April 7, 1984: Wye to Chartham

Almost five months passed before we were able to undertake Day 11 on the North Downs Way. Winter seemed endless and we had even called off one scheduled walk because of cold weather. Our idea, on Saturday, April 7, 1984, was to begin a three-day outing at the start of our spring holiday, one based on the Falstaff Hotel in Canterbury. We would arrive around 9:30, proceed to the train station, and leave on the 10:13 for Wye – with similar uses of train and (in Canterbury) car as we moved south toward Dover on succeeding days.

Harold and Tosh were outside our flat at 7:30 when I returned with the dog from his morning walk. It took us ten minutes to load our possessions into the trunk of the Granada: we could have been heading for Nepal instead of Kent with all that baggage. Harold made excellent time through the East End and the Blackwall Tunnel and I could see, as we crossed our old friend the Medway Bridge, that there was a chance of making the 9:13 train from Canterbury West. I had xeroxed a page from the Michelin guide containing a map of Canterbury and, with only a few turns, we were able to park in front of the station at 9:08. There was even time for Tosh to get us two cups of coffee (not the four she wanted) before we were aboard. I used must of the fifteen minutes of our ride to finish a roll of snapshots. There was some sunshine in the misty Stour Valley. We detrained at Wye at 9:30, all ready for an enjoyable day.

On the whole we were to be disappointed. There was a small delay outside the station, while I changed film – even remembering to adjust the ASA setting on my camera for once. Then we retraced our steps to the parting of the Ways, some two miles to the west. I had to hook Bertie in order to make progress through a field of sheep – who herded themselves into a do-it-yourself flock in their distress over this intruder. As we proceeded through the orchards of Perry Court, the dog, on the loose again, insisted on accompanying us as an outrider on our left flank; in this fashion he managed to put a deep drainage ditch between us – which he resolutely forded when he saw what he had done.

Across the highway larks were hovering above the bare earth of huge plowed fields – their marvelous song as thrilling as ever. Today I had no worries about the electric fence that had nipped young Bertie; it had disappeared in the months since November. Some walkers had created a short cut across this field, a diagonal chain of water-filled footprints in the yellow mud, but I stuck to the approved line of the path and this meant we had to cut our own steps in the muck. By the time we had reached solid tarmac again a tower of mud surmounted the toe of each boot.

After we began our walk up the Canterbury path we lost touch with the sun for some time. Occasionally we could see its pale presence riding the mist, but there was never any warmth from that lifeless pat of Danish butter. It was cold today. There were only a few blossoms on a few trees – none of the orchards in bloom we had hoped for. We had mistimed this expedition in more ways than one.

Bertie again managed to get himself on the wrong side of a hedge and it took us some time to convince him to return to the original hole through which he had darted. We passed Boughton Alef church, where a tombstone recorded that the deceased had been “called home.” At Soakham farm eggs had just been gathered and the fields were full of wonderful new lambs. Again Bertie had to be leashed.

There was only one steep section in the morning and it began as we left the farm. The dog, who often insisted on leading today, would rush back down this hill every now and then to see what was keeping the rest of us. There was a brief stop when we reached the top of Soakham Downs.

Dorothy, who had begun to lag, had a shot of whisky. The glands in her throat had begun to swell in the first stages of a serious infection. She was cold and uncomfortable and, unfortunately, we now had before us the prospect of one of the least appealing sections of the entire route, a two-mile long slog through the Challock Forest on deeply rutted and waterlogged forestry tracks.

Progress was slow here, with much time spent searching for a dry patch in the quagmire. Dorothy complained that her boots leaked. Every now and then I had to hook the dog because there were holes in the fence separating our track from a field of sheep on our right. At other times he was content to splash from puddle to puddle, caked with mud. Finally we reached the end of the ordeal. As a final insult I got a nice scratch above the right knee from a bramble blocking the descending path. We were all happy to be on more solid ground, even if it was the tarmac of Mountain Street.

We reached the outskirts of Chilham at about 1:00. This was the great advantage of our early train departure, for now we could have a good lengthy luncheon stop, having completed seven miles. We did not climb up to the square but took a side street in the direction of the inn marked on the OS map.

This proved to be the welcoming Woolpack. Tosh made the first penetration of its interior – returning to announce that they did serve food and would allow entrance to one muddy Schnauzer. We ordered drinks and food at the crowded counter while Dorothy disappeared into the loo. Then we struggled into a corner near a dying fire and watched Dorothy try to eat her soup and mussels. She was not doing well at all and we decided to put her on a train for Canterbury at the end of our meal.

At 2:10 we left for the Chilham train station. Trains were running behind today because of engineering work, but this gave us time to give Bertie a drink of water on the platform before Dorothy’s departure. I calculated that the rest of us could just make the 4:43 from Chartham, four miles away, if we didn’t dawdle too much – and if our train were likewise twelve minutes late. The three of us retraced our steps past the angry guard dog at the Folly House Hotel and down the daffodil lane to the door of the Woolpack. Here Tosh retrieved a walking stick she had picked up from the many candidates in the King’s Wood.

We ascended the road to the village square, as charming as ever – unchanged since 1970 except for the loss of the tea room in which the cooperating remnant of a Michigan State school group had taken refreshment as part of our day in Canterbury fourteen years earlier. Tosh bought some Mars bars in a local grocery – and was pawed by the town drunk in the process. We decided to give the castle grounds a miss. At least they were open; the last time I was here our coach tour had arrived with fifty students to find only closed gates.

It was a good thing I remembered the guidebook description for how to leave the village. With its four roads rising to the square from all corners of the compass and the grey skies preventing shadows I wasn’t at all confident about our departure from Chilham. Surely we were heading in the wrong direction as we entered the churchyard – but of course we weren’t. A quick descent brought us down to a road that headed in a northeasterly direction, steeply uphill to the village of Old Wives Lees. Bertie tugged me up the first of several afternoon hills. He now had to spend a good deal of time on lead because we were using roads for almost two miles. Oast houses had been converted into flats in this village and a fish and chips van was parked at the crossroads. I consulted the text of Herbstein to see which road to take; it led past a little boy building a brick wall by the side of the road.

At last we reached path again. Two young men and a Spaniel were just quitting it as we arrived at the stile. The dog had a block of wood in its mouth and the men were each carrying golf clubs – which they waved at us sheepishly. This made an interesting contrast to the two walking staffs carried by Tosh and myself, but it was not easy to figure out what use they could have made of such instruments on this ground – perhaps they had been chipping the last of the autumn apples from a bunker in Farmer Brown’s orchard. Bertie jumped on the Spaniel’s head – his standard form of greeting these days.

Our path descended on a tree-lined narrow track between wire fences bordering a web of bare hop trellises. A short jog to the right and it was uphill again, our route in tandem with a line of tall trees. Two descending Labradors raced down to greet Bertie, who behaved with more civility this time. We proceeded over the crest of the hill and, at a gap in a fence decorated with an NDW sign, we continued downhill along the side of an orchard.

Our future progress should have been easy to plot from this vista – the rail line we had to cross and Nickle Farm were clearly ahead of us – but there was a problem. We were not properly aligned with our crossing or the farm: the gap in the fence had been a seductive nonsense; we belonged several hundred yards to the north – a fault we were able to remedy by turning to our left through the orchard and walking over clear ground between the rows of trees. In this way we were soon on the right track and, behind a huge mountain of empty fruit crates, I found an NDW sign. This same detective work had to be performed as we neared the rail line. Our track sloped invitingly downhill, but once again its line failed to pass in front of the farm. Another huge pile of crates had obscured the stiles meant to get us over the Dover line. Fortunately I spotted this – behind us – before we had gotten too far off route. The dog was frightened by all the gaping iron of this crossing and did a most successful imitation of an all-star ninny before we could get him across.

Then it was up our last hill and along a curving cement track – with the still barren fruit trees accompanying us. We reached the road to Chartham with only a little over twenty minutes to go before train time, and I even mentioned the possibility of continuing on to Canterbury on foot. This might have been preferable to missing our train and waiting around for an hour, but Tosh was up for trying to catch the train. So we leashed Bertie and I led a cracking charge down the hill and over the first level crossing. I could soon see the British Rail sign. Just as I approached our platform a crossing guard came out to close the gate to motor (and pedestrian) traffic. If we had wanted to travel in the opposite direction we would have been out of luck. Tosh and Harold had by this time caught up with us. Our train, now only nine minutes late, appeared within two minutes of our arrival.

Our ride took only five minutes. At Canterbury West Tosh and I walked the two blocks from the station while Harold changed his shoes and moved the car to the motel. Here Dorothy had been sleeping feverishly for two hours. She returned to bed while I addressed myself to my first urgent task – getting several layers of muck off the dog before letting him loose on the furniture. I undressed first. Then I put him in the bath and started a process that took almost half an hour. While shampooing him I had to remove the day’s thorns as well. Brown rivulets streaked down the tub ceaselessly. The dog was very good – there was only one brief period of initial struggle, memorialized in an ascending burnt umber splatter on the tiles; thereafter he settled into his huge orange towel. I unpacked and bathed.

Dorothy was obviously not going to make it to dinner; she could hardly swallow and was quite groggy. She wanted orange juice so at a little past six I went out to see if I could find an open market. I walked north for a bit, then back around West Gate and into the heart of Canterbury. I ended up doing the complete tour – I not only found no open market, I found no market. The entire town seemed to have been built for tourists and not inhabitants and, charming as it was, I found this most frustrating.

I circled back near the cathedral. While trying to keep an eye on all possible directions I could also see coming toward me a pretty blonde punk in a bright pink dress (or, come to think of it, maybe this was a pretty punk with pink hair in a beige dress). Just as she passed, my right foot slipped off the rounded curb and I pitched forward into the street. My flailing hand swept all the change out of my trousers pocket as I fell. The girl stopped to help me retrieve this from the gutter. When I straightened up it was obvious that I had sprained my right ankle!

At the time it didn’t seem all that bad. I limped home and by the time I reached the Falstaff I was walking pretty normally. Dorothy didn’t want orange juice anymore, she wanted ginger ale. This was available from the liquor store across the street.

Somewhat late for my rendezvous, I found Tosh and Harold in the hotel bar. I had a gin and tonic and we went upstairs for our meal in the dining room. Our first attempt at a rescheduling of our weekend called for us to walk the four missing miles to Canterbury on the morrow, and then, after picking up the stricken Dorothy, a quick return to London. This seemed to suit Dorothy well, for the poor girl was longing for her own bed. She had a restless sleep, which meant that I inherited the disloyal puppy, who snuggled up to me all night.

In the morning I was informed that we had to vacate our rooms no later than 11:00 (12:00 would have been a nice compromise, it seems to me) and this put an end to our walking plans. I accompanied Tosh and Harold on a long tour of the city after breakfast. Bertie visited the shrine of St. Thomas a Biscuit and left a votive offering nearby. We checked out of our hotel and returned to London in heavy Sunday traffic. I was limping pretty steadily but the time I climbed, somewhat carsick, from the back seat of the Granada shortly after 12:00.

Dorothy went to bed and I went grocery shopping. On Monday she received antibiotics for a throat infection. Unfortunately she couldn’t enjoy a complete rest because by Tuesday I could barely walk. On Wednesday I went to the doctor, had x-rays (just a severe sprain) and taught George Weyant’s oral communication class at the American College in London – Dorothy’s future employer.

We went through the first week of our holiday like a bunch of old crocks, quarrelling over the correct Freudian interpretation of my accident. Dorothy claimed that it all had to do with my refusal to take total responsibility for an ailing wife, that is to forego a cherished dependent status, and I claimed that it was a sympathy sprain: if I had a bad foot then I couldn’t walk either, thus sparing Dorothy the onus of spoiling everybody’s trip. On the other hand there is a school of thought that argues that I just slipped.

 

IN CANTERBURY ONCE

My sick wife pleaded for orange juice,
which is why I was prowling unknown alleyways
in the precincts of the cathedral and explains how
I came to slip off that curb in Canterbury once.

In my falling a pocketful of change
was swept onto the cobbles of the ancient city,
swinish currency before a pearl of a pretty young punk
with a beige dress and pink hair.

Of course she was the cause of my misstep
and it was only fair that she remained behind
to help me collect my scattered pence from the pavement.

She left me with a winning smile
and never saw how I limped guiltily onward,
alone on my twisted limb.

When, empty-handed, I returned from this pilgrimage
my sick wife wanted ginger ale instead.

Years later, the swelling long reduced,
I can still run my fingers over
the bony knot atop that foot,
a perpetual sign of the fool’s riddled expectations.

How very odd: most of the wounds
inflicted by beautiful women
lie deeper than this.

8/2/89

To continue with the next stage of our walk you need:

Day 12: Chartham to Snowdown