Following many a power walk along the genteel paths and parks of Sandhurst with my dear wife, during which she demonstrated her new found, diet-induced, superior, stamina by always striding at least ten steps ahead of me, I decided to regain the upper hand one sunny morning by innocently suggesting a more varied, relaxed and romantic walk in the countryside.
After rummaging intensely through the internet for a while, I found a detailed guide and hand-drawn, walkers’ map for a, not too challenging, six-mile walk at Frensham Ponds that is a short drive from home. As the map drawer, being old-fashioned, did not give the precise, pin-point, postal code location of the starting point, we ventured out in the car in the general direction without the aid of the brain-numbing satellite navigation contraption.
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| Frensham Ponds in Surrey |
A longish, short, drive later through convoluted, countryside lanes, led us eventually to the Frensham Pond visitor centre at the edge of a sandy beach around a shimmering lake bathed in warm sunshine. Confident scorn was poured on my efforts to get a better map from the visitor centre so we set out immediately, dithering briefly left and right, as I tried to match the hand-drawn map to the landscape. We strode, determined, along the sandy shore past triangular, white sailboats flitting backward and forward on the lake. Tripping along behind my resolute partner, my attempts to capture the idyllic scene with her on camera were summarily dismissed apart from a brief, forced, smile with no chance for a repeat in case of a blurred image.
Charging over a bridge and up a bank into the woods along a river, the path became muddier due to rains the night before. This, to my relief, slowed her down as she navigated around the brown, slurpy, sludge in her pristine, pink, Nike trainers. My romantic banter about the winding river and sun-dappled woods were completely ignored; however, I knew I was winning when she muttered that we should have stuck to the clean and ordered tarmac paths around Virginia Water, that we had visited the weekend before, on which we would have made great progress. As she stopped summarily to wipe the muck from her soles, I rested against a contorted, wizened, oak and pleaded with her to take a snap of me against this ancient living form, to which she reluctantly condescended.
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| Wizened Oak |
We raced past the regal, Tudor-fronted, Frensham Manor which attracted only a fleeting glance as she concentrated on dodging, at pace, around the infuriating puddles that were intent on sullying her neat, dainty footwear. Overtaking a leisurely young couple and child with the tersest of greetings, we swung around a ploughed field with a narrow muddy bridleway beside it, running along a bramble hedge. I confirmed, from the map, that this was indeed the correct heading on which to continue our walk. As we carefully tip-toed around the muddy path and horse droppings, my heart soared on anticipation of a slower pace as I saw her spirit sink at a sign that pointed to a public footpath that led over a stile in the hedge and across a freshly ploughed field. Over the thorny, clawing, hedge and stile we climbed and ventured bravely into the field towards the wooded hilltop joined by some locals who were familiar with the way.
Inspired by the country-squire clothing of the lanky, local ladies who joined us with their knee-high green Wellington boots, waxed green jackets, caps, hoity-toity accents and pack of eager beagles on leash, I started planning my future country-walk attire as my white sneakers were beginning to get smeared ankle high with manure-like goo. Slowed to a more leisurely pace we stopped at the edge of the field to wipe our muddied ankles and dignity in the long wet grass and let the high-brow ladies of equine heritage confidently gallop away towards the gorse beyond the edge of the field.
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| Glorious Views of the English Countryside |
The path soon gave way to a hilltop copse in the middle of grassy pastures with stunning, panoramic views of the rolling green English countryside beyond with neat hedgerows, interspersed with cottages, farms and country houses. Local farmers, who probably detest country-side walkers using the public footpaths across their land, confined us to a narrow and messy trail interspersed with electric fences and signs with threats of prosecution. Vowing not to let her slender ankles wander into the mire again, my partner ignored the low electric fences and crossed over them into the grassy field, claiming such fences were only for dull, intelligence-challenged sheep. I was not entirely sure she was limiting her reference specifically to the unfortunate woolly creatures dotted on the hilltop munching on the luxurious pasture. I meekly followed to avoid such aspersions being cast in my direction only to be startled by numerous shotgun blasts in the fields below where a farmer had possibly ended the life of a transgressing walker. Cautiously we sidled back onto the slimy, single-lane path at the boundary of the field and woods.
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| Sun Dappled Crocuses |
As we rushed through the woods we suddenly stumbled across a mauve carpet of fresh crocuses basking in a secret sunlit corner. The sight of such delicate beauty stopped us dead in our tracks and we paused to gaze at the sheer magnificence of such a spectacle. Of course the flowers, resplendent in their fresh spring clothing, were completely oblivious to the admiration of passers by. By this hour we were nearing lunchtime and my well-thumbed and crumpled map indicated we were near a family “Real-Ale Pub”, The Hollybush, which was not entirely unplanned. Offering greetings to the locals, who were taken completely by surprise to see such a couple stumble out of the woods and head straight for the “loos”, which was entirely appropriate given the length of time we had taken from the start to reach this habitation.
Since the menu was enticing and the afternoon so balmy, I rang my elder son who was studying at home, to join us for lunch giving him the precise, pin-point, postal code location printed on the pub’s menu. He was down like a shot given the offer of a free lunch and beer. While my dear wife nibbled her diet-conscious salad, I had my steak-and-ale pie and my son tucked into fish-and-chips, all downed with a pint of warm Abbot’s ale, the premier product of the Greene King brewery in Kent.
After lunch, my son left us to complete our walk back to Frensham Ponds. Despite my protestations, the strife of my life headed off at great speed down the tarmac road outside the pub, exasperated with the slowness of the unkempt cross- country footpaths. Soon we reached an old church yard indicated on the map and re-joined the country path only see a couple from the pub approaching us the other way, so we turned back up the path, heading correctly this time to Frensham Ponds. We reached the Visitor Centre just as the evening sun was dipping into the lake and fortunately the tea shop was still serving up a last treat for us of rum-and-raisin ice cream cones which we slurped sitting on the beach, watching the sun go down as parents with their children reveled in digging holes and making castles in the sand.
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| Let Nature be Your Teacher |
I
think I achieved a small victory when it was admitted to me, with a wry smile, that she might have enjoyed parts of the walk and I dared to entertain the thought that these might have been the times when we held hands for a while and sauntered carefree through the wild English countryside enjoying what nature has provided us walkers around Frensham Ponds.
I want to Runaway with you by the Corrs.
http://www.frensham-pc.gov.uk/common/
