My enthusiasm for the whole venture was severely tempered by a violently upset stomach, and dehydration caused in part by the Polish beers and Chinese meal I had accidentally consumed the night before. Anton, meanwhile, was complaining about his verruca which, from his descriptions, was the size of a dinner plate.
Easy journey to Arundel on the train. Both of us cheery. We re-started the walk from Arundel Bridge, under the suitably glowering rain-soaked castle, with Anton chewing on Polish sausage.
It was still spitting slightly as we set off east along the river. Soon we were walking through the bird reserve. Unsurprisingly, despite the fact it is so close to the town of Arundel, it is full of birdsong, and we walked along the raised walkways through to lots and lots of wet grass, which instantly soaked through our trousers.
Then off past the Black Rabbit pub on the river (which looks idyllic) inland a little into the country squelching along past a hill called Fox Oven towards the tiny but beautiful village of South Stoke. The last time we had been there Anton left the gate of St Leonard's Church open and we were soon both engaged in chasing the flock of sheep out. This time the sheep had got there before us, and one of them was stamping her foot and glaring at us balefully as we neared the gate. Maybe it is to do with having lambs, but the sheep we encountered on this walk seemed to be harder than the usual run of the mill sheep. Rambo perhaps. Or Lambo.
We crossed the river Arun and walked through woods and over small but swaying suspension bridge through and climbed slightly from the river valley, walking through lush green fields full of sheep.
After only a couple of hours we reached the Amberley museum of work. Anton, I think, had a secret agenda about buying a walking stick there. Both of us were not too impressed by it. There were a load of old sheds, with dusty bits of old machines and evidence of old crafts in them. Meanwhile mobs of French school kids were hanging about, shrugging and wondering why they had come all this way to look at sheds.
I was feeling aboninable at that point, which may have coloured my opinion of the place. We stopped at the museum cafe and sat outside as the sun was breaking through. Anton went to the toilet where he washed the Polish sausage which had dropped from his rucksack to the path in a muddy overgrown path. He had also applied his expensive aloe trekker's suncream having laughed derisively at my bog standard stuff. Apparently the aloe stuff didn't sting your eyes when you sweat, and has many other excellent features.
I waited for him outside sipping the stewed tea, and sincerely wondering if I would make it for one day, let alone three. I felt horrible, and my guts were in a diabolical state and I already felt weak and tired. But on a good note I was soon slightly cheered by Anton having an fast and unpleasant allergic reaction to his lotion which forced him to go back into the bathroom to wash it off.
It was a short walk from there to the village of Amberly, which turned out to be a stunningly beautiful and archetypal English village, which we entered through trees and suddenly we were there. We chose a pub there called the Black Horse and had some mineral water, and sandwiches and potato wedges in the beer garden. It had turned into a beautiful day, in the middle of a perfect village in a garden full of birdsong. Pausing only to applied some of my new aloe suncream, Anton and I set off again.
Below sheep retake the moral high ground at St Leonard's Church in South Stoke; cows cowering on the way to Amberley; the inside of an old forge in one of the sheds at the unpromisingly-named Amberley museum of work.
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