September 7, 1991: Buxted to East Hoathly
Old Whyly
At the end of the first week of the fall term, that is on September 7, 1991, I returned to the Wealdway with Tosh and Harold. They received a rapturous greeting from Toby near the ticket window at Victoria. Toby had just made friends with a plump woman in black. “Do you suppose he knows I’m a nurse?” she asked.
We departed on the 8:36 East Grinstead train, changing to a waiting connection at Oxted after forty minutes or so. There was no conductor on this service so we let Toby share our seats but he kept pestering the Lees for attention and petting.
Outside our compartment we could see cloudless skies. When we alighted at Buxted at 10:00 the sun was already warm but there was a cool breeze to keep things from getting too unpleasantly hot. This was just as well because we were going to cross a lot of open country today.
Tosh stopped to get a pamphlet from the stationmaster while Harold and I stood in the parking lot entrance – which we had reached almost a year ago with Soledad Sprackling. The Lees had been away for most of the year and I had not wanted to continue on this route without both of them – since they had each, for once, completed every stage of the Wealdway so far.
We had to use the A272 to retrace out steps to the entrance to Buxted Park. Here we entered the ornamental gateway of the parkland and headed south. The dog remained on lead, as he did for much of the day, because we were walking along the access road to Buxted Park House. First we passed the parish church – where I paused to take a photograph. I seemed to have my hands full today since I was carrying the guidebook, the dog’s lead, and the camera. I have been trying to get away from hoisting the latter over my neck; it is not comfortable at any time and especially on a warm day like today inevitably it discolors whatever t-shirt I am wearing. I was able to wear only my Battle of The Bands t-shirt from the first to the last moment today.
Buxted Park House (“Dogs on lead”) had become a very posh country hotel. We didn’t linger long in its expensive environs but headed on grassland toward a distant stile with the first WW marker of the day. I could see another walker with a dog off lead so I let Toby get up to full speed for the first time today. We should have taken a sharp left but the map made it look like we had to go as far as another stile before turning to the east. I was surprised that there was no WW marker at the turnoff but I followed the path anyway; it did curve to the east but as it did so I could see the cottage we should have been passing off to our left. I persevered, however, and we soon arrived at a north-south path I took to be the Wealdway.
We crossed a footbridge, as indicated on the map, and continued forward along the edge of a large sports field. On our left was a polluted stretch of water that I took to be the Uck (and so it was, in many ways). The field was not indicated on the map, so I was a bit anxious until we began to pass along a suburban alleyway, emerging at Hempstead Mill, as expected. I took a picture of the mill, which we would visit again after an off-route detour to Uckfield, and then I looked for a suggested continuation across fields to Hempstead Lane. We soon discovered that a new housing estate had changed the area beyond recognition. We had to go back to the mill and follow the lane, Toby on lead, all the way.
Tosh stopped to have a conference on edging with a lady gardener. When she caught up with us we continued forward toward the town. A new street into the housing estate had to be ignored as we followed the old lane, tarmaced throughout. The guidebook suggests a variation across a schoolyard but we continued on the lane all the way to the high street. I turned right here to have a look at Hooke Hall, another lovely residence turned into a private hotel. Tosh disappeared across the street to sneak into a hotel loo.
We then headed down hill toward the railway station, where I hoped to find a local taxi that could pick us up at 4:40 in East Hoathly at the end of our walk. The streets were crowded not only with Saturday shoppers but, since this was carnival day in Uckfield, all sorts of costumed participants, shaking change buckets to remind passersby of the charitable nature of the enterprise. At the bottom of the hill, opposite the station, there was a pub and Tosh went in, at 11:30, to see if they did food. I noticed a minicab nearby and made my arrangements for the 4:40 pickup.
The Prince Regent didn’t serve hot food until 12:00 but they agreed to make us some roast beef sandwiches and they had no objection to the dog coming into the pub. This permitted us to move from an outdoor table facing A22 traffic to the quiet of an inside table. We each had half a lager. The barman was a young guy with a shaved punk hairdo, an earring and a huge nose accenting a pink face. Shortly after noon we headed past the hurdy-gurdy and waded through fairy princesses and real estate men in harem outfits and lots of snarling dogs in order to reach the relative peace of Hempstead Lane. It was now quite warm as we headed northwest back to the mill. The garden lady was still at work.
There now followed several hours of very careful route-finding, with the guidebook map always at hand. We were directed along an enclosed path, quite overgrown, and into a large field adjacent to a goose farm. There was one horse loose in this field and I put the dog on lead. Unfortunately the horse wanted to follow us and the Lees had visions of the pack-munching steed we had encountered once on Offa’s Dyke Path. We escaped the attentions of this beast by crossing a plank bridge, protected by a fallen tree. Unfortunately a horse in the field above also found us intriguing and galloped down his hill at full tilt. He stayed behind to have a confab with his friend across the bridge.
We headed uphill, using stiles to gain the upper reaches of the farm. Instead of a stile and steps down to the railway all we could see were farm vehicles. I tried a left-hand diversion and found what I was looking for. It was eerily quiet on the trackbed as we crossed to the other side and climbed up a second set of steps. A WW arrow gave us the right angle as we crossed an empty field but I had to keep my eyes open to find a narrow slit in the foliage of a wood where the route (it is not fair to call it a path) snaked inside. We walked through a cool copse and emerged on a paved road, where we turned left. Again the dog had to go on lead.
I was beginning to wonder how many additional route-finding difficulties might delay our progress but on the road we made up for lost time, especially when it headed downhill. Just before reaching a stream we crossed a stile and entered a cow field. I stopped here to clip my sunglasses on and re-tie my shoes. Toby, as a salute to times gone by, took the opportunity to roll in a fresh cow pie. He carried a yellow stain on his front right shoulder and the cowflop had discolored an ear and his collar too – both Harold and I got our hands in the muck in the initial stages of this adventure. Eventually most of it wore off.
As we continued east along the stream bank I spotted some cows ahead and put the dog on lead – I didn’t want him to drink from the foul waters anyway. We were looking for a bridge over this scummy water and found it. It didn’t have a WW sign on it but the continuation of the path on the opposite side lead to a stile that did have the characteristic yellow splash. Sheep got up and permitted us to advance on this structure. We moved forward through fields to a road.
Some quite ancient buildings seemed to be perched over the stream on our right but we continued forward, crossing many a stile and one more road. Toby, when he was free, enjoyed being the first to assault the stiles. Occasionally there was chicken wire in the fence and he had to wait for assistance but once he leapt over the fence, using the step on the near side and jumping directly into some shrubbery that choked the other. I had to rescue him from the awkward position in which he had landed, but he seemed all right.
We turned right at a pond and entered the precincts of Tickerage Mill (“dogs on leash”). This was a delightfully rural collection of dwellings whose access road we used to ascend a hill. I’m sorry we turned right at a house called Pippins. First there was a growling dog that I had to cajole into acquiescence. Then the route disappeared in some hedges and paddocks and we had to escape to the B2012 by climbing though a wooden fence. Then we decided to undertake a detour to a nearby pub; this meant that we passed the Tickerage access road on our way east.
The pub was the famous Blackboys Inn and I had studied how to reach it on the Ordnance Survey map. It took us only ten minutes or so as we turned right on a suburban street and walked a few blocks down to the B2192. We had been making good time and everyone felt like a drink. The place had a friendly atmosphere, with plenty of animals about including chickens, which Toby, tied to our bench, tried to chase. Young girls kept emerging from the pub with plates of delicious smelling food and there were lots of families enjoying a weekend outing in the sun. I had a half lager, Tosh half a shandy and Harold a lemonade. They ate cookies and I peeled a hardboiled egg for the dog. Naturally he took it out of his dish and dusted it with dirt before eating it.
I didn’t want our troops to get too settled because we still had four miles or so to go and it was well past two. I thought I knew a short cut back to the WW so we left by heading southwest on the B2192. I had noted on the OS map that there was a lane leading from the highway over to a paved road. My first attempt to find it put me in someone’s driveway but the next turning (marked Duckings) wound around a garage and headed west as I had hoped. I grew more confident by the moment and was very relieved to arrive at tarmac. We turned right and in a few hundred yards found a WW sign in a hedgerow.
We now headed southwest along the edge of another hedge and when it disappeared we continued in the direction of a wood. A gap in the woodland put us out into a most surprising scene: landscaped parkland that had recently been mowed. We had reached the much-photographed New Place, whose Tudored facade and topiary beckoned us forward. Ponds, lakes and streams (but without the daffodils) provided a most delightful setting for the sculptured yew hedges. Toby kept running across the little ornamental bridges but our route required us to head southwest away from the quiet splendor and ascend a steep stile into a cornfield.
I ignored the dogs on lead sign here: there were hardly likely to be loose animals in the corn. Fortunately our way forward was easy to see; we followed a dirt road until reaching some trees, then a thin path across a field and up to a road. The stile was very overgrown but we battled over it and descended to the busy B2192. Here we took a brief left, walking on the verge, and then took a right on a minor road.
Just past a nearby bungalow the WW crosses a field at an angle and uses a stile to penetrate a hedge. When I came down into the next field I discovered impenetrable corn. The farmer had left no way for walkers through or around his crop. Fortunately there was a landmark to head for, a “band of scrub with stream in dip.” We could see the trees of this band and so we headed toward the stream, walking between rows. The leaves cut and slashed at us and Tosh ended up with a cut on the lip. Our angle, I knew, was not that of the WW, which aims diagonally across the field so at one point I made a sharp left and walked in an easterly direction among the rows. I emerged eventually at the edge of the scrub but there was no path and the ground was quite rough. I continued along the edge of the field, searching for a path down to the stream, returning to walk inside the corn for better footing. The Lees were growing quite uneasy about all this, especially Tosh, who has a special affection for corn, and I was growing desperate. Just as I was about to give up I found my crossing.
With great relief we descended to the stream and climbed steeply up the other bank. At the top we found an empty field visited only by the muck spreader. We crunched over this surface and crossed a road, with power lines to guide us on the right. Again there was a stream and again I had trouble locating the crossing. “One of you look to the right, the other the left,” I urged as the Lees both headed off in the same direction. Tosh soon found the bridge hidden behind a fallen tree.
At the top of this bank there was more toasted muck on straw. I could see that, after our wandering in the corn wilderness, we were only just going to make it to East Hoathly in time for our cab so I charged up the hill on this crunchy surface, heading for a solitary tree mentioned in the guidebook. We couldn’t see any path when we reached it and Harold wanted to head left to a stile but the map clearly indicated a right turn here so we headed right and I could soon see a double stile and bridge. Then there was a large empty field with power lines. We had to walk between two pylons, pass an overgrown pond, and head uphill to a stile into a wood.
From this point things became much more straightforward and I began to relax a bit. We walked on a track through Great Wood and emerged at the rails of a horse farm, Old Whyly. Then a grassy track led us downhill, with views of the village on our left. We passed the last paddock and used the farm’s access road to reach the A22. Then we used a track and some village paths to reach the church. A man was walking his dog but he let us pass so that we wouldn’t lose our momentum – but the latter was twice interrupted. First Toby started favoring his left rear leg and we paused to see if he had a thorn. Harold carefully untied some vines that had wrapped themselves around his foot and Toby soon recovered his original pace. Next I couldn’t find the access path down to the Foresters Arms and we had a bit of a detour before emerging again on the A22 – just south of the pub.
It was exactly 4:40 and I could see our minicab waiting. Toby got to sit behind the back seat of this station wagon as we zoomed back to Uckfield. We heard all about the carnival from our driver, who soon had us back at the same railside pub we had lunched in. There was time for another half lager. The pub regulars were making a fuss over a very tired dog, especially after he had a barking match with an Alsatian. “You have a very fearsome dog,” one tattooed gap-toothed beer-bellied local said, stroking Toby, who was lying flat out on the floor.
When it was time to board the 5:12 we crossed the street and prepared to do so – but there was no train. A guard came by a bit later to say it was on its way, but it was about twenty minutes late when it pulled in. Tosh and Harold each got into a separate compartment but I called them back so that we could agree on a single carriage. Toby fell asleep in Harold’s lap and the rest of us were soon dozing too. We missed our connection at Oxted and had to sit on the platform eating the last of our snacks for about fifteen minutes.
As I was taking off my clip-on sunglasses during my ride on the Victoria line I noticed, to my considerable annoyance, that the troublesome right lens of my wire-rimmed glasses was missing. How and when I had lost it remains a mystery but I was most perplexed. The dog seemed to take forever to finish the length of Grantully while my headache, a product of eyestrain and sun, grew more intense. I was certainly glad to get home.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: