May 5, 1990: Friar’s Gate to Buxted

On Saturday, May 5, 1990, we returned to the WW. Dorothy, in spite of foot and back problems, was eager to join us – so our party of three left the flat at 7:35.

When we reached the tube stop there was a long delay, explained to passengers on our platform just as a train was pulling in on the other side – in short explained in such a manner that no one could hear a word of it. When we finally reached Oxford Street a pot bellied businessman sought us out when he heard the dog chirping in excitement. He told us that he was a life member of the Anti-Cruelty League and was making sure that the dog was not in distress. He followed us onto our car on the Victoria Line, intent on telling us the entire history of his good deeds to canines, but he was so busy with talking that he failed to hold on to anything as the crowded train lurched forward. In consequence he pitched backwards, still clinging to his briefcase, and landed on his backside, much to the surprise of the seated passengers, on whose feet he had crashed. “Fucking hell!” he said as they picked him up. He wasn’t really hurt and at least his chatter slowed to a standstill.

We arrived at Victoria Station with only about fifteen minutes to train time, but Harold, who had already gotten his tickets, had the good sense to re-enter the line; he was thus well-situated to get tickets for the rest of us. We then had time to buy some cartons of juice and some coffee. When we got on our Oxted train Tosh went to sit in another compartment so she could read the paper in peace. Later I borrowed it to check up on the final returns from Thursday’s local government elections.

Our Uckfield train was waiting for us at Oxted and we began the slow run to Crowborough, arriving at 9:50. Here we were greeted at last by Soledad Sprackling, who had stood us up twice before. She was waving to us from her car, which she would later reclaim as we returned from Buxted. In front of the station there was a lady cab driver from the Wealden Taxi Company. I asked her if she was free and we had a discussion about how to get us near the starting point for this day’s walk. She was a very accommodating and cheerful person, who let five people and a dog squeeze into space for four. Tosh sat on Harold’s lap.

We headed north through Crowborough and over Marden’s Hill, with many thoughts of brave Sally, whom we had unseated here on March 17. At the bottom of the hill we reached the B2188 at Friar’s Gate and I asked the cabbie to head north in search of a road to Fisher’s Gate. We passed it and she had to turn around to let us off. I think she could have continued forward, in spite of the no through road sign, but if I had correctly identified this as our road, I knew it wouldn’t be too long before we were back on the Wealdway.

Only one car passed us as we climbed uphill on a metaled track – Toby already off lead. The weather was warm; it was a brilliant, cloud-free sunny day that stopped just short of being hot. The ladies were wearing shorts but, although I had mine with me, I never got a chance to put them on. Wildflowers, especially bluebells, were much in evidence today. Moving slowly up the road amid the pines, we had a lovely start to the walk. Soon I could see the hamlet of Fisher’s Gate and even a bit of the Wealdway heading in our direction between fence posts. I had guessed right. In a few minutes we were in front on the white cottage with the church windows. It was time to see if I could get us beyond this spot without getting as thoroughly lost as last time.

In addition to my neglect of the compass at this critical point I now knew that I had also been misled by the forest itself. The guidebooks seemed to indicate that we were to keep on the right side of the woods before turning into them. But a whole hillside had been harvested and this desire to keep trees on the left could not be fulfilled. There was a Wealdway sign pointing forward but none at a critical junction, where I now proposed to take us downhill to the right. Almost as soon as I did this I could see the pond and the house we had failed to locate last time. Things began to look up almost immediately.

There was a man on a tractor working on the bare slopes on our left and Tosh interrogated him on his presence here. He was not building houses, it transpired, just clearing the ditch. The road we were walking on was also receiving the attentions of some tarmac men. Talking to them was a chap with three dogs; these ran up to check out Toby, who had to see them off when they got too personal. Two of the animals were young Rasta dogs, Pulis, and the third, a russet colored hound, was a Vizsla. It wasn’t too hard to figure out that their owner was a Hungarian. He asked me for a translation of the Cyrillic on my Gorby t-shirt (glasnost and perestroika). A fourth dog was racing up and down inside his fence as we inched around the tarmac men and spotted the entrance to Kovacks’ Lodge. Kovacks’ dogs continued to follow us uphill and we were worried about getting rid of them. “We’ll never find a taxi big enough for all of them,” Harold remarked – thinking back to our North Downs Way adventures with Skip in Canterbury.

A five-barred gate, which the nattering women had missed in their chatter, was a sign that we were now to turn off into the Five Hundred Acre Wood. The turn, which I had looked for in vain a half a mile away from here, was well-marked. We left the new track shortly after seeing the last of the Hungarian dogs, and continued uphill on a delightful path, encountering the first of dozens of Wealdway marking posts, 30-inch stakes with the line of the march notched on the top.

I very much enjoyed this isolated walk though the bluebell covered woodland, a wood dear to the imagination of millions of children as the home of Winnie the Pooh and all of his pals. Sun broke through as we reached high ground and followed sandy tracks in a southerly direction, with Greenwood Gate Clump serving as a beacon before us. Poor Soledad had to get through a spirited quizzing on the affairs of the foreign language department. Tosh even got her to admit her age. “Hey,” I said, “at the American School we have the Fifth Amendment.”

We encountered a beagle, a King Charles Spaniel, and a model airplane in flight near the top of the hill. Here we entered Greenwood Gate Clump (at 732 feet the highest spot on the Wealdway) for a nice rest and snacks. I drank a carton of juice but the others all had their first sandwiches. Toby, who seemed to be doing well in spite of the heat, had some water and chased some pinecones.

After a nice rest we continued our southern march, leaving the cover of the trees and proceeding over open heathland down to the B2026. We crossed over to the drive to Old Lodge, which we could soon see on our right, and took a half left to walk along a wide bridle trail. There were several riders about but Toby took no interest. A lone horsewoman in a crash helmet complained about the heat but refused our offer of water. In the opposite direction a trio came cantering toward us, with one equestrienne in a tube top demonstrating mammary bouncing most agreeably. We also met five young girl backpackers who were planning to sleep out.

We climbed to the top of Camp Hill and had a rest on benches. I had discovered from my OS Map that there was a pub not far off route, though still a little over two miles way. It was not yet 12:30 so I proposed we make an attempt to reach it. We had to make a sharp left at the Camp Hill trig point and head downhill to cross the B2026 again and head east on a busy road for several hundred yards. Soon there was a turnoff that put us back onto moorland. But from now on there would be a mixed countryside: farms, suburbia, and woods without too much steep up and down. We had to keep a sharp lookout for the twists and turns of the route as it dodged around villas and over driveways but things seemed very well marked.

We met a large party of geriatric ramblers, some in their seventies, as we headed downhill to a footbridge. We asked them about the pub but they seemed more intent on ice cream. We passed lovely Brown’s Brook Cottage and walked along its access road. Then we were directed back onto open heathland (where Soledad and Tosh missed a turnoff and had to be summoned by a weak blast on my whistle) on a route that brought us out onto the road at Oldland’s Corner. With the ornate gates of Oldland’s Hall behind us we continued west on tarmac, ignoring the WW turnoff, and continuing on for about a third of a mile into the village of Fairwarp.

Here we spotted the awnings of the Forester’s Arms, which was happy to have dogs inside, and so we sat down at a cool table and had about an hour-long respite from the heat. Most of us drank lager, though I switched to lemonade after my pint. Three of us had jumbo sausages in a roll. Toby got a little of the sausage and some of my ice cubes. He seemed content to have a rest. Tosh wanted some ice cream and some coffee so our departure was delayed. An impatient Soledad attacked her own sandwiches at this point, but the overworked publican (who was desperately seeking bar staff) turned a blind eye.

In the parking lot there was a Morgan and an MG and a Vauxhall with a whining burglar alarm. Dorothy cajoled the MG owner into letting her pose with his car for a photo. I noticed from a sign on a telegraph pole that some villager was missing her tortoise. We began to walk back to our turnoff point and soon we were in woodland again. Toby was doing quite well and whenever there was a stream, as at the entrance to Furnace Wood, he sniffed it out and had a drink.

After we had huffed up the trail in Furnace Wood we came out at a stile into a green field. We kept some cottages on our right; there was a naked swimming party going on in the backyard of one of these places but the participants were only about two or three. We emerged onto a track at Hendall Manor, a handsome house whose yellow door Dorothy objected to. After a tricky gate she had a new objection; Friesian cows, wandering loose on our track, were coming over to have a look at us. But Toby gave a warning bark when they got too close and they backed off, much to the relief of the dog’s mistress.

We crossed another grassy field diagonally, Toby running ahead to greet some children who were sitting at our next stile. As we headed downhill toward Hendall Wood Toby left the thin trod in the grass and cut diagonally down to the bottom. To the amazement of Soledad he had sniffed out the correct route, which we soon saw for ourselves, climbing up through the wood from a stile.

At the top we had a rest and I gave the dog some water. Soledad gave Toby a piece of banana and then threw the skin away into the bushes, undoubtedly to Tosh’s disapproval, on the grounds that it was biodegradable. Here we also decided to aim for the 4:46 train from Buxted, although this did require us to keep up a pretty good pace for a little over two miles. Another open grassy field beckoned. There was no path but I followed the line of the footpath arrow from the stile – and overtook all the others, who had taken a more circuitous route around the edge of the field.

We had to climb a fallen tree to escape this field. Then we continued behind back gardens until we hit tarmac. Our route paralleled a busy road on the left; eventually pathway gave out and we were pushed out onto asphalt at a junction that is Five Ash Down. Here we had to cross over to the garage and continue past a pile of motor parts until we could escape to walk along field edges, over several stiles and past the chicken wire of back gardens until we were able to descend to the A272 Haywards Heath-Buxted Road.

There now followed a mile or so of road walking, first uphill, then downhill, then uphill again. Fortunately there was a pavement for pedestrians. We passed the entrance to Buxted Park and here we said goodbye for the day to the Wealdway; after all of our problems last time we had never put a foot wrong today. Tosh took Toby on this stretch, perhaps as a guarantee that we wouldn’t dawdle. We were all assembled at Buxted station at 4:36, ten minutes early. Soledad refused to buy a ticket on the grounds that she pays two and half grand for her season ticket on British Rail.

We waved goodbye to her when our train got to Crowborough. A long and tedious journey had to be endured as we returned to London. First there was the milk train to Oxted, then a wait, then a train to Victoria (not a soul examined any tickets today). Then when we had descended to the Victoria Line we were advised that the train would not be stopping at Oxford Circus so we went back upstairs to try the Circle Line and the machine ate my tube ticket. A guard gave me another but we still had to argue our way through the next barriers. Then there was a ten minute wait for the Circle Line and this was long enough for a businesswoman from New York (who grew up with Schnauzers) to attach herself to us and to inform us about diseases of old age in the breed. We did some shopping in Maida Vale before returning to the flat after a return journey that had lasted the better part of three hours!

To continue with the next stage of our walk you need:

Day 7: Buxted to East Hoathly