I was listening to the radio recently and a woman was being interviewed about her project. The project, an original idea (if such a thing exists), was to try and eat the food of every country on earth, in London. That’s just short of 200 nights out, take-aways or gatecrashing cultural events. She seemed confident that she was going to be able to achieve her ambition.
From the Peak Bagger list of county and unitary authority high points in the UK there are, in total, 186. As the months have gone by it has become increasingly obvious to me that far from being the niche activity I thought it might have been when I started in May 2024, bagging these locations appears to be a mass participation hobby/sport/pastime/mission, whatever you want to call it.
Nothing confirmed this more than, whilst flicking through December 2025’s edition of TRAIL*, there was a two-page feature on bagging county tops!!! It featured ten very different types of locations, of which remarkably I had done four (if you include High Holborn in London which was on my original list but doesn’t feature in the Peak Bagger list – something I will need to explore further).
What was all this information telling me? Well, when I started off, I had no notion whatsoever that loads of people were already trailblazing the territory, some writing up their experiences (including at least one book) and others just doing it for the sake of doing it. I’m certainly not hung up about it, and in fact it has been useful to find out that others have already been before, but as I listened to the young woman explain how she was going about sampling all of the world’s cuisine without leaving London, I wondered if I had perhaps missed a trick.
It’s too late now, but I realised, in hindsight, that if I was going to start this all again, I would have done it differently. Instead of trying to get to the highest point in every county (and then with the compilations thrown up last year, unitary authorities as well), I should have targeted instead the county and unitary authorities second highest points. Try and find that on Google?
Overall, I think it’s fair to say that good progress was made. No big trips to the north, which just delays the prospect of me ever managing to chalk off the remaining big ones, but two excursions into South Wales proved fruitful and fulfilling, and in the process discovering the magnificent Head of the Valleys (the clue is in the name) dual carriageway, and eventually reaching the top of one of my now favourite spots anywhere; Pen-y-Fan. During the hottest of hot summers, I smashed East Anglia and was reminded how big an area of the world it is. Sadly, in March 2026 my father experienced life’s last great event and my focus naturally turned elsewhere. It may be a while before I get back into a rhythm, but just to keep my head above water I recently managed to visit two spots in the north Somerset area.
It would be remiss of me not to mention the huge elephant in the room, or on the moor, or in the suburbs. Local government reorganisation. In the last few months, details of potential frameworks for the reorganisation of counties and Unitary Authorities have slowly emerged. One such example is Essex. In 2025 I conquered the county top of Essex, and the Unitary Authorities of Southend-on-Sea and Thurrock. Job done. Not if these proposals go through. Essex will be entirely governed by five new Unitary Authorities. Suffolk, which was also ticked off in 2025 on a single outing, will now become three. My own county of East Sussex, along with Brighton and Hove and West Sussex, could become four or five new authorities. Whatever the outcome there will be at least one more top to visit in the historic Sussex area alone! I’m not sure I have the puff for that, but challenges change. The biggest challenge will not be for me, but for all the online sites, documents, maps, guides and books that will have to be amended, updated or just given up on.
And finally, there’s Bristol. I chalked off the top of Bristol last year, by visiting the Cossham Hospital site and surrounding area, the traditional high point of Bristol. Except, out of the blue, on my phone a link to a local press article appeared that explained new research had discovered that the true high point was East Dundry Hill, far to the south of the city. Given that the boundary change that created this scenario had occurred some decades before why had it taken so long for it to be recognised? To that end, Bristol remains outstanding, but at least I can say that I’ve reached its second highest point.
*In a sad twist of fate, having read TRAIL in full for the first time, and deciding that I would like to subscribe, days later I was told that the December edition was its last! These are difficult times but the demise of the written press can only make it worse (he says as he posts again online).
An Afternoon in the Mendips part 2: In Amongst the Lamas
Having ticked off the top of North Somerset I drove a few miles east (with the ever-present radio transmission of endless and forever Mandelson and Trump news updates vomiting from the speakers) and parked up at the Forestry Commission East Harptree carpark just off the Smitham Hill road. The next objective was Niver Hill, the top of Bath and North East Somerset Unitary Authority. North Somerset had been a brief drive by, and so I needed to stretch my legs.
Two or three cars were parked up but it was a tranquil spot, and if I had paid attention to the information board might have taken a stroll over to the nearby historical Smitham Chimney that apparently lurked in the trees to the west. Hindsight and Google maps.
Instead, unaware of the chimney’s towering brick presence, I walked the track back to Smitham Hill road, turned left and ambled down heading north.
Depending on the map you look at the tiled roof is either Springfield Farm or Pit Farm!!
Just before Springfield Farm I turned right and then southeast up Nettwood Lane, with fields to the left and bluebell enhanced woods to the right.
Pretty in blue
At the end of the wooded section a footpath headed directly east but I bore to the right and on the straight track up towards Nettwood farm at the top of the hill. At the entrance to the farm, I stopped and looked directly east towards a cluster of trees on the ridge about 300 meters away. Having looked at various maps months earlier I knew that the high point was located just by the last most northern tree, but there was no obvious route across the field from the farm.
The high point, just at the last tree on the left
It wasn’t to be and sometimes you just have to accept it. From the position I was in I felt as if I was at a similar height and decided I had done enough. Heading back down a couple of space aged yurts appeared in the first field. I enjoy camping, but this looked a bit too artificial (maybe I need to get over these prejudices).
A pod of yurts with a view
A bit further down and another field presented a gathering of curious lamas. As I walked on by, they stood stock still and gave me the unwavering eyeballs until I had passed. I guess they thought I might have been a food bringer.
Maintaining their gaze
Back at the car I felt that I had enough time to do part three of the Mendip challenge and get to Dundury Hill East, just to the south of Bristol, and what has recently emerged as the top of Bristol Unitary Authority after previously being reported as Cossham Hospital which I had ticked off last year.
I drove north, first through East and then West Harptree and then on the A368 towards Bishop Sutton. By now, unless I was to get very lucky, my time was probably up, and so when a lay-by appeared next to Chew Valley Lake, I pitched up and bought an ice cream from the van that was doing good business. Unfortunately, the ice cream (that came in at just under £4) was an overwhelming disappointment (Mr Whixxy) and I fought a desperate battle with the heat to lick as much of the abysmal product down whilst simultaneously looking out at the birds on the water, the buzzards in the air, and the view across the lake and back towards the trees on the hills beyond that marked Niver Hill and the point I hadn’t quite achieved.
The view back to Niver Hill (try taking a photo at the same time as preventing a total ice-cream disaster)
Dundry Hill East would have to wait another day, but as I drove towards Bristol city centre, the Peter and the Donald stories continued to remorselessly dribble out from the speakers. I figure that what we need more of is Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers and a little less Mr Whippy’s.
In February 1999 (it says it on the internet!) I managed to see Johathan Richman at the Jazz Cafe in Camden Town. I can’t remember if he played Ice Cream Man, but that didn’t matter – he was simply magnificent.
An Afternoon in the Mendips part 1: At the End of the Lane
The day had got off to an expensive start. I had spent the night in London at a friends and was aiming to be in Bristol to see my daughter by the end of the day. Time was on my side, and I figured that unless the roads were trouble I could knock off the three Unitary Authority tops south of Bristol and west of Bath.
High pressure had been sitting over the country. The sun beat down on London stone and streets as I headed south towards the Marylebone Road, and the slightly complicated junction at Baker Street that takes you west and away. With the intense light and the glare pinging off anything metal it took me a minute or so to work out that instead of heading south on Baker Street, I was instead heading south on Gloucester Place. No worries.
Except, as the lights changed at the Gloucester Place junction with Marylebone Road, I suddenly caught sight of the big red C sign, and instantly knew there was no escape. I’d tripped the congestion charge trap and there was no avoiding it. To be honest it wasn’t so much the fact that I was now foolishly out of pocket (and I didn’t know what the damage would be), but that at some point before the end of the day I was going to have to engage with my phone, and all the torture that might entail, in order to pay the fee.
On the Westway heading west, I noticed that most of Grenfell Tower was gone. Not all of it, but its demolition had escaped my attention, and it was obvious that the skyline had changed. It was nine years on, but it felt like it had happened yesterday.
Whilst the congestion charge was still in my mind, I stopped at Heston Service station on the M4 and set about trying to pay my penalty. After nearly creating an account to pay the charge for a large city in the United States, I eventually got to creating an account for the London charge. It should have been easy, but needless to say it wasn’t, and after fifteen minutes of having to come up with passwords, memorable dates, locations and maiden names, whilst the coffee got tepid and my hot pie went cold, my multiple attempts to register were eventually rejected and I was told to phone a number.
I phoned the number, desperate to speak to a human. That state of nirvana remained elusive as I sat in the sun clearly and loudly giving my verbal staccato answers to the AI machine asking me all the questions. Remarkably, after just five minutes, and with very few repetitions, I was told that I had succeeded in paying the charge and had learnt a very important lesson.
I was beyond Bristol by 2pm and heading south on the M5. At the familiar junction 21 for Weston Super Mare, instead of heading for the coast I went inland to Congresbury and then south, eventually making it onto the A368 Bath Road.
Here the road began to rise out of the Somerset Levels and east into the Mendip Hills. The village of Rickford and surrounding countryside looked magnificent and somewhere worth returning to in the future if the chance arose. A mile or two further on and I was in Blagdon, with its curious mixture of architectural styles, including a number of buildings, clearly old but not that old, sporting a cross between Tudor and Swiss chalet. Somehow it all worked though you could be confused into thinking you were anywhere other than the Mendips.
I stopped in the free carpark next to the Community Fire Station to get my bearings. Once that had been achieved, I set off and was about to turn right at the exit when I noticed an overdressed middle-aged man jogging up the hill and towards the car. I paused. Instead of running past me he slipped round the car and into the carpark. I looked right, with the intention of setting off, and another middle-aged man, overdressed of course, was jogging, this time down the hill. Strange activity anywhere, until it dawned on me that with the Community Fire Station just behind me, they were volunteer firefighters on a “shout”. If the weather keeps on like this, they’re going to be in for a busy summer.
Back on the road I headed up into the village and then south and up the multi-potholed Street End, that wasn’t an end, but which became Rhodyate (?) as it headed out into the county and hills above. After a few wiggles in the road, it straightened out and headed on up with a fine line of trees lining the side to the left. The road was called Two Trees, but something had clearly happened since it was named.
Turning left onto Leaze Lane I was close to the top. I drove on to the end, with fine views extending down to the Bristol Channel and Blagdon Lake. At the end of the road, I pulled up. There was no obvious parking space, and a woman, presumably from the nearby farm complex, was going through the recycling bins. I got out of the car to have a gander.
The view towards Wales and Sugarloaf (north by northwest) where this whole madness began
A lane headed south and continued up to the top of a rise. Whilst I understood that the top of North Somerset was at the edge of the field immediately in front of me, I wasn’t entirely sure where the county boundary ran, and whether perhaps I ought to go up the lane, just to be on the safe side. In the end, with nowhere to safely park for a few minutes (a Waitrose delivery could arrive at any time), and without wishing to worry the woman further (albeit she was probably used to strangers turning up to tick off the county top), I decided to turn around and leave. As it happened, and double checking later, I was in the right place, with the high point of 242 meters just to the right of the hedge 30 odd meters on from the telegraph pole in the photo below
The highest point in the Unitary Authority of Slough, at 51 meters is, along with the Isles of Scilly, the fifth lowest high point in the County Top challenge (Peakbagger). Which implies that as a group of islands, the Scilly’s must be much lower than I had assumed and at serious risk. If I ever get there, I’ll double check.
I’d spent the night in an hotel room in Newbury (having reached the top of Walbury Hill in West Berkshire the day before) and was heading back to South London to recommence duties. Sleep had been illusive after the phenomenally annoying drunken behaviour of the guys staying in the rooms either side of mine, which only finally tailed off around 3am. Once upon a time I might have made a fuss but frankly I chose to avoid confrontation.
Reaching East Burnham Park, the highest point in Slough (and being frank again, don’t get excited), would complete the County Tops in the Thames Valley. I drove east on the M4 and turned left towards Sloughs suburbs at junction 7. Turning left again at the first roundabout and onto the Bath Road I caught a glimpse of a road sign directing motorists towards Dorney, Taplow and Dorney, named, obviously after three of the four stand out twenty storey tower blocks on Adelaide Road in north London. The one missing from the sign, which would have completed the set, was Bray, where our son was born in 1986 (on the 14th floor to be precise!).
North through Burnham and onto the Farnham Lane, which seemed to define where the surrounding country met urban Slough. I pulled over on a slip road of Farnham Lane opposite Crown Lane, a small road heading north towards Burnham Beeches. *
From what I had read the highest point was just beyond a hedge and fence where Crown Lane met Farnham Lane. I stepped out of the car and walked across an open area of grass, planted in places with young trees. A small sign explained that the land formed part of the Slough Digital Urban Forest. Some of what followed made a lot of sense, “biodiversity”, “Carbon Capture” etc, but it had been the use of the word “digital” that immediately closed my brain functions and left me scratching my head in disinterest.
A digital forest?!
What did catch my eye was a lonely litter bin sited near the road (see photo), but without any connection, from what I could see, to any potential meaningful interaction with intended clients. Maybe it was part of Slough’s Digital Waste Space initiative.
I looked across the road and to the junction with Crown Lane. The high point marked on the Peakbagger map sat just back from the road and in the trees. I don’t know why I didn’t bother to cross over the road for completion’s sake, maybe there was a low fence or something, but I concluded I had seen enough, and indeed a later check suggested that where I stood was the same height (51 meters).
The big tree on the left probably marked the spot
County Top number 50. Tick.
I drove back towards the M4 the way I had come, until I realised, I was somewhere I hadn’t been before. Ten minutes later and I was slap bang in the midst of a huge industrial/retail park sitting to the west of the town centre. It all appeared to be modernistic and high tech. Back in 1937 John Betjeman (who at the time lived in the rather quaint village of Uffington some miles to the west) wrote poetic lines on Slough, famously starting with “Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough..”
I had always known this opening line but wasn’t sure I had ever read the entire poem. Whoa! It’s excruciating. He must have been going through his Morrissey phase. Just as well he was never on social media. Between the wars a vast new trading/factory estate had been constructed in Slough. His poem railed against these developments. From what I could see there were no mid-Century buildings left or dirty smoke billowing up. All very clean and tidy now, though it’s still called Slough Trading Estate. It can only be a matter of time before a “Digital” finds its way into the name, “Trading” is replaced by “Enterprise” and “Estate” by “Park”. But will they keep “Slough”? I wonder!
* Burnham Beeches rang a bell for me. Famous for something, but only later did I discover that a whole slew of famous films had been shot there (not least Goldfinger). Perhaps I should have crossed the road.
If you know your history of Slough, you’ll appreciate the musical choice. Before Rod went in another direction! Other artists are available
Since my last outing (a long weekend in late October when I managed to chalk off five tops) a lot of “stuff” has been going on, and it is a long list. Greenland, Epstein fallout (on repeat), Tariffs misunderstood, Ukraine (US inertia continues), Andrew (see above – on repeat loop) and so much more. On a personal note, getting opportunities to travel have been severely limited. The weather for one thing (I wonder if we’ll look back in years to come and remember the incessant rain, cold and absence of sun), but also an elderly family member’s slow decline and on-going care requirements. Which prompted this very short getaway.
With a very small window of opportunity I made a last minute, value for money, two-night booking at a pub come hotel in Newbury. I won’t name it because it was pretty good to be fair, but my need for sleep was rudely interrupted on both nights, and I came away less equipped for my on-going commitments than I had been at the start. Shucks!
I chose Newbury, a small town just south of the M4 corridor between Reading and Swindon because it was near to Walbury Hill (and Slough – but that’s a future post), sufficiently close to where I had come from and where I needed to be on the Tuesday, and because, surprisingly I had never been there before. Going to somewhere I have never been before has been one of the secondary objectives of the County tops endeavour.
Arriving in Newbury early evening I had time to grab some food and relax over a couple of beers in local pubs. The first, The Lock, Stock and Barrel, located by the side of the river Kennett, was great, and the riverside terrace would be a must do in warmer weather. As it was, the river (a tributary of the Thames, and probably not much to look at most of the time) was a raging torrent, just inches from breaching the pubs defences. I asked a local couple if they had seen it so high before. The answer was a definite NO. The second pub, which will remain nameless, was shocking. Arsenal had beaten Spurs at the Lane 4 – 1. I expected Spurs to lose, and don’t begrudge Arsenal, but the boys were still pretty hopeless.
I slept like a log, until at around 5am, when, with a monumental crashing sound, the bottle recycling team turned up to remove the pubs Friday and Saturday empties. Wide awake for a while until asleep again. At 6.30am an almost identical noise announced someone from the pub emptying Sunday’s empties into the recycling bin that had just been emptied a couple of hours earlier. Again, wide awake until sometime on. I know this for sure because I woke again an hour later when the sound of beer kegs being dropped from the back of the dray (a lorry that carries barrels of beer), was pretty much the final straw. I think I counted about 20 metal on padded concrete interactions before it eventually buggered off.
Having been up with the larks, metaphorically, on three occasions, I gave up the fight. I had a task to complete after all. Before that I strolled into the town centre and then along the Kennet and associated canal. And very pleasant it was too, although for people living nearby, they must live in a state of high anxiety for half the year.
Where does all the water go?
I drove out towards the southwest, noticing that many of the dense hedges were well over two meters wide – something I haven’t noticed elsewhere.* Not a long journey but made longer by taking a wrong turn and inadvertently arriving at Ashmansworth, where a year or so ago I had stopped briefly to get my bearings before finding Pilot Hill, the highest point in Hampshire (see https://elcolmado57.co.uk/2025/04/12/cresting-the-county-hampshire/). I took some bearings and then made my way along the narrow but traffic free lanes to Faccombe, where I stopped to take some bearings. Faccombe boasted a handful of very large houses, a church and a big pub called the Jack Russell, which for some reason looked a bit out of place. I stopped in the carpark of the Jack Russell (to get bearings) and considered calling in for a coffee. However, being surrounded by an array of high spec 4 by 4’s and SUV’s (are these the same things?), all of them looming over my little Ford, I chose to pass on through, aware that if anyone were to ask me my views on fox hunting I’d probably be lucky to get away with just a slashed tyre. Instead, I took a short stroll to the village pond, then took a photo of a swath of snowdrops, with daffodils above.
The lanes were awash with snowdrops, and I am pretty sure the daffodils were out far too soon
The road continued north. I noticed to my right a view across a valley towards Pilot Hill.
Pilot Hill – a new perspective.
I took some more bearings and shortly afterwards arrived at a small unmarked muddy carpark where I put on my boots and stepped forth.
A rutted chalk track took me northwest. It felt like it would rain at any minute, but it didn’t, which was a relief. The hill boasts an Iron Age camp, but the evidence on the ground was limited, with just a few mounds indicating the structure. After half a mile, with a field to my left that contained the summit of Walbury Hill, I came to a large metal gate. I had read that access to the summit, which was on private land, could be gained at this point. Judging by the padlock and a sign that emphasised the private property, no public access angle, I figured there must be another access point further along.
Towards the summit, and a hint at the top of the trig point.
I carried on along the track, now losing elevation. Another 200 meters or so on another large gate, but sitting next to it a pedestrian gate, with all the hallmarks of hiking legitimacy. Except, again the private property sign and a rusty padlock that said it all.
The rusty padlock, an assertion of power and ownership?Combe Gibbet on the horizon
I was getting the message. At some point, maybe even still, the land was/is owned by the Astor Family. I couldn’t be bothered to do the research, but I knew that they had/still are, very, very rich. Original oligarch templates, I guess. Oh well, not much I could do about that, but to block access to the highest point in the whole of the southeast of England felt mean and petty. Maybe I had just missed a trick and somewhere, somewhere, there was a legitimate route (I later re-read the on-line blurb about Walbury Hill and realised that I had misread the bit about access from the main track – there was none).
The walk had been short and in a desperate need to keep stretching my legs (the last few weeks having largely consisted of sitting behind a steering wheel and watching the rain whilst stuck in traffic) I carried on along the track, across a minor road that fell away down the scarp slope of the chalk and towards the settlement of Inkpen. The track, part of the Wayfarers Way, an old drover’s route, headed up the ridge and to another high point. I couldn’t miss it. It had an enormous gibbet to mark the spot.
Combe Gibbet. Just so you get the message.
In 1676 George Broomham and Dorothy Newman had the unfortunate experience of having their mercifully dead bodies hoisted up and left to hang from the cross beam so that everyone could see what happened to murderers. So far, fair enough, given the nature of crime and justice at that time, except the only witness was “Mad Thomas” (no further details available). I make no further comment other than I’m pretty sure evidential rules have changed over time, and probably for the best (even though there are some people now emerging into the light who would be quite happy to turn the clock back).
I set off back the way I came, crossing over the road and passing between more substantial Iron Age ditches, workings, ramparts, whatever they may have been. The extent of the camp/fort must have been enormous, and given it was subsequently bisected by the later drover’s route, presumably served as a large enclosure for cattle and sheep – although that’s just a hunch.
Back past the padlocked pedestrian gate and eventually the larger locked gate, situated within striking distance of the summit. I’d already pretty much made up my mind, and having a quick look around to see that the coast was clear, I clambered over the gate and walked directly south across the pasture field. The clear outlines of foot traffic indicated that others had passed this way before. The topography was plateau-like, and I figured that I wasn’t going to be attracting attention.
The day before, in the now febrile atmosphere that is the Divided States of America, a young man, carrying a shotgun and some canisters, and one assumes not in his right mind (I have no idea), somehow managed to get into the grounds of Mar-a-Lago. With sad inevitability he was shot and killed by security. It all feels relentless and unsolvable.
I tried to keep a low profile as I approached the top
After about 200 meters I was at the trig point. Someone had placed a plastic wreath on top. I struggled to understand how it hadn’t blown away in the wind, but the spot had obviously meant something to someone. A metal plaque attached to the concrete structure (not seen on trig points I have previously visited) informed that the monument formed part of the Ordnance Survey National GPS Network and that it was an offence to damage it. Which seemed to suggest that there was some sort of signalling gadget embedded in the structure. Surely not! In any event the number 11798 is listed as Inkpen on my latest on-line find – the Trig Pillar Map. Life just continues to get better.
Please don’t vandalise this gift from a bygone age. It’s older than me!!
Next to the trip point was a small flat area of old concrete that served no obvious purpose. Except, on reading up on the site a bit later, back when there were only a handful of satellites (about two years ago I think, given the hundreds that Elon now fires up there every other day), live broadcasting of the horse racing at Newbury was made possible by men (I’m just guessing) in mustard coloured coats, pipe smoking and wearing heavy rimmed glasses driving an enormous signal mast to this point in order to transmit black and white, and then colour, images of the action to daytime television viewers and the punters in the bookies. On a windy wet day in winter, they must have been over the moon to have got the gig. There’s no need for it now, and from what I can see racing on daytime TV is not such a big thing. Anyway, it was a nice image to take away with me.
Further to the south was another interesting looking structure. I should say that it was probably only interesting to a niche audience, but I’m happy to count myself as part of it. On the basis that so far, no pellets had whizzed past my ears, I cautiously walked on. A low circular red brick building, capped off by concrete and with a pipe for ventilation peeking out the top. It could only have been a reservoir but had all the attributes of a WW2 pill box, except it lacked slit loopholes.
Note the traditional running pattern in the brickwork. No fancy Flemish bond needed here.
Back at the trig point I took a quick look around. To the east I could make out Pilot Hill. It’s said that Walbury Hill is the furthest point to be seen from the top of the Shard in central London (approximately 50 miles).** That seems highly improbable to me, although to be fair on the only occasion I went to the top of the Shard, the snowstorm was so bad that the furthest point seen was the roof of London Bridge station directly below.
2013 – I know, the Shardenfreude is not lost on me. The further point observed was the conning tower on the Belfast
It was time to hop back over the gate and make my getaway to the car. The carpark was still as muddy as it had been an hour earlier. A couple of guys with a farm dog on a quad bike, entering the nearby field, eyed me suspiciously. Maybe they’d had a call to intercept a trespasser. Ah well. On the subject of trespass, or more precisely, why it is that so much of England is inaccessible, The Book of Trespass – Crossing the Lines that Divide Us, by Nick Hayes, is an essential read.
I can’t tell you about how I slept that night back in the room. That’s because, thanks to the two drunken, off their cup’s young men in the adjacent room, I didn’t get any.
The quest continues.
* In answer to the Google search “Why are hedges in Berkshire so wide?” There is none.
** On a related note, my daughters partner J, recently passed me a copy of the December 2025 edition of TRAIL – (The UK’s best-selling hillwalking magazine). Initially I flicked through it but then stopped and went back to the start. The articles were well written and interesting. An article titled the Long Shot, by Philip Thomas, really grabbed my attention. He explained that hypothetically, at 144 miles, the longest view in the UK was from the summit of Merrick, the highest point in Dumfries and Galloway, and the top of Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon), which we know is the highest point in Gwynedd (and Wales). It’s technically the longest view but for all sorts of atmospheric and technical reasons, it’s never actually been seen or more importantly photographed. The longest view that has been photographed is between a point in the Pyrenees and a point in the French Alps (275 miles).
A few pages on from this fascinating article (believe me), was another feature called Top of the World (mistitled I fear) which extoled the virtues of the County Tops challenge and listed 10 varied examples, some of which I had done.
Having immersed myself in the publication I decided that come the New Year I would start subscribing. When I mentioned this to J, he frowned and then told me that I was holding in my hand the last edition – ever! What a blow.
In the Long Shot article mentioned above, the author starts by referencing the Who’s 1960’s hit, I Can See for Miles. Nice touch, so why not?
I was thinking about Scafell. Why had I never climbed it, wondering how on earth I would get the opportunity to do so now, and by extension reach the top of Cumbria. It had been bothering me, not least because I had climbed Helvellyn, a close second (or third as Scafell boasts two peaks, both slightly higher). But even Helvellyn was vexing me. It wasn’t on my itinerary, primarily because it wasn’t the top of Cumbria, but also because for the life of me my brain struggled to put together when and why I had been there in the first place.
It’s nineteen months since I started the county top challenge, and every week I’m finding out new things; not least that quite a lot of the on-line references, which on the surface look authoritative, often end up being unreliable; not deliberately, or due to casual research, but almost certainly because it’s a shifting shore.
My original list of counties, compiled just over a year ago from what, at the time, I assumed to be a reliable source, had included Scafell (which remains a legitimate target), in the county of Cumbria. My very large map obtained in December 2024 doesn’t disagree. So, some time ago, when a news article, or something similar, made mention of Westmorland, my ears started to twitch. Westmorland was a word I was certainly familiar with, but on checking the list it wasn’t to be found. I could have just left it like that, assuming that it was something along the lines of a generic term for a geographical area, but I’m beginning to find out that it’s best not to take anything for granted. I enquired further and soon discovered that Cumbria had been abolished in 2023 and divided in two, with Cumberland in the west and Westmorland and Furness to the east (are we keeping up?). And before anyone gets too nostalgic or sentimental about the demise of the ancient county of Cumbria, it ought to be noted that it (Cumbria) only came into existence in 1974 following the combining effect of, err… Cumberland, Westmorland, parts of Lancashire (!) and, (I can’t even believe the Yorkies let this happen without another civil war), part of the West Riding of – yup – Yorkshire! *
All these political shenanigans aside, once it had become clear to me that Westmorland and Furness was now a thing, and was added to my ever-lengthening list, I realised I had acquired a mighty peak by default. One could say of course that this is exactly the sort of bewildering quirk of the game that makes the exercise entirely meaningless. And, of course, one must agree, but hey, when I had climbed Helvellyn over twenty years ago, it had been an achievement, and by only a matter of a few metres is just a tad shorter than Scafell. It deserves to be a county top, and I am very grateful for that too.
Another notable claim to Helvellyn is that to the best of my knowledge it’s the only county top I have managed with both my son and daughter (with the possible exception of the City of London, which, I have just noted has disappeared from my latest definitive list).
I am unclear on the year, but from the information I wrote on the cover of the pack of the slightly disappointing snaps I took at the time, it was either the summer of 2003 or 2004. My children were teenagers and had been packed away for a week (voluntarily I should add) to a scout adventure centre at a place called Lochgoilhead, a remote location to the west of Loch Lomond in Scotland. The Scouting movement can divide opinion, but I don’t have a single bad word for the inner-city group that both my kids attended. Without any shadow of a doubt, it stretched them and cemented in them a desire for exploration, a sense of justice and a “can do” attitude.
Having said all that, whether they were thrilled by the prospect of another few days in the great outdoors under canvas, with their dad, at a campsite next to Ullswater only they can say, and I don’t intend to ask them now.
To reach the top of Helvellyn required me to do the following. I drove from London to Glasgow, spending a night or two with my Scottish relatives and brushing up on the lingo, before heading over the Erskin bridge into the Highlands, up Loch Lomond to Tarbet and then cross country to the remote settlement of Lochgoilhead. After meeting up I remember there was time for a march up one of the nearby braes to take in the breathtaking views down Loch Goil. The next day, with the rest of the squad, and the selfless volunteers who had made the whole thing possible, taking the long minibus journey back to London, I abducted my own and spent the rest of the day journeying down to Side Farm campsite, just to the east of the small village of Patterdale on the banks of mighty Ullswater in the Lake District. **
Our stay was for just three nights, and from memory the weather was kind. At the time my daughter would have been around 12 and my son 16. I recall that on the first full day we hired bikes and cycled on mountain trails up the east bank of the lake. About an hour in, one of the tyres on my son’s bike burst, leaving him to have to walk it all the way back. He seemed cheery about the prospect, probably delighted to have an excuse to spend some time apart from his sister and annoying dad. And who could blame him?
I can’t say with certainty that I can remember the exact route to the top of Helvellyn the following day, but I have an Ordnance Survey (Explorer OL5) map dated 2002 which fits into the likely dating, and a handful of photos, so here goes.
We drove the short distance from the campsite into Glenridding parking up near the large hotel… or did we? Yes, I recall that small boats lined the lake, dancing on the waves nearby… or did they?
Whether either of the kids saw this as an adventure, or just a task that needed to be completed to keep me happy, only they can say, but full credit to them, once we set off inland through the village on Greenside Road, they were clearly committed to the cause. The weather was largely overcast but warm. Ideal conditions.
We continued up Greenside Road until crossing over a small bridge over a stream and then onto open countryside, with Helvellyn in view at all times. I confess that at this stage it does get a little hazy, but I think we must have taken the main footpath running southwest and to the north of Glenridding Beck.
Looking towards the beast, with my daughter dressed completely inappropriately for upland hiking and asking if we were really going to go up that?
From cross referencing the photo with the OS map, I’m fairly sure that this photo was taken where Rowton Beck meets Glenridding Beck. The idea of taking on one of the almost vertical routes directly to the top was a non-starter.
We followed the main path along Glenridding Common, and then started the zig zag climb up the slightly less challenging slope to the right, and eventually along the long straight path from Raise summit to the cairn at Whiteside Bank.
Looking back along the route from Whiteside Bank, with Ullswater beyond
Before I continue this reconstruction of what is now a somewhat ancient journey, a brief aside. A couple of days ago, I’m watching BBC News and up pops an article about the Patterdale Mountain Rescue Team trailing robotic legs. My eyes and ears were immediately alerted and for the next minute I watched how these carbon fibre leg braces, with some sort of battery attached, positively hurled the wearer up the hill paths. It seems that the number of call outs over recent years has escalated and the equipment allows the already stretched service the chance to get to their target more quickly and more efficiently, particularly as they also have to carry heavy packs. I couldn’t quite work out how they worked, not least because one would still be subject to lung capacity issues, but from what I saw they looked like the very fellows (as Billy Connelly once said) and may have to check them out for myself as the arthritis kicks in further.
What a beautiful sight – Helvellyn on the Beeb and in the safe hands of the volunteer rescuers
The associated message within the article was the significant increase in people rocking up in the wilds without the right equipment and then getting into trouble. Nothing particularly new in that message I guess (it’s an age-old issue) but from what I have seen recently on social media, it doesn’t surprise me. I have been getting lots more feeds showing people taking walks and hikes in remote locations and getting positive responses (check out Eddie Cheee in Scotland – he’s brilliant). I think they are great, especially when they show places I have known, but it’s almost inevitable that others will follow in their footsteps, many poorly prepared and equipped. And, when I have looked at what my kids were wearing when we climbed Helvellyn, I am the last to moralise on the subject. T-shirts and shorts! What was I thinking?
Back in the past, underequipped and irresponsible, we completed the next leg to the summit. This required trekking across the tricky ridge that would eventually lead to Lower Man (a distinct summit in its own right just to the north of the Helvellyn summit)
A random shot that could have been taken on the route towards Lower Man and possibly looking south-west towards Thirlmere, or north, or east-southeast, or, but honestly, who knows?
We eventually reached the top of Helvellyn, a relatively flat area of land but with the best views in town. I have some pictures of the kids looking suitably heroic (which of course they were), but for jolly good reasons (i.e. they definitely haven’t given me permission) here’s one of me to prove the event (heavily disguised of course as I haven’t given myself permission to post this into the public domain, primarily on the basis that my receding hairline was now in full retreat and the sideburns were entirely unnecessary).
Used for evidential purposes only but note that I for one was wearing something that could have kept out the rain for a few moments.
Suitably refreshed and slightly intimidated by the weather system pushing in from the direction of the Irish Sea, we made our move down. Easier said than done.
Hmm… could be trouble ahead. Looking south-west
Anyone remotely familiar with Britain’s upland landscapes will know that Helvellyn is famous for its most distinctive feature. And here it is:
This is Striding Edge – no messing!
At the sight of Striding Edge, all jagged rock and with the land falling hundreds of feet away, potentially catastrophically, on each side, I recall suggesting a retreat back along the way we had come. It transpired that I was talking to myself. Both my children had left me at the top and were now clambering, skipping and jumping down and along the precipitous path towards, in my mind at least, almost certain referral to the authorities. I think I may have shouted some words of advice. “What the @*&% are you doing?” comes to mind, but it was probably more along the lines of “slow down and wait for me”.
A little blue dot at about 100 metres, and just to the left of the thin path, indicates my feral son. I can just make out three people to the right of the path clambering over the rocks. The whole scene just shouts, DON’T.
Striding Edge is a classic example of an arete (strictly speaking, being a French word there ought to be an ^ above the middle e, but you get the idea), a narrow ridge dividing two valleys, and brilliantly Striding Edge is the first image to be seen on Wikipedia when you search the word. As striking and visually impressive as Striding Edge is, it’s about 400 metres in length and although at times you can follow a safe’ish path, quite a lot of it requires clambering up and down awkward rock formations. Great fun if that’s what you’re after, but nerve wracking if you’re responsible for two minors (technically at least). My granddaughter, just nine, has recently been bitten by the climbing bug (nothing to do with me I should add), and from what I’ve seen of her on the climbing walls she’d boss Striding Edge.
We did survive Striding Edge and eventually made it to the Hole-in-the-Wall, a dry-stone wall, unsurprisingly I suppose, where paths intersected and forming a boundary between the up and low land. I have a clear memory of arriving at this point and looking at the surrounding landscape. Maybe it was just a profound sense of relief that we had made it this far and were well and truly on the home run.
At Hole-in-the-Wall looking back up towards Grisedale Tarn (out of sight) and Fairfield Peak rising to the left, and Dollywaggon Pike to the right. BTW, I’m prepared to be contradicted on this if challenged.
We took the descending path over open country and covered the three or four kilometres back to Glenridding in less than an hour, and then on to the campsite for a last night under canvas. London and reality were calling.
Last evening on site and the weather on the turn
I started this by saying I had been ruminating on why I hadn’t climbed Scafell. The reason is simple. I haven’t been there yet, and to be honest, I’m not sure I will (from what I have heard it’s supposed to be tougher than Helvellyn), but if it happens or not it’s unimportant. What is important is that once upon a time my son, my daughter and I made an effort and reached the third highest peak in England. Hallelujah…
* A fascinating detail, particularly if you’re a Scot (I’ll say no more), when the Normans invaded most of what we think of as being Cumbria (and for want of a better description – other terms were available then), it fell under the governance of the Principality of Scotland. It did not feature in the Doomsday Book. By 1092, just 26 years after the invasion of England, William II, unable to resist the urge to invade, put paid to that. $£@%*&?’s!!!!!!
** In my old day job, I happened to manage numerous council blocks located in central London that bore the names of both Patterdale and Ullswater, along with other large blocks of flats named after other locations in the Lake District, many (having now looked at the map again) in the Helvellyn area. When they were built, just after the second world war, the lobby of each block had a large ceramic painting set on the wall that depicted the area it had been named after. From memory, by the twenty-first century all but one of these fine municipal works of art remained, the rest having fallen victim to refurbishment schemes or vandalism. I used to wonder what people living in these blocks must have thought of the daily reminder, as they passed through the lobby, that they lived about as far away as possible, physically, culturally and economically from the Lakes, and the uplifting images that they were confronted with. Many may not even have noticed. Some might have shrugged and cursed the irony, whilst others might have been inspired to jump on a train from nearby Euston station, and head north to explore.
I was at the end of a three day, six “tops” haul, and with one to go. After a short walk from the village of Crazies to the top of Bowsey Hill in the Unitary Authority of Wokingham I had driven north on the old A4 Bath Road, turned left onto Burchetts Green Road, and then left again onto the smaller Honey Lane that formed the end of the Knowl Hill Bridleway Circuit, last encountered an hour earlier at Bowsey Hill. It occurred to me that had I put in a bit more effort into research before the day’s outing, I may have managed both “tops” on a single stroll on the Bridleway Circuit, but it was too late now.
Honey Lane wound its way through thick woodland, skirting the northern flank of the Mitchel’s Wood plantation, before it took a sharp right and headed off north. I decided to continue west on a small track that abruptly ended at the ridiculously quaint Dew Drop Inn. I drove in and parked up. Being a Monday, the inn was shut, but that didn’t matter. I was looking at a pub that from its outward appearance hadn’t changed since it had either evolved, or been built, sometime in the 17th Century. I can’t remember if an Inn features in Humphry Clinker, but if it did, in my mind’s eye this is exactly how it would have looked. I think it’s fair to say that it’s only in the British Isles you’d find anything remotely like the Dew Drop Inn, hidden far from civilisation, in a nook in some woods, and serving (I certainly hope) warm beer and the fried and dried bits of pig’s skins (other less disgusting bar snacks are now available).
The Dew Drop Inn – Dogs and horses’ welcome
I realised that getting to the top of Ashley Hill was not going to be too much of a struggle, or that great map navigational skills would be required. So long as I generally headed in an upward direction the top would reveal itself eventually. I followed a path heading southwest, flanking the woods on my left. Looking down to my right, the edge of an estate that partially hid an enormous country house. Whoever lived in the house was hugely privileged. After all, they lived with the Dew Drop Inn at their back door. *
A footpath led upwards, so I took it. After about 50 metres another path headed right and along the level. Just after I took this option, I could hear the thwap, thwap of a chopper zoning in across the treetops. They may have been tipped off that an oik in a Ford Fiesta had parked up in the Dew Drop and were on a seek and desist mission.
Either the rotors had stopped rotating, or my camera phone is on spec.
After the helicopter had passed over, I proceeded along the muddy path, with grand old trees towering above and clinging onto the last of their foliage.
The viewpoint from a fern’s perspective
Around a bend ahead two large mud caked dogs lunged into view, scarpering at high speed in my general direction. The troubled look on my face must have alerted their owners, who followed up closely noting my obvious distress, which wasn’t so much the immediate threat of death but more an aversion to wet and excitable dogs pawing at my fairly clean trousers. A couple of shouts and the dogs were under control. We stopped and talked for a minute. I commented that one of the dogs was a certain type, based solely on what looked like a similar dog owned by my brother. The mother and daughter, after a moment of merriment (which may have come with thinly veiled scoffing) dismissed my basic error and then, in some detail, explained the type of dogs they were in fact in charge of. It went entirely over my head, but they were nice people, and neither of the dogs attempted to bite me – always a bonus.
Further on I bore to the left and shortly afterwards another track headed directly up the hill. Up I went and reached a point that Peak Bagger suggested was the top. By the mere fact that the path continued up a further 50 metres or so I determined that they were a tad wide of the mark.
Peak Baggers point, but not quite the top
The top of the path opened onto a small plateau area, beyond which a high fence enclosed a large building of no determinate age, but which could have been called Foresters Lodge. I was at the top of Ashley Hill.
The unofficial, but my official, top of the county
I slipped quickly back down to the Dew Drop Inn on a straight path. Reviews of Mitchel’s Woods (for that was where I had trod) were rightly positive, though someone who probably hadn’t been in nature before merely observed “No toilets”.
I drove back along Honey Lane and then cross country, avoiding the M4 and M25 as far as I could, until I passed through Windsor and then onto Albert Road, bisecting the Long Walk. I briefly looked to the south and towards Royal Lodge, but there was no celebrity royal in sight, although the Uber Pizza Express delivery scooter heading from the direction of Woking piqued my curiosity. Ending up at Runnymede, last encountered about three years before on a day with the grandkids at Legoland, nothing seemed to have changed much, although I noticed an attractive cafe in one of the gate houses which I guessed post-dated the Magna Carta.
The argument goes that what happened here (obviously not in the cafe) in 1215 changed history and the relationship between royalty and the people. I’m not so convinced. It certainly changed the relationship between the landed Norman elite and their grip on the land itself, the ongoing legacy of which I had observed earlier in the day at Bowsey and Ashley Hills.
At the cafe the royal tea was orf, so I stuck with an Americano which came with one of those ubiquitous, clear cellophane wrapped Italian biscuits that, along with plastic drinks bottles, are competing to be declared the most universal and unnecessary environmental pollutants currently trending. Mind you, they are tasty.
PS.
Three days later, on the 30th October, a resident of Royal Lodge, in the Windsor and Maidenhead Unitary Authority area, and just a mile or so from where the Magna Carta was signed in 1215, had, under Royal proclamation, and as recorded in the House of Commons library and titled the Removal of Titles and Honours, been revealed to be nothing more than a commoner after all. As Adam Ant once warned, “Don’t you ever, don’t you ever, lower yourself, forgetting all your standards”.
*I later looked up the history of the Dew Drop Inn. Apparently, Dick Turpin may have visited a couple of times with his horse, Black Bess. So, when I read further articles, and particularly the piece below, I was bemused and confused:
“Opened in 1939 by Frank Painia, what started as a barbershop quickly grew into a well-known hotel and music venue, complete with a restaurant and bar. Listed in the Green Book, the guide for Black travelers in segregated America, the Dew Drop Inn is now considered a historic landmark.”
Needless to say, it took a bit of disentangling before I finally worked out that I was reading two completely different articles about two entirely different places, but at least now I knew.
I entered the back room in the bar of the Prince of Wales pub in Marlow where I was met by a man with a tea towel over his shoulders. “Good morning,” he said. I replied in similar vein, looked around and asked where I should sit. “At your table, sir,” whilst pointing towards the only table that had been equipped with china and cutlery. I felt like a complete clot.
The evening before (Sunday) I had checked in after a drive from Bristol during which I had climbed up to Liddington Hillfort (the highest point in Swindon), then locating the Water Tower on Park Lane – needless to say, the highest point in Reading. I was breaking the journey home, and on Saturday I had gone online to find a stopping point somewhere in the Thames Valley that wasn’t going to blow a massive hole in my budget. I hadn’t been hopeful. So, when the Prince of Wales in the centre of Marlow popped up and invited me to stay overnight for a mere £72, I could only assume there must be a massive catch. But what could a poor elder do?
I had arrived early in the evening and on parking up couldn’t help noticing that the place was heaving. I checked in and was shown out the door and then round to a couple of terraced Victorian cottages adjacent to the pub. As we walked up the short set of stairs, I was expecting to find that the facilities had probably not changed much since it had been built, but lo it was not so. An excellent, fully equipped warm and cosy room which said, your welcome.
Given the seething mass of humanity in the bar I decided to go for a scroll into town whilst there was still some daylight. Just being a stone’s throw from the High Street I was at the High Street in just minutes. Clearly an affluent town, I booked a pint at the Chequers whilst studying the menu. Ah! “Anything else, sir?” “Yes,” I replied, “a large bowl of your finest peanuts please, my man.”
After a slow pint and more peanuts than a man can eat (at £5 a bucket I felt compelled), I wandered back down the High Street and to the junction with Station Road, on the corner of which Amorino Geleto’s was still doing a roaring trade in ice-cream (I guessed). I can’t think of another town in the country where a fine Italian ice-cream emporium would be open at 8pm on a freezing cold and wet Sunday night in October. Nevertheless, I was now regretting the peanut dinner.
It was still quite early, so I decided to venture into the bar before heading back next door. The pub had almost completely emptied out, apart from four middle aged men, all with their eyes glued to the TV watching a sport that involved a procession of high-performance racing cars following each other around an illuminated futuristic track somewhere in a desert. Apparently, it’s called Formula 1, but it had nothing whatsoever to do with Jim Clark, Fangio or even Jackie Stewart. Each of the men seemed to be sitting as far away from each other as was physically possible, yet every so often one would pipe up and wonder about some knowledgeable detail relating to the performance of one or other of the drivers turbo, pitot tube injector rods, or was Hasslebackers steering a bit out, or if Strollburgers right off was showing signs of wear? They seemed to be talking a different language.
Eventually the “event” was over. Someone, who could have been British, but was born in one of the “territories” seemed to have won, and with that three of the men supped up and buggered off. The man who remained was the owner and we chatted for a bit whilst he tidied up, and I did likewise with the cold beer. He seemed to have a northern accent but had lived in Marlow for ten years and absolutely loved it. I said I could see the appeal and explained why I was staying over. I was getting older and falling out of love with day long drives. He was sympathetic, although I’m not so sure he would have been quite so if I had mentioned my quest to get to two nearby County tops the next day. He went on to say that in the whole time he had been in Marlow he had never witnessed a crime and was of the opinion that indeed, crime was non-existent. Fortunately I was able to confirm to him that in the three hours I had been in town I had neither witnessed, nor been a victim of crime, although having had a quick look in an estate agents window and seeing the cost of renting a flat in town, I could have said that some crimes go largely unreported. I didn’t of course and instead went to bed.
After taking my seat in the breakfast area the man with the tea towel over his shoulder asked me what I wanted for my breakfast and pointed at a large table set out with all sorts of breakfast options, including cereals, tinned fruit and various wrapped bread things. I was overwhelmed. All this for me, and for only £72. Suddenly, and despite the lack of a proper meal the evening before, my appetite vanished. “Ehm, oh, err. Just beans on toast would be fine.”
“Are you sure that’s all? I can do you eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, tomatoes and more eggs if you want.”
“Oh, okay,” I surrendered, “can you add a fried egg please.”
“Just a fried egg?” He looked down at me expectedly. “I also have, and can make you, hash browns, chips, mushrooms and veggie sausages if you’re that way inclined?”
I declined his further offerings despite the knowledge that I was potentially missing out on the deal of the year. “Suit yourself mate,” he said as he turned towards the kitchen. “You’re paying for it.” Yup!
Waiting for my beans on toast with one fried egg I became aware of some movement behind me. “Are you the manager?” A man was standing at the bar and looking at me. “No,” I said, and explained that someone would be back soon. The man was youngish, looked fit as a fiddle, with a bronzed face that suggested a recent holiday somewhere south of Nice and wearing a hoodie, trackie bottom combo that looked like it had been purchased from the menswear department of Harrod’s (assuming there is one).
My man returned to the bar shortly afterwards. The new arrival made his presence known. “Hi! I’m working on the house next door. Any chance I can park my van in your car park for the day?”
“Suit yourself mate,” my guy replied, possibly as impressed as I was by the immaculately turned-out builder. It really was another world, and I was about to leave it for reality.
Before I set off, I took a short walk down to the Thames, passing the Two Brewers pub where Jerome K Jerome had written some of Three Men in a Boat. It felt very familiar and I wondered if I had been here before but couldn’t place when, or with whom. I gazed across the river towards the huge weir and then at two regal swans that circled around a small landing ramp. Their almost loving interactions were both quaint and meaningful.
After walking down some well-appointed walled alleys I reached the remarkable two-hundred-year-old suspension bridge and then back to the High Street for a coffee before departure.
Marlow Monday morning blue
Sitting at a table in the sun I watched as Marlow woke up. Chelsea Tractors competed for pavement space, immaculately turned-out dogs were out walking their minders whilst a retired Major-General, with an ancient, gnarled stick, accosted a balaclava wearing scallywag on a black bike and making it clear that he must reverse ferret and return from whence he came (nearby Slough to be precise). Meanwhile, a group of workmen were having a late breakfast in the high-end delicatessen opposite. Strangely, the Amorino Gelato was closed, but as I took it all in, I couldn’t argue with my landlord’s observations the night before. Marlow really was a fine place.
I drove out of Marlow across the suspension bridge, which required some advanced driving skills to avoid contact with the brutal metal width restrictors. Judging by the array of colours smeared on the vicious panels, many people before had failed the test. To get to Bowsey Hill I headed south on the A404 and then west on Henley Road before swinging left onto Culham Lane. On my right I glimpsed the entrance to a large estate, with enormous and immaculately pruned hedging. The stunning grounds looked more French chateaux than English baronial, and really, I should have stopped to have a closer look. Instead, I carried on and shortly afterwards pulled up outside the Horns Pub in a place called Crazies Hill. The well-appointed Georgian looking country pub was closed for refurbishment. Never mind, it was too early anyway. I made a mental note that if, at some point in the future, I might want to explore the area further it could serve as an overnight stopping point, until later, after a quick look on the website, it was clear that a one night stay would probably cost three to four times what I’d paid at the Prince of Wales.
Crazies Hill Community Hub
The destination was just a mile or so south on Hatch Gate Lane. A short walk on a pleasant, soft autumn morning. After a couple of hundred metres, I came to a junction. Opposite sat a large well-proportioned house. Probably worth a couple of million – at least. More staggering though was that it was a mere gatehouse.
Gatehouse to heaven
Carrying on, now on a slight gradient, to the left occasional glimpses through the trees revealed a substantial pile of something created out of historic great wealth.
A glimpse of just your average mansion in these parts
To my right another large old country house lay in open grounds. A gigantic back lawn stretched along the side of the road and led up to woodland, where, at its edge, a solitary, empty bench sat looking somewhat forlornly back down on the estate. A seat of power, in an area where old power had once come to settle, and where no doubt a different type of power still finds intoxicating today.
Beyond the lawn the lane began to wind upwards, with tall trees either side displaying their intoxicating autumn foliage.
Autumn colour scene
I reached what seemed to be the top of the hill. The road flattened out with a cluster of buildings huddling nearby. Looking to the southwest through heavy foliage I could see bits of Reading in the distance. For the people who lived here it would come with impressive views, albeit a significant part of it would be of Reading.
An attractive property in an exclusive part of the Thames Valley, with exclusive views of, err… Reading!
I wandered on for a bit, not entirely sure where the highest point of Bowsey Hill was until I reached the point in the road where it started to go down again. Just at that point, when I was about to turn and retrace my steps, three women, around my age, possibly slightly older, came into view, walking resolutely uphill and all equipped with modern lightweight walking aids. In seconds they had passed me by and were heading off down towards Crazies Hill. I decided to hang back for a moment just in case it might look to the casual observer that I had chosen to follow them.
Hanging back at the top
In the time it took me to hang back, a second tranche of maybe ten or so more resolutes came walking up from the same direction as before. Mainly older women, but with a couple of similarly aged men that formed the ranks of the 71st Berkshire Light Walking Pole Brigade who marched past in fine order, eyes forward and without breaking step, with only one solitary woman acknowledging my own solitary presence with a “hello”. I assumed they must have been under orders not to talk.
I thought it best to hang back a bit longer in case anyone observing thought that I had chosen to follow them. Am I alone when it comes to awkward situations like this, or am I naturally anti-social? Either way, and after a minute or so, it suddenly struck me that anyone observing now might think that I was behaving in an anti-social manner, I decided to head off back.
All clear on the road ahead – beech perfect
As I walked back down the road through the woods, I had only gone a hundred metres when lo and behold, coming back up the hill was the entire light pole brigade. As they passed the solitary woman (who was still in solitary mode) smiled and said hello again. The two men were now bringing up the rear. “Are you lost?” I managed to stutter. No, they said, they had just reached the limit of the walk and were heading back. It crossed my mind that maybe they had intended to reach the Horns Pub for lunch when someone had suddenly found out, halfway down the hill, that it was closed. Either way it all felt a bit Grand Old Duke of York’ish.
Which way did the army go?
The entire walk from Crazies Hill to the top of Boswey Hill had been along Hatch Gate Lane but at the top became Knowl Hill Bridleway Circuit, and whilst the road, and everything to my right was in the Wokingham Unitary Authority, everything to the left, including the massive pile behind the trees, was in the Windsor and Maidenhead Unitary Authority area.
Back at the car, and the Horns Pub was no closer to re-opening. I worked out the way to my next objective, Ashley Hill, in the Windsor and Maidenhead Unitary Authority, and set off on what turned out to be quite a complex journey around a place called Wargrave (the derivation seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with the obvious) and then north-east on the A4 Bath Road. About two miles on, at a left hand turning and emerging onto the main road in slightly dishevelled order, the rank and file of the old 71st Berks Light Pole, all poles still intact and no doubt heading, quick march, towards the Bird in Hand* at Knowl Hill, which I had passed moments earlier. Ah well, it’s all in a day.
* I have just had a quick look on the Bird in Hands website, and their doing rooms this coming Sunday for sixty quid! What’s occurring man?
The highest point in the Reading Unitary Authority area is just past the Water Tower Pub and a row of shops on Park Lane, to the west of Reading and near Tilehurst.
Shame about the ale…
You really can’t miss it.
I stopped the car just down the road from the tower, having visited Liddington Hillfort, the highest point in Swindon, and was on my way to Marlow to spend the night to break a long drive back home. There you are – that’s it. Although of course the tower is not the physical land top of the county, just a manifestation erected on the highest spot. Opened in 1932, with an art-deco feel that also hints, perhaps in my head, at a Mughal architectural style, it’s an impressive thing.
Anyway – that’s it. I’ve only ever been to Reading once before, and I think it was in 1972 when I caught a train from Paddington and then spent some hours on the platform jotting down train numbers in an Ian Allan trainspotter yearbook (look… we didn’t have mobile phones to keep us entertained). Here’s the evidence.
Still impressed by the quality of these photos, over fifty years on. A Wokingham local (I think) on the left, and a Brush Type 4 diesel electric in classic BR green pulling a Paddington train on the right. Many of these locos are still in service.
A mighty Western class 52 diesel hydraulic in standard BR (Monastral) blue on its way to Paddington. Magnificent but withdrawn from service just five years later ☹
An Hymek class 37 diesel hydraulic heading West (all withdrawn within the next three years) and watched enthusiastically by a group of youths looking the wrong way, and who are about to be heading to hospital.
The M4 and its relationship with the Iron Age (conclusion – there is none)
The highest point in the Unitary Authority of Swindon is Liddington Hillfort, resting low on chalk downland to the south of the town, and about a kilometre south of the M4 motorway.
I was returning from a weekend in Bristol, and the day before had managed to climb Pen y Fan, the stunning high point of Powys in Wales. Reaching Liddington Hillfort was, I hoped, going to be considerably less taxing.
Coming off the motorway at junction 15, I drove south on Marlborough Road and then turned left onto The Ridgeway. After a minute or so I was able to get a glimpse of the low ramparts of the hillfort on the ridge to the south. I had managed to recce the area earlier in the summer, when I had run out of time to mount a challenge. Fortunately, this meant I knew there were no stopping opportunities on this stretch of road and so continued on until it met the B4192. Just at the junction a small lay-by allows parking for a handful of vehicles, but as my luck would have it, it had already achieved its full complement.
No worries sport. I turned right and just a short distance up the hill, on the right, was a small patch of hard chalky ground large enough for me to park up. The earlier scouting exercise had come in handy. With low grey clouds, and the promise of drizzle filtering in from the west at any moment, I left the car and found the start of the walk just a stone’s throw away. Sadly, although stone throwing with intent had probably last been seen here nearly two-thousand years ago, the practice of rubbish throwing still flourishes.
Carpet bombing on the fly(tipping)
Through the gate and straight on the path that led up the slope, with a cluster of trees towards the top. I stopped for a moment to check that the car was still there. It was but of more interest was the view east and the M4 heading towards London.
Towards London – the M4 corridor
I passed by the small woods to the right and on, with a large field falling away to the south. Eventually a sign pointed north to a path around a large field leading to the hillfort, now visible on the nearby horizon.
The hillfort destination
The path led to the end of the field, then through a gate and left along the top of another field and eventually back up towards the ramparts where a wooden construction could be seen on the top of the inner mound.
At the ramparts
I flanked around along the top of the outer western mound before it descended into what would have been one of the main entrances. Here the ditch was at its deepest, but as chalk hillforts go, the parallel ramparts didn’t seem to amount to much. I passed in and then back along the inner rampart and up the small slope to the wooden construction, which was a mounting deck for a triangulation point (strange) and an underwhelming directional toposcope.
The raised Trig and beyond the confusingly disappointing toposcope, with Swindon beyond
With the low grey cloud formation still threatening rain at any moment, I wasn’t going to hang about, but looking west across the large enclosure site something didn’t quite add up. Most, indeed all, iron age hillfort sites I had previously been to sit firmly on the top of the hills they are located on, using the natural contours to create the series of broadly horizontal ramparts and ditches that complete the structure, and with a relatively flat central enclosure (the nearby Uffington Hillfort to the east of Swindon, and coincidentally the highest point in Oxfordshire, is a perfect example of this).* Here the land fell away in all directions, down what was effectively the side of the hill. Indeed, a later check on the BGS Geology Viewer showed a drop of at least ten metres from the top entrance down to the north-west corner. Now, I’m no archaeologist but I do know this, when you haven’t a clue it’s probably best not to speculate. It was a mystery, nonetheless.
Falling away?
I left. Just for a moment, as I passed east of the wooden plinth, a teasing watery sun threatened to break through.
Here comes the sun (before it went again)
Heading back the way I had come I looked over to the small woods, now to my left, and noticed a low structure. Of course! When I had researched the area a couple of months earlier, I had noted a reference to some sort of bunker. And there it was. I diverted from the main track and followed the edge of a recently tilled field.
The Starfish Decoy Control Bunker lurking at distance
The obvious question that popped into my head was, what was it? Fortunately, my phone had a signal, and a quick enquiry told me that it was one of many built around the country during WW2. Starfish (SF) Decoy bunkers were used to light fires away from urban and industrial areas to mislead Luftwaffe bombers, who, I guess the hope was, would drop their load in the wrong place. With this nugget of information, I approached with a degree of curiosity. When I was a kid growing up in the 1960s me and my pals spent many happy hours playing war, making fires, smoking and throwing bangers around in an old concrete bunker in a field near a river close to home. Who needed the internet? **
Naturally the bunker required further investigation.
An investigative approach
With the obvious exception of missing blast proof doors, externally the structure appeared to be in relatively good condition.
Looking in
I slipped through the entrance. Due to age, and a lack of understanding of local youth peer group culture, I was unable to translate the colourful graffiti. The concrete corridor led a few metres to the rear where two rooms led off to the left and right, with large rusting metal tanks sitting looking sorry for themselves. Whether they formed part of the original operational structure, or whether it was just something the landowner had dumped out of sight many moons ago I couldn’t say. Presumably because of the bunkers remote location, whilst a few beer and cider cans predictably littered the floor, I’d certainly been in a lot less salubrious WW2 bunkers and pill boxes.
Towards the light – Looking out
Back outside I thought it only correct to climb onto the grass covered roof. The view was only marginally better than at door level, but the outline of Liddington hillfort was on full display to the west.
Towards the hillfort. I felt confident I had discovered a new lay line.
From the roof I was able to look down into the woods, delightfully called Liddington Clump. I noticed that at various points within the small group of trees, discretely laid bunches of flowers had been deliberately lain. There is something similar near me, just set back from a road in woods at the edge of the local park. I’ve never looked too closely but have always assumed they were for much loved but departed pets. So, assuming the same here, when I later read that in fact the woods contained some natural burials – for humans, I wasn’t sure what to think. I’m pretty sure that on some sort of ethical, spiritual and/or humanist level I can see the attraction (maybe there’s a better way of putting that), but what would the consequences be if we all opted for a natural burial? A walk in the country near any urban setting would very quickly become a precarious totter through an ever-increasing open graveyard. Hmmm…. another moral quandary to occupy the mind.
Now, here’s the thing, and it needs to be told. I discovered the reference to the burial site in a quick search on the phone back at the car. I probably only glanced at the article for a few seconds, but it had registered. So, now, a couple of weeks on and wanting to find out a bit more, I have singularly failed to find any mention of a natural burial site at Liddington Clump. I have found a brief reference in a random comment on a post on Facebook that it is a memorial site for people and pets. The only explanation I can think of is, that there being an iron-age burial mound not far from the woods, and in some sort of mixed-up dystopian word jumble confusion, I’ve put too many one’s and one’s together and come up with fake news. It must be either that, or, and I am inclined to go with this theory, it was an involuntary AI search that led me up the woodland path. Either way, it had got me thinking about natural burials (which, for the benefit of doubt, are a thing); their implications, ethics and carbon footprint, and despite the latter being a justifiable reason, I think I’ll stick with the furnace.
In a similar vein, on-line information available on the Liddington decoy bunker, and indeed Starfish Decoy bunkers in general, is scant to say the least. I found a short article that gave a perfunctory description of their use, but no real explanation on how they were crewed and operated (I assume that gas or oil pipes radiated away from the bunker to where outlets would be lit for effect). A few weeks earlier, and completely coincidentally (a friend had sent me a fantastic short BBC documentary on YouTube about Swindon Town football club in the 1960s called 1963: Six Days to Saturday, which included some footage of the locomotive works, and…. oh, I’m straying badly here), I had read an article about bombing raids on Swindon. Surprisingly, given that the one thing everyone in the world knows Swindon for is its vast railway works (and XTC), it seems that the works survived relatively intact. Some surrounding houses were hit and sadly people did die, but apart from the odd unfortunate cow, the railway works were barely troubled by the Luftwaffe. There is no doubt about the fact that the decoy bunker at Liddington would have been placed there to keep the bombers away from Swindon, and very specifically the railway. To that end, it’s just possible that the tactic worked. Maybe one day some new information will emerge. Just as this was about to go to ‘print’ I came across a short YouTube video that followed a couple of modern day night raiders to the bunker, where they film the inside (see my descriptions above) and then leave, providing no more context than I have managed to offer up here. Quite why they filmed it at night is a complete mystery. It’s perfectly accessible at any time. But, and there’s a twist, just as they are about to leave, one of the participants drops off the roof, and (here’s the spooky bit) says they’re about to go into the graveyard!!!! What do they know that I thought I did, but now I don’t? The mystery continues.
Liddington Clump – The mystery continues
I left the bunker (“thank gawd” you shout) and returned to the gate at the end of the long path. Just past the gate the fly tipped mound had still not been cleared (bloody local councils are useless, aren’t they?), but miraculously my car was still in place.
Ten minutes later I was back on the M4 heading east and towards London. As I joined the motorway I glanced up to my right and could make out the ramparts of the hillfort. I must have driven past it over a hundred times and never noticed it. Half a mile further on and to my left, a familiar feature along the side of a chalk upland, where the side of the hill is distinguished by a crinkle cut pattern of indents that can only be explained by seeing them (just visible in the second photo to the left of the M4). Unlike the hillfort I had noticed these on many occasions before and now at last I understood their context within the M4 corridor. Never stop learning.
** In the interest of public safety, and to avoid the possibility of being sued, I strongly advise against allowing ten-year-old children access to matches, lighters, cigarettes and fireworks. It’s right that we have regulated these products to the extent that what I was able to get away with as a child is technically not possible today. When I look back I find it mind boggling that the so called straight up honest shopkeepers of old England would recklessly turn a blind eye to almost anything we wanted to get our grubby little mitts on (apparently, things are so much worse these days – or so you’d be led to believe if you spend too much time on social media – just saying).
El Colmado 57 