The Ridgeway West - Day 3

The Ridgeway - West

By Mark Walford Day Three Route:Letcombe Regis to Goring on Thames Distance: 16m (26km) Elevation: 748ft (228m) to 134ft (41m) Climbing (ascent and descent): 629ft (192m) and 1223ft (373m) Prev

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Memorials, flint and affluence ...

Breakfast offered some unusual menu items, one of which was shakshuka — a Middle Eastern dish of spicy tomato sauce and poached eggs. I opted for it out of curiosity, and unexpectedly the others followed suit. It turned out to be excellent, even allowing for the oddness of it as a breakfast choice. I liked it enough to download the recipe afterward, and have made it several times since.
Meanwhile Jess had got chatty with some fellow diners and discovered that one of them had also opted out of the day's walking. She was getting a taxi to Goring and invited Jess to share the fare, which was happily accepted.
Our own cabs arrived on time, and Jess and her new companion set off for Goring with a smile and, I suspect, a quiet sense of relief at not having to walk sixteen miles in soaring heat. Colin had meanwhile vanished. Bod and I stood in the courtyard while the driver left her engine idling and glanced meaningfully at her watch. Colin eventually reappeared, muttering something about his bladder leaking — the one in his rucksack, I assumed — and we were whisked off, back up the steep lane that tops out at the dusty crossroads.
While making our final adjustments I noticed the couple from Monday evening, the only other guests at the forlorn bar-guesthouse. They were doing the Ridgeway as well, it turned out, and for such a popular walk they were the only other people we encountered following the same route from start to finish.
We set off for the final day. The familiar white track and hedgerows led us away from Letcombe Regis and out across south Oxfordshire, the sun beating down from a clear sky and offering sixteen miles of being baked and gently sunburnt. I had remembered to pack my cooling towel this time, and it proved a crucial piece of kit. Wet through and snapped taut a few times, it cooled down with something close to magic and stayed pleasantly cold for an hour or more. I wore it like a scarf all day and became thoroughly addicted to its cold embrace.
The taxi driver had warned us about a stretch of A-road we'd have to cross, advising caution and adding that many Ridgeway walkers opt to be dropped beyond it specifically to avoid the crossing. I wondered, a little cynically, whether she was hoping we'd take the same option and bump up her fare in the process. When we eventually reached the road — entirely empty of traffic — we walked perhaps ten yards alongside it, crossed, and left it behind. Almost anticlimactic.
The pattern for the day's walking established itself within the first hour.

The Wantage Memorial

I made my usual stops for photographs and filming, which inevitably put distance between me and the others. Colin, no longer accompanying Jess, stepped up to keep pace with Bod — ahead of me now rather than behind. Sometimes they dwindled out of sight altogether; sometimes I caught up with them resting at a water stop or taking in a view. I was in no danger of getting lost and was happy enough left to my own devices. I passed a strange collection of buildings just beyond a small wooded copse — utilitarian, almost militaristic in feel, with something faintly foreboding about them. I looked for any sign of life in the many vacant windows and found none.
A few minutes later I caught up with Colin and Bod at a crossroads bordered by open grassy fields. We had all heard a strange low thrumming from somewhere above and stood scanning the horizon together. I remarked that it sounded almost like a Tangerine Dream track — low, pulsating, faintly organic. It turned out to be a military helicopter, which eventually appeared overhead and droned away westward like an enormous, sonorous dragonfly.
Shortly after this we came across a memorial of sorts — a stone pillar topped with a weathered cross. The Wantage Memorial, erected for Robert Loyd-Lindsay, 1st Baron Wantage, co-founder of the British Red Cross. An odd, remote spot to site such a thing — its only audience surely Ridgeway walkers and the occasional passing cow — but impressive nonetheless.
The scenery had shifted subtly, so I paused once more to remark on it to camera. The open views had closed in, the great plains below now invisible, replaced by larger trees and thicker hedgerows — quintessential rural England. I set off again, and predictably, within half an hour we were back on the wide white path, open grassy meadow stretching away on either side, the sweeping views restored.
For a few pleasant miles we all walked together, enjoying the sense of space and the great blue dome of sky overhead. This was a busier stretch — dog walkers, day hikers, horse riders, even a police car patrolling up and down across the turf, its officers pausing

A break for lunch

to make sure we were keeping hydrated. There could have been no finer spot for lunch, so we found a suitable grassy verge and reclined gratefully, watching horses and dogs and people pass by, drowsing in the warmth, idly speculating on how many miles remained. Bod reckoned we were well over halfway.
When we got moving again I noticed Colin rise on stiff and sore legs, and was relieved to discover I wasn't the only one feeling the accumulated mileage. Bod, as ever, seemed entirely unaffected.
Toward the end of this grassy plain, a young man approached us looking harassed and anxious. He had lost his dog and wanted to know if we'd seen a young Labrador running loose. We hadn't, and hoped he'd find her soon. As he hurried off, I looked at Bod.
"Let's hope it doesn't get into a sheep field," he said, echoing exactly what I had been thinking.
The grassy plain ended abruptly at a track leading down through scrubby woodland to a concrete underpass — incongruous in these surroundings, carrying the traffic of the busy A34 over our heads. It was wide and broad, its walls painted, with some genuine skill, by local villagers. The murals depicted historical scenes, the paint peeling away in patches over time, giving the whole thing a faintly dystopian air.
Leaving the muted roar of traffic behind, we entered a section of the Ridgeway that began to undulate and twist, lined with scrubby trees and gorse-like shrubs. The confinement only raised the humidity, so the steeper sections demanded more from already tired legs. We began encountering small groups of cyclists — not previously a feature of the walk — rattling past in gaudy Lycra and wraparound shades. We reached a little hollow in the trail and decided to stop and rehydrate.
Without any real discussion, we all simply lay back and dozed in the shade of a small dense tree.
Through closed eyes I registered the murmur and buzz of insects, the occasional swish of a passing bike, and the gentle sound of a snoring Bod. After a while I became aware of something settling on my face, opened my eyes, and discovered that the tree above us was releasing clouds of billowing seeds wrapped in white gossamer thread. We were all liberally dusted and the seeds clung to us stubbornly for quite some time.
The trail continued twisting and undulating before widening and levelling out again on high ground, the compacted white soil so typical of this walk underfoot once more. I had noticed throughout the journey that certain sections were strewn with chips of flint, and had it in mind to pocket a few to bring home to Sue, who works them into jewellery. When I next caught up with Bod and Colin I spotted a particularly rich patch and decided to collect a few decent specimens. I leaned forward, my pack unpleasantly heavy on my shoulders, legs screaming their objection.
"Uuuurrrgghh — I don't like it, I don't like it, I don't LIKE IT!" I groaned, stooping ever lower, which amused Colin no end.
I managed a few good fragments and rose again, creaking and red-faced. Serves me right, probably — I'm fairly sure picking up flint along the route isn't strictly encouraged. In my defence, I can confirm that Sue made some lovely pendants out of the pieces.
As the day drew to a close, the trail changed character once more, descending gently as the chalk gave way to a woodland path beneath a tall, green canopy. The descent continued for some distance, Colin and Bod far ahead and out of sight. It was pleasantly cool under the trees and I fell into an easy pace behind a woman with two capering dogs some way ahead. Eventually I could see the trail running down to a T-junction with a metalled road, Bod and Colin already waiting there.
This road marked the end of the high trail we had been following for well over forty miles, and would carry us into the town of Goring, our fourth and final stop. We reached the outskirts and meandered through its winding streets, looking for the pub where Jess was waiting. As is always the case at the end of a long day's walking, the final stretch seemed to stretch like elastic, and Goring showed no particular hurry about delivering us to the banks of the Thames. We found a decent-looking pub along the way — not the right one,

Goring on Thames

but we were hot, tired and thirsty enough not to care — and stopped for a celebratory pint, congratulating ourselves on finishing before setting off again toward the river, where pleasure boats glided past and handsome properties lined the banks. Goring had a prosperous air about it, an understated but unmistakable hum of middle-class comfort. We passed a run of upmarket shopfronts before spotting Jess outside another pub, waving both arms to flag us down.
She had spent an enjoyable day in Goring with her new friend and had sampled a beer or two while waiting. We happily joined her, and spent a good while drinking cold beer and trading stories from the previous three days. We all agreed it would have been far too easy to lose the rest of the evening at that bar, so we reluctantly finished our drinks and made our slow, aching way to the side road where our accommodation waited.
Melrose Cottage was an unpretentious bed and breakfast run by a lovely woman named Rose, with a huge garden where Bod and I sat for a very civilised cup of tea while we chatted to her. I couldn't quite work out how a garden of that size was managed by one elderly woman on her own, until she mentioned she brought in help through the week — and sure enough, I soon spotted a youth trundling a wheelbarrow between two greenhouses, as if conjured specifically to answer the question.
Later we limped back into Goring for an excellent Indian meal, with the obligatory Indian beers, before returning to Melrose Cottage for an early night ahead of the long journey home.
We had thoroughly enjoyed our three days on the Ridgeway — its open views, its sense of accumulated history — and over a generous breakfast from Rose the next morning, we all made a loose, unspoken commitment to come back one day and finish the eastern section. Exactly when that might happen depends partly on Colin and Jess's next visit to the UK, so it remains an open-ended sort of promise. For my part, I can't wait to get back onto that ancient trail, dodgy knee and questionable fitness notwithstanding. Hopefully not in a heatwave next time, though — which probably means we'll be walking it through a deluge instead.
Such are the vagaries of English weather.

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The Ridgeway West - Day 2

The Ridgeway - West

By Mark Walford Day Two Route:Ogbourne St. George to Letcombe Regis Distance: 13m (21km) Elevation: 456ft (139m) to 902ft (275m) Climbing (ascent and descent): 1391ft (424m) and 1158ft (353m) Prev      Next

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Barrows, horse rumps and peep shows ...

Despite the less than favourable impression our accommodation had given the night before, they redeemed themselves considerably by sending us off with the best packed lunch of the entire walk. A strange place, all in all — disappointing in almost every visible respect, and then quietly generous in the one that mattered most.
We were ferried back to the start via taxi and set off again along the familiar wide chalk-packed path. For a few miles little changed in scenery, and it was another hot day, already warm despite the early hour. I fell in with Jess for a stretch and we talked about this and that — a rare opportunity for me, since I don't see nearly as much of Colin and Jess as I'd like. Colin has lived in Massachusetts for several years now and I have yet to make the trip out to stay with them at their place, so time alone with Jess is a genuine rarity, and a pleasure.

Colin and Jess on the trail

She told me how much she loved England in spring — the skylarks, the hedgerows, even the smell of the countryside, which she insisted was sweet and earthy and pleasant in a way rural America generally isn't, tending as it does toward something more farmyard in character.
Bod had mentioned Wayland's Smithy on our first evening, though I'd been only half listening, so when the others diverted off the main path ahead of me I was momentarily puzzled. I reached an information board describing the site, fully intending to just sit and wait rather than follow them down — but the board described the place in such enticing detail that I found myself walking the short woodland track to the clearing where it lay.
I found my companions seated on a stone wall, saying nothing, simply absorbing the place. Wayland's Smithy is a long barrow — a burial chamber completed over five thousand years ago. Its entrance, a crude but imposing arrangement of huge stone slabs, is blocked now, but would once have led into a long chamber housing housing the interred along with their precious belongings. People of considerable importance were laid to rest here, clearly, and the site carries the feel of a shrine — a weight of time, echoes of whoever raised this thing in the first place. The barrow itself, a long grass-clad mound, lies beyond the entrance stones, the whole place ringed by mature trees that give it a sense of isolation from the world outside. Like the sarsen stones at Avebury, the Smithy compels you to sit still and absorb whatever it is the place is giving off — to run your hand over stones quarried and set in place by people who lived here before the rise of Pharaohs, before the building of pyramids. Ancient people we still know remarkably little about. Wayland was a Germanic smith-god, and the site takes its name from the Saxons who arrived long after it was built; its true original name is lost somewhere in the depths of prehistory. The place had an effect on all of us, and leaving it felt a little like stepping back into the real world from somewhere else entirely.
We knew there was another landmark waiting for us further along — the Uffington White Horse — reached after the Ridgeway climbed the steady, purposeful slope of Whitehorse Hill and emerged onto a plateau of gently rolling grassy embankments studded with daisies and buttercups. The green hummocks of another Iron Age fort, Uffington Castle I believe, lay off to our left, but we pressed on, intending to take lunch overlooking the Vale of the White Horse with the horse itself, hopefully, as the centrepiece.
Unfortunately, when we reached the shelf overlooking the vale, all we could actually see of the horse was its rump. Had we been on the opposite side of the valley, or airborne, we'd have seen it whole. Instead we got its angular hindquarters and the suggestion of a leg.
A mild disappointment, but the beauty of the vale spread out below us — bathed in glorious sunshine — more than made up for it. We settled onto the soft turf for lunch and then simply rested for a while, legs grateful for the break. I watched tiny vehicles crawling along the A420 far below, too distant even for their engines to reach us — birdsong and the gentle soughing of a warm breeze were the only soundtrack on offer. Presently a pair of red kites soared into the blue above us and I attempted, with debatable success, to capture them wheeling in circles on camera.
Soon enough it was time to move, and I rose on legs registering a silent but unmistakable protest to rejoin the path. The next few miles offered easy walking across wide, flat ground with the views still spectacular, and at some point along this stretch we crossed the border from Wiltshire into Oxfordshire without any particular ceremony marking the occasion.
The day was, at times, unbearably hot,

Pause for thought at Wayland's Smithy

and I was burning through my water fast — partly drinking it, partly using it to keep my cool towel damp, without which I'd have been considerably more miserable. It was a welcome surprise, then, to come across a standpipe fixed to a boundary fence at the side of the trail. We refilled our bottles, splashed cool water over our faces and soaked our hats properly through. A small, quietly affecting sign attached to the standpipe explained that it had been installed at the request of a terminally ill boy from the nearby farm, as part of the legacy he wanted to leave behind for walkers passing this way. I thanked him silently for the gesture, as I'm sure thousands of grateful walkers have done in the years since.
The trail continued flat and uncomplicated ahead of us, and I was perfectly happy to march along like that for the rest of the day — but the Ridgeway had other plans and threw in a few inclines as a parting treat. One climb in particular I did not enjoy. We crossed a rare road and followed the Ridgeway up a steep metalled lane. Anyone who has read other journals of mine will know that climbs and I have never got on, and that twenty years hasn't improved matters — if anything, the addition of twenty years to my age has worked actively against me. I climbed. I stopped for breath. I climbed again. It was hot, I was sweating freely, and I grumbled quietly to myself the entire way to the top, where I found the others waiting and looking infuriatingly unbothered by the whole thing. I learned afterward that Jess had been struggling with her feet at this point and was in genuine discomfort. She began floating the idea of skipping the third and final day — sensible, probably, but disappointing for her all the same.
The final stretch put us back on the familiar wide chalky path, fields stretching away either side, Bod assuring us the end was within reach. The end, when it arrived, was a dusty crossroads on the trail where, after some deliberation, we turned left and made our way down toward the village of Letcombe Regis. The path became a metalled lane that dropped very steeply, for quite some distance, and I realised with some misgiving that we would have to climb back up the same gradient before we'd even started walking in the morning. I wasn't keen, and resolved on the spot to propose a taxi back up to the Ridgeway the next day.
Letcombe Regis, when we eventually reached it, was every bit the idyllic English village — handsome, expansive properties along a series of little lanes, leading us to our accommodation. The whole place suggested wealth in that quiet, understated English way, and I'd have happily bet on a fair number of retired businessmen and professionals tending immaculate lawns behind high hedges somewhere nearby.
Our accommodation, the Greyhound Inn, sat neatly between two handsome period properties and was itself a fine Georgian building. The bar was open, and we rewarded our efforts with several cold beers. A young woman appeared to show us to our rooms, and it transpired that Bod and I had been allocated an attic room reached via several flights of steep, rickety stairs. I was walking just behind her, lugging my pack, forcing legs that had begun seizing up to take each reluctant step.
"Shall I take your bag?" she offered.
Well meant, but — not for the first time recently — I found myself being offered help by someone considerably younger than me. A sign of the times, evidently. Bod snorted quietly behind me as I politely declined. I could have pointed out that I'd just walked thirteen miles in a heatwave, but that would have sounded like an excuse rather than an explanation, so I said nothing and kept climbing. The room itself was an oven, but came with a decent bathroom, where I washed away the day's accumulated sweat and effort.
Later we all sat in the pub garden as darkness gathered. Owing to some unfortunate architectural planning, a couple of the bedrooms were visible from our table, and we watched — with a mixture of amusement and mild embarrassment — as an occupant undressed and climbed into bed entirely for our benefit. I raised the subject of a taxi back to the Ridgeway in the morning, and was relieved when it was agreed without argument. It was at this point that Jess announced she wouldn't be walking the next day at all — she would take a taxi straight to Goring and spend the day there waiting for the rest of us to arrive.
Sad news, but not entirely unexpected.

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The Ridgeway West - Day 1

The Ridgeway - West

By Mark Walford Day One Route:Avebury to Ogbourne St. George Distance: 16m (25km) Elevation: 472ft (144m) to 876ft (267m) Climbing (ascent and descent): 615ft (187m) and 661ft (201m) Prev      Next

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Monuments, poseurs and beer rations ...

We took a taxi to the start of the Ridgeway, a fair distance from Avebury and uphill to boot. Sixteen miles was quite enough for one day without volunteering extra effort beforehand.
The sarsen stones kept marching across the land in all directions as we sped along. Some of the ancient avenues have been plotted; by no means all of them, and many of the arrangements remain enigmatic, permanently obscured by the passage of time. I wondered what a night hike across this landscape might feel like under a full moon, these stones marking your progress in the dark. I filed the idea away for a possible — though most likely unrealised — future journal entry.
The Sanctuary sits in an open grassy field and we made our way to it to officially begin the walk. There isn't much to see anymore — eighteenth-century farmers destroyed most of the monument — so it offers nothing like the immediate wow factor of Stonehenge. In its time, though, it would have been impressive: concentric rings of wooden posts and stones, arranged for a purpose present-day archaeologists can only guess at — a shrine, a sanctuary, a ritual site, a gateway to monolithic structures further afield. Stone blocks now mark where the original posts and stones stood, some four millennia ago, and an information board offers an artist's impression of what it might once have looked like.
We pottered about aimlessly while I did some perfunctory filming, gathered for a group shot, and set off westwards along the wide white track that marks the start of the Ridgeway proper. The nature of the trail announced itself immediately and was to remain a constant feature for the whole journey — impacted, hard, chalky white soil, studded with flint chips in places.

Setting off

We had drawn a heatwave for the entire walk, and under a cloudless sky the sun beat down and then bounced straight back up off the pale ground, so there was little real escape from it. Sunglasses were worn less to soften the sun itself than to take the edge off the dazzle of the path beneath us. Nobody was complaining, though. It was glorious, and we knew we'd got lucky given what British weather could easily have done to us instead. The sunshine let the sweeping views across Wiltshire show themselves at their best. The Ridgeway by definition follows high ground, and we had unobstructed views across green fields, vibrant acres of rapeseed, and woodlands wearing the fresh-painted green of spring. I hoped this would last — the weather, the views, the relatively flat walking.
I made a few comments to camera as I walked, musing on the usual subject of my fitness and lack of preparation. I had fallen to the rear, stopping for photographs here and there. Colin and Jess were just ahead, and Bod was already some distance further on — his usual forge-ahead style, unchanged in two decades. It was decidedly warm, and when I caught up with Colin and Jess, who had stopped to shed some layers, Colin echoed my sentiments precisely by declaring to the camera: "I'm all sweaty." I was all sweaty myself by this point, and hoped it wouldn't lead to an outbreak of chafing in delicate areas — a condition I'd experienced before and had no appetite to revisit.
Bod had stopped beside a field of large white cattle with long curving horns. I speculated on the breed — some French variety, perhaps, or Texas Longhorns — though I claim no expertise whatsoever in this area.
A few more miles passed with very little change to scenery, weather, or pace. The pace was causing Bod some mild concern, as he wasn't convinced we'd make our pre-booked evening meal in time. I was grateful for the warning, and our speed did improve as we settled into our stride. As it turned out, though, the punctuality of dinner was not destined to be the issue we thought it might be.
Few people were out on the trail with us that morning, and all of them travelling the opposite way — which gave plenty of time to give approaching walkers a long, casual inspection, and allowed anything amiss to register at range. It had been very hot, and the humid air offered no real relief, but even so, the half-naked young man walking toward me was unexpected. As he drew closer something about his posture put me instinctively on guard. We passed each other soon enough. He was young — late teens, at a guess — stripped to the waist to reveal an undernourished, pale, torso. Sun-kissed he was not. He walked with his chest thrust forward, arms held in a pose clearly intended to suggest muscle he did not possess, and wore a fixed, leering grin that gave nothing away about his intentions. He tried to catch my eye as he strutted past but I had already summed him up and gave him no further regard. A yard or two behind him walked a woman with a sheepish expression that might have been embarrassment or might have been misplaced pride — impossible to say which. Mother? Carer? Girlfriend? Some unlikely combination of the three? I never found out. They passed behind me, heading toward an encounter with Colin and Jess.
I rounded a bend shortly afterward and found Bod waiting. He made no mention of the strange youth, though he must have passed him too. We talked instead about the day's progress and his concerns about the dinner reservation. After a few minutes Colin and Jess appeared, both grinning, Colin doing a passable impression of the young man's pose. We agreed unanimously that he had been odd, and equally unanimously that none of us had the faintest idea what he had been trying to prove. He had at least added a touch of whimsy to an otherwise predictable morning.
We walked on, and the terrain shifted subtly, becoming more uneven, the chalk giving way to grass, and then a modest climb presented itself up to the remains of an Iron Age fort — mere suggestions of earthworks, softened over the centuries by nature. Modest it may have been, but the combination of heat and my own questionable fitness had me toiling regardless. I was quietly grateful when Bod suggested a break at the summit, and threw myself to the ground with ungainly relief.
A short rest to rehydrate and we were off again, along an avenue of hedgerows and trees that offered some shelter and threw pleasing dappled shadow across the path. I walked with Bod for a few miles, chatting about this and that, falling easily into step. We stopped for lunch eventually beside a little track that dipped between farm gates. Colin removed his boots and set them down in the middle of the track before finding shade under a rowan tree, Bod and I shuffling along to make room for him. As we ate I kept glancing at those boots with private amusement. It looked exactly as if Colin had exploded in the manner of an old silent comedy, leaving nothing behind but his footwear standing neatly in place. All it lacked was a faint trail of smoke. Jess, meanwhile, had found a patch of sunlight and was lying flat on her back with her feet pointed to the sky. I think she had already begun feeling some discomfort from her footwear, though for the moment she said nothing about it.
After lunch we set off on the day's final miles. The views were sometimes shut off by lines of trees or hedges, which seemed only to thicken the humidity, before the ground opened up again and reminded us how high we were on this ridge of land. It is a natural pathway, and easy to see why it has been used to cross the country for at least five thousand years — safer up here, presumably, than down in the trackless wild woodland that would once have carpeted the lower ground of ancient Britain. The day wore on and the sun kept beating down. We began to tire more from the

Mark and Bod

heat sapping our strength than from the actual mileage. Bod assured us the end was only a few more miles off, which I was grateful to hear — and even more grateful, shortly afterward, to discover a bench - the only one we encountered on the entire route - sited at the edge of a small wood, looking out across the Wiltshire plain below. I sat for a while and recorded an optimistic snippet of video declaring the day's walking all but done.
This was not, in fact, the case.
The Ridgeway angled toward a hill but veered away just short of climbing it, leading us instead into a vast field of beans. Bod was a dwindling figure in the distance, Colin and Jess some way behind me, and I trudged on alone, straining for any way-marker that might suggest an ending was near. A slight rise far ahead looked promising — perhaps the road we were making for. Bod reached it, climbed it, and disappeared over the other side. By the time I made the same climb myself, the huge field simply kept rolling on regardless, Bod still far ahead of me. Behind, Colin and Jess were still toiling along. What I was not seeing, anywhere, was a road. I trudged on resignedly and, after what felt like considerable time, turned a corner to find Bod waiting patiently at a metal gate beside a marker post. When I reached him he was peering at the map with a furrowed brow. There was some confusion about what came next. The guidebook mentioned a ruined castle off to our left; the map showed a road straight ahead. Colin and Jess caught up as we debated it. I favoured the castle. Bod was convinced we should take the path to the road. Bod's option was taken. He was, of course, proven right.
The path angled down sharply over rough, tussocky ground — precisely what tired and aching feet are crying out for at the end of a long day — but eventually delivered us to the road, where a taxi was waiting by arrangement. We climbed in gratefully, relishing the simple novelty of sitting down, and were driven to the village of Ogbourne St George.
I won't say too much about the accommodation, as it would feel like unfair criticism of people clearly doing their best with very little. The owners had been trying to sell the business for some time and were running it on a shoestring, with no staff and no bar. The room itself was perfectly fine, and I took a hot shower and changed before joining the others at the communal seating area outside for a cold bottle of beer. The proprietor doled these out with the distinct air of a man who considered one bottle per person a generous allowance. It was a balmy evening, and after a long day's walking, one bottle was not going to be sufficient. I was duly volunteered to request a second round. The door opened just wide enough to receive my request — with poor grace, I should note — before more bottles emerged reluctantly from some unseen stash, and the door was shut firmly enough to discourage any thought of a third.
Bod had stayed here once before, some years earlier, and told us it had been thriving back then — a full bar, live music, the works. We sat instead among piled-up seat cushions, quite possibly the only guests in the building, with owners keeping their contact with us to an absolute minimum.
Dinner was adequate, just about, and had evidently been cooked from frozen by the proprietor himself. Only two other guests were staying that night. The bar remained shut, chairs stacked against the wall, cushions piled in corners. The whole place had a rather sad, dispiriting atmosphere, and we didn't linger long after eating before heading back to our rooms for an early night.

I notice the place now has a new website, showcasing a refitted bar, updated rooms and exciting plans for the future under new ownership. I wish them well. It would have been an excellent overnight stay, but for the circumstances we found it in.

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The Ridgeway West - Prologue

The Ridgeway - West

By Mark Walford Outward bound      Next

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After an uneventful drive we arrived at our accommodation in brilliant sunshine. Dorwyn Manor proved to be a very fine stay, the hosts more than welcoming, and there was an honesty box system in operation — bottled beer kept cold in a cooler, payment on trust. Bod and I homed in on this almost immediately.
Once we had all settled in, Colin and Jess walked into Avebury, where we were to join them later for dinner. Bod and I weren't long in following, along the A4361, which offers no grassy verge and no pedestrian footpath of any kind. I reflected on the irony of being hospitalised before taking a single step of the actual walk, as cars and lorries hurtled past and shoved warm, exhaust-laden gusts of air at us in passing. Eventually a gap appeared in the hedgerow and we escaped into an open grassy area, where we were introduced to our first sarsen stones.
They stood at intervals around the perimeter — strange, enigmatic, ancient, and endowed with a palpable presence.

Sarsen stones at Avebury

I ran a hand over the rough sandstone of one and found myself thinking that other hands, millennia ago, had rested on this exact same surface. A group of people stood in a ring around one of the stones a little way off. Academics or occultists, I couldn't say, but they were clearly deep into some kind of ceremony and we gave them the courtesy of a wide berth. These were not the only stones. They were everywhere. In any direction you cared to look, these misshapen lumps of hewn rock stood in silent lines, marching away along half-forgotten pathways and avenues. We spent a good while crossing and recrossing the A4361, wandering among them and taking photographs, until the need for beer and food drew us toward the Red Lion, where Colin and Jess were waiting.
It was exactly the sort of early evening that sitting outside with a cold beer was invented for. A glorious day, the sun still warm even at this late hour. We caught up on each other's lives, talked about the days ahead, and Bod summed up the general mood by suggesting we simply stay in Avebury for three days, drinking at the Red Lion, and invent a plausible account of the path to Goring on our return. It was tempting.
We were entertained by a character at the next table — a microlight pilot who had ventured a little too high, been blown badly off course, and landed eventually somewhere near Avebury. His tablemates turned out to be the rescue party who had eventually tracked him down. He seemed entirely and cheerfully unbothered by the whole episode and was already planning his next flight, *after I've apologised to the wife*.
We enjoyed a good dinner and then made our way back to Dorwyn Manor. We grabbed a few more honesty beers and settled down in the lounge to discuss the route ahead and pore over a few maps. I had brought my Osmo Action 4, voice control activated, and Bod seized on this immediately — delighted to discover that announcing *shut down camera* in the middle of my filming would do exactly that. It got a laugh, and I privately wondered whether this was going to become a running theme for the whole walk, given his long-standing aversion to being on camera. To his credit, he let it go after the one attempt.
We all eventually retired. Tomorrow offered sixteen miles in what the forecast was calling a heatwave.
Better than rain, I suppose.

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