August 12, 1998: Lechlade to Cricklade
In Britain wherever there is water there are coots.
Before breakfast, at 8:00, I darted out into the square to take a picture of the New Inn. It was still cool, especially for someone who was already wearing his shorts. A long queue of commuters stood in front of the hotel – waiting for the bus to Swindon.
The Lees were at our table, where Tosh had already gotten her newspaper fix. Our worst fears about slow service impeding our getaway were not to be realized. There weren’t many people in the dining room and our waitress was coping much more expeditiously. We were in a relaxed mood, with only eleven miles to go – a dawdle for us – our shortest day. We had paid up and begun our march back to the river by 9:05. It was rather grey and there was a cool breeze.
We passed the last of the moored boats above Half Penny Bridge and kept to meadow edges for a mile or so. Here the Thames rapidly loses its navigability and the towpath ends. Lacking an alternative path near the watercourse the route had to abandon its usual riverside posture and, as at Duxford, head inland on a long diversion. The village of Inglesham was above us on the A 361 but there wasn’t much evidence of a path as we crossed several large grassy fields heading toward it. At the top we were also puzzled about how to escape (no doubt having missed a stile somewhere) and had to climb an iron gate at the corner. I took off my pack and handed it over to Harold before completing this action.
There was a Thames Path sign on the opposite side of the A361 and this encouraged us to take to the eastern verge, where there was a grassy strip that kept us out of harm’s way. Still, with the whizzing, heavy traffic, the grey skies and the dull vistas, this was not a pleasant mile and a half. At the top we reached Upper Inglesham and Tosh sat down for a rest while I pondered the way forward. A little side road no longer led past a youth hostel but there was a TP marker and we removed ourselves to a grassy patch next to a country lane for a little rest.
The weather remained blustery and, as we descended our first bridleway, heading back gradually in the direction of the river, I could feel a few drops. The lane turned sharp left and the route crossed a footbridge over a stream; it took us a while to orient ourselves here since, technically, we were meant to use a ford a few feet away, and the footbridge that was supposed to be in evidence on our left, was, in fact, the one we were was standing on now. I used the occasion of this confusion to put on my rain pants. We now followed a hedgerow and a steam, moving in a westerly direction on easy ground and emerging among farm cottages at some country lanes. We used these to turn north and in a few minutes we had reached Hannington Bridge and the Thames again. We spent a good deal of time on this lonely road bridge, examining the river, much reduced in volume, just another country stream – although burbling through a wide bed.
The Lees, who had been out in front, had, in fact, made a mistake in coming this far – having missed the turnoff signs on our own south bank; I was able to lead them back to this turnoff now and we continued our westward trek across farm country as the sun came out strongly for the first time today and the need for rain pants ended once and for all. Again we followed a hedgerow and a stream bed but there was one surprise as we neared Blackford Farm; a right of way on the Thames bank had been conceded and we had a rare chance to walk along the river instead of more trudging across open fields. We were now on the outskirts of our only village for the day, Castle Eaton; I had timed our morning departure to take advantage of its pub, the Red Lion – which soon came into view on our right. It was 12:20.
This establishment was quite unique among our many pub sites for this trip. It was much smaller than most, a real mom and pop hostelry – with a squalling baby parked in the lounge, a chubby boy behind the counter, a teenager named Steph as barmaid and Nancy, the proprietress, in the kitchen. We forsook the room with the gurgling Georgia and squeezed into the tiny public bar. There weren’t many customers but it still seemed to take forever to get any service and once the electricity went out behind the bar altogether. The young boy was chided by a black counselor for not coming to summer camp that day and the window washer, after ascertaining the potency of the lager, sat at the bar before getting up on his ladder. I had another order of fish and chips and peas, but the batter was rather heavy and I gave up after a while. The Lees each had a ploughman’s and coffee
The Red Lion, it soon transpired, was an embattled institution – since the brewery, unable to get planning permission for an extension – had threatened to close the establishment. We signed a petition to the council on this matter and read a long testimonial letter from one visitor who claimed that his aunt, an MS victim – whom I did see whizzing by in her wheelchair on the public highway – would leave the village if the pub closed. There were clippings about the controversy on the wall and, from these it seemed that a compromise was still possible. Between the politics and the slow service this lunch stop took a long time and it wasn’t until 2:10 that we were ready to leave, led by two other geriatric walkers who were also heading toward Cricklade. “Let them get ahead of us,” I hissed, anxious that Tosh not adopt another old person – but I didn’t need to worry. This packless whitehaired couple were soon just two dots on the roadway ahead of us.
There was a long, dull section of road walking now as we headed southwest over empty farmland – with only the Constable sky to provide any interest for the eye. Vehicles roared up and down this lane, including some heavy farm machinery; once we paused to let one of these emerge from the field on our right. Here they were harvesting barley (or so Harold told me) and the air was full of blowing hay dust as a result. The Lees were fascinated by the movement of the harvesters but I just wanted to get the mile and three quarters over by reaching Water Eaton Farm.
The route no longer penetrated the farmyard itself, but it was easy to figure out where we were meant to be as we turned right, past the farmhouse, over some stiles and through a grassy field. Someone spotted a footbridge on our right and I realized that this spanned the infant Thames. Once again we seemed to have spent a long time leaving the river and only a short time returning to it but this was because it, too, had switched directions to the southwest. We climbed over the bridge and reached the north bank, where we turned left, the stile of St. Sampson’s Church, Cricklade, already beckoning us. “They made Samson into a saint?” I asked, “sounds Jewish to me.”
After a short distance we took the Eysey footbridge and returned to the south bank, the path winding through overgrown foliage just above the bed of the reed-choked river. We were in the last fifteen minutes of our walk and the Lees had again set a corking pace when, at a stile, it happened again! On my way down I tripped with my trailing foot on a bent and concealed wire and plunged heavily forward onto my chest. This time the Lees were close enough to hear my gasp. For a second or two I couldn’t draw breath and when I could it was to ask the Lees to detach me from the pack – still clinging to my back. They couldn’t understand me because I had spoken without any air in my lungs. I tried to sit up as they asked me about broken bones. There weren’t any; I had landed, fortunately, on a soft grass-covered surface – with my ample chest positioned to take the blow. This was quite sore, particularly on the left side. I asked for the inevitable drink of water. After a few minutes on the ground I picked myself up, re-donned my pack with Harold’s help, and continued forward into the back streets of Cricklade, turning left at the High Street in search of our accommodation for the night.
Thus we discovered our hotel after several blocks; it was 4:20. The front entrance was locked but Tosh got the attention of a white-shirted, bow-tied colonel blimp of a host who ushered us into reception – while managing to offend all of us almost instantly. The Lees were just explaining that they could now list UK under nationality, having just completed the British citizenship process, though lacking as yet the appropriate passport, when mein host suggested, “Well, if you were black or had just gotten off the boat, no doubt your passport would have arrived instantly.” Then he took us to tiny rooms in the “sheds” behind the hotel – mixing up the Lees booking and moving them twice before they were settled below me.
I had a nice rest. Though sore, I wasn’t nearly as shocked by my recent fall as I had been two days earlier, and I managed a nap after my shower. The little room had a beam I had to duck under every time I wanted to use the loo; it had a TV (I never turned mine on at any of our hotels) and a telephone. I called Dorothy, who reported that she was definitely calling my cardiologist to ask if he wanted to see me after a second great shock to the chest. (He did not.)
The Lees went out to have tea while I rested and at 7:00 we met in the bar. Fortunately we didn’t have to deal with Enoch Powell; instead, the lady of the house, one who was enormously proud of her kitchen, offered us the menu and her wine list while I sipped my double Bells. There was only one other occupied table in the dining room, where we had an overly rich if well-cooked meal, including, for me, duck liver pate, pork medallions, and marvelous fruit brochettes with ice cream for dessert. We drank a South African white. The Lees had a pot of coffee and then we toured the town in the dark, visiting the floodlit church and doing the high street again, with its two Indians, its Chinese and its variety of pubs. At 10:30 we were ready for bed. I had some difficulty finding a comfortable position, since I couldn’t lie with any ease on one side – but I did manage to get off eventually.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: