Ridgeway
5th May 1997
We didn’t get started until 12:30 in the afternoon, which meant the whole walk would be a race against the last bus. The bus dropped us where the main road crosses the Ridgeway, above Avebury village. By that point I was so sleepy I could have happily stayed on for a round trip. But we’d decided to walk, and walk we did – in sun, rain, and hail.
First stop: White Horse Hill. The remains of an ancient hillfort on top, and cut into the chalk slope below it, a two-dimensional white horse – flat, stylised impressive relief work. Up to here the weather was heavenly. People everywhere: caravans, kites, cyclists. Then the rain started, and accompanied us unwanted, for most of the rest of the day.
The Ridgeway is the oldest road in Britain. A wide cart track running along the chalk downs of southern England, used as a trade route in ancient times. It sits 500–700 feet above sea level, the land open and rolling on both sides, wide views in good weather. In bad weather it’s a different proposition.
Chalk absorbs rain and becomes immediately soft and slushy. The other two (SB and AK) got thoroughly soaked. I had waterproofs, so kept going in relative comfort. We kept moving since there was no shelter to speak of – at some point we stood under trees to eat sandwiches, the water at first dripping, then pouring through the branches. We quickly moved on again. Occasional tarmac roads crossed the Ridgeway, empty, no traffic. We passed a few farms, a caravan with people huddled inside, probably wondering about our mental health.
Ridgeway is not strictly for walkers – notices saying “please don’t drive on it if you can avoid it”, indicate that it’s not banned to vehicles. Typically people drive on it for part of the way, do circular routes and drive away. But on a day like this, hardly any walkers were out. There are many perpendicular paths leading into fields on both sides, but we stuck to the Ridgeway – no time to explore those. We had to get to a town called Wantage to catch a bus and a train back home.
Halfway along, the rain got heavier. My waterproofs, having done their job to a point, began giving up. At which point the hail started – small spheres of ice, enough to sting, lasting for about twenty minutes. We’d already lost the battle against wetness, so there was nothing to do but keep walking, letting our spirits enjoy it since the body had nothing left to lose.
Then the clouds thinned, and we walked clear into sunlight. The contrast was spectacularly violent – and welcome. Everything lit up magically.
Two miles from Wantage, we passed the youth hostel – set dramatically on the edge of a hill, with woods falling away on one side. I was quite tempted to stay over and continue the next morning, walking on towards Reading along the Ridgeway itself. But the other two were reluctant. Wet clothes decided it. We went on to Wantage, caught the bus, and went home.
My boots were still muddy three weeks later.
