We started at Chesham, the Buckinghamshire town that lies at the western end of the Metropolitan line. It’s the kind of small place, surrounded by hills and woodland, that you imagine will be pretty. But for the most part there is something rather desultory about it, as if it hasn’t quite worked out what to do with itself since postwar planners and developers got their mitts on it. But it functions, and there is green space.
There are some charming old streets, mostly on the southwestern fringe. If that was all you saw of Chesham, you’d think it was a stunner. It was along those streets we wandered, allowing ourselves to imagine that was all there was of the town.
We swung onto a footpath just to the north of St Mary’s church, heading nearly due west into a valley known as Herbert’s Hole, which is lovelier than it sounds. A pair of red kites flew very low overheard, scanning the ground for dead meat.
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