TADS #46:Didcot (or Wittenham Clumps).

Clump Up The Jam! One Clump Or Two! Clump Up The Volume! Clump Around! Forest Clump! Clump'n'Grind! There are so many puns I could have used for yesterday's TADS walk from Didcot to Dorchester on Thames and back (that took in, as a highlight, Wittenham Clumps) that I slightly regretted I'd given the walk the rather functional name of Wittenham Clumps.

I soon figured, though, that if that was one of the regrets of the day then it was a pretty small one - plus, I had written the walk in the early months of 2020 - when Covid-19 was still a glint in a pangolin's eye in a Wuhan wet market.

Of course, the walk had been postponed twice but, finally, on Saturday we were ready for the off. I'd hoped for spring weather, at the very least no rain, and we certainly got that - at least at some points during the walk. We went from glorious sunshine to sleet and wind and back again. At some points, people were too warm. At others, they were too cold. 

Considering it had been snowing (sometimes it snows in April, you know) earlier in the week, I felt we did pretty well. I'd risen early, taken the train to London Bridge, two tubes to Paddington - where I met Pam - and then the surprisingly fast train to Didcot Parkway. Shep, Adam, Teresa, and Bee joined us at Reading.

Arriving in Didcot, we headed past some pleasant houses to Boswell's Cafe & Takeaway - and its bizarre cutlery wall art. Pam had asked if it was a greasy spoon or a more artisanal, smashed avo, type of place. Truth being, it wasn't quite either. A rather spacious canteen that would not have looked out of place in a holiday camp, it was doing a bustling trade - and they were very generous with the ketchup.

Less so with my scrambled egg on toast. Shep did far better with his veggie breakfast. It was my first time ever in Didcot and, so far, I wasn't buying into all the talk that the place is something of a dump. It looked okay to me.

From the cafe, we headed up to Cow Lane where we met Colin and Patricia. After passing over the railway tracks, and stopping to admire both a red kite and the first of many splendid pylons, we turned on to a pedestrian path which took us over several winding estate roads and, after a fashion, reached the pleasingly named Gelt Burn.

A path at the end of this cul-de-sac took us through to the A4130/Abingdon Road where we met with out biggest disappointment of the day. Shep had been struggling with his foot and had already suggested he'd probably need to dip out halfway but it was worse than he expected. To all of our regrets, he headed back home - though he promised to return later in the day for beers and curry.

A promise he was to come good on. We walked along the pavement and roadside of the Abingdon Road for a while before turning right on to a footpath that would ascend gradually, and pleasantly, through picturesque fields of crops which afforded us views of sunny skies dotted with little fluffy clouds. On the far horizons we could see small rain clouds hovering but, for now, we were dry, we were warm, and I was feeling happy.

These early parts of the walk, especially on sunny days, are often among my favourite parts. Several fields, and one small road section later, we found ourselves at the foot of the Wittenham Clumps where a small Earth Trust centre sits.

I wasn't sure if everyone would want to climb both the clumps - or even any of them - so, after asking the question 'one clump or two?, I was pleased to discover that everyone was happy to do the slightly taller Round Hill. We were even joined, briefly, by a small toad (or possibly a frog). Our amphibian friend was a long way from the water they usually like to make their home.

The wooded chalk hills they call Wittenham Clumps first came to my attention when I attended a Paul Nash (a favourite artist of mine) exhibition at Tate Britain some years ago. Nash regularly painted the clumps and described the view from them as "a beautiful legendary country haunted by old gods long forgotten".

He wasn't wrong. They're now Oxfordshire's most visited outdoor site with 200,000 visitors per year. At 120 metres, the Round Hill is ten metres higher than the Castle Hill next to it but the Castle Hill is the one topped by a selection of England's oldest beech trees.

Wittenham Clumps are also known as Sinodum Hills. Seno-Dunum means 'Old Fort' in the Celtic language and it's suggested there was an old fort atop the clumps. But 'sinus' means bosom in Latin and some think this is because the hills look a bit like a pair of boobs! Others see bums and another name for the clumps is Mother Dunch's Buttocks.

Before county boundary changes, yet another name was The Berkshire Bubs. Folklore has it there's a money pit with a treasure hoard guarded by a raven somewhere at the top as well as a cuckoo pen. The belief being that trapping a cuckoo guarantees eternal summer. Hmmm.

Some of the facts about the Wittenham Clumps are, actually. facts and not just that sheep graze quietly atop the hills and there are some lovely benches you can sit on. Perfect for the views or, indeed, for listening to me read spiel from crumpled pieces of A4 paper.

The excellent Black Mirror episode Shut Up And Dance climaxes in the woods nearby and Radiohead filmed a video for the In Rainbows track Faust Arp here. To the east of Castle Hill there once stood The Poem Tree. A beech tree with a poem, below - I read it in the pub later, carved into it by Joseph Tubb (1805-1879.

As up the hill with labr'ing steps we tread
Where the twin Clumps their sheltering branches spread
The summit gain'd at ease reclining lay
And all around the wide spread scene survey
Point out each object and instructive tell
The various changes that the land befell
Where the low bank the country wide surrounds
That ancient earthwork form'd old Mercia's bounds
In misty distance see the barrow heave
There lies forgotten lonely Cwichelm's grave.

Around this hill the ruthless Danes intrenched
And these fair plains with gory slaughter drench'd
While at our feet where stands that stately tower
In days gone by up rose the Roman power
And yonder, there where Thames smooth waters glide
In later days appeared monastic pride.
Within that field where lies the grazing herd
Huge walls were found, some coffins disinter'd
Such is the course of time, the wreck which fate
And awful doom award the earthly great.

The tree died in the nineties and stood rotting until finally collapsing in 2012. It's not the only poem associated with Wittenham Clumps. Matthew Prior (1664-1721) is said to have written Henry and Emma here. It's really long so I won't share it but it is best known for being alluded to in Jane Austen's 1817 novel Persuasion. Oddly enough not Emma, though the poem is believed to be the reason for the popularity of the name Emma.

We mucked about for a bit then headed slowly down, a graceful if confusing Thames vista laid out in front of us, to Little Wittenham and St Peter's Church. With a 14c belltower, it's a mix, architecturally, of Decorated Gothic (think York Minster), Perpendicular Gothic (King's College, Cambridge), and Early English Gothic (the cathedrals of Salisbury and Canterbury) and, inside - where we did not venture, there are a number of monuments to the Dunch family. 

Edmund Dunch was the Whig MP for nearby Wallingford and a member of the Kit Kat Club who was know to drink in famous taverns in London and Hampstead. Mother Dunch, his wife? his mum?, was known mainly for her buttocks resembling two local hills.

Not far from the church, you reach the Thames which your cross - via a small island - on  two separate pedestrian bridges. The second of which is both the prettier and the more interesting. It's where, between 1983 and 2018, the World Poohsticks Championships, took place.

In tribute, we had a little race ourselves (Colin's stick won) and I pointed out the nearby Day's Lock (a pound lock of the style invented in Song Dynasty China by Qiao Weiyue in the year 984) and we headed from the Thames towards Dorchester as the wind whipped up.

We cut through an interesting allotment (that included The Bees U Hotel and the Dorchester Chill Out Centre as well as information about Dorchester's Roman history - more later) into a picturesque Oxfordshire village full of thatched cottages and, best of all, the delightful Fleur-de-Lis pub.

Where we were joined by Ben, Tracy, Tony, Alex, Grace, and Izzie. I took a couple of pints of Pure Ubu (we were, quite remarkably, running ahead of schedule) and sat with Pam (who had a Purity, pictured), and Bee. Soon, our group took over the whole room and it would have been quite easy to waste, or enjoy, an entire afternoon there.

That didn't happen - but it was a very pleasant pit stop and though most of the 'car lot' left us at this point, Ben stayed with us for the rest of the walk. Which began with a short walk through Dorchester itself. A place that has been inhabited since Neolithic (10,000 - 4,500BC) times. The Romans built a vicus (village) here to link with their military camp in Alchester and, in 634, Pope Honorius I sent a bishop, Birinus, to Dorchester to convert the local Saxons to Christianity.

King Cyngeils of Wessex gave Dorchester to Birinus and it became, for a while, de facto, capital of both Mercia and Wessex. As Wessex was then the dominant kingdom of all England, Dorchester was, more or less, the capital city of the country. Very briefly. In 660 the bishopric and seat of tower was transferred to Winchester. That didn't stop Dorchester being an important place.

In the 12c the church was enlarged to serve a community of Augustinian priests but in 1536 Henry VIII dissolved the abbey leaving a small village with a huge church. Which is basically how it remains. Though the village may be small it is rather lovely. If we'd had more time we'd hopefully have visited Dorchester Abbey (where Birinus is buried along with the former bishop Wulfwig) that is built in the same three Gothic styles as St Peter' church.

Dorchester is also where Radiohead recorded parts of their Kid A and Amnesiac albums and it's the birthplace of former England (and Oxford, Derby, Liverpool, and Southampton) footballer Mark Wright. Leaving it, we passed over the Mill Stream and into the nearby hamlet of Oveney and picked up, roughly, the route of the river Thame.

The Thame runs for forty miles from the Vale of Aylesbury to .... well, pretty much here actually. We soon arrived at the confluence of the Thame and the Thames. Or what would once have been the confluence of the Thame and the Isis who, when joined, would give the Thames, or Tamesis, or Thamesis, its name.

It's a pretty stretch of the Thames, marred a little by some moronic conspiracy theorist graffiti, and it wasn't long before we were back on, and back over, the poohsticks bridge and back in Little Wittenham, those near ever present clumps rising in front of us once again.

But instead of scaling them once more we turned away. Our path, a designated walking route, took us through the garden of a very posh, and very nice, house. We speculated, without any evidence, on what the owners of the house felt about having assorted ramblers passing through their grounds but, at the same time, we also admired those grounds. They felt the sort of place you could enjoy a very upmarket wedding reception.

Almost all of this area was part of Berkshire until boundary changes were made in 1974. A thin grassy path took us on to a long, sunny, and straight stretch along a rough track that would not have pleased Shep's foot but did allow us to admire some cattle and, later, some swans.

The swans caused much discussion. At a distance, it was hard to be sure if they were swans or geese. They looked a little more like swans but they weren't particularly near any water and there was a much larger group than you'd normally see. Ben zoomed in on his camera and a swan confirmation was made.

What was much harder to confirm was if we had made a wrong turn. Our next stop was to be The Plough in Long Wittenham and my phone, and Ben's, both said twenty-two minutes away. The same as they had about twenty minutes ago.

When we got a slightly better reception, it became apparent that we had gone a little wrong. There should have been a cut through path which none of has had seen and we were doing what looked, but may not have been, a somewhat unnecessary loop that took us along a broad avenue in what was probably private property and then, eventually, into the rather delightful village of Long Wittenham.

And, of course, The Plough itself. I had a pint of Chairman Dave (I had to really) and we sat outside as a young man called his father-in-law a pussy for refusing to start smoking again after seven years. It was another nice stop but this time one drink was enough. We weren't ahead of time now but behind it.

There was though, of course, time for a little local history. The Wittenhams are, supposedly, named after a Saxon chief called Wikki and crop marks indicate that the area was once home to some high ranking Saxons. A local legend has it that Oliver Cronmwell once addressed villagers on the way to his niece's wedding. Better than that Long Wittenham is home the Pendon Museum, a collection of scale models of railways and landscape that I think sounds great and would like to visit.

Cue people laughing at me and teasing me - and conversations about Rod Stewart's model railway, Tucktonia, and Bekonscot. A friend of Colin's lives two doors down from the museum so Colin contacted him to see if he wanted to join us. He couldn't because he had Covid.

Certainly, many of the houses, from the thatched cottages to the quaint terrace, are delightful. Long Wittenham High Street fades out into a path (which is, you'll surely agree, quite unusual for a High Street) and, with Ben and Adam now setting a faster pace and the group stretching out, we followed the Moor Ditch and then some suburban paths for what felt like quite a long time back to Didcot.

The deer, the sunset, and the pylons (again, maybe just me for that one) made it more fun than it might have been and soon we were back at the railway line and heading through a housing estate to Kolkata restaurant where I got to deliver, to those interested, some Didcot factoids.

In 2017, Didcot was named the most 'normal' town in Britain and its name is thought to come from a Mercian king called Dida. Dida of Eynsham was the father of St Frithuswith, the patron saint of both Oxford and Oxford University. The train station, which the Great Western Railway reached in 1839 - but didn't open until five years later, was designed by Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

The opening of the station standardised the formerly disputed spelling of D-I-D-C-O-T. The former cooling towers of the power station, once the most famous of Didcot's sites, were voted in 2003, Britain's third worst eyesore by Country Life magazine. They were 'beaten' by windfarms and New Street station in Birmingham. Battersea Power Station came fourth and Basingstoke, in its entirety, sixth.

Seems a bit cruel but then who, other than cunts, reads Country Life magazine. Those who hold Didcot in a more favourable light presumably include the F1 community. Frank Williams started his team in a garage here (there's even a Sir Frank Williams Avenue to mark the man who passed away last year) and went on to win the F1 world championship with seven different drivers:- Alan Jones, Keke Rosberg, Nelson Piquet, Nigel Mansell, Alain Prost, Damon Hill, and Jacques Villeneuve.

They've not done so well in recent years and their current drivers, Nicholas Latifi and Alexander Albon, have yet to score any points in 2022. Staying on a sporting note, Didcot was also the birthplace of ex-Reading player and manager Maurice Evans as well as another 400+ appearance ex-biscuitman Jerry Williams (lots of Williamses  here eh?).

In Kolkata, we met again with Shep and Tracy and Vicki, Carole, and Dylan joined us too. Carole toldf us about the time Bugsy bought her 48 (FORTY-EIGHT) white chocolate Easter eggs! There were thirteen of us (seventeen across the day in total) and, once they'd made up a table for us and explained they were busy because it was the first day of Ramadan and they were breaking their fast, the poppadoms and Cobra came out quickly.

The wait for the main meal was much longer and though my bombay potatoes, tarka daal, and cheese naan (a naan that seemed to horrify Vicki sat next to me) were all delicious we needed to eat them very very quickly so we could catch the train back to Reading and London.

We maybe could have asked them to speed up but we were having such a good time we forgot. It meant that everyone paying individually would probably make us miss this train so I paid for everyone (and they've all since paid me back, a lovely bunch). Which meant not a huge tip. I explained to the guy who questioned the stinginess of the tip that I simply didn't have time and chucked a few extra quid in.

But, to be honest, if you take ninety minutes to bring out the mains and complain about the tip then maybe you don't deserve a big one no matter how tasty the food was. It was an awkward one and it left me feeling a bit frustrated that the day had ended in such a way.

Even though, of more pressing concern, was the rush for the train. Adam, Teresa, Shep, and Bee had gone ahead and me and Pam had to half-run (not easy after a fourteen mile walk, a curry, and a few beers) to the station. At least it was downhill.

We made it with three minutes to spare and though Shep was upset that the trolley service wasn't operating (even though he was only on the train for about twelve minutes) they were soon delivered to Reading and Pam and I to London. From Paddington it was the Bakerloo to Elephant & Castle and the 63 bus home. It had been a lovely day and I was ready for a good sleep.

Thanks to everybody who joined us and thanks to Pam, Bee, Colin, and Ben for the snappage and mappage (much of it included here). Next month, in May, we're in Reading for The Walk That Space Managed Time but, before that, I'm running an LbF walk around Woolwich, Thamesmead, and Abbey Wood that I have called Concrete and Quercus:From Clockwork Oranges to Norman Conquests. Come and join us.