(Note: Some artistic license taken in telling this tale).
So a few weeks back, our neighbours Rob, Karen and their kid, Ed, decided to go for a walk with us. The weather was beautiful - warm spring sunshine and just a slight breeze to keep you cool. The birds were singing merrily. And especially unusual for the UK, not a rain cloud to be had. At 11:30 we set off, strolling amiably along the country roads here in Quorn. Rob and I generally walked up front, commenting in a generally manly way about things generally manly (such as the miracle that is whiskey, the war in Iraq and which of the four Aliens movie was better). Cindy and Karen were usually some ways back, for they were wont to stop occasionaly and critique somebody's garden, or admire a very picturesque house. Or I suppose simply because their legs were shorter than ours, and we didn't much bother to wait for them. Ed spent his time harrowing back and forth between the two groups, using a small tree to save us from all manner of orcs, goblins and dragons (complete with sound effects), and occasionaly giving one of us an accidental but good-natured clout on the back of the head.
Our route took us along several of what I consider to be Englands greatest invention - the Public Rights-of-Way. These are public footpaths that have existed for centuries, and likely were the original paths people used to get from town to town back in the days when a fast horse was considered the maximum speed humans could travel and remain alive. In modern days, the Brits continue to use these paths, and if the path crosses right through the middle of some farmer's field, the farmer is obligated BY LAW to ensure the path remains clear and usable. This could mean going so far as to build bridges over streams, stiles over fences, and posting "Warning, don't cross this field unless you can do it in 9 seconds. The bull can do it in 10," signs where appropriate.
The nice thing about modern public rights-of-way is that they are all fully mapped and documented. And they are so extensive that with the right maps you could walk from say, Nether Wallop down by Salisbury (the place with the giant domino set) all the way up to Brawl on the Northern coast of Scotland (I just LOVE British names) without once setting foot on anything other than grass, cow dung or pub flooring.
The first thing we saw as we set foot on the path was a man coming the other way. He had a compass draped around his neck, and clipped to the left strap of his backpack was a GPS unit. On it's screen we saw a small rendition of a public right-of-way map with the present position clearly labeled, along with his total distance traveled in miles, average speed, last waypoint, next waypoint, an arrow constantly pointing toward home, and pre-programmed points of interest. Rob and I watched him amble past, as he occasionaly cross-referenced his compas against his GPS unit. We glanced at each other, rolling our eyes in a manly way to indicate our disdain for his reliance on technology. Why, it's a path. It only goes two ways. And anyway, how hard is it to see things. Climb a good hill and you can see every village for miles around. With a snicker, we turned and ambled on.
The man was soon forgotten, replaced with a fascination for the scenery around us. As you wander in Britain, you come accross some amazing and oft-ignored historical places. Places that if they were in Canada would have "Place of Historical Interest" signs pointing to them from all over (such as the infamous Buffalo Rubbing Rock just outside Cutknife Saskatchewan. Where for centuries, mighty, 1000 strong herds of buffalo used to migrate for miles over windswept, long grass prairie just to ease the itching on their butts). We passed the ruins of a windmill left over from the 1700's. Off in the distance you can see what is left of John's Tower, an abandoned medieval keep. And isn't that the ghostly outline of a bronze age hill fort?
As well, the places don't have to be all that old to be picturesque. We passed a water purification plant and reservoir built in Victorian times, complete with ornate wrought iron bridges, the occasional small gargoyle, stone pagodas, and beautiful brick sewer outlets. The type of water treatment facility that I would be happy to drown in ("Wow, now that I've sunk to the bottom I can really admire the beautiful and finely crafted brickwork of this reservoir."). And what is truly amazing is that the plant is still in use by Trent-Severn Water. We stood and watched a fully functional, passenger-carrying steam train chuff it's way from around a bend and under the bridge we were on, enveloping us in a cloud of steam and coal dust. It's as if the residents of portions of England simply said, "Okay, that's enough with the progress thing. We'll just stop right about here."
Onward again, stopping for a snack in the graveyard of an 18th century church (yes we did pack the food in, not spades). Then a bit further down the road, and our thirst was slaked with fine pints of Ale in the Griffin Pub. Then on the move again, this time picking a trail we thought would lead us back to Quorn. We ambled and talked as the shadows grew longer, occasionally ducking under Ed's tree which he was still twirling enthusiastically in our defense.
We were halfway across a farmer's field when I realized two things:
a) It was getting dark.
b) I really had no idea where we were.
A quick consultation was in order. I turned to Rob next to me, "You reckon we're getting close to Quorn," I asked in as manly a manner as I could, images of the Hound of the Baskervilles flashing through my mind. Quickly followed by an image of a GPS unit with a pre-loaded foot trail map.
He looked at me, then looked into the gloaming around us. "Bloody 'ell, I'm not sure." We peered around, searching for something familiar while Ed's tree whizzed between us. Off in the next field a cow regarded us with solemn eyes, chewing with mildly curious contentment. Karen and Cindy ambled up.
"D' ye figure Quorn is that way," Rob asked, indicating the chosen direction to Karen with a jut of of his goatee.
Karen contemplated the far-off hill on that bearing, then spun a complete circle. "I thought it was over there," she said, pointing to the left.
"Well, we've made a couple of lefts and a right just after that last stile two fields back," Cindy put in. "So it should be this way." And she indicated the opposite direction.
"My gut tells me it's this way," I said, pointing down the path we were on.
We stood there, the four of us peering hopefully in four different directions. Ed smote a dragon. The cow took another bite.
"Well, perhaps we should just carry on in the direction we were going, and hope we fetch up somewhere close to Quorn. I mean, how far can it be," Rob said.
I glanced at my watch. We'd been walking for 4 hours. We journeyed on, in much the same order but now with a bit more alacrity in our steps.
"Wherever we're going, we're making good progress," I said in an attempt to be cheery. Afterall, it had been a great walk. I got no response. Ed's tree whirled dangerously close to the back of my head.
After a short period we came across a public bridal path, which looked like it went in the right direction, meaning that it split the difference between all the various directions we had each picked. Plus it ran downhill, which was the clincher. With these unassailable arguments as guidance, we decided to take it, and set off in this new direction. After some time, the bridal path made an abrupt u-turn around the base of a farmer's field, then petered out to nothing. We stood at it's tip, like shipwrecked sailors peering over a darkening sea in the hope of sighting succor. Visions of GPS's danced in my head.
"Say, isn't that a foot path sign over there," I said.
"Where," Cindy replied, bleering into the darkness.
"There," I pointed. "By that hedge. See it? A little flash of yellow? Green foot?"
"Looks like it."
We trooped over, gathering around the footpath sign and examining first one way, then the other. Eventually, we decided that downhill was still a good direction, and turning right, marched on. We'd now been walking for 5 and a half hours.
Sometime later, we arrived at a major road. We assessed our situation, then took the obvious choice, turned left and started downhill. Two hours, four roads, one footpath and a very passionate and manly discussion about Pizza later, we finally arrived back in Quorn. It was getting true dark now, with stars twinkling on in the sky.
And as we limped into town - dusty, muddy, with legs aching from walking for 7 hours, Ed's tree making a pathetic bump-bump-bump sound dragging along the sidewalk behind us - we passed the White Horse Pub. There, seated comfortably inside, his back pack, compass and GPS beside him, was the man we had passed almost 7 hours previously. He saw us outside, nodded his head and smiled. Then, as Rob and I watched with desperate envy, lifted what appeared to be his third pint of cellar-cooled, golden-red bitter, and took a long, loving swallow. The glass lowered, and with a look of utter satisfaction, he wiped the foam from his upper lip.
Rob and I quietly hated him. Then turned and limped our way home in as manly a manner as we could.
