Journey Through Kent and Sussex: A Journal
The following passages are taken from my journal, those segments concerning my attempt to walk to Hastings from Royal Tunbridge Wells between the dates of Monday 28th of May and Wednesday 30th of May, 2018.
Sunday, 27th of May
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| On the Bluebell Line |
Tomorrow, I begin a great trial and test. I shall walk to Hastings. All that there is to sustain me and keep me shall be on my back; and it is a heavy load indeed. But I am looking forward to it and eager to start.
This is the culmination of the self-training I have undertaken in preparation for my pilgrimage in the Summer holidays. That should take around two weeks, perhaps more, and I shall have much to do even after this trip. But so far, I have only done single-day trips and this is the first time I shall be out in the wild and walking day after day.
My first preparatory trek was to the Bluebell Railway, timed to catch the bluebells in bloom. That really was glorious, so beautiful, and a great success as well as instructive. I was well prepared nutritionally but very poorly prepared for navigation, having to rely on my phone for its GPS. I was not able to make it all the way to Sheffield Park as the train timetable was against me, and had I pressed on from Horsted Keynes I would have found myself stranded. I took many audio clips of my thoughts along the way and many pictures, all of which I am yet, to my shame, to knock together and transcribe into a blog piece.
For the second trip I set upon the task of improving my navigation. I prepared OS maps and banned myself outright from using my phone. Alice Hardy came with me, keen for the opportunity to trek somewhere, as far as Penshurst. It is just as well, for she could read the map better than I could. The first leg, to Penshurst, was much the loveliest, with rolling hills and valleys to please the eye and work the legs, and the sense of being alone and in possession of it all was thrilling. Alas, the leg to Tonbridge was less interesting visually and the paths were much busier, especially with cyclists, which I resented. An additional difficulty, when passing so many bodies of water, was the abundance of mosquitoes, and I regret to say they had a good drink at my expense. Nonetheless, I succeeded in my aim of navigating by map the whole way.
So now I come to much the greatest challenge. The sheer weight of the bag; the unfamiliar nature of the route; the unforeseen circumstances for which I am doubtless unprepared, in spite of my best efforts; the succession of days walking; the length of solitude I shall endure; all these things, and more, shall put me sorely to the test. Yet, why not? For is this not the very point of pilgrimage? It is no package holiday and I am no tourist: to be a pilgrim is to be a lone journeyman, and that is to be one who undergoes trial. I relish the challenge, no matter how broken I shall be by the time I stand upon Hastings Pier.
I have equipped myself with a notebook and pen, and for my evening's pleasure I am also bringing my copy of A Shropshire Lad. Its pastoral and nostalgic themes are most apt.
For the rest of this night, I shall take my rest. For the Sun now dips on this day, and plenty awaits me upon the morrow.
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| The Tory power pose. Over the course of the journey, this became my emblem. |
Day 1: Monday, 28th of May
The following entries are transcribed from records taken over the course of the journey. Click here for my video diary.
1300 at Brecknock Arms, Bells Yew Green
The first thing I said to myself this morning as I closed the door behind me was 'what am I doing?' ⸻ To which my other self replied, with a sense of a sigh, 'something. You are doing something.' And it is true. I am doing something, and I mean the overall endeavour for which I am preparing. For how easy is it to treat the half term break as a succession of easy lie-ins? Much too easy. Some computer games in the afternoon, perhaps an ale in the evening, maybe a day trip to London or a session on the Pantiles, but never, it seems, anything worth writing about. And I am too old now to be throwing my time away.
My guiding principle must be always this: do something worth writing about.
So I have come thus far [via Frant]. Not as far as I had hoped, but that is down mainly to the prevalence at this point in the route of roads over footpaths. The roads are dangerous; caution required; therefore slow going. This lunchtime ale is then well earned and much needed, but I dare not tarry long, for I have many miles ahead of me and I am quite hungry.
2100: Cedar Gables Campsite, near Bewl Water
Probably for reasons of exhaustion and dehydration, I neglect in the following entry to describe the course of the day. The weather was hot and intensely sunny all through. I had planned to drop in at certain points for refreshment, but for different reasons these were all shut, so I had quickly run out of water with half the journey yet to tread. Finally, the campsite had basic facilities, including water, but was miles from anywhere that served food and drink, so I had to dine that night on my rations. These details would have seemed unimportant by the time I erected my tent and opened my notebook in the dusk.
This has been an ordeal. I am suffering. I am also doubtful. Can I do this?
It is precisely for these things I have done this. Not to feel comfortable all the time; not always to be sure of myself; to see if I can overcome these things.
I believe I can at the same moment that I fear I can't. That is not a contradiction.
I have not yet found in myself any great solace or meaning on this journey. But what exactly am I looking for? Revelation? Enlightenment?
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| Setting out on Day 2 |
Day 2: Tuesday, 29th of May
Morning, 0810
This morning I woke at 0500 to a symphony of birds. My God - they were loud. I have often heard them when waking early at home. But the sound in town is nothing to this.
For a while I lay in the dawn, in the noise, only guessing what time it was; my phone is quite depleted so I dared not switch it on. But then I turned it on and Lo! it was only 0500. Then I checked the weather, which said a monsoon was on the way. Discouraged, I rolled back over and slept a second time.
It is now ten past eight. It is still pretty grim out there but I have to get moving soon. Perhaps I shall find advantage in the rain? For I got very dirty yesterday. But my feet still hurt and I really don't want to put those boots on.
*
There is beauty in the rain. Yes, there is also threat, even mortal danger at times. But that is true of the Sun, the sea, the chalk cliffs at Dover. Even as I watch it fall, awaiting my moment to let down my tent, pack my bag and make my way, it strikes me, the music that it makes and the new complexion it puts upon the visible world; and I wonder how much we owe to the rain.
But were we not taught, long ago, to put these fond, romantic notions aside? And to see instead the irresistible and, to us, indifferent forces that are at work? The rain is gone anyway, and it is time I put my day into motion.
1500: Somewhere south of Hawkhurst
I am in the church of The Moor, Hawkhurst. Peaceful. I am grateful for the opportunity of rest as well as silence.
Today is quite different from yesterday. Grey, hazy, constant rumbles of distant thunder. So many prospects, I have thought, might have looked Italianate in the sun; it is storm clouds and rain that makes them English.
But I seem no longer moved by the beauty of nature. It is not that I am innured to it, or even bored with it, but rather that its meaning has changed. No longer just glory and views and solitude but also hardship, danger and pain, to be endured and overcome.
Dusk: Campsite, near Bodiam
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| Bodiam |
As with the previous day, the following entry is light on details of the progress of the day, which was marred by great difficulty only alleviated by a good supply of ale at various spots. South of Hawkhurst, most of the public paths were overrun with nettle bushes that reached as high as my chest. In heavy rain I spent much of my time and energy hacking through what ought to have been easy walking. At times I feared myself getting cut off, especially in the gathering darkness, and the fact that water had seeped into my boots made my spirits droop very low. It must be for these reasons I forgot about the amusing incident early in the day when I was chased off a field by a horde of free range hens.
In the fading light I re-read Shropshire Lad. No. 2: mourning the passage of time and youth at the age of twenty. Curious, for it is now at the age of thirty one that I feel as the poem describes; the very feeling that explains why I am here.
I do not like this place and I shall get out as early as possible tomorrow. In the fading light beneath the low hanging storm clouds I feel, looking at these tents and semi-permanent caravans strewn about in this nowhere, that I have accidentally strayed into Gehenna.
Today has been quite miserable, and I go to bed in half a mind to walk to Robertsbridge tomorrow for the first train home. We shall see. But for now, the light fails, and I must retire.
Day 3: Wednesday, 30th of May
Morning
Now I understand those prayers that cry out 'the night has passed' and give thanks to God 'for bringing us safely to this new day.' Damp. Hard floor. Noisy neighbours. Strong winds. Rain. Thunder and lightning. The morning is not exactly bright and glorious - the cloud is thick and the gloom is heavy - but there is light, and I am alive, and I can begin to make my preparations.
*
I have been holding my boots and socks under the hand dryer. Unsurprisingly, they didn't dry overnight. I've managed to dry them a bit, but not to a crisp, and they certainly won't bear me to Hastings. And I am covered in bites, cuts and stings for which I have no relief.
There is a Boots in Robertsbridge as well as a train station. The tendons at the top of my calf muscles are seriously tenderised and I do fear doing myself an injury.
Evening: Tunbridge Wells
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| Triumphant: the Tory power pose after my safe return |
I am home. Thank heavens. My legs are in agony - skin and muscle - and I have just emerged from a deep nap.
The journey to Robertsbridge was far tougher than I had anticipated, and as bad as anything I encountered yesterday. In some respects it was worse. I am sure the problem stems from the intense and sustained sunshine on Monday and heavy rainfall thereafter, resulting in an explosion of growth which has engulfed every common footpath. The nettles yesterday were as tall as my chest; today, they were looking me in the eye. Added to the relentless stings upon my body, sustained as I hacked my way inch by inch through the overgrowth alongside miles of wetland: standing and hacking, hacking and standing; easy prey for mosquitoes; these things added together, I am in great pain now.
But at least the journey to Roberstbridge was short - four miles, by my reckoning - and half of it was along road or pavement. But I realised as I went that I had made the right choice: I was never going to get to Hastings. Not like this.
How do I feel about not getting to Hastings? Fine, actually. There would have been excellent bragging rights, of course, but there is no shame in facing facts when they are against you: it was out of the question, at this time and on this attempt. I now have a better feel for judging distances on a map, and it became obvious by last night that what I had planned for the third day would require a fourth to complete.
It was also apparent that the paths south of Hawkhurst that had caused me such grief the day before were not just badly kept, as I had first thought, but in fact would be typically like this hereafter, as the land was clearly exploding with new growth. This induction was confirmed on my hellish walk to Robertsbridge.
And I was not properly equipped. It is not that I was negligent: it is partly for such experience that I undertook this trip. I had no long trousers to protect me against the nettles and insects. Why should I? Shorts have been perfectly adequate - nay, given the recent heat, desirable - on my recent shorter treks. And besides, considering how much space and weight in my bag was taken up by the tent, I had to make compromises with myself. And in this season, I shall also know better to take insect repellent and some cream for bites and stings.
This is all to say that Hastings was a bridge too far. All things considered, I think I have walked thirty miles, though I shall need to check that on an OS map. That is no small achievement, and I can be satisfied with it.
*
And in retrospect? It was odd being on the train, going home. I felt vindicated. I hardly noticed the world we were passing through, the beauty of this special place, for even if a glimpse was there, through the window, it appeared and was gone in the twinkling of an eye. No time to set one's sights upon it, or to think upon it.
Even at a good speed on a direct and unfettered course the train took a good while getting to Tunbridge Wells. It was like a fast rewind of all that I had done, and I felt deeply satisfied therefore, especially passing Frant, which, as I had learned on my journey, is not in Frant. But it also revealed to me how much of our land is measured in time, not miles. I know this is not an original observation but the force of it is new to me. The work of three days was undone in just over twenty minutes by a train. Upon foot, this land is vast, complex, almost impenetrable and actually quite dangerous. On a train, it is small, pretty, fleeting and harmless. It will be a while before I complain once more about the slowness of journeys in these parts, for I shall long bear in my mind what a transformation is there in how we view the world, first with the steam engine, then with the motor engine; and just how much at odds, possibly out of reach, our forebears' understanding of our shared space must be from our own. The only way to get the old country back, then, is to walk it.
*
I set out as a tourist of nature, a greedy sightseer of photogenic views. I return changed: those hills, trees, rivers and valleys don't look the same to me anymore. Nature is something to be reckoned with.
How clear my mind has become.
