Downton to Fordingbridge

Today's walk was great.

As I'm tired and falling asleep the night before a walk, I often feel unsettled about a part of the journey ahead: the emptiness of a huge ridge-top field, or the darkness of a plantation wood. Last night I went to sleep thinking about the bad-tempered cows and horses I might encounter in the New Forest.

Today's walk started in Downton. I left the village south, then followed the Avon Valley Path southeast to Woodfalls, where I entered the New Forest. I cut through a dark wood called Tinney's Firs. I saw yews and holly growing vertically up, ivy down, and beech leaves fanning out horizontally. The ground was like sponge - thick with leaf litter and decaying logs - and felt like it might suddenly give way. The canopy above was dense, and the sun shining through was so white and stringy that I kept trying to wipe it away from my face like a cobweb or a hair.

I walked out of the words through Lover (which rhymes with Dover) and down Black Lane into the woods around Hamptworth Lodge. I left the path just briefly to explore a short section of an old holloway that had grown over. I left the woods and followed the lane to a thatched, 18th century pub called the Cuckoo at Hamptworth.

The Cuckoo was great. I had a stout, a cider, and a packet of crisps, and a man called George gave me two roasted chestnuts that had been foraged from the woods. I sat with him and he told me a story that I wrote down immediately when I left the pub, so I could keep it in his words as much as possible. In a thick West Country accent:

There used to be a fucking great big walnut tree out the front of my 'ouse. Belonged to the farmer. He 'ad a brick on a chain and every year 'e'd throw the brick up into the boughs. I says to 'im one day: What d'you do that for then? 'e says: Gotta bruise the tree to get a good crop of walnuts. This tree is fucking covered in them every year. 'e says: Now I bruise the tree, when I die, the tree'll die too. An' I think: Don't be so fucking daft. Anyway, 'bout 15 years later 'e dies. The very next day, that fucking walnut tree is lying on the ground.

George also gave me two recipes:

Get a sweet jar, an' fill it with blackberries and sugar. Leave it til Christmas an you'll 'ave a bloody good liqueur. Another one you can do - you'll like this - it's called a forty-niner. You put 49 cloves into an orange, put the orange in a sweet jar, cover it with 49 sugar cubes, and fill the jar with brandy. Put it under the 'edge for 49 days, and if you can eat the orange after that you'll be a fucking good fella.

From the Cuckoo, I walked south, down the lane and through Franchises Wood to the open heathland the other side. This was the wildest part of my walks so far. Without hedges and fences, the land felt open and endless. The ground was mostly grass and heather. Where gorse bushes sprung up, holly trees seemed to follow, forming little groves. Here I got a first glimpse of the free-roaming cows, rustling in the gorse a few metres away.

I walked across the high ground - passing close enough to plenty of ponies and cows - and down in the valley to ford the Ditchend Brook. I was surprised and heartened to see how the cows and ponies sat and stood together, as though they were one and the same.

If I'd continued south at the brook, I'd have walked through an area called Burnt Balls, followed by Long Bottom. Instead I dog-legged northwest towards Godshill and Sandy Balls.

On a footpath through the woods at Sandy Balls, I caught a glimpse of the Avon Valley below, and I felt truly overwhelmed by its beauty. I walked down into Fordingbridge, where I had a pint of bitter shandy and a pint of water. Then I went to the Coop and bought a bottle of brandy and a bag of oranges, which I accidentally threw at a sleeping man on the bus back to Salisbury.

I don't have a hedge, so my forty-niner is sitting in the living room, beneath a money tree.

• Downton
• Woodfalls
• Tinney's Firs
• Lover
• Hamptworth
• Franchises Woods
• Telegraph Hill
• Leaden Hall
• Ditchend Bottom
• Godshill
• Sandy Balls
• Criddlestyle
• Fordingbridge

Ebble

I was away from Salisbury this week, so I couldn't continue my walk.

Upstream of Broad Chalke is a place called Ebbesbourne Wake. I haven't been there yet. It is listed in the Domesday Book as Eblesborne, and its name is clearly connected to the river Ebble. A local historian has suggested that, since 'bourne' means stream, therefore 'Ebble' refers to the name of the person whose land the stream flowed through, during the Anglo-Saxon period. I don't believe this at all.

From the little I know about place names in England, it seems that a lot of rivers have kept the name they had from well before the Anglo-Saxon period, and before our language changed to English.

A great example is the number of rivers in England called the Avon. (One of these runs through Salisbury, and the Wylie, Nadder and Ebble all join it.) Avon corresponds to the current Welsh word Afon, which means river. So it seems people living near the various river Avons (who would have once spoken a language that resembled Welsh more closely) were simply referring to their rivers as ‘the river’.

Similarly, there are the rivers Tame, Thame, Team, Teme, Thames and Tamar. These names are so similar that they probably share a plain, descriptive meaning.

Another reason I'm suspicious: Ebble is onomatopoeic, like trickle, pebble, tumble, babble, ripple. The feel of the word in my mouth, and its sound, is like a shallow stream flowing over a chalky bed. And Ebble is similar to the word ‘ebb’ as in ‘flow’. They may not have evolved from the same common word, but they could both be human attempts to describe a watery movement.

Further thoughts

1. After writing all this, I've discovered there is a river in South Wales called the Ebbw (which would be pronounced 'ebbu'). I have no doubt that Ebble was once a word that described the way the river was. (2018-10-03)

2. I've just discovered a place 20km south of the Ebble called Ebblake. The word 'lake' suggests 'ebb' is describing water. (2018-10-07)

3. I've searched the Gazetteer (2018-10-11) for placenames containing 'ebb', and found:

• Ebberley, Devon which sits at the head of a small stream.
• Salterhebble, West Yorkshire, which sits on the Hebble Brook.
• Stebbing, Essex, which sits on the Stebbing Brook. Downstream there is a Stebbingford (Farm and Bridge) which suggests the stream has been known simply as the Stebbing.
• Ebley, Gloucestershire, which sits on the river Frome.

Coombe Bissett to Downton

Today I walked from Coombe Bissett to Downton. It wasn't a very exciting walk, and I sort of knew it would be this way. But I don't like the idea of not knowing an area so close to home, so I'm glad I did it.

Places:

• Coombe Bissett
• Homington
• Odstock
• Nunton
• Charlton All Saints
• Downton

As I left Coombe Bissett, I could hear the river ebbling along down a lane. This was really nice, and it was the last time I was aware of the Ebble until I reached the Avon downstream, into which it flows.

The journey was fairly uneventful. The first village I reached, Homington was pretty, but sleepy. No pub, no shop. Then I got to Odstock, which does have a pub called the Yew Tree, but it was too early to be open. I was following the Ebble's valley, but always a field or two away from the stream. From Odstock, I bypassed the next village, Nunton, taking footpaths and a droveway that ran south of the village to the main road between Salisbury and Downton. Here i crossed and walked towards the Avon.

I turned south, and walked parallel with the Avon which I eventually came into contact with. I went through the village of Charlton All Saints, which was pleasant, but loomed over by the nearby main road. I find the sound of heavy traffic oppressive. This part of the journey was partly lanes, partly fields, all straight forward. It wasn't very interesting, but it cured my curiosity. And it was good to introduce myself to the river Avon for the first time on this journey.

Avon is one of those river names that predates the adoption of English as the language of the land. There are a few different Avons in England. In Welsh, the word Afon still means river. The Avon appears as a few parallel streams at this point. Just south of Charlton All Saints, the stream of the Avon I encountered was so shallow it was easily fordable. Just north of Charlton is the estate of Longford Castle. The name Longford suggests this was a used crossing point in the river.

Today I left the west-east valley of the Ebble, and met the north-south Avon valley. The Ebble valley felt cosy, protected by the hills close by both sides, and rich in soft greenery. The valley of the Avon at this point feels much more open and exposed: flatter. It made me think of the lower Thames Valley.

In Downton I stopped at the Wooden Spoon for a pint of bitter and a bowl of chips.

Dinton to Coombe Bissett

After briefly exploring Dinton, I crossed the Nadder at a place I'm calling Catherine Ford. It doesn't exist on the Ordnance Survey map but it's referred to in the names of Catherine Ford Lane (which must have crossed it) and Catherine Ford Bridge (which probably replaced it).

I then left the Nadder valley without exploring it much or interacting with the river. I climbed the ridge to its south, through Fovant Wood, walked through Fovant village, and up Fovant Down.

On Fovant Down, there were lots of hawthorns covered in fruit, which I decided to collect to make jelly. I haven't foraged for anything much before, and I didn't want to start by depriving other creatures of their food. So I took just a small handful of haws now and then as I passed particularly full trees.

I descended the ridge at Broad Chalke - into the valley of the river Ebble - where I stopped at the Queens Head for a pint of bitter. I didn't interact with the river here, other than by crossing it to walk up onto Knighton Hill. I descended back into the valley at Croucheston, and walked uneventfully through Bishopstone to a place I'm calling Throope. This also doesn't exist on the Ordnance Survey Map, but there is a Throope Manor, Throope Farm, Throope Hill and Throope Bottom Cottages. I think it's reasonable to call this place Throope.

The last few kilometres were Arcadia for me. I left Throope along a track that became a sunken lane, dropping down the hill through a small wooded area into Stratford Tony. Here I found a beautiful thatched cottage, sitting on the bank of the Ebble where it was shallow enough to ford. Leaving the hamlet, I closely followed the river downstream. I walked this part very slowly. After half a kilometre, I found a hidden place amongst the trees to sit on the riverbank and put my feet in the clear water. This was a really nice moment, and I felt I'd established a connection to the Ebble. I walked the final half a kilometre into Coombe Bissett where I said goodbye to the stream, stopped for a pint of bitter at the Fox and Goose, and took the bus back to Salisbury. I made hawthorn jelly that evening.

• Dinton
• Catherine Ford
• Fovant Wood
• Fovant
• Fovant Down
• Broad Chalke
• Knighton Hill
• Croucheston
• Bishopstone
• Throop
• Stratford Tony
• Coombe Bissett

Fisherton Anger to Dinton

To get to know the land around Salisbury, I'm beginning a walk that I will continue each Friday.

Route:

• Fisherton Anger
• Lower Bemerton
• Quidhampton
• Wilton
• Ditchampton
• Great Wishford
• Grovely Wood
• Baverstock
• Dinton

I grew up in Old Windsor - the original Windsor - where there was once an Anglo-Saxon royal palace. In the 11th century, William the Conqueror built his new castle a few kilometres down the road near Clewer. The new Windsor grew up there, swallowing the village of Clewer.

Now I live in Salisbury where there is a parallel story. The original Salisbury was at a place now called Old Sarum. (Sarum is a latinisation of Salisbury.) In the 13th century, a new cathedral was built a few kilometres down the road, and the new city of Salisbury grew up around it, swallowing the nearby village of Fisherton Anger. I began my walk here, where I live, near Salisbury train station.

I walked out of town through Lower Bemerton and Quidhampton along a road that follows the river Nadder upstream. The river then splits in two, one part still being called the Nadder, and one part called the Wylye.

I walked through Wilton, and exited through adjoining Ditchampton, following a road that runs parallel to the river Wylye. The river gives its name to the settlements of Wilton and Wylye upstream, and Wilton gives its name to the county of Wiltshire.

The next settlement - Wishford - is also named for its relationship with the river. I wanted to see its ford for myself, to demystify the name, and turn it back into a description. Doing this feels like a way of connecting a little bit with the people who first described the place. Just outside the village, I walked down the river bank and found that the Wylye was very shallow and could easily be walked across. Somebody had placed some stones in the river, forming a tiny jetty from the bank I sat on. I don't know if these were remnants or beginnings. I added a couple of stones before I walked into the village.

I'd hoped to stop at the Royal Oak, but it wasn't open for another half an hour. So I left the village, and the river and walked up into Grovely Wood, which sits on the ridge that separates the valleys of the Nadder and the Wylye.

I walked past a man here, who later recognised me in Salisbury and told me a story about the woods. This is what I remember of the story he told me:

Two sisters from Denmark moved to the area, shortly before an outbreak of smallpox that killed a lot of people. The sisters were blamed, because of their coincidental arrival and their strange language, and called witches. They were taken to the woods and murdered. Today some gnarled old beech trees stand where they were killed.

I left the woods and walked into Baverstock, which barely exists. I passed a cottage, in the process of being reclaimed by nature, that had a sign on it saying something like The last house.

From Baverstock, the footpath was lost in a dense thicket, which I had difficulty getting through. I then descended into Dinton, which sits on one side of the river Nadder. I'd entered a new river valley, but I didn't see any of the river this time.

I finished the journey at the Wyndham Arms, which shares its name with a pub in Salisbury. I had a pint of Butcombe, whilst the landlady looked up the times for the bus back to Salisbury for me. I had to wolf down my beer in five minutes to catch the last bus for two hours.