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. 

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