June 3, 1984: Snowdown to Dover
Between Sheperdswell and Coldren
Tosh and Harold picked us up at 7:45 for our next assault on the North Downs Way: June 3, 1984. Again we had been delayed by bad weather, which had washed out an attempt scheduled for the previous weekend. Even today we were risking an occasional shower, but we were rewarded for this bravery by a dry day, grey at first, but increasingly bright and even sunny – a delightful day with little wind and cool temperatures: perfect for walking.
Tim Lee had pumped up the tire pressure on the Granada and this and the crazy Sunday drivers and Harold’s absent mindedness made for a bumpy ride. Nevertheless we pulled into Canterbury East with twenty minutes to spare. I bought us day returns for Dover and we sipped our usual platform-side coffee. Shortly after 10:00 we were climbing the stairs of the Snowdown halt, Bertie bravely overcoming his apprehension over the open risers of the stairway. As we headed back to the NDW dozens of cars rushed by us at great speed and it wasn’t easy to reign in the dog at short notice – nor would he walk in single file. The result was that I stepped on him repeatedly and he danced so desperately under the sting of these provocations that twice he almost jerked himself into the path of oncoming vehicles.
At last we rejoined the tip of the little woods where our path began, crossed it in a few seconds, moved down another road and proceeded along the edge of a wheat field next to the mole-ridden buttercup strewn common of Woolage village. This path eventually came to parallel the village road and was separated from the latter only be a wire fence through whose strands Bertie easily jumped, thereby placing himself in dangerous proximity to another car. Fortunately he obeyed the command to sit and the car passed without harming him. I was relieved when, at a crossroads, we were able to escape civilization and ascend a track along a hedgerow. Although there had been a good deal of rain recently we were able to walk on fairly dry surfaces this day; only on a few occasions did we encounter any muddy patches.
We came to the end of our track at a road over our railway line. Then we had to re-hook the dog as we followed the road past Long Lane farm; some of the next fields had signs asking for dogs to be kept on lead – though I saw no animals in any of them. Sheperdswell is a very sizable village, though our route missed most of the inhabited portions. Bertie had great fun flushing out some birds in a meadow and barking at some placid cows who were lying next to our route behind a single strand of electrified wire.
Our progress toward the village had not been made easier by deficient signposting and when we reached the last of a series of fields there was no evidence of a path in the short-cropped grass. We approached the village crossroads via a back alley and, seduced by a lovely green, strayed off course to have coffee on its bench. I did some scouting, as there seemed to be a number of inviting exits from this spot, but the modest one near the lock-up garage, the clue in Herbstein, proved, after all my wanderings, to be immediately opposite our entryway alley. While I was holding my map upside down and trying to figure out where I was a woman with a fat Corgi was asking the others if a discarded water bottle didn’t belong to our party. Unconvinced by our denials she preceded us on our short walk back to the garage, muttering “Leave!” to her snarling pet.
We passed down a hedgerow and entered a series of long paths cut in the tall grass. They seemed to be heading in the right direction. The grass, which managed to deposit moisture in our boots, fascinated Bertie, who ate a good deal of it and vomited it back soon thereafter. He leapt about the deep green fields like a March hare, jumping up every few feet to try to see over the grass tops. Afraid to be in the lead down this claustrophobic tunnel, he satisfied himself with running up my heels.
When our path reached the overgrown embankment of a disused railway there seemed to be no way forward; the grass tunnel had not quite reached the correct gap at the end of the field. I tried a brief diversion to the left, then a longer one uphill to the right, then a second longer reconnoiter to the left. Here I could see a path and Coldren church above it – and I was able to shout for my companions, whom I had stationed next to the embankment, engrossed in a discussion of campus personalities.
There was also a problem reaching the church itself. An acorn-decorated style put us into a backyard from which there was no egress, that is none except a do-it-yourself style in the form of a cement block and a bale of hay. We eventually took this route over a low wire fence and found a real stile which put us out next to the church. In the woods across the street my friends staged a sit-down strike on behalf of an early lunch. I gave way grudgingly, warning them that they were endangering pub time and reminding them that pubs often closed at 2:00 on Sundays. Only Harold believed me. I was hungry too and finished a huge tongue sandwich in a few minutes.
Off our route to the right was the charming belvedere of Waldershare Park and soon, after climbing into a field full of befouled sheep, we drew opposite the lovely mansion house of the estate – now converted into luxury flats. There was a good deal of stile climbing today and the dog had to be carried over most of these. Of course he had to be leashed when animals were about and on roads too – all of this was a strain on our energy, especially Bertie’s, for he did tug so and there were many moments when it was just not practical to have him heel. The worst of this occurred on roads, where he insisted on leading the charge. If other walkers got in front of him he became so convinced that he was missing something or that he would be left behind that the pulling was awful.
We were on roads for several minutes as we left Waldershare and its attractive cottages and huge avenues of trees. A gigantic procession of flowering chestnuts brought us into a meadow and from the latter we passed through a small churchyard and then onto the tarmac of the A296. Neither of my guidebooks mentioned a pub just off route at this point, indeed visible a few hundred yards to the north, but I had spotted it on the OS map and at about 1:35 we were sitting in the snug of the High and Dry (formerly the Royal George).
When the others were seated next to their drinks (Dorothy a dry sherry, the Lees half lagers, mine a pint of the same) I made some formal presentations – with exotic bars of Swiss chocolate as the prizes. “You are probably all wondering why I have asked you together this afternoon,” I began. “Tosh, with her three days on Offa’s Dyke Path and her eight days on the North Downs Way actually achieved the milestone we are commemorating here on our last trip, about the time we reached Canterbury. Harold, in fact, won’t reach this moment until sometime on our next trip, but, in fact, Dorothy – with one day on the Pennine Way and eight days on the NDW to her credit – has, by reaching this spot, just completed her one hundredth mile on Britain’s long-distance footpaths.” Thus began the habit of memorializing each successive hundred mile mark achieved by a member of our group.
The girls were surprised and delighted by this recognition and everyone burrowed into their chocolate while I, tempted by a bulging peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my food bag, took a bite. At this moment the lady publican rounded a corner and began a speech about not eating our own food in her establishment. “Strictly speaking,” she began, “but as I see you are only eating chocolate,” she interrupted herself. Fortunately I had nibbled just enough of my sandwich to shrink its size sufficiently so that I could palm it beneath the bottom rim of my pint mug. Here it remained while a inquest began over the occasion for the chocolate eating, and this was followed by fussing over Bertie – who had just polished off lunch in his aluminum water bowl. Indeed our hostess proved to be a dog lover, the obligatory Alsatian soon lifting his head over the bar counter; Bertie received some choc drops no doubt belonging to this beast and so I was almost persuaded to forgive the establishment its strictly speakings and its tepid lager. “Last orders,” someone shouted at five to two.
The line of the NDW was clear in the wheat field above us when we returned to the spot we had abandoned to reach the pub. Unfortunately, progress through these fields was impeded by cattle, including one large bull – who insisted on leaning against the stile we needed to climb in order to escape his field. “How fast can you run?” Tosh asked, but Harold approached the dozy animal directly and at last it moved on, frightened by the equally terrified Bertie. Two horses in the next yard put their noses over the barbed wire for a scratch as we regained another grass tunnel.
Our route brought us through the not particularly interesting village of Ashley and after a mile going northeast we switched to southeast and followed a rolling track through huge fields for a further mile. Here we rejoined a paved version of an ancient Roman road and turned due south, deviating only slightly from this line for the last few miles of the walk. We ambled around a cane wood and up the hill to Pineham. When the last of the tarmac had been left behind we sat down for a snack and a rest in a field full of curious Jerseys. The Lees drank the last of their coffee and Bertie drank god knows what from a cowpie goblet. Dorothy couldn’t bear the greenish rinse this imparted to his whiskers and washed his face in his drinking bowl. I finished my forbidden p.b.&j. sandwich. As we headed off, Bertie discovered the power of his voice, which he exercised delightedly as the cows undertook a slow ramble toward the horizon.
During the last mile or so, which was a bit mucky, I snipped some samples of the hedgerow wildflowers (the usual vetches, buttercups, campion) and was even grasped once by a nettle for my pains. The A2 was extremely busy and quite dangerous to cross, so I actually carried Bertie across when the right moment came for the burly fullback to plunge across the line of whizzing cars with his furry gray football. After a field of mustard we could see the ocean (“Can you see France yet?” I kept asking) and the turrets of Dover Castle. Gorse and sea gulls also signaled our proximity to the seacoast. The castle often remained in our view as we began a slow descent over roads on tired feet. I had to use the OS map as a guide in Dover since, as usual, there is often no specified route for long distance footpaths within cities. We now passed the Louis Armstrong pub and a gnome-filled garden en route to the Priory Station. Harold had rushed ahead and bought tickets, even though I had returns for all of us in my pockets. They let him return the new tickets.
There was about a half hour wait. We drank pop on the platform and Tosh roused the station manager because the toilet door in the ladies loo had swallowed her five pence piece without yielding its sanctuary. We had a non-stop ride to Canterbury East at 6:00 and by 6:30 we were driving home in brilliant sunshine. The Sunday traffic was awful: the stop and go, the fumes, the Coffee Cream cigars smoked by Tosh, the eternal jerking motion of the car, my cramped back seat, the way the dog kept jumping on my stomach for a better view – all this combined to make me very carsick indeed. When we had said goodbye and unloaded our gear the first thing I did, upon reaching the comforting darkness of the flat, was to open my throat over the washbasin. So had I recaptured the taste of many a Sunday outing of my youth.
To continue with the next stage of our walk, on the Folkestone loop, you need: