Cooking the Kerala Way: Kerala and More Part 1

25-Feb-2024

Our Return to Kochi and a Jet-Lagged Cooking Lesson

Getting There (The Cooking Comes Later)

We flew from Birmingham to Dubai on a full Emirates A380 – I find it mind-boggling that every day 500+ people want to travel from the English Midlands to Dubai, but there we all were. Our flight connected with another Emirates flight to Kochi (still known as Cochin in the aviation world) in Kerala on the west coast of India.

26-Feb-2024

We left Birmingham on schedule and reached Kochi on time, but the small hours of the morning (UAE time) introduced some unwelcome excitement. Congestion in Dubai led to an hour flying in circles over the Persian Gulf followed by a dash across the airport, the second busiest in the world and consequently vast. A train eventually deposited us at the appropriate terminal; where we found the departure gate empty except for the one member of the ground crew waiting just for us. Emirates would not leave us behind, but we were surprised and relieved that our suitcases also made the flight.

India

Kerala

Foreign visitors to India are fingerprinted and photographed. Our experience at Kochi was a warning about what might happen when a similar EU system is introduced. The queue was not long, the French group in front of us numbered less than two dozen, but clearing them took well over an hour. The fingerprint machines are fussy, many boxes of tissues were used wiping screens and fingers and still multiple attempts were needed each for set of prints – and they want three from each person - left hand, right hand and thumbs. As previous visitors our fingerprints were already on file, we were quickly through, but we had still had to wait in the same queue. The EU keep putting off introducing their scheme, if an Indian regional airport spends more than an hour processing a couple of dozen, European holiday destinations would be overwhelmed, and they know this.

Kochi, in India's south west corner

Into Kochi

Once through the formalities we quickly found the representative of the ever-reliable Pioneer Holidays - the Kochi-based company we discovered on our first Indian trip and have used ever since - and he introduced us to Sasi who would be our driver for the next 16 days.

The City of Kochi has a population of 680,000 and is the centre of a metropolitan district of 2.1 million, making it the biggest conurbation in Kerala. It is not the state capital, that is Thiruvananthapuram (we visited 2016), which has more letters but fewer inhabitants.

The airport is north-east of the city, some 35-40 Km from the Fort Kochi district where we would be staying. This was our third visit to Kochi, so we were prepared for this short journey to take 90 minutes. It mattered not, the morning was still fresh, and we had little chance of checking-in at our accommodation before midday.

Since our last visit in 2106, Kochi had acquired a metro system. Like those we have used in Delhi and Bangkok, it is above the road, not under the ground.

Under the Kochi Metro

Sasi battled with the traffic through Ernakulam and over Willingdon Island – built in the 1930s from the sediment dredged up when the British Royal Navy enlarged the docks...

Kochi

…and into the smaller, quieter streets of Fort Kochi where most tourists hang out.

Quieter roads, Kochi

Whether streets are busy or quiet, Indian traffic moves with its own bewildering logic which I gave up trying to fathom several thousand kilometres ago. A bemused Frenchman once suggested it must be easier for me, as India, like the UK, drives on the left. I think it was a joke. I have confidently driven the length and breadth of France and several other European countries but I do not drive in India; I happily sat beside Sasi, and previously Thomas Joseph, Thomas Matthew, Umed Singh and Laxman, all professionals with long experience of Indian conditions.

The Tea Bungalow

Sasi deposited us at the Tea Bungalow.

The Tea Bungalow and 'our' car

‘Bungalow’ was derived by the British from Bangla (meaning ‘of Bengal’) to describe the typical Bengali single-story dwellings with a wide veranda. They adopted the style for housing administrators in the British Raj, who then took the term home.

Bungalows are common in the UK. They have lost the veranda – it does not suit our climate – and the word now refers to a small, single-story building standing on its own plot. Bungalows are favoured by the elderly as they have no pesky stairs. Our next move, in a year or two, will be to a bungalow closer to our daughter – because that is what old people do.

The Tea Bungalow clearly does not fall within this definition of ‘bungalow,’ but having invented the word, British English kindly donated it to Indian English. The Indian usage keeps the idea of a house on its own plot, remembers it was an administrator’s house, and thus sizeable, but has forgotten that it was single-storey. An Indian bungalow is suitable for conversion into a Guest House, a British Bungalow is not.

Tea bungalow veranda

Built in 1912 for coir exporters United Carpets, and bought from them in 1965 by Brooke Bond Tea, The Tea Bungalow was named by its current owners, the Dempo family from Goa who have diversified into hospitality after three centuries exporting coconuts.

Tea Bungalow breakfast room

We were greeted by several members of the Pioneer staff, including Adrian a smartly dressed young man (I have now reached an age when everyone - except the Pope - looks young) to whom I have spoken on many occasions, but never met. One of his jobs is to phone round clients every two or three days to check that all is well. It is probably in my head, but he always sounds mildly disappointed when, yet again, we have no problem for him to solve.

The staff at The Tea Bungalow were slightly less welcoming and made us wait right up to 12.00 clock before checking us in. After being up all night, what we really wanted was sleep – and at 12.05 …zzzz.

ATM Difficulties

India is a cash economy, so we needed cash. The government though wishes more transactions to go through banks and thus be transparent to the tax authorities. To this end they de-monetised the 500 and 1,000 rupee notes (worth roughly £5 and £10) in November 2016. Holders of the notes were given a brief window to exchange them for new ₹500 and ₹2,000 notes. [They held a competition in 2010 to design a rupee sign and ₹ won. I wonder what the losers could have looked like.] Remarkably 99.3% of the 15.3 trillion rupees de-monetised were exchanged, meaning the whole disruptive, stressful and expensive business was a waste of time – and part of the missing 0.7% resides in my foreign currency box upstairs.

The old 500 rupee note - now just a piece of dirty paper

The ₹2,000 note, we discovered, was not a good idea either, I do not know if Prime Minister Modi (himself a Gujarati) has ever wandered round rural Gujarat trying to buy something with a ₹2,000 note – nobody has change for such a massive sum of money. But now the unloved 2,000 has disappeared making ₹500 the biggest note – Indian paper money stops where British paper money starts. This may have achieved the original intention; the need to carry suitcases full of banknotes is a strong disincentive to making large cash payments.

The new, smaller 500 rupees - this can still but a cheap meal

After several hours sleep we turned our attention to money. Our attempts at withdrawing ₹10,000 were unsuccessful – perhaps not too disappointing as the ATMS offered only 100 or 200 notes. 1 accidently persuaded one to part with ₹200, but the situation needed dealing with.

Jeanett’s Cooking – At Last

Sasi arrived at the appointed time to take us to our cooking lesson. We told him our problem and failed at the first ATM he stopped at, but succeeded at the second. He then explained the new (at least to us) government regulation at the root of our difficulties. No ATM may give out more than 40 banknotes. Most ATMs only have 100s or 200s so their maximum is ₹4,000 or ₹8,000. For ₹10,000 or ₹20,000 we needed an ATMs with 500s.

Sasi drove us south down Kochi’s peninsula to the home of Jeanett (erroneously 'Jeanette' in Tripadvisor and similar sites) and Oscar Fernandes where we were warmly welcomed into their front room. Jeanett is a retired teacher (as are we) who set up a post-retirement business giving cookery demonstrations to tourists, though with just two of us it would be more hands-on.

Do you like okra? She asked. We suggested- as she had anticipated - that it was not our favourite food. 'Too slimy?’ We nodded. ‘It does not have to be’ she said opening a large hatch to reveal her kitchen, and daughter Tania with a bowl of carefully wiped non-slimy okra.

Tania and a bowl of Okra

Unfortunately, sliminess is not my only okra problem. In 1987 during our brief residence in Sudan, I cooked okra and fed it to family and friends. Nobody like it much. The next day I was struck by the worst food-poisoning I have ever endured, wiping me out for over a week. The okra was not at fault, but the two events had come together in my head. It was time to face my fears.

Fortunately, I have no problem with coconut oil, Kerala is a bad place for those who do.

Coconut oil

Tania heated up the oil and added the non-slimy okra.

The okra goes into the oil

There are onions and shallots, spices, curry leaves and chillies to be added yet…

More ingredients

…. but for the moment the okra pauses here.

The okra can rest now

While Jeanett takes over with a fish curry. With it long coast line, Kerala is the sort of place where people eat fish. Some of their fish are familiar, others are not known in Atlantic waters and have no English name, but I suspect this is Kingfish.

Jeanett starts a fish curry

It was time for Lynne to earn her keep, and she was put to work crushing shallots…

Lynne crushes shallots

…and putting them in hot oil.

Shallots into hot oil

Jeanett adds some a garlic and ginger paste.

In goes the garlic and ginger

We also had to go through the ritual discussion about how many chillies to add. Tradition demands the local host tries to bargain the number down, as they do not want to burn your delicate western palate, or upset your delicate western stomach. I always try to argue them up, because neither Lynne nor I are particularly delicate. Your host, of course, doubts that you really understand the level of spiciness they are talking about. Eventually we agreed on the usual number of chillies, but with the seeds removed from the red ones. It is not polite to argue too hard with your hosts – and of course, if you do overdo it, you look a fool,

Spices and curry leaves find their way in

Finally, the coconut milk and fish are added, and the curry can be left to bubble.

That's got all the ingredients together

To finish the okra it was necessary to call in an expert.

A master at work

I have already got the curry leaves in – they are more important in Kerala than elsewhere – and now it is time to add whatever is in that little pot, …

I think we need some of this

…. and then reintroduce the okra.

Finished now

We had made our contribution; the hatch was replaced and Jeanett and Tania went about finishing off the dishes and adding a few more. Oscar, who previously had nothing to do, offered us some of his home-made ginger ‘wine’ and talked to us. The non-alcoholic wine was a remarkably professional product with a good gingery kick and Oscar seemed unlikely to run out of anecdotes however long the finishing touches took.

At some point the son of the house returned from work. He retired to change out of his suit and as soon as he was ready, dinner was served.

Dinner is served, rice, fish curry, beans, okra and something else

We had not eaten since arriving in Indian ten hours ago and I was ready for it. The fish curry was very good – though it would have been fine to leave in the chilli seeds, but the prawns – actually spicier – were truly memorable, a subtle combination of spices and seafood. And the okra? Yes, I would eat it again, indeed I would choose to eat it again, but I would not cook it myself, I would leave that to a professional like Jeanett.

And an excellent dinner it was

Well fed, happy and feeling just a little sleepy though it was hardly 8 o’clock, we took our leave of our hosts. Sasi reappeared exactly when required – as good drivers have a knack of doing – and we returned to the Tea Bungalow.

And Finally

This is our third trip to Kochi, for more regular tourist stuff see Kochi: A Second Visit (2016)

Kerala and More

Part 1: Cooking the Kerala Way
Part 2: Kochi: Not Really a Free Day
Part 3: Kozhikode (Formerly Calicut)

and much more to come

East Sussex (4) Rottingdean and The Devil's Dyke

A Seaside Village and a Geological Oddity

Although we now live 220 miles apart, I have seen more of my sister Erica in the last few years than for a long time. That is good, I enjoy her company and that of Peter, her new(ish) husband. We went to stay for a few days and this post covers the places we visited.

East Sussex

Peter and Erica live in Heathfield, pretty much in the centre of East Sussex. On previous visits we have explored the east of the county (links at end of post), this time we looked west. Lewes (next post), the County Town of East Sussex can be seen on the map southwest of Heathfield and continuing in the same direction brings you to the coast at Rottingdean

The County of East Sussex
Heathfield to Rottingdean is approximately 25 miles (40 km)

The map misleadingly shows Brighton and Hove as discrete dots. They are much larger than that and in 1997 were combined as a single unitary authority. In January 2001 they became the City of Brighton and Hove. By far the largest population centre in East Sussex, the city has 275,00 citizens and occupies the whole south west corner of the county, encompassing Portslade, Patcham and Rottingdean.

Rottingdean

Brighton & Hove

In the Kingdom of the South Saxons (now ‘Sussex’) in the late 5th century CE a group of Saxons following a man called Rota settled near the coast at the end of a dry valley, probably displacing the previous Romano-British inhabitants. The dean (valley) of the people of Rota had become Rotingeden in the Domesday Book (1086) and tried out various spellings over subsequent centuries before settling on Rottingdean. Yes, they had choices, and they chose Rottingdean!

Despite its name, Rottingdean is a pretty village in the local style…

Rottingdean

…with vernacular buildings of various ages sitting harmoniously together, though perhaps not looking their best on a cold, blustery February day.

Rottingdean

The main street ends at the beach where a seething, angry sea with an evident desire to invade the land, was thwarted only by a vicious undertow.

Rottingdean Beach

An undercliff path heads off to Brighton Marina, 3km away, and on a better day….

Rottingdean Undercliff Walk

The Grange

But it was not a better day so we headed inland. Rottingdean has more than just vernacular architecture, The Grange was built to replace the existing vicarage in the mid-1700s.

The Grange, Rottingdean

The Reverend Thomas Hooker lived here from 1792 to 1838. A popular and charismatic figure, he established the first village school and supported his parishioners in any way he could. Tea and brandy were highly taxed, and after a bad harvest the poor could make enough money to survive by smuggling these commodities into the country for the benefit if their richer neighbours. The Rev Hooker acted as an outrider for the local smuggling gang.

The Grange passed into private hands in the late 1800s, just as Rottingdean was becoming an artistic colony. In 1920 the owners employed Sir Edwyn Lutyens to enlarge and remodel the house, and Gertrude Jekyll to redesign the garden.

In 1992, a charity now called Rottingdean Heritage took over The Grange and maintain the building as a local museum. Unfortunately, the museum is closed on a Tuesday, but I am assured it is excellent on other days of the week.

St Margaret's Church

Built on the site of an earlier Saxon church, St Margaret’s dates from around 1400 with a heavy makeover by Sir George Gilbert Scott in 1856. Like many churches locally and elsewhere in south east England it is built of flint with a stone dressing.

St Margaret's Rottingdean

The church is not particularly memorable, inside or out….

St Margaret's Interior

… except for the stained-glass windows designed by Edward Burne-Jones and built by William Morris. 

William Morris/Edward Burne-Jones stained glass

Burne-Jones was among the first artists to move to Rottingdean, and his ashes are interred in St Margaret’s cemetery, as are those of his wife Georgiana. Georgiana was one of the four remarkable Macdonald sisters; Alice was the mother of Rudyard Kipling, Agnes was a talented pianist and married Edward Poynter, later President of the Royal Academy, and Louisa was a writer and the mother of future prime minster Stanley Baldwin. What they could have achieved in their own right if women were less constrained can only be guessed at.

Peter, who has a wide musical taste and knowledge, was keen to tell us that Gary Moore is also buried here. Who he? I asked. Gary Moore (1953-2011) was an Irish blues/jazz/rock guitarist who might have achieved more success if he had decided which sort of music he wanted to play. He worked with Phil Lynott and was best known for repeatedly joining and then leaving Thin Lizzy.

Edward Burne-Jones and Rudyard Kipling

In 1880 Edward and Georgiana Burne-Jones brought Prospect House, the left-hand property of the trio below as a holiday home. Shortly afterwards they bought Aubrey Cottage, the middle dwelling, knocked the two together and renamed them North End House. They divided their time between Rottingdean and London until Burne-Jones died in 1898. Georgiana died in 1920, and in 1923 the new owners of North End House, Sir Roderick Jones and his wife, novelist Enid Bagnold, added Gothic Cottage on the right to the other two.

North End House, Rottingdean

They are now separate properties again with the former Gothic Cottage inappropriately named North End House.

In 1897, their nephew, Rudyard Kipling moved to Rottingdean and rented The Elms, a difficult house to photograph.

The Elms, Rottingdean

Kipling’s Garden is lovingly tended by volunteers...

Kipling's Garden, Rottingdean

… and is adjacent to Rottingdean Croquet club. I know of no other village with a croquet club.

Rottingdean Croquet Club

In 1902 the Kiplings moved to Batemans, some 30 miles away, where they spent the rest of their lives. Batemans features in East Sussex (2): Batemans, Firle Beacon and the Long Man of Wilmington.

Those who looked closely at the photos (i.e. almost nobody) might have noticed the walls in the churchyard, Kipling's Garden and several ordinary houses. Such walls are common in these parts but I have not seen anything quite like them elsewhere - perhaps they are unique to Sussex.

A closer look at a Sussex wall

The Devil’s Dyke

West Sussex

Mid Sussex District

Driving north and west around Brighton and Hove brought us to the Devil’s Dyke, just over the boundary into West Sussex. The South Downs are a range of low, rounded chalk hills stretching across East and West Sussex and into Hampshire. 1,627 km² (628 sq miles) of these hills were designated a National Park in 2010. Earlier national parks consisted of rugged terrain, but the South Downs are welcoming, well-mannered hillsides, as would be expected in the genteel south east of England.

The South Downs National Park with Brighton & Hove and the Devil's Dyke Marked
Map by Nilfanion using OS OpenData

The Devil’s Dyke Today

The road climbs onto a scarp, not quite at the southern edge of the downs. There was drizzle in the air and a cold blustery wind, so we moved swiftly from car to pub (the Devil’s Dyke, obviously) where a light lunch seemed appropriate.

Then we had to face the rigours of sight-seeing. Looking down the scarp, there should be (I think) a view all the way to the sea, but not today.

Looking towards the sea, though visibility was limited

The Devil’s Dyke itself is a steep sided dry valley on the other side of the scarp. It may not be the Grand Canyon, but it is a fair sized hole.

The Devil's Dyke

Given that the surrounding hills are not of great height and scarps are only of moderate steepness what happened here? The official answer is that it dates from the end of the last ice age, but was created by meltwater running over saturated chalk rather than carved by ice. The thaw-freeze cycle as the world began to warm reduced the chalk to mush and the meltwater swept it away. That sounds convincing, but the whole of the South Downs is made of chalk, if it happened here, why did it not happen everywhere and level the hills?

The Devil’s Dyke 120 Years Ago

Big game hunter and traveller H.J. Hubbard bought the Dyke Estate in 1892. The London, Brighton and South Coast Railway had built a branch line from Hove to the foot of the scarp in 1887, so he decided to turn Devil’s Dyke into what may have been the world’s first theme park.

He built a camera obscura, fairground rides, an observatory, two bandstands and more. The venture was phenomenally successful and on August Bank Holiday 1893, 30,000 people visited the Dyke.

In 1894 Hubbard opened the country’s first cable car to allow visitors to swing from one side of the dyke to the other 200ft above the valley floor. Three years later he added a funicular railway down into the dyke.

Funicular Railway, Devil's Dyke (Public Domain)

Success is ever ephemeral. In 1909 both the cable car and funicular railway ceased operation. Now there are just concrete footings to be seen and the remains of some of the amusements

Some of Hubbard's remains

The Devil’s Dyke Folk Lore

As I do not fully understand the geological creation of the dyke (my fault, not doubt), here is an alternative story. In the late 7th century, long after Rota had become established in his dean, the Kingdom of Sussex converted to Christianity. Being the last of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms to convert, it caused the Devil much heartache. He decided to dig a channel from the sea to the heart of Sussex and drown its inhabitants.

Seeing the Devil making steady progress with his scheme, the holy hermit Cuthman of Steyning approached the Devil with a wager. If the Devil could complete his channel in one night, he could have Cuthman’s soul, if not he would go away and leave Sussex in peace.

St Cuthman of Steyning, by Penny Reeve (2000)
Photo:NeddySeagoon, used under Creative Commons

The Devil set to with a will, his mighty spade throwing up the surrounding hills, Chanctonbury Ring, Firle Beacon (see East Sussex (2)) and more while one spectacular heave sent the land that is now the Isle of Wight spinning into the sea. Cuthman bided his time. At midnight he lit a candle and placed it in his window, thus persuading the local cockerels that dawn had arrived. They started crowing, and the Devil, thinking he had lost his wager, threw down his shovel and stalked off for a massive sulk.

That is not very convincing, I struggle to believe the Devil was that easy to fool. If you click on Kanyakumari, my post about the southernmost town of India, you will find the story of Shiva being tricked out of marriage by the same device. Folk tales have a charming naivety, but finding very similar stories from so far apart, maybe tells us something about human nature.

Two humps in the bottom of the valley are said to be the graves of the Devil and his wife (who knew he was married?) Encouraging as it might be to know that the Devil is dead, the bad news is that he would be brought to life should anyone run backward five times round the humps while holding their breath. I don’t think I’ll fret about it.

That was enough sight-seeing in this weather; we got into a nice warm car, and Peter drove us back to Heathfield.

East Sussex

Part 1:Bodiam and Rye (2020)
Part 2:Bateman's, Firle Beacon and the Long Man of Wilmington (2021)
Part 3: Battle and Hastings (2021)
Part 4: Rottingdean and The Devil's Dyke
Part 5: Lewes and Charleston (coming soon)

Cannock Chase: Shifting Tectonic Plates. The (N + 12)th Annual Fish and Chip Walk

Unwelcome Developments and an Extremely Damp Walk on Cannock Chase

Staffordshire

Nothing in the title should be taken to suggest that the island of Great Britain in general, or Cannock Chase in particular, has abandoned its customary geological stability, this is not Iceland. But there are things in life we treat as permanent, though we know they are not. When change comes, the consequences are not entirely unearthquakelike. (That tortured sentence reminds me of a sign I saw in a North Macedonian hotel: ‘Do not use the lift in case of earthquakeake or fire.’)

Rifle Range Corner to the Sherbrook Valley

We set off a little later than our 9.30 target from Rifle Range Corner. The Corner, a sharp turn on minor road from the A34 to Rugeley, has often featured in these walks, but we have never started here before – a ripple from the edge of a shifting plate.

We walked towards the remains of the WW1 army rifle range, which gave the corner its name, then turned left and right.

Alison (half hidden) and Anne at the front (and they need to turn left, now), Brian and Lee, Mike, I am just behind with the camera

Unlike every other Fish and Chip Walk – on this blog since 2010, but older than that – Francis was not out in front. Indeed, Francis was not there at all.

I read through the (N + 11)th walk in 2021 before starting this. There were clues in the report, though I missed them at the time. Francis was a meticulous planner. The South West Odyssey, a 12-year walk in 36 sections from the Cardingmill Valley in Shropshire to Start Bay in Devon was his idea, he chose the routes, booked the B&Bs and led the way metaphorically and very often literally. He was the navigator who (almost) never made a mistake. But (N + 11) was not like that, he appeared to have no plan, his confident decision making had gone, the route became a ramble and we finished too early for lunch.

(N + 12) had started in the dry, but it would rain on and off for the whole day…

Anne's rictus grin says that she WILL enjoy this, Alison T looks like she wishes she was somewhere else

….and found our way to a path named as Marquis Drive on the map, though it is separated from the better-known section we would meet later.

Brian and Lee on a section of Marquis drive

By June 2022, the signs I missed had become obvious symptoms. The man who thought 20km a day was lazy, ground to a halt after 2 with a loss of balance and muscular co-ordination. Francis said he had ‘recently gone downhill very quickly’ but was putting a lot of faith into a series of physiotherapist appointments. It was obvious, though, that physiotherapy was not the answer, I could see clear similarities between Francis and the problems of Lynne’s late father.

Our path took us to the eastern edge of the Sherbrook Valley.

Looking down into the Sherbrook Valley

It then starts to descend gently, along the ridge…

Along the edge of the Sherbrook Valley

…but takes its time about it, eventually reached the brook a little upstream of the stepping stones. Lee was responsible for working out the route, and had built in optional short cuts to ensure we arrived for lunch on time. We took a zig-zag down the valley side..

This could be a zig..... or maybe a zag

… and crossed the stream at the bottom.

Across the Sherbrook. Anne is still smiling - and that is the nearest to a smile that Brian gets

Up the Sherbrook Valley

There was no Fish and Chip Walk in 2022, Francis was in no position to organise one. The tectonic plates had twitched and they would not twitch back, but it did not yet feel right for anyone else to step in. In spring 2023 he was able to travel to Australia to see his son, daughter-in-law and his three grandchildren, meeting the youngest for the very first time. Good as this was, his problems were not going away.

We walked upstream on the western bank…

Walking almost beside the Sherbrook

…which at one point takes a loop away from the brook. I thought it might make a pleasing photo.

Winter trees - the picture was a disappointment, definitely not worth getting left behind for

When you are at the back and pause to take a picture, everyone walks off and leaves you behind. I caught up, but was glad we soon stopped for coffee.

Now I have to catch up

We drank our coffee sitting in a concrete trough built across the brook years ago for a purpose no longer obvious. I was too interested in a sit and a restorative beverage to bother taking a photo, but we used the same spot in 2020.

Coffee in 2020, Sherbrook Valley

This was the year of Covid, social distancing (almost complied with), Boris’ ‘rule of 6’ – not that he bothered much – and Tier 3 restrictions. There were many people on the Chase in 2020, it was a dry, mild, Saturday and there was nowhere else to go. On a wet Tuesday in 2023, we had the place to ourselves.

I usually start these accounts with a group photo. With startling originality, the first photo in this report consists of five rear views. Fortunately, at this point Anne took a group selfie.

Anne's group selfie (thank you, Anne), l to r Anne, Alison T, Mike, Brian, Lee, Me (did I spill my coffee or is that rain?)

Sherbrook Valley to Slitting Mill

Alison C, Francis’ ex-wife (and until recent problems, walking companion.) took on responsibilities she need not have accepted (though knowing Alison, that was no surprise). She organised his medical appointments and after tests and consultations Francis, like my father-in-law, had a diagnosis of vascular dementia. Alison does not live particularly close, but in collaboration with their son in Australia and daughter in Oxfordshire, she saw to it that he received the help he required..

Time was short, so the coffee break was shorter. I have few photos of the next section, it was raining and my camera was wet and threatening to seize up so I left it in the dry for a while.

After a further kilometre beside the brook, we turned uphill on a path that would have returned us to our starting point had we not veered right on unmarked paths. Lee chose a deer track which petered out in long, wet grass, those further behind gained from his experience.

We crossed the minor road a little south of Rifle Range Corner, found our way to Flint’s Corner and then down a familiar section of Marquis Drive. Approaching the visitor centre, Marquis Drive is tarmacked, but later becomes a foot path descending to the A460 Rugeley to Hednesford road.(N + 8) went that way in 2018, but this year we turned left a kilometre above the road.

Just turned off Marquis Drive

The path descended through damp and desolate countryside.

a wet and miserable place

It cheered up when we reached some trees, then after turning right by open fields and passing a stable, we reached the road to Slitting Mill. Rather than walk with the traffic, we took a familiar detour along a stream behind a row of houses. At the end house someone is always slouched on a chair beside the stream, but I have not seen before in his work clothes.

Is this where the real one lives? He might not be a North Pole resident after all

The stream is higher than the path which is higher than the field. I assume this unnatural arrangement is connected to the provision of water power to the slitting mills that gave the village its name.

Stream (to the left) higher than path, higher than the field

Further along Mike took the path off to the left which climbs to a dam below a pool now used by anglers. I remember trying that some years ago, but there was no way through, so I went the long way, expecting Mike to catch me up after his detour. I was wrong, there is a short cut.

Slitting Mill and the Horns

Alison was looking after Francis from a distance, but others rallied round. Lee, a near neighbour, heroically mowed Francis’ lawn all summer and did other odd jobs, Mike gave lifts and sorted computer problems and we all met up with Francis for short walks on the Chase preceded by coffee or followed by lunch. When this became difficult, we took to meeting up at Francis’ local coffee shop. Some months ago, in consultation with his family, Francis decided to move to sheltered accommodation nearer to his daughter. This will probably happen early in the new year.

A slitting mill was a watermill that slit iron bars into rods as part of the nail making process. The first slitting mill was built here in 1611 and was followed by several others. The mills are long gone, but the village has appropriated their name. Slitting Mill today has 250 inhabitants and looks a pleasant place to live.

We have visited The Horns on several walks, but this is the first time it has featured in the Fish and Chip Walk. For the meal – fish and chips of course - the walkers were joined by Lynne, Hilary and, most importantly by Francis.

Lunch at The Horns, Slitting Mill
Left front to back, Lee, Brian, Francis, Mike, Alison T. Right f to b Hilary, Me, Lynne, Anne

The Horns did us proud, serving up nine portions in no time, the batter was crisp, the fish fresh and the smaller ‘lunchtime’ portion was more than ample.

Back to Rifle Range Corner

During our coffee shop gatherings there was talk of the Chip Walk, but nothing was done. Chatting with Lee after the last get-together we agreed action was urgently needed. I volunteered to organise the social side, fixing a date, booking a meal and so on, and Lee took on responsibility for designing a route. And so, this walk has come to pass. Lynne and I also invited Brian and Hilary to stay so Brian could take part. He was one of the original Chip Walkers until moving to Torquay in 2015, and walked the whole of the South West Odyssey, which by a convenient coincidence moved closer and closer to his new home with each passing year. I saw the walk as being a tribute to all Francis has done over the years, and the lunch as a farewell. It would have been incomplete without Brian.

It had been a long morning, almost 13km, and a longish lunch. The afternoon walk would be short because Lee needed to be home to do some tutoring and because there was little daylight left and, most importantly, because we wanted it to be. ‘Just 3km to make the 10 miles’ he said, mixing units with uniquely British flair.

We retraced our steps, crossing the bridge whose existence I had earlier doubted,...

Bridge over the Slitting Mill waterfall

...walking along the back of the houses, past Santa onto the road. Then, up the lane to the stables and back into the woods. To make our return journey as direct as possible we then turned right, crossed Stony Brook stepping stones…

Mike crosses the Stony Brook stepping stones

…and swung left past the Fairoak Pools.

The final Fairoak Pool

After the last pool there is a steepish climb up to Fairoak Lodge, it was the only real climb of the day, though the camera flattens it out (well, that is my excuse, anyway).

Up to Fairoak Lodge - steeper than it looks

As I laboured upwards, I saw Lee looking at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to run off,’ he said as I arrived. He left, as did Anne, the only person – in the absence of Francis – capable of keeping up with him.

It was not a long walk from there to the (unsurprisingly) deserted Tackeroo campsite and then down broad avenues back to the start. We reached the end at 4 o’clock, sunset had been 3.55, so we just had enough light to find the cars. According to Brian’s ap we had walked 10.54 miles in 4¼ hours, sticking to a steady 24mins per mile throughout.

Nearly there, though the sun is setting

I was exhausted, but it had been a good day, the Chip Walk Tradition had been upheld in robust fashion. It was also a sad day, Francis walked his last Chip Walk two years ago, though nobody realised it at the time. With his move this will probably be his last Chip Walk lunch, The tectonic plates have moved, the Walk is in new hands, though in my case not younger hands. It is up to Lee, Mike, Anne and me to ensure that new hands are safe hands.

Update: At the end of March 2024 Francis moved to sheltered accommodation in Didcot, near to his daughter, Heather. In June his son Matthew came from Australia on a long planned visit, bringing his two older daughters to see their grandparents. Some days after they left Francis suffered a heart attack and died peacefully in hospital on the 25th of June 2024 attended by Alison and Heather. A sad and far too early end to a life well lived. Rest in peace, Francis.

See also Francis Crane MBE, January 2012

The Annual Fish and Chip Walks

The Annual Fish and Chip Walks

The Nth: Cannock Chase in Snow and Ice (Dec 2010)
The (N + 1)th: Cannock Chase a Little Warmer (Dec 2011)
The (N + 2)th: Cannock Chase in Torrential Rain (Dec 2012)
The (N + 3)th: Cannock Chase in Winter Sunshine (Jan 2014)
The (N + 4)th: Cannock Chase Through Fresh Eyes (Dec 2014)
The (N + 5)th: Cannock Case, Dismal, Dismal, Dismal (Dec 2015)
The (N + 6)th: Cannock Chase Mild and Dry - So Much Better (Dec 2016)
The (N + 7)th: Cannock Chase, Venturing Further East (Jan 2018)
The (N + 8)th: Cannock Chase, Wind and Rain(Dec 2018)
The (N + 9)th: Cannock Chase, Freda's Grave at Last (Dec 2019)
The (N + 10)th: Cannock Chase in the Time of Covid (Dec 2020)
The (N + 11)th: Cannock Chase, Tussocks (Dec 2021)
Dec 2020 - no walk
The (N + 12)th: Cannock Chase, Shifting Tectonic Plates (Dec 2023)
The 1st FGC Memorial Walk: Cannock Chase. Slitting Mill, a Circular Walk (Dec 2024)