I started late, which was foolish and it meant I had to get to Guildford from Farnham in under five hours, before the sun set.
'Remember, get on the back of the train, or you will end up to Basingstoke', says the man selling tickets.
I sat waiting on platform three next to a disheveled young man eating a sandwich. I'm listening to Classic FM. How Bach, a jobbing musician, wrote a variation based on one of Vivaldi's 200 concertos. But the hiss increased on the train and so I switched it off and looked at the landscape.
After a few stops two boys got on, 15 or 16, with vests on and I listened to their conversation. What language was it? East European perhaps. It never quite came into focus but it was clearly English. I have never heard such strange English in my life. The accent made it almost incomprehensible. It wasn't west country or east country. They came and sat behind me and when the ticket inspector came, I heard the whole argument. They had to pay, said the elderly Afro-Caribbean gentleman and he said:
If you are challingin me I will stand up to you.
The two backed down, but then one of them insisted in quite a deep voice:
Bt oime choild. Bt oime choild.
Walking along, I coasted along the surface of the Earth and had a mildly Tolkienesque sense of place. The English countryside has nothing whatsoever to do with New Zealand. Hobbiton is a familiar place, not an exotic one. Emigres in New Zealand, Australia, South Africa, Canada, America and Argentina long for this feeling I have. No one longs for ancestral New Zealand except the Maoris.
I follow my compass and the advice of a gentleman strimming his wide front lawn. Go along the path, a Thames like U bend, and head for Puttenham.
As I walk I think of Chris for a moment, and that's exactly when I hear the sound of breaking metal behind me, and a scraping. I turn around. A car which had been bowling down the hill, has broken its axle and veered towards me on its belly, stopping three feet away.
Are you OK? I asked the occupants.
The driver is shaved bald and has a thick gold ring in his ear. He is with his wife and child. Yes Mate. Thanks.
I walk on. The BMWs and Audis swish past and a hatchback goes past shouting at the driver. Well done mate. Wolf whistle.
There is a narrow lane which defeats the spirit of the way near a golf course. CCTV, Country Watch and a high wire fence for about a 200 yards. I think: 'Probably Londoners'. Just as when a car drives aggressively towards a pedestrian crossing in London you think: 'That driver is a foreigner, a taxi driver or lumpen.'
The route was quite easy to follow in Farnham and the spring light was crisp and strong. I was soon following the way with a route guide in my hand. The traffic noise along the Hogs Back -where the North Downs Route should be faded and after turning right at a river I began to hear birdsong. A colleague lives near Arundel and the birds wake him up very early every day. The woodpecker particularly annoy him. I heard woodpeckers and nuthatches and robins and great cawing crows and the sound of many other birds I could not identify.
The entrance to Puttenham
Now I am nervous. The sun is going down. My back hurts and my foot. I stop, sit on a fallen tree. Drink. Eat. Put a plaster on. Prepare myself and walk fast. Soon I think I am in Seale. There is a little pub there in a row of terraced cottages and I walk in.
A girl greets me. The only person to speak to me on the walk. She is about 20 with big swept back blond hair. Have you come from Farnham? she asks:
Yes.
We saw you on the road.
I'm a bit slow. I apologise.
Not slow at all. she says. I am in Puttenham not Seale, but don't realise it.
The beer goes down in seven seconds tops and the barmaid sells me 2 litres of orange juice for two pounds. Thank you, I say and walk on. I must have been in the pub for about four minutes. The beer was sweet and refreshing. 49er I think it was called. I've been waiting to try something from the Hog's Back brewery for a long time. Is 49er a Hog's Back beer? In fact it is a Ringwood beer.
I march on. The light is growing amber, orange, red; but before it goes black I must be in Guildford. Suddenly I see the sign to Losely Park, the home of very good organic yogurt, ice-cream and cereal and I know that I am only an hour away from Guildford. We were here with Rocio, Teresa's sister and her two daughters.
The last real part of the walk is the climb out of the valley to the top of the ridge. The ground is exposed. It is white chalk. I pause for breath towards the top and look back at the valley I've just walked out of. Next to me is an elderly rabbit. It looks asleep. It's breathing, I can see it's chest heaving gently. After a few minutes I walk out onto a metalled path and then onto a meadow that overlooks Guildford. I can see Guildford cathedral. I worked part time at the university for a year, so I know Guildford quite well.
Made it. I'll do the next part of the walk tomorrow. From Guildford to Dorking. Teresa and I have walked it many times. Cousin Douglas is a vet and lives at the bottom of one of my sacred places on the way, St Martha on the Hill, next to the Tillingbourne.
Comments
Post a Comment