I wish the authorities would stick their necks out and be absolutely clear on this, because they are apparently allowing a fair amount of leeway, but at the same time threatening a punishment if you overstep an indistinct boundary line. That's a bit unfair. Why can't they say 'you mustn't venture more than ten (or whatever) miles as the crow flies from your home location', which is definitive, and could be worked out with pencil and compass on a map.
Driving anywhere is certainly not encouraged: I'm clear on that. There's no fuel shortage whatever, but I do take the point that if my car broke down, or I met with an accident of any kind while away from home, somebody would have to come out to help me, and be diverted from more essential duties. Against that, my car is very well-maintained, and so reliable that I would happily drive it to Scotland tonight, without any preparation, and without the slightest qualm, if that were allowed. As for the risk of a traffic accident, the country roads hereabouts are well-nigh empty in the hour or so before sunset, which is when I go out in my car to some spot for a walk.
I can (and do) walk around the village for exercise. The trouble is that so does everyone else. And even now some people you meet are clearly not being serious about keeping their distance, even on a road where we could stay on opposite sides. Only two evenings ago, I encountered a family group coming towards me, Mum and Dad on the opposite side from me, their children on my side. Were the children going to switch sides? Oh no - they came closer and closer, and their parents did not intervene. In the end I had to stop and stare hard at these kids before they rather reluctantly fell in behind their parents. I suppose it was 'not cool' for teenagers to be seen trailing their Mums and Dads. Well, tough. My personal welfare trumps any teenager's fragile street cred.
It made me feel that carrying a stick to fend off people who approach too closely might be a good idea! I gave this passing notion more thought later, and decided that a stick might indeed be a good idea. And not just to fend off sulky teenagers.
There are some very considerate people around. I love them to bits. But the odd one who isn't considerate, who clearly couldn't give a toss about another person's fear of getting infected, poisons the day with their carelessness. The risk of encountering these evil-doers on the village roads and twittens (narrow footpaths) is too high for comfort.
There are also way too many dog-walkers.
If I want to maintain social distancing without constant ducking and diving, I need to reach emptier countryside. And that means getting in the car and going some place where I can reasonably hope to be alone for my entire walk. That is after all, what the government wants - no contact whatever, no risk of a close encounter, and no chance of cross-infection. I'm extremely happy to oblige.
All this said, I hadn't actually driven anywhere for exercise for a whole week. The last time, seven days ago, I went west to Upper Beeding and Bramber. Yesterday evening I headed east to Piltdown and Shortbridge. These places represent the western and eastern limits to what I'd regard as 'local'. I suppose they'd be within the range of a moderately fit person on a pushbike, if they were out for a couple of hours, and averaging ten miles an hour. Not that I'd ever get on a bicycle! But if I stick to places no more than ten miles distant, and do it strictly for the sake of exercise, I wouldn't feel I was irresponsibly 'bending the rules'.
So, Piltdown and Shortbridge. Here's a map (click on it to enlarge it):
I'd briefly had a walk around the Piltdown Pond a week and a half ago. I was going to park there again, then walk south along those yellow-coloured lanes, then head south-east towards Shortbridge, skirting the edge of the Piltdown Golf Club course, then along the edge of a big field. Reaching the brown-coloured road near the pub, I would walk north to the Clubhouse then back over the golf course to where I'd parked Fiona by the pond. Despite being not far away, I hadn't explored the Piltdown area much, and most of this walk would be new to me.
I arrived at 6.30pm. Pildown seemed hunkered down for the night, and it was utterly still, apart from the occasional car to be heard on the nearby A272. I soon reached the golf course.
Long shadows on the fairways - sunset was only an hour away. I had it all to myself. Maximum social distancing. That gravel path petered out, and so I headed south-east over grass and heather. This course has no sand bunkers - it relies on an awful lot of rough instead. I was looking for a way out into the big field. Mistaking my position, I entered a wooded area sown with daffodils. Enchanting.
Spring had arrived! I thought of the people who didn't have access to Mid Sussex woods, and sights like this. But then, I didn't have access to pretty coves and sandy bays in places like Cornwall, nor big lakes, nor a forest, nor any proper moorland. Even the Seven Sisters chalk cliffs and the yachty creeks of Chichester Harbour were out of reach for now, being just too far away. (But of course I could look at my many pictures of them)
I returned to the golf course. It had a rough charm and beauty, made soft and shadowy by the golden sunset light. But I was absolutely the only soul in sight. I might as well have been the last person left alive.
Ah, there was the path into the big field. Once through, I took in a wide vista. Strong plough-lines dominated. The farmer had left a very generous grass margin to walk on.
As you can see from my shadow, I was carrying a stick. This was the one that has a hand-grip rather than a crook. You couldn't hook it over your arm (to take a picture, say), but the grip added weight at one end, and it would make a half-decent cudgel if need be. Certainly, I had many a time delivered a convincing thwack with it - as brambles and thistles barring my way had frequently found out. This stick was also good as a third leg on slippery paths, as an aid when climbing (or descending) steep slopes, or as a pole when leaping gullies. But its prime purpose on a country walk was to have something handy if I were attacked by rabbits. Or a ram. Or to discourage even larger beasts. And who knows, lurking behind a bush might be some dodgy character. I didn't want gentry like that to think I was an easy mark.
Apart from the stick - which I hoped said 'habitual walker, taking her exercise' - I was wearing my rustic, dusty, but expensive Dubarry boots and my green Seasalt hooded coat - which I hope said 'local resident of these well-heeled parts'. I should have worn my pearls as well, to complete the impression of a lady who belonged in this genteel and moneyed part of Sussex, and shouldn't be challenged. Two roadside mirrors gave opportunities to consider what I looked like to anybody I might come across.
I think my 'disguise' was pretty good. Complete with Leica. I'd been taking some pretty pictures of primroses with it. Or are they cowslips?
There's a pub - an inn, rather - at Shortbridge called The Peacock. One of those ancient timber-framed buildings. I'd never been inside. Maybe I should make the effort.
Pricey food, I'd imagine. Shortbridge and Piltdown both both consisted of large houses in extensive grounds, some protected by gates, high hedges and fences, and CCTV. Nothing for sale under a million, here, I thought. Maybe two million.
As I walked north towards the Golf Clubhouse, there were many glimpses of the course on my left. I saw that I wouldn't have the chance of golden sunset shots - the sun was going to disappear behind a bank of cloud before it reached the horizon. In the dimming light, the course looked even emptier.
Buildings came into view. On my left, behind a fancy hedge, some terraced cottages. One had just been sold.
A quick look at RightMove revealed that it had been on offer at £725,000. For a three-bedroomed semi-detached house. Hmm. Mind you, what a place to live if you were a golfer! For just across the road at this point was...the Piltdown Golf Club, no less!
Most golf club buildings look like pavilions, but this one was originally a farmhouse.
Behind that sold house, at the end of their long back garden, was the golf course itself. I turned off the road, and set off across the course, following the marked way.
I noticed that there were plenty of seats around. They were a bit lichen-covered, but would no doubt get a spring clean soon. Were they for resting golfers, or tired walkers? The sun was going down rapidly now, just about to sink behind that cloud.
There was no clear path as such, but it wasn't hard to spot the way-posts in the gloaming. This involved crossing more than one fairway. Just now there was no danger of being brained by flying golf balls, but in normal times it might, for all I knew, be suicide to walk here while a succession of old generals hooked and sliced their balls.
At length I came out onto another road, the one that would lead me back to Fiona. Facing me at this point was a large 'cottage'. At the roadside, the flag of Nigeria - a state flag, with a coat of arms on it. Did this denote the country residence of one of the senior diplomatic staff? Well, how pleasant for them. On the other hand, none of the cars on the gravel drive had CD plates. A mystery, then.
Two human beings, the first I'd seen on my walk, came up from behind - two youngsters on their bikes. They gave me a cheery hello. I responded equally cheerfully. Two minutes later, I was inside Fiona, and firing her up. It was dusk and time to go home. The police had not left a curt note on my windscreen. They might well have passed; it would be easy for them - the work of seconds - to discover who owned my car, and where she lived. Perhaps they had looked me up, routinely. If so, they had shrugged their shoulders and taken no action.
From my point of view, the way I'd done this walk - choosing a lonely place in quiet countryside, leaving my outing until close on sunset - convinced me that this was the best way. Apart from the kids on their bikes, I'd met nobody. Therefore I had been a danger to no-one, and no-one had been a danger to me.
