Pathfinder Walk

Huntingdonshire Day on Sunday reminded me of some of the great walks of that county, which I have barely covered. It is a stunning little county: in the summertime, coming across the fields in the south of the county, bursting with fecundity, lifts the heart with wonder. Through the midst flows the Great Ouse, possibly the finest lowland river there is.

To start then, there is the Pathfinder Long Distance Walk, devised as a celebration of the Pathfinder Force of Bomber Command, which was based at RAF Wyton in Huntingdonshire. It loops 46 miles around the east of the county, and dips into neighbouring Cambridgeshire too, starting and finishing at Wyton.

The route runs up to Warboys in the north, down to Papworth in the south, crossing the Ouse half way in two lovely stretches, following the river for a way south of Needingworth (a gorgeous village as I recall); south of here looping into Cambridgeshire, not quite getting to Cambridge, before heading east again.

The route passes though Godmanchester, a little town about which I could write a great deal, not quite touching the great meadow, Port Holme, but you may always turn aside and lean over the Chinese Bridge.

The loop is long, but is just a sample of Huntingdonshire. I will look for more walks about that enchanting county.

Maps

Route map

In mourning

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
                         But O heart! heart! heart!
                            O the bleeding drops of red,
                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
                         Here Captain! dear father!
                            This arm beneath your head!
                               It is some dream that on the deck,
                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
                            But I with mournful tread,
                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.