Knockers

As I trundled around the world the other day I noticed the aged door on the Norman arch at Felsted Church.  An aged door, although I know not how aged, with this large knocker on the front.  How much more reliable is such a thing on the door in comparison to the electric bell that only 'ding dongs' if the button is pushed correctly, if the batteries work, if the thing is in the mood.  A dirty big knocker like this will always get an answer as such an iron brute will be heard all around the town when the postman calls.  Not that the postman would be delivering to the church tower I suppose but you never know.  You do know he will ensure you hear him knock however.  Well you would if it was me!

     

For those interested, and you are interested,  this is the door upon which is found the knocker.  I love these aged doors.  The iron nails and spars along with the aged wood do have a certain charm and attraction.  Compare these to modern hollow doors that are found in most houses, the glass horrors in modern buildings, which are difficult to see at times, and the general quality in comparison to modern rubbish!  Good job I'm not one to complain eh?


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17 Mile (ish) Trip

Huge covering of mist greeted us today, however by half seven the sun broke through as I pedalled slowly past the early morning dog walkers and huffed and puffed my way to the back roads.  Here I delighted in avoiding dead rabbits and various birds left by speeding careless, or uncaring drivers and as yet undiscovered by the crows.  And were there crows?  I'll say!  Of course they could be Rooks but as no-one can tell the difference it makes no difference.  Each time a skwack was heard each nearby tree had a dozen nests.  Soon they will be full of raucous young, deafening anyone within earshot.  I would have pictures but they are remarkably shy and the mist hid the brutes anyway!

The idea when I began was to trundle around the back roads in the sun looking for interesting things.  The mist did hamper this somewhat, as did interesting things that were too far away or too near the windows of the expensive houses that I passed.  I know these houses are expensive as there were Mercedes and the like parked there in abundance.  Now I am not one to look through folks windows but I did notice few people were up and around.  Few closed their curtains either!  While I enjoyed the trip I did make the slight mistake of going down a new road and enjoying the slope downwards.  Great relief from the pedalling but the road sign at the far end pointed me towards Dunmow and unwilling to go back up the slope I foolishly went on, this was far too far from home for my knees.  There was nothing for it but to continue until and hope for a way back to appear.  Luckily I stumbled on a road back and ended up in Felsted instead.

Felsted has yet another 12th century church and I suspect a Saxon one stood there for a while before this time.  Again possibly this spot was used as a pagan site even before the Romans began their tour of Brittanica.  A lovely church, closed today sadly while they spend money renovating the place.  Nice door at the base of the tower, with a Norman arch (please confirm).

Just how many people have passed through this door over the years I wondered?  Today I suspect merely those intent of playing the bells that hang high above, certainly not to fix the clock on the side that appears to have been stuck at three minutes past twelve for ten years!  Right next to the church is an old school building dating to the 1500's.  I wondered why there were names cut into the wood.  Graffiti has always been with us.  We must let the world know we exist.

The flash was required as they lie in a darkened alleyway, but it is possible to make out some names, and the date 1806.  About that time the school moved to an impressive site just down the road and became a major public school.  The school was popular enough for special trains to run from Liverpool Street to carry the sons of the rich to their education at beginning of term.  

A gurgling river would have made a better picture had I not been looking into the now bright sunshine.  The scene would also have benefited from not having an empty water bottle lying there.  Plastic has brought much benefit to us, as well us filling us with toxic chemicals, but people's inability to dispose of it properly is a pain!  Wallace would agree!

   

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The Sunny Chancellor

The UK budget occurred yesterday, I missed it.  Usually I sit through most of the hour or two while the man responsible for the British economy mumbles on, sipping whisky and water and supported occasionally by gruff cries of "hear hear," from his side of the House.  This year I just couldn't be bothered.  Whatever they say it is clear you will suffer.  This year it appear Gorgeous George has made a complete hash of things, lowering taxes for the rich and raising taxes for pensioners, good vote catching stuff Georgie!  When asked if he would benefit from lowering the top tax rate he claimed he did not earn enough!  Just his MPs salary. Hmmm I believe him, but he is lying in his teeth!  (Sue me George!)


This morning I jumped on the bike to avoid his smarmy lies on the radio and made my way, slowly, to Felsted station.  Actually this has been a private house for many years but the 6 miles and 12 chains distance was more than I have managed this year! That's 12 miles and 24 chains plus a bit more today.  I'm getting so fit I may soon be almost human. (A chain is 66 feet by the way.  Railways, estate agents and others still require to use this measurement today. 10 chains make a furlong (used in horse racing) and 8 furlongs make a mile, but you knew this.)  I almost went a bit further however the bridge at Felsted has been removed and this means a roundabout meander to continue.  Behind the old station house lies a Gypsy camp and I wandered into this by mistake.  The dogs were quickly awake at a strangers approach, one keen to eat my leg was a bother, and a chap standing by a huge bonfire, there is always a bonfire in such paces, pointed out the way to go.  As I made my way back, once again assaulted by the dogs, I was impressed by the amount of broken glass lying around.  One or two skips overflowed into the road, but the glimpses inside the caravans, mobile and static, through open doors showed a high standard from the women of the house.  No surprise there.  I would have continued on but at the beginning of the trail lay another pack of dogs so I decided to return home.  Just as well as I was knackered by this time.  Two slices of brown bread and cheese is not sufficient sustenance!


It impressed me that the dogs I encountered were all small 'yaps.' No big dogs to be seen.  Very good watchdogs, loud and aggressive, but the bites considered less dangerous and newsworthy than the bite from an Alsatian or Doberman.the fact is such dogs are much more likely to bite, just ask any postman!  Appearances deceive and these folks are no fools.  It is about ten years since I was last there, and the camp appeared very much tidier the last time, maybe it's just me?  Some folks complain about gypsies, the mess they leave when they camp unwanted, and I have endured that outside my door before now, the criminal element, and the all round trouble they cause.  Much of this is true of course, and gypsies, or 'travellers' as the media has decided we must call them now, do not do themselves any favours all too often. On the other hand I have seen similar conditions in this town, from the noble locals, and big cities have areas so 'deprived' no traveller would dare park a caravan there overnight.  There was a report that some in that camp were Christians and did a lot of good in the area, and a radio programme recently revealed a christian group composed of gypsies, and proud of it too, running an proper evangelical group on the outskirts of Edinburgh.


I wonder if it is within us all to make barriers between us?  What comes first, crime or rejection, being different or being bad?  The chap who gave me directions was friendly enough, although all the other eyes contained suspicion and glares.  Mind you I find that walking the streets everywhere I go, maybe it's just me.....


Anyway, do you like my style?  geddit?  Style, see....oh forget it.

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Felsted War Memorial

I decided that a trip up the old railway on the bike was in order, just to loosen the muscles from the previous effort on the bike. The short ride, against the wind as always,was enjoyable and I pottered on eventually reaching Felsted, a small village some six miles on. Here I stopped to take a few pics of the war memorial. I am intrigued by such memorials. They stand in almost every town and villages throughout the UK and for the most part are ignored. So much so that some are in a poor state of repair. Erected after the Great War, with names from the second war added later, the stories behind the names stand in opposition to the places these monoliths are often found. A trench oozing with mud, bodies, often incomplete, of the dead and the wounded lying on the bottom, shells exploding all around, bullets splattering the parapet, screams and groans of the injured or those engaged in killing, such images are far removed from memorials stationed in parks and churchyards or overlooking a green and pleasant place. Many have elaborate statues attached, angels with huge wings, soldiers with heads bowed over upturned rifles, big breasted women with arms reaching to the skies, (never fat old mothers you notice) but most a simple stone or cross with names of local lads who 'did their duty' and never returned. At Felsted I noticed some time back that they had built a 'Memorial Hall,' with this simple cross outside bearing the names of the fallen and I thought this a good practical idea. Whether this was an excuse to build a much needed hall or a true memorial I know not at this time, but the idea works for me!    

This village and surrounding hamlets were not large and almost half the population were employed on the many farms. Therefore to lose 45 men, often more than one from the same family, was a great loss. The shock of such events effected the home front as much as the fighting did the men in France. With 300,000 men still unaccounted for under the battlefields it is no surprise that the need for a place to mourn, individually and together, was great. This memorial reveals the differing attitudes to the war in 1939. The generals were not going to get bogged down again and only 12 names are recorded here. There is also one from the Kosovo campaign of more recent time. It is indeed right that men who fell in later wars are remembered also surely.

This made the aching muscles worthwhile. It is strange to be out on the bike again, not to strange to be pedalling along thinking I was doing well and be overtaken by a regular user of the trail racing past at high speed. "One day,"  I lied to the Lycra clad red helmet, already a shrinking dot half a mile ahead, "I will be back to that fitness level!" As I turned for home I made an effort to ignore such vows. Instead I concentrated on avoiding the children being taken out by mum and dad along the trail, the ageing, usually unsmiling, joggers, and more cyclists who would consider my 12 mile trip a daily routine. I would tell them that in the past it was mine also, but not only would I not be believed I was concentrating on just keeping alive. With the wind at my back and the majority of the trip downhill it was at least much more fun going home than coming out! Ah nature, I suppose it was the years I spent in Edinburgh, and then in London that make me enjoy it so much. The common folk here are so used to this they do not appreciate what is around them. I do, gladly. Now,  where is matron with my muscle rub......?