A Bimble down the Thames

The Source

This adventure is a path well trodden. There are no two paths that diverge in a wood, just a linear route from source to sea. The Thames is so integral to our history that it has been written about exhaustively. Millions of people live along its banks which means it should hardly be adventure at all! Peter Ackroyd’s wonderful, informative book ‘Sacred River’ has inspired my plans. I am totally in awe of his knowledge and insight; he has either done a lot of research or he has a lot of brain power.  

Less in awe and more in jealousy I watched Baldrick on Channel 5 dipping into stretches of the river on his own journey.  I bet he didn’t walk it though and did a Bear Grylls in the evening, retiring to a Boutique Cotswolds hotel.  Despite myself I have been enjoying his informative bulletins of fun as he meets Thames types to catch crayfish or re-enact Dads’ Army.  Blogs and web-sites also detail the route, offering various degrees of insight. It is now hard to know if my ‘incredible insight’ is not just a re-hash in a more ‘illuminating’ manner. 

I kept finding reasons to avoid the trip and now the weather forecast ‘Storm Imogen’. I checked the river levels; might there be flooding? They were a metre below problem levels. Nettles and thistles?  Wear long pants.It looks like a fair portion of the path skips the river so might a canoe be an option ?

I could wait no longer… we all have our own style so I’ll do it my way.. less procrastination and bimble on…

Cotswold Airport provides an unnerving start at the back of Kemble station. A Jumbo in a Cotswold field is an inauspicious sight amongst rural bliss.  US Air Forces used the site to dismantle jets and monsters of the sky and the Red Arrows had their base here for a while until the 80’s. Air-force bases line the Thames which acts as a motorway toward Europe with Heathrow as the arrowhead. RAF Fairford is close by and my walk is haunted by looming presences overhead as eerily quiet bombers circle like carrion cruisers.  I imagine they are training pilots which is no less unnerving, as is the knowledge that Trump is keen to use us as a first line of defence. 

I get into my stride after Kemble station heading upriver, for the only time, toward the source. I start thinking of language which is always the key to discovering place. Thames. Tamesis, maybe of  Indo European origin signifying darkness This seems to be the common theme linking the river with the horror and bloodshed of conquest and tribal division. It has been a dividing line for millennia; Dane and Saxon, Briton and Roman and even became the home guard’s own Maginot line in case of German invasion, a line marked by hundreds of pillboxes along the Northern bank built hurriedly after Dunkirk.  I like the theory that two rivers ‘Isis’ 

 I like the theory that two rivers ‘Isis’and ‘Thame’ have been linked to create Thamesis as the mighty river is a receiver of many tributaries. By the time of the Magna Carta, concluded on the banks of the Thames at Runnymede, it was called Tamisiam. My favourite theory is that it was the Thame below Dorchester and Isis above, a title which is still used by Oxonians slighted at London imperialists dropping the Isis off the end. Research into the etymology keeps returning to the theme of darkness but I prefer the idea that the birth mother Isis nurtures the waters in the upper stretches adopting youths as she goes and caring for the myriad siblings in their infancy. Once she meets Old Father Thame at Dorchester this unification provides the mighty stretch of the Thames which gave birth to modern society; the life source of democracy and empire. Whence Conrad set forth to explore the heart of darkness only to find that it was the Thames all along. 

Old Father Thames draws me and Isis seduces me with all her tributaries. 

The source in Trewsbury Mead, 360 feet above sea level, is identified by an unedifying block of stone in the corner of a field. With no water in sight, it is guarded by a ropy looking Ash; I felt rather deflated and was glad this was the start of the journey.  The mighty Ash Tree of my imagination was going to mark the start of a journey across 9 counties. 

In fact looking at photos in Ackroyd’s book there was a more imposing Ash tree next to the stone not so long ago.  Its surviving neighbour also looked like it was disappearing, maybe through Ash dieback caused by a fungus, which has already decimated Ash trees in the UK after it was imported from European nursery stock. A Brexit metaphor is in there somewhere for those inclined.  While we move food and flora around and across continents we are bound to share diseases.  Yggdrasil the Norse tree of life was dying. 

As boys we had our own Yggdrasil on Cannock Chase and in our ironically charged, youthful wisdom we chose a gnarled dead Ash tree, heavy with symbolism for such adolescent Smiths fans. I climbed the tree of life at 16 to find it was dead already.  The mythical Ash tree at the source of the Thames did not suggest that it connected nine worlds of the cosmos so I was determined to find a more potent source.

Ludd’s or Lydd pool, named after the Celtic God of healing, was featured in Tony Robinson’s trip down the Thames and I was convinced it was the true source; cunningly hidden on private land to prevent hordes descending upon this sacred spot. Baldrick even makes a votive offering of a spoon attesting to its spiritual significance. It looked like the magical place I was yearning for where the waters bubbled up from limestone depths; a secluded and mystical portal to the underworld. As I clambered over barbed wire I imagined the local farmer either cursing Baldrick’s exposure of this place of pilgrimage or wondering whether to open up a new tourist attraction.  I found only neck high weeds and grasses and impenetrable undergrowth under a quite random selection of evergreen and deciduous trees, as if planted hastily and haphazardly to defy the intrepid. I could hear the gush of water tantalisingly close but beyond me lay bogs. I had to admit defeat and take solace in the romantic notion that it remained secret and unknowable. Until next time…

The Severn Cross of Gloucestershire 

Green for Apples Blue for the River

A bimble round Robin Hood's Bay

Who he of the Lincoln green?  Miles from here.  I can vouch for that after my journey across the North York Moors. Robin Hood is not just a Notts hero but a mythic figure of a swathe of the frozen North, liberating wealth from the nobs and rousing the downtrodden peasants. I imagine Sean Bean down on the beach singing sea shanties with the smugglers saving casks of sack from the surf. The story put forth is that smuggling was so rife in this precipitous outcrop on the Cleveland shore that a basket of silk could be moved from the quay to the top of the village in less than five minutes without ever being seen in the street.  A close knit fishing community isolated from the rest of Yorkshire by inaccessible roads and tall cliffs would have been an ideal bolt-hole for legendary smugglers.  Many a ship has foundered in these treacherous waters and smuggling or 'salvage' would have been a lucrative sideline.

Tucked into the hillside, sheltered from the worst of the North Easterlies, it is clear why it has become a greta escape destination.  Just enough interest for a week's exploring has led to the entire village consisting of second homes and holiday rentals. IN the maze of cottages ranged up and down the hillside the ubiquitous cottage for rent sign evinced the plethora of options.  It must be abut with visitors in the summer months and once there you wouldn't want to climb back up to the car park too often.  Whatever the arguments about short term rentals it seems to have kept the pace alive. Im not sure what industry would keep the place afloat otherwise.  Perhaps this is the inevitable future of such chocolate box destinations.

Harder souls once lived here eking out a living from the sea. Idyllic fora a visit this would have been a harsh place to live in the depths of col winters and there is a memorial to the bravery of the Whitby lifeboat crew. It tells a tale of the stranded Brig 'Visiter' and the people and horses who helped transport the Whitby lifeboat across the cliff heights reaching 500 feet in snowdrifts to save the sailors.  Legendary feats pitting some Klaus Kinski figure directing stout yeoman to overcome all obstacles raising the boat over the moors and into the bay.  

The weather held out for us and as the sea receded the full glory of the beach and the wide stretch of sand and rock-pools became visible stretching out to Ravenscar. What view for these tiny cottages ranged up the hill, tumbling over one another, competing for social status as the street rises. 

 Theres not much cat swinging going on and neighbours must have been on good terms. I can see why locals sold up after having half of Yorkshire poking their heads into your living room. In't it cute, 'compact and bijou'.  It is a great place to bimble around the terraced cobbles, musing on the living history. Shades of Dylan Thomas' Llaregub rife for a Yorskhire revision.  Mog and Captain Cat were to be found in the Laurel Inn which quickly became our favourite pub, all wooden chairs, open fire and snug warmth in the glow of Timothy Taylor Landlord. The village is probably more Landlord swilling Madonna these days than Polly Garter but there was warmth in the welcome both here and in the Dolphin where local musicians blasted out Dylan covers with a Brexit twist.

press gangs  excise men poldrak tv drama scaurs limestone and blue shale whitby jet fossilised monkey trees fossils ammonites 

  

A bimble up and down the Cinder Path

 Mighty steeds mounted and lycra clad we knights of Boggle Hole ventured out in early sunshine to hit the trail that had beckoned us.  The Cinder Path is part of Sustrans route 1 and runs along the old railway line that ran from Scarborough to Whitby from 1885 until its closure in 1965.  Imagination runs wild as one imagines the sight of steam trains puffing up to the heights of Ravenscar 190 feet above the sea with the wild moors on t' other.

There is a heritage railway nearby running to Whitby across the North York Moors but this route had the sea and the destinations.  Locals can still remember the white smoke and whistles and the area would be so much richer with this backdrop. Maybe one day when England is a post Brexit theme park and the beaten pound encourages rich tourists from the colonies they will re-instate these lost jewels but for now we had the track to ourselves.  Each turn of the pedal afforded a view and the coconut aroma of gorse filled the fresh morning air.  Filled with spring we sprang up the incline to Ravenscar passing aluminium pits and brickworks which hinted at the history of a  town that never was.  Perched on the edge of the cliffs of Cleveland a town had been laid out by prospectors eager to match the grandeur of Scarborough. Streets and sewers were laid out but the idea was abandoned before the war as the pure folly became clear.  This spot was known to be cut off by snow for months at a time and you would have to make a concerted effort to get there now that the rail line has gone.  It is a tidy little village with a majestic hotel dominating the hillside.  The remnants of a station are a reminder of the Victorian vision and the high point of the trail.

 It was, worryingly, all downhill from here to Scarborough. As much as we delighted in freewheeling for several miles, defying the laws of topography, we sensed the pleasure may not be recquited on the return journey.

Scarborough was vast and it seemed like all of Yorkshire had run to the sun. We ducked and weaved from the imposing mansions on its escarpment to the faded splendour of its backstreets; Regency terraces to the teeming harbour we whizzed along passing the hordes on the heaving promenade.  It was all a bit overwhelming and too much to take in on this visit. We had to stop though and the promise of an afternoon tea to allay the calorific bonk drew us into an ubiquitous tea shop.  We were not prepared for the sweet feast presented but Rob stoically assisted in demolishing the cream tea, cake, sandwich and crisp combo.

With fire and sugar in the belly we hit an A road out of town glad to be back on the secluded route.  It was odd how the sudden crowds had suddenly drawn a pall over these seaside destinations. Neither of us felt a desire to dwell amongst the hugger mugger for once and I wondered if this was a coming of age event.

It was all uphill from here and the calorific intake was timely as we rose and rose. Puffing Billy must have burned some coal going up this incline. It was at least 8 miles to Ravenscar and sometimes as much as one in 39 gradient.  My plan to cycle back to fitness the easy way along disused railways was fatally flawed as they are by no means flat.

With abandoned joy we hurled our rattling bones down the slope to Boggle Hole revelling in the virtuous exhaustion of a day well spent.

A Bimble round Boggle Hole

April fools, as ever, we planned a hopeful hiking/biking trip to the North East and our luck was in as we beat the snowfall by a day.  Bathed in sunshine with only a nip in the air we struck gold on the Eastern frontier.  Riding our luck and our iron horses, Lord Robert of Whitley and I reconvened our mounted, quixotic adventures upon the Cleveland Way.

Our castle was the jewel in the YHA crown, intriguingly entitled Boggle Hole, a magnificently converted corn mill, refuge for shipwrecked sailors and hostel since the 1930's. Recently upgraded for modern yoots, peddling food and fun for families, this venue is haven for beachcombers and sand artists. All generations mingled and idled in the snug of the bar with a bit of something for all ages.  Grandad sat with his map and a sprained ankle while kids tucked into mounds of spag bol.

We wilted by the fiery blast of the wood stove and got stuck into the range of cakes; gluten free carrot for me and a lime and zucchini for Rob.

The beach was a sight to behold after months of land locked winter and that first blast of ozone and salt unlocked the spirit as the German Sea unleashed its secrets.   A lower layer of mudstone is being constantly worn away on this coast and the gritty sandstone and shale falls away revealing fossils and Whitby jet treasures.  Limestone caulks stretch into the bay at low tide creating rock pools for miniature bimblers to explore. Oystercatchers needled the seaweed as fear of the Boggle who lives in a cave by the tideline kept naughty children in check.

Upsetting this sea sprite was a bad omen and I reminded a few young sprites of this at breakfast after a few belts in the pubs in Robin Hood Bay caused morning fragility.  The sight of a frantic parent tearing around shouting, 'where are the kids?' and racing down to the beach suggested the Boggle was causing mischief.  We could stem a sigh of relief as we had left such responsibilities inland for the weekend. The hard work of the hostelleers allowed communality and afforded hospitality that would be hard to match in more upscale accommodation.

My something was a library of books on the adult wing which they tucked us away on.  Leather sofas and wooden floors and walls of readable books bequeathed by visitors imbued with the ethos of brotherly love, wanting to leaving something behind for fellow bogglers. The twin room was a bit bleak but functional as we were consigned to the snoring section but that was all we needed and at such a bargain price we almost felt guilty for the riches on offer.

Always prepared I was now shamefaced as Rob arrived. I had a triple whammy of a puncture, the wrong inner tube and no spanner! Determined to be positive we set off, after more cake, to scale the cliffs to the Cleveland Way toward Whitby. We would return to the micro climate of Robin Hood Bay, nestled in the lee of the North East winds and pushed on upward as the cliffs rose and the wind keened on the heights.  We came across an unfathomable device for removing sailors from stranded boats by winching a barrel along a wire to the top of the cliff. We imagined the sailor who was chosen to dangle perilously would have preferred to have taken his chances in the German Sea than undergo this vertiginous journey.  The local engineers must have longed for the chance to rescue stricken sailors to try out their experiment in defying physics.

We pushed on, knees creaking in a walk to beat any stepmaster and came across a fine art deco horn and light house warning boats off these barren cliffs and away from the dangerous waters hundreds of feet below.

Now gentrified into spectacular accommodation this would make a great spot for a weekend away, rather than billeted in the rows of green mobile homes nearby that resembled an internment camp rather than a holiday park.  The isolation of the wild cliffs jarred with the multitude of metal boxes that resembled shipping containers.This was no place to linger in a fret or sea fog and luckily we had an azure sky and a sea I remembered as brown looked almost blue.   This juxtaposition of splendid isolation in nature and the hustle of humanity was to hit us full square as we descended the 199 steps from Dracula's dramatic and iconic perches on the headland into the town.

 Unprepared for the late afternoon revellers we got discombobulated. Another time, we would be in the midst of the revelry but the sight of stumbling stag and hen do's on the cobbled streets caught us unawares.

Funland would have to wait for another visit as we settled for an obligatory fish supper on the harbour wall, warily protecting our chips from beady eyed seagulls and Captain Jack Sparrow having a crafty fag.

Inner tube and spanner procured we decided only losers take the bus and indulged ourselves in a ride with Bob's taxi looking for some local knowledge.  Tales of Larpool viaduct and its 5 million bricks which awaited us on the Cinder Path tomorrow segued into a tale of a mine in the distance that bore unheralded riches in some kind of magic fertiliser. There's gold in them thar hills. No locals were employed in this venture according to Bob and the potash found a mile underground was being surreptitiously smuggled away to Middlesborough along a 20 mile tunnel. Top secret information with a suggestion that it was a German company behind it led to the inevitable B word. Google revealed it was actually a spectacularly ambitious and expensive project organised by a spirited entrepreneur backed by an Australian mining billionairess to extract the finest fertiliser in the world with an expectation that China and the sons of the steppes of Russia will pay a fortune for it in the future as soils weaken.  This sounded like the most ambitious project the UK had posited for a long while with Europe's deepest mine and billions in investment.  I thought this Klondike spirit had disappeared and I wished the visionaries of Sirius well in such a risky venture.  Someone must know that this spice from the world of the worms will allow them to control the universe in the future.

We wondered how many minutes it would take for Brexit to rear its head and sure enough Bob had a view, informed by a variety of sources with a bent toward leave.  As a fisherman and now a taxi driver he made an articulate case and who were we to argue on this fine day, even if we could have gotten a word in. Entertained and armed with new facts we wrestled with our consciences back to the safety of Boggle Hole where the smugglers rest with my fisherman's friend.