Another three weeks passed before Tosh and I were able to return to the Chiltern Way. I would have liked at least three conditioning walks as we prepared for our mid-June walk in Wales, but I actually turned down a proffered date, still suffering from back and hip problems, and so it now looked as if this would be our last chance for an outing before Tosh travelled to the States. I was somewhat worried about the long eleven-mile stint on offer today, but I had no choice now. We would just have to see how my legs held out.

Linda picked me up at 7:30, claiming Fritz for the day and dropping me off at the Maida Vale tube stop. When I reached the eastbound platform at Baker Street they were making the usual announcements about minor delays due to a signaling problem somewhere along the line. A train did arrive but it moved forward only haltingly and I was just in time for an 8:15 rendezvous with Tosh at the ticket window in St. Pancras. I had reached the head of the queue when that lady finally appeared and I purchased day returns to Harlington for the both of us – while she bought us some coffees. There wasn’t too much of a wait on the platform below and we soon boarded the 8:36 to Bedford. It was grey outside but we were promised warm temperatures and no precipitation.

I had planned to call Britannia taxis so that a cab would be waiting for us upon our arrival but the train was so noisy, with all of the windows open, that I knew there was no way I would be heard. We had the entire carriage to ourselves, a fact Tosh discovered when she searched the train for some place in which to deposit coffee cups and newspapers. She was still carrying these when we detrained at 9:15. The cab company had an office adjacent to the nearby platform and we had soon secured a ride to Upper Sundon. Our Asian driver, his music plugged into his ear, offered no assistance in operating the sliding doors of his vehicle and his driving left me quite unsettled – even though the ride took less than five minutes. Again there was no assistance when it was time to climb out; Tosh here offered him a spontaneous lecture on the necessity of offering a better quality of service, especially when old folk were involved.

We now stood across the street from the White Hart, where, three weeks earlier, we had erroneously concluded our last walk. I soon had us on the path we had used to descend to this spot and we climbed it to reach the playing field where a chap on a lawnmower waved to us. Coming at this corner form this new angle made it easy to see the façade of the Red Lion opposite the upper end of this grassy space. Of course it was just as well we had gone astray for The Red Lion (with a forlorn To Let sign out front) would not have offered any end of trip comfort. Now we crossed into an alleyway on its right and headed down the hill, beckoned forward by a metal Chiltern Way finger post.

I was following the map from Moon’s book closely as we reached the chained entrance to a sewage works, a hazy panorama of Bedfordshire countryside ahead of us, green and golden. A number of paths beckoned on the right but the direction of the waymark arrows invited a lower level route that we followed across the grassy hillside until we had reached the entry to a steeply descending wood. Here there was a Chiltern Bridleway sign offering us encouragement and so we dropped down through the woods, passing a large pile of rubber tires on our left. By this time I knew we were no longer following the route pictured on the map ­– and the text description seemed to be useless as well! I threw off my pack and had a look now at the OS map. I thus learned that the Chiltern Bridleway does not always use the same route as the Chiltern Way and, to my chagrin, I also realized that the text I was puzzling over actually belonged to the next section – in xeroxing the maps I had accidentally left the required text on the glass of the machine.

I sent Tosh back up the hill while I had a quite pee and then I followed, eventually reaching our entry to this woodland. Earlier I had spotted a waymark post up above us and I now made my way uphill, soon discovering an authentic Chiltern Way marker in the process. We were now directed in a northeasterly direction along the side of a hedge on fairly level ground and thus we reached the Harlington Road. Here we turned right for a short distance, soon crossing the street to enter a parking lot for the Sundon Hills Country Park, where a chap was chatting away on his mobile phone and shouting at his dog simultaneously. At least we were back on text.

We passed a red dog poo bin and walked through a kissing gate, gaining our first view of the woods at the head of Sharpenhoe Clappers. A large field accompanied us on our left as we clung to an undulating path adjacent to a top hedge. At the end of the field we turned right and soon right again to follow a hedge uphill toward Holt Woods. Here we turned left, the trees on our right. I wanted to see if I could take some pictures of the bluebells and it was on this stretch that we encountered our only experience of this beautiful scene. But it was still grey and the flowers were deep in the woods – though Tosh did pause to examine them closely, having recently learned how to distinguish English specimens from Spanish invaders.

We reached a farm track and turned left, heading for the next green patch, Fernhill Wood. Here we followed the western edge of the woods, again finding fine views ahead of us to the north. I was following the text rather closely now and I was surprised to read that at the next corner we were to turn right; this we did, though there had been no signage whatsoever to mark such an abrupt change of direction. At the end of the section our path plunged into the woods but I knew that the route we needed would be found 120 yards to the north. We soon located some steps, though we were required to ignore them in favor of a path heading in an easterly direction through the woods. Here we encountered two bird watching chaps and a Springer Spaniel with a stick in her mouth. Every now and then one of these guys would throw a new stick down the hill and the dog would charge through the underbrush in pursuit. I asked him how he knew if the stick brought back was the one he had thrown and he said he marked them especially. For a while we had a kind of dual carriageway, a narrow path with the birdwatchers below us and a farm track, that we used, just above.

Both routes ended in an open stretch of grass that we crossed to reach some steps down to the Sharpenhoe Road. The sun was beginning to break through as we crossed the local parking lot and followed first a macadam and then a gravel track which gradually shifted around to the north as we made our way out to the promontory that bore the ancient earthworks of Clappers Wood. On the way we met another chap with a dog; he had seen us at the outset of our walk in Upper Sundon.

Again a wonderful northerly panorama opened before us but just as we neared the woods themselves we were again nonplussed to discover that there was nothing in the way of signage. I chose to turn right, keeping the embankment of our left but it was a little hard to tell if we had walked far enough to reach a needed right-hand fork. We did take this, heading south – there were a number of times when I used the compass on this day.

The rarity of actual CW signs (and the confusing presence of Icknield Way signs in their place) made it very difficult to tell where we should be; soon there were paths paralleling ours a little to our left and we sometimes took these, though they usually lead back to the bare summit plateau. The problem was how to begin a descent into the Smithcombe Valley to our left – for I knew we had to cross it in order to climb the embankment of the roaring A6, off to our left. We reached a likely corner (and an Icknield Way sign) but barbed wire seemed to have foreclosed this option and a nearby kissing gate was buried in grass. Tosh didn’t want to use this and so we remained on high, soon encountering two locals. The chap said that to reach Streatley we could continue on this path and so we did for some time, shifting directions in and out and adding to our distance; perhaps I was seduced into a belief that the buildings I could see ahead were actually those of the village we sought. They weren’t.

Another turn to the left brought us the possibility of the sought-for descent on a narrow path through the woods and Tosh had already begun this before I had a chance to register my doubts. In the event this proved a perilous section, extremely steep and hard on the body; I couldn’t have kept my balance without my cane. When I at last reached the valley floor Tosh informed me that I would have to climb the fence at the end of our path. I handed her map case, stick and backpack and accomplished the deed. Up above us we could hear the roar of traffic and across the valley floor I could see a waymark badge on a post. So we headed here and crossed a little wooden plank footbridge – which I was actually found mentioned in our text – after an hour of floundering around essentially off-text.

We now had a very steep climb up the embankment, very hard on the tired legs, resting for a bit on the crash barrier before heading south to our village on a macadam path that provided some safety from the whizzing cars. Tosh got far ahead of me here for I was really dragging; every step caused a little back pain and my right hip wasn’t too happy either. It didn’t help that there were no organized rest stops on today’s schedule but especially now that a pub loo beckoned there was no stopping Tosh. I caught up with her at a roundabout and we turned right to enter Streatley (pronounced Strettley). Tosh got some directions to our pub (recommended by several of the people we had met on route) from the postman and we soon had to cross the street to enter the welcoming precincts of The Chequers. It was 1:00.

I found a table in a quiet corner and collapsed. A pint of lager helped to revive me a bit and then, while Tosh had the roast lamb with Yorkshire pudding, I tucked into a chicken tikka masala. I spent some time looking at the OS map, trying to figure out where we had gone wrong and complaining to Tosh about the very substandard waymarking. She had a few spoonfuls of my bread pudding and custard, and, after an hour’s rest, we resumed our walk.

The route continued through the adjacent churchyard and then along a suburban alleyway in a southerly direction. We followed a left-hand hedge for some distance and then turned left to reach the end of Bury Lane, still on the outskirts of Streatley. This street brought us out to the Sharpenhoe Road, which we crossed in order to take advantage of the pavement on the east side. Our direction was south at first but then the road curved around to the left and deposited us at a busy intersection with the A6. We waited quite a while for a break in the traffic (Tosh reminded of the time we had a similar problem crossing the roadway over to the Swale halt) but eventually we dashed across and passed some dwellings mysteriously called “The Swedish Cottages.”

Fortunately route-finding was much easier in part two of our walk – which was characterized by long stretches in open territory along farm tracks. The chief problem now was the heat – for the sun had broken through in earnest, temperatures had risen into the eighties, and there wasn’t a shady patch for the next mile. The route east was fairly level but after a while I had to stop and sit down and apply some of the Nivea sunblock I had purchased the previous day. Of course I had long abandoned my sweatshirt so my arms were bare and these, my face, and the back of my neck all received a lathering. Then I had a drink of water (many of these needed over the next few miles) and struggled to my feet again – usually finding that this process worked best if I did so from a kneeling position.

We continued in an easterly direction for a little longer and then, at a huge pylon, switched to south – another long stretch with trees on our left along a dusty farm road. The immediate objective was a woodland known as the Maulden Firs and it was soon agreed that when we penetrated this oasis we would stop in the shade at the first opportunity. This we did, having another nice rest, and then continued forward, passing a junction with the Icknield Way and reaching the corner of a golf course. We didn’t see any golfers but our route, gradually ascending now, did cross a fairway as we entered scrubland. Now the target was the top of Galley Hill, which I reached well ahead of Tosh – who had paused for a loo stop.

From this exposed spot it was now easy to see (as it had been from the map earlier) that there was a shortcut inviting us to skip the next sun-drenched summit, Warden Hill, in favor of a more low level route along more farm tracks. Even Tosh has spotted this variation on the map and she was eager to take advantage of it. It would save us about half a mile in distance but this seemed only appropriate after our having added the same distance during our morning misadventures. So at the gap between Galley Hill and Warden Hill we turned left and then right along a dusty track, itself bathed in direct mid-afternoon sunshine. There were hedges and trees on our left but it took quite a while to find an overhanging branch capable of supplying us any shade. When such a spot was offered we sat down again and I re-lathered. Tosh was keeping a close eye on the yellow rape and the green grain of the fields. She said that to produce such fields without any signs of weeds required either lots of chemicals or genetic modification.

After resuming our walk we soon located the CW rejoining us from the right. A couple who were walking five dogs were heading our way (lots of comments on the brilliance of the weather), though I did notice that the oldest of the dogs, a grizzled, limping specimen, was trailing behind. This description, I suppose, could also have applied to myself – for Tosh, almost five years my senior, was always well ahead of me. I often paused to rest just for a few seconds; truth to tell, every step still brought a little pain to my back but this was all manageable. Some relief from the sun was offered as we neared the Whitehill Wood and shortly thereafter we reached a corner of civilization at the entrance to Whitehill Farm, whose gate was emblazoned with messages reminding local drug dealers that they were being monitored by cameras.

Our last change of direction (to the northeast) came just a few yards later as we returned after several Bedfordshire days to Hertforsdhire. We had a bit of a rest first and then Tosh found a gap in a hedge and turned left. There was supposed to be a telephone pole here but it was so overgrown with vegetation that it was hard to spot. We crossed several grassy fields without too much up or down or any change in direction. Tosh disappeared well ahead of me here but after reaching some woodland on our left I knew we didn’t have too far to go. Soon I was gratified to see Lilley’s church off to our left and to reach the community center. We again crossed to the opposite side of the village street, where there was pavement, heading north past the church and veering off on a side street in order to reach The Lilley Arms. Here, at 5:00, I slumped into a chair and waited for my Diet Coke.

Tosh soon grew impatient and wanted me to order a taxi and so, having done some research on Luton firms, I pulled out my mobile phone. Of course there was no network coverage here but Tosh had greater success with her phone – a cab promised in the next ten minutes. We were chided for not using a more local firm and, indeed, I had considered letting the barmaid call a cab for us; unfortunately this young lady had laryngitis. We each used the loos and then went out front to sit at a picnic table. Within a minute our cab arrived; for once the driver was not Asian.

We had about a ten-minute journey through rush hour traffic but we were soon deposited at the Luton train station. The ride had cost £10. There was the usual kerfuffle about our return tickets (since they were from Harlington) but a puzzled guard let us through the barrier – even though I was showing him the wrong ticket. We were lucky to discover that the next train was a non-stop service, though it was six minutes behind schedule. We found seats among the business folk and the computer geeks and in twenty-five minutes or so we were back in London. “Are your crippled?” Tosh asked as she saw me limping down the concourse. “No,” I said, “just stiff.”

We had planned to go to an advanced booking window to get seats for our Wales trip but the West Indian chap had never hear of Machynlleth and was confused by our Senior Rail Passes and suggested we walk ten minutes down the road to Euston ­– which we declined to do. I said goodbye to Tosh and went off in search of a Radio Times. They did not carry such an exotic publication at W.H. Smith and (disdaining the long taxi queue) I decided I would pick one up on my return via tube to Maida Vale. Once again an Asian woman pointed to an empty seat on the Metropolitan Line train and I was happy to have it. The chap at the kiosk at the top of the steps at the tube stop was just locking up (at 7:00) and the newsagent was bolted as well so I walked down Elgin Avenue and at last found a copy of the desired publication at Hamish II.

Linda returned my dog to me (already walked) about 9:40. I had poured myself a stiff drink, taken two aspirin and now I was ready for bed. But I was ambulatory the next day, in spite of my stiffness, so I had to conclude that this had been a successful outing.

To continue with our next stage you need:

Day 15: Lilley to Peter’s Green

Day walks from London:

If you are looking for additional London-based walking opportunities you may want to have a look at our experiences on the following routes: