On Thursday 28th July, but two days since our last hike, we picked up our walk from Lewknor, finding ourselves walking along a grassy path. Still within sight of the car we already slowed our pace to absorb the sounds of the crickets and grasshoppers singing and the sight of butterflies and moths basking in the sun. We halted to admire the striking straw and chequered wings of the Dusky moth feeding on the knapweed and close by a small white.
A short distance on, we found our first cereal of the day, blond and beautiful stretching out beyond a curtain of rosebay willow herb.
Just off the path we spied a meadow with teasels in bloom. We had to detour and Michala, as is her way, inhaled the sweet scent of the purple clustered buddelia heads.
We were making slow progress but this is exactly why we had changed our tune from our first two outings where we had pushed ourselves to cover so many miles. Now we wanted to ease the pressure of time and enjoy every mile, granting ourselves the space to stop and stare, inhale and embrace the delights of the Ridgeway.
Talking of delights, we found a fragrant cluster of green-white flowers rambling over the hedgerows, giving off a subtle scent of vanilla.
On arriving home I found this to be a clematis with local names such as Tuzzy-Muzzy, Maiden’s Hair, Virgin’s Bower and Willow Wind. Such beautiful names but, as we stood admiring the pretty clusters Michala asked her friend what it might be. This was meant to be our day, otherwise two is company and three is a crowd. I worry about Michala, who is a newly wed but seems to be far too attached to someone called Siri. She’s on the phone to him all the time. She tells me ‘I do love an intelligent man’. She’s welcome to him. He and I do not get on. He misinterprets everything I say. I think it must be my accent but I won’t change for any man. If he and I are to get on he must accept me as I am and until then, I can learn nothing from him. I digress. Siri identified these delicate cluster with the unbefitting name of Old Man’s Beard. My sense of disdain for him was complete. However, Michala reminded me that Kenny Rodgers has a rather wonderful beard but I don’t really think Kenny Rodgers’ name springs to mind when on the subject of ramblers. The closest he got to A Rambler was singing about The Gambler.
Much of the path was hedged in either side giving but tantalising hints of the view beyond. We glimpsed the brilliant white of a chalk pit far below and on the other side, beyond the screen of green was the dazzling turquoise waters of another chalk pit.
The path continued on under heavily laden boughs of buddleia creating a tunnel, obscuring the way ahead, making every step of the way a wonderful revelation as a new delight came into view.
From our shady route we would occasionally see an enticing path to our left and right but we continued on, under the emerald canopy with patches of light dancing at our feet while the cloak above us whispered its secrets.
We felt relaxed, calm in the cool and in total harmony with nature in our green surroundings but thankfully not indolent like a certain creature we encountered as he stretched his lanky limbs out and grinned. We grinned back and continued on.
Even though the signage in this stretch of Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire seems to be in better nick than some of the earlier areas, we were acutely aware of the need to pay close attention so as not to go astray. After walking some way along the enclosed path, the sight of an open meadow with its soft folds made us stop and peep in through a gate.
Retreating back onto the path we had been following, we then realised that at this point the Icknield Way parts company with the Ridgeway and we were meant to turn off and cross diagonally over these slopes.
Back down on the level we sauntered through corn, rustling in the soft breeze their large leaves parting like waves to reveal the chalk path.
Approaching midday we found the perfect spot to lunch, on top of Lodge Hill, offering views all around. It made me think of high alpine meadows I had visited in my twenties. We stepped softly through a carpet of wildflowers in miniature like brightly colour gems with rock rose, birds foot trefoil, hair bell, scabious and hawksbit.
The bumble bees were busy, their heads deep into the soft magenta of the thistles, covering themselves in a dandruff of pollen.
Far below sat a world in miniature.
Then from the blazing heat of the high pastures we stepped though a gate into the cool shade only to find a swing. Michala chortled with delight as she twisted and turned. I was not permitted to continue along the way without a go myself.
After this short interlude we were back out in the bright sun on further slopes covered in spears of wild asparagus (English mercury) and mullein, interspersed with ragwort which set Michala off on one, having uprooted many a stalk in the past. I refrained from extolling its many virtues but it has to be said that the claims made by BEVA some years ago caused hysteria but were based on bad science and sadly the reputation has stuck. It has been said, ‘a lie can get half way round the world before a truth has got its boots on’. (The perfect analogy for hikers). Besides, it is this ‘injurious’ weed that provides so many bees and butterflies with nectar and, if you want to know more, I suggest you read Wilding by Isabella Tree.
John Clare appreciated this underrated flower.
The Ragwort (1832)
Ragwort, thou humble flower with tattered leaves I love to see thee come and glitter gold, What time the summer binds her russet sheaves; Decking rude spots in beauties manifold, That without thee were dreary to behold, Sunburnt and bare-- the meadow bank, the baulk That leads a wagon-way through mellow fields, Rich with the tints that harvest's plenty yields, Browns of all hues; and everywhere I walk Thy waste of shining blossoms richly shields The sun tanned sward in splendid hues that burn So bright and glaring that the very light Of the rich sunshine doth to paleness turn And seems but very shadows in thy sight.
John Clare (1793-1864)
Down the steep slope and past the strands of oats which sang like ‘tinkling bells galore’.
Then keeping our heads low as we walked between the fairways and manicured landscape of Princes Risborough golf course.
Listening out, we crossed the train tracks within minutes of a train shooting past.
Through gentle pastures of knapweed and parsley we traipsed, to fields of wheat where a single poppy remained peeping its scarlet face out between the golden plaits and a green shieldbug stood out against the pale backdrop.
We skirted the town of Princes Risborough along the back of houses where striking globes of echinops attracted honey bees.
Our path continued through the hedgerows where we found a hint of the coming season in glorious green and gold.
Whilst a female gatekeeper basked and a wasp fed on Queen Anne’s lace, a chalkhill blue nibbled in the ground cover and wild marjoram.
Up and up we climbed eventually arriving at the spectacular view point of Whiteleaf Hill, looking across Princes Risborough and beyond.
From there we descended down through the woods, driven by the thought of a nice cool beverage at The Plough, the MPs watering hole at Cadsden which was right on route. However, on arriving we found that the pub had closed at 3pm. We were 50 minutes too late. In addition, I badly needed to replenish my supply of water but the tap appeared to have been removed from above the trough.
(A note of caution to any walkers but from this point it might be easy to take a wrong turning so do not be distracted by the ramblers signs just across the road but continue a few strides on and you will find a Ridgeway sign. We were on the ball, nearly going astray yet again but just avoiding it).
Through sunken paths and wooded slopes we continued until we arrived at Chequers where we looked for signs of a party or the opportunity to beg a cuppa but there was little sign of life other than a kestrel and a magpie sitting on posts. The magpie eventually taunted the kestrel and drove him away.
From high up on the Ridgeway we skirted around the valley getting another view of the mansion below and eventually reaching Coombe Hill where stands a monument in memory of those who died in the Boer War. However Michala informed me that there was another significant incident which occurred here in June 2020, just as lockdown restrictions lifted, the memory of which drove Michala to forget her love for Siri and reminded her of someone who has en-Rich-ed her life. (Perhaps I should explain that Michala’s husband, Rich proposed at this very spot).
At this point, just beyond the monument, we were distracted by some bovine beauties. Reminiscent of Angus and Dave who we met on day one of our trek, we were drawn to the sense of companionship between these two. (A little like us). Michala informed me that this was Mabel and Phyllis. When I tried to suggest that they were actually blokes she would have none of it. I was too tired to argue.
After a short distance we realised we had turned off on a different route by the cows. We returned to the monument to get our bearings and then followed the descent into Wendover, greeting more cattle along the way. At least I did. Michala’s thoughts were definitely elsewhere on that phone again but in a dreamy daze ‘engaged’ in deep thought.
We had walked 11.3 miles and like every day, we decided this one had been the best. The Ridgeway had given us so much goodness and created more special memories to treasure.
To read about our 7th and final day along The Ridgeway National Trail click on the link below:
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