Great Horkesley to Fordstreet - 15th August
It has been a few weeks since I set foot on The Essex Way. “I got lost” would be about right as a recap, but if you have not read it, it is here, in all its glory.
Geography has a bigger effect than I anticipated, basically I was reluctant to move forward until the section I had missed out had been cleared of unknowns. This was one half of the equation, the other half was the bit missed out is rather urban and dull, combining an awkward sort of length. I set about another walk to try and break the impasse, go to another county, another river system, the Orwell and Stour walk.
It was no good, the mental shackles which stopped me moving forward could not be loosened, the missed section was going to have to be walked before any more progress was made on the Essex Way.
I put the car journey into the GPS, this was to be a belt and braces approach, there was no desire to repeat the unhappy wanderings by car of last time. There was a slight moment of nervousness when a road I needed was closed, signs for a diversion were in place. These signs usually begin with good intentions but at some point simply lose interest in helping the traveller and dump them in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately these were newly placed and remained relevant. I arrived at Great Horkesley as intended.
This is a village just north of Colchester, built along a Roman road, which takes its straight line very seriously. Hardly a surprising only a few miles out from the Roman capital of Britain. If Roman roads got curves here there would be no hope elsewhere.
The A12 is doing a good job of containing the sprawl that is Colchester but I do not rate the long term prospects of Great Horkesley remaining a village, if anything new housing estates are stretching out trying to reach Colchester. More fool them.
There are some dramatically thatched houses along the road, many sporting the obligatory security signs. The WI Hall, which is no more than an ugly shed has a large sign on it warning everyone they are under 24/7 CCTV surveillance. Jam and gossip has never been safer. People I meet look warily at my camera, concerned an image might be stolen from them, their rights invaded while happy to be under the gaze of 24/7 big brother examination. Safe cameras in the hands of the faceless, unsafe cameras in the hands of a smiling chap with a couple of dogs, mad world.
This whole section of the Essex Way is compromise. I promised myself that for being a good lad and walking the pretty tedious official route with its pavements there would be a more rural return journey.
Parked in a cul-de-sac so loved by estate designers the walk begins.
Dogs 2 and 3 are on the end of a lead. In front of us looms a large wall, blue, ten foot high made of plywood I presume, probably fencing off another bit of farmland soon to be taken over by housing. It’s ultimate fate may well rest on the current recession, ie neglect. For some reason the desperate need for housing totally falls away during a recession, current housing stocks suddenly become adequate again, houses fall in price, what seemed like insatiable demand turns out to be no more than an imagined profit.
I am soon in countryside, an orchard greets me, regular planting the trees grown to make apple picking simple, they are not ripe for scrumping so they were safe from even temptation. A little further on, I bump into a couple going the other way, they look to be walking The Essex Way in the correct direction, all maps and official-air. Striking out across a newly ploughed field the drum of A12 cannot be denied, trees mask it from view but not ears. It annoys me more than it should these clashes of urban and rural.
A gaggle of cyclists blur past me, all lycra and intent, most too busy to acknowledge the fact I stepped aside and bundled up the dogs too allow them past. The modern affliction, the more wheels the more significant, the faster, the better. In their haste perhaps they imagined they had more right to the way than I did. I order up punctures all round for these guys from whatever god deals with this, the Romans would have had one.
Armoury Farm is my first map destination, an unusual name it must have an obvious connection, Colchester is a military town from its inception, it now seems to be a livery stables. Some bushes nearby have blackberries, juicy taste explosions, I feel I’ve earned a few.
No sooner am I settling into my stride than tarmac makes an appearance, already the outskirts of West Bergholt is reaching out to greet me, even as people are picking blackberries, making sure they get their share of the free bounty. I walk through head down, this is not my element today.
The Essex Way passes a Church which can only be described as functional in design, with an ugly extension stuck on the back much like a prefab. The grass in the cemetery was waist deep, my lasting impression of West Bergholt, the dead need the living to keep them alive, the dead deserve better than to be in a wasteland.
There is a treat in store, West Bergholt old church, near the Hall. The village has moved away, keener on crossroad commerce the village left the church and hall isolated. The church is no longer a working church and fell into disrepair, sidelined by the building of another church, it was finally decommissioned in 1976. It was saved by a charity and when I went past was open to all and sundry. An open church has been a rarity and I relished it. Just inside the door was a 13th century font with a 15th century oak, iron bound chest sitting in close attendance. A merrily painted church organ was near the altar and before that a 17th century coat of arms painted on a wall.
The church is medieval, made up of recycled Roman tile as is the fashion near Colchester, the area devoid of natural building stone.
The graveyard, it was full by 1900, the real interest being many of the graves being ring fenced by iron railings. A rare sight as so many railings were uprooted in futile war effort The pretence was we needed the iron, the reality was we just needed the morale boost of “helping” so we destroyed beautiful iron railings all over the country. The initial intent of the railings were to deter grave robbing, but from the dates on some of the gravestones, it looks to have continued as fashion statement.
One area has a whole series of graves in an enclosure, behind them a husband and wife exist in his and her enclosures, an odd arrangement somehow.
The church has a somewhat colourful history which can be read here.
Around the church is a sense of slow decay, barns in disrepair, outbuildings growing into the weeds, to repair them would almost be out of keeping now, it seems fate is sealed, decay is their future.
I leave the caged dead and the slumbering decay and strike out across working fields, the church has raised my spirits but it is a mixed message. A well looked after and maintained church open to the inquisitive but the community it served has moved on down the road.
The fields are busy but all around buildings are in decay. In the distance, what must have once been a farmhouse is wire fenced off, blank windows gazing out across the dancing crop, the roof open to the skies. Once the roof has gone deterioration will be swift.
In another direction a collection of cows are hanging around farm structures, it has a timeless feel a scene unchanged, postcard England. But as the track curves around, giving me a better view, the buildings become more and more weathered, functional for a cowshed, but not forever.
Across the fields can be discerned the line of the River Colne, it is no more than a stream at this point, the hint is the line of pillboxes. Reinforced concrete structures designed to hold the line should the promised invasion have taken place in the 40’s. Without anyone caring for them they look as serviceable as they were 70 years ago, now with a layer of camouflage grass on the tops.
There is a line of them here, all interconnecting fire. The sound of an old aircraft makes me look up, a strange twist of the timeline, some World War 2 aircraft go overhead heading to a show perhaps. Time has become jumbled, it is only vaguely linear.
The River Colne is my companion now, although it is more sensed than seen with the crops still high. My destination is Fordstreet, which will link up the two severed ends of The Essex Way, I will have filled in the missing link.
Fordstreet church was the increasingly regular disappointment of the locked church, complete with signs explaining how everything was secretly marked so stealing it would be useless. How the lives of 99% that live by the rules are blighted by the 1% that will not.
The dogs and I sat on a low tomb in the shade of a tree. I hoped the occupant would understand I meant no harm, although by the looks of the mischief tree roots were doing to his resting place he had more pressing things on his eternal thoughts. The day, hot and humid, had taken its toll and there was at least as far to walk again to get back home.
It has been a treat to navigate through what truly is a green and pleasant land, for all the signs of rural decay there is much worth saving and savouring.
As it actually turned out, I was wrong. My return journey was pleasant but had no features to really recommend it as a walk beyond the usual trundle. Far more interesting had been the official Essex Way and the cost of a bit of urban stomping was well worth the cost, it was not as much as it appeared to be on the map.
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