Licking cows, flat batteries and good Samaritans

Imagine a powerful computer that is so small it fits into the palm of your hand, can listen to geostationary satellites way up in the sky and communicate with any other device like itself in the world; something that can be calculator, can recognise speech and turn it to text, is a word processor, a diary and a source of all sorts of applications including one for bird spotting. No need to imagine it though, because it is today’s smartphone – wonderful.

I recently walked from Wantage, near Oxford, to Lyme Regis on England’s south coast following the ridgeways which make up the country’s oldest travel routes.  I did it the wild way: no forward booking, no cloying timetable – simply a return date on which I was booked for a tour some nine days after my departure. Freedom: but at a cost. The cost was the weight on my back of the tent, sleeping bag, mattress thingy, clothes and footwear, water, food, books and maps. The desire to minimize that weight became almost paranoiac.

I would have needed four or more maps, why not use phone? I tried it out using something called OS maps and it was great, the phone knows where it is from GPS and the app projects that onto a map. It’s a bit small in coverage at times but otherwise probably better than a map. But I needed books, particularly my bird book. Here a friend recommended a bird spotting app and that was great too. I didn’t even need to take my Kindle because I could read my current novel on the phone. Great, everything great and light. But what about charging the phone? I bought a battery pack with a solar charger, a bit heavy yet only about the size of the phone itself – I was off grid!

All went fairly well. The load I carried was still quite hefty and so my feet began to ache and my posture to sag as each day wore on, but I could cope and cover the 15 plus miles a day needed to reach my goal. I met many interesting people along the way or in the pubs where I ate each evening. I did not see many birds of interest, but had a good sighting of a country fox and an unaware hare. 

Each day I rose very early and walked some way before stopping for a simple breakfast. On one occasion I sat on a bank to change from sandals to boots and to eat. The location was pleasant: a hill rose up behind me dotted with cattle and to my fore I had a wonderful view over a valley. I noticed the cattle coming towards me as I finished my meal, about twenty of them. I was ready to move on but they were upon me before I could pack up to go. Usually cows do not come too close and a shout or a wave deters them. Not this lot. Led by an aberrant one, let’s call her Kate, they crowded around me. Kate was determined to explore my bits and pieces which were strewn on the ground. She licked my tent bag (green) dripping saliva over it. I hit her on the nose – no effect. I grabbed the tent bag. She turned her tongue to my sleeping bag (not even green), slurp, slurp. The others kept pushing forward, but left it to Kate to do the exploring. I grabbed the sleeping bag so she started slurping away at my mattress whilst ignoring my heavy blows to her snout. Awkwardly hanging onto my bits and bags I managed to struggle out of the crush at last and luckily Kate did not follow.

Entering Dorset I found the countryside particularly stunning. It’s Thomas Hardy country and best described by him, but here goes: rolling hills, valleys full of irregular fields bordered by thick hedges and fulsome trees. Every shade of green imaginable and so little in the way of human habitation that the scenes slumber in the warm sun evincing feelings of softness, peace and harmony.

My favourite village was Cerne Abbas: beautifully kept with three pubs one of which does not sell Palmers beer, thanks be. My nemesis was the next stop – Beaminster. I found a nice spot beyond the town in a wood near a stream (for my ablutions) and apparently only visited by dog walkers who seemed a friendly bunch. The only cloud on my horizon – the phone had stopped charging though I had juice in my battery pack. I could no longer access the maps  and without maps I could not follow the Wessex Ridgeway to Lyme because it was not well marked. I walked back into Beaminster and tried to get someone to charge me up in the pubs – no success. I did not sleep much that night since I thought that I must abandon the walk at that point: so near and yet so far. 

In the morning after my “showering”, a dog walker passed by and I asked him if I might buy a map in Beamister. He said no because there were no shops of that sort and besides it was Sunday (I had lost track of the days).  However, he and his wife said that they had maps I might borrow so we arranged to meet at their car and they did indeed lend me a perfect map. Using that I pushed on, finally arriving in lovely Lyme Regis at seven-thirty the next morning for a quick swim in the cold English Channel followed by a journey by public transport back to Oxford.

Moral of the story: do not rely on mobile phones too much (actually it was simply the connecter that had failed) and be grateful to good Samaritans (I am returning their map). Steps completed approximately quarter of a million. Blisters – none. Beer consumed – lots.

Gypsy moments

I do like to travel, even though I did rather too much business related buzzing around in my middle years and do not now relish long plane flights. I suppose I feel the greatest freedom when wild camping in my motor caravan, especially when the travelling is unconstrained and the next destination decided at the current one.

Our latest trip was a little constrained. I wanted to visit Ilkley, Yorkshire on one particular day for a scratch performance of The Armed Man and we had to visit Margaret’s relatives at the tip of Scotland for a few days. The rest was a blank sheet - great.

We had time to explore a little of Yorkshire Dales and the Northumberland National Park on the way up, but I think my high point was a boat trip to the Farne Islands to view the mass of birds jockeying for space on the rocks and observe the fat seals lazing contentedly on their own rugged island.

In Scotland we spent a night in Kinross, parking the van within sight of Loch Leven. Sounds idyllic, but there is a reason for that long stretch of water – it rained must of the time we were there. In the bleak weather Kinross seemed a bit of a dump and none of the pubs seem to sell my favourite tipple – real ale. Yet things can turn. In one of the town’s pubs we were told that a brewery had a bar with ‘that handpumped stuff’ further down the road. We found it and it was great. There they told us that there was a good place to eat further down the road, and it was, and also that there was great little pub a mile or so further on and there was. The Village Inn was perfect: friendly people, animated chat, excellent ale, traditional décor and more. We found nothing like it further north.

On our return we had a tyre blow-out on a narrow busy road near Fort William. Nonetheless  we had a good night in the Rod and Reel public house further south where the two ladies behind the bar served us with a Scotish scowl and politeness verging on the acidic, but the beer was excellent and so was the raucous company of two couples from Australia who were also making their way towards the Cotswolds.

Interestingly, our own town of Stow on the Wold has a counterpart in the north of England. It is called Appleby and the thing the two places have in common is the great gypsy horse fairs. So, almost magically, Appleby appeared on the blank sheet as a our last overnight stop. It was also our wedding anniversary.

Whereas Stow begrudges the influx of gypsies with their horses, caravans, trucks, gypsy queens and followers, I had heard that Appleby welcomes them. I knew that most shops and pubs in Stow close their doors whilst the fairs are in progress, yet a one-time resident of Appleby had told me that villagers set up roadside food stalls and throw open the doors of its many pubs. Why, I had even been told that horses were taken into the pubs there!

Stow and Appleby are very different places: one on a hill, the other with a river running through it. One is constructed of warm yellow Cotswold stone, the other of brick and render. And, while Appleby is overlooked by a castle, Stow looks down on one and all. And yet they are inextricably linked by the travelling people.

The horse fair had just finished when we arrived, signs were still up indicating the many parking areas allocated to the gypsies and much of the rubbish that they always leave remained to be collected. It was no surprise to find 'No Overnight Parking’ signs at all of the spots that we might have overnighted, but a friendly local told me that motor caravans often used the swimming pool car park so we ignored the sign and made camp.

Appleby is a nice village with plenty of pubs and, though the first we tried was closed, we did find a quiet hotel next door willing to serve us dinner (just us) and then we crossed the road to the Hare and Hounds for a complete and utter contrast. As I opened the door music almost blasted us back into the street, but the tall blonde landlady beckoned us in and we were soon settled next to the jukebox with a pint and a spritzer and a view of the raised part of the pub where a large group of left over gypsies sang, danced and laughed uproariousl fueled by a constant supply of drinks bought by one of their number – the treasurer presumably.

What a night, if I can think of two numbers which spilled loudly out of that constantly fed jukebox which characterized the music then these must be Tom Jones’ Delilah followed closely by Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves. The dancing was flamboyant, suggestive, irresistible: some of it was led by the landlady joined by the short muscular man in the blue Tshirt (which he removed at one point to dance topless, the landlady did not object yet did not follow). We were drawn willingly into the party, dancing and holding hands with the gypsies whilst ‘Hands’ belted out of the machine.

Yes, what a night. We are now truly twinned with Appleby in Westmorland and have become proper gypsies.