Barton's Unpoetic Hills

Part of the joy of reading English maps is the place-names - their quirkiness, their beauty and sometimes their sheer silliness all contribute to the poetry of place. But here we are today, right outside a church, in Church Road. We're here to start a walk in the village of Barton-le-Clay. The hills just south of here are called the Barton Hills and the springs which issue from the base of the slope are called Barton Springs. 

It's all rather a shame because, despite the prosaic name, this little part of the village is rather quaint and the walk today is as fine as anything ever featured on this blog. So we'll commence putting one foot in front of the other in a vaguely upwards direction.

Soon we've gained enough height to look out upon a wooded hill with the altogether more satisfactory name of Sharpenhoe Clappers. A glance at the map reveals Wayting Hill, Fairy Holes, The Meg, and Moleskin Hill along this north-eastern edge of the Chilterns. Barton Hills has clearly missed out in this naming-game.

From up here the village looks as though it's lost in a primeval forest, rather than standing on a busy road in agricultural Bedfordshire. 

The grassy slopes are already taking on an artistic aspect. The walk is steadily uphill but with many pastoral views, pretty wildflowers, butterflies and soaring birds of prey to interrupt progress on such a clear sunny morning. 

A couple of poppies were blooming at the edge of an arable field.

We're walking up one side of a complex valley that cuts into the chalk hills, then heading around the top of that valley, with great views all the way.

You'd expect an English landscape like this to have names for every bump and hollow, but if it ever had them then they are lost in the mists of time. At this point I wasn't absolutely sure of which route we'd take to get back to the village. There are two or three paths marked clearly on the Ordnance Survey's 1:25,000 map, but there are also rumours of other tracks if I can find them.

We managed to locate a rather sketchy track penetrating the trees and bushes, which slowly became more and more recognisable as a viable path for the progress of aging pedestrians. The wood we were passing through does at least have a name - Leet Wood, which probably just means "the wood that has a stream in it".

A yellow Brimstone butterfly paused long enough for a photo. The ones you see earlier in the year seldom settle much at all. We found the little watercourse we were promised too, and followed it for a short distance upstream.

And this unimpressive place is the source of a chalk stream, one of the less common wildlife habitats in England, and indeed the world. Several of these insignificant trickles will eventually unite to form the River Ivel. The water here has percolated through the porous chalk rock and is particularly pure. The old maps that I'd been trawling through, looking for forgotten place-names, revealed that a century or so ago there were watercress beds in this out-of-the-way place.

Without too much trouble I found the next path I was looking for, which contours its way around the hillsides in almost "Alpine" fashion, threading through wildflower-strewn meadows.

Here's Yellow Wort, a specialist of these chalky hills, with a Harebell sneaking into the upper-right corner of my shot.

And a little butterfly that even goes by the name of Chalkhill Blue.

The striking purple blooms of Clustered Bellflower.

And here we look back on the path we have travelled as we approach the village once more. Of course I had to try my luck at the church, but it was firmly locked, as it always has been whenever I've passed this way. Never mind, we're off to get a pub lunch - and their door will definitely be open!

Take care.