November 13, 1983: Harrietsham To Wye
Dorothy and dog near Dunn Street
I would have preferred a Saturday for Day 10 of the NDW, but on this weekend in November of 1983, my colleague David Holm and I had tickets to see Liverpool and Spurs play at White Hart Lane (2-2) on the Saturday and so, with winter closing in fast, it was decided to walk on Sunday, the 13th. At one time as many as six students expressed interest in accompanying us, but they fell away or encountered transportation difficulties so in the end only tenth-grader Alexia Nalewaik, delivered to Victoria by her geologist father, showed up.
We were not able to rely on the Bakerloo Line so early on a Sunday morning and ordered a mini-cab for 7:10. The driver squawked over the inclusion of Bertie in our party, “But as I’m here and you’re here and the dog is here, we may as well proceed.” When I was paying him at the other end he backed down a bit. “Tell your wife the dog was very well behaved after all.” In this manner I learned that I had missed an earlier argument in the street while I was delivering another note of protest to the Chinese upstairs; these chaps had spent all night nattering above our bedroom and concluded the festivities with another bathroom drip that was leaking through our already destroyed ceiling as we left.
I had been fighting a bad cold or an undiagnosed allergy all week. I was knackered. It was bitter cold. It was one of the worst starts to a day of walking ever. The problem with such community participation walks was that, past a certain point in the week, I felt obligated to press ahead regardless. Usually I had people show up at the train station who didn’t even know where we were going and such an ill-prepared lot could not be sent out on their own – or even called off, since I didn’t have telephone numbers for some of them.
Today we were seven, a local walk record that still stands many years later. The total number of days walked collectively by my companions outstripped my own total on this day and continued to dwarf my own ever after; this is not an unsatisfactory situation for any teacher. In addition to Dorothy and Alexia we were joined in front of the still-closed W.H. Smiths by another ASL librarian, Ginny McCoubrie, by Marge, and the Lees. We each bought a round-trip ticket to Wye.
Our train was leaving at 7:58 (three minutes late) and I was disconcerted that the departure board did not include our stop. I spoke to the guard at gate 4 about this and Harrietsham was indeed added. We were soon ensconced in a non-smoker and chugging slowly toward the Medway valley. We reached our village at about 9:20 and I lined everybody up for the obligatory photo. To my delight, it was sunny – I had been promised only the odd bright interval. In the morning the sun even provided a little warmth; it continued to fight off high clouds all day and provided a lovely light for all the falling leaves – while the smoke from wood fires covered the valley with a marvelous autumnal haze. I couldn’t remember a more glorious atmosphere. Naturally we encountered almost no one willing to take advantage of this countryside resource – only one other family walking against our flow, the daddy clutching the same copy of Herbstein I carried in my right hand.
I felt surprisingly chipper after all. We walked down the station road of Harrietsham but got no farther than the first store. There was a raid on the candy counter as Tosh and Marge stocked up and Alexia replaced a granola bar bought for her by her mother at Harrods with something far less substantial. (Bertie inherited the granola bar as one of his snacks.) I had to answer questions about his breed asked by villagers who greeted us on the pavement, then we passed by a schoolyard in which Scouts were getting ready to march in today’s Remembrance Parade.
We headed up the Church Road, Tosh scurrying into a park in which she had spotted a pine tree last time – but the cones were rather disappointing. Above us the carillon of the Harrietsham church was sounding a lovely melody and worshippers were hunting for parking spaces as we struggled up the steep road to rejoin our turnoff spot of two weeks previous.
The bells followed us for a long time, even after we began our southeasterly line along the Pilgrim’s Way, the first of over a dozen miles of essentially level walking perched halfway up the hillside below the unseen summit of the downs. Stede Hill House sparkled on the slopes above us as Bertie was unleashed to begin a day’s run. What stamina that little fellow showed – one day shy of his half-year birthday.
We passed the Whitegate Poultry Farm, whose eggs we have frequently seen on our breakfast table, and then Marley Court. I began to take layers off. My blue coat gave way to my tan bomber jacket, my gloves disappeared into my pack, so did my long green and white M.S.U. scarf. But I wore my wool cap, the same one I had worn to the top of Mt. Sinai, all day long. It had been almost a year since Dorothy had returned to California to share the last weeks of the life of the maker of this cap, my mother-in-law.
The bells of Lenham church were not long in succeeding those of Harrietsham. We passed a huge cross, the local war memorial, in a sheep-filled grassy field where Bertie had to be put on lead, though he didn’t even see the sheep above. Tosh said that this verdant stretch was the first portion of the route that looked as though Chaucer’s pilgrims could really have come this way. Then it was past the Lenham Chest Hospital, oddly sited above a sewage works – which we were anxious to leave behind.
We got to the banks of a nice wood facing Cobham Farm and, after two hours, I acquiesced in a rest. Ginny, obviously enjoying herself, was clearly having some trouble with the relentless pace I had set. Harold needed to do some work on a shoe but when he sat down he put his hand in a nettle bed; the stinging lasted for the rest of the day. Alexia played with Bertie while Tosh scrambled about plucking pinecones and ferns. It was a heavenly resting place but I wanted to get us to our lunchtime pub – so after five minutes and a little water we were ready to continue.
We passed Hart Hill Farm and ascended Charing Hill, turning off at the road that lead down to the village of Charing – long-legged Marge, impatient at our slow progress, charging down ahead of us with Alexia and Bertie – while Harold and I waited for the other three ladies to catch up. We tried the King’s Head first but they didn’t do food (as the guidebook had promised) – so we tried the Royal Oak but the publicans were moving and weren’t doing food either. I inquired there about the Queen’s Head. “Yes, they do food there but they might not let you in.” “Why is that?” I asked. “Because you’re not wearing a coat and tie.” By this time someone had discovered that there was a tearoom next door that did sandwiches – so most of our group headed there. Dorothy, however, re-entered the saloon bar of the Royal Oak, clearly more in need of liquid than solid refreshment. I joined her and she told me something quite surprising – “I was knocked out back there.”
It seems that some ten minutes earlier, on the stretch before our descent to Charing, Dorothy had tripped over some hidden obstruction in the leaf-filled lane and, before her hands could fully break her fall, had collided head-on with something solid, a stump probably, that had had hit her flush on the nose. Tosh had been at her side and reported that Dorothy had actually gone blank for a few seconds, rising at last amid a shower of stars to feel for damage – a badly bruised nose and aching front teeth. I was astonished that no one had bothered to tell me any of this before now.
My wife drank two whiskeys. There was no visible swelling or any sign of discoloration. Tosh came if for a half and I went to the tearoom to pick up some delicious sandwiches –made with the proprietress’s home-baked bread. Our group was about to buy up all her cakes as well. Ginny said she was going to take the train back from Charing and I encouraged Dorothy to return as well, but the game girl wanted to press ahead. We had arrived at 12:25 and by 1:10 we were ready to begin part two.
There were some interesting old buildings in the village and we had a better chance to view them as we plodded back up the steep hill. Alexia, to my surprise, was doing very well. She had taken over Bertie’s management by now, holding his lead, hooking him when cars came near, carrying him over stiles. On occasion she would break into a run. Ah, to have the energy of a fifteen year-old. (Still, we had no idea what an athlete we had in our midst on this day; Alexia later swam the English Channel!)
Our walk was very easy now, but it was already growing darker at 2:00. We found a delightful stretch of woods beneath the Westwell Downs and it was difficult to get the ladies to keep going when all about them were pinecones and attractive dried plants. At Dunn Street some daytrippers asked me for information about Eastwell, our own destination. They said there didn’t seem to be a path but I assured them that the Countryside Commission guaranteed that you could get there from here. Tosh and Marge charged over a stile and disappeared into a field, neglecting a turnoff sign that put us back onto a track. They were recalled. Bertie, who had been fascinated by his first nose-to-nose encounter with grazing sheep, was able to escape his tether once we regained this dirt road. A wind ripped through us at this point; it was absolutely chilling. Harold and I stood stamping our feet at the next turnoff while the girls, seduced by the local bushes, finally caught up.
Approaching the Eastwell church the path crossed a field full of swedes or sugar beets (there was an argument that even our Iowans couldn’t settle). Sheep were penned into a section of this field and were cropping it greedily while an electric fence kept them from destroying everything. We didn’t have time to visit the ruined church, but its setting against the Eastwell lake was magical in the dying sunlight. I tried to take some photos here but it wasn’t easy at ASA 25. There was no path through Eastwell Park but a lot of signs, some of them confusing, identifying the routes in the Kent county system or warning of “no entry” (but to what or where?). Again the frontrunners got too far ahead and had to be called back to an acorn-punctuated stile at the side of a sheep-filled field. Ahead Alexia led Bertie on a long charging run across this space, but I had to remind her that this was upsetting the sheep – which is why dogs are supposed to be on lead in the first place.
A series of kissing gates proved very hard to negotiate with the pack on my back. We crossed another field to enter the village of Boughton Lees. In reaching this spot I had also chalked up the 600th mile of my walking career in Britain. It was 3:30 and we still had two miles to go. We walked past the village green, where someone took my photo, and along a road, reaching the parting of the Ways (that is the Canterbury vs. the Folkstone loop of the NDW). Today we chose the latter and were soon back along field edges next to recently harvested orchards.
It was getting hard to see much of any path as we reached the turn-off to Perry Court Farm – the most recent ploughing having obliterated its surface, but an even worse crime had been perpetrated by local agriculturalists. The fence we were standing next to, without any warning to walkers, had been electrified. This was discovered when poor Bertie innocently backed against it while we were discussing where to go next. He let out a shriek of pain and surprise, and had to be comforted by everyone. Alexia scooped him up and carried him along the fence edge to the road, which we were glad to reach after teetering on dirt clods for the last five minutes. I do not think it is mere peevishness to assert that if you are going to send walkers along an electrified fence you ought to leave them a few inches of pathway to do it on.
We entered into the orchards of Perry Court Farm, even finding a few last windfall apples at the foot of empty trees. It was dark now, and the clouds had turned pink against the deep grey sky. Ahead the lights of Wye twinkled in the distance. It was wonderfully beautiful but we had truly run out of light; this is why I had been urging a brisk pace for all these miles. For a number of years, remembering this light problem, I did not venture out any later in the year than November 13. But, darkness or no, this day’s walk will always remain in my mind as one of the grandest day-walks ever.
On the other hand I was glad not to arrive too early for our train, not knowing what accommodation for chilled and tired walkers Wye station would provide. In the event we arrived at 4:37, with ten minutes to spare, and found a wonderful heated waiting room. When the train arrived Tosh and Dorothy went off to find a smoker (seven weeks later Dorothy gave up the habit for good) and Harold, Marge, Alexia and I headed in the opposite direction. Everybody slept a little, Bertie going from lap to lap in search of a comfortable spot for a snooze. He was far less burr-encrusted this trip, but I spent a good deal of time separating him from minor bits of the Kent countryside. Alexia’s mom, wearing an elegant fur coat, was waiting for us when we arrived at Charing Cross at 6:20.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: