Picture perfect: the views on the trek between Salisbury and Winchester were like something from a Constable oil painting
KEN TOWL, Inside Croydon’s regular walks guide, took a diversion last weekend, and with a group of old mates made a 20-mile pilgrimage between two of the finest medieval cathedrals in the world. They stopped at a pub or two along the way, of course…
Travelling light: Ken Towl and chums set off
Every summer, some or all of a half a dozen ex-teaching colleagues and I take a walk somewhere in England.
We have done, among others, the South Downs and the Ridgeway, ancient paths that carried pilgrims and traders, ancient paths that did not stray too far from the inevitable hospitality that such travellers would require.
This year, the plan was to walk between the cathedrals of Salisbury and Winchester and stop, just three miles north of the trail, at Stockbridge, Hampshire, reputedly the most sought-after town in southern England, where the average sale price in the last 12 months is reported to be more than £600,000.
Up early on Saturday, I caught the 7.17 from Clapham Junction and the Reading contingent, Alan (history and politics) and James (psychology), and the American, Bryan (English), joined me at Basingstoke.
Starting point: Salisbury Cathedral, built between 1220 and 1330, the 404ft spire is the tallest in England.
There, at the station, we met Tom (history and politics), who had driven down from Shrewsbury.
He was, as usual, sporting trousers short enough to display his “KILI 5895” tattoo, which he had several years ago assured me meant nothing to do with killing people and was, rather, a memento of his ascent of the highest mountain in Africa.
Where was the sixth member of our party, Nigel (maths)?
Whatsapp confirmed that he was already at the cathedral; perhaps he was praying that his shoes would not disintegrate as they had a couple of years ago, prematurely terminating his trek over the Ridgeway?
We found him at the cathedral studying the statues of saints.
Averse to early mornings, he had stayed overnight in Salisbury and stayed at Sarum College (single rooms £69), a handsome 17th Century building with views of the cathedral across the green. He would recommend it.
Pilgrims’ way: there’s plenty of guides and maps to this route
We set off past the college, heading due east following the “bishop’s helmet” on the way markers along the route. My suggestion that the symbol was actually a mitre was rejected. For some reason, it was funnier to look for the bishop’s helmet.
After a couple of miles, we came across Clarendon Palace, which gives its name to the route, the Clarendon Way and is, according to royalpalaces.com “quite simply one of the most important royal domestic sites in England”.
Llama drama: there was a grand palace here once upon a time
History teacher Alan ruminated on the changes that time renders.
What had once been a seat of power, a royal summer residence, was now a pile of stones. Only a lone llama, chewing at the vegetation and observing us all, remained as evidence of what had been a great hunting lodge. To be clear, the llama theory is all mine, not that of the history teachers.
A couple of miles further on we stopped for an early lunch in the charming village of Pitton.
The 18th Century Silver Plough had an attractive beer garden out front so we ate there. A “pork scotch egg with English mustard” was advertised at £9 on the menu and actually came in at £10.14 when I went to pay because, as I was informed with the card reader held about two inches from my face, there was a “discretionary service charge”.
Discretionary charge: the food at the Silver Plough in Pitton impressed Mr Towl
I paid the charge, not for the fact that it had been carried out to the table, but because it was wonderful, perfectly cooked but still runny inside. I don’t understand how they do that.
Another couple of miles and we stopped at the Lord Nelson Arms in Middleton. We were still in Wiltshire at this stage. But travellers on the first half of the Clarendon Way have, it appears, been well-supplied with beer for some time.
The weather was getting warmer as we trudged on to our next stop, the Greyhound in Broughton, which, according to its own website, turned out to be “the best local pub of the year 2025”. We were not minded to argue with their assertion.
The beer was good, including the Hawkstone lager, Jeremy Clarkson’s latest venture, and the staff were super-friendly. When we were unable to find a taxi to carry us off the trail for the three miles along the road to Stockbridge, they arranged for the husband of a member of staff to run us up there for a modest fee. We were grateful.
Dogged performance: The Greyhound, in Broughton, with helpful staff in another chocolate box-pretty village on our route along the Clarendon Way
And, as he drove, he explained to us that Stockbridge was one of the top 10 most sought-after places to live in England. A search later found that it had made both The Times’ and the Telegraph’s top 10.
He also told us that the following day, the first Sunday in August, was the day of The Trout Festival.
At Stockbridge, the seventh member of our party, Welsh Phil, was waiting for us at the 15th Century Three Cups Inn.
Welsh Phil had opted only to walk on the second day of our trek.
The ceiling of the pub is so low that everyone over about five feet tall has to walk in a permanent crouch. In the morning, the busy breakfast room looked like an ape-impersonation convention.
We ate dinner outside in the sheltered garden. I had the River Test trout on crushed new potatoes and it was as good as its £19 price tag. The local Flowerpots Pale was good value, too, at under £6 per pint.
In the morning, we found four tractors and one union flag parked opposite the pub, and stalls lining the broad and attractive High Street. The Trout Festival was about to begin.
The Trout Festival: Stockbridge ‘felt like a dream of an England that used to be, when there were local pastel-painted shops, draught beer, strawberry jam, a village hall, and trout jumping in the stream’
You could see why some people would find Stockbridge highly desirable. It had a timeless quality to it. It felt like a dream of an England that used to be, when there were local pastel-painted shops, draught beer, strawberry jam, a village hall, and trout jumping in the stream.
As we left The Three Cups, I thought I heard the waitress calling out, “Has the Brexit Party gone?” It was only later that I realised that she had said “breakfast party”.
Big, empty skies: the Test valley and rolling hills of Hampshire provided some wonderful sights
We took a taxi to get us back on the Clarendon Way route and plodded on, climbing to a ridge with stunning views north over the Test valley and the rolling hills of Hampshire.
“It’s so big, and empty,” said Bryan, the American.
A mile or so short of Winchester, we stopped at Beechcroft Farm Tea Barn (open Thursdays to Sundays).
Tom had read out a review from his phone that lauded the “dirty cheese and onion rolls” so, convinced that this was likely to be the best option, I plonked my rucksack down at a table in the garden and queued up to make my order.
“I hear you have dirty cheese and onion rolls,” I said to the guy at the counter. He looked at me, with something between contempt and pity in his eyes, and said, “We have cheese and onion roll.”
I died a little inside. He appeared to think I was some sort of misinformed swinger. I said, “I’ll have one of those, please, and a cup of tea.”
Almost there: the final few miles into Winchester, conducted to the sound of the cathedral’s bells on a sunny Sunday morning
Summoned by bells: the finishing line at Winchester Cathedral
We strolled into the beautiful medieval centre of Winchester to the sound of the cathedral’s bells, and tried a couple of pubs, one near the cathedral, the other by the station.
The first of these, the Eclipse, a 16th Century half-timbered job, sold the excellent Flowerpots ales.
With a variety of trains to catch, we took our aching feet up to the Albion, which appeared to stock the entire Hopback brewery range.
We said our goodbyes at the station and, once on the train to Clapham Junction, I fell asleep.
I can recommend a walk along the Clarendon Way for a quintessentially middle-England experience where the llamas and the tractors are free-range and the buildings are even older than the average Conservative voter, and, for a couple of days at least, all is right with the world.
Walkers at the ready: Ken Towl and his former teaching colleagues after a weekend on the Clarendon Way from Wiltshire to Hampshire
Here’s a selection of some of Ken Towl’s recent reviews:
- There’s a revolution going on in a wooded glade in Coulsdon
- Changing times, and quieter nights, for Croydon’s oldest pub
- Cockneys offers a real taste of soon-to-be-lost London tradition
- Pregnant with vulnerability, Gwilliam sets the scene for festival
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