"No sheep here; we should go on to the next pasture."
Yesterday was a fine October day, the perfect day for a hike, or a ramble, as the English call a long walk over the countryside (preferably accompanied by a dog). The law gives the public right of way over privately owned land, a concept that would be greeted with gunfire in America. Armed with a guidebook of circular walks through history, we drove to Dunstable Downs in Bedfordshire, where the English apparently go to fly their kites. There were kitists out in force, dozens of them guiding their kites expertly through the currents.
We'd also stumbled onto a hotbed of glider activity. The wind off the ridge must be just right for gliding
. Some were taking off via a pulley system that towed them almost vertically up and then released them into the atmosphere—a stomach-clenching performance. Others were towed by prop planes, which rather defeats the purpose.
The dog soon grew bored watching the gliders, so we took off, peering into the guidebook for instructions. They led us along the Icknield Way, first trod thousands of years ago by Neolithic Man. The first M-road, used for marketing the high quality flint produced in the region.
Nowadays, the neoliths have been replaced by sheep. In addition to their wool, sheep create a by-product which my dog considers a tasty tidbit. (And yes, I'm one of those people who kiss their dogs. But the memory will have to fade before I allow my lips to touch hers. Call me finicky.) Conscious of her dignity in front of the sheep, we leashed her anyway, after she ignored our warning: "Do not eat shit! And no, I'm not speaking metaphorically of rubbish in general, that really is shit!" (Too wordy?)
Her reply: A shit-eating grin. (Score: Dog, 1)
Soon we came to the Tree Cathedral, planted by Edmund Blyth after the First World War to honor his wartime comrades. The site, a former chicken run, is probably the only cathedral that changes color in the fall. I'm glad we saw it in the fall—the rhododendrons in springtime are surely too cheeky. We rested here, drank in the beauty of the season, and watched the dog romp in the cloister. (A first for her.) The National Trust provides a set of seasonal photos on their website.
Our private service over, we hiked to the next marker, a pub in Whipsnade Heath with a well-trimmed thatched roof (one of over 100,000 thatched roofs in England). The 15th-century Old Hunters Lodge looked inviting, until I realized the decor was probably from the Early Hunter-Gatherer period. Not my taste at all.
Past the heath we scrambled up an almost vertical incline, and I saw why having four feet might be an advantage. Then on to a kissing gate, and the dog saw why having two arms might be an advantage. (Score: tied.)
The trail circled Kensworth quarry, first mined 4000 years ago by neoliths digging for flint. Alternating
lines of chalk and rock lie exposed on its face, giving away its age. The neoliths here have been replaced by huge digging machines, carting away 800 tonnes an hour, but they were silent on a Sunday.
Back at the Downs, kites still dove and rippled in the late afternoon sun, but the gliders had all retreated to the pub. Satisfied with a few nuts I'd packed and the blackberries we'd filched along the way, we hopped in the car, filthy and tired.
On the way home, the dog tossed her, uh, cookies all over the back seat. She sheepishly admitted sheep droppings probably weren't a good idea. "At least on an empty stomach," she added, looking hopefully at my nuts.
(Victory: Humans.)
More photos here.
