My friend Mark had been talking about the walks he'd been going on, and I asked if I could join him sometime. Last Sunday we went to investigate The Chanctonbury Ring. I have documented the ordeal below.
"How the fuck do you get out of Brighton then?"
More to the point, why would you want to?
(That's not the reason, btw, just pointing it out).
Mark helpfully points out the clocktower of Steyning. "It's there."
Dog Lane. Thankfully dog-free.
O HAY THERE
Mark told me about a thing we spotted in a field called a trig point, which wasn't a memorial to Only Fools and Horses' Trigger as I'd hazarded a guess at. It's the pleasingly rhyming 'triangulation station' used in geodetic surveying. I'd usually still be in bed at the time of the day that snap was taken, but I was out in the wilderness, learning things!
First glimpse of the ring (hurrrr)
Bye ring. On the way up it I used my mobile telephone to scan a QR thingamy that was on a gate (being the only person in the world that uses QR codes, and Google Plus). It told me interesting facts about the Chanctonbury Ring and the surrounding area. Originally an iron age hill fort, then a religious site, then a ring of trees for horses to poop on. Many of the trees were pwned (technical term) in the storm of '87, so they planted some new ones. Which again horses and dogs shat upon. I sat on bunny rabbit poop. There was a lot of poop. A better name for it could've been The Brown Ring. Folklore suggested the devil could be summoned by running round the ring seven times, but I had a ham sandwich and a fag instead.
I couldn't take pictures of it because there were children frollicking in it and Mark said they might think I was a pedophile.
Who's that I spot there? Oh yes, absolutely no-one. What bliss.
Mark got in a fight with a fun guy.
Spooky barn! "Let's go in," I said. But the entrances were blocked with stuff. Probably poop that'd trickled down from The Ring. Mark stuck my camera over the door because I am a midget and managed to get these following shots of what was inside the spooky barn.
It was that.
MUDSLIDE. We hadn't been prepared for this.
Valiantly searching for a way out of the mud using my trusty stick, 'Sticky Mike'.
Mark's on telly!
Why hello...hey what are you taking pictures of?"
ARGH LEAVE MY TESTICLES ALONE!
"We survived the Chanctonbury Mudslide!"
Amusing reference to the area as being a 'rat-infested ditch'. We certainly saw both sides of it that day. The ten mile walk was rounded off with a pint in The Star Inn followed by another in The Chequer Inn. I think my legs have just about recovered now.