On the walk itself, at 2am when others will be safely tucked up in bed, and assuming things between 8am and 2am have gone to plan, three things are set to happen at once on the walk.
Night Stalking
These three things are: Firstly, it should be fully dark. Secondly we’ll hit the 85Km mark. Thirdly we’ll get to the lower slopes of the South Downs. Now, on their own, each of these things would present no problem. I’m not afraid of the dark, and walking up the South Downs would normally be nothing more than gently strenuous – hardly exactly summiting Everest. But walking up a hill, in the dark, and absolutely cream-crackered using a head-torch for the first time wasn’t something I decided a smart thing to do. So, with about as much enthusiasm as I had for my Mum’s funeral, I set about planning a night walk. I procrastinated. I dithered. I found many other things I should do other than walk in the countryside on my own in the middle of the night with a torch strapped to my head. Evening ironing managed to hold off the inevitable for a day, but inevitable it was. I considered my options before setting out. I decided to choose a route that would avoid people to every extent possible. The last thing I wanted to do was to stumble across star struck lovers entwined in a passionate embrace at a local beauty spot.Setting off
I opted to walk from Cranleigh to Baynards Hill. It would, I figured, be deserted and I knew the walk. I set off, dressed overtly as a wholesome rambler, from Cranleigh amidst what could easily be described as an idiot convention. I cleared the throng, and hit the trail into descending gloom. I knew the way and the distance, but it didn’t stop me being mildly apprehensive. So far as I knew, there were no reports of murderers targeting the old Guildford to Horsham railway line, but then they have to strike for a first time. What better night for it? As the last vestiges of purple light struggled to penetrate the overhead canopy of trees, I spotted two people approaching me without torches. “Oh good” I thought to myself, “they’re either going to kill me, mug me or think I’m a serial killer”. As they approached, their happy chat subsided, and they awkwardly greeted me. I suspect they wanted to form an emotional connection with their would-be captor in order to lessen the likelihood of an unpleasant death. I’m sure their pace quickened as they passed me, and if you said they’d broken into a run, I wouldn’t doubt you.
