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| Perfect | |
| Written by arablethecrocket | ||||||||||
| 11 May 2007 | ||||||||||
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I have to confess this one is a little more sane than my normal humour, but there are one or two funnies to hand buried within. Hope you enjoy it. Alan Perfect By Alan Crook When I get to heaven I hope the Lord will say "Now then Alan if I gave you a chance to revisit one of the days that you had on earth, which one would you choose?" I know for certain that I would choose Monday the third of December in the year two thousand and six. That was the day I walked from Canada to Washington. It even feels good to be able to say I walked from Canada to Washington, only because it appeals to the little boy in me, knowing as I do that the two are only six miles apart on the Sussex downs. You might have thought that I would willingly have chosen the day we were married but that has not yet fully run its course. My wife and I have only been married for thirty eight years and we're still on our honey moon, the best is yet to come. You could think that I would choose the day my children were born but they are days that are wrapped in all manner of emotions most of which continue until this day. No I remain adamant that this day, this winter day was perfect. The weather was perfect. The company was perfect. The Downs were perfect. The meal at the end of the walk was perfect, but mostly the walk was perfect. Canada is a small section of the Downs above Arundel in West Sussex. I don't know how it got its name but I have a feeling that it was something to do with the First World War when troops were stationed there. Its not exactly the center of the universe, there are no great forests or trees or romantic stories attached to this little starting point in truth it is just that, a starting point. There isn't even a sign post to say that you are at Canada all there is a collection of derelict barns and a view, but what a view. Looking to the south is both uplifting and humbling at the same time. There is a vast spread of green then the blue of the sea. On this canvas there is Arundel castle and the chalk cliffs of Houghton. There are the churches of Burpham and South Stoke. The river swishes around a rambling path that it's created over the years, and is crossed by a bridge at South Stoke. The hills opposite are forested and lawned with fields and there are just enough houses to let you know that there is some one else on earth. Just standing at this point is enough rock your boat. I have been here in all seasons and never felt cheated; there has always been some thing to see, and not just the view. There are deer by the busload, there's a pop concert from the skylarks, a circus from a sky full of all manner of birds. The fields have a floor show of rabbits and hares. In the right conditions there are magnificent butterflies. I could go on but perhaps the best testament to the beauty of this place lies in an incident that happened on one of my previous visits to this spot. I arrived to find a couple of young folk looking out towards the sea. The young man was laughing but the girl was crying, more than that she was sobbing. I was saddened to see this sort of behaviour and quite angry to boot. When the young lady looked up I was really shocked to see that she had two black eyes and a large bandage over her left ear. By this time my anger towards the young man had boiled over to words and I left him with no doubts as to my feelings. The man raised his hands in a surrender fashion and asked to explain himself. It seemed that the young lady was his sister, and only two days before she had been involved in a terrible traffic accident, she had slid off the road and landed in a ditch. No one else was hurt but her ordeal was plain for all to see. She was gradually descending into a pit of despair when her brother hit on the idea of a natural restorative. Her lucky escape and the view restored her spirits and she was weeping with gratitude and the sheer joy of the sights and sounds she could see. It's difficult to say when a walk starts. Most of mine begin in bed at some miserable hour of the night when the whole world is snoring bar me. I get as far as the thought and usually I nod off when I get to the solution. The solution is to get my boots on and wander were my thoughts took me a few hours before. On this occasion the walk began in a more sedate fashion. My son jokingly said "dad you could walk from Canada to Washington," after one of my normal walks and the idea developed from there. So here I was starting from Canada. Starting that is up a gentle hill that barely raises a breath let alone a sweat more or less keeping in line with the road that we had just come up. We were bathed in a warm sunshine and the wind was only at playtime speed. All the way up the hill there are constant picture postcard views as well and the grand over all view. There was a permanent air of expectancy. Could that be a deer over there? Why are those rooks gathering? Look at those clouds rolling in. Still every footfall conjured up another view or another story from my companions. We plodded steadily till we reached the top and strangely we weren't welcomed by a fantastic view but a small forest. It seems strange after all the scenery this far to be concentrating on a closer perspective. Not to say that it was unpleasant. Far from it, I like beech trees and a small forest like this of perfect specimens is a very welcome sight. As much as anything I love the sound of the wind in beech trees. The more it blows the deeper the note, in the winter the note is different to the summer, blend the forever changing note with an ever changing light add a multitude of bird song then try to find an orchestra to beat that drama and grandeur, no chance. I often used to walk on the hills behind Stoughton (a small village just north of Chichester) at the time there were what I call cathedral beeches all along the top. They were magnificent creations with branches spreading in all directions. In the spring the leaves were so translucent that it felt like you were walking through green air, and the more the sun tried to break through the more the effect on my senses. Sadly the great storm of eighty seven devastated this forest and as yet it is still struggling to reach this standard. The forest before us now is smaller but on the spring occasions that I have walked here the light is rapidly becoming as good. We turned right and walked slightly down hill to the car park just above Storrington. On the way our eyes were drawn to the rolling landscape down to the sea. To our right we could see the Isle of Wight. We have a saying round these parts which is if you can see the isle of Wight its going to rain and if you can't it is raining (the old ones are always best). A great view is one thing but to have a story with it is a bonus and in the case of this part of the downs there is a story of true compassion. All the land before us as we looked down towards the sea was once a leper colony. Sadly we have inherited a view of such colonies from films like Ben Hur. The truth is far more uplifting than the impression given on the media. This land was set aside by act of parliament because there was no other way at the time for our forefathers to control this disease. The men would farm the land and generally look after their families in much the same way that they did when they weren't in isolation. Sadly they were not allowed to export anything that they made but the local populace did their best to help them even setting up hospitals for the later stages of their illness. When the patient died he was usually cremated along with all his possessions. For this reason the beautiful land is largely uninhabited, for a long time the government couldn't even give the land away but on the back of such things as the Black Death and various plagues it's hardly surprising. I like to think that we have this view today due to the compassionate actions of godly folk who did their best for their fellow men. Having started late the car park was the place for lunch. I had it in my head that there were picnic benches on this hill but my brain failed me, and there were none but at least we found a horse box just left open so we parked our backsides in there out of the wind which was by now getting a bit stronger. It never ceases to amaze me that some one could leave such a valuable vehicle completely open and unguarded. It reminded me of a chap that I knew in Milton Keynes. His mother died and left him her car, but it was so decrepit that it was worth more if it was stolen than if he sold it on the open market. He would leave the car outside his house with the keys in it, in fact he never took the keys out of the ignition. He kept it in this way for over six months. Eventually he sold it to a boy racer for fifty pounds and the chap carried on in the same way. When he sold it for a hundred pounds it had become a tradition that it was never locked and that the key was always left in the ignition. To date it still has never been stolen. Eventually we set off again up the only other hill on the walk, choosing the path to the left rather than following the one that we had just walked down. Having looked to our right for most of the walk so far, we now unwound our necks to the left. It was spectacular. Like a huge aerial view of a flat plain. Generally we look at the winter as being a no, no when it comes to pleasant views, we think of grey skies and cold winds. Right enough this day was, by now, grey and cold but the walk had warmed us enough to ride the effects. To some extent it helped the outlook. It was clear and washed by the wind and the rain from the day before. Almost as if laid out for inspection the whole land (known as the Weald) was just unfolding its stories as we looked out. There were some houses with smoke coming from the chimneys. A tractor was making its way across a field it was laden with bags of some sort. Horses were romping in a field. By now the wind had picked up and the rooks were having a great time launching themselves up from behind bushes and being thrust along by the blast. At the top of the hill you have the treat of being able to look along the line of the downs, in the immediate distance there is Chanctonbury ring and beyond that is Edburton hill. Chanctonbury has all sorts of stories attached to it and several mysteries to boot. The most compelling of which is the story of how the trees were planted up there in the first place. The story I have been told is that a chap was a war hero from the First World War but he was gradually becoming ill through neglect. His injuries had left his mind not very capable. He was helped back to sanity by a local man who took pity on him. After some two years of nursing the chap eventually was restored to his old self. When he heard the story of how he had been cared for he vowed that he would plant a tree on Chanctonbury every month from then on as a thank you to the good folk of Steyning. He planted three hundred and sixty five and died some two weeks after planting the last one. I am sure that I have been told a right old yarn but I don't care. It is such a reflection on the decency of the local folk that I want to believe it and that's good enough. Of course Chanctonbury also suffered in the storm of eighty seven but it will always hold a special place with me. Back to our walk and we set off down hill with the Weald showing off to our left but we don't go far down the hill before more immediate views take over. At one stage we look down a very steep section into the valley below and the shape is so perfectly sculpted that you could believe it was man made but the truth is it is a left over from the ice age. In this valley is a small coppice of trees to the left with a field or two wandering up to it. I have been in this spot in spring and been speechless because of the sheer number of flowers and the carnival of wild animals. I recall one time when I had been to Taiwan for two weeks, buried away in the city of Taipei with millions of tiny Taiwanese folk. Even with all the lush growth around it still felt like a prison. When we came back we made for just this spot and we caught it in its springtime glory. It was all I could do to contain myself. Strolling down this path eventually brings you to a road (chantry lane to be precise) at this point we turned left and went down hill along the lane. As we walked we saw all the trees dressed with lichen a sure sign of good clean Sussex air. At the bottom of this hill is a smattering of very smart country houses. To the left is Chantry house with a grand covered entrance. Normally I only drive up the hill and get a fleeting glimpse of this house and often wonder what it would be like to spend a minute or two looking at its structure. I was very impressed even though the only part that you can really see is the covered way. The rest is viewed through the fence and over the wall. From that view I could tell that the house was in great condition and generally well cared for. Opposite and slightly further down the hill is a smaller but more open house with a very pleasant lake in front of it. I really should do a little more research because I am never sure whether this lake is natural and has been enhanced by good cultivation or whether it is man made, either way it is a pleasant part of the world. There is a temptation to grab the first path that appears at this point please resist because the first path leads you back up the hill. The path for Sullington is a little further after another minor mystery. I am referring to a small waterfall, again I am not sure if it is natural or if it is man made. I don't suppose it really matters. The bottom line is does it blend in with its surrounding or better still does it add to them. At this point we turned right and immediately Sussex gave us its greatest asset, MUD. Tons of it, wall to wall, hedge to tree line there is mud. There is no way round without going on to the main road and given such a choice we decided to wallow through the mire and plod on, or paddle on to be more precise. We go through a gate and we are confronted by one of the eternal mysteries of Sussex (well at least it is to me) mud going up a steep hill. Normally you expect to see a mud pool at the bottom of a hill or even one at the top of the hill on a plain level bit of ground before the decent, but in this case there was mud six inches deep all the way up the hill and no path around it. We nearly fell into the deep with laughter whilst we swung from branch to branch to steady ourselves. I have some friends from the north who for years resisted coming to the downs because in their opinion they were only bumps and not worthy of their efforts. To these folk a man wasn't a man until he was conquering the Lake District or some other high and lofty place. When I finally persuaded them to get out of their tree they looked at the map and didn't even feel it would be worthwhile putting their boots on. This is when the mud did its job. I was secretly delighted as they valiantly struggled through a patch such as this in trainers. At the end of the walk they had to admit that their legs were like jelly they had not accounted for the amount of energy that such conditions drained from their whole anatomy. That was ten years ago and they have been back several times since. At the top of this muddy path there is the compensation of winter colour and another great view only this time we were looking up instead of down. Our target was Sullington church and I love Sullington church. By the time we made it there had been plenty of puddles to wash our boots so going inside wasn't shrouded with guilt thinking that we would leave a trail of mud for any who followed. I left my friends to wander in the church whilst I sat in the last drops of sunshine outside. Sullington church isn't a great pile of bricks more revered for its architectural grandeur than any spiritual bearing; it's a humble collection of stained glass, stone and flint. There are no flamboyant descriptions of all the various assets that it possesses just a leaflet walking you around the building inviting you to pray for the ordinary things and people of which this building is constructed. It has the air of a much cherished but unspoiled daughter who lives to please all who enter her circle. It reminds me of a similar church that we attended as a family when I was a boy. We were dragged there by our neighbour on the first week after we arrived at our new home. His name was Frederick Rolls and he swore like a trooper, drank like a fish and my mother hated him with a vehemence. He was naturally funny and took delight in doing the most ridiculous things as a result my father got on like a house on fire with him, and as a result of that my brother and I were equally struck by his eccentricities. He was impervious to my mother's acid remarks and every Sunday he saw it as his duty to lead us across the fields to the church and then he would invite himself to Sunday lunch at least once a month. He lived opposite in a great big house along with his sister and nine Labrador dogs. When we walked to church the dogs came with us. They would wander every which way across our path sniffing, panting and wagging their tales lazily as Labradors do. When we arrived the dogs would sit just outside the door; much to the annoyance of the vicar. The parish council put as many notices as was possible in the small area banning dogs from the church yard but they (Frederick and the dogs) would just ignore them. The dogs chose to sit in a line outside regardless of weather and act as sentries watching over our Wellington boots. One of the dogs hated the bells and would howl as they rung. Fred actually died in church. He was sitting with us and asked my father if he had brought a spade and then he died, there and then, sitting in the pew. My father just roared with laughter and it was some time before I realized that this was the first person that I had ever seen die. Rather than be stressed in any way I felt it was such a natural action that I laughed along with my dad when he told me Fred's last words. The last stretch of any walk is always tinged with mixed feelings. Usually tiredness makes the finishing line a welcome sight but we had still about a mile to go so we had time to reflect on the milestones that we had enjoyed as we braced ourselves for one more time. Leaving the church don't follow the road as it goes away to the left, instead go through the gate to your right and follow your nose across a field to a kissing gate on the other side. Then keep following the path with the downs to your right. At this time of year there is bound to be mud so again be warned. I have walked this section of the walk several times hoping to catch the autumn colour but I have always been just that bit early or late and this is so frustrating. What makes it even more frustrating is the evidence shows that the colours have got to be fantastic when in full swing. The forest to the right flows up the hill and even on a December day it has more colour than can be explained in mere words. Eventually the walk leads to what can only be called a cozy section. With hills to the right and woods to the left, houses that have measured more time than the trees around and the smell of wood smoke, there is a general air well being that affords a welcome to weary legs. Keep following the road with the downs to your right and eventually you will reach a bridge. At this point you could turn right and start back up the hill on a pathway that will lead you to the South Downs Way and on back to Canada, but that is for younger legs than mine. Here I have to admit to cheating. We didn't turn right we walked over the bridge, over roaring traffic and the mayhem of civilization and a few yards later into the warmth of the car that awaited us. Sadly our legs didn't allow us to go to the Church at Washington but for those with more energy it is well worth the effort. The strange thing about all these local churches is that they are all dedicated to St.Mary. Steyning Washington, Sullington, and Storrington all have the same patron saint as their figure head. Again I must do more research and find out why. From Washington there was only one destination for us and that had a fire and a huge cup of tea waiting for us, along with a meal fit enough for a king which is just as well because after the fresh air and the sights and sounds of the downs that is just how I felt, and it really was PERFECT.
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