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.