North Downs Way Day 10 - Brabourne to Folkestone

After a good night’s sleep I had a lovely breakfast in the ancient farmhouse dining room with another massive fireplace. There were many things on offer, including what appeared to be a half drunk bottle of wine.  Maybe the wine from yesterday’s escapade.  I looked at it with surprise and respect as a breakfast offering, and then read the label, which told me it was apple juice. 

My hostess Lily told me that today’s leg is brutal and both she and her cheerful husband asked me several times whether I had enough water. So, laden with more water than I normally take, plus the food I was invited to take from the breakfast collation, I set off, looking at the inclines on the map with some trepidation.

It was already sunny, and I was regretting the hoodie that I wore almost all day yesterday within minutes.

I followed the Pilgrims Way for the first mile of the day, walking parallel to the NDW which was higher up the hill until I could find a path up to it. It was rather lovely walking alongside it for a change observing it for a little way. The sheep were calmly eating, the cow parsley was in bloom, the blackbirds were singing. I could tell it was Saturday, the cyclists were out, be-Lycrad and enthusiastic.

After a little while on the road the Way took off to the east, passing through a copse. The birds were singing more gently here, maybe busy getting things ready in their nests. The garlic was in overdrive and the woodland flowers were abundant.

Emerging from this wood marked the top of the first hill of the day, which I celebrated my removing my hoodie and thinking about James Mark Weight who died at 38, remembered by his parents with a bench looking over this lovely view. The song ‘fly me to the moon’ which was quoted on the bench, kept me company all day, either as I was humming it or puffing the tune out as I walked up a steep slope.

Walking down the road towards Storting I saw a sign that mystified me. Is it a place to park briefly, or somewhere for migratory birds to have a break?

The Tiger Inn in Storting looked appealing, one to return to.  I also liked the jaunty walkers on the signage in the middle of the hamlet. They looked unfettered.

Up Cobbs Hill, stopping every so often to catch my breath and watch the landscape in which I’d just been walking falling away.

At the top of the hill I could hear a busy road which looked from the map like one I was going to have to walk along. Girding my loins for that, I was delighted to find a footpath at the edge of a young wheat field which saved a lot of jumping into verges. The day was still and hazy, and I was wondering if the light would allow me to see the sea when the time came.

Crossing a small road and entering the next field I realised I was on familiar territory. This was the approach to Farthing Common, where David and I have walked. A lot of what is coming up after this would be around the place that feels like home. I was so delighted to be walking it in perfect conditions, like it was showing off for me. I sat on my ancient Ocado plastic bag to save me from the soft wet grass, listened to the skylarks, smelt the woodsmoke from the neighbouring farm, had tea from my battered thermos and ate the second half of the cake I’d saved from yesterday’s Wye cafe purchase. Could there be a better way of spending a Saturday morning?

Through another bluebell wood, and then the path dropped into a natural amphitheatre at Postling Down (to rhyme with toast, not cost btw). The high sides of the hill masked almost all of the traffic noise that had begun to build up, it was just me and the birds. I had chaffinch, great tit, linnet, pheasant, chiffchaff, yellowhammer and black cap, if Merlin can be believed. Just lovely.

Up again, past a beacon that will maybe be lit next weekend, with sadly no way of identifying where the sky finished and the sea began, it was just too hazy. I knew it was there though.

As I was looking at the view I met Anthony, who was taking a break from training for the London to Brighton race in May.  He was running from Maidstone to Folkestone today, which is some journey. He told me regretfully that he had a leaky bladder. It’s a good job he was talking to a fellow carrier of Osprey hydration packs.

I looked down at Postling church from what must surely go for the ‘best situated bench’ award. Heather, you were right to have your ashes scattered here.

Up the fourth hill of the day to the Swingfield radio tower, with the gorse flourishing around it. I’d seen this from a distance for most of the walk so far, and continued to be able to see it from the end.  It’s a great place to get signal.

Now up on the hill directly north of Hythe, the NDW followed the Saxon Shore Way, together with the Elham Valley Way.  The former is a 163 mile route that goes from Gravesend and links a number of coastal defences built by the Romans against the Saxon raiding parties.  It sounds great, but it also sounds like you can make a walk out of any theme you can imagine.  The Elham Valley Way was described by Kev of my Cicerone guide as ‘less ambitious’, being a mere 23 miles, but it is also described as going through some ‘very fine country’, and it links Hythe with Canterbury.  That is definitely one for me, sounds perfect.

A viewpoint opened, and I knew the sea was down there, but it was still merged into the sky through the haze. But there was a good bench on which was carved the famous excerpt from Shakespeare’s Richard II. Shakespearean quotes on benches don’t come along very often. I took a photo with my lunch. I call it ‘study of England with marmalade sandwich and breakfast banana’. It was a lunch heavy on carbs and light on protein, the opposite of how I normally like to play it, but if it’s good enough for Paddington….

Then the path led right down into the lowest part of the valley near Etchinghill, It was cool and shady down there, but then it veered sharply under the disused railway bridge, which had been reclaimed by ivy and other shrubbery. There was wonderful brickwork and colourful graffiti, but none of the pithy comments that my friend Sophie and I search for in these places.

Over yet another stile. There have been quite a few today, unusually. This one was crazily high, as if the maker had never seen a woman or noticed how long their legs typically were.  I felt quite testy.

Then up the last, longest and steepest hill of the route I had planned, stopping periodically to allow my heart rate to get back to sensible levels.  Carrying a heavier pack because of the extra water I took with me really shows in my heavy breathing.

This is army training country, as the signs quite strongly reminded me.  Hythe is famous for what was originally called the Hythe School of Musketry, set up in 1853.  It later became the Small Arms School, and the firing range that goes up to the beach is still used today.  Residents of the town get used to hearing the sound of gunshot at all times of the day, along with the distinctive whistle of the steam engine of the Hythe and Dymchurch railway.

Being careful not to pick up any explosives, I walked across a couple of meadows and suddenly the sea was finally visible, the contrast against the sands at Dymchurch making it stand out against the sky.

The channel tunnel terminal just outside Folkestone is both an astonishing piece of engineering and a blight. I’d not appreciated its size until seeing it from above, and I’d also not realised how noisy it is, a continuous loud rumbling hum.  It must be very wearing to live near. 

In a piece of serendipity, an example of 1930s engineering, in a World War 2 pillbox, has to be skirted whilst looking down at the 1990s one.   

The viewpoint over the top of the tunnel was where I’d planned for David to pick me up, but I still had some miles on my legs, so I decided to go on for a bit to make tomorrow a short day. I sat with my map in a field that smelt very strongly of silage and tried to work out a place that would be good to walk to that David could reach me, and decided to aim for a pub in Capel le Ferne. But there was a motte and bailey castle to see before that, so I finished the second and final marmalade sandwich and set off again.

Castle Hill is also known as Caesar’s camp, and is the largest motte and bailey castle in the South East of England.  It’s probably from the 12th century.  And in getting to the top, the clue’s in the name, it involved another hill.  But my legs have been feeling very strong today, my muscle tweak from yesterday had completely receded this morning, and the top of the hill gave good views over Folkestone. However something was in the air, and I started sneezing and streaming, so I thought it was probably time to call a halt.

Whilst waiting for David to pick me up I climbed Round Hill, into which I’d watched the traffic disappearing on the motorway tunnel.

Beginning to have my fill of hills for the day, I had a good view of Sugarloaf Hill, and the happy realisation that today’s route would not be taking me up there.  Watching a trio of walkers collapse to their knees at the top, I thought I didn’t regret saving that for another time.

But there was still one more hill to climb, on the side road up towards Creteway Down to meet David at another communications tower with a great view down to the harbour at Folkestone. . I’d lost track of how many hills there’d been - looking at the gradient map later I reckoned maybe 6 significant climbs with a few smaller ones to liven things up a bit.  So I could see why today’s route might be described as brutal, as my B and B hosts had suggested.  But in fact, I found it one of the best days walking I’ve done for ages. I’ve been feeling strong and fit, the weather has been perfect and I’m sorry that tomorrow’s very short leg will bring the North Downs Way to a close.

Stats

Distance travelled 13 miles/ 21km

Total ascent 1815 feet/553 metres

Calories burned 1500

Local tipple - a glass of Malbec rose whilst looking at my favourite view in Hythe

Video of the walk

https://www.relive.com/view/v7O9Z2VZNL6