Monday July 16th, Acton - Barthomley, 12 miles

Over the hearty breakfast Joyce served me, I asked her opinion on the dairy farmers' blockades of the milk processors who had announced yet another cut in the milk price from August 1st. She said that although their farm was taking an income hit, she hoped the dairy farmers wouldn't carry out their threat to pour away their milk, especially during the forthcoming Olympics.  Some of Henhull Hall Farm's milk went to Müller Dairies, and there was a Müller yoghourt in the picnic she made up for me.

With Antje (left) and Irmgard

 At 9.30, I headed off in drizzle down Welshmans Lane to Nantwich, where I had arranged to meet yet more German connections, Irmgard and Antje at the Bookshop Cafe.  I first met Irmgard many years ago through the Stoke - Erlangen Town Twinning Association but Antje only in 2011, when all three of us happened to book the same Anglo-German Walking Holiday in the Harz Mountains. Fancy going all that way to discover that we're almost neighbours! Antje was glad to get out of her house that day to escape the deep drilling in her drive prior to the installation of a ground source heating system.

The three of us were having such a good laugh that I only belatedly noticed it was now tipping down outside. In the Cafe's tiny loo, I donned my gaiters and black poncho, which when pulled over my rucksack gives me an enormous hump.  The little children in the bookshop gave me apprehensive looks, so I quickly got out of town, following the River Weaver Walk to the A530 then turning left into Coole Lane.

From this point, the 2SW goes over fields to Wynbunbury. Careful navigation is required, but Simon and I had reccied this stretch beforehand.  Even with waymarks in place, I found this essential, as before Bathurst farm, one waymark does not point in the direction of the route, perhaps because the right of way goes round three sides of a field instead of down to the left to a bridge over a stream, then another over the Weaver.

Through reccying with Simon I had convinced myself  that cows were essentially placid creatures (I was in Cheshire dairy country here), who would leave you alone, providing you gave them  a wide berth. Or that's what I thought until a herd of them followed me across a field near Wynbunbury! My black hump must have made them curious, unlike three horses who just skittered away.

But I was almost defeated by the last stretch of the path to Wynbunbury. It was pretty overgrown with ferns when we'd passed through two weeks earlier, but now the ferns were over head height with brambles as well! I didn't have a pole or stick to beat them down with and could only look down at my feet to check that they were still on a path at all.  I would have turned back discouraged if I hadn't known there was a right of way here - just yards from the village street.  But I kept my spirits up with the thought of lunch with Keith at the Swan, in whose pub garden beside the "leaning tower" of Wynbunbury, I'd enjoyed a Ploughman's a fortnight before.

Keith, who lives in nearby Willaston, is yet another of my German connections, being a member of Newcastle-under-Lyme's Anglo-German Circle, a source of Crewe jokes and an all-round good sport.  We shared an excellent fish platter, and then, I must confess, I asked him to give me a lift.   The fields were so wet that I had decided to continue to Barthomley on country roads instead.  Keith kindly drove me the couple of miles to Hough to save me a detour and from there I proceeded to Weston and Engelsea Brook (where the Museum of Primitive Methodism was closed for Monday, else I would have called in.  I have now been there and can recommend the short detour if only to see the leather boot worn by the movement's co-founder, the itinerant preacher Hugh Bourne. Its upper was cut away and stitched on more loosely as his feet became swollen after tramping up to 40 miles a day! ) Visitors are assured of a warm welcome and a free cup of tea!  More on  http://www.engleseabrook-museum.org.uk/

Towards 5 pm, my feet utterly sodden but my core and pack dry I reached Barthomley, where I was grateful to warm myself in front of a roaring fire at the White Lion. Here, I overheard another Crewe joke: Back in the 1980s, while shopping in Crewe town centre a woman was accosted by a CND campaigner who asked what she thought about Cruise missiles.  Baffled, the woman replied that she didn't realise that Crewe had any!

Domvilles Farm (instead of my my hostess,
who  was too young to photograph!) 

Before setting off down the road to my next overnight stop at Domvilles Farm, I phoned, as agreed, my landlady.  It was only then I realised that she wasn't there herself, but was directing operations from on holiday in Wales.  Her granddaughter, Olivia, would look after me instead.  

When I arrived at Domvilles, I was greeted by a very young girl who was indeed Olivia.  I remarked that she looked rather young to be a landlady, and she told me her age  - 14! But despite her tender years, Olivia looked after me extremely well, leading me to a room with a fourposter bed and - delight of delights - a bath.  She provided me with n oil heater which dried my socks in no time and cooked me, by prior request, some scrambled eggs and beans on toast (the Barthomley pub served no food at night).  So I snuggled down for an evening of TV, and feeling peckish in the middle of the night, scoffed the scone and cake from Joyce's picnic.