Startops End, Marsworth and Tring Reservoirs (Circular Walk)

In which the sun comes out and we enjoy and wander round the (worryingly dry looking) reservoirs, and I wonder if the Chap is really as bad an eater as I think he is.

Distance: 2.5 miles
Time: 1 hour

Rating: Easy Walk

Free from flu and with the sun suddenly shining, we decided to celebrate our recovery with a wander around the reservoirs.

Parking in the reservoirs car park  (£1.50 for 3 hours at time of writing) in the implausibly romantic-sounding Startops End, Marsworth, we started with a cup of tea & a piece of cake at the Bluebell tearooms (nearly £10 for two coffees and two pieces of cake! Is that the price of things these days? I nearly fell over. It's a good thing I've gone back to work if that's the price of cake these days). The Chap refused all offers of cake, but at least consented to eat one of those little caramelised biscuits that come with coffee. It's a pleasant little cafe, and we were quite excited by the bookcase of kilner jars with tea on them - always a good excuse to come back and investigate!

Filled with fat, sugar and caffeine, all three of us walked (yes, even the little one!) back to the car, where we got the sling out and then set off. Mounting the steps up the side of the embankment, we started at Startops End reservoir and followed the path to the right.

The water is still looking really low in the reservoir, which corresponds to current reports that we have a drought going on. The anglers were still out here and there, however, these reservoirs apparently being famous for producing monster bream and other fishy fiends.

Follow the route anti clockwise around the top of the first reservoir - looking to the right you get views of Marsworth, and to the left there's the reservoir and across towards Tring or Pitstone Hill, depending on which way you're looking.

Startops Reservoir with Pitstone Hill in the far distance.

Follow the path round the back of the reservoir, over a small wooden bridge and up a rise and then pop out on Tringford Road. Step over a low crashbarrier to cross the road and follow the path immediately opposite to follow to the left of Tringford Reservoir. This was a lot more full, and apparently is the thing if you're after trout. This reservoir is a lot less obviously elevated and exposed, because shortly after joining the path you go into the line of trees that surrounds it. Bear left, and ignore the path that leads off to the right in a short time, instead heading straight on.

If bird watching is your thing, there are also a number of hides, and there had been a fair few  waistcoated, bearded men with large and expensive cameras around Startops, but they hadn't got as far as Tringford. There were some pretty views from the hides, but no actual birds that we could see.

Tringford Reservoir from the bird hide

I have learnt an interesting thing this week. I went round for lunch with a friend, and  from my point of view watched her son throw food down his neck like all children who aren't my child seem to do. He ate rice cakes, all his own blueberries, then all of the Chap's blueberries, and then a yoghurt. "How marvellous to have a child that eats!" I thought. My own dear offspring consented only to eat marmite rice cakes and yoghurt while turning his nose up at the offer of fruit, cheese or chicken, before performing his usual trick of starting to whinge and flap to be taken out of his chair.

So I was interested when later the same day, the mother of this fruit-eating child posted a question on Facebook about how she was worried about the way her son will only really eat blueberries. Which makes me reconsider my perspective about whether or not I see the Chap's refusal to eat as worse than maybe it is. I'm not saying that having a child who only eats blueberries isn't something I'd wonder about, but at the same time I hadn't seen a child with a problem - I'd seen a child who likes blueberries. Similarly, I wonder if for a while I have been seeing a problem where in fact I have a child who just really, really likes breakfast cereal. In fact, my litany of 'well, my child will only eat...' has now got a bit like the 'what have the Romans ever done for us?' sketch in Life of Brian. 'Well, he'll only eat breakfast cereal. And toast. And sausages. And yoghurt. And apples. And bagels. And noodles. And exactly two  bites of broccoli, but never the whole floret. And fruit smoothie pouches. And red pepper. And individual commercial pies, like apple pies or mince pies. But apart from that, he eats nothing, I tell you. Nothing.'. Ok, so often he'll only eat two bites of something and then throw it on the floor, but things have got a lot easier since we negotiated a sign for 'all gone', which he now uses when he wants to get out of his high chair. It's a lot more preferable to the screaming, howling banshee who used to make an appearance every mealtime.

I have gone in cycles with the Chap's eating. Christmas was particularly bad. I had had visions when we started Baby Led Weaning that it would mean he would, at the age of almost one, be able to sit down and have a piece of turkey, a roast potato and some veg with us. What did he have for Christmas dinner? A shreddie. One. One centimetre square piece of breakfast cereal. Anxiety about the Chap's behaviour at mealtimes has pretty much ruined every meal for the last 6 months. Recently he has seemed to get better, by which I mean he doesn't eat any more, but we can thrust a piece of apple impaled upon a baby fork at him, and he will then wave it around or remove the apple only to try to get in on the tines again. But the whole eating thing is very stressful, particularly when nurseries start reporting what you know back to you; that yes, your son doesn't eat. It's also bad to arrive early to pick your son up to find he is, in characteristic fashion, howling to be removed from his high chair after two bites of toast. Just because he can do the 'all gone' sign and you've told nursery about it doesn't mean he is consistent in his use of it.

In some ways I'm glad it's not just me he does this to.

Weaning - to me, anyway - appears to be The First Great Test of parenting. Do you go for purée or baby led weaning? Do you let them have sugar? Sugar appears to be so dangerous that you might as well strap them down and start injecting them with heroin and be done with it. I reported to a Health Visitor that the Chap had consented to eat a bit of pork pie, and instead of being congratulated on finally getting some sort of protein into him, she sucked her teeth and announced "ooo, it's very high in cholesterol.". I'm afraid I have not been back since.

My anxieties about weaning also feed into nursery. Trying to explain why the Chap going into nursery has prompted such a strong reaction from me, I found myself saying that "the problem is that with him going into nursery is that this is when they find out."

"Find out what?" ChapDad asked

"Find out everything I've been doing wrong." I said. I don't know what it is that I have done wrong, but I am sure there are a lot of people out there with their golden Judgement Cards all ready to produce scores followed by a critical commentary from Len Goodman gratuitously using the word 'fleckle'.

People say that having a baby will find any cracks you have in your relationship and turn them into potholes. Certainly, starting to wean a child will identify all the issues you have around food and crack them wide open. Truly, I feel I am the last person who should have responsibility for feeding this child, because my own anxieties are completely clouding any rational judgement I have around food. True, since slightly before Christmas and the infamous Mugging His Mother Of A Mince Pie Incident, his eating does seem to be slowly, slowly picking up, but there are still days when all he's had are three rice cakes and 20 oz of formula. Whatever happens, though, already in my head he is The Baby Who Will Not Eat. He could eat a whole packet of sausages, a loaf of bread and a bushel of apples every day for a week, but if on the next day he complained he might just have a bit of rice cake because he was feeling a bit full, and I would be there like a shot. "See! See! I told you! Only a rice cake for The Baby Who Doesn't Eat!"

New Mill, Tring

The path leads you away from the reservoir and along the sides of fields inhabited by the occasional horse or pony. We followed the path until Tring flour mill (New Mill on maps) was in sight, and then when the path lead off to the left we followed it instead of following the map's indication of heading straight on.


The concrete path we took along the side of the field looking over towards the mill ended in a white metal fence and a padlocked gate. A path lead off to the left, but we weren't sure if that would get us onto the road, and we knew that we wanted to get onto the road to head back towards Marsworth reservoir. ChapDad asserted that of course he could clamber over the fence while his small, sleeping infant son was strapped to him. I, of course, did what every sympathetic wife would do. I stood back and took pictures.

Once on the road, cross over a turn left along the pavement. In a hundred metres or so, you will see the path you could have taken before you climbed over the gate pop out onto the road. In two places. Feel a bit foolish. Carry on until a path leads off bearing gently right. This was the same path I had taken when I had walked here from the Grand Junction Arms at the end of last year, and we carried on along this path, past some ducks in the reeds and between Marsworth and Startops reservoirs.


When you get to the end of this path, we then headed straight on and bore left along the edge of the Grand Union canal, and then back to the Startops car park.

Things I Learnt

• I am not the only person who gets wound up by their child's eating. Or lack of it.
• My son does not need to worry about his cholesterol as yet. He's one.
• All you need is one sunny morning and suddenly the whole of the 3 counties area seems to decamp to these reservoirs!

Ordnance Survey Map: 181 (Chiltern Hills North)

The Grand Junction Arms (Bulborne) to Tring Reservoirs and back.

In which rain stops play at Tring Reservoirs and I retrace my steps, play around with our new camera and list 18 things I learnt this year. Why 18? Whyever not?

Ordnance Survey Map: 181 (Chiltern Hills North)

Distance: 2 miles (?)
Time: Hardly anything

Rating: Easy Walk

Well, it's that time of year where we all start looking back and going 'ooo'. All in all - and to offer up a massive understatement - this has been a busy year. I hope next has a little bit more money and a lot more sleep in it. As the gear-up for Christmas began, I started to do a lot of thinking about this time last year. Mostly, my thoughts have been a deep and sincere gratitude that I am not heavily pregnant, and that I live in an age where acquiring the state of heavy pregnancy is one of choice. There is nothing like having a baby to teach you the joy of contraception.



The Grand Junction Arms, Bulborne



Today's walk wasn't quite what I intended. I had a plan for a circular walk, but it started to rain and, even with a brolly, I was worried about the coldness of the Chap's toes, so I decided to play it safe and head back. It was at least nice to have left the house, seeing as over the past few days I have thrown food into my mouth with gay abandon without too much exercise to counteract it. I don't think I can count Christmas cake as one of my five-a-day, and I'm pretty sure that eating it for breakfast is not wholly to be encouraged.

Cakey Breakfast of Champions dealt with, I started at The Grand Junction Arms in Bulborne, with every intention of stopping at the end of the walk for a cuppa, but seeing as I called the walk off early and they don't open til 12, my cuppa was missed and I opted to go home and prepare the Chap a sausage sandwich instead.

The Grand Junction arms is - unsurprisingly, from the name - right on the towpath of the Grand Union Canal. On towpath with my back to the pub, I turned left and headed along the tarmaced road - this is a fantastic walk if you have a pram. Come the summer I have every intention of starting in Marsworth, walking here for lunch along the canal and then walking back. Today wasn't a day for that, really. All grey and miserable, rather.

On this day last year, I was round my friend's house being fed a large and delicious Thai curry in an attempt to encourage my son to vacate the premises. He wasn't late, you understand, but I felt a few hints wouldn't go amiss; frankly, I'd had enough of him where he was.

So, on the whole, things I have learnt this year:

1) Childbirth is really not as bad as people make it out to be. Or at least, it wasn't for me.

2) Sleep deprivation really is torture- people aren't making that one up.

3) Between the hours of midnight and 5am, and foodstuff available is liable to fall into your mouth.

4) I have reached the point in my life where poor service (notably from the NHS & Ikea this year) not only annoys me, but annoys me to the point of shirty letters. I have become that sort of a Bear.



Protoceratops



5) Whisper this one quietly - for me, I think if I had another baby, I would probably skip the whole farrago with endless industrial milking machines and nipple shields and whathaveyou and just go straight to formula feeding. The people who can do it often seem mystified and I regularly got the response 'oof, when I got going I could have fed the whole street'. To those people, I can only shake like a veteran from 'Nam and intone "You weren't there, man. You weren't there..."

6) I married the right person. This is encouraging to have reconfirmed after 6 years and a baby.

7) Much love to the baby-friendly matinee at The Rex cinema in Berkhamsted, without which I would not have been able to enjoy The King's Speech, Win-Win, Potiche and Jane Eyre (that being said, Win-Win had an amusing trailer, but was best avoided).

8) Spending your Christmas money on a new camera means you will end up playing with the settings and taking extreme close-ups of plastic dinosaurs.

I was very excited by our new camera, actually. I didn't choose it, but it has brilliant automatic focus setting that makes the whole thing a point and press job, which is excellent if you're me and lazy.

Lock 44, The Grand Union Canal.

It's a pleasant, easy walk along the canal - I passed a number of locks which are part of a section I am sure are called The Marsworth Steps, but I can't find any evidence of this online. Anyway, I passed five locks in a really short space of time, which shows it's quite an up bit, even though the walk is pretty flat.

In a short while you reach the junction after which the pub is named - do not take the left hand turn towards Wendover, but instead go straight on over the humpty-backty bridge to head towards Tring Reservoirs.

More things I have learnt this year:

9) Learning my limits, and how to ask for help. It is hard to admit that you are not the Lord God Almighty, particularly if you're an only child. And particularly if you're British - we really do have that whole stiff-upper-lip thing going on. However, there is much to be said for throwing your hands up in the air and saying "Can someone help me with this?" before you hit your limits.

10) It's a really good idea to man up and go to therapy. Really, it's been brilliant. Again with that stiff-upper-lip thing - all this emoting. All this carrying on. One might as well be Californian. I thought you had to be a) mad, b) self-indulgent or c) both to go to therapy, but I was talking tosh. I wish I had gone years ago, it would have saved a lot of trouble.

11) I have revoked the Johnny Depp Clause in my marriage. I had previously asserted that should Johnny Depp turn up in Buckinghamshire and present himself at my door (which of course we all admit is highly likely), I reserved the right to reconsider my choices. Given the option now, however, I don't think I need to. My husband is my Pikachu - I choose him over all others. Where were you at 4am on various February nights this year, Mr Depp? Hmm? Where were you? Not letting me go back to bed for a sleep, I can tell you.

You eventually appear out by Tring Reservoirs, which look bleak and forbidding this time of year. I don't know about water, but should there be exposed mud at this time of year? Shouldn't reservoirs be full this time of year? Whatever it was, there were quite a few mud flats and birds with muddy legs wading through them.

When the path leads, turn left between the two reservoirs and past a group of fisherman, one of whom was complaining loudly that all he had caught today were two bird's nests.

Just as I reached the end of the path and was heading towards the road, it started to rain heavily. I had my umbrella (which I much prefer to faffing round with a rainhood on a pram. I'm not very spatially aware, so by the time I've fitted the damn thing the rain has usually stopped, or the Chap is complaining vociferously), but even so I was worried about the rattly cough the Chap has and the current situation of his cold little toeses, so I chose to turn round and head back, which was a bit disappointing, but I don't want him ill.

Last bit of the things I have learnt this year:

12) When organising a road trip through France, and when planning your first day's driving that you need to remember to include the time it will take you to get to the ferry in your total for driving hours of the day. Also, France, you have many good and noble qualities, but the signage in your towns needs some work. I have a radical proposition for you - how's about putting the signs before you get to the junctions rather than at them? Much easier to get in the right lane then...

13)A good health visitor is worth their weight in gold. Fortunately, we have one who has her head screwed on and has given very sensible advice, particularly about weaning (which was winding me right up).

14) Slings - they're a really good idea. I like walking, and baby carriers let you go wherever you like.

15) Also, sling meets are full of people who are still reading books and come out with sentences such as 'I can fit into my My Little Pony t-shirts again!', and 'I am sure it was reading Meg & Mog as a child that directly resulted in my later becoming a goth'. Such sentences make me happy, so sling meets for the win, I say.
16) There is a rule for life one needs to abide to, and it is this - when one has been out drinking and one hears Bon Jovi's classic, Livin' on a Prayer, you may use it as a litmus paper for whether or not you may return to the bar. If you do not attempt the key change, all is well and you may continue drinking. If you attempt the key change, you have probably had enough and should not accept any more. Finally - and this is very important - if you attempt the key change and think you did it really well, then that is the moment you should have a pint of water and head home to your bed for more water and a vitamin C.

17) Christmas is way more fun when you have toys to play with :)
18) There seems to be no limit to the number of photos you can take of your child. Whatever they do is clearly the cutest thing that has ever been done. All those other people thinking their baby is the best? Deluded fools! They can't smear yoghurt over themselves the way your baby can!

 

So yes, those are the things I learnt this year. There are more, like how to put a nappy on properly, or what to say when you find yourself in a baby group next to a powerfully ugly child, or why proper bras are integral to my self esteem, and what stitches feel like when the don't dissolve, and how to stop a child from choking, and how to stay awake at night when all you want to do is sleep, but these are the ones I've put here, and I don't want to go on all day.

So, the conclusion at the end of almost a year of motherhood? It's all right. It really is fine. I quite like it, although some more sleep would be nice. I'd rather have him than not, certainly. As my husband has been heard to say - he's a good bloke, that baby.

Happy New Year!

Grebe Canal Cruises to Marsworth and on to Tring via the Number 61

In which I am cheerier than last week (but less well planned), realise it's going to take far longer than I thought to get to where I want to go, give up and take the bus.

Ordnance Survey: Explorer 182 (if you look at it)
Distance: 3 miles approx
Time: 60mins

Rating: Easy Walk (if you give it enough time and don't assume you know where you're going like a wazzock.)

Although I have been musing on lovely things this week, I have also been set by disasters - fortunately, mostly by the amusing sort. Most disasters have been to do with the fact that the Chap learnt how to open the kitchen cupboards at will, but the walking one was officially All My Own Fault.

I was due to go for lunch in Tring at Anusia (it has a baby room upstairs, which is good when you have small people who would like to maraud around). I had done the walk from Pitstone Windmill to Tring before, and it had only taken a little more than an hour, so this time I decided to walk there along the Grand Union Canal. Ha! I thought. I don't need to look at a map! I'll leave it an hour and a half, I can get there without any trouble! No problem!

Pro tip: If you want to walk somewhere and you're not really sure where it goes, look at a map.

Of course, I had been on the phone to my lunch date earlier that day announcing my Virtue and going to walk. I was feeling smug. I had seen that the Chap had disappeared into one of the cupboards and was waving a bottle of food colouring around, but as he just seemed to be proffering it to Toutatis or similar sky-dwelling deity, I didn't see too much of a problem. Of course, it takes but a moment for such a small person to bend the cap on a bottle of food colouring and end up with a face like this:

This is what happens if you try to eat a
bottle of red food colouring. And then your mother
has at you with a flannel. Be warned.

Chap well-flannelled and trying to leave an hour and a half to get to Tring, I then took 25 minutes to get to the 'start' of my walk at Grebe Canal Cruises (I look forward to the point when the Chap is old enough and we can go and see Santa on a boat. That being said, is it me or is there something about the title of Santa Special Cruises that sounds dodgy?).

Grebe Canal Cruises

This part of the canal wide and open, alongside fields and has some nice views, including fields of some sort of brassica-type crop. Should that interest you.

Brassica-type crop. Indeed.

So, red food colouring aside, the other disaster had involved an Oxo stock cube. Again, the Chap had opened a cupboard and removed an item of choice - in this case, a box of Oxo cubes. I checked the box - it appeared securely closed, and it made a good rattly noise when he waved it, so I thought it seemed fine. Foolishly, however, I was not watching him as carefully as I should. I was half watching the baby and half watching the orders I was placing on Amazon for Christmas.

Of course, I looked across the kitchen to suddenly see that not only had The Chap successfully opened the box, but that he had also seized an Oxo cube and was chomping away on it. Delicious! I flapped across the kitchen and fished the foil out of his mouth, but he seemed rather disappointed that I had wrestled this tasty treat from his little fingers. What a mean mummy!

The walk was very pleasant. I overtook a narrow boat, saw a couple of swans, looked at a couple of locks, exchanged some words with a gentleman coming the other way about the chilliness of the morning, and felt quite pleased with myself.

So I walked and I walked and I walked and I walked and I was beginning to wonder at which point I would reach Marsworth. I began to wonder if really I was on the right bit of canal. I began to wonder if I was going from Grebe Canal Cruises to Marsworth via Dover.


It did, however, take me almost an hour to walk what it would have taken me 3 minutes on a bus, such is the meandering nature of the canal. Finally I saw the tower of Marsworth Church appear. I looked at my watch. If I kept going at this pace, I was going to be catastrophically late for lunch.

The tower of Marsworth Church hoves into
view over the bridge.

So I wimped out. It was 20 past 11. I knew a bus would come past at half past. I had had my exercise, I was peckish, and even if I arrived early via the bus I would get some food, which was more than I was getting pacing along this endless canal. I gave up and exited at the next bridge.

View back along the Grand Union Canal.

Heading straight up this road, you pass by the Red Lion pub on your left and then Marsworth Church on your right.

At the end of the road, by Marsworth Village hall, turn left and cross the road to the green bus stop. From this you can gain an excellent view of the number 61 bus as you give up your expedition and opt for lunch over all this prancing round in the fresh air.

Things I learnt

• Do check the map before you go anywhere, even if you think you know where you're going. I know, I know...
• Child locks on kitchen cupboards are and excellent invention.
• It's better to give up and go for lunch than plough on when you have no idea where you're going!

St Mary's Church, Ivinghoe circular walk via Pitstone Windmill and the Grand Union Canal

In which I do a circular walk from Ivinghoe's Church, see a number of fungi which I fail to identify, and politely request that certain magazines get the ... Dickens... off my ... blinking... case.

Ordnance Survey number: Explorer 181
Distance: 5 miles approx
Time: 2 and a half hours (I was feeling lazy, ok?)

Rating: Moderate Walk - map reading and stile climbing required.
This is posting a bit late today, but I've been in a pickle because The Chap has been running a temperature for the past 24 hours, and I have been stuck playing Human Mattress because he refused to be put down.

St Mary The Virgin's Church, Ivinghoe was originally built at some point in the 13th Century, and at the time of writing is currently covered in some very modern scaffolding. There was originally some hope of the work being done by Christmas, but sadly it seems that it won't be finished until February.

Although I started the walk here, parking isn't amazing. There is some on a verge opposite the King's Head, but I'm not sure how legal or encouraged it is - might be better to park at the Pitstone Windmill area if you don't fancy risking it.

Turn your back on the church (how very Dawkins of you), and follow the High Street down the mild decline. Shortly after passing the library and post office, take the second left down Green Lane. This rapidly becomes unsuitable for cars and leads you through a gate and onto the footpath that takes you across the field past the Pitstone Windmill. Cross straight across this field and follow the path straight across the next one - you will pop out, via a metal kissing gate, onto Vicarage Road.

Turn right down Vicarage Road, and follow until you reach the roundabout shortly after passing Pitstone Memorial Hall. Go straight across the roundabout along Cheddington Road.

Just as you leave the village of Pitstone, and slightly before the National Speed Limit sign, cross the road and turn right through a metal kissing gate to head towards the Grand Union Canal.

Unidentified fungus #1

Usually October is the month for fungi, but I think all the warm weather we had might have put it off. Now it's getting colder, I was able to spot more types, although what most of the were I have no idea.

This is the sort of slightly woody path that I like best - the sort of place Freudians look at in fairy stories and nod and suck their teeth at. I just like it because it feels atmospheric.

Speaking of the atmosphere, there must be something in the air at the moment, because almost everyone I talk to appears to be doing some form of exercise or dieting or both. There's been a rash of exercise/weight loss status updates. There are two reasons for this, I think. 1) Christmas, that annual Excuse For Gluttony is coming, and 2) The Godmother is getting married the week on December 17th, leading to a frenzy of dress choosing and posing to be done.

There's something about weddings - particularly in the age of digital photography, where you know the first pictures will be plastered across Facebook within 24 hours, and then following in dribs and drabs for the rest of the week - that makes us all behave like we're going to walk the Red Carpet at the Oscars. I know I do it; the year before I had The Chap, I marked weight-loss by the three weddings I had to attend.

I remember The Godmother getting engaged distinctly, because her fellow proposed when The Chap was 5 days old. She texted everyone in excitement - it had been 10 years in coming - and I, in my heightened emotional state, burst into tears in the back of the car as the ChapDad was driving us to hospital for the 5 day check. "When are you getting married?" I asked her. "Will I have enough time to lose the baby weight?". When she announced that it would be in December, I laughed. Of course I'd have lost the weight by then! Easy.

Ha!

Of course I haven't. I am also still plugging away at Fat is a Feminist Issue, but I once heard Jo Brand announce that she got halfway through it and then ate it, which is sort of how I feel about it too, except it's on my Kindle and that would be expensive. It's just a bit ... worthy. The Female Eunuch is funny and filthy, but this is just a lot of handwringing. According to Orbach, I am fat allegedly because I am choosing to be so because it is doing something for me psychologically - probably something to do with me wanting to avoid sexual attention. I'm not convinced. In fact, it makes me go 'ppfffft' and reach for a chocolate brownie.

In due course, you pop out of the wooded path and onto the Grand Union Canal. Cross the bridge and turn right. The light was amazing by the water, and the canal was incredibly still and peaceful. I was still fairly ranty, however, but the light did make me stop and go 'oo' before I continued on my muttering way.
Because surely, to say that one gets fat in order to avoid sexual attraction suggests that no-one fancies fat girls (lest we forget, they're 'more grateful' and so 'make more of an effort'. The number of times some arsehat has announced that to me in a pub. To my face. ). I can plainly see the evidence for this, having never been kissed, or had a boyfriend, or been proposed to or got married. No no. Nothing to see here, I've just sat at home at pondered my navel. Which certainly isn't pierced. Fat girls don't do that. We're too busy feeling melancholy.

house by my own rage, I go and buy some form of trashy magazine. I bought one this week, and we shall call it - to pluck a name from the air - Nearer. It purports to contain information on such diverse subjects as fashion, celebrity and real life (albeit the type of real life that exists around the more extreme fringes and almost always seems to contain one story of rape a week. Why, one wonders...?). I know I shouldn't buy these magazines; my sister-in-law refers to them as 'A roll-call of social care referrals', which I think is pretty accurate.

This particular publication is especially poisonous, in my opinion. Because this one is endlessly mentioning somebody's weight, and, most worryingly, slyly implying that when they were thinner, they were happier. So there they are, printing their lead story about two examples of  standard self-destructive tabloid fodder 'ballooning' from drinking too much. Here's a picture of one in a tiny blue dress at some awards bash, with the caption 'looked a lot slimmer attending a launch party in May'. On the next page, here's some reality-show wazzock who 'looked slim and healthy before', whereas in the next picture 'The star looked a lot bigger at a party last week'. The implication is that if they're fatter, it's an indication of their internal misery. I'm not denying comfort eating, what I'm disliking is the broad, brush-stroke implication that if you're thin, you're happy.

Unidentified fungus #2

Continuing along the canal, I spotted another set of mysterious mushrooms - although these looked a little more toadstooly to me. And speaking of poisonous little toadstools, if this whole fat thing was mentioned once on that page and then never mentioned again, I think I'd be more inclined to go 'hm' and leave it. But as I flicked through it, all it seemed to be talking about was who was having babies and who had got back into their tiny jeans within six weeks after giving birth. Clearly I am the demographic for this atrocious tosh, and it filled me with rage. Of course, there's the obligatory page where some celebrity yo-yo dieter pops up half naked 'celebrating her curves' (oh, curves, you pernicious word. We all know you're a euphemism for fat), but for the rest of it... I'm the sort of person who likes statistics, so I did some counting. 34 pages of this magazine dealt with 'features', 13 of which had some snidey little comment about someone looking fatter/thinner. Less than half, but it means that every couple of pages or so, some poisonous toadstool pops up to go "You're fat! You're fat! You're fat, and you must be miserable!". It wears you down. There's better things we have to worry about as women than the fact we are still toting, say, and extra stone of baby weight (such as the contradictory advice of Health Visitors, or the crippling price of childcare, for example), but that's all these magazines want to make you focus on, because they market themselves as a solution, a break, a matey little bit of time for yourself, while it simultaneously grinds you down. It's a vicious little circle that makes them a lot of money, I'm sure.

Potentially identified fungus

I finally passed a fungus that I think I recognise. I'm pretty sure that this is a field mushroom. Had it had more friends, I would have picked them and taken them home for a spot of mushrooms on toast, but seeing as this one was there all on its lonesome, I left it where it was.

Shortly after the possible field mushroom, I reached the point where you have to leave the canal path. At bridge 123, take the path up to the left onto the road.

Bridge 123

I was briefly concerned that this choice of path was deeply foolish, as it takes you across a single lane bridge with no footpath. That being said, it is quite easily done as long as you use your common sense with it and follow the traffic when the traffic light is green.

The traffic light is not green.

Continue along the right hand side of the road for a few hundred metres until you see a green footpath sign on the other side of the road. This leads you into Farm, and for a moment I thought I was going to have to turn around and go back the way I'd come, as there were large 'Disease Control' signs on the gate. I remember going for a walk with my father at the height of the 2001 Foot & Mouth Crisis, and having to phone to get my mum to pick us up from the middle of nowhere because we suddenly found that the paths we were supposed to go on had all been closed. However, as I approached the stile, I saw a large blue box on the other side, which upon further inspection, read:

All fine - feet dipped (easier said than done when you have a baby on your front and a knapsack on your back). Follow the path up the side of the field boundary until, just beyond the top right corner, you will find a gate and a bridge over a stream. I was really glad I was wearing boots here, because the mud was so churned up on the other side of the bridge that my trainers would have been ruined.Turn right and follow the field boundary again along the side of the Grove Farm pick-your-own patch. The strawberries were looking particularly sad.

The sun sets over the
pick-your-own ...

It as at this point I realised that I had misjudged the time of day, and the sun was going down. I hadn't really spotted that it is almost winter, and sunset does happen a lot earlier these days... At the corner of the field, follow the signposted path along the stream until you come to a wide pathway. Turn right, and walk alongside the chainlink fence next to the pick your own gooseberry bushes. A couple of hundred metres down here you will see a pathway sign off to the left. Cross the second stile and walk along a fenced corridor between two fields. When I was there, they had sheep in them, and I had to stop and ponder the following question:

Is it me, or does this sheep have a really small head
compared to the size of its body?
Is it the inverse Brian-from-Westlife of the sheep world?
His head is massive.  Just have a look.

When this path ends, turn right for a few hundred metres, and then left along a clearly signposted path before you wander into the farm.Walk down Maud Jane's Close, and when you reach Station Road, turn left and you will shortly find yourself back at the church where you began.

By which time, I am pleased to say, my internal monologue which had at certain points sounded reminiscent of an episode of The Thick of It, had quietened. I know the easiest thing for me would be to stop reading these magazines, but I know they're there. They look at me, with an expression of poorly disguised loathing, the way they look at all women. And I read them every now and again in the hope that I can find something to approve of, or if it's just going to be another guilty frisson of vicarious bullying as we all crow at how terrible some overpaid, undertalented miseryguts looks in a tacky dress. And that's the greatest problem of all, because you know that guilty frisson of vicarious bullying? I like it.

Hmpf.

Things I learnt

• The sun is going down a lot earlier. By the time I got home, it was dark and I felt like a dirty stop-out.
• The warm weather means mushrooms and other fungal fellows are out later this year.
• Certain types of magazines make me swear like a Billingsgate porter.

The Paper Mill (Apsley) to The Fishery Inn (Hemel Hempstead) and back

In which a friend and I walk along the Grand Union Canal and discuss being chatted up, which in turn leads me to think about MILFs and Yummy Mummies.

Ordnance Survey Number: Explorer 182
Distance: 3.5 miles approx
Time: 75 minutes ish

 I met up with a friend from University whose son is 5 months older than my chap. We'd started out with the grand plan to walk from Apsley to Berkhamsted, but instead reevaluated our plans as she had to be back in her house by one o'clock to meet the man from Virgin who was coming to mend their internet after her husband tried to 'improve the connection'.

The Paper Mill pub (Fullers)

Our walk began at The Paper Mill pub, which is very prettily situated next to the Grand Union Canal and a swirly whirly white metal bridge that takes you from one side of the canal to the other.
Paper mills are apparently The Thing that Apsley is famous for - the pub is next to the site of one of John Dickinson's mills, bought in 1809 after patenting a new type of paper-making. Should paper really excite you, you can even enjoy the local Frogmore Mill as part of the Papertrail project. Go knock yourself out.



From the pub car park, cross the swirly bridge (153B) and turn left, passing on the opposite side of the canal to the pub. While we were on the subject of pubs, my friend had gone out with some people from work last Friday, and had been accosted by some roustabout in a velvet blazer who had greeted her with the opening gambit of 'I saw you come in... you're a lot more fun that you look'. She, of course, had taken it to mean that her outfit had been somewhat dour and that she must 'update her look' forthwith. I rather feel he was a forward little minx and no better than he ought to be.

There is a good, wide tow-path next to this stretch of the canal, and you can comfortably fit two walkers next to each other. It's also flat enough to take a pram, so non-baby-wearers can enjoy this walk too. As it's a tow-path, you are entirely map-reading free, leaving you at liberty to march onwards and put the world to rights.

This cad in the velvet blazer, you see - I think he's got a good line, there. It's all about social distancing; we can only be rude to people you know really well. So, just as an Australian butcher used the advertising slogan 'Eat Beef, You Bastards' as a way to immediately cut the social distance because the rudeness implies everyone is his mate, so 'You're a lot more fun than you look' is an effective line. On one side, it breaks the ice by being an insulting comment, and on the other it subconciously encourages his target to prove that she is, indeed, good fun. I suspect he has a lot of success with this line, the cheeky little whippersnapper. On the plus side, this argument also convinced my friend that she did not need to go out and buy and entire new wardrobe, so that was also an advantage.

View from the bridge - no trolls in evidence.

In due course you may walk though the delicious smell of coffee emanating from the factory on the bank, and then will need to cross the 153A white brick humpty backty bridge (upon which someone has sprayed the warning Beware Of Trolls -we were, mercifully, quite unscathed). This bridge is small but has quite a vicious gradient to it, so avoid this walk if it's icy.

You now continue along the left hand side of the tow path - we did so while having the sort of frank conversation that women who have known each other for more than a decade and have recently had babies can enjoy - the sort of chat that encouraged a middle aged men who passed by to look back with a slightly shocked expression.

Anyway, this ne'erdowell and his velvet blazer got me thinking as to the percieved attractiveness of mothers, and led me on to ponder the labels of the MILF and the Yummy Mummy.

I first alighted upon the idea of the MILF (Mum I'd Like to, ahem, get-to-know-really-rather-better) from the film American Pie . It may have been an acronym that was around before, but that's where I first met it. Culturally, some of our very worst swearwords and insults are to do with having sexual relations with someone's mother. Yet in those swearwords, it's never actually considered how the mother is involved in the act. I always understood 'Mother-um-dabbler' to mean a violation of somebodies mother, which I think is one of those activities that is universally considered to be Not Cricket. To sit in a pub and to go "Hurr hurr, wouldn't mind a go on your wife." is, in some circles, socially acceptable, whereas to turn to your mate and chortle "Hurr hurr, wouldn't mind a go on your mum." is more liable to lead you to the nearest Accident & Emergency. Is it just a generation gap? Is MILFing only a concept that has a little frisson because you're after someone who is old enough to be your mum? The whole concept seems a little offensive to me because of the passivity of the position in which it renders the woman - she is inactive, to be looked at, to be 'enjoyed', but the concept of the MILF does not present a real woman with real thoughts and passions. She seems to be little more than a blow-up doll... Very few women of my acquaintance would be happy to hear themselves be described as a MILF.

The canal also takes you along the side of the Moor of Boxmoor - there are a number of walks on this, some of which I may have to investigate at a later date. Such pretty views are unlikely to distract me from a full-on autorant, as anyone who has found me in a pub and foolishly mentioned subjects such as wedding dresses, pubic hair or the state of the nation's antenatal classes (to name but a few topics..) will have discovered.

So, MILF is perceived as pretty derogatory. Yummy Mummy, however - apparantly that's something we should all be aspiring to. It's a label you can cheerfully get stuck onto changing bags, tshirts, cookbooks, even - bizarrely -  nail varnishes; I could go on, but I'd become so depressed with my googlings I had to step away from the computer. The first person I heard referred to as a Yummy Mummy was Jools Oliver, wife of TV chef Jamie. For some reason, I've remembered that, because I was probably in my early twenties and mildly taken aback by it. It's a continuation of the 'women as consumable' line - sweetie, cupcake, honey, honey-bun, pumpkin, sugar, cutie-pie, dumpling, peach, Cheesy Wotsit. All of them - well, apart from the Cheesy Wotsit, which I'm pleased to announce I have never been called - depict the woman as some sort of foodstuff to be gobbled greedily - Yummy Mummy doesn't seem to be any better.

Unlike some sections of the Grand Union canal, the Apsley-Hemel section is not down in a cutting, so every now and again the hedge next to you breaks to present some pretty little views, such as this. The pastoral idyll is somewhat marred if you look a little to the left to see a large petrol station, but looking this way is really very pretty.

So what's the difference between a MILF and a Yummy Mummy? Urban Dictionary states that the difference between the MILF and the Yummy Mummy is age -  'yummy mummys [sic] are younger than 30, while MILFs are older than 30'. Ah, so it's women being judged not only on their sexual attractiveness (again), but also their age? Marvellous. I'd also add my own addendum to this definition - as far as I an see, a MILF appears to be sluttier, more sexually available than a Yummy Mummy, who is more likely to be found driving a Chelsea Tractor. The mere presence of the F in MILF clearly indicates the speaker's intentions, rather than the more subtle implication of 'eating' the Yummy Mummy. Semantically, however, the intent is the same.

So, in short, no, I don't want to be a Yummy Mummy. I don't want it on a Tshirt or change bag, not in my house, not on a mouse, I do not like it here or there, I do not like it any more than I like the concept of MILF.

All this ranting means that you should have, by now, reached bridge 149 and the Fishery Inn, and very nice it is too. Had my friend not had to be back for her audience with Mr Virgin I fear we may have fallen to the siren call of lunch there. If you just fancy a short walk, you can give up here and divert off the canal to the nearby Hemel Hempstead station and get the train back to Apsley, but for the full 3.5 mile walk you need to turn round and go back the way you came. It's pretty enough to merit a return walk, and you can continue to set the world to rights and startle middle aged men on your way.

Things I Learnt

• Apsley is the birthplace of the industrialisation of paper making. Will file it away until the appropriate episode of QI...
• As a culture, it seems that it's fine to find someone's wife attractive, but once she has given birth you appear to be veering towards, um, 'Specialist Tastes'. Need to give this more thought to see if it's an argument that stands up.
• I sort of wish that Cheesy Wotsit really was a term of endearment. At the same time, I'm glad it's not.

Pitstone Windmill to The Akeman, Tring.

In which I stomp out a quantity of residual anger, work up an appetite for a pain au chocolat, and think about nothing at all.

Ordnance Survey Number: Explorer 181
Distance: Somewhere between 3 & 4 miles. I think.
Time: 75 minutes ish

Rating: Easy  

I sort of did this walk by accident, as it was done as much on a whim as you can be when you have a baby to plan for. A number of factors led me to decide to walk and meet friends - firstly, it was a really lovely, sunny day (if a bit windy); secondly The Chap was being really awkward - tired, but refusing to sleep or feed, instead choosing to grizzle permanently; thirdly, I was very, very cross with my husband over something he had done that I'm not really going to go into here because it's Not Cricket to do so, but had led me to throw a sieve across the kitchen in  frustration the night before. Not at him; he wasn't in the room at the time, you understand. Full marks to John Lewis for crafting sieves that remain completely unscathed during marital disputes, however. And we're friends again now, so it's all water under the bridge.

Suffice to say, however - I was right.

The gently rising stony path

Looking better than a quarry

The Pitstone Windmill  is always a good starting place, and has a number of pretty views around it, so it made sense to start there again. Walking away from the windmill and across a field towards Vicarage Road in Pitstone, you pop out through a hedge for a brief turn left and then right down Church Road. When the road turns sharply left, you don't follow it but instead go straight on up a gently rising stony path. A hundred metres or so up this, you pop out into a really lovely chalk grassland meadow that is the attractive result of last century's chalk quarrying. Indeed, you can still see the sharp banks that result from the open-cast quarrying.

This meadow is very popular as a local dog-walking spot, and you are likely to receive a few friendly nods as you walk through it. The chalk grassland  is really very pretty and has all sorts of flowers on it throughout the year as well as affording some nice views of Pitstone Hill and surrounding countryside. Bear left (the path is quite well trodden)as you go through the main field, and you will find a small stony path that pops you out onto the Pitstone cycle paths. My cycling is rubbish, so cycle paths such as these do a lot to protect Buckinghamshire from my wobbling wheels.

Do you dare brave the stile for this view?
(Taken from the end of the path, looking down the
route I didn't take)

Turn left once on the cycle path, and you should be able to see a roundabout. Cross straight over this onto Northfield Road using the paths, and face your first decision. Do you wish to a) brave a stile, and enjoy a pleasantly wooded walk that protects you from the road for a bit, or b) avoid the stile and face walking up the road. I was feeling pretty lazy, to be honest, so I chose to walk up the road - it's not very far, although the road is quite well used as it's a main route to Tring station. The verge is just about wide enough for you to leap off the road should a car come up behind you (I chose to walk up the 'wrong' side of the road in the same direction of the cars, as the other side had more trees and was harder to get out of the way if a car was coming.).

Either way you choose, you will have to walk along part of Northfield Road, but a path along the verge does appear to protect you from traffic. It is not far along this that a green sign directs you to Public Restricted Byway 62 (where are the other 61, I wonder?)/Great Union Canal 1/2 mile/ Tring Town Centre 2 miles.

This is Marshcroft Lane, and for the next couple of miles you can switch your map reading brain off, because all you do is walk along here. It's good to just stomp away and pound out any rage you have - this is a place to work off all that 'helpful' baby advice about feeding/weaning/sleeping that you receive. While your brain is off, there are a number of things you can admire, among them:

Rolling countryside, of the sort the South of England does so well.

The London - Glasgow train line; terribly exciting if you're a certain type of person. I'm not that type.

The Grand Union canal

Those scabby-looking blackberries that either taste amazing
or render your face like that of a pig chewing a wasp.

Sloes. For gin.

You can also enjoy views of some really expensive houses - the sort of things that have balconies and gazebos. I didn't take pictures; they'd probably think I was weird, or a burglar.

In due course, you will pop out in Tring - turn left and follow Grove Road to its end, then turn right and follow Station Road until you reach Tring high street - a hop halfway up this will bring you to the crossroads. Turn left up Akeman Street and The Akeman is just beyond the Chinese Takeaway and Town Hall.

"Garcon! A little service here!"

Please allow me to recommend the mint tea (made with fresh mint leaves rather than a tired old bag) - I tend to decant a glug into The Chap's doidy cup for him to enjoy once it's been cooled. He's a bit of a mint fiend, it has transpired. It also means he has taken to brushing his teeth (all 4 of them, at current count) with quite some gusto. The Akeman is also very baby friendly and does some very naughty cakes. The food is also very good, if a bit pricey - nice for a treat

Tea and cake/patisserie done with, you can either be Virtuous and walk back to the Windmill, or do as I did and and take the number 61 bus (caught on the High Street opposite the Rose & Crown Hotel) back.

Things I Learnt

• Do not blog in a rage. Had I written this right after I had the done the walk, I fear I would have written all sorts of unpleasant things. I waited a bit, however, and things are now more in perspective. But, I hasten to add once again, I was right.
• Don't forget to put socks on your baby. You just end up holding their feet the whole time.
• Spread-and-splay type carriers may be very comfortable, but offer little protection if your child does an epic wee which leaks down your front. The charmer.