The chapel belonged to a Benedictine abbey established by King Cnut a few years before the Norman invasion. The abbey has disappeared, and only the tithe barn and this chapel remain. The structure is constructed of ochre-tinted limestone, with a parapet, turret, and heavy buttresses. The abbey monks used the chapel as a retreat. After the Dissolution in 1539, it became a navigational aid and shrine. The dedication of this chapel to St. Catherine is interesting. St. Catherine was a high-born and scholarly Christian lady of ancient Alexandria. After torture on a wheel, she was beheaded during the persecutions of the Emperor Maximus in 290. She was widely venerated in the Middle Ages and considered the patron saint of spinsters. This is why women seeking husbands came here and recited the following prayer, which we find inscribed inside the chapel:
A husband, St. Catherine;
A handsome one, St. Catherine;
A rich one, St. Catherine;
A nice one, St. Catherine;
And soon, St. Catherine!
Below us stretches the long curving wedge of Chesil Beach. The sun is waning in the west. An approaching wall of fog from the Channel heightens the contrast and drama. The English have a saying when conditions for boating are inclement in the English Channel: “A pity — now the Continent will be cut off.”
KARL LIMPS one last painful mile from St. Catherine’s Chapel toward Chesil Beach. With his bad ankle, he is leaning heavily on his walking stick. Herring gulls swoop and squawk overhead. The tide is out. Fog is rolling in.
Our boots crunch the billions of rounded stones and pebbles that comprise the beach. Flotsam and jetsam abound: a dinghy’s painter line, a rowboat panel, yellow rope, green netting. There is also the unsightly detritus of holidayers and weekenders: empty water bottles, popsicle sticks, cigarette packages, an old shotgun shell, nappies, a Nivea Care bottle, Styrofoam coffee cups, a small plastic Bombay Gin bottle, a battered toothpaste tube. Flanking the beach is a flowery meadow area intersected by sand dunes reminiscent of Summer of ’42.
I shiver a little as we stumble our way over the rocks to the grey water. Winter storms here can be ferocious. Villagers say that one can determine the sea conditions and pending weather from listening to the drawing sounds of the pebbles on Chesil Beach in the evening.
Karl is now quietly doffing his boots and socks. He limps forward to plant his toes in the cold sea water. I follow with the same ritual. Then, as we stand there, the mist unexpectedly parts and we glimpse the grey outline of a British destroyer slowly knifing its way through the fog, appearing like a ghostly mirage before our eyes. The realm, I muse, is ever protected by the Royal Navy.
It is a poignant moment. I stuff my pockets with a few of the ubiquitous flints and cherts glistening on the beach. We then begin a slow trek back to the B&B in the village. Neither of us has said a word on Chesil Beach.
KARL IS STILL PENSIVE as we dig into a fish pie at a village pub. From a corner near the massive stone fireplace, a fiddler entertains us with stirring Irish ballads. When the red-faced fellow puts down his instrument, the mellow jazz of John Coltrane kicks in from the overhead speakers. The pub is all one could wish for — fine spirits, ale, and food; copious rows of pump handles; brass vessels hanging on medieval walls; a roaring log fire; good music; and only a few quiet patrons lingering over their ale and port.
“Karl, you ought to get that ankle looked at soon. It looks painful.”
Karl ignores the remark. “It’s good to be alive,” he replies instead. “I feel privileged to have tramped all those miles — and could do it again.”
Aside from the achievement of his conquering Macmillan Way physically, it is clear that the walk has altered Karl in other ways. He talks fervently of history, of culture, of different ways of seeing things. He even intends to pick up the complete works of Thomas Hardy. This was a personal mission for him as much as for me. He seems ageless — a compact, rugged character with a generous heart who still loves challenge and adventure.
Yet it is not exactly an evening of sybaritic delight, as both of us soon become immersed in our own thoughts. I calculate that we have walked about 365 miles, including the diversions. Not a great physical feat — the famed Land’s End to John o’ Groats walk is 1,200 miles. Moreover, we have taken some twenty-six days in leisurely fashion, whereas Colin of Derbyshire surely completed Macmillan in just under two weeks. Yet it has been a profoundly moving and humbling experience.
We linger over dinner, then Karl orders his usual cherry brandy nightcap. Five minutes later, he ambles up to the bar and returns with two foaming pints of Guinness.
“Don’t be so sombre, John boy. We did it — the whole bloody Macmillan Way. And it’s therefore time for one last pint.”
“To the walk!” he roars. We clink glasses.
“And to Cadbury Castle,” I intone. Karl raises his glass again, then pauses. Loreena McKennitt’s soft Celtic voice is purring “The Lady of Shalott” overhead.
“Say what’s in your heart, John,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling. “To Camelot,” he adds spiritedly, and we clink glasses a second time.
I am lost in reverie for a few moments. The magic is broken when Karl suddenly raises the subject of Tiffany again. Should we be getting in touch with the Oakham police to see if they have made any progress on the case?
“Karl, I promise that I will contact the constabulary by email upon return to Canada, and follow up on it. That’s all we can do.” 8
He frowns and downs the last dregs of his brew.
* * *
6 Regarding dogs in English culture: In 2014, a British company called Woof & Brew launched a range of herbal teas for canines. The tea costs up to $22 for twenty-two tea bags and is now sold at more than three hundred stores in the United Kingdom. Many cafés and tea shops carry the brew so that owners may offer tea to their pets at table while sipping their own tea or coffee beverages.
7 Madonna and Guy Ritchie have since divorced, and Madonna has given up her life on an English manor.
8 As for the mysterious Tiffany, the police never got back to us, but on March 13, 2009, a jury found London cab driver John Worboys guilty of drugging and sexually assaulting twelve women in his cab. He is suspected of having assaulted more than one hundred women between 2002 and 2007 in London and environs. Seventy-one women have come forward to make complaints against him. Although it is only speculation that Tiffany was one of his victims, the timeline certainly fits. There is of course also the possibility of more than one taxi-cab rapist at large. Tiffany may be simply one more unreported runaway whose fate will never be known.
Afterword
EVERY DAY OF our walk we discovered powerful vestiges of the past: neolithic megaliths; Celtic resistance to Romans; Roman villas and roads; King Arthur and Camelot; Saxon chapels; Viking names and traditions from the Danelaw; Norman churches and architecture; the ravages of civil war — Parliament against King; village pride and medieval customs, such as fairs and athletic competitions; Victorian achievements like Brunel’s railways and canals; countryside change, ruin, resistance, and resilience; the painful scars of two world wars. From ancient barrows to World War II bunkers, every era was represented. We even followed the Jurassic belt of rock that has so defined central England — reminder of a geological age of cataclysm that ushered in life, teeming and abundant, much of it embedded in Cotswold stone.
Along the length of a slender footpath we encountered an astonishing array of historical figures: Queen Boadicea, King Arthur, King Alfred, King John, Sir Walter Raleigh, Samuel Pepys, Charles I, Oliver Cromwell, Charles II, George III,Alexander Pope, John Dryden, Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Siegfried Sassoon, Edward Thomas, John Steinbeck, Ralph Vaughan Williams, Princess Diana, Camilla, and Prince Charles, all of whom are part of the historical tapestry of Macmillan Way — not to mention countless lesser luminaries such as Parson Woodforde, Queen Matilda, George Washington’s ancestors, John Cotton, Charles Fox, John Masefield, J.B. Priestley, and Stewart Menzies.
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br /> Along the Way, we met warm, generous people, many of whom opened their homes and hearts to us and who were careful to never give offence. And everywhere on our journey we found a quiet acceptance of life by England’s rural residents — plus a certain reticence, a hesitation to be too critical of others, and a reluctance to wave the flag.
We discovered an astonishing independence of thought and defiance of authority: bottle kicking at Hallaton; the sauciness of Whitwell villagers twinning their flyspeck hamlet with Paris; the rebellious Banbury folk with their Lady Godiva statue and Hobby Horse Festival debaucheries; Morris dancing run amok; the gypsies of Stow carrying on the tradition of a horse fair in defiance of court orders; woolsack-racing madness in Tetbury; Yetties in Dorset maintaining folk-song tradition; the fierce protection by villagers of the Cerne Abbas Giant; a Castle Combe resident blowing up an artificial dam that spoiled the look of the village; and the civil disobedience of Rutlanders in demanding their separate little county. Not to mention country marches on Westminster to protest the fox-hunting ban, fights against culling of animals — whether they be badgers or hedgehogs — and countryside Ramblers policing the public’s right to walk the footpaths. It’s live and let live — but don’t dare interfere with our privacy, our wildlife, our green spaces, or our country customs.
THE ENGLISH FOOTPATH is symbolic of the resistance of the English to change but also a symbol of enshrined liberty in the eyes of the common folk. Sovereigns and governments come and go. The Industrial Revolution despoiled much of the landscape; the Enclosure movement barred access to vast areas of tillable soil. But the inherent right of passage represented by the footpath lives on — and will be fiercely defended by Ramblers and others who regard this as a sacred entitlement, the legacy of every citizen. The hills, the fields, the wolds, the moors — all are part of the land over which free people may roam, mainly on legal footpaths, green lanes, and bridleways.
The footpath restores, energizes, and connects with some things lost. It is a tunnel to the past and a link to the future. Myriad spidery footpath networks underpin the nation, the gossamer acting like glue, embedding the very history of the land into the consciousness of a people. In a fast-paced world of change, it is vital that a people remain grounded, so that amid the clash and clang of metal on the highway, the buzz of electronics, the swoosh of a jet fighter overhead, the peace of the path will always be there for contemplation and solace. And the path will remain in one’s memory forever.
In Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell’s hero, Winston, yearns for a landscape he dubs the Golden Country. The Golden Country can be reached by a footpath through a lovely park-like countryside. It is here that Winston is able to meet with his lover, Julia, beyond the watchful eyes of the state and its ubiquitous telescreens. As Kim Taplin notes in The English Path, “If we want the Golden Country to exist outside the imagination, we must keep the paths to it open.”
Some walking days are arduous, though one never remembers the icy rain; the slogging through muddy fields where the path disappears; the scrapes, the bruises, and the blisters and sprains. The joy of each day’s discovery outweighs all of that. Robert Louis Stevenson writes in his essay “Walking Tours” that at the end of the walk you might question yourself as to whether you have been the “wisest philosopher or the most egregious of donkeys . . . but at least you have had a fine moment, and looked down upon all the kingdoms of the earth.”
The path also resonates in another way. In The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien writes that “Bilbo used to say there was only one Road; that it was like a great river: its springs were at every doorstep, and every path was its tributary.” But the road and the path also represent the cohesion of all life, since even the tiniest footpath in the shire leads to distant and often sinister places. It is often comfier to stay in one’s willowed brook or shire, but the wider world awaits, to be explored, tasted, and perhaps improved. And it is the footpath that represents the way out. So the Macmillan Way is very special. It unlocks doors. And for me, it also proves the truth of the adage Solvitur ambulando — you can sort it out by walking.
Acknowledgments
A number of people contributed to make this book possible.
First, many thanks to my literary agent, Robert Mackwood, who never lost faith in the project.
My chief editor, Scott Steedman, worked indefatigably to improve the manuscript, and it was fun working with him. I will forgive Scott for favouring soccer over hockey. Stephanie Fysh, my copy editor, showed thorough and often piercing insight into textual matters. She is a true professional.
Thanks to the entire publishing team: Chris Labonté has assembled a talented group, including my ever helpful managing editor, Lara Smith; media savvy Mark Redmayne, who coached me into learning some of the finer points of social media; and book designer Natalie Olsen.
Thanks to Peter Titchmarsh, who facilitated the creation of the Macmillan Way, despite many obstacles from recalcitrant landowners.
My friend and walking companion Dave Green provided valuable insights on the manuscript and my thanks to him also for his impressions of English rural life.
To Karl Yzerman, surely the Al Pacino of long-distance walkers, my heartfelt thanks for so many enjoyable hours of rural walking adventures. Karl was the inspiration for this book.
Last but not least, thanks to my wife, Dee, who as always provided valuable critiques of the manuscript and encouraged me along the way.
Chapter Notes
Quotations from the Guide are from Peter Titchmarsh, The Macmillan Way: The 290-Mile Coast-to-Coast Path from Boston to Abbotsbury (Ipswich, UK: The Macmillan Way Association, 2003).
INTRODUCTION
“That village, so often near a Roman road, is sometimes clearly a Saxon hamlet”: H.V. Morton, In Search of England (London, 1927).
“For all the drawbacks of rural life and its tough and uncompromising history”: Joanna Trollope, “The country we love,” The Telegraph (March 1,1998), reprinted in The Hedgerows Heaped with May: The Telegraph Book of the Countryside, edited by Stephen Moss (London, 2012).
“These by-paths . . . admit the wayfarer into the very heart of rural life, and yet do not burden him”: Nathaniel Hawthorne, “Leamington Spa,” in Our Old Home (Boston, 1883).
“right of . . . thoroughfare on his land for every vagabond”: George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (Edinburgh and London, 1860).
CHAPTER ONE
“There are certain things that happen at nature reserves”: in “Amorous birdwatchers get back to nature,” The Telegraph (August 6, 2009), reprinted in The Hedgerows Heaped with May.
“Realism; fatalism; phlegm. To live in the Fens is to receive strong doses of reality”: Graham Swift, Waterland (London, 1983).
In fact, the great drainage schemes of the eighteenth century: Marion Shoard, in her book The Theft of the Countryside (London, 1980), argues that with the removal of trees, bushes, and hedgerows over the centuries of reclamation schemes, the Lincolnshire Fens are now “just a production line for food products.”
“a cluster of lavatory brushes in the sky”: Sir Bernard Ingham, quoted by Robert Bedlow in “Sir Bernard takes a tilt at windmills,” The Hedgerows Heaped with May.
“Badger hates society, and invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing”: Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows (London, 1908).
“I can only teach you two things — to dig, and to love your home”: T.H. White, The Once and Future King (London, 1958).
“little water vole”: Stella Gibbons, Cold Comfort Farm (London, 1932).
“Feather-footed through the plashy fens passes the questing vole”: Evelyn Waugh, Scoop (London, 1938).
“Every British animal has its cheerleaders”: Sarah Lyall, The Anglo Files (New York, 2008).
“read it and reread it”: in Alison Flood, “First edition of The Wind in the Willows sells for £32,400,” The Guardian (March 24, 2010).
“I am nervous; I am not ill, but I am nervous”: King George
III, quoted by Frances Burney in her court journal for 1788, published after her death as The Diary and Letters of Madame D’Arblay.
“men who are ceaselessly battered by the wind and rain”: Pierre Daninos, “Contradictions” (1957), reprinted in In a Fog: The Humorists’ Guide to England, edited by Robert Wechsler (Highland Park, NJ, 1989).
CHAPTER TWO
“Few other peoples lavished so much money on charity as the British”: Ben Wilson, The Making of Victorian Values (London, 2007).
“There are few things which give such a feeling of the prosperity of the country”: William Howitt, The Rural Life of England (London, 1838).
The spirit of the Celts was epitomized by this brave woman: Tacitus, The Annals (AD 110–120), translated by Alfred John Church and William Jackson Brodribb (London, 1888).
“In the course of a day’s walk, you see, there is much variance in the mood”: Robert Louis Stevenson, “Walking tours,” The Cornhill Magazine (1876) and Virginibus Puerisque, and Other Papers (London, 1881), available at grammar.about.com/od/classicessays/a/walkingtouressay_2htm.
“If you see something along the way that you want to touch with your mindfulness”: Thich Nhat Hanh, The Long Road Turns to Joy (New York, 1996).
“white narrow roads rutted by hooves and cartwheels, innocent of oil or petrol”: Laurie Lee, Cider with Rosie (London, 1959).
CHAPTER THREE
“Roads, lanes, paths”: Geoffrey Grigson, Freedom of the Parish (London, 1954).
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