The Three Choirs Way

Blessed is the eye between Severn and Wye

Old adage

Where yesterday I had mainly followed the Herefordshire way, today I picked up a leg of the Three Choirs Way, a 100-mile long distance path linking the cathedral cities of Gloucester, Hereford and Worcester and celebrating the Music Festival which unites them. Where the Herefordshire Way was not, shall we say, all that was to be desired in quality of path, the Three Choirs Way was mostly beautifully maintained and easier walking.

The day had started really early to enable Stephen to drop me off where I finished yesterday, and then get into school on time. After scraping the frost off the car we headed out for Wellington Heath, which also happens to be (for those of you who are familiar with Malvern College’s annual 8-mile cross-country race from Ledbury back to the school), the first possible point at which the truly flakey runners could feasibly drop out.

Although it was cold, the early morning sun was filtering through the hedgerows. Dew pearled on every blade of grass with the sun behind it, and had settled on the sheep and lambs as well, creating a halo of light behind them. Having finished yesterday‘s walk at the top of a hill, I was able to start the day with a commanding view out over the landscape, the sweeping hills curving down to Ledbury and beyond.

It had been hard to know how to pack. Yesterday I had felt too warm in my winter trousers (sadly I don’t think I will fit into my summer ones yet, so there is not much choice), and as I put my hats and gloves into my pack this morning, I wondered whether it was overkill. There were times yesterday when I thought I might need some sunscreen. This morning, however, the decided nip in the air galvanised me and completed the process of waking me up which coffee had started.

I crossed the Worcester to Hereford railway line behind an acrobatic squirrel that took the entire width in one gigantic leap, thinking that I would take a note of the crossing and look out for it next time I travelled along it.

I had been intermittently aware of the Malvern Hills away to my left as I walked yesterday, but at the start of today their iconic profile was much more of an insistent visual presence. In front of me lay the southern-most complex of the Malvern spine, and the Eastnor Deer Park obelisk rising up behind wide open fields of winter wheat where last night there had been no shelter from the frost which now crunched under my feet. The stepped dykes of the Iron Age hill fort called British Camp were unmistakeable.

My goal for today was to rekindle the mindset I need when I am walking. Yesterday’s walk was all about arriving at the end point to coincide with my lift home, pressured because the walk was longer than I had calculated it to be on the map. I had felt an undercurrent of anxiety all day, and when the route started to present problems and I fell behind schedule, my head got into fight mode: keeping up the pace, marching on without thinking of my muscles or (crucially!) my feet. I wonder whether this is an understandable and inevitable response, faced with barriers of problematic stiles, trees fallen across the path and difficult route-finding. These difficulties just have to be surmounted. Today I had no pressure of time, and indeed my goal was to fall out of time and into that Zen flow of mindful experience and acceptance. To focus on what was around me, and on what I needed to do to walk well.

Climbing up on the shoulders of the Malvern hills heading to the edge of the Eastnor Deer Park, I paused to catch my breath (although the slopes are slower and gentler today) and looked back to see where I had to come. I was in a natural bowl of peaceful fields, ringed all around with woods, quiet but for the conversations of the many birds. Back where I had just come from an apple orchard in full flower would provide a day’s work for the bees today, and beyond it there was a glimpse of the faraway wood on the top of the Bromyard Downs. I intended to hold off looking at my watch, or taking any notice of how far I had to come, and at what pace.

The agricultural landscape is ordered, intentional, more or less sterile from the perspective of biodiversity (although spring lambs are unfailingly adorable).

But the woods, when I enter them, are a different world.

On my previous walks, I have bitterly regretted not packing binoculars (being savagely disciplined with weight), although I have brought them with me this time, for watching the waterbirds on the River Severn. And I have a new app! It recognises birdsong and identifies the singers for you. I find this is a more useful way of knowing what birds are in the area, because they are so hard to see. the app is called Merlin, and I thoroughly recommend it.

The woods early in the morning and at this time of year are just one joyous ebullience of sound. Looking up it’s impossible to see the birds, but it’s good to be able to recognise the calls I am hearing and become familiar with them.

I didn’t need my Merlin app to identify the woodpecker drumming away in the depths of the woods to my right, though, or the harsh call of a pheasant. Which was lucky, since I needed all my focus on negotiating the muddy tracks…

which carried traces of tiny muntjac, unmet companions on this same walk

The pleasure of the woods gave way to the pleasure of the height as I joined the Three Choirs way where it follows the ridge line of the Malvern Hills. The views westward had the obelisk in the mid ground and the Black Mountains of Wales in the far distance. Unbelievably this is the highest point of the whole route! It’s practically all downhill from here.

Speaking of downhill, the track here was thickly bordered with a drift of English bluebells. The particular shade of blue is a constant marvel to me: extraordinarily deep, almost the purple of lavender in some lights.

At one point the blue was set off by the glorious yellow of a cystus.

The carpark at the bottom was once the starting point of long-ago walks with the Mums Up The Malverns group, and more recently the scene of a New Year’s outdoor meet-up with friends, eating sausages, ketchup and rolls out of the boot of my car as the 2020 Christmas lockdown eased. I looked smugly at the vertiginous rise of Raggedstone Hill, which today did not form part of my plans.

No more hills from here to Bristol! The Three Choirs Way snaked round on a contour path though the wooded south-western slopes. After yesterday‘s battles, it was a huge pleasure to walk on paths that were well maintained and uncomplicated. And mostly soft underfoot. I was charmed by the quotation printed on its waymarks: ‘blessed is the eye between the Severn and the Wye’.

And I could only agree. The southern hills are barely visited compared to the honeypots of the Worcestershire and Herefordshire Beacons. Here I enjoyed the sights alone: wild garlic making up the understory, in full flower as far as the eye could see.

The path at last, turned its back on the Malvern Hills, and tracked away across the farmland into the Vale of Evesham, views of Cotswolds opening up to the east.

I sat down in a field gateway on the dry ground to address some pressure points which were developing into deep blisters. It was wonderful to get my boots off and get some air to my feet and my socks. I put in the gel pads as well, to try to alleviate the pressure somewhat.

Getting my boots in good order proved to be prudent, as there followed a close encounter of the herd kind. A field of bullocks whose attention I immediately caught on entering the field; they started to make towards me, intent and powerful. When they were as close as I could cope with, I started brandishing my walking poles, which double up as Bullock Discouragers. At first they made no difference, and in the end I had to shout at them. The noise combined with pole action finally scared them off, to my enormous relief. I had not yet reached the safety of the gate on the other side when they turned around and thundered towards me again. I managed, with a turn of speed, to make it to the safety of the gate and fairly hurled myself over it, heart thumping, mouth dry, feeling suddenly nauseous as the adrenaline suddenly had nowhere to go.

Most of the fields were arable, though, or enriched meadow-grass grown for silage. The Vale of Evesham was turning into a dream of a walk. There were tumbled-down barns

and great flat slabs of freshly harrowed soil,

huge old oaks in sun-drenched fields,

And horses minding their own business and with no thought of attack in their heads.

A note here about paths. I am flummoxed about the conditions underfoot. My impression has been, I will say it again, that it has rained non-stop for the last six months. I cannot understand therefore how it can be that the ground in the field is so incredibly dry. There is plenty of evidence that the ground has recently been absolutely swamped: bare patches where crops have been flooded out, and where even tractors have seemed in difficulty.

But even where they haven’t, deep ruts have been practically fossilised into the rockhard ground, and this makes safe or at least pleasant walking very difficult. I think stumbling over the ruts yesterday may perhaps have been the origins of my blisters today. In one place, the upper layers of the mud were even curling up, like a British rail sandwich.

I could see on the map that I was almost at Staunton, where I knew there was a pub where I could get lunch. The route took tracks crabbing at right angles to get there, including one which took me under the M50 motorway, and another which was the first quiet, ancient green lane of this route.

But then things deteriorated. Firstly, a stile lead straight into a wide, deep swamp (a technical job to manage) and, secondly, the track became a muddy superhighway churned up by horses hooves.

It was slow going, but eventually I reached the pub at a little after 1 o’clock, having walked 18.5km. Not bad. A cheery sign outside the pub, even promised ice cream! I reckoned I had deserved some.

But the pub was closed.

What a horrid shock! I repaired to the corner shop opposite and bought a cheese and pickle sandwich, some raspberries and yoghurt, and went back over the road into the shade of the pub’s cherry tree to scoff the lot in a matter of seconds.

While I ate I made a decision to cut along the A-road rather than follow the TCW to Ashleworth. It was a more direct way to my B&B, 4.5km instead of 7.3. Given that I had only had three hours sleep last night I needed to be pragmatic about making sure I got to the end in one piece.

And I did!

Stats for the Day:

Distance: 24.28

Dead polecats on road: 1

Tramplings averted: 1, with great skill and by the skin of my teeth

Ice creams: big fat zero

Blisters: FOUR. Unfair.

Sunburn: Um. Healthy glow?