Diagonal Walking

by Nick Corble

  A Scot by origin, David had initially been wary of moving to somewhere that labelled itself a ‘new town’, a term he associated with less successful places like Cumbernauld. He’d been pleasantly surprised by Milton Keynes, and you can’t really argue with that. For me, it felt good to have been part of what I regarded as the success story of the town. Built to accommodate a quarter of a million people, it had achieved its target. More to the point, people enjoyed living there. I was struck however that, while still vibrant, it was no longer ‘new’ as in a ‘new town’. Perhaps it’s a mistake to use the prefix ‘New’ on anything, like ‘New Pence’, ‘New Labour’ or ‘New York’? It had matured.

  I’d booked a home stay in an Eco House that night in the mistaken belief that it would be on the site of the old Energy World. In fact, it was over half an hour’s drive away, so David generously drove me there. My new host, Marcus, was a housing support officer (he wasn’t quite sure of his title, it kept changing). The home he was sharing with me (and I marvelled at how I’d been welcomed into three different people’s homes on this leg of the trip) was new, showing that Milton Keynes continued to experiment. As I’ve said though, sometimes experiments work, sometimes they fail, and the houses had all suffered from a design fault needing reconstructive surgery after residents moved in.

  They looked like houses from the future, made from pods, themselves constructed from what looked like plastic panelling (it was probably some eco-friendly material, recycled from old trainers), which some people had labelled Legoland. The brainchild of the then Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott (I’ll let that thought settle a while), these were pre-fabricated houses which in theory could be erected in twenty-four hours. Sounded familiar. Designed by the world-renowned architect Richard Rogers, the houses had suffered from problems with their tilted (I’d like to say diagonal) roofs, where a funnel sat to pump air, as well as from the seals on the windows.

  As we gazed out onto his beautifully landscaped tropical garden, Marcus assured me that while it had all been very traumatic at the time things were okay now. He too was happy living in Milton Keynes, and we enjoyed chatting into the late evening. I slept well, avoiding dreams of killer cows, disgruntled farmers and wind farms, and was especially glad not to summon up visions of rape plants. It was time go home again, I needed a break.

  Stage 4

  Newport Pagnell

  to

  Dagenham

  78.9 miles

  180,015 steps

  10

  Hot in Beds

  Newport Pagnell was pretty much as I’d left it, with few outward signs of the strange goings on that had been taking place in my absence. Not only had the good weather earlier in the walk matured into a fully-fledged heatwave so intense that proudly manicured lawns had turned into dustbowls, but the country had discovered a calm and dignified leader, offering hope and dignity.

  His name was Gareth Southgate, and he was the coach of the English football team in the World Cup in Russia. As if the heatwave wasn’t enough of an aberration, during the few weeks I’d been away the nation’s football team had done rather well, reaching the semi-finals of the tournament. Although a football fan, like most older English people I’d developed a sense of detached scepticism towards the national team. I’d lost the habit of investing hope, instead regarding premature and often humiliating exit from major tournaments as the norm.

  This tournament bucked that trend. Out of the blue, the English team, mostly young and diverse, with backstories of struggle, suddenly offered a symbol of hope. They presented a suggestion, even if it was the merest chink, that maybe a baton was being handed on. That they and their peer group could be defined by the future rather than someone else’s past. A common refrain used amongst them was that they were ‘making their own history’, that they were interested solely in what they could achieve now. The contrast between this attitude and the older talking heads ‘back in the studio’, obsessed as they were with references to each achievement being the greatest since God was a lad, only became starker as the tournament wore on. During interviews the players remained unconcerned with what had been. This was their time.

  Once the team met its perhaps inevitable defeat, even the pundits were happy to admit that, for a time at least, the team had offered a refreshing contrast to the shambles that politics offered back home. And shambles it was, dressed up as farce. After months of negotiations with the EU, the government had finally conceded what most people had realised some time before: that the dreams of a sovereign independent, free-trading, UK were just that – dreams, of the pipe variety.

  This reality was revealed following an all-day session at the Prime Minister’s country retreat at Chequers, during which she presented a plan to pursue a strategy towards the EU that was so diluted from the Brexiteers’ original intent that it was almost homeopathic. This resulted in the resignation of the Minister for Exiting the EU, which told you most of what you needed to know, along with that of the Foreign Secretary and all-round clown Boris Johnson. One left on a point of principle, the other to illustrate his lack of any principles, other than the principle of his own ambition.

  At the same time, a movement for a second vote on the final terms of any agreement, a so-called ‘People’s Vote’ was gathering pace. No one knew what was going to happen. Whatever the outcome only one thing was certain: a large proportion of the country was going to feel betrayed by ‘the system’. But while our political leaders thrashed around and failed to lead, we’d been given the example of a thoughtful, considered and dignified alternative way of doing things in the national football team and their intelligent coach. Whoever thought things would come to this – football offering a role model?

  The continuing heatwave meant that anyone could be a weather forecaster, so I’d planned accordingly. Shorter distances for each day, and a mid-leg stay with yet another cousin where Annette could join me and we could engage in a game of swap the laundry. For the sake of prudence, I’d also packed wet weather gear. It was light if bulky and provided insurance against a sudden thunderstorm. Also, shorter distances offered some ‘wriggle room’ if I got caught out and needed to take shelter for a while.

  I passed over Newport Pagnell’s Tickford Bridge, still devoid of much traffic, and headed left, before reaching an unkempt entrance to a bridleway on the edge of a field. My timing was good, as a kaleidoscopic peloton of brightly attired and behelmeted cyclists was hurtling towards me. For a moment it was a case of me or them. I reckoned I could have done some damage by swinging my rucksack out into the road, but their superior numbers would probably have triumphed. This rise in the popularity of cycling had definitely been a feature of the previous two decades, encouraged in part by Olympic triumphs, with velodrome success usually triggering a gold rush of medals since the poor showing in the 1996 games.

  As if to jerk me back into reality, as I picked up the familiar rhythm of field-side walking a pair of game birds flew out of the hedgerow and nearly knocked me off my feet. The landing would have been brittle, as the crops, green and supple last time I’d been out, were now golden and ready for harvesting, at least to my untutored eye. The soil looked more like a limestone pavement, cracked and tessellated after a long period without rain. These were deep fissures, wide enough to swallow a clumsily dropped pen or, heaven-forfend, a phone, into the depths of Hades. All this despite the fact that the school holidays had yet to start. For the younger portion of the population the starting gun on summer was still resting in its holster.

  As a result of these desert-like conditions, the route was easier to follow, if a little tricky to actually walk, as I needed to retain half an eye on the ground to avoid tripping on the concrete-like ruts. Within a couple of hours, I found myself on the Milton Keynes Boundary Walk: the border between the aspirant city’s administrative boundary and Bedfordshire, something that offered both opportunity and threat in equal proportions.

  My route
by-passed Salford (no, not that one) and, on approaching Aspley Hall, become less defined. The reason for this soon became clear. Paddocks. Horses meant money, with that money spent on sparkling new fences provided for the horses’ benefit, not walkers. Waymarkers mysteriously disappeared or were swallowed up in undergrowth, and I was forced into regular consultation of my Pathwatch app to keep out of trouble. A narrow path eventually brought me up and over the M1 yet again (near Junction 13 for those keeping track), after which I was reacquainted with my nemesis: rape plants. Rather than the vibrant green vine-like growth from previous legs of the walk, this was dry and defeated, honey brown and demanding to be harvested and put out of its misery. Its power to annoy was gone. It was a victory of sorts, if a Pyrrhic one. In the distance, I could see the first combine harvester of the trek at work, throwing up a cloud of dust behind it.

  My diary must have had ‘day for sudden “bejesus” surprises’ in it, and somehow I’d missed it. A muntjac deer leapt from the undergrowth less than two yards in front of me and dived into a field of ripening barley, barking his discontent at being disturbed. I didn’t understand what he was saying, and it was equally unlikely it would be familiar with some of the language emanating from my mouth as I pressed on. Tired, hot and distinctly sweaty, my focus switched to the last few hundred yards to the Airbnb waiting for me at Aspley Guise, now firmly in Bedfordshire. Naturally, this sat at the top of the village’s only hill.

  Showered and refreshed, I wandered into the village to eat. Aspley Guise is a pretty place, with a good pub, an Indian and Thai restaurant (that’s Indian and Thai, not two separate establishments), and even a hotel. The pub got my vote, largely on account of the range of hand pumps on display by the bar. I took a table and made to place my order. The waitress was delightful, but repetitive, as the answer to every question I posed her (‘Which beers do you have?’, ‘What’s the special?’, ‘Can you tell me the soup of the day?’) was, ‘I can find out for you.’ Maybe I’m old fashioned, but … well, you can fill in the rest.

  The food was good and received an endorsement of sorts from a Frenchman sitting next to me, who was walking a dining companion through the menu. He’d been before and knew this would be quicker than involving the waitress.

  ‘It’s good,’ he replied to one enquiry, ‘but done how the English do it,’ he qualified, before adding magnanimously, ‘but that’s fine.’

  The quality of everyday dining is something else that’s improved since our narrowboat adventures. Back then, the mere act of getting a table was an achievement, never mind actually having food delivered to it.

  My bedroom’s curtains were backlit by the sun when I woke the next day, so I enjoyed a quick breakfast chatting with my hostess Anne, as I was keen to take advantage of the relatively cooler earlier hours. She and her husband Jock had lived in the village most of their married lives and raised their family there. They liked its intimacy and freedom for their children to enjoy the countryside, but lamented the growth of housing in the area. I felt a bit guilty raising the plans I’d read about for 20,000 new homes in their part of central Bedfordshire.

  They were also unhappy about the vast new warehouses being built around them, especially near Milton Keynes. The department store John Lewis had recently expanded its distribution centre outside the town, and it wasn’t alone, due to the proximity to the motorway. It was a refrain I’d heard before, notably in Stoke, with warehouses the size of old factories coming into an area, blighting the landscape but employing only a fraction of the people the old manufacturing plants had.

  Back on the footpath, the surprises kept on coming. On entering woodland I was ambushed by three large Labradors, as surprised to meet me as I was them. Even with my limited knowledge of dogs, I knew that Labradors were supposed to be softies. But theory and practice don’t always come together, and it took my heart a few minutes to calm down. The attitude of their owner, that the whole episode was in some way amusing, wasn’t one I shared. This surprise was trumped by a better one a minute later, when I spotted a family of foxes on the path ahead, seemingly oblivious to both my presence, and that of three killer dogs within a hundred yards.

  I was now on the edge of the Woburn Estate, home of the Duke of Bedford, known more for his Safari Park than any other significant achievements. On the way, on the edge of Ridgmont, I passed through my first harvested fields, where the exposed earth revealed patterns that resembled not so much crazy, as stark raving mad, paving. On the horizon, it was possible to spot one of the huge warehouses Anne had alluded to. This belonged to Amazon, and was a facility which had attracted a, shall we say, mixed press over the years.

  The route now followed the Greensand Ridge Walk, parts of which were designated the John Bunyan Trail. The former is a forty-mile walk named after the greenish iron mineral found in the local sandstone that forms the ridge, although none of that was visible during my time on it. The John Bunyan Trail is named after the author of The Pilgrim’s Progress, who is associated with the area. This device of naming trails after famous local personages is a common one, although despite the various associations I had with my diagonal route I doubted anyone would ever call it the Nick Corble Way.

  The early eighteenth-century Segenhoe Manor was just visible in the distance and was followed by the former parish church of All Saints, now abandoned, but not forgotten, as it is maintained by the local council as an ancient monument. Originally built in the twelfth century, the church underwent major alterations in the 1820s, including a new tower. Despite these, it was superseded by the church in nearby Ridgmont. Ironically, a notice on the board of its replacement, which I’d passed earlier, suggested that, due to falling attendances, it too was in danger of being decommissioned despite recent investment of its own.

  Between these two churches, I’d stopped for a water break by a randomly placed park bench on the side of a field. Controversially, it lacked the near obligatory small brass plaque dedicating the seat along the lines of ‘Uncle Bert, who loved this view’. The view across the field had now become commonplace, mile upon mile of ripe laden crops interspersed with occasional woodland, both ancient and cultivated, offering welcome shade. Given Bedfordshire’s reputation for flatness, there were also a surprising number of short, sharp, climbs. By the side of one field I spotted a sturdy ladder propped up against a tree, a plastic chair that looked like it had been liberated from a village hall, wedged precariously at the top. I posted a picture of it on Instagram and discovered that this was a perch for shooting deer and not a tennis umpire’s training stool.

  On entering Brook End, I was greeted by that most quintessentially English and unchanging thing, a cricket pitch. Given the extreme weather, it looked more like one of the recently harvested fields, although the groundkeeper had made a valiant attempt to retain some vestige of luxuriance in the middle. I then came across the second most quintessential English village sight, a pub, the Green Man, where I was able to take off my rucksack and engage in an ‘encounter’ with the lady behind the bar, who was intrigued by my walk and as keen to ply me with water (with ice!) as she was beer. Both were welcome, as was the delicious meze platter.

  It was good to rest under a parasol and consult the map. This showed Brook End to be part of Eversholt, although it might have been more accurately called Evershalt. As well as Brook End, within a mile there was a Water End, New Water End, Wilts End Farm, Church End, Higher Road End, Lower Road End, Hills End, Potters End, Lower Berry End and Tyrells End. All these stood on the edge of the Woburn Estate, with the Greensand Ridge Walk actually passing through the estate. Although avoiding entrance fees by referencing a public footpath is one of walking’s particular pleasures, I had to pass on this occasion as my diagonal was pulling me like a magnet to the east, towards a metalled path unfortunately exposed to the blazing midday sun.

  This was followed in turn by a series of satisfyingly diagonal paths through golden wheat, with another pit stop at Brick Pi
ts Spinney. Originally, this would have been a pit where clay would have been dug in order to fire bricks, often to order for a specific commission. Once enough clay had been dug, it would be filled, often with rubbish, capped with soil and left. Bedfordshire had historically been a brick-making centre. The Amazon depot seen earlier was on the site of the old Ridgmont brick works.

  In complete contrast, the result at Black Pits was a wildlife haven, and I paused to take on more water, the ice sadly history by this stage, and to take in my surroundings. In the distance I could see the blue top of a motorway sign, the road itself invisible and inaudible, while closer to I spotted another muntjac as well as smaller wildlife, lazy butterflies, curious insects and noisy birds. Other than the motorway and the telegraph poles through the field ahead, I wondered if this scene had changed much over the centuries. Of course it had. Nothing stands still, not even the countryside, which had endured seismic changes such as the clearing of the forests, the introduction of the four-field system, enclosures and the coming of the canals and railways. Even muntjac deer were a twentieth-century introduction.

  Indeed, not even the countryside was immune from Brexit. One of the most visible signs of change following our leaving the EU, it emerged,17 would be on the countryside. Freed from the constraints of the Common Agricultural Policy, a greater emphasis on countryside stewardship rather than production for its own sake was being promised. This wasn’t a particularly new idea, but at least it was something positive, although I wasn’t holding my breath.

  As the thirsty insects began to take more than a friendly interest in the sweat seeping out of me, I clambered up and set off again. As always, the last two miles of the day became elastic, stretching and stretching, usually uphill. Ahead lay Toddington, like its predecessors on the walk, Keele, Watford and Newport Pagnell, more familiar perhaps as a motorway service station than a place in its own right. It turned out to be a spread-out village clustered around a large green, or more accurately, brown, where there was the requisite war memorial and preserved village pump, as well as a church, a library, some shops and, I was pleased to see, a choice of no fewer than six pubs. Having taken in the village I was ready for a shower, but the pub I’d booked to stay in was shut. I did another perambulation reasoning my hosts might be on a school run, only to find things unchanged.