Thames Head to Lechlade
40.4 km, 44.563 Steps
Hello and welcome to the very first ‘real’ edition of Thames Rambling. Boy, did we ramble today—almost a marathon. My legs feel as though they’ve just received an adamantium injection. Today we have witnessed a dry source and ditch turn into an almost but not quite dry riverbed, then into a brook, into wetlands, into a navigable waterway.
Teleportation successful! Eventually, the minimum light requirement necessary to safely put one foot in front of the other made its way through thick cloud cover (those clouds can really knock a couple of hours off available hiking time). No breeze, no sound, just steps on a field and a pair of pheasants croaking and hurrying away as I passed.
The official source of the Thames was guarded by a pair of horses, breathing hot steam into the chilly morning. Paths carved through the dewy meadow led me past a herd of grazing sheep - perfect with the one black lamb at its centre. A simple engraved stone marked the beginning of the path that would lead me towards the East coast. There is no water, though. What’s labelled as the official start of England’s second-longest river has not carried any water since the 70s - the water table it drew from having fallen and fallen too far ever to reach the surface again.
I ponder how arbitrary the naming of rivers and their springs is. With all the tributaries that will combine to form the Thames, who is to say that this particular one I stand at should be the Thames? I suppose it comes down to who lays the first stone. As I pass a bird bathing in a puddle in a ditch called Thames, I decide that for my very own definition of a river, there should be a continuous flow of water. This I find for the first time under a willow tree in the hamlet of Ewen.
From here on out, I follow its flow as best I can, but it’s not always easy. Occasionally, I must take minor detours as unfriendly-looking bulls stand in my way. Often, the path leaves the river only to find it again a few kilometres downstream. The wetlands known as the Cotswold Water Park are gravel pits turned wildlife park. Here, the brook loses itself amongst a network of canals and lakes. Office workers in wetsuits are dragged behind a motorboat during a corporate event.
The town of Ashton Keynes is an advent calendar come to life. Dry-stone walls and five-century old homes abound. You can tell the inhabitants are proud of it. Every tendril of ivy has been trimmed to follow the contours of windows perfectly. The amount of security cameras per square metre makes the London Underground feel private. An estimated 20% of Mercedes’ sold in the UK must be parked here.
From my halfway stop in Cricklade, the landscape changes. Gone are the medieval villages and woods; here are endless flats with muddy fields that a now sizeable stream meanders through. It’d still be enjoyable were it not for an attack by an aggressive German shepherd that ran loose. No blood, but my top layer has a date with a sewing machine. Having always been around dogs all my life without any issues, I was more surprised than scared. The dog’s human was no help, idly standing by while I used my hiking poles to put some distance between the animal and me. It took me a good ten kilometres to stop thinking of all the things I wish I’d said to him and start focusing on the landscape again.
Just as daylight was running out, I came upon my destination for the day. Here I also came across the first canal boats; the first one with a name drawn on its side is called “Vienna” - the name of the city where I was born. It reminds me of the time I tried to get on the property ladder in London and seriously considered buying a boat, for this was the only home I could have afforded a deposit for.
Tomorrow, another Marathon awaits.
T