Category Archives: Virtual journeys

Dervla Murphy’s lore

Dervla Murphy at 88

Although some have questioned why she is featured on the blog, I know that others enjoy reading about this intrepid lady, who is perhaps a more intrepid and accomplished travel writer than our very own Paddy. Her books are available via the website of our friends, Eland Publishing. Dervla celebrated her 88th birthday mid-November 2019. Isabel Conway met her for a chat about her extraordinary life and adventures.

by Isabel Conway

First published in Business Post.

I’m in Lismore, Co Waterford. A wilderness of greenery cloaks a couple of stone outbuildings that have old iron artefacts leaning up against them, behind a pair of high gates. The undisturbed scene is a flashback to the past, offering no sign at all of human occupation.

A local man gives directions, pointing towards the secluded laneway. Dervla Murphy, as he puts it, is “one of our own”, and she lives up this laneway in a collection of 17th-century buildings.

For more than 50 years, Ireland’s greatest travel writer of modern times has travelled the world, mostly alone and by bicycle, returning home from Peru, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Africa, India, Israel, Palestine, Laos, Siberia and many more far-flung places to write 26 internationally acclaimed books.

The indefatigable Murphy’s vicissitudes on the road are the stuff of legend. She was attacked by wolves in the mountains of Yugoslavia on that first journey by bicycle to India. Luckily, she was carrying a .25 revolver that Lismore’s gardaí had shown her how to use before setting out during one of the coldest winters on record in 1963. She succeeded in shooting one wolf dead and frightening the others off.

In her time, Murphy has been stoned by youths, stung by a scorpion, assaulted in Azerbaijan and narrowly escaped with her life after being robbed three times in Ethiopia.

Invasion by bedbugs and tick bites were unavoidable when bedding down in mud huts, kraals and doss houses, or wherever gave protection from ferocious extremes of weather and other dangers. Malaria in the African bush, dysentery in Pakistan, brucellosis in India, hepatitis in Madagascar, broken ribs in a couple of countries, a fractured coccyx and a broken foot in Romania, a new hip after a fall in Palestine.

Ever the stoic, Murphy would usually get back on her bicycle after she was patched up. It’s the measure of this extraordinary woman, called a “goddamn nutcase” by an American tourist when she refused his offer of a lift while hiking along a desert road in the burning heat.

With trepidation, I locate her back gate and follow the overgrown path to a stone structure. An admirer of Murphy all my life, I am nervous about meeting this most intrepid of travellers, who celebrates her 88th birthday next Thursday.

The much-loved author of Full Tilt, her debut remarkable story of cycling 4,500 miles from Ireland to India rarely gives interviews. Our meeting has been organised via a longtime friend of Murphy’s, based in London. They met 40 years earlier, trekking in the mountains of Peru. The friend cautions me: “You’ll find Dervla courteous and hospitable, but she doesn’t suffer fools gladly and hates being called courageous or brave.”

I arrive at a collection of several unconnected stone buildings across a cobbled courtyard, a forge, piggery, cow house and store converted into a study, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. The door of the first building is ajar. An entire wall is taken up by a packed bookcase with lots more books lining smaller shelves, including more than two hundred titles Murphy read while researching her last book Between River and Sea, published in 2016 and focusing on the Israel/Palestine conflict.

The room has two desks, one on which Murphy wrote all of her books first in longhand, later typewriting before delivery to her mentor and publisher of more than four decades, John Murray in London. She acquired an electric typewriter to speed the work up a bit, but has never used a PC. A cherished old Tibetan flag that the Dalai Lama gave her in gratitude for her work with Tibetan refugee children covers the typewriter.

A sheathed dagger lies on a side table, and dotted around are handicrafts brought home from the ends of the earth. Framed photo collages of Murphy with her three granddaughters Rose, now 23, Clodagh, 21 and Zoe, 19 , have pride of place.

A sturdy, somewhat stooped woman with short white hair, wearing loose trousers, a body warmer and open toed hiking sandals crosses the cobbled yard and enters her study. She is welcoming and delivers a firm handshake. Her eyes are penetrating, those of a professional observer who misses nothing. She also has that invaluable writer’s gift of being an expert listener and communicator, one who has charmed her way into the affections of people – from influential diplomats and the like, to the poorest of the poor – who gave her friendship and assistance on her journeys.

A bench covered with a warm rug is the domain of Wurzel, her beloved elderly terrier. Two young cats streak after each other’s tails.

“I don’t know what I’d do without my animals,” Murphy says. “I used to have six or seven cats and four and five dogs at a time. I was always so delighted to see them when I came home at the end of long journeys, glad to be back in my territory and be starting on the next book.”

In her 80th year, Murphy had spent a long period travelling between Israel and Palestine researching the follow up to her widely acclaimed Gaza travelogue A Month By The Sea. Next, she switched her sights to Jordan, visiting Syrian refugee camps, as usual delving deeply into the region’s politics and history as well as its people and culture with visits to Petra and Wadi Rum.

“I had to come back after fracturing my pelvis,” she says. “It wasn’t a fall but a silly way of slipping, as I was sitting down.” Since then, a combination of emphysema and arthritis in her neck have put a stop to both her travels and her writing. “There’s no good having angst about it,” she says. “You realise these things are inevitable as you get old. I won’t be going anywhere; I might as well face it, but that’s okay.”

The only child of intellectual and unorthodox parents, Murphy’s lifelong stamina may owe something to her childhood diet, which involved plenty of raw beef and raw liver. She never saw her invalided mother stand. As if her mother foresaw that Murphy was destined to conquer massive distances and daunting physical challenge she would never know herself, she encouraged her to get out and see the world.

It was only after her mother passed away that Murphy could realise her dream to travel and write about her journeys. At 16 she was already cycling around England and, by the time she was 18, she had biked alone through post-war France along the Rhine to Germany.

She gets up at 5am, eats only once daily, and usually is in bed by 9pm. She possesses neither a TV, central heating nor consumer comforts and goods the rest of us take for granted. It smacks of a strict monastic lifestyle. “Oh, not at all,” she laughs, pouring herself a beer. “It takes me two hours to eat that one meal. I have an absolutely colossal breakfast with plenty of my own brown bread.”

I can vouch for the excellence of Murphy’s soda bread and the nourishing soup containing at least six vegetables she has made when I make a return trip a few weeks later. Since our last meeting, the British Guild of Travel Writers has awarded her its prestigious Lifetime Achievement prize.

Though she has received many awards, and can count the likes of Michael Palin among her many admirers, Murphy is visibly overwhelmed by this most recent recognition. The founder of Bradt Guides, Hilary Bradt, has hand-delivered Murphy’s framed citation from England. It reads: “Dervla is the real thing. In an age of gimmicks and promotions she has travelled for the sheer love of it, for enjoying spectacular scenery away from the crowds and for meeting people away from the trappings of civilisation.”

After lunch, Murphy sips a glass of beer, Wurzel next to her, and shares her strong opinions on a variety of topics.

She is a fervent opponent of mass tourism, pointing to its negative contribution to the climate problem with the never ending increase in air traffic. She also believes that it does little to improve the economies of formerly remote enclaves.

“Mass tourism exists for nothing else than to make profit,” she says. “It tries to sell itself as being so important to local economics. In my experience, the reverse is actually true.”

She cites Pakistan’s Baltistan as a location where so called intrepid travellers “stay in hotels staffed by people brought in from outside because the locals don’t have the training”. When she travelled to the remotest corners of the region, taking her young daughter Rachel and writing Where the Indus is Young, there was no electricity nor cash economy.

“People were advanced in other ways,” she recalls. “They had enough food and they were sustainable. Now they have little or nothing in winter when the fruit and vegetables are sold to feed tourists, and they’ve bought consumer goods that are pretty much useless with the money they earned.”

In her ideal world, everyone would cycle and cars would be taken off the roads. “Cars are the curse of our age,” she declares, adding that it may be too late to do much about rescuing the world and reversing climate change.

As a grandmother she does not want to express too much pessimism, so as “not to depress young people too much about the future”. At a time when the vast majority of women who can afford to travel in comfort couldn’t imagine staying in hostels and cheap guest houses, these are places where Murphy has been happiest. “I loathe hotels, always have,” she shudders.

Does she believe young people today travel as she has done – curious, fearless, adventurous? “ The first thing I see them do is plugging in their laptops or getting on the phone to Mummy and Daddy at home,” she says. “It drives me insane. Why do they bother leaving home if they miss Mummy and Daddy so much? But I blame the parents too, telling them: ‘Remember now to get in touch every evening so we know you’re okay’.”

Her daughter Rachel went travelling in India at the age of 17 for six months. How often did she contact Murphy on that trip?

“Once,” Murphy replies.

A phone call?

“Oh, there were no phone calls. It was a letter.”

Murphy does, however, say that it is now more dangerous for a woman to travel solo. “It’s riskier now in certain countries where people have suddenly acquired these mobile phones and see these pornographic videos and depictions of sexual violence against women,” she says.

“And yes, there are places where I would worry about the safety of my granddaughters. It’s a great shame but, sadly, the way the world has gone. I was so lucky, but we must always believe in the goodness of people in general. Far from intending to hurt us, most people are humane, helpful and don’t intend us harm.”

Eleven of Dervla Murphy’s titles are in print through Eland Publishing, including the classic Full Tilt: Ireland to India with a Bicycle, her autobiography Wheels within Wheels: The Makings of a Traveller, and her last two books on Palestine and Israel. For a full listing of these titles and for more information, visit travelbooks.co.uk/dervla-murphy

Virtual journeys – Winchester to Exeter via Salisbury, Wells and Glastonbury

The Clarendon Way from Winchester to Salisbury

I hope that you are all well and starting to enjoy getting out and about after the lockdowns. Many restrictions remain in place, varying country by country, and there is definitely uncertainty about travelling to other countries. I recently tried a bit of a long distance walk, but it is difficult with no real hospitality available for bed, or board, or even water which was much needed here in England as recent temperatures have been very high; only three Summers have had as much sunlight as this Spring here in England since sunlight records began, I think, in 1923.

In the autumn of 2017, having some time on my hands I decided to make one of my “step out of the door journeys”, taking a pack and a good pair of boots to make my own pilgrimage to somewhere. I like these journeys. They may not be exotic, but as a walker you really feel and experience the ground, the sounds and smells all round you. You see things that travellers on other modes of transport do not, meet and get to talk to people as you pass by, and make your own journey, unconstrained by way-marked walks, just using footpaths that take you in the direction you wish to go.

This journey was to be a “pilgrimage” from Winchester (from my door via the cathedral) to Salisbury cathedral, to the tiny city of Wells with its magnificent cathedral, thence on to the head of the River Exe via the ancient and mysterious holy place of Glastonbury, down the river valley to Exeter and its Gothic cathedral. It took me seven days of walking.

The route:

Day 1 – Winchester to Salisbury 34km. Slept in Sarum College (they will do low cost accommodation) with the best location in Salisbury right in the enormous Cathedral Close. This is a pleasant if long first day along the soft beech lined route of the Clarendon Way via Kings’ Sombourne and the River Test.

Day 2 – Wilton to Maiden Bradley 38 km. A short taxi ride out of the city to Wilton and up out striking west through a very large forest with a straight Roman road running through the middle for miles and miles. I barely saw a soul; Wiltshire can be bleak and is very sparsely populated in the rural areas. I ended up at a place called Maiden Bradley, the only place around with accommodation which turned out to be full. Taxi to Frome to find B&B and a hot meal.

First glimpse of Glastonbury Tor

Wells Cathedral School

Day 3 – Frome to Wells 36 km. A lovely walk in the sunshine after the “harshness” of Wiltshire the day before. I caught my first glimpse in the distance of Glastonbury Tor, an objective for the next walking day. I ended up in Wells just after dusk and stayed in a hotel in the gatehouse of the cathedral close. The next day I took some RnR and looked around the Bishops’ Palace, the cathedral school close, and the ornate cathedral itself. Really worth a day out if you can make it.

Wells Cathedral

Day 4 – Wells to Glastonbury 18 km. A short walk on the Somerset levels to the magical Tor with its magnificent 360 views. I could even see Wells cathedral in the distance. The town itself is a strange place with more shops selling crystals and other “magical” things than I have ever seen. One bookshop had a window display devoted to whittling wood! The next leg was to be to Bridgwater. I had agreed a rendezvous with a friend for a cup of tea and needed to push on, but the maze of drainage ditches and the flat emptiness of the Levels was at the same time going to take some time to navigate and was not an attractive prospect so I took a bus to Bridgwater which is a pretty enough town with statues to men who had struck out for the New World and brought trade to this place. Grabbing a coffee the next morning from Starbucks a lady there was celebrating 10 years’ service as a barista. Good on her; she was happy in her work.

Exmoor stag hunt

The stag that got away

Day 5 – Bridgwater to Wivelescombe 31 km. The landscape changed as I approached Exmoor National Park, meeting a lady from Surrey who had settled in a village but was unhappy as the locals did not easily accept incomers. The day was dominated by coming across a stag hunt. Riders everywhere, with scouts on quad bikes and in 4x4s using walkie-talkies to direct the hunt. The stag kept well ahead of the huntsmen and women who often ended up in the wrong place. They were suspicious of me with my camera but polite. At one point the stag charged out of undergrowth just a couple of hundred yards from me, pursued by just two hounds. With quick reactions I was able to get a shot of the stag in flight running for a small valley full of trees and bushes, well away from the main body of the hunt. I probably saw more of the stag that day than did most of the hunters. Wivelescombe is a tiny village in the middle of nowhere but had a welcoming inn.

Tiverton

Day 6 Wivelescombe to Tiverton 31 km. A pleasant if unmemorable day of walking with nothing really standing out. Tiverton had clearly been a prosperous place in the past with its wealth being founded on the wool trade, having some very ornate public buildings. It is now dominated by the Heathcote textiles factory and many pubs. I experienced my first Wetherspoons drink and meal. A pint of beer being just £2.40, and a special “curry night’ meal and a pint for £5.99!

Choristers practice at Exeter cathedral

Day 7 Tiverton to Exeter 28 km. A pleasant enough walk but my vision of a lovely walk along the banks of the River Exe were not to be. There is no path as such, and a lot of time was spent high up looking down into the valley and walking on roads. It was a little disheartening to see that the final push into Exeter meant a steep climb up to the hill that bears the Roman signal station, or a very long walk around. I chose straight up and eventually found myself walking through the small suburbs of the city, into the ugly modern centre (Exeter was badly bombed by the Germans in April and May 1942 as part of the so-called “Baedeker raids”, in which targets were chosen for their cultural and historical, rather than their strategic or military, value). My goal, the cathedral was worth it, and afterwards, having a pint in a nearby pub, I bumped into an officer serving in the same Regiment as my son, and his fiancé, who were to be wed in Exeter the next day. It was a very good way to end my 216 km (134 mile) odyssey.

If you are able, I thoroughly recommend this mode of walking. Have an idea of a place to walk to. Grab a few Ordnance Survey maps and plot a route with accommodation stops on the way. I was very ably assisted by Booking.com, only making my bookings during the afternoon of my planned stay to ensure I knew that I would make a location.

Happy walking. Real or virtual!

See more of the journey here in this shared Google Photo Album

Virtual journeys – a pilgrimage to St Peter-on-the-Wall

St Peter-on-the-Wall

The restrictions are starting to come down around the world now. Soon we can start to think of roving further than the local park. Whilst we still remain generally confined, here is another, short, virtual journey for you to enjoy.

In June 2018, during that very long, very hot summer that we experienced in the UK, I needed to get away. My relationship with my partner of four years had suddenly ended not long before and I thought that some sort of pilgrimage might help me to see things in a better light. Where was I to go?

I am actively interested in The British Pilgrimage Trust and searched their site for suggested routes. I only had a few days. Their routes page has some lovely suggestions – do you know that 2020 is designated the year of British Pilgrimage (sigh)?

The route I selected was a three to four day walk in Essex called The St Peter’s Way. This pilgrimage leads you from the heart of the Anglo-Saxon Kingdom of Essex, from the oldest wooden church in the world, St Andrew’s, Greensted, to Ongar Castle all the way to one of Britain’s most ancient and remote churches – St Peter’s-On-The-Wall, which has attracted pilgrims over the flat expanse of saltmarsh at Bradwell for over a millennium. I had arrived from London via the Central Line, taking it to its terminus, and then a taxi to Ongar.

The route follows in the pilgrim footsteps venturing through some of the most spectacular countryside in Essex – and it is good – through ancient woodland, over commons and hills, and down to the salt marshes on estuaries – Maldon Sea Salt anyone? – and coastline.

I walked across some of Britain’s most fertile farmland, weaving my way along the wildlife-rich River Roding, via the 12C church at Blackmore, and from the fragments of the lost Writtle Forest toward the bird-rich waters of Hanningfield Reservoir. I paid my respects to the rescued 14C Mundon Church where I found a pair of birds trapped inside (and shooed out), and the skeletal limbs of the Mundon Oaks beckoned me toward the sea.

Mundon Church

Passing a wedding reception in a lovely field setting, I walked through the village of Tillingham where I stopped to watch a gentle game of cricket on the green. The last few miles were very hard. It was so hot and the marshes induced disorientation. I had to use the sea wall as a guide, until eventually Saint Peter’s lonely shrine appeared in the distance. This church was built by a Lindisfarne monk, Bishop Cedd in 654 incorporating the Roman bricks and stones for the Saxon Shore fort, half of which still remains, the other half having been consumed by the sea.

The weather throughout was gorgeous, and so hot that I just slept out in my sleeping bag in woods, or overlooking the sea. At St Peter’s I settled down into what I think must be the pilgrim shelter, listening to the soft singing of a group from the Othona community, who welcomed me in to join in their prayer. For the rest of the evening and night I was alone, watching a beautiful sunset, except for a family of hares out to graze. I watched amazed as the male engaged in a hard fought battle with a stoat. I cannot remember who won.

Hare

In the morning I walked to a local town and caught a train back to Liverpool Street in London. Were my troubles solved? No. But I had an extraordinarily good walk in a part of England that may often be dismissed by walkers. I thoroughly recommend it.

Follow my route via this Google photo album.

Download a route guide here.

Finally, I wanted to say thank you to all those who have recently made small donations via the Donate button on the blog. You are very generous and I hope that you continue to enjoy the content of the site. Many of these donations go towards the cost of site hosting and the growing cloud storage costs for the pictures and other content. We remain the world’s leading site for content relating to Patrick Leigh Fermor which was my goal when I started this site back in 2010.

A video of the church.

Virtual journeys – Istanbul to Edinburgh

One of my favourite posts is about Owen Martel’s journey from Istanbul to Edinburgh. Posted in 2012 I have always enjoyed this video; I guess it lets me imagine myself on such a long, epic walk. Maybe it does the same for you too.

His video is an all-time favourite and it brought the excellent band Darlingside to my attention with their beautiful song “The Ancestor”. Their harmonies are superb.

The crazy Owen subsequently walked for seven months across the US pulling a cart.

Part of a series of posts to help you escape during the Covid-1 lockdown/travel restrictions.

A Lockdown walk to see the Micheldever bluebells

Bluebells in Itchen Wood, 23 April 2020

First of all I hope that you are all well, and those that you love. We must all be having differing experiences of the lockdowns in our various countries. Some may not have them at all. Others may be under much tighter restrictions than we have here in the UK. I have a friend in Milan who must be into his seventh week or more (don’t you find that getting a grip on time is such a problem?) and they really can hardly go out.

In the UK we are seeing the end in sight – we hope – and perhaps are learning how to adjust our behaviours, and understand better what our instructions mean we can and can’t do. There has been a strong emphasis on taking daily exercise. Here in Winchester we are fortunate that it is a very small city (a population of just 45,000), and we are surrounded by beautiful countryside. For many it will be within not more than a 5-10 minute walk, and we have no major developments of apartment blocks. Most people have (now very clean) air and space.

Nearby we have Micheldever Woods (with its smaller cousin Itchen Wood next to it) which is famous for its bluebells at this time of year. We are discouraged from driving to exercise spots, and I wanted to see the bluebells even in these strange times. So, on St George’s Day, 23 April, I set off late in the afternoon to walk through the beautiful Itchen Valley, past the villages of Easton, Avington (pop. 72), and Itchen Abbas, and up onto Itchen Down to approach Itchen Wood from the south. It was a stunning day. Very warm sunshine, the ground hard and dusty in places (it is only April!). The pretty villages had well-tended gardens. Hand-drawn and painted rainbow pictures, our symbol of hope in our National Health Service (which has done a magnificent job), were in many windows.

There were few people about, but a lot of cyclists taking advantage of the quiet roads and the beautiful countryside to take their exercise. A brand new telegraph pole gave out a strong smell of creosote, a smell that always takes me back to my childhood; the smell of recently maintained fences each summer. I stopped in the beautiful, bucolic Avington Park with its large lake, and the elegant house that was once the home to the Shelley family.

Sometimes I heard families talking in hushed tones behind hedges in their green gardens. An occasional ladder propped against a wall for some essential maintenance task that perhaps could wait until tomorrow, or even the day after that. The birds seemed especially happy singing and chirping to each other, constantly crossing my path. The only other noise was the sound of farm machinery at various places; reassuring that some economic activity is still taking place.

Avington House and park

After about 3-4 hours of walking, passing hares out for their evening socials, I reached Itchen Wood, which is mainly a beech wood, managed by the Forestry Commission to encourage healthy timber and excellent conditions for the bluebells. I decided just to stay there for a while. I have always preferred this smaller wood to it’s larger neighbour Micheldever Wood. In normal times the car parks there would have been full, and cars are parked along the roadside, with many families walking out to enjoy this marvellous blue and green sight. Most miss the smaller Itchen, even at busy times, where it is possible to find peace.

On this occasion I was essentially alone. I did spy one or two other walkers or runners, like ghostly figures some way off in the dappled evening light. Birds sang and I just rested, enjoying the purple-blue carpet all around me, inhaling the subtle perfume of these amazing flowers. I stumbled across some white flowers and had to get closer. Were these some sort of ‘albino’ bluebell? Later research tells me that they indeed were, being quite rare, only one in 10,000 bulbs being albino.

Angel on my shoulder, Itchen Down, 23 April 2020

Eventually I made my way back home via a slightly different route. Looking back the sun was slowly setting and I took more photos, capturing an image of an angel, hopefully looking after us all. My dinner was a can of cold beans (the walk was planned in haste and I grabbed what I had at hand!) as I sat on the edge of Itchen Down overlooking this really beautiful valley with, perhaps, the finest chalk stream (it is a significant river, but we call it a stream) in the world. The trout certainly think so.

As dusk fell I revelled in the fading light and then the darkness. I enjoy walking at night. I dipped back down to the now silent road that runs through from Winchester to Alresford, and joined a path that has many boardwalks to take me across a wide reedy marsh that contains many pools and tributaries of the river until they all join as one before Easton, the closest village to Winchester. In the dusk light I could see many bats flying fast and sure to wherever they were going. Most other birds were now silent. Yes, there was an occasional owl call. Venus was bright in the western sky and was there to accompany me all the way home, slowly descending on its downward arc.

As I crossed onto the small minor road that runs to the south side of the river, there was some excitement amongst the sheep near Avington house. What it was I do not know. With just a mile or so to go I pressed on in the dark, past pretty brick cottages with bright orange-yellow lights, shining out through leaded windows, never seeing the families within. I really was the only person abroad. It was thrilling. Occasionally I was illuminated by house security lights that would pop on, casting my giant shadow across the road, or sometimes on to a house wall opposite making me look 12 feet tall.

Finally I came to the barrier of the M3 motorway, took the underpass and was greeted by an illuminated sign to drivers telling them to keep journeys only to essential ones, a reminder that our life has changed so much so fast. I had crossed from country to town by taking that tunnel. Stopping at the petrol station I bought some beer to have once at home. A policeman was there to buy a snack. We spoke. I asked how things were going and if he and his colleagues were well. He told me it was all fine and the the people of Hampshire were doing what they were told with very few problems. ‘Normal’ crime was way down. There were two police cars. The other was driven by his colleague. Patrolling is now done by social distancing and that means two cars per patrol to keep each officer separate from the other.

The few hundred yards home passed quickly as I walked up what used to be Winnall Down, now a housing estate. The windows of the fire station were covered in children’s rainbow pictures of thanks to all the workers in the NHS who have risked their lives for us.

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I never meant to write so much. It was just meant to be a quick introduction to the photo album which catalogues this short journey. Many of you enjoyed the pictures I posted of my long walk on the Ridgeway last autumn, so I thought that you might like this. Perhaps a little escapism. Excuse the selfies, this album is also for my children. That is my ‘apocalypse beard’. It will go when all this is over. The pictures were taken only with my Samsung smartphone and my technique is pretty much point and shoot. Sometimes you get lucky. I may make up a few more albums to share from my long walks if you wish, so please send me your comments.

The photos can be found here in this Google album. Keep safe and well.

And here is a bit of a map of the route from my Strava.

Finally, a short tour of the grounds of Avington park which shows some of the route. It is a beautiful part of the world.