The Pilgrims' Way - Alresford to Alton

The rain truly reflected the spirit of today’s walk. More than a few moments today were less than pleasurable, but had to be suffered nevertheless. Even the start of the walk gave us a sharp lesson about the value of up to date information. After insisting on starting at the end point of the previous day, the Church of St. John the Baptist in the center of Alresford, Freddie and I trudged through the rain to the Cricketers Inn, adding an extra twenty minutes to the route. Not soon after, we were discovered at the side of the road, looking for a road that used to exist but no longer did, since it had been overtaken by new housing developments. It was only thanks to a nice old lady driving by that we could reroute, but that meant walking back up the hill we had just walked down. So, after close to an hour of walking, we had made it a total of...100 meters down the road.

This put a sour start on the whole trip, kept afloat only by the fun conversations we managed to muster. Now that we were an hour behind schedule, things had to speed up. Bishops Sutton came fast enough, as did the lovely St. Nicholas Church, the first of the day. The rain had stopped for a moment, allowing me some time to listen to the birdsongs being carried across the graveyard and out to the hills.

Right outside of town, past some struggling river shrimp that had been caught out by the reduced water level, we came across what at first appeared to be a fox hunt. The army of hounds (I was advised to use that word instead of “dogs” by someone watching) and the cavalry unit made it obvious this was what they intended to do, except that, since fox hunting is banned, they actually meant to chase after the scent left behind by two “runners”. It was a total surprise. But then, it became easy to imagine the parallel lives of gentleman farmers while we trudged across extensive sheep fields and passed by dressage-ready horses, again in the rain.

Once we got to Ropley, we were audibly impressed by how beautiful some of the houses were. Red and green ivy ran up the sides of white walls; thatched cottages fulfilled every stereotype on a tin of chocolates. Even the village shop was adorable – it had a small annex where Freddie and I could sit down and hide from the rain for a while. Just outside the church, we ran into a person who had walked The Pilgrims’ Way twice (forwards and back). Their friend mentioned they had already met two other groups in the last two days who were also walking The Pilgrims’ Way. I’m very proud ot be walking to help The Children’s Society, and the walk is by no means a Sunday stroll, but I hadn’t imagined how popular it really was. In my mind, I imagined it as a half-forgotten quirk of southern England, but we are actually standing at the back of the queue!

Once we left Ropley, we finally began to enter truly familiar territory. My family moved to the area around Alton and Four Marks when I was seven, and this has been our base ever since. There were periods when we would move around, but we never left. Consequently, finishing the walk into Chawton from Four Marks led me through woodland and fields I had not seen in decades. I would have been riding my mountain bike up and down the hills, under the trees and past the animal pens. It was nice to linger on those memories for a little while.

Ultimately, we were in too much of a hurry to linger any longer. Freddie and I pushed through the last hour of the walk to make it to Chawton in time to meet the staff at Jane Austen’s House. This was the second place on our walk, after her memorial at Winchester Cathedral, that we would run into her legacy. The staff were very patient with me as I followed them around, hanging off their every explanation of the history of the Austen family. I even got to dress up but was interrupted before I could affix the bonnet properly.

Freddie had gone to wait in the Greyfriar, a 16^th century pub opposite, while I race back to Chawton House for a similar purpose. I caught the poor lady in the doorway with a cup of tea in her hand and a half-eaten scone on her plate, trying to explain the arrangements I’d made with the main office to film. She was gracious enough to humour me, and I am so grateful for her sacrificing her time. Chawton House is a stunning Elizabethan estate, and I recommend anyone wanting to glut themselves on a mish-mash of English cultural legacy to visit. More impressively, they should visit for the library, the home of early women’s literature.

Freddie had been kicked out of the pub, and came to meet me at the house, but then vanished, only to be found almost asleep in his seat on the bench down the road. It was a sign, not just for him, that we needed to finish our day.

We were nearing five o’clock, after a targeted arrival time of 2pm. Our feet were getting sore and I was irritated and hungry. So, no more stops on the way to St. Lawrence in Alton, a place with its own strong childhood connection. By the time I was walking home, I wasn’t thinking of anything apart from putting my bag down.

Only 13 more days to go.