Walk Wood Wagon
A fallen tree on the train tracks means we arrive at Walk Wood Wagon two hours late; mother nature making her power known. It’s still light though, just. We arrive at the clearing in the woods and plonk our heavy rucksacks down on the ground, taking in the sight of the black and white wagon that is to be our home for the next few days. The chimney poking out of the roof promises warmth on this February weekend in East Sussex and we’ve been assured by the owner that the small space heats up quickly once the fire gets going. There’s a deck attached to the wagon with an outdoor kitchen, a little table and two bright blue chairs that look garish against the earthy tones of the woods.
The wagon is surrounded by a tangle of spindly trees that creak like an old man’s bones as they sway in the wind. There are fields visible beyond the trees too, great expanses of green that stretch out into the distance. We park ourselves on the chairs and gobble down cheap Tesco sandwiches that satiate the appetite we’ve worked up on the journey.
The interior of the wagon has a simple, nostalgic charm and I think to myself how well I will sleep tonight in its cosy embrace. The double-sized bed takes up a large chunk of the space, the rest of which is devoted to a bookshelf, two small bench seats and a little log fire, which Jorge sets to work on straight away. I spy a Virginia Woolf biography on the shelf, and although I’ve brought Three Guineas with me - Woolf’s essay on war and gender, I decide to keep that tucked in my bag and learn more about the author who spent her final years 14 miles away from Walk Wood Wagon, and ultimately drowned herself in the River Ouse, whose waters run mere feet from where we are standing now. I clamber up onto the bed and lose myself in the world of Woolf while the fire Jorge has tamed crackles reassuringly.
Night falls and we don headlamps and fry up veggie burgers and juicy portobello mushrooms on the little gas hob outside. Jorge also cooks scallops, which we eat with garlic and parsley. We wash it all down with wine we bought from Jones and round off the meal camping style with sticky s'mores toasted on the open fire. I feel content as I lick the marshmallow goo off my fingers, embers hopping around the pit like glowing red rabbits. The stars are abundant above us; a decadent smattering of white dots that have revealed themselves thanks to the lack of electricity here. We may not have lights or hot water but we have constellations. Back inside the wagon, the fairy lights glow like fireflies and the log fire crackles. A tawny owl hoots us to sleep.
We wake up huddled like penguins, the warmth from the flames a distant memory. The fields have frozen over and it feels still outside, as if the woods is holding its breath. A woodpecker breaks the silence, boring into a tree in search of insects and sap while we fill up on granola and hot black coffee. I fiddle around with my new film camera but I can’t get it to work - the beauty of analogue. I optimistically pack it in my rucksack anyway and we set off on a hike to Newick, where a pint and pub lunch await.
We pass Sheffield Park Station on our way and the toot of a steam train’s horn invites us in. It’s a restored Victorian station originally built in 1882 by the London Brighton and South Coast Railway. The ornate design, meticulous paint work and period posters for boot polish amongst other things make us feel as though we’ve stepped back in time, which I suppose is the point. An elderly man pokes his head out of the control room and shyly asks if we’d like to learn more about the trains. We cram inside the small space and he talks us through all of the shiny levers and tokens and other Victorian railway contraptions. He tells us that Sheffield Park Station was never particularly useful, since it didn’t stop anywhere convenient for the villagers in the surrounding areas. The man’s passion for trains is compelling and we discover that he has worked in the industry since he was 12 years old and now spends his retirement volunteering at the station. He is earnest and serious about the restoration work they do here and we could probably keep him talking for a long time, but we say our farewells and watch a steam train pull loudly into the platform before heading back on the path to Newick.
We hike along the Sussex Ouse Valley Way for a while and then through Sheffield Park, avoiding the roadside path until the final stretch. On the way we see scarlet elfcup mushrooms, bright red, dewy and magical-looking. We also spot some deer, who scramble and prance off as twigs snap beneath our boots.
We eat lunch at The Bull on the Green, a local pub with a roaring fire whose heat makes our cheeks rosy. We drink pale ale and order fish and chips for me and a burger for Jorge. The food is excellent - my fish comes swaddled in crispy blonde batter and my chips (which I douse in ketchup) are crunchy, salty and soft inside. Jorge reports that his burger is good too. I round it off with a wince-inducingly sour berry crumble that leaves me stuffed and - I notice when I glance in the bathroom mirror - with purple lips. I charge my phone at the bar before we leave and we buy a box of matches at the corner shop before walking back through Sheffield Park and past the River Ouse.
We get straight to lighting fires when we return to Walk Wood Wagon. I’m in charge of the little log burner, keeping it alight through sheer determination and chalky cubes of fire starters. Outside, Jorge attempts to heat up the Nordic bath (a Scandinavian approach to outdoor bathing in which the water is warmed by a wood burning stove). He does a noble job, lighting a meaty fire that we’re sure will provide us with the skin-puckering bath we’ve been looking forward to. The owner told us it takes a good two hours to heat the water, so we leave the fire to it and make dinner - veggie burgers with fried onions and big juicy prawns, all cooked on the little gas hob. We finish off the wine too and feel content and sleepy. I’m just about ready for a midnight soak in the Nordic tub but when we dip our hands into the water we find that it’s still stone cold. We’re starting to doubt whether the water will actually warm up; perhaps we’ve misread the instructions and done something so irrevocably wrong that we won’t have any luck even if we wait for another hour or two. We decide to call it a night and reluctantly abandon the bath.
Back inside the wagon it is soporifically snug; at least the little log burner has done its job. We settle into bed, pulling the pink striped duvet up to our chins. I crack open the Virginia Woolf biography again and take great pleasure in reading about her and Leonard Woolf’s wandering life. The couple spent many years moving around London and Sussex until they settled at Monk’s House, where they resolved to keep the nomadic spirit alive in other ways. There is something about this I find immensely appealing.
I go to sleep feeling warm from the fire and thoughts of the Woolfs, vowing to tend to my own nomadic spirit with as many fire starters as it takes. Tomorrow I turn 32 and we will celebrate with a walk amongst ancient trees and sparkling lakes at Sheffield Park, stuffing ourselves with sandwiches and rosemary shortbread before heading back to London. For now though, I dream of Virginia and Sussex and spending the rest of my days in Walk Wood Wagon, perched on a patch of land at the bottom of someone’s field.
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