After a lonely trek through wintry woodland, a pub appears like a pot of gold

I moved out of London eleven years ago. I was never really suited to it anyway; not enough air.

We landed in Berkhamsted, in the northwestern corner of Hertfordshire, by chance. It was the right side of the capital for being closer to our families and we took a shine to the canal and the hills.

The Chilterns, those chalky, beech-backed crinkles that run from Goring-on-Thames to Hitchin don’t get the attention of the Downs (South or North), or of the sterner hills further up England’s pine. They are among the nation’s most easily forgotten humps.

I fell for them straight away thanks to their smooth but sometimes surprising contours and the colours of the woods that hang from mile after mile of escarpment. They are not remote – but if you choose the right moment, you can nonetheless find isolation within them.

Even in the area covered by the National Trust’s Ashridge Estate, just to Berkhamsted’s north, it is possible to feel you are quite alone, although much depends on the weather.

Four or five years ago, my wife and daughter had decided on a trip to Whipsnade Zoo. I said I would walk through the woods at Ashridge and meet them in a nearby village a couple of hours later. It was cold and overcast – not really a perfect day for either zoo or woodland trek.

Still, cobwebs needed shaking off.

My route was easy enough. I skirted the common land to the south of the estate, following a narrow path between blackthorn, brambles and scrubby woodland to the right; and barren, ploughed fields on my left. Early on I passed a couple walking a dog.

After two or three miles I was on National Trust land, walking through my favourite patch of beech wood, where the light streams in from the Vale of Aylesbury and shadows dance. Not on this day though. Nobody else was about.

Further on, the Bridgewater Monument, a 108 foot high column built in 1832 to commemorate the 3rd Duke, towered above even the grandest oaks; but I left it – and the National Trust’s visitor centre – to the west, crossing a concrete track before plunging back into the trees.

Odd patches of conifer and laurel helped the gloom to gather.

Then came snow, and another dog walker, whose charge startled me; it was excited by the falling flakes. The snow was wet, not the kind that can be brushed off like dust. I was waterproof on my top half but my jeans stood no chance. What’s more, the last mile of the walk was along a farm track, with not even bare branches overhead for cover.

I came into the village of Dagnall with my legs absolutely soaked.

With half an hour still before the time we had agreed to meet I cast around for a place to wait and spied the Red Lion, thankfully open – and warmed by a fire.

A ten pound debit card limit forced me to buy two pints, a large packet of crisps and, of all things, a jar of homemade chutney. My legs felt like ice but I was utterly content.

At the end of the rainbow we hope to find a pot of gold. At the end of a lonely, chilly walk through the woods, we should always hope to discover a welcoming pub.