Pooh Sticks – Hartfield and The Hundred Acre Wood

I feel compelled to preface my story about the legendary bear of the Hundred Acre Wood by stating that our meeting was a surprising one that, in many ways, subverted my expectations. The account you are about to read is true and, though its central character is the beloved bear from childhood stories, this particular story is not intended for children. It is my aim to as best I can recount my search for his Poohness in a truthful manner but also in such a way that does not completely alter any of the reader’s childhood remembrances, nor ruin the wonder and joy that children of future generations might find in those old tales. To do so I have presented Winnie the Pooh’s words as they might have sounded in the stories being sure to omit some of the saltier sounding verbiage that surprisingly peppered his speech. In no way do I wish to suggest that the Pooh has indeed always been a little more grizzled of character than the stories may have suggested (to the contrary I found him to be quite the optimist), but that after all these years his modest wisdom and simple approach to life has visibly gone unheeded by his audience, a fact of which he, even in his simple way, has become painfully aware. But all that will be revealed. I should also point out that the Pooh and I bantered for the better part of an hour and enjoyed each other’s company very much, but for the sake of brevity, I have abridged our conversation to include only those parts that I regard as most relevant to this particular story and the lesson I would learn by the end.

 

Hartfield, in Sussex, is no small distance to travel from Canada nor is the Ashdown Forest, also known as the fabled Hundred Acre Wood, any small amount of space and, though there has never been more than a badger sighting, I was determined to cover the distance in search of the most renowned bear to ever come out of England (anyone wishing to raise a debate here should be reminded that that other bear hails from darkest Peru). Upon setting out from my lodgings at the castle at Bolbroke it was safe to say that I was still struggling with the complexities of managing the eight-hour time difference between my body’s better judgement and my current surroundings, and it would have been an understatement to suggest that I had been unable to acquire anything close to what would be considered an adequate amount of sleep over the past few days. On my first day in Sussex, I made the mile walk into Hartfield straight to Pooh Corner figuring the bear was most likely to be at an easily accessible locale probably signing autographs for hordes of admirers, such as myself, who had made the long trip to Hartfield. But alas there was nothing but a hokey coffee shop with tacky souvenirs, overpriced collations, and no bear.

That first day, exhausted as I was, I couldn’t be bothered to traipse all through Ashdown Forest but I was determined to make a proper search the following day. I swore I would cover as much ground as possible and exhaust every available resource to track down Winnie the Pooh – I made it my quest. 

The footpaths through Ashdown Forest from Hartfield to Forest Row felt a tad uneven, owing no doubt to my persisting jetlagged condition, but the weather was mild, the foliage green, and the views stunning. The sun had not yet reached noon and though I would often lose my way I can only describe my situation at that early point in the journey as nothing short of delightful. During that first leg of my journey from Hartfield to Forest Row, I covered a lot of ground searching high and low in the forest and in the clearings but caught no sign of the Pooh save a small knit sweater on a trail post.

 

Could this sweater have once belonged to Winnie the Pooh? According to the representations I had seen in books and cartoons it didn’t seem to match with the style of his signature red jumper. It was certainly too large for little Piglet to wear. Could it have belonged to Christopher Robin? Perhaps it was something Rabbit had knit for Pooh? 

Perhaps it belonged to Kanga? One couldn’t be too sure of the origin of this particular sweater but it was safe to assume that it belonged to a resident of the Hundred Acre Wood and was a sure sign of the loveable creatures living there. It served as the surest sign that I was indeed on the right track. 

The Highweald trail eventually brought me into Forest Row, a quaint little village halfway between Hartfield and East Grinstead at the western edge of the forest. I didn’t dally long in town as most of the locals looked at me curiously when I asked where I could find Pooh and often pointed me toward the nearest public toilet which brought only expectation and eventual disappointment, but no bear. I steadied myself on the Vanguard Way, losing the trail several times but finding many clear signs that Pooh and his company had been that way. I happened upon a “scare-a-lump” (like a scarecrow but designed to ward off heffalumps) while on the trail deep in the woods.

Eventually, when I reached Newbridge I left the trail and headed up the road past quaint cottages and farmsteads toward Pooh Sticks Bridge. Surely if Pooh were to be anywhere in the Hundred Acre Wood, I reckoned, it would be where one would most expect to find him.

Over the eight hours I spent in the forest, it was this small stretch from a car park to a minuscule stream that was the most well signposted and where there were more people than I had seen along the trail all day. Families made the short walk collecting fallen branches along the way before tossing them over the side to watch them float under the bridge along to the other side before coming to an abrupt halt into what Canadian beavers might envy as a well-built dam. Still, there was no bear.

I had been defeated. The midday sun was long gone and the forest clouded over and small droplets of rain created a gloomy mist all around Hartfield. My feet were sore and my energy stores in need of replenishing, so when I arrived back in Hartfield town I decided I would make a brief stop at the Anchor Inn to have a well-deserved pint of the local ale. I was so dizzy from fatigue that when I plopped myself down at a table in a quiet corner of the pub I didn’t even notice that someone was sitting there.

“Oh hello!” came a meek little voice from out of the blue.

That’s when I noticed the thimble-sized glass sitting next to mine. Were it not for his distinctive red jumper all of him would have blended into the wood panelling, but there he was at last – Winnie the Pooh – in the fur!

“Pooh!” I exclaimed, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“I find, that people find, often, what they look for and tend not to find, what they do not look for.”

“What are you doing here in the pub?” I inquired.

“Well Eeyore recommended once upon a time that I come here,” he explained. “He said, that there was an anger in Hartfield and that I should go there to forget my troubles. And of course, it upset me to learn that there was anger anywhere near the Hundred Acre Wood and that if my going there to forget my troubles could get the anger out, then that’s what I would do.”

“Pardon, Winnie, but an anger in Hartfield?” I didn’t hear it at first but repeating it a couple of times in my head and I understood the misunderstanding. “Oh, you mean the Anchor Inn, not the ‘anger in’”.

“Perhaps,” replied Pooh, “but I have managed to forget my troubles”.

“What are you drinking?” I asked peering down at his glass.

“Honey brown ale, of course!” he replied.

“And is there any anger left in Hartfield? Or, rather, have you managed to get the anger out?”

“I haven’t seen any. But of course Eeyore always seems to be a bit upset about something.”

“And you said you had managed to forget your troubles. What sort of troubles could you possibly have, Pooh?”

“Well, I guess I don’t,” he said softly, “only I do miss my bridge.”

“Your bridge? I went looking for you there.”

 

“Yes, well, I used to go there and spend time with Christopher Robin. It was time that he and I spent together just the two of us and nowadays there are always so many people on that bridge and so many sticks in the river that it doesn’t even run.”

“Hmmm, I know what you mean,” I reassured him. “Why do you think that is?”

“Well, I don’t know. But for many years there was no one for many miles around that bridge but then suddenly one day racing sticks became quite a popular game.”

“You mean Pooh sticks?”

“Yes, I guess it does.”

“No, I mean Pooh sticks as in sticks that are named after you. It’s a game that bears your name”.

“Well I am a bear, and my name is Pooh, and I do very much like to play with sticks. But I don’t see how any of that has anything to do with what you’re talking about.”

“I think I’ve lost you, Pooh.”

“Getting lost in the Hundred Acre Wood used to be quite common and it was wonderful. But you came out of the forest and found me and we’re in Hartfield, so you can’t possibly have lost me.”

Expression suddenly came into Pooh’s face as his cheeks pulled back as he looked up from his frosty glass of honey brown ale and grinned a wide grin. He drew deep from his belly and chuckled with a deep maniacal sounding laugh.

“What are you playing at, Pooh?” I demanded.

“Hartfield?” he continued. “A bear? In the middle of the forest? What did you really hope to find?”

“I came to find you, Pooh.”

“Is that all?”

“But you are Pooh, are you not? The bear from the stories that I read as a child?”

“There are no other bears in the Hundred Acre Wood that I’m aware of,” he said chuckling maniacally once again.

It was then that I realized that Pooh likely had no interest in being found. And so I asked him, “Pooh, would you prefer if people stopped coming to Ashdown Forest to find you?”

“Not at all. But I feel it might be in their best interest not to actually find me.”

It was a perplexing answer, and the bear let us both sit there in silence for long moments as I thought hard trying to piece together exactly what he could have meant.

It was about here that we made a wide digression from what at the time seemed my most pressing concerns to more frivolously mundane topics such as the weather and football. It turns out that the Pooh is a Brighton & Hove Albion supporter stating that Saturday home matches serve as a good excuse for him to breathe in some sea air. It’s a solid 25 miles or more for him to travel, but his lower half is rather robust and sturdy and, though he waddles, according to him he makes good time and knows the way blindfolded. According to Pooh, the world is big but the planet isn’t and he is just a small bear made of fiction (his word, my italics).

I had had a wonderful conversation with Pooh but eventually, it was time to be getting back to my accommodation to rest and I so I bade him farewell and asked if he had enjoyed our conversation as much as I had.

“Yes,” he said. “I very much prefer to have a truly meaningful conversation with just one person at a time. Too many people, you see, all trying to get attention. I tend to stay quiet at those times to let others speak but I often don’t hear anything.”

“I know what you mean, Pooh,” I reassured him with sincerity. “Will I be able to find you here tomorrow if I stop by?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I guess it all depends on if you try to find me here. You see, I find, that people find, often, what they look for and tend not to find, what they do not look for.”

His words suddenly rang very true in my ears.

“Thank you, Pooh.”

“Tell me,” he continued. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Not what, Pooh,” I responded. “Who. I found who I was looking for.”

“Well, that is wonderful! Truly, truly wonderful!”

 

I walked the mile back to Bolbroke castle with a whole different attitude after meeting Pooh. By now I knew the curves in the road and every bend in every root of every tree for 5 miles in every direction. I suddenly succumbed to the mystical charm of the Hundred Acre Wood and its environs as I could finally wholly breathe in the sweet smell of the dew on the grass and the billowing smoke from the smattering of small cottages that dotted the countryside. I could feel the pitter-patter of tiny deer hoofs hopping through the tall grasses and could hear with such wondrous clarity the hum-along-sing-song of the birds from high in the treetops. By the following day, I felt like myself again, though I never did see Pooh after that.