October 29, 1983: Bearsted to Harrietsham
George with Bertie between Bearsted and Thurnham.
I used a version of this photo as an illustration in A Walker’s Alphabet.
After a midweek English Department argument on the subject of departure time, with Dorothy voting for a later and Tosh for an earlier hour, we agreed to meet at Victoria at 8:15 on Saturday, October 29, 1983. This was the earlier time. Now that we had lost summer time there was a problem with available daylight. We would leave on the 8:36.
Dorothy and I were again accompanied by young Bertie, now five and half months old. We had a quick run through the park on the way to the underground. There was a small panic when those paws hit the marble flagstones, but the young trooper soon regained his composure and charged down the stairs of the Maida Vale tube stop. He seemed less agitated this time, though he did continue to squeak with excitement at Victoria and once, when I went off to check on a departure gate, he broke into childish howls.
At the station we were again joined by Tosh, Harold and Marge. The Lees finished their coffee and Dorothy her trip to the sweet counter and we then entered gate five and took our seats at the end of a smoker. Here we sat for a few minutes waiting for departure time, and I presented my boss with the Mirror‘s account of the demise of the Swansea skipper, “Tosh Axed.” The car was almost empty and I was surprised therefore when a lone gentleman attempted to enter it from our door. He was a well-dressed graying aristocrat in a tweed jacket, tan scarf, and buff brogues. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses a hopeful expression beamed. “George!” we all shouted at once. We had been joined by yet another English department colleague, that famous man-about-town, The Hollywood Reporter‘s man in St. Johns Wood, George Waldo (or as we knew him best, Weyant). I had given George all the particulars of this day’s departure just the day before – but it had never occurred to me that he might really take me up. Tosh and Dorothy were flabbergasted.
We began a long gossip. With every detail of the impending adventure the naive Waldo’s eyes opened wider, “Why are you putting tape of your feet?” he asked Dorothy in horror. She responded by giving him her extra pair of socks. These he put on, tucking the cuffs of his amber corduroy trousers into their tops. “I have plenty of water,” I said at one point. “Water!” George gasped. One could not tell which was more worrying, the prospect of being so far from civilization that one needed to bring such an item – or the fact that the beverage was so pedestrian. In the event he consented to drink a little of Marge’s Perrier.
The train was late and we sat on the platform at Borough Green, staring at our favorite loo for fifteen minutes. A string bean of a conductor in a red sweater came through the train and patiently explained to each passenger that we were waiting because of an error in track priority made by some signalman at Swanley. I found this extraordinary: the civility demonstrated in providing any explanation at all and the scrupulousness required to admit a mistake. Tosh insisted that our conductor reminded her of Noah Claypole in Oliver Twist. Later the Lees presented a conspiracy theory to explain why the Southern Region has so high a percentage of the nation’s train delays. “It’s the Tory voters,” Harold said, “Not getting them anywhere on time is a favorite form or railwayman’s spite.”
Because of our delay we really didn’t leave Bearsted until just before 10:00. We walked up the road to Thurnham in radiant, crisp sunlight, quite cold in the shadows of the hedgerows, but warmer in the open spots where the sun could get in. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. About the spot where Bertie had collapsed the girls hit their first berry bush. I took advantage of the pause to photograph Squire Waldo out for a Saturday stroll, the dog at the end of one gloved hand. When we reached the closed pub at Thurnham George wanted to know if this weren’t our noontime destination, a pious hope he repeated with even greater force when we reached the Cock Horses in Detling.
Unfortunately some of the cleverer members of our group had noted the existence of public footpaths that would have gotten us directly up to our downland route in short order – but of course this was not permitted by yours truly since it would mean missing a portion of the designated march. So we had to return to the motorway and march up the hill past our surprise plinth of three weeks earlier and, at the summit of the down, re-cross both lanes of the highway at a sign with an acorn and a “Look Right” warning to walkers.
A set of steps began a steep descent above Detling. We had a brief water stop here; trailing George caught up – already having discovered the mistake of improper footwear. Tosh disappeared behind a tree and Bertie, off the roads at last, was unleashed for the first time.
There was no guidebook description for this portion and I had to rely on waymarking and the OS map in Herbstein. After walking on a grassy contour for a few minutes we had to make a steep descent into a combe. I had found a walking stick for George but he had to yield it to Dorothy at this point, for she had difficulty coming down this rough incline. Finally I had to return for her and, clinging to my backpack, she followed me down the hill, imitating my foot placements. The mob sat down on a fallen tree while I walked ahead with Bertie to scout out the route. An acorn on an oak tree brought us to a line of trees that we followed up out of the combe. Over the next swelling we had to look for yellow fence posts on the horizon and every now and then there was some doubt about which was the proper route. I became convinced that the actual route had a few more twists and turns than those indicated by the tentative line of dots on the OS map. This, the late train, and a faltering but plucky George, put us well behind schedule.
We had now worked our way around above Thurnham, indeed Dorothy and Marge – leading us at this stage – would have returned there if I hadn’t called them back to a turn-off they had missed. “If you want to lead, you have to pay attention,” I chided them. At the top of the next combe the route called for a brief crossing of a ploughed field – with Tosh complaining bitterly about walking on flints.
Part of our passage eastward was along the edge of Civiley Wood and there were some short steep passages. Poor George, in his wet street shoes, could not have had a more strenuous introduction to long distance footpath walking. After Broad Street we reached more level ground. This permitted George to make up some lost ground. His grey locks were drooping on his forehead and he wasn’t at all certain whether to believe me when I told him it was only 45 minutes to pub time. “Why do I have the feeling,” I whispered to Dorothy, “that I’m walking with Dorian Grey.”
There were wonderful views over the Weald throughout the morning and none better that those we enjoyed as we approached Hollingbourne. I had tried to keep up a quick pace because I feared we would not have much pub time otherwise. We now made a steep descent down grassy slopes and I had to swear that this ground would not have to be regained after lunch.
I had a horrible feeling that the Pilgrim’s Rest might ban Bertie but we were followed into the establishment by a huge, beautiful Old English Sheep Dog and behind the bar two large Alsatians peered out inquisitively. Ordering food was a trial, everything being finished, but we did manage some ploughmans and other bar snacks. George ordered a vodka and pineapple juice to wash down his smoked salmon sandwich. The pub was done up in some style – quite a contrast with the more grotty establishments of three weeks previous. Too bad we trashed our end with a mountain of packs so bulky that we succeeded in blocking the entrance to the gents.
We had only made it at 1:45 and by 2:30 poor George had to say goodbye. He had decided to walk down to the Hollingbourne station and to return to London. We saw him asking directions at the counter, then he gave us a last wave and a wan, brave smile. Outside, we later learned, he got a ride to the station with the Sheep Dog, sat in a draft on the return ride to Victoria and spent two days in bed with a cold. So ended Waldo of the Wild’s first encounter with the rigors of rural Kent.
The Pilgrim’s Rest served excellent coffee and this made it hard for the bar ladies to get rid of us. We finished long after the pub had closed its doors and I don’t suppose we left much before 3:00. Bertie had wolfed down a Weetabix in his chrome bowl and a drink of water. He had been quite well behaved. Tosh bought a lot of candy bars for us and we munched on these as we re-emerged into the pale sunlight. It was chilly but quite lovely and we had a number of high clouds to keep us company as we continued in a southeasterly direction on the Pilgrim’s Way.
Along the straight track there many hedgerows and the girls were plucking specimens for their dried flower arrangements. This made it hard for me to estimate our rate of progress, but I decided it would probably not be possible to reach our original destination, Lenham, without a dash. Harrietsham was chosen as the day’s terminus, but – since we were due to miss the 4:00 train anyway – I abruptly proposed that we might as well light out for Lenham after all. Harold gave me his vote but there was an outcry from the girls. I think this was perhaps the first (though certainly not the last) time in my walking career that I failed to reach the day’s objective. Harrietsham it would have to be.
The views of the wooded downs on our left were gorgeous and the setting sun made all the Weald a place of magic. Bertie got to see his first sheep; he barked. Two horses plodded by; he exploded. His underside was a mass of burrs and tangles and he often paused in protest over some leaf or twig caught on his hind legs. In spite of this show of fastidiousness he persevered to the end today, a marvelous display of energy.
We reached the outskirts of Harrietsham at 4:00 and began a leisurely stroll down into the village. At the church, where we stopped to see a celebrated Norman font, I attached Bertie to the foot scraper. A poster on the wall of the entryway informed us that Jews Without Jesus were Incomplete. Tosh sat on a raised tombstone, smoking a cigarette. As we left, a spaniel named Pepperoni rushed up to touch noses with our Schnauzer.
We made it to the highway in the dying light and I asked directions to the station from a very pretty shop girl in the grocery store. We had about fifteen minutes in hand. Everybody had a snack and a last swig of water and at 5:02 we were aboard our train.
I tried to pick out some of Bertie’s burrs as he struggled on my lap. Harold pointed out that it was clear that what Bertie really wanted was a nap. When he fell asleep I had a much easier job. Meanwhile Harold himself was in a panic. He could find only one of his tickets and the conductor was heading down the aisle. “I’ll have to buy another one,” he lamented, but I had a last minute suggestion. “Look inside the other guide book. You sometimes use your ticket as a book mark.” Sure enough, there it was, tucked into Allen and Imrie. Tosh was chuckling. “You’re brilliant,” she said to me. My wife’s verdict on this assessment is not recorded.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: