Although the land owners hold title to the footpaths, they may not exclude the public from using them. The common people have been walking the footpaths, like The Pilgrim’s Way, for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. The people had no choice. A few aristocratic landowners owned huge swaths of land, and unless ordinary people took short-cuts across the estates they would have to walk dozens of extra miles just to get to town. Imagine waking from Vandalia to Centerville by way of Xenia. Continuous use of the paths transformed them over time into public right-a-ways that have taken on almost a sacred quality.
When Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister of Great Britain the British Secret Service did its best to close a public footpath that passed through Mrs. Thatcher’s country estate. The public was outraged by this infringement of ancient rights, and the government backed down. Sometimes farmers try to eliminate the footpaths through their fields by plowing them, planting crops and disguising them.
Footpaths that go unused for over a year are considered abandoned and the public easement is lost. Such efforts are thwarted by the Ramblers, a dogged group of hikers who are dedicated to preventing the abandonment of footpaths. They hike every known footpath in England once every year and mark the route with red stakes to prove they were there. Even randy bulls roaming near the footpaths do not deter them.
Our first experience with hiking the footpaths of England occurred in February, 1994. We were living in Winchester, and our daughter was enrolled in La Saggesse Convent School. The headmistress of the school, Sister Thomas, issued an invitation to all the parents of her students to accompany her on a 10-mile Saturday ramble over nearby footpaths. We should have been suspicious from the start by the total absence of other students and parents. The fact that it was 35 degrees and spitting snow should also have given us pause, but we were determined not to behave like pampered Americans.
We trudged along miles of muddy trails until we came to a fence with a “stile,” a kind of ladder for getting over a fence. Beyond the fence was a field with a herd of cows. There was nothing resembling a footpath across the pasture, but Sister Thomas insisted that her map showed there was a public right-of-way there. We plunged in. You have not lived if you have not slogged across muddy, manure filled fields turned into quagmires by the hoofs of hundreds of cows.
We were perpetually stepping in muck that topped our boots. We did have the dubious satisfaction, though, of knowing that we were thwarting the farmer’s illegal attempt to appropriate a public right-of-way. Finally, in order to escape from the mire we had to get down and climb through a barbwire fence which required even closer contact with the muck. But we did eventually get back on a path along the river that was merely muddy.
The irony was that we actually enjoyed the day. Not only did we have the satisfaction of passing Sister Thomas’ endurance test, we ended up with a pint and a delicious lunch at a rustic pub; a convenience that would greatly add to the ambiance of Dayton’s pathways.
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