A Kite’s eye view of the Chilterns would be a magnificent sight, soaring above the beechwoods, top of the food chain. Hughes 'Hawk Roosting', no sophistry in this body, ‘I kill where I please because it's all mine.’ I settle for a quick spin to get the skull cinema going. Endorphins rush as I imagine the earth’s face upward for my inspection. The plaintive cries of the circling Kite’s are rejoindered by the inimitable squawks of the countless pheasantry in the fields. Bursting from hedges and strutting in fields with their feathered harem they are a sight to behold. Cocks proud in their plumage crow their guttural pride. Bred to be shot in the local estates this is the new economy of the area and they are lords of the manor. Their cocksure manner is ill found though as they are more akin to sitting ducks. There cannot be much sport in bagging such a tame bird. They make for pleasant company though and enliven the combes and valleys of the Chilterns which always seem a bit empty and desolate in winter despite the apparent wealth of the area. There is a sense of isolation and hilly miles can be passed as if there is one secret, unknowable world within these charming valleys, guarded by hedges and security cameras. Or perhaps I am bonking and reaching maudlin capacity in need of a power bar.
I was slightly concerned about my descending skills as I freewheeled from Ibstone. The valleys are steep and unforgiving and I didn't fancy the ride back. Beyond lay the Thames and this secret area was slowly offering up its jewels. Someone knew something and Turville was a good place to begin. A postcard village that can boast of more celebrity references than Love Island. The Bull and Butcher was my primary research haven, finding a focus group over a pint of Brakspears. I had taken a few photos and wondered why they were familiar. Ten minutes in the bar revealed a treasure trove of information that would keep the squirrels in beech nuts for a year.
That'll be the Vicar of Dibley's cottage by the church... and another Midsomer Murder happened there.
Then the big reveal!
Of course, the windmill ! I had just staggered up a ridiculous incline to this Cobstone Mill, home of Hayley Mills no less. Sure enough, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
Keep going... Day of the Triffids?
There was something else though, and they kept me guessing... I was thinking 'Went the Day Well' ...They didn't know what I was on about.
You'm joking I bellowed in my mother's favourite Black Country drawl. Not really. She visibly recoils at this utterance.
Goodnight Mr Tom ! I'd just been forced to watch it three times. I had to go and have a look at the village green to get my bearings and sure enough there it was with the flint walls of the Oxon cottages dressed wth wisteria and manicured to a tee. The epitome of rural safety, a safe haven for young Willie from the horror of the war and a vicious mother. I had to get the details from Isla, who is a mine of information about Little Werewold and William Beech. She could contest mastermind about the book and film. Isla even knew the name of the dog, Sammy if you are testing. A Year 6 staple, the village is burnt into the retina of our youth of today, much like Lennie suffocating dogs in Californian sunshine is for the previous generation. There are no snakes swimming across ponds in the garden of Eden here though, only a picturesque spot drawing the crowds. Rust coloured rooves and box hedges draw the eye toward the windmill on the horizon. Hawthorn blossom and daffodils in the churchyard suggested sheltered climes. Blackened creosote on barns signified the uniform style that is so quintessentially Chiltern.
Storm Freya approached so I set off uphill past a burst water main that had me wading knee deep. There was a ten mile detour on offer but I was on my last, very wet legs. I hoped the pheasants were finding some shelter. Undefeated I wanted to eke the day out and there was just enough time for a short walk from Ibstone, diving into the woods and the Worsley Estate looking for Paul Getty’s cricket pitch. He has created a duplicate of the Oval and I was determined to find it. Even in Storm Freya it was quite an amazing apparition, a manicured lawn of international quality in the middle of the woods. I bet he hosts great celebrity ding dongs with this fine centrepiece ringing with the summer clink of Pimms on the lawn and the crunch of cucumber sandwiches. I could almost hear the crack of willow on leather above the approaching gale.
