August 11, 1998: Newbridge to Lechlade
The narrowboat – you will see many of these vessels on your Thames walk.
I felt fine on the second day of our expedition, a little sore on the right side of my jaw, but otherwise in good shape. I decided to grow a short-term goatee and to give a portion of my face a rest from shaving for the duration of the trip, and I was soon ready for breakfast. I darted outside in the cool of the morning to take a few photos and returned to join the Lees at our table at 8:00. My diet never varied at such meals on this trip: fruit juice, corn flakes, scrambled egg on toast. Harold and I paid our bills with credit cards and by 9:05 we were ready to begin one of the longest stretches in our walking history, a seventeen-mile day to Lechlade – Leckdale as Tosh kept pronouncing it.
We crossed the bridge and turned right past the Maybush’s garden. It was still somewhat overcast as we headed west on banks high above the river, cutting the occasional corner across fields filled with cows. As we approached the Shifford cut I could see the new footbridge near the lock; unfortunately it was still not in use, at least not for Thames Path walkers, since the route along the navigation channel had yet to be established. We had to keep to the old Thames, a much more sylvan backwater, following field edges and waterside paths through a thin strip of foliage that provided some relief from the first warmth of the morning sun.
Kids were playing at a ford as we continued onto the thatched cottages of the hamlet of Duxford, following its access road through several twists and turns in open farm country before leaving it at Duxford Farm itself for a cross-country route along hedgerows and over old bridleways – now some distance from the river over on our right. Some huge farm machinery was being repaired as we entered our first field and a Jack Russell in the cab of a harvester was growling its warning as we edged past the huge tires. I was glad to have the reassuring text of Sharp’s little green 1981 guidebook, though occasionally a wicket gate or a pylon would have gone missing in the intervening years.
After half an hour on this inland diversion we reached the river again at Tenfoot Bridge, a footbridge that arched across the dark waters. There was a boat moored nearby and a lady, seeing us resting on the south bank, asked if we were lost and offered us detailed explanations on how to reach our noontime pub. Hearing that we were heading all the way to Lechlade, she suggested that they had rooms at the Swan Hotel at Radcote Bridge if we failed to make it, but I was at least cheered by the news that this pub, unlike the Ferryman, was open all day. We were not lost, of course, but we endured her advice good-naturedly. Earlier it had come from an Irish girl who was walking downriver with a companion. She wanted to warn us of nettles ahead and to discourage us from expecting to see anything noteworthy at the source of the river.
After a nice rest we returned to the sunshine and began to make our way along an overgrown trod on the north bank. A man and his daughter crossed our path and we again got the warning about the nettles. We could soon feel what everyone else had been talking about. Nettles, shoulder high, lined both sides of the route and after soldiering on for a few minutes in this mess, Harold and I got out our rain pants, put them on over our shorts, and completed the next half hour in the “I surrender” position. It was with some relief that we emerged into open fields again, the sight of Tadpole Bridge beckoning us forward. Here we climbed to the top of the motor road and returned briefly to the south bank to take advantage of the proximity of another Trout Inn. It was 1:20. and we had covered only six and a quarter miles of our route.
I snuck out to take the obligatory picture and drank my pint while waiting for an order of scampi and chips. The accommodating publican was serving a rather elderly clientele – while out in the garden a Malamute was lolling on the stone paving while his master read the paper. Tosh admired a wide-brimmed golf visor belonging to one of the other lady customers. The Lees had coffee and I switched to Diet Coke. Unusually, we were able to make it to a noontime pub at lunchtime on all four days of this trip, never having to carry any food with us. (Unless you count the leftover Maltesers which, in the previous day’s heat, had fused, like so many chocolate atoms, into a solid mess.)
To tell the truth, walking conditions were a little more bearable today. It was still warm and sunny and shade was still a sought-after commodity, but it was three or four degrees cooler than yesterday and the breeze was much fresher in our faces. So, replenished, we returned to the trail at about 2:20, crossing back to the north bank and heading west toward Rushy Lock. The route crosses the lock gates here and we had a rest in the shade of the trees on the lawn of the lock keeper’s cottage. When he and his assistant had a quiet moment the Lees complemented him on the beauty of his gardens and had a look around at his flowerbeds. Then we passed behind the cottage, crossed the weir gate to the south bank and continued west.
This was a long pull, without many landmarks, but we kept our eyes open for short cuts, assisted by the sighting of cruisers on the Thames itself, proof that the river was soon to swing left or right. Harold and I were lathered in sun blocker by this time and the day was at its warmest – though still pleasant enough. We passed Old Man’s Bridge and reached Radcot Lock, where the Lees indulged themselves in choc ices. Black bugs kept landing in my lap as I sat on the lawn here. Now the lady with the huge visor came by on a boat. You can imagine what the boat people must have thought about those who preferred to walk along the river rather than slide over its surface, but, in return, Tosh – and Harold too, I think – had seen enough of lock life to give up entirely on their promise to spend time on a French canal boat the following summer. Tosh said she was already bored just looking at these deck lizards squeezed into their confined quarters.
Now we headed toward Radcot Bridge, following footbridges onto an island full of trippers and their tents and boats. Soon we had drawn up opposite the Swan Hotel and, utilizing the road bridge, we were in its garden by 4:45. I had another Diet Coke and sucked on the lemon wedge while everyone made a trip to the loo. We were very thankful that the Swan had remained open all afternoon – it gave us another spot to lather up in before heading back into the face of the sun. We still had six and three quarters miles to go – so Tosh phoned our hotel in Lechlade to tell them not to despair of our arrival. She did this after mistakenly phoning the b&b she hadn’t gotten us into.
We reached Grafton Lock after one mile and pulled opposite the lush hamlet of Eaton Hastings after a second. Footing was generally good but field edges were often a problem, with corn and nettles hiding the surface and providing only a narrow slit for walkers. On other occasions we cut corners across lumpy fields dotted with cow muck. After a third mile I suggested a brief diversion. We were only a few hundred yards away, by road, from Kelmscot Manor, the home of William Morris. Tosh wanted to leave her pack on the roadside but I warned her that we were surrounded by trailer trash. (“Caraway Park,” she had just noted on a nearby sign; I think that’s “Caravan,” I had added.) The National Trust property in question is only open on some Wednesdays, so we knew we wouldn’t have much of a view, but it was fun to see the gables and turrets of the estate as we rounded a corner. The trailer trash, proving my point, had occupied all the shady spots by the river and had set up a speaker system with which to introduce Nat King Cole to the last of Oxfordshire.
We had to wait until we had reached a footbridge over to the abandoned Anchor Inn before finding any suitable shade. A giant trunk supported a thin raft of limbs in the backyard of this old place. Harold did some scouting to see if we could get through a little woodland ahead of us without donning nettle-pants. We could.
I had decided on another rest at Buscot Lock, the next to last of the locks on a river that would soon lose its navigability for powered craft. The lock keeper was selling second hand books to raise money for a Children’s Society project and after we had helped him close some gates we asked what the project was. He and his wife, it transpired, were raising money for a 75-mile walk on the Great Wall of China next June. This gave me a chance to describe my own rather unpleasant moments on this object (the first stages of pneumonia earlier this year), but to ensure him that he would like China and its people immensely. He seemed quite relieved, having heard nothing but horror stories, and we had a good chat before heading off again, the spire of Lechlade’s church already beckoning.
The river does quite a loop here, but it was obvious that the landowner, who had lined his fields with an electric wire, did not want any short cuts. This perturbed Tosh mightily, but we persevered, practically completing a circle, and passing another of the ubiquitous pillboxes that dot the Thames landscape in readiness for the return of the Hun. A man heading our way was trying to corral his dogs, one of whom had just spotted a herd of cows. We headed inland here, following first a dirt road north, then a paved one west, and turning back to the river to reach St. John’s Bridge at 6:55. It was now getting delightfully cool, but we decided we needed yet a third pub stop for the day and squeezed into the soon-crowded confines of yet another Trout Inn. I had a gin and tonic and stared at a giant stuffed trout while other fish darted about in a tank. The man with the herding dog reported no casualties. A welcome to Gloucestershire sign was posted across the road.
After our rest we passed over the bridge and turned west, on the south bank again, at St. John’s Lock – where a statue of Father Thames, rescued from Crystal Palace, sat staring at the boating crowd. We had a huge cow-pie filled meadow to cross to reach Lechlade’s Half Penny Bridge. Harold was too far in front of me to hear the news that we were supposed to go along the towpath under the bridge and he kept looking too far to the left for some access to the roadway. This got straightened out in the end and we crossed beneath the bridge and climbed up to street level on the other side. Here we turned north into the town, heading right at the square and quickly finding our hotel for the night, the New Inn. It was 7:40.
There was some bother over finding the right keys for us and an Indian lady was summoned to put things rights. There was a little Indian boy present as well. (I told Harold that New Inn was short for New India.) Our rooms were in the mews, the eighteenth century’s version of a line of motel rooms, but mine, though small, was fully en suite and I had a nice shower before joining the others at 8:30. I also had time to call Dorothy again. Her girlfriends had convinced her, in the interim, that I might have dislodged the arterial stent during my fall of the previous evening. I hadn’t even considered this a possibility, but now I could complete the rest of the walk in the shadow of this thought – and matters were going to get worse.
Things were hectic in the dining room, where only one harried and impatient waitress was meant to serve the whole lot and the customers kept getting in her way on their passage to the bar next door in search of drinks. I had two more g&ts. It took forever for our order to be taken and Tosh had time to get a testimonial on her Mahee stir-fry from a satisfied customer. Harold and I had poached salmon in yellow sauce and new potatoes. The ice cream desserts were ready made from the freezer compartment. We were the last to leave the dining room, after almost two hours, and I was relieved to get out of there. There was even a kerfuffle over adding our bills to our room charges, but the Indian lady straightened this out too. We did not have another late night stroll, having pretty well worn ourselves out on this very long day. I went to bed amid the snores of the chap in the next stall of the mews, but I had a pretty good night after all.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: