August 31, 2012: Peter’s Green to Flamstead

In a summer dominated by my walking expeditions (Peddars Way, Guernsey Coastal Walk, Norfolk Coast Path) Tosh and I returned on this day to the Chiltern Way – which we had last visited five months earlier. It would be our next-to-last expedition on this route.

We had only a seven-mile stretch today and therefore a leisurely start was possible. Linda came by to take care of Fritz at about 8:25 and half an hour later I began my slow walk to the Maida Vale tube stop. It was a lovely sunny morning, though by no means warm. I picked up a copy of the Metro on my entrance and a Snickers bar when I switched lines at Baker Street. This I consumed after buying my Harpenden return ticket at St. Pancras – remembering that I don’t do too well on a completely empty stomach. Tosh soon arrived and went in to buy her tickets as well; then she disdained her usual coffee, claiming she needed something to make her belch – and going off to buy a can of ginger beer instead.

The station was very busy and some of the traffic was occasioned by the Paralympics – there were, indeed, a number of volunteers on the floor. I suggested we could go down to our platform to escape some of this and here we sat on a bench while two trains trundled through while we waited for our 10:04 Bedford train. We had only a twenty-minute ride and we were soon heading up the stairs at Harpenden – a daunting sight for a poor little old lady with a cane.

Out in front there was a long line of taxis, each manned by a driver who looked as though he must have had the same job in Kabul or Rawalpindi. Our driver headed off for Peter’s Green (where we would resume the original CW route after completing its northern extension last time) on a series of narrow country roads, pulling up at last in front of the Bright Star. We made arrangements for the same firm to pick us up at 4:00 in Flamstead and I began to prepare my materials for the trail.

First I put my camera in a front pocket, then I put my compass around my neck, then I tried to stuff a folded section of Explorer sheet 182 into my map case. This went well enough but when I tried to sort out the xeroxed sheets from Moon’s guidebook these loose pieces of paper became airborne in a strong breeze and Tosh and I had to chase them down as they fluttered over the green itself. Then the same thing happened a second time. By the time we were at last ready to start off (and after I had made sure we were following the right road by utilizing my compass) it was 10:55.

We walked in a westerly direction and soon found a CW metal sign pointing to our left. This put us onto a path past a church building in which parishioners (Africans, perhaps) were rehearsing a hymn. Our goal was a tall ash tree at one end of the hamlet ahead of us and this made a good target – but when we reached Chiltern Green’s only road, an unpaved one, there was considerable ambiguity over how to continue. We were at the county boundary here (about to penetrate Bedfordshire again) and perhaps there had been a dispute over whose responsibility the signage was – for there were no clues on the ground at all and we walked almost as far as Laburnam Farm before giving up and returning to our ash tree. (Tosh and I were soon discussing the government’s lamentable decision to abandon national responsibility for national trails and return these duties to local jurisdiction instead.)

We could see a path heading in our direction, southwest, and so we decided to take our chances. On our right were a number of derelict and redundant stiles in a field where the corn (this late in the season) was only as high as an elephant’s thigh. I was pretty certain that we could keep to the path along a rising hedgerow, encouraged by the presence of two woods I could identify on the OS map, Deacon’s Spring on our right, Flasket’s Wood on our left. I was looking for a “large clump of trees” but I found only a clump of large trees. This meant that we still had to continue in our direction, with distant views of Luton Hoo on our right and, closer to our feet another unusual crop sighting, the yellow flowers of oilseed rape – months after we usually seen these in bloom.

We at last reached the large clump of trees and turned left. There were a number of rival paths and tracks in parallel and footing was not easy as we headed southeast for 300 yards or so. Fortunately there were CW directional signs here and this permitted a steady descent in our original southwesterly direction toward the village of East Hyde. There were some fluffy clouds in the skies but it was sunny throughout this day, though the cool breeze meant that I kept my green sweatshirt on all day – altogether wonderful walking weather.

The grain fields were already into their autumnal yellows but the hillside above East Hyde presented a blackened scene of rusty burned rape fields. The main rail line runs through the valley bottom here and we saw many trains speeding along in both directions.

At the bottom of the hill we were sent left out to Farr’s Lane and along its margins we passed some suburban houses to emerge on the B653. A short jog to the right put us on another road, Thrales End Lane, and we climbed up to cross beneath the railroad bridge; soon thereafter we turned left on Cooters End Lane (back in Hertfordshire again) for a mile-long trudge into Harpenden itself. Much of this was uphill and in the direct sun and I did toy with taking my sweatshirt off and putting my sunglasses on but after things leveled off we made good progress – Tosh well ahead of me.

There were a few cars on the lane as we approached the A1081, at the northern end of Harpenden, turning left on a pavement that soon lead us to our noontime pub, The Old Bell. It was 12:30 and we had completed three miles.

We did not wait to be seated in the dining room but we were allowed entrance to this outpost of the Chef & Brewer empire. The lasagna was off so I had the cod and chips and Tosh had gammon topped by a fried egg. Neither of us felt the need for alcohol (I had a Diet Pepsi) but Tosh did have a cup of coffee. Altogether this was an excellent repast and quite inexpensive, for that matter, and a good rest was enjoyed by both of us. I never lost sight of the fact that we had a 4:00 taxi rendezvous in our destination village, four miles away, and so I was glad when we emerged into the bright light again at 1:35.

Fortunately our next turnoff, onto Roundwood Lane, was just a few steps away and we had soon left this surface for a narrow rising path behind houses as we crossed street after street in Harpenden’s suburbia. Once we paused to let a family with pushchairs pass us by; a toddler waved at us from his seat.

We passed a school and emerged at a field corner, following a hedge line in a southerly direction. I remember that on this stretch Tosh and I were discussing the low state of morale among members of the teaching profession ­in America – where all the politicians and other reformers are certain that the only outcome of the educational process is improved English and math scores  – since the latter can be objectively measured and the rest of the classroom experience (and much of its broad curriculum) must therefore be superfluous.

We reached a turnoff, followed by a young lad carrying a sack of poo deposited by his Springer Spaniel. Here we turned southwest again, following the trackbed of the “Nicky Line,” an abandoned branch of the Midland Railway. I sat down on a rare bench to arrange my texts in the map case at this point.

After a short level stretch we turned off a grassy path that soon lead to a track through the local golf course – with the River Var down below us on the left. This was also easy walking but I was somewhat depressed by the willful distortion of the natural scene in pursuit of the artificial and manicured surfaces needed by the duffers  – there were certainly many of these about this afternoon.

We reached Kinsbourne Green Lane and penetrated a hedge across the street – here beginning a long, often overgrown trod along the margins of another gigantic grain field. Tosh got well ahead of me here and I found her lying down next to a CW badge on a post. I had a standing rest but I could see that we were falling behind schedule. Matters were complicated by route finding problems, poor walking surfaces and guidebook instructions that didn’t compute with the lay of the land.

For instance, we were meant to cross three gates after crossing a paddock but there was only one.

There was another badge on a past and so I was encouraged to keep to a field edge as we headed west toward motorways in the sky. A promised gate leading up to the A5183 was also not in evidence but a concrete strip on our left could be utilized to reach the footway of this road. Here we turned right to cross two slip-roads adjacent to the famous M1 and then we used pavement to cross beneath this highway and continue on the margins of the A5. Another roundabout greeted us as we made our way forward but I knew that we could not remain on this pavement for long.

Moon’s instructions called for us to climb over the crash barrier and, in two stages, cross the A5 itself. We were to look for a concrete field entrance back at the roundabout and this meant reversing directions to reach this spot. I was getting really worried about time now and therefore I was thrilled to see, at the top of the concrete apron, a metal CW signpost pointing in a west-by-southwest direction. There was now only a mile to go and we had almost forty minutes in hand. Then triumph turned to instant tragedy!

Separating us from the woodland above was another large field – it bore no crop on this day and, indeed, a tractor was in the process of churning its surface into deep furrows. I suppose the driver intended to restore some evidence of footpath to this rutted surface but there was no evidence of one now. If we had enjoyed more time I might have stayed on the outside margins of this field, keeping to the right and then climbing to the woods at the end – but I was loathe to add more distance to the day’s march now. There was nothing to do but brave this mushy surface – not even knowing if we had the right line of march.

This was a true journey of despair. My walking stick was of no use ­– it just disappeared into the spongy turf – and footing was so difficult and unsteady that I could soon feel my legs protesting. But we persevered, reaching a corner of the woods, where (much to our joy) a CW sign signaled a continuation along the outer edge of the trees. Soon we were back on real path and onto a road at Delmer End.

This hamlet is actually a sister of Flamstead, our village, and so I knew that we could follow this road around to the right to reach our destination. Indeed I now proposed that we disdain a back yards approach and stick to roadway – not wanting to encounter any further impediment this close to the finishing line. We passed a line of charming cottages and the Spotted Dog pub but I had specified a 4:00 pickup at the Three Blackbirds. It was 3:55 and as we neared this spot I could see that our taxi was already waiting for us, the motor running.

So we were soon speeding back to Harpenden, without a chance for a breath or a sip of water. Tosh took against our driver – she does this whenever we get no assistance with the sliding back door of the people carrier. A local gentleman advised us that we could reach St. Pancras by taking the train to Beckenham Junction and, after we had climbed over the tracks, we arrived at our platform just as this train pulled in. It made only one stop (St. Albans) and we then marched though St. Pancras (or limped in my case) in pursuit of the Metropolitan Line.

On this occasion Tosh was again coming home with me in order to enjoy an evening of recorded Mad Men, drinks, snacks and pizza. I only fell asleep once. I was in bed before 10:00 but every time I got up I could feel my legs stiffening up on me, still protesting that last mile. This protest lasted for days.

To continue with our next and last stage you need:

Day 20: Flamstead to Hemel Hempstead