WHEN WALKING

Into the Golden Valley

Madley to Peterchurch: 26km

The day did not end as expected, but it ended well.

After a cold night in Madley Church, poor James has barely slept a wink. Six foot three, and the legs that accompany that, is ideal for crossing styles and peering over hedgerows, less so for camp beds, where your feet hang over the end. Still, he makes me a coffee and I get some porridge, and we set off.

First, we make a small detour to visit Cousin Kate and Georgina, and to see a beautiful plot of land and hear the potential plans for it. It has been wonderful to catch up with them on this route. It was visits to these cousins as a child that first introduced me to this impossibly green and rolling landscape.

After an hour or so out of Madley, James heads off on a cross-country shortcut to Peterchurch,, from where he will catch the bus home. Thirty years ago, I persuaded James to spend three days crossing the Thar Desert by camel. My dear friend, who has never done anything but make life comfortable for me, has already done enough hardship, on my prompting, for one lifetime.

The onward path is beautiful. The paths have been cut through the crops, with just some June regrowth to contend with. At times, the route offers glimpses of the Wye and a canoe. I stop at Bredwardine Church, once rectored by the author of Kilvert Diaries, and loiter too long reading inscriptions, critiquing the small lending library, and imagining the devastation of Josh, another pilgrim, who has left his credentials behind. I walk on to the pub, which has just closed.

Before tackling the last of the big climb over into the Golden Valley, I get water from the last house. The man restrains his enormous dog and tells me that the view behind is so good that I have a perfect excuse to stop every few minutes. And I do. You can see forever. Or maybe it was Wales.

At last I reach the crest of the hill. Ahead of me is a figure whom I take to be another pilgrim. Instead, she turns out to be an elderly farmer, out inspecting her crops after the recent rain. I ask how long she has lived here. “Oh, only since the 1980s,” she says. “I’m a Shropshire girl.”

Also on the summit stands Arthur’s Stone, an ancient Neolithic site. After spending most of the day alone, I am surprised to find several groups gathered around the pile of big stones: a father and son, and a motorcycling couple. I say hello; they look nervous; I carry on.

The Golden Valley is every bit as magical as people say. I try to work out why. The endless rolling hills I have been walking through in the last few days, with no obvious boundaries, often leave me feeling disoriented. I am used to the clear ridgelines of the North Downs and South Downs and the parallel lesser ridges of the Weald in between, the dividing mountain ranges of Spain or Hungary, or the sea providing natural edges to the landscape. Here, is a place I can understand: a valley enclosed, a landscape with structure, something that can be navigated.

I enjoy the descent towards Dorstone. There I realise I must hurry to Peterchurch before the shops close, foregoing a detour to a ruin. I have been warned that Sundays are a food wasteland.

When I reach the shop, I buy enough food for the whole week. Of course, I then have to carry it all, but somehow the weight is comforting. I chat with the shopkeeper, who tells me about another walking route further into Wales. Such recommendations perpetuate this walking life.

Back at the church, I unlock the little vestry door. Peterchurch doubles as a café during the week, and everything is laid out with tables, chairs, and cutlery. There is a lovely kitchen area at the front, where I am able to prepare myself a three-course meal. Sitting at one of the tables, drinking local cider, I feel unexpectedly privileged.

I try to boil some eggs in the microwave, but perfection is not to be found in this world.

Now I am lying in the transept. The altar end is the darkest, but the floor there is cold and it seems strange to sleep too close to the kitchen, or in the heated loo. So I settle beside the font (doubling as table 13), beneath the list of former vicars for protection. It is all very reassuring. Peterchurch is a good place.