The Pilgrims' Way - Alton to Farnham
Today, we left Hampshire.
To start, however, our trip was overtly familiar. The stretch of the Pilgrims’ Way that runs through Alton follows the path our family walks the dogs along. It cuts across the fields at Anstey Park where I played Rugby as a teenager. It follows behind my siblings’ secondary school before meeting the road at Holybourne. I could share a million memories of the path that’s practically visible from my house, but it will suffice to say that it took several kilometers before it even began to feel like an exceptional activity.
Holybourne Church was still closed when we passed by, so I’ve had to leave a spot in my passport for later. It is very apparent we will run out of room before we finish this journey, even so. The fields behind Holybourne have always felt like a barrier, of sorts. Because my only reason for walking out so far is to take the dog, and I’ve almost never taken the dog so far, continuing past the last familiar field felt more momentous than it had any reason to be. I was stepping into entirely new territory, breaking out of my little town.
The morning was misty, and so the hills and woods in the distance were softened by the haze. At first, there were only a few keen riders and dog walkers, but soon we were so far out into the fields that we hardly saw anyone at all. We arrived at Froyle so quickly we were wondering if the walk would be finished before midday.
The Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary Church in Upper Froyle (four stars on Google) was our first of the day. We used it as a chance to get out of the spitting rain and to claim another stamp for the collection. The stained-glass window inside depicting Winchester and Canterbury cathedrals was a nice reminder of its association with the pilgrimage route.
Although we were still journeying across farmland (directly across in one case, where the path disappeared in the middle of the field), the proportion of animals was very below average. There were some very friendly horses that we managed to pet, and some sheep that responded to my impression of them, but compared to the host of riders and hundreds of sheep we had seen the day before, they were an afterthought.
Bentley was the next town after leaving Lower Froyle, which, as the final Hampshire village we would come through, did the county proud. We have had a clean sweep of charming, rustic villages and towns on our walk from Winchester so far, and I’m happy to know that my home county is consistently pretty.
The church at Bentley in particular, St. Mary’s Church, has one of the most atmospheric entrances I have ever seen. The ancient yew trees spread out their branches widely on every side, as if they were trying to gather up as much of the earth as possible in a large sweep. If I had grown up in the village, I would have climbed them as often as possible. And, of course, it has a connection to Jane Austen too: her brother, Henry, was a clergyman there for nine years. The crosses etched into the Norman columns by pilgrims of the past were a fun find too. I would recommend people visit if they can!
By this time, we were hungry, and increasingly footsore again. Freddie was suffering in particular, so we decided to delay the walk to find food in town. He bought a hot sausage roll, but was disappointed with its quality, saying he has been “spoilt by the one we had on the first day”. Alas, a moment of silence for sausage roll from the Bentley village shop and its cruel critique.
After a small diversion where we followed St. Swithun’s Way by accident (some might say there are too many ways that go the same way), we were almost at the edge of Surrey. Freddie and I passed the sign on the road outside Farnham and carried on parallel to the county boundary before descending into the town proper. Posing with the Hampshire sign felt like leaving a friend for a while after a holiday together. We would see each other again...but not too soon.
The day had brightened considerably, and it had become quite warm. So, with a glowing sun trying hard to shine in our faces, and a downhill slope to the finish line, we cleared the last of the farmland and met the road right outside of Farnham Castle. It’s unfortunate it was closed, but it did mean we wouldn’t have to climb the keep with our rucksacks on.
Farnham is always such a delight to visit. If I had a bag large enough for my laptop, and lived closer to it, I would sit in one of its coffee shops all day writing my stories. The architecture is a heady mix of different ages that somehow works to make a beautiful and varied town centre. Plus, it has a castle.
Our end point was St. Andrew's Church, where we were welcomed by the lovely Elise, a volunteer from the church community. For some reason, the church had prepared for the arrival of twenty pilgrims instead of just two. Fortunately, that meant there were plenty of biscuits to split evenly, even if I was too polite to take more than three.
But, with the arrival at Farnham, one could argue that the introductory stage of the walk is over. We had left the familiarity of Hampshire. Surrey and Kent could be very different beasts.
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