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.

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