Today it is the starting point for another long journey, not aided by the wind and tide, but by a sturdy pair of legs and a stout stick and blown along by a love of exploring our amazingly beautiful English countryside.

The 290 mile journey of which I speak is, of course, The Macmillan Way long distance footpath created by the Macmillan Cancer Relief charity which does so much to help those afflicted with this 21st Century scourge.

One of the wonderful aspects of this journey, which roughly follows the rich Cotswold stone belt all the way across country to the south coast at Abbotsbury in Dorset, is that it only passes through three large market towns namely Stamford in Lincolnshire, Cirencester in Gloucestershire and Sherborn in Dorset.

So for mostly all of those miles, the way takes the walker along field paths and quite country lanes, through woodland and by small rivers and quiet streams, pausing delightfully every now and again to pass through quiet villages where, if one is lucky, there is a shop for supplies or even better, a warm welcome in a friendly Inn.

Most of us, I guess, do not have the luxury of time, or possibly even the inclination, to undertake a 290 mile trek all at one go so what better way than to divide The Macmillan trail up into two or three day sections covering between 30 and 50 miles at a time.

In that way one can return to the walk at regular intervals and journey ever onward through the gradually changing vistas of the rural counties of Lincolnshire, Northamptonshire, Warwickshire, Gloucestershire, Wiltshire, Somerset, Devon and lastly Dorset, in all the seasons of the year.

Walking The Macmillan Way and many of the other wonderful long distance routes which cross the UK has, over the years, added an extra richness to the busy tapestry of our lives.

For me there is no pleasure greater than to be out on one of the many and varied long distance trails which cross the British Isles in any weather.

Having previously followed the well marked Greater Ridgeway trail all the way from Lyme Regis in Dorset to Hunstanton in Norfolk on our previous cross England journey, we did not really know quite what to expect of The Macmillan Way when it came to the essential subject of route finding.

We had already been impressed by the comprehensive Macmillan way guide book which gives detailed field-by-field walking instructions and can be accompanied by a most helpful accommodation guide book, but the quality of the way marking was, as yet, an unknown factor.

So having driven up to Boston from our homes in North Somerset the preceeding afternoon, we set out from the Market Place early on a spring morning with the exciting prospect of yet another long way and many adventures ahead.

It’s worth saying at this point that we always carry the Ordnance Survey maps for the section we are about to traverse because they show the route and give us a valuable over view of the way ahead.

Without them one could easily become completely lost on the odd occasions that one wanders off the route laid out in the guide book simply by miss reading an instruction.

I fondly remember one occasion when Peter and I had stopped to consult our map on a densely wooded section of the route which runs all the way from Weston-super-Mare to Dover and which is pictorially described in another Travelogue.

We had only been there for a few moments when a young family with friends suddenly emerged from the undergrowth clutching a pub walk guide book and looking quite relieved to see someone with a proper map.

“Excuse me” said the dad.” Can you tell us where we are ?” “Yes” replied Peter with a mischievous look in his eye. “You’re in Hampshire!” 

Luckily we were able to spot the nearest pub to our position and hopefully sent them off in the right direction.

So always, always carry OS maps if you are a newcomer to the great outdoors and should by any chance be in the process of planning your first cross country trek.

Anyway back to our Macmillan adventure, which now lay ahead of us, and to the question of the quality of the way marking. Well I have to say that it was first class. We came across our first Macmillan Way sticker on a post on the river bank and, with very few exceptions, they guided us safely all the way to Dorset.

Now I hope you are not expecting me to describe our journey in great detail because I would prefer anyone reading this to set off on their own great adventure.

Suffice is to say we spent many a happy day walking across the landscape, under ever changing skies, appreciating the scenery, finding sheltered or sunny spots for snacks and looking forward to a hearty evening dinner and friendly company.

Every so often the presence of the golden stone strata, which The Macmillan Way sort of follows across the country, and which is often associated with much of Gloucestershire, made itself known in the fabric of the buildings.

“We could be in the Cotswolds,” we often exclaimed on entering exquisite honey coloured stone villages in Rutland, south Somerset and indeed Dorset.

Unless one keeps a diary along the way, an occupation which many enjoy but which I would find tedious, it is often difficult to remember all the places one visits because, for me, they simply merge into a rich collage of experience.

However, having a life-long interest in history, some of the notes of historical importance along The Macmillan Way have naturally stuck in my mind; like the morning we left Stamford which has the reputation of being the “finest stone town in England.”

Having stayed over night in this lovely hillside town, we strolled out along a delightful green vale beside the meandering River Welland until we came to a bridge where an information board told us that it was here  in AD61 that the survivors of the Ninth Roman Legion fled the vengeful warrior queen Boadicea.

My imagination quickly summed up the scene of the commander of the legion, his standard bearer and cohort of light cavalry splashing through the river having taken the strategic decision to abandon what was left of his beleagured army of foot soldiers to their fate.

Then not far from Market Harborough in Northamptonshire, we toiled up the long road into Great Brington, following the estate wall of Althorp Park, the family seat of Earl Spencer, to find the tiny village post office and shop full of Princess Diana memorabilia.

Further along the way and while passing through a particular lovely section of Cotswold countryside, we found ourselves in the sleepy village of Adlestrop made famous by the poet Edward Thomas whose train happened to stop there on Brunel’s London to Worcester railway line.

“Yes I remember Adlestrop,” is the opening sentence of his short poem about this delightfully rural idyll but sadly he died in France in 1917.

Shortly afterwards we passed the picturesque rectory, often visited by Jane Austen whose uncle Theophilus Leigh lived there, and then stopped for a morning coffee break resting against a fallen tree in open parkland.

And as for all those adventures of which I spoke. Well there was the extremely wet evening, shortly after leaving the fens, that we trudged along a soggy riverbank in the gathering gloom towards a village and our intended farmhouse B&B. Sadly I missed the turning over a little river bridge and we toiled on into and around the village and eventually back to where we had first arrived.

Then there was the Rutland morning we found a sunny seat for our mid-morning break, besides which was a box of plants and an honesty box. We had not been there more than a couple of minutes when a lady appeared from a nearby cottage and offered to bring us out mugs of coffee. 

It was the first time in many hundreds of miles that we had ever received such a generous offer so we left our flasks in our sacks and willingly accepted her extremely kind and most unexpected offer.

Then there was the soaking wet afternoon we found shelter in a country church porch, took off our rucksacks and dripping coats and stretched out on an old coconut mat to rest awhile.

We must have looked for all the world like a couple of vagrants when a middle aged couple carrying a bouquet of flowers suddenly appeared and were obviously surprised to see their way blocked in such a disagreeable manner.

We immediately engaged them in conversation only to discover they had been married in that very church 40 years ago that day and had travelled up from Somerset to commemorate the occasion.

And then there was the pub where muddy boots were welcome and another where we arrived weary on a dark November evening to find mine host and his lady wife in the middle of a blazing row.

We stayed in a country house, where we were offered glasses of white wine in  front of crackling log fire, cosy oak beamed cottages and in many a modern family home.

And it was not for the first time that an obliging host got out a car to take us a mile or so to a pub or restaurant either to save our legs or us from getting another soaking.

In Cirencester we stopped at a bakery to buy something for our elevenses and when the lady owner discovered we were on the Macmillan Way she gave us each a cake for nothing.

“Well” said Peter.” Now we’ve been given the ‘freebun’ of Cirencester.” We devoured our free buns on a seat amid the gravestones in the grounds of the magnificent parish church.

So it was after two quickly passing years, that we at last came to a halt on the hills overlooking the sea at Abbotsbury in Dorset and quietly admired the magnificent view over the sparkling sea with the end of the Chesil Beach below and the sunlight isle of Portland far off to the left.

I felt both a satisfaction that we had come so far and experienced so much but also a sadness that yet another journey had come to an end.

But need it be the end I suddenly asked myself?  For below us was the South West Coast path which runs over 600 miles from Minehead in Somerset to Poole in Dorset.

“Peter,” I said. “Why don’t we now simply follow the coast path all the way around to Exmouth, cross the Exe on the ferry to Torcross and make our way through the lanes to link up with the Two Moors Way as it leaves Dartmoor and heads across country to Exmoor and the sea at Lynmouth.

Then we can rejoin the South West coast path on its way up the Bristol Channel to Minehead in Somerset because that is where we finished the Macmillan Way’s westerly extension.

“OK said Peter so what are we waiting for?”

Now here is Peter’s Macmillan Way poem

From Lincolnshire to Dorset
From Stump to Swannery
They walked the fine Macmillan Way
From Wash to English Sea

With book and Ordnance Survey
They found the waymarked routes
And stickers left on posts and stiles
Were there to guide their boots

They stayed in modest B&Bs
And country houses grand
Their gear in rucksacks on their backs
And each stop carefully planned

Through villages and hamlets
Down paths and bridleways
Their passage marked across the land
By ever-changing days

Felt Autumn fade to Winter chill
Saw Spring’s green shoots appear
Stopped at pubs on Summer days
To slake their thirst with beer

Heard larks ascending skywards
Watched hares and rabbits run
Saw timid deer take instant flight
And hawks backlit by sun

The seasons’ floral calendar
Gave scents to woodland scenes
Of bluebells and wild garlic
And buttercup-lined streams

From snowdrops in a hidden dell
To blossom’s multi-hue
From poppy red to campion pink
And petals flecked with dew

From tall bullrush and lilies
To moorland gorse and heather
Nature’s picture patchwork
As changing as the weather

They sheltered under hedgerows
As wind whipped overhead
Slumbered in the sunshine
With soft grass as their bed

Battled over new-ploughed fields
To reach a distant gate
Warmed themselves on evenings
Before a glowing grate

With waterproofs and gaiters
They braved the lashing rain
Trudging through a sea of mud
Another mile to gain

Met characters and kindnesses
With buns and cups of tea
Glimpsed unhurried rural life
That few are blessed to see

Entered country churches
With timeless peace within
Rushed across wide motorways
To leave their ceaseless din

They left the Wash on river banks
Where cattle sought the breeze
Retreating to the lower ground
When bulls rose from their knees

From Stamford spires to Rutland
And waters filled with trout
And onward cross the landscape
With scarce a soul about

Parkland known by Austen
A station caught in rhyme
Savouring these echoes
Of England’s gentler time

Northamptonshire to Warwickshire
And then the Cotswold heights
Gloucestershire to Wiltshire
Enjoying ramblers’ rights

In Somerset a side trail
To link with far Exmoor
But after reaching Dunster
They turned back for the shore
That beckoned them in Dorset
Through lanes to Abbotsbury
Where green fields merged with beaches -
At last the shining sea.

Peter Gibbs, July, 2010