Crystal Caves

I am loath to say this in case I earn the spite of some malevolent deity, but I recently made a bit of a break-through with my story. It’s about living in the wilderness, specifically the desert, and it’s based on some real-life travel experiences but really it’s just a lot of fantasy. I used to have lots of dreams about running, whether it was from school or work, into woods or hills, I was always running from something. I am sure Freud and Jung would have things to say about this, but I suspect it’s really due to the fact that at some point back in my geneology someone was a nomad, or an explorer and there is a tiny yet strong remnant in my genetic make-up that just wants to run.

I also have lots of dreams about apocalypses. Usually I am wandering around empty streets, which now sounds like a famous opening from a film and book, but I’ve had the same recurring dream since I was about 10. Endless wandering around smashed-in shops, not a whisper of humanity anywhere. The odd thing is I am never that panicked in the dreams, just curious.

Recently I’ve been re-reading my favourite apocalyptic books and been introduced to some new ones, from The Stand (part 1), The Chrysalids, World War Z, Day of the Triffids. I’ve also been re-reading stories about epic journeys: Cold Mountain, The Sisters Brothers, Between the Woods and Water. I wasn’t aware that I had deliberately been seeking out books along these themes, but it must have been a subconscious decision linked to the story I am trying to realise about my own escape to the wilderness.

“Anchorite and mystic”. These words in Cold Mountain, actually about a heron, struck a chord with me. The idea of being utterly alone is terrifying and appealing in equal measures. Rejecting human society and taking to the wild places. Becoming part of the wind and sand blowing about the Brandburg mountain, wandering with the elephants across the vast dunes of Soussevlai, becoming a thorn idol in the acacia trees… I am not sure if this is my own crystal cave, but I am enjoying exploring it.

A winter weekend in Budapest

Budapest is a beautiful city and never more so than in winter, when the wind bites colour into cheeks, lights sparkle across the river and snow lends the glamour of a white coat. At Christmas there is an added treat of the world’s best festive lights – subtle and magical designs. To celebrate the coming of Spring there is a dedicated festival featuring music and art exhibitions. Even without an event to go for, it’s simply a glorious city to get lost in.

Budapest Parliament, seen from Castle HillThe city is made up of two distinct personalities on either side of the Danube, Buda on the west bank and Pest on the east. Buda has a wealthier and more old-world elegance, with its green hills and historic buildings, whilst Pest is the wrong side of the river; cooler, grimier and more creative with its street art, bohemian energy and vibrant nightlife. The city entire has a crumbling, fading beauty and a definite mystery to it; you never quite know what you will find around the corner. It’s also very green, open and has stacks of heritage. Despite the slight (and welcome) seediness – sex shops and dodgy back-streets – as a solo traveller, I feel more than happy wandering around its streets, even late at night.

I love exploring by foot, and my favourite pastime is to get lost in a city, in order to discover its secrets. If you want to absorb the attitude and atmophere of Budapest, the best thing to do is wander around it. If it’s your first time here, get your bearings on a map and then get out there! Budapest is split into 23 districts (kerület) and most of the popular attractions are within the radius of the centre. It’s perfectly possible to walk to most. You know that in a pinch you can probably find your way back to the centre quite easily and there’s always the extensive and reliable metro, tram and bus services.

Christmas lights in BudapestHead into Pest, get some lunch in one of the cheap cafes – the famous goulash and sugar-house cakes are sublime. Poke around in a few shops and admire the variety of street art from grafitti elephants and road-drilling meerkats, to gig flyers depicting monkey brains and the official city sculptures. Follow the river to the  glorious gothic masterpiece of the Parliament building, reminscent of Westminster Palace.

You can get a good idea of how the city is laid out by heading up to the Buda hills. My favourites are Gellert and Castle Hills. Gellert is a lush, green nirvana where you can survey the world beneath you; the yellow trams and small cars like angry bees, the river snaking under bridges from the Central Market to the Parliament, the treetops and red roofs. Check out the Liberation Monument and the curious statues of St Stephen and the Magyar.  Castle Hill, unsurprisingly, is home to Buda Castle, complete with the History Museum and the National Gallery, the beautiful Fisherman’s Bastion, Matthias Church (now that’s what I call a church) and a variety of restaurants and shops. You can easily spend the best part of a day ambling around up here, especially if there are winter markets.

The very first time I visited Budapest I only had a few days, and I packed in plenty, certainly enough to fall madly in love with the city. The first place I headed, after 3 days on a train from Greece, was Gellert-hegy and its thermal spa and there I soaked away all my cricks and aches. There are lots of spas to choose from, but Gellert is my favourite – the beautiful art-noveau and classical decor, hot plunge pools and calm atmosphere soothe the body and soul. Hungarians have got relaxing down.

Fishermans BastionYou can’t avoid history in Hungary and there’s simply no point – this city was the battle ground for fascism and communism, and it’s a mark of respect if nothing else, to acknowledge that. Head down Andrassy Avenue to take in the House of Terror (be prepared, it’s harrowing) and then onto Hosok ter (Heroes’ Square). The Ethnographic Museum and the National Museum in Pest will give you an appreciation of the terrible things Hungarians had to suffer to enjoy their freedom today. If you have a day to spare, take a bus outside the centre to Memento Park, the final resting place of the remaining Communist statutes, not only is it a good history lesson, it’s also very weird.

Budapest, like any city can be noisy and overwhelming, and sometimes you need time out. Not only is ther city shaped by its hills and the river, it also has some really lovely parks. City Park is worth checking out for its winter sports and its boating lake in summer and Károlyi Garden, apparently the oldest garden in Budapest, is a perfect tranquil hideout. Even in the winter, the parks provide a chance to spot wildlife, take some exercise and unwind.

You can’t be disappointed by Budapest, it’s just not possible.

Budapest: Central Market

Central Market, BudapestWhen I first arrived in Budapest I noticed a beautiful building, which I assumed due to its style and shape, was a church. It is a large building in Pest, situated by Szabadsag bridge, with a huge rounded glass frontispiece reminiscent of altar windows and spire-like turrets on each side, covered in fantastically coloured tiles and swirling designs. I’m ashamed to say I dismissed it – churches can be interesting, but they aren’t often at the top of my cultural sight-seeing lists.

Later I realised my mistake. The building is not a church, it is the Central Hall Market, in fact the largest indoor market in Budapest. It dates back to 1897, when Budapest (which had recently been created by unifying Buda, Pest and Óbuda) was developing and covered markets were fashionable throughout Europe. Designed by Samu Petz (he also designed the spectacular Matthias Church) it was considered a modern masterpiece with refrigeration and indoor lighting. Apparently vendors used to ship their products into the hall through a network of indoor channels which aren’t in use anymore. I think I recall reading that the building was designed to ensure a lot of light fell into the market, which is why it seems quite church-like. It later fell into disrepair, but was reconstructed between 1991-94 with Zsolnay tiles covering the roof.

Brightly coloured food stallsSo it’s pretty impressive on the outside. What you don’t  expect is the adventure of walking through the canvas flap doors into a whole new world of colour and light. Your eyes are confronted with mountains of food; piles of oranges, purple aubergines, the yellow of bananas, the green of cucumber; it’s like a beautiful mosaic. My covetous eyes fell on the bread and pastry stall, and it was about all I could do not to let my body do the same. Stacks of pizzas, breads, cakes and sweets. A whole collection of sweet and savoury pastries which I spent at least ten minutes just gawping at. I love food but I can’t remember a time when I have been so gripped with greed, pressing my face up against the glass wanting all of those delightful things RIGHT NOW. The seasoned Hungarian shoppers (for this is a functioning market, not just a tourist trap) stepped around me without even a pause. Used to the tourist rubes, much like London tube commuters, I expect.

The meat stalls appealed to me less. I’m a vegetarian, though by no means a fundamentalist. I’ll eat meat if I know the animal was treateds humanely before and during its death. I’ve seen a lot of weird things and don’t balk easily. However Hungarians have a very healthy appetite for meat and they aren’t ashamed to show it. The meat stalls are depicted by ominous looking horned skulls, though really they are pointless as the huge animal corpses kind of give the game away – grey-pink and red meat hangs from hooks and lays across the counters in deep piles. Some of these Hungarians have a macabre sense of humour – one stall has a dead pig propped up with a pair of glasses perched on its grinning face. Even worse, one of the stall-holders appears to have an obsession with Maggie Thatcher, with lots of pictures of her visiting the market pinned up about his stall. I can forgive the dead pig joke, but not Thatcher appreciation.

Central Market, first floorUpstairs is the fabrics, toys, accessories and other gifts. Traditional Hungarian embroidery, fur hats, leather purses, Russian dolls, and lunch stalls selling the inevitable goulash and the amazing topjaki wine. Walking around the top floor is quieter and more relaxed and you get to nose on the frenzy below, whilst pausing to admire shawls, bed covers, table-cloths and retro posters and paintings. Every so often an old-fashioned clock chimes and tinkles across the market. As I perch upstairs people-watching, I feel a sharp stab of loneliness, the type you only ever get in a crowd. It’s a strange feeling of nostalgia, but for what I am not sure.

The best thing about this market is that it’s local and therefore a  real insight into how Budapest residents live. They are lucky to have such a wonderful market and whilst I don’t know about relative value, it’s incredibly cheap to someone used to London prices. I buy a small cup of gluwein for 90FT (about 30p) and a huge pastry for about the same. I only wish I had access to a market, back home, which had such a huge array of fresh food – bet I’d still be gawping though.

In Praise of the Thames Path

Kingston mosaic

The last Sunday of January 2013 is bright and sunny, a strong contrast to all the snow flurries across England of the last few weeks. The feel of the sun soaking through my coat is a joy I’d almost forgotten, as I make my way to Hampton Court to meet the London Strollers. This afternoon they are walking to Richmond,via Kingston, following part of the 184-miles of Thames Path.

Approximately 30 people in a variety of red, green and blue waterproofs gather around Walk Leader Des Garrahan, aka Walking Class Hero, who outlines the group walk ahead. He is a big fan of the Thames Path, which runs from its rural source in the Cotswolds all the way through to the urban sprawl of London. Approximately 13 million people work in the city between Monday and Friday, resulting in people walking the Thames Path for pleasure and simply to get from A to B. Today we are walking 6 miles of it, from Hampton Court, through Kingston and through the green spaces in Ham and Richmond.

We set off from the station and cross the bridge, turning right onto the Thames Path. Shortly we come to some impressive, if slightly gawdy, gold replica gates through which the back of Hampton Court Palace can be peeked. The building dates back to the 1200s but it wasn’t until the Tudor period that it become the palace many know today, following Cardinal Wolsey’s intention to use Hampton Court as a place to host diplomats and other important guests of state. He did this perhaps too well, with many peers seeing the palace as a symbol of the Cardinal’s bloated power. Much later William of Orange adapted the palace into a more baroque style, but this was never completed, leaving Hampton Court to assume the two styles into part of its character.

London Strollers on the Thames Path

We continue down the Thames path, the river to our right.  All the recent snow has been reduced to deep puddles and many cyclists and runners splash by us on the muddy track. Des points out a rather sleek looking glass building on the opposite bank. Unusually the property extends right to the bank of the river, a rare sight along the Thames Path as both the north and south banks are open to the public. This is largely due to the campaigning efforts of David Sharp, Ramblers member and creator of the Thames Path National Trail, who believed that development should not impact on the walker’s enjoyment of the long-distance trail. Local authorities adopted his recommendation that planning permission should not be granted without riverside access.

The Thames Path is one of the 13 National Trails network, long-distance trails offering over 2000 miles of  walking (and in some cases cycling, horse-riding and carriage driving) across our most stunning landscapes. The network is distinguished by its consistent signage and maintenance; there is a guarantee that the route will be clear, safe and enjoyable. This high standard attracts many visitors from the UK and overseas who bring significant economic benefits to local economies. The Ramblers played a crucial role in the formation of National Trails; Tom Stephenson, the first Ramblers Secretary, envisioned the very first trail, the Pennine Way, which opened in 1965.

Approaching Kingston bridgeUnfortunately this may not last. The Government  set out plans to hand over management of National Trails in England from Natural England to new Local Trail Partnerships. These would be made up of local groups and agencies. As Des outlines, the Ramblers is worried because the proposal leaves National Trails without a national champion to advocate and plan for their future which may lead to a dramatic fall in the quality of National Trails. The Ramblers published its own vision for National Trails which you can see on their website. Over 18,500 people have signed their petition which calls for government to rethink their plans.

All this is food for thought as we make our way along the Thames Path. It really is quite the picture of tranquillity. The sky is very blue with huge fluffy clouds; birds flock overhead, their calls floating down to us earth-bound creatures. The river is dotted with brightly painted houseboats and even the residential properties on the opposite bank have a colourful carnival appearance. Every so often a blustery shower passes over, disappearing as soon as we secure hoods or open umbrellas. A faint, watery rainbow appears to our left. A short way further we come to Raven’s Ait; ait being an Anglo-Saxon word for an island. Des tells us the mixed history of the tiny island – from a sailing training base, to being occupied by squatters in 2009, and currently a venue for weddings and special occasions.

We arrive near Kingston bridge. Following development of the John Lewis store in 1990, a mediaeval undercroft and the foundations for the original 12th century bridge were discovered. The chalk and flint vaulted cellar was lifted from its original position and placed in the basement of John Lewis, where it can be viewed by the public. Crossing the bridge we pass a colourful tiled mosaic depicting river boats and Hampton Court, sparking gold and blue in the sunshine.

After a short tea break we leave the Thames Path and head towards Richmond Park along a tree-lined avenue. We pass the grand house of Zac Goldsmith MP and Ham Common. (I wonder if Zac ever forages on the Common, which is apparently very good for wild blackberries.) Richmond Park is the largest of the London’s Royal Parks, having been a royal interest since the 15th century and developed as a deer park by Charles I. It is a National Nature Reserve, a Site of Special Scientific Interest and a Special Area of Conservation, which indicates just how unique this parkland is in terms of green space and wildlife. It has 144 bird species, 630 red and fallow deer, 250 species funghi, 1350 beetle species – and that’s just the start.

Richmond ParkThe sun sets as we cross the park to Petersham, creating a very moody skyline to our left and a dusky light to our right. We pass two tiny mounds of snow, the last reserves of the winter army. The modest churchyard of St Peter’s is the resting place for the explorer and navigator Captain George Vancouver, who lent his name to the island, city and mount. Crossing a field framed with a fiery pink sky, we reach the Thames Path again and follow it to Richmond. Des notes that Richmond Palace used to stand on Friar’s Lane, apparently one of the first buildings in history to be equipped with a flushing lavatory.

It’s fully dark by the time our walk finishes at Richmond Common, notable for Harold Wilson’s retirement home and the theatre, which is well-used as a film-set, including Evita’s balcony scene. And it’s also the site where our esteemed Walk Leader once played cricket with some fellow called Mick Jagger.

This article first appeared in Walk, the magazine of the Ramblers: www.walkmag.co.uk/blogs

Wandering the Wandle

I woke this morning to a golden haze of light in my hallway. Rainbow shimmers dotted my front room as the sun shone through the glass prism hanging from my window. I had planned a stay-at-home day, but the perfect autumnal weather put paid to that. How could I sit inside when that blue sky was taunting me? After a week of showers and grey skies, this was an opportunity not to be missed.

Being restricted with time, I needed somewhere local and I suddenly knew just the place. I live in South London and for years I’ve meant to walk the Wandle Trail. Somehow it kept slipping off my radar -perhaps it has always been too easy. Usually when the weekend comes and I have a day spare for a walk, I want to escape London and stretch my legs in yonder countryside. I get enough of London walking during the week. But today everything was set for the Wandle. I even had a routecard from Walker’s London and the South East In a Box, in the main put together by my friend and Rambler Walking Class Hero. Walking boots on and off I go.

The Wandle Trail routecard being put to use

The route started at East Croydon. I tried to be clever and pick up the walk further in – after all I know Croydon, and I thought I could skip the chaos of the shopping centre – and managed to walk around in circles of ever-increasing radius until I was somewhere in the back-end of East Croydon and cross. It turned out my inner compass was right though as I popped out of a small alleyway at Reeves Corner. I can’t help but feel sad at the yawning gap where the House of Reeves used to be. Infamous as a site, after the London riots of 2011 when it was burned to the ground, it’s now surrounded by billboards charting its history from its creation in 1867, its survival of the Blitz and its eventual destruction by a 33-year old arsonist who apparently was feeling a bit depressed when he nicked a laptop and set fire to a sofa. Watching the huge blaze on the TV is something most South Londoners won’t forget in a hurry and the arsonist for at least the 11.5 years of his prison sentence. I could say stuff about crimes against property receiving harder sentences than crimes against people but in this case it would fall flat.

I took myself down the pedestrian subway, underneath the Roman Way. Croydon is a funny old place, a man remarked to me as I checked where I was against one of the Legible London markers. It’s true, it really is. Some people remarked that they should have let the fires during the riots take the whole place out… seems a little unfair but it is an altogether soulless place, which is odd as it does have an interesting history. Nowadays it seems all noise and cheap action, but beyond and behind it the history peeks through. Just look at the architecture, from the Whitgift Foundation (from John Whitgift, Archbishop of Canterbury, who also lent his legacy to the Whitgift Centre and various schools and care homes) to the Minster and the old buildings near Bell Street.

Several streets later I reach Waddon Park, although I almost don’t as the footbridge leading to the park from Waddon new Road is padlocked shut. I have a short conference with another pedestrian and we both agree to squeeze through the gap between the gate to see what’s what. At the other end of the footbridge is a wire fence which has been unceremoniously tramped down and me and my new-found companion do likewise. I could feel indignation fuelling me in this minor act of trespass – it’s a public park and where are the signs explaining why we are being kept out? Not that it matters as no-one apprehends us and we go our separate ways across the park.

A few tram-tracks and suburban streets pass underfoot and I arrive at Waddon Ponds. This is the start of the trail. Following the river through wooded areas and green space I am transfixed by the play of sunlight on the water and the gentle tinkling of the water. I like the way the river snakes its way through green spaces and residential areas, running past surburban homes, industrial estates and busy roads. There is something nice about the fact it’s always been here, before industrialisation and technology advances which haven’t really got in its way. It still rushes on, fed by its two sources Waddon and Carshalton Ponds, supporting birds, frogs and butterflies as well as a whole host of flora. Given all the rain we’ve had recently this is mostly nettle and bramble, but it all adds to the tranquil green. River-side walking is one of my favourite types of activity. I love the dappled light and seeing the sun filtered through leaves overhead. I love the noise of the water and the light hitting its surface. Several times I wished I was wearing wellies so I could really got involved, splashing in the Wandle; it is certainly shallow enough to walk in.

River Wandle

My highlight was Beddington Park with its impressive red-brick buildings. Carew Manor, home to the Carew family, noted in the Domesday Book but also a rendezvous for Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn is now a school. Funnily enough a friend attends it, though I never knew all this time that this glorious park was right by it.  The river continues throughout, with some pretty bridges – one terracotta, one flint and some very small stone bridges. Apparently a Roman Stone Coffin was found here, which confirmed the theory that a grand Roman Villa and Bath House once stood to the north side of the park. A Saxon cemetery dating to around 400AD was also found as well as 3 pennies and a half penny dating to the reign of William I. The park was also used for the ‘Dig For Victory’ campaign during WW2. It’s definitely worth a visit.

I followed the river all the way back to Middleton Road, where I then followed directions to Mitcham Junction. 3 hours of relaxing river-side walking in a perfect autumnal day – strong sunshine with a slight bite from the wind. I got a tram and a bus home in under 30mins – back in time to do all that, um, house-keeping. Or maybe to watch some West Wing.

Beddington Park

An ode to Hungarian George

His accent speaks of the twisting back streets, the bittersweet melancholy framing the bold statues, still wearing a whisper of Communism.

Slanting words, beautifully jarring, he shapes words like golden coins.

Carrying clinging black shadows, ghosts gripping the cuffs of his sleeves, the weight of all the bloody memories weighing him down.

Wildflower meadows and woodland groves

Here is a recent piece I wrote for Walk magazine’s blog:

With London going mad for all things Olympic, I headed out of the city for some peace and tranquillity. All week my mind had been conjuring up visions of  wildflower meadows and dappled woodland groves and so, after some consultation with the maps, I settled on the officially-recognised outstanding natural beauty of the Surrey Hills – home of chalk grasslands and diverse wildlife.

Poppies in the long grass

The North Downs Way National Trail is a favourite route of mine, not least because it is so accessible from the city by public transport; 40 minutes after leaving London and oppressive grey cloud, I hopped off the train at Woldingham to meet blue sky and open fields. The North Downs Way is a good place to unwind; 153 miles of the most diverse walking habitats, included the Kent and Surrey Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty (AONB). They boast swathes of chalk grassland that support wildflower, herbs and mosses and rare butterfly, such as the Adonis Blue and the Chalk-hill Blue.

Passing a quiet farm, I turned right off the dirt track, over the railway and onto a tree-lined public bridleway. To my right, sounds of nickering and grass being ripped from the ground draws my attention to a pair of grazing horses, which raise their heads at my approach. I pause by the dappled grey mare and breath in the scent of horse and grass. A powerful sense of relief sweeps through me – I’ve escaped! I fancy I could turn around to see each petty annoyance I felt this morning squashed into the dusty ground and trapped in the imprint of my boot.

Shortly I pass Woldingham School, before passing through a set of impressive iron gates. I half expect the gates to mark the entrance to a stately home, but instead the footpath widens to lime and olive coloured fields, yellow rapeseed and thick clusters of beech in the far distance. Wildflowers sway gracefully in the long grass, and smudges of red poppies bleed over tractor markings. Pausing by a gate, I’m transfixed by the abundance of butterfly, dancing in and out of the flora. A sudden flash of white rump out of the corner of my eye betrays a plump rabbit, which freezes for a short moment and then ups and jumps away. Occasional birdsong drowns out the low hum of distant traffic. I could be alongside Frank the Cabby and his wife Nellie, witnessing the birth of Narnia – all I need is a singing lion.

underwater trees

Eventually I leave Surrey’s version of Eden behind and turn into Marden Park and Great Church Woods. The Woodland Trust now owns both these woods, following a successful local campaign in 1994. Accessible path networks have been created and habitats managed, following the 1987 ‘Great Storm’, with the result that tawny owl, roe deer, woodpecker, wood anemone, bluebell and orchid thrive.

A green-soaked shadowy light gives the strange sensation of being underwater, as moss covered beech twists upwards like seaweed. I half expect Galadriel and her elvish guard to walk out from the trees at any moment. This woodland habitat makes up almost 60 hectares of the Surrey Hills Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (AONB) and part of the Woldingham and Oxted Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI). The area is of international importance due to the shaws, old coppice, wooded ghylls, parkland trees, small carrs and conifer, as well as yew and box woodlands.

A short break in the trees gives a clear view across the hills to the streaming traffic far below. White butterfly dance in and out of the shade and bees hover on the sainfoin. Aimlessly I glance up and see a roe deer, staring back at me with huge liquid eyes. For a few strained heartbeats we are united in our stillness and then the snapping of twigs makes the deer bound back into the woods, and a few minutes later a boy cycles past, as shy as the deer.
Deer filled woods

Like all National Trails, the North Downs Way is extraordinarily well-maintained. The waymarks and signage, aka ‘aids’, is excellent; I hardly even refer to my map. This is entirely deliberate; National Trails are meant to be as easy to use as possible, which is partly why I, and approximately 12 million visitors each year, enjoy them. There are over 2000 ‘aids’ at each path junction on the North Downs Way National Trail alone, each one perfectly maintained. The aids are meant to make the route as accessible as possible, with gates replacing awkward stiles. Rather than clutter the natural beauty, the aids are sensitively installed and blend into the landscape. It’s obvious someone has thought long and hard about all of this.

I cross Three Ways Junction and find myself suddenly overlooking the ridges and wealds of the Oxted Downs, the highest point of the North Downs. A lovely carved bench nestles in long grass and rhododendron; the perfect picnic spot. According to the clean and well-maintained information board, if you are lucky and in the right season, you can spot Hairy Violets, Pyramidal Orchids, Dark Green Fritillaries – and even basking adders! The National Trust and Natural England restored this rich habitat after the chalk grassland had almost been eradicated by scrub. Since 2002 cattle and sheep grazing has been introduced to maintain the stunning wildflower meadows and rare insects supported within it.

A pleasant pause

Great Church Wood climbs up the valley, a dense mass of ancient coppiced trees. I then take a historical diversion. St Agatha’s church has been in existence since at least the 1300s; not only is it very old, it is also very small, accommodating 40 people up until 1934 when a new parish church took over. The small beautiful script on the doorway reveals that is is still used, welcoming visitors with the words, “This church is open every day for prayer and quiet”. I’m not a person of faith, but it pleases me that I am still welcome to enjoy the peace radiating from the lovely old building. A huge hollowed yew stands by the church door, which is apparently as old as the church.

Leaving the churchyard, I pick up the path again and follow it all the way back to the railway tunnel, which was constructed in the late 1800s and considered to be one of the great engineering feats of the time. I stand on the bridge awhile, breathing in the clean air. The only people I have met on the path today includes a jogger, a vicar and a phantom lumberjack who I heard but couldn’t see. The flora and fauna has been exceptional and I would happily venture that our National Trails are not only a national treasure, but Olympic gold standard.