Gallop off to the Downs

I’m a southerner. I don’t declare that by way of confession; instead, I’m hoping it goes some way to explaining my fascination with chalk. The soft, white rock featured in so many pivotal moments in my developing relationship with the great outdoors that it’s practically part of my DNA. On a day out to Whipsnade Zoo in Bedfordshire as a young child – a view that seemed to stretch on into infinity from Dunstable Downs (growing up in London, I’d never seen that amount of ‘green’ before); on a sixth form field trip to the Isle of Wight – a moment of epiphany, when I realised I really loved walking, having slogged my way through muddy fields and brambles to reach the top of St Catherine’s Down. Chalk runs through these memories like the word ‘Clacton’ through the sticks of rock I used to devour on family holidays.

It calls to me. Although I’d much rather be walking Scottish hills or Lakeland ridges close to my home in Cumbria, I still have occasional longings for chalk landscapes. So, you can imagine my disappointment when my first walk on the North Wessex Downs left me totally unmoved.

The cloud was low, the views were obscured by air heavy with moisture and the humidity left