The North Downs Way from Chevening Village towards Surrey

Chevening, the picturesque small village north-east of  Sevenoaks, is an ideal starting point for an autumn yomp along the North Downs Way and the wonderful surrounding countryside of the Kent - Surrey borders. There is of course the added bonus of the possibility of catching a fleeting glimpse of our hard working Foreign Secretary, who may be residing, at our expense, at his magnificent 17th-century grace and favour mansion reputedly designed by Inigo Jones and set in a rolling 3500 acre estate. If there is an official reception in full swing be sure to stick to the designated footpaths to avoid the risk of  being wrestled to the ground by an over eager diplomatic protection officer,  lurking in nearby bushes.

The early days of a heavy autumn when the temperatures are still mild and the grass verges are heavy with dew long into the afternoon are ideal for walking. Parking up at the back of the pretty St Botolph's church, a path leads north from the church before rising up about 100 meters to the top of the chalk downs.  These days are the last for the blackberries and the first of the chestnuts though the full riotous colours of autumn are yet to reach their full glory. After an ascent through woods, the path intersects the North Downs Way and by turning left and heading west, Romney and I, both panting a little from the exertion, set off towards Surrey. The well signposted path is littered with copper coloured beech leaves and thousands of acorns crunch under my boots as Romney pursues pheasants in every field.

After almost 2km, the path crosses the road at Sunbridge Hill and if you are only looking for an hour or two of exercise you can turn left here, after the kissing gate and proceed downhill past Knockholt Lodge and then turn left past the pheasant hatchery into Park Wood. This will lead you back down through the Chevening Estate but you will need to keep dogs on leads near the hatchery as there are game birds everywhere.

For a dog with very limited cerebral capacity Romney is most studious when it comes to negotiating kissing gates. His first preference is to try and find a gap big enough to squeeze through but he gradually grows more confident at following me through the simple manoeuvre of opening the gate, sliding past and closing the gate behind  us.  In one field a gate was left standing isolated serving no purpose but Romney insisted on approaching it carefully and waiting patiently for me to open it for him even though there was a 20 meter gap either side of it for him to proceed through.

This beautiful countryside must be unchanged for a thousand years except for the height of the ancient oak trees and the distant hum of the M25 sounding the encroachment of modern humanity. Dense hedgerows are bursting with blackberries, rosehip, beech, ferns, holly and gorse. This wilderness  is so close to London and if you glance up to the left as you approach Kent by car just after the  Clacket's Lane services station on the M25,  that is where we are.

Just west of Joelands Wood there is a conveniently placed seat fashioned from rough logs and after sharing a cheese sandwich with Romney he enjoys a sudden spontaneous ecstatic moment, writhing in the wet grass like a love sick puppy rather than a corpulent eleven year-old dog with chronic flatulence. 

We leave the trackway after our sandwich and ecstatic moment and head north to try and make a circuit and follow a new sign that says Berry Green Circular Walk. This has been created by Bromley Council as a 7.5 mile walk starting at Cudham recreation ground. Tempted by the smart newsign, I realise we have left the North Downs Way a little too early and we pass an ostentatious newly built manor house and proceed over Grays Road into the curiously named Bombers Lane. The lane peters put into an attractive public footpath that proceeds through rolling woodland and fields to the Tally Ho pub.

Pubs always form part of the walking  itinerary these days because they allow the old dog to have a well earned rest and the old walker to enjoy  a decent Kentish ale which in this case was a superb Larkins Tradtional ale from the local brewery located at Chiddingstone. Only 3.4% ABV so no risk of  a serious navigational failure on the homeward leg but it's a lovely smooth tawny treat all the same, nicely augmented by a bag of cheese and onion crisps. We are close to Chevening but there is probably little chance of meeting the Foreign  Secretary holding court at the bar of  the Tally Ho despite their good reputation for seafood. Instead a retired lady reads out extracts from this week's Sevenoaks Chronicle to her husband and discusses property prices in Cornwall with the landlord.

" A man tried a lure a schoolgirl into his car near Borough Green." she tells her husband and "Blimey, that Martin Clunes is looking his age."

Romney sleeps peacefully on the faded floral carpet, which given its age, could also have been designed by Inigo Jones, while I enjoy the ale and the unpretentious ambience before we head off down the Knockholt Road and back towards Chevening.

Darent Valley Path- South Darenth to Chipstead (11 miles)

I suppose I was inspired to walk the Darent Valley path by my mother-in law who is trying to buy a large lake from a Baron. The purchase is not for her own amusement you understand but for the benefit of the community and the lake in question is a former gravel pit that was excavated on the banks of the River Darent in the village of Chipstead, near Sevenoaks in Kent. The Darent is arguably the third most famous river  to run through the county after the Thames and the Medway, though residents of East Kent might argue the Stour that runs through the beautiful cathedral city of Canterbury, should be attributed with that title.

Either way, like the Stour, the Darent still runs clear and both river valleys were chosen by the discerning Romans for their elegant villas and farms, some two thousand years ago. Despite being so close to modern urbanised London and its often dreary suburbs, the Darent Valley Path is a truly beautiful walking route that runs from the river mouth, where it meets the mighty Thames in Dartford and proceeds South, through some lovely Kentish villages to the town of Sevenoaks and then on to the source of the river on the Greensand ridge 330ft above sea level and about 1 1/2 miles south of the pretty village of Westerham.

Given that my faithful walking companion (Romney, my ancient cocker spaniel) and I are maturing more rapidly than we would choose, we restricted the walk to one day and set off at 8.15am on a beautiful June morning from the Bridges pub in South Darenth with the ambition of walking south to my  mother-in-law's house in Chipstead, some eleven miles away. It means we avoid the urban sprawl of Dartford and can retrace some of the spots around Horton Kirby where I had spent many contented hours as a young boy engaged in fishing. The path even takes me past the enchanting old brick road bridge where my brother and I once watched wild brown trout and where I took my own sons fishing with small nets.

From here the way also meanders under some of the busiest motorway routes in the south-east of England and just before entering the village of Farningham, the gin clear river about 10 meters wide, is  spanned by a huge stained concrete motorway bridge decorated with colourful graffiti. High above the river on the M20,  the roar of thousands of impatient motorists can be heard racing off to some unknown destination as though their lives depend on it.  You can't help wondering where on earth they are going in such a mad rush as you amble across the river on a small footbridge and enjoy the wonderful landscape over a water meadow to the spire of  St Martin's church and the village of Eynsford in the distance, looking just about the same as it must have done in medieval times.

This is not challenging terrain and most of the path hugs the banks of the twinkling river as it ripples and flows north to the Thames and there are usefully positioned pubs for those walkers who like to lubricate their outdoor activity with the odd tipple. Not surprisingly, The Bridges in South Darenth with its pretty hanging baskets of flowers was closed at 8-15am  but the Lion Hotel in Farningham is quite magnificent by comparison and if it is closed you can still sit in the garden next to the river on one of  their wooden chairs and check your bearings while admiring the recently restored stone cattle screen built in 1740, that still straddles the river.  It is another paddling opportunity for Romney who has always been extremely enthusiastic about personally verifying the water quality of English rivers. However, there is a slight hint of a Spaniel sulk as the path leaves the river at the Lion Inn and poor Romney, reluctantly agrees to go on his lead as we turn right and proceed uphill. We  pass attractive 19th century former shops on Farningham High Street before turning left into Sparepenny Lane, so called because travellers could once save money by using this back route in the days of road tolls.

From Sparepenny Lane you are presented with a marvellous view to your left down across the river valley and towards the end of the road, just before arriving in the village of Eynsford you have a great view of the fortified Norman house known as Eynsford Castle with its circular battlements. At a road junction a vintage fire engine, gleaming red and silver stops and turns right towards a rally being held at Lullingstone Castle. It is the only vehicle we have seen except for  Royal Mail delivery van and for  moment I am lost in time. The ford in the village is quite famous and a popular spot for tourists to test their 4x4 vehicles through the shallow water of the eponymous ford.

The path however leads to the right, away from St Martin's Church and the ford and past a Tudor mansion called Toll Bar Cottage and then away from the narrow road to Lullingstone and up to the chalk escarpment to the west of the valley. The narrow path cuts through sloping fields of green unripe wheat, spotted with red poppies and near the top of the escarpment we cross the railway line. Shortly after our crossing, an ancient locomotive pulls more than thirty rusting freight cars across Eynsford viaduct and north-west towards Swanley and south east London and it's a pleasing sight.

Romney is showing early signs of fatigue so as the path passes through a thick hedge into another huge field of unripe corn, I lift my light pack off my shoulders extract a rain jacket and throw it on the ground. We have been walking just over two hours but it's a warm day and it has been some time since Romney enjoyed a dip in the cool waters of the Darent.  I sit down, offer him a bowl of water and encourage him to rest. Instead within two to three minutes he is barking impatiently, urging me to continue on our way so we start our descent back down to the river near Lullingstone Roman villa.

The section of the walk towards Lullingstone Castle is possibly the most gorgeous. The path hugs the river again, there are fields of purple lavender, green hops, huge weirs and even the Lullingstone visitor centre does not blight the landscape. There are more walkers here, perhaps encouraged by the parking and tea facilities but they tend not to wander too far from the car park and seem mostly interested in immersing their dogs in the river.  From here the path leads to Shoreham and the home of the celebrated Victorian artist Samuel Palmer and even more importantly the Kings Head which is our lunchtime destination.

It's a beautiful warm, sunny afternoon and replenished with fresh dressed crab and chunky chips washed down by a Cornish guest ale, morale is at an extremely high point as we cross the road bridge over the river from which young boys are fishing and Romney enjoys a post-lunch cooling-off in the water.  We then gently proceed pass church of St Peter and St Paul and the Old George Inn before exiting the picturesque village of Shoreham on the main road and cutting right out of the road and through mature woodland, the golf course and the cricket ground where the home team is warming up with some catching practice. Be careful not to proceed too far and miss the right turn at the narrow road sloping down the valley to the right where you rejoin the path again on the western edge of the gold course. A group of girl guides resting in the shade of an ancient oak tree at the side of the road ask me the way to Halstead.

This is another stunning section of the path and we exchange greetings with a couple of golfers as they drag their trolley up an immaculate fairway in search of their tee shots. The arrival in Otford is also delightful as I follow a group of boy, aged about ten-twelve  years with their fishing rods, trudging  through the fields back home in the afternoon sun, with blue dragon flies flying sorties at the edge of the fields.

Apparently a local group are applying for funding to invest in the Darent valley and its path to improve its facilities and access to walkers but up to this point it's hard to see where they might spend the money, except on a few modest  improvements to signposts.  On arrival at Otford though, you can see room for some radical enhancements to the path. Despite this being a pretty village with a fascinating history, the path leaves the river and turns right up a busy main road for half a mile and only reveals a non-descript residential estate with a small shop selling ice cream. This road eventually leads into more corn fields but the feel of the valley and magic of the river has already been lost. It's not regained until the tops of brightly-coloured mainsails of sailing dinghies can be seen tacking across Chipstead lake, the subject of my mother-in-laws community ambitions and our final destination.

The North Downs Way & Pilgrims Way from Cuxton to Thurnham (14.3 miles)

Walkers quickly develop a food obsession. Often it’s impossible to think of anything else as you tramp onwards burning calories along the way. 

Alison’s breakfast taken in the dining room of the barn is enormous and magnificent. Fully sated by fresh strawberries, grapefruit segments, muesli, coffee and orange juice followed by the main offering of bacon, egg, hash browns, and sausage, I experience some difficulty bending down to put my boots back on. I carefully smuggle a small sausage portion up to the room for Romney, who makes short work if it.

The first part of our walk today takes us through the pretty Ranscombe Farm Reserve  and then a section which is far removed from the original Pilgrims route. In the 12^th or 13^th century the travellers would have continued to Snodland and then probably have crossed the river Medway by ferry at Halling. The ferry only stopped its service in the 1960’s. Or they might have continued to Rochester, crossed the Road Bridge at Strood and joined up with the Southwark to Canterbury Pilgrims Way along what is now mostly the A2.

The modern-day pilgrim can cross the new motorway bridge and this morning it is so gloomy and damp that the castle and cathedral at Rochester just a few miles up-river are just indistinct outlines on the horizon. A sign from The Samaritans is attached to the northern extreme of the bridge, which is I suppose, is what the marketing men might call “strategically placed advertising”. The castle in the drizzly distance is where I spent much of my schooldays and I was obliged to attend the cathedral every school-day morning (including Saturdays) for the best part of six years.

Having traversed the metallic grey River Medway, we head into the countryside once more at Nashenden Farm, a place which stirs powerful and disturbing schoolboy memories as the location of the much hated school cross-country run. The start point of this compulsory outdoor torture was this very farm and hundreds of boys in white gym kit were coerced into running what seemed like hundreds of miles through sticky wet clay.  

Ascending above the farm into Leg of Mutton woods, I am reminded of an incident that has not crossed my mind in more than 30 years.With lungs bursting in the sharp winter air I remember making a reasonable start one year and being rewarded at the bottom of the first muddy slope by a flashing smile from one of the most attractive sixth form girls who was acting as a race steward . I can still picture clearly her coy look, the direct eye contact, her school scarf protecting her from the December chill and her long dark curly hair caught by the breeze as she brushed it from her eyes, revealing her mild skin disorder. How I longed to run my adolescent hands along those woollen navy blue stockings.  The thought still makes me shudder today.

The thought of the gorgeous sixth former, with the hardly noticeable skin complaint, inspires me up the hill to a stunning view over the Medway from Wouldham Common before descending to Blue Bell Hill, the roar of more motorways and a short rest at Kits Cotie. This is a unique three thousand year old burial chamber set in a field amongst the motorways but to be frank, this is not the most attractive section of the trail and I am pleased to move on to Detling.

A minor navigation error forces me to the foot of Detling Hill but as a result we have to pass over Jade’s Crossing and I am privileged to be able put a pound coin in the collection box at the foot of the pedestrian bridge over the busy dual carriageway. Faced with bureaucratic obfuscation, the feisty villagers of Detling raised their own funds and built their own bridge over the deadly A249 after the death of Jade and her grandmother. On the opposote side of the crossing we rest outside the 14th century Cock at Detling before heading down the Pilgrims Way to Thurnham .

The Black Horse at Thurnham is a proper Kentish country pub complete with dried hops draped from exposed beams, a bread oven, milk churns, local real ales and a huge Inglenook fireplace. Despite having a fancy restaurant (local venison steak with chocolate sauce) and posh rooms at £70 plus per night they could not be more welcoming to a bedraggled middle-aged walker and his overweight exhausted spaniel, both dripping on the floor of their public bar. I set myself up at a table near the bar and enjoy an early supper of peppered roast beef baguette with a huge pile of large chips washed down with a cool pint of Guinness. Sometimes life feels just about perfect and I am about to offer Romney a cold chip but he has already crashed out, fast asleep with his head resting on my backpack.

Tonight’s accommodation is a bunkhouse at Coldbow Farm just about a two miles away across a muddy field and up a steep hill to the crest of the downs. The temperature is dropping as we arrive and we are shown to our modest but comfortable suite of bunk beds with access to multiple showers, toilets and a large kitchen. We are the only guests in the bunkhouses and our hostess tells me it is rare to see walkers at all these days.  I offer an old England rugby shirt for Romney to use as a blanket and we are both snoring in perfect unison by 9.45pm.

The North Downs Way & Pilgrims Way from Heaverham to Cuxton

There really is no need to tramp across the plains of the Serengeti National Park or to risk frostbite by plodding along snow covered mountainous paths in Nepal to experience that primitive thrill of walking in a wilderness, never far from the threat of natural danger. Just explore the North Downs Way in deepest Kent.

It won’t cost you thousands of pounds to reach either, unlike those more exotic overseas locations. In fact, for the modest investment of a cheap off- peak train ticket from London, the hike-hardened walker can spend a day or week-end, experiencing the joys of this wonderful national trail.

And you can even take your dog along too without the risk of your companion being eaten by a lion or falling down a glacier while taking a pee. Sadly though, hardly anyone seems to venture this way anymore. I only saw two other groups of walkers over 40 miles of week-end walking east from Heaverham, near Sevenoaks to Boughton Lees, near Ashford. Just six other people walking, like me, in the footsteps of those many thousands of 13^th century pilgrims who made their way from Winchester to the cathedral at Canterbury in honour of Thomas a Becket who was murdered there in 1170. These pilgrimages, immortalised by Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, were a hugely significant part of life in medieval England until Henry VIII banned them in the 16^th century.

Now as you tramp along the historic Pilgrims Way, a flint strewn terrace cut into the chalk slopes only a few meters above the sticky clay of the fields below, you can often hear the faint but unmistakable roar of motorway traffic.

Pick the sweetest rain-washed blackberries from the hedgerows for free, as cars thunder past in the far distance eager to reach some dreary out of town supermarket and purchase tasteless cling film covered fruit imported from somewhere you’ve never heard of.  

My fearless canine companion on this expedition, my large, black working cocker spaniel called Romney (he’s from Romney Marsh) grows impatient with ad-hoc fruit picking.  Like most middle-aged males, he has little appreciation of his own physical limitations and is anxious to be investigating countless scents and trails along the tree lined track that leads across recently harvested fields dotted with bales of hay. 

It is at Wrotham Water,where there is no sign of any water, that we experience our first taste of real danger. Leading Romney off the road into the grass verge to wrestle with the interminable folds of the OS map, I take the opportunity to photograph a fine example of a Kentish cob nut hanging above me and feel a sharp nettle sting on my right shin. Glancing down I see it is not a nettle at all, but rather more alarmingly, a small aggressive wasp attached to the hairs on my lower leg and stinging me as though its life depended on it. Alarm turns to panic as many more angry wasps are organising themselves into an attack formation and one has made an advance for Romney attaching itself to the tangled black fur on the poor dog’s right shoulder.

“Go Rommey go. We’re being attacked” I shout at him, grabbing my pack as I hobble up the track way at full speed dragging my pack while Romney shakes his large ears furiously to rid himself of the vindictive insects.

Many miles further along the Way, while casually looking at a brochure for the Ranscombe Farm Reserve just outside Cuxton, I instantly recognise the image of our violent attacker. It is not a wasp but a mining bee, a species which burrow in bare sunny ground and evidently get extremely cross when trampled on by walkers taking pointless photographs of cob nuts.

Neither of us seemed much the worse for the trauma and after a mile or two we leave the ancient Pilgrims Way for the first time and ascend a steep rutted track into Hogmore Wood. With lunchtime approaching, we enter Trosley Country Park and a most welcome vision emerges like a mirage in the desert, (or in this case, the forest) complete with the aroma of frying bacon- the country park visitor centre is ahead of us and thank the patron saint of walkers, Saint Berghaus-the café is open.

Fortified by a particularly delicious BLT, reluctantly shared with Romney who has an unfortunate but highly effective scrounging habit, we head off into the woods with a renewed vigour. We make our away along the clay track at the summit of the downs towards our first night’s destination in Cuxton on the western bank of the River Medway.

There are few visitors about today. It’s a wet Friday afternoon in September and the kids have returned to school and we overtake two old ladies exercising their dogs on the muddy clay pathway strewn with a ragged carpet of copper leaves. As a heavy rainstorm pelts the leaves above us I notice an adult figure, dressed in cream, dart across the path ahead and into the woods on the left.  Approaching the same spot less than two minutes later, I clearly hear the laughter of a child to the left of the track, although it is curiously disjointed and stilted as though the sound is played on an old fashioned gramophone player. Curiously, there is no obvious way to enter the woods from this part of the track. Indeed, the woods are quite dense and impenetrable and despite stopping and peering intently into the undergrowth, there is no sign of anyone at all; adult or child.

Quite suddenly, the woods seem particularly gloomy and chill for an early afternoon, even in this rain storm and nervously I kept gazing back over my shoulder as we increased our pace along the path.

 “It’s a bloody ghost Romney,” I advise the dog as I look back for the tenth or eleventh time.   

If Romney is troubled  by our supernatural  encounter it is soon forgotten as, only a few miles on, he accidently disturbs a an enormous cock pheasant dozing in a neglected field of maize and the stupid bird launches itself in an explosion of squawks and feathers, so disturbing several other all beating themselves into an airborne panic.

Exhausted canine companion

Romney is a bouncing blur of ears, tail and black fur in hot pursuit of the furthest pheasant, having nearly tripped over the closest one. Needless to say, no pheasant is ever at risk of serious injury and I find the exhausted dog collapsed in the long wet grass about half a mile away, apparently unable to rise and with his rapid breath forming great clouds of white condensation.

“I told you to pace yourself, you silly bugger,” I tell him. “We’re not in our twenties anymore, you know”.

He looks at me blankly puffing hard, spread out in the wet grass like a dead seal so that I feel inclined to offer him some water from my hand and a small chunk of my much coveted chocolate covered hazelnut snack bar. He reluctantly swallows it without much visible enthusiasm.

The effect is pretty miraculous though as he trots off happily and within a few minutes is chasing a grey squirrel across the track into a blackberry bush as though nothing has happened.The astonishing pace of recovery did make me consider momentarily, if it could all have been a devious ploy on the dog’s part to get access to my treasured hazelnut and chocolate snack bar.

A minor navigation error means we miss our B&B destination at North Downs Barn in Lower Bush (not to be confused with Upper Bush) near Cuxton with the rain falling more heavily now as the light fades.  The needless tramp into Cuxton in the rain was soon forgotten during the warm welcome offered by Alison Evans, a charming and gregarious women in her forties who has run this immaculate B&B in a huge converted barn for 17 years. Romney was lucky enough to be greeted with a fluffy clean towel and given a brisk rub down, a delight that he is always partial to. Regrettably, I was not offered the same service by Alison, so carefully kicked off my muddy walking boots and entered the large hall of this magnificent converted barn with exposed beams in every direction.

“This will do nicely Romney. Very nicely indeed” I tell him as we close the door to our very comfortable room and he wags his tail in tacit agreement.

Romney and I must have made a particularly pathetic spectacle because Alison even kindly offers to collect an evening meal for me at the local Indian take-away.

Having showered en suite and feasted on lamb sag and pilau rice, washed down by a cold Cobra beer we are more than ready for bed. After pushing open the bedroom window onto fresh damp air and silence, I slump gratefully into the soft bed worried only by the itching and swelling on my lower leg, caused by the revenge of the mining bee.  Romney slumps in a tired heap and the side of the bed and emits one of his long contented groans. It’s been a long day on the North Downs Way for one Kentishman and his knackered dog.