Last walk of the year

29 December 2014

On Monday I took my snotty nose and hacking cough out for one last gasp attempt to make one hundred miles in December. Technically it wouldn’t be my last walk of the year but it would be the final opportunity to put in some long miles. Given how rough I felt, it remained to be seen just how many miles I’d manage, especially with thick frost still sparkling on the pavements. The Riverside walk seemed like a good place to start and that was about as much of a plan as I had.

After weeks and weeks of thinking winter was never coming it seems to have hit with a vengeance over the last few days. This meant I was wrapped up to the point of hardly being able to bend my arms due to all the layers of jumpers, scarves and hats. Still, the sun was shining, even if it wasn’t warm enough to melt the ice. At the reed beds gulls huddled on the river, ice rimmed the water margin and a young girl, walking with her parents, clutched what looked like a sheet of glass but was actually ice from one of the puddles. Goodness knows what she was planning to do with it and her poor, red little hands must have been freezing. Huge ice sheets, cracked by passing feet, lined the banks at Woodmill and ground that was once muddy was as hard as iron under my feet.

Across the road the path was in shade and I kept well away from the water for fear of slipping on the icy tarmac and ending up with a cold, impromptu swim. Further on, even in sunlight, the ice didn’t seem to be melting and I felt sorry for the poor ducks in the chilly water. It made me shiver just to think of their freezing feet and bottoms. Thank goodness I’m not a duck.

When I came to the row of maples that had brought such vibrant colour to the bank a few short weeks ago I was dismayed to see large branches broken and, beyond them on the edge of the river walk, a mature tree laying on the frozen grass. The wind that had been trying to blow my house down on Saturday night had obviously wreaked havoc along the river, as if enough trees weren’t lost last winter.

At Mansbridge I thought about turning back but decided instead to head for Monks Brook. The parapet of the bridge sparkled with ice crystals and I sliped and slid my way across marvelling at the sugar coated ivy and moss as I went. When I came to the trail leading to the Green Bridge I considered stopping to fish my yak trax out of my rucksack the ice was so thick. There was nowhere to sit to put them on though and balancing on one leg on the ice didn’t seem like much of a plan so I carefully picked my way over. More by luck than judgement I stayed upright.

Thankfully the final stretch of path and the bridge itself were clear. Momentarily I considered carrying on to Eastleigh. This was mostly the lure of a Swan Centre latte calling but common sense prevailed and I decided, nice as a latte would be, two miles each way on icy main roads were not worth it. Instead I crossed the bridge and had a wander around St Mary’s Churchyard.

Churchyards are always interesting but ice and frost adds a further dimension of beauty. The old, lichen covered, gravestones sparkled, edges still thick with frost although it was long past midday and the sun was as high as it gets in the sky at this time of year. Tiny rainbows twinkled in the crystals of ice as if each headstone was jewel encrusted. I wandered from stone to stone looking at lichen, ice and moss like miniature snow covered forests. The ground was so cold and hard it made me sad to think of the people buried there.

For a while I wandered through the ice and fallen leaves, looking at different stones. The graves are all very old, mostly dated from the eighteenth or nineteenth century and it feels like they’re forgotten. They lean at crazy angles, some broken or sunken. There are no flowers. It seems such a shame. The church itself dates from the Norman period and is one of the oldest in the area. Unlike the graveyard, it looks well maintained.

By this time my fingers were becoming a tad numb so I thought it might be an idea to head in the general direction of home. Back I went across the bridge and along the frozen path but, once I’d crossed Mansbridge again, I decided to take a different route home, thinking it might be a little warmer away from the river. Riverside had been busy and avoiding slipping on the ice whist simultaneously dodging, runners, dog walkers, bike riders and goodness knows what else again didn’t seem all that appealing somehow. At the White Swan I thought about stopping for a coffee and a check on the orphaned cygnets but decided against it. If I went inside in the warm it would be difficult to leave again. Besides, it looked fairly crowded as I passed the door.

The March up Gaters Hill warmed me a little and, at the top I popped into the Costa in the garden centre for a takeaway coffee. This kept my hands warms as I skidded my way along the first part of Cutbush Lane. At the point where the lane starts to turn uphill it seemed like a good idea to take one of the alleyways leading into the maze of houses in Townhill Park. Sliding down a frozen trail on my face isn’t really on my list of things to do before I die after all. Of course I didn’t know exactly where this was going to lead me but, a combination of instinct and a little local knowledge led me to West End Copse and from there it was a case of uphill all the way towards my village. At the top of the hill I was pleased to see the ice was gone from the pavements as I made my way through the back roads of Victorian cottages and odd little pubs that seem to have remained unchanged for centuries. A young lad was putting leaflets through doors and asked me if I wanted one. When I opened my mouth to say no thank you all that come out was a cough so violent he scuttled off looking alarmed.

It might not have been the longest walk in history, just over six miles, but, considering the cold and my sneezing, coughing and spluttering, I think I did pretty well. Whether it will be enough will have to wait until I total up the monthly miles.