Enchanted once more

We parked and set off on foot, in search of that fabled glade. The Ashdown was not just a forest of trees, it was a wild mix of sandstone ridges, gullies, cracked stone openings, and scrubby moorland. The upward path was banked by trees and covered in soft golden fern and leaf mold. After about fifteen minutes, the path opened to a clearing surrounded by huge boulders, like cliffs squeezed together on a coastline. Below the rocks we saw the smooth sandy bottom, Roo’s sandpit. We walked around the dense woodland and rocky outcrop and found a way down. Frances did not share our enthusiasm for things Pooh, but she did appreciate areas of natural beauty, and this certainly was one. I looked around and smiled. Silence. It was so still.
Kate, of course, was far too busy playing in the sand to get caught up in my literary imaginings. Frances rolled her eyes. After a bit, we carried on. Hiking upwards through grasses and tiny dune-like ridges of packed sand, we finally made it to the top of the hill. Before us was a vast patchwork of rocky promontories, sandy clearings, and ancient moorland with exposed tree roots sprawling into dark green forest. Atop the hillside, I was unaware of anything other than the quiet magic of the place, a strange hodgepodge of wild, silent beauty bordered by sprawling towns, villages with cricket greens, and wealthy suburban spurs curving back as far as London. Somewhere in the Ashdown Forest was a statue of Winnie the Pooh. We never found it, but we did find a plaque dedicated to A. A. Milne, tucked away in a semi-circle of trees, almost hidden, overshadowed by the forest he immortalized, those acres of woods he planted in the imagination of so many.

The spell is broken

Quite suddenly a huge group of Japanese tourists descended on Pooh Corner and began photographing one another. We were not used to coachloads of visitors. Most places we had discovered on our travels tended to be off the beaten track. Not that place. We grabbed our souvenirs and fled.
We turned and fled, driving up the wooded hill. We found a clearing, discreetly designated for cars and signposted to the various Pooh Bear sights. The Japanese were right behind us, heading en masse for Pooh Sticks Bridge, so we decided to continue onward for the Hundred Acre Wood and Roo’s Sandpit – the Enchanted Place!

Pooh's emblazoned corner

Hartfield was on the bottom edge of Ashdown Forest, a small, pretty village with a teashop, a couple of pubs, and a few stores, one of which had been renamed Pooh Corner. The very same village shop where A. A. Milne’s son, the real-life Christopher Robin, once got his weekly ration of sweets and candies. Every bit of available space in the tiny shop was devoted to Pooh and his pals. Everything. From doorstops to gob stoppers, everything was emblazoned with the bear. Even so, the shop had retained its charm and I could easily imagine Milne and his son ambling in from their summer home, just a little way up the hill.

Winkling out Winnie the Pooh

“Kate will love it. I will love it! We can see the actual locations she has read about!”
Truth be told, Winnie the Pooh was an adult enthusiasm I had come to recently, with my daughter. As a boy, I knew nothing of Christopher Robin or, for that matter, the Railway Children, or Billy Bunter or the Famous Five, or Just William, or Narnia, or Mister Toad and the other river bankers. In fact, I hardly knew any children’s books at all.
My parents bought me toys and I had lots of stuffed animals, but books rarely made it onto my list. After baby books, I didn’t know interesting kids books existed and I don’t think my parents did either. Yet all the books I read to Kate were in the library at my old school, and at the children’s public library in Dagenham. All I needed was a library card. And to get a library card, all I had to do was recite the alphabet. Easy peasy. Anyone could do that. Anyone, that is, except me. Absurdly, I always fumbled the test. The annoying thing was, by the time I was seven, I could read quite well but still could not memorize the alphabet.
I took the test every other week, and every other week I failed. Finally it happened. Despite a few pauses and the odd stutter or two, I made it through to zed and got my library card. I was ten years old by then, and too old for whimsical tales of river creatures and bears with a fondness for hunny. So, along with Kate, I had recently discovered a pantheon of children’s literature. I loved those stories as much as she did. And now, on a sunny Sunday in June, we had a chance to visit Pooh Corner, find the Enchanted Place. Quite impossible to pass up.