The Ridgeway - Great Kimble to Aston Rowant ~ Griffmonsters Great Walks

The Ridgeway - Great Kimble to Aston Rowant

The second walk of a multi day hike along the Ridgeway going East to West

This walk starts from the vilalge of Great Kimble to follow the Ridgway National Trail. This was part 2 of a multiday hike which ended at the Lambert Hotel in Aston Rowant

NOTE

This is a walk summary intended to provide the user with just the essential information in order to navigate the walk route. Fully detailed information notes, refreshment stops and walk features are not included in this. A full write up will be included in the near future.

The Ridgeway - Great Kimble to Aston Rowant - Essential Information

Walk Statistics (calculated from GPX):

Start location: Great Kimble
End location: Aston Rowant
Distance: miles ( km)
Total Gain: ft ( metre)
Total Descent: ft ( metre)
Min Height: ft ( metre)
Max Height: ft ( metre)
Walk Time:
Walk Grade: Challenging
Terrain: Footpath

Maps:

The following maps and services can assist in navigating this route. There are links to printed maps and links to downloadable GPX route data for importing into navigational software and apps.

Ordnance Survey Explorer Map: OS Explorer 181 - Chiltern Hills North
GPX Route File

Route Verification Details

Date of Walk: 15/06/2007
Walk Time: 09:00:00 to 16:00:00
Walkers: Griff, Steve M, Steve W, Martin
Weather Conditions: cloudy with some heavy rain

Walk Notes

TThis walk was the second day of a six day expedition to walk the Ridgeway during the Summer of 2007. After spending the night at the haunted Swan in Great Kimble we had to trudge up the steep stony track to Pulpit Hill. The route then descended down to a road, passed a pub called The Plough which was closed at this early hour, then onwards to Whiteleaf Cross. This section was a very steep ascent which I found easiest to run at, get to the top then remove my baggage and rest whilst the rest of the party took their time. Whiteleaf Cross is a huge cross cut into the chalk of the hills overlooking Princess Risborough The view over Risborough was amazing but a lengthy series of information boards scarred this scenery. Reading the boards, told you how wonderful the views and wildlife was up there. I think that we could see this without having such an edifice of information.

On the section beyond Princess Risborough and before Hempton Wainhill the path cuts across a field up to a track that leads around Thickthorne Wood. The field was rough grass and initially looked empty, but as the path led away from the hedge, the perimeter bent around to the right we were confronted with a solitary bull with a harem of cows. We stopped in our tracks. They looked docile, quietly chewing on the grass with a noticeable eye keeping lookout on us intruders. It is true that cows are docile and somewhat curious but when confronted by one of these beasts the natural impulse is to run away! Call me a coward but they are bigger than me. As we stood there, gazing across to the far side where a stile led out onto a track, Steve W in his wily country ways was telling us that they just wanted to know who we were and there was really nothing to be afraid of. Martin and myself went first, striding out across the field, keeping a close watch on the cows and the bull in particular. As we started to pass to the left of the herd they stopped their chewing and started staring at us. Steve M and Steve W were several paces behind. Martin quickened his pace and the cows started coming towards us. The pace was quickened even more. Still walking but ready to break out into a full blown run if required. The cows were picking up pace. I looked behind and the Steve's had lagged further back and were looking to be cut off by the cows. Then, with the stile in reach, a final trot Martin and myself hurdled the stile in quick succession. We looked back and the cows were directly behind the Steve's with Steve W confidently proclaiming, 'Them girls are alroit' in his broad Northamptonshire accent. Steve M. was trying to be cool and calm and confident. The cows were getting closer. They were breathing down their backs and I don't know if it was Steve M or Steve W who broke into a race to the stile first, but the other immediately followed, both hurdling in panic over the stile. We laughed. The cows all congregated around the stile, and the barrier left a safe feeling. 'See I told you' Steve W proclaimed now safe behind the stile.

It was at the point beyond the cow field that the first signs of rain beckoned. The sky was not looking promising and this was the first time we donned wet weather gear. The problem with wet weather gear is no matter how good the manufacturers claim that their material is breathable, reality is that you kick out so much sweat that one ends up wet anyway. We had a couple of showers the previous day but nothing substantial and had managed to keep the waterproofs at bay. This time it looked that we was in for a good downpour. At first we had only put on our waterproof tops but as we headed alongside the woodland the rain got heavier and on went the leggings. Then it started lashing it down. So much so that Steve M and myself, who were well ahead, took to sheltering under the beech trees. They were not much use and the rains trickled down on top of us. Meanwhile Steve W and Martin, who were by now some way back and out of sight, had sought shelter under the conifers of Thickthorne Wood. When they caught us up they were bone dry. This gave us the conclusion that beech trees were particularly poor shelters, whereas conifers were much better. Yew trees are the best.

Being rather damp and hungry, we decided to head off route into the village of Chinnor. The track joined a main road through the village and on the corner was a Spar shop. With no pubs in sight, we headed into the shop for food. I went straight for the cold pasties. I am not sure why but I always considered pasties as a good source of energy for walking. Pasties and Mars Bars.

As mentioned on the previous post for the Ivinghoe Beacon to Great Kimble section, Steve M. had done an excellent job of planning out each days walks and organising each nights accommodation. This nights stay was at The Lambert Arms in Ashton Rowant. Once gain, the maps did not specifically show where this establishment was, the only drinking symbol on the map pretty much out of the village, and the actual village not completely depicted on the limited scope of the map. We headed blindly down a country lane that was signposted for the village. A roadside sign announced Ashton Rowant. It felt that we were going in the right direction. There were a scattering of large houses but no pub. A road led off to the right. A church came into sight. Old pubs were often located next to church but in this instance there was nothing. The road was called the Green which seemed as if it should be at the village centre. A road led off to the left down the side of the church. Yet again moods were becoming irritable as the destination was not showing up, we were tired, still damp and the longing for a place to rest our weary legs and feet. This time, there was no-one around to ask. The village was devoid of living souls, probably just a dormitory village to some larger town. Eventually we came to a standstill and started a debate. We was heading nowhere but one thing we did know was the map had marked a pub on the main road outside the village. Was it worth heading for this? But then we could be walking another miles only to have to return back if told different. Eventually having little alternative we made a group decision to walk back. I led the way, knowing that it would save their legs if we had made the incorrect decision. Back on the main road I walked by a line of large houses on the right with open fields and views of the hills to the left. The road carried on and I had a significant distance ahead of the others. The road then veered round to the left with a subsidiary road following the houses. This looked as if the road had been rerouted. Indeed the map had depicted the road heading onto a junction with the M40. I carried along the subsidiary which was lined by large trees. It wasn't until I was near the end of this lane that a white partly timbered building presented itself on the right. The Lambert Arms. Once again we cursed the fact that none of us had the foresight to have found this information out prior to the expedition. But it is a lesson learnt.

The Lambert Arms was something of a cross between a hotel and a pub. It didn't feel out of place as a pub, but it wasn't quite a hotel even though it was trying to emulate one. The most distinctive part of this building was what appeared to be a lighthouse at the far end of the outbuildings. This 320 foot whitewashed construction complete with a housing for a light atop was looking pretty neglected. Considering that this was probably the furthest anyone could get from the sea in Britain it did appear somewhat out of place.

On entering the lobby of the hotel we came to a reception where we was greeted by a tall man with dark hair, a moustache and a somewhat shabby suit, not grubby, just a little unkempt as if it had been adorned in a rush. We greeted him saying that we had rooms booked. He asked our names. His accent was quite distinctively South African. He found our names then went searching for room keys. On his return our curiosity would be allayed no further and I asked about the lighthouse. 'Yes it is a lighthouse' he proudly proclaimed as if it was a centre piece to the pub estate, adding that it had been constructed many years ago as part of a film set though he could not tell us what film it had featured in.

Following the instructions from the receptionist we guided ourselves up a flight of stairs where the walls were in a desperate need of some decoration, and onto our allocated rooms. They were well presented, clean with all the usual trimmings expected from overnight rooms, but the decoration did need a little care and attention with wall panelling fraying and window sills decaying. After a shower and a change of clothes we met in the courtyard overlooking the garden for casual conversation before the evening meal. I was walking bare foot to give some air to the tortured feet. Steve M had his Evening shoes on. Evening shoes!!

Judging by the sound emanating from the buildings alongside the courtyard, the kitchens were gearing up for the evening meals and it wasn't long until the aromas enticed us inside. The bar was at the back of the building in a secluded room with no windows and little lighting. I wouldn't even say it was soft lighting, it was just not well lit. The bar itself was an arc-shaped affair that looked as if it was from a past decade. Behind it was a barman. He was a tall, darked haired man with a moustache in typical barman's uniform of waistcoat and shirt. He looked distinctly similar to the chap on reception. The ale on offer was limited, the only thing being Green King which was a bit of a disappointment. Nonetheless we ordered pints all round. The barman acknowledged the order in a distinct South African accent. I was tempted to peer back around to the reception to see if the other chap was still there or whether this man was one and the same in a different outfit.

We asked where we could sit for a meal and was directed to a restaurant area in a room off of the lobby. Walking back that way with our drinks we found the receptionist chap was not there. We entered the dining room, a panelled affair from floor to ceiling with the panels fraying at the edges. There were a number of large round tables were set ready for meals and a menu sat in position at each place. The meals were slightly exotic, but reading between the lines it was standard pub fare with a posh name. We had been sitting in the room for quite some time when the waiter arrived to take our orders. He was a tall man with dark hair and a moustache in waiters uniform. He had a distinctive South African accent. I leaned back to glance through the door at the reception. There was no-one there. I looked at the man. This had to be the same man as at the bar in a different uniform and the same as the receptionist. He gave a recommendation which we promptly ignored and went with the standard stodge. We had convinced ourselves that walking needed calories and that was eating as much stodgy pasta and rice as possible. That was fine by me as I loved chilli con carne and this was the second day in a row of such food. The waiter went out to the kitchen and left us to discuss the possibilities that the chef was a tall, dark haired man and chances were that he had a moustache!

The food was ok but nothing outstanding. It did its job of filling a hungry stomach. We finished up and the waiter took our dishes and we adjourned back to the bar. Music was now playing and there was a few people hiding in the bar. These were well dressed men and women, and judging by the overheard chatter, most were well spoken. This seemed so odd in what was looking a rather tired and jaded hotel. I had to push my way to the bar, excusing myself past a gent with a whiskey, who seemed rather perturbed that someone else wanted to use the bar. Money at the ready I was ready to order when I noticed something rather odd. The tall dark haired barman with a moustache had grown his hair and looked much more feminine. In fact it was a young lady with no evidence of a moustache whatsoever. She spoke and her voice had no taint of South Africa. So, maybe there are more employees at this hotel.

The next morning we arrived for breakfast. We had ordered full English and it was served by a tall man, with dark hair and a moustache and South African accent. The eggs were so well done they were crispy, the bacon was undercooked. The beans looked as if they had sat in the airing cupboard most of the night and the mushrooms, well mushroom took some time to locate. Fried bread? Yes I suppose it could be called that but it was certainly a new take on fried bread. More like toast that had been shown some cooking oil in a previous life. As we begrudgingly tucked into this, convincing ourselves that a good cooked breakfast would sustain us for the day, the man came back into the room and began to try to chat. He wasn't a good conversationalist and soon the the air became silent until he piped up, 'I bet you have never had one of those before'. It was obvious from our perplexed faces that we didn't know what he was talking about. He let the suspense carry for a few more seconds before letting on, 'Your breakfast... I bet you have never had a good South African English breakfast' We looked at what we were eating. It was true, none of us had eaten such a breakfast, and quite frankly I don't envisage having another one again. 'Its good' he prided himself on the cooking, 'I cooked it myself'. So, yes affirmation the chef was a tall man with dark hair and a moustache.

Breakfast finished we collected our gear and signed out. The receptionist was South African. Dark hair. Tall. Shabby suit. Moustache.