DAY FOUR: Woodstock to Sandford on Thames

After a very pleasant stay at the Blenheim B&B, Charles & Steve were up and raring for another day of walking. Our plan was to dispatch the F&B guy to Oxford to arrange a B&B, but I would leave them in the city to walk a further 4 miles south to Sandford on Thames. Little did we know as we set off that today was to be a day full of adversaries.

We headed out of the gorgeous town of Woodstock and, after a little road walking, entered the nearby village of Blaydon. This is the final resting place of Winston Churchill. He is buried alongside many generations of his family in a simple but dignified grave.


Two miles of open fields and gently rolling hills brought us to a two mile long bridleway that had long since overgrown. Called "Frogwelldown Lane", it must have been a heavily used path hundreds or thousands of years ago -- today, it was only us idiots that attempted to get through it. As it was another gloriously sunny day, we were in shorts, which meant that as we hacked a route through the path, the nettles began stinging with a hellish ferocity.

Sadly for my American companions, they were not familiar with nettles, so they were concerned with long thorns and spiked holly branches. But it didn't take them long to realize that their legs were on fire because of the otherwise innocent looking fine green leafed plant that was attacking them, quite literally, below the belt.

It took us about an hour to negotiate this passage of nettles. We spent a good while vigorously rubbing dock leaves over every inch of exposed skin to try to relieve the stings. I noticed that Steve continued to keep a bundle in his sock for emergencies!

As the pain began to subside, a dog walker ambled up the path to us and we had a chat about the poor state of the path. She promptly told us that everyone simply walked through the fields to avoid the path along that section. I can't remember if the stings or my embarrassment at not realizing such a simple alternative route hurt more.

We made a welcome stop for lunch and a cool draft at a pub in Little Blenheim, outside Yarnton, eight miles along our route. It was here that I discovered that my walking boots were falling apart! This was very, very bad news -- I had only walked for three and a half days and I still had another six and a half to do -- more than a hundred miles!


My Meindl walking boots were five years old and, without doubt, the most comfortable, reliable, waterproof and supportive 3-4 climbing season boot I had ever owned. They had got me up and down some of the most spectacular mountains I have had the good fortune to set foot on in total comfort. But after only five years, they were falling apart. Five years may seem like a long time, but for boots that were only worn between 6 and 8 weekends a year, that means I had only worn them for about 50 days. And when you consider that these boots cost a modest fortune, I was sitting on that pub bench feeling pretty darn mad. On top of that, I now realized why I was suffering from a strained tendon in my right leg -- without any support in the heel, my legs were stretching too much in the wrong way, causing constant pressure.

Ever the pragmatist, Charles recommended that we search out a reputable climbing store in Oxford, only 4 miles away, and I would try to call Meindl for immediate support.


With that, we continued south east to Yoxley Mead Pool. It was only a mile further south that we would meet the Oxford Union Canal. It was here that we noticed the recent effects of the flooding. We walked through a large number of fields that had crops flattened by the flood water and, after a week of sun, were now rotting. The smell was pretty bad. The ground under foot also started to get more and more boggy.

It was here that we met our third challenge of the day. The footpath ran through a tunnel under a disused railway line. But the tunnel was mostly underwater. The Americans decided to go over and I went under; luckily for us both, I didn't get soaked and they didn't get hit by a speeding locomotive.


Our footpath for the next mile was completely destroyed by the flooding. Fields were under water and no obvious crossing place existed to fjord the streams and brooks that ran in all directions alongside the fields. We had to cut our way through overgrown hedges and balance on fallen trees to cross the stagnant water, holding our noses because the smell of the black gloop below was brutal.

With the Oxford Union Canal now in sight, one last obstacle remained in our way. A section of deep, stinking bog that ran approximately 200 yards. Without any alternative route, we just had to wade in and think of England (or America). It was not pleasant, but at least Steve could see the brighter side of the fact that his boot was slowly dissapearing into it.



For the next four miles, we would walk along the historic Oxford Union Canal. It once served as a major transport artery between the "workshop of the world" -- Birmingham -- and London. Today, it's only frequented by pleasure boaters and joggers along the tow path. But it is also a lot more pretty today than it was in the industrial revolution of 1750-1850. The houses that back onto the canal have turned the banks into flower reservations and wild plants have softened the edges to give it a very natural visage. Most of the original bridges still exist (and work) and the multitude of barges that are still permanent homes create a wonderful atmosphere and a very different type of view along the walk. It was also great to get my head out of the ordnance survey maps for the first time in nearly four days because this canal lead straight into the center of Oxford.


But it was along this route that the last adversary of the day occurred. I realized that something had cracked the display on my Leica digital camera. Without a separate optical viewfinder, this meant that I could not see what I was taking a picture of -- shot composition was no longer an option. For the remainder of the walk, I simply had to point the camera in the general direction of the thing I wished to photograph, click and hope for the best.


So far today, this walk had cost me a very handsome personal fortune in broken kit.

I must say at this point how impressed I was with my companions fitness. As we entered the center of Oxford and began to mix with the thousands of shoppers, tourists and students, I secretly hoped that I would be as fit as my half-century friends.


Weaving through the center of town, I found a climbing shop, obtained the number for Meindl boots and, after explaining the situation, they agreed to courier a new pair to me the following day. But a subsequent call brought bad news; they had missed the courier, which meant they couldn't get a replacement pair of boots to me until late the following afternoon. This was no good because I had 21 miles to walk the following day. So I was in a hole. Meindl had seriously let me down -- God forbid what would have happened if was on a trek in Northern Scotland or on a mountain range in the Andes or Himalaya (which is actually what this brand of boot are made for), because the brand promise of this firm was falling apart along with their boots. I was left with only one option -- buy another pair of walking boots within 15 mins (to stay on schedule) that would almost certainly destroy my feet over the course of the next 100 miles. It was a dark moment.

Enter the hero of this walk to save the day -- Charles Houston III. He hadn't built and run the biggest hardware firm on the East Coast of the US without learning that sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the greater good. Yep -- he gave me his own boots!! Just like the man himself, they were big, sturdy and proved to be 110% reliable. It was like the WWII transatlantic "lend-lease" agreement all over again. What a guy. I publicly salute and thank you, Mr Houston.


After a ceromonial exchange of boots, I once again loaded all my kit into my rucksack from the F&B guy's car. It was further weighted down by the failed Meindl boots and Richard's boots, which he had kindly left behind in the B&B for me to carry -- I think he felt the extra pounds would do me good. However, I knew that I would ditch most of this kit later that evening when I stopped with our friend Claire in the village of Benson, a few miles south of Oxford.

But, after this eventful day, I still had four miles to walk. Big manly hugs all round, we said our goodbyes and I walked out of Oxford along the River Thames. I would finish the walk on the banks of this great river 100 miles south of here.


The Thames is a pretty river along this stretch. I spent most of this time with my head down grinding out the last few miles for most of it, so I don't remember it that well. But the boat houses for each of the colleges at Oxford are a great sight - a reminder to the history of this place.


The weight of my pack was aggrevating my sore knee and tendons once again, and the heat was helping me to burn calories at a pretty high rate.



So it was a welcome sight to see Claire and baby Freddy arrive to pick me up in Sandford on Thames and whip me back to the comforts of their delightful house for a long hot bath, a delicious home-cooked meal and a slouch on a comfy sofa. Sadly, Claire's husband could not be bored by my tales of the walk so far because he is doing his bit for Queen and country in Iraq. We are all very proud of the work Major Reed is doing and, thankfully, he'll be home very soon.

DAY THREE: Chipping Norton to Woodstock

On Sunday evening, I was joined by Charles "Chuck" Houston III, Steve "Biketails" Taylor and Dave "F&B Guy" Rock, all from New Hampshire, USA, and Richard "Dickie" Hough, from my home county of Staffordshire.

Now, there's a bit of a story behind our unlikely friendship with Chuck & Steve (Harvard University & Artisan, respectively) which involves Richard and me directing these clowns off the Old Man of Stor mountain on the Isle of Skye off the west coast of Scotland, a happen-chance meeting in the only pub on the island that evening, an evening of excessive drinking fueled by transatlantic, bipartisan appreciation for all things mountainous and a subsequent evening of intoxicating debauchery one week later in the famed "Doctors" pub on the fringe of Edinburgh University medical school. I will never tell that story, but you can join the dots. That was 14 years years ago. I don't know what innate hunting skills these natives of New Hampshire were born with, but I haven't been able to shake these guys off since!

After Dave "the food and beverage (F&B) guy" was summarily dispatched to locate the best restaurant and watering hole at our final destination, Chuck, Steve, Richard and I set off at 10am under a perfectly blue sky. I had chosen to invite them on this particular stage of the walk because the map had promised a day of tiny hamlets, rolling landscapes and majestic manor houses. And boy oh boy did it deliver!


The vast majority of the contents of my rucksack had been thrown in the back of the F&B guy's hire car, so it was considerably lighter; and much to my delight, Chuck heroically volunteered to lug it for the day. Music to my heavily blistered shoulders. Walking without the leviathan of 34 pounds was a liberating feeling.


Walking through Glyme Farm and on to Chalford, we came across the first of many spectacularly beautiful tiny hamlets made up of exceedingly old cottages and "quaint" churches. Black swans adorned the village pond and the sound of a watermill added to the atmosphere of the dingly-dell, nestled in its valley.





Then east to Lidstone, bedecked in summer flowers, where we enjoyed our sandwiches overlooking thatched cottages and watching a series of classic '30's and '40's cars stream by on their way to or from a rally.


At Clevely, we walked through a mystical wood, the sun streaming through fine green leaves onto a lush carpet of woodland flowers. It had all the qualities of a Lord of the Rings scene, except the elves (or at least we couldn't see them). A few miles over open farmland lead us to Ditchly Park, one of the most imposing and majestic country estates I have ever seen. We walked into the estate and noticed that the rows of ancient oak trees created tunnel-like avenues almost half a mile long in the shape of an enormous cross. The house, a palacial, almost presidential mansion, dominated the scene at the top of the biggest avenue. Even the killer cows that roamed the adjacent fields were pretty (for natural born killers, that is).





For the next three miles, we walked through Kings Wood and Wooton Wood along paths that had clearly been trodden for hundreds, if not thousands of years. For the first time on this walk, I actually felt like we could be on the route that Shakespeare himself could have taken four hundred years ago. We all commented that it was hard going to follow the trail, but it must have been a herculean effort to travel the distance from Stratford to London in thin leather boots without modern day soles, never mind the heavy clothing and such like.


During the afternoon, our vista was made all the more dramatic by huge cumulus clouds that lazily drifted along the sky in 'streets'.


Finally, we reached the grounds of Blenheim Palace, the birthplace of another titan of British history -- Winston Churchill. If Ditchley house was spectacular, Blenheim Palace is mind blowing. My pictures don't do it any justice at all, so click this link to visit the official site. It makes Buckingham Palace look like it was thrown up in the 1950's on the cheap by dodgy builders. The F&B guy was to tell us that evening that he had spent an enjoyable afternoon looking around the house and grounds and he thoroughly recommended that everyone should visit it.




The "Victory Column" gave us an easy visual marker for our way out of the estate - so, of course, we got lost. But, thankfully due to our tired legs, it was only a small one and we strolled the remaining mile or so into the quintissentially English town of Woodstock around 5pm, right on time.


During the course of the day, we had munched on raspberries, seen owls, a Roe Deer (thought is was a Muntjack, but not), a poisonous Adder snake, pheasants, black swans and a squished slow worm.


That night, after long hot showers in a splendid B&B, we were shown to our chosen restaurant by the F&B guy for fine dining and refreshment. We all had our deep reservations when we were shown the "Chef Imperial" Chinese restaurant, complete with fading paint and kitsche furniture. But, we had put our trust in the professional and we proceeded to take our table (the best in the house, naturally) for the evening meal. And we were not dissapointed. The F&B guy had indeed found the best place to eat in Woodstock and we enjoyed a thoroughly delicious and very reasonable meal. We salute you, F&B guy!

Sadly, Richard couldn't stop the night and do another day of walking, so we bade him farewell and headed off to our B&B; we were all safely tucked up and dreaming of being Lord of the manor by 10pm, ready for another day tomorrow.

Miles walked 19.71
Time walked: 5.12 hrs
Calories: 1602
Steps: 29412
Weather: Stonking hot all day

DAY TWO: Shipton on Stour to Chipping Norton

Despite the hot confines of the grim pub/hotel room, I slept well. After a hearty English breakfast of deep fried mystery-meat, eggs, stewed tomatoes and a gallon of thick, deep brown tea, I set off at 9am in glorious sunshine.

My feet felt great, but my shoulders were very sore and red because of the weight of my rucksack. The thin t-shirt I wore offered no protection against the shoulder straps and it wasn't long before the irritated skin from the previous day started to turn a deeper shade of angry red.

It was quickly apparent that I was entering the Cotswolds, a region in the heart of England that I would argue is among the most beautiful this little island has to offer. Picture postcard thatched cottages, nook and cranny pubs dating back 600 years and views dominated by arable farming. Walking through this landscape is like being on the sepia movie set of a film in a bygone era. It's old, beautiful and right there waiting for you to walk in it.


With a few miles under my belt, I came across what I had been dreading since I set off; man eating cows. Don't underestimate these beasts. They may seem innocent with their slow munching action, docile expression and comedic methane expulsions. But what lies behind those murderous cold eyes is a driving lust for revenge against mankind for generations of enslavement and humiliation at the cold hands of the milking maid. And when these brutes charge, it's 500 pounds of beef heading your way with only dainty trotters as brakes. Nope, you won't get me within a hundred yards of cows. Luckily for me on this occasion, barbed wire and mines kept them at bay in an adjacent field (it just looks like an innocent fence in the picture).


The first hamlet I came too was Cherington. I emerged from woodland to see that a village fete was being dismantled from the day before. Everyone looked very much the worse for wear, including a few that looked like the hay maze had been their bed for the night. I quickly proceeded on my way because it looked like I may get roped into striking tents and dismantling coconut stands if I dawdled.


Leaving Cherington, the map showed that I had a little pull up into the next stage of my route. It was only a few hundred feet of ascent over a short distance, which is nothing compared to my usual weekend excursions of walking up 3000-4000 feet mountains, but in the midday sun, a heavy rucksack and wearying legs from the day before, that 300 feet felt more like 3000. And it was getting hotter. So hot, in fact, that I realized that my boots were leaving an imprint in the road!! I also realized that I needed to radically increase my intake of liquids in such heat -- probably a contributing factor to the exhaustion I felt after such a girly climb.


But the next few miles were glorious. I walked through deep woods on Redliff Hill, over wheat fields in full growth and through Long Compton Woods into the little village of Long Compton. I stopped here for lunch at a local pub; two pints of shandy and a tasty pie put the wind back into my sails. I think my bear feet and steamy socks put the people next to me off their Sunday lunch, but it had to be done.

As the afternoon wore on, it got hotter and hotter. I later discovered that it reached 34 degrees that day. The vistas continued to stop me in my tracks, but my thoughts were becoming dominated by the increasing pain from my shoulders and, due to a stupid jump over a little brook and the badly judged landing on slippery mud, my right knee was beginning to ache rather badly.


But the pains were temporarily forgotten as I came across the delightful little hamlet of Little Rollright. Three grand homes surrounded a 14th century church, all of which was nestled in a valley that looked more in keeping with Nappa Valley in California than middle-England. After another quick drink stop, I continued to stomp out the remaining few miles of the day through fields of corn into Chipping Norton.


Chipping Norton is an attractive town of large, Edwardian (or is it Georgian?) style five story buildings built in light colored stone that cut a very grand, imposing figure. The pub didn't have any record of my reservation, which was going to be a real problem in a busy tourist destination, especially with three Americans joining me that night. I didn't have the energy to complain, so I just ordered a large cold one and told the lady that I'd be outside while she worked out what to do with us. It worked to our advantage - we got a house to ourselves for the evening at a bargain basement rate.


All that was left to do was soak in a long, hot bath, do my laundry and sit on the enormous bed with two bags of frozen peas on my knee and shoulder. This was the sight that greeted my friends from the U.S.! And so the night began.......

Miles Walked: 16.52
Steps: 29,558
Time Walking: 5hrs 8mins
Calories: 1343
Weather: Blisteringly hot!

(Regarding the pictures: double click to enlarge so that you can see them better)

DAY ONE (of the walk): Stratford upon Avon to Shipston on Stour

It has taken me ages to organize the photos and my notes, and work has kept me occupied morning, noon and night for the past three weeks. But now, finally, all my pictures are safely loaded on the new machine and I'm going to share my pictures and tales from the walk in numbing detail, one day at a time! Think yourself lucky that I haven't come to your house with my 605 slides and projector!

Saturday August 4th was the big day; the start of my 146 mile cross-country trek from the birthplace of Shakespeare to his first theater called the Globe nestled on the South Bank of the River Thames in London. I had spent four months preparing ten ordnance survey 1:25000 maps, highlighting in every detail the route that I would follow. Less than 5 miles of the entire route would be on road; the rest would use ancient footpaths and bridle ways.

The night before, I checked and re-checked my pack to make sure I had what I needed -- and nothing more -- for the next nine days. I planned to wash the clothes I wore each day and dry them at night, reducing the need to take multiple items of clothing. Sadly, the weather in the weeks before the walk had been terrible; the most rainfall in England since records began in 1766. This meant my rucksack was further burdened with waterproof kit. All together, even though I worked hard to keep the weight down, my pack weighed in at a portly 34+ pounds. Ouch.

The morning of the first day broke fine. No sun, but not raining. I remember thinking that I'd be grateful if I just got the first hour completed without getting wet to the skin.

K, B and H got up early with me and we walked together to the birthplace of Shakespeare, a rather ordinary looking 16th century house in the center of Stratford. It stands out from the other buildings now because of centuries of redevelopment all around. But at least it still stands, which is more than can be said for the house Shakespeare inhabited for the majority of his life, which is two streets from our house. A vicar bought Shakespeare's house in the late 17th century and, consumed with raging anger at the growing number of tourists that came to pay homage at the great bard's home, he burnt it to the ground shortly thereafter! All that remains is a spectacular garden with a plaque to state that the house once stood there.

I digress.


After hugs and kisses goodbye (a grunt from B who was still half-asleep and complaining at the distinct lack of Cheerio's), I walked back the way I had come, past our house and, in the words of my childhood hero, the explorer Shackleton, I relished the thought of nine days walking "south, always south", for the next 146 miles.


The first day consisted of walking 17 miles to a town called Shipston on Stour. Leaving Stratford, it was only half a mile before I was in open countryside, the spire of Holy Trinity Church visible on the horizon behind me. After two miles, I reached the first of many hamlets that I would walk through along the route; Clifford Chambers. It consisted of a pretty 13th century church, six Edwardian houses, a grand villa and the best conker tree in Warwickshire. I marked it on the map for the years to come when B needs a monster conker to dual his friends at school.

Heading for the next town called Atherstone over open fields, I came across Taton House. This would also be one of many private country estates that I would trespass (quite legally) along the route. It's incredible to think that the "Pride & Prejudice" life is still being lived - with great opulence - in the heart of the country during the 21st century.


I enjoyed my packed lunch (the best of the walk, thanks to K's prodigious picnic skills) sitting between two ancient oak trees in the center of a field that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. By midday, the sun had come out, I had caught the sun and I was 10 miles from Stratford.


After lunch, I saw the first example of the very distinctive Cotwold stone in a pretty hamlet called Halford. Sadly, many of the homes had fallen victim to the terrible flooding that had swept the county in the previous month. The grass verges were littered with piles of "white goods"; fridges, washing machines, freezers, ovens and kitchen units, topped off with carpets, sofas and all sundry of soaking wet rugs and random furniture. It looked like a war scene, except the buildings still stood. Only under close inspection could you see that the bottom rows of bricks in the walls of the houses were a darker shade than the rest; evidence that the water had risen many feet and silently wrecked the homes of thousands of people.


A few miles south, the fields of grain and wheat were as flat as a pancake. Hundreds, if not thousands, of acres of crops had been destroyed by the force and flow of the flood water. Fences had been washed away, gates buckled beyond recognition and tons of hay and wheat deposited in trees, which gave the impression that a tornado had swept it up and tried to recreate surreal palm trees in the middle of rural England. Only the toughest metal gates survived, like the one pictured below. The huge pile of logs and debris behind it was swept more than twelve feet higher than the level of the river when I walked along side it two weeks later.


I continued the walk over open countryside; basically, farmers fields with a right of way through it. I was getting a taste of the magnificant views to come; uninterupted 30 mile landscapes in all directions under endless blue skies dotted with dramatic cumulus humilis and mediocris clouds. Not a car, person or computer in sight - pure bliss!


The last mile followed the busy A3400 into Shipstone because the route I had planned was still flooded. I hoped that conditions under foot would improve over the coming days, not deteriorate the further south I went. I checked into my pub/hotel for the night at 3pm, a lot earlier than I had planned. This was mainly because the pace I had set during the day was only just short of a jog! The excitment of starting the walk had meant that I sprinted through the first day. This was to spell bad news the following day, because the heat , my heavy sack and virgin legs and shoulders were screaming for a pint of cold lager shandy and a rest by the time I reached my final destination. I'd ache badly the following day!


After writing up my journal, chowing down on the local fish and chips and doing my washing in the decidedly hot, dinghy bedroom of the pub/hotel, I was safely in bed listening to John Coltrane on my iPod and examining the route for the following day by 8pm. I was out for the count by 9pm, a trend set to continue for the subsequent eight days.

Miles walked: 16.88
Time spent walking: 4hrs 50 mins
Steps: 30191
Calories: 1372
Weather: cloudy a.m., sunny & hot p.m.