May 13, 2011: Sharpenhoe to Pegsdon
Tosh begins the descent from Telegraph Hill.
The well-travelled Tosh was snagged for a day’s walking on this day – only three weeks or so before we two would begin work on our principal adventure for the summer, the Northumberland Coast Path. I handed Fritz over to his Auntie Linda at about 8:00 and, quickly packing, made my own departure at about 8:30. We were not intending to travel until 10:00 or so but – on a day devoted to the successful completion of more than one chore – Tosh and I had agreed to meet at 9:15 at St. Pancras International in order to purchase our Northumberland train tickets. The early departure meant that I joined the off-to-work rush hour; I don’t ever remember having to stand on a train boarded at Maida Vale before.
To accomplish our first task we visited the forward booking section of National Rail and here we were lucky enough to be waited in by Liann, who surprised us by saying that she herself had walked the Northumberland Coast Path (and that she lived near Tosh in Ealing as well)! She spent a lot of time looking for the best prices for us – but, of course, I had specific train times already in mind. Then she sold us returns to Harlington, which we would be departing for shortly. No sooner had we completed this task than Tosh said that she should really be heading over to a second booking office – since she needed to order some Eurostar tickets. “So do I!” I said. So we walked back into the International part of St. Pancras International and joined a second queue. Tosh bought tickets for a visit to Paris with son and grandsons in July and I for one in June with my sister- and brother-in-law.
We then walked back again, got some coffee and some pastry for our next journey and used escalators to descend to the bottom platform – where there were only a few minutes to wait for a 10:18 train. As we travelled north I filled Tosh in on additional details of our June trip and, when it was quiet enough to make a phone call, I used the mobile phone to secure the services of a cab at the Harlington train station. Here we arrived at about 11:05 and I ducked into the Britannia offices to confirm our arrival. Soon we were speeding along the twisty roads in the direction of the village of Sharpenhoe. We were looking for evidence of a footpath on our right – just a few hundred yards beyond the town pub – and we shot by it and had to turn around. Remembering the long and fruitless wait for a cab at the end of our previous walk I arranged this time for a 5:00 pickup in the village of Pegsdon, our destination today.
We were about to undertake one of those exercises in obsessive thoroughness in which I specialize – for today we would begin three days of walking on the northern extension of the Chiltern Way and there remained a small gap between a spot above us and the place we stood now. To fill this gap required us to make a steep ascent, assisted by many steps, to the top of the prominent bluff that dominates the countryside hereabouts, Sharpenhoe Clappers. I gave Tosh the option of sitting this one out but she gamely insisted on accompanying me on the steep climb. It was 11:20.
As we neared the top of the plateau there seemed to be a choice of routes, a firm footpath on the right and a second, more broken passage over the tree roots of the tall canopy above us. We took the latter and continued forward until we were put out on the former. Soon, in more open country, we began to recognize our surroundings (having passed this way on our march toward Lilley) and this meant that we had completed the missing link and could turn back.
This time we used the solid footpath back to the top of the steps, enjoying marvelous views on a bright sunny morning of the Bedfordshire scene to the north – green fields and yellow – with the village of Sharpenhoe itself immediately below. I was glad I had my stick with me as we gingerly descended from the heights. Soon we were back at the bottom – where a pavement led us back into the village. Opposite the Lynmore pub we located a fingerpost pointing in a northerly direction and we were soon strolling down the access road to Bury Farm. Our instructions required the crossing of a concrete yard – amid scenes of building activity – but we did keep a bit too far to the right here. A hand-lettered sign warned us to beware of the dog but this beast was tied to a fence and merely barked at us. We were able to correct our line and keep to the left of some large barns in order to continue our northerly line now – a distant water tower serving as a guidepost.
I was searching anxiously for a turnoff after a hedge gap and here it was – well waymarked as were most spots today. Our direction now took an eastern line, following hedgerows – with a tall tree shielding a little footbridge on the far side of a large field. A power line now served as the dominant physical feature and we walked under it for some distance, often with hedgerows to right and left. (Hedge rose blossomed in the hedgerows.) On our left was a World War II pillbox – one that had once carried the weight of an anti-aircraft battery. We passed through some woodland and continued with the power line – Sharpenhoe Clappers on our right gradually fading behind us.
The route now ended in the parking lot of a weatherboarded watermill on the outskirts of Barton-le-Clay. I took quite a few pictures here, including the foliage of a huge red-flowering chestnut tree. We were now asked to cross the busy A-6 – which we did in stages – and then we continued forward into Barton-le-Clay itself. Tosh took umbrage over a modern thatched cottage with eye-winking windows as we turned right on the B655 in order to begin our search for a lunchtime stop. We walked past the somewhat downmarket Bull and continued forward to the tidy brick presence of the Royal Oak – cheered along by the “Good Food” sign out front. But after we had slipped by the smokers in the parking lot the lady behind the bar had to tell us that her pub did no food at all. Tosh, naturally, wondered about the sign, but the response was, “I know, but the brewery won’t let us take it down.” Thanks Greene King.
The bar lady and other customers now began a dizzying list of other hostelries where food might be available – including many that would make sense only if you were in a car – but as the Bull was among the nominees we backtracked and settled in here quite comfortably for the next hour. Initially there were some pool players here but for most of the session we had only the white-haired publican (forever fussing with bits of electronic hardware – like TV screens and burglar alarms). I was beginning to worry about our 5:00 rendezvous but Tosh had her heart set on a full meal here. She ordered the roast lamb and Yorkshire pudding and I had the scampi and then she ordered a treacle tart in custard. I drank a pint of lager, sitting contentedly below half a dozen ancient firearms on the walls behind us and adding mileage figures to the xeroxes from Moon’s book. Tosh drank her coffee and we used the loos. She mentioned that we still had five and a half miles to go but our publican suggested that all was level going hereabouts. He could not have been more misinformed.
We left the Bull around 1:45 and continued past the Royal Oak again, taking a left fork and following the B655. When it swept to the left we continued in a southerly direction along Old Road, crossing a recreation ground and using an alleyway to approach the town church. This was a lovely corner and I took several pictures of church and cottages. A turn to the right led us to a bridleway and here we turned left to approach the foot of Barton Hill. Here began a second climb for the day, often quite steep and step-assisted and exposed as we rose ever higher to surmount a green ridge. Views behind us continually improved and we now encountered other sightseers who were enjoying their picnics and exercising their dogs. The Barton Hills had become a national nature reserve in 1965 and the spot was a magical one. Tosh stopped two women to ask about the crop we had just passed but they hadn’t a definitive answer.
We reached a fence corner and continued around the head of a deep, glaciated combe. Its twin beckoned but here we crossed around the top and continued on lovely turf down its south side. A jogger emerged from a kissing gate amid foliage here and then so did a dog walker – who was waiting for his gigantic black Staffie to finish some important sniffing. After passing through some scrub in order to reach a gate into a field the waymark signs asked for a left turn – but I decided to make sure of this direction and pulled the compass out of my pack. It confirmed that we were heading south (I would have guessed north) and, indeed, south was the way we needed to go. It was by this time quite overcast, there were no shadows, and it was therefore particularly hard to orient oneself.
Walking was easy now as we followed a slightly rising track for half a mile or so before reaching a hilltop road. We turned left (east) here and made our way forward against speeding traffic. Then we escaped by turning south again, dipping down and rising again to a line of forestry, aiming for the left hand end of the Maulden Firs. Here I called a brief halt, sitting down on a tree stump, changing maps, having a sip of water and looking at my mileage markers. We were still on time, but there wasn’t much in it – and this meant that we had to press on without a proper rest.
We had reached a junction with the Icknield Way; had we turned to the right for a few hundred yards we would have returned to the original Chiltern Way and to a reunion with the route we had taken to Lilley the previous year. Today we were required to turn left (north-east), following a wide track (back into Hertfordshire) and eventually continuing forward on the Lilley-Hexton road. This wasn’t a very comfortable stretch since there was speedy two-way traffic in a narrow roadbed and we often felt the need to escape onto a raised verge. Once, in doing this, I tweaked my right knee.
I had another complaint – my trousers. No matter how tight I pulled my belt this essential item of clothing assisted, no doubt, by the pressure of my backpack, slipped ever southward – and I was constantly pausing to tug them back up. Perhaps these cords were actually hip-huggers, perhaps I had lost any meaningful semblance of a waist – whatever the cause the effect was most annoying.
We continued forward in our northeasterly direction, escaping the road, passing through a picnic ground and reaching the foot of another great climb – this time of Telegraph Hill. A wide track was soon embowered in trees as we reached a waymarked parting of the ways. The Chiltern Way sign seemed to point to a left-hand route, still sharing space with the Icknield Way, but the guidebook suggested that we should be following the right-hand fork, climbing in more open country to the top of the highest point (at 602 feet) in North Hertfordshire. I was a bit concerned by this ambiguity, since we were now in the last hour of our walk and didn’t need any wrong turnings, but I chose to follow the guidebook. On the top I was reassured by the flat expense of a field called Lilley Hoo – where George IV had raced his horses. Our track soon reached a crossing trail and though we were looking for a right-hand turn I rejected this opportunity, feeling that over on our left was the Icknield Way – which we needed to rejoin first. Sure enough I spotted it and here we turned right. All that was needed was a Chiltern Way turnoff in fifty yards – and there it was. I now knew that we could make our rendezvous on time.
The sun was coming out and the shadows cast made it easier for me to believe that we were heading north over grassland. At first this was mostly over level turf but after passing though some gates we faced a great northerly prospect and (at last) some steep downhill as we inched down past a field full of cattle – Pegdson right below us. We soon reached our old friend, the B655, and crossed it carefully to approach our pub using Pegsdon Way. We had walked eight miles.
Our pub, wonderfully named The Live and Let Live, was on our right and, as it was just 4:45, we entered its interior to have a final Diet Coke – served by a most attractive black bar lady. I went outside at 5:00, shouting back to Tosh that our cab was already waiting for us. I climbed into the back seat while she used the loos – then we were off to Harlington again. This trip was accomplished at great speed and included a left turn at the faux food sign in Barton-le-Clay. I was happy to have the twists and turns come to an end and climb over the railway bridge to approach platform one. We had only six or seven minutes to wait and soon we were aboard our return train.
Every other passenger seemed to have a Kindle on his or her lap (glad to know people are still reading; sorry they aren’t reading real books). I called Linda with my e.t.a and I was astonished, a few minutes later, when my phone sounded in my pocket. The incoming call was from David the dogsitter – who was calling to confirm that he could stay with Fritz during both of the aforementioned trips, Northumberland and France. No one ever calls me on this phone – which I only turn on during trips.
We reached St. Pancras at a little past 6:00 and Tosh and I headed for different tube lines. Just before parting I asked her a question: “How many times do you think I’ll be falling asleep in front of the television set tonight?”
To continue with our next stage you need: