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By Colin Walford
Day One Route: Bridstow to Bream Distance: 16m (25.8km) Elevation: 200ft (61m) to 482ft (146.8m) Next 
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If at first, you don’t succeed…. ....
In the end, it all started rather abruptly.
I had been toying with the idea of another attempt at a walk I had cobbled together myself — a route taking me from my front door to the south coast by as southerly a line as I could manage, using established trails, public walkways and, occasionally, the less attractive option of a busy A-road. I had tried to complete it in June and my feet had capitulated within two days, leaving me the easier and less painful option of continuing south by taxi, bus and hitch-hiker's thumb. It had turned out to be a pleasant enough interlude, but the thought had nagged at me since returning home that I hadn't really done it. I was determined to put this right.
The final decision was made within moments. I saw, looking at the work rota one evening, that I had eight days off coming up. The next day I went shopping for food supplies, plasters and batteries for my head torch. I didn't talk about the second attempt much and it was only when I obliquely tweeted about it a week or so before setting out that friends and family became aware of my intentions.
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Starting Out |
The night before I started, I checked my kit carefully — especially my new, lighter tent and air mattress. I had become convinced that the disintegration of my toes on the first attempt was largely due to the rucksack weighing in at eighteen kilograms. I had met a fellow walker on that first day who mentioned he had walked from London to York carrying kit of a mere eleven kilos. I couldn't get mine below thirteen, but this felt comfortable and manageable.
The day itself dawned warm and sunny, as it had three months earlier. This was welcome but also a source of vague concern — a pessimistic voice muttered about heat causing my feet to swell inside the boots. Nothing to be done about it. I locked up the the cottage and stood on my doorstep. The garden flowers were nodding at me sagely. The gardener was noisily strimming the hedges and annoying me as I tried to record my intentions on the camcorder. Everything was exactly as it was on any other morning and very few people knew I was attempting to walk to the coast. The suddenness of the decision and the arrival of the day left me feeling slightly strange, as if I wasn't going far at all but merely stepping out for a local stroll. I hefted my pack onto my shoulders and looked at my watch as I walked up the path. Five past ten.
This time, I promised myself, I was going to have a bloody good go at it.
The farmer's field literally across the lane from my cottage gave me an immediate clear view of the hills I would be encountering at Welsh Bicknor — Tump's, Coppet, Huntsham. They looked quite far away, but I knew from experience how quickly distance gives way at even a steady pace. I'd be amongst them in about three hours.
A narrow lane took me down past the Claytons estate and over Poolmill Bridge. An even narrower one swept me upward across the A49. I crossed my first field — the first of many — and reached Weirend Farm, nestled beside the A40, which was as always sonorous with traffic at high speed. Somehow I managed to walk amongst the farm buildings rather than around them as I should have done, and came upon a gardener standing on a lawn, who watched me stop and consult my map with obvious uncertainty. I glanced up at him and he offered an apologetic shrug, as if we shared a common problem with the whole affair. I found the track I needed and followed it down through a subway, under the A40, emerging beside the River Wye flanked by a belt of trees.
Clear of the trees and out over an open field, the long grass — still heavy with dew — immediately found its way inside my walking boots. I stopped and wriggled wet toes. These were Gore-Tex boots that I had treated with water-resistant spray the day before. I sincerely hoped this was a one-off.
I followed the winding river for about three quarters of an hour, enjoying the warmth of the day and receiving companionable little waves from canoeists gliding past. I stopped briefly at a pebbled stretch of bank, the sight of which reminded me of one of my walking traditions. I bent down and selected a smooth stone small enough to sit comfortably in my trouser pocket. This would accompany me all the way to Chesil Beach, where I would select a beach stone to bring home in its place.
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The River Wye near Glewstone |
A lane then stole all my hard-won height as it swept me down toward Goodrich. I approached some workmen where the lane broadened and one of them made his way into the centre of the tarmac with deliberate ponderousness, effectively blocking me. I prepared to plead my case, expecting an enforced diversion.
"Walking far?" he asked, in a friendly Welsh accent.
How to answer this without sounding unbearably smug? Yes squire, I’m walking a hundred miles or so to the Dorset coast. Care to tag along? I scaled it down a little. "I'm walking to Bream today. Heard of it?"
He nodded, catching the inflection. "Today?"
So I told him about my plan and he seemed genuinely interested and pleased. He asked if this was my hobby and I thought about it and said that I supposed it was. "I can't afford holidays abroad," I told him, "so I decided there's plenty to discover in our own country and this is a cheap way of doing it."
He nodded and wished me good luck. I walked on, relieved to have an uncomplicated route into Goodrich. I arrived and went, with some anticipation, to The Cross Keys for a refreshing pint. A firmly locked door informed me I was out of luck. I wandered on to Goodrich Castle, instead,
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Goodrich Castle |
The Keep is the highest and oldest part — built around 1150 — and I decided I had to reach the top for the view. The stairs wound around a central column and were both very steep and ludicrously narrow, requiring me to bend almost double and scrabble upward on hands and knees, my rucksack scraping and snarling on the stonework at frequent intervals. I tumbled out at the top sweating and complaining quietly to myself about the tiny stature of people from medieval centuries.
The view was pleasing and I put my map down on the battlement so I could film freely and do some commentary. A small amber light should, at this point, have begun flashing in the bottom left-hand corner of my consciousness. I filmed and talked about the castle's history. Then I pointed out the difficulty of descending the cramped stairs and said to the camcorder that I'd give it a go while recording. I started down, filming precariously. The amber light should by now have been blinking rapidly and insistently. Back at the bottom, I continued exploring the courtyard and portcullis and the howitzer gun — made locally in 1646 to break the siege deadlock, squat and ugly and wide-mouthed in the courtyard like an oversized cooking pot — and a collection of roundshot discovered in the moat by workmen in the 1920s.
Pleased with my explorations, I made my leave. Walking back toward the car park, I thought to myself that I'd better consult the map to see where to go next. As the thought occurred to me, so did the instant realisation.
I had left the map on the battlement of the Keep.
I fairly stomped back uphill, scowling at myself. The stairs were no easier second time around, and considerably more of a chore given that they shouldn't have been necessary. My rucksack snagged on the low ceiling as I reached the top steps, requiring me to heave forward with my whole body weight before I was suddenly free, tumbling onto the keep on hands and knees and startling an elderly couple who had been admiring the view. The gentleman watched me retrieve the map — which I swiped a little savagely from the wall.
"We were wondering whose that was," he offered. "About the worst place you could have left it."
They smiled sympathetically, asked where I was heading, peppered me with comments of the *jolly well done* and *bravo* variety as if I had already completed the walk and returned triumphant, and the lady assured me that the weather looked promising for the whole week, with the exception of next Monday. They wished me luck and I descended for the final time, considerably warmer than I had been going up.
I took the road out of Goodrich, past the hills I had seen that morning from my doorstep, and soon found myself on Huntsham Bridge looking at Symonds Yat — my next destination. I walked along the riverbank until a sweeping curve brought me to Elliot's Wood, acquiring more nettle rash on an overgrown, steep track along the way. The wood offered pleasant relief from the heat as I climbed past Symonds Yat Rock, unseen up in the trees to my right. I joined part of the Wye Valley Walk for a while and decided to stop for lunch when I broke free of the wood onto an open stretch of riverbank — too lovely a spot to pass by. Before eating, I removed my boots and wet socks to let my feet breathe. An ex-army workmate had assured me this was a good habit to build in at every stop. My feet felt instantly better. I dried the socks in the baking sun, ate,
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The River Wye at Symonds Yat |
A long climbing track through Court Wood gave an open valley view to the left and an increase in gradient that had me gritting my teeth. The track turned back on itself at Rosemary Topping and led to a lane toward Bicknor Court, then off across fields again amongst rolls of harvested hay sealed in black plastic — autumn was imminent. The stiles along these public walkways were suffering from severe farmer neglect, hidden in undergrowth, guarded by brambles and nettles. The word *bastards* began entering my vocabulary with increasing frequency. Two women in a field with a chestnut horse noticed me twisting my map around with a vague expression. "I think you want the next field along," one of them said, in a tone that suggested they were experienced in redirecting inept walkers.
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On the way to Chapel Hill |
All was well at first, but I gradually seemed to wander off course in the edge of the Forest by Little Drybrook, where glades all looked identical. I asked a woman walking her dog for directions to Bream, and a little further on a man locking up a warehouse where two train carriages were slowly rotting and rusting alongside it. He pointed me through a wood which, I noted with some weariness, immediately climbed. The muddy track brought me by a row of houses and then quite suddenly onto the main street of Bream. It was quarter past seven and I was relieved to have arrived. It took me a while to find a campsite — a small grassy area on the fringe of woodland, a row of houses across a narrow track, whose inhabitants appeared to have settled in for the evening.
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Coleford Town Centre |
I got chatting to a couple at the next table, maybe ten years older than me. The woman was friendly, originally from Wolverhampton, picking up on my Midlands accent. Her husband was unimpressed by the high-tempo dance track with its incessant chirping accompaniment that was playing loudly in the bar.
"Sounds like a budgie being kicked around a room," he complained, which made his wife laugh.
I wandered back to my tent to discover that the row of houses had come alive. Several pissed teenagers were in a garden, loud music thumping, a barbecue going. I had to negotiate my way around a pimply couple snogging deeply in the middle of the track. I skulked unobtrusively toward my tent, aware of being watched by a few of the group as I disappeared into the trees.
Once inside and in my sleeping bag, I was jolted from the edge of sleep by several lads who took off into the woods at a charge, whooping and torchlit on Red Bull and hormones. I lay beneath the thin walls of the tent and waited for the inevitable moment they would crash on top of me from the darkness. They gave up the game within minutes and I was able, finally, to settle.
Daily Tweets
- Actually got a signal in the pub in Bream. A good day's walking, bloody tired now mind. Tent pitched at the edge of some woodland.
- Feet have held up, bar a sore area on the sole of my left foot. Some work required in the morning. Pub is called The Rising Sun.
- Not buzzing, even for a Friday night. Dance music with chirpy-type sound going on hasn't impressed one of the older regulars.
- "Sounds like a Budgie being kicked around a room," I overheard him tell his missus.
For a full profile of the route (PDF format) click here
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