On the last day of March 2013, despite my recent twenty two mile walk, I was more than happy to go for a wander in the New Foest with Commando. He was off running for an hour so it was never going to be an epic walk but there were a few surprises to be had along the way and Commando had a final trick up his sleeve to make me smile.
31 March 2013
Last night I decided to check out how far I’ve walked now on the Moonwalk training. Remember I checked it out at the beginning of the month and I’d walked over three hundred and eighty five miles. Well now I’ve walked five hundred and eighteen and a half miles, obviously that half is very important. After a bit of a play around on Google maps, working out walking distances it turns out that is the same as walking from my house in Southampton to Fort William in Scotland! Flippin’ heck, when you look at it like that it’s a long, long way.
After all the walking on Friday you’d think the last thing I’d want to do was go for a walk this morning but, when Commando said he was going out for a run in the New Forest, I grabbed my padded coat and boots straight away. The sky was blue and the sun was shining, it was too good an opportunity to miss. This was not going to be an epic trek, he was only going for an hour or so.
We drove out to Stoney Cross and stopped at Janesmoor pond where you could hardly move for all the ponies. Commando had a game plan, he’d been studying Google maps, I, on the other hand, had no idea where to go. Of course I knew a little bit about Stoney Cross, it was the site of one of the larger wartime New Forest airfields. Opened in 1942, it was used by the RAF and the USAA, Ninth Airforce. The bombers supporting the D-Day landings flew from Stoney Cross until, in September 1944, the Americans relocated to Maupertus Airfield in Normandy. I know Maupertus well, it’s close to L’Anse du Brick, where I have spent many happy hours wandering through the woods stumbling upon gun emplacements and defences.
Stoney Cross Airfield closed in 1948 and, in the 1960’s, the runways were broken up for use as hardcore. Today you’d be hard pushed to even realise there was ever an airfield there unless you knew, but, looking at the satellite maps, it’s obvious. This morning, ironically, there were people on one of the old runways flying model aircraft.
So Commando ran off into the distance and I started by having a closer look at the pond. I strolled over the grass, past all the ponies grazing and admired the way the sky reflected in the water. There was a sign saying ‘no fishing’ but, to be honest, I found it hard to believe there were any fish in there to catch. There were a few cars arriving at the car park by this time, people getting out, children running around, so I decided to have a look at WalkJogRun to see if I could see any trails or woodland paths. There looked to be a few but I had no idea where they led.
The first path I took was lined by tall pines and quite dark, the sun coming through the leaves in sharp beams. It was also grass with a fair bit of mud, although nothing as bad as last weekend. I walked a little way, avoiding the boggy bits, but a family with children were close behind me. While I don’t have anything against children, I wanted a quiet peaceful stroll so I turned back and decided to try the other path I’d spotted, it looked wider and more defined on the map anyway.
The second path was more like it, a mixture of trees, more sunlight and no one else in sight. The ground was covered with fallen leaves, rustling with every step and there were huge puddles of sunlight and dappled shade. Pretty soon I discovered the leaves may have been dry but there was soft squelchy mud hidden underneath in places. The ponies had left deep uneven tracks also filled with mud. It was a case of watching where I put my feet, measuring every step before I committed.
Where the pines had been tall and straight, many of the trees here were twisted and contorted, branches dipping to the ground and moss clinging like a green velvet blanket. Scattered here and there broken branches and sawn logs were swallowed up by dense colonies of lichens, fungi and mossy growth. Stooping to pass under a low branch I noticed the bright green of new leaves just beginning to emerge from buds. The forest is finally beginning to come back to life. Tiny holly seedlings were emerging here and there amid the fallen leaves. The thick shaggy moss on one tree had even become home to a small holly sprig, one tree beginning to grow on another.
A man on a brown pony with a blonde mane passed by, wished me good afternoon, then disappeared amongst the trees. In the silence I heard the trickle of water and soon saw a small stream. Luckily I found a little bridge of grass to cross without getting my feet wet. The ground on the other side was boggier, a sinuous network of brooks and rills branching in all directions. In places fallen branches had created mini weirs. I stepped across one after another, walking a tortuous path weaving through the trees to find the firmest ground.
A crossroads had me checking WalkJogRun again. Commando had said he’d run for an hour and I’d been walking for about half that so I really had to think about turning back. The path through the pines seemd to run parallel with the one I’d taken so, rather than go back the way I came, I decided to go back that way, taking the path I’d abandoned earlier from the other end. The family who’d been behind me right at the beginning passed me just then going in the opposite direction. Shortly after that I came to a gate.
Back in the pine forest there were no more streams or brooks and, in the main, the ground was less muddy. In a few places I had to zig zag between the trees to avoid particularly muddy patches, thinking more of mud on the carpet of the car than anything else as the mud wasn’t wet and slippery like it was last week after the rain. It didn’t take long to reach the top of the track and, after a moment or two of confusion where I turned left when I should have turned right, I was back at the car park.
Commando rang about then to say he’d be a bit longer than expected because he’d got slightly lost so I went for a walk around the pond, smiling to myself that I wasn’t the only one who can get lost. It isn’t a very big pond and it didn’t take long. Away from the shelter of the trees the wind was quite cold so I set off to have a closer look at the ponies. The ones nearest the pond were the normal New Forest ponies, grazing away quite unconcerned no matter how close I got. To be honest I’m probably more scared of them than they are of me.
The sharp wind was beginning to get annoying so I went off towards the gorse on the other side of the car park seeking a little more shelter. As I was taking a photo of some gorse flowers I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. There, hidden amongst the scruby bushes, were a family of tiny Shetland ponies. Who knew there were Shetland ponies in the forest? The grey mare, eyed me suspiciously, she was obviously pregnant, her distended belly almost brushing the ground. Behind her, her mate, brown with a blonde mane and tail ignored me completely and carried on munching at the gorse. Just as I was turning to go back I spotted a foal, no bigger than a large dog. I swear we could have put him in the car and taken him home.
Shortly after that Commando reappeared and he had another trick up his sleeve. Last week we’d been talking about Rufus Stone and I’d mentioned that I’d never seen it despite living so close. It turned out it wasn’t far from Stoney Cross and Commando, who’d been there before, knew exactly how to get there, Instead of going straight home we went for a look. It wasn’t quite what I expected. Somehow I’d imagined it being deep in the forest, not right on the edge of the road, although I suppose the road came later and it once was in the middle of the forest. I’d also expected an actual stone, like a headstone, but it was a three sided black oblong.
Reading the inscription it became clear this was not the original stone. This monument is actually a cast iron cover, placed there in the mid eighteen hundreds to protect the stone from vandals. Even so, on this very spot on 2 August 1100, King William Rufus was killed. The story goes this was a hunting accident. An arrow fired by Walter Tyrrell deflected off an oak tree and hit the king. There is some doubt about this as Walter was a good marksman and the story doesn’t quite ring true.
The thing is, Rufus was not a popular king. He may have maintained order and justice in England restored peace to Normandy and extended his rule to Wales and Scotland but his personal life left alot to be desired. He had no social graces, was addicted to every kind of vice and his relationship with the church was strained to say the least. More importantly, he levied a heavy and much resented tax on the English people to fund his brother Robert’s First Crusade. When he died no one was looking too closely at the circumstances, they were just relieved to be rid of him.
After the supposed accident, the nobles with him actually abandoned his body to be found later by a peasant. His brother, Henry, who’d also been with the hunting party, dashed off to Winchester and was crowned within a few days. As for Walter Tyrrell, he ran off to France and no one bothered to try to bring him back. This certainly smacks of the act of a guilty man. Of course, Walter became something of a folk hero and, a little way down the road, there is a pub called the Walter Tyrrell.
There is an oak tree behind the stone to this day although it is not the original, In the eighteenth century that infamous oak tree was cut down and burned. Perhaps this one grew from one of the original oak’s acorns though. I’d like to think so.
It was good to get out in the fresh air, even if I only walked about two and a half miles. Wandering slowly, stopping to look at things with no thoughts of speed or distance makes a nice change. Once this Moonwalk training is over I think I will need to do a lot more of that.
I’ve never heard of Rufus. For them to just abandon his body like that he must have really been an ogre.
He was better known as William II, the third son of William I. He was King of England from 1087 until 1100. By all accounts he was a bit of a rascal but the taxes were probably the finish of him.