Not every hike is a Hike. Sometimes they’re just a long walk. Over the years there have been several attempts to get hikes going that have ended in failure, and several which were never intended to be more than they were.

Some of these ambles are note-worthy (to us, at least,) so John and I thought we’d share details of these in case you find them interesting, or, more honestly, just for the sake of blog completion. It’s quite a good exercise for me though: at the time of writing we’re gearing up for Hike VIII, and it’s good to stretch out the creative muscles in advance. There’s an unusual weight of expectation that I’ll document these things now, but I can’t complain seeing as I love writing about them.

Quick thing: John tends to send me loads of details for these blog posts, but seeing as I didn’t even go on two of them (Hikes 0.5 and 6.5, respectively), I thought I’d just get him to tell them rather than extensively paraphrase them. Some parts of the blog feel practically ghost written by him anyway, makes sense to give him credit for once.

I hope you welcome the change in narrator, but hopefully not too much: this is pretty much my only contribution to the Hikes other than crap Lord of the Rings jokes, so I don’t want to be out of a job.

Final point: the last of the four walks we’re going to cover is the most recent (December ’18) and has both the photos and a smattering of the frequent attendees you know and love/tolerate so well, plus a few new faces. So if you can’t bear the historic stuff or if you’re someone who joined Rob’s birthday Hike and want to read about it, skip to part 4.

(Featuring these sexy deviants.)

Hike 0.5 (John)

Our long standing readers of the Walking Idiots will be familiar with how the hikes began, but for those more recent joiners amongst you, here is the story for your benefit. Many years ago, when we were still at school, I was waiting by the door of the Waterloo Hotel bar, where there was an OS Map of the local area. I happened to notice that it was possible to walk from Crowthorne to Windsor through the forest without crossing many more than a handful of roads along the way. This was discussed on and off over the years, until over a decade later we found ourselves stood in front of that map once again, about to embark on what was to become known as Hike I.

We were so innocent back then.

What is not well known even amongst the hiking regulars, is that Hike I was merely the first successful attempt at this route. Prior to this, there had been an unsuccessful attempt at the route. This has become known in Hike Lore (there is such a thing for us enthusiasts, sadly) as Hike 0.5 and this is the story of that doomed expedition into the depths of the Home Counties.

It was one of the long, slow summers of the university holidays. Nobody can remember exactly which one, but as one very much resembled another, it doesn’t so much matter for our purposes. The time was marked by late mornings and late nights, punctuated with periods of menial shift work and frequent bouts of drunkenness. The day in question was one of the latter incidents of drunkenness, following one of the former uneventful shifts behind the counter of a grocery store. Alan and I were rewarding ourselves with a cold beer in the afternoon sun. We were, to be fair, rewarding ourselves very much in the same way that you might reward a child with chocolate for finishing their dinner; that is that we were rewarding ourselves for completing a task of no great effort that had to be done anyway. The conversation turned to the subject of the Crowthorne to Windsor hike. It was quite a popular subject of pub conversation at the time, but it never amounted to anything other than vague plans and platitudes. This time though, the planets aligned. Alan and I have been friends since we were 4 years old and over that time, a pattern of behaviour has emerged. One of us will suggest that we do something very stupid. Then the other will convince the first that it is a great idea and unless there is a neutral third party to pour cold water on the venture, the stupid idea will be made flesh.

10 minutes after the subject of the hike had been raised, we were on the road to Windsor. Unlike later hikes, there was no planning and no equipment. We hadn’t brought boots, a map, a compass, food, water or anything that you might expect for a journey like this. We didn’t really know the route beyond a cursory look at the Waterloo Hotel’s map, we were setting off late in the day and we hadn’t considered how we would get back. The only thing of any value we had was a duty free pack of several hundred cigarettes. As we were leaving Crowthorne, a strong desire to stop smoking gripped Alan (a desire that has never troubled him since, as far as I can tell). We decided it would be best if we got rid of the cigarettes. But how to dispose of so much tobacco? A unlikely solution presented itself. A short way down the road there was a building site. In the building site, there was a small cabin for the workmen, so Alan decided to throw the cigarettes on top of the cabin. There was a logic behind this decision, but it escapes me.

We left Crowthorne following the route of Hikes 1 and 2. Once you are beyond the edge of the town, you reach Swinley Forest- a sometime hunting ground for the monarchs, now a commercial timberland. It is quite an easy place to get lost in, as it is criss-crossed with logging tracks, connected at large multi-armed junctions. And get lost we did. Those of you familiar with the geography of East Berkshire will know that Windsor is approximately northeast of Crowthorne. Unfortunately, we had taken a wrong turn and a junction and were now heading due east. Of course, we didn’t know this because we had no compass and no real idea of what to expect anyway. As the light stated to fade, we asked passers-by how to get to Windsor from where we were. Their confused reactions should have given the game away, but we weren’t able to understand their directions because we erroneously thought we were somewhere near Ascot. For the record, we were a very long way from Ascot.

We pushed ahead until the paths ran out. We left the paths and struggled through the undergrowth. Unexpectedly, we popped out into a beautiful glade, full of ancient ash trees and waist high grass, the sunlight green through the leaves. We sat down, a bottle of cheap Scotch materialised from Alan’s shoulder bag and all was well. We stayed for a short while before continuing on. Beyond the edge of the glade we found a field populated with sheep, and beyond that a church steeple. Ascot, surely! However, there is a catch. Judging by the amount of barbed wire and number of CCTV cameras, whoever owns that field does not want us venturing into it. Our suspicions are only further heightened by the prominent “Keep Out” sign.

I can’t now remember who suggested we make a run for it to the church, but needless to say that once the idea had been proposed, there was no turning back. Crouched over like soldiers under fire, we vaulted the barbed wire fence and part-ran, part-stumbled across the field. I paused briefly and turned to look along the full length of the field. The reason for level of security became apparently. We’re not in a field, we’re in someone’s garden. Someone very rich and important, by the looking of the palatial mansion staring back at me. We were later to discover that this is Prince Andrew’s official resident and we were technically in violation of Terrorism Act by being there. We doubled our pace. Our lungs were bursting, we think we hear the sounds of dogs barking and retired SAS security guards in the distance. We tripled our pace. Finally, we reached the wall of the churchyard. It was thick with nettles and brambles, but we ploughed through oblivious to the pain in our panic. We made it! Unfortunately, the sign at the church gate informed us that we are in Bagshot, not Ascot. It’s getting dark and we’re hungry, thirsty and dejected. We grab fish and chips, a few beers and hail a taxi home.

Coincidentally, the taxi dropped us back just by the building site where Alan threw his cigarettes on the roof of the hut earlier in the day. Alan’s tobacco abstinence has ended, apparently (it never really began, he kept a couple of packs back and by then he’d smoked them) and now he wanted them back. Our ‘stupid idea’ dynamic provided a solution- Alan would climb on to the roof of the hut and I would keep watch. It went pretty well initially, until the sleeping builder in the hut awoke. Not for the first time that day, we found ourselves sprinting from danger, this time down the backroads of suburban Crowthorne. We got the cigarettes at least. And that was the end of Hike 0.5.

Hike 2.5 (Me)

Thanks John. Nice try guys, your effort was decent but not the success you envisaged. (I’ll try not to sound too smug seeing as I didn’t attend it.) As for the blog itself, once again a valiant effort but it’s missing something. As much as I would love to claim that missing ingredient is my own unique touch, I think it’s clear that it’s the absence of Rob’s photos that we feel.

Anyway, back to it. The next point five/mini/half hike was one John and I attempted solo; not to exclude anyone, I hasten to add, but because it went through London and few of our brethren were based there (more are, now. We’ve expanded, and not just in waist size.)

The idea for this was simple yet satisfying and this will probably be the quickest of the four walks you’ll read about. For this one, we wanted to see how many bridges in London we could cross in one walk, estimating that it would take us a period of approximately three hours.

Whoomp. There it is.

Our time limitation was imposed because neither of us had enough annual leave remaining to do this in the day, so we chose to convene after work, in trainers rather than boots.

There was a mild caveat in place that this did not cover every bridge in London. It turns out that’s a bit insane, and outside of central London there would be long, bridge-less stretches.

The resultant journey was one of the most satisfying walks I’ve had through our nation’s capital, but I wouldn’t exactly describe it as Hike-like. We stopped in no pubs for fear of losing momentum, not to mention light. It’s fascinating walking through London over a long distance and seeing it change around you.

Also, as the lack of photos can attest, this was before I got a phone with a half decent camera, and I didn’t have Instagram either, so no pictures were taken. Because, of course, if you can’t share these things on social media, can you really prove they ever happened? Can you?

(In my defence, back then I had no idea I’d be blogging these things, so it didn’t strike me to get all the pictures.)

(Also, again, no Rob, so no photos.)

Our amble ended in an Indian restaurant near Westminster. Eating there was completely unplanned, but it fit the bill simple because it served food. We were starving.

The restaurant was almost entirely empty and had that weird air of unused potential that empty restaurants have, not to mention that dimly lit glow that so many Indian restaurants have. We ate like kings, ordering far too much food and eating it all. It was brilliant.

The experiment resolved and a success, we waddled/limped our separate ways and off home, with the odd awareness that we’d be back in the office the next day.

Literal footnote: trainers are not a good substitute for hiking boots. Just putting that out there.

 

Hike 6.5 (John)

I unexpectedly arrived in Crowthorne with my two eldest children, in an attempt to quarantine them from my snotty youngest for a weekend. I’d already called ahead to organize a mini-Hike, but Alan was the only one able to heed the call at short notice. By the time that Hike 6.5 was conceived, we were old hands and capable of throwing something like this together on a whim. We had settled on a route of Crowthorne to Hartley Whitney, for two reasons. Firstly it followed the Three Castles Way and should be reasonably well signposted. Secondly, the One Stop in Hartley Whitney held a special place in Alan and mine’s hearts. As employees of the greater One Stop Group around the time of Hike 0.5, we had spent a summer being ferried from Crowthorne to the Hartley Whitney store to cover a staff shortage caused by a mass firing for theft (not exactly master criminals, they’d just been putting the cash from the till in their pockets rather than the safe). The company had paid us double time for our troubles and made it fairly clear that we managed to get through the day without stealing anything, we could consider ourselves star employees. Thus followed 6 weeks of sunbathing, drinking beer and eating ice cream on the roof of the shop in the hottest summer on record. It’s still the best job I’ve never had.

We set off after lunch and headed straight to Wellington woods to make the first leg to Sandhurst. Turns out that Wellington College, the custodians of the wood,  have drastically improved security since our last visit there and we found large parts of the woods now inaccessible (eagle eyed readers will recall that we had similar issues in Hike 3). We eventually found a way around and wandered down to Little Sandhurst. Our first checkpoint was the Fox & Hounds pub, possibly the worst pub on Earth, but one that I have a huge amount of misplaced affection for. The beers are warm, flat and meager in selection; the floor is sticky; the windows dusty and dark; the locals are unfriendly and the bar staff unfriendlier. Perfection, in a word. When we got there, though, it was obvious that the creatively destructive forces of capitalism had been at work and The World’s Worst Pub is now destined to become ‘luxury’ flats. It’s a particularly ignoble end to such an establishment, but also part of a trend that we’ve observed throughout of hikes.

We briefly mourned the passing of the Fox & Hounds and went to a nicer pub around the corner instead, The Bird in Hand. We did get a bit lost first, which is noteworthy in such a small village. We drank our beers quickly and whilst I was waiting for Alan to finish in the bathroom, I spent a few happy minutes reading the ‘barred’ list on the pub. Having been barred from The Crowthorne Inn on the eve of Hike 6, I feel a deep affinity with all those barred from pubs. I like to think that we are a romantic band of gold-hearted misfits, living on the fringes of society with no want for its stifling conventions. I was pleased to see just how many people had joined our exclusive little club courtesy of The Bird In Hand.

After the pub, our route followed Hike 3 for the most part, until we crossed the Blackwater River and headed south. We leapt across streams, scrambled through hedgerows and waded through waist height grass until we came upon the village of Eversley Cross. The village is noteworthy for having an unnecessarily large number of pubs and we thought it would be a shame if we didn’t pay them a visit. Prudently, we limited ourselves to only two pubs- The Chequers Inn and The Frog And Wicket, which are conveniently next to each other. We ticked them off in rapid succession and resumed our journey out into the woods west of the village.

We wandered through the woods for some time, briefly considering running for a while (I am glad we didn’t, Alan is in phenomenal shape and I could never be accused of that). We found a dead slow worm, which made us happy like 8 year olds again.

We poked it with a stick and everything.

Then burst burst out of the woods to find ourselves in… Eversley Cross. Again. Turns out we’d walked in a big loop. Pretty embarrassing.

We try again and this time we arrive on the far side of the wood and by the house of Charles Kingsley, author of the Water Babies. Here’s what Wikipedia has to say on the book, if you’re not familiar with it:

The book was extremely popular in England, and was a mainstay of British children’s literature for many decades, but eventually fell out of favour in part due to its prejudices (common at the time) against Irish, Jews, Catholics, Americans, and the poor.

Which I don’t remember from school at all. Another childhood memory shattered, we continued up the hill towards Bramley’s Plantation (N.B. no connection with the fantasy writer Christopher Bramley). The plantation is a large impersonal commercial timberland, like many of the remaining forests in the area. We chose walking sticks for ourselves. I chose poorly and was rewarded with a splinter in my hand. We got lost for a third time (I’ll spare you the details, you’re getting the picture by now) but eventually found ourselves on the outskirts of Hartley Whitney. We walked into town and paused for a photograph outside of OneStop –

– before finishing up at the Waggon (sic) and Horses pub where you used to drink after our shifts at the grocery store. And that was that.

Hike 7.5 AKA Rob’s Birthday Hike (Me)

This last one is just great, and could be a post unto itself.

Rob, designated Hike photographer and Walking Idiots veteran is blighted by that relatively uncommon affliction: having a birthday in the gap between Christmas and New Years.

Think about it: combined birthday/Christmas presents (or residual presents that didn’t make the Christmas list), no birthday to break up the year before Christmas comes, it must be torture.

Stay strong, Rob.

He decided not to let this disability ruin his life, however, and thought that seeing as most people would be free on the day, it would be perfect for a mini-Hike. He proposed this idea to the group having planned the route, sent invites, the whole lot. All we had to do was turn up. (I don’t think John knew what to do with himself if I’m being honest.)

Rob also used the hike as an opportunity to recruit some new blood, hitting up his group of friends, who so far have resisted the sultry allure of our silly walks. From his pool of contacts he managed to secure Steve and Alex, as well as his dad, Jim. Jim, as it turns out, is a seasoned hiker and has walked so far and documented it so well it makes our ventures look like a walk to the shops written up on a post-it.

The plan was simple yet inspired: from Rob’s house, he, Jim, Steve, Alex and I would walk to the local station (Blackwater) and catch a train up the line to the start of our route. Steve kindly bought the tickets, and we got on, meeting Mat, Big Al, John and Alan on the train, the others having boarded from Crowthorne and Wokingham.

We alight (great word, rarely use it) at North Camp, make our way to the river, and our journey began.

(Included this pic at the start but it’s worth repeating. We’ve definitely got a defined colour scheme going on.)

The bulk of our journey took us along the Blackwater river, and it meant lots of pictures like this:

Ah, it’s nice to be able to dilute this with pictures again.

We did come across a slight detour

… and I took particular umbridge to the spelling of “opposite”, but what can you do.

We stop at one of the main features of this walk, which depending on who you ask from our crew, was either an aqueduct or a viaduct:

and press on to reach our first pub stop, the Kings Head. The Kings Head is a Harvester, which is a chain that pops up from time on our hikes, but mostly just when we can’t find anywhere better, and our thirst is too great. It’s fine (and to be fair, not really intended as a pub, is it?) but the interior and range of beers seems to be identical in each one we find. Ah well. Beer’s good, quit griping Nick.

I mean, none of these lot seem unhappy, do they?

Incidentally, Harvester seemed to be celebrating another birthday on our arrival: J2O.

As you do. I have no opinion either way on the stuff, at least it’s not Red Bull. We drink up and crack on.

We follow Rob’s path over a bridge –

– pictured, along with evidence of how outstanding Alan’s hair game is at present. He’s like Jon Snow –

and follow a route along the main road. John at one point declares he’s found a better way, but we ain’t listening and he’s forced to catch us up, and I try my best to get an action pic of him running in slow mo.

Best I could find, made me laugh for some reason.

It’s not long after this that we reach our second pub, The Kingfisher on the Quays (which we chose to pronounce as written. I bet you read it as Kways too, didn’t you?)

This is a fun place for a cheeky pint, based on the waterfront, described by google as “Spacious, lakeside pub with eclectic decor, for cask ales, an international menu and outside tables.” Accurate enough.

We pause on the threshold for John to stare dramatically into the middle distance

and pop inside, finding literally the last table in the place that could seat our crew.

and it’s all very nice and social. I think Alex bought the round here, further proving that Rob’s additions are both charming and affluent.

Pint two well and truly sunk, we return to it (Hike tip: never have more than one pint in a pub, you’ll never leave.) We return to a riverside route, and settle into a nice, chilled amble where everyone finds themselves deep in conversation:

Conversation and selfies, that is. Mat’s just great. Look at me getting all sentimental.

Alex and Steve pause to admire Jim’s relentless pace. He’s giving Big Al a run for his money:

Meanwhile Mat pauses to top up the Blackwater:

and soon enough we re-emerge back in society, near Blackwater station. Our hike is concluded, and Rob proposes that we head back to his for food but a hike has to end in a pub (as Alan strongly attests) so we head to the only local we can find: Mr Bumble.

Mr Bumble is definitely something. It’s probably looking forward to Y2K, but any other criticism is probably unfair. They were incredibly welcoming to us, and the beer wasn’t bad.

That being said, they say a picture says a thousand words, in which case Alex’s expression tells you everything you need to know.

Also note my t-shirt. Crushing it.

Once we polish our drinks off we head back to Rob’s, where his straight talking wife/chef extraordinaire Holly has prepared a significant amount of food for us. Wives and family members join as the evening progresses, until eventually we adjourn to The Prince, the usual watering hole for Rob’s birthday and generally regarded as the best pub in Crowthorne (which is like claiming to be the world’s tallest dwarf.) As pubs go it’s fine, but it’s tarnished with teenage memories and manages to do something that feels uniquely Crowthorne, which is present men in tracksuits somehow looking down their nose at me. Screw ’em. They’re jealous that they don’t blog booze fuelled hikes.

Regardless of its clientele, the evening, and the hike in general was a great success. More birthday hikes please, Rob.

Hike 8 drops 30th March. Get on it.