Thames Path – Kemble to Cricklade: Merde and Mud

 

Distance – 20.73km; time – 5h 23m; elevation gain – 432m

The following day, boots on, bellies full, and waterproofs kept easy accessible at the top of our rucksacks, we set off on the first proper day of our quest, to pastoral, fluvial-sounding Cricklade.  We hadn’t been able to check the forecast before leaving the warm and dry comforts of the B&B, and weather-wise, things had looked a bit uncertain before we left Oxford, but we’d take our chances – after all if it rains, we won’t dissolve!

We first had to walk along a main road for about half an hour, before joining what felt like the Thames Path proper in the small hamlet of Ewen.  As we came to a small gate which marked the entry onto the national trail, we noticed a sign: “Caution.  The Thames Path National Trail is flooded ahead.  We apologise for any inconvenience caused”.

Flooding, schmooding.

A moment’s consideration, but merely a moment.  There was no turning back now, besides, how bad could the flooding possibly be?

We might dissolve after all.

The first stretch of path wasn’t too bad – just plain muddy – until unskirtable puddles began to crop up along the trail with increasing frequency – eventually so frequent they engulfed the whole path.  But then, a mere 40 minutes in, we came to our first real obstacle: ahead of us lay a field of shoulder-height grass, the bottoms of which were a foot deep in boggy soil and water.

I wasn’t prepared for this.  The only way I thought we might directly encounter water was if we actually stopped for a break and decided to bathe in it (o sad, unused bathing suit).  A swim was looking less and likely, and sometimes you’ve gotta do what you gotta do and all that – and at this point, I gotta cross this field, and I gots to get wet.

And so, regretting not having packed any waterproof trousers, or invested in gaiters or any kind of Gore-Tex lined footwear, I strode out into this swamp in my flimsy old Salomon walking shoes, which immediately filled up with cold, clear water.

The Thames entering the lovely village of Ashton Keynes

Pete was much less happy to follow in my footsteps, and grudgingly searched for the path less flooded.  He at least had the good sense to take proper waterproof walking boots with him, and by the time we reached the adjacent fence, whilst I was walking along with my feet in their own individual portable, very cold, footbaths, with water slowly soaking its way up my trousers, he was still relatively dry.

Not for long.  The heavens soon opened, and whilst we both had our waterproofs to protect our top halves, our bottoms had soon soaked up a good deal of the downpour.  The water seeped from my trousers into the top underneath my waterproof, so that soon, everything I was wearing was completely saturated.  Meanwhile, the water on the ground had become so deep that Pete too was plodding along in his own little transportable puddles.

After two hours of trudging through the Thames valley water meadows, we were relieved from our waterlogged quest at the White Hart Inn in the small village of Ashton Keynes.  Fortunately, as we were the only clients, the bar staff didn’t seem to mind our peeling off all the layers it was decent for us to remove in their restaurant, and ringing out the muddy water from those it was indecent for us to take off publicly in their bathrooms.

So close, and yet so far. An artist’s view of Cricklade’s spire from the Thames

The rain had let off a bit by the time we left the pub, but had left a series of submerged fields in our wake.  It was now that I made the rather unpleasant discovery that cow pats are surprisingly buoyant, and had the pleasure of wading through several fields filled with floating cow turd before finally, the distinctive spire of St Sampson’s church in Cricklade appeared in the distance, signalling the near end of our aqueous journey.  But the Thames Path was yet to take us on a series of torturous twists and turns before we could finally cross the river to our destination.

At each new field boundary we would stop to consider our options, occasionally go in search of another way through, before simply looking at each other, and wading on through.

Related articles

• Bigger Adventures: Tackling the Thames Path (miniadventuresonfoot.wordpress.com)
• Thames Path Stage 1, or, How Walking Can Cure a Hangover (miniadventuresonfoot.wordpress.com)

Thames Path in Kemble or, How Walking Can Cure a Hangover

Stats: distance – 8.82km; time – 2h13; elevation gain – 63m

You can lead a horse to water, but if it’s suffering from a crippling hangover, it might be best to wait a few hours before you make it walk 19 kilometres.

This adventure should start at Kemble station, around 2pm on the 28th of August 2012. It actually begins the night before, at midnight at the King’s Arms in Oxford, when, to celebrate 28 years since my glorious entrance into this world, Gemma had just bought me a shot of apple vodka.

The rest of the night is a blur, but judging by the remains of a bottle of Smirnoff (the lack thereof), an inexplicable bruise on my left arm (apparently acquired on my journey home), and a feeling that something embarrassing had happened last night (I later found out I had had a little boogie on the table – not of my own volition, I hasten to add)… Yeah, it had been a good night.

And – being 28, and no longer 18 – I was feeling the effects. I woke up at around 11 to find an elephant sitting on my chest, my head held in a vice, and that my insides had been scraped out with sandpaper.  I stood up (an achievement in itself), and wobbled over to the sink, oh-so-grateful that being in blessed, blessed student accommodation meant only having to stagger to the foot of my bed to gorge myself on good-sweet-wonderful-water.

I crashed back into bed, the drastic increase in the weight of my head causing gravity to have a greater effect than usual.  But it’s OK – the train doesn’t leave for three hours, I’m bound to be feeling OK by then.

I wasn’t.  And no amount of iced water or rice and greek yogurt (the only thing I could stomach) was going to help me remain standing for long enough to get dressed – let alone walk to the station, or trek the 10k we had planned for that afternoon.

We had B&B’s booked for the next four nights, so leaving the following day wasn’t an option.  The only other thing we could do is cancel tonight (we didn’t want to cancel) ‘s B&B, and walk 28k the following day (we didn’t want to walk 28k) instead of the planned 20.  After checking there was a later train we could catch, an abundance of water, and a couple more bowlfuls of rice and yogurt, there was only one thing for it: bucking the hell up.

What happened next was nothing short of a miracle.  As we climbed out of the taxi with our ruck sacks and walking boots on (we must have made a fine sight), I seriously doubted whether I would be able to make it up the stairs to the station – and whaaa! I have to walk over the bridge to the other platform!?  Uuuuugh…..  But by the time we arrived in Kemble, I was feeling strong enough that I declined Pete’s invitation to go straight to the B&B, and we decided to at least make it to the source and back (a total of 8km).

The source of the River Thames

And so our adventure finally began.  We followed a stream through three or four boggy fields, before it disappeared completely – the stone that marks the source is one kilometre – and a couple of cow-filled fields – further on.  In the depths of a good wet Winter, there will normally be water bubbling up on the ground beneath the stone that marks the source, but unfortunately the mild and only slightly wet Summer we had been experiencing left only a dry muddy patch for us to gaze upon.  The water must then trickle underground through the first couple of fields before it comes to form the stream.  From here, the flow of water builds and builds – becoming wider, deeper, darker, faster, and – to be honest – a whole lot less appealing-looking – all the way to the Thames Barrier (where the Thames Path National Trail currently ends) before its waters are launched into the North Sea.

My hangover was now well and truly cured, and so we pushed on a little further, cutting down on tomorrow’s mileage, and returning to Kemble down a slightly more distant path.  On the way, the stream we had followed – although still less than a foot deep, and only a metre wide in places – was already starting to look somewhat more river-like, its water water gently shimmering its way over its golden brown bed.  Before the water was to pass through too much cow dung, we stopped to scoop some up with our hands and have a drink.  Back to feeling human again, we meandered towards the B&B.

What was the cause of my miraculous recovery?  Was it the fresh air?  My reward for such sheer determination?   Was it the awe of beholding the source of the River Thames? Probably not.  I think what this experiment shows us is that fresh air + exercise + water and bland food = hangover cure.  And that is a valuable life lesson.

Related articles

• Bigger Adventures: Tackling the Thames Path (miniadventuresonfoot.wordpress.com)