October 2016
#WaltersWalk #Chichester #LiteraryTrail #Trundle #Singleton #ThePartridge #Charlton #Southdowns #WhiteHorseGraffham #Graffham
For some its scuba diving – surrounded by clear ocean water, the only sound is your own breathing, taking in the colours of fish and reef, the weight of the air tank strapped to your back keeping you alive. For others it’s sky diving – launching yourself out of a plane thousands of feet in the air, the rush of falling to Earth, taking a chance, the buzz of pulling the cord and the parachute opening – the material keeping you alive. For others it’s sailing – out in the open without a screen of a monitor, a tele or a phone – a fishing rod and the horizon, the sea air and the tranquillity. For others maybe it’s riding a horse or wind surfing or hand gliding or swimming or kayaking or canoeing or mountaineering. Maybe it’s all of these things. Or none. Or one. I’m not into any of these things. For me it’s going for a walk. And when I get there – to the end, I mean, I’ll want to know what the plan is to book in a date to walk some more.
I put my phone on loudspeaker and book a taxi while spreading peanut butter on the kids’ toast. I’d made my packed lunch the night before, it was nestling in my rucksack along with spare walking socks, two litres of water in two separate bottles and an extra (large) packet of dry roasted peanuts. My Doris has gone to work. My seven-year old son is watching an episode of Pokemon on YouTube, courtesy of an old iPhone 4 with a cracked screen that used to belong to his Mother. My daughter, aged nine, is sending Good Morning WhatsApp messages to all five of her Aunties from an old S3 that used to belong to me. I pause and watch them for a while before giving them their toast and asking if they want apple or orange juice. I get no reply. I give them apple.
Teeth are brushed and uniforms are put on. We all pile in the taxi and go on the short journey to school. There’s messages on the board asking for in-date tins to be donated for the Harvest Festival, toiletries for non-uniform day and permission slip returns needed for trips to a museum in Eastbourne. Upcoming events include Bonfire Night and another non-uniform day where sweets and chocolate need donating. I swear when I was their age I walked to school on my own. I was 8 in 1983. Back then, pound coins had come into circulation. 33 years later, in October 2016, it’s the new five-pound note that every man and his dog has got an opinion on.
I kiss the kids, leave the playground and walk to the train station. It feels cold – colder than it should. I haven’t packed a hoody or a jumper, (what a muppet), though there is a hood on my lightweight coat. I look at the monitor. My train to Chichester is delayed. And it stays that way for half an hour. I pass the time sipping a coffee and thinking. I think about when I go to the football, I leave from the other platform. It is half hour to Haywards Heath where Jonny T jumps on with a can of G&T and all is right with the world. Then half hour more and we’re in South London. A train to our Capital. On this side of the platform, it’s about twenty minutes to Chichester. A train to a City with a Cathedral. And here my walk will begin. Ramblers hike all over this land. The Thames, the Canals, the Coast, Hadrian’s Wall, Lake District and Yorkshire Dales – the list is endless. I live in a beautiful country – Great Britain with its mountains and its hills, its coastline and its countryside.
Finally, the train groans into the station. Grumpy people get off. Grumpy people get on. I find a seat. The bloke opposite doesn’t move his feet. They’re up on the seat next to me. I don’t like it. I need the toilet. The coffee has gone right through me. (Along with the pint of Cranberry juice I downed first thing this morning.) I realise there’s no bogs on this train. Cost-cutting. Half hour late and no khazi. And a strangers feet are up on the seat next to me. I’m agitated. This is why I need to walk. I put my headphones in. I try to forget about my full bladder. Feet up on the seat next to me. I feel prickles of sweat. I close my eyes. I know it is eight minutes to the next station. I feel irritable. This is why I need to walk. Those feet are still up on the seat next to me. I have a weak bladder. I try not to think about busting for a wazz and focus on arriving in Chichester to begin today’s ramble.
When my pal Middle-aged D sent me a message about walking, it was perfect timing. I need to walk because not only has it been a while and I’ve missed it – craved it, even – it’s when you find yourself lying on a hospital bed having a full (ish) MOT, one does take stock of one’s situation. It does go through your mind considering what it is in life that is special and important – even in the mundane – like spreading peanut butter on toast for your kids’ breakfast. Four times in a month I’ve been on a different bed experiencing a unique (for me) procedure. On one particular occasion, I found myself lying on my side with my knees to my chest. I’ve just had a tube and a camera down (up?) my penis to inspect my bladder, and now I’m losing my anal virginity somewhat as I feel the cold, lubricated Umpires Finger popping up my rectum to check the old back passage. My eyes are closed. I think to myself that there’s nothing better I’d like to do than go for a walk and breathe some proper air and drink real ale at my village destination. And then the Finger pulls out.
The twelve-mile walk that Middle-aged D has mapped out for us today, is part of the Literary Trail in West Sussex. I’m bloody excited about it, because I love to walk and I love to write. The Trail is 55 miles long, beginning at the Shelley Fountain in Horsham and concluding at the Chichester Cathedral. We are starting at the Cathedral – firstly because it makes us feel right rebellious doing it the other way round than what we’re supposed to, and secondly we’re coming off the Trail to finish in the village of Graffham. Proper adventurous, us. Middle-aged D has an older brother called Big J of the Rovers. Big J’s Facebook profile states he is an: Amateur Adventurer/Philanthropist at ACME Adventures Ltd. Big J has recently walked from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Before that he walked the length of New Zealand – but he likes to call it The New Zealand’s because it has two islands. Big J has also run in half marathons and full marathons. He’s got all the gear. (I’m not convinced that ACME Adventures Ltd is an actual company, I think Big J watched a lot of Roadrunner cartoons when he was nipper.)
At Chichester train station I go for a long piss. The camera that went up (down?) my Gentleman’s Sausage found no cancer in my bladder, (thank God), only two grazes possibly caused by gravel from kidney stones, plus signs of cystitis. So I have a pint of Cranberry juice every morning and a mug of Organic Dandelion Root Tea in the evening. This is life in my early forties. Man, I need to walk. This is England.
J and D greet me.
– I’m glad your train was delayed, I took my time having a dump, J says.
– You can’t rush these things, I reply.
– Nah, you can’t rush your morning movement, D adds.
– Guess how much this jacket cost? J asks.
I try to guess. J keeps pointing his finger in the air, so my guess goes higher. At three hundred quid, I give up.
– I give up mate, I say.
– Three hundred and fifty fat ones, J says.
– Mine was £7.99 from the reduced aisle in Saino’s.
– Well, when I walked The New Zealand’s, you have to do it in the proper gear.
– No doubt mate. Can’t have you getting wet.
We’re raring to go. D’s got an over-the-shoulder-single-strap-rucksack that I’m instantly envious of. I want one like that. We stroll towards the Cathedral – passing at least five pubs that I’ve drunk in down the years. We turn left into the Cathedral grounds. We stop for a photo to signify the start of the walk, and J nips off to the Gents. He comes out and directs us down a path. A sign tells us that we are in The Bishops Gardens. I resist cracking a ‘bashing’ joke and inwardly congratulate myself on showing some maturity for once.
We walk through the grounds and out on top of the City walls, under a subway and across the car park by Chichester Festival Theatre. My Doris worked there for a bit ironing costumes in the wardrobe department. J says he needs to urinate again. That’s twice. He’s worse than me. Once we get past the Theatre and cross the A286, we hit the fields. The weather is okay. In fact, weather wise it’s probably perfect. D says he’s glad he only stuck to the four pints last night as he doesn’t feel too bad at all this morning. On we push. We talk about mobile phone upgrades, urinary infections and prostates. Goodwood Aerodrome is to our right. Neon yellow signs regarding the Chichester half-marathon appear on trees. J checks the map on his Sony and then asks us a question:
– How many metres above sea level will we reach today?
– I’ve no idea, I reply.
– 330 metres, says D.
– 269, I guess.
– 269? J echoes.
– Favourite number, innit.
– You’re so immature.
– Well, 232 is the answer, J says.
– Oh, I was only two metres out, says D.
– You said 330, not 230, you cheat, I reply.
– Prove it, says D.
– How can I prove it?
– What do I win, J? What’s my prize? D asks.
J laughs and shakes his head, and on we stroll. At the bottom of a hill, we see our first sign for The Literary Trail so I stop and take a photo. I take a banana out my rucksack.
– You hungry already? Asks D.
– Yeah, you?
– I’ve got a couple of Twix bars.
– Let’s have one, says J.
D takes a Twix out his bag. It’s the smallest Twix I’ve ever seen. Not only is it one finger, it’s a about half the size of one finger. It’s a mini Twix.
– What’s the point in that? J says.
– Well you should’ve packed more, says D.
I laugh and shake my head, and on we stroll. J stops for his third pee.
We walk up a slight hill to an area called The Trundle. I lived in Chi for over two years and people talked about coming up here for walks, picnics and the view. It’s my first time up here. It certainly is a nice place to come – especially on a Thursday when no-one else is around. Climbing up a grassy knoll, cows eye me suspiciously and I recall the time I had to run across a field because cows were charging towards me. No joke. I was with Smiffy and Seagull Si. If one of us tripped over, it would’ve been trample-under-hoof-o’clock. Ramblers are killed by cows. I know – I’ve read about it. 74 people in the last 15 years, to be exact. This time though, the beasts are disinterested and docile. Down to my right is Goodwood Racecourse. I stop and turn slightly and look out to sea. From right to left I can make out the Isle of Wight, the Spinnaker Tower in Pompey, then I can follow the coast all the way round to Chichester Harbour, (I could still make out the spire of Chi Cathedral), then round to the white roof of the Big Tent at Bognor Butlin’s, the tall, brown granny flats bang on Littlehampton beach front and although I couldn’t see it clearly (obviously) I guesstimated where the village is where my family and I reside, four miles from Littlehampton towards Worthing beach.
Out to sea – far to the left and then again far to the right, are two giant tankers. I wonder how many crew are on board. I wonder what money they’re on. I wonder if some of the crew love the buzz of a storm or if they’re looking for a job on the land so they don’t have to be on the ocean anymore. The cold wind picks up and jerks my stare away from the English Channel. D and J are on their way down the hill. I follow them, see a fence on the right, and move over to stick by it, still cautious about those cows. We cross a road (which I later realise is the A285) by a car park. I see a sign and take a photograph – turn right and Chichester is seven miles down the road, turn left and the villages of Singleton and Charlton are a mile away. We watch sheep butting each other and trying to mount each other, without success. We stroll on up a hill and see the villages of Singleton and Charlton laid out before us. On we go. J stops to urinate for a fourth time. The thought of getting to the only boozer in Singleton, and it being lunchtime, sees our pace quicken for the first time. We turn down an alley way of sorts and end up walking alongside a C of E Church.
– Look at this Church, says D.
– I thought it was a mosque, I reply.
– Nah mate, it’s definitely a Church.
It’s these sort of conversations that make a walk like this so worthwhile. Opposite the Church is the Partridge Inn. In we go. I want log fires and rich carpets and old beams and the smell of a brewery – but it was wooden and modern and barren and characterless – but I’m never coming here again so I guess it doesn’t matter. D ordered a sandwich. It was £8.50. J ordered half a chicken with gravy, chips and bread sauce. His bread sauce came in a pot, and I ate it. I bloody love bread sauce. The barman was singing along to the song on the radio, it was a shit song and he wasn’t a great singer. But he topped up our water bottles for us. He made me a nice pint of blackcurrant squash, and I had a shot of Jameson’s to warm my cockles and chase away the cold. I cannot believe I forgot to bring a jumper or a hoody.
I sat at the bar. D and J were glued to their phones playing a game where you had to guess the names of famous film directors with two picture clues – first picture for their first name, second picture for their surname.
– What’s the name of the cowboy in Toy Story? D asks.
– Woody, I reply.
I sense the barman looking over at me. I look up and smile and tell him I’ve got two kids, that’s how I know.
– Well, who was Robin Hood’s enemy then? D inquires.
– Err…. The Sheriff of Nottingham? I say.
– Yeah – but the actor.
– Oh, err – Alan Rickman. I reply.
– Got it! Woody Rickman!
– Woody Rickman? There’s a director called Woody Rickman? I exclaim.
– Nah you tit, J says, you mean Woody Allen.
– We all crease up, and even the barman joins in laughing.
After lunch, J goes for his fifth piss and his second dump of the day. I pity the customer that uses the Gents after that download. We wave goodbye to the barman and leave the pub. We immediately walk in the wrong direction. The temperature has dropped noticeably, so my hat goes on and the hood on my jacket goes over my head. We pass a road sign telling us Petworth is ten miles away. I love Petworth. But that’s another story. J consults the map on his Sony and we set off on the right path. We walk through Charlton and then on we plod following the Trail on a country road which is going uphill and pulling away from the houses and human life. This is what I came for.
– What app is that for the route, J? I enquire.
– Back Country Navigator, he says.
– Back Passage Navigator more like, comes the response.
– Talking of which, I need another dump. J admits.
– What already? That’ll be number three.
– Well, it’s no problem. When I walked The New Zealand’s, going al fresco was the norm.
And with that, he legged it. I mean, he proper legged it. He and his Bear Grylls three hundred and fifty pound water-resistant jacket disappeared around the country path corner. He was like the Roadrunner he was so quick. Ah – maybe that’s where he got his ACME Adventures Ltd strap line from.
We don’t see another soul for the next section. And, is if by magic, once J had deposited some fresh compost on the Literary Trail, the sun came out. Hats and coats were removed. It was glorious. We walked through a corn field where pheasants shuffled and roamed. We paused to take photos of rolling hills soaking in the sun beams that had broken through the clouds. We strolled through woods and dirt footpaths. At one point we stopped in our tracks and a stag stared at us for maybe half a minute before bouncing off. It reminded me of a scene in Stand by Me when Gordy sees a deer in the woods. Not long after, J announced we were nearly 232 metres above sea level. I celebrated by taking a photo of the path. And then J’s Back Passage Navigator took us off the Literary Trail and we began our descent to the village of Graffham. Pheasants were absolutely everywhere. I’ve never seen so many of them in one place.
The original plan was to camp at the site at the back-end of the village after the walk, but it just wasn’t possible for me because of my family commitments.
– D, I’m sorry we can’t camp.
– It’s a great site mate, we can do it another day.
– Yeah, I’d love to do it next summer, I reply.
– We could get a lift up here, camp, and then walk back to Chi the way we came.
– It’s a deal.
There’s something about Graffham I immediately love. Each cottage seems to be unique and a sense of pride and care taken over its appearance. Not in a hoity-toity way, or with a sense of showing off, or I’m-richer-than-you or anything like that – it’s just nice, that’s all. The place seems at peace with itself. And then there it is – Walter Cottage. Brilliant. If that wasn’t apt enough – practically opposite is Chelsea Cottage. Ha. As we walk along, we notice there seems to be a lot of classic cars parked on the verges. Maybe there’s a gathering of enthusiasts. Maybe they’re all in the boozer. Older couples walked past us in suits – mostly darker colours. Black ties and such. As we drew closer we got to the village hall – The Empire Hall – we realised there’d been a wake. Whoever had passed away had been popular – that was obvious. It crossed my mind that it was sad that the deceased hadn’t been here in person to see the turn out there’d been for them.
Then we see the boozer up on our left. A slow trek for tired limbs. It was a few minutes’ walk away, but we could clearly make out there were no vehicles in the car park outside. We stopped and had a team meeting. No-one took any minutes.
– What’s the time?
– Half four.
– It must open at five.
– I’ll check the website. (I check on my phone). It just says food from 6pm.
– Surely they’ll have to get the kitchen ready.
– It must open at five.
– We could get a coffee at the village shop.
– People like to have a drink before they eat, innit.
– It must open at five.
– What’s the time?
– Half four.
I ring the White Horse public house. The phone rings and rings to answer phone. The posh-tottie-polite voice says I can leave a message if I so wish, and that’s it. She doesn’t say what time the pub opens. I relay this to D and J who look thirstier than I feel.
– Let’s go the village shop.
– I need to sit down.
– It must open at five.
In the shop we are greeted with Polo photos and a woman who definitely loves horses. She makes us all a coffee and everything is jolly Hockey-sticks. We engage her in polite conversation.
– Is it okay to sit outside or should we sit inside?
– You may sit wherever you wish!
– Do you know what time the pub opens, please?
– They do food from six pm!
– It must open at five?
– Well, I know they do food from six pm!
– Maybe it opens at half-five?
– Why don’t you sit where you wish, and I’ll being your coffee over!
We do just this. Customers come in and talk with Miss Sit-Where-You-Wish about the wake in the Empire Hall. D inspects the shelves. I bet him they don’t stock Organic Dandelion Root Tea. They do. I lose my bet. I check my ‘Map My Route’ app and we’ve walked nearly fifteen miles. We watch the clock until we can bear it no more. We leave the village shop and walk towards the pub. It’s clearly shut, but we carry on regardless. It’s vast, empty car park is feels like an abandoned fun-fair or a football stadium when the game’s been postponed. We sit on a bench outside the pub and stare across the Southdowns as the sun begins to drop. A Land Rover pulls off the road, drives across the car park and pulls alongside us.
– Hello!
– Hi mate.
– Bit thirsty are you? Don’t worry, they’ll open at six!
– Thank you.
– Why don’t you go round the back? Put your feet up and get the last bit of sun!
And he drives off. Just like that. So we trudge round the back, sit in some comfy chairs, put our feet up, get the last bit of sun and everything is jolly Polo-sticks, what. And before we know it, it’s six o’clock.
We drink for an hour until D and J’s Dad arrives to pick us up and drive us back to Chi. I look at the train app to see when mine is. The trains are buggered, so once we get to Chi, I can’t stay for another pint with this lot, I have to go my separate way. When my train arrives, I climb on board. I text the Doris to tell her I’m coming back. I close my eyes. I’m not sleepy, I’m reliving my day. I can’t wait for the second leg of these 55 miles of the Trail, whenever that may be. I find myself humming the tune of a song by The Clash:
This is England
The land of (il)legal dances
This is England
Land of a thousand stances
This is England
This knife of Sheffield steel
This is England
This is how we feel
This is England
This is England
The Literary Trail:
http://www.westsussexliterarytrail.co.uk/
Big J walked The New Zealand’s as well as Land’s End to John O’Groats for The Snowdrop Trust:
http://www.thesussexsnowdroptrust.com/
Walter’s Books: (You may like ‘The Red Hand Gang’ which heavily features walking the majority of The Thames Path.)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Walter-Otton/e/B00A9JSIVK
Some photos from the day:
Signage One:
Signage Two:
Singleton to the left, Charlton to the right:
Rising above sea level:
The White Horse – Closed:
THE END
walterotton 