by Gary Hayden
The next day, we followed a section of the Winchcombe Way, a waymarked figure-of-eight trail centred on the town of Winchcombe, for fifteen miles to the spa town of Cheltenham.
Ironically, after dumping our camping equipment, we now found ourselves in the middle of an Indian summer, and enjoyed a delightful walk through lush farmland.
We arrived in Cheltenham too late, too tired, and too hungry to seek out or to care much for its Regency terraces, its celebrated pump room, its broad avenues, its fine parks, or any other of its elegancies. In fact, having settled in, we left the modest comfort of our inelegant hotel room just long enough to find an inelegant fish-and-chip shop. And that was it.
From Cheltenham, we walked three miles south to join the Cotswold Way at The Devil’s Chimney: a curiously shaped limestone pillar, of uncertain origin, rising out of the ground atop Leckhampton Hill. And from there we walked fifteen miles to the village of Painswick.
One thing you learn very quickly on the Cotswold Way is that it’s never in a hurry to get anywhere. Quite the reverse. It loops and detours and zigzags about like crazy.
Unlike many long-distance footpaths, it doesn’t follow the route of old drove roads, or old Roman roads, or anything of that sort. There’s nothing remotely functional about it. It just winds and wanders about, anywhere that’s pleasant or interesting, and gives the impression of putting off as long as possible its arrival into Bath.
This is generally a good thing. After all, you’re not there because you want to take the most efficient route from A to B. You’re there to take in the scenery. But sometimes, when you’re tired and footsore, or when the path takes a particularly lengthy detour so that you can walk over an especially steep hill, you wonder whether the route designers weren’t just amusing themselves at your expense.
The route from The Devil’s Chimney to Painswick is typical in this respect. It mooches around for a while along the top of the scarp, with fine views of open country to the right and trees to the left. Then it meanders its way through a series of woods, each one prettier than the last, before reluctantly arriving at its destination.
Painswick is a beautiful old village with an ancient church, renowned for its elegant spire and for the ninety-nine neatly clipped yew trees in its churchyard. We spent the night at St Anne’s B&B, along with some American tourists who were walking the Cotswold Way.
Breakfast was a splendid affair, which included freshly baked croissants – one per person. Sadly, Wendy and I arrived at the table a tad later than our fellow guests, and therefore had to do without. But we consoled ourselves with the thought that they had gone to people who had demonstrated, by their desire to eat ours as well as their own, that they’d really, really appreciated them.
From Painswick, we walked fourteen miles along the Cotswold Way to the village of Cam. Our route took us over sculpted hills, through shady forests, across verdant meadows and open grassland, and through the market town of Stroud and the villages of King’s Stanley and Middleyard.
We reached a point, late in the afternoon, where the Cotswold Way could have taken a direct route across level country towards the villages of Dursley and Cam. But instead it took a detour up and over Cam Long Down, a cripplingly steep hill that rises for no apparent reason out of the flattish ground to the west of the escarpment.
Local legend has it that Cam Long Down was formed from rocks tipped out from the Devil’s wheelbarrow. This may or may not be true. But, either way, it is the very Devil to climb – and, I imagine, a source of diabolical delight to whoever designed the Cotswold Way.
In fairness, I have to say that, because the Cam rises so abruptly out of its surroundings, the 360-degree view from its summit is pretty damned spectacular.
Thankfully, we had a rest day to look forward to in Cam. Not that Cam itself is much to speak of. But it was delightful to lounge around in our B&B, and give our tired bodies and tender feet some much-needed recovery time.
The following day, we walked seventeen miles from Cam to Old Sodbury via the villages of North Nibley and Little Sodbury. A small detour would have allowed us to pass through the tiny hamlet of Waterley Bottom too, but we somehow resisted the temptation.
We also walked through the villages of Dursley and Wotton-under-Edge, which are much bigger, but less worthy of a mention because their names aren’t nearly so much fun.
It was a day of woodlands and glades, of towns and villages, of scrubland and grassland, of pastures and cultivated fields, of steep-sided hills and peaceful valleys, of grazing cows and sheep, of ponds and mill streams, of hilltop monuments and ancient forts, of hedges and stone walls, of pubs and teashops, of churches and alms houses, and of cottages of honey-coloured stone.
We spent the night at the Cross Hands Hotel in Old Sodbury. It’s an old posthouse, dating back to the fourteenth century, and apparently has some charming old rooms. But Wendy and I, being low-rollers, had to content ourselves with a not-quite-so-charming room in a modern part of the building.
Now that I come to think of it, though, that’s not quite right. We didn’t ‘have to’ content ourselves with a modern room. We were contented with it.
There may have been people at the Cross Hands Hotel staying in plusher, more stylish, more expensive rooms than ours. But what was that to us?
We had just enjoyed a long and happy walk through heart-achingly beautiful countryside. We were pleasantly tired and hungry. We had a warm room with a comfortable bed. We had a restaurant meal and cold beer to look forward to. We had leisure time to read, chat, or watch TV. And we had another long and happy walk to look forward to the following day.
We were contented.
In my copy of War and Peace – which I was still reading – I had highlighted a passage, at an earlier stage of our journey:
Pierre had learned not with his intellect but with his whole being, by life itself, that man is created for happiness, that happiness is within him, in the satisfaction of simple human needs, and that all unhappiness arises not from privation but from superfluity.
And that sums it up.
JoGLE was all about the satisfaction of ‘simple human needs’. It was about staying warm and dry. It was about getting enough to eat and drink. It was about finding somewhere to sleep at night. It was about getting where you needed to be before it got dark. It was about fresh air and freedom. It was about companionship.
And being able to meet those simple human needs was enough to release the happiness within us.
Gensei, again:
why envy those otherworld immortals?
With the happiness held in one inch-square heart
you can fill the whole space between heaven and earth.
The final nineteen-mile section of the Cotswold Way took us from Old Sodbury to Bath. The first six miles were flat and easy. But, after that, it was just one hill after another.
If I had to sum up my memories of that day in just one word, it would be ‘green’. Apart from the last couple of urban miles, almost the entire route lies across fields. Huge, great, glorious, lush green fields.
It’s heavenly country. But still, it’s a tough old walk, up and down those hills. By the time we reached the outskirts of Bath, we’d had enough. But still we had to walk a couple more hilly miles, through the city, to the YHA.
Whatever mischievous soul it was that planned the tortuous route of the Cotswold Way, they outdid themselves in that final section. There’s not a stone staircase, an incline, a decline, a back alley, an indirect path, or a pointless zigzag in the entire northwest corner of Bath that hasn’t been drafted into service.
Admittedly, there are some fine sights along the way, including the Royal Crescent, Britain’s largest and finest Regency terrace, and Bath Abbey, the last of the great medieval churches in England.
Doubtlessly, these are the official reason for all of the ups and downs and the ins and outs. But I have a strong suspicion that there’s a route planner somewhere who spends his leisure hours bending over a
city map, rubbing his hands and cackling in maniacal delight.
Readers who have stayed the course with me thus far won’t be surprised to learn that, although Wendy and I spent a rest day in Bath, we saw nothing of it. We spent an hour or two in outdoor-gear shops, replacing our worn-out hiking boots with brand-new lightweight trail shoes. We treated ourselves to cream teas. And we lounged around in the hostel. But sight-seeing wasn’t on our radar.
I guess that it would be possible, as an End to Ender, to explore the towns and cities you pass through on your journey. But only by building in so many rest days that you’d lose the rhythm of the walk. And that, in my opinion, would be too high a price to pay.
On JoGLE – to paraphrase Shakespeare – the walk’s the thing.
Neither are the two arts of music and gymnastic really designed, as is often supposed, the one for the training of the soul, the other for the training of the body . . . The teachers of both have in view chiefly the improvement of the soul.
—Plato, Republic
Chapter Seven
Wild Life
Bath – Stratton-on-the-Fosse – Street – Taunton – Sampford Peverell – Hayne – Down St Mary – Okehampton – Stowford – Jamaica Inn – Bodmin – Newquay
The penultimate stage of JoGLE took us 187 miles from Bath, via Exeter, to the seaside resort of Newquay.
The route we chose was largely functional. We simply started off at Bath and walked in the general direction of Exeter; and, from there, we walked in as straight a line as possible to Newquay. We tried to navigate along footpaths and bridleways, rather than roads, wherever possible, but each day was pretty much pot-luck, as far as scenery went.
However, since the route took us through the West Country counties of Somerset, Devon, and Cornwall, famous for their lush pastures and granite moorland, pot-luck seldom disappointed.
From Bath, we walked thirteen miles to the village of Stratton-on-the-Fosse. Our route took us along minor roads, country roads, the occasional footpath, and the A367. And, although it was chosen for practical rather than aesthetic reasons, it was very pleasant nonetheless.
It was a grey early-October day. The kind of day when it’s cold and damp enough to make brisk walking enjoyable, but not so cold and damp as to depress the spirits.
The pastoral landscape with its freshly ploughed fields, newly trimmed hedges, and red-, orange-, and yellow-tinged trees, was beginning to look decidedly autumnal, and, after five years of living in a tropical climate, it was a joy to behold.
In our new trail shoes, we made swift progress, and arrived at our B&B, the Kings Arms Inn, with plenty of time for R&R.
From Stratton-on-the-Fosse, we had intended to head eighteen miles southwest to the village of Street, near Glastonbury. But this would have meant walking a lengthy section of the wetlands area of the Somerset Levels, and a severe-weather warning, predicting widespread flooding, necessitated a change of plan. So we opted instead to take a nineteen-mile westward loop to Street, via the cathedral city of Wells.
We spent the entire day road-walking with eyes down and heads bent against the rain. So I have no clear recollection of Wells – not even of its cathedral, which is considered one of the most beautiful in England.
The part of the day I remember best was the four-mile walk along the A39 from Wells to Glastonbury. Not because it had any interest or beauty, but because it was a hazardous, footpathless slog into stinging rain and oncoming traffic.
Glastonbury, too, is just a rain-soaked blur in my memory. I recall that it had lots of boutiques catering for devotees of crystal healing, angel therapy, and Tarot reading. But little else. We stopped for coffee there, and then headed off into the rain again, for a final couple of miles, to Street.
The YHA hostel in Street is the oldest still in operation. It’s a quaint little place: a Swiss-style chalet, wooden and weathered, a bit shabby in places, but with what the Japanese might call wabi-sabi appeal.
It’s set among trees in expansive grounds at the edge of a strip of woodland, and has a secluded, back-to-nature feel about it.
During the evening, after cooking, eating, and clearing up, I sat listening to the drumming of the rain on the rooftop, and thinking how very glad I was to be there – and how very glad I was to be doing JoGLE.
JoGLE had begun principally as something that Wendy wanted to do, albeit something with enough physical challenge to tempt me a little too. But it had turned into something more. It had become a pilgrimage.
I felt that I, a sceptic and an agnostic, was beginning to understand the fascination that pilgrimage has held over the centuries for Christians, Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, and the like.
I was beginning to understand that whatever it is you’re searching for – be it peace of mind, enlightenment, redemption, inspiration, guidance, happiness, a closer walk with God, the courage to abandon your beliefs, or pretty much anything else – there are few better ways to find it than to strap on a rucksack, lace up a pair of boots, and take a couple of million steps into the unknown.
From Street, we hiked a mammoth twenty-three miles to Taunton, much of it across the big, beautiful – and, on this occasion, exceedingly squelchy – Somerset Levels.
It was a walk unlike any that I’ve ever done, across a landscape unlike any that I’ve ever seen: dead-flat empty grasslands, criss-crossed through with long, straight drainage ditches.
Because of the heavy rain on the previous day, there was no point even thinking about taking the footpath across Butleigh Moor and King’s Sedge Moor, at the start of the day. So we had to walk along the small roads that zigzag through the moors instead. Even so, it was delightful to pass through such lonely, lovely country.
The Levels are home to hundreds of swans, one of which blocked our path, partway through the morning, hissing at us and beating its wings in a very aggressive manner.
I remembered reading somewhere that this is mostly bluff and bluster, and that, despite their immense size, swans really aren’t that strong. Apparently, it’s a myth that they can break an arm or leg with their wings. But, still, it was some time before we could summon up the courage to walk on by.
There were lots of cattle on the moors too, including a couple of eye-poppingly muscular and mean-looking bulls. Wendy and I had a long discussion, before passing one of them, about whether it was likely to swim across a drainage channel to get at us.
At around midday, we reached the village of Othery. From there, we walked southwest along minor roads to the village of North Curry, and then a final six miles, due west, to a hotel in the centre of Taunton.
The next morning, we walked southeast for nineteen miles to the Tiverton Parkway railway station. This was another cobbled-together route: first along the West Deane Way to the industrial town of Wellington, then along minor roads, and finally along the towpath of the Grand Western Canal.
As I said, it was a cobbled-together route, but still pretty bloody fantastic, on the whole, with vast expanses of verdant countryside to please the eye and soothe the spirit.
By this penultimate stage of JoGLE, walking had become as natural to me as breathing. It was what I did from nine to five each day. And it was what I wanted to do from nine to five each day.
I remembered, in the past, getting bored on country walks. But not any more. End to Ending had got me attuned to the rhythm, to the heartbeat, of the natural world.
End to Ending is a very different thing to day walking. On a day walk, you’re a tourist, an observer, of nature. But, on a long-distance walk, you become part of nature.
It’s difficult to explain without waxing poetic.
Imagine that you are out on the moors, and you see a weathered old tree. You are acutely conscious, when you look at it, that it belongs there, that its roots go deep into the earth, that its branches have been bent and twisted by the wind, and that its leaves have been warmed by the sun and wetted by the rain.
If you are a day walker, you have nothing in common with that tree. It
is a wild thing; and you are a tame thing. You and it have an entirely different kind of existence.
But if you have been walking for months, if week after week you have trodden the same earth, been blown by the same wind, been warmed by the same sun and wetted by the same rain, then you have a connection with it. You have a kindred existence. You belong there too.
As I said, it’s difficult to explain without waxing poetic. But, however fanciful or whimsical it may sound, it’s essentially true. You may not start hugging rocks and trees; you may not compose canticles to Brother Sun and Sister Moon; you may not preach to the birds and the flowers; but you really do begin to feel a connection.
This feeling of wildness was something I’d never experienced before, and it felt good.
The nineteenth-century writer, thinker, abolitionist, tax-resister, naturalist, walker and goodness-knows-what-else Henry David Thoreau was a staunch advocate of wildness.
He begins his celebrated essay Walking with the words:
I wish to speak a word for Nature, for absolute freedom and wildness, as contrasted with a freedom and culture merely civil – to regard man as an inhabitant, or a part and parcel of Nature, rather than a member of society.
Had I read those words pre-JoGLE, I don’t suppose I would have appreciated them. Pre-JoGLE, I had never connected with the wild side of myself, and had therefore never understood its importance.
But Thoreau did. He was, in many respects, a modern-world Epicurus. He is best known today for his book Walden, in which he recounts a two-year experiment in natural-living in a self-made house, in a forest near the shores of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts.
Thoreau believed that wilderness and wildness are essential to human flourishing, that they are indispensable sources of invigoration, inspiration, and strength. ‘From the forest and wilderness,’ he said, ‘come the tonics and barks which brace mankind.’
