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Sunday 25 October – Borough Green to Swanley
As I left the station at Borough Green, the advertised sunny day was being interrupted by some threatening dark clouds, almost squeezing the blue sky out altogether. I walked the (unbusy) main road across the M26 to Wrotham. I was now inside a triangle of motorways (M26/M20/M25) in which I would spend most of the day. It wasn't as bad as it sounds!
Wrotham, an attractive overgrown village with a large number of pubs, was dozing peacefully on a Sunday morning. A lady struggled past with her heavy Sunday newspaper; a few more ladies were parking cars and heading for the 10am service at the church.
A brief walk through a housing estate brought me to a footpath heading North; this led to the North Downs Way, which would take me a few miles West towards the Darent Valley. A metalled lane was succeeded by an unsurfaced byway. Deep ruts indicated that motor traffic uses this route. Sure enough, I was passed by two motorcyclists. I have to say straight away that they were going very slowly, and we exchanged cheery greetings. The fact remains that these ancient routes can't cope with motorised vehicles, especially in wet weather.
The North Downs Way, now mercifully a footpath, headed up the steep scarp slope of the Downs. Just before I entered the trees which cloak the top of the hill, I stopped for a breather, and a look back across to the dome of the Weald, across which I had walked on my previous trip. As sun and clouds fought it out, I climbed steps through the woods to a road, where I had to turn East for a few yards, before picking up a woodland footpath which swung round to the West and levelled out. This was the top of the North Downs.
A strange phenomenon went with walking a National Trail – other people walking past me on a Sunday morning. It's not what I'm used to!
Another strange encounter was with a horse and a cow communing silently through a gate, while others of each kind stood around. And rare things came in threes: above Otford, I entered some Access Land, which I usually associate with places much wilder than this.
As the North Downs way continued West to Otford, I turned North of West along a quiet lane. The North Downs are cut through by the Darent Valley, and I used the lane and a connecting bridleway to reach the valley at Shoreham Station. A little beyond the station I turned North and joined the Darent Valley Path. Almost immediately, I left it to enter Shoreham Churchyard for an important engagement, my lunch.
Hunger assuaged, I left the churchyard and walked into Shoreham village. Artist Samuel Palmer, a follower of William Blake, lived in this village from about 1826 to 1835. Blake used to visit him here, and it is alleged (without, as far as I know, any supporting evidence) that Blake drew his inspiration for Jerusalem from these surroundings. England's green and pleasant land? Well yes, it certainly seemed that way on this now sunny and increasingly warm day.
The route North passed the house Palmer lived in, alongside the shallow, sauntering Darent. Leaving Shoreham for the fields, the Darent Valley Path was taking some pretty heavy foot traffic, and why not? It's a marvellous walk – level, with few stiles to climb, and in lovely countryside. Palmer, Blake and the other Ancients would probably still recognise it.
When I reached the cafe at the Lullingstone Country Park visitor centre, it was too soon after lunch for coffee and cake, but I had some anyway. A bit further on I passed Lullingstone Castle, recalling the television series about the rather desperate attempts of the owners to make it pay as a visitor attraction. I have to report that it was not very busy.
To avoid a road in the valley bottom, the Path turned left and climbed sharply. The reward was a great view back across the valley, with the railway viaduct and Eynsford in the middle distance.
Where the Path dived back into the valley, I left it and headed West on a series of private roads (doubling as public footpaths) and bridleways towards Swanley. I passed the Bird of Prey Centre, explaining the procession of people with hooded birds I had seen a few minutes earlier. Further on, I broke out of the motorway triangle by passing under the M25, which was (surprise! surprise!) very busy. Crockenhill FC's Sunday afternoon match was in progress.
Crossing the A20, I entered suburbia with a vengeance. Swanley was sleeping off Sunday Lunch. This was just two or three miles, as the crow flies, from the Darent Valley, but it was a different world. Thank goodness for the Green Belt - but how long can it last? Helpful signs guided me towards the station and as I walked in, the train to Victoria was announced.
Tuesday 13 October – Marden to Borough Green
Marden is a mixture of traditional Kent village, commuter housing and industrial estate. Leaving my luxury b&b, I sampled the last element for a few minutes, before striking off on a field path across the Weald.
The Weald is not spectacular, but it is attractive. When the Kent/Sussex/Surrey peninsula was worn down, leaving the remains of the top layer as the North and South Downs, the Weald was left in the middle as a gently-ragged dome. The soil is rich and the crops appear to prosper.
This year has been especially good for plant growth – the right proportions of warmth and moisture resulted in very green greens in the Spring and Summer; now in Autumn, the reds and browns are equally impressive.
That lyrical interlude is just a cover-up for the fact that nothing much happened during this day’s walk across farmland and through sleek villages, the oast houses and cottages as likely to be occupied by bankers and businessmen as by farmers and growers.
I passed a man out walking with his dog. The dog appeared to be looking for something - nothing strange in that, dogs are always looking for something, but the man explained. "He's looking for your dog. He's so used to everyone having a dog round here that you've got him puzzled." I was obviously sorry to disappoint the dog.
It may have been largely uneventful, but it was a thoroughly pleasant saunter. The village (or small town) of Yalding is attractively bustling. Here I crossed the River Medway on an old bridge which finds it hard to cope with modern traffic. Vehicles are controlled by lights, and pedestrians take their chances beween the traffic flows.
Seeing a large board across a field, I was expecting another f*** off sign, but no! it was an interpretation board. Rather like the boards which have become ubiquitous in tourist areas (not a complaint - I read them), this one had explanations of what the farm was producing and how. A small brass plate on one leg had "Amy" engraved on it. If that means that it was Amy who put the board up, I thank her.
I picked up the Wealdway (I had previously been following the Greensand Way since Rye) to head North.
The church at East Peckham is cared for by the Churches Conservation Trust, which “looks after Church of England churches which are of architectural significance and are no longer used for regular worship” (Wikipedia). The benefit to walkers is that as you (unusually for this area) climb a rather steep hill, the church provides a splended sight.
The church at West Peckham is, as far as I know, a fully-functioning CofE church. I paid more attention to the village pub, just next to the church and the village green. Soup and ciabatta bread made a delicious lunch, after which I managed to get lost again, following a confusing woodland path which led to a more confusing orchard path. Some more GPS work and an unscheduled hack through a small thicket got me safely back on track near Basted. A bonus was two more candidates for my series of abandoned football photos.
Conversation:
Me: Hello.
Man: Hello.
Me: Beautiful day.
Man: A treat!
Quite right, it was.
From Basted, it was a simple and familiar walk uphill to Borough Green, a busy place on a main road, with a vital ingredient – a railway station. Having purchased some drinks and a chocolate bar, I walked straight on to a train, and 45 minutes later I was back in London, and looking forward to the next trip, from Borough Green to Swanley
Monday 12 October – Tenterden to Marden
I walked a few roads in the morning. These were mostly not very busy, and the hectic stretches were mercifully short. I could have avoided most of this by heading north-east instead of east, but I had a purpose. In order to justify my membership of the National Trust (which I don’t resent, despite not very often using it) I had decided to visit Sissinghurst for lunch and a quick look round.
The second half of the morning’s walk was more peaceful, consisting mostly of woodland paths.
Arriving at places by the back door being something of a speciality of mine, I entered Sissinghurst across the lake and through the trees, and left it through the car park. In between, I enjoyed a good lunch (rather better balanced than yesterday’s) and a mooch round the garden. How wonderful to be there on a sunny October Monday: how less than wonderful, I suspect, to be wrestling the crowds in Spring and Summer! When I first went to the entrance to the garden, I produced my NT membership card, but the very nice lady on duty explained that I needed to visit the ticket office first to "go through the computer". This process caused me no pain; I understand that Sissinghurst gets a divi from NT High Command for every visiting member.
The afternoon was characterised by blue sky, sun and fluffy clouds. Horse Race House, near Sissinghurst, had a very interesting sculpture in its garden. Orchards and hop gardens (not hop fields, my mum, a Maid of Kent, corrected me) dominated the walking, which was, surprisingly for October, accomplished in my shirtsleeves. A particularly exciting encounter was with a tiger – sadly dead – among the hop poles. .
My entry to Marden will be very grand in years to come. Young trees have been planted in two lines, diagonally across a field. Not yet a grand avenue, but give it time…
Sunday 11 October – Rye to Tenterden
Leaving Rye by the back door, crossing the railway line and diving off down a footpath which started as a back alley for local houses, I soon reached the countryside, followed my nose and almost immediately go lost. A wrong heading of a few degrees soon left me about half a mile from my intended course.
I should have known that it would happen. I passed a sign asking me to "follow the waymarked path", usually an indication that the waymarks will peter out and leave you in the middle of nowhere. Luckily I realised that the big house on the hill, which I should have left behind my right shoulder, was still doggedly square on to me. I whipped out the Magic Phone, got a GPS grid reference and a compass bearing, and soon recovered the situation.
A well-surfaced green lane, a back road through Peasmarsh and some field paths led me towards a road bridge across the Rother and the border with Kent. While still in East Sussex I avoided a wooden bridge, designed to keep you out of a muddy ditch in wet weather. It was in such a bad condition - missing planks, whole thing at a crazy angle - that a foot of mud would be a better bet.
I passed through Signsville - everywhere I looked, there was a sign telling me to go there, don't go there, keep out, f*** off. Some farmers spend their time and cash putting up these footling signs rather than simply marking the footpaths properly and keeping the stiles in good condition. How many people will be bothered to trespass if walking the legal footpath is the easiest option? - not many, I guess. I strongly suspected that it was Sign Man who had ploughed up the next field, leaving no trace of the footpath across it.
The clouds, which had been fighting the Sun all morning, appeared to be winning the battle as paths across farmland took me to my late lunch stop at Smallhythe Place, a lovely half-timbered cottage best known as the country retreat of actress Dame Ellen Terry. Many a thesp was entertained here in the thirty years she owned the cottage at the beginning of the Twentieth Century, and the whole glittering ensemble is celebrated in a display of pictures, mementoes and costumes. These were collected and arranged by Ellen's daughter Edy who, as recently detailed in the National Trust's magazine, lived in a "largely lesbian" community which she had gathered around her at Smallhythe. There is a connection with Sissinghurst (which I had visited the previous day): Vita Sackville-West, chatelaine of Sissinghurst, apparently enjoyed a brief fling with one of Edy's lovers. The barn theatre is still used for performances, and the entrance doubles as a draughty café, where I enjoyed an unbalanced meal of pork pie followed by fruit cake - delicious.
Saturday 10 October - Dungeness to Rye
After bright sunshine as I ate my breakfast at the b&b, the clouds built as I strode towards my first appointment – with the sea.
At the tip of the shingle peninsula, I ritually dipped my toes into the surf, one for me and one for my mum. The next time I dip them in this manner will be either at Sandwood Bay or Kearvaig Bay, on the grounds that trying to do it at Cape Wrath would be suicidal.
From sea level I climbed the shingle bank and walked past the “new” lighthouse (the fifth to be built), which became necessary when the older of the existing lights was obstructed by the first nuclear power station. So now Dungeness has two lighthouses and two nuclear power stations, one of each in operation and one pensioned off. To serve the lighthouses, the power stations, the coastguard cottages and the shanty town of cottages, there is a web of concrete roads. The power stations don't in any sense spoil the area. Their ungainly appearance, and the constant hum of the “live” station, are entirely in keeping with the end-of-the-world atmosphere of the place.
The hardest part of this walk came first, with an hour and a half of trudging along the shingle. There is no real alternative here. Inland from the protective bank of shingle there is... more shingle! Arranged in unequal humps and hollows, the ground away from the sea is even more difficult to walk along than the edge. And anyway, the route is trammelled for most of the way by requirement to keep out of the Lydd firing ranges. Had there been firing scheduled, I would have had to take a triangular inland course, as the coast and a chunk of the sea comes within the danger zone. But there were no red flags today, so I plodded on.
I wasn't completely alone. Dotted along the shore were sea fishermen (yes, all men), each with an encampment of tents and large umbrellas providing, I presume, shelter for extra tackle and lunch.
Following the gently curving shoreline, I caught my first sight of the cliffs at Fairlight, several miles beyond the point where I would turn right to follow the River Rother up to Rye. At fairly frequent intervals I stepped over water running out of the shingle bank into the sea. Water from streams or ditches drains (a considerable distance) through the shingle.
Eventually, wet sand appeared on the seaward side of the shingle. At first this was intermittent and then continuous – I had reached the much friendlier walking surface of Camber Sands. An hour or more after leaving the fishermen behind, I had to get used to company again. The weather was perking up, with the sun driving away the clouds, and Camber was doing what it does best, hosting paddlers and sand-castle builders and wind-surfers.
I made a brief diversion along the road through Camber. This is not an inspiring place, consisting of a field of tin boxes – not caravans mostly, but rather those huts on two small wheels which are dropped into place and never move again – and a couple of rather sad shops. It was good to get back to the sea and eat my lunch perched in the dunes.
Two horse riders, accompanied by an enthusiastic dog, cantered and trotted up and down the beach as I neared the mouth of the Rother. A fishing boat, with the usual honour-guard of raucous seagulls, was just entering the river as I turned to walk inland. I passed the village of Rye Harbour on the opposite bank. This is not a pretty place – apart from the crumbling Martello Tower the most prominent features are some huge tin sheds and a chemical works – but family connections and fond memories blot out the eyesores.
When I first caught sight of Rye, it hardly seemed to be on a hill at all. But everything is relative and, as I walked towards it across the dead-flat regained marsh, the town reared up in front of me, the pointed tower of the church capping the roofscape. A surprisingly large number of fishing boats still line the river below the town
The streets were familiar to me from frequent visits, so I soon found my way to my lodgings near the station.
Later, as I roamed the streets in search of a coffee, I had a treat - Lamb House was unexpectedly open (unexpected by me; the National Trust probably remembered that it opens on Saturday afternoons). I had a quick rootle round the Henry James and EF Benson memorabilia, but the real treat was the garden. Who would believe that you could lose yourself for a quarter of an hour in a domestic garden in a place the size of Rye. It's all nooks and corners, a bench for every vista. Sheer delight.
As I left, the current tenants were returning. The deal is that they get to live in a lovely house in a picturesque town, as long as they put up with riffraff like me infesting the ground floor for two afternoons a week. It's a good billet despite this drawback, and I believe the National Trust have little trouble finding tenants.
