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.