good B&B. I stood at the road crossing: shall I, shan't I? Decisions, decisions...

 

    I didn't and continued down a pretty overgrown green lane to pass Henwood Down and Whitewool Farm. Then a surprise that my photocopy hadn't picked up - a fly fishery. I exchanged a greeting with a man I took to be the owner, tempted to ask if I could pitch on his 'lurvely flat turf', but no, fishermen and walkers don't get on. Out there for very different reasons, I suppose. I should have asked but nowhere is a refusal as offensive as it is to a tired hungry walker!

 

    I think I was proving my 'travel light - travel far' thing, but I'm going to have to make a bit more effort on the 'travel light - then stop' side of it. Of course it was the beer tent... and now I was paying the price. With dusk descending I began up the eastern flank of Old Winchester Hill - delayed further by a herd of cattle that didn't want to let me pass. 'Not nothing nor nobody…' was going to hurry them, '…no way'. They occupied the whole track ahead and, hedged in either side, I couldn't find a way round. The route here is very circuitous and a more direct line would surely be to keep to the road from HMS Mercury for 1/2 mile then take the Monarch's Way to rejoin the road nearer to the Nature Reserve. That would save 15mins at least. And that is the route I should have come, I thought as I crossed Old Winchester Hill in the now advanced stages of dusk. I could see the lights of Exton only 2 miles away but realised it would be extremely tight to make it to the pub before closing time. I would be lucky to get even a packet of crisps. This was going to call for some serious effort.

 

    Getting to the lane past Shavard's Farm seemed to take forever, walking as I was now by micro torch light between trees and bushes. Once on tarmac, running the last few hundred yards or so seemed sensible. But this was tight tight - the very essence of duck's retentiveness!

 

    Two couples sat at a table in front of the bar and I felt my chances were good, but it was a Sunday night and that was bad. Bang on 10.30pm.

 

    Sorry seemed to be the easiest word to come from the landlady's extensive vocabulary. Outside again I checked my watch: 7 seconds past closing time. This would have to go down as one of my greatest misachievements - ie. missing closing time by less than seven seconds. No, it must have taken me at least 4 to walk out. Even better. Hampshire punctuality for you. I had read somewhere that Exton was not 'walker friendly' and now I was tempted to realise why. I might even have been refused service in 'time' just for being a walker. It has happened. It does happen, but it doesn't bear thinking about.

 

    In the phone box across the road I called home. There was some concern as I hadn't done so since the hostel at Truleigh Hill.

 

    The Milbury's was now less than four miles away, but with the extra effort involved with the final push, and resulting low energy levels being experienced by all in the party... Party..? What party? Argh! I was walking alone for goodness sake; and delusional now, trying to find the footpath in the moonlight. At the next stile I decided to eat my meagre ration. The landlady's words echoed in my head: "Sorry, everything's switched off now..."

 

    My own 'a la Carte' menu choice: one Ryvita, some sweaty cheese; and for dessert, one portion of emergency muesli. The Wine list sir? Feck off! Not much water... I drained the very last of my two litre Platypus, and thirstier than a stuffed fish got a few drips from my one litre hip bottle.

 

I took a compass bearing and fixed a bush on the hill to make for. As I came over the rise in the field, over to my right I could make out what appeared to be a crash-landed UFO. Closer inspection revealed a large grey metal object all right... from Mars? Inside there was indeed some form of life, dark and murky.... terrestrial though:  a cattle trough. Bingo! Nearly as good as the beer tent at this hour. I fumbled with the bolt on the cover. Yes, it was turning... careful now... slide back the steel plate. And there was the ball c**k. I pushed my empty bottle into the murk to position it under the faucet and pushed down on the plastic float. Shazam!

 

    It did taste a bit manky but it was wet and just a tad dry, not quite up to the Muscadet, but reasonably safe I reasoned aloud as I lumbered on up the field. The next silhouette of a stile climbed was closely followed by another. A quick check of the map revealed this to be a disused green lane. I looked around for a level bit of ground. Perfect. I would be unlikely to disturb anyone here, man or beast. Come to think of it, I hadn't passed any stock in the past few fields or seen anything moving about in the moonlight. I unpacked the tent and laid it out on the ground, followed by the sleeping bag. Then a quick survey of the sky: perfect night for a bivvy. A wash would have been good but the Dove wipes needed more water than I was prepared to give them, so I spent a clammy night under the stars.

 

 

 

Footnote: there is a Fm. campsite at Corehampton about a mile from the village of Exton on the B3035

 

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

why am i thinking Wordsworth?...the one thing i come out of these four chapters with is the knowledge that you're a serious writer, honing your tools, making the words do your bidding, and as relentless as this long walk...congratulations...

[Emily B]

I'm beginning to realize how little effort you put into describing the people you meet along the way and the crystal clear image I have of them in my mind. That's amazing stuff. . . Miraculous beer tents, wicked landladies, I"m enjoying the journey.

[mick weller]

That's odd - it was there in edit.
Just saved it again.

[Emily B]

The words show up in the preview . . . but not when I get here. :-(

I'll be back.