The River Great Ouse

“The expedition had now performed its functions. I saw that old father Nile without any doubt rises in the Victoria Nyanza, and as I had foretold, that lake is the great source of the holy river which cradled the first expounder of our religious belief.”

Thus spake Speke, upon discovering the source of the Nile in 1858. Not wanting in any way to do down the River Great Ouse (the “Great” to distinguish it from the myriad Ouses that irrigate this green and pleasant land, and earned by virtue of its great length) but it doesn’t feel like the kind of river that cradles civilisations. It is, however, a fine river and the search for its source remains a worthy mission. A quiet waterway, certainly in its early reaches, it discreetly gets on with the rivery business of meandering through the countryside, inobtrusive, unnoticed. Not entirely unnoticed though; my companion and I have been following it over the last year, tracing its course from the Wash up at Lynn, through the Fens to Ely, and then west to Huntingdon before it reaches Bedford and begins to curve and loop its way through the rolling countryside of Beds and Bucks, finally rising in Northamptonshire, as it does, running clear from a dozen trickling streams and runnels, ditches and brooks.

The first 100 miles were completed in a piecemeal fashion; our quest to discover the source comprised days off work, Sunday perambulations and, on one occasion, a significant birthday celebrated by walking from Downham into Ely, arriving triumphant after surviving a comprehensive soaking from a stormy summer deluge that is fast becoming the norm. Is July now our rainy season? These early expeditions were mixed fare as the river shape shifted through a bewildering variety of environments and circumstances. The vast and manmade channels dug out of the Fens, doubling up as drainage and transport routes, impressive but often featureless, softened after Ely with the river now allowed to follow a more natural course, finding its way through reedbeds and water meadows. It widens again at Earith, playing host to the leisure craft brigade, jaunty hats and glasses of fizz, who cruise up from St Neots, Huntingdon and beyond. But this is a patchy stretch – the sublime is less frequent and days were spent trudging through motorway underpasses, used car wastelands and, worst of all, the country parks where the urban planners have organised soulless zones that masquerade as the wild.

Our final fling, the remaining forty-five miles in a three day burst, started in just such a park. Olney was terrific: the Georgian high street, the solid looking coach house boozers, the chin up, chest out, straight backed church of St Peter and St Paul, and the fine stone bridge that spanned the river valley. We descended from the bridge to be reunited with the river and walked towards Milton Keynes, glad to be on the road again. The country park didn’t last long; a swerve through a caravan site, and then a hop and a skip through a kissing gate to be confronted by a sudden expansion of the horizon as we set off across open fields that lifted us up above the valley.

The path we took does not follow the river as religiously as you might expect, and this immediate variety heralded much of what we were to see over the next few days. Canal towpaths, roadside verges, open pasture, woodland, fields of wheat and barley (the glorious brewery smell, malty and thick), old railway embankments, sterile golf courses; but always coming back to the lovely old river, calm and constant.

Highlights stand out; an otherwise nondescript climb out of the valley floor to an unexpected blue-remembered-hills view of the Chilterns, thirty miles to the south; clouds of butterflies and damselflies, all electric blues and emerald greens, the rubber band thrum of the enormous dragonflies; helpful directions from a chirpy old fella – “speak up, I’m deaf in one eye”; my companion carefully studying the map before following the path into a chicken coop; the kindness of hosts, beyond the call of duty; the extraordinary church of Holy Trinity at Wolverton; the picture box charm of Newport Pagnell – who knew!; a feeding frenzy of swallows, swifts and martins over a gorgeous wheatfield that curved into a deep cleft, golden under a heavy sky. It wasn’t all a joy – the second day was a long 18 mile slog through rain and nettles (Speke didn’t have that to deal with, and he was probably in long trousers) before arriving in a village where the pub was shut. Two cans of Heineken and a curry didn’t help either – it was one of those long dark nights of the soul, legs tormented by raging nettle stings and an unforgiving fold out sofa offering little in the way of comfort. It was after three when I finally collapsed into a fitful sleep…

It was still grey and wet as we set out on the final morning but, imperceptibly, something had changed. Our spirits had lifted, perhaps for no reason other than that the awful night was over at last, and, as if in response, the rain stopped, the sun emerged and the world sparkled. We made our way across wet fields of heavy claggy soil that yesterday would have seemed onerous; today, however, the sunshine, and the increasing likelihood that we were going to achieve our goal, put things in a new perspective. We were off the beaten track, following our own route and, for me at least, there was a sense of freedom about the morning. My trousers were heavy from the mud and the water collected as we brushed through fields of wheat and beans but even this had its consolations; the damp denim cooled and eased my nettle stung legs. We were aiming for Syresham, and a pub lunch to celebrate our success. The pub was, of course, shut, but a couple of cans of cold lager from a sympathetic villager, and sausage rolls from the Post Office more than sufficed. Further testament came from a small plaque over a trickling brook nearby, announcing the source to be just a mile away.

And then the final miles. It could have been any number of the tiny blue lines on the map, but something resembling a pool had been designated as our target – it lay just beyond a farm, about a mile and half off. That last half hour was thoughtful – there was less chat as we reflected upon the end of our journey, triumph tinged with bittersweet sadness. When the whole point of the exercise is the journey (in the old sense of the word – no TV reality show mawkishness here, thank you very much), arrival marks the end of the adventure. Not to mention the real world, awaiting our return. We experienced something similar a few years back when we finished Hadrian’s Wall and were both of a mind to turn straight back round and walk the other way.

But there, in a Northamptonshire cowfield (“Beware of the bull”) that is forever England, reality seemed an awfully long way away. The field sloped down to a dark, dank corner where, secreted by an overgrown thicket, quite hidden from the world, real or otherwise, sat a quiet and algae green pond. We scrambled over some barbed wire and through a tangle of willow and found, with a deep sense of satisfaction, the source of our river. The wind had dropped and all was still; even the incessant chiffchaff relented. We patted each other on the back, congratulated ourselves and set off on the four mile walk back to civilisation, a bus stop and, hopefully, a pub that was open.

A word of thanks – much of the organisation and prompting for this trip came from my companion, C Joynes, an old friend and wonderful musician. Click here for a listen.