Walking home to watch the football

Written by Joshua Geer. Edited by Jack Hanson and Genevieve Redgrave.

I have two homes: Hastings and London. The latter I chose, the former I didn’t. My fondness for both is equal.

Linking these places of my heart by foot has always been a desire. Whenever I make the journey by car or train, I often wonder what it would be like to traverse the mix of unkempt nature and neat suburbia which lingers in between.

So, when my dad asked if I wanted to watch Hastings United play at home one afternoon at the end of January, it seemed like a good excuse to finally make the pilgrimage down south. I asked one of my oldest friends to join me. Max grew up in the nearby town of Stonegate, and I was certain he would make good company.

Aside from being one of my best friends, he is also brilliantly available.

The original plan was to set off from our homes in Hackney to go ‘door to door’ or ‘H to H’. However, with the route from Hackney totalling over 65 miles (roughly three days of walking) and with only a day and a half to do the walk, we decided to start our trek from Orpington, the very edge of London. This cut the route down to 43 miles.

We arrived in Orpington just before 0900, having travelled against the morning commute. With nearly 30 miles ahead of us that day, we quickly escaped the station, cutting between BMW saloons and Range Rovers who angrily beeped at us for jaywalking. Cars continued to aggravate us for the next few miles as we marched down the A224, but thankfully, we soon veered off down a footpath across a golf course and into open fields.

As the pollution of cars drifted away, optimism fell upon us. The bright sun made this mild January day feel surprisingly warm. Away from the stresses of the city, we revelled in the fact that all we had to do was walk.

Finding ourselves stuck in a thorn bush outside a Ministry of Defence research laboratory quickly brought our optimism back down to earth. I feared we had become softened by the city. To escape the brambles, we diverted from the path to sneak through a back garden. We were thankful they were not the proud owners of an XL Bully but instead a small yappy Chihuahua. 

After crossing the unofficial London boundary of the M25, we made our way up a long steep hill to Sevenoaks. This is where the fifteenth-century country estate Knowle House resides. Just 25 minutes from London by train, we were truly in red trouser territory now.

We left the bustling high street and skirted along the edges of Knowle’s grounds, where we sought directions from an elderly couple on a power walk. Armed with carbon walking poles and streamlined sports glasses, the pair would not have looked out of place at Everest base camp. However, they were thankfully not ‘all the gear and no idea’ and promptly pointed us in the correct direction.

To reduce mileage, we had to walk some hefty road sections. One of these stretches was between Sevenoaks and Tonbridge, where we were forced onto a sliver of pavement. We became increasingly irritated by the lorries, which whistled by inches from our heads. At the very least, if one did plough into our backs, we’d be roadkill before we knew what had hit us.

Arriving in Tonbridge around 1300, we searched for lunch. Tonbridge is a sprawling blob of houses that make up the breadth of English society. In the space of a couple of miles, you can walk from the streets of upper-middle-class commuters to areas of deep poverty. This is harshly represented by Iceland and Waitrose, which share a carpark in the town centre. Not fancying a frozen lunch, we opted for Waitrose and ate outside the town’s thirteenth-century castle ruins, basking in the sun.

Continuing on the walk, it was not long before the cacophony of the school rush hit us like a wave- shrieking children, honking cars and the frantic energy of parents on a mission. Around three miles from Frant station, darkness fell with surprising swiftness, and with ten miles of shadowy woods looming ahead, a tactical retreat seemed the wisest course. We cheated and hopped on the train at Frant, shaving off a few miles by disembarking at Stonegate. 

Back on foot, we had a final three-mile stretch to Burwash through fields lit only by one bike torch between us and a full moon. A few steps into the first field, the night exploded in a chorus of angry barks from a nearby farm. We quickened our pace, praying the fences held firm against whatever furry guardians lurked within. In the next field, we continued to be spooked. Our torch illuminated pairs of eyes that blinked back at us. Sheep, we assumed, but nervous laughter betrayed our ease. Eventually, the welcoming glow of Burwash appeared.

After a short walk down its sleepy eighteenth-century high street, we stumbled upon our accommodation, The Bear Inn Motel. The air inside the inn was thick with the aroma of wood smoke and ale, a comforting warmth against the crisp night. The interior was an odd mix of old-fashioned charm and budget updates, a bit rough around the edges, but in the flickering glow of the fireplace, it was undeniably cosy.

A fresh-faced barkeep, still in his teens, led us to our accommodation out back. The motel-style room, a miniature echo of American roadside motels, was undeniably a bit shabby. The peeling wallpaper whispered tales of forgotten guests and budget constraints, the kind of setting that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror flick. But after a 30-mile trek, the threat of fictional slashers paled in comparison to the very real need for a hot shower and a soft bed.

Suitably refreshed, we emerged back into the inn, which was buzzing with the energy of locals enjoying pints and playing darts. During the day, we had fantasised about regaling the patrons with tales of our walk. But awkwardness and exhaustion conspired to keep us quiet and by 2200, our eyelids were drooping, and we retreated to our room.

I was woken up the next morning by the sun rudely bleeding through the cheap motel curtains, but all I could think about was how much my feet hurt. Three huge blisters were punishing me for wearing ill-fitting shoes. We both bandaged up our feet and started hobbling. Thankfully, the crisp morning air quickly washed away the pain. Fields and woods unfurled before us, making the first hour of walking surprisingly easy.

Today’s 13 miles was the hilliest stretch of our entire journey. From Burwash onwards, the route would rise and fall the entire way. However, the path was more gentle, consisting of paved lanes that meandered through charming villages. Yesterday’s sprawling suburbs were replaced by quaint cottages, and it became clear we’d crossed into rural England. Lycra-clad cyclists whizzed past, their weekend warrior enthusiasm a contrast to stoic toffs on horses.

The relentless hills chipped away at our energy, which was amplified by a lack of coffee. Finally, a familiar sight emerged: Battle Abbey. Aside from being the site of the Battle of Hastings almost 1000 years ago, it was home to a much more exciting event – my first ever job. Memories of tending gardens, guiding tourists and the haughty glares of the private school students who considered me beneath them flooded back. This has caused a chip on my shoulder, which I realised had softened with time but never quite vanished.

Reaching Battle was a full-circle moment, particularly because I realised we had completed the reverse trip of what William the Conqueror had done following his victory at Hastings. We refuelled in the familiar comfort of Costa Coffee and got on with the final few miles. This final stretch was the only part I had walked before, often as a teenager escaping work. Conversation flowed, and we happily grimaced through every step, revelling in shared accomplishment. One thought resonated strongly: the incredible ‘cost-to-adventure’ ratio. Spending next to nothing, we were experiencing an excellent adventure. A helpful reminder of what can be found on our own doorsteps.

Seeing the Hastings sign about an hour later brought smiles to our faces. Dad and his friend welcomed us, and soon we were lost in the roar of the afternoon football match. During the game, a wave of nostalgia came over me as the children mirrored my childhood memories and the familiar faces of my parents’ generation jeered amongst the crowd.

To the casual observer, our arrival was just another Saturday afternoon. No trumpets, no red carpets, just a quiet satisfaction that resonated deep within. The game itself, with Hastings United cruising to a 2-0 win against Hashtag United, was a fitting end to our walk.

The train journey back was a more frustrating exercise than the walk itself, thanks to a two-hour delay. But even that couldn’t dampen my spirits. A walk with a mate, blisters and all, had been an adventure that far surpassed the £20 train ride. And that, as they say, is priceless.