This was a hike of two halves.

The world was our oyster. And by world, really I mean southern England. We want to be more adventurous but logistics need to be considered, especially for those of us with young families.

The reason for this one being local however can be traced to me as, in the process of trying to move house, I was convinced the move date would fall on the day of the hike, a date not easily decided upon with busy calendars all around (there’d been some drama around this already). 

So, in my wisdom, I requested a route I wouldn’t be sad to miss, full well knowing I’d be sad to miss any hike. I figured a hike local to Crowthorne (an area that still holds appeal to the others) wouldn’t be the end of the world to sit out of, and let events roll on. 

Perhaps inevitably, I underestimated the inefficiencies of the house moving process in England and as the months dragged on, the hike crept ever closer with no move date in sight. Looks like I’d be going after all. This was a good thing.

I felt relieved and contributed to the planning with the others (the bulk of it mainly falling to Mat), examining a workable route. Henley to Crowthorne this time, taking in a stretch of the Thames and a familiar pub or two with a questionable third or so towards Bracknell. Looked pretty promising, although after the 40 mile beast we’d done now where near as exciting. But back to our roots, which was no bad thing.

Planning anxiety kicked in as we wondered if certain parts, especially round the north side of the river, would be accessible to the public, but after some meticulous street view checks and a feeling that things normally work out don’t they, we decided it’d probably be fine. 

On the eve of the hike, as per usual, we’re hit by a wave of dropouts, the reasons at least being understandable; for the most part sick wives and kids. We’re especially knocked back by John saying he wouldn’t attend, but he’s pulled this BS on us before and made it, so we’re quietly confident he can make it.

As per last time, breakfast is at The Catherine Wheel in Henley, because Weatherspoons breakfasts absolutely fit the bill when you need something quick, dense and fried (there’s a euphemism here, but damned if I can think of one). Alan has boldly opted for trail shoes rather than boots, a first for us, and is confident this new approach will be successful. Mat however has forgotten his cap, also a hike first, and not a good sign. Moments before we’re due to leave John appears with Pete, cheering everyone up immensely. 

Final checks (and by checks I mean poos) are done, a quick laugh is had at poor Mati’s expense for getting ID’d at Sainsbury’s by an overly diligent member of staff, and we head off.

Our hike starts beautifully, we breathe in the cool early morning air and feel the warmth of the October sun as we walk along the Thames, rowers gracefully gliding past us on the water, the colours of autumn all around us. Capitalising on this quintessentially English scene, Mati and I take a deep dive into classic literature, while everyone else probably discusses utter smut if I know them as well as I think I do.

Owing to the heavy rain the day before, the ground is exceptionally wet and permeates several boots far too early on for my liking, although there are some fun (and accessibility challenged) bridges to cross which are both rustic and elegant. As we clear the riverside, the Chilterns loom in the distance, looking stunning.

A short while later we find ourselves at the weir at Hambledon Marina that leads us to Aston and onto Remenham. Crossing the weir is a delight, the footpath over the Thames long and meandering with the light shimmering on the river. The roar of the water as it flows under the weir is tremendous.

Once across the river we find ourselves in Aston, where you will never be able to afford to live. We pass the Flower Pot inn, both the best and worst pub we’ve ever visited on our hikes. It’s too early in the day to stop in and prove whether either experience was a fluke. Shame. I’d love to have seen all that taxidermy one more time.

Continuing now along the south side of the river along Remenham we’re treated to more elegant countryside, as well as a rather majestic herd of white deer. Finally though we leave this behind and start heading south.

We walk beside the paddocks at the base of Ashley Hill for some time, until we climb over its edge and descend into a series of fields. One field in particular holds particular appeal for Rob as it contains a series of train tracks used for demonstrations in the last century. Rob, Mat and I found the field earlier in the year but sadly six months later the flora had decided to smother most of it, making it hard to see.

It’s not long after that that we leave the fields, cross the footbridge over the A4 and find ourselves at our first, unplanned, pub stop of the day, The Royal Oak.

The Royal Oak is a fine enough watering hole, especially if you’re a local, but it doesn’t have much appeal beyond the fact it serves beer. The wooden interior is quite nice, and they served Atlantic Pale Ale (which to be fair is a great beer I don’t see in enough pubs).

The barman didn’t so much look annoyed at us as he did just confused to see people in his pub and didn’t really know what to do with us. The stop is unplanned as we were intending to go to Bell at Waltham St Lawrence, which is only a couple of miles from the Oak. This is still the case, John just wanted to squeeze it in to a) get an extra beer and b) antagonise Mat, who likes to keep things to schedule.

The pints go down quickly and we head for the Bell, getting caught in the day’s only patch of rain while walking between the long wooded footpath that runs through the Castle Royle golf course.

We cross through farmland, over the train line and get surprised by some turkeys along the way.

Preparing us for the classic Hollywood movie vision of early 20th century England that Waltham St Lawrence so nicely represents, some vintage planes fly overhead, Alex somehow managing to get some cracking photos of them.

It’s here we stop at our actual first stop, The Bell. We stopped here on Hike 12 so I won’t bang on about it but it really is a cracking pub, with deep history, an original range of beers, and friendly bar staff. As before, they cheerfully filled all our water bottles, including the bladder in my backpack, which is flipping huge. It’s nice enough that Rob quickly changes his mind about having a second beer in an hour.

At the start of this post I mentioned this was a hike of two halves, and while the first half ended here, it’s a slow transition into the second. Leaving The Bell we enter some pleasant fields and progress through the Waltham area towards Shurlock Row. It’s countryside I’m pretty familiar with, and pleasant enough although not massively exciting. We tackle a stretch of road, cross the M4 (fortunately by bridge) and find ourselves at Billingbear Park golf course after having gone through a croquet lawn (something we find ourselves doing more than I would expect). 

In the midst of Billingbear I learn that John, Alan and Alex have gone on ahead to get supplies and we will catch them up. Some sore feet are becoming noticeable in the group and a difference in pace is noted. Apparently there are to be no more pub stops until we get to Crowthorne now, which will be the early evening, so the supplies are to tide us over ’til then. I’m not a fan of this decision as I like a mid afternoon pub stop for no other reason than to do a sock change, but we soldier on, tackling several stretches of road. With little to see, a fractured group and slipping morale, the whole thing is, frankly, a bit of a grind.

At the end of our road stretch, Tom leaves us, needing to attend a birthday party that evening. It’s a further knock to morale but we can’t blame him. He’s done close to twenty miles by this point, and at least he hasn’t sustained the same injuries as last time (he effectively degloved his heel on our 40 mile monster. Don’t google it).

It’s not long after this we regroup with the others, who hand out some welcome refreshment. James leaves us as well, his feet worse for wear. Not a bad stab at a first hike on his part, sure he’ll be back.

From here, we run out of countryside and country lanes and enter the suburbs for our last half dozen miles. Our route twists and turns around Binfield and the outskirts of Bracknell. We enter an estate I’m convinced is Jenette’s Park outside Bracknell but apparently isn’t, you can insert whatever gripe about modern estates you like here.

Within half an hour we manage to see the delights of the Coppid Beach roundabout, before climbing a hill that revealed Bracknell in all its glory.

After that it only gets better, walking beside the A329M, and then a fetid boggy pathway that ran underneath it complete with emaciated horses that looked like they would pray for death.

Rob described it as “the nastiest place on Earth… a stench ridden mud hell hole that not even a pig would want to take a dump in.” Let me know if you want the location and I’ll send it on.

Escaping this we enter Peacock meadow and follow some quite pleasant back routes to Great Hollands.

We pass through a park Jen and I often take our nephew to, and soon we’re on the approach to our penultimate pub, The Golden Retriever.

But there’s a catch.

By this point the light has run out, and we’re basically hiking in the dark. Not a huge deal, we’ve done it before, but The Retriever is only a mile or so from The Prince, our end point. It’s at this point the group fractures once more, and more severely.

We’re now 24 miles in. We’re a little later than we intended to be. We’ve wives and friends meeting us at The Prince. Mat’s conscious he’s parked the car a fair distance from The Prince and wants to move it closer so he can get home once we’ve finished in good time, owing to sickness at home. Rob’s legs have given out, so the two of them and Mike decide to cut out The Retriever (hereafter referred to as The Dog) and head straight to The Prince.

It’s fair to say this breaking of hike etiquette is not well received by the others, and an angry pint is “enjoyed” at The Dog. For my part I’m getting anxious as the route from here is intended to go into the woods and along The Devil’s Highway, which could take some time. It’s actually great fun in the dark, but time is getting on especially if we want to eat at a reasonable hour, and I’m mindful that Arran’s last train to get him back to Southampton isn’t that late. I lobby the others with all the charm and reason I can muster and they swiftly and kindly agree to amend the last stretch of the route so we take the direct route back (or they just took pity on me. I don’t really care either way at this point).

The route amendment having gone through, we drink up and power on through, making surprisingly good time along the Bracknell Road, where we used to often stumble in search of a Muzzy’s kebab, the finest kebab in the south farthing.

We pause at the Prince for an end picture, although only a portion of our number are there for the photo, a rather generous yet verbose patron taking it for us. We then enter and find our missing brethren (as well as Jen and Holly, who’d come to meet us.)

The Prince is Crowthorne’s best established watering hole (for what that’s worth) and has been done up in recent years and looks really nice now. The beers are fine and the pub grub is good and quickly served (for some of us at least.) Top quotes come from Holly, who asks Mati, “Are you actually French?” and Arran, “Are you actually a vegan?” (The answers to both are yes, btw.)

Possibly my favourite quote of the evening comes from Arran, who remarks that going to Crowthorne with us lot is like finding yourself in the Shire. We seem to invite that comparison a bit. No idea why. For my money half the people in the Prince more resemble the patrons of the Prancing Pony.

After a couple of drinks some of the crew decide to head for an Indian next door and slowly the group disbands.

So that was Hike 17. The first half was pretty enjoyable, the second, pretty shit. We’ve some lessons to learn for next time but that’s okay, we’ll probably work it out. Or not. It’s not like anyone died.

Now that would make for one hell of a blog post…