Forty one – 500 Miles

The London Bridge station concourse was deserted except for a woman in her late twenties. Anke, our meeting host, was sitting on a bench, eating her breakfast. Had I got out of bed at a slightly earlier things would have been very different: I would have had to go to the Gay Man’s Rowing Club (I cannot swim, or row, and I’m not gay), or a hardcore cycling club which promised a ‘loop through South East London’. Instead, I was going to a hiking group.

Over the next fifteen minutes four ‘500 milers’ arrived. I knew one of the fellow walkers: a woman called Lynne who I had met at a ‘Tour of Bermondsey’s Breweries’ that was organised by a neighbour more than a year ago. The other walkers were Julie, Güler, and Isabel. When it was exactly half past nine, Anke walked us to a platform which revealed our destination: we were going to Kent.

After changing trains, we arrived at Leigh, where we were joined by two more people: a Korean chap called Kim and a Dutch guy called Andre, who had both travelled from Surrey. After some brief introductions, we set off at an outrageously fast pace.

Within ten minutes, I had settled into the walk and started to enjoy myself. Although there wasn’t any sun, it was warm.  As I walked, I suddenly realised that I hadn’t left London for at least three months; I sensed that the air was cleaner and I smelt that fresh dampness that accompanies the days of early autumn; I was glad to be there.

I looked around and wondered who lived in the large detached houses that we passed and dreamt of what it would be like to live in the countryside. I dreamt about having a huge garden that would take minutes to cross, mused about the dangers of chopping wood, and the challenges of keeping chickens. London, I realised, was starting to consume me; I had missed this kind of adventure, and I was surprised was that it had taken no more than an hour’s travel to discover a whole new environment and be confronted with a new way of living.

We found ourselves traversing the border of what turned out to be a grand stately home in a village called Chiddingstone. Occasionally Anke would stop, glance at her map, make sure that everyone was following her, and then carry on. When it came to trail navigation, she had two tools: an ordinance survey map that was packed in a neat transparent folder and a compass, nothing more.

I chatted to Lynne and Julie; we talked about hikes, groups and jobs. Lynne worked as a software developer. She wrote and maintained financial software systems and hated it; she was stuck in a rut, not really knowing what she wanted to do, trapped by the perpetual challenge of having to service an expensive London mortgage. Julie, on the other hand, seemed to be more content: she was a former features writer for a women’s magazine and made her living as a recruitment consultant.

‘Is everyone okay? How is the pace? Faster, slower?’ Anke asked, stopping for an instant, making sure that we were all okay. Everyone was happy. The pace was fine, but I was starting to realise that my legs were starting to acquire an unusual burning sensation and my right foot was starting to become grumpy about my cheap hiking boots.

The walk was surprising in the sense that the terrain was always changing. It was never difficult; there were hills that appeared to be gentle, but they always caused me to feel out of breath. We walked through muddy fields, over styles and onto ancient footpaths.  I saw a road sign: our final destination was the town of Tunbridge Wells where we could apparently catch a train back to London Bridge. The sign said six miles. We were roughly half way there.

We stopped for lunch next to the River Medway, a river which eventually winds its way towards Rochester, Chatham and Gillingham before it ends at the North Sea. Everyone had been sensible and had brought food. Chocolate digestive biscuits were shared. Güler and Isabel sat together, chatting. There turned out to be three cliques: myself, Julie and Lynne were one, Güler and Isabel were another, and the two lads, Jan and Kim kept each other company. Jan was one of the surprises of the Meetup; he had met his future wife on one of Anke’s walks, and Anke was, of course, invited to the wedding; I overhead talk about plans, meals and parties.

After lunch, I walked with Jan for a bit. Jan worked as an interior designer for a company that remodels flats and houses for clients who have preposterous amounts of money.

‘Where are the clients from?’ I asked.

‘Many of them are from the Middle East. We have clients from Qatar… I’m currently working with a woman who is from China’. He worked on properties that ranged from small studio flats, through to huge luxury apartments.  His clients would buy them for an extortionate amount of money, have them renovated, than then sell them on, or rent them out to rich students. Jan was a direct connection to the ridiculous world of the London property market.

It was around this point that I started to get tired. I had gone from being enthusiastic about the countryside, to starting to get annoyed at there being ‘yet another hill that wasn’t really a hill’ to climb; my lower legs started to complain with increasing volume. Apparently Julie knew of a good pub in Tunbridge Wells; the thought of this distant oasis kept me going. I also thought that my city life had made me lazy and unfit: this ‘walk’ was absolutely nothing like ‘Ken’s walk’ which was, in comparison, a leisurely stroll.

As I struggled up yet another infernal hill and into the distinctly respectable town of Tunbridge Wells, I found the time to have a chat with Anke. Anke was originally from the Netherlands had been leading hikes for three years and had run her Meetup group for about a year and a half. Her group had in excess of four hundred members and she aimed to run a hike every two weeks. One week she would go on her own to make sure that she knew the route, and the following week she would take her group. She also helped out at a scout group, had a full time job in the financial services industry, and did Kung Fu.

We found our oasis: a pub a short walk away from the Tunbridge Wells railway station. We sat outside to chat, so Julie could enjoy a crafty cigarette. The solid seat and local ale were welcome treats after a long trudge through mud, fields, and leaves. Anke, Jan, Kim, Güler and Isabel left early, leaving myself and Julie, who was enjoying her second glass of wine.

‘We’ll catch you up!’ Julie said to Anke and the others.

We missed our train.

Julie drank a third glass of wine in another pub that was even closer to the train station.

We continued to chat when we were finally on our train; we talked about Australia, relationships, and London.