Stretchworth to Kentford. 

Making my own breakfast is a help, as I’m able to get away before nine. I just walk up the road to Stretchworth.

As usual, leaving the villages, I find myself in a narrow corridor. Little do I realise that I will be doing the same for most of the morning.

But first, a few fields to get to cross the Devil’s Ditch, which here is more like an embankment. This was the border country between Mercia and East Anglia.

There are views across the fields to the flat Cambridgeshire countryside- Newmarket must be down there somewhere.

 

A gent walking his dog stops to say hello. Perfectly normal on a lovely sunny morning in the countryside, I always do the same. Twenty minutes later, I manage to get on my way. He never draws breath, informing me of all things medical, sharing findings from his personal research. Advice on diet, posture, tracking poles, walking, etc., etc

 

Feeling shell-shocked, I stagger across the following fields before I regain my composure. I almost walk past Woodditton Church, St. Mary the Virgin,  somewhat hidden in the trees. A simple structure of great age with an outstanding tower. Unfortunately, it is not open. There is medieval graffiti I would have liked to see.

 

And then I’m down the one-way alley: high fences and hedges on either side. I can’t see what’s on the other side, but I can guess—horse paddocks. Not the little ones for Jane’s pony, no, these are large for the thoroughbred horses. We are only a few miles from Newmarket – trainers’ fields and stud stables. Vast acres are utilised for the sport. It would be interesting to see the aerial view.

 

I plod on for miles of this. Easy walking, but with no variety.  And yet I still haven’t seen anyone riding on this trip. Horses are spotted in the occasional clearance, even practice courses, but no riders. 

 

I escape into Cheveley past some stables, looking for a coffee. Unfortunately, the shop is having a major overhaul, and all I end up with is a pint of milk. The bus shelter provides a bench – the lot of a vagabond. Some smart properties line the main street.

 

The church down the high street is massive.

 

And then I’m back behind the hedges.

 

I don’t escape easily. 

 I wonder where these gates lead?   Buzzards wheel above.

Ashley is a smaller place with even fewer facilities. But it does have a duck pond with a bench for lunch.

Before leaving, I check out the church; every village has one. An ancient one has been replaced in 1845. A simple design, one that lends itself to functions not necessarily of a religious nature. The back half of the nave has had its pews removed, creating an ideal space for families and clubs to hire. A way for churches to survive. The ukulele group practice is later today. 

Road walking is needed across the next stretch of countryside, but the road is quiet. It drops down to the River Kennett, which is running dry.

Now in the woodlands bordering  Dalham Hall estate. The guidebook suggests a diversion on paths around the estate, but I am happy to continue on the quiet road to Gazeley. (Dalham Hall is owned by  Sheikh Muhammed bin Rachid al-Mactoum, the ruler of Dubai, who has a murky past.) 

Gazeley is similar in style to the other villages visited today. There is no pub or shop.

The church is, however, a Medieval masterpiece.

The chancel, which is rendered, is C14th with Decorative Style windows. The aisles and tower are C15th with Perpendicular Style windows. You can see the contrast in the photo above. 

There is so much medieval woodwork inside, pews, pulpit, roof and screen. 

 My phone camera can’t capture the detail in the chancel, but there are photos provided.

There is a good collection of brasses on the floor. 

Even the carved font is C14th.

I spend more time than usual in this church, not just for its treasures, but to shelter from the only rain shower of the trip—time to move on. 

The road passes a converted windmill and its associated cottages. 

And then I’m crossing fields once more with just a narrow path through the sugar beet.

 

The sound of the busy trunk road to Bury St Edmunds becomes irritating. And then I’m hemmed in until the end on the narrow pavement alongside the main road into Kentford. But salvation appears in the form of a transport cafe. I’ve been hankering for a coffee all day. Can you spot the difference?

Yes, the sign was changed as I was yards from the door.  

My pub for the night, The Bell, has unusual hours for a Tuesday night, with the bar and restaurant open from 6 to 7, mainly for the residents, of which there are a few workers, as well as myself. They say they can’t get the staff.  I don’t even ask about breakfast.

I can’t complain, they have bright, comfortable rooms in the courtyard, and the food is decent. 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

Balsham to Stretchworth.

I’m in no rush. I eat my DIY breakfast in my room. Let the day warm up a little.  There are shops open, but I don’t need anything. When I do, there won’t be any. Sod has something to do with it.

Across the green is a small shelter, the ‘Prince Memorial’ to a local family at the beginning of the C20th, and a stone marker for The Icknield Way,  Ivinghoe Beacon, 63 miles, Peddars Way, 43 miles. So I am more than halfway. 

Thatched cottages are scattered throughout the village; this one, with its ducks and hens, is on the church approach.

Holy Trinity is another large church. The oldest part is the tower, C13th, with some impressive buttresses holding it up. Inside, the nave, supported by massive columns, clerestory and chancel date from the C14th.

The chancel features ancient carved pews, some of which have their original misericords.  Wood that is over 500 years old. 

Large, well-preserved medieval brasses to both  John Sleford and Hugh de Balsham are present in the chancel. 

Alterations were made to the church in the early 20th century, including stained glass windows and an imposing font cover, carved in the late 1920s by the then Rector, Edwin Burrell.

I wind my way through the village recreation grounds; all these little villages seem to have good facilities. The town councils must have their priorities right and the backing of a young, dynamic populace. As I said, they are dormitory towns for Cambridge.   

A sign points the way to Fox Lane, and I know when I reach it. Yet another thatcher’s animal adornment.

The lane that I follow for about three miles is no longer a greenway; attempts have been made to surface it in the past. However, it provides easy walking, with the chalk and flints visible through the surface.

The lane undulates between large fields. Prominent wind turbines are passed as height is gained.

Partridges run ahead of me, and there is an accompanying bird song from the hedges. Buzzards and kites fly overhead. Crabapples, haws, blackberries, and sloes are in profusion as I’ve mentioned many times this Autumn. These diversions keep me occupied on this three-mile plod.

A couple of small roads are crossed on the way, but no habitations. The lane ends abruptly at a dry ford, where I take a right turn on another lane. I soon realise why there were so many partridges about, they are feeding them to shoot them later.

Past Crick’s Farm, which turns out to be just two large sheds. 

 High fields give far-reaching views; those wind turbines don’t look far away.

Horsey fields, as I call them, are navigated until I’m alongside some neat allotments. A member is doing a bit of mowing but is happy to stop and chat. I learn a little about Brinkley, and he points me in the right direction of The Red Lion, which I might have. missed otherwise.

The Red Lion doesn’t look inviting from the outside. Have I become too thatch addicted? However, it turns out to be very friendly and accommodating,  a pint and a sit-down are enjoyed, and I stay for coffee.

Back in the village, I spend some time looking around St Mary’s church. On the gatepost is a stone skull and crossbones carving, intended to ward off evil spirits.  This church underwent many alterations in Victorian times, although the tower dates back to the 13th century, with diagonal buttressing and an unusual chequered flushwork base course. I like the red brick porch, apparently added in Tudor times.

Inside, most of the space is a Victorian restoration of the old structure. The Ensign hanging in the nave was presented to the church by the company of HMS Brinkley when it was decommissioned in 1962.

The tower arch is very tall and thin. Under the tower, there is an early 17th-century clock mechanism, an interesting survival.

 

 Bits of Medieval glass have been incorporated into the windows. 

I like the simplicity of this wall plaque. 

I read, too late, that the base of an old preaching cross, predating the church, is in the churchyard.

The way to Burrough is straightforward, and I come out onto the village green. A fine circle of field mushrooms is so obvious that I wonder why nobody has picked any.

St. Augustine Church is tucked away down a side lane. The church strikes me as unusual in having three chantries on the south wall. The tower is squat compared to many and remains unchanged from the rest of the C14th church, which has had many alterations over the years. At one time, there were chapels on either side of the chancel. Their presence is still visible in the exterior stonework.

Upon entering, the interior is devoid of pillars, and the chancel arch has been removed, leaving a boxy feel to this end.

The east window is beautiful, and contains some glass from before 1350.. The Puritans, led by William ‘Basher’ Dowsing under the 1643 Parliament Ordinance, destroyed the majority of the stained glass in the church – and what else?.

The three sedilia and double piscinae, seen in the south wall, are the oldest surviving features in the church.  Opposite on the north wall of the chancel are the three ornate niches containing medieval effigies of the local De Burgh family.

Originally, they would have been open on each side, linking the chancel and the lost north chapel. (We saw the outline of one on the outside) 

A further pair of later effigies sits in the north aisle. They show better workmanship, but are also badly weathered.  John Ingoldisthorpe and Elizabeth De Burgh, died 1420 and 1421 respectively.

Leaving the church, the path crosses the green; the old schoolhouse looks interesting.

Around the back of the Bull Inn, the path becomes enclosed for some way between horse paddocks – we are only a few miles from Newmarket.

Briefly, I join the E2 path (also the Stour Valley Path) in some woods.

Open countryside at last, before a sunken track takes me to the front door of my Airbnb.

A wonderful cottage with converted outhouses. Perfect. Another fascinating day in this region so unfamiliar to me. 

*

Great Chesterford – Balsham.

A good sign – sun shining bright through the window at 8 am. Breakfast is enjoyed whilst trying to get used to the waitress’s languid local accent. Am I in Cambridgeshire or Essex?

Somehow I’ve picked up a head cold, but fortunately, the little shop around the corner sells Paracetamol, along with everything else. A pleasant village with some old houses, I’m back in flint country.

Over to the flint church where a Sunday morning service is taking place. I don’t intrude, but I am intrigued to see the congregation watching a video screening, possibly from another church. Perhaps a joining of forces for these isolated churches with small congregations. I was hoping to see some of the medieval graffiti inside the church.

I’m reunited with the Icknield Way waymarks on the edge of the village.

The usual slow climb back up onto the flinty chalk hills. There is a Trig point at 114m I probably won’t reach any higher in the next few days; this is not mountain walking.

The views are clear in the polar air which is pushing down the country.  The calmness of the day up here blots out the turmoil of the world below. Alongside ploughed fields and down a drove road.

As the village of Liton drew closer, I could see ahead, above the treeline on Rivey Hill, a prominent water tower, a landmark for miles. First stop was the Crown Hotel, in the pretty High Street, for a coffee before they started Sunday lunch. They were busy mopping out a flood in the bar area.

The centre of the village was a delight for a Northener.

Across a ford on the River Granta is St Mary’s Church. A large church that reflects the wealth of Linton as a historical market town.The church dates, as most around here, from the C12th.

The tower from the 14th Century has four unusual inlaid black flint crosses.

Also on the tower is a small exterior doorway; maybe a priest lived in the tower when it was built.

Is that a ‘lepers’ window around the side of the chancel?

The morning service has just finished, and the remaining friendly parishioners are all too pleased to chat. In comes a chap with one of those sticks that take pictures from above and then magically disappear. He had come in to film a 360-degree vision of the church interior. Whilst we are talking, he produces one with us in the centre. I don’t know how to show you the 360-degree moving one he sent me.

The arched nave is supported on solid stone piers with a clerestory above. On the southern side are three c.1200 unusual circular clerestory windows,

On either side of the chancel are two small chapels. The northern one, mostly filled with the organ, contains a fascinating marble monument to Sir John Millicent, who died in 1577. In the middle, Sir John and his second wife rest their hands on a skull. Above and below are shallow carvings of their children and of Sir John’s first wife,

Back outside, I find a seat for a spot of lunch. The attractive village appears to be popular with day visitors. A thatched pub along the way has the dog and duck displayed, as is the custom, in straw on the roof ridge.

My guide mentions the Linton Clapper stile. A listed monument and one of only four in the country. I crossed the busy recreational field to where it was supposed to be. No sign of it. I ask a passing local, and he points out I’m standing right next to it, so underwhelming it is. I prevailed upon him to demonstrate it in action. This is a recent reconstruction, so I’m unsure why it is still listed. I leave the park with my tail between my legs.

Suddenly, out of the village, a familiar white track leads up the fields. At the top, a seat offers a place to catch my breath with a view over the Granta valley. Built of sturdy metal by an engineer in 1981, but unfortunately suffering from timber decay.

Onwards, the water tower I saw across the valley this morning comes into sight, and I’m surprised to find some houses up here also. I walk down their gravel access lane.

Escaping a short stretch of road, my path crosses several harvested fields.

Arriving at a Roman Road running from Colchester to Cambridge. The ancient Icknield Way is possibly 3000 years older. I follow the Roman road eastwards for some distance.

A byway heads off towards Balsham.

I’m getting into a slower stride for the last mile. Balsham is one of the highest villages in Cambridgeshire, and once again, there are those extensive views. I enter the village by the Old Butcher’s Shop, with the dog running away with the sausages.

Time to find my inn for the night. Somehow, I have ‘The Bell’ in my head, but upon entering, I’m informed they don’t have rooms. Am I in the right village? Have I cocked up my forward planning? They suggest trying the Black Bull down the road. Checking my booking, that is where I should be. Another tail between my legs moment.

Once at the correct pub, I book in, knowing that they are closing early tonight for their staff party in Cambridge. As arranged, they provide an evening meal to take to my room and a self-service breakfast for the morning. This suits me fine. Second night in a row for a long soak in a spacious bath and an early night with my paracetamol.

*

I started planning this next section of the Icknield Way Path as soon as I arrived home from finishing the first half to Great Chesterford in Essex. If I complete it, I will link up with the Peddars Way, which I walked with Mel way back in 2003. All part of the Great Chalkway, though I didn’t know it at the time.

My walk from Ivinghoe Beacon through Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, Cambridgeshire, and Essex was a success, with well-maintained paths, diverse wildlife, a selection of pubs, and interesting churches and towns. I’m heading into a different scenery, after Kentford, the chalk is overlaid with sand. This is the Breckland – open sandy heath with Scots Pines. 80% of Breckland heathland was lost between 1934 and 1980. Huge areas have been planted with conifer plantations, and many heaths have been ploughed for arable crops.

I won’t be passing any large towns. Sorting out accommodation in the small villages along the way hasn’t been easy. But for a change, I’ve been able to find somewhere each night virtually on the route, so no faffing with bus timetables. Perhaps restocking with food might be difficult. The weather will take care of itself. I have a day’s journey down by train to Cambridge and on to start in Great Chesterford.

If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans, an old Yiddish saying.

*

Since my last walk, I have sourced a copy of a book, The Icknield Way, written by Edward Thomas in 1913, with illustrations by A L Collins. Thomas had walked the route in 1911. He talks of byways and paths and gives a vivid, if lengthy, description of the chalk highways. I realise, upon reading bits of it, how much has changed over a century. Lanes that he used are now dual carriageways; hence, the current guidebook seeks out the most interesting way as close as possible to the historical road.

Thomas (1878 -1917) gained a second-class degree in History at Oxford. He then decided to pursue a career as a writer, encouraged to publish essays based on the detailed notes he took on his walks. His first book, The Woodland Life, was published in 1897. He endured years of poorly paid writing but became one of the foremost critics of the day. He developed a close friendship with the American poet Robert Frost, and it was he who encouraged Thomas to write poetry. (Frost’s most famous poem, “The Road Not Taken”, was inspired by walks with Thomas and Thomas’s indecisiveness about which route to take.) In the last years of his life, Thomas wrote over 140 poems. He was killed in battle in France in April 1917. The poems that made his name were published after his death.

Cambridge here I come.

*

I leave a dull and rainy NW. The Preston Station waiting room had this message—an apt start to my journey.

I didn’t realise I’ve booked a first-class seat to Birmingham, all for £30.

The ongoing cross-country train wasn’t as comfy. Nuneaton, Leicester, Melton Mowbray, Oakham, Grantham, Stamford, Peterborough, March, Ely, all pass by in a blur.

The sun comes out as I reach Peterborough. Cambridge is somewhat chaotic, with no trains going further south. Eventually, I find a bus taking me back to Great Chesterford, where I finished last time. The bus takes forever to negotiate Addenbrooke’s Hospital, what a place.

My hotel is an old English Grade II listed house with lots of character inside; ie somewhat dated and jaded but perfect for my tastes. It dates back to the 18th and 19th centuries and was once a coaching inn on the London to Newmarket road. Somewhere below it are Roman remains.

The name Chesterford is of Roman origin, but little remains as more recent builders plundered the stone over the centuries.

The room upgrade was a bonus: a bath and a four-poster.

I’ve become accustomed to a bit of luxury at the start of my trips.

An early night is called for after a journey of nearly 10 hours.

Chrishall to Great Chesterford.

My Uber taxi drops me off back in Chrishall. Large fields are crossed before a lane brings me to the next village, Elmdon.

 The house in front of me was previously The Carrier Inn, one of five pubs in the village at one time. Beer was safer than water. These agricultural settlements reached a peak population at the end of the 19th century before mechanisation made much of the labour force redundant and drove people to the towns. And now they are probably inhabited by workers from the city.

The Church of St. Nicholas is prominent above the village. 

The tower is C15th, but the rest of the church was rebuilt in the 19th century. I don’t find much of interest inside except for a C16th marble altar tomb and an embossed coffin lid. 

I stroll around King’s Lane …. some delightful buildings.

Once out of the village, little byways pass through the fields. I seem to be on the local dog walkers’ route. Everyone is happy on this glorious morning.

I wind my way up to the isolated church at Strethall, its tower just visible.

Small compared to others, it is plain inside with a splendid arched chancel. Much is C12th. The stained glass is Victorian, and the east window is so large that the structure of that wall has been compromised. An iron cross bar was inserted, but more recently, oak beams have been installed across the chancel for extra strength. Some of the pews are over 600 years old. I have been meaning to mention the tiles I’ve seen in the churches this week. Many have been encaustic tiles. Encaustic tiles were traditionally created using different colours of ceramic clay, with the pattern inlaid into the body of the tile. The different coloured clays can extend into the base tile by up to 6 millimetres. This means the patterns remain visible even after centuries of wear. I spent time in a tile museum in Ironbridge last year learning about this process. I wonder if these tiles originated in Coalbrookdale, Shropshire?

There is a hall and its farm nearby, and that is Strethall – all is peace and quiet. Even the narrow lanes have no traffic apart from a couple of cyclists out from London for the day.

The following field of beet is massive; my narrow path takes over 10 minutes to traverse, about half a mile. Sign of things to come?

Ahead is an equally massive and newly ploughed field, and I’m dreading crossing it. Thankfully, a narrow hedged strip has been preserved and what a wildlife corridor it proves. Full of birdsong and berries galore, as is the norm this year. Covies of partridges fly out as I progress—Roe deer disappear across the fields. This is what rambling is all about, but then the distant rumbling of the M11 slowly impinges on the senses.

You hear it long before you see it.

They have gone to a lot of expense to bridge over all the lanes and slip roads. A Flag of St. George decorates the railings – I wonder about the motive of placing it there. In the interests of safety for the motorists below, I remove it.

Over the bridge, a lane takes me into Great Chesterford. Sounds as though there is a Roman connection there. I don’t think that when this house was built, they would have expected a motorway to go past their back door.

The train to Cambridge is just down the road. Getting home is more tiring than the few miles I’ve done today.    My kittens are pleased to see me. I’m surprised they recognise me, as my hair is a tangle, having forgotten to take a comb on my travels.

*

*

I think I am about halfway on the Icknield Way Path, Ivinghoe Beacon to Knettishall Heath, 106 miles. Thanks for sticking with me so far. I have probably followed some of the Icknield Way, but lots of it is lost in the mists of time. I certainly felt I was on an ancient way much of the time; there was that mystical atmosphere around. Whatever, it has made for an excellent LDW so far. It’s time to go home for a while, but I hope to be back before the end of September to finish it and join the Peddars Way on Knettishall Heath.  

 

Royston to Chrishall. 

Today’s earworm, Stevie at her best…

That is not strictly true; thunder can occur in stormy weather without it raining, but it is usually a sign that rain may be due. Remember the formula for calculating how far the storm is away? Count the time between the lightning flash and the thunder in seconds and divide by five for the distance in miles. I never saw any lightning today, but I certainly heard the thunder, and it rained.

I should be going home today, but I’m enjoying this walk so much that whilst I’m down here and feeling fit, why not do a couple more days? One or two phone calls last night, and things were sorted back home. I don’t have the guidebook pages from here on, but the waymarking has been so good, I think I can do without.

The stone base of the Rosia cross stands at the junction of Ermine Street and the Icknield Way. That is where my walk starts today.

A trudge alongside a main road past new housing, with an appropriate name, gaining height out of pleasant Royston.

At the Greenwich Meridian, I cross over to the drive of Burloes Hall, a permissive few yards, closed every February 1st, and I’m in the woods. However, all is not well, as the noise from the encroaching A505 dual carriageway becomes increasingly intrusive. It stays this way for about a mile.

And then I’m onto a hard farm road that goes straight as a die. Not the best start to the day, but at least it’s dry, for the moment, and the traffic noise slowly abates.

At last, I’m in fields on an enclosed path between bushes, which give a little shelter from the brisk breeze.

I think this could be Bulace as it doesn’t have the spikes of Blackthorn, Sloe.

And is this Buckthorn?

I’m passing through massive harvested fields. What must they have looked like before the combine went through a few weeks ago? The castles of straw indicate the scale of modern farming.

*

Field of corn.

To the right are the chalk downs where the villages I’ll visit today lie.

I turn at a right angle and start climbing to the first village. The flora is typical of the chalk lands, which I’m becoming familiar with. It appears they have left wildlife strips at the sides of the cultivated land. The orchids must have been spectacular in the early summer. 

In the woods towards the top, roe deer scamper away on my approach, or is it the thunder overhead? The clouds are darkening, and a few spots of rain appear. Can I reach the church in Heydon before the downpour begins?

Thatched cottages and those characteristic wooden barn conversions welcome me into Heydon.

I am soaked by the time I reach the church. I have the usual mooch around and end up sheltering from the rain, which has arrived in earnest.

Holy Trinity has a fascinating history, having been mostly demolished by a bomb in the Second World War. The stone arch surrounding the north door records that a place of worship was established on the site in 1298, but there is little doubt that a church was established there long before this date, a “˜Vicar of Heydon’ being recorded as early as 1164.

In 1940, enemy bombs fell near the church, collapsing the tower and most of the north side of the nave and the north aisle.  The chancel was restored in 1952, and the remainder, the nave and tower, was completed in 1956. A collection of oak pews from other churches and a new tower clock completed the work.

The stained glass at the east end was commissioned from C E Kempe, the renowned Victorian designer who worked with W Morris.

Those steps up the bell tower tempted me. Can you see the headlines – Walker mysteriously killed in church.I have to leave at some stage and take to the wet fields and paths to Chrishall.

I don’t take many photographs.

I’m steaming by the time I arrive in Chrisall. I was hoping the Red Cow would be open for shelter and a coffee—no such luck. I’ve had enough for today.

A bus shelter helps during the heaviest downpour whilst I await my Uber taxi to deliver me back to Royston for an early shower of the hot variety.  All in the day of a long-distance walker. Turns out I have been in three counties in the one day,  Hertfordshire Essex, and Cambridgeshire. 

I have to give a shout-out to my Airbnb accommodation in Royston. An unassuming property in a cul-de-sac on a newish estate. An Italian couple, Antony and Elena, provide a room and a bathroom in their spotless house. Access is by a key box. The epitome of the original Airbnb ethos before all the commercial chalets and country cottages jumped on the bandwagon. Check out La Caza

What more do you need?

*

Wallington to Royston.

My taxi driver is Sri Lankan and a keen walker, particularly fond of the Austrian Alps. The journey goes quickly, with us chatting about different places. Obviously, he knows the areas in Sri Lanka I have been to. I point out George Orwell’s cottage to him as he wishes me good luck on a day when, according to the weatherman, thundery heavy showers are a certainty. 

Of course, it is bright sunshine as I set off up the lane towards the church, which I visited yesterday. 

A stile leads into a field where a herd of Jacob sheep is grazing, and I keep a watch on the heavily horned ram watching me. At least I have had no cows to deal with on this walk.

In the following few fields, my way is well worn between harvested crops until I have a choice of four cleared paths to the road at the few houses of Redhill.

Thatched cottages are becoming more and more common in the surrounding villages. A hedged track leads onwards, and I enjoy a second breakfast from the bumper crop of blackberries. Having gained height, I can see for miles.

Horsey enclosures herd me into Sandon—more thatch, both grand and humble.

I wind through the village and head across the green to the prominent church, All Saints, its limestone walls gleaming in the sunshine. I’m surprised they have allowed an IW waynark on the listed lynch gate.

Inside, a man is kneeling, not praying, but painting the altar rails—a good chance to discover local knowledge, as he is happy to chat. He is sorry his wife isn’t there, as she is busy writing up the Church’s history.

Half an hour later, I emerge and find a bench in the churchyard for an early lunch whilst it’s dry.

A couple of ancient lanes, Park and Notley, are signed for the Hertfordshire Way as well as my route and several others..

I decide I’d like to visit the church at Kelshall, so I change routes for a while and walk across newly ploughed fields.  A family of roe deer runs ahead of me. Then, through paddocks straight to the church, by which time I’ve accumulated an inch or so of mud on my boots.

St. Faith is another interesting church from the C15th. Its very distinctive walls are built from local flints. Modern glass doors give access through the porch, once you have wiped all that mud off your boots. Notice the C15th Medieval cross base and shaft in the churchyard.

The Medieval inner wooden door retains its original fittings.

The plain interior is visually appealing. 

But then look up and see the spectacular painted beams.

In the north, nave the roof beams are treated differently. The support beam ends are decorated with carved figureheads, which I struggled to photograph. Nor did I photograph effectively the coloured Medieval rood screens.

The village itself has a medieval cross base alongside a modern millennium cross.

On the lane are some fine houses, Fox Hall and Cottage.

Beyond the duck pond, a lane leads straight to Therfield Church, with the remains of a motte and bailey just visible on the edge of the churchyard. 

St. Mary’s is a much larger church. There has been a church on this site since Anglo-Saxon times, a C14th church replaced it, until in the late C19th it was rebuilt in a ‘similar’ Gothic style by  G.E. Pritchett. There are lots of C14th adornments incorporated into the church. Some bits didn’t make it,

Again, carved angels support the roof beams. The font is C14th. Hidden away is a cabinet full of small objects, I assume have been found in the surrounding fields, though there is no explanation. Fascinating collection.

I’m churched out and hope to get a drink and a bite to eat in the pub – but no, it’s closed. On the edge of the village are a few benches, so I eat some chocolate there. 

A message on one of the seats sets me off singing again. Not one of the best from The Specials, but listen to the brass section at the end.

A lane drops from here with views over the distant Brecklands.

I should have looked behind me; the sky is blackening. Within seconds, I’m in the middle of a heavy rainstorm, with the added interest of nearby thunder. The views disappear, and the track floods in no time.

I soon have my waterproofs on for what they are worth, but I forget the rucksack cover. Thankfully, as I’m in a treelined lane, I have some shelter from the wind, but the rain gets through everything. 

Entering Therfield Heath, there is no let-up; I just keep walking. I probably lose concentration, and I’m loath to use my phone in the downpour. I realise I’ve not seen any waymarks for a while. I’m on a good track, but it’s going in the wrong direction; I have no choice but to continue. A side trail might get me back on route, but when I follow it, I end up on the edge of a golf course. 

The rain stops as quickly as it started. Looking up, I can see the extent of the Heath, which should have been a highlight of the day.. The map shows tumuli and barrows up there. I think I can make out one of the tumuli.

A lane sees me safely past the golf club and onto the road into Royston.

My first thought is to find a café for a hot drink, but I end up having eggs on toast as well. The rain starts again, so I’m in no hurry to leave. The Tesco Express, where I buy sandwiches for tomorrow, is flooded after the downpour. 

Royston is an ancient market town situated at the junction of Ermine Street and Icknield Way. An old stone cross base, the Roisia Stone, sits at the junction.

Somewhere below the crossroads is Royston Cave. Only open at weekends, so I miss it. 

“Royston Cave remains an enigma. No records of its age or purpose exist. Some theories suggest it was used by the Knights Templar, while others claim it was a private chapel or hermitage, and some believe it to be a pagan site situated on two energy lines. Discovered by accident in 1742, Royston Cave is man-made, bell-shaped and cut 8 metres into the chalk that lies beneath Royston’s ancient crossroad, Ermine Street and Icknield Way. The cave is decorated with low-relief wall carvings, which are mostly Christian in depiction and medieval in style. The carvings include representations of the Holy Family, the Crucifixion and notable saints such as St George, St Catherine and St Christopher. Elsewhere are figures of a horse and an Earth Goddess, believed to be pagan fertility symbols. In addition to the carvings, the cave was found containing a human skull, an unmarked piece of brass and fragments of a drinking vessel.”   From the TripAdvisor site.

On the way down the street, I see the site of King James Ist’s hunting palace. He came to Royston between 1603 and 1627, one of his favourite places.

Across the road is the unassuming museum, which can be explored in just a short time. Bits of everything. The museum has a large collection of E. H. Whydale’s work. (1886-1952)  He lived in Royston most of his life. He was known for his sketches and watercolours of rural life. I can only find one of his paintings on display today.

After all that, it is time to visit the King James for a quiet pint before looking for my Airbnb.

*

Ickleford to Wallington.

Walking through Hitchin to the bus stop, I must have passed about ten coffee shops—the new culture.

I’m soon back in Ickleford.  An early start is necessary, as rain is expected to arrive by lunchtime. It’s been that sort of week. 

For now, I can enjoy the sunshine.

I wonder what the timber-framed building next to the C16th Old George pub was originally used for.

Out of the village, my path crosses the River Hiz; so far, there haven’t been many rivers on this trip.

Further on, there is a pool, Gerry’s Hole.  This pond resulted from the building of the embankment for the Hitchin-Bedford railway. The unfortunate Gerry, one of the navvies, fell in after a heavy night on the beer and drowned, or so the story goes. The pool doesn’t look very healthy. There is a reminder of the abandoned railway on a nearby abutment.

The usual bridleway continues towards Letchworth. It crosses the main east coast railway, where trains fly through every few minutes. I plod on at my own leisurely pace.

I don’t really notice the Iron Age fort on Wilbury Hill before I’m deposited onto a road into town.

Which just happens to be the…

A pleasant, quiet way leading to the station. On the way, the Art Nouveau building of Spirella is passed.

Letchworth was the first of the Garden Cities in the early 1900s. My trail guidebook implies avoiding road walking through industrial areas by catching the bus. I don’t need any persuading, and I’m soon in Baldock. The problem with solo walking is that these tunes keep coming into your head. Hop on the bus, Gus. 

There appear to be several interesting Georgian houses on Main Street, Balcock, but I’m in a hurry due to the threat of rain. Always a mistake. 

A brief interlude in a chalet park, and then I’m climbing one of those narrow, sloe-lined paths. The busy dual carriageway disappears into tunnels in the chalk downs.

Large open fields are a feature on the way, with the trail clear ahead.

Buzzards are wheeling and mewing overhead. I come over a rise and notice a path, off route, heading up a hill into a copse. Looking at the map, there appears to be a church up there—Clothall St Mary’s. 

There has been a church on this site at least since the 12th century. As always, much has changed. What I see today was originally 14th/15th century, amazing—built of flint and stone.

The south door, by which you enter, is C14th. John Warren was possibly the craftsman.  Just pushing open this door and entering the church, one is transported to a different era. 

The pride of the church is the unique East Window consisting of six C14th medallions, surrounded by small C15th diamond-shaped quarries depicting birds of the countryside.

The medallion of the head of Mary depicts her with long hair.

The font is C12th Purbeck marble.  How could a small church afford this? In the past, the parish must have been much larger. Outside, there are some unusual domed graves. 

I’m glad I came up to  Clothall.

Clouds are whizzing by, but so far I’ve dodged the rain.

Back on course, the way ahead is always clear. Another walker comes alongside me. He is carrying a rucksack, so I enquire his destination, thinking he may be walking the IW trail. No, he is local and on a training walk ahead of setting out on Hadrian’s Wall path later in the month—his first LDW. I wish him well as he strides ahead of me. 

Reaching Wallington, I have time before my transport arrives.  The church looks attractive from the exterior with local stone.

The interior is stunning, featuring some lovely 15th-century woodwork in the pews and screen.

The tower is from the same period. Inside, there is some unusual graffiti, a warrior with a shield. Further graffiti in the porch depicts a hobby horse.

Up in the roof timbers of the North Aisle are carved angels, which proved challenging to photograph with my phone. Several times on this trip, I have regretted not carrying my camera. This is the church in which the author George Orwell was first married, whilst he lived in the village. There is a display all about him and his time in Wallington. 

A gardener trimming the hedge of the adjacent large house is happy to chat about the locality. I daren’t ask him who owns the million pounds property, I’m sure he would have politely veered away from the subject.

He explains about the fresh water spring down the lane, which was enclosed in Victorian times and the water piped to a pump in the village street next to the old school,  now the village hall.

He also points me in the right direction to see the cottage that George Orwell lived in from 1936 to 1948. 

My Uber taxi arrives; this is the first time I have used them, and it works out well. No longer will I worry too much about being stuck in isolated villages. 

I’m staying in the Broadway Hotel. Interestingly, the first inn to be built, in 1962, in Letchworth Garden City, which, from its Quaker heritage, had a ban on the sale of alcohol. 

It is worth reading the history of the town for the ideology behind garden cities. I missed the chance at seeking out the country’s first roundabout, but I won’t lose sleep over that. 

Oh, and of course it never rained.

*

Warden Hill to Ickleford. 

It is mildly chaotic at the Luton transport centre. Buses are arriving from all directions and double-parking at the stops. Some are even abandoned as a driver goes off duty and is not immediately replaced. I jump on, hopefully the correct bus, but was it 4a or 4b

I manage to get off at a couple of stops before Warden Hill, making my day that little bit longer.

Picking up the route, I head off eastwards on a bridleway which cuts through the golf course without endangering anyone. My narrow lane climbs onto the chalk downs alongside Galley Hill.  The golfers have a challenging course to contend with.

The lane is a byway and has been roughly surfaced in the past. It gives a pleasant walk in and out of the woods and has the feel of an ancient way over the hills.

Where the byway meets the road, Traveller’s Joy has taken over. And of course, once on the road, litter starts to appear for the first time.

I stop to look at these fruits and think they are either Cherry Plums or Mirabelles. Quite sweet to taste.

What a great place to bring the children cycling, on the slopes of Telegraph Hill.

The first high point is Telegraph Hill. This was once the site of an early C19th Telegraph Station, part of a chain from Norfolk to London to monitor any Napoleonic invasion. The system was flawed in fog and was dismantled after Napoleon’s navy was defeated at the Battle of Trafalgar. There is nothing to see of it today, and as I’m in a sunken, worn lane, no views either, but lovely beech trees.

I have been climbing all morning, and to get some views, I deviate to ascend Deacon Hill, all of 172m. Now on open chalk grassland, the Pegdon Hills Nature Reserve, which supports a rich flora and scarce butterflies.  I only come across sheep.

Once I reach the ridge, I take in the 360-degree views and a shaky video in the gusty winds.

The trig is not at the highest point, but it gives an excellent viewpoint and a seat for an early lunch. The summit has been extensively disturbed at some stage by ancient earthworks or recent quarrying.

 

Back in the bridleway, a couple are harvesting the abundant sloes, something I must do when I’m home. I content myself with picking blackberries along the way. The trees help shelter me from the frequent showers blown through on the strong wind.

I change counties. 

Then the trail loops away from the Icknield Way into fields with some good cloud formations overhead.

The day is brightened by some rogue sunflowers in a field of maize—memories of France.

Now descending into Pirton, with its village green, maypole, pub, church, and motte and bailey. 

 

The pub comes in handy as a heavy shower arrives, any excuse. Their covered beer garden is perfect for a well-deserved rest and refreshment.

The shower soon passes. Squat St. Mary’s church, standing in the inner bailey of an extensive motte and bailey earthwork at the centre of the village.  It has a history dating back to Saxon times, with successive renovations dating back to the 12th century. Inside, it is pretty simple, which gives it a refreshingly plain look. 

The motte and bailey are very much overgrown but still discernible.

Onwards on Hambridge Way,  a Mediaeval variation on the Icknield Way.  Yes, you’ve guessed it, yet another hedge-lined bridleway.

I arrive on the outskirts of Ickeford with minutes to catch the bus. From 100 yards, I see it sail past, bang on time. That leaves me with an hour to wait for the next one.

I’m glad the church is open, as the next thundery shower arrives.

St Katharine’s dates back to the C12th. The Nave dates to the mid-12th century, while the Chancel and West tower are from the early 13th century; i.e. it’s pretty old. The church underwent a significant restoration in 1859 under Sir Giles George Gilbert Scott. (Remember him from many other churches and the red phone box)

The local store serves a decent coffee to be enjoyed in the bus shelter during heavier rain, and further helps me pass the time until the bus arrives.

I’m soon in Hitchin, which has a busy, prosperous air. I like it, and there is no difficulty this evening in finding my hotel.

The Sun is an old coaching inn. My room is in the courtyard.

I have managed to stay dry all day, but looking at the forecast for tomorrow, I may not be so lucky.

*

Dunstable to  Warden Hill, A6. Luton.

The Icknield Way probably went through what is now Dunstable and Luton. The Icknield Way Trail takes a long loop to the north with little accommodation, so I compromise and plan my own ‘green route’ out of Dunstable to the north of Luton. The alternative, suggested in the guide, which I did consider, is to catch the bus. 

Breakfast is as I expected and quickly passed over. I walk the short distance to the centre of town, which is much like any other.

Looking at the map, there appears to be a network of paths and cycleways I can use. I wonder if these will turn out to be dingy alleys. But no, my first two or three miles are a delight of parks and open green spaces threading through housing developments.

It is a Sunday morning, so there is hardly anyone about, just a few dog walkers. The sun is shining. 

I  pass through Houghton Regis, only noticing Houghton Hall in its park…

…and then follow the virtually dry chalk stream, Houghton Brook. On open ground at Parkside, I just manage to catch a red kite overhead.

I arrive at the area of roads linking to and around the M1, where I will need to follow the tarmac. But things around here are changing, a new housing estate has gone up – Linmere.

Lots of green spaces, pathways, and more importantly, a cafe and community centre on the edge of it all. Coffee always tastes better when you are not expecting it

 I then brave the roundabouts and speeding motorists; it seems there are a lot of boy racers in Bedfordshire.

I’m soon over the motorway and onto a bridleway away from the traffic. A narrow way between blackthorns is used more by cyclists than walkers.

At the end, I’m deposited into an industrial estate, and for a moment, I think my way ahead is blocked. But looking more carefully, I spot a bridleway sign and I’m back on the edge of fields, albeit with housing to my right. There is a route marked on the map in fields on the edge of the downs all the way to the A6.

A trig point hides in an alley, having once stood at the edge of a field before the houses were built.  

An old water tower looms up.

I go into a cornfield looking for somewhere to have lunch, when there in front of me are some pallets to sit on. It’s my day today, little things mean a lot.

From my perch, I can see tomorrow’s hills.

Those boy racers have been in the woods here.

I arrive at the A6 in good time; the walking has been easy today. A bus takes me to Luton and I realise I will arrive well before my hotel check-in time. I read somewhere that the Luton Museum is worth a visit. A quick Google on the bus for its whereabouts, and I’m alighting at Wardown Park.

Wardown House is at its northern end and is free to visit. I’m lucky that it is open on a Sunday. The staff seem friendly and after storing my pack, I head straight to the cafe for a welcome mug of tea. All the rooms have a period feel, and the cafe had been the original dining room.

The museum is all things Luton, so I get to look at the history of Vauxhall,  the Bedfordshire Regiment and hat making, straw and felt, for which Luton was renowned, as well as a general overview of the last two centuries with excellent exhibits.

There is only a small selection of paintings, probably by local artists. I need to look them up. art uk is a good source

 

I wander through the park alongside the boating lake. There is a fun fair in full swing, and many Asian families are enjoying a picnic on the grass.

This has been a good way to spend an hour or so. I catch a bus into town, knowing I will be able to check in after the 3 o’clock start. I arrive at the interchange station and try to locate the Thistle Express hotel. My phone directions take me into shopping mall hell, where I wander for 30 minutes, unable to find a way out that takes me to the hotel.

I eventually escape and arrive hot and flustered.

Check-in is easy with helpful staff, and there is free coffee in the foyer, so I’m soon feeling relaxed again. The receptionist shows me the way I should have come. My room is excellent with a bath, which I need by now.

I later venture out to find food, and I end up at a Southern Indian restaurant for authentic cuisine. Of course, I am the only white Englishman dining – always a good sign to me.

I feel embarrassed in a little Asian convenience store when a young English lad is caught shoplifting beer and then gives the staff racial abuse. The lot of inner cities these days, it seems.

Apart from the transport system, the centre of Luton shows the worst of the 60s/70s inner city planning. * see below.

An eventful day. 

* Hats off to Luton.

I have been a little harsh on Luton’s town centre. The Mall has destroyed much and is like any other mall in any other town. But if you are visiting Luton, this leaflet would give you ideas to explore the hat trade buildings and what is left of them. https://www.luton.gov.uk/Transport_and_streets/Lists/LutonDocuments/PDF/luton-hat-trail-leaflet

Ivinghoe Beacon to Dunstable.

An early breakfast is rushed, which is a shame, as there is a great choice. But I want to catch the 8 am bus to Ivinghoe to stay ahead of the rain, due at three. Waiting at the bus stop, I have doubts that it will arrive, the bus that is. I mark time kicking conkers along the pavement. Is Autumn in the air?

However, the bus shows up 10 minutes late and rattles along to where I alight at the base of Ivinghoe Beacon. I step straight onto a flint chalk path for a couple of hundred feet of ascent to the summit.

An early morning twitcher lists the birds he has already seen this morning. I’ll be lucky if I spot a fraction of his impressive tally. 

I immediately notice the rich flora that the chalk brings. Knapweed, Marjoram, Scabious, Harebell, Toadflax, Eyebright, Wild Carrot, for starters.   One little plant I don’t recognise is  Red Bartsia, partially a parasite on the roots of grasses, apparently.

The summit is the site of a Bronze Age hill fort, which I can’t make out, but the degraded tumulus at the summit is more obvious.

What a beautiful morning to be up here with views all around, most of which I don’t recognise. If I had looked more carefully to the east, I would have seen the White Lion on the hills below Whipsnade Zoo.

Paths radiate in all directions over the downs. I follow the Ridgeway Path southwards to a stone marking the start of the Icknield Way. Really, they are both the same, part of The Great Chalk Way. There appears to be a multitude of interesting tracks running southwards over the commons to Berkhamsted.  The Chiltern Way makes use of them, one for another day.

I go north east on the open chalk downs. I come across the Icknield Way waymark roundel for the first time.

The path then winds its way through beautiful beech and oak woods, which are part of the extensive NT Ashridge Estate.

After a very steep section, I emerge near a farm and follow open ground and then a lane down to a road.  There are views back to Ivinghoe Beacon. Another twitcher is watching the House Martins swooping across the fields. I can hear their chatter.

Dagnall is a small hamlet with a pub and a strange-looking ecumenical church almost on the roundabout.

The road is soon left on a fenced-in track up to the next down. A red kite flies overhead, mobbed by crows. I’m unable to catch the action on my phone. Suddenly, I’m deposited in a golf course. An unpleasant crossing of several fairways is best forgotten.

I escape only to come up against the outer fence of Whipsnade Zoo. All thoughts of marching alongside elephants and lions disappear when I realise how far away the animals are. I think I spot some camel humps in the distance. 

I can’t really go wrong here. 

Whipsnade village consists of a few houses around a village green. And an interesting church, hidden away, which I divert to for a lunch stop.

The church tower is the oldest part, dating back to the sixteenth century. The west door has been retained since the 14th century from an earlier church. The bricks in the tower are thought to have been made from local clays—some of the earliest bricks ever made after the Roman occupation.

The central part of the building is Georgian. The chancel is Victorian.

There is some ancient and modern graffiti inside the tower.

I follow the signs to the Tree Cathedral, planted after the Great War to outline a church. On the ground, it isn’t easy to visualise the effect, but there are some stunning trees.

I could have spent the afternoon in the Zoo along with hundreds of others, judging from the car park.

An old flinty track climbs back up onto the downs.

Slowly, I gain height with the glider base in the combe below.

The weather is holding up, and I can take in all the distant views. I don’t manage a photo of the gliders being towed up.

More people appear as the Chilterns Gateway Centre comes into view. Kite flying is the order of the day in the stiff breeze up here.

The queue in the cafe is forever, but I need a coffee with a view back to Invinghoe Beacon.

Onwards, high above the valley. I come to the Five Knolls, neolithic burial mounds, being destroyed by mountain bikers.

At the bottom, I reach busy Dunstable and arrive at my overnight pub before the rain.

A colourful crowd is drinking the afternoon away. My room is cramped, with no window to speak of. All the floorboards creak, and there is no soundproofing. The bar isn’t somewhere I would drink, never mind dine, so I visit the local convenience store for supplies.  Some contrast to last night.

*

Continue reading →

Getting to the start.

I spotted the first Red Kites as my train pulled into Milton Keynes, we’re on the edge of the Chilterns, where they were successfully reintroduced over thirty years ago. I was last here in 2010, walking the Ridgeway with my good old mate Mel. I well remember that the birds from that time were relying on their release feeding stations. They have spread their wings since then, and I sometimes see them up in Bowland.

Getting here across the country isn’t easy. After a long day, my third train had me to Tring, with a glimpse of Ivinghoe Beacon on the way.

This is getting close to London, and frequent trains flash through the station heading to the smoke, as the capital was known before the Clean Air Acts. As a student, I arrived in London after the worst of the smog had passed, but I do remember it from Manchester when I was a child. I digress.

Walking down the lane, I realise from the properties, behind their walls and locked gates, that I’m in the stockbroker belt, within easy commuting distance of the city.

My lodgings for the night are in Pendley Manor Hotel, an impressive Victorian neo-Jacobean pile.

Peacocks strut around the grounds. There are some impressive cedars and pine trees.

The house has a long history.  The last private individual to own and live at Pendley
Manor was Dorian Williams, the BBC’s voice of show jumping. He was responsible for starting a yearly Shakespearean Festival in the grounds, which continued until the Covid pandemic, and I don’t think it has restarted. The hotel has many memorabilia from these productions, and its bar has a Shakespearean theme.

I get an upgrade to a superior room, which is probably wasted on me for one night, but I appreciate the gesture. A drink in the bar, £6 for a pint of IPA; they don’t serve real ales, and I’m ready for bed.

*

I’m here to walk along the Icknield Way, or paths close to the old chalkways. This is the beginning of my link-up between the Ridgeway mentioned above and the Peddars Way in Norfolk (I walked the Peddars Way with Mel in 2003), although I only plan to walk five days to Royston on this visit.

I’ve got to hand the guidebook from the Icknield Way Association.

Or rather, just the relevant pages, sacrilegiously torn out of it, to get me about halfway. As you can see, the mapping in the guide is à la Wainwright, hopefully making it easy to follow.

In the morning, I’ll be catching an early bus to the base of Ivinghoe Beacon to commence my journey.

My header photo is from a 1912 painting by Spencer Frederick Gore.

The Icknield Way may be the oldest road in Britain. It would have been used before the Romans arrived, following the chalkland ridges between ancient settlements. It is thought that several tracks evolved, maybe in parallel with each other. It has been suggested that the Romans constructed the Lower Icknield Way as a parallel alternative route to the prehistoric Upper Icknield Way. A version of it appears on OS maps in historic Gothic writing. The name is of Celto-British origin and is potentially linked to the Iceni tribe from East Anglia, who may have used the route for trade from the Neolithic period.

Over the years, many old ways disappeared due to disuse. More disappeared under the plough, and some have become our modern roads. Let’s see how the Icknield Way has fared.

From a long-distance walking perspective, it links The Ridgeway to the Peddars Way and is part of the Great Chalk Way, which spans from Wessex to the Wash. I have traversed much of this way, and now is the time to consider walking the missing links: the Icknield Way and the Wessex Ridgeway.

The Icknield Way Association has produced a guidebook for a walkers’ route. The Icknield Way Path.

“The Icknield Way Path takes the walker over some delightful country, including the Chilterns and Breckland, often with striking panoramic views, through charming villages, and along miles of green lanes.

An attempt has been made to provide the most pleasant walking route as close as possible to the ancient way, keeping to rights of way and avoiding unnecessary road walking.”

I had planned to walk the Icknield section in mid-August, but a mini heatwave delayed me. As temperatures return to normal, it is time to start planning again. Hotels, trains and buses. I need to get down to Tring first. I was last there when Mel and I had finished the Ridgeway at Ivinghoe Beacon. An early morning bus will then be needed to get to the base of Ivinghoe Beacon. From there on, aĺl will be new to me, Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire. In five days, I’ll probably only get to Royston.

“The long white roads… are a temptation. What quests they propose! They take us away to the thin air of the future or to the underworld of the past,”  Edward Thomas,1909.