Up the Old Railway

It was quarter to six in the morning, the sun shone from behind the trees in the east, the wood pigeons sat bleary eyed on the fencing staring into nowhere, I climbed aboard the dirty, ramshackle bike and headed west.
Having filled the tyres with fresh air the day before I was prepared for the journey.  I had not bothered to check the gears, brakes or anything else as I knew all would be well, at first I was wrong, the gears took a while to remember what to do.
I passed through the market centre dodging the early Burger vans setting up for the Saturday Market.  The market is indeed an ancient one beginning in 1199 when the Bishop of London, who had inherited the land from the Theign Athelric, got permission from King John by promising him taxes could be raised this way, John agreed and also agreed to a similar market in Chelmsford which more or less exists today.  The cattle and sheep have been replaced with Burger vans, fruit and veg stalls, and on monthly occasions a variety of items produced in a desperate fashion to reinvigorate the town.  Lowering the rates on shops might help but the council see that as a bad idea.
Peddling down the High Street, another new invention in medieval times, I find the way very rough. A while back the road was relaid using red bricks and looked marvellous, since then buses and vans running over its length have turned it into a glacial like mountains range, cycling is harder here in town than in the old railway.  The road from London crosses Braintree where it meets 'Stane Street' running from Colchester west.  Whether it was the wealth produced by the market or the Bishop deciding to reroute the road in favour of his dwelling on, appropriately, Chapel Hill, is unclear but this new way became the High Street.  Next door to the shop on the corner, the blue fronted one, lies an ancient house which has served as a hotel of sorts for some years.  The owner once told me a wooden pillar in the house had been dated to, I think, 1387 AD, which indicates the ages behind some of the shop fronts.  Most now have Victorian or more recent fronts but behind that lies ancient years and memories.

Slipping, and I mean slipping, past the church which has stood for almost a thousand years, probably on the base of a Saxon wooden edifice, and the houses nearby cover what were Roman graves, I head for the traffic lights on the old London Highway.  I note on old documents they referred to a road as a highway at all times.  Mr MacFarlane would be happy on this once dirt track wandering through the woodlands heading on a pilgrimage to Bury St Edmunds.  Edmund died 869 AD so such pilgrimages continued until Henry VIII removed them in religious zeal, so he could marry again.  A busy road for many years.
At the lights few realise that to our right stood an Iron Age settlement.  In the gardens round about the occasional grave can be found if you dig deep enough, usually Iron Age, occasionally a family argument.  Not wishing to ponder this I continue past the Victorian houses which appeared as wealth grew and farmland was bought out and turned onto the pavement in a bid to beat two early morning joggers (and they needed to jog) to the old railway line, the 'Flitch Way.'

There was of course no real requirement to build this railway line, joining Braintree to Bishops-Stortford, the line from Braintree had connected to the Liverpool Street line since 1848 but the railway company was afraid that their line from London to Cambridge might be compromised by a competitor running from London through Bishops-Stortford to Norwich, the answer was to run a line across their plans and so this line came to be in 1869, after the usual squabbles, usually about money. 
The public came for a while however after the Great War lorries took away much of the freight and charabancs took the public leaving them almost at their doors while the railway line was often a mile from the villages themselves.  By 1952 the last train ceased and twenty years later freight also failed and the rails were removed.  Hard work by the Rangers, that is Essex Rangers who maintain the ground not a football team, has enabled the way to be a perfect rest from town life.  Those who plan to place over 500 hundred houses alongside the way require removal to Afghanistan in many folks opinion.

  
Having spent so much time indoors I was happily surprised by the verdant way as I passed.  The Rangers had maintained the way so well it was a corridor of green all the way up.  Funny how at this time of the year the colours disappear and green and white become the main draw.  Only a handful of colourful plants were noted, most were white flowers. 
The picture shows part of the land that a local developer wishes to change into housing to his advantage.  Several hundred houses could replace this view, much to everyone's disgust.  I can understand the farmer wishing to cash in, farming is not a great winner and Brexit brings no guarantees with it so I understand his wish to sell out.

I think this is the farmer who wishes to sell the land.  The future for such as he is not clear and it is understandable if they will seek other revenue.  I note the horse and the gymkhana material to the side which is new.  Further up there were four young ponies chasing each other around their field happily and I would imagine they will spend time this week carrying little Tabitha and her friends over the jumps.

I must be at least a year or more since I rode up here.  The weather was wonderful as I headed up the slope, only one old lass being overprotective to her ageing dog was to be seen.  The air was filled with the scent of lush foliage and I breathed deeply as I rode.  There again I have to breathe deeply when on the bike, puffing like the wee tank engines that one crawled up the slope at 25 mph overtaking the likes of me with little effort.  It was wonderful to be out this far and being empty with even the bypass traffic lessened at this time there was a kind of silence filled only by bird song and rabbits rustling through the undergrowth.   

While installing the railway and the new station the engineers had to build the new bridge.  The road until this time crossed the line, it still does, but it was felt that it was better a bridge went up to enable people safely to cross and avoid holding up all the horse and carts desperate to rush through their day.  Houses were being built on the other side and a new road was put in.  In keeping with the standards of English villages life, the street through the village was called 'The Street,' so the new street was given the name 'New Road,' a name it keeps to this day.  The road that led to the school, now converted into very expensive housing, retains the name 'School Road.'  This however was far enough for me today so I turned the bike around and slowly trundled down the still quiet slope.

I stopped occasionally on the way down to listen to the birds singing but discovered silence each time.  It appears they were watching me carefully and only sang when I had gone.  The rabbit holes that have existed half way up for as long as I have been here were empty, not that I looked in, but I wondered about the life a rabbit has deep down underground all his life.  Underground in safety I suppose as there were rabbits to be seen but quick to run for it when I passed.

Jemima here had been sitting chomping leaves when I appeared.  Her friend had no hesitation in running but she is either brave or stupid enough to wait until I had taken her picture before she moved.  How do I know this is a she, well can you prove me wrong?

Very few brightly coloured plants now, the rabbits must have been busy.  The predominate colour is now white.  Do the wee beasties prefer this?  Does this attract them at this time of year?

Canny mind what this is called but it was abundant today.  All along the way there was verdant greenery with this plant filling in the spaces.  

The summer weather (is it summer yet?) never fails to surprise.  While I was attempting and failing to capture the sunshine behind me a large black cloud was forming and hiding itself behind the trees.  

At the bridge, where my lack of fitness made me get off and push both ways up the slope leaving me feeling so guilty about this that I refuse to tell Dave in case he cuts me off, I stopped to attempt a picture of the light rainbow.  Not too bad an effort and a rare sight for me.  I did not hang about as I realised another cyclists hint is 'always carry a cap' as rain will fall.  I knew it would not rain and was naturally drookit by the time I got home.  

   
Raindrops falling while the sun shines blindingly ahead of me.  Not a great picture but indicates the rain at this time.  One hundred yards down the road, when I got home, the rain stopped.

A delightful morning, home for three sausages, three egg omelette, and two rolls left from earlier in the week, almost fresh enough.  Then back to bed!  So glad I am fit enough to travel a just a few miles on the bike, hopefully this continues. 

Kidnapped by Women

Late yesterday afternoon I was kidnapped much against my better judgement and driven at great speed north.  My intention had been to loiter in my bed wasting my life away doing important things such as surfing the net for well written blogs or football played in far distant lands but here I was in a large saloon vehicle with a driver who may or may not possess a licence.  As I was bundled into the car I dropped a note out the scrap of paper out of the window with:

 "Help! I am being kidnapped!" 

  

scrawled in cheap museum pencil.

This was pickled up by a passing police officer who ran ahead and stopped the car.  'Freedom' thought I, but he just gave me a £60 ticket for dropping litter and we sped off down the wrong route avoiding a fat female bus driver who managed to take a corner too fast possibly because she had her eyes shut.

At least this car full of threatening women took me out into the countryside.  The summer sun shone high above the fields filled with green crops dotted with yellow flowerings heading towards their fulfillment.  Occasional newly sheared sheep and contented cows were passed while the lassies gave up their threats to point out the changing architecture the further north we progressed.  The basic design was similar to those in our area but somehow different.  The thatch was more pointed, extra windows, roof shapes more 'Gothic' that Flemish.  Not that they noticed much of this as they spent too much time talking of the sun filled foreign climes they would be visiting while I ruminated on my day out to Little Tey, a hamlet just down the road.  I only got there by accident after getting off the bus at the wrong stop!

We reached our destination, tyres screaming as we tore through the streets the driver not aware of the signs with large 30 or 40 numbers at the side of the road indicated the maximum and not minimum speeds to use.  The difficulty of interpreting those blue signs with white arrows also caused some problems when ignored but with both hands over my eyes I can say little more as to whether they were ignored or obeyed there.  I did however hear some scraping noise and a scratch or two on the vehicle told its own story. 

We came to a halt in Bury St Edmunds a town named after St Edmund who lay worshipped in the Abbey here some years past.  Who was Edmund?  Little is known but myths grow easily, just look at the propaganda in the media!  It is possible he was killed by the Danes while leading opposition to their incursions in the year 869.  Tales tell of him being killed by arrows because he was a Christian, his head removed and thrown away and a wolf crying out revealing where it landed, and so on.  It appears to me these are later additions.  By the late 900's a cult had grown and King Canute began to build an abbey here over his shrine and the cult and town grew until Henry VIII came along and dissolved the monasteries in his loving manner. 

The old abbey lies in ruins with a new somewhat disappointing one standing a short distance nearby.  The picture is off the gatehouse to the old Abbey and this is grander than many buildings and this leads to the ruins which have now become a rather enjoyable green space in this small town.  

Many pilgrims in days of yore passed through our town on their long trek to this place to pray for healing, forgiveness or wealth from the dead man.  The abbot, like most in those days, was more concerned to increase the size of his steeple, so that it was higher than that of Ely some distance away, rather than deal with the troubles generated by the growing middle class of the town or attempt to communicate the gospel to them, such is ecclesiastical power!  The Reformation could not have come soon enough! 

We however were not allowed to go look see as I wished, instead I was dragged by these harridans into the large 'Athenaeum' where an award ceremony for volunteer museum folks was being held.  This building was erected in the early 1700's as Assembly rooms capable of holding large numbers for any meeting.  It became the Athenaeum in the 1850's and retains much of the aged designs of the time.  Not quite to my taste bu suitable for large gathers still and now of course a wedding venue for the rich, and this area of Suffolk has many such!     My opinion of our get together was that this was needless a waste of time being ignored I was frogmarched therein while they headed, somewhat eagerly for the free champagne.  Such events make me wish to hide in a cupboard as I think being in the background better than being seen, especially by large groups in this vast auditorium.  This is not my world, my world is hiding in my cave and yelling at the world through a keyboard.

There were several distinct awards on offer, there being a 'Highly commended' and a top prize of an Award to the winner.  Eventually the crowds gathered and the girls scrutinised the people as they entered comparing the women to themselves and the men to their wishes.  I was unable to look past our own attractive lassies, they had blindfolded me.  

I was amazed at the wide variety of peoples involved in voluntary activities throughout the region.  Museum of all kinds in every place were represented, each struggling for cash and run for the most part by a few paid employees and many volunteers.  From researching historical events, repairing broken items, entertaining adults or children and unblocking 'U-bends' the variety of skills on offer amazed.  The hours some people put in to their museum never failed to surprise me.  Age, class, background all made no difference, all that counted was an interest in the museum, the purpose thereof and a desire to help.

  

Only one museum was capable of winning two awards, one highly commended and one Award itself.  This I am proud to say was our museum where Karen and Lynn received the 'Highly commended' award for 'Front of House volunteer.' This was rightly so!  They keep the shop in good condition, amending displays, greeting visitors and putting right the actions of the Tuesday morning staff.  Such a well deserved mention for them both.  It was clear to us then that no museum would win two awards when would you believe our lass Vanessa won the 'Bringing Innovation Award' outright!  Quite right too.  Behind the scenes she has improved much including the monthly newsletter and improved the museums image to the online visitor.  I however failed in my attempt to win my category 'The Miserable Grumpy Git' award as there were far too many in the competition.  It must be stated here that all these were names suggested by female members of the staff.  No male suggested any individual for this section!

We drove home through the quieter roads as the sun began to lower itself over the greenery.  High above a few trails and occasional very high white cloud set off the deep blue colour of the sky, not that we could see it from the tyre smoke as we swung from side to side as the driver 'got used to a new car.'  My keen suggestion that taking her foot off the gas pedal and looking at the dials in front of her might have helped was not heeded.  The lassies, grasping their awards and preening themselves, did not notice our plight, they contented themselves by showing their awards to the citizens in the cars we overtook, sometimes legally.  It was only as we missed the taxi at the crossroads in Sudbury that I realised the driver was indicating an interesting house on the right with one hand and a similar building on her left with the other hand at the same time that I understood the reason for the driving skill.  That same skill helped lose the car with the flashing blue lights that followed us for a little while.  

In town I jumped out at the roundabouts wishing I had waited until she stopped and wandered slowly up the road looking at the bright late evening sky glad once more to be alive.  I took deep breaths of the fresh air and delighted myself with the summers evening.

Maybe it's not so bad getting out now and again after all.