April 19, 1997: Marlow to Skirmett
I love that penchant for the play on words so often encountered in shop names in Britain. Here we have Marlow’s Jolly Frier.
Jessica and I met at 8:23 at the Maida Vale tube stop – at the start of the eighth excursion on Jimmy Parson’s 100-mile circular walk of the Chilterns. After a week of sunny skies and balmy temperatures the weather had reverted to its more normal mood, and I was already quite chilled standing out in front of the underground entrance in a biting wind. We had only a short ride to Paddington, where we bought single tickets for Marlow. There was time for me to buy a cappuccino and for each of us to purchase an apricot croissant. Our crowded Stratford train took off on time at 9:07 – but there was a long delay at Ealing Broadway and we were anxious about making a connection at Maidenhead, where we arrived several minutes late.
We dashed downstairs and up again to the platform for the little Marlow train, which was waiting for us. It was soon off and we were able to enjoy a springtime countryside a bit more pleasant than the industrialized portions of west London we had just crossed. The train changed directions after pulling into Bourne End and both Jessica and I switched our seats in order to face forward. We were only a little late when we pulled into Marlow at about 10:10. I could see Tosh, in a woolly cap, standing at the end of the platform and Harold was waiting below.
An earlier stage of our walk had brought us into Cookham, but I had decided that we did not need to walk the Cookham to Marlow portion of today’s route because Parsons uses the same route that we had already walked twice, once as part of the London Countryway, once as part of the Thames Walk. The Lees had planned to drive their car to the end of today’s stage and have a taxi bring them back to Marlow, but they had failed to find a cabbie free to do this. Instead they would now leave their car at Marlow station, having found a driver who would meet us at Skirmett at 3:30. I was a bit disconcerted to have such an early target, but the double-booking Lees had an opera to attend at night and wanted to be home early. Nine miles (with a pub stop) in such a short space of time would require some concentrated walking but we reasoned we could always call the driver with a later arrival time – if we fell behind our target. In the meantime we passed the Jolly Frier and walked out to the churchyard to show Jessica the wonderful riverside view.
We entered the park across from the church – Tosh remaining behind to look at a statue – and Harold began looking for a loo. The ones nearby seemed to be under repair so I promised to find the Lees a suitable bush later on. We now passed a gym full of jocks on treadmills. We could see them through the glass wall of their club, but they had their backs to the river; they might as well have been exercising in downtown Slough. Soon we were on the towpath, following for a mile the route of the Thames Walk toward Temple Lock. The Lees found their bush, while Jessica and I spent some time observing the bird life on the river.
I held a gate open for some grateful cyclists. The Lees shared chunks of a large Yorkie, but denounced the chocolate as substandard. It was breezy and chilly and I wore my 1974 blue Pennine Way coat all day long – frequently with the hood up. I was wearing my 1993 Coach’s Circle UCLA cap, the one with the brass brad holding the back in place, having consigned this bit of headgear to casual usage after picking up two newer versions of the same model from cousin Virginia’s closet on our recent trip to California.
When we neared Temple Lock I called a halt, for it was here that our route diverged from that of the Thames Path, following gravel tracks away from the river to Low Grounds Farm. It was obvious, almost from the outset, that many of the landmarks mentioned by Parsons in his 1988 volume, particularly gates and stiles, had disappeared in this well-populated countryside scene. Fortunately there were white arrows, “circular walk” signs, and many public footpath signs to give us hope, but I was perplexed, after we turned to the west, to see that our route seemed to avoid marinas and the advertised caravan park, seen on our left, in favor of a more straightforward grassy path along the edge of a meadow. There were no tall iron gates in evidence, either, but I assumed that the woodland mentioned in the text was the one we were approaching from another angle, and I was greatly relieved to find our path accompanied by the railings of a fence, to see it cross a tarmac drive, and to find it entering a timber yard – all landmarks on the original route. We followed a steep, brief path uphill and entered a terrain sliced and diced beyond recognition by the new Harleyford Golf Course. Fortunately there were public footpath signs around, and this kept us moving in a mostly northwesterly direction. A “rough track” had been gentrified and I was happy to escape it before getting whacked on the back of the head by the t-shot of some lady golfers behind us.
Once again Parson’s directions seemed to come into focus as we dipped down and up in woodland, passed some wooden gates and began a descent back to the river on a path that featured a spookily dark tunnel. The sun was briefly shining on the white cascade of the weir below, and for the next half an hour or so the scene was considerably brighter. There were occasional patches of blue sky too, and at least it seemed that there would be no moisture today. Our path left the river and became a tarmac road that put us out on the A4155. Here I decided to keep to the road in a direct assault on the pub in Medmenham village. “How long?” Tosh wanted to know. “Eight minutes,” I replied – just to keep her happy, but in exactly eight minutes we had pulled up to the Dog and Badger. It was shortly before noon but it was open and it was a relief to enter its warm precincts.
There was some debate behind the bar over just when food service would begin but this was resolved in our favor and at exactly 12:00 we ordered sausage and mash for Tosh and Jessica, haddock and chips for Harold and me. I had a pint of lager – and so did the Lees – in two half-pint installments. The food was excellent; wonderful chips in fresh oil and a lovely light batter on the fish, but I was the only diner to finish the large portions served here. About half a dozen campaigners wearing red Labour rosettes came in for a drink – we were now only twelve days before the General Election of 1997. The Lees disdained coffee for once, knowing that we were under time pressures, and we were ready to leave the Dog and Badger at 12:50. We still had slightly more than half the route to cover.
We followed Ferry Lane back in the direction of the river. The locals were about to have an airing of views in the town hall on the subject of more houses on this stretch. I must say that all the gardens were in wonderful display – as were the blossoming trees in their white, pink, and plum-colored finery. As we neared the foot of the lane I had to turn around to orient myself to the guidebook directions once again (Parsons omits Medmenham). I was soon convinced that we had reached a brook mentioned in the text and could use a footpath sign to continue westward. Once again the alignment between landmarks cited in the guidebook and details on the ground began to deteriorate. On the left the sails of unseen ships tacked eerliy through the riverside foliage. At one point I left the party to see if I could figure out why a 150-yard northern zig had disappeared in the reconstructed pathway through fields of yellowing rape. We reached a ploughed field, which Parsons asks us to circumnavigate counterclockwise, but local signs asked us to proceed through it directly. Across the river we could see Culham Court, which we had walked past on the Thames Path. At last we reached the outskirts of Mill End and tarmac. There were several posh houses. “This is the upper middle class’s idea of roughing it,” Harold said, pointing to a fancy tree house in a back yard. “And this,” I added, “is the upper class’s idea” – pointing to the tennis courts next door.
We reached the A4155 again, headed west for a 100 yards and then turned our backs on the river to head north on the Hambledon Road – using pavement until we were able to escape to field paths separated from the road by hedges. A series of bridges and stiles followed and once we had to climb into a field of curious Jerseys to continue forward. We had decided to call our driver from Hambledon if we were behind schedule and as we pulled up opposite the village post office I argued that this was now necessary. It was 3:10, and we still had two miles to go. Tosh went inside the shop to wait in line, growing ever more disgruntled as the locals stood around chatting rather than serving her needs, and she was still stewing here when, a few minutes later, I arrived to tell her that she needn’t bother. My watch stem had come out (as it frequently does on days when my hands are in my pockets) and it was actually 2:10. We had plenty of time.
We continued north past the last of today’s charming flint cottages, soon forsaking Hambledon’s streets for more field paths through the Hamble Brook valley. I tried, in fact, to slow things down a bit. The relentless pace and chilly weather were giving me sore legs and for the next few weeks I had a stiff right knee. Again, things seemed to have changed on the ground since Parson’s booklet had been published, but there was plenty of time to correct the occasional wrong turning and the line of march was clear. We passed Flint Hall farm (opposite which I snuck a last clandestine pee in a hedgerow) and approached Skirmett at 3:20. We were supposed to be met at the Frog pub, but this was not the name of the first establishment we passed. I persevered in a northerly direction and reached the Frog of Skirmett at 3:28. When I had a peek into the parking lot a young man in a business suit asked me if I was named Lee? I can’t ever remember ending a walk in such a surprisingly elegant fashion – whooshed off in a large white town car on the moment of arrival. It cost only £11 for us to regain Marlow train station, having passed many a now familiar landmark (like the Dog and Badger) on the way.
Tosh took Jessica up to the cedars next to the train station for a quiet pee while Harold turned the car around. I think I slept a bit on the way back to town. Jessica and I were dropped off at Ealing Broadway station; I wanted to take the train rather than the underground – and minimize the number of stops back to Paddington. One was just about to leave and we leapt aboard at 4:26. In no time we were returning to the Bakerloo Line and making our way up the stairs at Maida Vale. Jessica too complained of stiffness. I was chilled throughout when I reached home, shortly before 5:00.
To continue with the next stage you need: