August 10, 1998: Oxford to Newbridge
Oxford punters
It is possible to complete most of the stages on the Thames Path as day walks from London – and this is how we had walked from the Thames Barrier to Oxford over twelve days from 1988 to 1991. But beyond Oxford public transportation is so poor and the distances from London so great that I had always assumed that the last four days of the path would have to be completed as part of an overnight expedition. Thus the route fell into my “suspended” category – while other overnight challenges had their precedence, particularly the South West Coast Path.
But seven years after Tosh and I had reached Oxford on a lovely April afternoon, we returned, with Harold this time, to complete the last four days of the Thames Path. The route had been promoted in status since our last visit, becoming a National Trail and earning its own Aurum Press guidebook (with ordnance survey inserts) written by David Sharp, the founding father of the route.
In fact this summer’s overnight expedition should have been devoted to a completion of the South West Coast Path itself; it had been scheduled for June – but on the 18th of that month I had angioplasty for two narrowed arteries, and I felt that my first major effort after this procedure should be something a little less challenging and with fewer ups and downs. In preparation, on July 30th, the Lees and I had completed a 15-mile conditioning walk from Faverhsam to Herne Bay on the Saxon Shore Way.
I had done a good deal of the research for the current trip on the Internet – checking rail times and hunting up accommodation possibilities, though Tosh had done the actual bookings. The Lees, just returned from Italy, were instructed to go to Ealing Broadway, change at Slough, and meet me in Oxford at 9:46. I began, as usual, from Paddington, where I arrived shortly after 8:00, purchasing my own ticket on the 8:48 and one from Kemble station back to Paddington for the following Thursday. My clerk had a lot of trouble with this but he was obviously learning the ropes and a supervisor was looking over his shoulder and telling him what to do.
I bought a bag of Maltesers and a bottle of water and waited in a crowded station (with newly added Heathrow Express trains in evidence) for my platform to be announced. It was going to be a very warm day and already I was wearing shorts and a maroon t-shirt. My train left on time and I drank all of the water and ate most of the Maltesers before reaching my destination. A pretty blonde girl sat opposite me, reading The Independent and studying some notes for an accountancy class in Reading. I had seen her earlier in the station, puffing away at a fag. We did not speak now – at least she did not pull out a mobile phone. Several of the other passengers treated us to their business day, barking our orders on their high-tech gadgets, which had by now replaced the walkman as the new enemy of quiet travel. At Slough I could see the Lees climb aboard the train, as directed, but I made no effort to find their carriage and we were united for the first time only on the Oxford platform. In the meantime I had been anxiously looking at treetops, searching for any sign of a little breeze.
We used the loos and headed for nearby Osney Bridge, where the Thames was waiting for us. The first part of the footpath was being diverted, but I ignored this, slipping down to the towpath and heading north behind some gardens. It was great to be able to get on the trail so quickly and, after crossing a footbridge onto a little island, we were immediately in lovely countryside – with all memory of urban Oxford rapidly receding behind us. We were launched on a trip that would be full of incident.
I was using David Sharp’s guide to the route, but not, initially, the new National Trail Guide. Instead I was still relying on but his much earlier Ramblers Association guide (it was just a Walk then, not a Path). The original version had much more route-finding text, which I always enjoy, while the new publication had the great disadvantage (for me) of being written for the benefit of travelers moving from the Source to the Barrier – which made it very difficult to use (other than for its OS maps) for the westbound rambler. What struck me more than once was how little change there had been in the route since 1981; the same right of way conflicts that had driven the path away from the river then were still unresolved in 1998. For the first three days I could use the 1981 version with great confidence, often stuffing it into the pocket of my shorts when it was not needed.
The sun had not emerged in its August intensity as we clipped off the first few miles; there was a little cloud cover and a breeze in our faces to keep things fresh enough. A group of Venetian gondoliers were having a pull on the river, much to our surprise, as we made our way north! The huge open space of Portmeadow appeared on our right as we passed the village of Binsey on our port side. A huffing Spaniel shared the trail and quite a few other strollers were about. We had a chat with the lock keeper at Godstow Lock about the opening times of the Trout Inn (the first of many so named) across the Godstow Bridge. He guessed that it might be open as early as 11:00, so, after a diversion near the ruined nunnery walls, we reached the road and crossed the bridge, looking down on a lovely riverside scene with the handsome pub obviously open for business at 11:15. The Lees were anxious to visit the spot, having been here once before, and we were soon settled at a table in the garden. A plucked peacock, its tale only a mesh of brown spines, seemed to have been harvested for hats.
We were in the pub less than half an hour (I was anxious to make a rendezvous with a lunchtime pub upriver) and we had soon re-crossed the bridge and resumed our well-marked route on the south bank. We rounded a huge corner at King’s Lock, using the shortcut provided by the tarmaced road to the Thames Conservancy establishment at lockside. On a number of occasions throughout this trip there were obvious shortcuts, some cut by previous walkers, routes that bit off headlands on the meandering river.
After an initial section going northwest, we were now heading southwest. I noticed a father and son, walking in the opposite direction – with dad carrying the National Trail Guide. A woman with a load of sticks arrived at the riverside and began to throw them into the water for her gratified Labrador. “Now throw one in for me,” I panted. At a shady spot between fields we paused for our first lathering of sun blocker; Harold and I were devoted to the stuff, but Tosh disdained shorts, and often wore a long-sleeved shirt as well.
Whytham Great Wood was climbing down toward the river, at about the spot where the Evenlode emptied its waters into the Thames, and there was a delightful stretch in the shade at this point. The open spaces at Eynsham Lock, however, brought us back to the reality of a burning noontime sun, one that was now quite punishing. At 1:00 we reached the Swinford Bridge and climbed up to the roadway to turn north and cross over the river on one of the two surviving toll bridges over the Thames. We were somewhat chagrined that pedestrians got to go free here while the cars were stopped by the toll keeper and required to surrender their five pence pieces. A few minutes walk toward Eynsham itself brought us to the Talbot Inn, where we would have lunch.
We stared off with pints (Harold and I with lager; Tosh with a bitter shandy). I had the small cod and chips – as did Harold. Once I walked back across the street to take a photo of the pub – using Dorothy’s snapshot camera and disdaining the large and heavy Canon on this trip. Food service stopped at 2:00 and twenty minutes later we were back in the hot sun, retracing our steps to the toll bridge. In its shadows we paused to add a new layer of sun block.
Certainly this must have been one of the hottest walking days ever – into the low nineties and quite uncomfortable. I had added a handkerchief to the back of my white UCLA baseball cap and I used this to ward off the sun on the back of my neck. By this time, however, we were heading more directly into the blazing orb, seeking patches of shade for frequent rests and downing lots of liquid. I finished a vile bottle of Lemonade Light by Snapple. At the cruiser station the route left the river and rejoined an adjacent highway for a few hundred yards (at least this was a shady stretch) before resuming its riverside march. They were selling ice cream at the Pinkhill Lock, where we had our next rest, and I had an orange lolly while the Lees ate choc ices.
For the first time today our route crossed to the north bank and continued in a southerly direction, at first past a series of indented headlands and then inland across a series of baking fields – with a lot of attention needed to spot the continuation of the route. There were some shady stretches on tracks and along hedgerows, which helped us survive the onslaught of the afternoon sun, and at last we reached a lane back to the river, with a caravan camp on our left and the Ferryman pub at the riverside. It was 4:50 and the pub was closed.
A chap was renting out “punts” and “gondolas” – and had just decided to pack up for the day. A pretty little girl with flaxen hair and sun-reddened shoulders was scattering crisps on the lawn while her dad was chucking wood chips in the river for the benefit of the ubiquitous Lab. Tosh penetrated the darkened pub along with some of the other tourists and fumbled her way to the loo. It made no sense, with all these trippers and a caravan city next door, that the pub had closed for the afternoon in August – but they were obviously suffering from staff shortages. I used a faucet in he pub wall to soak my head.
The towpath now continued on the north bank, eventually reaching Northmoor Lock. It was past 6:00 and things were at last growing a little cooler. But the continuation was problematic, much overgrown by corn and nettles. Often we had to walk between rows of corn in order to make much progress and our legs were soon singing with nettle rash. We had just spotted Newbridge and the Lees had begun their end of day sprint ahead of me when, after clearing a stile, I tumbled rapidly to the ground after tripping over a root in a very rutted section of the towpath. I landed face forward on my chin and for an instant I was convinced that I had just broken my jaw! I gave a strangled shout but the Lees were too far ahead to hear. I could feel blood on my face and I slipped out a handkerchief – which I applied to the wound as I rolled over into a sitting position. There was not much moisture. After a minute I pulled myself to my feet; nothing was broken or twisted, but I was in a state of shock.
The Lees had finally noticed my absence and were waiting for me as I reached the garden of our pub, the Rose Revived. They gave me a drink of water and we marched through the busy outdoor table scene and into reception, where we were taken up a flight to two very nice rooms overlooking the many moored boats drawn up to the lawn of the pub. It was 6:55 and we had completed fourteen and a half miles. We agreed to meet at 7:45 and I exploded my pack and took a shower. I had a nice bruise on my chin and another raw spot on the calf of my left leg, but neither looked too bad; nevertheless I had to crawl beneath the covers for a few minutes, shivering with shock.
When I joined the others I bought a double Bells and a Diet Coke and sipped disconsolately at these beverages at our table in the dining room, but when the Lees ordered their evening meal I couldn’t order anything. It took me a while to regain my composure and relax. I liked the pub and the staff were very friendly and not too intrusive and it was fun to observe the other diners, including one pretty blonde who could not prevent her boyfriend from paying more attention to a fruit machine than to herself.
The Lees were already in dessert before I felt settled enough to attempt to eat anything myself. I ordered prawns in Marie Rose sauce stuffed into a baguette, and I managed to eat about half of it. Then I ate a dish of ice cream. It was all I wanted. I suggested that we pay a visit to Newbridge’s other pub (the hamlet seemed to consist of nothing but these hostelries) so we walked in clouds of gnats across the bridge to the south bank and went into the Maybush’s garden, where we had Baileys over ice, endured the drunken guffaws of some boat people and watched two sleepy swans floating on the water.
The Lees assured me that if I felt like ending the walk they would certainly understand – but I said it was unlikely and we could confer again tomorrow when I saw how I felt. So by 10:30 we were back in our rooms (the Lees had a four poster bed). I was already feeling much better when I called Dorothy and reported on the day’s event. It never surprises her when I come a cropper on the trail; it’s sort of expected and, as a consequence of my abandonment, even deserved. I was soon asleep and enjoying a comfortable and well-deserved rest.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: