September 10, 1981: Ashbury to Wantage
The Manger
Again three weeks passed before I had the opportunity to return to the Ridgeway, and once again I had coaxed Howard Anderson, at the end of his London summer, to join me. This was an exemplary act of friendship and sportsmanship on his part since we were scheduled to leave Paddington at an early 7:45 on a Thursday morning. Howard had left our “Cultural Evening” of TV tapes on Clark’s Betamax so that he could get a good night’s sleep, my travel alarm in his pocket and The Land of The Pharaohs in his dreams.
I slept pretty well, arising at 5:55, five minutes before the setting on my own bedside alarm. I was very much reminded of my early South Downs Way risings. I ate two pieces of toast, filled my canteen, taped and sprinkled powder and I had reached the bus stop on Elgin Crescent by 6:45. There was only a little wait and I was at Paddington shortly after 7:00. Soon after I bought my ticket I discovered Howard, also an early riser, and we had time to buy some tea (“Coffee’s off, dear”) and board the 7:20 rather than the 7:45. In this way we had time to hunt up some breakfast for Howard in Swindon and still be in place for our 9:15 bus ride.
A Canadian industrial designer intervened in our conversation and we chatted for most of the distance to Swindon. Hetold us hewanted to move to England from Ottawa. At 8:16 we arrived in a sunny Swindon, quite a contrast to the rainy beginnings of our first day on this walk. Howard and I wandered about looking for a place to have coffee and eventually discovered a huge mall, the Brunel Market, with dozens of shops, mostly closed. At last we found a combination lunch counter and hairdresser. Howard ate two doughnuts from the “Non Fresh Cream Cakes” tray. We then strolled back to the bus station, discussing the novels of John Fowles.
Our reason for being in Wiltshire so early was that there was only one morning bus to Ashbury. We began to wind slowly through the villages below the ridge but there were only the two of us aboard – again! When we descended Howard discovered, of course, that the Rose & Crown was serving coffee – so naturally we had to have another cup in the hotel’s lounge bar. While we were sitting there Howard told me of his interest in starting faculty exchanges with a college in Wimbledon. I said I would be able to help (if he could remember the name of the college first).
It was then time to hit the road and ascend the steep hill noted by DeWitt on the last outing. It really didn’t seem too bad and we were walking along the ridge itself by 11:00. It remained sunny throughout the day, occasionally warm, and often quite breezy on the open tops – I had to abandon the wearing of my brown slouch hat because of this. Views were somewhat restricted by the haze, particularly to the south, but on the whole the day was a delight.
We made a stop at Wayland’s Smithy, an excavated long barrow which was having its grassy top shorn by the Department of the Environment’s mower. Howard was feeling peckish so I offered him an apple and some McVitie’s Jaffa Cakes. I told him that this was the first time I had been able to eat these in eleven years, having finally decided to get over my phobic distaste for a food I always associate with an ill-fated day in Oxford and Stratford in 1971 when one student went missing and I experienced the first stings of a kidney stone attack – a day that still lives in infamy.
In a few miles we were at Uffington Castle and we climbed over a stile the better to approach the famous White Horse from a descending road below the impressive chalk figure. We weren’t completely happy with this angle so we decided to climb up to the Horse and examine portions of it directly. A school group had been given the assignment of sketching The Manger and Dragon Hill below – so here were all these ten year-olds huddled on the hillside with packs on their knees. From a distance they looked like a congregation of despairing worshippers waiting for the end of the world. We were able to pick our way up to the top of grassy Uffington Castle, a windy eminence covered in sheep droppings. The site reminded me a little of the Pennines. It was here that I told Howard of my desire to fly. “Not an airplane,” I said, “I want to fly.” To illustrate, I flapped my arms a few times as we regained the path at the top of the ridge.
We then continued east through recently harvested fields, a rather gentle up and down. We met a fifteen week-old yellow Lab puppy. Just after the half-way mark, at the B4001 junction, we pulled up in a grassy and shady spot near the road and had our usual Ridgeway lunch. We then each smoked a cigar as we rambled toward Letcombe Bassett. There was little conversation, less as the exertions of the day took their toll on our energies. An old lady leaning on a cane walked along the path beside us. “Every time I get home,” she complained, “I swear I’ll never take another step.”
We reached our turn-off point above Wantage at 2:48 and began a long two and a half mile descent by road. Fortunately there wasn’t too much traffic. Howard paused frequently to pick blackberries and to retrieve windfall apples. As we neared town we noticed that Wantage’s “Twin Town” was a place called “Seesen/Harz.” This enabled us to develop an elaborate fantasy concerning a secret Nazi takeover of Wantage during World War II. We were abetted in this version by the sudden appearance of innumerable VWs. Nearer the center we passed a place that enabled us to pinpoint “Seesen/Harz.” This was a social institution called
“The Comrade’s Club.” “East Germany,” we both said (mistakenly).
We had about 45 minutes in Wantage – I had a 7-Up and Howard ate another snack – and I made enquiries about taking a taxi back up to the top on my next trip. Our bus to Didcot was full of local students in their first week back from the summer hols. At the train station, where we had another lengthy wait, I had an orange drink and Howard had one as well – plus a Kit-Kat bar and another cup of coffee. In the men’s loo there was an ornate engraved sign – “Please Readjust Your Clothing Before Leaving.”
I dozed on the train back to Paddington, at least until a family of five Chinese sat down on the other side of the aisle. We were back in London at 6:16, after a very good outing. I said goodbye to Howard and returned to Ladbroke Grove by tube. I had only a few minutes to get ready for our guests of the evening, the Leaders. I wanted to talk to Alice about flat rentals (one my many stillborn London projects) and she knew something about this activity through colleagues at her place of employment, The American School in London. I could not have realized at the time that this was the contact that would lead to my joining the staff of this institution only a few months later. I do recall that another interesting aspect of the evening was provided by her husband Zach – whom I had just met. He was intrigued to discover that I had just come from Michigan State. “The school where I teach,” he said, “is interested in starting an exchange program with the English Department there.” “What school is that?” I asked. “Roehampton Institute,” he replied. “Would that by any chance be in Wimbledon?” “Yes,” he answered. “Did you have a visit this summer from someone named Howard Anderson?” “That’s right,” he said. Little Old London.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: