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.

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