The Gentleman Traveller (III): Breckland.

I depart by train early one Friday morning to traverse across Mercia from the borders of the Marches to the Eastern Angles. This is one of my favourite British train journeys and I spent the journey staring out of the window mesmerised as the landscape changes from Sandstone and granite to the late Jurassic clay flatland of the fens and the chalk/flint terrain of the east. Travelling through the familiar valleys I pass my childhood home in east Leicestershire. No sooner is the train leaving Stamford, the landscape noticeably flattens and the horizons expand. My real treat on this train journey is when we near Ely. The train slows as I eagerly crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the stunning Cathedral Church of the Holy and Undivided Trinity. The scraping of the tracks as we round the Isle of Eels signals the arrival of this architectural wonder of the fens. Usually, I continue my journey on the same train into Cambridge - a mere twenty minutes away - today I disembark and await the Norwich train for Thetford.

Etheldreda's great church at Ely.

I am due to meet 'David the farmer' in a couple of hours. My train for Thetford arrives and before long the terrain changes again, this time for great swathes of forest with clearings which, signals my arrival into Breckland. Thetford is the place where the rivers 'Thet and the little Ouse' meet. This town is also believed to have been the capital of Boudica's Iceni; continuing to be the Saxon capital of East Anglia through the Post-Romano into the medieval. I disembark at the small station and find it as quiet as a rural Sunday. The streets seem deserted until I turn into the town’s main shopping street which is busy but not hectic. The first thing that strikes me is the sound of East-European languages being spoken, instead of the anticipated Norfolk accent.

The Cluniac priory established 1104.

I stumble upon a supermarket and stock-up with non-perishables for my camping in the woods tonight. I have some time to kill before I meet 'David the farmer' so decide to head for the priory ruins for a wander. Amongst its walls of flint, I slumber in the interlude of sunshine using my rucksack as a pillow. There are other antiquities to see but they can wait ‘til the morning. I read the leaflet telling me of Thetford’s attractions with the emphasis being on the BBC TV series 'Dads Army’. The creators Jimmy Perry and David Croft, as well as the cast used to stay at the Bell and Anchor public house whilst they filmed the series in and around Thetford. I recall an old friend of mine telling me years ago that, the opening titles were filmed at the Neolithic mines of 'Grimes graves' which can be found to the north of the town. I resist going to photograph the statue of Captain Mainwaring.

David comes to meet me and we take coffee in the beautiful, medieval-timbered Bell Inn before walking up to Kilverstone, towards David's home and, whereby I take my leave to camp in the Kilverstone woods before night-fall creeps-in. I turn off from the main road with David's directons into a heavy-wooded stretch of largely evergreen trees. The forest-floor crackles with dry broken branches and last autumn's leaves. Dusk is really nestling in and I need to quickly establish my camp. I find somewhere that appears clear enough beneath the canopy. The birdsong has become cacophonic which, along with the sound of breaking branches, creates a rather menacing environment. Hurridly, I construct  my tent as the last light of day diminishes. I now concern myself with all of these possibilities:

1. I may be camped within a Badger set.

2. Insects of any descriptor; I have a very simple tent/fly-sheet on a laden forest floor.

3. What if the local people use this place as a Friday night sex venue/dogging?

4. What if dogs are let loose in the night to hunt? Yes, this has occurred before when I camped during a storm on a Dorset coastal/woodland cliff promonatory.

5. Freezing to death. David informed me of the deaths last winter of two Polish farm workers that lived in the woods of the Breckland.

6. General axe murderers and the like.

Dusk: The Woodland floor - view from my tent.

I clearly have too much free-thinking time. I aim to rest, leave early and and breakfast in Thetford before a bellringing quarter-peal at the Church of St Peter's in town. The church is now redundant and, is one of a few mediaeval churches in this place of antiquity. David has kindly offered me to camp within St Peter's the following evening if needed. I begin to consider that I would rather endure the creepiness of a deconsecrated church and the shouts of the town drunks than the aforsaid insects, Badgers, doggers & axe-murderers. If it is offered, Im taking it! I turn on the pocket radio and, settle-in to the sound of 'book at bedtime' amid the crackles and snaps of woodland branches.

Morning: Sunlight in Kilverstone woods.

08:15am. Saturday:

Throughout the night a Vixen Fox had been screeching for her mate and cubs; the sound echoing throughout the woodland and, getting ever nearer are the yelps and squeals from the fox cubs around my tent. I gave them a blast of volume from the shipping forecast emitting from my tinny radio with, a flash of torchlight for good measure!. Did I sleep? probably not, mere slumber till the first birdsong. Owls had also called-out during the night. The friendly familiarity of a Wood-Pidgeon bought about the first shafts of delicious sunlight,  through to the forest floor. I stooped out of the tent-flap and,  took the much put-off early morning piss whislt opening a squashed box of Cadburys chocolate fingers for breakfast. The sunlight bought about a kinder canopy to this otherwise serial-killer paradise. I take my own leave out of the Woodland and, meet the main road, crossing over into the grounds of Kilverstone Hall and the church of St Andrew.

The Norfolk flint & round tower. St. Andrew's: Kilverstone.



Grouse run free about the churchyard and I startle a large pack of beige Deer, which then take charge across the parkland of Kilverstone Hall. I throw down my bags and, set about admiring the flint round tower of St Andrew. Geese take flight overhead. The everyday wonders of early morning nature clearly all around me. Sadly, the church with it's round tower is locked. These round towers are unique to the eastern Angles although myths surround their origin, the most credible theory is that they were a Saxon defence against the Danes/Vikings; as church towers in general may have derived from a defence/beacon as purpose. The morning seems threatened by heavy granite skies with chances of sunlight proffered tantilisingly. Hauling my laden rucksack onto my back again, I walk into Thetford.

Kilverstone Hall.

Magnetised, I wander to the castle-site; a grass-engulfed earthwork of huge proportions. I ponder a while on Thetfords' once noble/tribal capital past. Hunger then leads me into town; the Cadbury's fingers just havn't sufficed. I can find no Cafe in town and, make-do with the High St butchers (Jones - of course.., don't panic, don't panic!) with their beef-burger stand. Time to wander down to St Peter's where David arrives by bicycle along with the other ringers. David has been up early, having already been over to the Euston estate to feed the pigs. We head up the tower stairs and into the ringing chamber, ringing-up the 8 Bells of St Peter's; they are tuned to F and the tenor is 18 Cwt. From ringing rounds, the conductor calls into a quarter-peal of Grandsire Trebles. I ring the treble which, if rung lightly has little balance and, if rung hard - feels like hauling a tonne above my head. The time passes quickly, negotiating this awkward bell then, the bells are rung down.  Kindly, David suggests that the quarter-peal has been rung in honour of my recent 40th birthday.

Early Morning at Thetford Castle.

Armed with the OS landranger map, David & I clamber into a vintage Mini (belonging to Chris, fellow bell-ringer, mini-enthusiast and railway-worker from over at Diss). Chris kindly takes us over to a pub at East Wretham whereby several ales are savoured and David & Chris discuss the bells af Norwich and Bury St Edmunds. Chris drops David & I off at a junture of an ancient track 'The Peddars way'. , we wave him off and walk into the land of bracken and Scots Pine, the land to our West is MOD Firing terrain. David tells me, they took over several ancient villages including Tottington. By the lake that is Thompson Water, masses of Orange-tip butterflies flutter and, on entering a woodland glade, two Munc-Jack deer dart across our path. Consulting the map, we enter into the village of Thompson. A strange layout of a village, that seems to circumgate a large field - maybe a Saxon common-land for retaining the village livestock. The church lies about a mile eastward. It is a large building of the perpendicular. Spacious and light. Beautiful pews show-off their poppy-head finnials. It all appears unspoilt 15th century. The woodwork is parched, thirsty for a wax and psalm mumbers show last months service. Thompsons main threat is the damp which has turned some of the mediaeval tiles verdis-gris. We take our leave and traverse obliquely across the large field. Sunlight sneaks through a crack in the cloud as we approach the low-ceiling'd pub adorned with colorful hanging baskets.

St. Martin's Church: Thompson - Norfolk.

St. Martin's Church: Thompson - Norfolk.

The Chancel & it's mediaeval screen. St. Martin's: Thompson - Norfolk.

After a welcome ale, David's mother most kindly arrives by car to take us back into Thetford. as David goes to reclaim his bicycle (locked in St Peters Church), I suddenly realise, I cannot bear another woodland night; I am aching & lacked of sleep. I can actually get a train back via a change at Ely still. I thank David and, say our hurried goodbyes, I make my way up to Thetford railway station. 40 minutes later a train pulls-in for Ely (National Express trains - worryingly). 15 minutes later, I am on the platform at Ely as rain starts to spill relentlessly from the slate-grey skies. I make my way westward, accompanied from Peterboro onwards by pissed football supporters.

The Fens - Near March, a storm.

The train head's home, westwards. Raincloud's burst on the fens.





Gentlemen Travellers (II): The Thames Upper reaches by Canoe

As I arrive back in Oxford on a bracing March day, negotiating my way past the hordes international students and their outsized wheeled suitcases, I follow the familiar walk from the railway station east to Carfax. The sky is stained with delicate ashen hues and as the noble bells of the former parish church of St Martin strikes the noon, Oxford’s buildings of Cotswold stone both elicit and absorb the spring sunlight. Before the final chime of Carfax had struck, Mr Thompson arrived laden with rucksack, aged Ordnance Survey maps and Pevsner’s county architectural guides. Oxford is at its finest as we trundle full of heart toward St Giles whereby we encounter our ruddy-faced dear friend, Rev. Dr Philip Kennedy. Dressed in a crumpled linen suit and squashed Panama he is everything you expect in an Oxford academic.

After our supplies, consisting mostly of nuts and cider, were sought we board the bus towards the middle age village of Wolvercote. Following a cheeky ale stop in the Plough Inn we excitedly leave to meet Paul at Dukes Cut. Paul is an utterly charming fellow and very kindly loaned us his trusty ‘Old Town’ Canoe. Imagine our uncontained excitement when he told us that he worked as a sommelier at Christ Church College. Just imagine that cellar! After loading our tentage and necessaries aboard the vessel we tentatively board; the waters of Dukes Cut are dark, still and tranquil on this early spring afternoon. As we glide down to the meet the noble Thames waters, waving back to the wine keeper, our oak paddles penetrate the still, dark waters.

Sir Rosis of the River rests at Yarnton Mead.

The breadth of the Thames meets us with its broad expanse. We negotiate our way past the King’s weir pushing forth upstream. After fine tuning our paddling technique we decided to rest awhile. Pulling ashore, the canoe kisses the steep banks of Oxey Mead. Securing the canoe-rope under our derrières, we lie upon the sweet especial rural scene toasting the 'River-Gods' and savouring the joy of yet another 'Gentlemen Travellers' adventure. Even though many months have passed, I can still feel the damp clumps of meadow grass as if only yesterday; the ancient Thamesis waters kissing the river-bank and the last hum of the Oxford traffic being put behind us. Onwards we travel, winding serpentine north-west; passing the mixed woodland of Wytham and Cassington village.

Monty at Great Wytham woods.

Pinkhill Lock.

The angry skies that met us on Oxey Mead have now dispersed and given way to glorious shafts of afternoon sun glinting through the steep banks of Wytham Woods onto the lolling shallows of the river below. We are entombed in some verdant earthly paradise. Adrift, we stall to consult our 1970s published OS Landranger maps; nothing has changed here for centuries. The spire of St Peter’s, Cassington, pierces the horizon. On planning our route, we were sad to learn that the light 17^th Centaury ring of six bells were unringable due to their precarious ancient fittings. From here, we made some real pace upstream before the last of the long shadows disperse. We languished in the verdant glory of the tranquil Wytham a short while - a toast with Cider. Wytham Woods is an SSSI owned by St John’s College. Oxford University Botanists and Zoologists monitor and preserve its unique flora and animal-life.

We have long-since waved goodbye to any inhabited communities some miles back. Our nearest river place for food, beverages and hospitality was Eynsham, some few miles back accessible by way of its mill-stream/leat. We are now to rely on Riverine public houses in order to break the ritual of breaking into the 'nuts ‘n’ cider' pantry. We negotiate Pinkhill Lock which Leon operates as I guide the canoe through the layered walls of green slime which rise many metres above. These locks are no place for me to start expressing my fear of deep, fecund waters! Our map tells us to aim for Bablock Hythe for dusk. Bablock is literary famed by Matthew Arnold who immortalised its river bank and hostelry in 'The Gypsy Scholar'. The early evening river is exquisitely serene. Several great hulks of mid-restoration working boats were the only sign of life as we paddled through the still waters. We glide aside Stroud Copse, Farmoor reservoir and Eaton Heath. Again, we toyed with the idea of ringing the bells at Stanton Harcourt. With light diminishing we pressed onwards towards Bablock Hythe.

Day Two: An inquisitive Owl peers down upon us. Mr. Thompson consults our navigations.

We approach Bablock Hythe as light diminishes; passing what seems like mile upon mile of eerily deserted plastic caravans. We encounter the ‘Ferryman Inn’ and wait for it to open at 19:00.  Shortly we come to realise that this pub closes on a Tuesday: a Public House closed on a Tuesday! Bugger! Once again we step back into the Canoe and come to land half a mile upstream where an eroded field crumbles into the water’s edge. Avoiding the sheep shite and savage violent thistles, we set-up our river camp for the night. Half-heartedly, we take to the wine and cider and nestle in for the night. We are both exhausted; a twilight slumber is immediate not much after nine pm. We were very disappointed with Bablock. We were expecting something 'poetic', not the 1970's urbanesque pub that now occupies the site. The writer Peter Ackroyd acknowledges that a ferryman has existed at this site for at least the past 700 years. The broad field we slept in that night has a sense of ancientness about it. This field is in itself evocative of another time. I sense an ancient enclosure, unchanged across the millennia.

Day Two: We depart Bablock Hythe. Heavy rain fall in Gloucestershire swells the river, making our journey upstream difficult and increasingly dangerous. This was my perpetual view for Three days: Mr. Thompsons' scapula. "Paddle harder" he says. "Balls, I’m paddling hard! You just can't see it. And I’m steering too you directionless shit!"

The ancient Newbridge (1250). The Maybush Inn (Left) & The Rose Revived (Right).

We depart Bablock early the next morning. The Thames is swollen and swift with torrents. We decide to press on and review the situation once we pass the River Evenlode near Shifford lock. The River Evenlode winds its way south-east from Moreton-in-Marsh through the picturesque Cotswold landscape before finally joining the Thames. The day is very overcast and soon our waters are dappled with rain. We pull out the tenting ground-sheet to cover our rucksacks and food stuffs within the canoe. The river, though entrenched in this gloom, is serene. We encounter two gentlemen walkers, the only humanity we have passed in fifteen miles of this famed river. Mr Thompson and I point out to them the Owl we have just glided beneath. The Owl seemingly nonplussed by our antics. We find also a Heron standing gracefully as we near Shifford. We have seen in abundance Canada Geese - they outnumber the mute Swans copiously. Appletree Common is to our left along with Duxford with its RAF base, Buckland and Hinton Waldrist. Several RAF Hercules aircraft fly low overhead. The river now becomes broad again as we approach Newbridge. The 13^th Century bridge of Newbridge is said to be the oldest surviving of the Thames bridges although this is debated as Radcot Bridge is an older structure but was heavily rebuilt after damage caused during the Wars of the Roses. We pull over at Standlake/Newbridge at the larger of the public houses to our right (The Rose Revived) too early (again!) to enjoy its temptations. We guess that this place is a summertime family pub. We take a rest.  Mr Thompson takes a breakfast of tinned Mackerel in tomato sauce tipped into a torn stale bread roll.

DAY TWO: Mr Thompson downs the nectar and we prepare our next water borne move from the welcoming shelter of the Maybush Inn. Swans near Radcot Bridge

Pressing onwards the rain becomes relentless. We glide aside many huge riverside mansions with their mock Tudor timbered boat houses; "would ya just look at the house!” we mockingly exclaim in our best impressions of Dara Ó Briain. Torrents of rain have made our hands cold and spirits equally dampened. We are forced to make a big decision: head back to the Maybush Inn for a pint of cheer and some warmth before heading back slowly downstream or breaching further into Gloucestershire? We decide on the former and back at the Maybush Inn we are greeted at the banks by a rather jolly Landlord. "Come in my dear boys. Wife! Wife! We have hearty fellows to warm!" We drag our canoe, which we appropriately named Sir Rosis of the River, up the steep river-bank. The Maybush is indeed warm and also a museum to river life and the Inn’s frequent flooding. The fire crackles and ales are served to us. Our landlord with his merry wife takes a fervent interest in our 'river japes'. This kind of trip is a rarefied thing it seems. We are rather too late for food but after several tasty ales we are waved on our way.

Day Two & Three: An eyot on the Eynsham Mill Stream/Leat became our overnight home.

We reached as far as the ancient Radcot Bridge. Anglo Saxons used this as a crossing point. It is also the scene of the ‘Battle of Radcot Bridge’ fought during December 1387 when the troops of Robert de Vere who were loyal to Richard II clashed with Henry Bolingbroke’s troops. The bridge is also where the cut of the Thames-Severn canal meets the Thames. This was once used to link London and Bristol by water and where stone was conveyed from a nearby quarry up river for the building of St Paul’s Cathedral.

   We reach the conclusion that it is far too wet to continue to Kelmscott Manor (home of William Morris) and the town of Lechlade. With heavy heart we turn back for Oxford.  It is amazing just how quickly we travel on the swollen river with our only halting caused by locks. We eventually meet a lock-keeper which is rarity at this time of year. Mr Thompson chats a while with him as I cling to the green slime of the lock wall. My fingers seem permanently stained by this activity which makes me think of Sir Gawain and the green Knight. I am no Knight however, simply a mere pudgy middle aged small-time adventurer. We have decided to aim for a few miles outside of Oxford to set up our final camp for the night so as to make the following day an easy glide back into the spired city. We aim for just outside of Eynsham where we can buy beer at the mill-stream tavern. By late afternoon, we reach the mill-stream and turn into its overgrown narrow channel. We are immediately dwarfed by rain rich reeds. The channel is both deep and shallow in places. We approach the drone of Eynsham's roads and some fringe industrial units hover above us. Factory workers toke on their crafty cigarettes out back; only visible to our riverine eye.

Day Three: Heavy over-night wind drying our river-damp clothes. We really had set ourselves up as neo river gypsies.

We emerge to the side of the Talbot Inn with daylight diminishing once again. The bruised sky indicates that it is time to establish camp. Mr Thompson feels he cannot cope with another night under canvas with us being so close to Oxford. We have no choice. We send a telephone message Paul and tell him we will return 'Sir Rosis of the River' back to Port Meadow tomorrow. "Sup up your ale, we have a tent to pitch". We head back along the leat until we come across the eyot we passed earlier. We are quite literally about to spend this last night on 'an island in a stream'. Once again, we haul the canoe up the steep bank and clear a patch to camp. We are wary as the island appeared to be a reserve for Otters or Badgers. With our tent pitched and a small battery radio sounding scratchy-sounding retro pop we settle for our final night. We have had no other fluids to drink except for the stale cider. We realised we would have to remain half-pissed along the river over the last day just to remain hydrated! We are both exhausted and as daylight faded we both sleep. Mr Thompson's diet of peanuts creates an aroma of 'nutty flatus'. Our night was one of rain and wind ravages yet by morning all is calm. We awake to the sound of a nearby farm tractor. No Otters or Badger invasions during the night. Slowly we pack away our camp and we consume the last of our tinned mackerel in tomato sauce. Sir Rosis of the River is pushed down into the mill stream and we paddle once again to meet the Thames, taking a left-turn for Oxford.

Day Three: Final moorings at Port Meadow - Oxford.

Day Three: The restoration at the Eagle & Child public house, St Giles. Oxford.

Day Three: The Inklings corner of the Eagle & Child pub. We stink of muddy Thames water, stale cider and semi-unwashedness; albeit for the interventions of cuccumber wet-wipes.

We paddle out the awkward mill-stream and greeted by gale force winds on the expanse of Oxey Mead. For a river, this becomes very choppy and the winds threaten to tip us into the deep; throwing our canoe onto its side and towards the left side river-bank. We begin to argue over the best course of action. Mr Thompson wishes to stay in the midst of the wide river whilst I much preferred to keep close to the river bank so we stood half a chance of getting out instead of drowning if capsized. I confess to dramatically accusing my friend of being 'reckless with my life' and screeching like a small Vietnamese boy being touched by Gary Glitter. It was an extremely tense situation for some time and we were eventually forced to take Sir Rosis out of the river and haul the vessel over a field and gate. Heavy work indeed! Soon, we have turned out of the wind and we can once again risk the river. Suddenly, the wind diminished and the sunshine emerged as we approached Godstow Priory (the place of Fair Rosamund) and Binsey with its 'Treacle well'. Through our final lock gate at King’s weir we emerged on the vast plain of Port Meadow. Here the sunshine glitters on the shallows and we are once again reunited with the spires and domes of the great learned city. The people of Oxford have had grazing rights on the Port Meadow for centuries; an ancient barrow tumulus is the only bump on its otherwise flat vastness. Down to the boat yard whereby we meet Paul once again who has abandoned the wine cellars of Christ Church to retrieve 'Sir Rosis of the River' and place our adventurous vessel in its new home; a farm opposite Port Meadow.

Mr Thompson and I walk back through the Oxford district of Jericho via the familiar Walton and Little Clarendon Streets to the Eagle & Child public house on St Giles’. We consume a hearty lunch with ales and are relieved to be seated with our limbs still recovering from the last three days of paddling. Suddenly we are surrounded by an American man explaining to a large group of people that our table is where Tolkien & C. S. Lewis et al met. Mr Thompson points out that they are rudely interrupting our meal and our quiet reflection time. They were not even buying drinks! We escape to complete the day at the Three Goats Head’s on St Michael’s St. I used to swing in to this ale-house after Oxford Union debates some few years back. Daylight vanishes once again and I have to say my goodbyes and trundle on to the railway station and back to my own Mercian home.

Journeys End: St Michael’s St, Oxford.

Epilogue:

The Thames falls South-Easterly from its (much contested) source somewhere near Trewsbury Mead. The word Thames is considered to be ancient Briton - meaning 'Dark Waters'. During its course through Oxford it adopts the name 'Isis' between ‘Long Bridges’ and ‘Black Bridge’ where the once back water was widened to allow river traffic to navigate more easily than its original course with ‘Isis’ being a derivative of Thamesis. The River Cam in Cambridge equally becomes 'The Granta'. Other rivers share a similar name origin: Teme = Thame for instance. The Thames has also been a dividing point. In Anglo-Saxon England the river marked the border of the Southern Kingdom of Wessex against the Hwicce and Mercia north of its shore. During our journey we encountered a handful of WWII pill-boxes. These were a last resort against the invading forces had they approached from the south. Hitler fancied himself with Oxford as his central office/government with the Bodleian's 'Radcliffe Camera' acting as his personal office. Mr Thompson and I may, at some stage, complete the journey (Oxford to London). On this stretch of the river more habitation: towns!!

Our next ‘Gentlemen Travellers’ adventure is in April 2012 where we will traverse the National Peak Park.