As I set off in a new and unexpected direction, ie not The Essex Way, I half wondered if I was actually on The Essex Way without knowing it, or perhaps it would spring at me from behind a hedgerow.
Mud accumulated on my feet. It was the special sort that accumulated around your feet until it looked like a pair of rather rustic snowshoes.
I reached a road which descended towards Chappel and hopefully the viaduct that had been seen in the distance.
I don’t know if the locals saw it as a hideous eyesore when it was being built. The Victorians seemed to have been great improvers and could not wait to tame nature that for countless generations seemed to have held sway over them. The Victorians liked getting their own back, and the railways certainly did that.
I am sure plenty would have viewed it all as a mixed blessing but this brick monster now seems as part of the landscape as anything else. That is probably because in the pantheon of development horror a gracefully arched well proportioned brick railway viaduct scores very low. We are subjected to worse and expect the future to bring worse, our expectations of future are not as high as they once were.
It was built over 150 years ago, its a bit late to mount a pressure group to stop its construction. There would only be howls about its destruction now.
1066 feet long (easy to remember that) 32 arches of 30 foot each, 75 feet high. Took 2 years to build, reputed to be the 2nd largest brick structure in England. The stats of the thing reads like one of those clever memory association schemes which are so fiendishly complex to remember.
The first official passenger train ran 2 July 1849, so I was a bit late for the celebrations commemorating the 150th anniversary of this event. Well I hope someone raised a glass to it in the village pub which dates back to the 13th century at least.
There is an annual beer festival here complete with commemorative glasses, so it may not have gone un-noticed, its just the ripple of excitement it perhaps caused did not register on my senses.
Strolling down the road, dog under arm (he rarely goes on a lead and he has walked a long way, this is his rest period) I see an advertisement sign that needs a picture taken.
It is looking a bit sorry for itself now, in a field which is turning into a small piece of wilderness. I have a dislike for the modern trend in council signs, all health and safety treating you like an idiot. Advertising signs of yesteryear though, with all the originality and flair so missing today, that is a whole different story.
This sign is studded with reflective cats-eyes so you will see them at night in your headlamps (all but the LTD added later presumably).
Economic history of Earls Colne.
Full of information concerning businesses sliding into “forgotten memory” status. T & AJ were sons of Thomas who by 1881 had extended his cooper business (employed 8) to add timber merchant to his list of achievements. He dies in 1889 and the two sons take the helm.
They specialised in oak for railway sleepers and willow for cricket bats. The business closed about 1983. This sign probably being one of the last vestiges of its existence recognisable. Presumably some oak rail sleepers are on the viaduct and maybe the odd bat lying in an attic somewhere maintain a thin thread back to Mann and boys. There is at least 150 years encapsulated in that sign as it fades forgotten in a field by the road.
There is a footpath that takes you under and along the viaduct, on past World War Two pillboxes and defences you walk. I was avoiding the water draining off the tracks. Train sanitation might have improved over the years, but water from a railway line dropping onto my head is something I can live without.
I enjoyed this in a muscular Victorian taming nature sort of way. The pillboxes might have disappeared behind summer growth but nothing was touching the mighty viaduct.
I really enjoyed this and it was well worth leaving The Essex Way to explore it further.
The footpath I was on, tore off through a muddy field past a profusion of butterflies and all manner of insect life busy in the sunshine. I followed it happy to see where it took me.
It took me to some, by now, very familiar looking sheep. They nodded their heads at Dog 2, they were near life long friends now. Well by a process of elimination The Essex Way had to now be the only cardinal point I had not walked. What had confused me was there was no sign of a footpath leading in that direction.
I headed towards a farm on top of a rise with a large St George’s flag painted and peeling on the side of a steel barn. If you own an ugly building in a state of semi-disrepair which holds commanding views might as well make it a patriotic statement. I am always slightly dubious about patriotic display. The “more English than you” brigade taking themselves a bit too seriously.
Bacon’s farm. Presumably the owner of all the “Bull in field” signs and gates which are difficult to open and close along with sundry other paraphernalia of mild obstruction. Certainly the owner of the flagshed.
Cows have been known to attack and even kill, put calves in the mix and maybe a bull, we could be walking on bovine dynamite, not just dodging massive drug-filled cow pats. I always think small dog under arm is the best option, keeping him as much as possible furthest from the cows. If things do get hairy I can just let him go and he will be free to take whatever evasive action he deems fit. We stuck to a fence line which was the planned escape route if the mobile larders did cut up rusty.
Getting closer to Bacon’s farm (no pigs) a large pen designed to keep a dog in place is evident, along with a sign, “Do not touch the dogs”. It is written in a style which suggested the pen was held in a large meaty fist more used to cow punching than writing.
Dog 2 was under my arm as he had been for a while now as is right and proper when going through someone’s property. He could be on a lead, but getting him through / over stiles etc is easier this way. One of the many advantages of having a small dog.
There was no sign of the dog(s) I was under orders not to touch.
Bursting out from under a broken bit of farm equipment came flying teeth and hair. The dog made a bee-line straight for me and leapt up to bite the dog in my arms. Fortunately I reacted and avoided the first bite, it did not deter this dog, who made several other attempts to bite Dog 2.
Now clearly this was more than a game but less than a savage attack. The sheepdog was well within its physical ability to leap and bite Dog 2 in half if it so wanted. The attacker has the pale brown eyes of a dog you have no reason to trust. I put up a spirited defence on the part of my defenceless hound.
A farmers voice bellows to his dog, which gets it under some semblance of control. I have gone from shock/reaction to anger but was rather too laden down with precious cargo to do much more than be worried about my return trip through this farm which intended or not is devised to obstruct peoples rights of way.
I cannot imagine there is anyone lunatic enough to want to touch the dog(s) but the nature of the dog(s) seem to make it all but impossible for unwanted physical contact to take place.
I was angry and angry thoughts went through my head.
Crossing a small railway bridge I try to draw a line under the incident and continue with the walk. I am, afterall, back on track. The return journey looms large in my mind.
We are back among the open fields with the knee high crops, product of selective breeding and genetic tampering I am sure. We enter a tree shaded area, glimpsed between the trees were vehicle wrecks. The junkyard dog looms in my imagination, a large fortress like kennel can be seen, there is nothing between us and it, but a line of trees and I am on a sunken road. I do not like the odds and we go by as quietly as possible.
The one advantage (and there are not many more) to not carrying a map is it allows the element of surprise to come into a walk. There are adventures around each corner. I am not being foolhardy, I am in Essex, on a well marked route, I know how to get back. I walk past peoples houses for goodness sake, this represents a stroll to the shops for some people. Bear Grylls might find the need to knock a bunny over the head and squeeze moisture from cow dung in such environs while sneaking off to the TravelLodge. Me, I will do without the dung surprise and shortcut straight to the Motel if need be.
I step out onto a road, one I recognised from my earlier mapping difficulties, Marks Tey.
The church at Marks Tey is a very odd affair, it dominates a road junction. It has a lychgate, but it is a gate without a wall, its more effort to walk through the gate than around it. It takes a moment for this to register. It is a “what’s wrong with this picture” moment.
The graveyard because of its position and lack of wall has a village green feel to it. The dead play very quietly and are not prone to causing too much fuss. Some of the grave markers are cast iron, in fact a good many are cast iron and all from the same mould. Small brown Norman arches.
The church itself is all out of proportion. Victorians have been at work. I say Victorians as a shorthand, it was actually 1829 that the West Nave along with North and South transepts were demolished. Even complete the Church tower, massively built Norman edifice much of it built from recycled Roman bricks would have looked more appropriate on a fortification.
What the 1829 vandals have robbed us of though is the original footprint of this great church which was cruciform.
We stroll around the perimeter of the graveyard. There might not be a boundary wall, but the living and the dead are never that easy with one another’s company, interaction is as limited as possible. A jolly pink property guides us along The Essex Way.
Across a patch of land which is well tended but seems to have no clear function and then down an avenue of trees which lean in close, almost hiding the path. My nose wrinkles, the un-mistakable architecture of sewage farm can be glimpsed close to the path. It seems to be in a state of semi-decay, but what sewage farm isn’t?
This section of the walk is reaching its completion, it has been an adventure from start to finish and has taken unexpected paths inbetween. It is time to turn around and head back, the return journey will be quicker, no need for meandering detour.
For those wondering, the mad farm dog was on a chain when we went back. Within the limits of its tether it was a snarling beast but it was now essentially powerless. I felt like taking advantage of his change in fortunes but really I was just glad not to have to wrestle it with one arm while holding a small dog in the other.
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