I’ve got plans in mind. We’ve got a long weekend, maybe we could get out to the Ridgeway twice. Maybe, maybe, maybe. We’re also approaching the time of year when Rachael’s work ramps up and she needs more time. I pour cold water on my dream of a second day, thinking one will be enough. Though my “enough” turns out to be “too much” for Rachael. We have a discussion around what is an appropriate distance to walk in a day, and what is an acceptable amount to add as extras. We’re not quite aligned. I wind my end point in by another car park and we agree that this will be ok. We’ll cross the unofficial halfway point of Uffington Castle. Doing the Good Bit. The forecast is promising with threats of rain. This is confirmation again that the weather will do anything it pleases, regardless of what the unaccountable weather predictors might suggest it ought to do. We drive out in the bright sunshine of morning. Turn off the tarmac of the A34 on to the battered country lanes used almost only by farm traffic. A quail in the road is an unexpected sight. Our separate cars climb a narrow winding road up to the ridge. The car park is empty. We transfer in to one vehicle. There are bikes, always, riding along the road at the bottom of the hill.  The speed limit should be slower. The car pulls back around to they Wayland Smithy car park which is almost full. I squeeze in the very end. I might be blocking a farm gate but it looks like harvest has already happened. I’m sure it will be fine.

There are a few families, a few dog walkers early on the trail as we make our way to the ancient burial mound. Wayland, the saxon God of the forge was supposed to have lived here. How anyone knows that today beats me. Legitimate grave robbers have found the remains of 14 humans pre-dating the God of your good book by almost 3000 years. I guess he was still figuring his thing out in the Middle East. The grove where the long barrow lies is quiet. Wind cruises through the canopy. Sunlight dapples through leaves. I disappear inside the atrium on the left of the supposed entry. I send Rachael in to have a look. Offerings of berries lie at the back of the portal. A bunch of flowers have been laid across one of the guardian stones. A painted pebble nestles in a hole in the limestone. Nobody is here. We leave the peace and continue on up towards the rest of the highlights. The ring of Uffington Castle still suggests to be an imposing structure. The perfect place from which to defend your claims. The White Horse doesn’t make sense. You can’t see it from White Horse hill and yet this is where we find most people. A scraping event, people are on the horse, cleaning and clearing the chalk. Making it easier to see, from where? Space? A cup of tea and a flapjack or is it a cookie. We pause to discuss the merits of each, enjoying the seeds and berries. We drop down on to Dragon Hill to see if we can see the horse. The best view from anywhere nearby will turn out to be from the car on the road. Rain comes in, the first spits hitting as we climb back on to the Ridge. Rachael realises she’s left her rain jacket in the car. I offer her mine but she takes full responsibility for her actions. I’m not sure how good an idea that is. We never have to find out as the rain doesn’t catch up with us and we begin to warm up again. Layers returning to waists, or backpacks.

The trail carries on without much interest to anyone else after all that excitement. A path through farm fields bordering the ancient way. Pinpricks of blood droop in great handfuls from the Hawthorn trees. Elderberries hang in bunches the size of grapes, weighing down the branches. Knapweed and scabious lines the trail. We pick a few seed heads from both. I still can’t cope with how flat this part of the UK is. There’s nothing on the horizon. A stop for lunch. Another couple ask if they can join us in the huge field. Beyond we can see little black marks in the next field over. Are they people? Maybe. Are they moving? Yes, no, still maybe. When we eventually close in there are people, upwards of 20. Detectorists sweeping the field. A few pause to throw in a spade. I don’t spot any gold. We pass through Sparsholt Firs car park, somewhere we met years before this. Closing in on the the car at the end. We pause briefly for a man waiting at the road side. He’s carrying thru-hike weight, and a collapsible chair. 5 days he reckons end to end. I think we’re up to about that now and still have the same again to go. He’s got the benefit of having all day, every day. He’s waiting for his partner to drop off food and water. That’s the way to do it. We pick up the cars and return to Oxford. Somehow, still dry.