Wild Camping along the North Downs Way Section 11: Etchinghill to Dover

Here we are, finally, the last section of our NDW endeavour, day 5, homestretch! Can you hear it in the distance? I hope you do?! Cause Dover’s calling for sure!! So, time to lace up those boots once more, hoist that beast of a backpack, and do some more hiking …or at least that’s what I thought we were doing. As it turns out, not everyone would agree with that description, including one tall blonde gentleman that stopped me on this final stretch to investigate what me and my taciturn companion were up to.

It must have been somewhere around Folkstone, I was trotting along the coastal path, when he decided to approach me, wrapped in a squeaky clean, bright red, Arctic explorer-style coat. He appeared to be returning from a stroll around the cliffs, about to head back into his cosy house where surely a fireplace of some sort awaited him. Intrigued by the slightly weathered sight he came across though, he stopped to ask what I was doing out here passing through his ocean-facing backyard. Enthusiastically, I responded, “Hiking the North Downs Way!”, a response that turned his curiosity into confusion, wherefore he felt the urge to correct me and say, “’Walking’ you mean?!” Apparently, ‘Hiking’ was too serious of a term to use on those laughable grounds!?

You should have seen my face, standing on the windy cliffs leading to Dover, about to complete a five-day endeavour, feet sore, belly empty, hips bruised, …and now even my ego thanks to this doubtful encounter!*

*An encounter that seemingly left its mark given the title of my pre-camping ‘Walking’ pieces, something I noticed just now as I was writing this — our brain works in mysterious ways sometimes, doesn’t it?! 🤯

So, Walking, Hiking, or Even Trekking — What’s Actually the Difference?

First ones to compare given the scenario that encouraged me to do some research, ‘Walking’ and ‘Hiking’. I was surprised to find out that both terms are often used interchangeably (hmpf) according to Cicerone, one of the main English guidebook publishers, the one that put Paddy Dillon’s wisdom into writing for instance. If not familiar with the publisher but heard the word before, you are right in assuming that ‘cicerone’ is an old term for a guide, for a person that conducts sightseers or, according to its very first use, a learned antiquarian who shows and explains the antiquities and curiosities of the country to foreigners — weirdly a term I’d prefer to travel blogger. Let’s save that one for later while appreciating the ingenuity of the publisher, even if their definition of walking and hiking does not necessarily help with my semantic indignation.

For them, either term, ‘Walking’ or ‘Hiking’, can mean a day walk, which can be completed within an hour, half a day, 24 hours, or even 48 hours for some tough hikers completing a challenge walk without breaks for sleep — serious stuff, but Cicerone would still call it a walk, just like taking your dog for a stroll.

So, what about ‘Trekking’ then, Cicerone’s speciality, a word that appears to encapsulate what we’re trying to achieve on this outdoor endeavour if you’ve been following from the start. According to the guidebook publisher, trekking is about immersing yourself in the landscape, going on a journey away from everyday life, away from your daily stresses and worries, losing and finding yourself along the trail, one day at a time, a feeling of ‘flow’ one can only achieve when walking for at least a week, …hmmm, five days I said before, didn’t I? What was it then? A ‘multi-day’ hike? Or maybe a ‘mini-trek’?

The term ‘Backpacking’ comes to the rescue, which, unlike trekking, does not involve hostels, B&Bs or mountain huts as you’ll be carrying your own accommodation for however long you like, no bookings required. So, essentially you can backpack a trekking route, which according to Cicerone allows an even stronger connection to nature and the landscape around you, along with the sense of self-sufficiency, something we were definitely after giving the pandemic rollercoaster. So, maybe Backpacking would have been the right term to use in that impromptu discussion, one that might have been harder to question given the mute companion resting on my back, a term that did not come to mind since I tend to associate ‘Backpacking’ with extended oversea travel adventures (of which I still owe you a few), not so much my random outdoor shenanigans.

Either way, once my description was called into question by a curious and seemingly unimpressed local, I rambled to myself as I walked away, slightly deflated. Funnily enough, ‘Ramble’ would have been another word I could have easily used, one that became popular in the 19th century when people ventured to the countryside to escape the hustle and bustle of the towns, an activity either leading you along marked trails or wherever your feet may take you.

Ultimately, I’m sure we can all agree, it truly doesn’t matter what you call it, as long as you get out there and reap the benefits of nature, get the blood pumping and clear your head, be it on a walk, a hike, along a trek, with or without a backpack. It’s just a word after all, its meaning often dependent on people’s associations, linked to their personal experiences.

And truth be told, the state I was in probably offered the best description of what I’ve been up to. So, if the tall stranger thought I went for a walk by the looks of it, maybe I should have just taken it as a compliment, tossed my hair, and carried on, instead of getting lost in this semantic maelstrom.

With that in mind, let’s ramble on and see what the next (for now final) NDW section has to offer. As usual, I’ll try to point out the weird and wonderful sights along the way, like a proper cicerone — or would it be ciceroness? 🤔 Potayto, potahto, let’s finally head off to Dover, shall we?

Section 9: Etchinghill to Dover, 12 miles (19.3 km)

“This section of the North Downs Way is so utterly spectacular and full of interest that, even if you have chosen to go via Canterbury [like my camping fellow Ian], you should try to find time to walk at least this part of the southern route.” Not my words for a change, but I could not agree more with good ole Colin Saunders, as well as many other guidebook authors promising spectacular views as you stride along the top of the escarpment for the majority of the section.

A word of warning early on, those cliffs you’ll be strolling along are slowly crumbling away, so make sure to always keep a safe distance from the edge whilst admiring the Channel Tunnel Terminal towards Folkstone, and the English Channel itself once you make it to the Battle of Britain Memorial, a thought-provoking sight perfectly distracting you from the few ups and downs this section still has in store — not as many as previous sections but I thought it would be cruel not to bring it up knowing too well how it feels being confronted with yet another set of stairs that seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

Again, the majority of this section is fairly level though once you made it up onto the escarpment after leaving Etchinghill, and you’ll even be heading downhill for a while when you start making your way to the outskirts of Dover. En route, you’ll cross the ridge of Shakespeare Cliff, supposedly a place that offered inspiration for a passage in King Lear, a claim I hope you will remember when passing the first bus stop as you re-enter suburbia. You shall pass by ‘King Lear’s Way’, a sign that made me smile for no particular reason as I was not aware of the Shakespeare reference back then. I might have been surprised by its randomness or did unconsciously try to picture the King and his creator on such modern vehicle. Or (most likely) I was simply happy to have reached a main road which indicated that the end was near. Either way, I resisted the call of ‘King Lear’s’ bus stop and stuck to the footpath, possibly following Shakespeare’s lead.

Temptation resisted but still off-track, I somehow managed to miss the final diversion from the coast leading you onto the higher route over the Western Heights promising magnificent views over the bustling harbour as well as the largest castle in England, Dover Castle, an imposing stronghold and point of defence off the Southern coast which has often been described as ‘Key to England’ throughout history.

And speaking of times long gone, here a few of my personal impressions of the day back then, and yes, you read correctly, it was a day only in the end despite initially wanting to split this section in two after stopping for supplies in Postling. Unfortunately, a bad weather front messed with my plans as it was swiftly moving in from the West. Fortunately though, that was the only thing chasing me that day, …but let’s start from the top.

Go Directly to Dover; Do Not Pass Postling, Do Not Collect Water 🎲🧐🎩

“Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning.” Being a country girl through and through, this is most likely one of my favourite weather lores, one that should have set the scene for what was to come. That morning though, it did not even pass my mind as I unzipped my tent. If anything, those warm shades of pink brushed across the horizon made me smile. I made it through my first solo-night and was greeted with a view that in some way encapsulated the way I felt right then and there — calm and serene, at ease with the world, quietly happy. 

The smile turned into a chuckle when I heard little legs quickly waddling off as I poked my head out of the tent. My cheeky little wakeup committee preferred to be heard, not so much seen, a preference that did not go well with their curious nature continuously pulling them towards my tent, hesitantly investigating what this unnaturally green, oddly shaped abode was all about, until slight movement scared them off again. 

I think I mentioned it in my previous post if not posts, pheasants are not only great pathfinders but the best alarm clock one could wish for as they saved me from being discovered by a less feathery morning walker. Thanks to them, I was all packed up and ready to go by then, no trace left behind, like nothing ever happened.

After following those waddling legs for a little while as they happened to choose a similar route to start their day — I assume the affection was mutual— I found myself walking along what felt like the most peaceful stretch of them all, almost like I was the only one out there, no soul in sight, just me and the crisp autumnal air, smoke rising from the houses, sheep quietly munching on their leafy breakfast, birds chirping away whilst inspecting the terrain for any daredevil caterpillar that risked a peek at what the new day had to offer.

As for me, the new day came with new challenges to overcome, quite a few more miles to walk (or hike, trek, ramble, …you pick), supplies to be restocked, another campsite to find. But as I was strolling along the path in those morning hours, none of it mattered. The world around me had my full attention, my senses appreciating the seasonal changes that go beyond the picture-worthy colours we usually only tend to acknowledge. It’s quite hard to explain but there’s something about the air that changes, the smells it carries, the way it filters the decreasing rays of sunshine as we slowly head into the darker season.

It’s a weirdly wholesome feeling, one I got to share with a dog walker that crossed my path once I made it up onto the ridge, steam rising from his flask as he smiled and gave me a nod. No words were uttered, yet it felt like we came to an agreement that anybody who was still in bed was certainly missing out.

The early bird catches the worm they say, and while he did, we got to experience this utterly peaceful moment before carrying on with our day.

While human encounters continued to be a rare occurrence along this part of the North Downs Way, the headcount of furry gatekeepers made quite a jump, and so did my heart every time I successfully traversed another field peppered with cows and their male counterparts staring (luckily not poking) holes into my fragile body.

Eventually, I did come across a wordier dog owner who felt the urge to warn me about some long-haired and -horned coos ahead. Unlike previous encounters, there was no alternative gate around the corner, no alternative route allowing to keep my distance whilst taking the ‘scenic’ way around. Nope, straight through the middle was the only option.

Like so often in life, it was time to walk with confidence and hope for the best, and most importantly, to avoid eye-contact at all costs. As lovely as those Highland Cows look from the distance, close up, it felt like those beasts can smell fear. Trying to keep my emotions in check, I think I was even holding my breath as I ventured through the crowd, eyeing any hoof movement that could indicate attacking motions, hoping that my backpack could serve as suitable shield if one of them decided to chase me down to Dover.

Again, like so often in life as well, my fantasy probably got the best of me, and as I wiggled my way through yet another kissing gate separating me from those devilish herbivores, I noticed their relatively bored gaze as they chewed on their grass, stared into the distance, seemingly unfazed by my humble existence.

If you’re someone who likes to let their fantasy go wild sometimes as well though, you’ll love section 11 because it will also lead you through military training grounds at various points, areas which appear eerily quiet as you’re passing through. You’ll occasionally reach lookout points offering far-reaching views of the Downs before dropping back into the woods where you might come across some remnants of bush-crafting exercises. No human in sight, but I guess that doesn’t mean they’re not there…

As eerie as they might be at times, embrace those wooded sections for strategic toilet stops since there’ll be nowhere to hide once you reach the coast. Instead, magnificent views of the sea await, as well as another hill figure, the Folkstone White Horse, a nearly 300-foot long chalk landmark, the first thing people see if they enter the UK through the Channel Tunnel. It is quite hard to see the horse in all of its glory from the path you’ll be walking on, but you’ll see enough of it to wonder if it’s supposed to be galloping or might have slipped and landed on its belly? Is its mane and tail blowing in the wind or in disarray as it’s plummeting to the ground?!

Given the weather of the day, the galloping movement might have been in order to escape the impending bad weather front pulling in from the West which another local warned me about at this point after inquiring how far I was planning on going. Due to the early start, I already covered much more ground than anticipated, wherefore he suggested to carry on all the way to Dover since the upcoming night could become a wee bit uncomfortable in a tent if the weather forecast was to be trusted.

The increasing cloud coverage did not go unnoticed as I carried on along the clifftop heading East, the train tracks to my right, if I looked very closely, France to be seen in the distance, supposedly “looking closer than it usually does,” according to another local I passed by. Glued to one spot, she was dreamingly staring into the distance, possibly reminiscing about her last romantic getaway to the country of love, while her loyal four-legged friend was wagging his tail and barking for her attention.

A bit further on, two older gentlemen crossed my paths inquiring if I was planning on swimming over to France once I reached Dover, a comment probably meant as underhanded stab at the Brexit-times we live in whilst acknowledging, possibly admiring (you never quite know these days, point made in intro) what I’ve achieved so far.

At that point though, I was more focussed on (and somewhat worried about) what still lay ahead, especially after encountering a family who was coming from Dover doing the same section in reverse, their faces looking rather tired from the ups and downs I still had to tackle.

Please don’t break out in sweats just yet but rest assured that all of those inconveniently occurring ascents tend to be followed by very conveniently placed benches allowing a little breather and some time to admire the view, be it all the way to France or simply across this rather massive ocean in-between you and such far-fetched vision — and here you thought MY fantasy levels were a bit outlandish!?

If the weather had allowed for me to take such bench-supported breathers, Abbot’s Cliff and its sound mirror would have been the spot I would have chosen to rest my head one last time, where crashing waves could have lulled me to sleep, before leisurely making my way to Dover, having a wander around town, and meeting Ian for that celebratory drink both of us deserved.

Instead, I had another look at the clouds, which seemed to get angrier by the minute, and decided to tap into those last reserves. With dusk slowly setting in, it felt a bit like a run against time and not only rain, although the latter probably gave me the most encouragement to keep moving. Walking another few odd miles on tired legs is hard enough, add muddy terrain and wet gear on top of that, and eventually it’s game over.

Not for this little pawn though. Defeat was no option. There was a finish line that needed crossing, and a cosy bed awaiting its occupant.

As mentioned earlier on, I did miss out a little section once I reached Dover, something I only realised when having a hard time finding the actual finish line and therefore having to consult the guide book. To my defence, it is a rather unimpressive, easily missable sight, even during the day I’ve been told.

Having come all that way though, I was slightly annoyed I appeared to have taken an unintended shortcut. You’ll probably laugh at this, but I actually considered sticking around in Dover for one more night, redo the stretch I missed in the morning, and then properly finish the adventure with my camping buddy as planned instead of hopping on the next train. We even debated about it on the phone for a while. After all, I didn’t only cheat myself out of one more night under the stars, but I also felt like I was letting Ian down by being ahead of schedule. I do realise now how irrational all of this sounds considering the weather, but perhaps I was simply not quite ready yet to return to real life?

I did come across a potential wild camp option close to Dover Castle in my pre-trip research which I did consider for a second, but luckily, I came to my senses and remembered that I did not stop in Postling, therefore was out of water, whereas the opposite was true for the heavens above still due to unleash its fury.

It was time to catch that train. It was time to go home.

The Calm After the Storm

I still had a few miles ahead of me before I was able to rest my head on a proper pillow, but at least I was off my feet, my backpack quietly sitting next to me, a physical as well as mental weight lifted off my shoulders as I was watching heavy rain drops pulling streaks across the cabin windows. By then, it was pitch-black outside. All I could see was the reflection of my tired face, hair dishevelled, definitely in need of a wash, something my dear friend Natalie (you met her before in Oz) confirmed, in the kindest way possible, when she opened the door as I arrived at her house, followed by a big ole hug.

It was probably the first time neither of us hesitated when going in for a hug, no awkward moment whilst trying to gauge if the other person was okay with it, no odd pandemic-stricken greetings ritual, it didn’t even pass our minds as it had been months since we last saw each other, a long overdue reunion that could not even be ruined by the wonderful odours of outdoor adventure, although she did direct me towards the bathroom right after, again, in the kindest way possible, just as a good friend would do when you have something stuck between your teeth and everybody else is too polite to tell you. But I digress…

I might not have had waves lulling me to sleep that night, but the raindrops crashing against the window panes appeared to have the same effect, their drumming symphony letting me rest assured that I made the right decision by cutting my adventure short, and skipping the bit where my tent probably would have gotten flooded or might have even blown away, neither scenario truly appealing. Instead, I had my last camping meal in the comforts of four sturdy walls, which stayed where they were whilst heavy winds were whistling through the cracks making the nightly orchestra complete. I was gone as soon as my head hit the pillow, no odd sounds to raise suspicion throughout the night, no quirky alarms ripping me out of my well-deserved slumber.

It was the first rays of the new day gleaming through the curtains that slowly brought me back to life. A perfectly sunny day lay ahead, which I spent with Nat making up for lost time, and with her family reintroducing me to proper meals, eaten off plates using proper cutlery — pure luxury after such outdoor endeavour.

If you’ve been following my journey from the start, you already know that during my coastal stay, a stroll along the waterfront offered some ‘chalky inspiration’, while a few equally inspiring chats with Nat’s partner, a published author and fellow adventurer, gave me the final push to finally start sharing my stories, which I hope you’re still enjoying, even if my habit of posting has become a bit less frequent these days.

Lots of time has passed since I completed the NDW, and so has since I launched this website as a result of it, but interestingly enough, the experience, and in particular its ending, still appears to be relevant thinking about what kept me rather busy throughout the past few months.

Whilst generously filling my plate at the dinner table trying to make sure I regain those few pounds I lost along the way, Natalie’s mom casually suggested that I should start taking people out on adventures being so enthusiastic about the outdoors. Similar to the comment my kilted tour guide Murray uttered when on Skye, I brushed it off as non-sense at the time. Now putting those thoughts into writing though, I wonder if that might have been the subtle beginning of another pandemic-inspired journey I was bound to pursue when the time was right, when TheSolotravelless was ready to truly ‘solo-travel less’, and be a proper cicerone that shares her adventures on- as well as offline?!

Just like the online version, lots of work already went into my offline efforts — I think I mentioned a hike leader qualification before — and many more challenges still lie ahead whilst trying to find my place in the outdoor world, a bit like the continuous SEO-struggle my website is still facing, let’s not even mention my shocking social media presence, yikes. But that’s all part of the journey, life remains exciting, and it leads to the usual question, …where to next?** 🗺️🥾📚

**I know I know, I’ve asked this question before, BUT I recently had to learn that comment functions tend to come with a default closing date, unless disabled by the author, the one who’s been waiting on inspirational suggestions for weeks on end, similar to yourself I assume?! 🧐😅 The learning curve remains steep, but luckily, the promise of a good view keeps making it worth the climb…

When was I there? 12 October 2020

Section 11:

Etchinghill to Dover

12 miles (19.3 km)

Section 10:

Wye to Etchinghill

11.2 miles (18.1 km)

Section 9:

Lenham to Wye

11.1 miles (17.9 km)

Section 8:

Detling to Lenham

9.3 miles (14.9 km)

Section 7:

Cuxton to Detling

12.5 miles (20.1 km)

Section 6:

Otford to Cuxton

15 miles (24.1 km)

Section 5:

Oxted to Otford

11.8 miles (18.9 km)

Section 4:

Merstham to Oxted

8 miles (12.8 km)

Section 3:

Westhumble to Merstham

10 miles (16 km)

Section 2:

Guildford to Westhumble

13 miles (21 km)

Section 1:

Farnham to Guildford

11 miles (17.7 km)