28-30 August 2004
My exploration of English countryside started this weekend at the Isle of Wight, south of Hampshire. It was a three-day Bank Holiday weekend and the prospect of walking through some forests, over hills and across farmlands was too enticing to resist. With such a prospect before me it was an easy decision to skip the Notting Hill Carnival in London.
A thatched cottage on the Isle of Wight
No plans were made. No extensive research was done. Just me, my backpack and a map that I purchased at the Tourist Information Centre at Yarmouth. Thus it was no surprise that I walked for miles starting the day at Yarmouth pier, passing farms and barns, stepping on horse and cattle manure, enjoying a breath of fresh air, relishing the never-ending stretch of green and brown hills. I walked along the coastal cliffs by way of Tennyson Down and West High Down towards the panoramic views at the Needles under the warming rays of a splendid sun. I followed this with another walk along Tennyson Trail. This cut through fields marked with grass-covered Iron Age barrows and pits. This trail led into the Brighstone Forest beyond which lay excellent views of sunset across Gallibury Hump. A walk of ten hours and more was tough on the legs after a month of laziness in India. With little energy left and no information about hotels or guest houses it was time to call it a day. In the middle of a farmland, under the shelter of a solitary tree, amidst the sound and brush of sun-soaked grass, I made my bed for the night.
Little rolling hills and farmland
The next day started a little before sunrise. I left the comfort of my sleeping bag, folded the dew-washed tarpaulin and started on another long day of walking. The distant clouds outpaced all. The sun was left behind in their advance. The wind picked up and threatened rain. It did rain but not hard or for long. The power of the wind was more chilling than the rain. It was a day that led me to Newport, to Carisbrooke Castle with its dried-up moat, across St George’s Down, cutting through more farmlands and ending the walk at Ryde. Ryde was busy with the noise and funfair of motorbikes of all sorts. It was impossible to get any form of accommodation for the night. After some enquiries I was told that I would stand a better chance further south. I boarded a bus and ended the day at Shanklin at a nice hotel by the beach.
With little enthusiasm left and more aches of the feet it was time to rest the third day and make an early return to Farnborough. A small walk at Calbourne didn’t make an impression. Winkle Street with its row of thatched cottages at Calbourne is supposed to be lovely but it isn’t. The cars parked all along the street block the view. Antennas sticking out of every roof spoil the effect. When the window curtains are open, the inside mess is clearly seen. One must be extremely fortunate to see what is shown in a tourist brochure. A visit to Yarmouth Castle did not appeal. Little could I care for these when I have seen and walked the lovely paths in nature’s trail.
