The Pilgrims' Way - Oxted to Otford

What started out as promising day turned into equal parts dull and painful by the end. I am more sore than I have been so far and one of my blisters is the size of my whole small toe. Which is odd, because you would think the walk would have raised no issues today. 

Leaving Oxted felt like leaving home again. I was so well cared for that it hardly felt like I was leaving a stranger’s house at all. They cooked breakfast for me, provided me with a replacement water bottle for the one I’d lost, and gave me two humungous slices of homemade banana cake as well. It could not have been a more perfect start to the day. 

Quickly, however, the first of twin sufferings appeared in the form of a hill. I have nowhere to put my coat if it gets too hot, so I’m wearing it the whole way to Canterbury. Consequently, when I have serious inclines, I can only work to get to the top as quickly as possible so I can take my coat off and dry off for a while. No matter how well you are loved, nobody wants to carry a full rucksack up a hill first thing in the morning. To be frank, I don’t really want to carry a rucksack at all, regardless of the time of day. 

All this is to say that by the time I had climbed to the top of Titsey Hill I was already as damp as a freshly caught fish. The amount of bracken that I had to contend with as I walked along the footpaths was also horrible, and the barbs kept catching my coat and rucksack, pulling me back into the hedge.  

The discovery that I would immediately have to walk back down again made it feel quite pointless in the end, though not as pointless as Titsey Church’s opening times. Four hours a day (1pm to 5pm), only for three days a week, and only from mid-May to mid-September! Why even have a church if you never open it? The saving grace (no pun intended but appreciated) was a hidden wooden box under the porch which contained the pilgrim stamp. That moment felt like discovering buried treasure. 

From that point on, aside from a conversation with a curious and supportive farmer, the second suffering appeared: boredom. I just walked for five miles in one direction. There were no sites to see, hardly any fields to peek at thanks to the high hedgerows. I was mostly accompanied by cars being driven far too fast, and every cyclist in the world. And I walked, and walked...and walked...and listened to music while I walked...and took a break in a field to eat the banana bread...then walked some more until I finally hit a junction where I could not go forward.  

This is because, in the past, the owner of Chevening House had barred the Pilgrims’ Way that ran through his property from public use. Instead, I had to climb up another hill just to climb down again and emerge in front of Chevening House anyway! Why even seal the road off if the alternate path takes you practically to the front door? Everything was so incredulous today, apparently. 

In fairness, Chevening House and the grounds are very pretty. They felt very isolated at the same time; apart from some dog walkers I saw noone near the house either going in or out. Perhaps they don’t have a lot of traffic usually. I had hoped to see it through the “keyhole” viewing spot, so I could compare it to the photo printed in the book the Chevening Estate had delivered to me, but it was not on the path. 

Oh, another thing too. There were some styles I had to pass through to follow the footpath out of the grounds of Chevening House. But, they were completely redundant, as the dirt track went to the same place as the path anyway, and there were no fences or walls obstructing you from simply walking along the grass. So, why the need for a style if it just creates more work? And then Chevening Church was closed too, except there was no stamp box hidden outside. What a farce! 

It was around this time that my feet really began to hurt. So much walking on tarmac had damaged them a lot more than most days, and even worse, I started to feel pain in my knees too. I began checking how far I had left to go more and more often, hoping that I was closer now, or now, or now. When I had finally crossed the M25 (a poor badger hadn’t been as successful) and started the final push to the finish, I was starting to limp. Nevertheless, I had an appointment to visit the palace at Otford to interview an expert, so I had no time to waste. 

I ducked into St. Bartholemew’s Church quickly, both to complete the stage for the day and to find a stamp. Inside was a ludicrously out of place neo-classical memorial, complete with high-relief figures framing the sponsor’s name and the deceased. Modesty was not one of their virtues, it seems.  

Otford Palace is almost completely gone after it was left to fall to ruins, but I was given a terrific explanation of the site and its people of interest by Roger. It’s always a pleasure to hear people talk at length about a subject they know lots about. 

The sun was directly in my eyes, so sorry for the frown!

I would say my favourite part of Otford was finding out the duck pond on the roundabout is a listed site. My least favourite part was knowing that I still had another hour to walk to get to my accommodation for the night in the next town over, Kemsing. I actually shed a tear when I saw how far it was, but what choice did I have but to continue? I was not pleased, but I persevered, and once I made it to my room for the night, I soaked my feet in soapy water, redressed the blisters, and tried to stay horizontal as much as possible. 

So, the twin sufferings of today - boredom and pain – rather ruined what promised to be a good day. It was perhaps my least favourite stage so far, with its only saving grace being it was not overlong. Tomorrow promises to be even shorter, since I’ve already walked half the route to get to my room. I hope something interesting happens to justify another thousand words tomorrow night.