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The day has settled into the familiar weather pattern, the sun beats down. It has been a wonderful summer. It cannot compete with past summers because nothing can compete with things gone. In memory though it will be very special.
"They" say August will be hot, the first six months have been as dry as anything since the 20s.
The track curves away from Bottengoms and towards a pond. Our progress was hidden by trees and startled a young duck. He went for the safety of home at comical speed, everything flapping as he ran across the water. A gust of wind nearly sent my hat skidding across the pond after the fleeing duckling, that would not have done at all.
A bit of road walking was coming up. A country lane really. that happened to have been surfaced some time ago. I guessed quite some time ago by the amount of plant life that had forced itself up through the tarmac. It reminded me of the life after people TV series and how time limited so much of what we create is without continual vigilance.
These sleepy country lanes, sunken with poor visibility, make me nervous. My ears strain to hear approaching motors, they can be on you fast, too fast. Getting yourself to safety against the steep earth banks can be tricky, an added complexity when you have small dogs on leads. A stress which doesn't allow me to really enjoy these little sections of walk which are very nice to remember once the danger is behind you. Empty roads are a pleasure but they always hold the memory of swift travel unless they are very decayed.
Soon back to billowing countryside and a sign warning us there is a bull in the field. Marvellous, and limited views through undulating fields cannot disprove it. No fresh cowpats can be seen though. I venture on. 600 odd years ago something more than a bull was worrying the locals around these parts.
I am surprised by the sight of a glider, it is quite low to the ground, appearing above treetops. It is coming into land, there is a landing strip nearby which I had forgotten about. It was a quick reminder of the day I saw them from a greater distance when walking a section of The Essex Way, south of here.
I am close to The Grange, and entering dragon territory. The views across The Stour Valley are very special, devoid of almost everything but agricultural enterprise.
The tale has a few tellings but lets go with the account written down by a local monk, John de Trokelowe, which was written at the time. 1405. This has the dragon emerging from The Stour at Bures. The dragon did considerable mischief to local sheep and scared a good many village folks. Richard de Waldegraves bowmen made a concerted effort to rid their lordships land of the miscreant. However they found arrows bounced off the back of the great beast and they had to make a retreat.
A local posse was formed and legend has it the dragon on seeing this went into the local mere never to be seen again.
Wormingford is of course, ford of the worm. Worm being another version of dragon. The mere is now in the grounds of Wormingford Hall. There are plenty of versions of the tale with one identifying the dragon as a crocodile which had escaped from The Tower of London. The monk describes a vast body with tufted head, saw-like teeth and a tail immeasurably long. Combine this with a back that deflected arrows and perhaps this is what it was.
Whatever the truth the area has thankfully not drummed this up into a theme park or tourist trap. Wormingford church has a 500 word plaque recounting a version of the story and elsewhere there is a stain glass windows depicting events.
This version suggests the legend of St George and the Dragon may have had its roots here. The passage of time has lost the absolute truth of what happened here, but something odd did.
We arrive at Wormingford church itself, Norman tower built partially from recycled Roman materials. A north isle of 14th Century construction is the modern extension.
Opposite the small road by the church a house proudly proclaims its construction date of 1750 with a large plaque contemporary to construction by the looks of it.
The church wall has a treat, a set of stone steps which go up and over the wall, which is maybe 4 foot high. It saves opening the iron gate next to it. The dogs like this and make repeated use of it. I wonder if it was used as a mounting block.
The churchyard holds the mortal remains of John Constables relatives who worked locally, as well as the artist John Nash and his wife.
The Norman church is the epicentre of the walk, John Nash lies there, Ronald Blythe preaches there. I can imagine the villagers praying for salvation from the dragon. To the NW near the mere significant prehistoric remains have been found when in 1836 a barrow was opened where 'hundreds of urns in rows' were found.
On the old flood plain at a bend of the River Stour can still be found the flint tools of our ancestors, a walk for another day.
Walking on a skylark hung 15 foot or so above my head and sung his liquid song. It had been the soundtrack of the walk My late start had caught up with me and Bures was not going to be my end destination. Rather than a circular walk back along the St Edmunds way it was back along the Stour Valley walk.
Almost at the very end of my walk was an old deeply weather-worn kissing gate, thick wooden beams were curved as a barrel. The whole structure speaks of more effort than needed, built stronger with more craft but clearly rustic. I cannot recall the last time I had seen a gate quite like this. Hopefully it will be many years before it needed a replacement even if in keeping like the one at the start of the walk.
A beginning and an end. Time to turn around and see things from another angle.
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